I hate when people write about how they don't post enough crap on their blog. I refuse to do it.
All Tomorrow's Parties is but ten days away now, and I'm really, really excited. My brother and I are seeing Sigur Ros in New York the night before, too, and I think I'm looking forward to that as much as I am ATP. It should be a fun trip and I promise to take as many pictures and such as I can and to drunkenly post about it. Our hotel has wi-fi, so.
I got a second job. I think it's important that you know that. I have bills to pay, sucker. That shit ain't easy on just one paycheck. Plus, I'm thinking about going back to college next year. I don't know how likely it is to actually happen, but I'm going to start applying soon and see what happens. It's weird, but I feel so lucky to not have any ugly kids or a stupid wife or girlfriend or lame career to bog me down and keep me where I am. I'm free to do whatever I want, really. I could feasibly pack up and leave tomorrow. I wouldn't have a job or a place to live, but I could do it.
Speaking of, it seems like everyone is having kids now. What up with that? It's called a condom, idiot. What a lame joke, yet it has to be said! I can't stand seeing someone my age with a kid, especially in this town. They obviously don't have their shit together. I mean, I'm not anti-kids. I'm just anti-idiots-with-kids. As we all should be. We don't need any more loud people in the movies or people on their Bluetooth headsets while in line at the grocery store. That's all we'll get of idiots who have children: more idiots. More douchebags.
Anyway. Some friends and I have put on two art shows in the last year and we're in the midst of planning a few more. The one that I'm really excited about is going to revolve around all of the artists writing, recording and producing an album. I've always thought that people who didn't know how to make music should try it. I know nothing about the guitar or any of that. For some reason, I've always felt that I would have some sort of talent in producing music, though. I don't know why. I remember reading about how John Entwistle got that bass sound for "My Generation" and being fascinated by it. I was much, much younger, and I just couldn't believe that you could get different sounds with different strings or by recording something in a different room.
I don't know. It might sound ridiculous, but I had never painted anything before I tried doing it for the last art show, and I sold both of my paintings. I mean not to imply that I'll have similar success, but, well, you never know.
Why are you reading this?
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Video games are fun and I like to play them and sometimes I write stuff on this blog.
Oh, dear Lord.
I suppose it would be lame of me to sit and complain about all that's wrong with my life. Because how much, really, is so bad about it? After all, I have a place to live, a connection to the internet and a steady job. This has been my life for a few years now, since high school at least, and I should be okay with that.
I blame Facebook. What the fuck did all of my friends do that makes their lives seem so great to me? According to "da book", as I like to call it or am at least now going to refer to it by, I have a friend going to school in Finland, a friend working for LucasArts, a friend who lived in England last year, a friend who graduated from Villanova and is now going to St. Joseph's for grad school, friends living in New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, Austin, Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, Toronto, Miami, London. They're doctors, lawyers, authors, teachers, policemen, scientists, politicians and authors. Or they're almost done with school and are going to be.
And it's like they're bragging about it. I hate seeing most of the people I went to high school with now because they're all successful assholes. I have friends getting married this summer. I have friends with children. I don't want to grow up and I don't want to know about this shit. If I have to be poor, I'm going to be childish and waste all of the money I make on booze and music and enjoy the shreds of fulfilling moments I attain every so often in a drunken stupor.
These are the people I went to high school with. C'mon. How is it that I made so many mistakes? What was it that put me on this track of faildom and moneylessness? The train left the tracks at some point and, well, this just isn't fair. I know when it happened and I know why I fucked up and why I'm back in this shit town doing nothing again.
Pussy. That's it.
I fucked up and left school to move back to my hometown with a girl because, well, she was fucking me. And you know what? If I had had more sex in high school, I wouldn't have cared. I wouldn't have left school because I wouldn't have been worried that I'd never have sex again or find another girl who'd like me enough to actually let me do it with her.
Being fat in high school sucked balls. I contend that if you got laid in high school enough, there's nothing that can take you off the fast track to being a world-class superstar. I wouldn't be stuck here if not for that fatal, absolutely crippling mistake.
