The schuck of your misdeeds

So when I was a kid my mother never told me that Santa keeps track of your rotten little actions and that I would get coal at the end of the year if I were bad. I must give her credit for this. However, I am not sure whether she (1) knew that I would be bad anyway and say screw the presents (2) knew I wouldn't believe her (3) didn't want to lose credibility with me, the jury, when Christmas rolled around and my grandparents got me a doll I was afraid of instead of coal, though I would have actually preferred the coal, which writes very nicely on the wall or (4) she just didn't want to frighten me with the idea that some weird invisible fat man was hovering over me watching my every move. Let me say it now, thank you mom.

However, years later, still somewhat afraid of dolls, I have an internship in the District Attorney's office and lo and behold, there are records of your misdeeds, but the district attorney is not fat or invisible. The records are called 'shucks', a nonsensical name for little envelopes that are open on one side. You can see through the front and call people up and then open the shuck and you just never know what you will find. Today I opened one to read that this lady trashed some other lady's fish tank and the property damage included her fish. Now, who fucks up someone else's fish? There's Puddles, swimming around, la la la, "Oh, who's this?" and next thing you know he's on the floor in broken glass dying because some crazy fuck has an anger problem. I mean really. Her fish tank? I have a fish tank, and it was the first thing my girlfriend and I bought together when she moved in (insert "awww" here) and I love my little fishies, who get buried in the yard when they die. Not deep or anything, but we don't flush them. Well, there was that one fish but he was kind of weird. Anyway so I got a little offended. There was this other guy who "beat (some poor jerk) about the head and face with his fists, causing a bloody nose and extreme pain." I checked his record and again, anger issues. Dude, learn to talk, what's up? When I told him he could leave today, I said "hey" and he turned around and I said "Man, quit hitting people!" I doubt this got through to him. Then there was the woman who was in court for the wrong charge. She's got so many she has her court dates mixed up. Open the shucks...and voila! Your ass gets coal for Christmas.

Perhaps, rather than coal, which they would probably go dump in someone's fish tank, we should have a weird fat guy follow them around and make little notes and give them dolls that scare them. Maybe they could be little talking dolls that say "Stop hitting people! Stop hitting people!" or "Sit down! Shut up!" or "You REALLLYYY don't need to drive. Give me the keys. Give me the keys." But until I can have some influence over prison reform, I guess I will continue to read about fish killing drunk driving sewage dumpers whose mother apparently never properly frightened them with the idea that on some level, you pay for your actions. Line up the shucks, Madam clerk, Santa Attorney is coming to town.

love and disaster

It has been an eventful couple of weeks. So, first I got hit head on by a car riding my scooter. The remarkable thing isn't that someone wasn't paying ATTENTION and made a left right into me, the remarkable thing is that I've been through yet another thing that has killed other people and walked away with a couple of bruises. To date, I've been hit by a car on a scooter, hit by a car on a bicycle, totaled a car hitting a deer, hit another deer in a convertible, totaled another car when someone ran a red light, fallen out of several trees, surfaced after wiping out on a wakeboard and to have the wakeboard come straight down on my head, let's see. . . well, you get the idea. I've never even broken a bone. I think my guardian angel deserves a gold medal, or whatever guardian angels get when they truly rock, like a few years as a human living on a tropical island with Jennifer Lopez. Urgent care put me in a splint for a week for a hand that it turns out wasn't broken. And this is what happens when you go to an online medical school. What I learned, unable to type, is that law school is really fucking boring without Freecell or, in general, the internet.

Now, I don't want to get all 'ooo, brush with death' or whatever, but really, it is how quick we can kick the bucket that gives life meaning, isn't it? I mean, if we lived forever, wouldn't that be boring?

Oh, back to the last couple weeks. I also went to a beautiful wedding last night, especially for straight people, who tend to like these lavish coookie-cutter ho-hums in churches. Can I just say right now: "Bleh"? Anyway, the guy had this gorgeous white suit made in India and the ceremony was well, really cool. Now, back to the meaning theme, I will also say this - besides it's shortness, it's love that gives life meaning. But I don't mean 'marry me' love, though that has it's moments inbetween the laundry and the grocery store; (though hopefully not while driving). I mean something that connects us and makes us real. I just don't think everyone is quite real, sorry; I think you earn it. The more radically in love with the great thing between birth and death you can become, the more real you are. More directly, life can be a pain in the ass; so tell me this - how do you make it worthwhile? If you don't know, try this: shut up, open up, eat up, and wake up. You never know who is going to make that next left turn.

I will make a note on romantic love. To quote a song someone played me yesterday, "a good love is long and boring." Something I have come to appreciate though is that it is mostly right there in front of you, within the boring, that the mystical can be found. It's nothing short of amazing that day after day and year after year someone can get their head out of their own ass and care about someone else. It's right there when I get dressed and go out for ginger ale because my girl's stomach hurts. When she picks up mangos for me because they're my favorite, or is willing to ride the puke ride at the fair with me even though she hates it. When I give up going on the ride because I know it will make her sick. Trust me, that's love, because I LOOOVVVEEE a good fair ride. It's between the fishtank and the coffee beans, the cats and the stupid fights (between us and the cats), right in that spot of stretching ourselves on behalf of someone else. But again, that happens easiest when someone sleeps beside you, but if it happened just a little more between all of us, hey, maybe when that idiot makes that blind left turn, more of us could lie there in the street and say that yes, it was all worthwhile.