It's hell getting old. The man said it over and over again, like an irreverent hymn, as I helped him find his car.
He paid his water bill at the water department, and somehow managed to lose his car – or at least forgot where he parked it. The man walked several blocks throughout downtown Newark; he ended up in front of dad's store. The little brother and I were taking a walk, in lieu of actually doing any work, when the man said "I lost my car." I assumed he had parked nearby, somewhere along the square as it can be difficult to discern one parking spot from another.
We walked around the block, I noticed the man was quickly tiring, the 85 degree temperature coupled with a sunny, cloudless day was even getting to me and my little nine-year-old brother. I told him to sit and rest. The Brothers Wilson walked around several more blocks, searching vainly for a "black Chevy truck with a covering on the back", as the old man had described it. Issy pointed out a black Chevy truck with a covering about two blocks away; I hoped it was the right one.
We went back and took the befuddled man to "his" car, upon reaching the vehicle he stated that he was looking for a Ford, one that has a two folding backseats and pointed to a nearby Grand Voyager Caravan as the nearest facsimile. Not recalling where you parked your car is a problem; not knowing what type of vehicle you own is something else entirely. To make matters worse, he could barely stand. I failed to mention one fact: the man was ninety years old.
After instructing him to rest on the nearby bench, I asked if he needed any water, the man said "No. I feel like a damned fool. It's hell getting old." I assured him that everyone makes a mistake then hurried back to the store to pick up dad's van, which conveniently had air conditioning. Ten minutes later we drove back to the man and set off, once again, to find his wayward car.
I combed every parking lot, space, nook and cranny between the downtown courthouse and the Water Department, apparently the car had disappeared – or was never there in the first place. I quizzed the man throughout our search, in the hope of gleaming something if anything at all. He finally stated in an agitated tone: "I am sure it is right next to the water department. It has to be."
I checked every space in the water department's parking lot, drove up and down the street, went down each alley and even chased along the parallel roads both west and east. We never found the car.
I decided to retrace his steps and examine the one constant in the story: paying his bill at the water department. We, the unlikely trio of a nonagenarian, nine year old and me, entered the Water Department. The old man took a seat, I explained the situation to the customer service rep at the counter. She remembered the man but didn't know when exactly he came in, nor did she have any information about his erstwhile automobile. I thanked the woman for her time, knowing that I only had one more option to explore.
I told the man that our best bet was to go to Newark Police Department, since they were the experts in locating lost cars (and people); he agreed that was the best course of action, or at least I think he did, as he only nodded his aged head in response. He incessantly muttered, "It's hell getting old."
I parked a few hundred feet from the entrance to the Police Department; I now believe those were the most arduous steps in his life. He could barely walk, I offered to assist him, he politely shooed me away. Several times he faltered and nearly fell. Thankfully, I, along with several nearby parked cars, were there to offer support. He eventually made it to the door, I opened it, and we entered the station. The clerk on duty asked what I needed. I quickly and concisely detailed the particulars of our ill-fated quest. She thanked me for bringing the gentleman in and gestured for me to leave. She motioned for the man to come forward, I left without saying another word.
I regret not staying a little longer, at least to say goodbye. I never did think to ask his name, nor did I think to offer my own. It never came up, we were much too busy looking for the car. I hope he found what he was looking for. Since then, anytime I look at my sixty-eight year old father – or even at my own reflection in the mirror , the old man's haunting mantra sounds in my head...It's hell getting old.
It really is.
5/13/2007
5/12/2007
The doughtnuts were a nice touch.
I have done a lot of stupid things; I have done a lot bad things; I have (allegedly) committed more than my fair share of crimes; I have only stolen one maintenance van.
I was drunk. It was snowing. My dorm was two minutes away; however, I had long since abandoned staying in my own actual room, instead I chose to sleep at my friends' dorm on their pile of dirty clothes located on the other side of campus, which was at best, a thirty minute trek for a fat guy in my inebriated state. Remember, I was drunk, it was snowing and I faced the all too real possibility of a half hour trek across campus, something had to give.
Inspiration struck in the form of a university maintenance van. It was double parked in the fire lane, and to my drunken delight smoke was pouring out of the exhaust. I lumbered over the van, confirmed no one was about or in the van, and affirmed my suspicion that the keys were in the ignition. It seemed almost too easy.
I had a very valid reason to be drunk to the point where committing a felony appeared like a winning idea, you see the upperclassman threw a rush party in the hope of attracting future, fellow violent alcoholics. It was my duty as Bluto in waiting to consume copious amounts of beer and liquor and to crush whatever trashing talking inanimate object was at hand. I may not have paid my dues on time, attended chapter meetings or contributed to any charitable causes, but I was the best obnoxious drunk they had. The freshman guys loved me; I was like a mentally challenged super hero to them.