I'd still be in Brooklyn, maybe, and I'd probably be a college graduate. I might not be doing what I want to right now, but I'd probably be making more money doing it. I fucked up.
And I'm not trying to impress on you the idea that I believe that money makes things better. But I'm fucking poor. Poor. I ate spaghetti tonight. For the fourth day in a row. I bought a pack of cigarettes today with my last six dollars until I get paid on Friday. And the money I get paid with on Friday is going to my rent.
Now, I'll be getting a small fortune on Friday, too, because I did my taxes and that's when I should be getting my refund. And all of you fuckers who've befriended me on Facebook should know that you can keep your meaningful lives and wonderful adventures abroad because I'm going to buy tickets, on Friday, to All Tomorrow's Parties New York.
That's right. This September, the weekend of my birthday, I'll be seeing some of my absolute favorite bands, like Mogwai, Built to Spill and fucking My Bloody Valentine.
And they won't be there to rub their expense accounts and worldly tales in my face. They'll be stuck in some air conditioned office or sporty, fuel-efficient vehicle listening to shitty jam bands or something. I'll be half-drunk on cheap beer and two packs of cigarettes watching my heroes as they rock my fucking face off.
So fuck you, successful high school classmate cronies. You can all kiss my ass and fuck off.
I suppose it would be lame of me to sit and complain about all that's wrong with my life. Because how much, really, is so bad about it? After all, I have a place to live, a connection to the internet and a steady job. This has been my life for a few years now, since high school at least, and I should be okay with that.
I blame Facebook. What the fuck did all of my friends do that makes their lives seem so great to me? According to "da book", as I like to call it or am at least now going to refer to it by, I have a friend going to school in Finland, a friend working for LucasArts, a friend who lived in England last year, a friend who graduated from Villanova and is now going to St. Joseph's for grad school, friends living in New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, Austin, Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, Toronto, Miami, London. They're doctors, lawyers, authors, teachers, policemen, scientists, politicians and authors. Or they're almost done with school and are going to be.
And it's like they're bragging about it. I hate seeing most of the people I went to high school with now because they're all successful assholes. I have friends getting married this summer. I have friends with children. I don't want to grow up and I don't want to know about this shit. If I have to be poor, I'm going to be childish and waste all of the money I make on booze and music and enjoy the shreds of fulfilling moments I attain every so often in a drunken stupor.
These are the people I went to high school with. C'mon. How is it that I made so many mistakes? What was it that put me on this track of faildom and moneylessness? The train left the tracks at some point and, well, this just isn't fair. I know when it happened and I know why I fucked up and why I'm back in this shit town doing nothing again.
Pussy. That's it.
I fucked up and left school to move back to my hometown with a girl because, well, she was fucking me. And you know what? If I had had more sex in high school, I wouldn't have cared. I wouldn't have left school because I wouldn't have been worried that I'd never have sex again or find another girl who'd like me enough to actually let me do it with her.
Being fat in high school sucked balls. I contend that if you got laid in high school enough, there's nothing that can take you off the fast track to being a world-class superstar. I wouldn't be stuck here if not for that fatal, absolutely crippling mistake.
I'd still be in Brooklyn, maybe, and I'd probably be a college graduate. I might not be doing what I want to right now, but I'd probably be making more money doing it. I fucked up.
And I'm not trying to impress on you the idea that I believe that money makes things better. But I'm fucking poor. Poor. I ate spaghetti tonight. For the fourth day in a row. I bought a pack of cigarettes today with my last six dollars until I get paid on Friday. And the money I get paid with on Friday is going to my rent.
Now, I'll be getting a small fortune on Friday, too, because I did my taxes and that's when I should be getting my refund. And all of you fuckers who've befriended me on Facebook should know that you can keep your meaningful lives and wonderful adventures abroad because I'm going to buy tickets, on Friday, to All Tomorrow's Parties New York.
That's right. This September, the weekend of my birthday, I'll be seeing some of my absolute favorite bands, like Mogwai, Built to Spill and fucking My Bloody Valentine.
