Razz butt…….

Dear diary. Why are those people here? Why do they care? It’s me, Mr. Not So Much Self Confidence. Mr. Average. Mr. Too-white-a skin (nothing racial intended AT ALL, just wish I could get killer tan.). Mr. Make a Few Bucks, very few. What are they doing hanging around here?

Diary, my car spent from Wednesday morning until Friday evening in the car hospital. Fuggers were nice, but wow do they have expensive tastes. “This and this and this and that, and oh yeah down here this” is all wrong with my Hot….. Rod…. Lincoln… So I asked the Service Manager what are we talking about for this and this and this and that, and oh yeah, that down there?”… I could hear cha-ching going thru his brain, with each hunnerd, he added up his own commission..."Let's see, one-hunnerd (whispered $17).. two hunnerd (whispered $34).. Three hunnerd ($fitty-one)" and so forth.. finally, “oh, somewhere between $900 and $1000.” My gut instinct was to say “u sonsabitches… sold me the (“wonderful…runs good… should lastya a long time”) car for not hella much more than that less than two months ago… and now u tell me it’s a piecea crap?

So, I called CitiBank, told ‘em I’d skip a montha mortgage, wished em a Happy Labor Day.. AT&T next. “Please… I can’t mail the check until sometime in late October, but could you keep my phone line going so I can still have DSL and mebbe, just mebbe, get laid onea these days?” (Computerized voice said “I did not understand that”. You wouldn’t, you’d haveta been in my shoes the last six years to understand. Or my undies. Hell, been dark there, ceptin for puttin’ new ones on when I bathe. Or when I flip ‘em. Hehe.

“Son, see them there 12 jars a fine, fine Skippy Peanut Butter?.. Yep, September & October. Shit, it’s good stuff!”

“Hi boss.. This is Vic… remember me? I sit in that cubicle kinda cattycorner to the International 2 printer…kinda redheaded, always gotta shit-eatin grin on my face? I was wonderin’, ain’t had a raise in quite some time. Bastards want like a grand to fix my Hot…. Rod…. Lincoln.. Ya reckon you could gimme an extra thou this month since I’ve really been workin’ hard for you the last five years.” Click. Bastard.

Soooooooooooooooooo… I told the dude at the auto hospital to do this, but skip that, and that, oh and that down there… that should get it running… not overheatin’….

So they did that… And the owner of the place, I reckon feeling some guilt for selling me the car and having all that crap go wrong shortly after said “you can even make one payment this pay period ($337.64) and one the next ($337.64). But… lemme tell you, the checkenginelight is on, and we probably oughta check that while it’s in here.”

Holy shit. There it is again. The roller coaster. The exhilaration. The pensiveness. The “what next”.. Eh, in a way, it’s comfy. It’s lifelike. Bumps in the road no matter what you drive, even if you drive onea them rollers that presses down asphalt. Even if you’re George Clooney. Selma Hyatt. Hugh Hefner (not many, but I’m sure he deals with bumps. Yes, pun intended.)

Soooooooooooooooooooo………….. I trudge on in my quest for ‘her’. For ‘right’. For ‘oh baby oh baby.’ For receiving that smile. For watching her get outta bed and simply admiring the view as she walks away. For that handhold. The caress. Falling asleep tucked against one another.

Checkenginelight. Rollercoasters. Ups, downs. YES. No. Wrong turns, GPS “turn left ½ mile, you’ve arrived at your destination.” The weeding the narrowing. The hurt, the unintended giving of hurt. Not yet been ‘for sure’. Want to be. If there is sucha thing.

I better go now. Lotta traffic down by the air show at the old downtown airport. Gotta cutup that cardboard box… find the magic marker. makes me my sign… “Friggin broke… can you spare some change in case I need gas money to go meet someone for the potential of “oh baby oh baby?” Shit, I’d pitcha nickel if the holy shoe was on the other foot.

Actually, life is good. Somehow it worked out there’s going to be an extra paycheck there between now and next CitiBank payment. Rollercoaster back up. YES. Oh baby, oh baby.

Until the day we pee our pants and forget our name…. Whether that be in a 4500 square foot house, or, under the 12th street bridge… love, Victurd.

PS: The hell is “Razz butt?” I was trying to thinka whatinthehell I was gonna write about. Razz butt is what my friend Sam says when he misses an easy pool shot. Sam smiles a lot, even though he just got laid off three weeks ago. He hops with joy when he hit’s a good shot. He’s fun. He’s light. He’s life. He’s going thru his own ‘checkenginelight’ and he sets a good example of how to deal with it. Razz butt.