The Scent.

Mowing the lawn. It's a year round SoCal tradition as established as road rage or self love. It's something we Californians do to make us feel good. I usually skip out around Christmas, because light up lawn-deer caught in the mower blade, no matter how tempting, can be dangerous.

"Mommy, what is that twitching man doing to Rudolf?"

"Nevermind Johnny just look at the lights across the street…"

Nope, it's not good. I practice safe mowing.

The one good thing about year round mowing is it gives you plenty of time to observe your environment. My environment now contains a pack of street boys. Yeah, they're just a pack, not really a gang or anything dangerous. Just boys spending too much time on the street.

Did you see the movie Friday? Yeah, well they think they're like that, but these kids are more like Hanson, than Ice Cube. So, it's not like they're threatening.

They sit outside because Mom won't let them inside. Their butts rocked back in plastic chairs, next to their car with speakers thumping. They don't seem to be interested in driving the car anywhere; using it as a stereo is about all the motivation they can muster.

Sometimes I wonder if my street boys are calling the street girls. If so, it doesn't seem to be working so far. The only thing that these guys seem to draw is more boys. I'm thinking I know some gay guys who might be interested in their methodology.

Me, I'm minding my own business. I'm locked in my iPod and my lawn. It's easier. Oh I can still feel their bass. I figure it's only a matter of time before their tribal call alerts a criminal tribe who'd like to know that somebody has a stereo worth stealing. Then the thump will go away. Then maybe the kids will be motivated.

I know. I'm harsh. But I try to keep my lawn tidy, and these neighborhood gnomes don't look tidy.

They're not the same as the next door boys. Oh the next door boys hang out with the street kids sometimes, but the next door boys drive their car. Yesterday, as I was mowing, they loaded up into their car and drove off.

I can't be sure, but I think the next door boys were done waiting for tribal girls. They were on the hunt. How do I know? Two things:

1. I'm not sure how, but the whole truck, smelled like aftershave--that I could smell from my lawn! It wasn't bad, but wow! Do they go to a gas station that offers: scented, unscented? I'm not exaggerating either, because when the truck pulled back up, my back was to street, but the smell was in my nose. I knew they'd come back home. It's like they were chumming the streets with the stuff.

2. Porn bass. That's right, porn bass. I know kids love to drive the cars that thump, but when this car started up the bass beat felt like it was straight from a 70's porno. It's like they were driving the truck from Kill Bill.

"My name is Buck…"

It's funny. I remember being that young, and we did our version of the same thing. We all piled into somebody's car and went prowling. I'm not sure we were as unified in our scent--so I will give them those points--but we still had our special smell.

I'm different now. I don't really prowl. I notice I'm more of a sit and watch guy. I check things out, and then maybe I'll move in. I think the divorce has made me a little more skiddish too. I'm less likely to chase after anything with two legs.

No, some days I'm just as happy to mow my lawn. That scares me. Does that make me just like the Hanson street boys?