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BigHead In The Morning
BigHead is not a handsome cat but he is a survivor, which is a thing to admire at least in the sense that surviving against the odds is inspiration to those of us who may occasionally seek inspiration. "Hello BigHead," I said to the black and white tom lounging this morning on my front steps. BigHead immediately got up off the steps and walked across the driveway towards the now out of commission Dodge truck, aka yellow beast. "So how was your night?" I asked him. He faced me and paid attention, which I knew he would continue to do as long as I did not move from the porch towards the steps. BigHead does not flatter me and I do not flatter him, yet we coexist peacefully. That's to say I don't throw rocks at him and only yell at him when I see him spray objects of mine I would rather he did not spray. His head is not so much big as hard looking, and the white areas of his short hair are smudged with street grime and the black spots are dull matted blotches. His markings, that is the contrast of black and white colorations, are not really that pleasant to look at. Kitten has good markings, BigHead does not. BigHead's head this morning was marked with mean looking scratches, which is not that unusual.
"You and that yellow bastard were going on last night weren't you?"
BigHead blinked.
"What's it all about?"
BigHead stared.
"By the way, BigHead, are you pissing on my Mexican Heather?"
BigHead drowsed.
"You know, I don't object to you to home basing under this house. I like you okay. I respect you. I wouldn't go so far as to say I love you but it could happen. The thing is, when you conduct your wars under the house it upsets Watchdog and that new puppy who stay by him, Watchdog Jr. I try to sleep at night, and if I don't, let's say because I was kept awake all night by dogs barking and cats fighting, well, then the next day at work I'm all wiggy."
"Wiggy? What that is?" BigHead asked.
"You know, out of sorts, cranky, disoriented, pissed off, tired."
"Oh man."
"I need to work, that's all, It's what I have to do. And I have to be rested for it."
"Wow, ouch," BigHead said.
"So can you like not do that?"
"It's not really up to me," BigHead said.
"Yeah sure, I know, if that yellow bastard would just stay away..."
"Exactly..."
"But you have to help me here, babe."
"Whyn't you just chill?"
"Excuse me?"
"You know man, chill, stay home, sleep all day, run all night. Know the ladies..."
"I really don't know."
BigHead chuckled. "Well, you should think on it is all I"m sayin'. Look, I gotta roll, find some shade somewheres, and crash. I'll talk atcha."
"Well, yeah, okay, I need to be getting to work, so Ima go too."
"Cool. Look Slim, I'll try 'n kill the yellow bastard next time, that'll slow him down."
"Yeah, good one, slow him down, I bet, but no, don't do any killing on my account, I mean you don't have to kill him."
"Oh yes Slim, I do."
I had to go. I moved toward the steps and BigHead hurried under the truck.
"Slim?" BigHead called after me.
"What?"
"You ain't gonna say nothing about the eleven-year old girl who opened her door in Eastern NO and took an AK-47 round to the head?"
"No."
"Why not? I thought that was your thing. Rocheblave Slim, death reporter." BigHead was wearing one of those cat smiles.
"You are picking a bad morning to piss me off."
"Hey, too bad about that fifteen-year old boy the cop killed the other day."
"You aren't saying the cop was wrong for that?"
"I ain't sayin' nothin'."
"The kid was walking down the middle of the street with a semi-automatic in each hand! At 9:30 in the morning! When the cop approached him he fired off several rounds, missing the cop each time. He was close enough so the cop is deaf in one ear. The cop did what he was trained to do. He's not at fault."
"Slim, calm down man. Who's to say where the blame lies? It's a difficult question. You takin' this shit too personal. People die everyday in many different ways. In the final analysis, what difference does it make how they die.?"
"It matters. That's a stupid thing for you to say."
"Perhaps it is my lacking of grey matter that causes me to think so simply. If I had your quantity of cells who knows what I might be capable of?"
"I've gotta go. You should stay away from here for awhile."
"Whatchu mean by that? What would you do, Slim, given the inspiration and the opportunity?"
Why Slim Doesn't Date
One of the things I like about living in the South besides the oppressive summertime heat that beats you down until you are a mere shell of a man is that waitresses at diners, and others places that aren't diners but sell plates to go in Styrofoam containers, call me honey, or sugar, or sweetie, or baby. Any of these terms will result in the waitress receiving what is the high end of my tipping range. Another great thing about the South is that a man doesn't tend to feel outnumbered by the dreaded palavering intellectual. Thus, not outnumbered, or to the contrary, supported in my archaic thinking, I can say things like: having a woman stand over me while I sit stuffing my face and having that woman say in all earnestness, you ok sweetie?, or, get you anything honey?, or, get you another drink baby? is a great moment in life. It is the type of moment we male Southerners may take for granted but I would wager large that such comments figure heavily in the life flashing before your eyes phenomenon that occurs at the end of our earthly existence. Also, this type of thinking is probably why I don't date much in this 21st century. But I think I'm feeling okay with that. "Yeah love, I'm good."
