I went to the creek to have an adventure. Still barefooted, I walked over to the swings about 60 yd away I’d express that in meters but this is Arkansas and I don’t wish to cause a riot. A couple of younger boys were at the far end of the swings. I began to really exert force to climb higher and higher. I knew the two boys were watching. They had no choice but to join in. It’s hardwired in our DNA. Within a minute, they matched my height and then exceeded it. “Can’t get any higher,” one of them asked me. Before the ever-elusive common sense caught up with me, I said, “Not legally.” They both laughed. I pulled back hard and laid forward on the chains to slow my forward progress. Without hesitation, I jumped from the seat and landed on the ground. I took a bow. The two boys tried to do the same. Except they didn’t slow their forward momentum. Both tumbled as they hit the ground. “That’s experience,” I told them. “What goes up must come down. It’s like a law of motion or something.” Both boys got back on the swings to make another attempt. I cheated by nodding at them both and scampering off. X
Fireworks. I love them. I still love setting them off up close and personal but I haven’t done it in a while. As I got older, it’s sunk in how much they affect some animals and some people. If you’ve ever known anybody with PTSD, it’s hard to enjoy them knowing that there are people out there that are terrified. And that some people have to take extraordinary pains and caution to minimize the effects on themselves on their animals.
On a local board, someone caught hell for asking people to respect the lawful parameters of using fireworks. Obviously, fireworks are a good example of an occasion when people are going to ignore the law. And that’s okay.
I have a couple of skills. And one of those skills is finding people. It’s very tempting to make a list of those belittling other people for asking their neighbors to be reasonable.
It would be hilarious and educational to go buy a huge quantity of discounted fireworks. And bide my time. Wait until Sunday night at midnight and light an apocalyptic amount outside their window. A 10,000 string of firecrackers, for example. How could they complain?
It’s no more illegal to set them off on Sunday night than it was last night at 2:00 a.m.
I have this weird feeling that such people who previously belittled others for asking for reasonableness would suddenly start arguing the other side of the consequences if they were awakened at midnight with 6 minutes of firecrackers.
In my younger days, I would have taken great delight in doing this sort of thing. To see if people would recognize their hypocrisy, even as they shouted in anger at the audacity of someone setting off fireworks outside their house.
WD-40 is versatile. It even protects idiots. I should know. My next door neighbor wrote me last night to tell me there was a wasp nest outside my apartment. Since I moved in here, I’ve been the de facto wasp warrior for everyone. It turns out there was a nest directly above where I usually sit and stand outside my door on the landing. It turned out that they looked more like yellow jackets to me. It had to have been built quickly but I wonder how many times I had stood out there with them working right above my head without me knowing. I was going to eradicate the nest later today. But you know me. I decided to go to war at 3:15 in the morning in the dark. I opened the door with my can of WD-40 in hand. My cat Güino took advantage and ran out the door to the right. He is familiar with my idiocy and probably wanted to stand somewhere out of the way and enjoy the morning. Even if screaming ensued. I covered myself to be more protected. Just kidding. I went out there shirtless and in shorts without shoes. Peering upward at the nest directly above my head, I calmly sprayed the burgeoning nest with a barrage of WD-40. Luckily for me, the yellow jackets didn’t know what hit them. The WD-40 saturated them before they had time to move. Not that I cared. I knew that once I started spraying that running probably wouldn’t be much help. Especially in the dark. I would like to thank my neighbor for the early morning adventure. I’m not quite sure how I would have reacted had I been standing out there later today only to be to have been bombed by multiple yellow jackets. I’m pretty certain that the result would have been a lot of cardio for me.
The word is deliberately misspelled. Much like the actual word “misspelled.” An excess of letters to convey meaning. I’ve been rightly accused of the same, using purple prose and needless words to convey stories. To which I often reply that only criticism from avid readers and writers speaks to me. The TL;DR crowd is not my tribe. If you’re unfamiliar with that acronym, you’ll be disappointed. The explanation is ironically long. Yes, I realized I committed the same sin Alanis Morissette did in her trademark song by phrasing it that way. I’m being self-indulgent with my jokes. That some people don’t understand that they’re jokes is an inside joke in itself.
