Hello Sweetheart

Today at lunch as I walked to the office to pick up my exam exemption sheet, I passed a couple of girls who were sitting on a bench outside the teacher’s auditorium. Then, some fellow passed and one of these young ladies gave him a fond, “Hello sweetheart.” I’m assuming they were friends – who says that to strangers?

Anyway, the guy who walked past merely retorted with, “Hi.” I guess when guys aren’t as intimate as girls would like, they go into a tizzy. At least, this one did. The girl who gave the initial greeting yelled angrily at this poor boy as I walked by, “What?! I’m not good enough for a ‘Hello, sweetheart?!’”

In an attempt to calm this young lady’s reservations about her relationship with others (read: to shut her up), as I passed our eyes met and with a smirk about my face, I greeted her with a simple, yet refined, “Hello sweetheart,” and kept walking.

What’s sad is the fact that that’s about the most intimate I’ve ever been with a girl. Perhaps we will meet again, whereupon I can propose to her – I think I have an outside shot with this one.

My New Friend

Last night as I was waiting for Channing and Erin at Pioneer Park in Dunedin to see the Friday Night Film and proceed to Fritzee Freeze with some drama kids I don’t know, I showed up when Erin told me to, but was forced to wait for thirty minutes as a result of their tardiness. Toward the end of my wait, I sat on a bench and was approached by a freakily pasty white man with a backpack. Here’s how our conversation went.

FPWMWAB: What are they doing, showing a movie here tonight?
Me: Yeah, sure are.
FPWMWAB: What movie?
Me: Not sure – I think its some sort of old Martian film.
FPWMWAB: Oh. Is Dunedin a nice place?
Me: Yeah, I live in Clearwater. It’s much quieter here.
FPWMWAB: Yeah, downtown Clearwater past 8 is crazy.
Me: Yeah.

Awkward silence ensues…

FPWMWAB: Do you know when the last bus out of here is?
Me: No, sure don’t, sorry.
FPWMWAB: Waiting for someone?
Me: Yeah, you can never expect women to be on time.
FPWMWAB: Oh, well if you’re still together by Christmas, you should get her a watch.
Me: …No, it’s not just one girl.
FPWMWAB: Oh, so you’re a ladies man!
Me: That’s what they tell me…
FPWMWAB: Here, then maybe they’ll appreciate this.

FPWMWAB hands me a pamphlet consisting of his selected love poetry and passages from 1 Peter and Proverbs. I thumb through it, feigning interest.

Me: Oh, maybe they will. Thanks. The font is too small and it’s too dark – I can’t read it.
FPWMWAB: I can read it to you.
Me: No, that’s alright – I’ll save it for later.

Just then I spotted Channing and Erin across the street, and taking my chance to get out of the presence of FPWMWAB, I tried to pull out from the conversation.

Me: Oh, well… there they are. It was nice to meet yo-
FPWMWAB: Can you spare a dollar?
Me: No, sure cant; if I had any money, I wouldn’t be here.
FPWMWAB: Oh, then can I get that pamphlet back? I usually charge a dollar for it.
Me: Sure… Okay, there is my entourage, I have to go.
FPWMWAB: I can read it to them if you’d like.
Me: No.

Then I left the bench, directed the girls quite hastily away in the other direction, and attempted to avoid any and all contact with freakily pasty white man with a backpack for the rest of the evening. I last saw him backpacking across Douglas Avenue, walking into the darkness to do whatever it is that homeless people do.

Moscow girls make me sing and shout

Today at school, there were a couple of foreign exchange students from Russia. After meeting them and welcoming them to our humble little country, I urged them to go eat some high quality American cuisine.

And what do they do? They go eat cookies for lunch; cookies that could just as easily been eaten in Kaliningrad. I find that to be a highly innutritious and un-American lunch choice. It’s not everywhere you can get overpriced turkey tetrazini with a fifty cent dinner roll.

