Most kids can't even walk to school nowadays. I purposefully used the word can't because I don't even think schools allow it. It's probably due to prime time tv airing too many shocking 'to catch a predator' shows and it's probably a cause of the child obesity problem in this country. When I was a kid I used to walk to and from school, I loved. It was nice cause you had your options; If I wanted to, I could rush home in time for Chip n Dale's Rescue Rangers or I could just hang out with some other kid that was walking home and do whatev. And I never even once got abducted into a windowless van.
But there was this one sexy thing that happend walking back from school about once a week.
Down the hill from my elementary was another, smaller elementary building that had fallen into disuse. The building was only used to store lunch trays- we knew this because we were able to slip in threw a chained shut door once. The land around it was occupied by an unmaintained baseball diamond over grown with grass. The decaying bleachers were riddled with spent condoms. The barren parking lot also had a collection of used condoms, in this one certain area, and about once a week a little blue Geo hatch-back would be parked there, smack dab in the middle of the parking lot.
At first we avoided the car. But as the weeks went by curiosity overcame caution. Of cource the first thing our young adolescent minds jumped to is how people must be screwing in there but after a while we had to know what truly was going on. This was a task for William.
William was this scrawny weird kid that was easy to push around. One time Joey took a beer from William's frig, this was one of the few times William put his foot down. "My dad will kill me!" he screamed. So what did Joey do? He made William open the beer for him. Then he drank it.
So it was a no brainer that William was the one to go peak in side the car. He did. And as soon as his eyes were able to distinguish what was going on inside Williams face lit up and he ran back to the group. "It was some black guy with a big dick and then some girl underneath him!". Ofcource William received extra razzing for his initial comment being a description of the male's genitalia.
But now that it is years later I think back to this and realize it wasn't what William said that was fucked up. Well, ok, it was, but what was even more fucked up was that there was a girl that was willing to get nailed in the back of an itty bitty Geo on a weekly basis. Perhaps she was also getting nailed outside on some rotten bleachers- someone was. I understand that circumstances arise and you gotta do what you gotta do and all that, but where dose it end?
I guess what I'm trying to say here is that sure, it happens. We all get fucked in the back of a Geo once in a while but that doesn't mean you have to get fucked in the back of a Geo all the time! Barrow your friend's Buick. Get a room a room for the love of Christ. And would it kills you to properly dispose of your slimy old scumbags? There's school kids around for cryin out loud.
Do they even make Geos anymore?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
BUBBLE TEA PT.2, PAGE 1
"Do you remember the matchstick man?" She often speaks her mind in the form of a rhetorical question. "Don't you think Italian sounds better?" or "Dose this seem unsafe?" It's annoying to find out a woman's catches and it's definitely a burden when you grow tired of them. Really, she is asking me to join in her nostalgia. I, however, would like to continue to loose myself in the nights mitigation of this uncomfortable chair.
I like sitting out here on the porch at night. Up here I can still see the lights and hear the sounds, like the looping note from below right now. Coming from all the way down there, in the heart of the city. It's a car honking. A troubling sound probably due to a traffic incident. Frantic and frequent. It's so loud, he must be pressing the wheel very hard. Makes me wonder what it is, if it's an emergency. But it doesn't matter- it stops. Crisis handled.
You know, looking down at the city at night is kinda like looking at an ant farm or something... It appears complex but still maintains the aesthetics of simplicity. I think she is more interested in the fancy candles we lit. Damn it. These apartment buildings are so boring, almost as much as the suburbs. At least we are near the top, with a nice view. I'd hate to live in an apartment in the suburbs with nothing to look at but assholes with nothing to look at, sitting on their plot of urban sprawl. I would hate it, but what she thinks is ideal... well.
But what could you be thinking? I watch her reach one finger to caress the glass rim around the candle. We make eye contact. It's like poking a sleeping arm. I know she is still as attractive as day one, she hasn't changed, but I've been with her for five years. I know it... I just can't feel it anymore. I don't know when I stopped seeing her the way I used to but it came to my attention a short time after we had moved here. How can someone be different by staying the same? It must be funny because it's a joke we all know.
With a hum she resubmits her question. You have got to be kidding me. What's the point in combing over the past night after night? Why not just sit here in piece, feel the nice breeze roll by. What's you're angle anyway? Of course I remember the Matchstick man. I resent even thinking about him now. It's all so stupid. Might as well sit around and talk about ponies or teddy bears or ice cream...
