some fun stuff.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
all i want for christmas....
i know times are tough. there is a financial crisis at hand, banks and automotive companies are asking for bailouts. which is why i am making things simple for you.
all i want for christmas is for you, my closest friends and confidants is to donate $5 to my campaign to spend christmas in berlin :)
so, please, find it in your heart to help davey have a warm and holy christmas.
If Obama could raise $750 million to get to the white house, then surely we can work together and hit the $500 mark for my travel package.
so your generosity would surely be appreciated. and of course upon my return, you'll be bestowed with rarities and trinkets of europa.
have a merry christmas and i will keep you in my thoughts whilst chugging egg nog with german girls.
kindest regards,
david m. pinedo
please send your donations here :)
all i want for christmas is for you, my closest friends and confidants is to donate $5 to my campaign to spend christmas in berlin :)
so, please, find it in your heart to help davey have a warm and holy christmas.
If Obama could raise $750 million to get to the white house, then surely we can work together and hit the $500 mark for my travel package.
so your generosity would surely be appreciated. and of course upon my return, you'll be bestowed with rarities and trinkets of europa.
have a merry christmas and i will keep you in my thoughts whilst chugging egg nog with german girls.
kindest regards,
david m. pinedo
please send your donations here :)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
things you eat at the end of the month
paychecks don't come until the first, so living can get rough.
1. spaghetti with butter, the butter stolen from your flat mates area of the fridge.
2. water with lemon. lots and lots of water with lemon.
3. questionable pieces of bread topped with questionable pieces of cheese, preferably blue cheese to make it look more acceptable.
4. free coffee and hot tea from the different clients i visit.
5. rice mixed with hot sauce and peanut butter. if you close your eyes, you can pretend that it's gourmet thai food.
6. beer, there is always money for beer.
7. oatmeal, all day, everyday.
8. going through the last of your canned goods: diced tomatoes, pineapple chunks, green olives and Voila! Tapas.
9. Cutting up a cucumber and calling it a cucumber salad.
10. advil with toothpaste.
1. spaghetti with butter, the butter stolen from your flat mates area of the fridge.
2. water with lemon. lots and lots of water with lemon.
3. questionable pieces of bread topped with questionable pieces of cheese, preferably blue cheese to make it look more acceptable.
4. free coffee and hot tea from the different clients i visit.
5. rice mixed with hot sauce and peanut butter. if you close your eyes, you can pretend that it's gourmet thai food.
6. beer, there is always money for beer.
7. oatmeal, all day, everyday.
8. going through the last of your canned goods: diced tomatoes, pineapple chunks, green olives and Voila! Tapas.
9. Cutting up a cucumber and calling it a cucumber salad.
10. advil with toothpaste.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
you cut me off mid funk!
freaks and geeks is the best show ever. i would definitely be Bill Haverchuck.
Holiday in the sun
So my buddy Ryan really got me into studying national currencies and extreme cases of inflation. Living in Prague you begin to watch every cent you spend and earn. since i've been here, the U.S. dollar has surprisingly gone up in my favor despite the economic setbacks back home. and as for my canadian friends, theyre not so lucky and are watching a lot of their saving diminishing.
The Czech krown is high for some reason or another and i'm predicting it to fall pretty soon. Though the czech republic has a trained workforce (a lot of IT business out here) I imagine you can still get IT for dirt cheap in India. Their even going through their housing bust like we had back home in cali. It's nothing like it was 20 years ago when you could get a haircut for 5 cents or trade a pair of jeans for a car. but beers are still $1 and that works for me.
But this is what I'm looking at now...
http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/10/09/business/icebank.php
Iceland has just declared bankruptcy which makes it the ultimate travel destination spot for thrifty tourist like myself. Though I cant imagine moving there, I bet you could get a good deal on a winter cabin with some sigur ros tickets to boot. Most of my days are spent looking at flight tickets which are still pretty high but if you do the math it all works out.