And they won't be there to rub their expense accounts and worldly tales in my face. They'll be stuck in some air conditioned office or sporty, fuel-efficient vehicle listening to shitty jam bands or something. I'll be half-drunk on cheap beer and two packs of cigarettes watching my heroes as they rock my fucking face off.
So fuck you, successful high school classmate cronies. You can all kiss my ass and fuck off.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
This also happened to me.
I was on my way to work a few summers ago. It was hot as balls outside and my pick-up didn't have air conditioning. I had to stop and get some gas. As I was filling up, I saw a man walking around by the payphone. He looked crazy and was talking to himself. I tried not to pay attention, but I was intrigued.
I went inside to pay for all two dollars worth of gas I'd put in my tank when this fine gentleman, crazy white beard and all, said hello.
"Hello."
"Hello."
I paid and walked back outside. This guy approaches me.
"You got a quarter I can have?"
"Actually, I don't. I just spent all two of my dollars on gas."
"That's too bad. I gotta call a cab and I ain't go no change."
I start to walk away and he won't stop talking.
"They kicked me out of the bar, ya know."
Now, this bar was across the street. I went there quite often and knew the owner and all of the bartenders. I was kind of curious about what had happened, and wanted the info so as to allow me to pick on whomever had kicked him out.
"What happened?"
"Well, they said I was harassing the waitress."
He pronounced "harassing" as "harris-ing". I remember trying not to laugh.
"Oh. Well, that's not cool."
"Yeah, well I just had to touch her butt."
This guy starts laughing like a hyena. That sort of laugh that lets you know he either smokes a few hundred cigarettes at a time or was in a heavy metal band in the late 1980's.
"I just gotta call a cab and no one will give me change."
"What about inside the gas station?"
"They want me to buy something."
"Well, buy something."
"Nah. I think I'm just going to go back to the bar and ask them."
"You really won't just go buy something in the gas station?"
"Nah. I'm going back to the bar."
I started to walk away. Now, if I didn't know everyone in there, I'd probably have just let him go back. But I didn't want any of the poor girls to have to suffer through another second of this guy's presence. He smelled like a stale joint and I was afraid that he might do something else in there to one of them.
"Listen, buddy. Where do you have to go?"
"Lake Road."
Lake Road is adjacent to the street I work on. Wherever he's going can't be more than a few minutes away and hopefully wouldn't make me too late.
"If I give you a ride, will you not go back in that bar?"
"What?"
"Do you want a ride?"
"Really, buddy?"
"Yeah, c'mon."
I get into my truck via the passenger side door because the driver's side hasn't worked in at least a year. This guy slides in after me. At this point in my life, I was always listening to talk radio, for two reasons: a.) I had terrible FM reception most of the time and b.) I didn't have a tape deck or cd player. It probably wasn't good for my blood pressure to listen to Bill O'Reilly or Sean Hannity all day, but it was better than nothing.
"Okay, buddy, you know where Lake Road is?"
"Yeah, I know where Lake Road is."
He starts to ask me all sorts of questions.
"Where are you headed?"
"Work."
"Where do you work?"
"The video store."
"Oh, that's neat. You guys got adult videos? You know, pornos?"
"No, we don't."
"That's a drag, buddy. Listen, I hate to do this to you..."
My heart stops. I hold my breath. It seems like an eternity before he finishes this sentence.
"...but I gotta ask. You mind if I have a smoke?"
I audibly sigh.
"Yeah. In fact, I'll join you."
I get a cigarette out of my pocket and light it. This guy lights a joint.
"Woah, man! Not in here. No drugs in the car. Seriously."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Okay, man."
He butts it out on his pant leg and puts it back into the plastic bag it was in and then back into the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.
"Don't you smoke?"
"Well, yeah. But not in my car and not before work."
"After work, right?"
He does that really long, exhausting laugh again, as if he's never laughed before in his entire, shitty life.
"Yeah. From time to time."
