The Smart Indian Kid (and I don't mean Native American):
A talented kid with brains unmatched but for a few hermits his age with half the personality. Not only that, but he was a star athlete with a great family that drove a silver Mercedes to soccer practice everyday during the fall. I knew Shobin Uralil was already taking the classes I was because he'd sit right next to me; and yet he was a year younger. It was in Miss Shotsky's Chemistry class that we took advantage of the young guy. Miss Shotsky was overweight by about 80-pounds, wore mu-mu flowery near-see-through dresses, thick prescription light-pink glasses and had stark white hair that just shot to the ceiling like an electric current had passed through her. She truly wasn't altogether normal, or with it. Shobin was so brilliant that we formed a horseshoe around his desk and then each copied his answers off his scantron, and then copied each other. She would pass out our test papers after they were graded and everyone in this little section always had the same exact grades. She never suspected anything...again, because she really was out of it. One day we got back an exam and I think we all got an 88. I could tell he was surprised and really upset with himself so I let him stew a bit. Later, on the soccer field I asked him "why are you so down about the test, an 88 is great man? or is it something else?" He said "in my culture, you are a direct reflection on your parents, and if I do bad in school, then they are bad parents in the eyes of their peers...other families we know. That's the way it is and I pressure myself to never let them down." I said, "dude, you're so freaking smart, you've been acing all your classes your whole life, you're on Varsity soccer as a Freshman, everyone in school thinks you're awesome....just calm down a bit..you'll give yourself a heart attack." He responds, "you'll just never get it...you don't know what it's like. There are no excuses."
I look back on cheating off his hard work and how much effort he'd probably put in the night before as a sort of unconscious raping we'd given him that he never deserved, especially on top of what he already dealt with in his own mind. Don't get me wrong, this kid went on to become a huge success in banking....but I still feel like a loser not trying to just learn chemistry rather than cheat directly off a great guy. When it came time for my Regents exam there was no way to cheat, and my 98 average was capped off with a just passing 65 that I guarantee someone like Miss Shotsky helped me and many others illegally get....yes that's an assumption but there is no physical way I passed that thing. Maybe the shock of seeing 8 kids with A-averages get failing grades made her join the club.
Her Shirt was Seamless:
I was never a perfect guy in relationships. Often tempted to cheat, for new and exciting hook-ups is an ultimate weakness. This instance was the summer after my Freshman year in college where I was in a relationship for about 5 months which would last almost four years. My sister used to have this boyfriend who was in a fraternity. Every summer, his group of guys from Hofstra would rent out a house in the Hamptons that had some beach volleyball court and a built-in pool in the backyard. Like 20 people could stay there at a time. We'd bring everything to barbecue, drink, relax and hit the clubs late-night. It didn't matter to me if I slept on the floor, I was the youngest anyway since my sister will always have three years on me. Two girls that came were one year older, and one was with her boyfriend. The other had wavy Blonde hair and tiny red circles around her eyes like she was still tired from the two-hour ride. As always, these girls thought they were the shit. I don't know if that's just b/c they're from Long Island or if it's Hofstra and the sorority they were in...either way, they were just girls like anyone else. I was more interested in the one with the boyfriend but since him and his mid-buzzed poofed out dark hairline was impossible to surpass, I settled for the combination Kate Moss/Darryl Hannah hybrid. I think we started getting grabby at the club before we came home but I know we'd both taken a Mitsubishi, and felt obligated to touch things for the sensation of anything tactile and warm was overwhelming. When we got back to the mini-mansion I somehow found myself sitting on a metal folding chair directly in the middle of the kitchen. There was no island, just a large open space. Empty solo cups and beer cans exploded everywhere along the counter tops. She straddled me in sweatpants and an orange tank top that seemed ribbed. Somehow we got on the topic of what we were doing for the summer and I mentioned I painted. She almost came immediately in her sweats. Mistaking my gruntworthy job of painting retirement homes during the summer for some Lichtenstein talent; we made out immediately. My fingers started tracing up her back and under her shirt and it just felt smooth like spandex. She felt compelled to tell me about her shirt's new technology and the fact that she was in fashion design school(maybe only her friend went to Hofstra). Supposedly this was the first shirt released to ever have been seamless. Yes we were drunk, but this still meant nothing to me. I was more focused on the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. Although the night amounted to little in terms of full-out base-running, the next morning was dreadful because we ignored each other and never spoke a word. Even as her and her better looking friend closed their car doors and drove off without a wave, there was not a mention of the bathroom, or the living room carpet where we'd slept...it all meant nothing. Some things are exciting in the moment but completely unnecessary years after when your memories are all clouded with infidelity.
Bridging the Wrong Side of the Gap:
When a steering wheel's given to you in high school, for some reason, you're free. Free to tempt your life and those around you, and in this case, a complete stranger's. Coming home late from a party in South Huntington we were a bit wasted but quite aware of what we were doing. We'd driven this road a million times already, heading towards ROute 110 through the side streets that wound around our beloved St. Anthony's High School. One of my best friend's is in the passenger seat and we're blasting what was probably Blink-182 at the time. We had discussed a psychotic move about 10 seconds before we decided to do it. Northern State Parkway crosses below the bridge we were about to cross, so it was pretty damn lengthy. A metal barrier secured by old wooden posts, separates the single opposing lanes. As I veer hard off my line to cross the double yellows before the bridge begins, my skin turns to fire and my heart starts pounding. Harder and faster it bursts as we climbed up the first half of the blind bridge. "Holy shitttttt!!" Kevin starts screaming as reality sets in, but luckily we don't see any headlights peeking over the horizon line of the road. I start to feel calm as we come closer to the crest of the bridge and calm is never good. As the nose of my Camry crosses the threshold for what becomes the downhill portion of the bridge, we see headlights in our path. "Oh FUCK!!!!" Immediately I start flashing my brights and honking my horn before they too are committed by the divider. No doubt scared shitless, never believing the most ridiculous thing like a car coming over the bridge on the opposite side could be happening, they slam on their brakes and skid off the road to a halt with grass and dirt flying everywhere. They'd stopped right before the bridge began. Howling "woohooooooooo!!! oh my godd!!!" like fucking idiots, we literally skim his bumper as it sticks out onto the road. We looked through the dirt and burnt rubber cloud we'd caused to see a shadow with two eyes just shocked at the window....and for no apparent reason but the rush of risk, we couldve killed several people that night and affected many innocent lives unnecessarily.
Reflecting on the atrocious:
There are many things I look back on in my life with disgust and remorse because the reasons I did them make absolutely no sense. The ones that are the worst are those that are undeserving. Something like, calling a girl a name when she and you are just kids, but that name could absolutely ruin them and their self esteem. Or calling someone out on something indiscreet and completely unrelated to you, in order to embarrass them...to make yourself feel cooler. Viewing someone differently by perception and appearance before you even get to know them. I think all of us have done these things, and yes we truly learn by experiencing things, case in-point, my bringing them to your attention now, however, these are the actions I'll always regret, and forever call selfish, immature and unbelievably relevant to a day's worth of relieving confessions.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
In Sweet Disposition and No Longer Melting
500 days of summer, although I havent seen it yet, might be a great way to emotionally describe my life I leave behind in LA. A love, a job, a loss for words and a pre-ejaculatory future turned over like a bucket for suffocation and pounding by street urchins with drumsticks.
