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A Mediocre Man

“Never strive for mediocrity.”   My middle school science teacher used to tell my class this every single day.  He always wanted us to “do more” with our lives.

Unfortunately or fortunately, my life is proof that I’ve continually forgotten about the word “never” in that quote.  I am a mediocre man in every sense of the word.

Welcome to my world of prose, poetry and semi-intelligent ramblings.

My other sites:

www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com

www.duhmerica.wordpress.com

 

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My Savior Is Tougher Than Nails

shirtI went to my local grocery store to get a few things yesterday.  I was getting some butter when an older man, about 60 or so was heading towards me pushing a cart.  I always buy the Kerrygold Irish butter, it’s fucking delicious.

He wore a black shirt with a huge cross and quote on it that said, “My Savior Is Tougher Than Nails.”  His hair was long and white and his skin weathered.

There was even blood painted on the ends of the nails.  When you think about it, it really is a sadistic shirt.

I couldn’t help but wonder about what fucking sicko would wear a shirt like that.  By wearing it in public he was obviously saying to the world, “Fuck your beliefs and fuck whoever your savior is because my savior is way more bad-ass than yours.” 

So fucking American of him.  We are bigger, badder and fuck you if you don’t like it.

Personally, it seems like his savior kind of failed.  I mean shit, being nailed to the cross really did him in.  Sounds like he was kind of a big, giant pussy.  (I mean no disrespect to vaginas.)  I love vaginas and I’m truly sorry that I often refer to people I don’t like as “pussies,” but it just feels right.  I’m old school like that.

I wanted to say something to him, but my balls just aren’t that big.

I wanted to say, “Hey asshole, you know what????  My savior is late night McDonald’s.  The fries are so delicious it makes me forget about the horse-meat burgers.  And guess what???  My savior will always be here for me.  McDonald’s will never give up.”

 

grocery checkout line

In the checkout line.  A woman, around 60 or so reading one of those gossip magazines while the cashier slowly pulls the items down the mechanical beltway towards the plastic bags.

“Brad and Jen????  Did I miss something, when did they get back together?  Didn’t she adopt a bunch of kids or something?”

“Well, you know when she did that weird, whatever you call it these days…… with that Billy Bob guy, I just knew something was wrong with her,” replied the cashier.

The customer laughs making her huge tits bounce around while her pudgy jowls jiggle.   “You  know Jen never can seem to keep a man.  Makes you wonder what kind of woman, especially someone as rich as her, can’t keep a man.  Such a shame, such a shame.”

She put the magazine back on the shelf.  “I just don’t have time to read the whole story.  I’m sure there’s a good reason for it.  There’s always a reason.”

I wanted so badly to explain to these cackling fools the difference between Jen and Angelina, but it wouldn’t matter. Two people at a grocery store doing what us, dumb Americans do best; buying a bunch of food we don’t need and marveling at the bull-shit world of celebrity.

 

 

Golf course hotel

Another hotel for work.  I stay here a couple times each month.  It has a golf course and small convention center.

It’s the same freak show every time.  Fat, white golfers with their pasty cheeks toasted by the south Florida sun, come in for drinks after chasing a ball around for five hours.

A mix of business men sitting at bar tables, intently focused on their laptops, checking stocks, because these rich assholes can actually afford to own stocks.  Always rude to the bartenders and staff for no reason other than to satisfy their inflated egos.

Rarely, if ever, does a woman show up.  I don’t blame the women though.  When they do come to the bar, every guy is trying to be cooler than they actually are because their wives are far, far away.  While at the hotel on for business, they dream of strange, anonymous pussy, but rarely seal the deal.

Business man next to me at the bar wearing a fancy jacket, cuff links- yes, fucking cuff links, apple air buds in, making calls, speaking loudly so everyone knows how important he at least thinks he is.  Holy fuck, I don’t dress that nice for a wedding or funeral, but thankfully he does.

He ordered a Stella draft and that’s shit beer, so that confirms he’s a fucking fraud.  He’s damn good looking and fit, but would probably fuck himself first because no woman could ever be as hot as he thinks he is.

I wish I could Dexter this guy; lay out the plastic, put the tranquilizer in his neck and drain his blood because he’s doing nothing positive for this world.  He probably has a huge cock too, that’s usually how it works.

“I’m a salad guy,” he said to the waitress as his cuff links shimmered from the bar lights above.

I couldn’t stand it anymore.  I walked outside, smoked some weed and went to bed.

