The Carousel Alive

The carousel herd become alive in the after hours when the park is closed. They stretch. And step an actual step. Count their blessings. Reacquaint with lovers. And then dawn: they are still! Still as the day before. Still, on a contraption paid to go round, to make merry? pic.twitter.com/cvbJxMe25n

— Leonard Lacking (@leonardlacking) August 9, 2018

The carousel herd become alive in the after hours when the park is closed. They stretch. And step an actual step. Count their blessings. Reacquaint with lovers. And then dawn: they are still! Still as the day before. Still, on a contraption paid to go round, to make merry?

Calls After a Fall

A tree once mighty before my time died a few months ago. 

And yet the bird calls have multiplied beyond the legion of branches that fell; their jubilant pit-pat-patter of songs zooming, blooming, conquering passed where their foremother's feet had settled back in '70-something. These modern voices care not of the ex-steadiness of that many-armed monolith. Gone! From the gathering hush of a many-wintered withering to simply no more, oh birds how they celebrate, they sing, they live!

Cutting Through the Familiar Tune

Friday through Sunday, the nighttime traffic is audibly livelier: the brain accelerated by that get of yet-another glorious-weekend is put instinctively to foot to pedal to engine to wheel in a thrilling pavement song, oh and how the rush of those freedom days roars over suburban rooftops. Out beyond my bed on a lovely silhouette hip sit twinkly, mark pretty by streetlights those East Side hills, kingly-on-over. 

All of this presently, and sailing through my open window on a winter chill.

Then a shriek! Cutting through the familiar tune, X-ACTO! How mighty a wail is in daylight is that same wail made thunderous at night! And with it a company of shouldered-up fiends dare match. But even louder that cutting shriek goes, “WHO ARE YOU?!” A verbal fight. In the neighborhood across North White Road. A soup of a curses salted by accusations, and an acidic sprinkling of crying children. Again the question explodes forth, “WHO ARE YOU?!” And again. And again, this time with a venomous “YOU ANIMAL!”

What does a weekend bring? Family gatherings? Mirth? Truth? And if a truth does not contribute to that mirth? A shout to fight the pain away, surrounded by familiars who by force now certainly hear what ails her. Then when the constant question isn’t answered, with the accused left broken and back indoors along with the tired others at 12:40’ish on a Saturday morning looked kingly-on-over by those hills, someone who heard and saw it all (and knows her affectionately) screams:

“YOU’RE FUCKING DRUNK!”

Lost a Tree

Earlier today, lost that front yard tree.

The grind of an electric axe screeched through my bedroom window, and I thought it too close to hail from a neighbor's place. I was right. Awoke. Looked out the window. There--where heavenly congregations of dark-eyed juncos used to sit-sing grace--an empty space. What once was a hallowed perch now lined the street curb in chop measured pieces of 3 piles slain.

Seeing Them Go

Sometime past 7:30’ish, Saturday Night. 12th of September.     

     Out for another trip north on the 101 to SFO, go-go-go! Up through the familiar sights of freeway-side buildings, stable, ever stable, made ever more so by the years they’ve been (by these very eyes) seen stood. And I look and I sigh and I’m glad they are where they are, no matter how fast the chargers through decades go guzzling on the way past them to somewhere else. Signs have changed, made modern, the occasional boy-that’s-bright of LED displays, advertisements of products unknown in ‘92 or whenever when what was being sold didn’t have the polished sheen they have now. The IT’S-IT factory I look for. Always the IT’S-IT factory. Going north, on your right, LOOK! Small, but THERE. With signs plain, appropriate, freeway dust spackled on in--yes--a perfect finish. In all that, how little that, the goodness of that. What treat I adore to taste, and treasure to see ITS home! On the way to SFO.

A Promise Alone

You promised me a night but spent it in the telephone whispers of the idiot you could not confess your love for. You promised me a day but slept through the sun and thought nothing of us actually together. I sit thinking it best to be alone in the fuck-ups of my own unfulfilled promises. My hurt is my own. I too am capable of closing curtains and listening idly. I can - as one - jump into the so deep where the fish have lights to see that there really isn't anything there goddamit. 

So who the fuck are you? 

I'll hurt myself through a promise of my own accord with a cut rate light to show in the deep, in the so so deep where a night and day mean fuck-all to the other toothy, hungry crashers in this inkiest of inks oblivion.

Hi Again Flower

       



          Phenomenal is the flower to sight this day. Post-silent year then back on approach, you expect a hesitant bud to whisper but then--what sweet surprise--she speaks, oh yes, in full bloom! In smiles and growth we are reacquainted on a carousel that circles forth to ride the seconds better than the twinkling ones before and up to look brighter, make brighter, live brighter this engine life. Hi, oh hi again, good old friend. It's swell to know at mid 20's is a peace, we type the time gracefully ahead.

Morning Walk

After breakfast I like to take a walk. Helps the digestion in this belly o' mine. Just a neighborhood walk. Out and nearby the schools or down to Capitol Square Mall. On Mabury there were these 3 chicks and the best of them had a red pullover, nice long hair and a nice tush. Yup, nice tush. She was across the street so I spotted that P.Y.T. under no duress and enjoyed what I saw. There was a hinted glance from her end but no matter, that girl was something in beauty full view today. As I looked on with her gone far down the road and my neck and torso at a twist to look back, to the blindside left of me at a lot exit a dark grey Toyota Tacoma KRUCHUNKH! stopped abruptly. Holy hot damn! I almost got hit! Duuude. I really ought to stop getting into accidents/near accidents when museum'ing the fair ones. It's a dangerous thing appreciating women, aye? Last time, when I saw a pretty butterfly and her good friend, I backed up to a parked car behind me HUHTHUD! Damage consisted of a bent license plate, is all. ~Whew~. Again, noticing wahines is a risk.

But a worthy one. Believe it.

You know what it's saying? "I'm a tree, bitches."

I decided, "To Target today" because I wanted to get a few more rounds in with the Undisputed 3 demo made-to-play at their XBOX360 stall. Good game, this. Kicking faces in and all that. With all this writing/songwriting/chick-thinking that's got me plenty (& happily) occupied I just don't have the time to enjoy a videogame as much as I used to. A walk and some gametime is a fine marriage. There are trees all over the neighborhood, wondrous trees of all sorts! I do like them trees. Green, lively, proud even. With all the madness around them in this sometimes fucked-up world a tree stands as is, stable in the doctrine in its knowing that it's there to be a tree. So I high-five 'em when I walk under their leaves and feel their greeny goodness and try to get a rub off their life's undeniable tenet in the hopes that I too will truly
know who I am in this, yes, sometimes fucked-up world.

To Share the World and Its Feasts

I don't share food.

If somebody took a bite out of something or smacked lips with a beverage cup, I'm out. Do not ask if I'd like some. I don't know where your mouth has been, aye? Ask me to partake of your sandwich after you already made a loving chomp out of it after you spent happy time last night with your significant other making your loving chomps in bed then . . .

NO.

Nuh uh uh uh NOOO!!

What's the point, germaphobe?

It's an intimate act to be sharing food. Slopping over the King Eggroll take-out combo meal as a duet? During all the picking and chopsticking there's mouth-to-food-to-mouth contact there some-frickin'-where so NO I do not want to taste whoever it is you've been kissing, Baroness Shares-a-Lot.

No.

However . . .

when within sight is a girl I fancy in a brighter light above all the others, yayo I'll share food with her. Ooh yes please. Oh why thank you, dear. Wow this food really is good, aye? Since I've decided to share the world I see with you then yes let's tackle that value meal together, darling. I hope you like Dr. Pepper.

