In this post I'm suppose to write more cool things about my new home in Denver, CO, but first something not so cool: my downstairs neighbor, who I'll call "Mr. S." (No, that's not some kind of sleazy nickname for my penis. Not that you were thinking that.)
I'm on my way to meet my soul bro Dave for lunch and hanging out, when who should emerge from the downstairs apartment (I live in a four-plex) but "Mr. S." Mr. S is in his late 30s-early 40s, with a big round belly, a mustache and tats up and down his arms that we can see a lot because he's always walking around with his shirt off. And he's also a smoker, a personal nasty habit of his that reveals itself constantly because he likes to smoke in his washroom and the smell wafts up all throughout our apartment. He's not a favorite of my wife and I, but we try to give everybody the benefit of the doubt, although I think Tracy's patience is starting to run out with all of the smoking. Oh, did I mention that his wife is supposedly an asthmatic? Niiiice.
Anyway, Mr. S. pounces on me as I'm walking to my car and kindly asks if I could start parking a little bit farther to the right, because there's a big work truck in the alley behind our parking spaces that lines up right behind where he usually parks and its hard for him to squeeze in. Then, suddenly, I find myself in the midst of one of the most surreal conversations of my entire life, because from that simple request, Mr. S launches into a confessional narrative wherein I learn (without asking) the following facts:
--His lower three vertebrae are fused together because of an accident he incurred when he slipped and fell in the
parking lot of a local grocery store. Because of this accident, he has no feeling in his right leg below the knee...
--This accident apparently caused other problems down below, because Mr. S. also told me (while I'm standing in the shared backyard, desperately trying to inch towards my car) that in the "last 20 months" he's only been able to make love to his wife "once" and that it only "kind of worked." He said that I must "hear them arguing" and that the injury has been very hard on
their marriage. I'm thinking--yeah, that and the smoking.
--The last time he and his wife tried to have sex, he "fell on her" and he thinks he may have broken one of her ribs.
--Mr. S. has been very depressed because of the accident and he misses the days when he was a plumber and pipe fitter.
Apparently, he's gained 80 pounds since the accident and is on some type of medication.
--He also takes more medication for "the Hep-C" that he got from a "bad tatoo job". He told me that I can see him leave
for his shot every Monday and that if he misses a treatment the hepatitis-C could come back with a vengeance. (What is this--"must see VD?") Note to self--do not borrow any food products from Mr. S.
--He claims he used to squat thrust 700 pounds back in his glory days and that when he played high school football as
a middle linebacker and interior lineman, "the quarterback rarely landed on his back except when I hit him." Ah, if only we could have offensive linemen in our every day lives, especially in those slippery parking lots.
It's amazing what we can learn from people just by talking to them, isn't it? Or by NOT talking to them while creeping away from them as discreetly as we can? Sad thing is, after all that, when I returned from lunch I think I forgot to park my car in the designated "to-the-right" position. Is that sobbing I hear? Maybe I better go move my car...
While I should end this completely true story right here, I feel I should let you know that, believe it or not, this is NOT the most surreal, bizarre conversation I've ever had with anyone. I think first prize goes to a discussion I had with my mom's neighbor back when I was in junior high school. I can't remember all the details now, but the gist of it was that he was working his way up to accusing me of raping and killing his dog. Wait, I don't think that may have registered completely:
WHEN I WAS 12 OR 13, MY NEIGHBOR SUGGESTED NOT TOO SUBTLY THAT HE THOUGHT I MIGHT HAVE RAPED AND KILLED HIS DOG.
I am so not kidding about that. For the record, I have never harmed or killed any animal in any way and, my shock from his accusation suitably subsided, we were actually able to laugh and shake hands afterwards, although I never did find out exactly what happened to the man's dog.
On second thought, maybe everyone in Denver is crazy and all the sane people are in L.A.
Wait, there's Paris Hilton on TV, screaming and crying and heading back to jail after her hissy fit to get out of incarceration not only failed miserably but backfired on her sorry, spoiled ass. Yeah, I'm better off in the Mile High City...
Speaking of Tinseltown, as promised, here is cousin Braydon's report, which will hopefully be a monthly feature. (Excuse his Ebonics. Although he lives in Orange County, he likes to think that he's "down" with the homies. Whatever that means):
---------------------------------------------------------
What's up nerds and b****es and anyone else who might be readin' this sorry-ass blog. It's Braydon here yo, chillin' in SoCal with the latest word from the Tinseltown streets.
Now that cuz has taken his b***hass back to his hometown with his wife, he asked me to give him the latest scoop on what's going on in his former haunt. Yo, I just got a technical degree from the junior college, and I'm going to break into the movie biz doing special effects editing and shit! I'll probably start as a PA, driving around doing grunt work, but who knows? Mebbe someday soon you'll see my name up on the big screen working for George Lucas' ILM! As long as he don't make anymore Star Wars movies though--those last three movies was whack! And what was Jar Jar Binks!! He was like a digital Stepin Fetchit with long ass vagina ears! Whose idea was that?
Anyway, homegirl Paris Hilton doesn't want to get shanked or drop the soap up in the prison, so she's been not eating and pressing her call button and crying trying to get all dementalized so she can serve out her sentence in her West Hollywood digs. She even was planning to throw a party and shit once she got out--even while wearing her ankle bracelet yo! Paris needs to have her ass in jail! She can (and will) party on her own time. The only thing worse than her bratty, weak-ass behavior is having to hear about in the media and on the blogosphere 24-7. I know a couple a guys who could bust a cap in her ass, and end the story PDQ, but I guess that might be a little extreme yo.
Also, Isiah Washington got fired from GREY'S ANATOMY for that stupid shit he said about gays, calling them "faggots" not once, but twice. He did the "I'm Sorry Tour" and made amends, but you knew that shit wasn't going to play in Hollywood and now he's gone and says he's "mad as hell." At who? He's lucky he got to finish the season on that show the way he wuz actin'. And you know what? He's the worst actor on that show anyway, so no skin off his floor-draggin' knuckles I say. My cousin Reg would probably say, "good riddance" or some British shit like that, and for once I would agree with him.
Yo, I gotta go because some buddies and I were going to go surfing off of Dana Point and this isn't my regular blog anyway. (Check me out at www.Bman6969/myspace.com). I'll hit some clubs and talk to some of my D-girl friends in the biz and try to break it down for y'all next time. Until then, surf's up dudes and dudettes! Get a life!
--------------------------------------------------------
Thanks B. Whatever.
Peace...
No comments:
Post a Comment