Since I was likely headed to pass out alone on a pile of unlaundered filth, I figured a little light company was in order. Before opening the van's door, I walked over to a fawning, potential pledge, gripped him by the arm and dragged him to the passenger's side door. He attempted to protest, I shook my head sternly side to side and half threw him into his ordained seat. I walked over to the driver's side, calmly opened the door, sat down on my warm mobile throne and put the van into reverse.
One should never drive drunk, but if you are going to do it, make sure to bring along a passenger - driving alone is a crime, driving with a friend is a conspiracy. I don't remember much of the drive to my waiting bed of soiled boxers and socks, but I am pretty sure I followed all of the major traffic laws, except, of course, the one about driving while under the influence of alcohol. According to my passenger/hostage's later recollection, I didn't strike any road signs or pedestrians, all things considered that has to be considered a plus.
Upon arrival to the far side of campus, I couldn't find a parking spot, so I parked the van in the fire lane next to my friends' dorm - the journey had come full circle.
I almost missed them when I got of the car. Fortuitously, I caught whiff of their delectable aroma: a baker's dozen of doughnuts were lodged beside the driver's seat. I took the doughnuts, graciously offered one to my unwilling accomplice, who wisely accepted, and took the rest up to my waiting pile of clothes. They weren't the best doughnuts I have ever eaten, but whom I am to complain.
The incident was never mentioned in the crime reports of the local and student newspapers. Considering I left a variety of fingerprints in and out the vehicle, and that my exact arrival was logged in as I used my ID card to enter the dorm, it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the guilty party.
I always wondered why the crime wasn't reported. Perhaps the maintenance guy was too embarrassed to tell his supervisors, maybe he feared losing his job over his egregious oversight of leaving the van unlocked with the engine running, or, as I liked to think, it was an act of a loving deity who took pity on his retarded child. Whatever the case, I got it on like Donkey Kong and lived to tell the tale.
I was drunk. It was snowing. My dorm was two minutes away; however, I had long since abandoned staying in my own actual room, instead I chose to sleep at my friends' dorm on their pile of dirty clothes located on the other side of campus, which was at best, a thirty minute trek for a fat guy in my inebriated state. Remember, I was drunk, it was snowing and I faced the all too real possibility of a half hour trek across campus, something had to give.
Inspiration struck in the form of a university maintenance van. It was double parked in the fire lane, and to my drunken delight smoke was pouring out of the exhaust. I lumbered over the van, confirmed no one was about or in the van, and affirmed my suspicion that the keys were in the ignition. It seemed almost too easy.
I had a very valid reason to be drunk to the point where committing a felony appeared like a winning idea, you see the upperclassman threw a rush party in the hope of attracting future, fellow violent alcoholics. It was my duty as Bluto in waiting to consume copious amounts of beer and liquor and to crush whatever trashing talking inanimate object was at hand. I may not have paid my dues on time, attended chapter meetings or contributed to any charitable causes, but I was the best obnoxious drunk they had. The freshman guys loved me; I was like a mentally challenged super hero to them.
Since I was likely headed to pass out alone on a pile of unlaundered filth, I figured a little light company was in order. Before opening the van's door, I walked over to a fawning, potential pledge, gripped him by the arm and dragged him to the passenger's side door. He attempted to protest, I shook my head sternly side to side and half threw him into his ordained seat. I walked over to the driver's side, calmly opened the door, sat down on my warm mobile throne and put the van into reverse.
One should never drive drunk, but if you are going to do it, make sure to bring along a passenger - driving alone is a crime, driving with a friend is a conspiracy. I don't remember much of the drive to my waiting bed of soiled boxers and socks, but I am pretty sure I followed all of the major traffic laws, except, of course, the one about driving while under the influence of alcohol. According to my passenger/hostage's later recollection, I didn't strike any road signs or pedestrians, all things considered that has to be considered a plus.
Upon arrival to the far side of campus, I couldn't find a parking spot, so I parked the van in the fire lane next to my friends' dorm - the journey had come full circle.
I almost missed them when I got of the car. Fortuitously, I caught whiff of their delectable aroma: a baker's dozen of doughnuts were lodged beside the driver's seat. I took the doughnuts, graciously offered one to my unwilling accomplice, who wisely accepted, and took the rest up to my waiting pile of clothes. They weren't the best doughnuts I have ever eaten, but whom I am to complain.
The incident was never mentioned in the crime reports of the local and student newspapers. Considering I left a variety of fingerprints in and out the vehicle, and that my exact arrival was logged in as I used my ID card to enter the dorm, it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the guilty party.
