Wednesday, May 27, 2009

At least Zombies can get Married

The house I live in, well it's actually an apartment in a house and a very old house at that. So, old houses like this creek with footsteps and shake with jumps or sudden movements. They are also drafty, bat prone and in total lack of three-prong power outlets. So, that's my shelter situation. And it's my day off. I'm on my coach just doing nothing but watching a movie. The frame of my bay window creeks and pops. I'm used to it, it happens time to time with the atmospheric pressure changes and whatnot. But I couldn't help but to think this time was different, it was more frantic and regular. At first I thought nothing of it, but eventually I had to pause the movie. Yes, it is true, my neighbor is fucking.


When you're a kid, or even up into your teens, it's kinda this big deal to hear people fuck. It's amazing, outrageous and exotic. What captures the audience of 12 year old boys better- a found unicorn or overheard fucking? But, like many things from adolescents, it becomes a different reaction when you're older. Whenever, as an adult, you live close by other people, time to time you get an ear whiff of fucking. It's bound to happen. It's kinda like hearing someone you don't know that well fart.


Now, as an adult, I'm intrigued, but not in a perverted way. It's not the sexuality that gets my attention. No, it's something else, like the interest of watching a tree blow in the wind or the curiosity of a car wreck. It's a moment of life that's only purpose is to remind you of life, and how this is it. I resume play on my movie. It's a movie with Philip Seymour Hoffman.


It's OK, but its written by that guy that did Being John Melkavich, so you gotta watch it a few times. That Before The Devil Knows You're Dead movie with Hoffman was in was pretty good. Capote was good too.


Then comes the moaning. “Ohhh! Ohhh!oh!”. It's loud enuff to hear easily but soft enuff to ignore if you tried. I loose myself in the moment. My thoughts become abstract, like how the leaves of the tree in the wind look like wild locks of hair being swam threw a body of water.

Or how their bodies could be tightly held flush together, with the only separation- the only thing separating them from combing as one entity- is a thin film of sweat held stagnate and the only movement coming from his jackhammering hips.

Or how impersonally a cheetah kills his prey on the other side of the screen on the Discovery channel.

Or Joey P., the kid you went to the 4th grade with that had the long curly flowing hair, is, the last you herd, in prison.

Or how Philip Seymour Hoffman was spot on with Truman Capote, the flamboyantly queer writer.

Or how I have never over herd two members of the same sex fuck. With all the sex I have ever over herd it has always been the regular way. I wonder if it would somehow be different.


Last weekend I went to a gay bar for the first time. It was a last call destination after zombie prom at Louie's. The gay bar is like any other, except the over abundance of dancing (admittedly, I even “danced” at on point). Things are inheritly a bit more faggy, of course. That is to be expected, but I was surprised that there was such an alarm with some of the patrons that my friends were still dressed as a zombies. You would think that the gay community, arguably the most socially acceptable minority to still be discriminated against, would be more open to things like zombies, the second most easily discriminated against minority. But no, the bars, always, are filled with fucktards. Sure the queers are more liberal in some ways but even more stuck up in others (Yes, these are my shoes. I don't care how many holes are in them).

But this is where we all end up, isn't it? We all got our own type of bar we go to. Drugs are a great equalizer. What separates us is the type of bars we go to and the way we dance when we get there. The moist film of sweat between our coupled bodies is a commonality.

As they draw to a climax, and the dance floor plays it's last song, I am only left with the fleeting wonder if I should offer an applaud of some sort.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Hill Crests and Soccer Balls

It's mothers day today. When I woke up, I thought I would head up to my work so I could call my mom. Work is on the other side of town and this would defiantly get me out of the house for a while, besides I needed gas and it is always a bit cheaper on that side of town.
After eating an undercooked peice of steak, a few green olives and downing the swill remains from a half pint of Popov from the night before I headed out. At the last minute I grabed a box of potato pancake mix. It requires 2 eggs, of which I have none of. I thought that maybe I should stop by my friend Helen's house and see if she wants to make the potato pancakes with me.
It was a little after 11 when I arrived at my work. People were still checking out. I approach the front desk to ask if I can use the phone. My boss is frantically flipping threw papers and clicking on a mouse. After a moment he looks up at me and says "This is the man who had the rollaway" and pointed to a group at the other end of the desk. He talked to me as if my appearance was totally expected, as if he had asked me to come in and resolve this issue of the rollaway bed. But I knew the man and his group of people, he never had requested a rollaway bed during his stay. The man looks at me and plainly states that he only requested extra pillows. My boss tells him it's ok and that he has adjusted it off his bill.
I talk to my mom on the phone while pacing back and forth in the breakfast room. We make small talk about the plans for the day and agree that the weather is warm, but not quite warm enuff. I expected her to bring up grandma's health and status but she never did. I should probably call my step mom, but that's a local number so i can do that at a payphone anytime.
I set the phone on the counter and tell my boss he should call his mother. After a short, awkward mouse click filled moment the new girl takes the phone and says something plesent, I say goodbye.
When nearing Helen's neighborhood I notice a soccer game being played at an elementary school. But the players were not children, they were grown men. And there was even a couple of concession stands, which could very well be selling hot coco. What sort of soccer game was it?