This guy, the matchstick man, he was a personified combination of street performance and folk art. He had a little portable stand that probably once vended ice cream. Inside it played the begining of "Once In A Life Time" by Talking Heads in an infinite loop. He was a born performer. At first he would stand there lifeless, looking at the ground. The music switched on and every repetition of the looped beat would bring him more and more into life until was doing what could only be described as interpretive breakdacing. His Finale was a flip backward on to his hands. Then he hand walked over to the stand and, with his feet, picked up at straw hat. He'd hand walk around the perimeter of spectators and collect donations. After that he would carefully place the hat back on the stand and foot-pick-up a small cardboard box. Of course he didn't know who was giving what, but if you were lucky he'd hand walk right to you and present the box, full of matchstick figurines held together with glue. She was one of the lucky ones.
I like sitting out here on the porch at night. Up here I can still see the lights and hear the sounds, like the looping note from below right now. Coming from all the way down there, in the heart of the city. It's a car honking. A troubling sound probably due to a traffic incident. Frantic and frequent. It's so loud, he must be pressing the wheel very hard. Makes me wonder what it is, if it's an emergency. But it doesn't matter- it stops. Crisis handled.
You know, looking down at the city at night is kinda like looking at an ant farm or something... It appears complex but still maintains the aesthetics of simplicity. I think she is more interested in the fancy candles we lit. Damn it. These apartment buildings are so boring, almost as much as the suburbs. At least we are near the top, with a nice view. I'd hate to live in an apartment in the suburbs with nothing to look at but assholes with nothing to look at, sitting on their plot of urban sprawl. I would hate it, but what she thinks is ideal... well.
But what could you be thinking? I watch her reach one finger to caress the glass rim around the candle. We make eye contact. It's like poking a sleeping arm. I know she is still as attractive as day one, she hasn't changed, but I've been with her for five years. I know it... I just can't feel it anymore. I don't know when I stopped seeing her the way I used to but it came to my attention a short time after we had moved here. How can someone be different by staying the same? It must be funny because it's a joke we all know.
With a hum she resubmits her question. You have got to be kidding me. What's the point in combing over the past night after night? Why not just sit here in piece, feel the nice breeze roll by. What's you're angle anyway? Of course I remember the Matchstick man. I resent even thinking about him now. It's all so stupid. Might as well sit around and talk about ponies or teddy bears or ice cream...
This guy, the matchstick man, he was a personified combination of street performance and folk art. He had a little portable stand that probably once vended ice cream. Inside it played the begining of "Once In A Life Time" by Talking Heads in an infinite loop. He was a born performer. At first he would stand there lifeless, looking at the ground. The music switched on and every repetition of the looped beat would bring him more and more into life until was doing what could only be described as interpretive breakdacing. His Finale was a flip backward on to his hands. Then he hand walked over to the stand and, with his feet, picked up at straw hat. He'd hand walk around the perimeter of spectators and collect donations. After that he would carefully place the hat back on the stand and foot-pick-up a small cardboard box. Of course he didn't know who was giving what, but if you were lucky he'd hand walk right to you and present the box, full of matchstick figurines held together with glue. She was one of the lucky ones.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Friggin squirrels...
In this neighborhood I am cautious when I see squirrels. Perhaps in your neighborhood they act how they are suppose to, as I remember them to. They are shadow dwellers that prefer to be as unseen as possible. They are like automatic doors, they move out of your way before you even think of it as an obstacle. Scared, jumpy creatures that are overly aware of their surroundings and that scurry up a trees at a moments notice. Human contact?- they are unscathed. They are collectors of small nutty things that you or I never notice laying the the grass or gutter.
That's the way squires are, as I remember, suppose to act. Perhaps these are college squirrels. I have concidered this severel times on the grounds that like most college dude douche-bags, they walk a fuzzy line between ignorance and cockiness, like that guy that crossing the street in front of you even tho you have the green, and it's like he knows he's walking right in front of you and he knows you gotta wait for him... Dosent even do some half assed jog for the sake of basic humane politeness. The squirrels here are impolite like that. They also wear hemp accessories and listen to Dave Mathews Band and really bad commercial rap.
Yeah, the squirrels here, will sit in the middle of the sidewalk. And just sit there. I damn near tripped over one the other day. Right as I was about to step on it it trotted away with the casual and comfortable swagger of a family dog walk it's property lines. What stuck me as the oddest was that it was dragging along with it a Pacific Sun shirt but then, after a moment of consideration, it was all quit nominal.
