Posts Tagged ‘humidity’

A plague of implausible shit

Thursday, 25 September 2008

I stood next to my car in a surreal neighboorhood. On one side of the street were small houses with well-manicured lawns. I was parked in a GUEST spot of the dodgy housing complex across the street while Julio, a friend from work who was 10 years younger than me, looked over my 12-year-old car. Both he and his still younger brother Sal seemed to love my model of car, they’d turned some of them into racers. They knew exactly what they were talking about while I, with minimal knowledge, was cartarded.

The Florida sun was its typical gluey asshole self, though there was some nice breeze as both young men admired the engine. They’d already figured out the source of a rattle a mechanic 30 years older than all of us I took it to never found. Sal was still tinkering when Julio left to pick up his kids from school.

An 80K Mercedes pulled into the spot on the other side of the empty space where I stood sipping ice water from a plastic pink tumbler the brothers had brought me earlier. Though the Black woman driving the ‘Cedes did not look like she could afford her ride and took no notice of us, I felt shame at my own car’s beat-up condition, even though, as Sal pointed out, I loved it and had it longer than a marriage.

As I took another swig of this and brought the cup down something crashed into my chest, striking my sternum with the force of a flicked pinkie finger. I looked down, saw the color brown and flinched. throwing the cup’s entire contents into the sky, a momentary crystal geyser.

The brown thing bounced away, hit the pavement and began scuttling–a flying roach!–its ugly carapace shining in the bright summer sun. I wanted to scream but I’d just met Sal and the fat Black woman still sat in her cream-white coupe, bumping low-volumed, noxious R&B.

“Kill it!” Sal hollered playfully. I was too frozen, too in shock to move. Horror and confusion were my world. It was 2 in the afternoon on a hot, sunny day; a roach was as out of place as a bundled Eskimo in Iraq. He skittered away on foot (or leg) while I stood frozen. I couldn’t step on a roach, not even with shoes on, and anyway, similar to George Costanza’s “deal” with the pigeons, I wouldn’t kill any insects out of doors (mosquitos excluded).

Julio returned. His cute kids, a boy and a girl, were munchkin-sized with huge heads and went upstairs before the Ice Cream man drove up the street, the (c)rap from his stereo even
drowning out the ice cream tunes. Julio told us the guy was always at the local park on the 1st and 15th, blasting Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
“On his stereo?”
“No! On the loudspeakers!”
Surreal.

The fat Black woman egressed her German sled and entered one of the duplexes. Julio commented the car was probably a boyfriend’s. Though I didn’t say it aloud, it made cops’ jobs easier to find the drug dealers with cars like that in front of faded duplexes in the ‘hood.

Throughout the day’s ops I snapped digital pics of my beloved car with my Kodak v550, a gift from my editor/webmaster/gifted photographer/longstanding Texan friend. I lifted the cam to take another shot of the disassembled door panel when I noticed the LCD screen mired in shadow. When I held it up to the strong sunlight, the shadow stayed.

I felt my guts sag.

The screen was cracked as if some tiny punk kid inside the camera had hit a home run and a pea-sized baseball had struck the glass, starring it. This morning the cam started out working flawlessly as it had the last 3.5 years. I’d already taken 20 shots (the memory card held a thousand) and there’d been no trauma or anything unusual done to it, in fact, I was holding it most of the afternoon.

I didn’t bother showing Julio the damage. Time ran out. I’d lost a camera but gained a replacement knob for my window crank. More work is to be done tomorrow.

It’s events like those of today that cause one to seriously ponder the sucking undertow under the roiling ocean of life. After years of neglect, I finally take steps to help my poor old car’s infirmities with a too-good-to-be-true honorable guy who enjoys working on my type of car, only to suffer two inexplicable lightning bolts of horror and bizarre bad fortune. Between the roach from nowhere and the undeserving death of my beloved camera, I can’t help but feel screwed, though tomorrow my car may run somewhat better.

More than the big disasters like quakes and cyclones, it’s these little tragedies that enforce the theory of a sinister balance to the universe. Intellectually I understand why shit happens, but I refuse to accept that any shit has to happen to me. How human.

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FUCK FLORIDA. A Canadian-free* rant

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

It’s not right to shit in one’s own nest, but Florida has it coming. For many years I’d escaped this place, but being a failure has brought me back.

When I left, there were no jobs and a shit economy. Now there are tons more idiots and massive growth…and STILL no jobs and a shit economy!

The place was a Paradise when I was a kid, and it had truly been a Paradise 20 years before then. But the gears of destuction were already a whirring blur…air-conditioning and WW2 training awakened the locust human to the nectar of Florida, and they’ve been buzzing down here ever since, the massive out-of-control growth unstoppable.

I avoid Outside, but even I mourn the loss of natural beauty to condos, cubans, shitzakistan ethnics and the price of bread tied to a rocket to the moon. The housing boom bubble, now a bust, obliterated any hopes of cheap rent ever again.

The hordes never have a POSITIVE impact on anything. There’s no culture, night life, etc. Sure I hate all of that anyway and never go out, but still…

Everything closes down by 9PM like it was fucking Mayberry.

Fucking New Yorkers (which my parents were, but they moved here long BEFORE it was cool) sell out Yankees practice games, and their fucking asshole politics…good Christ. You can own a gun and even pack heat here, but how long will that last with these liberals constantly moving to town? Even the lowliest New Yawk shithead can sell his shit-shack for 200 grand, which can buy a nice McMansion down here (no state income tax). Their fucking cawps retire with disability pensions from New York, often claiming a debilitating injury, then come here and go back to work again (What does New York State do about this fraud? Nothing! They just raise taxes). Oh, and this place is so OVER-policed, the fuckers are snoring in their cruisers on every street corner while the streets themselves all have speed limits 15 MPH slower than they should be. The thing that infuriates me the most about Yankee transplants is their high taxation and liberal approaches to crime and other problems is what made their home cities way too expensive and crime-ridden to grow old and gray in, so now here they come, having learned NOTHING, and fuck up Florida. We don’t deserve this. Mr. Smith from the Matrix called humans a virus. The pixel-nigga was right.

No one in FL can drive worth a shit, except me. Over the decades the myriad driving styles from retard transplants across the country have not fused into anything civil, logical or safe. I felt safer doing 90 on the LA freeways in my Geo in a sea of SUVs then I do here driving a few miles at 35. The weather is fucked like a Thai hooker…it’s almost the ass end of October and it’s still blazing hot like it was July. Fuck YOU, Sun! I’d also like to add that I’ve never gotten laid e.g. fucked e.g. had sex within the State of Florida, and I’ve lived here most of my miserable life. I can’t even begin to describe how much I hate worthless humanity for that one. Fuck Florida. I’d burn this place to the fucking ground if I could, sparing only one palm tree and one manatee. The rest can go to humid hell, ‘cept it’s already there.

* I lied. Fuck Canada…quit clogging up Costco, assholes! Those cheese samples are for AMERICANS.

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