There's no denying our ability to draw from the hardest experiences in our lives to endure and muster courage. That's what this will be....a recollection of those great times of solidarity amongst my thoughts, breathing songs in lap-lanes, financial shadows reminiscent of beasts with exposed teeth on the wall but smiles in personal firm handshakes, tracing bladed lines amongst wooded dusty breezes, and long dried up tears with white knuckled handprints on Santa Monica sand. Im not sure there's room for relationships in this place; nor energy for anything but sleep and traffic.
This Angelic city has its beauty within the landscape and its burning lifeless peaks. Like black paper cutouts, they swim with the moon's liquid flashy spikes. Working relationships become labored efforts to understand whether or not the counterparty sees the benefit. Just being friends couldn't cut the smog we'd breathe together. Written words of thanks and hugs bared for hooded capsules we'd wrap ourselves in afterward; that unnecessary protection confuses me for individuality doesn't take that much effort. Everyone's time is important.
Somehow the red that creeped down the walls of glass strewn to the sky would make up for wasted heartbeats; it captured meaning beyond every single minute dreamt of her with someone else. Nightime sky's ablaze spoke my mind in frustration, screaming beauty at the night like "fuck you, I'm leaving this place like I came, with the brightest intentions."
Every city has its nooks of invite and clarity; like cherry lipstick and a short skirt on a pale passerby. Opportunities present themselves with ironic timing and only when in drastic need. Upon threat, moves shake themselves from pockets as only a convulsing dance could've summoned from what was supposedly sewn shut. I guess action sprouts via revived consciences and by feeling bad for the desperate. It'll be sometime before I can focus on the positive, like anything in life for us pessimists. Damn us for trying positivity when the negative happens and we're emotionally unprepared. What's the loss for expecting the worst?
It was sideways travel...chugging in place at the red light as if it's doing something before you begin again. Trust me, your heart can handle rhythmic adjustments as long as your head leads the way. For me, my head's finally leading me back to NY, and so I go......chugging, to a place where summer minds and their immature and material desires, do in fact end.
...........I'd beg reality to come find me, except it was never anything but.
There's no denying our ability to draw from the hardest experiences in our lives to endure and muster courage. That's what this will be....a recollection of those great times of solidarity amongst my thoughts, breathing songs in lap-lanes, financial shadows reminiscent of beasts with exposed teeth on the wall but smiles in personal firm handshakes, tracing bladed lines amongst wooded dusty breezes, and long dried up tears with white knuckled handprints on Santa Monica sand. Im not sure there's room for relationships in this place; nor energy for anything but sleep and traffic.
This Angelic city has its beauty within the landscape and its burning lifeless peaks. Like black paper cutouts, they swim with the moon's liquid flashy spikes. Working relationships become labored efforts to understand whether or not the counterparty sees the benefit. Just being friends couldn't cut the smog we'd breathe together. Written words of thanks and hugs bared for hooded capsules we'd wrap ourselves in afterward; that unnecessary protection confuses me for individuality doesn't take that much effort. Everyone's time is important.
Somehow the red that creeped down the walls of glass strewn to the sky would make up for wasted heartbeats; it captured meaning beyond every single minute dreamt of her with someone else. Nightime sky's ablaze spoke my mind in frustration, screaming beauty at the night like "fuck you, I'm leaving this place like I came, with the brightest intentions."
Every city has its nooks of invite and clarity; like cherry lipstick and a short skirt on a pale passerby. Opportunities present themselves with ironic timing and only when in drastic need. Upon threat, moves shake themselves from pockets as only a convulsing dance could've summoned from what was supposedly sewn shut. I guess action sprouts via revived consciences and by feeling bad for the desperate. It'll be sometime before I can focus on the positive, like anything in life for us pessimists. Damn us for trying positivity when the negative happens and we're emotionally unprepared. What's the loss for expecting the worst?
It was sideways travel...chugging in place at the red light as if it's doing something before you begin again. Trust me, your heart can handle rhythmic adjustments as long as your head leads the way. For me, my head's finally leading me back to NY, and so I go......chugging, to a place where summer minds and their immature and material desires, do in fact end.
...........I'd beg reality to come find me, except it was never anything but.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Inside the Mind of a Killer
“I know you better than you know yourself!”
she’d confidently laugh with those sexy ass eyes. Her long blonde hair leaning against the table as she slurped her strawberry lemonade through the ice at the bottom. She was young and innocent. Holding the glass with both hands as if still mouthing her sippy cup. She followed her heart through anyone’s usual transition. Leaving high school and going away to college; the ultimate revival of one’s independence….a maturation overnight, as we who have experienced it, already know. She may have thought because they’d had sex dozens of times, because they’d showered together, laughed in unison at movies or friends, met each other’s parents and sat through barbecues, days at the beach and even work, that she knew everything he was capable of. What he loved and what kept him happy was easy, but not something she could give unconditionally forever, not yet at least. And he knew that. He was 26, done with college, trying to make his way in the real world but still have-a-go at a social life with a new crew.
The type of guy he was, he’d admit to fault and blame himself no matter who’d committed the error. He’d gotten fired from his job like a martyr raising his hand for execution. Unnecessarily admitting to his relationship with her, the younger colleague he was supposed to manage, as suspicious higher-ups started questioning fraternizing amongst all the employees. As most did lie of their hook-ups and relations, properly securing their jobs as being fired for a hunch would surely cause a lawsuit anyway, for some reason he trusted that “honesty would be the best policy.” That’s what we were taught as children. Those executives deserved no such knowledge of one’s personal life to begin with, nor could any of them ever tolerate being asked who they were fucking.
At two very different times in their lives, he looks down at his plate and whispers to himself...
“you can’t imagine what floats around in my mind….what I would do if I lose you….I’ve told you subtly, but you get mad when I say it. When you go away, you’re gonna meet new people, and your life’s gonna change.”
“What are you thinking about sweetie?”
“Oh nothing babe, I’m so full, a bit tired too, wanna go?”
As they prance out of the restaurant to continue living what would be the unfathomable by any poor kid in a third world country, a fat couple who’ve barely spoken once since they’d arrived, sit across from each other at a table, watching them leave as if they’re celebrities. They both internalize that they’d wished their lives were different, that they too had that skip in their step, or their young tan and muscularly toned bodies, and what it would be like to live that life for a day.
