The leaves at this house are the last to fall. When Autumn arrives, all the other trees on this block obey: they turn red, orange, brown and fall into crispy little pieces. But no, no, not the leaves at 613. They hang on and hold out, waiting for the touch of winter before deciding to succumb to their annual fate. Out of my bedroom window, I watch. They hang on and hang on, teasing me with the role I must play in the mess they become.
So it happens.
They spew.
All over a green yard, the trees shit no-longer-green junk. Junk for me to clean. Junk for me to hustle over. The fall of leaves itself is no simple turn. It takes time. It is a gradual bomb. A few leaves here, a few leaves there. Oh how I wish these dead things would drop all it once instead of the weeks it drips like a leaky faucet. Weeks. Yes, weeks. Out of my bedroom window, I watch. They hang on and hang on, teasing me with the role I must play in the mess they become.
So it happens.
They spew.
Fucking slooowly.
The typical routine involves a raking of the yard every week. More tree filth piles on (effectively maintaining the same mess I've just swept) and out again I go the next week. This year I decide to clean it up all in one go. One big boom to rid of the fallen dead doom. A few days before Christmas, I decide. That's when I'll get those suckers. They fall, no longer teasing me. Let them tumble as they please. They're on MY time now, not the other way around.
My misery must have missed me. It caught up with me in the most heinous way.
It is Friday night. I am standing in the driveway with a friend who is about to leave. A tubby, white-haired caucasian woman rounds the sidewalk corner, dressed in all her Christmas glory. Green sweatshirt, red pants, white scarf - this is the uniform of her yuletide stroll. The smirk on her face is as trying as the silver glitter on her scarf.
She walks up and asks, in the voice of one who believes to know better, "Excuse me, do you live here?"
"Yes" I say, reluctantly.
"Can you sweep up the sidewalk? I know the sidewalk has bumps, you can't do anything with thaat but I can't see them with all these leaves. I don't want to trip. Can you rake them? Oh no, not right nooow. Ohhh noo. But sometime soon? I'll be walking through here tomorrow night."
I am stunned, weak and a complete pussy."Uh, I was gonna clean it up before Christmas."
"Oh that'd be great."
"Have a nice night." I reply.
She is already 15 yards away. Her back towards me, walking, I hear, "Happy holidays."
I am silent. Defeated. With the woman out of earshot (maybe not) I start to bitch about the situation to my buddy. I find it be far too hostile for someone to tell another person to clean up their property. Granted, the sidewalk is public property, but the bitch could just as easily step out and walk on the street corner or maybe just LIFT HER FUCKING FEET. You see, the corner she traversed is in the dark because the trees block out the streetlight. The trees have also grown to such a degree that the sidewalk is uprooted at certain points and of course, there are leaves. Many, many leaves.
So what the fuck do I care should she trip over? Bitch, take precaution instead of enforcing perfection. Wear your glasses. Use a flashlight. Bring night vision goggles. Though you walk through the ruin that is this corner, remember, you could walk elsewhere. Or walk in the daytime. Or clean it up yourself.
With all my vocalized frustration, my friend's sympathy quickly turns into annoyance. At one point he tells me to "just shut up and grow a pair."
As soon as he leaves, I pick up the rake and vent my "sad/angry feeling combo" on the yard, unable to do anything else.
Outside my window the leaves still fall. Should you pass by this house, you'll see gathered leaf piles. They are the monuments to my humiliation. The pharaohs of Egypt get pyramids and I've got this. They remind me of my weakness and of a wish to be more assertive. Instead of being stunned, I should have shouted. I wouldn't get points for civility but at least I wouldn't be pushed around. All I can do is write and hope that brings some relief. But those leaves are still out there. The leaves still fall.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Dear Friend Has Died Today
A death unexpected is indeed the worst kind. There stands no flashing neon sign to mark what is to come, to warn what doom is to befall the heedless passerby. In its place is a void, a knife in the dark that hungers to sink sleep into those most awake. This is the fate that a cherished friend has met this day. Gone. No longer winding. A silent shell of what once was vibrant now lies extinct in the limbo of nowhere.
I miss my friend.
My iPod died today.
I miss my friend.
My iPod died today.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Paranoia Pollock Pioneer
Saturday October 16, 2009
The sky attains its later fashion. A vibrant blue transforms into hues of cultivated violets and passionate reds, diving slowly into the western hills of the valley. The evening ballet occurs once more. This particular night holds the promise of a sleepover. A few drinks. Maybe even a few laughs. Changing moods and changing skies check this blithesome eventide. Welcome to tonight.
