WHARVED

Stumble

Indelible delicacies span the desert, as odd as it may seem to the never-ending line of gawkers establishing covenants left and right of that played-out Manson-Nixon phenomenon all you kids seem to take for granted these days. But never you mind such a clustered old sight, it won’t tuck you in at night even if you begged for a thousand years. But why would you insist on that kind of security? What are you, seven years old? The desert holds not much more than the limited flora and fauna you’ve come to admire (once the childish fantasies of fecund fields have worn off), unless you’re keen on uncovering the mystical rarities romanticized by travelers who’ve uncovered a sacred place amongst the oblivion any sensible person would surely avoid–if given the chance. That’s why I always say: drop those thoughtful suckers in the middle of the Mojave and watch them stumble upon God.

Inherent Value

Poet: I got a steal of a deal on turkey today! I’m unreasonably happy right now.

Accountant: So… why’s that? It’s just turkey.

P: Well, someone dropped one of those shrink-wrapped breasts on the floor, and it had already been opened, so their policy was that they had to toss it.

A: Let me guess, you–

P: Yup, got it for free! Gino was working behind the counter today and came out back on his break to “dispose of it,” i.e. let his buddy have an ample supply of salty fowl meat.”

A: Gross.

P: I didn’t see it fall, but Gino said it got picked up in about a second, and the floor was pretty clean at the time.

A: Pretty clean?

P: Come on dude, I get floor food all the time and yet never get sick. Coincidence? I think not.

A: Well… you might be onto something there, but you’ll have to walk that tightrope without me.

P: How very cryptic, yet obvious. Did you think I was going to try to share this miraculous bird boob with you? Fat chance, señorita.

A: Señorita?

P: Yeah, I’ve been starting to call white cisgender males señorita lately, to get them to question their binary perception of sexual and social roles (unless they already think about these things, in which case they’re cool with it anyway).

A: Good to know.

P: Back to the point at hand: you were insinuating that it’s only a matter of time before I ingest a floorbound grape and contract some horrific illness. Sometimes I wonder why it is that you actively root for my destruction.

A: Geez! Where did you get all that from?

P: Tonality, body language, eye movement, the usual.

A: Well it’s not true, dude! You really take things too far sometimes.

P: Yeah, whatever. That’s what they all say. All those… “people.”

A: People, sheeple, I know where this rant is going.

P: Fine, then let me localize my argument to this room and the mind straddling the body in my vicinity at the moment. I have been observing for some time that you repress your instinctual side, and the passive-aggressive comments you make on a fairly regular basis are vessels for your packing-up of creative frustration. You lob them–like grapefruits–right down the pipe and I hit tape-measure blasts from time to time, depending on my energy level at the particular moment of said pitch. My diagnosis: Boredom-itis. Prescription: Weed and painting classes.

A: Ooh, ow. Oh yeah, you really pegged me, you bedraggled son of a gun, you.

P: Glad you at least acknowledged it this time.

Sticklers

Sticklers twist stomachs with unbending adherence to arbitrary rules. Most common among those: never eat cheese on a Wednesday morning, always bring a spare umbrella during a hailstorm, only taste cake frosting with the pinky finger of your dominant hand, and if you’re ambidextrous, pick the hand that has more positive connotations in your life. The further down the list you go, the more detailed the rules get. Sticklers especially appreciate the needlessly-complicated ones, as they get a chance to memorize line after line of text from the Tome of Troublesome Tricks that Tame the Tummy.

Passing the Time

Ignoring me is always a sound strategy, I’ve found–if you’re an adult chimpanzee, that is. The less taken with me you happen to be, the more likely I won’t be mauled to death. If I end up not being extinguished by senseless violence, I can only imagine the possibilities for passing the time until a natural expiration occurs. I could hang glide over the Grand Canyon, climb George Washington’s nose, swim to the Statue of Liberty or really just do anything I want, whether or not it involves an American landmark. Many people would refer to such a string of accomplishments as a bucket list; I prefer to think of it as a superfluous sequence of events that denotes my extreme privilege in this world.

On the Hill

Kippers make Kipling seem somewhat soft, though I rarely worry about such judgments in the wake of our darling petri dish disposal repairman’s birthday. It just wouldn’t seem fair to rob our poor dentist’s cousin of his day in the spotlight; his daughter just graduated from college last week and he needs to figure out how she’s supposed to make a living in this city. From observing her through the years, it’s clear that she won’t be following him into the family business–and he’s just fine with that. He’s also fine with keeping a roof over her head, but hopes she has plans of leaving the nest. His inner philosopher has been craving some peace of mind and thinking space for years as he couldn’t help but notice her stumbles and bumbles through school.

Our beloved petri dish disposal repairman will be quite surprised–even baffled–next Tuesday after work; his spousetess with the mousetest, herself a successful clinical psychologist’s psychologist, has put together a shindig with a guest list of the most prominent thinkers in a four-neighborhood radius, in hopes of inspiring questions that will invigorate the remainder of his life. If he’s wise, he’ll cooperate with her plan–she always makes the best plans.

Thin Air

When a brand new idea greets you–
out of what seems to be thin air–
it feels as though you’ve just
brought a new child into this world.
It’s an uncanny record of your existence
that has the opportunity
to be perpetuated for generations.

Trousers

I didn’t put on a belt today, even though my trusted toad in residence screamed at me, “please do wear something that will hold up your trousers, you know how much you need that kind of support.” That kind of support. That kind of support. The statement cut to my core. How could a simple amphibian surmise how using such obviously leading language would end up with such a visceral reaction? I must concede that he has been with me for most of my adult life, a fact that I tend to overlook in my times of angst. He just has this way of seeing how my psyche copes with everyday life and the human-to-human disappointments that never fail to pile up when I venture outside of my hovel. Yeah, I’ll chalk it up to that.

Not one to quickly withdraw into self-pity (it usually takes a few minutes), I shot back. “Bah, you old-fashioned reptile! I rather enjoy a somewhat droopy trouser. It’s not my intention to be lumped in with the old fogies of the world, thank you very much. You know as well as I that I tend to shuffle my feet and speak in an exasperated tone about how things aren’t the way they used to be. Don’t rob me of my freedom of expression!” I called him a reptile, knowing full well that his species spawns in water. I’d recently taken to jabbing him with barbs designed to rock his steady demeanor. He has never once taken the bait. The cold-blooded bastard.

“Well sir, have you ever considered being the individual who brings belts back in style? Perhaps even suspenders? Your species really relishes bringing fashion back after an arbitrary period of time has passed, and maybe this time you can be the one to inspire the young men and women of the world that trousers sitting comfortably upon the waist are truly the change that they’d wish they started clamoring for, had they known someone of your immense tastemaking abilities.”

Speechless. Just speechless. That blasted earth-toned hopper had me stymied once again as I hiked up my pants for what must have been the twentieth time since making an excuse to “get fresh air” around the neighborhood (mainly for the purposes of people watching and escaping my inner turmoil as much as possible). I’m still confounded to this day as to how a little guy like him–with such a tiny little brain–could be my intellectual better. Oh well, no use in beating myself up… I think.