(Related Posts: Another Hotel Bar; Another Florida Hotel Bar; Beach Bar)

being Isaach De Bankole (a tribute to the Limits of Control)

Are you interested in science by any chance? I’m interested in molecules.  The Sufi say, each one of us is a planet spinning in ecstasy.  But I say, Each one of us is a set of shifting molecules, spinning in ecstasy.  In the near future, worn out things will be made new again by reconfiguring the molecules.  A pair of shoes, a tire.  Molecular detection will also allow the determination of an object’s physical history; this matchbook for example, its collection of molecules could indicate everywhere it’s ever been.  They could do it with your clothes or even your skin for that matter.  The universe has no center and no edges.  Molecules, from the Limits of Control

It would never work.  I could never be the character Lone Man who Isaach De Bankole portrays in the Jim Jarmusch movie The Limits of Control.

He’s so calm, so centered and so focused on the mission at hand.  People speak to him and he often stares back as if nothing has been said.

He ritually performs Tai Chi to keep his center.  He’s so fucking disciplined.

When Paz De La Huerta is lying naked on his bed, begging him to enjoy her, he simply denies her.

“Do you like sex,” she says.

He simply replies, “Yes,” and refrains.

No sudden moves, no inkling that he even has a dick.  He doesn’t even take his suit off as she sleeps naked, lying next to him .

Then the beautiful Paz adorns a clear raincoat with her naked brilliance beneath.

“Do you like my raincoat,” she says. 

Again he replies, “Yes,” and refrains.  My idol, he must be gay because she is fucking incredible and almost every man on the planet would chew off their arm to have a chance.

Again, maybe that’s the point.  Maybe we are all to eager to partake and all it takes is a gorgeous, naked woman to seal the deal

His patience is unmatched by any character in the movie.  He doesn’t sweat, he never gets nervous, his lips hardly move.

Hell, maybe that’s the point.  Maybe we should all be more like Lone Man.

Even when he finishes his deed at the end, he’s stone cold smooth.

Maybe none of you have a fucking clue what I’m talking about here because you haven’t seen the movie.  It’s worth watching and worth thinking about.

I think there is a bigger meaning here, somewhat of a sad commentary on current society and its inability to exhibit restraint.

“He who thinks he’s bigger than the rest of us….must go to the cemetery.  There he will see what the world really is.  It’s a handful of dirt.”  (Mexican, from the Limits of Control)

 

 

 

pelicans

Finishing a beer, standing on my hotel balcony looking into the Atlantic Ocean, beautiful.

Several pelicans were flying by, gliding in unison, almost looking at me.

Every time I see a pelican I think about my grandfather.  He loved pelicans.  They were his favorite birds.

I can’t help but think that it’s him flying above the water, watching me, wishing to hug me again.  Wishing he could give me advice again.  Because his advice was always fucking great.

Wishing to sit with me again and enjoy a cold “Green Hornet,” that was his nickname for Heineken.

He was an intelligent man.

He was a great man.

His heart was true.

He was real.

I miss him more than anyone will know.

Tonight, I look into my hotel mirror, a couple tears rolling down, wishing I could be more like him.

Because he was real.

I have so far to go, so fucking far

to be as good as him.

beach bar- (florida east coast)

(This is a crappy bar I go to sometimes while working.  It’s always an incredible trainwreck and I can’t stop going.  I know I’m an asshole, thanks.)

It’s a Wednesday night around 7:30.

Barback– guy with American flag bandana, dancing behind the bar, throwing his lighter in the air like a drunk Muppet, trying to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but he’s fucking not at Burning Man

Bartender– cute, but worn, searching for something more, she could do better than this.  She meanders behind the bar languidly, like a beaten puppy, just hoping for some decent drunk to pet her and scratch behind her ear.

Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, talking to one of the regulars at the bar, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck-up, if they only knew…..

New couple- sits next to me at the bar, she’s cute, but you can tell the husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching about wanting a frozen drink, fat husband remains indifferent to her bitching.  She’s definitely tired of his dick, sad because he actually seems like a nice guy, but damn she’s such a bitch. Continue reading “beach bar- (florida east coast)”

a hipster massage

hipster

(This is from my website: www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com)

Scene: Clemmy goes to Jude’s apartment to give him a massage. He is still floating in his Xanax dream when she arrives. She is wearing a robe to hide the clothes underneath so it will be a surprise.

Clemmy walked in to Jude’s apartment and he greeted her with a languid, sloppy hug.

“Wow, those pills really seem to be working. Now take your shirt off, lay on the coffee table because I’m about to blow your mind,” she said.

From her gingham bag, Clemmy pulled out four patchouli candles, patchouli massage oil and her cassette player. With Jude laying face down on the coffee table she lit the candles, dropped her robe to the ground and pushed “play” on the cassette.

Thelonious Monk live in Paris 1967 filled the air as she dimmed the lights.

She dripped the patchouli massage oil on the middle of Jude’s upper back and whispered into his ear:

“Just relax my sweet Jude. Picture yourself riding your fixed-gear bike alone on the beach as the waves gently splash the shore while I await you with a vegan Kale shake.”

Jude let out a soft moan as he began to sink into the coffee table like it was luxurious Marriott hotel pillow. Continue reading “a hipster massage”