Ding-dong! The assembly arrives, returning from a Great Mall - a misnomer, no doubt - to a corner house marked 613. Courteous smiles appear accompanied by introductions delivered upon entry of the front red door. Brody and Jess are no strangers to this place and are the first to walk through. Behind them stand Neil and a rather amicable fellow by the name of Nebo who has driven them here. Among these few is a resident of house, J. Norman, chief of the gathering.
It is not too long before another troop lands. Their purpose? To ask the 613 group in joining their 4-member gang on a trip to traverse haunted grounds at San Felipe. On the driveway they discuss, joke and shoot the shit beneath a now twinkling firmament. The streetlight glows its lucent purpose, a yellow splendor splashing upon the youth who ardently speak of the night's potential. Who will go? And who will stay? The ghosts, they wait for the eager tender age.
Those of 613 opt not to go. They bid farewell to their friends. Nebo too has departed, restricted by the 23:00 curfew set upon him. The ones who remain make way towards the backyard to partake of a herbal treat. Once done, they head back to the computer room to drink a drink admittedly not legally allowed them. The cheers soon run high.
Giggles emerge from the computer room. Sobriety has left and said "Goodbye!" and in its place a tipsy awkward stumbles forth. Huzzah! A pronouncement! Neil has to go home. A curfew on his head, his current state of mind only increases the bounty. The parental posse will be on the lookout; of this, Neil is most certainly aware. Paranoia, paranoia. He no longer believes in the sureness of his step.
He looks at his comrades and asks with bizarre worry, "Am I walking straight?"
Neil steps after step step, each audible sneakered tap on the floor exposing the forced control.
"Am I walking straight?" he asks again.
"Yeah" his friends respond with a chuckle and a smile.
"No, really, am I walking straight?"
Anxiety is the orchestra that fills his voice but you can not tell by the look of undeniable calm on his face, almost a complete uncare, yet the band tunes up and again Neil asks,
"Am I walking straight?"
Another cautious stride.
"Yeah" his friends say assuredly, amusedly. It's enough to go home with.
Neil, the aspiring trapeze artist, supplies directions from the backseat. The sunless ride home acquires a soundtrack thanks to the nebulous tunes of 89.7 KFJC. The lyrical drones jive like court jesters to wasted kings and a queen. Brody. Neil. J. Norman. Jess. They're all here. So is Neil's favorite query.
"Quit playing around, do I really walk straight?"
"Yes."
Still rootless on the matter of his march, Neil decides to stop by Nebo's to show him his recently obtained circus act skill. A detour is made. The vehicle rolls into a neighborhood and out steps Nebo. One need not hear what transpires between the sober and the stoned. Eyes upon them easily see a one-man sidewalk parade as Neil takes step after step in front of his friend. Neil returns to the vehicle, the strangely aloof look still on his face and he proclaims, "Nebo says I'm walking straight. I can go home."
Inside the apartment complex is a street one long way down. Street lamps line either side the entire length through. Behold and marvel at this alien sight, an imposing funeral procession of the day now gone. Cars quietly whisper their way through, careful not to disturb the mourning of a lost sun. Be wary of the speed bumps, for they are frequent and guard the solemnity of this long way down, simultaneously opposing the booze-dope tempered.
Neil lives at the other end. For all the speed bumps littered across like a tar and gravel minefield, navigating this straight effectively replicates - on wheels - the difficulty of the Neil predicament. Too much or too little put hesitation on the driver. Appearing foolish is a no-no. Bump. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I'm not feeling well" says Jess. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I need to throw up." Jess opens the door and upchucks the evening's liquor dinner onto the bump just passed. At first it just looks like a quick spit, but no, as soon as this is mentioned Jess finds herself opening the door. Bump. "That was definitely vomit" someone says.
Drive.
Bump.
Vomit.
Drive.
"Just open up the window."
Bump.
Jess pukes toward a glass window that isn't supposed to be up.
"Too late" another person says.
It continues on the long way down. The liquor regurgitate mostly ends up outside. One attempt fails. The faint sound of booze-dope retch hitting vehicle interior floor is heard. "I don't feel good" says Jess. If a giggle hit the air, it wasn't apparent. Nobody takes delight in feeling that ill on a proposed night of mirth.
The long way ends and the vehicle turns left, leaving behind a bump-ridden road painted Pollock style in tints of hurl. Jess is spent, her form sunk in the rear seat but tells everyone that she's feeling better. Neil steps out and is left to his fate under stars and streetlight in front of his home. "Good bye" and "good luck." Heavy on the good luck. A couple more laughs are traded as he takes one more practice walk on the tight rope. What becomes of Neil upon his friends' farewell? Who knows, who knows, such is the story of a youth and his first toke.