But I forgive them for two reasons. First, this is a strange, new land to them. Second, they were a couple of lovely ladies. And everyone knows there is no lovelier lady folk than can be found in Russia and all of her U.S.S.R. buddies from way back when.

Therefore, they are absolved so long as I have my Eastern European eye candy.

Bad George

A few weeks ago, Ian put the capital into an investment of 100 Polo shirts from a supplier. They’ve never been opened, are in original packaging, and have a retail price of $52.50. We decided to resell them to try and turn a profit. And, regrettably, we went to the flea market. Charging $20.00 a piece, we sold $100.00 worth in shirts. Not too successful, given the surplus inventory we have. But what made the venture worth it was George.

George is a regular. 89 years young, he knows everyone by name as they do him, and he greets everyone with a smile. He admits that he moves at the speed of a 98 year-old, but mentally, he’s quick as a fox and twice as sly. He sells things you would normally find in a drugstore, you know – toothpaste and Mach 3 razors and the like. Until about 12:30 he sat at the booth next to ours, imparting immeasurable wisdom upon us.

First, it was about the flea market. After over 20 years he knows what’s too expensive, what will and won’t last, and the types of items that sell best. But then our conversations turned broader. We touched upon subjects of race, sex, religion, and age.

My favorite George-ism was when he explained interracial relationships. He thinks that every white young lady who becomes involved with a brother is bound to be beat. When asked why they stay with the abuser he answers, “They like that black oak.”

I will miss George. From now on, no more flea markets for us.

The Hot Game

Hot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by traversing long distances by automobile with windows rolled up and heater on its highest setting. Normally played in summer. Players win when the other gives up or dies, depending on the order in which such events transpire.
2 archaic : Title of cheap pornography from the 1970s.

Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by abandoning all footwear and running through paved areas in the hot sun. Normally played in summer. Players win when their opponent’s feet burn off and walking can only be achieved on the left over nubs of melted flesh at the bottoms of the shin.

Ian and I played both of these games today, the Hot Game on our way to and from the beach and the Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game (WAHPBG) when we got there. Now we’re predicting that blisters are to form on the bottoms of our feet. Oh well, life goes on.

Life is just a beach so far out of reach

Last night I went to Egle’s party at the Den. Nice place (especially because we had the Hockey game on). I gave her a nice present wrapped in pretty rose wrapping paper with a potato and twenty bucks inside. Also included was this note:

All my life, I’ve envied girls who go to birthday parties and get their friends intricate, complicated, and personal gifts that just suit their style. I’ve always been the typical guy, throwing 20 bucks at the birthday girl and eating cake. But not this year. This year, I made it a point to try to get a gift for you; something thoughtful that you would really enjoy. In efforts of giving you the perfect present, I asked myself, “What do I know about Egle?” It was then that I realized I don’t know all that much about you, except that you’re Lithuanian. I had a great idea: I’d give you the country’s main agricultural product as sort of a memento, a reminder of the great motherland. So, after a quick trip to Google, I found that the main agricultural export of Lithuania is grain. After searching high and low, near and far, I couldn’t find any to give to you. Apparently they don’t sell raw wheat here in the U.S., one of the largest wheat economies of the known world. I did the next best thing and included the second most populous agricultural export of Lithuania, the potato. But then I realized and said to myself, “Self, you’re giving the girl a potato.” So here’s 20 bucks.

Today I took advantage of the environment I take for granted and, like a real Floridian, I went to the beach. This experience has only reaffirmed my opinion that the beach is an inefficient, silly place to go.

First, you have to wait in gobs of traffic, which wasn’t so bad today, because we took a detour down Drew Street, behind Coachman Park and bypassed downtown traffic. After averting the roundabout, we traveled up to North Beach and set up camp.

Now, think about this logically with me.