When your mind is built to harp on the negative, to revert focus and jealousy onto what you don’t have, you're dooming what otherwise will be a bright future for a smart person. There’s a lot of sadness in the streets. Walking with your head down not seeing the faces in front of you …..there’s a lot to hate…and a lot to regret and overanalyze. It’s not unique to only one person, and there’s no way to see the future. For us, for what we have, yes, everything’s going to be ok. You can’t go taking the most positive elements of your life, the memories you’ve stored for unbelievable reason and the actions you’ve taken, as enjoyed equally by everyone. They’re not common, and you are a lucky bastard. If you sit back and think of the plight of others for comparison, you’ll see.
They did break up like any couple moving in different directions and playing the long-distance role. The times where people’s lives were private, where they weren’t documented every single day online and displayed, were much easier to cope. “Out of sight, out of mind,” another thing he was taught. Seeing a message of the person you loved left active on their profile about how they’re off to get wasted with their girls, and how it’s still the same message the next day at 5pm, you sit and wonder. Hundreds of miles away, you’re somehow now aware of what they’re watching on tv, when they’re showering and if they have a big test that week. Photographs plastered on everyone’s homepages are trophies encasing what you missed and had no part in bringing to them; that happiness. It enrages you and renders you unconscious to the life you thought you had, just the two of you. How much you believe you held them back and their uncanny ability to move on so quickly as some guy in the photo has their arm around her and their best friend left a comment saying “I wanted him you asshole.” A million games you can play with your mind and what it comes down to……they’re just games. Five years down the road, all relationships, nights of wasted binge drinking and one-night stands are finally over, and now they’re ready for the next 60 years together. You rekindle as if nothing ever changed and all you had to do was give up five years to make it become 60. No one really knows what could’ve happened, but we know what did.
The drastic and unexpected, is the irony of control at its purest. It’s not tragedy for the sake of someone else’s misfortune, but an internal choice temporarily better than the alternative. The shock, the tears and the effort to understand the motives behind why it happened will always linger, but trust me, that’s what they wanted…..to make an impact. If you don’t want to make a splash, you don’t jump in. Aside from mismanaging their own mind’s distaste for their choices, and the words they’d planted there unconsciously, blaming themselves with “its’ your fault, you’re a failure in life, you’ll never find love again,” there’s also lessons they want to teach by doing this. They want others to analyze the way they live, to appreciate life’s fragility, how they treat others, to make sure they never take another moment with someone for granted. Those who loved him will now internally analyze their own actions, how they affect others and the happiness of those lives they never want to lose as well.
Many toss the words “coward” and “selfish” into the mix when discussing it. And then they apologize because they might offend people, but that’s what they truly believe of people who do it. I think it depends on the individual and what they truly believe is harder…Living: the struggle, the deaths in your family, the lost loves that you long for, the financial hardships, the realization that we’re all never going to be millionaires and taking the fights with your partner as lessons to learn by, plus, respecting the sacrifice your parents made in their own lives to give you yours…….or Giving Up: ending every friendship they’ve ever made, every holiday they’ll never experience, any beautiful new country they’d get to visit, any sexual encounter with the one who may be their future wife and the opportunity to have innocent children and to see the hilarious ways they learn…………all, for what ultimately might just be blackness.
Life is cyclical. As time passes, there are always ups and downs. Every time you think your life is over, you’ve got to get back out there and overcome that which is bringing you down. A man finds out how man he is when he threatens his own life, whether it be enlisting for war, waking up in the middle of the night to defend a burglar or going against everything you've ever learned to become a true martyr, but I serenely suggest, no matter how forlorn, you ask a few loved ones for advice before ever believing the only way left to remain a man, is to go ahead and pull the trigger.
she’d confidently laugh with those sexy ass eyes. Her long blonde hair leaning against the table as she slurped her strawberry lemonade through the ice at the bottom. She was young and innocent. Holding the glass with both hands as if still mouthing her sippy cup. She followed her heart through anyone’s usual transition. Leaving high school and going away to college; the ultimate revival of one’s independence….a maturation overnight, as we who have experienced it, already know. She may have thought because they’d had sex dozens of times, because they’d showered together, laughed in unison at movies or friends, met each other’s parents and sat through barbecues, days at the beach and even work, that she knew everything he was capable of. What he loved and what kept him happy was easy, but not something she could give unconditionally forever, not yet at least. And he knew that. He was 26, done with college, trying to make his way in the real world but still have-a-go at a social life with a new crew.
The type of guy he was, he’d admit to fault and blame himself no matter who’d committed the error. He’d gotten fired from his job like a martyr raising his hand for execution. Unnecessarily admitting to his relationship with her, the younger colleague he was supposed to manage, as suspicious higher-ups started questioning fraternizing amongst all the employees. As most did lie of their hook-ups and relations, properly securing their jobs as being fired for a hunch would surely cause a lawsuit anyway, for some reason he trusted that “honesty would be the best policy.” That’s what we were taught as children. Those executives deserved no such knowledge of one’s personal life to begin with, nor could any of them ever tolerate being asked who they were fucking.
At two very different times in their lives, he looks down at his plate and whispers to himself...
“you can’t imagine what floats around in my mind….what I would do if I lose you….I’ve told you subtly, but you get mad when I say it. When you go away, you’re gonna meet new people, and your life’s gonna change.”
“What are you thinking about sweetie?”
“Oh nothing babe, I’m so full, a bit tired too, wanna go?”
As they prance out of the restaurant to continue living what would be the unfathomable by any poor kid in a third world country, a fat couple who’ve barely spoken once since they’d arrived, sit across from each other at a table, watching them leave as if they’re celebrities. They both internalize that they’d wished their lives were different, that they too had that skip in their step, or their young tan and muscularly toned bodies, and what it would be like to live that life for a day.
When your mind is built to harp on the negative, to revert focus and jealousy onto what you don’t have, you're dooming what otherwise will be a bright future for a smart person. There’s a lot of sadness in the streets. Walking with your head down not seeing the faces in front of you …..there’s a lot to hate…and a lot to regret and overanalyze. It’s not unique to only one person, and there’s no way to see the future. For us, for what we have, yes, everything’s going to be ok. You can’t go taking the most positive elements of your life, the memories you’ve stored for unbelievable reason and the actions you’ve taken, as enjoyed equally by everyone. They’re not common, and you are a lucky bastard. If you sit back and think of the plight of others for comparison, you’ll see.
They did break up like any couple moving in different directions and playing the long-distance role. The times where people’s lives were private, where they weren’t documented every single day online and displayed, were much easier to cope. “Out of sight, out of mind,” another thing he was taught. Seeing a message of the person you loved left active on their profile about how they’re off to get wasted with their girls, and how it’s still the same message the next day at 5pm, you sit and wonder. Hundreds of miles away, you’re somehow now aware of what they’re watching on tv, when they’re showering and if they have a big test that week. Photographs plastered on everyone’s homepages are trophies encasing what you missed and had no part in bringing to them; that happiness. It enrages you and renders you unconscious to the life you thought you had, just the two of you. How much you believe you held them back and their uncanny ability to move on so quickly as some guy in the photo has their arm around her and their best friend left a comment saying “I wanted him you asshole.” A million games you can play with your mind and what it comes down to……they’re just games. Five years down the road, all relationships, nights of wasted binge drinking and one-night stands are finally over, and now they’re ready for the next 60 years together. You rekindle as if nothing ever changed and all you had to do was give up five years to make it become 60. No one really knows what could’ve happened, but we know what did.
