Shiny black FBI shoes

Not gonna let them catch the midnight rider.

I thought I’d find you here. You’re all just gluttons for punishment, coming back for more in the face of ruthless neglect. Weirdos.

Before I start, a note. There are those amongst you, out there in the Big Dark, that regard this little fiasco as an accurate and thorough picture of one man’s life. Yeah right. This little keyhole you’re peeping through is naught but a warped, exaggerated, desiccated highlights reel; as full of fictions and lies as The Real World Season Three, or major league baseball. I’ve been accused of all manner of sins, misdemeanors, and bigotries by those ignorant few who hold this thing to be The Truth. You poor bastards, you’re the ones who keep fifteen year olds from buying Tupac CD’s, who got that Under God crap pasted into pledge of allegiance. You’re the scum who have feuds with your neighbors, who call cops on parties and fret about shit like coupons and getting enough sleep. Shut up. Find a hobby. Freaking out about The Johnson’s tree dropping plums into your yard over the fence is not a Righteous Cause. Your crusades are crap and I despise you all, stay away from me and stop leaving flaming dog crap on my porch. And to all you molehill mountaineers who are too busy accusing me and mine of alcoholism, misogyny, and (god forbid) laziness… just keep in mind that there’s a reason you don’t read novels about washing dishes, going to lab, or napping, and you do read (you do know how to read…) books about boozing and irresponsibility. Dishes are boring, as are labs and rain and large women. Just because I spare you the indignities of the more mundane aspects of life doesn’t mean I’m a raging beerhound or shiftless layabout. There. I’m glad we cleared that up.

Assholes.

Anyway, where was I.

It strikes me as important that you all obtain an appropriate soundtrack for your reading enjoyment. Open up your Bearshare and illegally download the S&M version of Call of Ktulu and leave it on repeat. Forever. That’s better.

I’ll spare you the details of my “spring break”. Notice the little double lines nailed meaningfully to each end of the phrase; they’re there to show that the word break is used in only the most flimsy and twisted sense. Long, anguished hours were spent by me and my fearless and unstoppable Hardware Specialist, one Mr. Peter Magee, on that cursed robot. Dancing around on the hardwood floor, I can hear its servos squeal gleefully “Haha, you fuckers, haha!”. Aside from one kickass electrical fire, which we celebrated as a sort of eye-watering blue smoke rite of passage, we basically just slaved away at it all week.

The tedium was broken by a visit from an old friend, an important visit at that. Despite being a brutal reminder of my own mortality (when I say old friend, I’m talkin old. Straight preschool and shit.), the weekend was a respectably good time. We discussed many things; our childhood Nintendo addiction, our plans for the future, why we hate people who claim Bay Area that really aren’t, etc. These are important issues in the modern world. The day I turn the other cheek to some Livermore wussbag claiming Bay Area, when in fact they’re practically closer to the Nevada border, is the day I… no, forget it. No literary device will do. Forget it. Just trust me that it is not gonna happen. Also, it warmed my frigid heart to find out that she’s fighting the good fight down in that wretched hive of scum and villainy known as Los Angeles County.

I’ve been around. I’ve seen Europe, Brazil, East Oakland. I’m a reasonably metropolitan person with more than double the FDA’s Daily Recommended Dosage of California pride, and I am still convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that LA is the most loathsome city in all the western world. There’s something there, a dark and infested vibe that gets in your blood and conquers your mind. It creeps up on you like mercury poisoning, seeping in through your pores and tear ducts and soft tissue till one day you worship trend with the zeal of an Islamic militant. Your every word becomes deceit, your every gesture self conscious, your every meal overpriced. For the rest of us, the four horsemen were conquest, famine, war, and death; in LA these are far too common to be the Great Evils that make up an apocalypse. Should those pale horses ever ride south of Oxnard into that pit of despair, they will bear a different set of riders, four forces more equipped to bring about the wrathful destruction of Los Angeles. And behold, their names will be Cellulite, Honesty, Shopping at Ross, and Premature Aging. Beware, denizens of the Foul City, for they ride out for thee!

And yet there are those rare few, my friend included, who reside within the borders of the Polyester Kingdom of their own volition. It takes a strength of character, a moral discipline to withstand the spiritual climate of Los Angeles which not many are capable of. To live behind enemy lines for so long, for the sake of education, well that’s certainly beyond my own meager abilities. I can only imagine the kind of mascara-wearing toothless gypsy mutant sleazebags she must deal with on a daily basis. And yet where I would no doubt be transformed into a snarling, hateful, bearded hermit, she still manages to walk tall and hold it down for old H-town. Hell yeah.

This was not the only interesting insight incited by this weekend. You (collectively) may have gathered that I don’t spend a great deal of time with those members of the fairer sex traditionally classified as “lookers.” Most of my time is spent in the company of those squat, horse-toothed werewolves you’d meet at McCarthy’s; the kind of girl whose shrieking, obnoxious laugh could shatter a pint glass at fifty yards. Who can blame me for spending all my time with my buddies instead. I’m not sure if I’m purely a victim of circumstance, or if my own strange behaviors act as a sort of repellant… either way, the end result is the same. Anyway, back to the point. Hanging out downtown was a very different experience, given the different company. At some point during the night, my vision warped by strong drink, a sort of understanding came to me. It hit me in the midst of wondering whether or not San Luis Obispo superior court would classify a Heineken as a deadly weapon, given that it was shattered over some tool’s skull while he was chatting up a girl who is essentially my sister, minus the DNA. Biting back my snarling, sibling-ish urge to wreck some shop and ruin some nights, I thought: no wonder. No wonder. From a lady’s perspective, you aren’t some nice fellow who has worked up the courage to come talk to her, you’re just another face in a long, long line of potential suitors on a given night. I had little to no idea what a common thing it is for a girl to be approached. Somebody I don’t know comes up to me in a bar and starts talking? Shiet. Something no good is afoot. She’s either hammered, very confused, or needs her computer fixed. But guys? Dudes in the presence of a girl of merit are shameless, each more willing than the last to sacrifice himself on the altar of No Dignity. I guess it wasn’t until I’d seen it in action that I truly recognized the phenomenon. Even the word, approached… That’s got an unmistakably horrific ring to it. People get approached in unlit parking lots. People get approached in dark alleys lined with mangled shopping carts and sleeping winos. Ain’t that a trip. No wonder, huh.

No wonder.

Much more to write, but like Bastian in the Neverending Story, I must save some for later.

Late.
-T.

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One Response to “Shiny black FBI shoes”

  1. anonymous Says:

    Write another post u mothafuck.

    And read the lab on monday cuz there’s gonna be a pop quiz tuesday morning.

    Fuck you.

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