[NOTE: The people mentioned in this post are referred to by their real names except for two: "Marcus" and "Buddy." These are aliases since I haven't gotten proper permission from each person they represent. Tedd was originally to go under the alias "Raimund" until his permission was recently cleared.]
SUNDAY AUGUST 17, 2008
This day has been planned for weeks and I don't know what will happen. It might go well or it might be awful. I'm rooting for the former but I can't see anything beyond the hills out my bedroom window. We leave sometime before 2:00 p.m.. Upon my entry into the vehicle, Madison (Debra's dog), rushes towards me and licks the bejeesus out of my face. My eyeglasses get smacked wet while I simultaneously try to to hang onto my fedora and get into the vehicle: a red Mistsubishi Montero. As soon as I get settled, Madison nonchalantly makes her way to the other end of the backseat. This must be the canine equivalent of a formal introduction. The trip begins.
Debra drives while another cousin of mine, Tedd, rides shotgun. Debra says we must first drop off Madison at her boyfriend's mother's place. I assume Madison already knows everyone there; no formal introductions via sloppy dog kisses will be necessary. We arrive and Debra's significant other, Marcus, makes his way out the front door, down the front yard and up to the Montero. Debra asks, "Are there any pancakes?" I am stupefied. I don't know why anybody would want to eat big floppy pancakes in a car. This very feeling is shown on my face but nobody notices. Marcus takes Madison inside the house and returns with a small Tupperware container filled with what looks like little cookies. Tedd grabs a few, as does Debra. When it's my turn I grab 2, absolutely baffled. Although they vary in size, they are about the size of a child's palm. Convenient. Neither hesitant nor ardent, I bite into one. The texture is fluffy with a slight but satisfying crunch approaching the outer edges. The flavor sweet and delightful. I should have grabbed more. I should have hid the entire container under my hat.
With no determined place to go, the vehicle approaches the Milpitas Art & Wine Festival. It is known that TJ is to perform there and we crack jokes about being there by coincidence. The festival is set on one long street with a less fulfilled branch to the west, The day is warm. There are many people but it isn't crowded. They couldn't even form a legitimate lynch mob. Tedd (with his war mage idiosyncrasies) would easily take them all out with a "Tempest of Raistlin" spell and maybe a summon or two. The "8-toed Ogre Savage of Vindabona" could crush this feeble tea party. But for now the situation doesn't call for it. We continue down on the line and pass an empty stage. The booths themselves are heavy on the crafts and light on the wine. The oddest sight there are local agents trying to peddle property and vacations. What this has to do with art or wine, I do not know. Maybe they took the angle of gluing together popsicle stick sculptures at your new home and getting wasted on vintage 91's in the Caribbean. Damn peddlers.
At the end of the street sings a bluesman on another stage. The guy's got his stuff down pat and I'm jiving with everything he says. Having no woman to lose or have lost, I can't relate but the intent and the delivery of each word is good. Damn good. If "The Krystle Song" was this hip then I'd be up on stage too, wailing woes of what was never mine. But nobody would want to hear that. The bluesman's got more soul than I have in my left foot. Christy Brown could get spastic to this stuff too.
On our way back up the other side of the street and after winning a free pasta dinner, I keep an eye out for TJ the brother younger. Debra and Tedd check out another free spin at an Adventist Church's booth. The banner alone keeps my feet pointed in the other direction; religion isn't my bag, man. It is faith that carries worth. The multitude of idealogies in how to get to god/God/a god is a marathon of running in a circle. I think I'll go my own way, thank you. Screw the middleman! This dude's going direct. As the cross-stamped banner bends in the heat of the sun, I keep my ears open. I think I hear something . . . horns. That's TJ. I walk away from the never-ending foot race behind me and head towards the "bah-rah! bah-rah! bah-rah!" coming from the street to the west.
It's a lively sound, these musicians on stage. Four female vocalists whirl their bodies with the words they sing. It's not something I usually listen to but it's nice. I am a bit disappointed that the mix has the horns at a lower lever. They are overpowered, almost drowned out by the voices, and the power of the brass does not come through. The set is over. One singer is a relative of someone that Debra knows and they trade hellos. Soon after, we leave the Art & Wine Festival.