The sky attains its later fashion. A vibrant blue transforms into hues of cultivated violets and passionate reds, diving slowly into the western hills of the valley. The evening ballet occurs once more. This particular night holds the promise of a sleepover. A few drinks. Maybe even a few laughs. Changing moods and changing skies check this blithesome eventide. Welcome to tonight.
Ding-dong! The assembly arrives, returning from a Great Mall - a misnomer, no doubt - to a corner house marked 613. Courteous smiles appear accompanied by introductions delivered upon entry of the front red door. Brody and Jess are no strangers to this place and are the first to walk through. Behind them stand Neil and a rather amicable fellow by the name of Nebo who has driven them here. Among these few is a resident of house, J. Norman, chief of the gathering.
It is not too long before another troop lands. Their purpose? To ask the 613 group in joining their 4-member gang on a trip to traverse haunted grounds at San Felipe. On the driveway they discuss, joke and shoot the shit beneath a now twinkling firmament. The streetlight glows its lucent purpose, a yellow splendor splashing upon the youth who ardently speak of the night's potential. Who will go? And who will stay? The ghosts, they wait for the eager tender age.
Those of 613 opt not to go. They bid farewell to their friends. Nebo too has departed, restricted by the 23:00 curfew set upon him. The ones who remain make way towards the backyard to partake of a herbal treat. Once done, they head back to the computer room to drink a drink admittedly not legally allowed them. The cheers soon run high.
Giggles emerge from the computer room. Sobriety has left and said "Goodbye!" and in its place a tipsy awkward stumbles forth. Huzzah! A pronouncement! Neil has to go home. A curfew on his head, his current state of mind only increases the bounty. The parental posse will be on the lookout; of this, Neil is most certainly aware. Paranoia, paranoia. He no longer believes in the sureness of his step.
He looks at his comrades and asks with bizarre worry, "Am I walking straight?"
Neil steps after step step, each audible sneakered tap on the floor exposing the forced control.
"Am I walking straight?" he asks again.
"Yeah" his friends respond with a chuckle and a smile.
"No, really, am I walking straight?"
Anxiety is the orchestra that fills his voice but you can not tell by the look of undeniable calm on his face, almost a complete uncare, yet the band tunes up and again Neil asks,
"Am I walking straight?"
Another cautious stride.
"Yeah" his friends say assuredly, amusedly. It's enough to go home with.
Neil, the aspiring trapeze artist, supplies directions from the backseat. The sunless ride home acquires a soundtrack thanks to the nebulous tunes of 89.7 KFJC. The lyrical drones jive like court jesters to wasted kings and a queen. Brody. Neil. J. Norman. Jess. They're all here. So is Neil's favorite query.
"Quit playing around, do I really walk straight?"
"Yes."
Still rootless on the matter of his march, Neil decides to stop by Nebo's to show him his recently obtained circus act skill. A detour is made. The vehicle rolls into a neighborhood and out steps Nebo. One need not hear what transpires between the sober and the stoned. Eyes upon them easily see a one-man sidewalk parade as Neil takes step after step in front of his friend. Neil returns to the vehicle, the strangely aloof look still on his face and he proclaims, "Nebo says I'm walking straight. I can go home."
Inside the apartment complex is a street one long way down. Street lamps line either side the entire length through. Behold and marvel at this alien sight, an imposing funeral procession of the day now gone. Cars quietly whisper their way through, careful not to disturb the mourning of a lost sun. Be wary of the speed bumps, for they are frequent and guard the solemnity of this long way down, simultaneously opposing the booze-dope tempered.
Neil lives at the other end. For all the speed bumps littered across like a tar and gravel minefield, navigating this straight effectively replicates - on wheels - the difficulty of the Neil predicament. Too much or too little put hesitation on the driver. Appearing foolish is a no-no. Bump. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I'm not feeling well" says Jess. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I need to throw up." Jess opens the door and upchucks the evening's liquor dinner onto the bump just passed. At first it just looks like a quick spit, but no, as soon as this is mentioned Jess finds herself opening the door. Bump. "That was definitely vomit" someone says.
Drive.
Bump.
Vomit.
Drive.
"Just open up the window."
Bump.
Jess pukes toward a glass window that isn't supposed to be up.
"Too late" another person says.
It continues on the long way down. The liquor regurgitate mostly ends up outside. One attempt fails. The faint sound of booze-dope retch hitting vehicle interior floor is heard. "I don't feel good" says Jess. If a giggle hit the air, it wasn't apparent. Nobody takes delight in feeling that ill on a proposed night of mirth.