The drastic and unexpected, is the irony of control at its purest. It’s not tragedy for the sake of someone else’s misfortune, but an internal choice temporarily better than the alternative. The shock, the tears and the effort to understand the motives behind why it happened will always linger, but trust me, that’s what they wanted…..to make an impact. If you don’t want to make a splash, you don’t jump in. Aside from mismanaging their own mind’s distaste for their choices, and the words they’d planted there unconsciously, blaming themselves with “its’ your fault, you’re a failure in life, you’ll never find love again,” there’s also lessons they want to teach by doing this. They want others to analyze the way they live, to appreciate life’s fragility, how they treat others, to make sure they never take another moment with someone for granted. Those who loved him will now internally analyze their own actions, how they affect others and the happiness of those lives they never want to lose as well.
Many toss the words “coward” and “selfish” into the mix when discussing it. And then they apologize because they might offend people, but that’s what they truly believe of people who do it. I think it depends on the individual and what they truly believe is harder…Living: the struggle, the deaths in your family, the lost loves that you long for, the financial hardships, the realization that we’re all never going to be millionaires and taking the fights with your partner as lessons to learn by, plus, respecting the sacrifice your parents made in their own lives to give you yours…….or Giving Up: ending every friendship they’ve ever made, every holiday they’ll never experience, any beautiful new country they’d get to visit, any sexual encounter with the one who may be their future wife and the opportunity to have innocent children and to see the hilarious ways they learn…………all, for what ultimately might just be blackness.
Life is cyclical. As time passes, there are always ups and downs. Every time you think your life is over, you’ve got to get back out there and overcome that which is bringing you down. A man finds out how man he is when he threatens his own life, whether it be enlisting for war, waking up in the middle of the night to defend a burglar or going against everything you've ever learned to become a true martyr, but I serenely suggest, no matter how forlorn, you ask a few loved ones for advice before ever believing the only way left to remain a man, is to go ahead and pull the trigger.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Dolce and Gabbana Shoes or a Doctor of Philosophy
To unravel philosophy is impossible. Opinions encompass its entirety, and no facts can be taken from an airborne train of thought. Using brief fragments from one apology and then attaching our own vague generality to the end, is no more innovative then adding salt to a recipe.
I failed Intro to Philosophy, so I’m no Hobbes. Well, I shouldn’t say I failed. Studying what I thought would be the answers rather than giving my own, forced me to an “F” before I withdrew. These days though, I understand what’s expected when engaged in similar discussion. Poop in my hand, throw shit out there and see what sticks. Then, I was 18. Philosophy was a joke. Any answer you gave earned a brutal verbal beat-down…..because you should have known, there are no right answers.
In the documentary “Examined Life,” interviews with people whom I assume are profound intellects on human thought, were dumbed down to relate common philosophies with everyday streetwalking. Although it’s difficult to transform these planetary blowhards (who would likely trade one of their testicles for a signed Star Trek DVD) into a calm-talking Dr. Drew, subtly soothing the bubbly herpes outbreak of any club-grinding alpha-male, some truly relevant comparisons actually did rise to the surface.
Each individual seems to be asked the same questions, ultimately ending with “are we supposed to search for meaning in life?” Excellent, and each equally different, points of view arose such as experiencing as much as possible especially when those events lead to nowhere. At one point, two dogs playing tag could not be translated into anything but enjoying themselves; and I applauded such restraint.
One of the philosopher's revived an analogy he'd used 30 years prior when referencing the material things we purchase. A woman sees Dolce and Gabbana shoes in Bergdorf Goodman’s, and buys them for $1,000. He then puts her in a situation with the shoes on, “you’re walking by a knee-deep pond and you see a small child drowning, but no one’s around to help. No time to take off the shoes…what would you do?” As every woman normally proceeds “I’d save little Stewie Griffin, even though he’s always trying to kill his mother, and completely ruin my new pumps”…….he responds, “if you’re willing to destroy those shoes to save 1 kid’s life, you could save more than 20 by donating that $1,000 to Oxfam.” The lesson learned is that being a moral/ethical person is not chucking a balled up dollar at a homeless man and smiling because it’s now up to them how they use it. It’s what you could’ve done beyond the dollar; how much further you could’ve gone to better everyone and why you didn’t. Sitting eating my Goobers, sipping a mammoth Diet Coke and lounging with my feet on the chair in front of me, I began to feel real shitty about what I've spent my money on.
The next best thought provoking monologue came from a guy who looked like he’d dressed himself in tin cans, rotting banana peels and the pubic hair of a bison. Befittingly, his narrative revolved around the Department of Sanitation and our unconscious effort to block the whereabouts of our shit. To be taken as literally as possible, it disappears from our mind the minute it’s down the pipes (or in the garbage as they hovered around him at the local dump). To instead, learn about the amount of waste each of us commits a year to this earth and then work on adjusting it……even a subtle change by everyone would have an astronomically positive effect. However since he doesn’t suspect we will, we should then embrace our trash as an equivalent part of this world before it finally gets fed up with us. Upon its ultimate unhappiness, the world will again revert to catastrophe beyond our Hollywood imaginations, and place us all where our dinosaurs currently live….our gas tanks.
As aggressive as these dames and gents may seem, it’s no different than the drunken debates between you and your buddies about politics and religion. No one’s right and everyone disagrees regardless. None of them deserve to point the finger anywhere but at themselves for the amount of time they’ve squandered reading books about philosophy instead of guiding small burrowing worms out of young Namibian children’s feet. They could’ve nailed miles of boards and sheetrock up at the nearest Habitat for Humanity or dunked thousands of ladles into vats of chicken broth at downtown soup kitchens instead of listening to hundreds of hours of babbling lectures on their society’s disenchantment of reality. Forget about the lady and her D&G shoes, let’s turn the tables and put these hypocrite high-browed know-it-all’s knee deep in their own twisted analogies.
You have $175,000 in your hand and you’re walking a path that forks. One way leads down a little dirt path where there’s 6 villages on the verge of starvation, 4,000 people altogether. The other, solid cement and lit by halogens straight towards a marble building. Above the door there's a sign “Come on in, be a Doctor of Philosophy.”
Try and tell me now, why there’s no right answer to the question. Try and tell me now, how much further you could have gone to better everyone, and why you didn’t.
I failed Intro to Philosophy, so I’m no Hobbes. Well, I shouldn’t say I failed. Studying what I thought would be the answers rather than giving my own, forced me to an “F” before I withdrew. These days though, I understand what’s expected when engaged in similar discussion. Poop in my hand, throw shit out there and see what sticks. Then, I was 18. Philosophy was a joke. Any answer you gave earned a brutal verbal beat-down…..because you should have known, there are no right answers.
