I'm walking down Main, headed towards 4th Street so I can catch the 40 bus home.
My day had been pretty anti-climactic and relatively drama-free.
Not even one good shoot-em-up.
And I guess, accordingly, I was feeling pretty blah. I was mildly under-anxious with the sentiment of being neither extremely inconsequential or rife with purpose.
So I'm passing 6th and this older Rasta cat is walking down Main, in the other direction. He looks at me and says, in a very friendly, booming voice: "NICENESSSSSS...You are pure NICENESS."
Well, I'll be. No one's ever rolled out such a compliment that surprisingly, had the capacity to make a girl's day quite like that. I didn't even say anything, I just kept walking while this goofy ass grin slapped itself across my face. He smiled back, told me I was quite welcome, and proceeded to stroll on by and out into the ether.
And with that, my day completely did a 180.
Because that was the day I met. The King of Awesome.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
The past couple days.
Day One.
You wake up with that shitty slow feeling - the one where all you know is that you are lying down. Perhaps in a gutter. Somewhere.
First thing you do is check to see if your pants are on.
Once that is established, you focus on trying to figure out exactly where you are.
And I. Was at home. Pants on. Whew. Eyes slightly glued shut with the residue of whatever the fuck happened last night. My cell phone was on the nightstand – I open one eye and see that it’s eight-thirty-eight. Then I check the phone to see if I drunk dialed anyone. Nope. Drunken text? Whew. As far as I can tell, the coast is clear. How exactly did I get home? A voice not unlike my own: J. Lee drove your happy ass. When exactly did I get home? Can’t really trust myself to say. What exactly happened last night? Ugh. Do you mean what happened between leaving Susan’s barbecue and getting home? I guess.
Somehow it involved a motley crew of whatnots, several of whom were last seen doing kegstands at a Sunday afternoon shindig…somehow making their way to the Miyako Inn’s second floor bar – which I vaguely recollect encompassed bottle service, soju and me doing karaoke to Laura Branigan songs. Slightly remembering the events, I start chuckling - through my bruiser of a headache.
Then it dawns on me that it. Is Monday. Monday and eight-thirty-eight am. Inevitably means that I. Will be. Late for work.
Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Triple Fuck. Dammit.
I try to get up quickly, but my nervous system clearly does not receive the memo - so I kind of lay there for a couple more minutes. I hear the tap of footsteps on the floor and rustling around. Mmm. I start to get back under the covers when I realize that I have… neither pets nor roommates.
I get up to see an unfamiliar man standing in my kitchen, moving furniture around.
Good morning.
Who are you?
I’m with the roofers. We’re just going to open up your ceiling here…
Like fun you are.
The roofers, they tell me, are here to deal with…well, the roof. But in terms of who called them over or let them into my flat, well. I found out later that Mike, the building manager, thought I had taken off and that it would be okay for him to let them into my place. Wrong.
I make it abundantly clear that I am not digging their Stranger than Fiction shit right now.
Then, I realize I am fully dressed from the night before. My wee brain is at full capacity. I just shrug and go to work.
Tuesday, Day Two.
I woke up with enough mosquito bites as if I had been spending months searching for treasure in the fucking Amazon rainforest. First off, I am horrifically allergic to bug bites – I get more annoyed than the average person, and it never fares well. I dunno what happened – I woke up this morning and counted 27 – yes! Fucking twenty-seven bug bites on my legs. I thought I was going to have to go to the emergency room for a fucking cortisone shot. It’s happened before.
Flashback.
It was spring break, my sophomore year of undergrad. My good friend Ruffin H. (yes, that truly was her name) had invited me to kick it with her and her father’s family at the Michigan Dunes for a week. Her father was a banker, and her stepmother and their kids...well…who cared what her stepmother did, I was just in it to kick it with my girl and some rich people for a week.
Our first night at the Dunes, we had rolled up to the coordinates Ruffin’s father had given, and found ourselves in the most deplorable conditions. Her father was a New York banker, and we had found ourselves in a nightmare of National Lampoon’s Vacation proportions. Who knew that they were cheap as fuck. Utterly bogus.