The long way ends and the vehicle turns left, leaving behind a bump-ridden road painted Pollock style in tints of hurl. Jess is spent, her form sunk in the rear seat but tells everyone that she's feeling better. Neil steps out and is left to his fate under stars and streetlight in front of his home. "Good bye" and "good luck." Heavy on the good luck. A couple more laughs are traded as he takes one more practice walk on the tight rope. What becomes of Neil upon his friends' farewell? Who knows, who knows, such is the story of a youth and his first toke.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Calling All Drug Addicts! Calling All Drug Addicts!
You’re a drug addict, fine! We hold no judgment against you and what you do. At your age I take it that you do stop, look and listen before crossing the street. There exists a dilemma, however, and the dilemma is this: When you do decide to go from your silly 3-day sobriety to your next oh-so-sweet high, the problem is that this home - free of the poison you so lovingly inhale - becomes a necessary stop to get there. Do not bring your addiction to this house and lean on us to get your next fix.
Do not drive all the way here from wherever you’ve come from, jittery and sweat-browed on a cool evening to ask your brother’s sons for “gas money.” Do not ask to give you a ride to a certain location just off a main road, tucked away in a seemingly innocent neighborhood. Do not use this home’s phone number as your own to receive calls from suspicious strangers. Don’t ask to borrow a car, say you’ll be away for a little awhile only to return 9 hours later, 3:00 A.M. in the morning. When asked about where you were while away, don’t play us for a fool and claim you “played Scrabble.”
Again we say that no judgment is held against you but the lies you do tell scream loud over what we choose not to say. The extent of your lean is made obvious by the fiction you create. Along with those stories exists a monument of fact: When and where the mere whispers of your habit do arise you mockingly piss on those concerned. And though you hover in your high, you come back down again and you find yourself asking for “gas money.” We don’t have “gas money” but we might have “drug money,” would you care to take that?
If you can’t support your habit, maybe you should quit? When you find yourself scavenging every nook and cranny for a fix you can’t afford, that’s a sign. Take a look at your wallet. If you fueled your car instead of your addiction, you wouldn’t have to ask. You eagerly grab your beggar's dollar for the one unoffending but it's still connected to the other. So don’t ask. Do not ask us for we will not support what you choose to do. We will not give you a ride, nor will we give you money. We will not in any way play the role of an enabler for your precious fix. Although you feed us lies, we tell you this quite plainly so stop, look, and listen, “This house, this home will not be a stop to your next high.”
Do not drive all the way here from wherever you’ve come from, jittery and sweat-browed on a cool evening to ask your brother’s sons for “gas money.” Do not ask to give you a ride to a certain location just off a main road, tucked away in a seemingly innocent neighborhood. Do not use this home’s phone number as your own to receive calls from suspicious strangers. Don’t ask to borrow a car, say you’ll be away for a little awhile only to return 9 hours later, 3:00 A.M. in the morning. When asked about where you were while away, don’t play us for a fool and claim you “played Scrabble.”
Again we say that no judgment is held against you but the lies you do tell scream loud over what we choose not to say. The extent of your lean is made obvious by the fiction you create. Along with those stories exists a monument of fact: When and where the mere whispers of your habit do arise you mockingly piss on those concerned. And though you hover in your high, you come back down again and you find yourself asking for “gas money.” We don’t have “gas money” but we might have “drug money,” would you care to take that?
If you can’t support your habit, maybe you should quit? When you find yourself scavenging every nook and cranny for a fix you can’t afford, that’s a sign. Take a look at your wallet. If you fueled your car instead of your addiction, you wouldn’t have to ask. You eagerly grab your beggar's dollar for the one unoffending but it's still connected to the other. So don’t ask. Do not ask us for we will not support what you choose to do. We will not give you a ride, nor will we give you money. We will not in any way play the role of an enabler for your precious fix. Although you feed us lies, we tell you this quite plainly so stop, look, and listen, “This house, this home will not be a stop to your next high.”
Sunday, July 19, 2009
LSV
On midnight morning I was watching ASAP '09 (a Filipino variety show, DirecTV 2060) to stockpile fuel for my lyrical ammo and while doing so, came across a random thought that entertained me for a good 7 minutes. The birth of this "ha ha" spewed out into this not-so derelict earth during a performance involving a few fascinating women in scant and sparkly dresses. And what was born from this delight? A conversation.
"At least the girls are pretty, right?"
"Huh?"
"The girls are pretty?
"Oh yeah, yeah. Even if they lip-sync."
"You mean the ones that can’t sing?"