It's not a new idea. It's been with me for a long time. People are icky. As am I. I don't think you'd want my MoGo's half-eaten burrito if you knew where I've been. I've decided to pen this down now because of the events of yesterday morning with J Buddha on 4th day. On the way back to the house we did a drive-thru of Jack-in-the-Box where she ordered a Really Big Chicken Sandwich Combo and a funnel cake for dessert. At the kitchen table this whole personal issue of sharing food was brought up as she ate breakfast heartily. I've mentioned it to her before and she knows full well of my unpleasant regard for biting where someone has already bit or touched. Now modify that with Buddha's acknowledgement that I adore her and what do we get?

"If I was starving to death and I reeaaaaally needed food to eat to survive would ya-"

"Nope, well you're just going to starve then" says Girl Aum with a smirk.

Darn.

Buddha does share her food with others. She herself encourages it. "Can I have a curly fry?" I ask. "No" she replies with a gleeful head shake. Buddha does share her food with others - but not with me. Not even a crumb, oof. I joke with her I probably shouldn't have told her and could've been all sneaky ninja-like with a pretend casual bite out of a Really Big Chicken Sandwich but considering we've had in-depth conversations since before the admiration it was info previously confessed to her in trust and good faith.

Despite my yearning eagerness to share the world and its feasts with the fairy tale One Girl, to not be able to share food & drink with Girl Aum is something I find tremendously gratifying. Bollocks to the groceries - as long as I'm around her I don't think I'll ever starve. Physically. Spiritually. Yes Happily, Ever . . . O=P

No Jams with Girl Aum

"We're on our waaaay" flashes up on the Facebook chatbox. "We" being J Buddha and and her pup AJ. Vroom goes the BMW 9-something in the morning, on to intercept Girl Aum who carries all of AJ's accoutrements wrap-clasped in a big fluffy brown/tan dog bed. The thought of her walking alone down White with a Canine Supply Taco to the 613 flips me with an "Oh darn." So Vroom yes Vroom.

It's the 3rd consecutive day.

A week ago I was in the shits, trashbinned in blue by the vow of silence taken by Buddha for a perceived wrong I committed. I sent messages down her way, I did, playing face, being kind but she went heel and gave me quiet heat. Yup. Quiet heat. The worse "Oh what did I do?" kind. =( Ugh. No bueno. For a week of my life she was practically non-existent. A ghost whose cheer haunted my bedroom door. J Buddha's bright presence in my gloomy life flared away the shadows of being down. Yeep, she's that awesome. On a scale from 1-10, a profound 20. Now imagine that light gone. It's back in the dark, Señor Lacking. Except tragically worse because I knew how great she be.

Sometimes I think it would better if I didn't know Buddha. That way, she wouldn't be someone I care for a great deal . Someone I could lose. I could miss. I could be sad about.

Her jubilant face

When

She's tickled by delight

Stamped, after due-date

Delivered, only to fuzzy memory

No longer sent sweet fresh, yeah?

When

She looked to me - in the moment -

With a

Sparkle eye & smile+ bona fide

When J Buddha and I finally cleared things up it required the reveal of my feelings for her. I couldn't say it. I was frightened. I directed her towards my blog and she sat at the computer clicking, scrolling. Syllables paraded my affection in a procession whose pace was determined by her sight reading. I was nervous as I stood by. But it had to be done. Earlier in our reunion I moonsaulted into the deep end and shut myself off from communicating with her in the light manner that once was. I thought we could get by it. She said I changed. If I was to see her again it was either back to sleeping in my yellow room whenever she came around or say upfront that she's pretty darn cool, hah.

I told J Buddha her silence was the "longest week I've had this year."

"Really?"she said, bemused.

By then she dropped the dinner burn, her ire having faded away somewhere during her 7-day quiet and with my admiration freed I climbed out of the trashbin and went back dancing in the light of Girl Aum.

Drive.

I spot her on the sidewalk to my left. U-turn. "Good morning, Buddha."

AJ sleeps all lax on his bed un-taco'd, tucked cozily in beside a football pillow, blue ball, and a squeaky duck head. Buddha is at the kitchen table breakfasting on the barbecue chicken she eyed last night when she was here souping up her Pho take-out dinner. I sit at the table facing her more than the TV across from from us. I look at her inquisitively, my scrunched face unapparent to her as she eats with eyes set straight on the television. "Don't do it" she says without a skip. "Don't do what?" I ask, amused. She must have notice the unspoken change in

my demeanor. It's a certain aura of giddiness that overwhelms me when in the presence of a Whoa. "I'm not gonna compliment you, I'm just sitting here" says I with a follow-up defense. Somehow she stop-checked me before I even had the thought of the thought of saying she looks nice today. Dude, she's good.

Breakfast done, it's on to the car and on to work. It's an older model with a cassette tape player (Do you know what that is, kiddies?) In goes the wired cassette tape adapter connected to my mp3 player. It's only barely a touch through the music folders before Buddha chimes up again, "Don't do it." It must be my last night talk of asking permission to play suave with her if I were to drive her home. She said no with a sparkle and a bona fide and was instead brought home by Birthday Girl and her boyfriend. "Dohh" I get stop-checked again, now trance-like passing over the mp3 player to her. She probably thought I was going to play some Slow Jams. Suave mood music, aye? Hah.

"Did you write a song?" she asks, fiddling with the mp3 player looking for anything that isn't what I'm thinking of.

I reply, "For you? Well I've got a strummy bit I still need to put lyrics to I found it while you were still angry at me so the lyrics were going to be about that but then we're all cool now so it could be about that. Or I could combine the two and make a song of that?"

"No, Justin. No."

"How about a poem? Can I write poems about-"

"Noo." A snicker. A smirk. "Don't. You can't."

I says to her it's not like she reads the blog anyways so she wouldn't know of all the pretty little things I write about her. If I were to write about J Buddha. If I were to sing about Girl Aum. It's easy, girl. If you don't want the world to know how awesome you are just take your light away, yeah 20? Leave me back in the dark. I'll be okay. I think I might miss her though. Do know that she's guaranteed to be making somebody else happy. I just won't be beside her delight to write about it. For now, I'm blessed to be in her presence and I'll continue to pen the good word.

Just don't tell her it's about her.

About how great things are.

How great she be.

And how it's nice to know her, aye?

Sympathy for the Drunk?

Wednesday, July 29, 2011

Evening

"You're making me angry, Clown!"

Through the white wooden slab marking the closed doorknobbed entry to the yellow room, I sit hearing the verbal ruckus of The Brother Younger directed toward someone less-than-sober. Heavy steps match doors swung with just as much weight, the air pushed violently acting as palpable wind away from the emotional turbulence.

"I have a long drive, Clown! I don't need this right now!!"

Stomp, stomp, stomp. The door dunks shut with a gah-duh!!

I look out the window and visibly see the frustration on the TJ's shoulders. With a sweater half-put on I make my way down the stairs and out to the driveway. The summer evening is bright. The sun far from horizon east. Under world light TJ's jagged exit vrooms. "Dude?" I ask concerned. "He keeps repeating himself. I set it up already and he keeps asking. 'I set it up.' He asks again. 'I set it up.' He asks again! I'm tired of this, I gotta go!'" TJ makes the drive out, heading to SoCal to sell product at the ComicCon with his fellow drift buddy Bravo. "Be safe, have fun. Just pay no mind to the idiot" being my reply to his departure.

In the kitchen sits the Drunken Clown. He sits as king at court as the ruler of a kingdom of empty aluminum cans that scatter the house. The computer room. The backyard. The garage. The playroom. Empty cans take a residence in each. DC sees my entry, immediately getting into a tirade about how all he did in perfect form was ask to do a favor and how in return he got gruff from TJ.

I return "Yeah but 20 times. Multiple times?"