Every year, millions of tourists come to bask in the light of the single brightest object in our solar system, which has been proven to cause skin cancer. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to swim in our sea. Well, technically it’s a gulf, filled with bacteria and harmful animals. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to lay down in our sand. Sand, which I might add, that the city of Clearwater spends millions on each year to be trucked in and spread due to our deteriorating coastline. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to buy our outrageously overpriced merchandise. I’m not saying that this is necessarily bad, but when I have to pay $2.25 for a coke at Pier 60, I’m gonna start complaining. But no big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

It’s an odd concept, this “beach.” People go to sit on a field of dirt and to swim in the world’s toilet. I’d much rather be sitting home, in the air conditioning, with a cold drink by my side.

Now, I’m not bashing the beach, don’t get me wrong. Tourism is this city’s main income and because of Joe from Chicago wanting to give me all of his money, the roads are paved where I live and my life is generally more pleasant. I merely cannot comprehend what would make the beach an attractive place to go. Perhaps if I lived in Topeka, Kansas, I would feel differently and I would despise my city’s… corn.

I left my funny in San Francisco

So, today as I leave school on the bus, I’m explaining transcendentalism to Trizis when, two blocks away from school, our bus driver screams, “Aaah!” Actually, it was more like, “Aaaaaaghagahagahhhahahhhhahahahahahhhhhhh!”

And then the brakes slam on; apparently a car ran a stop sign and hit our front end.

No big whoop, our driver was crying and made sure everyone was okay, we were. And so, the great quest of May 14th, 2004 to get home was on.

You would assume that another bus would come, and shortly after the fire engine and highway patrol car came, one did come. It pulled up. And sat there. Three minutes went by, and it drove away. Ugh.

While waiting, our bus driver asked through a flood of tears: “Is everyone sure they’re okay?!?!” We responded that we were, and she would turn around. Then, twenty seconds later she would inquire again: “Is everyone positive they’re okay?!?” Again, we said we were. This endless cycle went on until the lovable fireman came onto the bus and went to every seat and asked, “Is everyone sure they’re okay?” Needless to say, we were a bit miffed but we understood that such a line of questioning might be necessary for insurance purposes.

Then, the school administrators came in golf carts. Well, only Liem was in a golf cart; the others were in a Saturn, but that’s essentially the equivalent to a golf cart. Then each of them came into the bus and asked, you guessed it, “Is everyone sure they’re okay?” About this time, an hour had passed and we had moved zero feet and filled out two pieces of paper. We were bored, so Trizis and I played Indian War with 48 cards.

Then the bus came, and according to Greglass, it was the same bus that pulled up and then went away before. How’s that for efficiency with gas costing 2 dollars per gallon these days?

By the time I got to the bus stop, I had made a reputation for myself on the Indian War front, gaining many cards having only started out with one. Then I came home at 3:30PM EST and ate a sandwich.

Adventures of Armando

The other night, my grandmother (who is normally the very reserved Southern type) came to the door. I greeted her with, “Hi, grandma, how’re-

“I need your father out here right now.”

Well, so much for friendly hellos. I sent my dad out and, as would be expected, the rest of my family followed. All except me. You see, my family has a tendency to make scenes. Not so much my family as my grandmother. Well, anyway, everyone went out and I was a curious onlooker from the window.

In my grandmother’s car parked in the street, there sat an elderly Latin American man. He looked rather comfortable – we had given him bottled water from the refrigerator in the garage and he just sat there, talking with my brother.

His name was Armando.
He was from Cuba.
He didn’t speak English.
And he forgot where he lived.

Somehow, in my grandmother’s mind, an inclination to talk to this fellow spurted up and here he was. We called the police and soon an officer came.

She was the most beautiful police officer I have ever seen. I forget her name, but I’m sure it was sexy. There’s just something about a woman with a gun in uniform that strikes me as, well, awesome.

She came and went, as did Armando. I miss them both. I hope they’re okay.

———-

In other news, some freshman thanked me for that Web site for English vocabulary lists I made last year. I had forgotten about that, so I went to check out the site. Being a 2-year old Geocities site, it’s riddled with pop-ups, so I moved all the files here as a final resting place. That should take care of things.