I always wondered why the crime wasn't reported. Perhaps the maintenance guy was too embarrassed to tell his supervisors, maybe he feared losing his job over his egregious oversight of leaving the van unlocked with the engine running, or, as I liked to think, it was an act of a loving deity who took pity on his retarded child. Whatever the case, I got it on like Donkey Kong and lived to tell the tale.
5/11/2007
I love soccer.
The officials of Newark, Ohio would like to host, help finance and give tax abatements to the new Major League Soccer, MLS, Columbus Crew training facility . The facility would be managed by the Columbus Crew, and would be available for local events and youth soccer teams - the facility would be privately and/or publicly owned and funded.
The City of Newark has virtually no money in its budget and is unable to properly support is own infrastructure; what we call roads are more like a series of connected pot holes, punctuated by the crumbling islands of asphalt. Yet, Newark has the resources to develop a training facility for the world's most popular game - bureaucracy.
MLS is not doing exceeding well in Columbus or anywhere else. They are now repeating the same mistakes of the 1970's professional North American Soccer League: paying aging European and South American superstars, who are on the back nine of their career, millions of dollars in the vain hope of drawing bigger television crowds. If the Michael Jordan of soccer, Pele, could not make soccer viable in the United State then, it is highly unlikely Mr. Posh Spice can do it now.
Soccer is currently the fifteenth most popular televised sport in the United States, directly between autistic badminton and men's volleyball. Part of the reason why is cultural, Americans already watch professional wrestling to sate its head butting appetite, but the more prevalent reason is why would anyone want to watch a substandard iteration of a sport, the MLS - it is akin to preferring The OC over Beverly Hills 90210 . If you want to watch hot and heavy soccer action, you already are an avid viewer of European club league matches on ESPN 21.
The Newark Advocate - THE place to find failed English & Journalism Majors who now prostitute the written word for fifty cents a pop - reported the facility would bring in: 500,000 visitors to the area each year; 1,100 jobs to the region; $52 million dollar in sales; $18 million dollars in wages; and $600,000 in city taxes. Bob say what? It is like the time I witnessed a teenage girl gallivanting around the mall wearing a midriff baby t-shirt and shorts that did not extend past the cleft in the her ass, everything suddenly went purple and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the food court, my face covered in sour cream and four taco bell wrappers laying in my lap.
Are there 500,000 MLS soccer fans in the United States - even counting illegal Mexicans and geriatric Canadians I am comfortably certain the answer is: not even close.
1,100 jobs? Sure, I would just said a million-ka-jillion jobs and giving everyone the finger, but 1,100 is a good number, too. Of course, most of these phantom jobs are already filled by local wait staff, fast food fry cooks and hotel employees, therefore I am not even sure how that number is relevant but I don't get $50,000 a year to be the economic development director in Newark - this ass does however.
The City of Newark has virtually no money in its budget and is unable to properly support is own infrastructure; what we call roads are more like a series of connected pot holes, punctuated by the crumbling islands of asphalt. Yet, Newark has the resources to develop a training facility for the world's most popular game - bureaucracy.
MLS is not doing exceeding well in Columbus or anywhere else. They are now repeating the same mistakes of the 1970's professional North American Soccer League: paying aging European and South American superstars, who are on the back nine of their career, millions of dollars in the vain hope of drawing bigger television crowds. If the Michael Jordan of soccer, Pele, could not make soccer viable in the United State then, it is highly unlikely Mr. Posh Spice can do it now.
Soccer is currently the fifteenth most popular televised sport in the United States, directly between autistic badminton and men's volleyball. Part of the reason why is cultural, Americans already watch professional wrestling to sate its head butting appetite, but the more prevalent reason is why would anyone want to watch a substandard iteration of a sport, the MLS - it is akin to preferring The OC over Beverly Hills 90210 . If you want to watch hot and heavy soccer action, you already are an avid viewer of European club league matches on ESPN 21.
The Newark Advocate - THE place to find failed English & Journalism Majors who now prostitute the written word for fifty cents a pop - reported the facility would bring in: 500,000 visitors to the area each year; 1,100 jobs to the region; $52 million dollar in sales; $18 million dollars in wages; and $600,000 in city taxes. Bob say what? It is like the time I witnessed a teenage girl gallivanting around the mall wearing a midriff baby t-shirt and shorts that did not extend past the cleft in the her ass, everything suddenly went purple and the next thing I knew I was sitting in the food court, my face covered in sour cream and four taco bell wrappers laying in my lap.
Are there 500,000 MLS soccer fans in the United States - even counting illegal Mexicans and geriatric Canadians I am comfortably certain the answer is: not even close.
