Sunday, November 16, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Brush Away Your Tears
Fresh from the magic, rectangular box that prints out fines and tickets, I hold in my hand a lime green envelope. (Not literally, i'm typing genius. It's in my back pocket.) An oddly stylish lime green envelope. In fact, if it were not for the bold, all capped, size forty-eight words PARKING TICKET emblazoned on its side i would have assumed it housed a jamba juice gift card or was the invitation to a lavish dinner party that dissolves into a murder mystery i have been waiting for since i was nine (a purple velvet suit owner with an assorted collection of lead pipes can dream can't he?) But it does not and is not(...and never will be). Instead a digital receipt is nestled in its folds.
So what? Your first parking ticket. Before you get all gushy on me about how i'm growing up and with great power comes great responsibility, cool it uncle ben, because this is how it went down. I turned onto my street and lazily passed our friendly neighborhood streetsweeper. I thought nothing of his presence as i parked my car, rather gracefully, on the quaint and empty street. That is until i had taken seven and a quarter steps to the mailbox, emptied its contents into my bosom, and watched a piece of junk mail flutter to the sidewalk. I bent to save the gutter-bound flyer, an obvious suicide attempt as it is inevitably trash-bound, and as i wrenched up he was already there. His squat, yet surprisingly nimble, fingers worked the enchanting ticket contraption. I witnessed the event with a Twilight Zone filter; everything was three shades darker and the ticket man unleashed a jagged toothed cackle as he worked.
"Here you are, sir."
The "nee noo nee noo" flickered away, and i was left clutching the lime green envelope. I think i said yeah or uh-uh, something lame and weak. The fact that he waited for me to park and then eight seconds later pounced on me like a middle-aged puma was fucking ridiculous but beside the point: no one calls me "sir." I've still got millage left in the "chief," "sport, "big guy," "champ" tank and i am not ready for this sir bullshit. If anyone is a sir, my good sir, its him (...yeah, you tell 'em vincent). So jeeves piles into his car and drives off. I flop into mine, ready to slither into the driveway. End of story.
But it wasn't over. Nope, after my self-delusions failed to extinguish the bitter absurdity of this sting operation i did what any other level-headed person would do. I tailed his ass. I had pressing questions that demanded proportionally poignant answers. I didn't have to wait long. He pulled up behind his next victim only twenty yards away from my house, collected the information for the fine-n-go, slipped it under the windshield wiper, and proceeded to follow the massive sweeper. We trudged on, the three of us, for a couple neighborhood streets. Until i witnessed him sidle out of his car to inspect a scraggly length of branch hidden among a heap of dead leaves resting in the opposite gutter. He rifled through the pile and unearthed his prize for further scrutiny. After a few moments of contemplation he decided not to fine the branch. I couldn't take much more of this. Besides he had answered my most urgent question and the cat-and-mouse-and-sweeper high was wearing off. The question being: was this guy's sole job description tailing the streetsweeper and passing out fines? My answer, not so: he had added waste inspector to said resume.
So by now the pettiness should be palpable. But honestly, the short time i spent following the ticket man, i couldn't help but empathize with his state. This isn't some backhanded "i'll be the bigger man" bull. I'm sure he hates his job, dealing with nutjobs worse than me constantly bitching about their thirty dollars and the like. I mean if you simply have a passion and knack for tailing people, be a detective. But Damn. He stares at the back of an over-sized Swiffer, crawling through the vacuum of his life. Haha bigger man my ass...
On a sidenote, i am more excited for Spring Awakening than any man should be...can't wait. Oh last note: i have a shaving related gash on my chin. Please if you notice, which you will, don't bring it up or i will hack an inspired replica of it on your forehead...forewarned.
So what? Your first parking ticket. Before you get all gushy on me about how i'm growing up and with great power comes great responsibility, cool it uncle ben, because this is how it went down. I turned onto my street and lazily passed our friendly neighborhood streetsweeper. I thought nothing of his presence as i parked my car, rather gracefully, on the quaint and empty street. That is until i had taken seven and a quarter steps to the mailbox, emptied its contents into my bosom, and watched a piece of junk mail flutter to the sidewalk. I bent to save the gutter-bound flyer, an obvious suicide attempt as it is inevitably trash-bound, and as i wrenched up he was already there. His squat, yet surprisingly nimble, fingers worked the enchanting ticket contraption. I witnessed the event with a Twilight Zone filter; everything was three shades darker and the ticket man unleashed a jagged toothed cackle as he worked.
"Here you are, sir."
