"On our way! We're goin'!!"
I feel like jumping out of my skin trying to get closer, quicker. Excitement fills my face and the bloodflow enhances my sense of smell. Dear God, someone just cut the grass on the U of O campus, and the mingle of the green with the gasoline of the mower lifts my spirits that much higher. Eugene has the unique weather pattern of "if you don't like the weather, just wait a minute, it'll change". Now it settles the floating grass chaff with a sprinkle or two, moistening the earth, the oily street and my jacket leather, bringing organic melange futher into my olfactory buffet.
"Sting! Dude, I can't believe we got the tickets!"
I laugh. Sting at MacArthur court couldn't be better. We step out, ignoring the slow moving cyclists and cars on campus, edging closer, hoping that the faster we're in, the faster it'll start. Small pockets of smokers congregate, and those varied odors, no all unpleasant, asail. Clove cigs, joints, (this is Eugene, of course), an occasional pipe and cigar seem less offensive tonight. The sweetest part of our lives together, music, is in the offing, and the crowded odors, these city smells in their pungence, could not possibly more welcome.

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