The Art of Conversation

The following is an unexpurgated transcript of email communication between me and Duende, an old friend of mine.

This may explain why I don't have many friends.

Make of these what you will ... I just felt like sharing.

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Fez Monkey
Sent: Thursday, March 23, 2006 11:29 AM
To: Duende; Eggs
Subject: V Showtimes

"V For Vendetta" is playing this Sat at the theater place in beautiful downtown CC -- I figure we can all agree that seeing it there is preferable to battling idiots and swine what have no manners nor common sense at the Bridge.

Sure … the reviews have been tepid at best, but Christ, who are we to let pointy-headed artsnobblers dictate what we watch? The path to revolution starts now. Throw the gauntlet of defiance, and let’s see this damned thing.

Showtimes are: 1, 1:45, 2:15, 4:05, 4:45

The cost is $7.50

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Duende
To: Fez Monkey; Eggs
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 7:31 AM
Subject: RE: V Showtimes

Newsflash:
I have heard rumblings that our chubby little Tex is celebrating another Herpes-filled year on this Earth. As I endeavor to make the wife as miserable as she makes me, I have to be available to brood and despoil any fete she may be invited to (of course I will not be invited, but when did that ever stop your humble narrator) this weekend. When I asked the Magic 8-ball if I will be going to the movies with you this weekend, it said “Answer hazy, ask again later”. I just wanted to keep you in-the-loop, as the Anglos say.

Is my work never done?
BF

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Fez Monkey
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 9:52 AM
To: Duende; Eggs
Subject: Re: V Showtimes

So, Miri made it through another year? I guess the deleterious effect of STDs are greatly exaggerated – although that oozing boil on the side of her face indicates she may only be drawing breath for another few months. Screw her. Whoring around carries a stiff cost nowadays, and a throbbing, pulsating, pus-filled scab on her cheek is getting off cheap. I hope she tackles you from behind and drips some of her discharge on you.

You're the eternal optimist, you pig. I'm counting you as good as dead for Saturday. Your flowery verse and stupid insistence on searching for a silver lining are nauseating. Strings have been pulled and wheels are in motion. Have fun with the hicks, you traitor. The most to hope for at this point is that you start drinking the moment you wake up, and reach a level of belligerence reminiscent of your wilder, younger days by the time the first of the barefoot hillbillys make their way to this shindig. You’d better be armed as well, honest, god fearing white people aren’t fond of you brown-faces, and it’s a good bet that you’ll be doing a fine jig at the end of a rope before the sun sets. But then it serves you right, for daring to despoil such an event with your colored-ness.

I would weep for you, but I don't find wasting tears on one who makes his own bed to be of any value.

Shalom, you oily bastard.

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Duende
To: Fez Monkey; Eggs
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 10:36 AM
Subject: RE: V Showtimes

Remember: the Lord Jesus also arose from the dead to save us all – as I may do for you bums.

Pax

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Fez Monkey
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 11:10 AM
To: Duende; Eggs
Subject: Re: V Showtimes

Isn’t it just like one of you heathens to take the name of our lord and savior in vain, soiling it with your inferiority.

People like you should be hogtied, suspended from a great height, and beaten with sticks like a piñata on general principles. Your continued mockery of the inherent superiority of the white man’s culture is astounding. But you’ll learn. I recommend you practice standing with your back against the wall, as come helter skelter that’s where you’ll be.

Nyam-Mo-Ho-Renge-Kyo

Ook ook

*-*-*-*-*-*

From: Duende
Sent: Friday, March 24, 2006 2:02 PM
To: Fez Monkey; Eggs
Subject: Re: V Showtimes

Hey – after I vomit on Saturday, will you be free? I figure I will need many beers to wash the taste of all those ignorant crackers out of my mouth. You know how annoying it can be spending too much time with white people. I will have much pent up rage, and will need someone to beat on, and you and our resident semite will do nicely. I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, as it is the time of the people of the sun.

Be prepared for some serious hurt, gabacho.

Si se puede, youse mugs.

The Eyes, They Are A-Changin'

"Which is better, one or two?"
"Ummmm … two, I think."