Tedd needed to pick up an aloe vera plant. The location? At Buddy's house, yet another cousin. We hang out for awhile. I take a quick stop at the bathroom to rinse my face of this warm day. It is decided that we drive to Sonic at Tracy; a place far, far away from San Jose. Why there? Because there isn't a Sonic fast food joint around where we live. We must go out and elsewhere to partake of a rumored better burger. Buddy is along for the ride and we head out with the aloe vera plant at the back of the Montero. After dropping that off at Tedd's place we pick up Marcus from where Madison and fine pancakes reside. On to Tracy.
It's all-natural so it's not the death scythe that Big Tobacco sells in millions, billions, trillions. The three men take their turn. I pass, having given up the stuff many a month ago. I am amused at the jokes that fly. Occasionally, Marcus and Buddy take the wise-cracking to a more "queer" affair. They are the best of friends, these two. Even so, the homosexually charged ribbing is something I am not comfortable with. I am not distressed but it sure is pretty darn awkward to be in a cramped vehicle where two dudes comment freely on who goes to the front and who stays at the back. It is a bit silly and I do give a few restrained "hah hahs" but I can't find myself casually throwing out jokes about who's the one to take it up the brownie. See, that's just plain [your word of choice].
The drive itself is pleasant. Or at the least the view is. The Montero must've been made in the bumpy end of the factory. The passengers pay with each dip on the freeway. I look outside the window. Summer makes the grass cry in a shade not far from the trickling reach of a burning flame. These rolling hills are a permanent sea of yellow. They swing upwards and sway downwards in a dance of many miles. The backdrop of a clear blue day accentuates the dervish scrolling by my window. I want to play. I want to be out there and be a part of the divine freedom that only untouched earth can provide. Except these lands are not free. The dance is kept in check by fences of wood and wire. They punch upwards and kick downwards as a shackle of many miles. This piece of earth outside my window is not as flawless as it seems and I don't feel like being somebody's cow just to be there. I'd rather stay on this bumpy Montero ride.
We make it to Tracy. Ophelia. Sonic is the kind of place where you can park your car and a waitress will roll up to your car and ask, "What will you be having for today?" The Montero being as constrained as it is, we opt to dine in the outdoors area of Sonic under a big roof and away from the failing heat of the sun. The menu is a wealth of choices. I jump between "fries, onion rings, fries, onion rings, fri . . ." until I go with the onion rings. I usually make a point of trying out the french fries where ever they are served but today I change it up. Before I even sit, I scope out all the people within the vicinity. Why? Well you know why, don't ya? I'll give you a second. Okay, another. It rhymes with "pearls." Bingo! A table across from where I am sits a girl in pink skirt-shirt thingy. (You female readers will have to help me with the proper terminology on that one.) She reminds me of a nice girl (hard one to find, that) I knew in my senior year of high school: "Kat with a K" Kathleen Volk. Except with black hair. She sits with a bunch of manly men in muscle shirts; me, myself, and I couldn't be more contrary to this. I look at the Sonic building. There are two doors where the waitresses roll out with the food and go back in again. In between the swings of one of these doors something, or rather, someone, catches my eye. I can only hope she takes a trip to a parked car before I go. My wish is answered and on her skates she glides to wherever. It doesn't matter where she goes, really, as long as I get my one look. And I do. Maybe a few more?
This raven-haired beauty is something I've not seen before. Splendid. Had I not gone on this trip I would not have seen her in this lifetime. Perhaps any lifetime. The view is mighty fine but is interrupted with the inevitable. I would like to avoid it but with this crude mug of mine it can't be prevented and I don't have a mask at hand. Eye-contact. Straight off the bat she is disinterested and why wouldn't she be? (I'll spare you the self-deprecation for now. You all know the routine.) It doesn't keep me from looking, though. She rolls away. I look back across to the girl in pink and her eyes are looking at mine. I hope I'm not scaring her. If she was ugly this would be a different story and my eyes wouldn't have to look her way. But there they are. There she looks. I break away not wanting to play the monster in this horror flick. Somehow, someway, Raven ends up at our table bringing the other half of what we ordered. (A different waitress brought the first.) She stands 2 'o clock from where I sit. Being the complete ponce that I am, I dare not look at her as she towers over my onion rings. This sucks. So does this eraser.