United States Dollars Iceland Kronur
1 USD = 141.425 ISK
The Czech krown is high for some reason or another and i'm predicting it to fall pretty soon. Though the czech republic has a trained workforce (a lot of IT business out here) I imagine you can still get IT for dirt cheap in India. Their even going through their housing bust like we had back home in cali. It's nothing like it was 20 years ago when you could get a haircut for 5 cents or trade a pair of jeans for a car. but beers are still $1 and that works for me.
But this is what I'm looking at now...
http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/10/09/business/icebank.php
Iceland has just declared bankruptcy which makes it the ultimate travel destination spot for thrifty tourist like myself. Though I cant imagine moving there, I bet you could get a good deal on a winter cabin with some sigur ros tickets to boot. Most of my days are spent looking at flight tickets which are still pretty high but if you do the math it all works out.
United States Dollars Iceland Kronur
1 USD = 141.425 ISK
1 ISK = 0.00707089 USD
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
crying
why do we cry? specifically, when were young? like when were babies and toddlers.
i was waiting for the tram today and i saw this poor mother, hunched over in the cold, trying to soothe her crying boy. he was about two or three and i just paused in front of the KFC and stood in the amazement of it all.
she was frantically pulling out bottles, pacifiers, anything to get him to shut up. no choo cho? no ba ba? maybe its apple juice? that always works, that's not it? why are you crying? like wailing crying. what is so specific in our human genetics that we have to cry about shit that isn't going our way? what if this kid didn't have any parents, would he cry and cry until he said fuck this, i'll just do it myself?
i mean, crying....c'mon. really? and when did we learn to stop crying? when did our parents convince us that everything would be OK beyond that horrible and everlasting moment. now that were older, do we sometimes cry on the inside when we don't get what we want, but we've learned not to express it? I know we've learned to rationalize the immediate, but still that experience must exist deep down inside of us.
think about it, when they're out of a video you want to rent or when a server messes up your order, you must being crying on the inside, just like this kid.
when was the last time you cried? i tried to think back about that and I thought maybe when I split with an ex girlfriend. sure that's reason enough to cry, that can be some pretty heavy shit. but then it came to me, i did cry, when i had to say goodbye to my grandmother before i left to prague. all these thoughts consumed me. what if this is the last time i see her? i was just a kid spending my every weekend with her, now i'm grown up and am moving halfway around the world. sure that got me, but where does it start, how does it shift towards a more emotional aspect and does it ever end?
i think a big step was when we learn to cuss. i was thinking if I was like this kid today and I didn't get what I wanted, I wouldn't break down and start weeping waiting for some stranger to take me in their arms. Instead I would say , "Shit" or "Fuck" and it's over and done with. end of story.
Like if you're running to the bank and right when you get there they close their doors. FUCK! SHIT! CRAP! FUCK! MOTHER FUCK!
You stub your toe...you get the point.
So I propose that we should starting teaching our kids to cuss at an earlier age. sure teachers and other parents might dislike the notion at first, but imagine all the time you could be saving. Instead of getting sucked into appeasing your child, you could be playing tennis. Instead of being bent over, hovering in the cold like this poor mother you could be learning a new language or watching a classic film instead. No apple juice? "Fuck!" "That's right Johnny now leave me alone, Daddies watching the Lakers!".
So I couldn't take it anymore, I decided to go buy some $6 dollar v necks to occupy my time. Nothing looked right, I went through piles of sweaters, all the same. Then I turned to another isle looking for the perfect sweater and gazed down on the floor to see this poor woman sprawled out having a seizure. Our eyes connected, she pissed her self and I took a step back, two other people, strangers, were already with her, guiding her through that state of utter helplessness. I looked around to see if anyone was calling an ambulance or if there was a doctor in the building. An associate just shrugged her shoulders at me as if this happened all the time. She looked at the woman flopping on the floor like a fish, shook her head and continued to ring up more clothes. Her fellow associate followed suit and I walked back to the scene. A woman brushed past me weeping from the intensity of it all, holding a tissue. I looked around for my place in all this and said, "Fuck".