1,100 jobs? Sure, I would just said a million-ka-jillion jobs and giving everyone the finger, but 1,100 is a good number, too. Of course, most of these phantom jobs are already filled by local wait staff, fast food fry cooks and hotel employees, therefore I am not even sure how that number is relevant but I don't get $50,000 a year to be the economic development director in Newark - this ass does however.
- The $600,000 in taxes I believe, but we (or at least those of with jobs who pay taxes) will be paying that amount out from local and state coffers to help subsidize the project and not receiving it as a revenue.
- $52 million dollars in sales - maybe the legions of children, who will end up the only real beneficiaries in this scenario when the Crew inevitably goes belly up, that play youth soccer at the facility will use their large disposable incomes to purchase Newark's most valuable commodity: Happy Meals!
- $18 million in wages: that is an easy one, give every local Newark resident working at McDonald's, Wendy's and Burger King a $15,000 a year raise for dealing with the frothing antics of the aforementioned high fructose sugar crazed legion of adolescent soccer zombies.
When it is all said and done, Newark, Ohio has the opportunity to host one of the world's foremost and expensive soccer facilities for children. It will definitely put us on the map - as the biggest fuck-wits in the Midwest.
5/10/2007
Believe
I now vividly remember the leggy blond standing half naked in the hallway. Unlike most disheveled and disrobed women I happened upon in college, she wasn't crying or noticeably drunk, she was fully in control - except for the part about not being clothed and gawked at by five drunk guys in the hall.
How did she end up in a dorm hallway with little more than a bra and panties on? She had been forcefully kicked out by a friend* as No I don't need you anymore faded into the background. Why? His girlfriend was coming over - she also lived only a couple dorms & minutes away.
Y
ou see, the HIV was the noted Lothario on campus; the guy you don't invite to your wedding because he will try to sleep with your wife, then settle for your mom. Yet, notorious womanizer or not, the HIV had a girlfriend, whom he ostensibly cared enough for not to sleep with other women in her immediate vicinity.
You may wonder how I know the particulars of story, it is actually quite simple: two of my best friends lived next door to the HIV, and he was also one of our fraternity brothers. Like any two-faced bastard, he bragged about his accomplishment, unlike most heterosexual men however, he was a fan of Cher's magnum opus, Believe, and would play it anytime he had sex.
I spent many a night drinking with my two buddies next door, listening to Believe reverberating through the walls, punctuated by the occasional grunt during the chorus. As I just mentioned, the chorus was generally accompanied by a noise, not by screams of protest. Being gentlemen, my friends and are were honor bound to see what was going on, and that is when I gazed upon the leggy blond standing clad in little more than flimsy beachwear in the hall.
The events of that night weren't that out of the ordinary, in fact, I witnessed and participated in more interesting fare – some of which has been cataloged here; however, I never completely forgot that winter night during my freshman year, but I wonder if she did?
Skip seven years into the future. A young lady worked for a very prominent libertarian think tank, she even wrote several articles for them dealing with social security reform. While trying to track down a girl I used to stalk in college, I came upon one of her articles. It was extremely well written, reasoned and entertaining, especially considering the subject matter. Upon further research I discovered that the author went to college with me, she in fact was in my 2002 graduating class – I even tracked down a picture of her. She seemed familiar but I didn't know from where.
Over the next two years I was a semi-regular reader of her blog. I will be honest, while I generally dismiss libertarian thought as much too anarchistic, her clever and witty words actually changed my mind on several key issues like social security reform and how (not) to regulate identity theft. Then one day, while glancing at her picture in the corner of her blog's bio, I suffered a moment of crystalline clarity, I did remember her from college: She was the leggy blond in the hall.
Generally one shouldn't judge a person based on the ill-conceived romantic happenings of youth. But when it involves the HIV, well, that is a different story entirely. She might be smart, witty and quite the persuasive writer but she was also a tainted, oh-so-dirty whore.
*In consideration of his privacy and our close bond, I will refer to my "friend", David Ravi Mayer from Kula, Hawaii, as the HIV in this story.
Why the HIV? Because the HIV had sex with such a ridiculous amount of women, many of whom themselves were whores, that there is a high statistical probability he contracted one venereal disease or another (or all of them.) To be fair, however, I do not know this to be a fact (just an extreme likelihood) and would never suggest it as such. He is my good friend after all.
How did she end up in a dorm hallway with little more than a bra and panties on? She had been forcefully kicked out by a friend* as No I don't need you anymore faded into the background. Why? His girlfriend was coming over - she also lived only a couple dorms & minutes away.