So, for our first night there, after the “family bonding” session, Ruffin and I took a walk down to the beach so we could drink some Budweiser (this is all her father brought to kick off a week's vacation) and smoke a bowl.
Little did I know that night, I would be preyed upon by “no-see-ums” and chiggers in the sand, evil, monstrous tiny things, in the dark.
The next morning, I woke up to an amazingly painful sense of this-isn’t-going-to-be-good. We surmised that I had about 30-35 bug bites, wrapped around my calves and upwards in this grotesque connect-the-dots kind of helix, and said legs had swelled up to the size of elephant trunks. It was time for my ass to go to the hospital. I went to the emergency room of some random level trauma spot, got a cortisone shot, and then made the decision to call my brother, who happened to be living in Michigan at the time.
Ruffin dropped me off at my brother’s apartment, which was a good hour or so away from where the hospital was, situated in Holland, Michigan. We decided she would pick me up at the end of the week.
I wasn't really put out by it. Dear brother, now, had a fantastic loft, situated above the one toy store in all of Holland. In 1995, Holland, Michigan, had the lowest unemployment rate in the entire country – 2% or some shit. So. Everyone there was all fucking Fantasy Island-“smiles, everyone, smiles!” – and 98% of everyone there also looked mighty Scandinavian. But I digress.
JP had to work during the week, so he wasn't really too keen on making sure I was set up with enough fun things to do during the day whilst he was gone-I was hopped up on painkillers, steroids and beer, after all-and left to my own devices for the week. The first morning I am there, I hear a knock on the door.
I open the door, and it’s my brother’s next door neighbor, Todd H.
Hey.
Hey.
He holds out a quarter of some amazingly green shit. It gleams. I am pulled like a tugboat to a fucking lighthouse.
I heard you smoke?
To this day, Todd is a close pal. The entire week is spent being happily stupid and consciously comatose.
Who knew Michigan was so fantastic?
A week passes. Ruffin picks me up and we proceed to swing by the South Haven Michigan Blueberry Festival. We were driving on the highway and passed by several cars with signs taped in their windows stating things like Honk for Jerry or Remember Jerry and not really thinking too much about it. The Fest was. Well. Full of blueberries. Lots of pie. Some folks without shoes. We really didn't think much about it.
It was when we stopped for gas that shit started to fall into place. This particular gasoline establishment would normally not be considered exceptional or noteworthy. Save for the swarm of over one-hundred neo-hippies that were swarming around it in a giant drum circle, like drones to a hive. I suppose some were finding their god-lights, some were straight out crying, some were in the throes of what seemed to be the bad dregs of a twelve binge, but whatever. Ruffin and I had pulled up to the station totally ripped after smoking a spliff ten minutes before getting there, so you can only imagine how the whole scene must have been a bit surreal.
It was only then that we realized Jerry Garcia was dead.
We got out of the van and surveyed the scene. It felt like we were in the eye of a storm that encompassed lost trustafarians a-plenty, most hanging out by the central pay station, like I said, and a few randoms idling about pumps 1 and 5. They swooped as soon as we got out of the van. I began to feel like I was in a very ill planned sequel to The Lost Boys.
“Do you know where the Blueberry Fest is?”
He was a young, Jim Morrison-type follower who might as well have given up way before he made his way to Michigan. Yeah, we actually just came from there. It's about. Well. Three minutes over that way. With the big signs that say 'Blueberry Fest' and all the arrows? Then.
“Do you have any drugs?”
He was a young, Frank Zappa-type follower who might as well have given up way before he made his way to anywhere else.
I told him no. We only had three joints to get us from there back to school - a good eight hours' drive. Morrison seemed to be okay with it. Zappa, however, didn’t quite take no for an answer. He came up to me as I was getting ready to pull from the curb.
“Do you have any drugs?”
Nah man, I just told you that.
“I don’t have any money, but I’ve got. These. Rocks.”
