I have a blowhard under my window. He is a grown man, sitting on his bicycle, wearing lycra, his pale skin turning lobster red in the hot Californian sun. I want to know where my fog has gone. He is yelling importantly into his phone: “FUCK HIM! SERIOUSLY! IF HE CANNOT COME THROUGH AND …BLAH BLAH…BLUE SKY THINKING….REALIZATION OF…….DOES HE KNOW HOW IMPORTANT THIS IS?..” The dribble continues to spindle from his mean thin lips and puddle on the floor. He is working himself into a coronary situation. I really couldn’t care less. He has been screaming now for the last 20 minutes. I say loudly how shitty it is to scream outside someone else’s window when you are not even high, just a fucking blowhard, self important little twit with a stupid hat and his twig and berries asserting themselves through all that skin tight sprayed on lycra.
I want to go down there and twist the bicycle around his neck like I am the incredible hulk or something bigger and stronger. I want to pour cold water out my window. I day dream about playing Metal Machine Music in an attempt to repel him, propel him further down the road. Instead I put on Lou Reed’s New York album and let myself sing along, until it makes me happier and calmer. Lou sardonically tells me ‘this is no time for optimism’, and that ‘there is no time’, and his pissy grouchy stylized spitting of his misanthropic ode to hopelessness melts the rage away and turns it into something harder, cooler, more measured. More writable.
There is no time. I believe that with all my heart. Chad out there needs to get the fuck along. I would rather listen to any crackhead whoofuckingwhoo and yulp into the ether than Chad and his biznizz school drivel. I hope his business fails and leaves him bankrupt and sitting on a corner cracked out in the rain, yelling “BLUESKYTHINKING, BABY!” The Last Great American Whale jumping up out of the Bay and biting his head off before he can irritate anyone else. A pox on him and his thinking.
I’ve got the Blowhard Blooze, baby. Save me from Loud Men, and their Self Importance. Save me from their business deals, and their Guns. Save me from their supersized meals, and their insistence that they know best, even when it concerns someone else’s body. Save me from Blowhards and their stolid confidence that coalesces into puddles of obsidian hard dark intentions towards this planet and anyone they see as ‘beneath them’ or that they can dominate.
I drew the curtains. Drew it on the corruptions of the politicians – all of them. Drew it on the war Russia is trying to start out in Europe. Drew it down on the mandates and the authoritarian leanings of the political world. I drew the curtain down on my reservations and my loneliness. On all the murders and beatings, and a president that is meant to be a good guy but calls the late great Satchel Paige the ‘n-word’, or at least one of them, that surely no decent human being considers to be acceptable, yet…crickets. I hate politicians. All of them. They are all corrupt. None of em have our best interests at heart.
On the plus side, as long as I am angry, I’m alive…
….and there is baseball today….The poetry of throwing a ball. Paige knew a lot about how to write that poetry. The music of motion. Music that I would drown without.