"Twenteee NoooWhat?!" rolls out in stupid-water tainted breath.

"You might as well have."

"Ehhh shiettt Ican do it mighhself if I wanted to learn to." With gusto these words are said. I've heard them before and question him there, "Why don't you just do it then?" "Ehhhh shiettt," he replies with a dismissive wave of the hand, "whydoessss hehaf to get maadd? O?"

"Because you told him multiple times. It probably makes him feel stupid."

"Whaaaatnoooo?? Thass boolshettt. Iaskheem to doIT and juss DOit!! Y-gettang gree?!? O?"

"Because you keep repeating yourself. Because you're drunk." Boom goes the truth.

"Ooahhheere we go again! It's alwaaysme!! I'mmtha prahblehm againn!"

"Look I don't want to hear your "I'm the bad guy" bullshit again. You've been saying that shit for years and you know why you're the bad guy? Because you drink you fucking idiot." Now choked with the same frustration that TJ drove off with I step up to the kitchen beside his royal drunkenness and say "'Cause it tastes good huh? You like that huh? That's your medicine?!" I grab the Keystone Light and force his gamot to his lips, his yellow eyes bulge, slithering red veins pop out ready to strike. He stumble stands up (somehow slyly setting his precious can on the table) as if ready for a fight. In defense I rage with a shout "WHAT?? WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO?!! WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO?!!?" At this point I'm up ready to knock the fucker out, kick his half-cripple arthritic legs from under him and make a trampled mess on the kitchen tile in tints of a smashed alcoholic. Drunken Clown knows this. The threat is there. He backs off. "Ayewee don't haftoDo this, hah?" Again, I shout with continued rage "But that's what you like RIGHT?! It fucking tastes good right?!" I grab the beer can off the table. I drink the filth, looking at the Clown. With the the stupid water in mouth I mumble out the words "it tastes good" then . . .

spit his awful tasting beer right in his FACE.

"Sarap no? Sarap? It tastes good, huh? You like that?!" There was no way I was swallowing the bitter ick so out it went, right back to its devoted purchaser, follower, ever-faithful. "Sarap diba?" I ask again mockingly as he dejectedly walks away, drenched in what is so dear to such a Clown.

I go back to the yellow room.

Drunken Clown gets more beers from the garage refrigerator and drunk dials anybody who'll listen to him about being spat-on humiliated by someone sober. Relatives. Enablers. "Nahh, you're not an alcoholic" they pat his back through the Skype that TJ set up 20 times. I'm called down hours later that night and in an even more drunken state (level 12) he tries a stinger by saying "Heyyydothat toMee when I'mdeadhah?"

"I'm not even gonna be at your funeral" I reply in an instant, "I've got better things to do."

Fucker.

Sometime before midnight. A body crashes to the floor. Dahdoomp!! A 20-second groan. A little bit more.

Fucker.

Leave that Drunken Clown where he lies. Arthritis and an already (while sober) unstable walk isn't cured by your gamot, idiot. And when the fucker dies I'll be similarly apathetic. Go on and drink to that.

The Walk Through Detector

A dumpy specimen of a man tosses his loose belongings into a bucket to pass outside the 8-foot detector. His hunched shoulders and forward jutting neck twitch in the self question. "By what account did I? Ehh." A cross. Intertwined palm trees. Photographs. Guitars. Two weeks. A few words. The guard pens through the bucket items, pointing out to her partner the presence of the trees.

"Ridiculous. Paradise?"

"Yeah, did he really think? . . ." says the guard to her partner.

The man stands wide-eyed at both guards but at the same time not, breathing the long breaths of a time spent much too much long gasping.

"Uh oh yes, you may pass through now" replies the guard with extra-thick smarm. The dumpy man drags feet across the detector with no beep. Ahead he sees nothing. Behind him the haze of something less. He picks up the items with timid hands and dumps them unceremoniously into his chest pocket. The guard asks "Mr. Scarborough is there anything you'd like to? . . ."

Without looking back he drags his feet forward, head jutting towards the nothing, and walks the slouch on saying "You can tell the world it can go fuck itself."

It's Been a Long While, Pulelehua

THURSDAY, MAY 12, 2011

Night

After checking Fry's off of Brokaw for what ended up being a replacement nunchuk (nope not the Bruce Lee kind, monkey) I took a drive to my Cousin's place for chill times and good talk. I slip into the curbs on the opposite side of the street and check the window for the light on inside; I tend to drop by without notice and such an interruption occasionally ends up with a chipper me and a sleepy cousin. Oh cool? Not so cool. Try not doing that, Lackman. But the light is on. Woohoo!!

Foot out. And then the other. Cane out yeah I brought the collared and brass tipped birchwood cheapo-bobo with hair bands on the handle just in case, ya know? Watch that fedora'd head when coming out - wouldn't want to knock me hat loose with my long hair flying every-freakin'-where on the street where my Cousin and her significant other be. Ding dong! The doorbell sounds as I eyeball the door knob then the peephole then the door knob then the kitchen window then the doorknob again. The light is open - I think - so they've gotta be inside, right?

Yup.

"Come in!" my Cousin says.

I turn the doorknob that now has my eyes splat all over it and the eyes splat back into my head. From there I look up to see the who's who.

And it's a surprise.

A rather nice one too.

I stand stunned as if hit by heavyweight contender. Except the shock isn't from fist-to-face pain, nope, the shock is from an intense joy at seeing the wonder before me. Whapak!! It takes wicked effort for me to not jump in celebration and what's left is a sway. And a smirk. I think? I'm not sure as the only thing in my head is that I don't act a fool in front of the one person that counts most. For inside that living room all couched out chilling were my Cousin, her boyfriend and his nephew. One, just one person sat all lax on the floor with her back towards the door. It is she. Pulelehua, yup. =) She looks over her shoulder and spots the fedora'd, caned, black dressed, blue tied (& vest) oh Lacking I sweating to restrain my giddiness. In her comfort clothing wifebeater and grey-black sweatpants she nonchalantly looks back to a laptop computer on the couch with nary a reaction.

Good.

Round 1.

I survived. Awesome.

Door closed and the doorknob now back outside I sit beside my Cousin and on we chat. Pulelehua sits just 2:00 of where I park myself. The proximity burns but I try to keep cool. Try to, hah. I hope that smirk stayed at the door. Again cousin and I drift into chat about any ol' thing . . .

EXCEPT for the One Wahine Wonder that sits but a few feet away from me. Cousin knows of my own admiration for the isle beaut. So does her brother. Aye? I'd rather they know then they get all weird about my getting all weird around Pulelehua. So it's not spoken about when Cousin and I chat because THAT would be weird. Maybe? Ehh. Dunno. If she knew now it would be just that wouldn't it? A recognition of admiration, one-sided as it may be? =P There are times when Cousin gets into a discussion directly with Pulelehua and I find such moments a most splendid opportunity to get a look or two at her with reason, otherwise I'd go just help myself to ogling her all night and THAT would be weird.

Why would I do such a thing?

I haven't seen her for what seems like 2 years. Yow. To step into this and see Pulelehua is providence and quite honestly I don't know if I'll ever get to see her again and I'd like to, yes. Maybe these moments of seeing sweet her will have to last me for the rest of my life? Oh darn, I just may never see get to see her again. So fly. For now these moments will have to do. And I cherish them.

But we don't talk about that.