Zappy proceeds to hold up three pond pebbles from the gas station garden, gingerly, and with great reverence, as if he was revealing the most precious things in the universe.
Well, shit. Ruffin and I look at each other. I hand him the biggest spliff. Zappy's eyes grow to the size of dinner plates. He jumps through the car window and gives me a giant hug. We take the rocks and drive off. Zappy is last seen holding the herb high in the air, ready to call the rest of the Thundercats in.
You wake up with that shitty slow feeling - the one where all you know is that you are lying down. Perhaps in a gutter. Somewhere.
First thing you do is check to see if your pants are on.
Once that is established, you focus on trying to figure out exactly where you are.
And I. Was at home. Pants on. Whew. Eyes slightly glued shut with the residue of whatever the fuck happened last night. My cell phone was on the nightstand – I open one eye and see that it’s eight-thirty-eight. Then I check the phone to see if I drunk dialed anyone. Nope. Drunken text? Whew. As far as I can tell, the coast is clear. How exactly did I get home? A voice not unlike my own: J. Lee drove your happy ass. When exactly did I get home? Can’t really trust myself to say. What exactly happened last night? Ugh. Do you mean what happened between leaving Susan’s barbecue and getting home? I guess.
Somehow it involved a motley crew of whatnots, several of whom were last seen doing kegstands at a Sunday afternoon shindig…somehow making their way to the Miyako Inn’s second floor bar – which I vaguely recollect encompassed bottle service, soju and me doing karaoke to Laura Branigan songs. Slightly remembering the events, I start chuckling - through my bruiser of a headache.
Then it dawns on me that it. Is Monday. Monday and eight-thirty-eight am. Inevitably means that I. Will be. Late for work.
Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Triple Fuck. Dammit.
I try to get up quickly, but my nervous system clearly does not receive the memo - so I kind of lay there for a couple more minutes. I hear the tap of footsteps on the floor and rustling around. Mmm. I start to get back under the covers when I realize that I have… neither pets nor roommates.
I get up to see an unfamiliar man standing in my kitchen, moving furniture around.
Good morning.
Who are you?
I’m with the roofers. We’re just going to open up your ceiling here…
Like fun you are.
The roofers, they tell me, are here to deal with…well, the roof. But in terms of who called them over or let them into my flat, well. I found out later that Mike, the building manager, thought I had taken off and that it would be okay for him to let them into my place. Wrong.
I make it abundantly clear that I am not digging their Stranger than Fiction shit right now.
Then, I realize I am fully dressed from the night before. My wee brain is at full capacity. I just shrug and go to work.
Tuesday, Day Two.
I woke up with enough mosquito bites as if I had been spending months searching for treasure in the fucking Amazon rainforest. First off, I am horrifically allergic to bug bites – I get more annoyed than the average person, and it never fares well. I dunno what happened – I woke up this morning and counted 27 – yes! Fucking twenty-seven bug bites on my legs. I thought I was going to have to go to the emergency room for a fucking cortisone shot. It’s happened before.
Flashback.
It was spring break, my sophomore year of undergrad. My good friend Ruffin H. (yes, that truly was her name) had invited me to kick it with her and her father’s family at the Michigan Dunes for a week. Her father was a banker, and her stepmother and their kids...well…who cared what her stepmother did, I was just in it to kick it with my girl and some rich people for a week.
Our first night at the Dunes, we had rolled up to the coordinates Ruffin’s father had given, and found ourselves in the most deplorable conditions. Her father was a New York banker, and we had found ourselves in a nightmare of National Lampoon’s Vacation proportions. Who knew that they were cheap as fuck. Utterly bogus.
So, for our first night there, after the “family bonding” session, Ruffin and I took a walk down to the beach so we could drink some Budweiser (this is all her father brought to kick off a week's vacation) and smoke a bowl.
Little did I know that night, I would be preyed upon by “no-see-ums” and chiggers in the sand, evil, monstrous tiny things, in the dark.