In the documentary “Examined Life,” interviews with people whom I assume are profound intellects on human thought, were dumbed down to relate common philosophies with everyday streetwalking. Although it’s difficult to transform these planetary blowhards (who would likely trade one of their testicles for a signed Star Trek DVD) into a calm-talking Dr. Drew, subtly soothing the bubbly herpes outbreak of any club-grinding alpha-male, some truly relevant comparisons actually did rise to the surface.
Each individual seems to be asked the same questions, ultimately ending with “are we supposed to search for meaning in life?” Excellent, and each equally different, points of view arose such as experiencing as much as possible especially when those events lead to nowhere. At one point, two dogs playing tag could not be translated into anything but enjoying themselves; and I applauded such restraint.
One of the philosopher's revived an analogy he'd used 30 years prior when referencing the material things we purchase. A woman sees Dolce and Gabbana shoes in Bergdorf Goodman’s, and buys them for $1,000. He then puts her in a situation with the shoes on, “you’re walking by a knee-deep pond and you see a small child drowning, but no one’s around to help. No time to take off the shoes…what would you do?” As every woman normally proceeds “I’d save little Stewie Griffin, even though he’s always trying to kill his mother, and completely ruin my new pumps”…….he responds, “if you’re willing to destroy those shoes to save 1 kid’s life, you could save more than 20 by donating that $1,000 to Oxfam.” The lesson learned is that being a moral/ethical person is not chucking a balled up dollar at a homeless man and smiling because it’s now up to them how they use it. It’s what you could’ve done beyond the dollar; how much further you could’ve gone to better everyone and why you didn’t. Sitting eating my Goobers, sipping a mammoth Diet Coke and lounging with my feet on the chair in front of me, I began to feel real shitty about what I've spent my money on.
The next best thought provoking monologue came from a guy who looked like he’d dressed himself in tin cans, rotting banana peels and the pubic hair of a bison. Befittingly, his narrative revolved around the Department of Sanitation and our unconscious effort to block the whereabouts of our shit. To be taken as literally as possible, it disappears from our mind the minute it’s down the pipes (or in the garbage as they hovered around him at the local dump). To instead, learn about the amount of waste each of us commits a year to this earth and then work on adjusting it……even a subtle change by everyone would have an astronomically positive effect. However since he doesn’t suspect we will, we should then embrace our trash as an equivalent part of this world before it finally gets fed up with us. Upon its ultimate unhappiness, the world will again revert to catastrophe beyond our Hollywood imaginations, and place us all where our dinosaurs currently live….our gas tanks.
As aggressive as these dames and gents may seem, it’s no different than the drunken debates between you and your buddies about politics and religion. No one’s right and everyone disagrees regardless. None of them deserve to point the finger anywhere but at themselves for the amount of time they’ve squandered reading books about philosophy instead of guiding small burrowing worms out of young Namibian children’s feet. They could’ve nailed miles of boards and sheetrock up at the nearest Habitat for Humanity or dunked thousands of ladles into vats of chicken broth at downtown soup kitchens instead of listening to hundreds of hours of babbling lectures on their society’s disenchantment of reality. Forget about the lady and her D&G shoes, let’s turn the tables and put these hypocrite high-browed know-it-all’s knee deep in their own twisted analogies.
You have $175,000 in your hand and you’re walking a path that forks. One way leads down a little dirt path where there’s 6 villages on the verge of starvation, 4,000 people altogether. The other, solid cement and lit by halogens straight towards a marble building. Above the door there's a sign “Come on in, be a Doctor of Philosophy.”
Try and tell me now, why there’s no right answer to the question. Try and tell me now, how much further you could have gone to better everyone, and why you didn’t.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
I'm So Artsy, Even Indie Wouldn't Know
You know, I grew up with a group of kids quite unlike the guys they are today. Yes, I know, people change, but fuck that…. not sooo much that it’s cyclical puberty. I guess we could compare them to hippies. People that weren’t always free-wheeling drug tasting flower children, but innocent, fun-loving manhunt seeking yutes that relied on their older siblings’ behavior as the best example to follow. Then it was sex and LSD, now it’s Coked-Up croquet, Burt Bacharach and a pair of chinos.
Since high school, I’ve seen firsthand, a snobbish self-entitled change in the lot. Not my immediate cronies thank god, but the backup pack. Their obsession with the odd, is as fake as their childhood love for lima beans, downing them in one gulp not because mom’s cookin was good lookin…but ‘cause a home-run derby in the court was calling out loud “get your ass out here before its dark!” These guys were my jock friends that loved pop music, a case of beer with a football game and pool-hopping at midnight. As they went away to college, something very strange happened where they forgot who they were. Consistently subjected to rebellious individuals far cooler, it reminds me of when Bart Simpson goes to the school for the gifted. He’s mocked constantly for his stupidity and needs to leave to feel better about himself…….in this case, these guys scooted into pretty schools for their athletic talents and learned the ropes by conforming immediately to how geniuses do, or else perform a one-handed self-wedgie at the main lawn during lunch.
Back home, they were cooler-than-thou cult followers who could no longer relate. The guy who used to spike his hair like one of the Gotti boys now has a dry comb-over and dons a mustache that catches more milk than an udder bucket. I thought he’d forgot to remove his 80’s pornstar Halloween costume. They fight conspicuously hard to neglect these changes; morphing like butterflies in stages and taking off in erratic flight to mislead us, but always flying in whatever direction the season’s taking them. Now, the hardest whiskey ever produced is the only thing they order, and somehow it’s the only thing they ever drank, as they try to defend themselves when we point out that they used to swear by their father’s passed down middle name that Old Milwaukee’s Best was the shizzy. This mild Alzheimerish slip is not even the scary part….they believe they’re these far out artists that understand counter-culture, what’s on the brink of discovery, and what truly is worth regarding as cool or funny. The absolute driest form of anything creative has become their purest example of expression. If an old man shit his pants and dragged ass like a dog tickling an itch, they’d take a picture of it and call it art. They’re so far advanced for their time, that if confronted, they would outright deny the thought that they’d ever even had a transformation. Like one morning they’d stepped out of bed, threw all their Abercrombie and Fitch cargo’s into a fire and raided American Apparel for the ugliest fucking neon deep-U belly shirt that’d reveal their newly accepted happy trail before it disappeared below their thrift shop light-green corduroys. I wish I was exaggerating. At least then we’d have our friends back, and also feel less like we’ve been left out.