"Okay, well, listen. I got this stuff you might like. It's really good stuff. You should try it."
Now, at this point, I have no fucking clue what he's about to offer me. I start to imagine that he's about to offer me drugs as a pusher. You know, get me to try something, get me hooked. My mind races. I really just want to get this guy the fuck out of my car. I want to get to the air conditioned paradise that is behind the counter at a major chain video store.
"Uh, what is it?"
He takes his shoe off, and then his sock.
"It's this weed from Antarctica. Or Asia. Or somewhere. Anyway, it's really good. You won't need much. You can have it. For the ride."
"Uh, thanks, but I'm good. My girlfriend always carries and I can just get it from her if I need it."
"Yeah, but she ain't got this. She got that shwag weed or whatever. Track weed."
"What?"
"I bet she ain't got no good weed, man! Nobody around here does! This is good shit. Have some."
I really don't want this guy's shoe weed.
"Really, man. I don't need it. Thanks, though."
We've been driving down Lake Road for a while now.
"Are we close?"
"Yeah, man. Right there."
I pulled over and he put his shoe back on. He thanked me for the ride and the conversation, despite the fact that all we really talked about was the pornography-deficiency at my place of business and argued about the quality of marijuana sold in my town.
"Have a nice day."
I drove to work, which was only two minutes away and got out of the truck. Later, when I returned to get in, I saw the bag of weed on the ground. The fucking guy left it on the seat for me! It was on the ground, outside the door of my car for eight motherfucking hours If someone had seen that or had taken two seconds to try and figure it out, they could probably have pinned it on me. I had, and still have, no idea the legality of it all, but I almost shit myself. I didn't pick it up and I didn't take it with me. I just drove home.
I went inside to pay for all two dollars worth of gas I'd put in my tank when this fine gentleman, crazy white beard and all, said hello.
"Hello."
"Hello."
I paid and walked back outside. This guy approaches me.
"You got a quarter I can have?"
"Actually, I don't. I just spent all two of my dollars on gas."
"That's too bad. I gotta call a cab and I ain't go no change."
I start to walk away and he won't stop talking.
"They kicked me out of the bar, ya know."
Now, this bar was across the street. I went there quite often and knew the owner and all of the bartenders. I was kind of curious about what had happened, and wanted the info so as to allow me to pick on whomever had kicked him out.
"What happened?"
"Well, they said I was harassing the waitress."
He pronounced "harassing" as "harris-ing". I remember trying not to laugh.
"Oh. Well, that's not cool."
"Yeah, well I just had to touch her butt."
This guy starts laughing like a hyena. That sort of laugh that lets you know he either smokes a few hundred cigarettes at a time or was in a heavy metal band in the late 1980's.
"I just gotta call a cab and no one will give me change."
"What about inside the gas station?"
"They want me to buy something."
"Well, buy something."
"Nah. I think I'm just going to go back to the bar and ask them."
"You really won't just go buy something in the gas station?"
"Nah. I'm going back to the bar."
I started to walk away. Now, if I didn't know everyone in there, I'd probably have just let him go back. But I didn't want any of the poor girls to have to suffer through another second of this guy's presence. He smelled like a stale joint and I was afraid that he might do something else in there to one of them.
"Listen, buddy. Where do you have to go?"
"Lake Road."
Lake Road is adjacent to the street I work on. Wherever he's going can't be more than a few minutes away and hopefully wouldn't make me too late.
"If I give you a ride, will you not go back in that bar?"
"What?"
"Do you want a ride?"
"Really, buddy?"
"Yeah, c'mon."
I get into my truck via the passenger side door because the driver's side hasn't worked in at least a year. This guy slides in after me. At this point in my life, I was always listening to talk radio, for two reasons: a.) I had terrible FM reception most of the time and b.) I didn't have a tape deck or cd player. It probably wasn't good for my blood pressure to listen to Bill O'Reilly or Sean Hannity all day, but it was better than nothing.
"Okay, buddy, you know where Lake Road is?"
"Yeah, I know where Lake Road is."