The next morning, I woke up to an amazingly painful sense of this-isn’t-going-to-be-good. We surmised that I had about 30-35 bug bites, wrapped around my calves and upwards in this grotesque connect-the-dots kind of helix, and said legs had swelled up to the size of elephant trunks. It was time for my ass to go to the hospital. I went to the emergency room of some random level trauma spot, got a cortisone shot, and then made the decision to call my brother, who happened to be living in Michigan at the time.
Ruffin dropped me off at my brother’s apartment, which was a good hour or so away from where the hospital was, situated in Holland, Michigan. We decided she would pick me up at the end of the week.
I wasn't really put out by it. Dear brother, now, had a fantastic loft, situated above the one toy store in all of Holland. In 1995, Holland, Michigan, had the lowest unemployment rate in the entire country – 2% or some shit. So. Everyone there was all fucking Fantasy Island-“smiles, everyone, smiles!” – and 98% of everyone there also looked mighty Scandinavian. But I digress.
JP had to work during the week, so he wasn't really too keen on making sure I was set up with enough fun things to do during the day whilst he was gone-I was hopped up on painkillers, steroids and beer, after all-and left to my own devices for the week. The first morning I am there, I hear a knock on the door.
I open the door, and it’s my brother’s next door neighbor, Todd H.
Hey.
Hey.
He holds out a quarter of some amazingly green shit. It gleams. I am pulled like a tugboat to a fucking lighthouse.
I heard you smoke?
To this day, Todd is a close pal. The entire week is spent being happily stupid and consciously comatose.
Who knew Michigan was so fantastic?
A week passes. Ruffin picks me up and we proceed to swing by the South Haven Michigan Blueberry Festival. We were driving on the highway and passed by several cars with signs taped in their windows stating things like Honk for Jerry or Remember Jerry and not really thinking too much about it. The Fest was. Well. Full of blueberries. Lots of pie. Some folks without shoes. We really didn't think much about it.
It was when we stopped for gas that shit started to fall into place. This particular gasoline establishment would normally not be considered exceptional or noteworthy. Save for the swarm of over one-hundred neo-hippies that were swarming around it in a giant drum circle, like drones to a hive. I suppose some were finding their god-lights, some were straight out crying, some were in the throes of what seemed to be the bad dregs of a twelve binge, but whatever. Ruffin and I had pulled up to the station totally ripped after smoking a spliff ten minutes before getting there, so you can only imagine how the whole scene must have been a bit surreal.
It was only then that we realized Jerry Garcia was dead.
We got out of the van and surveyed the scene. It felt like we were in the eye of a storm that encompassed lost trustafarians a-plenty, most hanging out by the central pay station, like I said, and a few randoms idling about pumps 1 and 5. They swooped as soon as we got out of the van. I began to feel like I was in a very ill planned sequel to The Lost Boys.
“Do you know where the Blueberry Fest is?”
He was a young, Jim Morrison-type follower who might as well have given up way before he made his way to Michigan. Yeah, we actually just came from there. It's about. Well. Three minutes over that way. With the big signs that say 'Blueberry Fest' and all the arrows? Then.
“Do you have any drugs?”
He was a young, Frank Zappa-type follower who might as well have given up way before he made his way to anywhere else.
I told him no. We only had three joints to get us from there back to school - a good eight hours' drive. Morrison seemed to be okay with it. Zappa, however, didn’t quite take no for an answer. He came up to me as I was getting ready to pull from the curb.
“Do you have any drugs?”
Nah man, I just told you that.
“I don’t have any money, but I’ve got. These. Rocks.”
Zappy proceeds to hold up three pond pebbles from the gas station garden, gingerly, and with great reverence, as if he was revealing the most precious things in the universe.
Well, shit. Ruffin and I look at each other. I hand him the biggest spliff. Zappy's eyes grow to the size of dinner plates. He jumps through the car window and gives me a giant hug. We take the rocks and drive off. Zappy is last seen holding the herb high in the air, ready to call the rest of the Thundercats in.
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