"Yeah, looking unsure of themselves. Standing on stage, moving their lips about. Still pretty."
"Even if they lip-sync."
"Uh huh."
"Do you think . . .?"
"What?"
"Oh Christ . . ."
"What??"
"Do you think they lip-sync their vadge?"
"At least the girls are pretty, right?"
"Huh?"
"The girls are pretty?
"Oh yeah, yeah. Even if they lip-sync."
"You mean the ones that can’t sing?"
"Yeah, looking unsure of themselves. Standing on stage, moving their lips about. Still pretty."
"Even if they lip-sync."
"Uh huh."
"Do you think . . .?"
"What?"
"Oh Christ . . ."
"What??"
"Do you think they lip-sync their vadge?"
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Our Emerald King is Dead
Mitsuharu Misawa - pro wrestling legend - passed away yesterday. It was quite a shock to read about this on what I thought would be another routine visit to a pro wrestling news website. Amongst the rumors and backstage drama, the goodbye of a familiar face is not something one is accustomed to. Especially someone at Misawa's level. Multiple championships and 5-star matches are as much of an identifier as his green wrestling tights. After a falling out with All-Japan Pro Wrestling, Misawa decided to form his own wrestling company and in doing so, a mass migration of All-Japan talent followed Misawa into what would now be known as Pro Wrestling NOAH. It is with NOAH and Misawa's gang of All-Japan natives that I am deeply indebted to for my greater understanding and appreciation for pro wrestling as a whole. Eager to break outside of a WWE consciousness, NOAH was the first light into a much deeper sense of what pro wrestling is. At the forefront was Misawa with his array of Tiger Suplexes, devastating elbows and the ever efficient Emerald Flowsion.
I am saddened by this loss.
What I've written doesn't do much to illustrate the extent of his legacy. A lot of his work is up on YouTube and I invite you to check it out.
I am saddened by this loss.
What I've written doesn't do much to illustrate the extent of his legacy. A lot of his work is up on YouTube and I invite you to check it out.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Sven Without
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
In the backyard, the fresh lawn mown sits east under the shadow of a two-story house, the early sun still fighting through the cold. Just inside, someone smashes away on a plastic drum set to gain familiarity with the "Hard" difficulty setting on Rock Band 2. That smasher is me. Tucked in my ever present black hooded sweatshirt and green shorts motif, between scatter miss beats I crash, crash, crash away with specific intent, that is, simply "To do."
Defined. Pick me out and pick a word. Sloth. My idleness becomes me, or rather, I to it. Many things attribute to it, as personal issues always tend to do. By my name alone, I need not further explain. ("Ground control to Major Lacking.") Despite this, I would rather have the life less dormant. Between the man standing and the man running, I do root for the one with his sneakers kicking in the air. He who stands stays back because he'd rather kick himself. For now though, I smack plastic, uncoordinated as it may seem.
Sometime soon after the misshapen beats go quiet, I decide upon going out. Saved a bit of cash, as it were, and it would be nice to put it where it needs to go - the bank. With a driver's permit and TJ in the passenger seat, I make way to the bank just up street, keenly aware of the inevitable behind-the-wheel test (which I most surely will blunder) and making every move "passable."
Left turn. Right turn. Left turn.
"Is the turn signal on?" I ask myself.
"Uh huh."
Inside the bank, I scope out "who's who" and am reminded to hang left. Why? To get the bank teller that I would rather deal with. There are three of them there. The girls to the right are younger, are of asian persuasion and some might find considerably attractive. To the far left, however, is an uncurious but kind white woman more physically befitting of a job that doesn't require good looks. That's where I want to be. So I wait. Each teller is busy. This unfair game of chance plays out before me like a game of Craps with no dice in the hand. I look around aimleslly, wishing for chrissakes that things will go in my favor and the dude to left would just get his money and piss off already! At the other end, the teller is kept busy, thus prompting no danger whatsoever. In the middle? Peril. Things look to be nearly finished. I panic! No heavy breathing, no crazy looks, oh no, but my mind is a mess.
I look away.
Then I look again.
The man to the left walks away.
Thin seconds go by and the customer in the middle also walks away.
How could it be so close? Why, why must it be so close? I staunchly take steps to the plain bank teller with that very sparse moment I could take advantage of. But no, it doesn't work. Not even two strides in do I see the lady of the left walk away from her post. The reality is crushing. My feet no longer firm, I slump over to the pretty one in the middle. "Ah shit."
The encounter from here on out is a series of glances. Before stopping at the counter, I quickly look to see if she is as attractive as she seems. Check. My eyes settle back to where they're most comfortable, specifically, the floor and everything else below 45 degrees to the horizon.
