Ant man bee two thousand yard stare
Heck whiz gosh darn hardy har har. I’m a one-eyed tomcat in a sushi bar. Honey, squinkle my dinkle, hinkle my binkle, crinkle my minkle till the cows come home. Um, went to a party last night, took my guitar, it was mostly couples except for me and this other guy whose sweetie is in New Zealand or somewhere. Thought we was gonna sing and play guitars and I brought mine, but then the vibe was all wrong and when I was trying to run through this original acoustic number entitled “I Am Almost Fixing to Get Ready to Rock and Roll,” one of the husbands, I’m sure reasonably well-lubricated on whatever it was they were quaffing, decided a little pianistic accompaniment might be in order. So his Cecil Taylor on PCP ivory tinklings completely overpowered my music, and I got the message and put my guitar away. Did not get to try out “Squinkle Mah Dinkle,” or more fluffy romantic fare like “Morning Glory,” or anything else. To hang with that crowd, I’d better bone up on classic rock fare that everyone can sing along to, rather than my own stanky repertoire of tuneage that nobody knows or gives a hoot’s patoot aboot.
So, over it, or what I was on about last time. Fuggit, really; life is not fair. Well, to be honest, I have had spells of plenty in the past, but as my middle age segues into slightly older, I’m increasingly getting the idea that I’d better get used to my own company, unshared with any fine ladies, and had better bone up on checkers, or chess, or bocce, or even horseshoes. Yes, there are prostitutes available, but if you know anything about the historical Griffith, you’d understand why I’m not really interested.
Anyway, here it is that turn-cold time when we go lurching into the holidays, and I’ll have to go into high gear on practicing the art of not giving a merde that I’m just one of those people who must be better off living a quiet little life on their own, or at least not suited for anything other than solitary. So, the gosh darned heck with it. Even if every little thing is gonna remind me that I’m one of those weird loner misanthropes. Hey, I love people. I love you. I love everybody. Well, most everybody. Just don’t invite me to one of your little parties where everybody’s coupled up except me, or I’ll get all wasted on ginger ale and start in with the ribald limericks and explicitly pornographic haikus. You do not want that, trust me.
Ergo, fuggit. Hey, how ’bout those Niners? What are they, seven and one? Kick arse. About time we got some decent football in this region. What’s that? Raiders? No, I’m talking about sporting events that can be enjoyed by humans. Nevertheless, do rest in peace, Al Davis. Loved your team back in the day, but whenever there’s a Raiders game on now, I try to stay off the road during it, and at least four or so hours after it’s over. No offense, but you’ve got some real hammerheads in that fan base.
Go Jints! And rest in peace, Bob Forsch, Sacramento pitcher who got to see his team win a series before he went off to that big sports bar in the sky. And while I’m no fan of the formerly Budweiser Cards, if you had a manager who was idiosyncratic enough to be a vegetarian and hang out with Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck, well, I guess better that team taking the trophy than one associated with George W. Bush.
Now, about that roundball. Still locked out. No season. Which means bye-bye Kings, so my friends and I are already discussing a renewed allegiance to the Golden State Warriors. And as much as I love the Kings, I know the Maloofs will either sell the team or move them to somewhere with more money on the table. I miss basketball, really. I wish these millionaires could come to an accord so those of us who love the game can have something to follow.
Because I still don’t get hockey. Maybe if I can go to a game with some hardcore fans and they can explain a few things to me, I can catch the fever. I still don’t have it, yet.
Other than that, there’s work. Bugs, more bugs, and maybe some rats. Get up in the morning, go to work, enjoy that, come home, play some guitar or go to an AA meeting, eat, meditate, read a little, set the alarm and go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. On weekends, do some stuff like laundry and shopping, so I can have a less stressful work week.
Life isn’t bad, but it’s boring without the ladies. But because somewhere in there I guess I lost the ability to attract them into my life. So now I’ll just get used to being a big ol’ stinky guy, or something like that.
Go figure. I sure can’t. —Jackson Griffith