Weâ€™ll get to the official purposes of my morning routine later, but let me walk you through the basics. Are you recording this? Come on people. Let’s get our story straight. Will somebody please shuffle me a freaking electronic device that will please on some non-sadistic level work some magic fuck job on our Greenwich Village Green aspirant program. And in the meantime snap to the signal we gave you when you took this job before the whole freaking technology sector renders the planet and us obsolete. Find me some White Boy Chuck Taylor’s and buy them by the foot, will ya? Good show flow, Joseph, but we need a spam free positive integer revival people to give us enough spunk to change the direction of our unity folks, can I say it any plainer? Some religious submissives, tirelessly pogo, sick inside composite spools of insubordinate magnificence, no more the casual observer to these atrocities of our time than those hunkered down in the Change Room hearing major stock exchanges falling off the shelves even now, tweak their oratory to fit the glove they wear to spare themselves the virus they bought on the black market last season, and it’s all back in fashion again. Back in the regional office. odd man up peace talks seize the day, and FBI agent Tugwells Bolivar confirms with his vested host of arrest warrants that yes, in kindred administrative times like these, contraband guitars do gently but most carelessly weepâ€¦
Yes, Joseph (the Kenyan) is not a bad fellow. He really doesnâ€™t like to work when a splendid opportunity to loaf along the back shelves presents itself. Like his shop buddies, he needs the extra bread though. Works a second job at a national chain sweeping up, familiar with a sense of duty, arranging candies and hair dye boxes every time I pop in to see him when I need some film or shaving cream, although he tells me with the same bold temerity he uses on Nawanha that heâ€™s the assistant manager. Frankly, I would think heâ€™d pull down more cashier work, if that was the case, of he being manager, but hey Joe, thatâ€™s what the whole stinkin’ joie de vivre thing is all about, eh? Right Correctomundo. Laissez faire. That’s what I say. Live and let live. Believing every lie ever told, just as long as the truth wins out when itâ€™s most needed. But even that is just a random phrase on a page. Who’s to say? We all live a lie. Especially the poor. Joseph, what a skeezer, shiftshaping like he does. Can’t work this one, can’t work that one. All because he has this second job. Yep, with this Kenyan, the fix is always in, so the other kids share the song from shaft in having to muster op for all “on call” slack. Heâ€™s a skinny fellow, and loves to jack the terminal to news check the the Kenyan National. His father is some big wig, educated in London, now holding down VIP duties in some undisclosed niche in Nairobi. Nawanha, whoâ€™s from Nigeria, a probably five years younger than Joseph (30) thinks Josephâ€™s story is bogus, nothing but the young but dubious manâ€™s imagination. Strange, these two young immigrants from Africa donâ€™t quite get along with each other, but elsewhere in this shop, thereâ€™s one White Boy, several hispanics, including a Filipino named Ezekial, and a very tall, prevailing, quite handsome Lebanese artist of fluid movements named Gus Hussein. We all speak dome pretty fascinating good English. No unprepared wetbacks here. This is one imaging shop that takes its customer service seriously. In this blissful neighborhood, where celebrities and revolutionaries live, a shop owner has to keep it sharp, shiny, and safe. The sunâ€™s peeking out again, and it’s packing heat. Solar power, you gotta love it. First time in days any rays have pierced the thick cloud cover that has undermined thousands in the corridors of power in their quest for plugging up the end of The Tunnel. That storm pushing up from New Orleans has drenched the local lands, and thereâ€™s been some flooding. But nothing like they met up in New England. Water everywhere. Worst waters in a hundred years in Vermont. Canâ€™t say I didnâ€™t warn them. But a man just has one voice. But this time, even the TV folks got it right. Water everywhere. Power outages. I remember the first time I saw this much water rushing in the streets jocked with small rowboats and various other water fowl. The dark heavens cracked apart in â€™69, seeding a deluge. A full 22â€³ in one twenty-four hour period fell on Fernandina Beach that fall day, a record that still stands today. I was just a kid. My daddy packed us all into the station wagon, and we drove the ninety miles to Jacksonville to see the swamp first hand. Actually, we saw all that water as a side show to the Ice Capades. My momma had been holding onto those Ice Capades tickets for months. As far as I could recollect this was the very first family outing in my whole career as a kid. I guess enthralled might be the very word I need to describe that kid during this entire event. At thirteen, I had a sense that being seen by strangers watching the Ice Capcades from the nosebleed seats wasnâ€™t as bad as it could have been. It was just a month ago I had wanted to come with friends to see Three Dog Night at this very same Jax Coliseum, but my choice, a longshot, had of course been nixed. There was no money for such foolishness, and now I am in firm agreement with those parents, circa 1968. Since that age, I have mingled among when I wasnâ€™t stumbling into many rock shows, riding the rook & rhythm from every proximity known to punks like me and every point of view. Itâ€™s all shaker sand now, but to have sifted every grain, ripped from the gallows, those yellow years of rock and urine I fell in combat, I fell to its mortal call. But I have only experienced one Ice Capades in the flesh, the pageantry, the social perks, and for that bit of nelly con gusto I am grateful to my mother, who finally had her way that time. The entire family traveling in fun. What a windfall rainfall! Sheâ€™d always imagined us a troupe of dilly dancers, and some of the younger ones had the tap lessons on their permanent records to vouch for it.
© 2011, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.