Street Parking

I have a neighbor who parks his truck on the street in front of my house. The neighbor and his teenage son, I can't tell whether they are rude or just aloof. They likely do not know either. What they must know, however, is that, like me, they also have street in front of their house. That area seems to me a much more natural home for the truck. It's not so much the truck sitting in front of my house that frustrates me as it is the neighbor who thinks the thing to do is park it there. It is a common courtesy thing--or, rather, a lack thereof. It simply would not occur to me to park my Jeep in front someone else's house. I would not have to consider whether it was rude, inappropriate, or bothersome. Because I would not do it. This is not to suggest I am not an asshole. Of course I am. Just not the type of asshole to park my vehicle in front of someone else's house. I'm more the type who sits around and bitches about the asshole who is.

Todd

I'm willing to bet Todd Snider is the coolest and most laid back of the people I admire. I bet he's the same guy offstage as on. In spite of the occasional crazy eyes he has a kind vibe about him. I suspect he may be one of the few who truly is a to each his own kind of guy. I bet we've got that in common. And fuck, he lives just over the river. It'd be easy enough to meet him. But I got to respect that Nashville thing we've got going on. It's part of what makes it so great here. But it's tempting because I know he's righteous.

In my mind it goes like this:

Todd, let's go rob a bank. I'm serious.

Well, see, I don't know if that's the best idea, but if you want to go rob a bank, I could meet up with you later. Grab some food. Some wine. (Pause) Good luck, Brother.

And I know he's like that. Just laid back and cool and decent.

And that's kind of why I'd like to rob a bank with him.

Lunch With Tom

I wonder if Tom Waits would be scary. Like over lunch or somesuch say.

"Mr. Waits, wou...."
"Call me Tom, please," his voice gargled gravel.
"Tom, would you pass the salt please?"
He'd look through your soul then. Burn your eyes with his. And nonplussed and curt he'd say, "You don't need salt. Use pepper if you have to."
One of you would say, "Yes, Mr. Waits. I mean Tom." But the other you would either say, "Just pass the fucking salt, Tom!" or reach across him and pick it up yourself.

That'd be two ways to earn Tom Waits' respect. Even if he was scary. Say over lunch or somesuch.

Duck Ponds and Silver Rings

On the stone wall of the duck pond we sat. My friend with her slender feet and toes treading air just above the suspect water. She has good feet my friend. Each toe slight and aching for a slim silver ring to be placed upon it. Ducks here and there gave way to hooligan Canadian Geese, arrogant and hungover. Some with downy and superior punk bills clearly from biting some other unsuspecting water fowl on the ass. Some simply looked disheveled as though having just rolled out of bed. Schools, pods, gaggles of them approached us, strutting more so than swimming. We fed them chewed gum and cigarette butts which, true to their parasitic nature, they took. Some floated watching us. Some turned, shat in the water, and ebbed away. We gave them names and conversed for them. All slow geese in the special ed sense. Some cursed and smoked and drank. Others unable to do more than drift. My friend waved her toes at a particularly blank-eyed fucker, called, "Here Kitty, Kitty!" Brave and stupid, he made a play for a toe, meaning to have it. Laughter and retreat. Then another wave and call of "Here Kitty, Kitty!".... Time passed as time always will and soon we walked with friendly space between us past pretty college people and car after car ebbing everywhere and nowhere. It was a good walk. During lulls in conversation I imagined the sound of slim silver rings on slim young toes rubbing lightly together with each deliberate step we took.