Back to the girl in pink. She now wears sunglasses with a huge white frame. It suits her. I find it funny that the sun is behind her, so why bother? If she wears them maybe she'll be invisible to the frightening man in the fedora. Maybe it would be better if I was blind? That way, the splendor of female beauty wouldn't stun me so and the all the pretty ones could go about their day without a look coming from my way. It works out for everybody, doesn't it? Raven stops by the table again and this time she is to the left of me, just over my shoulder. Onion rings. Two of them left. Yup, Just two o . . . I look up at her. She really does look nice. The moments are few and she rolls away. I am lost in thoughts of things that could have been done, should have been avoided. As we get ready to leave Sonic, I take one last look at her. The expression is something I won't soon forget. Slight anger. Totally annoyed. "Way to to go, Casanova." I shouldn't have looked at her at all.
The sun is going down as we make our way back to San Jose. The feast of burgers, fries, onion rings, shakes and a sundae play enjoyable in our bellies. Back in San Jose we make one last stop. We go to the hills overlooking the valley and see the city drawn in streetlights. The sky, once blue, now a canvas of oranges and grapes. Debra, Marcus, and Tedd share stories on nights previous about the trees behind us.
"Someone was screaming." Debra says.
"The trees were screaming? Creepy." I reply.
I make sure to stay away from what haunts this area. Steady, tall, but grim, these trees look very much the part. I look back at the city and am embraced by the perceived serenity. It looks calm down there. But people are angry. People are wasting. People are watching sitcoms. If someone must be so far away to escape what they know all too well, this must by why people are content with what they've got. They just can't/don't step outside to see that it can be better. The city sleeps without care. But the people want more.
It's very important to live, isn't it? No, I don't mean the day-to-day grind of work, pay rent, be stable. Life. Enjoy it. Step outside of the box once in a while and see a view you've never seen before. You'll be amazed. Places will be scary and jokes might go gay, but at least you'll see it for what it is. A dog will make a formal introduction. The pancakes will be fantastic. And you'll see someone that'll astound you. It might not necessarily be the pretty girl, either. It just might end up being be your own self. This day has been planned for weeks and I did not know what would happen. There sure are a lot of things outside my window. I think it went well.
SUNDAY AUGUST 17, 2008
This day has been planned for weeks and I don't know what will happen. It might go well or it might be awful. I'm rooting for the former but I can't see anything beyond the hills out my bedroom window. We leave sometime before 2:00 p.m.. Upon my entry into the vehicle, Madison (Debra's dog), rushes towards me and licks the bejeesus out of my face. My eyeglasses get smacked wet while I simultaneously try to to hang onto my fedora and get into the vehicle: a red Mistsubishi Montero. As soon as I get settled, Madison nonchalantly makes her way to the other end of the backseat. This must be the canine equivalent of a formal introduction. The trip begins.
Debra drives while another cousin of mine, Tedd, rides shotgun. Debra says we must first drop off Madison at her boyfriend's mother's place. I assume Madison already knows everyone there; no formal introductions via sloppy dog kisses will be necessary. We arrive and Debra's significant other, Marcus, makes his way out the front door, down the front yard and up to the Montero. Debra asks, "Are there any pancakes?" I am stupefied. I don't know why anybody would want to eat big floppy pancakes in a car. This very feeling is shown on my face but nobody notices. Marcus takes Madison inside the house and returns with a small Tupperware container filled with what looks like little cookies. Tedd grabs a few, as does Debra. When it's my turn I grab 2, absolutely baffled. Although they vary in size, they are about the size of a child's palm. Convenient. Neither hesitant nor ardent, I bite into one. The texture is fluffy with a slight but satisfying crunch approaching the outer edges. The flavor sweet and delightful. I should have grabbed more. I should have hid the entire container under my hat.
