not the time for time travel

The dream was one below nightmare.

It was prom, 1995, Junior year. It couldn’t be any other year because members of the entourage consisted of friends who were a year older, Seniors. There were people whose names and faces I haven’t seen or used in years, so I nearly forget they exist — Fink, Waldo, Seidel, Macken, Spatz. Was Spatz there? No matter, here they were, huddled around the kitchen table of a restaurant I’ve never been to, eating dinner. And there I sit at the end of the table, small, drowning in a vest and jacket built for a man with a little more broad in his shoulders. Strangely, in addition to my teenage body and a healthy sense of akwardness, I realize that these people no longer exist in my circle of friends, and with an adult sense of ‘cool’ years beyond what my high school identity was wise enough to comprehend, I feel rather annoyed that I’m here at all, with these people, and their juvenile behavior.

Then of course my dad shows up.

“We saw that you called, Son? Did you need something?”

“Dad, I called to say that everything is just fine. You didn’t need to come here. Didn’t you listen to the message?”

“No,” he says and after eyeing up all the characters at the table asks, “Why are these pretty girls hanging around with all these potheads?”

“Dad, can you just go?” My agitation with my former friends’ behavior, irritated all the more by my dad’s concerned father behavior. He walks away.

“We’re all gonna ride with you. Is that cool, Phil?”

I count heads, “There’s like ten of us. My car only seats five.” This isn’t the logic of a 16 year old. Sixteen year olds say “Yeah, that’s cool.”

We get up from the table, and somehow the line to get our pictures taken is right behind us. A couple is just finishing getting photographed and Macken and I start goofing, tripping each other and fake fighting. Macken gets set off and the whole exchange gets a little more heated. I throw him down and kick him hard in the gut while he’s on the ground, hard enough to lift him up from the ground and move his body a couple of feet. I walk away with a smirk and a certain satisfaction.

Then I wake up, and what was satisfaction seconds ago evaporates to leave a mix of wonder and remorse. Wonder over where those now strangers are and what their lives look like, wonder over all the people I mistakenly never knew because of my preferences for the popular and rebellious. Wonder as to what kind of lives we are all turning out. And remorse for something we all have to do, wear our immaturity inside a rented tux. To formally dress up, as if they were adult, our attitudes and our half conceived notions of what we perceive to be real or real important based on our small, limited or misguided experience. We all did it. I wonder how often I still do.

Posing 101

When taking a self timed picture at 5:25 pm on a Saturday with heavy down sunlight being cut by the quasi alley like backside of your place and your neighbors’, make sure you don’t throw your arms in front of your partner’s to make her appear as if she’s missing the full set. But H- your’re gourgeous (half arms or whole).

what keeps you up at night?

first she had me buy the strips when we went camping. then she brought a sleep clinic ad. now a pamphlet. and for herself, earplugs. i have a soft pallette, a flabby uvula. i will snore and be robbed of true sleep. and rob others if permitted to fall asleep in their company. strange that my body works against my favor in this way.

sick of dogs

What’s in a hot dog? there are of course specific ingredients depending on the dog and there are, of course, rumors of specific ingredients. it never much mattered to me that mystery bits and pieces leftover from the whole were blended to create the funny colored sausage, my answer to the what’s-in-a-hot-dog-question has for much of my life been answered with a single word. goodness. until last night. july 13th. after consuming a dome dog the size of a small child’s arm at the twins ball game, i am convinced i’ve had my last for the summer. why? it’s 3:43 am, now July 14th and i can fully feel its presence still with me, as if it lay whole in my stomach, undigested.

which begs the question, what else have i had more than enough of as of late?

i’ve had more heartburn this year than ever i can remember. could use less.

there have been quite a few meals eaten out. don’t need that many. i wonder if the first is a product of the second.

shoes. i have so many pairs of shoes, i needed to construct a shelf, which has turned almost into a monument of sneaks i love. i’m at least 3 pairs over my actual need.

bad news.

celebrity news.

celebrity.

violence.

celebration of violence.

sequels.

which makes me think there should be a second list: things i’ve had too little of.

to be continued…