Yeah. Alright. My only question is:
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Yeah. Alright. My only question is:
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Okay. Is it me? Or is it the fact that I am actually awake before 8AM...but...
And, just as one's computer freezes up when too much information clogs the whatever...(technical explaination unknown, but solely owned by Microsoft...)...well...I'm really needing someone to CTRL+ALT+DEL my fucking head. Reboot me, man.
Cause...like I'm reading the daily MLB headlines, as I do each day...and somewhere along the line they're all talking Carlos-baby, here. So, I get into and out of another 1/2 dozen websites and somewhere along the line someone refers to Mr. 14 year old Beltran (well, maybe he's 15 now) is looking at a $120 million contract with his Pimp, (I mean, "Agent,") Scott Boras.
And the column also goes on to remarking how the Yankees are "on the brink," of going over their $200 million payroll.
This is baseball, right? I mean, pitchers...hitters...repititious cup adjustings (by the way, guys, we women aren't with you on that one. you're being icky.)
Look...I know it's a business...but...godamn...look at this kid! He's like still waiting for his wisdom teeth to erupt! ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILLION? Jesusfuckingchrist! That makes my head swim.
Well...I'm just glad the Yankees aren't dying to get him. He's not one of us. I don't know exactly why...it's just a feeling I have. I'm still holding out on some hope that they'll get some of them A's for me...but, I think they're all on contract...but, hell, contracts are for suckers... huh, Carlos, honey? Why not just make the deal on a handshake?
We all know that no matter what he signs, Boras will sell him again within 2 years...justyouwatchandsee.
Monday, January 03, 2005
And it's fucking true.
However, I had this roommate, this totally cool dude (a gay hippy) (yes. gay hippy) named Kent...and he was all shovin his mother earth shit in my direction. Okay...I'm a total hippy. I am. But...I bathe. And I have plastic money. Fuck, I have money... And a job. But I totally dig on patchouli and incense...and free love (shhhhhh!) and every other aspect of Hippy-dom. (I even like the smell of sweat.) (Well, some people's sweat.)
So like my roomate, Kent...he's all heralding the glory of mass transit to me. So, realizing I'm getting no fucking sympathy with his whole attitude...I listen to his sales pitch: ad infinitum reasons to try the bus.
Oh, now Kent had a car. And he took the bus like exclusively. So, realizing he wasn't givin me a ride anywhere, I broke down and submitted myself to the utter wasteland of bus taking.
Somewhere on the first week of bus takage, I began to get the whole routine down.
First, don't even think the bus schedule means shit. It don't. And don't think you'll just get on and it will all just be a ride. Ah hell no. They pack that shit with losers and freaks for entertainment purposes. THEIR entertainment...at your expense.
I used to try and be nice...then it became an issue of survival. Like the jungle. I take this seat and don't fuck with my space.
Okay, first off...the fucking bus drivers get all pissed off if you are minding your own business, sitting quietly, but blasting your music. They make a big speech IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.
So, I'm just sitting there and allofasudden we're so not moving. In fact, allofasudden the bus driver is standing. And he's saying something. And he looks really mad. And everyone is looking behind their shoulders...and they're looking at....me...? Me? What the fuck have I done? Jesus, I'm a victim here.
Look around, I'm the only person on this goddamn contraption who knows what fucking planet we're on! And, I also stand out, as I have not eaten, puked, or taken off my clothes and locked them outside the windows so they would dry from the fucking river water they were just "washed" in...
So, like, I learned early on to sit in the furthest-away-from-the-whole-freakish-lot seat.
And, in time, I became a Jedi Knight of bus taking. Ah, hell, I could go from state to state just using the local routes...on a Day Pass. And I'd tell those bus drivers to radio ahead to my connecting bus and tell them to fucking wait for me. And they would...
My attitude and attire were basic. "Any fucking part of your body that comes in contact with mine--YOU DON'T GET BACK." And then, my walkman, I put a big black and white sticker on the side that faces everyone in front of me...it read: I HATE YOU. And I would blast my music and wear my sunglasses, so as to stare at people, but not be caught. Also, you don't have to acknowledge someone when you do your music and sunglasses on the bus, cause they won't know you saw or heard a fucking thing from them...
Not long after I began riding, I was headed home. And the bus stopped at the usual stop. And then we sat. And sat. And sat. Finally I stand up a bit, and at that moment I witness the bus driver shaking this homeless guy's shoulder. Then the man just falls over face first into the aisle. And I was like, bummer. Then, I realize no one is doing a thing. The driver goes back to his seat...and we remain motionless. Mind you...the man is lying in the aisle...and not one person seems affected by this. One dumb bitch was actually filing her fingernails. A couple of minutes go by...and then sirens. The bus driver gets up and directs the paramedics to this man...and they all just hang out. No CPR. They look him over, and exit the bus.
Fact is, the dude had died.
That fucking freaked me out. That dude got on that bus...and that was the last trip he ever took. Dying while on the bus...and not a soul knew when he had passed...surrounded by people, yet, alone in death...
Everyone began to exit the bus, as that was the "end of the line,"(in more ways than one, I suppose.)
I slowly walked home in the pouring rain...rivers of tears rolling down my freezing cheeks. I wept for this anonymous man.
Someone's newborn child, at one time...perhaps someone's brother, father...his brief existence within this fragile reality known as life, forever ended.
I wept because I hadn't even considered the gift of "life," I had been given that day, was sufficient enough to choke the shallow frustrations and vain concens I had so entrenched myself in. I wept because I was once again reminded that amidst day in and day out living, our lives are but a flame, that one day will blow out...the death rate is still one per person...
So, from that moment on, when I began to fixate on selfish frustrations, I remembered the man in the aisle...
I remembered the bitch filing her nails.
And I chose to receive the lesson of seeking to be alert and grateful for the blessings and hardships in life each day.
For the response to such events weave the very tapestry known as each man's life.
I want my tapestry to have some redeeming value...some contribution. I don't want to be anonymous in death. May I live my life in such a way that when I die, someone will actually see my departure as a loss, and not an inconvenience, not just a story to tell in some fucking blog someday...may someone know my name...
And may I seek a higher consciousness of each day, and every day...a gift, each one...with the realization and conviction that I am one day closer to being on the same existence of the man in the aisle...
Take the bus. Take it at least one time in your lifetime. Perhaps you'll begin a trip which will take your mind to places where it's never been...
Or to a place where you really need to be...