go outside, you might like what you find...

For all the days I’ve wasted, just sitting alone inside of my house/apartment/dorm room whatever, today should stand as a reminder that going outside is always the better option.

I woke up today determined to not waste it like I did the day before. While I had what I thought was a good story idea, I ended up burying it under half a bottle of Jameson and producing a turd. Bukowski once said that Hemingway was an alcoholic who got up early to write so he could get it out of the way so he could get drunk. That may be true. I just know that every writer thinks he writes better drunk. And while it is good to every now and then get blasted and type away, I’m finding that the creative juices are a bit more, how should I say it, diverse, when not drunk.

So, after tooling about a bit, I went for a walk. Decided to hit the beach and see if it was indeed as eroded as it looked last night in my drunken stupor. It was.

Only problem with it, really, was the people. Seems you’re allowed to drive on the beach this time of year. So, of course, to justify owning a four-wheel drive vehicle all these folks are on it. In their cars. Getting in my way as I’m just walking.

Then, out of nowhere I hear a voice, obviously saying something to me. I have headphones on, but keep them low enough on the odd chance someone wants to have a conversation with me. I try to say hello to everyone, but most people do everything they can to look away or not make eye contact. I used to be like that too, but found it to be more tiresome.

“Hey, honey. You from around here?” the redhead says.

“Umm. Yeah, I live over there,” I reply, pointing in the general direction of where my house is located. I look at this person and quickly come to the conclusion that she’s a he. He’s with another person, one of the many folks that I’ve noticed in my neighborhood, but never talked too much with. She is the skinny lady who lives across the main road. The one who I was five seconds from calling the cops for when her boyfriend/husband/whatever was cussing at her and hitting her. But then the cops showed up anyway.

“Well, you should invite us over,” he/she says.

“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got things to do,” I manage to say as I turn up the volume on my I-pod. Lucero’s “When you decided to leave” begins, somewhat fittingly, I figure. By then I’m walking down the beach, hoping this conversation has ended.

“Catch you later, hon!” he/she yells at me, waving, just as I’m walking by an older couple tanning themselves in the 70-degree fall day. The give me a look, I say “Hi!” and keep on walking.

I walk along the beach for a good two miles before getting bored. I was going to try and make it all the way to the Sheraton, which is about five miles from my house, but it starts to become something I’m not interested in anymore. So, I turn right up the sand and head for a trashcan. Usually they’re around rentals and public beach access areas, I figure. This time, I figure wrong. It’s got the “Don’t you dare!” signage for tourists and riff-raff to be scared by. Since I’m just riff-raff and the house in question is still boarded up from the hurricane about a month ago, I figure I’m safe.

On the road, I put my shoes on and start walking. No one here is very friendly. I say hi to a guy out fixing up something on his porch. Nothing. A couple of eldery New York-types give me the eye from their “Private Beach Access” walkway. I smile and say good afternoon ladies!”, and get nothing but a look and some whispers between the two. Guess my unkempt appearance and tattered hat don’t suit their wants and or needs at the moment.

A garbage truck passes by with one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve seen in quite some time driving it. I look her way and she gives me the “yeah, I’m hot, get over it,” look. I just look away and keep walking.

Upon arriving at the boardwalk area, I am walking slowly towards an entrance to a local eatery. A mustang is there. He stops and waits for me. Kind of odd, since I’m a good half a block away. I don’t hurry up. This seems to bother the marine (guessing here). He gives me a look and starts waving his hand in a “speed it up” kind of motion. I get beside his car, finally, and he gives me the look again. I say “you’re the one who waited.” Which sets him off on a tirade of profanities and then the old rev up the engine and pull into the parking lot real fast move.

I can only feel sorry for his girlfriend/wife. She’s going to have to listen to him for the next hour cussing about that ragged beach bum who walked so darn slow.

Ha.

After getting past the boardwalk, I get near the water tower. A bunch of construction workers are laughing. I look around and see one other guy going towards the hotel across the street from them. He goes up some stairs to a bungalow. There, three woman are hanging around. Young women. I watch as I walk. He says something to one of them and they give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. The other construction workers let out a howl. Two of the ladies go in the room, the other hangs out on the deck.

She looks down at me, walking by, and gives me the wave for “come on up.” From behind, I hear the construction guys’ cat-calls. I look up, smile and shrug. As I walk on, I wonder if I’ve now found the local brothel location?

Trannies, marines and whores. Who needs the big city?

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.