Keeping Up Appearances

[NOTE: I don't know if I should give you a warning about the crude language included in today's entry. Consider yourself warned. It isn't much but I refuse to change anything on account of the guilty segments losing impact if certain words were lost. Sometimes that's just the way it is. F*ck Yeah!]

[NOTE: The previous F*ck Yeah was completely unnecessary.]

SATURDAY, AUGUST 9, 2008

I am informed that a birthday celebration is to take place at Cataldi Park. It can be easily seen from the freeway going 55. As it approaches the speedy mechanical masses, the park itself ungracefully tapers into a very awkward point; nature's fencer keeping an urban monstrosity at bay. Parry. Parry. Halt.

It is 2 in the afternoon and I play with the idea of making an appearance. It is not often I go out, family gatherings included. Thanks to my recent turn in spirit I am open to the option. The closet opens and I search for what to wear. My closet is packed tighter than a pornstar on a multi-man marathon f*ckfest. This is because 87% of my closet consists of things I won't wear. can't wear, or would rather not wear. Since it's packed so tight, the things I end up wearing are usually wrinkled in some form.

I once again think to myself, "I need to learn how to iron someday."

The clothes I pick doesn't help my "laid back" figure. I mix and match and try another set. This does not help either. It might even be worse. If my mood was cheery and upbeat beforehand, seeing my fat self in fat clothing looking rather fat kicked the mood down tempo.

"Ah screw . . . I won't go to the park."

I go to sleep.


I wake up 3 hours later with no remembrance of a dream. The urge to head over to the park is stronger than ever and I brave the closet once more. This time I find something that might work and go with it. I step outside and am thankful for the sunny but cool day; the trees dancing with the wind reflecting my gratitude. Outside on the porch while thinking of a way to actually get to Cataldi, a biker (sans bike) strolls on up and says,

"Can I borrow your phone? My bike ran out of of gas."

This man is the true biker type. The leather, the facial hair, the works. The calm and pleasant delivery of his question is the only thing which betrays his rough and tough exterior.

"Sure." I say without hesitation.

I grab the phone and he makes a call to his girlfriend, seemingly. The pick-up is confirmed.

He passes back the phone and asks, "Can I have a cigarette or something?"

"Sure."

I pass him the cigarette and a match. He lights the cigarette and passes back the spent match saying, "I don't want to be disrespectful and just drop it, here ya' go."

In the middle of thinking how nice this guy is, he looks straight at me and suddenly says "You know what happened there? You'll see it on the news. They messed up my bike and I'm going to do something about. Get it done right."

Whoa.

With multiple "thanks" for the cigarette and phone, he takes his leave with a stroll just as chill as the one he arrived with.


I previously made a call and found out that the party at the park was over. Sunset parks don't like party people, apparently. The celebration was to continue at the celebrant's home. Knowing this, I was very much ready to take the short walk over there. Luckily, TJ (the brother younger) gave me a lift.

The party arrives. Greetings are thrown around with ease with I, the almost-stranger, picking it up and throwing it back just as freely. I feel good. Chairs and coolers are transferred to the big backyard and the party continues.

People hang out and talk. That's what they do. As a half-man/half-loner, all social scenes are foreign to me and I sit ever lost. I tell this to my youngest brother, J. Norman and he (as social as they come) tells me to just listen in on a group and hear what's going on.

I do so.

I can't catch on. Neither can I relate to what's being said. The only world I know is the world seen through my eyes. Narrow though it maybe, the sucker is on replay and I get all the angles. Maybe not all, but definitely the ones which are horrorshow. That's how I keep myself entertained. To apply this to another person's proclivities is something I have an issue with. I still can't catch on.

I would try to make the attempt to get to know another person but everyone else is holding a conversation with everyone else. I turn on the iPod and have at it with the Deftones' "Saturday Night Wrist." To want to know another person is something of an intimate affair. Common likes and dislikes can go forth without attachment but to get any deeper is a no fly zone.