As for the title of this post, Sinset, It’s a word I coined to convey the likelihood of misbehavior once the sun sinks below the horizon.
A lot of people wait for the dark to commence their personal bacchanalias. Most of these people control their hidden impulses during the day. They meet their obligations, go to work, and avoid gluttony of all kinds. But when dusk is upon them, they fling open the fridge and eat all of the things. They pour a shot of whiskey and then foolishly open up their web browsers or apps and become internet warriors or guilt-ridden OnlyFans patrons. Night tends to peel away the mask for some.
Thankfully, the next morning arrives. An almost clean slate except for the shadows of the consequences of the previous day’s choices.
Last night, Erika and I heard the onset of what seemed to be a large private fireworks display. We went outside and sat on the deck, the porch light for once temporarily extinguished. Though the trees blocked some of the beautiful array of colors, it was beautiful. The booms echoed relentlessly against the barrier of our l-shaped apartment. We were surprised when we noted that none of the resident’s dogs sang the song of their people against the cacophonous and relentless explosions. It was a large fireworks display that emanated somewhere near the beautiful new houses nestled against the protection of the railroad tracks running parallel to Gregg Street. This morning, because curiosity overwhelmed me, I drove through to see if the remains of the display were still there. They were. A series of carefully placed fireworks boxes still remained on the dead-end street. Someone spent a fortune to provide onlookers with a temporary spectacle. Though people with animals cringe with such displays, for me, it was a beautiful surprise, one up close and personal without the need for travel or discomfort.
I wanted to share a goofy anecdote from someone I used to work with. He came from California. No, he did not have a banjo on his knee. I asked him what the craziest thing he saw was. I’m paraphrasing:
I lived in a rougher part of Los Angeles. I was standing outside talking to an old man who was my neighbor. A dark Oldsmobile Cutlass pulled up about 30 ft away. The windows were down. We both looked up because the engine was really loud. The man in the car calmly lifted a gun from his lap and aimed it. He shot once. I was already scrambling to hit the pavement. My old neighbor didn’t flinch. The bullet went between us. Or would have had I not been laying face first on the asphalt. The Cutlass roared away.
“What the hell was that? Why didn’t you duck?
The old man laughed and said, “Boy, you can’t dodge bullets. And whoever that was is afraid right now. What are we going to do, call the police? So they can ask us a bunch of questions that we don’t know the answer to?”
I had a lot of questions. My coworker didn’t have the answer to any of them. He couldn’t figure out if the old man was the bravest person he ever knew, or the wisest.
Listen. Or rather, read. This is another post I wasn’t going to share. Earlier in the week, I stood on the landing and watched the birds and traffic. I’d come home to serve as a taxi before returning to work. I have the best view of anyone in the l-shaped apartment building. A large white truck drove into the parking lot and turned in to park at the streetside of the lot. I looked away to fiddle with my phone. When I looked up, someone was approaching across the landing. It’s rare for anybody to cross the long portion of the landing at that hour. At 2:00 a.m. it’s normal. Those who traverse it that hour are still at that stage of their life where they don’t realize that burning both ends of the candle tends to catch your shirt on fire, metaphorically or otherwise. As the man approached, I realized I knew him. He spoke briefly to me and I responded politely. I noticed he was walking oddly. He went into a nearby apartment. I know the purpose of his visit was to drop off drugs. I know that because he used to be my next door neighbor. Even though he was the impetus for my having taken a few violence self-defense sessions, I had to acknowledge that if had ill intentions, I would have only had two seconds to respond. I also know that I would have been capable and that the outcome probably would be on the news. It tickles me still that people look at me and see a mild-mannered middle-aged man.