The Red Wings are finally wiped off the playoffs list by the members of Team Teal. Go Sharks! The party of 4-and-a-half cheer on the victory in their own little ways. A smile. A silence. The thought of applause. The Wahine Wonder looks over her shoulder, pumps a fist and sighs a "yes!" Pulelehua pulls down and takes off her sweater in talks with her brother about further modifying her left shoulder/arm tribal tattoo. In distinct geometric patterns the dark ink is a biting sight. Every shape and check threaten to keep me at bay with their sharp points. This chick ain't about dainty things. She's not a child of sunshine, nah. She tells her brother of fixing the triangular bits. "It's crooked" she says putting a finger to it. I audibly chuckle. With reason I watch again, I am transfixed at her index digit cush pushing tan & tattooed skin, the indentation running across inked permanence rattling my mind knowing my own touch would commit yeah blood fire.

Woosh.

I keep the cool though.

Round 2.

"Breeeeathe, shit-bird."

"Hoooohhhh."

Ding ding ding!

Pulelehua eventually makes her way to the room at the rear of the house to get her tattoo touched up. This leaves me to chatting with Cousin about many a thing. Not once is the admiration mentioned or hinted or slighted at. We talk on and on.

Pulelehua drifts from out of the hallway shadows and back into the living room. She holds a flatcap which she handles with appreciation. There's also a smile, a smile that holds a cheery innocence that one could only call adorable. As per usual my reactions are not reflected outwardly. Though the carousal rush sprint the brain all that is seen upon my person is a controlled smirk.

It's only on the drive back I realized it would have been terrific to compliment her with the words

"You look good."

To her that would seem to refer singularly to the flatcap hat cha-cha but to me a . . .

general statement. =P

Cousin and Butterfly come to an agreement that it's too small a hat to fit Cousin's big noggin' and thusly the flatcap now belongs to Pulelehua. Away she flutters back into the shadows, flatcap twirling with a smile brighter. Cousin and I go back into our discussion with no mention of the adorable. Minutes later I profess my curiosity in the actuality of getting permanently inked. I make my own way into the shadows all the way to the room at the end of the dark hall. Boyfriend and Pulelehua sit with both their backs turned. With a tattoo needle he makes his way to her exposed arm of distinct tribal patterns. Contact is made but nada reveal of pain is seen or heard. She sits there as if it was kindergarten paint being gently brushed upon her. My mind rolling from the casual, super casual ritual of the tattoo - it is I who almost yelps.

"Wha?! . . ."

I walk away from the scene out of the shadows, back into the living room, back to talking with Cousin where everything, absolutely everything is talked about except . . . =P

With the the tattoo touch-up fini, Pulelehua bids the farewells. A thanks to her brother. A goodbye to Cousin. Like an idiot - on the couch, slumpy idiot - I raise my hand in half-waving "see ya", half -waving "what the fuck am I doing?" From 10 feet away *she scrunches her pretty-ass face (Yes, there's no other way to write it. I tried. This was the best way as it's to the point, isn't it? No fluttery poeticisms can best this.) at me wondering what the hell I'm doing and I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing but she follows through, nods her pretty-ass head (Yeah, this too.) and throws out a "Bye."

I'll take that. Woohoo!!

No formal "hello" but a scrunch-faced "bye" by one fine butterfly? Tremendous! =)

Kah-dum! The door closes with Pulelehua having flown.

I immediately turn to my Cousin and exclaim

"Ohhhh my gosssshhh!!!!"

in a relieved release of the gushingly contained felicity. "I'm soooo glad I dropped by tonight! Soooooooo sooo so glaaad I dropped by tonight" I continue as I roll victim to my own bliss and am caught from falling by jumbo couch cushions. "I know, I know . . ." replies Cousin who is fully aware of the depth of the outpour. Turn that tap on full blast.

Woosh.

I survived. Barely. 'Cause I'm flustered on the couch, hah.

"Ohhh my ohh my" I say with the goofiest look of joy on my face. I continue "I'm sorry but I just had to let go right now" followed by a big exhale as if my breath was held at the moment I walked in and saw the fine one who just seconds ago had flown out the door. "Do you . . . " I say with mischievous concern, "do you think she . . . noticed? I mean her back was turned but she did take a quick glance over her shoulder. Was I smiling, ate?" The trapeze thought occurs to me that I may have been standing with a smile that would bridge the entire Pacific. Continents an ocean apart were connected by sublime revelry in celebration of the Inked Butterfly Stunner. And it, I stood in that doorway unaware of the shine like a complete git.

"Was I smiling?"

"No" replies Cousin. "But your eyes were."

"Ahhhhh!!!" Back into the couch cushions I tumble in hysterics, in limbo, howling at true shine now known! "My eyes were smiling?!? That's infinitely worse! Hah haaaah! . . ." Orbicularis Oculi. It's involuntary. I had no chance, yow. Flash knockout, first round. Was every moment after just a dream?

Bridge.

Pulelehua . . .

it's good to see ya, girl. =P

*note: it was discovered during Cousin conversation everything but 'Hua's vision is 20/20. Makapo Pulelehua.

Fencing with the AutoDead

Inside the Pick-'n-Pull off of Monterey Road in Southside San Jose I carry bits of plastic car parts and 2 rather sizeable metal pieces and filet them on to the entry counter-top. As you can easily tell I'm not a "car guy" myself and will wholesomely admit I do NOT like driving. I prefer to enjoy the view on the passenger side. Driving through life to get from Point A to Point B straight just isn't as fun as staring out the window at the white giant (really frickin' GIANT) windmills at Altamont Pass. I bet my kite could kick their spinning asses.

With my bare birchwood hook cane hanging from the inside of my left arm I pick up the two metal parts and start pumping one in each hand as if they were barbells. They're shaped similarly to barbells. Really jacked-up barbells. Avant-Garde barbells. They've got some good weight to them but with the amount of mass (a.k.a. fat) I carry in me gut hung-over belt line and man-tittied self, I lift each one with little effort. One! Two! One! Two! . . . and on I go curling the makeshift fugged-up gym weights to my own amusement. By the forth rep they suddenly have the heft of Jupiter. My forearms shake trying to lift the planet-heavy bastardos clutched in my failing grip. "Gaaaaaajuuuuuh!!!! Ughgaa!!" The surrounding pick-'n-pullers pay no mind to the cane-accessoried, brown/tan island floral print shorts-wearing, ridiculous big face expression shirt-donned, long-haired, prescription tortoiseshell Wayfarered Lackman. That's a goddamn mouthful. No wonder they chose not to notice my Schwarzenegger-KO'ing workout routine.

I'm fuckin' awesome.

=P

Oops, I forget. I'm Lacking. Leonard Lacking.

That's right, bitches! James Bond style!

=P

Inside I go to the yard-proper where people might pick and might pull. I thragash the pieces off to the left onto a makeshift dump-spot that is the bed of a top-chopped dark-blue pick-up. My hands are already dirty from playing 24 Hour Fitness with the just-junked pieces. I am hesitant to blow grease black onto my hook cane upon first touch so out comes the spare paper towels from my right butt-pocket. In lieu of gloves (which I have, nice black leather ones used to start duals with various gentlemen) the paper towels are used to grip onto the hook of me cane. Walk, walk down the long outdoor aisle, flanked on either end by junked cars propped up on ghastly industrial jacks. The wheel wells are empty. The wheels themselves were taken from them because they forfeited the right to keep their feet when they fucked up on the road. It's kind of like a diabetic getting his shit chopped off because he couldn't go on living life without Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia.

The zombie cars sit there on either side prim and proper. Or at least as prim and proper as you can get with dents and broken everything. Some of the paint is still nice but people don't come here to pick paint and pull paint. They want something more substantial. Like a foot pedal. A foot pedal. Personally I'd rather spend a dollar giving it to one of the many uninhibited hoochies at the Pink Poodle. I like to be entertained. So down I walk the grey gravel-floored aisle. The one-man dance routine is: cane and left foot - right foot - repeat. The words to Eraserheads' Harana is sung-flung out of my mouth to anybody who won't listen. "Tumutunog ang kampana!" sings the two black-ringed Lacking One. The silver rings pair were left at home because I didn't want to blow grease black all over the carnelian. As for the spoon ring, yeah shit there's no way I'm greasing that piece. It's from 1920'sumbitch. I look towards the sky-massive again tempted to throw a kite into the big blue. Since there sits no trees to catch the line, this wide-open field of dead automobiles is prime for airtime. But cane is all I have.

