Happy new year?
Well, shit. 2005 is off to a banner start, lemme tell ya.
It began well enough — small party, with dancing; Horns won; margaritas at Chaco's — but then downhill it went when we went Around the Bend.
The Bend is this lame dive bar in between my middle school and my high school. After we turned 21, it became something of an inside joke to go drink there. Saturday, after Chaco's, we headed over for lack of anything better to do.
John, Benavides, and I are sitting at a corner table, when Benavides — sometimes referred to as Silent Matt — made a crack about me hitting on some fat chicks at the bar. Next thing we know, this guy with the group of people behind us says loudly, "Hey, buddy, you shouldn't talk so loud. I heard that!" His voice is rich with testosterone.
I turn around to see some dude with short hair, choad shorts, and a Marines shirt standing up on the opposite side of their table.
"That's my wife you're talking about!"
Matt and I, we agreed later, were both suddenly worried that he was married to one of the fat girls that he hadn't talked to all night. At the time, though, we were just confused. John difused the situation when he realized the guy was referring to some blond girl sitting in front of him.
Whatever. Just another dumb fuck trying to swing his dick around in front of his girl by talking shit to three undersized guys when he's with a group of like five other assholes. San Antonio's full of 'em, and their younger brothers are always trying to start shit with my brother's friends. Why do women marry these pricks?
Day two of the new year isn't all that eventful. We bowl. I suck. Oh, yes: my laptop begins making the Click of Death.
Then, on Monday, while I'm doing laundry, the automatic shut-off timer in my complex's laundry room triggers an hour and fifteen minutes early, so I'm left with two damp loads and two soaked loads. Have to conscript a suitcase to haul it all up, for fear the automatic door lock will trigger. I'm sure my neighbors were wondering why a guy wearing sweat pants and slip-on dress shoes was awkwardly lugging 40 pounds of wet clothes up the stairs. Hang drying the clothes takes forever, so my new computer goes unpacked.
Frustrated and tired, I sit down with the Daily Show book for a nice queso dinner. I drop in a couple of delicious-smelling, locally-jarred jalapenos. They taste like second-degree burning. I eat half a bag of chips to squelch the fire on my lips.
Finally, I drag my ass off the couch to clean up. But apparently, while picking up, I got absent minded and gave myself a quick scratch inside my skivvies — because right as I sit down at my computer, I notice something is definitely off. I ponder the sensation on the, ahem, underside of Little Matty for a second. Slowly, like a tadpole being heated to a boil, it dawns on me. To the bathroom!
So while I'm sitting there, looking at the whole disgusting, soapy scene in the mirror, I'm thinking, Only you, Matt, only you.
It reminded me of a conversation with my friend and coworker Katrina, in which I was telling her about my most recent bungled attempt at courting the latest brown-skinned Girl Next Door. Through her laughter, she shook her head and said, "Matt, you really are Charlie Brown."
So I was feeling rather good about feeling bad for myself today, when I stopped off at home on the way back from an interview. Unfortunately, I found a message from my friend Nick informing me that one of my high school teachers, a young, affable, knowledgeable guy named Mr. Maltrud, had collapsed suddenly and died while out for his morning run.
All I could think to say was, "Shitty," and then I made a couple lame jokes to avoid thinking about his death, which was already growing as remote as my other memories of high school. But it certainly cast a bright light on the dim events of last weekend.
Ha, what to do with one's self-pity except discard it? And what to do with death except mock it? It's the only advantage you've got.
It began well enough — small party, with dancing; Horns won; margaritas at Chaco's — but then downhill it went when we went Around the Bend.
The Bend is this lame dive bar in between my middle school and my high school. After we turned 21, it became something of an inside joke to go drink there. Saturday, after Chaco's, we headed over for lack of anything better to do.
John, Benavides, and I are sitting at a corner table, when Benavides — sometimes referred to as Silent Matt — made a crack about me hitting on some fat chicks at the bar. Next thing we know, this guy with the group of people behind us says loudly, "Hey, buddy, you shouldn't talk so loud. I heard that!" His voice is rich with testosterone.
I turn around to see some dude with short hair, choad shorts, and a Marines shirt standing up on the opposite side of their table.
"That's my wife you're talking about!"
Matt and I, we agreed later, were both suddenly worried that he was married to one of the fat girls that he hadn't talked to all night. At the time, though, we were just confused. John difused the situation when he realized the guy was referring to some blond girl sitting in front of him.
Whatever. Just another dumb fuck trying to swing his dick around in front of his girl by talking shit to three undersized guys when he's with a group of like five other assholes. San Antonio's full of 'em, and their younger brothers are always trying to start shit with my brother's friends. Why do women marry these pricks?
Day two of the new year isn't all that eventful. We bowl. I suck. Oh, yes: my laptop begins making the Click of Death.
Then, on Monday, while I'm doing laundry, the automatic shut-off timer in my complex's laundry room triggers an hour and fifteen minutes early, so I'm left with two damp loads and two soaked loads. Have to conscript a suitcase to haul it all up, for fear the automatic door lock will trigger. I'm sure my neighbors were wondering why a guy wearing sweat pants and slip-on dress shoes was awkwardly lugging 40 pounds of wet clothes up the stairs. Hang drying the clothes takes forever, so my new computer goes unpacked.
Frustrated and tired, I sit down with the Daily Show book for a nice queso dinner. I drop in a couple of delicious-smelling, locally-jarred jalapenos. They taste like second-degree burning. I eat half a bag of chips to squelch the fire on my lips.
Finally, I drag my ass off the couch to clean up. But apparently, while picking up, I got absent minded and gave myself a quick scratch inside my skivvies — because right as I sit down at my computer, I notice something is definitely off. I ponder the sensation on the, ahem, underside of Little Matty for a second. Slowly, like a tadpole being heated to a boil, it dawns on me. To the bathroom!
So while I'm sitting there, looking at the whole disgusting, soapy scene in the mirror, I'm thinking, Only you, Matt, only you.
It reminded me of a conversation with my friend and coworker Katrina, in which I was telling her about my most recent bungled attempt at courting the latest brown-skinned Girl Next Door. Through her laughter, she shook her head and said, "Matt, you really are Charlie Brown."
So I was feeling rather good about feeling bad for myself today, when I stopped off at home on the way back from an interview. Unfortunately, I found a message from my friend Nick informing me that one of my high school teachers, a young, affable, knowledgeable guy named Mr. Maltrud, had collapsed suddenly and died while out for his morning run.
All I could think to say was, "Shitty," and then I made a couple lame jokes to avoid thinking about his death, which was already growing as remote as my other memories of high school. But it certainly cast a bright light on the dim events of last weekend.
Ha, what to do with one's self-pity except discard it? And what to do with death except mock it? It's the only advantage you've got.
posted by Matt at 11:15 PM
|
<< Home