When I blame myself for being behind on the times, I look at what my true to life, everyday brodies are doing versus the guys that sit back and study what others do to gauge what’s cool…it just so turns out, the guys who've been made to feel idiotic have actually always been ahead of the steeping curve. The artists, the innovative ones, they continually create and leave something behind; those are the people that reveal their talents for all to see, instead of leaning hard on a crutch made of comebacks and chin-grabbing afterthoughts. If these guys were the writers, I’d say “fuck yeah! ……keep interviewing amazing people and drafting dynamic shit.” If they were creating music, jotting down lyrics or coming up with a new hot beat their families could thrive on, I’d say “that’s my friend’s band! Don’t they sound sick?!” They offer not even a shred of talent….having lost it after their 4th year of NCAA eligibility. They have no responsibilities even still, and they pretend their life flows in a different direction, when we've all been living. There’s no faking anymore who’s shit truly wreaks. I say to these temporarily lost souls, hate to break it to you….just like a hippie still is today, you too, will be tomorrow’s wannabees.
Since high school, I’ve seen firsthand, a snobbish self-entitled change in the lot. Not my immediate cronies thank god, but the backup pack. Their obsession with the odd, is as fake as their childhood love for lima beans, downing them in one gulp not because mom’s cookin was good lookin…but ‘cause a home-run derby in the court was calling out loud “get your ass out here before its dark!” These guys were my jock friends that loved pop music, a case of beer with a football game and pool-hopping at midnight. As they went away to college, something very strange happened where they forgot who they were. Consistently subjected to rebellious individuals far cooler, it reminds me of when Bart Simpson goes to the school for the gifted. He’s mocked constantly for his stupidity and needs to leave to feel better about himself…….in this case, these guys scooted into pretty schools for their athletic talents and learned the ropes by conforming immediately to how geniuses do, or else perform a one-handed self-wedgie at the main lawn during lunch.
Back home, they were cooler-than-thou cult followers who could no longer relate. The guy who used to spike his hair like one of the Gotti boys now has a dry comb-over and dons a mustache that catches more milk than an udder bucket. I thought he’d forgot to remove his 80’s pornstar Halloween costume. They fight conspicuously hard to neglect these changes; morphing like butterflies in stages and taking off in erratic flight to mislead us, but always flying in whatever direction the season’s taking them. Now, the hardest whiskey ever produced is the only thing they order, and somehow it’s the only thing they ever drank, as they try to defend themselves when we point out that they used to swear by their father’s passed down middle name that Old Milwaukee’s Best was the shizzy. This mild Alzheimerish slip is not even the scary part….they believe they’re these far out artists that understand counter-culture, what’s on the brink of discovery, and what truly is worth regarding as cool or funny. The absolute driest form of anything creative has become their purest example of expression. If an old man shit his pants and dragged ass like a dog tickling an itch, they’d take a picture of it and call it art. They’re so far advanced for their time, that if confronted, they would outright deny the thought that they’d ever even had a transformation. Like one morning they’d stepped out of bed, threw all their Abercrombie and Fitch cargo’s into a fire and raided American Apparel for the ugliest fucking neon deep-U belly shirt that’d reveal their newly accepted happy trail before it disappeared below their thrift shop light-green corduroys. I wish I was exaggerating. At least then we’d have our friends back, and also feel less like we’ve been left out.
When I blame myself for being behind on the times, I look at what my true to life, everyday brodies are doing versus the guys that sit back and study what others do to gauge what’s cool…it just so turns out, the guys who've been made to feel idiotic have actually always been ahead of the steeping curve. The artists, the innovative ones, they continually create and leave something behind; those are the people that reveal their talents for all to see, instead of leaning hard on a crutch made of comebacks and chin-grabbing afterthoughts. If these guys were the writers, I’d say “fuck yeah! ……keep interviewing amazing people and drafting dynamic shit.” If they were creating music, jotting down lyrics or coming up with a new hot beat their families could thrive on, I’d say “that’s my friend’s band! Don’t they sound sick?!” They offer not even a shred of talent….having lost it after their 4th year of NCAA eligibility. They have no responsibilities even still, and they pretend their life flows in a different direction, when we've all been living. There’s no faking anymore who’s shit truly wreaks. I say to these temporarily lost souls, hate to break it to you….just like a hippie still is today, you too, will be tomorrow’s wannabees.
Friday, March 6, 2009
WATCHMEN – Sometimes You Just Like Raw
At midnight mass last night we celebrated a naked blue god. One without the cheesy manhood car wash rag, as if God ever cared what someone thought of his junk. Watchmen was a killer flick with bone-grinding stabs and obscenely large red puddles, yet never did it try and hide behind the artificial flavorings of its comic book-turned movie predecessors. The music is a tribute to the late sixties and early seventies, quite a contrast to the technology used to make the movie, except since the film takes place during exaggerated instances within the Nixon administration, all the songs would have come out around that time, and fuck it, it worked in an Oliver Stone type-a way. “Wow, there was so much sex in that movie?” said two girls exiting alongside me at 3am. I said, where is Chris Brown when you need him?
When I was growing up I collected comic books; never read them, just collected them. I would stop in at the local 7-Eleven and whatever one had the coolest cover I’d grab; a worthless way to become an addict, but for some reason I just never liked to read. I came into Watchmen knowing nothing about the comic’s history, characters, anything….and I walked out feeling like a dedicated fan. That’s the way this movie is, legitimately hardcore, and you wish it was longer than 2 hours and 40 minutes. Although the story-line is fast-forwarded to cover years of history and loses some plot in translation, there's so much raw edge that you respect every corner never cut. Watchmen distances itself from the pack because they’ve embraced the R-Rating; staying true to the gore and fantasy that is action comics. Mastering this hurdle and understanding that audiences have literally seen it all, is why the chance they took to be daring was so successful. It’s not all sappy-romance and happy-endings. Good guys have to die too.
When I was growing up I collected comic books; never read them, just collected them. I would stop in at the local 7-Eleven and whatever one had the coolest cover I’d grab; a worthless way to become an addict, but for some reason I just never liked to read. I came into Watchmen knowing nothing about the comic’s history, characters, anything….and I walked out feeling like a dedicated fan. That’s the way this movie is, legitimately hardcore, and you wish it was longer than 2 hours and 40 minutes. Although the story-line is fast-forwarded to cover years of history and loses some plot in translation, there's so much raw edge that you respect every corner never cut. Watchmen distances itself from the pack because they’ve embraced the R-Rating; staying true to the gore and fantasy that is action comics. Mastering this hurdle and understanding that audiences have literally seen it all, is why the chance they took to be daring was so successful. It’s not all sappy-romance and happy-endings. Good guys have to die too.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
They Called Him "Chuckles"
It was the fall. Besides the scent of fake leather and the foam we'd pull from the seat cushions, we could smell the fresh cut grass through the tiny cracks of our bus windows. As always, those plastic guards on the track stopped the window just short enough to keep the stench of unwashed uniforms. Trekking down the steps, we jumped to the concrete where our cleats left mounds of hardened mud on Holy Trinity's parking lot. They looked like tiny brown islands on a sea of pavement; each pummeled by a bad meteor shower. Going through our heads as we approached the field was our usual difficulty of beating these guys. They weren't talented, they offered no specific player to keep an eye on, nor any sign of a strategy they'd use to dominate a game.....overall, they were just dirty motherfuckers.