He starts to ask me all sorts of questions.
"Where are you headed?"
"Work."
"Where do you work?"
"The video store."
"Oh, that's neat. You guys got adult videos? You know, pornos?"
"No, we don't."
"That's a drag, buddy. Listen, I hate to do this to you..."
My heart stops. I hold my breath. It seems like an eternity before he finishes this sentence.
"...but I gotta ask. You mind if I have a smoke?"
I audibly sigh.
"Yeah. In fact, I'll join you."
I get a cigarette out of my pocket and light it. This guy lights a joint.
"Woah, man! Not in here. No drugs in the car. Seriously."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Okay, man."
He butts it out on his pant leg and puts it back into the plastic bag it was in and then back into the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.
"Don't you smoke?"
"Well, yeah. But not in my car and not before work."
"After work, right?"
He does that really long, exhausting laugh again, as if he's never laughed before in his entire, shitty life.
"Yeah. From time to time."
"Okay, well, listen. I got this stuff you might like. It's really good stuff. You should try it."
Now, at this point, I have no fucking clue what he's about to offer me. I start to imagine that he's about to offer me drugs as a pusher. You know, get me to try something, get me hooked. My mind races. I really just want to get this guy the fuck out of my car. I want to get to the air conditioned paradise that is behind the counter at a major chain video store.
"Uh, what is it?"
He takes his shoe off, and then his sock.
"It's this weed from Antarctica. Or Asia. Or somewhere. Anyway, it's really good. You won't need much. You can have it. For the ride."
"Uh, thanks, but I'm good. My girlfriend always carries and I can just get it from her if I need it."
"Yeah, but she ain't got this. She got that shwag weed or whatever. Track weed."
"What?"
"I bet she ain't got no good weed, man! Nobody around here does! This is good shit. Have some."
I really don't want this guy's shoe weed.
"Really, man. I don't need it. Thanks, though."
We've been driving down Lake Road for a while now.
"Are we close?"
"Yeah, man. Right there."
I pulled over and he put his shoe back on. He thanked me for the ride and the conversation, despite the fact that all we really talked about was the pornography-deficiency at my place of business and argued about the quality of marijuana sold in my town.
"Have a nice day."
I drove to work, which was only two minutes away and got out of the truck. Later, when I returned to get in, I saw the bag of weed on the ground. The fucking guy left it on the seat for me! It was on the ground, outside the door of my car for eight motherfucking hours If someone had seen that or had taken two seconds to try and figure it out, they could probably have pinned it on me. I had, and still have, no idea the legality of it all, but I almost shit myself. I didn't pick it up and I didn't take it with me. I just drove home.
In the beginning...
This is my first blog post in over four years. The last time I had a blog, it was mostly stupid, whiny stories about why girls won't let me inside of them. I hate my life.
I'm starting anew for no reason at all but to tell similar stories with a twist - I'm older, dumber, fatter, lazier and I still don't put it in girls very often. This first story is something I've posted twice already, elsewhere, but in a place that is not open to the public. Only the coolest of cool and elitest of elite have read this as of yet, but now, I give it to you.
This happened last night. I have a history of doing things for strangers and a lengthy one at that. You might think I'm an idiot or a sucker, and I likely concur, but I believe whole-heartedly in altruism. You should, too. I've been in this guy's place before but I wasn't an asshole about it.
Anyway, if you like this, and think it worthwhile, please return often, as I will be telling other stories of being a sucker in the next few days. I've got several of them.
---------
I don't have a car. I know what it's like to walk.
Last night, my dad let me borrow his car to take to work. I don't really like to drive, at all, but it saved me the hassle of taking the bus or at least the cost of a cab. Anyway, I got out of work last night and stopped at the grocery store before going home. I got a couple of things and, as I walked out, this guy yells over to me.
"Hey, man! Hey!"
I turned to look at this guy and he's just standing in the middle of the parking lot with a cart full of shit and he yells again.
"Hey, man! C'mere!"