i was waiting for the tram today and i saw this poor mother, hunched over in the cold, trying to soothe her crying boy. he was about two or three and i just paused in front of the KFC and stood in the amazement of it all.
she was frantically pulling out bottles, pacifiers, anything to get him to shut up. no choo cho? no ba ba? maybe its apple juice? that always works, that's not it? why are you crying? like wailing crying. what is so specific in our human genetics that we have to cry about shit that isn't going our way? what if this kid didn't have any parents, would he cry and cry until he said fuck this, i'll just do it myself?
i mean, crying....c'mon. really? and when did we learn to stop crying? when did our parents convince us that everything would be OK beyond that horrible and everlasting moment. now that were older, do we sometimes cry on the inside when we don't get what we want, but we've learned not to express it? I know we've learned to rationalize the immediate, but still that experience must exist deep down inside of us.
think about it, when they're out of a video you want to rent or when a server messes up your order, you must being crying on the inside, just like this kid.
when was the last time you cried? i tried to think back about that and I thought maybe when I split with an ex girlfriend. sure that's reason enough to cry, that can be some pretty heavy shit. but then it came to me, i did cry, when i had to say goodbye to my grandmother before i left to prague. all these thoughts consumed me. what if this is the last time i see her? i was just a kid spending my every weekend with her, now i'm grown up and am moving halfway around the world. sure that got me, but where does it start, how does it shift towards a more emotional aspect and does it ever end?
i think a big step was when we learn to cuss. i was thinking if I was like this kid today and I didn't get what I wanted, I wouldn't break down and start weeping waiting for some stranger to take me in their arms. Instead I would say , "Shit" or "Fuck" and it's over and done with. end of story.
Like if you're running to the bank and right when you get there they close their doors. FUCK! SHIT! CRAP! FUCK! MOTHER FUCK!
You stub your toe...you get the point.
So I propose that we should starting teaching our kids to cuss at an earlier age. sure teachers and other parents might dislike the notion at first, but imagine all the time you could be saving. Instead of getting sucked into appeasing your child, you could be playing tennis. Instead of being bent over, hovering in the cold like this poor mother you could be learning a new language or watching a classic film instead. No apple juice? "Fuck!" "That's right Johnny now leave me alone, Daddies watching the Lakers!".
So I couldn't take it anymore, I decided to go buy some $6 dollar v necks to occupy my time. Nothing looked right, I went through piles of sweaters, all the same. Then I turned to another isle looking for the perfect sweater and gazed down on the floor to see this poor woman sprawled out having a seizure. Our eyes connected, she pissed her self and I took a step back, two other people, strangers, were already with her, guiding her through that state of utter helplessness. I looked around to see if anyone was calling an ambulance or if there was a doctor in the building. An associate just shrugged her shoulders at me as if this happened all the time. She looked at the woman flopping on the floor like a fish, shook her head and continued to ring up more clothes. Her fellow associate followed suit and I walked back to the scene. A woman brushed past me weeping from the intensity of it all, holding a tissue. I looked around for my place in all this and said, "Fuck".
Thursday, February 28, 2008
taxi cab from hell.
so i got a taxi today for work which isn't an uncommon thing to do, but today's ride was very different from the others.
perhaps i was expecting my usual cabbies.
there is this one old guy with dark shades and a moustache, a bit on the chubby side but not too chubby. i can't remember his name, gave me his card twice in order to get pick ups from him personally, but i tossed it for some reason or another, i guess i believe in equal opportunity. he always talks about the weather or what parts of town most of his work has been coming from lately. once in a while he recalls a regular in my neighborhood who was a deaf kid that he took to college, i knew the kid from seeing him around but never knew his name or the fact that he was deaf. anyways, i really like it when i get picked up from him because he always has the oldies station playing plus his cab is the only cab with tinted windows. i like that his cab has tinted windows. it feels that my life is a little more private while i am on my way to work. i look out the windows and wish sometimes life came with tinted windows, i would probably use them often. before i know it, the ride is a little more silent, but not as silent as the things going on in my head and my stop comes. he wishes me a good day and i pay him, tipping him well of course.