I played soccer throughout my entire childhood; from the day I was four until my senior year in college. To this day, I have never experienced a raping like that in October 2003; I was a Junior in High School. When you think of the word "rape", you might assume we got our asses handed to us, or sucked so badly that we lost by some ridonkulous score. I really wouldn't waste your time with a shitty story about getting our asses beat.
We all know that soccer, on top of its physical requirements, includes a thick layer of acting. There's diving, throwing up your hands to create the illusion of being held, purposely tripping yourself when tangled with an opponent, etc. The easiest and most unnoticeable, yet effective strategy, is the art of "shit-talking" (common in many sports). Holy Trinity was a team with talentless players and brutal attitudes. If they broke an opponent's leg, then that was better than a goal. My job as a striker was to create open space, find a way to receive the ball from the backfield and turn it towards the goal to score. Normally, the opposite team assigns a defender to a striker to never let them free. My lucky day, they'd assigned McCauley Culkin on growth hormones, only with longer hair covering his eyes. Now that I think of it, he didn't even have eyes. This guy was Home Alone on acid with a machete, pliers and a bottle of Old Grand Dad; I remember it like yesterday.
The minute I stood still he came up behind me and whispered some shit about fucking me in the ass.
douche whisperer: "Hey buddy, what's up...I'm marking you today and I'm gonna be all up on your shit."
As usual, I'd try and keep on the move and ignore him until he feels stupid hearing his own voice.
douche whisperer: "Aww what's wrong wittle guy, you can't speak...come over here...."
A bit worried he cared nothing about the game, and more about licking my shadow, I felt a handful of my ass in his.
"Ref!!! Keep an eye on this kid, he's grabbing my fucking ass for chrissake..."
the ref: "hey! watch your mouth!"
"Well........Everytime you turn your back, he's fondling me like one of his Barbies"
douche whisperer: "awww....you used to collect Barbies? how cute..."
douche teammate: "hey Chuckles, tell ur lil momma's boy, I had his motha over for dinner lass night"
"Wait a second.....Did your butt-buddy just call you Chuckles!?! What the fuck kinda name's that? Lemme guess...you have a flamingly high-pitched laugh and everytime a little boy walks by, you need to use the bathroom"
Chuckles: "I love little boys...you remind of one I played with lass night"
"Jesus, you're original.....you and your buddy with the mom-jokes"
Chuckles: "you wanna be my bitch? I'm gonna make you my..."
The ball's kicked and we're off again. Trying harder and harder to keep away from this scitzo-pediphile, he was literally flat-tiring my heels every step. As the Ref turned away, he one-upped himself and proved creative in the flagrant minds far beyond the walls of appropriate behavior. Good ol' Chuckles had scooped around and grabbed my dick (dead fucking serious).
"REF!!!!! He's fucking grabbing my dick, this is bullshit!!
the ref: (blowing his whistle) "Number 4! I told you to watch your mouth....consider this your last warning! (he holds up a Yellow card)
"This is ridiculous!!!! He's reachin around and touching my dick, I'm not lying!! You have to watch him!!"
the crowd: "Hey numba 4!! I'm kicking your fucking ass after the game...you better run like a little bitch to your bus."
(yelling in the general vicinity of the crowd with my hands raised and eyes focused on no one) "You like guys touching your dick??.............dumb question"
For some reason, none of this shook up the Ref. He didn't pay more attention and fucking Chuckles was relentless. Next, he whacked at my junk like when you rat-tail someone with a rolled up towel. My coach saw what was happening and yelled to the Ref, but still he must've just thought we were trying to deter his attention. Sprinting away, I faked to one side, turned, and threw an elbow hard into his chin. It felt amazing, but it only enraged his eyeless McCauley mask. He got even more physical. No, Im not talking penne-alla-vodka; he'd come up behind me and start lacing in short sharp knuckle punches to my back. Then he'd move side-to-side, making like he was about to run, and as his arms would go up in motion to propel away, he'd quickly smack the back of my head. I couldn't even concentrate on the game I was so lost. None of this made sense in soccer. He had pissed me off so badly that even if I got the ball I figured he'd stick his cleat up my ass, turn to the right and cheer "open sesame!" The ref would then blow the whistle and I'd get penalized for not wanting it there (no-pun on the penal). So I faked being tripped. As we were running, I made like he took out my legs and the fact that he was two inches from me, it looked damn real. The Ref finally gave him a yellow. Grabbing my sac, pinching my ass and practically checking my temperature were not worthy of a card, but me tripping myself, now that's what punished him....pathetic, but effective. In soccer, if you are the cause of another flagrant foul after you have a yellow card, it's quite common that you'll get a red card and be ejected from the game. Your team would then have to play a man down for the rest of the game, and the thought of this kept him at bay for the remaining minutes of the first half.
Around the middle of the second half I finally had the ball in a position where I could do something. I took it hard up the line and towards the corner flag. With about a foot of space before being out of bounds, I crossed the ball and bent it in towards the ten yard line (an imaginary line). One of my teammates, Nick Karastinos, trapped the ball and buried it in the back of the net. For some reason I always would fall after making a hard bending cross at top speed, and as I got off the ground elated with joy, Chuckles threw me back down. He knew it was his fault that the ball was even crossed...I had gotten away from him. As Nick and my teammates celebrated towards mid-field, no one even saw it happen. Now that we were winning, I really didn't give a shit. I wound up hard and bitch-smacked his rosy fucking cheeks with a stiff open palm, hoping it would sting forever. As I jogged away, I heard him closing in to where he kicked hard at my ankles, chopping my legs out from under me. As I fell to the ground, the crowd started screaming and my coach was going ballistic. Everyone had seen it except the Ref who was writing the number of Nick's jersey in his pad to note who scored.
I've always been one to have a bit of congestion. Asking for paper napkins at every meal, or having my adnoids and tonsils removed because I couldn't breathe right......there couldnt have been a better time to be stuffed up. It just felt natural to suck in deep. As I gripped the grass and pushed my body up, I breathed in hard and long to the point of a gag reflex. You couldn't even imagine the collection.....I'm talking a mixed blend of good-god-almighty nastyness. And as I turned around to see his dusty mop-top and shiny fucking grin, I launched a wad.......... a solid fucking mass right onto that asshole's face.
my coach: Sub!!!!!!!! Ref!! Substitute!!
Before Chuckles could even squeegee off the muck, I had ran off the field and a new guy was in. For all the mishaps the Ref never saw, that was the most important.
As a man there's only so many degrading things you can endure, and I think I put Chuckles down a notch that day. The physical stuff seems so temporary whereas a "loog" tends to linger. Although his teammates wanted to kill me because they saw it happen, Chuckles didn't get the Ref involved. He took it. I don't know why, or what it was, he just did. For all I know the kid was so fucked up that he liked it. And as I didn't shake hands with Holy Trinity that day, for fear of losing my ability to reproduce, I got back on the bus thankful it was over. I looked up at the crack that my little window was fully open, and I closed it.