It wouldn't be so bad if they simply left it at ignoring your existence. But no, they watch you as you awkwardly get around them. The worse is when they are in the trees. Often times when they are climbing a tree they will stop so they are right at eye level. They will watch you as you pass. I can't help but think this is something similar to how a black man would feel walking by a bunch of white folks on their porch in the old South. Only this is more alarming for me because this isn't the old South, it's just about me and some dumb squirrels I even go as far as to think about possible scenarios involving the squirrels attacking me and the possible actions I would have. Like if one jumped on my shoulder from a tree I would have to grab it's tail with the opposite hand or if I came too close to stepping on one I would just step on it's tail anyway and have some baddass line like “Going somewhere?”. Sadist thing is that's the best line I can come up with. I start to worry if my reclusive lifestyle is taking a toll on me mentally.
That's why I was relieved to have Sabrina at my house. Sabrina is an old roommate of mine. We lived in a house together back in Flint. I guess we, along with a couple other people, lived together for a little over a year. And that is how fate had paired us together, she needed a place to stay and I had rooms to fill up. But fate was favorable in that we clicked together rather naturally. In the years sense we had scattered our separate ways from the Kennelworth house me and Sabrina had been able to keep in sporadic contact with one another and maintain friendly relations. I think it is due to the fact that nether one of us aspired to become overly successful in our young adulthood, something that distracts people from things like keeping it real, and also that we never had sex. I have determined, by a battery of very serious and scientifically isolated clinical trials, that sexual relations withers a co-ed relationship. Altho if we had sex it probably would have been spectacular, I'd imagine.
Sometimes, as the movies portray it, people that have long not seen each other embrace one another with a concentrated joy that could only have accumulated from 10 years of absence. This is not the case with Flint town homefries. And that's what I love. I've always hated good-byes, I'm that kinda guy. I also hate overly passionate hellos. Saying goodbye seems like such a pessimistic thing, and later seems so alien and informal over someone you are suppose to have the utmost comfort with. It is in my opinion that your most intimate and meaningful moments with someone should be in the most mundane, everyday moments.
When a good friend is back around you can play it how it lays. I dropped the usual false alias in which I'd made millions in speculating on the bear market. I put my plastic monocle on the shelf. I'm just David, more or less. After all she had already lived with me, as a roommate, back in the day. She was hanging around at the worse. Pathetic and junky, twas, but despite this she was always keen to me. Perhaps it's that she was able to see me for what I aspire to be- not who I was- and/or maybe on top of that she also takes solice with the knowledge of her own short comings. Dosnt matter. Doesn't matter what the reason, it's a good reason for why-ever.
Yeah, some people fake being friends just because they were friends. Not Flintstones. They will say 'later' after you signed a four year contract with the army and when they see you again they say 'what's up'. No fakey sentimental bullshit here. Bump fists with Stoicism and suave. Flintstoners keep it real.
And real we kept it. Without even discussing it we both decided to forgo the touristy things in Kalamazoo (yes the entire plethora of touristy things to do). We watched mystery science theater 3000. We listened to a faded mix tape. We got high.
When I was at work I suspect she just walked around and smoked and stuff. And when I would return home we would walk and talk. When making breakfast I rediscovered that she didn't eat meat. Ooops. I bought three pounds of bacon for nothing. The only noble thing to do is eat a shit-ton of bacon.
Pleasantly, inner-dialog with myself had dropped totally. It was totally weird to get input from an external verbal source.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon we walked to the theater to see 'UP' (in 3D, so we ofcourse got high). At one point there came to be a fatty little squirrels in our path. “The squirrels around here are nuts” she says. I love you Sabrina, thanks. My sanity is now restored. And I realize that the break in solitude has lent me a fresh, new- or perhaps rediscovered- perspective on things. I charge at the rodent and kick it like a field goal. The tubby rodent arks high in the air and lands somewhere in the far distance. “Going somewhere?” I smugly remark.
That's the way squires are, as I remember, suppose to act. Perhaps these are college squirrels. I have concidered this severel times on the grounds that like most college dude douche-bags, they walk a fuzzy line between ignorance and cockiness, like that guy that crossing the street in front of you even tho you have the green, and it's like he knows he's walking right in front of you and he knows you gotta wait for him... Dosent even do some half assed jog for the sake of basic humane politeness. The squirrels here are impolite like that. They also wear hemp accessories and listen to Dave Mathews Band and really bad commercial rap.