then theres another, older cabby who looks like he is on the brink of death. he is incredibly skinny, has no teeth and he has that gaze where he blinks often as if his last days are coming. his cab is filled with ashes and old coffee cups, i think how can man this age still be working? i think he must be on his last leg and he's working himself to the bone. at first i thought that he was a speed head because of the shock of seeing him, i remember the first time we rode together, there were spots of blood on his jeans. now i just think that maybe he's sick and has to work because he has no other choice. he likes it when i tip him well. even if i don't have any money on me and run to the atm to pay for the cab, i give him a whole twenty and tell him to keep it. he smiles in his feeble state and looks at his screen to see where the next pick up will be. after time, I've grown more comfortable with riding with him despite his fatigued physical appearance and the presence of a lingering death in the car.
today however, was quite different like i said before.
immediately sitting into the cab i had the sense of how the cab ride would be. the driver was an over talkative and intense man from the beginning. i politely told him what turns to take to get out of my neighborhood like i do to all the other drivers who seemed puzzled by the maze of streets in my block and in a loud voice he said, "I know! I know what I'm doing! So what part of Claremont are you headed to?" a little shocked from his behavior i say, "Umm Bonita and Indian Hill, it's best to take Baseline to Mountain, go south and hit Bonita from there."
"Well which restaurant is it? What cross streets?", he demands.
I was a bit puzzled, how did he know i work at a restaurant? i think, well maybe because he saw my clothes and my logo i was carrying along with my back pack. anyways, during all this talk he's looking back at me. glaring at me. not just his head, but angles his entire top torso and his head, almost filling the back seat looking at me. not looking at the road mind you! asking me questions, looking at me intensely and i respond quickly to direct his attention back to the road.
as he returns to the road i study him a bit. this guy has to be on speed, for sure i think, his pupils were all i could see. is that a sign that youre on speed or is it the other way around?
anyways, this guy must have been up for days driving this cab i think. i get back to the conversation and say "It's La Pain Quotidian, a french restaurant next to the movie theatre".
"oh, OK then, right off of 2ND st. got it. so what kind of place is it?, he asks
"it's a french restaurant.", i say again.
"well what type of place is this, is the food good? is this a place i would want to take my wife and children?" i think of the spectacle that would be. "what makes this place such a fine place that people come to it again and again?"
i think about it after all it's a pretty valid question.
i respond, "well, we serve mostly open faced sandwiches, organic foods and it has a lovely communal table, everything there is crafted from wood." he isn't letting me off so easy. "well what dish would you recommend? what is the dish that keeps everyone coming back?", he asks. "hmm. that's a good question." i say, a common response i have grown accustomed too. just a filler piece of conversation when in fact i am thinking what the hell is this guy getting at, who does he think he is asking me all these questions? i just wish this ride would end soon.
"theres so much to choose from, my favorite though would be the chicken lentil stew or the fisherman's pot, but their pretty pricey.", i say. quickly he adds, "well money is not an option with me, that's no problem. what is it that you do there exactly?" he inquires.
"i just serve.", i say trying to divert his attention away from me and let me think to myself like i always do in my cab rides.
he looks back, my eyes widen, just watch the road! i think, "just serve? you serve, don't say you "just" serve. you just don't do anything man, you serve, you're making money, spend that money that's what i say. spend it, because you never know what day is gonna be your last. some people save and save for what? thats not for me! you could die tomorrow with all that money. what's one billion dollars if your sitting in a wheel chair and you can only blink your left eye as a means of communication because you suffered some stroke or something?"
i think about that.
"well what is it?" i didn't think that he wanted an actual response however. "just a billion dollars is what i say!", he adds. "yeah i suppose.", i respond, but think about a friend i knew. who's job it was to look after this super rich kid who suffered from cerebal palsy. his job really was to take him to bars and parties and introduce him to women, to make him feel a part of something i guess. maybe it isn't so bad i think. he's a billionaire, he's doing things that would make him happy despite his condition.
