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  • My Restless Fingers...

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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Wednesday, March 12, 2008

    My Restless Fingers...

    And, as usual lately, it seems I have nothing to say. But I have a powerful desire to say it. It is like overfilling a fountain pen (remember those?) and when you place it on the paper, the ink just runs out like a frightened squid.

    Roll Roll Roll your flab
    down the long buffet
    stuff that garbage in your mouth
    I hope you die that way.

    See? I just woke up from a nap with that in my head. Crazy, mixed up dreams. Part of it was I met a girl I had known when she was a child, and now she wanted her some man. I wanted to, but this new-found guilty conscience of mine made me feel guilty, and my dream provided all kinds of impediments to her getting me alone, and she was clearly getting frustrated, which made me no end of nervous.

    Chicks can rape you, too. All they need to do is cry rape, and you are in for a world of hurt, though you touched her not a whit. Wives beat their husbands all the time, and yell spousal abuse if he tries to report it. I actually had an angry woman cut her own cheek with a fingernail til she bled, then slap herself hard enough in the face to leave a mark, and threaten to call the cops on me.

    I forget what she was trying to coerce me into doing now, but I stepped up to her and told her that when I made bail, I'd come back and shoot her six times in the face. She looked deeply into the soulless well of my eyes, and saw the truth of it. I picked up my things, got in my car, and shook the dust off my sandals from that place.

    It actually tickles me a bit when some of the numbnuts commenters over at Vox's blog say I wouldn't say things to their face that I write on the net. No, bungwipe, I would be too busy letting all of that hot air out of you.

    I don't react well to apparent aggression, even in written form. Some wag once said the definition of stress is 'not being able to choke the living shit out of some asshole that desperately needs a good choking'. Yep.

    I totally understand the tigers in the zoo that just lay there, and look at you disdainfully. Or turn their backs on the crowd, and lay down again. They are wound so tight with hatred...look at all those assholes, all that food, and I'm in this fucking cage. Fukkit.

    And then some dumbshit sticks his arm through the bars, or jumps into their enclosure. Has that ever worked out well?

    There are very few tigers left. Still, I keep an eye out for them. Sometimes our eyes lock on each other, in a bar, or a store, or a restaraunt. There is no staredown. That could lead to violence. We merely acknowledge each other, and look away, and mind our own business.

    I recently read a report that says how voices in the lower registers, male voices, show dominance. Now, the few of you who have talked to me, well, I don't think I have a particularly low voice. I consider it mid-range, frankly. But in a bar, or some other particularly place pregnant with the potential for violence, I have noted that my neck actually changes, and I can speak in a throaty growl. Weird.

    When I laugh, as I often do, it is with a harsh, baritone bark. People look. People stay away. The lady bartenders find things to putter around with in my immediate vicinity, and we joke, and I tease, and sometimes I find out some guy or other got real angry from a comment of mine (hey, you know me) and I never got the signals. Cuz he knew better than to put them off.

    I'll see some guy in the mirror as he slinks past behind me to the door and she'll say "(whatever) you said about (whatever) really pissed him off...he was mad as heck."
    Know your bartenders. Love your bartenders. Tip your bartenders well. They tend to have a better, more 'organic' feel for the room than anybody in there.

    Oh, before I close down this cloudburst of nothingness here, one more bar story...

    Last time I was in there, a guy came in, young, wiry, strong looking, in painters coveralls, spattered in paint, and he had the stench of Iraq all over him. And he was humming like a tuning fork fresh-struck by a large hammer. And he was looking at me.

    "Are you a veteran?" he asked. I knew he had seen the veteran's plates on my car. He ordered a triple shot of vodka, with water back, and he was putting off ozone like an overworked electric motor.
    I let him chat me up, and I chatted him up, too. He had been in some bad places, and had the names of dead friends tattooed on his arms. We each established our credentials, and then I told him "Brother, you seem to be wound pretty tight..." which he was. I won't go into details, but he had been thrown out, well, 86'd by the self-same bartender that was serving us, a few nights previously.

    He blinked a few times, staring at me. I took quiet command of him, as if I was one of his Senior NCO's, and he accepted it because I made it feel natural, using the quiet confidence that a good NCO develops. I took him on a guided mind tour of where he could go to get help, be with his own kind, and get the poison out. Or at least learn to control it. We spoke for a while, grunt to grunt, and I began to smell less ozone.

    Will it work? Heck, I dunno. He didn't tear the place up that day.

    And there are thousands and thousands of young men and women out there in the same boat.