With no determined place to go, the vehicle approaches the Milpitas Art & Wine Festival. It is known that TJ is to perform there and we crack jokes about being there by coincidence. The festival is set on one long street with a less fulfilled branch to the west, The day is warm. There are many people but it isn't crowded. They couldn't even form a legitimate lynch mob. Tedd (with his war mage idiosyncrasies) would easily take them all out with a "Tempest of Raistlin" spell and maybe a summon or two. The "8-toed Ogre Savage of Vindabona" could crush this feeble tea party. But for now the situation doesn't call for it. We continue down on the line and pass an empty stage. The booths themselves are heavy on the crafts and light on the wine. The oddest sight there are local agents trying to peddle property and vacations. What this has to do with art or wine, I do not know. Maybe they took the angle of gluing together popsicle stick sculptures at your new home and getting wasted on vintage 91's in the Caribbean. Damn peddlers.
At the end of the street sings a bluesman on another stage. The guy's got his stuff down pat and I'm jiving with everything he says. Having no woman to lose or have lost, I can't relate but the intent and the delivery of each word is good. Damn good. If "The Krystle Song" was this hip then I'd be up on stage too, wailing woes of what was never mine. But nobody would want to hear that. The bluesman's got more soul than I have in my left foot. Christy Brown could get spastic to this stuff too.
On our way back up the other side of the street and after winning a free pasta dinner, I keep an eye out for TJ the brother younger. Debra and Tedd check out another free spin at an Adventist Church's booth. The banner alone keeps my feet pointed in the other direction; religion isn't my bag, man. It is faith that carries worth. The multitude of idealogies in how to get to god/God/a god is a marathon of running in a circle. I think I'll go my own way, thank you. Screw the middleman! This dude's going direct. As the cross-stamped banner bends in the heat of the sun, I keep my ears open. I think I hear something . . . horns. That's TJ. I walk away from the never-ending foot race behind me and head towards the "bah-rah! bah-rah! bah-rah!" coming from the street to the west.
It's a lively sound, these musicians on stage. Four female vocalists whirl their bodies with the words they sing. It's not something I usually listen to but it's nice. I am a bit disappointed that the mix has the horns at a lower lever. They are overpowered, almost drowned out by the voices, and the power of the brass does not come through. The set is over. One singer is a relative of someone that Debra knows and they trade hellos. Soon after, we leave the Art & Wine Festival.
Tedd needed to pick up an aloe vera plant. The location? At Buddy's house, yet another cousin. We hang out for awhile. I take a quick stop at the bathroom to rinse my face of this warm day. It is decided that we drive to Sonic at Tracy; a place far, far away from San Jose. Why there? Because there isn't a Sonic fast food joint around where we live. We must go out and elsewhere to partake of a rumored better burger. Buddy is along for the ride and we head out with the aloe vera plant at the back of the Montero. After dropping that off at Tedd's place we pick up Marcus from where Madison and fine pancakes reside. On to Tracy.
It's all-natural so it's not the death scythe that Big Tobacco sells in millions, billions, trillions. The three men take their turn. I pass, having given up the stuff many a month ago. I am amused at the jokes that fly. Occasionally, Marcus and Buddy take the wise-cracking to a more "queer" affair. They are the best of friends, these two. Even so, the homosexually charged ribbing is something I am not comfortable with. I am not distressed but it sure is pretty darn awkward to be in a cramped vehicle where two dudes comment freely on who goes to the front and who stays at the back. It is a bit silly and I do give a few restrained "hah hahs" but I can't find myself casually throwing out jokes about who's the one to take it up the brownie. See, that's just plain [your word of choice].
The drive itself is pleasant. Or at the least the view is. The Montero must've been made in the bumpy end of the factory. The passengers pay with each dip on the freeway. I look outside the window. Summer makes the grass cry in a shade not far from the trickling reach of a burning flame. These rolling hills are a permanent sea of yellow. They swing upwards and sway downwards in a dance of many miles. The backdrop of a clear blue day accentuates the dervish scrolling by my window. I want to play. I want to be out there and be a part of the divine freedom that only untouched earth can provide. Except these lands are not free. The dance is kept in check by fences of wood and wire. They punch upwards and kick downwards as a shackle of many miles. This piece of earth outside my window is not as flawless as it seems and I don't feel like being somebody's cow just to be there. I'd rather stay on this bumpy Montero ride.