God, how many times have I had to go through this dichotomy of choices? It seems as if I’ve been in that chair for close to four hours, even though the hands of the giant clock on the wall indicate that only about 15 minutes have passed.

The thing is, I don’t mind getting my eyes checked. It’s easily the absolute most painless health maintenance procedure any of us will ever have to endure. We get to sit in a very large padded chair, and a gigantic apparatus with lenses of miniscule increments is set in front of our eyes. All we have to do is look and answer “one” or “two” as knobs are rotated and dials twiddled.

"How about now? One or two?"
"They’re about the same."

But, for some reason, I find myself disliking the process more and more. I think it’s my new optometrist. I used to go see this young honey who was kind enough to wear short skirts. She had an enticing smile, a suggestive sense of humor, and was completely aware that a little innocent flirting made time move a little faster. This new guy is pushing toward morbid obesity, is balding, tends to wheeze, and has an odor vaguely reminiscent of turnips.

It’s like that all over, innit? You get used to something pleasant, something that has you looking forward to whatever event with which it’s (they’re) associated, only to find that things have changed and where there was once a woman you’d love to join for a private game of doctor, you now have a guy that looks like nothing more than about 300lbs of tapioca poured into some rumpled clothing.

"Have you noticed any new problems with your vision?"
"Only that it’s getting a bit difficult to focus when going from close to far."

They say change is positive, and in most instances I can see how that would be true. But then again, they just love being right, pompous bastards. But change isn’t always a good thing. I mean, who in their right mind would willingly swap a playful, seductive young woman for a guy who likely breaks a sweat using a remote to change channels?

The worst part is, this isn’t the first time I’ve been on the wrong end of this kind of switch. My old dentist was the type of woman from which shower-fantasies are made. I was going to the dentist for a cleaning so frequently, my insurance company probably thought I was some sort of dental-psychotic. She left last year, to be replaced by a jug-eared dork with an asymmetrical moustache. As if I can trust someone like that to put his hands in my mouth.

"Okay, all we need to do now is the ole glaucoma test, and we’ll pretty much be done."
"Great."

At least this visit would be over soon. I tried to recall in my mind’s eye what my old optometrist looked like, but could only get these vague, ghostly pictures. I tried closing my eyes to remove unnecessary stimuli, allowing my memory to concentrate, but was reminded that this was an eye exam and it would help if I kept mine open. Even in periphery I could see the puffy cheeks and greasy hair of this new guy, killing any chance of evoking the delectable legs that used to cross and uncross intentionally during the exam.

"Okay, we’re all finished. You can pick up your new prescription at the front desk."
"Thanks, everything okay?"
"Just a slight change to the left Rx."
"Great."
"Oh, but I do recommend you get bifocals – your close vision needs some help."
"Huh?"
"Don’t worry. It’s normal for people around your age."

Man, I hate change.

Ook ook

Blogging Defined

So, Snot Rag comes over the other day. He’s been a friend for a while, and has this mucous condition, if you must know. The MonkeyWife isn’t really fond of him, on account of the bubbling snorts and the high-gloss sheen on his sleeve from countless wipings kinda grosses her out. So, she suddenly had some errands to run.

Me? I brought down a bottle of tequila. Not Three G’s … Snot Rag isn’t nearly worth that. Just some of the cheaper stuff I keep around for the unexpected drop-ins. Don’t give me that look, you do the same thing.

So, Snot Rag accepts a glass of the clear nectar, sees my laptop open, and goes over. He’s not the most tactful sonofabitch, but he’s a mate and all, so I tolerate him. My browser is set on my blog, because I constantly re-read my posts. I have to, because mine are so much more interesting than yours. It’s okay, you can admit it … I have.

Anyway, Snot Rag turns to me and says, “You do this stuff?”
”Yep,” I say, taking a sip of the lovely white liquor.
“How long?”
”Maybe a month or so.”
”Oh. Is there anything good on here?”
“Not really.”

And he starts to read my post about how I’m not a genius.