There are the forms I filled out earlier. My wallet. Her hands. I tell her slender fingers that I'd like to make a deposit for both my checking and savings account. A voice gives the confirmation. This same voice then tells me to slide my bank card through a machine. I oblige. Her fingernails are painted a dark color. Black. Maybe a very deep blue. They fill out the rest of the information on the forms and my eyes follow as they swing and dance to my missing account numbers. I ask her if I could get a copy of the numbers because I never seem to know. She takes a spare piece of paper and puts on a encore performance. As her painted, delicate fingers jive to the Checking Deposit Ballet, a very peculiar thing happens.
"Are you a student?" she asks.
"No." I reply.
"Are you working?"
"No."
"How did you get all this money?"
Meekly, I respond, " I save."
Take this affair and blow it up. Throw it across multiple billboards on the freeway, woefully advertising my deficiencies. What just transpired is the very archetype of my being. A play between fingers and words, looks not taken and a pen chained to the desk, this darling bank teller in but few questions hath exposed mine own ill-suited self. Hurrah, hurrah.
I am burned-out from this 7-second exposé. Her fingers cooly slide over the paper with my account information; the final flourish of a well-played passage. Though I find her prototypical girlish handwriting achingly cute, it does little to comfort me. She shifts, switches focus to a computer, each type a strike rebounding off the deadbeat standing before her. As she hits her stride, her bank routine, I wonder, "Do I now dare peek at the horizon?" I wonder, I wonder. She types, she types.
I look.
A name. I need a name.
Is the name tag on her left? No.
I always find it funny to look for a name tag on a girl. Fundamentally, you're looking at her breasts.
It's on her right.
Treng.
"Have a nice day."
"You too." I reply.
Back in the car, I summarize to TJ the story of a strained bank misadventure. It comes to no surprise to him, as my talent with the ladies is known to all who know my name. He throws out a joke. As do I. Then I realize, "I should've joked with her." When asked about how I got my money, I should've replied, "I'm a gigolo." She may have smiled and to see a girl smile is quite a treat. She may have even laughed. I would've left the bank feeling primo, not the despondent slouch that walked out the door. I could've done something but maybe what I did was enough. It is all but too close to a "Hard" difficulty setting. Enter attraction and my social ineptitude borders on slapstick rather anything that could be considered "proper." Still, I crash, crash, crash away.
In the backyard, the fresh lawn mown sits east under the shadow of a two-story house, the early sun still fighting through the cold. Just inside, someone smashes away on a plastic drum set to gain familiarity with the "Hard" difficulty setting on Rock Band 2. That smasher is me. Tucked in my ever present black hooded sweatshirt and green shorts motif, between scatter miss beats I crash, crash, crash away with specific intent, that is, simply "To do."
Defined. Pick me out and pick a word. Sloth. My idleness becomes me, or rather, I to it. Many things attribute to it, as personal issues always tend to do. By my name alone, I need not further explain. ("Ground control to Major Lacking.") Despite this, I would rather have the life less dormant. Between the man standing and the man running, I do root for the one with his sneakers kicking in the air. He who stands stays back because he'd rather kick himself. For now though, I smack plastic, uncoordinated as it may seem.
Sometime soon after the misshapen beats go quiet, I decide upon going out. Saved a bit of cash, as it were, and it would be nice to put it where it needs to go - the bank. With a driver's permit and TJ in the passenger seat, I make way to the bank just up street, keenly aware of the inevitable behind-the-wheel test (which I most surely will blunder) and making every move "passable."
Left turn. Right turn. Left turn.
"Is the turn signal on?" I ask myself.
"Uh huh."
Inside the bank, I scope out "who's who" and am reminded to hang left. Why? To get the bank teller that I would rather deal with. There are three of them there. The girls to the right are younger, are of asian persuasion and some might find considerably attractive. To the far left, however, is an uncurious but kind white woman more physically befitting of a job that doesn't require good looks. That's where I want to be. So I wait. Each teller is busy. This unfair game of chance plays out before me like a game of Craps with no dice in the hand. I look around aimleslly, wishing for chrissakes that things will go in my favor and the dude to left would just get his money and piss off already! At the other end, the teller is kept busy, thus prompting no danger whatsoever. In the middle? Peril. Things look to be nearly finished. I panic! No heavy breathing, no crazy looks, oh no, but my mind is a mess.
I look away.
Then I look again.
The man to the left walks away.
Thin seconds go by and the customer in the middle also walks away.