We make it to Tracy. Ophelia. Sonic is the kind of place where you can park your car and a waitress will roll up to your car and ask, "What will you be having for today?" The Montero being as constrained as it is, we opt to dine in the outdoors area of Sonic under a big roof and away from the failing heat of the sun. The menu is a wealth of choices. I jump between "fries, onion rings, fries, onion rings, fri . . ." until I go with the onion rings. I usually make a point of trying out the french fries where ever they are served but today I change it up. Before I even sit, I scope out all the people within the vicinity. Why? Well you know why, don't ya? I'll give you a second. Okay, another. It rhymes with "pearls." Bingo! A table across from where I am sits a girl in pink skirt-shirt thingy. (You female readers will have to help me with the proper terminology on that one.) She reminds me of a nice girl (hard one to find, that) I knew in my senior year of high school: "Kat with a K" Kathleen Volk. Except with black hair. She sits with a bunch of manly men in muscle shirts; me, myself, and I couldn't be more contrary to this. I look at the Sonic building. There are two doors where the waitresses roll out with the food and go back in again. In between the swings of one of these doors something, or rather, someone, catches my eye. I can only hope she takes a trip to a parked car before I go. My wish is answered and on her skates she glides to wherever. It doesn't matter where she goes, really, as long as I get my one look. And I do. Maybe a few more?
This raven-haired beauty is something I've not seen before. Splendid. Had I not gone on this trip I would not have seen her in this lifetime. Perhaps any lifetime. The view is mighty fine but is interrupted with the inevitable. I would like to avoid it but with this crude mug of mine it can't be prevented and I don't have a mask at hand. Eye-contact. Straight off the bat she is disinterested and why wouldn't she be? (I'll spare you the self-deprecation for now. You all know the routine.) It doesn't keep me from looking, though. She rolls away. I look back across to the girl in pink and her eyes are looking at mine. I hope I'm not scaring her. If she was ugly this would be a different story and my eyes wouldn't have to look her way. But there they are. There she looks. I break away not wanting to play the monster in this horror flick. Somehow, someway, Raven ends up at our table bringing the other half of what we ordered. (A different waitress brought the first.) She stands 2 'o clock from where I sit. Being the complete ponce that I am, I dare not look at her as she towers over my onion rings. This sucks. So does this eraser.
Back to the girl in pink. She now wears sunglasses with a huge white frame. It suits her. I find it funny that the sun is behind her, so why bother? If she wears them maybe she'll be invisible to the frightening man in the fedora. Maybe it would be better if I was blind? That way, the splendor of female beauty wouldn't stun me so and the all the pretty ones could go about their day without a look coming from my way. It works out for everybody, doesn't it? Raven stops by the table again and this time she is to the left of me, just over my shoulder. Onion rings. Two of them left. Yup, Just two o . . . I look up at her. She really does look nice. The moments are few and she rolls away. I am lost in thoughts of things that could have been done, should have been avoided. As we get ready to leave Sonic, I take one last look at her. The expression is something I won't soon forget. Slight anger. Totally annoyed. "Way to to go, Casanova." I shouldn't have looked at her at all.
The sun is going down as we make our way back to San Jose. The feast of burgers, fries, onion rings, shakes and a sundae play enjoyable in our bellies. Back in San Jose we make one last stop. We go to the hills overlooking the valley and see the city drawn in streetlights. The sky, once blue, now a canvas of oranges and grapes. Debra, Marcus, and Tedd share stories on nights previous about the trees behind us.
"Someone was screaming." Debra says.
"The trees were screaming? Creepy." I reply.
I make sure to stay away from what haunts this area. Steady, tall, but grim, these trees look very much the part. I look back at the city and am embraced by the perceived serenity. It looks calm down there. But people are angry. People are wasting. People are watching sitcoms. If someone must be so far away to escape what they know all too well, this must by why people are content with what they've got. They just can't/don't step outside to see that it can be better. The city sleeps without care. But the people want more.
It's very important to live, isn't it? No, I don't mean the day-to-day grind of work, pay rent, be stable. Life. Enjoy it. Step outside of the box once in a while and see a view you've never seen before. You'll be amazed. Places will be scary and jokes might go gay, but at least you'll see it for what it is. A dog will make a formal introduction. The pancakes will be fantastic. And you'll see someone that'll astound you. It might not necessarily be the pretty girl, either. It just might end up being be your own self. This day has been planned for weeks and I did not know what would happen. There sure are a lot of things outside my window. I think it went well.
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