Take Tomorrow Off

It’s my birthday and I feel like shit.  Might be the rain, or the (obscenely) extended work day, pehaps a mixture of the two.  Not enough goddamn time. 

I came home all ready to listen to Bo Diddley sing songs whose titles all reference “Bo Diddley,” and drink God’s nectar:

A diet Pineapple soda?  If this doesn’t kill me, I’m moving to whichever South American country makes this swill.

Now the Bo Diddley was a must this birthday.  I bought this box set once before, up in Philly, and gave it to my brother.  He had expressed an interest in rock and roll’s roots, and I already had the Chuck Berry and Little Richard bases covered.  So he got Diddley!  (Ha!  Get it!?!  A pun!)

Everyone reading this probably knows my brother’s an incorrigible drunk, who frequently calls me in the middle of the night screaming, “Listen to this!”  He’ll then blare Bo Diddley’s “I’m a Man” through the phone.  “And feel it, motherfucker!”

He’ll probably deny this.  But who are you gonna believe: him, or a guy with a picture like this!?!:

Exactly.  Naturally I was stoked to get home.

Every thing crashed when I arrived though.  I mean, there I was, all ready to poison myself and equip myself with new retorts for my brother, when I ran into this:

That’s my neighbor’s cart.  Not parked anywhere near his apartment.  Just sitting out there.  Upon further investigation I find this:

Yeah, one of his shoes and what looked like blood.  Just what I hoped to encounter on my way home.  At least the murderers got him and not me.

I knocked on his door to see if he was okay.  He’s had a number of strokes, hence the Prowler, and he looks like a guy named Steve I used to work with.  I think his name is actually Justin or something foolish like that, but I guess I can’t blame his parents for not knowing that someday their son would look like a guy I know.  So he’ll be “Steve” from now on. 
“Steve”‘s okay.  He didn’t answer the door, but I ran into him a few minutes later after I had run inside to grab my camera.  I wanted to get a better picture of the blood, and there he was standing in the doorway looking groggy.  I asked him how he was doing, and he claimed he was fine.  I’m sure the expression I was giving showed I didn’t believe him since he was wearing his shirt wrong.  He had his left arm inside the shirt, like he was a bored third-grader.  So I asked him again, “You okay?” 

Again he replied with an affirmative.  So I let it go.

[I’m so glad I don’t live there anymore. Also, for readers who can remember this one from its first trip around the block, unfortunately I’ve lost the link to the “smiling stomach Buddha.”]


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