Into a row of cars I venture, jaunting my way through shards of glass and the occasional thought-wanted but now unwanted foot pedal. Foot pedal. On grey gravel bottom is seen an unfolded map. Somebody must've thought there was a foot pedal inside like it was a surprise in a cereal box. Disappointed, this person tossed the ravaged map, left to rot in the sun but soon picked by some bird who's looking to have the illest house on the tree in a nearby park. I like listening to bird calls but they can go fuck themselves - this map is mine. Go do another mating call you flight-capable assholes, soaring through the sky like winged pricks who believe themselves to be better than those below. And they are. This map is mine, Polly. Leave it me and my walking cane. Upon closer inspection I see the map is of areas north of San Francisco. "Cool" I think. Plastered across in bold white letters in another section are the words North Bay Counties. "I like Sausalito" says I, picking up the map, quickly folding it and sticking it into the left side of my shorts waistband, contact left buttcheek to lands of the North Bay. You're welcome, ladies. This is me, Leonard Lacking and I rule all of the North Bay Counties with the left side of my ass. King Lack of the North. Who wants to go to Sausalito? There shall be a grand night feast in my name. Where the food is the best and the ladies bare their . . .

I'm fuckin' awes . . . oh . . . nevermind.

=P

There are enough heads there to take notice of people scanning cars. They tug, they tap, they check, they pry. Wonder, do I, if it is allowed to tap these cars myself. With cane in hand, I smirk a mischievous smirk. I start the party with a sideways smack to the left-side front-end of a white late 90's BMW, the rubber tip of the birchwood hook creating a good "kah-thunk" noise with each strike.

Kah-thunk!

I look around suspiciously, eye left to right and left again. There are 3 or 4 people within eyeshot but they're busy searching for replacements. I smile kiddishly and now play pretend; pretend like I'm looking for something very, very important on or in that BMW front end.

Kah-thunk!

I chuckle.

Moving on down to the end of the row the attack is continued. Now beside the boundaried wall that marks the end of the lot, the opportunity is seen to fence with the auto-zombies. Spotting the victim, I take the en-garde position. Kah-chuck! Score one for Lackman!! The sound is different for now it is a driver's side door being stabbed to post-death death. Who kills the Living Dead-Car? The L-A-C-K does, son!! If Ash needs help boomsticking zombie 70's muscle cars just call 1-800-LACKING. This birchwood hook cane is my BOOMSTICK!!!

Kah-chuck-Boom!!

From where I stand in dominant position it is now seen that each flack leaves a rubber-tip mark on the dry-dirt door. "Alright, who wants some?!"

Kah-chuck!!!

Kah-chuck!!

Kah-chuck!!!

The 80's sporty black hatchback Volkswagon Who-gives-a-shit (the model emblem on the rear-end was ganked) is left destroyed by the Mark of Cane. The Lackman's Cane. The Volkswagon is fortunate that I didn't have to cut a muthalover, for in my right pocket were the CL Pimp Switchblade and the Benchmade Barrage. Two pocket knives carried for one man? Halt, fiend!! It is two pocket knives for one Lack!! Since its headlights are its eyes, I would've Corinthianed the evil car dead and taken its pearly brights as souvenirs along with my rumpa-rump domination of the North Bay Counties.

"Hail to the king, baby."

I leave the Pick-'n-Pull lot to the noise of another paint-stained shirt customer handsawing away at the left front end of another car. Skreee-skree-skreee. Skree-skree-skree. Skree. If robots were having sex that would be the sound - the back and forth skreee-ing of titanium pipe pounding hyper-alloy coochie. Ahh shoot. At least robots have mates. Leonard Lacking in - true Lacking form - has no one.

I, Lack, has never had anyone.

Sheshonahim.

Before you enter the Pick-'n-Pull automo-deadite lot, there's a $2 entry free and a sign-in sheet.

2 dollars were paid.

On the yellow sign-in sheet were cursive names filled all the way to the middle of the 3rd (and last) column of the page. Look closely and you will see. Is it signed Justin Fernandez? No. Another name was handwritten cursive across the line. The name of someone who figured himself out in a world too large, a world too much. Nobody has everything. Neither does Justin Leonard Fernandez.

Look closely and you will see . . .

it was the first time I've ever signed as . . .

Leonard Lacking

[. . . LOOP] The East Side Circus Presents: Clown & Toothless! [LOOP . . .]

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was chilly but the sun was out and I tried to take in as much as I could of the yellow glory. Took a look at the green grass, and the vision of it pops, never failing to perk my mind. Out through the backyard door soon teetered and stumbled a Drunken Clown, a rising smoke-massive lit cigarette held between his bullshit lips, one hand holding a phone to his ear to hear feedback on his bullshit and in the other hand a bullshit-enhancing beer can.

Keystone Light: The Choice For All Moronic Alcoholics.

It's like steroids except instead of making you bigger and better it makes you less comprehensible and far more irritating. If you drink enough of the stupid-water - overdose - you just might piss yourself silly. Proof? This Drunken Clown has the stains to show for it. For multiple occasions.

If you sit on the brown long couch where the Clown sleeps at night you've just been inducted as a proud new member of the "I Got Drunken Clown Piss All Over My Ass" Club.

Congratulations. Being a member of I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. is far more prestigious than going to the Mystery Spot of Santa Cruz. Sorry, there aren't bumper stickers yet available but feel free to take an empty semi-crushed beer can with you on your way out.

There are plenty.

In the backyard I was taking notice of the Clown stumbling his way over to a chair over to the right of me. I kept on photoshopping, not wanting the stench of beer sweats to drown me out of my creative endeavor. The J Buddha picture was in its final clicks. I looked at it thinking she won't be content with it but oh well, art is a subjective matter. J Buddha has seen the pictures on my Facebook and that's that. The process of clicking through to find the image is enough reason for me to do it and was very enjoyable indeed. Drunken Clown sat and continued his bitching and moaning and bullshitting to whomever was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. It was the Clown's aunt, poor thing. Drunken Clown bitched on and on and on about how much of a fuck-up his Toothless Meth-Head brother was, telling of a story about how Toothless went to the Philippines to continue being a complete fuck-up over there, completely fucking up his sister's and mistress' lives in tandem.

I, ever enraged by the simple mention of the addict apparent, chimed into Clown's dissertation on Toothless' Shabu Adventures in the Pearl of the Orient, to which he claimed Toothless Meth-Head was better off on U.S. soil . . .

"Well he was a total fuck-up here in the States too. He's a fuck-up there? He's a fuck-up everywhere" I reply, disgusted.

The Drunken Clown heard this and stumble-spun in his chair facing me.

"SHUT UP" the Clown said with a face of sluggish unease, too sluggish, impaired to give a decent expression. You know? Like the kind sober people can contribute? Or the kind that toddlers are able to portray?

There is no pause and I answer him straight "Well I was the one out here first if you don't like it go somewhere else."

Go be a Drunken Clown elsewhere.

I hear the Philippines is a nice place for fuck-ups.

The Clown no-sold it and continued with the bitching over the phone. Toothless this and Toothless that. Yes, I already know how thoroughly shabu-addicted Toothless and another brother - Magic Meth-Head - really are. So much so that they dollar-vulture every home with the same surname. Some bums beg for money. Other bums have complacent family members.

