Yeah, I’m lame. I just haven’t posted anything here in a while. I have a head full of things to say, but they just aren’t coalescing into anything tangible, or tangerine, or margarine, or even marginally interesting. I am the headless horseman of bloggers, wandering through the valley on my horse, looking for something to say.
Yep, busy going nowhere. Must be the lack of sleep. Last night I was trying to catch some zeez, and I’d even drifted off into a nice little dreamland, and then I had this incursion of somebody calling my name: “Jaaackson! Jaaackson Griffith! Fuuuuuuck yewwww. Write about it on Faaaceboook, Jaaaaackson. Heyyy Jaaaackson. Fuuuuck yewwwww!” It was the shitty singsongy voice of a drunk, like I was dreaming about one of those derelicts from the band Blvd Park serenading me from the sidewalk again on a Monday night.
And then there was trumpet, or bugle. It veered from playing flatulent Maynard Ferguson licks to “Reveille” and back, and the guy blowing was clearly loaded. I opened my eyes and it wasn’t a dream. There really was a couple of assholes down on the corner taunting me, namechecking me personally. I looked at the clock: 2:15 a.m. I sat up and went to the window: “What the fuck are you idiots doing?”
“Fuuuuck yewwww, Jaaaackson! Write about me on Faaaceboook, like ya did Boulevard Paaark!”
They kept at it. As I didn’t have a gun handy, which would have dispatched them in a deserving and appropriate fashion, I decided to stumble down two flights of stairs to the street and ask them what was up.
The singer was some idiot named Montoya, who hangs out at the Press Club, a minor hanger-on in the Blvd Park crowd, I guess, and no relative to the Montoyas I know, who are a fine bunch. I checked with someone tight with them, who confirmed that if this guy was indeed part of their family, they would have disowned him a long time ago. (On edit: “Montoya” was Blvd Park member Timmy Conroy.)
The trumpeter was Harley White, Jr. I’ve known Harley for a long time. I thought we were friends. Guess not.
Now, I would never go to anyone’s house and raise a ruckus like this, especially on a weekday night. But I’ve been sober for almost 18 years. Back in the day, this is the kind of stuff that would make perfect sense, especially after closing a bar. And I’ve closed a bunch, and done stupid shit afterward, which sometimes ended behind bars.
Here’s the deal. I’m not pissed off. I’m a forgiving sort, just because I learned a long time ago that carrying around resentments is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to keel over in pain before dying. So I let go pretty quickly, because to hang on to anger just isn’t healthy.
But I’m tired. I started a new job a while back, and I love it, and I love working again, and I really like the people I work with. And in this economy, I’m very grateful to be working, because I was out of work for well over 99 weeks. It means a lot to me to get a good night’s sleep so my brain works okay, and if I don’t, I’m just not as useful.
It means a lot to me to get a good night’s sleep. I want to succeed in this job. I can’t afford to fail.
Ergo, I really wish that the people in Blvd Park and Inigo Montoya Jr. and Harley White Jr. and anyone else who thinks it’s funny to wake me up at midnight or 2 a.m. would just go, you know, “nice idea, but we’ll let him snooze.” Because you guys win. I admit it. I’m sorry I got all butthurt about you guys making noise, and for me it’s a no-win situation, and I’m raising my white flag of surrender right now.
Soon, I hope to have my own quiet place, where I can go to bed at 10 p.m. if I like and sip chamomile tea or maybe peppermint in bed and read a book until I drift off. I’m old. I’m cranky. I don’t have anyone curled up next to me, not even a cat or a dog, for that quiet bedtime reassurance, and I’m just going to let all that stuff go the way that other old crabby people do when they realize that shit’s gone sideways for good. And now I only want a quiet bed where nobody fucks with me, so I can drift off and have the wonderful life in dreams that seems to elude me in my waking hours.
So, next time you want to roust me, go have a PBR or two instead. Somewhere else. Please. —Jackson Griffith