Now, I'm the only guy in the parking lot at this point but I have no idea who this guy is. He comes up to me and touches my shoulder.
"Hey, man. My brother. Listen. I gotta go up to Horseheads (which is about six miles away and why he'd be at this store when there five in-between is beyond me) and I need like $1.90, no $3.90 to take a cab. What you got for me?"
I think for a second, and, knowing how much I hate walking to work (it just so happens that I work in Horseheads) or pay for a cab, I give this guy a dollar.
"It's all I've got, man. Good luck."
"You got a car? You drivin', right?"
I'm kind of shocked that he's about to ask me for a ride. I mean, fuck, I would never, ever ask a total stranger for a ride.
"Can you give me ride, just over the bridge? It's like two minutes from here."
All I can think right now is, "Fuuuuuuuuck." What's worse? Saying "No." or just doing it?
Needless to say, I did it.
"Yeah, man. C'mon."
"Okay, grab my cart."
I was fucking shocked. Balls this man has. Balls.
"No, man, just bring it over."
He brings it over and starts to take shit out and then asks me to help. Now, I've got four items in one single bag. This guy has two gigantic bags of kitty litter and several bags filled with bags and cans of cat food.
I unlock the door and let him in.
"What's yo name, my man?"
"Ben."
"Oh, like the Michael Jackson song."
"Yeah."
I start to drive and take him across the bridge, which is right there and he turns to me.
"Okay, take a right. Okay, turn here."
We get to his house.
"Pull in the driveway and help me carry this shit inside."
I honestly cannot comprehend this guy anymore. I start to just do what he tells me because I'm both fascinated and afraid of what is going to happen next and now I just really, really want to go home.
"Listen, man. Your name is Mike and we've been at your house all night."
"Where do I live?"
I'm starting to go along with this, without even thinking.
"You live on the Southside. We was at your house. Grab my shit."
I grab all - yes, all - of his groceries as he walks inside. I'm a little bit more nervous now, too, because this is in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. I lived in Flatbush, Brooklyn for a year and I'm more afraid of this place than I was of Flatbush.
So I have all of his stuff and I'm just standing behind him, waiting to just go inside and put this stuff down so I can go home, but his girlfriend or wife or whomever won't let him in. He starts yelling at her.
"Baby, don't be a fuckin' asshole, you know I wasn't out drinkin' again 'cause I left all of my money with you for the Pudgie's guy (Pudgie's is a pizza place) and I was just hangin' out wit Mike and shit."
She opens the door and he runs up the stairs. I'm standing right inside the doorway and I just put his shit down.
"Hey, Mike."
He whispers down to me from the top of the steps.
"Hey, Mike, come up here. Meet my baby."
I walk up the steps, tripping over an army of cats whom just paraded down to the litter box.
"Mike, this is Juanisha." (I swear to God that was her name)
"Uh, hi."
"Say hi, baby."
"I don't know him."
Oh, I forgot. This guy introduced himself as Larry Lamar. He's also a fifty-five year old black man wearing a hat that says, I kid you not, "I'd Rather Be Fishing". I'm a twenty-three year old white kid.
"Larry, I gotta go."
"See, baby. I was wit my man Mike all night. Mike, tell her about the cart."
I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about, but I'm obviously supposed to make up some story.
"Uh..."
"See, we was at store and the cart broke down on us."
"I don't care. I gave you a phone and you sposed to call me and you got phone and you don't even do that. How'm I sposed to relax when I ain't got no God's clue where you is?"
"Baby, I was wit Mike."
"Larry, I gotta go."
"Mike, how's your brother, Jason? He still cool?"
...
"Uh, Jason's good. He's living with his girlfriend over on Green St."
There is no Green St. in this city.
"Oh, right. You goin' out dis weekend for your birfday?"
"Uh, yeah. Call me. I think we're going to the Sand Dollar."
"Oh, cool, man. We should hang out more. You gotta work tomorrow?"
"Uh, yeah."
"What time?"
"Two."
"Till when?"
"Eleven."
"Eleven what?"
"Eleven o'clock."