Yeah, the squirrels here, will sit in the middle of the sidewalk. And just sit there. I damn near tripped over one the other day. Right as I was about to step on it it trotted away with the casual and comfortable swagger of a family dog walk it's property lines. What stuck me as the oddest was that it was dragging along with it a Pacific Sun shirt but then, after a moment of consideration, it was all quit nominal.
It wouldn't be so bad if they simply left it at ignoring your existence. But no, they watch you as you awkwardly get around them. The worse is when they are in the trees. Often times when they are climbing a tree they will stop so they are right at eye level. They will watch you as you pass. I can't help but think this is something similar to how a black man would feel walking by a bunch of white folks on their porch in the old South. Only this is more alarming for me because this isn't the old South, it's just about me and some dumb squirrels I even go as far as to think about possible scenarios involving the squirrels attacking me and the possible actions I would have. Like if one jumped on my shoulder from a tree I would have to grab it's tail with the opposite hand or if I came too close to stepping on one I would just step on it's tail anyway and have some baddass line like “Going somewhere?”. Sadist thing is that's the best line I can come up with. I start to worry if my reclusive lifestyle is taking a toll on me mentally.
That's why I was relieved to have Sabrina at my house. Sabrina is an old roommate of mine. We lived in a house together back in Flint. I guess we, along with a couple other people, lived together for a little over a year. And that is how fate had paired us together, she needed a place to stay and I had rooms to fill up. But fate was favorable in that we clicked together rather naturally. In the years sense we had scattered our separate ways from the Kennelworth house me and Sabrina had been able to keep in sporadic contact with one another and maintain friendly relations. I think it is due to the fact that nether one of us aspired to become overly successful in our young adulthood, something that distracts people from things like keeping it real, and also that we never had sex. I have determined, by a battery of very serious and scientifically isolated clinical trials, that sexual relations withers a co-ed relationship. Altho if we had sex it probably would have been spectacular, I'd imagine.
Sometimes, as the movies portray it, people that have long not seen each other embrace one another with a concentrated joy that could only have accumulated from 10 years of absence. This is not the case with Flint town homefries. And that's what I love. I've always hated good-byes, I'm that kinda guy. I also hate overly passionate hellos. Saying goodbye seems like such a pessimistic thing, and later seems so alien and informal over someone you are suppose to have the utmost comfort with. It is in my opinion that your most intimate and meaningful moments with someone should be in the most mundane, everyday moments.
When a good friend is back around you can play it how it lays. I dropped the usual false alias in which I'd made millions in speculating on the bear market. I put my plastic monocle on the shelf. I'm just David, more or less. After all she had already lived with me, as a roommate, back in the day. She was hanging around at the worse. Pathetic and junky, twas, but despite this she was always keen to me. Perhaps it's that she was able to see me for what I aspire to be- not who I was- and/or maybe on top of that she also takes solice with the knowledge of her own short comings. Dosnt matter. Doesn't matter what the reason, it's a good reason for why-ever.
Yeah, some people fake being friends just because they were friends. Not Flintstones. They will say 'later' after you signed a four year contract with the army and when they see you again they say 'what's up'. No fakey sentimental bullshit here. Bump fists with Stoicism and suave. Flintstoners keep it real.
And real we kept it. Without even discussing it we both decided to forgo the touristy things in Kalamazoo (yes the entire plethora of touristy things to do). We watched mystery science theater 3000. We listened to a faded mix tape. We got high.
When I was at work I suspect she just walked around and smoked and stuff. And when I would return home we would walk and talk. When making breakfast I rediscovered that she didn't eat meat. Ooops. I bought three pounds of bacon for nothing. The only noble thing to do is eat a shit-ton of bacon.
Pleasantly, inner-dialog with myself had dropped totally. It was totally weird to get input from an external verbal source.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon we walked to the theater to see 'UP' (in 3D, so we ofcourse got high). At one point there came to be a fatty little squirrels in our path. “The squirrels around here are nuts” she says. I love you Sabrina, thanks. My sanity is now restored. And I realize that the break in solitude has lent me a fresh, new- or perhaps rediscovered- perspective on things. I charge at the rodent and kick it like a field goal. The tubby rodent arks high in the air and lands somewhere in the far distance. “Going somewhere?” I smugly remark.
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?
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.)
(PLEASE NOTE THAT DAVID EX IS NOT RESPOSIBLE FOR SPELLCHECKS. WHEN IN DOUBT, USE CONTEXT CLUES.)
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