Y
ou see, the HIV was the noted Lothario on campus; the guy you don't invite to your wedding because he will try to sleep with your wife, then settle for your mom. Yet, notorious womanizer or not, the HIV had a girlfriend, whom he ostensibly cared enough for not to sleep with other women in her immediate vicinity.
You may wonder how I know the particulars of story, it is actually quite simple: two of my best friends lived next door to the HIV, and he was also one of our fraternity brothers. Like any two-faced bastard, he bragged about his accomplishment, unlike most heterosexual men however, he was a fan of Cher's magnum opus, Believe, and would play it anytime he had sex.
I spent many a night drinking with my two buddies next door, listening to Believe reverberating through the walls, punctuated by the occasional grunt during the chorus. As I just mentioned, the chorus was generally accompanied by a noise, not by screams of protest. Being gentlemen, my friends and are were honor bound to see what was going on, and that is when I gazed upon the leggy blond standing clad in little more than flimsy beachwear in the hall.
The events of that night weren't that out of the ordinary, in fact, I witnessed and participated in more interesting fare – some of which has been cataloged here; however, I never completely forgot that winter night during my freshman year, but I wonder if she did?
Skip seven years into the future. A young lady worked for a very prominent libertarian think tank, she even wrote several articles for them dealing with social security reform. While trying to track down a girl I used to stalk in college, I came upon one of her articles. It was extremely well written, reasoned and entertaining, especially considering the subject matter. Upon further research I discovered that the author went to college with me, she in fact was in my 2002 graduating class – I even tracked down a picture of her. She seemed familiar but I didn't know from where.
Over the next two years I was a semi-regular reader of her blog. I will be honest, while I generally dismiss libertarian thought as much too anarchistic, her clever and witty words actually changed my mind on several key issues like social security reform and how (not) to regulate identity theft. Then one day, while glancing at her picture in the corner of her blog's bio, I suffered a moment of crystalline clarity, I did remember her from college: She was the leggy blond in the hall.
Generally one shouldn't judge a person based on the ill-conceived romantic happenings of youth. But when it involves the HIV, well, that is a different story entirely. She might be smart, witty and quite the persuasive writer but she was also a tainted, oh-so-dirty whore.
*In consideration of his privacy and our close bond, I will refer to my "friend", David Ravi Mayer from Kula, Hawaii, as the HIV in this story.
Why the HIV? Because the HIV had sex with such a ridiculous amount of women, many of whom themselves were whores, that there is a high statistical probability he contracted one venereal disease or another (or all of them.) To be fair, however, I do not know this to be a fact (just an extreme likelihood) and would never suggest it as such. He is my good friend after all.
5/09/2007
A Suggestion for Tom
I want to make more friends, myspace friends that is. My social calendar is already much too full playing video games and watching Adult Swim to allow for interaction in the here and now, although I do have time for the click, clack and enter.
It would really help if myspace had a search function called "people I have alienated by deed, word or bodily function." It would significantly expedite locating buddies who have long since written me off and the girls whose hair I still treasure pressed between the pages of my journal.
It would really help if myspace had a search function called "people I have alienated by deed, word or bodily function." It would significantly expedite locating buddies who have long since written me off and the girls whose hair I still treasure pressed between the pages of my journal.
Assless Leather Chaps
I split my pants at the post office today - I am not sure if I was more embarrassed about the actual event or the accompanied realized truth that I no longer could comfortably wear a size 42 waist.
I still had twenty packages to process, which prevented an immediate, embarrassed egress. Instead I patiently waited for ten minutes with a one foot jagged window to my ass. Now I know how English homosexuals feel when they queue up for a BDSM club.
I still had twenty packages to process, which prevented an immediate, embarrassed egress. Instead I patiently waited for ten minutes with a one foot jagged window to my ass. Now I know how English homosexuals feel when they queue up for a BDSM club.
5/08/2007
If Only It Wasn't True
I went on a date with my little brother. We had dinner at Arby's, then watched Spider-Man 3 at our local mall. This story isn't about the movie - which was good, by the way, or how my eleven-year-old brother serves both as a surrogate best friend and girlfriend, instead it serves a parable of sorts. Pay attention least you fail to learn the lesson well.
The movie was viewed in one of the larger theaters, and since it was a 4:00 pm matinee, there was plenty of seating room. We were the second group in the theater and staked out the center upper row for ourselves. Every subsequent group lay claim to their own row. I was slightly perturbed when a pregnant woman sat directly in front of me, but she was short enough not to impede my view and I have always had a thing for expectant mothers. Two minutes into the previews a family of five decided to sit directly beside me and the little brother. The family unit consisted of mom, grandmother and three children all under the age of five.