How could it be so close? Why, why must it be so close? I staunchly take steps to the plain bank teller with that very sparse moment I could take advantage of. But no, it doesn't work. Not even two strides in do I see the lady of the left walk away from her post. The reality is crushing. My feet no longer firm, I slump over to the pretty one in the middle. "Ah shit."
The encounter from here on out is a series of glances. Before stopping at the counter, I quickly look to see if she is as attractive as she seems. Check. My eyes settle back to where they're most comfortable, specifically, the floor and everything else below 45 degrees to the horizon.
There are the forms I filled out earlier. My wallet. Her hands. I tell her slender fingers that I'd like to make a deposit for both my checking and savings account. A voice gives the confirmation. This same voice then tells me to slide my bank card through a machine. I oblige. Her fingernails are painted a dark color. Black. Maybe a very deep blue. They fill out the rest of the information on the forms and my eyes follow as they swing and dance to my missing account numbers. I ask her if I could get a copy of the numbers because I never seem to know. She takes a spare piece of paper and puts on a encore performance. As her painted, delicate fingers jive to the Checking Deposit Ballet, a very peculiar thing happens.
"Are you a student?" she asks.
"No." I reply.
"Are you working?"
"No."
"How did you get all this money?"
Meekly, I respond, " I save."
Take this affair and blow it up. Throw it across multiple billboards on the freeway, woefully advertising my deficiencies. What just transpired is the very archetype of my being. A play between fingers and words, looks not taken and a pen chained to the desk, this darling bank teller in but few questions hath exposed mine own ill-suited self. Hurrah, hurrah.
I am burned-out from this 7-second exposé. Her fingers cooly slide over the paper with my account information; the final flourish of a well-played passage. Though I find her prototypical girlish handwriting achingly cute, it does little to comfort me. She shifts, switches focus to a computer, each type a strike rebounding off the deadbeat standing before her. As she hits her stride, her bank routine, I wonder, "Do I now dare peek at the horizon?" I wonder, I wonder. She types, she types.
I look.
A name. I need a name.
Is the name tag on her left? No.
I always find it funny to look for a name tag on a girl. Fundamentally, you're looking at her breasts.
It's on her right.
Treng.
"Have a nice day."
"You too." I reply.
Back in the car, I summarize to TJ the story of a strained bank misadventure. It comes to no surprise to him, as my talent with the ladies is known to all who know my name. He throws out a joke. As do I. Then I realize, "I should've joked with her." When asked about how I got my money, I should've replied, "I'm a gigolo." She may have smiled and to see a girl smile is quite a treat. She may have even laughed. I would've left the bank feeling primo, not the despondent slouch that walked out the door. I could've done something but maybe what I did was enough. It is all but too close to a "Hard" difficulty setting. Enter attraction and my social ineptitude borders on slapstick rather anything that could be considered "proper." Still, I crash, crash, crash away.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
040509
I can take every bit of seemingly casual morsel of negativity and make the tastiest three-tiered tower of Fuck You Cake. Hi, hello, how are you? This is Leonard Lacking speaking.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Keyboard Social
There is certainly something to be said about one man's limited contact with the rest of the world and the very frontier of that communication taking place in a social networking website. Namely, it's pitiful. My own anxieties and mastery of self-loathing keep me from real world interactions and thus, I am relegated to the admittedly lame safety of the clickety-clack-clacks of a keyboard and the glow of an old-school beige box computer screen. This is how I mingle.
Let us disregard the MySpace and Blogger accounts. These affairs are a one-man show where I take stage and spotlight looking at an auditorium with the lights so low that the audience can't be seen. Interaction? Nil. Enter Gaia Online.
I came across Gaia many a month ago and took interest in the character creation aspect, alone - not taking into consideration any of the other features associated with the website. Having created a virtual self in past games, I thought it was another effort worth looking into. I didn't take the jump and sign up with an account immediately but it was something that was kept in mind. Up until a week ago.
In an attempt to kill the curiousity, I signed up with an account, got set with default items and somehow finagled my way to the general chatroom area known in Gaia as "Towns." It's not all text, mind you, but instead has an interface with a visual aspect consisting of your avatar (created character) and other avatars running around and conversing with whatever it is that people talk about. The thing about Gaia, however, is that it's well known to be marketed towards and populated by teenagers, teenagers, and did I mention teenagers? I quickly found out, "Post-High School Central" this is not.
That jump and up until now I am uncomfortable with the realization that I've committed myself to socializing in an area that is not developed for the twenties-minded. To be fair, at least I'm not a creepy, early 40's goon eagerly hoping to have cyber sex with a pre-pubescent teen who doesn't know any better. "They" say it happens and frankly, I'm not surprised. And with the horrors of "creepdom," you will also see other flavors of the less-desirable faculties of humanity reveal itself.
