Early last week, I helped my temporary roommate move her mattress out of her old house and into her new one, and with that, the Wizard and I had our apartment to ourselves again. We've had one guest or another staying with us for the better part of three weeks, and without them, the place feels humongous. It's also very quiet, decently clean, and completely relaxing.
Things have been so non-stop, I haven't had a chance to post much, but I feel I need to backtrack and tell you about a conversation I had with a crazy person in the park last Saturday.
It was a lovely day, perfect for a game of fetch in the park with Franklin Doglano Woofsevelt. We wandered down to the open field where we usually play, and managed to enjoy perhaps 10 minutes of fun before I noticed a man set his gaze on us and make a beeline across the field to where we were.
I don't mind talking to strangers...briefly. But I'm fairly certain there is an unspoken rule about impromptu conversations with strangers not to exceeding a certain time limit. The time limit is flexible, depending on how the conversation is going...but both parties should be perceptive of the other person's body language and responses, and sense when to wrap things up and be on their way.
I never bothered to ask his name, so I will just call him Man Gogh. Man Gogh was oblivious to the unspoken rules of polite society. Furthermore, he guilted me into listening to him for far longer than I ever wanted by beginning the conversation with a story about being racially profiled by a couple on the other side of the park, and how upset that made him feel. Sadly, his guilt routine worked like a charm, and I was trapped. From there, the conversation spiraled so deeply into the realm of the surreal, I later had to wonder if there had ever been a racial profiling incident at all.
Man Gogh started off innocently enough, regaling me with tales of his artwork. "Reclamations", he insisted, when I mistakenly referred to them as paintings. He said he goes into old houses in disrepair and collects things like a piece of wood and bits of bricks, and then creates a picture of the house on the wood from the house, using the brick to create the same color of the house. This sounds pretty cool in writing, to be honest, but the way he described them...let's just say I have a pretty good feeling they are not good. He claims he does commission pieces, but I still felt skeptical. If they are good, then he is perhaps a savant of some kind and I have no appreciation for brilliance, even when it's standing right in front of me and telling me it wants to marry me.
So the conversation turned from art to the fact that I appear to be 12 years old, to finding out that I am in fact, not 12 years old, and therefore the ideal woman. In a single breath, Man Gogh told me he wanted to marry me, told me that he wanted to have a wife who did nothing but housework and spent all his money, and told me that he would need to have a couple of mistresses on the side. He waffled for several minutes over whether I should be the mistress or the wife, but eventually concluded that I was a queen, and would have to be the wife. When I explained how assanine all of this was, he couldn't seem to comprehend my reasoning. Why in the world would a woman want to have a job or be self-sufficient in any way, as long as she had an overly willing puppy-dog of a man to tend to her every need and desire? He did at least finally concede not to cheat on me in our imaginary marriage.
Just then, Man Gogh realized what it was he found so appealing about me. First, he told me I reminded him of Mary Tyler Moore, and serenaded me with the theme song to her show. Second, I reminded him of his ex-girlfriend who moved to France to become a runway model. He spent at least 20 minutes giving me a detailed account of their entire relationship, beginning with the day they met and had sex, after which she cried a lot, and he told her to get out of his face because he didn't want to hear any of that. The next day he says she showed up at his house and they had sex again, after which she handed over the keys to her apartment and car, with the one and only stipulation that he give her a ride to and from work that day.
Man Gogh explained that after dropping her off at work, he took the opportunity to go joyriding about town in her automobile with his friends, drinking beer and smoking marijuana until approximately an hour before he was supposed to pick her up. Upon realizing the time, he ditched his friends and then stopped to give the car a thorough cleaning before she could find out what a mess he had made of it. By day three the two were so madly in love, they went straight out and rented a condo together downtown. There were a lot of strange holes in his story, but it was detailed enough that either Man Gogh has a wildly vivid imagination, or some of these things really did happen.
Man Gogh and the girl were happy and life was perfect, until she suddenly decided to pursue her lifelong dream to become a French model. As quickly as she had appeared, she packed up and left the country, and Man Gogh has wandered the earth, lonely and heartbroken, ever since. Now he just dreams of finding a nice wife who doesn't care much about anything beyond being a gold-digger and nagging him to take the garbage out. Somehow, I suspect it unlikely that his unambitious goal will ever come true considering he lacks the monetary value necessary to sustain a gold-digging wife. Worse, he smells a lot like a bag of McDonald's left to rot inside a hot dumpster.
The moment I sensed a slight lull in his rambling tale, and jumped at the opportunity to make my escape. I had been listening to him for a full 45 minutes, and I was starting to think I might gnaw off my own arm to get away. I wished Man Gogh the best in his quest for love, noted the direction he seemed to be heading, and set off at a brisk pace in the exact opposite. By then, I was too exhausted to enjoy the park and far more concerned with not running into him a second time, so we just went home. The end.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
A very good friend has been living with me for the past week. She's filed for divorce, and we've been having a fantastic time staying up late going to rock shows, getting drunk and baking hysterical cupcakes, jamming out badly on every instrument in the house, and running amok all over town. I feel like I'm 19 and living illegally in a boys' dormitory again. All these late nights have made it really difficult to make it to work on time and keep up with my homework, so I'm [regretfully] glad it's only a temporary living arrangement. Even so, I'm managing to keep pace, burning the candle as far as I can stand to burn it from both ends. I should only have to keep this up for another week or so, and then I will probably crash like a spent punk for an entire weekend. If we ever decide to form a band, I think we'll call ourselves The Lucky Divorcees. Maybe just The Divorcees. Lucky seems potentially redundant.