Fooling Yourself (Angry Young Man)

When I lived in Arizona, before I moved into the RV, I lived in a little spot on Euclid Avenue just down the street from the university, a two-bedroom with a small living room and a wood burning stove. I had several roommates when I lived there, most of them very good friends, and at least one or two girlfriends who lived there with me. 

The train of thought that got me to thinking about this old spot, in which I lived in varying degrees of filth, despair, and happiness, involved a stout branch I keep beside the bed these days for whacking burglars and other ne'er-do-wells. It reminded me of the piece of bamboo I bought at Pier One imports that I ostensibly kept for home defense when I lived in the Euclid house, but which I mostly used when I got drunk to beat on the walls of the place in typical angry young man fashion.

This Calls For Wisdom

664 Carroll Street has all its lights on, and I can see somebody in the window tidying up the front room, getting ready to go to bed, probably.

668, two doors down, has a brightly lit number in gold leaf letters on the glass above the door, like all the brownstones on this street.

666, though, is mostly dark, and has no indicating numbers, no activity in the windows, nothing to draw attention to itself.

The dog waits patiently for a bit while I watch it, and then, bored, sits down, completely oblivious to numerological systems of ancient middle-eastern religions and their eschatology.

Under My Breath

Watching "Mad Men" and then reading a debate on Twitter has soured my mood, and the dog has picked up on it. The fug of toxic nonsense I exude as I argue under my breath with people who aren't there or don't exist makes it almost impossible for her to find a decent place to pee, a task for which she requires all her concentration.

Venus is high in the west, and I watch it for a while as the dog noses around a tree before she's distracted by a laughing couple walking on the other side of the street. I try to still my need to be right, if for no other reason that that I want the dog to do her business so I can go home.

Drugs are a Drag

After a discussion on the relative merits of Claritin and what exactly allergies mean, like if maybe the sinuses at the back of my head might be the cause of the headache I've been complaining about all day, I finally try to close the discussion by promising to take two ibuprofen, and if that doesn't work to revisit the possibility of taking something stronger.

"Wait," says Katie, "you've had a headache all day, and you haven't even taken Advil?"

"Well, I...."

"Get out."

The Back Catalog

The stoop sales bloom in the springtime sun, all up and down the block. The guy with the crates full of old vinyl records has set up on the steps of a brownstone, and his wares are well attended by passers by.

I have no intention of buying, but still I linger, flipping through the stacks with a practiced air. The act itself is what soothes, flipping from cover to cover, one falling forward as the next is revealed:  ABBA's greatest hits, Traffic, Neil Young, some checkerboard 80's graphic design atrocity, a fuzzy faux-velvet covered Bee Gee's record, Cat Stevens, Cat Stevens, Cat Stevens.

Timing

5:40 AM, and the dog has wet her bed again. Katie has already flipped on her bedside light over the pungent puddle as it flows across the floor due to the slant of the apartment, while I stumble out to the kitchen to get paper towels and the dog retreats around the corner with a chagrined expression.

After the cleanup, I kiss Katie on the forehead and prepare to start my day. When she looks up at me questioningly, half-asleep as she is, I explain, "I've only got ten minutes before my alarm goes off anyway."

Not That it Bothers Me

The two urinals in my company bathroom are shoved into a corner and right next to one another with no dividing wall, making the usage of both at the same time a rather... intimate affair. People usually opt to use the stalls if one of the urinals is already in use rather than stand, thighs almost touching the guy next to them, with their dick in their hand.

But today, this guy, apparently unfamiliar with the local custom, slides right in next to me to use the other urinal while I'm peeing. I thought to mention how strange I found it that no one ever did that, but stopped myself, because really, what's more awkward: standing super-duper close, almost touching, to somebody while you pee, or talking about standing super-duper close to somebody while you pee?