This must be why I stay in the shallow end of the pool when knowing people.

I reserve the 8 ft. side for the significant other, whomever that may be.

I wonder if this is the way it is with most people.

The night is spent listening to the conversations of others. What I have to contribute is very little and never elevates what's been said. Given the opportunity to listen, I find myself with the "permission to look," so to speak, at those in the current command of any given conversation. This provides an avenue to which I have hardly any discipline: looking at an attractive female . . . comfortably.

Maybe it's the sympathy that the shadows of a backyard evening provide, pacifying faces of their true ambitions, loyalties, and faith. I could suggest that it was perhaps the varying sets of mexican party music that melded and inundated the neighborhood air but it isn't that. It certainly is not for lack of looks, either.

I look at her whenever she speaks, naturally, and I am able to do so with more freedom (of mind) than I thought I had. Is my side of the attraction there? The slightest hint exists but is nothing to take action upon. She undoubtedly is one pretty lass. This is all goes back to the idea of female "configurations," still a topic for another day. Find me another girl like her and maybe I won't be kept in such a state of awe but for now, there she sits.

And I am one lucky bastard.

(How do I insert a stupid giggle in here?)

I am most thankful for the fact that I am able to be comfortable and keep composure around such a fascinating girl. My modus operandi in a situation like this usually consists of: 1 part awkward mess and 2 parts weirdo. Do you know Radiohead's song Creep? My motherf*cking anthem.

(Add another giggle, thanks.)

But not this night.

Do I ever talk to her? "Patience, young grasshopper." I'm not quite there yet.


Jaidyn is my goddaughter and after many months not having seen her she appears later in the night. Shy at first and hiding behind a curtain, she gets the idea that I somehow forgot her.

"That's funny," I say to myself, quietly, "I thought she might have forgotten me."

Her imagination is ever wild and she believes me to be a monster, I tell her, "No. I'm not a monster but I do hide a lot." It isn't long before I am her godfather again and we get into the swing of play along with her little sister, Jazmine. Leaving the conversations and the nice-looking one behind, I get lost in the cheer of two young rapscallions with nothing but positivity on their mind. I think back to a time before my brain decided to have a frown as its manager. It was good. And these kids are good, untouched by the cruelty of a mad, mad world. Childhood can afford to do so.

I try to keep up with the energy that Jaidyn and her little sister bring out. We knock cups over, spin, jump, train, hide, seek and laugh. Lots of laughing. It is a good time indeed. In the moments of rest I manage to acquire, I can't fathom how the people who take care of the J.J. Duo do it every. single. day. I'm only a godfather and can hardly keep up in the very few times I see them in a given year. Whew! They're great.

The night now late, their father calls them into the house for sleep. I wipe my brow one last time. The ambiance of the party itself is now even more calm than before. Two groups are gathered: the birthday celebrant with her peers and everybody else in a tent. I walk into the tent and sit on the couch, the conversations less manic. My comments are more frequent but just as glib.

The night ends quite nicely with my cousin Debra and I speaking about the wonderful world of pro wrestling. Yeah, yeah, don't shoot me. Some people like ballet or modern dance. I watch pro wrestling. It's just like a choreographed dance . . . except with body slams. I could go on and on about the virtues of a worked match but that too will have to be an entry of its own. Debra heartily speaks about her past fandom with the American greats of the 90's to early 2000's. I agree for the most part but also throw out the beauty of the Burning Hammer and its origins. You marks know what I'm talking about. It's an elite land full of Tiger Drivers and Shining Wizards.


On my bed and tired (a good tired), I quickly post something on my blog about this day's experiences and insights being written not now but soon. Although the world hates seeing a fat bastard, I went out and did my best. No, I did not accomplish anything grand or learn secrets that only the privileged few know, but I did go out there and live. Just live. I think to myself, "It's been a good day, hasn't it?"

"Yes it has."