I prepped my computer, cane and tea [you know damn sure why I drink tea instead of . . .] to go back inside the playroom where my beloved music emanated from. A personally-created playlist entitled "Dig It" played on through shelf speakers. What is the source? An mp3 player that I cherish, containing feelings and memories I felt in absence of the the important life skill of socializing with people, in my long and still on-going time without friends. You have your buddies and I have the Typical Cats. You've got a night out with friends and I've just written a Cliche.

Minutes later I made my way to the kitchen where the Drunken Clown now sat at the dinner table, still bitching and bullshitting to the poor old lady aunt on the other end of the line. Clown looked me with a shit-faced smile and said

"OOhhkay . . . one more. .! . .?" referring to me retrieving for him another can of bullshit-enhancer from the garage fridge. He's easily over 5 cans in.

I stand stoic.

I stand stoic and tell him, "Nope, no more. I'm not gonna do it."

If Drunken Clown wants to overdose and further bless the holy piss couch with pure fuckin' alcohol stumble-flying from his flaccid nicotine & diabetic-debilitated penis he can do it of his own accord. There's NO way I'll be there for the assist.

I'd rather go to Mystery Spot. What is it like over there? I've never been. Does it stink of beer sweats like

[Whoa! Time-out! . . . I just scrolled up to check my writing and with what I saw I instantly realize that I am seeing the very same image, same few seconds in a dream I had nearly a year ago!!! I saw myself writing this exact piece! Okay. Play ball. Spiritual Freak-Out Time over.]

the home-base of the I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. Club?

I rounded my way towards the kitchen and looked at Nick the Slick & Donna-Ninja's water bowl out of habit making sure their bowls are filled. There was water in the bowl but to drive the point home I picked up the water bowl and mentioned "Nick, you need more water" then proceeded to replenish it with fresh H2O.

What is the point?

I would rather serve water to a dog than to serve alcohol to an alcoholic.

Soon after I went back into the playroom where my treasured music and super-important-write-write-station netbook computer was located.

I sat down, logged on to my blogger.com account and began typing . . .

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was . . .

Would You Like More Boob With That Coffee? More Boob? Boob. Boob Boob.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Saturday night and the Sharks are 1-to-1 tied with the Oilers. I'm at the house cheering them on the telly with a weary voice. The off-season pushed them through major changes and it shows in the negative. Adjustments need to be made. A knock on the door catches me offguard and it's Kubrick back yet again from Davis. [WHILE WRITING THIS, THE TELEVISION IS ON - QUICK THOUGHT: AHH BOo! They've censor blurred Annie Cruz's mamarries on Creepy KOFY Movie Time. She's been able to go all clear in the weeks past with pasties. Guess they're experimenting with what boundaries they can push. Hmmm . . . she's got an adorable smile. Never noticed it before, given her profession.] Bored at his own home, he's up for a night out at one of the multitude of Vietnamese bars in San Jose. Last time we went I had the rare - yes rare, I, Recluse - opportunity to be in the close presence of attractive women. Of course I'm game for what's to go on tonight and tell him I'll tag along.

The gloomy weather forced a chill upon the Bay, putting me in my cardigan with a trenchcoat back-up to repell the awful liquid hoard that sometimes runs from the sky. Sitting in my usual fedora and tie we ride out to a place he says he hasn't been to in a while. The night and bright lights is a mix that bothers me unless I'm in a city of slot machines and themed hotels. Kubrick knows of my aversion to extreme wattage in the after hours and assures me of the calmer moods we are to attend. The ride ends not far from the big Chuck E. Cheese's off of Tully Road. A cluster of local businesses are huddled together in lots streetlit less than their franchised cousins. In this area a thin purple glow escapes from the open door of a coffee bar signaling potential customers of the social switch that takes place when you break that 7'x4' boundary: this bar, like any bar, permits a return to a primitive and far more human nature, away from the belt-tightening formalities of a bowtied restaurant or even the procedure incognito of pedestrianism. Don't walk in commitment to the crowd. Relax. Step into the utter casual. This is Cheo Leo.

Kubrick finds a table not far from the center of the room. I walk in with a remnant reminder to myself to take a proper posture but walk in anyways with my broken-in vulture-like stoop; screw it, I'm already here. Televisions line every wall of the room. The bars these days with their thousandscreen approach is damn near fetishistic and it amuses me every time I look in through the windows and get blinded by free throws, home runs, knockouts and/or touchdowns. There aren't many people inside Cheo Leo tonight but the few there are is enough to push my discomfort button. Cool down, Recluse. Get used to it. Then I see two naked chicks. Huh? Wait. No. They're not naked . . . I think. I don't know. I can't look directly but catch them in my peripherals and they're showing skin aplenty. Despite their near-nude state they stand with exceptional poise. A waitress needs to be confident. Especially when she's made to serve pseudo-starkers. Kubrick orders 2 cold Vietnamese coffees. Usually a more sociable character than I, he is uncommonly quiet tonight. A not-so-naked one returns with beverages and pasties on her very ample C-cup breasts; they hover over the table seemingly of their own accord, supple creatures of temptation. Seated, I freeze, looking neither up nor down as tall glasses are placed on the table. It's the complimentary tea. That is all that I focus on. Soon after, the other waitress - a blonde in a see-through lace bodice sans bra - arrives with the coffee. The proximites of those visits paralyze me. Opposite sides of magnets throw each other apart. Those bare beauties throw my head spinning. My eyes are on the TV screens but they aren't paying attention as my thoughts pinball maniacally on the wild social affair set in a cigarette smoke swamp of purple. Am I allowed to look? That's what they're their for, right? Would it be disrespectful? Unanswered questions like these tumble on and on, never reaching the forgiving THUD at the end of a fall. It's a miracle I do not implode from the madness.

The iced coffee tastes good. The blend of sugar sweet and bean bitter is just right. Usually a person of low energy, the caffeine works against me by only perking up my awareness of the situation at hand. What was before the sluggish acknowledgement of bold female accoutrements become a punch-you-in-the-face discovery: BOOOOOOOOOBS!! I sit higher in my chair, at the welcome reality before me. Unfortunately it doesn't have an effect on my outward demeanor, still very much reserved, now keeping my eyeline above or below where a bountiful set of dear-lovelies might walk across. During the occasions that the waitresses do pass, I sometimes think they look my way. They must think of me a fiend. A rude, better-than-thou asshole who can't make eye contact. Sips of the tea become more common as I notice Kubrick taking time with puffs of cigarettes and scratch tickets he purchased from a dedicated vending machine. I don't want to finish the coffee prematurely and sit awkwardly with an empty glass, knowing fully well that was the only thing to be purchased. By this point a quarter of the tea is gone and the blonde merrily jaunts her way to our table, filling a glass with a friendly "hello." I look up and reply, "Hello" only to see she's kept her eyes down. She walks away. I do not know if she heard my feeble attempt at being cordial. Just as I sip more tea and put the glass down, she comes back in an instant . She's more ethereal now, departing from the physical, taking the form of a headless laced ghost, filling glasses as a kind haunt. The story goes: Partake of a beverage, however slight, a laced spectre soon appears to fulfill your delight. I break the pattern, not wanting the anxiety associated with the proximity of her return and stop drinking the drink that calls her.