Perhaps, I thought, it was a game between good and evil- feel good sumer movie style. Perhaps one team was a bunch of rich assholes trying to buy out an old bar so they could turn it into a parking lot. And maybe they only way for the loyal patrons and owner to save it is, for some reason, to defeat them in a soccer game. After creating each team's set of characters with their individual quarks and catch phrases I reconsidered Helen's house. I'm obtusely aware that not everyone likes to live in the moment and that unexpected company isn't always a pleasure.

I go back to the school. At the foot of a hill lays the soccer feild the top are the concession stands and parked cars. I approach the crest of the hill and there is a Mexican family to my left speaking spanish, and to my right a white girl by her self, leaning up against the hood of a car. I go to the girl and ask what's going on. She tells me it's some kind of mexican league but the ones in yellow were the Bell's team ( a local brewery) and that's who she was suppose to be rooting for.

I sit down on the slope of the hill and watch the game. The girl, to me, seemed very confident. I often talk to strangers and in doing so I find a lot of people get anxious and don't make good conversation. She, however, was very laid back during our conversation, chewing on a toothpick the entire time. Plus she was wearing big, dark sunglass which automaticly makes the wearer 45% cooler.

I don't know much about soccer, rulewise, and it is probably for the better. For if I did, I would probably confirm my hunch that this Bell's team is one big collection of assholes. They keep shouting things that seem really obvious to one another "You gotta block it!" "come on, everyone move" "You can't use your hands, this aint basketball". I wonder if it weren't for these dynamic tips that half the team would just stop moving and stand on the field like unpowered robots.
The girl walks over to me and says "Yeah, they are kinda assholes", referring to an ongoing argument Bell's team are having with a referee.
"I suppose that happens in sports in general" I say
"well, they're excessive." she says
I seems like the Bell's team wants you to know they are playing soccer. Everything they do is so intentional. There's alot of superfluous slide-kicks and head hits (all preceded with a general direction to somehow "go for it"). The Mexican team on the other hand could be anywhere. Here on this field, in a big stadium, in the street, where ever. These guys are just dudes playing soccer. There is not a lot of talking between themselves on the field either. They probably don't even call it soccer, they probably call it foot ball. A complete clash in cultures. The crest of the hill is lined with large dark skinned families, all having laud and jolly conversations while the slope of the hills is speckled with individual white girls, looking on with the most mild sense of amusement. They are all girlfriends of Bell's players. There not out of joy but for a sense of support of which they are obligated to provide.

I look back to the girl, who is now back leaning on the car hood "What's the score?" I ask
"I think it's still 2-1"
I bet she is a girlfriend. She doesn't seem like the other white girls here but I bet she is also a girlfriend. I contemplate asking her if she is in fact dating a team member. It's a coarse of hobbit for me to look at things threw a sociological lens and project hypotheses while people do things. Sometimes I will ask someone something like "are you dating one of those guys" just to see if I'm right. In this instance I am reluctant because I'm sure she would take it as some guy trying to get her number in a weird way or something.
the game goes on with many unnecessary sissor kicks and a few fowls here and there. After a while I get distracted by watching a little Mexican boy who seems to be stuck in a perpetual cycle of dropping a ball, chasing it down the hill, and bringing it back up. Suddenly I notice the teams have cleared the field. The girl walks past me, going down the hill.
"Half time?" I ask
"No, it's over" she says "they've been playing sense 10"
As she makes her way across the field to allegidly reunite with her boyfriend one of the Bell's players is going around talking to various people making a fuss about how one of the Mexicans wasn't wearing a uniform exactly uniform with his teammate's. I am struck with a profound query- Just where do they get the refs for these kinda games, anyway?

Friday, May 8, 2009

Life, Or Something Like it

I am at work right now. Over head, there is a flickering lightbulb within the shandeler. Sure, it is flickering but you can't really say that it's not providing light. If anything it is more on than it is off. And sure I suppose one could make the argument that I do some rediculous things. At times I rant in to this old coffee can of mine (remember when they used to be tin?) and I've been known to go on multiply day benders (I am twice devorced from my liver). But, I mean, for the most part I'm fiarly normal. Just like you. I cook beacon in the morning and wash my dishes at night. But you never get to see this side. I suppose it's fate that you should only knock on my door after I had downed a whole bottle of cough syrup, but I'm glad that life works out this way. You really don't need to this this average, domesticated side of me. You already have you, now here is me. This is my life. It isn't like yours, but it's something like it.


(PLEASE NOTE THAT DAVID EX IS NOT RESPOSIBLE FOR SPELLCHECKS. WHEN IN DOUBT, USE CONTEXT CLUES.)