When the ex-neighbor exited the apartment, we talked for a bit. It was his birthday and he was feeling old. There was no weirdness and no subtext of violence. Out on the landing almost 2 years ago, I was recovering from emergency surgery. That’s what made the light bulb go off in my head back then. If someone is putting you in the position of defense, they don’t care what condition you’re in. In fact, you being vulnerable is an enticement to many. But in this case earlier in the week, I gave him medical advice because he had suffered a pretty hideous hernia recently.
It was a strange moment. I wished him a happy birthday, despite him being in pain. I actually encouraged him to get his MRI more quickly and to do the follow-up without delay for his own safety. Regardless of what he does for extra money, he is human. Whatever drove him to behave so irrationally a couple of years ago most likely was the result of altered brain chemistry. He might not even remember it. That is a sobering realization; that someone can affect you so deeply and perhaps not realize it.
I like to think the potential moment of violence had its purpose. It motivated me to focus and learn a couple of new skills. It echoed in my head as I escalated my habits to stay in shape. I look back on my childhood and hope that the violence had its purpose. Even while I simultaneously realize that it was the outcome of random unchecked toxicity. All of us who experienced it came out of it in our own way. Each of us however, cannot look back without realizing it infected each of us differently. My brother sublimated it into anger and alcoholism. Intelligence did not provide a trap door for him to escape it. My sister chose a similar path. She’s still standing and is 2 years clean and sober now. The truth is that few people would have expected that outcome. It truly is a matter of where you end up and not so much how many horrible detours you’ve taken.
The words my neighbor that day long ago were some of the worst I’ve ever heard. Almost two years later, I know I probably will never forget them.
I probably can’t adequately explain how odd this moment out on the landing in the early morning was to me. He was just a dark shadow of the past who interrupted my morning. I knew everything would be okay even if it wasn’t. Because that’s the only way to get through the day. We seldom start the day knowing what pratfalls life is going to ask of us. You can’t even prepare for them.
I wasn’t going to write this anecdote. It rose from an extemporaneous encounter that both tickled me and irritated me.
I went to our local large warehouse superstore after work. In part due to the desire to buy some chicken and in part to engage in some frivolity. I parked near the end of the lot as I often do. For no reason, I sprinted up the parking lot. Behind me, I heard an engine revving. Assuming it was a testosterone-deficient display of horsepower, I kept running. After all, someone has to keep OPEC funded, so such blasphemous displays of tacky overkill are important to both the economy and to aftermarket parts stores catering to those who think the epilogue is something people say at a funeral. As I slowed to traverse the crosswalk, a horn blared at me. It was as loud as an angry housewife at 7:30 p.m. on bowling night.
Turning to wave, I saw that the horn emanated from a large pickup truck. The man driving had put his window down. He shouted at me. “Hey, watch where you’re going!”
Confused, I looked down at the crosswalk and then pointed at it. “I always do,” and laughed.
I could see that my humor and my short truthful quip was not pleasing to him. I was still confused. He drove up behind me as I ran and there were no other vehicles crossing the perpendicular plane of the lot adjacent to the store. My a$$hole detector sent off a warning bell in my head.
Time to play.
“You heard me. Are you being smart with me?” His voice rose in intensity.
“I wouldn’t dare. Your wife wouldn’t recognize such an attempt.” I laughed even harder and stood looking directly at him.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if I got out of this truck!”
I wanted to say, “I’m not sure you could, absent the use of a crowbar and can of Crisco,” but I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “I am NOT going back to prison for this!”
His face froze as the words I’d said sank in. “Just be careful of where you’re going!”
“We’ve established this already. Any new business you’d like to discuss?” I definitely laughed my ass off with this remark. I knew I could outrun him. It was doubly obvious I could outsmart him by challenging him to a one-syllable spelling bee. A part of me wanted to take off running to the end of the lot just to see if he’d attempt a chase.
I am pretty sure his wife had told him, “Let’s go” at this point. As y’all know, this is an infinitely ineffective strategy with this sort of esteemed citizen. It’s right up there with “Calm down!”
