Monday, June 29, 2009

My Lost Writings

I did a pretty good chunk of writing back in the early part of this century and thought it long lost on a hard drive somewhere never to be found. But I managed not only to find it but drag it onto an external HD as well!

Since this is the ugly duckling of my blog trilogy I thought I would start posting here for your reading pleasure...or simply a banal way to kill a couple of minutes. The first stems from a little trip I took from Huntington Beach to Yorba Linda to help out and hang with some cousins. There is no moral of the story...and if you do manage to find one please share with me. As a matter of fact I implore you to post comments, not only to hear your thoughts on it but I hear google gives better blog rankings for those with lots of comments. Enjoy!

Couch Surfing

My little cousin is a fucking mess. For the most part white kids just don’t look good with dreadlocks. The fact he was in a motorcycle crash that had his arm in a sling and a patch over his eye made him look all the more disturbing. At 130 lbs he was the epitome of a fucked up suburban punk but that was no surprise.

It was a Sunday morning and I woke up from a night of boozing and fucking with the type of blurry eyed haze that cried out for hedonism. The boat rocking feeling that permeated my consciousness told me in no uncertain terms that today was going to be one of those rare Sundays where I wouldn’t say no to anything and in fact would push the shit to the limit….after all I had no reasons left to be conservative or be healthy.

I got up and walked up to the convenience market and filled my large dying plastic coffee mug that was permanently stained mud brown to fill up a large ass kicking eye opening brain fuck. It was a nice morning and I must have made quite the site walking down the street in my black long gang banging type shorts with the obligatory red stripe down the side. At 32 all I needed was a pair of bright white socks pulled well up over my kneecaps to look the part of every Hispanic guy I’ve ever seen. Maybe I should have gotten a big ass tattoo that said “Orange County” emblazoned in that gothic type font.

Regardless I came back awakened and met by my now awake brother who told me he had some work to do on our cousins house as they were getting ready to move after being in the family for many many years.

“Sure…what the fuck I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Hope he’s got a special door grinding bit” my brother said going through his tool box.

We headed up the 91 freeway towards the house and stopped at your atypical middle upper class shopping center and decided to get some lunch at a Mexican food place that I spotted 0% Hispanic workforce which always rang bells in my opinion. I ordered a Margarita…just because it was one of those days. I drank half of it and then complained to the white boy waiter that there wasn’t enough booze in it. He assured me there was so I ordered another one on the premise Id give him another chance.

After that it was off to my cousins. We pulled up to the house and got out of my brothers truck. The garage was open and the signs of clutter were very apparent but that was nothing new. As a matter of fact I couldn’t determine whether they were actually moving or just had a penchant for marking box contents. Maybe I’m stupid….yes, I’m pretty sure I’m just stupid.

Anyhow we walked through the door…my brother attempting to get an idea of the work involved while I was just content to shoot the shit with whoever was in ear shot. Our older cousin who had lived in this house for years met us in the entryway. He was painting his former room which was his parents former room…for years since they were the houses first occupants. I thought maybe he would be emotional or the work would be bittersweet but it was soon apparent he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there. As a matter of fact I’d never seen him happier. We shat around a little bit and made our way to the living room where my fucked up little cousin sat on the couch looking like something that was ran over by the Grateful Dead Booster Club’s bus. He sat there looking as described above but sitting on the faded and somewhat dilapidated couch it made for what be on all accounts a Norman Rockwell painting for the GHB generation. He sat there with his bad arm hanging lifelessly by his side and half an open Miller beer in his other hand.

I remembered the last time I saw this little fucker was only a few months ago when he was hungover and I chided him to go out and show me some skateboarding tricks. Quite the site watching this little fucker attempt some kick flip or double back side ass grab multiple times only to see him wind up on his back on the asphalt looking up at me. Looked to me like he wasn’t going to be doing any kickflips for some time.

I said hello and headed to the fridge asking if there was any beer for me even though I was already there opening the door. There were only two drinks left. One beer and one Seagrams Ice. I took the Seagrams Ice because I figured someone must really like those to put them in the fridge and I didn’t give a frogs fat ass if I was going to steal someones last drink because it was questionable whether or not Id rather be in this house again much less see anyone who lived there who wasn’t my cousin.

I took it and sat down on a chair and talked to my fucked up little cousin about life. I swear to god this slacking little fuck is having a great life. Im not sure he ever had a job but he traveled extensively through the states following the band Phish. To be quite honest it pisses me off. I put in 40 hours a week and what do I have to show it for it other then a 401K plan that I may never see.

Regardless he told me stories about friends who were homeless and survived by doing what he called “Couch Surfing.” This is what middle class slackers do when theyre finally kicked out of their home by parents who have finally wised up and stopped spoiling their fucked up little monsters. Parents had no one to blame but themselves and I’m sure when all of these little fuckups reach 30 something they’ll all realize what choices they made weren’t the best and scratch their heads and wondered what happened to them and they cozy lifes. I know this to be a truth….because I think they same fucking thing every god damned day.

Regardless, my brother took off and began making some necessary repairs as I sat on a dilapidated couch and kept my blood alcohol to an enjoyable level. I sat and goofed as hard as possible and tried to make some fun out of it but deep inside it was bittersweet. How happy can you be when lifes choices and the cold hard concrete slap of life finally hits home and you realize all the hopes and dreams took a detour at age 15 when fucking, boozing, and smoking somehow meant more then trying to be “one of the cool kids” or “one of the smart kids.” It was like a endless loop videotape only the fuckups of my generation were replaced by fuckups of the next generation. The clothing changed, the slang changed, and the music changed….but they were the same fucked up people that I was and it was an endless maddening cycle that screams of hopelessness but a phony hopelessness since the foibles were of our own doing and very much our own fault.

Ive lost touch with most of those people…call it human nature but I pray to god some of them are more fucked then I am. Nothing would piss me off more then seeing the group wastoid running a fortune 500 company. Then again….the group wastoid always liked me so maybe that would have been a good thing but I regress.

I got tired with the slacker conversation and went to my older 50 year old cousins room. He was painting and refinishing the rooms bathroom area. I asked him if had some pot to smoke. It was Sunday. I was drunk. I had nothing and thus-nothing to lose.

He pulled out a cheaply made 10 dollar pot pipe commonly bought at any head shop. The bowl of it was filled to the brim. Normally I only smoke when the pot is good and it’s a special occasion. But I was drunk and didn’t care. Life had handed me a bag of cow dung and to sit and cry about it wouldn’t have helped.

So I drank. And I smoke. And somehow….it made me feel better if not for a little while.

No comments:

Post a Comment