TV And Drugs
I have some things I need to get off my chest. I don't know where to start. I guess I should go back about three weeks to the day I bought my first TV. Its only a five inch black and white but I had a buyer's remorse that was bigger than a WalMart Supercenter. I felt dirty about it. I was sure it would cut into my reading time. I was sure it would turn me into an idiotic zombie (and to answer your question, I don't know how you would tell the difference?). I was sure this purchase was marking the beginning of my end.
After a week of Simpsons reruns followed by King of the Hill reruns I felt a little better. I had done the right thing. I was still reading. And I was enjoying high comedy. I was watching Seinfeld reruns at night. PBS was running commercial free WWII era movies, with Bette Davis. I was staying up past my bedtime on school nights. But that's OK because maybe I'm getting old enough where I don't need eight hours of sleep. And then...
I finished reading William Gibson's Count Zero and picked up John Grisham's Street Lawyer. But a little sherbet after a meal is fine. I am not a snob. Light reading is important to the overall mission. But light reading and TV, there's a risk there, so I snagged Caleb Carr's The Alienist at the Thrift City and jumped right in. Outstanding. But look at all the back to back movies on Saturday commercial TV. That one where Richard Pryor takes all those kids to Oregon on a bus, and that Charles Bronson one where he grimaces and helps people by killing their enemies. And then I started hearing the voices. Throw it out man, before its too late. Its light, just toss it over into the cat jungle next door. Can I shoot it with my shotgun I asked the voices and they frowned and shook their heads if they had heads, disapprovingly.
I still haven't finished The Alienist but I'm a slow reader so don't give up on me. I'm not giving up on me. I think there is still hope for me. Tell them. No, I don't have to. Tell them yourself or I will tell them. Its not that big a deal. Tell them. All right all right, jimminy. I, uh, I. Go on. I watched recently three quarters of an episode of Touched By An Angel. But I'm not a bad person. I'm not going to hell in a handbasket. I'm not. I was tired, I just needed, I mean I was only...Toss It. No, no no, I will overcome. I will handle this.
Now this next thing I have to tell you is top secret so keep your traps shut about it.
There is scant evidence that the Pentecostals are growing a half acre of weed right next door to me. Here's what little I have: two days ago I walked out my side door, which orients me to look out over the 24 inches of my property and onto the 50 foot by 150 foot Pentecostal vacant lot, half of which is overgrown by six foot tall weeds and underfoot consists of love seat sized slabs of broken concrete growing obliquely from the mucky, oyster shell laden soil. And I am alarmed to see--in this mostly black skinned area--two well fed, well dressed white guys, one with a camera. I had my reading glasses up on my unkempt head, affecting the erudite sloven.
This is my favorite part. Where I get to say:
"Can I help you gentlemen?" The one who was the most well fed said he was just taking pictures of their building (the former dancehall that fronts Iberville and sits at the back of and perpendicular to the vacant lot) and I said "so you're with the Pentecostals?" I didn't make it sound so much like an accusation and the man said yes. "What are you going to do with it?" I asked and he said tear it down. I didn't suggest wouldn't it make a nice AIDS Hospice? "For a parking lot? I asked and he sneered like that'll be enough out of you, whippersnapper, but his oily smile said yes. Goodbye dancehall. "Ya'll can maintain this lot any better?" I said, and the man smiled or sneered and said we're working on it. Oh great, I thought, a group effort. The next day another man, well dressed, black, working class, came in a nice clean van and walked down the only avenue you can walk, the one I cut, and inspected the area. A lot of activity all of a sudden so I became suspicious and when the man went away I went out and looked around myself and let me tell you, what I found was a great disappointment to me. Barely ten feet from my side door, out there amidst the Pentecostal weeds, was a five-foot tall cannabis sativa. So that's what the church is up to these days I unfairly speculated. Well, I'll put an end to it. Tonight I'll go out there and rip that illegal rope from the ground. I'll set it afire if I have to. I won't have it around me I tell you. And hopefully this will be a valuable lesson to those Pentecostals: that only hard work and law abiding efforts are the way to the truth, and that the devilry of drugs should not besot thy path. Not to mention, they should have planted indica.