He gave me the middle finger. Not to keep, of course. He limited himself to showing it to me with considerable enthusiasm.
I did what any red-blooded American guy should do in this situation: I bowed formally. When I raised up, I gave him a big thumbs-down with my right hand.
You never know when the last picture of you might be taken. Hopefully, it’s not 5 minutes after you awaken and amble out of the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from your mouth, and gravity working its inevitable magic on your body. But if it is, someone would cherish it because that’s the way they see you every day. (Or from an episode of Cops.) Recently, I was given an undeveloped roll of 35 mm film from 1977. I sent it off for processing. It’s impossible to know what’s on there. I love that uncertainty! What if it is the first picture of someone as a newborn? Or someone’s sibling or parent posing goofily, unaware that it may be the last picture ever taken of them? What value can you put on that sort of picture? What value did you ascribe to your day today? Was it just another Friday, one marking the end of a work week? Time is short. As Redd Foxx said, “…diamonds are forever and so are the payments.” Recently, my cousin inquired and quipped about the possibility of someone taking my picture or writing about an interaction, thus turning the tables on me. I photobombed someone at the store today as they snapped a picture of their manager, who was angry at a subordinate who had texted to say they would not be at work this afternoon. I smiled like an idiot as she snapped the picture. I realized that I wasn’t even impersonating an idiot, given my qualifications. My smile didn’t originate with the anger of the manager. Instead, it’s because I resisted the urge to say, “But did you die!?” Even though it’s a humorous cliché, it does have an inherent philosophical observation. Love, X .
As I walked down the hill to the bottom lot to leave, I watched a woman fill the little pantry by the bus stop and parking lot. I spoke to her in English. She smiled and said I don’t speak much English. Because of her accent, I switched to Spanish and she lit up. It turns out she is Dominican and her name is Ilca. I made her laugh at least fifteen times as we talked about prejudice and language. What tickled her most was that I introduced her to the American Salute, one I made up extemporaneously. She howled when I demonstrated it to her and explained that it’s the best way to get to know people who are aloof or non-responsive to salutations. The American Salute is comprised of the conflicting body language of a wild wide smile in conjunction with the extension of either middle finger. I explained to her that it separates the people with the good sense of humor and curiosity from people you wouldn’t want to know in the first place. She told me her name was unusual. When I told her mine she was skeptical that I was being honest due to my sense of humor. For whatever reason, when I’m speaking Spanish, my sense of humor escalates while my sense of propriety goes out the proverbial window. I showed her my work badge and it still took her a few seconds to discern that the singular X on the badge was indeed a real name. Times like these make me proud and glad that I speak Spanish; moreover, that I love talking to people. She said she loves the area that she got to know because of her son but that she struggles with the friendliness of people she meets. I recommended that she pretend to be more outgoing and as if everybody might have something interesting to say, ignoring those who brush her off. And that the law of averages would reward her. She still seemed a little hesitant, so I pointed out that since I was the only X she had ever met, it was likely that I might know what I’m talking about.
. . . Earlier in the morning, I went to my car to retrieve an umbrella in case a pop up shower happened by my break. The sky was apocalyptic and dark. It was beautiful. When I opened the trunk of my car to get the umbrella that I had placed there after the trip, I heard a roar behind me. I turned and got to see something I don’t witness very often: the roar emanated from a visible literal wall of rain moving incredibly fast toward me. It hit me like a liquid brick. The wind was probably at least 40 mph and blew me sideways. The rain rendered the umbrella as useless as an open mind in Kentucky. Given that I was already soaked, I walked slowly back up the hill toward work as the wind and rain beat me. I could see the trees bending across the street. As odd as it sounds, it was beautiful and felt amazing. Earlier this morning I wrote about witnessing the smaller rain and lightning be born. The later episode allowed me to see the storm’s genesis. I put on a paper scrub top upon my return to work, even though my shoes were filled with water. I left work for a few minutes, not to change my clothes, but rather to pick up some of the plants at home that had been rendered airborne.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 