"Oh, right."
"I gotta go, LL."
"Oh, man. Don't call me LL."
"Oh, right. Because of the thing."
"Now, you know I don't talk to my cousin anymore, right?"
I have no idea what the fuck this guy is talking about. I'm trying to keep cool because his wife/girlfriend looks incredibly fucking pissed right now and is not at all amused by the fact that this guy has come home drunk.
"Right, man. Larry, I gotta go."
"See you later. Hey, man. Lock the door when you leave."
His wife starts shouting.
"IF YOU WAS A REAL MAN YOU'D GO LOCK IT YO DAMN SELF AND NOT HAVE THIS FAT KID DO IT! GET DOWN THERE AND GO LOCK THE DAMN DOOR AND COME BACK RIGHT WHEN YOU DONE!"
She called me fat!
"Right, baby."
"Bye. It was nice meeting you."
"Mm-hmm."
I go down the stairs and Larry follows me.
"You all right, Mike. You all right."
And then I went home. Finally.
---------
Before I go, you should know a few things. I'm not dumb, I just know what it's like to be poor and I know what it's like to walk. It sucks. At the same time, I have a hard motherfucking time saying the n-word. And I'm not talking about the racial epithet. I generally just felt bad for him, at first, until I realized how much I was being taken advantage of. At that point, I was just along for the ride. You know, it's this guy's world and I'm just living in it.
And what a shitty world it must be.
I'm starting anew for no reason at all but to tell similar stories with a twist - I'm older, dumber, fatter, lazier and I still don't put it in girls very often. This first story is something I've posted twice already, elsewhere, but in a place that is not open to the public. Only the coolest of cool and elitest of elite have read this as of yet, but now, I give it to you.
This happened last night. I have a history of doing things for strangers and a lengthy one at that. You might think I'm an idiot or a sucker, and I likely concur, but I believe whole-heartedly in altruism. You should, too. I've been in this guy's place before but I wasn't an asshole about it.
Anyway, if you like this, and think it worthwhile, please return often, as I will be telling other stories of being a sucker in the next few days. I've got several of them.
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I don't have a car. I know what it's like to walk.
Last night, my dad let me borrow his car to take to work. I don't really like to drive, at all, but it saved me the hassle of taking the bus or at least the cost of a cab. Anyway, I got out of work last night and stopped at the grocery store before going home. I got a couple of things and, as I walked out, this guy yells over to me.
"Hey, man! Hey!"
I turned to look at this guy and he's just standing in the middle of the parking lot with a cart full of shit and he yells again.
"Hey, man! C'mere!"
Now, I'm the only guy in the parking lot at this point but I have no idea who this guy is. He comes up to me and touches my shoulder.
"Hey, man. My brother. Listen. I gotta go up to Horseheads (which is about six miles away and why he'd be at this store when there five in-between is beyond me) and I need like $1.90, no $3.90 to take a cab. What you got for me?"
I think for a second, and, knowing how much I hate walking to work (it just so happens that I work in Horseheads) or pay for a cab, I give this guy a dollar.
"It's all I've got, man. Good luck."
"You got a car? You drivin', right?"
I'm kind of shocked that he's about to ask me for a ride. I mean, fuck, I would never, ever ask a total stranger for a ride.
"Can you give me ride, just over the bridge? It's like two minutes from here."
All I can think right now is, "Fuuuuuuuuck." What's worse? Saying "No." or just doing it?
Needless to say, I did it.
"Yeah, man. C'mon."
"Okay, grab my cart."
I was fucking shocked. Balls this man has. Balls.
"No, man, just bring it over."
He brings it over and starts to take shit out and then asks me to help. Now, I've got four items in one single bag. This guy has two gigantic bags of kitty litter and several bags filled with bags and cans of cat food.
I unlock the door and let him in.
"What's yo name, my man?"
"Ben."
"Oh, like the Michael Jackson song."
"Yeah."
I start to drive and take him across the bridge, which is right there and he turns to me.
"Okay, take a right. Okay, turn here."