I'm interrupted by, "i mean think about it. can you imagine? CAN YOU IMAGINE? can you imagine? i don't think you can. can you imagine sitting in a wheel chair, pissing yourself, wearing a diaper because you can't control your bladder? can you imagine that?, he demands. i reply, "no i guess i couldn't." hoping that this will finally validate some feeling for him, not thinking again i add, " i guess I'm very lucky to be at a young age." "it's not a matter of age! no no no! imagine yourself at the age of nine. nine years old and your pissing yourself." i think if i ever pissed myself at that age due to some accident in my sleep or something. continuing, "wearing a diaper in a wheel chair and you gotta wear a colostomy bag. can you imagine that? because i don't think you can." i say, "well yeah i guess it's more a matter of chance." beginning to listen to his argument and take him more seriously to find what his motive is of telling me all this.
he says, "chance. chance huh? like it's random? " taking my answer into consideration.
i reply, "yes, like you said, it doesn't matter what age you are, sometimes people are born with bad genetics, sometimes things just happen. in fact i just read a book regarding health, i guess you could say it's a book describing health in our lives a history of things that happen to our bodies."
his face changes like I've struck a chord, did we finally come to some sort of agreement on money and health i think?
he begins, "so youre a writer huh?" i pause thinking where is this going now? what have i written lately? and say, "well sure i like to write." before i can elaborate he adds, "well I'm a writer too."
I'm a little surprised. "yes i am one of the head writers that wrote up the policies for these writers strikes that we had going on recently, today I'm just riding my cab because I'm bored."
i don't really believe him, but i agree with him telling him I've never seen him before and that I'm somewhat of a regular so in his eyes he belives that i believe that he is a writer. by this time he didn't take Mountain like i told him to. he took Garey which has more lights. i think maybe he's got me all wrapped up so he can take all these lights and make more money off of some schmuck like me stupid enough to be listening to his crap. were in Pomona. god i just wish this cab ride was over.
then he goes back to his argument saying, "yes our bodies are just vessels can you imagine going through prostate cancer?" i think about my grandfather who had prostate cancer and think that maybe i will get it one day but i do not share this with him. "can you imagine your prostate enlarging because that's what it does.", showing me with his hands making a circle with his thumb and index finger still not watching the raod. "it enlarges. why does it enlarge? it needs minerals and seeks it in your body which constricts your vas deferens and your urethra. can you imagine in the middle of the night? feeling so full and taking hours to piss and not everything comes out? can you imagine? the impotence. the vas deferens is a sex organ." i know this, i can't help but smile thinking about all the times Chris and i used the terms in jest but i try to hide it and keep listening. i think about the times i slept over at my grandparents house. staying up late raiding their fridge playing video games all night and seeing my grandfather not in bed with his wife, but sitting in a sofa armchair in the den with the television light bouncing off of him. why did he sit there all night? was he suffering i think?
"having some pussy and not being able to fuck?", he chuckles and looks back at me to see if he's crossed a line but can read that he hasn't. i look at his hand seeing a wedding ring, looking at is hands thinking, those really don't look like writers hands, their a bit more weathered. he spouts off again, "this is what you must do! go online and look for some beta-ah-flex, ahh i can't remember the name and start taking those pills to avoid getting prostate cancer because back in the day they would just scrape that shit out of you leaving you completely impotent. now you have the power to take medication and prevent it. red meat. you have to cut out red meat in your diet. you like red meat?"
"yes, i do actually, i eat it often.", i say.
thinking back to the time when i had a girlfriend named Kristen. her father loved red meat. he would cook different steaks all the time. one time he even cooked shark, i didn't like it much but i ate it out of courtesy. it wasn't exactly red meat but it had a lot of mercury in it which is why we didn't have it often. we would always go out to the best steak houses in town. he taught me how to order everything medium rare and to never use steak sauce, but enjoy the meat as it was and use horse radish if necessary. i never ate so much red meat in my life back then. i guess i can thank him for all this.
he continues, "well you better stop soon! how old are you? twenty seven?"
surprised, "yep, exactly."
