Sunday, September 9, 2007

Sausalito

A
The boy with brain damage from a boating accident sleeps behind me in one of the twin beds. Ryan. The 31 year-old boy with the mentality of a spoiled 14 year-old sleeps behind me and I am in a Marriot hotel 20 floors up, rooms 300 something a night normally, but the father, a contractor, is in a club with an annual fee. He gets expensive rooms cheap.

They want me to fix Ryan, which is not easy with so many outside factors (coddling especially) influencing his societal incorporation as an independent self-reliant adult.

At breakfast yesterday, at a very nice place with views of dream set houses in dimension 18 of Heaven World, Ryan wanted pancakes, and the seaside restaurant with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge didn't have them on the brunch menu, whereby he insisted we eat at another place. We almost did too, until I convinced him to settle for the Lobster Benedict.

If I'd had it my way, I'd've pulled him aside and explained in two different ways how the world does not revolve around any one individual. Instead I had to overenthusiastically say, "Mmm, LOBSTER. I bet that's delicious! And look how expensive it is!" and make him believe it was his idea to want it.

It worked. It almost always works. Even outside of work. People are stubborn and selfish a lot. Male people especially. Obstinate creatures. Generalization? More like generealization. I'm funny.


Last night I met Lena for the first time in our three years of friendship. We had two cocktails a piece in the hotel lobby, on couches, by a fireplace, surrounded by seas of marble . The bill was 51 dollars with a six dollar tip. Expensive drinks. Can't say I didn't really know what was coming though.

Lena introduced me to a drink called a Sidecar. Brandy and lemon with a sugar rim. Not bad for a sweet drink. Perfect if you want to rollie pollie through life. As if the alcohol alone is not enough to shrink the pants. But some people don't really care about that, obviously. If they only knew how good it could be if they'd lose a few. They wouldn't have so many 'why' questions relating to negative social and interpersonal circumstances.

That, and mind blowing orgasms. There should be an elective in schools...or maybe not. The pervs would have a field day with that. Fucking degenerates. Never mind.


A humanitarianesque friend in Houston (Bob) and I were having a conversation about a girl who liked a boy. She was sad about it because he seemed out of her league, untouchable, and she was lovelorn, obsessed from creating her own rejection without any real rejection from the boy. I told Bob that maybe the girl could drop about twenty pounds or so, that her confidence would help her, her looks would improve and help her.

Bob (who's been binging on Ben and Jerry's more than ever lately) said I was mean for saying that. That I was an asshole. I know it's because he's struggling to come to terms with his own recent weight gain after being skinny all his life, but come on. Be defensive. Do it. Dumbass. Live in your denial and surround yourself with a lot of the same.

If people are real and they don't respect your shit, they are evil. There's a way to label how evil they are, a catagory from many catagories as an outlet for contempt. I've been friends with Bob for years so I can't dislike him for anything anymore, like family. But his weaknesses are obvious and hurt me more than him, since he won't let himself see them.

Such a burden sometimes, when the truth is so blatant and obvious, but like hell to some people, who run from it, or wear blinders like those horses who shit all over 6th street. Those poor horses. The truth would destroy them as well, I'm sure.

1 comment:

Robert said...

Someone was talking to me about how you like to tell the truth. One of the kids down the street, I think.
Or his older brother.
He was saying how negative you were about his BMX. "If it weren't for the crossbar, it would be a girls bike", or something to that effect.
I beat him up.
He's only an asshole anyway.
Later on I got drunk and flipped over the handlebars in an accident.

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