The "nee noo nee noo" flickered away, and i was left clutching the lime green envelope. I think i said yeah or uh-uh, something lame and weak. The fact that he waited for me to park and then eight seconds later pounced on me like a middle-aged puma was fucking ridiculous but beside the point: no one calls me "sir." I've still got millage left in the "chief," "sport, "big guy," "champ" tank and i am not ready for this sir bullshit. If anyone is a sir, my good sir, its him (...yeah, you tell 'em vincent). So jeeves piles into his car and drives off. I flop into mine, ready to slither into the driveway. End of story.
But it wasn't over. Nope, after my self-delusions failed to extinguish the bitter absurdity of this sting operation i did what any other level-headed person would do. I tailed his ass. I had pressing questions that demanded proportionally poignant answers. I didn't have to wait long. He pulled up behind his next victim only twenty yards away from my house, collected the information for the fine-n-go, slipped it under the windshield wiper, and proceeded to follow the massive sweeper. We trudged on, the three of us, for a couple neighborhood streets. Until i witnessed him sidle out of his car to inspect a scraggly length of branch hidden among a heap of dead leaves resting in the opposite gutter. He rifled through the pile and unearthed his prize for further scrutiny. After a few moments of contemplation he decided not to fine the branch. I couldn't take much more of this. Besides he had answered my most urgent question and the cat-and-mouse-and-sweeper high was wearing off. The question being: was this guy's sole job description tailing the streetsweeper and passing out fines? My answer, not so: he had added waste inspector to said resume.
So by now the pettiness should be palpable. But honestly, the short time i spent following the ticket man, i couldn't help but empathize with his state. This isn't some backhanded "i'll be the bigger man" bull. I'm sure he hates his job, dealing with nutjobs worse than me constantly bitching about their thirty dollars and the like. I mean if you simply have a passion and knack for tailing people, be a detective. But Damn. He stares at the back of an over-sized Swiffer, crawling through the vacuum of his life. Haha bigger man my ass...
On a sidenote, i am more excited for Spring Awakening than any man should be...can't wait. Oh last note: i have a shaving related gash on my chin. Please if you notice, which you will, don't bring it up or i will hack an inspired replica of it on your forehead...forewarned.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I'm Sorry, Storm
i read my last post. WOW. (wow, but not wow...actually i've been hyper gassy for the past ten minutes, so wow.) I was uncharacteristically emotional that day but i've since sobered up and smothered all those pesky little girl feelings. Mostly in part to a relatively so-so book about clown sex, spousal abuse, deaf humor, and a murder most foul . Hats off to daniel for the recommendation and the subsequent hours spent stifling hellishly visceral laughter. Laughter so gutturally repugnant you flail your head from side to side like a horizontal light switch to check if the dead has in fact been raised. (So what if i'm overselling it a bit. You weren't there. You don't know.)
Here's the clincher: i have seven pages left, and have abandoned said seven pages for over 24 hours. As it is now, the story is completely open, dangling with possibilities. And once i jiggle and jostle those last drops, zip, it's over. But its become this big, bloated thing, hanging over me waiting to burst. Like a long, drawn-out relationship, where i wish she'd just spontaneously combust so i wouldn't have to end it. I don't mean that. It's only, i get scared when it becomes this serious, not just some lusty literary fling. Ah damn, i have to end it...the irony is killing me.
The name? How completely indifferent of me, her name was Apathy and Other Small Victories. If you ever happen to run into each other (which you will and should because she can make you real happy) tell her i said whatever.
An excerpt:
"He looked at me the way my mom did that time she caught me officiating the wedding of Mr. Potato Head and He-Man. I had just said, "You may now kiss the bride," when I looked up she was standing in the doorway. I was fourteen years old, and I was not wearing pants."
For an eleven year-old you used to pimp out his Storm action-figure to Mr. Sinister and Hobgoblin, mashing their super parts together and providing foreplay dialogue, i lived in fear of "the look."
Here's the clincher: i have seven pages left, and have abandoned said seven pages for over 24 hours. As it is now, the story is completely open, dangling with possibilities. And once i jiggle and jostle those last drops, zip, it's over. But its become this big, bloated thing, hanging over me waiting to burst. Like a long, drawn-out relationship, where i wish she'd just spontaneously combust so i wouldn't have to end it. I don't mean that. It's only, i get scared when it becomes this serious, not just some lusty literary fling. Ah damn, i have to end it...the irony is killing me.
The name? How completely indifferent of me, her name was Apathy and Other Small Victories. If you ever happen to run into each other (which you will and should because she can make you real happy) tell her i said whatever.
An excerpt:
"He looked at me the way my mom did that time she caught me officiating the wedding of Mr. Potato Head and He-Man. I had just said, "You may now kiss the bride," when I looked up she was standing in the doorway. I was fourteen years old, and I was not wearing pants."
For an eleven year-old you used to pimp out his Storm action-figure to Mr. Sinister and Hobgoblin, mashing their super parts together and providing foreplay dialogue, i lived in fear of "the look."
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