Kubrick picks up a good haul with the scratch tickets, turning up a good profit for what was mainly intended to be an amusment. He gets his pay at the bar proper located to the right and slightly behind where I am sitting. I take it as an opportunity to look around and gander at the waitresses who wait to serve right at that area. I spot a third asian waitress who I have not yet seen. Perhaps she works the other side of the bar. An older women who I presume to be the proprietor of the business stands with wide purposeful eyes. She looks out, always out, in one gaze taking the bar in its entirety but at the same time somehow visually connecting each individual customer. It's as if she's waiting for a secret albeit common request that only the regular patrons of the Cheo Leo are privy to. Lastly, on this single brave outlook I make direct eye contact with one girl. Her face is soft and charming, dominated by bright eyes and beautiful raven black hair. Caught unaware by my peeking, she looks back with a calm, inviting expression. It is a reaction I don't explore. My view immediately resets to two tall glasses of tea and coffee. A thought tumbles in my head once more. Realization? It was the waitress with the pasties. Throughout the night when she passes into view, the confidence in her gait is noticeably less assured. She serves a new trio of customers in front of me, her arms are crossed and tucked beneath her generous bosom, cradling her breasts, clutching herself from the Quiet Awkward who gave her no gentle attention. I damn my unsmooth ways.

With the coffee gone, I down the tea in one final gulp. Kubrick and I leave. It is only when we leave the purple glow behind us that he confesses to his own unease with the bar's change in uniform. Last time he was a patron of Cheo Leo, the breasts were more modest with their attire. This explains his unusual behavior. Kubrick talks on about the blonde who waited on us most of the evening. Apparently her nipples were pink, though I never noticed. She was also trashy. I didn't notice that either. In a place where you can get reprimanded for wearing a bra, trashiness is a hard one to gauge. I tell Kubrick of my own wish to have been more amicable with the waitresses. I know of the coldness I set forth when around ladies (that's a defense mechanism, by the way - you can disregard giving me undue asshole points) so I must have been positively freezing around the bare ones tonight.

"It would have been nice to know their names, ya know?"

Kubrick aggressively responds, "What the hell you want to do that for?"

"To be friendly. I didn't see any nametags. It would have been nice to know their names."

"Where would they put their nametags?"

Chuckling, I reply with a smirk, "Ugh, they could paste it on!"

"Shut up, Justin." Here is where the discussion starts. All the way on the drive back home, Kubrick and I debate on the rights and wrongs of getting to know a waitress' name. Specifically, waitresses of the caliber we met tonight. Kubrick says I have no business knowing their names and they might take offense to it by thinking of it as flirtation.

I come back with, "It's okay to stare at their tits but we're not allowed to know their names and treat them as more than their cupsize?"

"How would you know they gave you their real names?"

"That's not the point, the point is I could refer to them as something other than, 'Hey you with the pink nipples.'" In other words, to make a sincere link with the actual person and not just her body.

Kubrick says I shouldn't care anyways, that they are there just to serve me coffee and are not worth more than that.

I tell him, "I do care."

Mockingly he replies, "Gah, you're such a humanist, Justin. I should give you a plaque with your name on it."

I was not able to give up my inhibitions at Cheo Leo, a place where such a thing was welcome, reflected in the steps and assurance in which the waitresses held themselves. To go into a place like that is to know its boundaries and in doing so you find out your own. You find out more about yourself when thrust into unexpected situations. In terror and in surprise there is a return to the primitive. Though it may last for an instant, control is out. Instinct kicks in. Who are you? Women, so dear to me in a way that I only know, were seen tonight in a form I'm not accustomed to and what did that bring? Something I know all too well and is now concretely reaffirmed: I'm nervous as shit around good-looking women, arrested by my awe of them. Only this time it was accompanied by some good coffee.

Back in the neigborhood 613 nurtured in streetlight yellow, I tell Kubrick as we part ways for the night, "That was fun. I'd go back."

Anybody want to go?

Maybe I'll get a name this time . . .

Drive-Out

Sunday, March 14, 2010
Evening

I dressed up, brooding. To say the circumstances which lead me to this night-out were stressful is an understatement. Cheerless was the tie I wore. Grief lined the the brim of my fedora. The manner in which I dressed myself was deliberate and aching. The mirror saw sullen movements of buttons buttoned, cuffs straightened, and a collar made proper. It looked like I was heading to a funeral. At the wake was my dignity in a paltry coffin, matching a life lived in inadequacies - added, multiplied, to the umpteenth power. No kind words marked this passing. No good memory manifested and stood forth. For it was I alone at the sorrow ceremony of this post-sun hour.

I stepped outside the door, neither sneaking or flaunting my exit. The night was cold so a coat was brought along and tossed onto the front passenger seat of the BMW. I started up the engine with the "vroom!" signaling the beginning of what I hoped would be better times. I headed out towards where people would be. The Eastridge Mall. In both the state of closing and closed, I arrived much too late. Remnants of the pretty girls who had walked there just hours ago took form now as empty benches and car park spaces. I saw one pony-tailed beaut enter her Honda and drive away, never to be seen again - such is my typical association with woman. That bare one would have to do to hold me out for the night. Drawn metal gates and "Closed" signs commingled rather well with the silence in that wide open space. Hunch-shouldered customers with dreary faces made their relieved final purchases. Two aunt-looking woman sat by their coffee, conversing in what was bought and what could have been bought. Hooligans clad in black street-wear continued their toughwalk, albeit with a little less swagger; even for troublemakers, it was too late. Not wanting to be the victimized fedora'd fool jumped by desperate wannabe gangsters, I made my way out soon after seeing them. What little I did see there did help. To see faces apart from the ones I despised was like being fed ice cream after eating shit all day.

Music played throughout the night drive. What first went up was some Placebo. I only recently discovered them and have grown fond of their sound and aesthetic. It takes juevos to stand out as a nancy boy. People like David Bowie and Brian Molko have shown great Rock n'Roll need not be limited to in-your-face assholes. That dude wearing the make-up might just surprise you. But I digress. I find it hard to drive without music playing. The monotony of the pedal/wheel hustle can only be tolerated with the familiarity of a song I enjoy. As the night went on, from the mall to elsewhere, I switched over to a reliable playlist titled Lepcke. With that I rolled off onto 101 and exited out into the Capitol Expessway.

I'm familiar with this road. And what destination lies at the other side of it - The Capitol Drive-In. There are days in the week where the grounds of the drive-in gets used for a flea market. Often I have gone in the morning to walk and peek at the wares laid out on blankets and portable tables, the car-trunk sellers eager to get rid of what they no longer want in return for money much wanted. Even if you don't buy anything, the walk in the sunrise chill is nice. All the while, "towering behemoths" a.k.a. "drive-in screens" watch over the locals, guarding their right to sell something over or under-priced, depending on who you are. Those screens always did fascinate me. To see them at night would be grand. So that's where I found myself, with stars out and the sunless cold definitely set in place.

The drive-in sits on the side of an overpass. Knowing this, as I drove over, I immediately looked through my right window. I didn't want suspense. I kicked that shit right out. I wanted to see massive screens lit up. And they were. And they were magnificent. Joy tipped me on my shoulder. I couldn't grasp it but I felt it there. Concrete misery went liquid, still existing but less hindering. I could enjoy something now, however faint. "If you have the money" murmured in my mind as I rolled the BMW into the parking lot. I didn't have the money to watch the movies that shined on the screens in front of me but I was there and was convinced it was better than from whence I came. I parked in a very dark area on the farside of the lot, away from the popcorn and dialogue. There was an entryway as a point of payment and I didn't get anywhere near that. I had no speaker to transmit what was said onscreen. Silence and the stars was what I had. The sunroof was open. I looked up and it framed the dipper constellation perfectly. Which one? I didn't know. I smirked.