"well you got twenty seven written all over your face.", he says admirably.
I'm kind of happy that someone actually got my age right and I'm feeling good for the first time in this cab ride, but think what the hell does that mean? twenty seven all over my face. does he know the things I've done or the state that i am in. was he like me? does he know my next move?
and then he makes a turn too soon and says, "i bet you didn't think you knew where i was going did yeah?" but instead of saying you should have made a right at the next block i just agree with him and say, "no, i didn't."
"i bet you didn't, i got it right her on my GPS screen", he says defendingly.
could he tell I've been judging him all this time or something? why does he think that i think that he isn't a competent cab driver. but he's not! he took a turn too soon i think. then he makes a left on the street he was supposed to make a right at and drops me off. he tells me to get myself checked for prostate cancer. i give him a twenty and tell him to keep it. he says, "really?" with a shocked expression.
i say, "yes, I'm going to make a lot of tips tonight don't worry about it."
he responds, "well alright then it was nice meeting you my names George, yours?" but he doesn't put out his hand.
"David."
"alright have a good night make some tips and spend your money."
"will do."
i walk out thinking what the fuck was that about? am i wrong to think that i thought he was on speed? was i wrong to doubt he was actually in fact a writer? does that make me a racist for thinking these things? maybe he was just a nice guy trying to give his customers some advice or knowledge as part of their ride. did it look like i needed advice? how did he know i was twenty seven ? did he have prostate cancer?
i walk into my work, clock in and smile to my fellow co workers.
perhaps i was expecting my usual cabbies.
there is this one old guy with dark shades and a moustache, a bit on the chubby side but not too chubby. i can't remember his name, gave me his card twice in order to get pick ups from him personally, but i tossed it for some reason or another, i guess i believe in equal opportunity. he always talks about the weather or what parts of town most of his work has been coming from lately. once in a while he recalls a regular in my neighborhood who was a deaf kid that he took to college, i knew the kid from seeing him around but never knew his name or the fact that he was deaf. anyways, i really like it when i get picked up from him because he always has the oldies station playing plus his cab is the only cab with tinted windows. i like that his cab has tinted windows. it feels that my life is a little more private while i am on my way to work. i look out the windows and wish sometimes life came with tinted windows, i would probably use them often. before i know it, the ride is a little more silent, but not as silent as the things going on in my head and my stop comes. he wishes me a good day and i pay him, tipping him well of course.
then theres another, older cabby who looks like he is on the brink of death. he is incredibly skinny, has no teeth and he has that gaze where he blinks often as if his last days are coming. his cab is filled with ashes and old coffee cups, i think how can man this age still be working? i think he must be on his last leg and he's working himself to the bone. at first i thought that he was a speed head because of the shock of seeing him, i remember the first time we rode together, there were spots of blood on his jeans. now i just think that maybe he's sick and has to work because he has no other choice. he likes it when i tip him well. even if i don't have any money on me and run to the atm to pay for the cab, i give him a whole twenty and tell him to keep it. he smiles in his feeble state and looks at his screen to see where the next pick up will be. after time, I've grown more comfortable with riding with him despite his fatigued physical appearance and the presence of a lingering death in the car.
today however, was quite different like i said before.
immediately sitting into the cab i had the sense of how the cab ride would be. the driver was an over talkative and intense man from the beginning. i politely told him what turns to take to get out of my neighborhood like i do to all the other drivers who seemed puzzled by the maze of streets in my block and in a loud voice he said, "I know! I know what I'm doing! So what part of Claremont are you headed to?" a little shocked from his behavior i say, "Umm Bonita and Indian Hill, it's best to take Baseline to Mountain, go south and hit Bonita from there."
"Well which restaurant is it? What cross streets?", he demands.