It's quite interesting to see a Gaian diehard throw automatic hate on a noob (new user) even at times when you're on the receiving end. See as how online behavior is inevitably representative of real world decorum, it is a sad site to see that abortive discrimination is still so easily thrown around. "I hate you because I'm supposed to hate you. For I am superior and you, the low person." As harmless as "noob hate" is, its origins in the mind is far from innocent. What can exist in one, will exist in another. Hate does not live alone.
Gaia is not completely ill. More often then not, you'll come across someone who is capable of looking beyond your default clothing. (It might as well be your skin color, sexual orientation, religion, whatever target generalized prejudice needs.)
I've enjoyed my time thus far with the slight instances of connection with another human being. The kind word, the shared interest - these are to be enjoyed and relished in its simplicity, especially for me, given my livelihood in the "doors shut, curtains closed" way. Socially, I've accomplished more in this past week then I have in months. It's a truth I don't like and if confidence was my name, Gaia would still be a curiosity and this blog entry would not have been written. Instead, you're stuck with Lacking.
I don't know if Gaia will be a long term engagement. I'd like to think "no" and that there will be a better anything to put my time and effort in but as it stands, my own insecurities keep me trapped, replacing a reality with a computer generated one. Since Gaia is populated by real people - 97.3% teenager, I assume - hate and kindness exist in both. The kindness is swell but it is that hate and other malicious tendencies in a human being that keep me in front of this beige box glow. The safeties are on and whatever verbal fists and kicks are thrown, they only end up as text. Unfortunately, so does the kindness.
Let us disregard the MySpace and Blogger accounts. These affairs are a one-man show where I take stage and spotlight looking at an auditorium with the lights so low that the audience can't be seen. Interaction? Nil. Enter Gaia Online.
I came across Gaia many a month ago and took interest in the character creation aspect, alone - not taking into consideration any of the other features associated with the website. Having created a virtual self in past games, I thought it was another effort worth looking into. I didn't take the jump and sign up with an account immediately but it was something that was kept in mind. Up until a week ago.
In an attempt to kill the curiousity, I signed up with an account, got set with default items and somehow finagled my way to the general chatroom area known in Gaia as "Towns." It's not all text, mind you, but instead has an interface with a visual aspect consisting of your avatar (created character) and other avatars running around and conversing with whatever it is that people talk about. The thing about Gaia, however, is that it's well known to be marketed towards and populated by teenagers, teenagers, and did I mention teenagers? I quickly found out, "Post-High School Central" this is not.
That jump and up until now I am uncomfortable with the realization that I've committed myself to socializing in an area that is not developed for the twenties-minded. To be fair, at least I'm not a creepy, early 40's goon eagerly hoping to have cyber sex with a pre-pubescent teen who doesn't know any better. "They" say it happens and frankly, I'm not surprised. And with the horrors of "creepdom," you will also see other flavors of the less-desirable faculties of humanity reveal itself.
It's quite interesting to see a Gaian diehard throw automatic hate on a noob (new user) even at times when you're on the receiving end. See as how online behavior is inevitably representative of real world decorum, it is a sad site to see that abortive discrimination is still so easily thrown around. "I hate you because I'm supposed to hate you. For I am superior and you, the low person." As harmless as "noob hate" is, its origins in the mind is far from innocent. What can exist in one, will exist in another. Hate does not live alone.
Gaia is not completely ill. More often then not, you'll come across someone who is capable of looking beyond your default clothing. (It might as well be your skin color, sexual orientation, religion, whatever target generalized prejudice needs.)
I've enjoyed my time thus far with the slight instances of connection with another human being. The kind word, the shared interest - these are to be enjoyed and relished in its simplicity, especially for me, given my livelihood in the "doors shut, curtains closed" way. Socially, I've accomplished more in this past week then I have in months. It's a truth I don't like and if confidence was my name, Gaia would still be a curiosity and this blog entry would not have been written. Instead, you're stuck with Lacking.
I don't know if Gaia will be a long term engagement. I'd like to think "no" and that there will be a better anything to put my time and effort in but as it stands, my own insecurities keep me trapped, replacing a reality with a computer generated one. Since Gaia is populated by real people - 97.3% teenager, I assume - hate and kindness exist in both. The kindness is swell but it is that hate and other malicious tendencies in a human being that keep me in front of this beige box glow. The safeties are on and whatever verbal fists and kicks are thrown, they only end up as text. Unfortunately, so does the kindness.
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