Random Again
Met M. for a beer or few at Dalton’s last night. I’ve been so far beyond needing to get out of the house that I could scream. Don’t do it very often so am thrilled when the opportunity presents itself—if only for a couple hours. M. is weird as batshit and that’s one of the reasons we get on so well. Our morbid senses of humor merge well and take us places no sane man would consider. We are able to make one another laugh regularly. And laughter refreshes the soul. I can always use some soul refreshing. Our funny is the kind that would typically appeal only to adolescent boys—which I guess we pretty much are. And like adolescent boys much of our humor is founded in the homoerotic. Why this track often reduces us to tears, I’m not sure. With so many guys who joke around along those lines, you kind of get the sense they might not actually mind seeing one close up. M. and I, however, are about as straight as you can get—without the hunting and doing doughnuts in the parking lot. We are very similar people. Ours is an attitude of live and let live but fuck you if you think it’s your place to tell us how to live. Well, I know that is my attitude. I believe his is at least close. It was good being out of the house.
We have Em’s soccer practice this evening and his game tomorrow. Last week’s soccer game was a fiasco. Em played hard for about 10 minutes and then promptly walked over to the sidelines, had some juice, covered his head with a denim jacket, and refused to go back on the field. For the rest of the game. He wasn’t exhausted, mad, upset, or bothered at all. He’d simply had enough. No amount of prodding, pleading, excoriation, or indifference could change his mind. I was terribly agitated until I reached a moment of clarity: Emerson is three! It’s his job to be obstinate and headstrong. So, Well Done, Boy. We’ll try it again tomorrow.
I will help move Uncle G. again after the game tomorrow. From the storage shed to a third floor apartment in the Village. I couldn’t be in worse shape if I were being paid to be; so this should be interesting. Nana will keep an eye on Em. I foresee the day ending in cold beer and sore muscles. Not a bad way to end the day.
We have Em’s soccer practice this evening and his game tomorrow. Last week’s soccer game was a fiasco. Em played hard for about 10 minutes and then promptly walked over to the sidelines, had some juice, covered his head with a denim jacket, and refused to go back on the field. For the rest of the game. He wasn’t exhausted, mad, upset, or bothered at all. He’d simply had enough. No amount of prodding, pleading, excoriation, or indifference could change his mind. I was terribly agitated until I reached a moment of clarity: Emerson is three! It’s his job to be obstinate and headstrong. So, Well Done, Boy. We’ll try it again tomorrow.
I will help move Uncle G. again after the game tomorrow. From the storage shed to a third floor apartment in the Village. I couldn’t be in worse shape if I were being paid to be; so this should be interesting. Nana will keep an eye on Em. I foresee the day ending in cold beer and sore muscles. Not a bad way to end the day.
posted by Ryan at 1:39 PM
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