We get to his house.
"Pull in the driveway and help me carry this shit inside."
I honestly cannot comprehend this guy anymore. I start to just do what he tells me because I'm both fascinated and afraid of what is going to happen next and now I just really, really want to go home.
"Listen, man. Your name is Mike and we've been at your house all night."
"Where do I live?"
I'm starting to go along with this, without even thinking.
"You live on the Southside. We was at your house. Grab my shit."
I grab all - yes, all - of his groceries as he walks inside. I'm a little bit more nervous now, too, because this is in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. I lived in Flatbush, Brooklyn for a year and I'm more afraid of this place than I was of Flatbush.
So I have all of his stuff and I'm just standing behind him, waiting to just go inside and put this stuff down so I can go home, but his girlfriend or wife or whomever won't let him in. He starts yelling at her.
"Baby, don't be a fuckin' asshole, you know I wasn't out drinkin' again 'cause I left all of my money with you for the Pudgie's guy (Pudgie's is a pizza place) and I was just hangin' out wit Mike and shit."
She opens the door and he runs up the stairs. I'm standing right inside the doorway and I just put his shit down.
"Hey, Mike."
He whispers down to me from the top of the steps.
"Hey, Mike, come up here. Meet my baby."
I walk up the steps, tripping over an army of cats whom just paraded down to the litter box.
"Mike, this is Juanisha." (I swear to God that was her name)
"Uh, hi."
"Say hi, baby."
"I don't know him."
Oh, I forgot. This guy introduced himself as Larry Lamar. He's also a fifty-five year old black man wearing a hat that says, I kid you not, "I'd Rather Be Fishing". I'm a twenty-three year old white kid.
"Larry, I gotta go."
"See, baby. I was wit my man Mike all night. Mike, tell her about the cart."
I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about, but I'm obviously supposed to make up some story.
"Uh..."
"See, we was at store and the cart broke down on us."
"I don't care. I gave you a phone and you sposed to call me and you got phone and you don't even do that. How'm I sposed to relax when I ain't got no God's clue where you is?"
"Baby, I was wit Mike."
"Larry, I gotta go."
"Mike, how's your brother, Jason? He still cool?"
...
"Uh, Jason's good. He's living with his girlfriend over on Green St."
There is no Green St. in this city.
"Oh, right. You goin' out dis weekend for your birfday?"
"Uh, yeah. Call me. I think we're going to the Sand Dollar."
"Oh, cool, man. We should hang out more. You gotta work tomorrow?"
"Uh, yeah."
"What time?"
"Two."
"Till when?"
"Eleven."
"Eleven what?"
"Eleven o'clock."
"Oh, right."
"I gotta go, LL."
"Oh, man. Don't call me LL."
"Oh, right. Because of the thing."
"Now, you know I don't talk to my cousin anymore, right?"
I have no idea what the fuck this guy is talking about. I'm trying to keep cool because his wife/girlfriend looks incredibly fucking pissed right now and is not at all amused by the fact that this guy has come home drunk.
"Right, man. Larry, I gotta go."
"See you later. Hey, man. Lock the door when you leave."
His wife starts shouting.
"IF YOU WAS A REAL MAN YOU'D GO LOCK IT YO DAMN SELF AND NOT HAVE THIS FAT KID DO IT! GET DOWN THERE AND GO LOCK THE DAMN DOOR AND COME BACK RIGHT WHEN YOU DONE!"
She called me fat!
"Right, baby."
"Bye. It was nice meeting you."
"Mm-hmm."
I go down the stairs and Larry follows me.
"You all right, Mike. You all right."
And then I went home. Finally.
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Before I go, you should know a few things. I'm not dumb, I just know what it's like to be poor and I know what it's like to walk. It sucks. At the same time, I have a hard motherfucking time saying the n-word. And I'm not talking about the racial epithet. I generally just felt bad for him, at first, until I realized how much I was being taken advantage of. At that point, I was just along for the ride. You know, it's this guy's world and I'm just living in it.
And what a shitty world it must be.
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