The middle child, who appeared to be two or three years old, was suckling on an Icee, soon thereafter, as is want to happen with sugary sweets and children, he ran out of frozen syrup and decided to instead suck on his straw in the most egregious and offensive manner possible. His mother proceed to ignore this behavior for the next two and half hours. To be fair, the child only sucked on empty air intermittently, perhaps every five minutes or so; also, I am fairly certain the mother was glad he suckled on a straw rather than her heaving teat - then again, that is just my layman's opinion.
While I listening to the occasional chorus of churtle, churt and chut, my little brother was intently engaged in watching the movie. That is until Spider-Man acquired his black suit. My little brother started to incessantly giggle, I leaned over and whispered, "what is so funny?" his response was startling. He said, in a much too loud of voice, that this was the n****r Spider-Man. I hoped I misunderstood and he meant to say bigger or Tigger, however the former didn't make sense and my brother never was much of a Winnie The Pooh fan. He did help further clarify his meaning as he proceeded to repeat the phrase n****r Spider-Man every time Spider-Man appeared on the screen - you would be surprised how many times the titular character appears in his own movie, I lost count after 53.
Now I want you to understand that I don't support such bigoted language, especially from a child, however, there is little I could do to dissuade its usage. One must bear in mind that the little brother idolizes our father, an otherwise good man, who recently took umbrage with Don Imus' remarks towards the Rutgers women's basketball team, he felt Imus should have said: Nappy Headed Whores. He even suggested I write a letter to the editor to that fact, I wisely opted not to.
What is the moral of this story? Between a breast starved toddler and a bigoted prepubescent sibling, I am not really sure, Yet, I have always said only in the absurd can one discover the profound...actually I just made that last part up.
The movie was viewed in one of the larger theaters, and since it was a 4:00 pm matinee, there was plenty of seating room. We were the second group in the theater and staked out the center upper row for ourselves. Every subsequent group lay claim to their own row. I was slightly perturbed when a pregnant woman sat directly in front of me, but she was short enough not to impede my view and I have always had a thing for expectant mothers. Two minutes into the previews a family of five decided to sit directly beside me and the little brother. The family unit consisted of mom, grandmother and three children all under the age of five.
The middle child, who appeared to be two or three years old, was suckling on an Icee, soon thereafter, as is want to happen with sugary sweets and children, he ran out of frozen syrup and decided to instead suck on his straw in the most egregious and offensive manner possible. His mother proceed to ignore this behavior for the next two and half hours. To be fair, the child only sucked on empty air intermittently, perhaps every five minutes or so; also, I am fairly certain the mother was glad he suckled on a straw rather than her heaving teat - then again, that is just my layman's opinion.
While I listening to the occasional chorus of churtle, churt and chut, my little brother was intently engaged in watching the movie. That is until Spider-Man acquired his black suit. My little brother started to incessantly giggle, I leaned over and whispered, "what is so funny?" his response was startling. He said, in a much too loud of voice, that this was the n****r Spider-Man. I hoped I misunderstood and he meant to say bigger or Tigger, however the former didn't make sense and my brother never was much of a Winnie The Pooh fan. He did help further clarify his meaning as he proceeded to repeat the phrase n****r Spider-Man every time Spider-Man appeared on the screen - you would be surprised how many times the titular character appears in his own movie, I lost count after 53.
Now I want you to understand that I don't support such bigoted language, especially from a child, however, there is little I could do to dissuade its usage. One must bear in mind that the little brother idolizes our father, an otherwise good man, who recently took umbrage with Don Imus' remarks towards the Rutgers women's basketball team, he felt Imus should have said: Nappy Headed Whores. He even suggested I write a letter to the editor to that fact, I wisely opted not to.
What is the moral of this story? Between a breast starved toddler and a bigoted prepubescent sibling, I am not really sure, Yet, I have always said only in the absurd can one discover the profound...actually I just made that last part up.
5/07/2007
The Pool
Today was special. Not in a I lost my virginity to a one-eyed Mexican whore kind of way, but memorable nonetheless. Mother asked me to accompany her and the little brother to the pool. Mom and I usually do not spend time with one another, unless food or work is involved, so this was a very important milestone. I was actually looking forward to spending time with my two least favorite immediate family members (out of possible three), but as I should have will known, when Bob feels a pang of familial love it is a harbinger of disaster.
The actual trip to the pool went well and involved the usual small talk about my inability to get a date and my little brother Issy's desire to punch me in the balls. Being fairly immune to such conversation, I felt pretty positive about our upcoming swim. Upon arriving I was surprised to see only a half dozen cars in the parking lot. I immediately rationalized that most pool-goers are adolescents dropped off by their absentee parents, so I wasn't too worried. After paying the cute little Asian girl, who reminded me of Lotus Blossom, we ventured towards the pool.
