Constant Humanity

Went to bed last night thinking I’d hit the beach the next day. It was too nice of a day to do what I did -- staying inside most of the day, drinking Miller High Life and Budweiser while watching badly torrented and streamed football games.

Instead, I got up today and watched JFK conspiracy flicks all day. I think that it inevitably happens to all poor white guys when they get old and they stay in their apartments/houses by themselves too much. They start to look around and see what is going on around them. Which, leads them to think about conspiracies.

When really, you’re just a loser, who fucked up his chance at the “good life” or the “normal life” and instead is living by himself in a lonely old town.

Could be worse, however, you rationalize.

This is going to get awful, I can tell. So I’m stopping while I still can…

***

I have an old hat. I used to refer to it as my “Brett Favre” hat, because he was once known, and my still be known, for his old crusty hat that he wore all the time.

Well, I don’t wear this hat all the time anymore. It smells too badly now. So, wearing it to work, and to most social engagements would be kind of silly. Funny, but silly. I’d rather not folks want to stay away from me because of my stank-ass hat. Instead, they can stay away because of my overall demeanor. That’s just more suited to me.

Anyways, I’ve also worn this hat to every Lucero show I’ve been to. Minus two. Both times, the redhead was there. I figure I didn’t want her to smell it.

Why? Not a clue in the world. Good impression? Ha. Those days have long since past.

I’ve got two shows to go to next month. They will be the barometer of the old hat. If I wear them there, it is her. If I don’t it isn’t. Of course, knowing this now, I could influence the actual chance factor. But I really don’t care.

***

Decided to walk down to the boardwalk area. Good for the heart and soul. I figure to get some exercise and maybe some random human interaction. It’s been too long.

I get to the boardwalk and glance in the local pub. Bunch of old-timers and, much to my amazement, three women. Attractive ones at that. One of them even gives me the once over. I return the favor. She looks at me again and just stares. I look, then glance away and keep on going.

Maybe my Wanda moment could of happened, but I have doubts. Three against one isn’t the right set up for such things. The four dollars and change in my wallet usually keeps me away from even trying the single wings. It’s a viscous cycle and all. I know. Can’t win if you don’t play and all. I just like my odds to be better than that. I feel the hole in my pants pockets and know I was probably right, this time.

Net up is a couple, one looks the part of the marine. A pretty common role, it seems, in these parts. These parts. What the fuck is that?

They give me the glance as I walk by. My $2 flip flops doing what they do to make noise. I do look the part of vagrant right now. Then they just up and start faux humping on the bench in the covered picnic area. How oddly fascinating. I think about just watching the show. Imagine the possibilities…

However, I decide against it. I like having teeth in my mouth. As bad as the ones I have are, they are, inside of it still.

Next is the beach. I sit down, sigh and stare. All of the footprints in the sand depress me. Going here. Going there.

A few minutes later, the same couple is now jumping on swings. Pushing each other in a mad frenzy. Next up they start running and skipping, it would appear. Grabbing sign posts and lamp posts. Swinging on each and ever one of them. Some kind of mating ritual, I assume. It’s been so long since I’ve been on that prowl it doesn’t register quite correctly in my mind.

“Good for them,” I think. “I hope they make it.”

I doubt they will. Hope they don’t end up hating each other. It seems that’s the choice most make. Even when they stay together.

The thrill leaves me, so I decide to walk to the gas station. Not the BP close to my house. I have sworn that place off. Actually never been there. And, never going to. It’s amazing how many BP stations there are here. Must be a coastal thing. Because 40 miles inland, don’t see any.

I get there and there are two folks sitting outside. Smoking cigs and chatting. I turn my I-pod off so I can hear them. However, when I get close enough, they stop and go inside.

The beer selection here sucks. I was hoping maybe they’d have something I can’t get elsewhere, but it’s all Budweiser and Corona and the like. I get some generic funyons and a throwback Pepsi. How sad is it that real sugar is a “throwback” to anything.

My corpse will be well preserved.

I walk home, staring at my shadow. He’s my constant companion. It’s good to have a constant of some kind.