Some Small Consolation

MUNI this morning: a father, with his son in his lap. Little boy with baby skin, couldn't have been older than three. His little froggy voice pipes up, "daddy, I want some water. I'm thiiiiiiiirssssty."

Daddy: "We'll get you some water when we get off the train."

Boy: Puts on whiney voice: "but I WANT water. now."

Dad looks at kid. Kid's face is on the verge of total tantrum, you can see it in his features, his nose is screwing up, his face is scrunching. He is deciding. Face frozen in scruch for a second. You call tell Dad is holding his breath. And then the little boy lets his features relax. Giggles.

He makes his hands into a cup and dips into the air, gently, so as not to spill, he brings it to his lips, and sips, loudly. "Mmmmm. Water. Daddy, I found water."

His Dad smiles as the child cups his hands again, bringing the imaginary water to his father's mouth, so he, too, can drink.

Virginia

When I was in highschool, I briefly dated a guy who lived in Vienna, Virginia. He had me come out to visit him, and when I did, he proudly showed me his 22 rifle. Then, he tried to kiss me.

Such is Virginia. Sadly is Virginia. Virginia, now Bereaved.

What happened earlier this week is almost impossible to fathom, despite the prevalence in the media, the endless parade of pictures and video, still shots and interviews, it is just chilling, chilling, still unreal. That this guy was able to plan for so long and for so alone and that he got that far with it. That among us live mentally ill monsters who exist on the periphery, they give us goosebumps and so we bury them into that category of out of sight, out of mind. Until they shoot the door down, and gun their way in. There are not many of them, very few of these monsters, and I truly believe that most of the mentally ill are just sick. As in suffering from a disease.

Of the many disturbing elements of this now dubbed Virginia massacre, was that video, the words being said, there was a scary cadence to it, a rotten poetry, an element of "spoken word," a meter. The bastard child of a twisted imagination. The sick tirade of a dangerous, demented brain.

If I can console myself with anything, it's this: of people that are this deeply mentally disturbed, I do not think there are many out there capable of the planning and thinking necessary to put such a perverse plan like this into motion. Usually, I would hope, in these cases, the mind works in circles, and then trips itself up -- a hamster running too fast in its wheel will eventually fall before it ever reaches its imagined prey.

French Quarter Dive Bar Convo

Picture it being the middle of the day. The sun is playing tackle with the clouds outside and keeps breaking through with a hot and humid galumph. There's a gang of gutter punks eyeing my friend and I as we duck into the nearest dive bar.

"Beer," he says, settling into a bar stool.
"Vodka soda," I say, settling into same.

There are three other people at the bar. A big strong dog is lying right in the middle of the floor, tethered to his bar-sitting owner with a leash. Back in the shadows, there's a strung-out guy feverishly playing video poker. The bartender looks feminime tough, she pulls the beer, mixes my drink, slides them on over to us. And sits down on a bar stool of her own.

Guy to my left is saying, "so then he just, he's sitting there right at the bar, and he leans over, tilts over and just vomits all over himself. Man, it was disgusting, and he didn't even get up or nothing, just keep sitting there with puke all over himself."

Waitress: "that's disgusting. I get those guys in my bar all the time. Hate 'em. I mean, have some human decency. who was it?"

Guy: "It was X"
Waitress: "o'course."
Guy: "Yeah, so he's so gross. So you know he's still running that place over there near the X hotel. That bar over there."
Waitress: "Yeah, mmm hmm."
Guy: "And I'm in that bar the other night doing Jaeger shots. Just one after another. I must've lost track or something, I was slamming them. And all's a sudden I realize I'm shitfaced. Just plastered. Fuckin' lean over and puke onto the bar floor. And X, you know, he sees me doing it, he watches the whole thing, and man, he's so nasty, he just pushes over a bar stool and places it over the puke. Doesn't even clean it up or nothing."
Waitress: "Well, that guy's just a dirty fucker. Scum."

Guy: "So I'm at the bar a little longer and when I leave that shit is still there on the floor. And I get home and the next day I look in the closet and find my shirt and it's got Jaeger and puke and shit all over it. Just a mess. My nice shirt, too!"
Waitress: "Damn shame."

Poker Guy in Back of Bar: "Hey dahling, you think you can bring me a shot of Jaegar pretty please?"

Too Much Monkey Business

When I was young enough to go to day camp, each morning we'd start in this outdoor amphitheater called gully, and from what I remember of it, there'd be a lot of singing and if you were stirred enough you could come on down to the stage and dance. We sang Bad Leroy Brown. We sang a song about how "the loveliest of all is the unicorn," and that "poor old Charlie who will ride forever through the streets of Boston." We sang jailhouse rock and a song singing the praises of "glorious mud."

My favorite, however, was the one that went like this:

Too much monkey business
Too much monkey business
Too much monkey business for me to be involved in

That's the only part of the song that I remember, but I loved being able to stand up in gully and act like a monkey, scratching my armpits and hoo-hoo-hawww-haww-hawww-haawing.

Now I'm older and I've got no banana. The monkey business is too much, but it's no song and dance. It's bills and taxes, office politics and dysfunctional relationships. It's a therapist who spent over an hour on the phone telling me how screwed up I am. It's an unidentifiable smell in my kitchen. It's a whole lotta hair that's no longer on my head.

Too much monkey business for me to be involved in! (time to dance)