There were, at best, thirty people there, which included the lifeguards, making my earlier rationalization ring false - who needs a bunch of nymph like twelve year old girls to have a good time at the pool? Not I, I say, not I. However, soon thereafter something very troublesome became apparent. I, Robert Kyle Wilson, was the fattest person at the pool.
Now, I am used to being the fat guy in a small, intimate setting, yet to actually be the most obese person at a public pool is a little much even for me. Of course, there were plenty of chubby mother's wearing ill fitting bathing attire, and I took solace in their beached whale appearance; nonetheless, I still had a good fifty pounds on any of these domestic behemoths. Issy didn't help matters as he took great delight in pointing out that I was fatter than everyone else.. All I could think of was, Et tu, McDonald's, et tu.
After coming to terms with my position as fattest guy at the pool, I jumped in and took a little swim. Or, at least that was the plan. The moment my ample flesh touched the pool a numbing coldness blanketed my entire being. In other words, it was a wee bit nippy in there. I could barely draw a breath, more less swim, so I opted for none of the above and hauled my ass out of there and back to the warm embrace of my ruffled, pink towel.
It now made sense why the parking lot was empty and only a couple dozen people were there, because only an idiot, and/or my mother, would deem it fit to swim in a sub seventy degree temperatures with a heavy overcast blocking out any relief from the sun.. I am ashamed to admit that my short sojourn into the pool shriveled my usually massive four and half inches down to one. It was that cold
As the day continued, my experience improved from abysmal to mildly disconcerted. A rather obese black man showed up and claimed my place as King Fat; I could only hope one day to have man teats like his. Eventually even the clouds parted, allowing the sun to heat pool to a lukewarm, semi-tolerable state. All was well with the world, until mother decided to engage the pretty young life guards in conversation.
If I have one bane in this world, it is attractive young ladies. I am putty in their hands, and also money in their pockets. Therefore, I strive to maintain a minimum of fifty yards from there presence, if only to prevent any unwarranted gifts of money and electronic devices, such as a pager. My mother is aware of my debilitating problem with women, she thinks it can be cured through public humiliation.. Her remedy is very simple, direct and crushing to my mental health.
The first step in her "final solution" is scoping out the most attractive woman in a given area. She then walks up to her and engages in small talk. After a few minutes of conversation, she bellows like a banshee just freed from hell: Get over here, NOW! Usually I run away at this point, opting to take cover behind a car, in a closet or behind a brazier display at Sears. But being at the public pool, with no available refuge and standing out like an albatross due to my position as King Fat in waiting, I had no where to go. Thus, I waddled over to her and listened as she tried to fix me up with a beautiful nineteen year old. Now, when I use the phrase fix me up what I mean to say is that she blatantly, in the most obtuse manner possible, states that I am single, live in a trailer, work for my parents, graduated from college with a worthless degree in religion, and am serious need of a date.
Surprisingly to no one but mom, this approach did not work. The lifeguard responded with a weak smile, stated she was already involved and quickly retreated to an empty chair across the pool. My already shriveled member managed to invert itself into my actual flesh, reminiscent of a baby kangaroo submerging into its mother's pouch. Of course,mom blamed me for the failure, I should have been able to speak up for myself. She also quipped it wouldn't hurt if I lost a little weight and got some sun. You could say she was kicking a man while he was down; but really, what worse can you do to guy whose testicles actually managed to rescinded into his stomach.
We left soon soon after, although not before Issy punched me in nuts.
The actual trip to the pool went well and involved the usual small talk about my inability to get a date and my little brother Issy's desire to punch me in the balls. Being fairly immune to such conversation, I felt pretty positive about our upcoming swim. Upon arriving I was surprised to see only a half dozen cars in the parking lot. I immediately rationalized that most pool-goers are adolescents dropped off by their absentee parents, so I wasn't too worried. After paying the cute little Asian girl, who reminded me of Lotus Blossom, we ventured towards the pool.
There were, at best, thirty people there, which included the lifeguards, making my earlier rationalization ring false - who needs a bunch of nymph like twelve year old girls to have a good time at the pool? Not I, I say, not I. However, soon thereafter something very troublesome became apparent. I, Robert Kyle Wilson, was the fattest person at the pool.
Now, I am used to being the fat guy in a small, intimate setting, yet to actually be the most obese person at a public pool is a little much even for me. Of course, there were plenty of chubby mother's wearing ill fitting bathing attire, and I took solace in their beached whale appearance; nonetheless, I still had a good fifty pounds on any of these domestic behemoths. Issy didn't help matters as he took great delight in pointing out that I was fatter than everyone else.. All I could think of was, Et tu, McDonald's, et tu.