I played soccer throughout my entire childhood; from the day I was four until my senior year in college. To this day, I have never experienced a raping like that in October 2003; I was a Junior in High School. When you think of the word "rape", you might assume we got our asses handed to us, or sucked so badly that we lost by some ridonkulous score. I really wouldn't waste your time with a shitty story about getting our asses beat.
We all know that soccer, on top of its physical requirements, includes a thick layer of acting. There's diving, throwing up your hands to create the illusion of being held, purposely tripping yourself when tangled with an opponent, etc. The easiest and most unnoticeable, yet effective strategy, is the art of "shit-talking" (common in many sports). Holy Trinity was a team with talentless players and brutal attitudes. If they broke an opponent's leg, then that was better than a goal. My job as a striker was to create open space, find a way to receive the ball from the backfield and turn it towards the goal to score. Normally, the opposite team assigns a defender to a striker to never let them free. My lucky day, they'd assigned McCauley Culkin on growth hormones, only with longer hair covering his eyes. Now that I think of it, he didn't even have eyes. This guy was Home Alone on acid with a machete, pliers and a bottle of Old Grand Dad; I remember it like yesterday.
The minute I stood still he came up behind me and whispered some shit about fucking me in the ass.
douche whisperer: "Hey buddy, what's up...I'm marking you today and I'm gonna be all up on your shit."
As usual, I'd try and keep on the move and ignore him until he feels stupid hearing his own voice.
douche whisperer: "Aww what's wrong wittle guy, you can't speak...come over here...."
A bit worried he cared nothing about the game, and more about licking my shadow, I felt a handful of my ass in his.
"Ref!!! Keep an eye on this kid, he's grabbing my fucking ass for chrissake..."
the ref: "hey! watch your mouth!"
"Well........Everytime you turn your back, he's fondling me like one of his Barbies"
douche whisperer: "awww....you used to collect Barbies? how cute..."
douche teammate: "hey Chuckles, tell ur lil momma's boy, I had his motha over for dinner lass night"
"Wait a second.....Did your butt-buddy just call you Chuckles!?! What the fuck kinda name's that? Lemme guess...you have a flamingly high-pitched laugh and everytime a little boy walks by, you need to use the bathroom"
Chuckles: "I love little boys...you remind of one I played with lass night"
"Jesus, you're original.....you and your buddy with the mom-jokes"
Chuckles: "you wanna be my bitch? I'm gonna make you my..."
The ball's kicked and we're off again. Trying harder and harder to keep away from this scitzo-pediphile, he was literally flat-tiring my heels every step. As the Ref turned away, he one-upped himself and proved creative in the flagrant minds far beyond the walls of appropriate behavior. Good ol' Chuckles had scooped around and grabbed my dick (dead fucking serious).
"REF!!!!! He's fucking grabbing my dick, this is bullshit!!
the ref: (blowing his whistle) "Number 4! I told you to watch your mouth....consider this your last warning! (he holds up a Yellow card)
"This is ridiculous!!!! He's reachin around and touching my dick, I'm not lying!! You have to watch him!!"
the crowd: "Hey numba 4!! I'm kicking your fucking ass after the game...you better run like a little bitch to your bus."
(yelling in the general vicinity of the crowd with my hands raised and eyes focused on no one) "You like guys touching your dick??.............dumb question"
For some reason, none of this shook up the Ref. He didn't pay more attention and fucking Chuckles was relentless. Next, he whacked at my junk like when you rat-tail someone with a rolled up towel. My coach saw what was happening and yelled to the Ref, but still he must've just thought we were trying to deter his attention. Sprinting away, I faked to one side, turned, and threw an elbow hard into his chin. It felt amazing, but it only enraged his eyeless McCauley mask. He got even more physical. No, Im not talking penne-alla-vodka; he'd come up behind me and start lacing in short sharp knuckle punches to my back. Then he'd move side-to-side, making like he was about to run, and as his arms would go up in motion to propel away, he'd quickly smack the back of my head. I couldn't even concentrate on the game I was so lost. None of this made sense in soccer. He had pissed me off so badly that even if I got the ball I figured he'd stick his cleat up my ass, turn to the right and cheer "open sesame!" The ref would then blow the whistle and I'd get penalized for not wanting it there (no-pun on the penal). So I faked being tripped. As we were running, I made like he took out my legs and the fact that he was two inches from me, it looked damn real. The Ref finally gave him a yellow. Grabbing my sac, pinching my ass and practically checking my temperature were not worthy of a card, but me tripping myself, now that's what punished him....pathetic, but effective. In soccer, if you are the cause of another flagrant foul after you have a yellow card, it's quite common that you'll get a red card and be ejected from the game. Your team would then have to play a man down for the rest of the game, and the thought of this kept him at bay for the remaining minutes of the first half.
Around the middle of the second half I finally had the ball in a position where I could do something. I took it hard up the line and towards the corner flag. With about a foot of space before being out of bounds, I crossed the ball and bent it in towards the ten yard line (an imaginary line). One of my teammates, Nick Karastinos, trapped the ball and buried it in the back of the net. For some reason I always would fall after making a hard bending cross at top speed, and as I got off the ground elated with joy, Chuckles threw me back down. He knew it was his fault that the ball was even crossed...I had gotten away from him. As Nick and my teammates celebrated towards mid-field, no one even saw it happen. Now that we were winning, I really didn't give a shit. I wound up hard and bitch-smacked his rosy fucking cheeks with a stiff open palm, hoping it would sting forever. As I jogged away, I heard him closing in to where he kicked hard at my ankles, chopping my legs out from under me. As I fell to the ground, the crowd started screaming and my coach was going ballistic. Everyone had seen it except the Ref who was writing the number of Nick's jersey in his pad to note who scored.
I've always been one to have a bit of congestion. Asking for paper napkins at every meal, or having my adnoids and tonsils removed because I couldn't breathe right......there couldnt have been a better time to be stuffed up. It just felt natural to suck in deep. As I gripped the grass and pushed my body up, I breathed in hard and long to the point of a gag reflex. You couldn't even imagine the collection.....I'm talking a mixed blend of good-god-almighty nastyness. And as I turned around to see his dusty mop-top and shiny fucking grin, I launched a wad.......... a solid fucking mass right onto that asshole's face.
my coach: Sub!!!!!!!! Ref!! Substitute!!
Before Chuckles could even squeegee off the muck, I had ran off the field and a new guy was in. For all the mishaps the Ref never saw, that was the most important.
As a man there's only so many degrading things you can endure, and I think I put Chuckles down a notch that day. The physical stuff seems so temporary whereas a "loog" tends to linger. Although his teammates wanted to kill me because they saw it happen, Chuckles didn't get the Ref involved. He took it. I don't know why, or what it was, he just did. For all I know the kid was so fucked up that he liked it. And as I didn't shake hands with Holy Trinity that day, for fear of losing my ability to reproduce, I got back on the bus thankful it was over. I looked up at the crack that my little window was fully open, and I closed it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
