My best friends are perfect strangers. Everyday people. I am everyday people. I like everyday people and I get along fine with them; therefore, my best friends are strangers. Being strange myself, I have always been a stranger; therefore, getting along with strangers is understandable.. . and remember, we are talking strangers here; not weirdos.  I’m strange, not weird, which makes me a stranger, not a weirdo.

When perfect strangers meet, they are indeed; perfect. They will always remain perfect, unless or until it gets personal.  It seems people in my personal life question me about who I am, what I am, what I do, or how I do it. It’s like being judged or under a microscope. Strangers generally don’t carry around microscopes . . . unless maybe they’re a chemist or biologist or something, but that’s not important right now.  . . . and it has nothing really to do with what I am talking about.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah. . .  People in your personal life tend to cross over that line into your personal space. Some people manage to suffocate another, crossing over that fragile line and dominating their personal space. When jealousy’s involved, the ‘Little Green Man in your Head’ takes over and it can be devastating to another. People that think they ‘know’ you have too much time to judge you.

Some of my best friends are homeless people. It’s not just because I give them money. The smile that lights up their faces when they see me . . .  is for me . . . because of who I am. They make me feel good to be a perfect stranger. They know me just enough to know who I really am. We sit on the sidewalk and dine together. Most times, I bring my guitar.  There is a game we play that I call, ‘Sing for your Supper’. I open up the guitar case on the sidewalk to hold the ‘pennies from heaven’. I play my guitar and they sing for their supper. The money that they make is usually enough to buy them dinner. Works out well for the both of us. I save on my personal donations for dinner and they have a job; if only for a brief couple hours. . . . even if just a few hours to make enough scratch to have a warm meal and temporarily rid themselves of the agonizing pain of hunger in their stomachs.

I am always friendly and congenial to everyday people . . Like at the checkout line at the supermarket. There is no reason for me not to be. We are both perfect strangers  . . and in this case it “is” nothing personal. . . and why would you wanna spoil the illusion? . . or is it just an illusion?

People in traffic.  We get along just fine. I stop to let them in line or give them the right of way when I can. I find that two fingers formed into a peace sign is much more effective than an angry middle finger sticking straight up and aimed at a now self-created advisory.

Even if it’s only for a brief couple moments during a busy week, it’s the people on the street that make me smile. They are the individual everyday people. Individuals that make up the good part of society. They are my true friends. The everyday people. The perfect strangers. The saying, “Don’t be a stranger”  doesn’t really apply to me . . and I’m good with that. I like being a stranger. A perfect stranger.

Until next month, “Keep the rubber side down and stay groovy”. Peace.

– Random Prophet, HashtagWV #99. March 2018. Thoughts? Email me at:  groovyhighway@gmail.com