I was a bit puzzled, how did he know i work at a restaurant? i think, well maybe because he saw my clothes and my logo i was carrying along with my back pack. anyways, during all this talk he's looking back at me. glaring at me. not just his head, but angles his entire top torso and his head, almost filling the back seat looking at me. not looking at the road mind you! asking me questions, looking at me intensely and i respond quickly to direct his attention back to the road.
as he returns to the road i study him a bit. this guy has to be on speed, for sure i think, his pupils were all i could see. is that a sign that youre on speed or is it the other way around?
anyways, this guy must have been up for days driving this cab i think. i get back to the conversation and say "It's La Pain Quotidian, a french restaurant next to the movie theatre".
"oh, OK then, right off of 2ND st. got it. so what kind of place is it?, he asks
"it's a french restaurant.", i say again.
"well what type of place is this, is the food good? is this a place i would want to take my wife and children?" i think of the spectacle that would be. "what makes this place such a fine place that people come to it again and again?"
i think about it after all it's a pretty valid question.
i respond, "well, we serve mostly open faced sandwiches, organic foods and it has a lovely communal table, everything there is crafted from wood." he isn't letting me off so easy. "well what dish would you recommend? what is the dish that keeps everyone coming back?", he asks. "hmm. that's a good question." i say, a common response i have grown accustomed too. just a filler piece of conversation when in fact i am thinking what the hell is this guy getting at, who does he think he is asking me all these questions? i just wish this ride would end soon.
"theres so much to choose from, my favorite though would be the chicken lentil stew or the fisherman's pot, but their pretty pricey.", i say. quickly he adds, "well money is not an option with me, that's no problem. what is it that you do there exactly?" he inquires.
"i just serve.", i say trying to divert his attention away from me and let me think to myself like i always do in my cab rides.
he looks back, my eyes widen, just watch the road! i think, "just serve? you serve, don't say you "just" serve. you just don't do anything man, you serve, you're making money, spend that money that's what i say. spend it, because you never know what day is gonna be your last. some people save and save for what? thats not for me! you could die tomorrow with all that money. what's one billion dollars if your sitting in a wheel chair and you can only blink your left eye as a means of communication because you suffered some stroke or something?"
i think about that.
"well what is it?" i didn't think that he wanted an actual response however. "just a billion dollars is what i say!", he adds. "yeah i suppose.", i respond, but think about a friend i knew. who's job it was to look after this super rich kid who suffered from cerebal palsy. his job really was to take him to bars and parties and introduce him to women, to make him feel a part of something i guess. maybe it isn't so bad i think. he's a billionaire, he's doing things that would make him happy despite his condition.
I'm interrupted by, "i mean think about it. can you imagine? CAN YOU IMAGINE? can you imagine? i don't think you can. can you imagine sitting in a wheel chair, pissing yourself, wearing a diaper because you can't control your bladder? can you imagine that?, he demands. i reply, "no i guess i couldn't." hoping that this will finally validate some feeling for him, not thinking again i add, " i guess I'm very lucky to be at a young age." "it's not a matter of age! no no no! imagine yourself at the age of nine. nine years old and your pissing yourself." i think if i ever pissed myself at that age due to some accident in my sleep or something. continuing, "wearing a diaper in a wheel chair and you gotta wear a colostomy bag. can you imagine that? because i don't think you can." i say, "well yeah i guess it's more a matter of chance." beginning to listen to his argument and take him more seriously to find what his motive is of telling me all this.
he says, "chance. chance huh? like it's random? " taking my answer into consideration.
i reply, "yes, like you said, it doesn't matter what age you are, sometimes people are born with bad genetics, sometimes things just happen. in fact i just read a book regarding health, i guess you could say it's a book describing health in our lives a history of things that happen to our bodies."
his face changes like I've struck a chord, did we finally come to some sort of agreement on money and health i think?
he begins, "so youre a writer huh?" i pause thinking where is this going now? what have i written lately? and say, "well sure i like to write." before i can elaborate he adds, "well I'm a writer too."