“This is stupid,” he says
“Yep,” I answer.
"You know, you're really not that funny," he says.
"I know," I answer, taking a small sip of my drink.

He keeps reading.

“Are all blogs as dumb as yours?” he asks.
“Well, I’m sure mine is dumber than most, but yeah, I think so,” I reply.

At that point, he starts to do some surfing, reading a few things here and there, flitting from page to page by clicking at the helpful “next blog” button on the upper right corner of the screen, all the while aspirating a surprising amount of nasal discharge. As he scans, his face begins to take the appearance of someone who has just eaten a very large helping of spoiled seafood.

“So, what’s the point of blogging?” he asks, with genuine curiosity.
“Whaddaya mean?” I answer after another slug of tequila. “It’s just a way for me to pop off. You know, ‘Flinging Poop’ and all.”
“But,” he stammers, unable to process it but still snorting like a steam train trying to overcome it’s stationary inertia. “But, some of it is so … stupid. I mean, this woman here, all she does is post recipes using cheese.”
“Yah,” I opine.
"This girl is babbling about her last date and the clothes she chose."
"Yah," I mention.
"This moron can't spell."
"Yah," I emapthize.
“And this guy, all he does is put up pictures of his kids, with stupid song lyrics. Song Lyrics!”
“Yah,” I offer.
“And this guy is just ranting incoherently about conspiracies and shadow governments.”
“Yah,” I add.
“Have you actually read some of these things!” he said, gesticulating like someone in the early stages of a seizure. “They’re written by half-wits who take themselves way too seriously!”
“Yah,” I nod.
“And anyone with a PC and Internet connection can just throw up a page and start spouting off, no matter how ignorant or illiterate they are?”
”Yah,” I say. “Democracy in action.”
“So, is that really it? Is blogging just a way for any moron to throw up anything they want, whether it makes any sense or needs to be said?”
“Yah,” I concede.
“And people take it seriously?”
"Very,” I say.

Snot Rag sat there for a moment, looking like a neanderthal trying to comprehend an internal combustion engine. "Let me see if I understand this," he finally said, taking a deep breath, and sucking up what sounds like a pint of particularly viscous mucous. "The whole point is to let any idiot publish any garbage?"

"Yah," I reply. "But, just like anything else, each blog is only as good or valid as the person posting at that time. Some stuff is pretty thought provoking, some is damned funny, some is insightful, and some ... well, a lot ... is just stupid. Some don't take it too seriously, and see it as a way to have fun, others get their jollies by being a prick, while others are pretty adamant and almost belligerent about a perceived sanctity of their words. Just like life."

Snot Rag leans back for a moment, then exhales. “Wow,” he concludes, draining the last of his drink, and wagging the empty glass at me for a refill. “Some people have way too much time on their hands.”

Indeed we do.

Ook ook

God Hates Duke

In an earlier effort (one that sparked a confusing but evidently passionate bit of chest pounding), I had popped off about how absurd I thought the whole athletes and entertainers praising The Jesus is. I then went on to mention that The Jesus must not have much of a jump shot, since his bible-sucking boys from Oral Roberts University got whipped in the opening round game of the NCAA tournament like unrepentant heathens during the Spanish Inquisition.

Nobody Expects It

But, it seems that while The Jesus suffers from white-boy basketball affliction, his dad is a bit of a fan. After all, how else can you explain Duke getting faced in prime time by a pack of barely literate Cajuns from Baton Rouge?

It was sublime. The clean-cut, all-American darlings of the media, lead by JJ Reddick (one of this year’s “great white hopes” for the future of basketball) couldn’t seem to handle the pressure and intensity of a bunch of bumpkins. This was not what people who voted for Nixon were happy to see. Duke is their team, and they are the people who really run the country. Yalies may get elected, but Dukies pull the strings. Seeing their beloved team get tossed aside like a used condom doesn’t sit well. Duke was the overall number one seed – teams like that don’t get upset in the Sweet 16. Especially not by some state school.

Yet there it was, happening before the nations eyes. Dick Vitale was openly weeping, telling anyone who would listen that this was an atrocity. Duke’s coach, that sniveling rat-faced geek, was in a mad panic. As the seconds ticked off the clock, you could see him slowly imploding, face becoming more pinched.

