Life ain’t simple.
I’m not talking about how absurdly inconvenient mortality tends to be. What was it that Kafka wrote? The meaning of life is that it stops. So there’s no use ranting about the inevitable, even if I resent the fact that Ryan Seacrest and Kelly Ripa are going to live forever.
Nah, this ain’t big picture stuff I’m talking about. This is B-movie soapbox . . it’s direct to Prime Video. Because I’m talking about the little impediments that get painted across your Zen windshield on the regular. Things like a bill you weren’t expecting . . pain in the ass neighbors (I know, that’s redundant), traffic, and long lines at the grocery store.
The bills represent death to me. Every time I get a bill, it’s as if the grim reaper dropped in and is like Sup? Because there’s not a thing you can do about it, you have to eat it. You could run away to the Keys, but what good would that serve since you’d only come home to even more bills?
To think that we meet our neighbors when we get to heaven? Is a hellish proposition.
To say traffic blows is to win the Oscar for Big Fucking Understatement. I once dated a girl who confessed that she “loved traffic” because it helped center her. Come to think of it, her confession came on our last date. Because I can’t be with someone who spins positive shit out of traffic. I will get with a serial killer before I’ll do that. And the serial killer is going to be way more interesting.
Long Lines In a Grocery Store . . The Musical!
It’s not even the line that pisses me off. I can wait . . I’m not on any Most Wanted posters, that I know of. I’m not ecstatic about having to wait in line to pay a bill, and it sure as hell doesn’t ‘center’ me since I’m not a psycho. But standing in line at a grocery store separates us from the Bengal tiger, and I dig that. It reminds me that we’re not the top of the food chain, because if that Bengal tiger was shopping, the line would be much shorter.
So it was on Saturday afternoon that I prayed for that Bengal tiger to make the scene and maul the fuck-head in front of me (Editor’s Note: I use a hyphen to elucidate just how much of an asshole this guy truly was). Was it fair to judge this individual based on such a small sample size? No fucking doubt about it.
A few examples of his fuck-headedness? Sure, why not . . . (Editor’s Note: My spellcheck didn’t correct me on that word because it’s in complete agreement with me).
- Keeping his phone on speaker, thus allowing his conversational skills to dumb down the world around him.
- Wearing a “No Fear” t-shirt. And here I thought the United Nations had banned them.
- Skinny jeans. Sorry, maybe this makes me an old guy but . . no. Dudes? Just. No.
- Every other word is “like”. As if Merriam Webster ain’t dead enough.
- P.F. Changs . . . Healthy Choice Power Bowls . . Chia Seeds . . Almond Milk . . Chocolate Lucky Charms . . and okay, one or two of these in your cart is not a crime. All of these in your cart? And then add in all of the above? Guilty.
So it was quick thinking on my part to turn the ordeal into a musical . . in my head . . of course.
Opening Scene: The antagonist is mauled by a Bengal Tiger.
The musical part of this equation was taking place inside my head. Uncentered and unsettled but very much in time with the bluesy palette of Bobby Caldwell. It was a modest accord to which I was willing to oblige since committing murder is the ultimate bill. So I imagined myself firing up a turntable and letting its silky logic set the ground rules.
The bonus came with not making the Most Wanted List, which is . . like, pretty good too.