I'm a little surprised. "yes i am one of the head writers that wrote up the policies for these writers strikes that we had going on recently, today I'm just riding my cab because I'm bored."
i don't really believe him, but i agree with him telling him I've never seen him before and that I'm somewhat of a regular so in his eyes he belives that i believe that he is a writer. by this time he didn't take Mountain like i told him to. he took Garey which has more lights. i think maybe he's got me all wrapped up so he can take all these lights and make more money off of some schmuck like me stupid enough to be listening to his crap. were in Pomona. god i just wish this cab ride was over.
then he goes back to his argument saying, "yes our bodies are just vessels can you imagine going through prostate cancer?" i think about my grandfather who had prostate cancer and think that maybe i will get it one day but i do not share this with him. "can you imagine your prostate enlarging because that's what it does.", showing me with his hands making a circle with his thumb and index finger still not watching the raod. "it enlarges. why does it enlarge? it needs minerals and seeks it in your body which constricts your vas deferens and your urethra. can you imagine in the middle of the night? feeling so full and taking hours to piss and not everything comes out? can you imagine? the impotence. the vas deferens is a sex organ." i know this, i can't help but smile thinking about all the times Chris and i used the terms in jest but i try to hide it and keep listening. i think about the times i slept over at my grandparents house. staying up late raiding their fridge playing video games all night and seeing my grandfather not in bed with his wife, but sitting in a sofa armchair in the den with the television light bouncing off of him. why did he sit there all night? was he suffering i think?
"having some pussy and not being able to fuck?", he chuckles and looks back at me to see if he's crossed a line but can read that he hasn't. i look at his hand seeing a wedding ring, looking at is hands thinking, those really don't look like writers hands, their a bit more weathered. he spouts off again, "this is what you must do! go online and look for some beta-ah-flex, ahh i can't remember the name and start taking those pills to avoid getting prostate cancer because back in the day they would just scrape that shit out of you leaving you completely impotent. now you have the power to take medication and prevent it. red meat. you have to cut out red meat in your diet. you like red meat?"
"yes, i do actually, i eat it often.", i say.
thinking back to the time when i had a girlfriend named Kristen. her father loved red meat. he would cook different steaks all the time. one time he even cooked shark, i didn't like it much but i ate it out of courtesy. it wasn't exactly red meat but it had a lot of mercury in it which is why we didn't have it often. we would always go out to the best steak houses in town. he taught me how to order everything medium rare and to never use steak sauce, but enjoy the meat as it was and use horse radish if necessary. i never ate so much red meat in my life back then. i guess i can thank him for all this.
he continues, "well you better stop soon! how old are you? twenty seven?"
surprised, "yep, exactly."
"well you got twenty seven written all over your face.", he says admirably.
I'm kind of happy that someone actually got my age right and I'm feeling good for the first time in this cab ride, but think what the hell does that mean? twenty seven all over my face. does he know the things I've done or the state that i am in. was he like me? does he know my next move?
and then he makes a turn too soon and says, "i bet you didn't think you knew where i was going did yeah?" but instead of saying you should have made a right at the next block i just agree with him and say, "no, i didn't."
"i bet you didn't, i got it right her on my GPS screen", he says defendingly.
could he tell I've been judging him all this time or something? why does he think that i think that he isn't a competent cab driver. but he's not! he took a turn too soon i think. then he makes a left on the street he was supposed to make a right at and drops me off. he tells me to get myself checked for prostate cancer. i give him a twenty and tell him to keep it. he says, "really?" with a shocked expression.
i say, "yes, I'm going to make a lot of tips tonight don't worry about it."
he responds, "well alright then it was nice meeting you my names George, yours?" but he doesn't put out his hand.
"David."
"alright have a good night make some tips and spend your money."
"will do."
i walk out thinking what the fuck was that about? am i wrong to think that i thought he was on speed? was i wrong to doubt he was actually in fact a writer? does that make me a racist for thinking these things? maybe he was just a nice guy trying to give his customers some advice or knowledge as part of their ride. did it look like i needed advice? how did he know i was twenty seven ? did he have prostate cancer?
i walk into my work, clock in and smile to my fellow co workers.
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