After coming to terms with my position as fattest guy at the pool, I jumped in and took a little swim. Or, at least that was the plan. The moment my ample flesh touched the pool a numbing coldness blanketed my entire being. In other words, it was a wee bit nippy in there. I could barely draw a breath, more less swim, so I opted for none of the above and hauled my ass out of there and back to the warm embrace of my ruffled, pink towel.
It now made sense why the parking lot was empty and only a couple dozen people were there, because only an idiot, and/or my mother, would deem it fit to swim in a sub seventy degree temperatures with a heavy overcast blocking out any relief from the sun.. I am ashamed to admit that my short sojourn into the pool shriveled my usually massive four and half inches down to one. It was that cold
As the day continued, my experience improved from abysmal to mildly disconcerted. A rather obese black man showed up and claimed my place as King Fat; I could only hope one day to have man teats like his. Eventually even the clouds parted, allowing the sun to heat pool to a lukewarm, semi-tolerable state. All was well with the world, until mother decided to engage the pretty young life guards in conversation.
If I have one bane in this world, it is attractive young ladies. I am putty in their hands, and also money in their pockets. Therefore, I strive to maintain a minimum of fifty yards from there presence, if only to prevent any unwarranted gifts of money and electronic devices, such as a pager. My mother is aware of my debilitating problem with women, she thinks it can be cured through public humiliation.. Her remedy is very simple, direct and crushing to my mental health.
The first step in her "final solution" is scoping out the most attractive woman in a given area. She then walks up to her and engages in small talk. After a few minutes of conversation, she bellows like a banshee just freed from hell: Get over here, NOW! Usually I run away at this point, opting to take cover behind a car, in a closet or behind a brazier display at Sears. But being at the public pool, with no available refuge and standing out like an albatross due to my position as King Fat in waiting, I had no where to go. Thus, I waddled over to her and listened as she tried to fix me up with a beautiful nineteen year old. Now, when I use the phrase fix me up what I mean to say is that she blatantly, in the most obtuse manner possible, states that I am single, live in a trailer, work for my parents, graduated from college with a worthless degree in religion, and am serious need of a date.
Surprisingly to no one but mom, this approach did not work. The lifeguard responded with a weak smile, stated she was already involved and quickly retreated to an empty chair across the pool. My already shriveled member managed to invert itself into my actual flesh, reminiscent of a baby kangaroo submerging into its mother's pouch. Of course,mom blamed me for the failure, I should have been able to speak up for myself. She also quipped it wouldn't hurt if I lost a little weight and got some sun. You could say she was kicking a man while he was down; but really, what worse can you do to guy whose testicles actually managed to rescinded into his stomach.
We left soon soon after, although not before Issy punched me in nuts.
5/06/2007
As Good a Start as Any
I am not a big fan of myspace. Blame it on my last vestiges of self respect or Chris Hansen, either way I am here under duress.
I am searching for a writing venue that will actually be read by someone not eleven-years-old and directly related to me. You would be surprised at how a harsh a literary taskmaster a 4'6" pre-pubescent little brother can be - if it doesn't incorporate an A B rhyme scheme or eerily prescient talking animals, Issy isn't happy.
I spent the last hour catching up on myspace: I am glad to see it is still the place for vapid, self masturbatory thought and chubby white chicks making gang signs. Of course, I am all for stroking ones ego and contorting in positions that are as absurd as they are inappropriate - anyone who witnessed my synchronized swimming routine while clad only in a thong can readily attest to that.
While browsing on myspace I came upon a former high school classmate. She appears to be have a happy and successful life - she is also married. I did not particularly know her well, in fact I never spoke to her beyond exchanging polite pleasantries; however, I am sure she stunk.
What I mean, in the most olfactory of senses, she had a fetid, fishy aroma. At the time, I never really gave it much thought, but when I happened upon her profile, the stench's source came to me: poor gynecological hygiene. As I have discovered from many an ex-girlfriend*, a stinky Gleaming mound of Venus is common. What does a smelly ninja slipper have to do with me? Not as much as I would like, but it did make me think: how does a woman who decidedly had sworn off feminine products in high school manage to get married?
I can only imagine the herculean effort required to cleanse her Augean stable, assuming that it is even possible. Her husband appears to be a handsome, clean cut professional sort. Perhaps he has some sort of stinky pajama fetish, but what if he doesn't even know of his wife's odorous past?
My ten year reunion is rapidly approaching and I wonder, will she be there? If so, should I approach her and take a whiff? Is her past a secret best left unsaid? Or, would it be better to satisfy my curiosity, approach her husband and offer a congratulatory hand containing a pair of nose plugs.
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