Man or Rat?

You could almost see his incisors lengthen, and whiskers spring from his cheeks. His eyes no longer able to focus, he appeared to be frantically looking for some cheese, no longer interacting with his team. The game was lost, and he had given up.

It was clear that God was tired of Duke and their fans. The hubris that swaggered on the court wearing the white with blue trim was given a harsh slap in the face. Evidently wrath has changed a bit since the old testament. Back then, God would have rained sulfur or engaged in a bit of genocide to show His displeasure. Now he just makes petulant, privileged rich kids cry.

Waaaaaaah!

I may need to search for my rosary, and head back to church.

Ook ook

You have a GOOD day!

Please excuse the bit of self-indulgence of the following post.

I went to college at the University of California in the mid–80’s. At that time Berkeley was a haven for oddballs, weirdos, and freaks. People who would be considered eccentric by San Francisco standards. And anyone who spent any time at all in San Francisco in the 80’s knows just how extreme that statement is.

Occasionally some of these characters that animated my day-to-day travels around campus and the Southside return in my memory, like a flashback from drinking too much mescal. People like Stoney, the Polkadot Man, the Smartest Man In The World, Rearrrr, Rick Starrr, and others too bizarre to even qualify for names. The memories come in flashes, and are often gone with just as much haste as they appeared.

However, there was one man who transcended all of these characters. His name was Joseph Charles, known as the Waving Guy. He wasn’t one of the campus looneys, or some homeless vagrant with an overblown id, or some manic political activist. He was a retired old man, living in South Berkeley, who would stand on the corner outside his home and greet passersby and motorists every morning.

He was as much a fixture of the Berkeley tapestry as the Campanile, the heroin addicts in Barrington Hall, football losses, or the spaced-out homeless in People’s Park.

Every morning, rain or shine, he would be out on his corner, trademark yellow-gloved hands waving frenetically, shouting to drivers “You have a good day!” His smile seemed immutable, as were his cheer and sincere hopes that everyone he greeted enjoyed their day.

At first, I simply catalogued him as just another weirdo, tossed on the street as one of the many casualties of the Reagan administration's slashing of public funds to help and house the mentally ill. But there was this complete lack of pretension or insanity about him. Mr. Charles loved life, and he wanted to share that feeling with everyone he could – and what better way to try and bring a small amount of cheer than by smiling and waving during the morning commute, when people are angrily battling traffic?

I lived in the Lake Merritt area of Oakland for a year and a half while attending Cal, and my trip to school would bring me past Mr. Charles every day. He became a fixture, as constant as the North Star, standing on his corner, hands a yellow blur, wishing people a good day. The odd times I missed him, whether through taking a different route, going past after the ritual was over, or if he was ill, there seemed to be a hole in the day … like missing that third cup of coffee or not being able to read the paper before class. And, after a day without Mr. Charles, the next sighting would always seem just a bit more fulfilling.

I graduated in 1987 and left Berkeley for good. However, on every return trip, I would make it a point to drive by Mr. Charles’ corner to get my greeting. It was as much a ritual as heading to Kip's for a pitcher and a bowl of fries, or heading to Henry’s for some Golden Bears after the Big Game. A visit to my alma mater would never be complete without seeing him, and getting my greeting.

Berkeley as a whole began to change in the 90’s, losing much of it’s personality and charm to giant mega-corporations and franchise stores. Telegraph Avenue, once a defiant bastion of independent book, music, food, and coffee shops started to be home to places like the Gap, and Borders, and Starbucks. Neon and chrome replaced peeling paint and scribbled signs.

Mr. Charles’ health began to decline in the 90’s, and his morning greetings came seated in a patio chair. The juxtaposition of his starting to slow down and Berkeley losing it's unique vibe seems to be more than a coincidence to me. It's as if the city began to change because Mr. Charles wasn't able to keep it the same. He died in 2002, at the ripe old age of 91.

Today is Mr. Charles' birthday. You all have a good day.