The surrounding area was a bit creepy. The trees that stood behind me stood as if held there with guns to their heads. It was their job to block the view of would-be watchers from the other parking lot which hosted your run-of-the-mill indoor movie theater. That area was well lit. You couldn't say the same for where I sat. The few streetlights on the farside spilled a filthy yellow onto barren spots edging the lot where there was absolutely nothing of interest. Everything else that was dark didn't fare any better. In the quiet I sat as other cars, leaving or arriving, roamed around. Their headlights cut through the evening air like menacing swords of light. Occasionally they would glare through my car windows, piercing through, threatening to reveal my drive-in bum status. My paranoia was active, indeed, especially at those moments.

It was cold. I grabbed the coat on the passenger side and turned it into a makeshift blanket. The screens directly in front of me played Brooklyn's Finest and She's Out of My League. Progressively out of view were Alice in Wonderland, Remember Me and Green Zone, which was blocked by a graffittied U-Haul truck. Matt Damon's noggin' kept popping out the side with a rifle in his hand. There were also two other screens which I just couldn't see. She's Out of My League was a movie of personal interest. Simply put, losers don't get girls. Hot ones sit beside never. Movies are but fantasies and oh loser I didn't mind having that flash in silence before me. As a fan of Training Day, I watched Brooklyn's Finest astutely. People's lips moved. They were in a city. There was a little police brutality too, I think. One scene between Don Cheadle and Wesley Snipes was particularly interesting. The setting was an urban riverside. Snipes looked very serious and told Cheadle how goddamn good a Snickers candy bar is. Cheadle did not agree and said the Mars bar was pretty damn good but was only sold in England. Then one of them mentioned Butterfingers but it was struck down because the orange bits stick to your molars. That scene between them went on for a good 8 minutes. Strange . At least that's what I heard.

I don't don't know how long I was out there. I minimized movement and kept the lights down to keep away from suspicion. My seat was reclined. From there I could easily see how people get their rocks off whether in the backseat or somewhere upfront. There's plenty of space for whatever sweaty mess people like to get into. Not long after the Snickers scene ended, a black, lifted pick-up truck was creeping in the vast darkness behind me. Its headlights were off and slowly it went along until . . . it stopped behind the BMW. Shit. Situated just off to the right, I positioned the side-view mirror to try to get a glimpse of who was inside. No luck. More empty then the shadows on this lot, nothing was more devoid of light than that truck cabin. Why did it decide to place itself there? Paranoia, paranoia. It might be security, I thought. Who needs a nightstick when your truck can run over cars? Maybe it's a serial killer - an unbalanced fiend who comes out to the empty lot to eat the eyes of Hollywood watching, Hamilton-less people.

I drove out of there. I like my eyes. I was 7 Washingtons short of $10 but even if I did have it, Enter text here.Mr. Empty Cabin over there would not have accepted it and I wouldn't need my glasses anymore.

The dipper no longer sat over my open roof. I drove onto Old Monterey road. There is a pizza place there, a local joint that sits across and can be seen from the drive-in. It always looks so inviting and for years now I've been telling myself I'll go have a slice. As I passed by it I thought of it fondly. Insecurity peekabooed and pinched me on the face.

"No money, idiot."

Ow.

"You're fat, ugly and should not be seen."

Ugh.

"There will be strangers there."

Awe shoot.

On my way back I passed by 2, maybe 3 fire stations. Why is that significant? I'm someone who gets familiar with areas by use of landmarks. They say that's a feminine trait. Burly dudes use street names as reference points, not the McDonalds that sits beside it. There were familiar roads. There were unfamiliar roads. As long as I headed east I knew I would be fine. I kept driving, first onto Tully, then South King and finally McKee. I fully intended to take the long way back to fight off the possibility of seeing his face still there with his borrowed bicycle sitting on the porch. Do you know how a man who can't stand on his own two feet gets by? On two wheels biking from family home to family home, avoiding his very own.

I returned to the house at 613 in dread. Each stop light bit, ripped and tore away the mirth that struggled so wretchedly to get back to me. The driveway was empty. So was the porch. I went into the house and upstairs into my room. I untied the cheerless. I took grief off of my mind but when I searched for sleep with my head on the pillow, I was exhausted, mentally drained by the day's troubles of duck and dollars. Guilt clashed with self-worth. Bad things happened and I played a part in it. Who the hell was I to do anything or feel anything? My miscarriage of a life was my own. I closed my eyes.

A gun.

A knife.

A rope.

These are methods for goodbye.

I was positively suicidal. This wasn't the first time.

Bitch of a Duck Run

"This will go good with the duck" dad said. "I'll go have Bobby buy the duck."

I'm here, aren't? What the fuck do I sit here for? To watch in dismay as Bobby gets a pat on the head for running piss-ant errands?! "Good boy, Baby Brother Bobby! As long as you go get the duck, you don't have to be responsible for your own fuck-ups."

"I'll go get the duck" I said defiantly.

The padre drunk stood wavering, a shaky tower dilapidated by alcohol & arthritis. He balanced himself with a hand on the counter of the kitchen stove.

His reply? "Then you go buy the duck . . . if you have the money."

I, a man of zero income, can own own up to my destitute meandering. I am the loser you laugh at to feel better about yourself. I am the one defeated, my pride buried long, long ago. I'm everything you don't want to be. The walking shame. The living embarrassment.

". . . if you have the money."

Ama.

What did you just say? To speak as though Bobby is a man of many riches, as if he does your food & beer runs out of his own pocket? It is he who bears his pockets empty. It is he who begs to keep the change. And yet you speak as though he is better than I, holding Bobby's proud flesh above my grave nigh.

Dad walked and wobbled away, unaware of the hurt he just caused. As he entered another room, my voice trailed on, echoing the pain I just felt. I sat angry. I sat wounded. In an attempt to deflect the verbal sword thrust into my fraction of dignity, I mouthed off to my brother beside me. But he cares not.

"Fuck this," I said, "I'll go buy that god damn duck."

Just then, Bobby entered the kitchen and searched for the key to the car. He was given the orders from dad. He searched desperately for that pat on the head. Irately, I stepped outside and asked dad if the duck is all he wanted. It was. As I headed toward the garage door, I told Bobby I'll get the duck. I asked him if he wanted anything else without waiting for an answer. I got in the car, started the engine. Bobby chased me and tried to hand off the money that came from Dad. It's too late for that. I sped out of the driveway, away from the hurt and away from the cause.

I may not have money, but I have something saved. What little I do have, I spend on the $16.33 worth of roasted, chopped duck. As a vegetarian, it's not even something I'll partake of. I was composed when I bought the duck. I was in such a mad hurry when I left the house that I ended up tying my boots at the Chinese restaurant off of Jackson & Mckee. The people behind the counter were nice. Anybody who isn't Bobby is somebody I'd rather see.

I went home less furious but still affected. I lifted the plastic bag of duck so that dad could clearly see it from the other room, through the multi-pane windowed slide door. I put it on the table. I go toward the other room and opened the slide door. Bobby is hiding, sitting on the floor, away from view. He knows what's up but like everything else in this world, he doesn't give a shit. But I made god damn sure he gave the duck money back to dad. Dad reached for his pocket, with few words, in an effort to pass the money to me.

I looked at him straight in the eyes and all I said was "No. No."

The damage was done. This bitch of a duck run.




I have no doubt in my mind that dad would sacrifice me to pull his brother Bobby up. If to the fire I must go, then at least I wouldn't see the fucker anymore.

I'm going to go away now. Take a little drive away from the mess that I see. I need a different view. Though I fear when I come back, HE will still be here. And he will be. As sure as the sun sets, he will be.

The cruelty that my mind absorbs is tiring. Bobby's broken face is all that it sees. The hole in the wall. The anger. It consumes me. To feel so much is not healthy. There are times when I just want to scream in his face. There are times when I just want to knock the fucker out. What I end up doing is write. Allow me the ill word. For without it, I would expire.

I Rake At Night

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.

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.