He wears a denim jacket and flannel shirt. His barrel chest has aquiesced to age and his stomach has become a weight-watcher's nightmare. His hairstyle is a sort-of cross between Tommy-rocker and late Elvis impersonator.
He's also a racist.
Usually it's just dirty looks and something muttered under his breath, but other times I can make out the words 'fucking' and 'paki' and he spits whenever I walk past or he cycles by, breathing heavily, face redder than a baboon's backside.
I've considered saying something. But what do I say? Do I shout, swear, chastise, mock, pity?
If he hasn't learnt anything in his fifty-odd years on this planet what words can I throw at the fool?
It seems to me that, at least in my area, we live disconnected from each other IRL. Families don't eat together much, don't do much of anything together. We don't talk to our neighbors, and I don't think anyone in my town knows who their local beat-cop is, much less would ask him for help with anything (our cops are scary). We don't watch our fellow humans as if they were people. We watch them as if they were objects put in our way for the mere purpose of annoyance. Please and Thankyou? Pfft. Who the hell heard of that?
So, with a lack of RL socialization, I turn to the blog, seeking connection, friendship, something to cure that "Oh God I'm alone and surrounded by idiot zombies" feeling that curls deep within my black little heart.
I just can't identify with my 20-something peers with their 2-3 young children, wellfare and mcdonalds lifestyles supported (HAPPILY!- how do they manage to be happy in such poverty?) by bad jobs and the nightly napenthe of booze. I look at them- my peers who never did much after graduation, and try to strike up conversations, when words falter.
I don't have anything in common with these people, these wage-slaves who spend so much time with their kids and their crap jobs that they've forgotten there is a life beyond that box, that other things exist. I don't drink, I don't do illegal drugs. I read. I write. I use "Big" words like Genre, sycophant and plebian.
I look at the people I knew in high school, and I have nothing to say to them. They look at me; the feeling's mutual. We both speak english, live in the same city. But our values, our lives, our loves are so different that we might as well be speaking different languages.
So... I blog. I chat. I e-mail. I digitally communicate, because, goddamnit, I need wit. I need vitriolic sarcasm. I need Intelligence. I need sharp, curious minds, people aware of what's around them.
i miss the days of having hobbies like chain smoking and drinking enough coffee to cause tetanus-like symptoms. i have a soft spot for egotists and megalomaniacs (suppose the difference between them is really sort of subtle and probably unimportant). i might be one or the other. i can't decide if i want to do what i can to help the human race survive itself, or sit back and enjoy a nice drink while watching things continue to spiral downward. i find it a bit humorous that i taste as bitter as i feel.
yes, i just licked myself to test this (my ARM, for god's sake you sick fucks. christ.).
Got a load of prepubs/galleys; several books that'll be available in tpb or pb within the next few months and are allready out; along with How to Self-Destruct by Jason Seiden; scheduled to be out in April of 08 and Ariana Franklin's The Serpent's Tale, which came out sometime this month. It shows when I haven't been to the store for a while; the load of old Galleys which haven't found homes on the shelf gets bigger, and bigger. There's still a lot of stuff from last year on the shelf marked 'review books' that my peers and I take from; indeed, most of the books I got in this ramble are already out; Ray Bradburry's Farewell Summer, Aryn Kyle's The God of Animals, and William Gibson's Spook Country.
If my memory serves me right, this one is from the hoity-toity shopping district of Myeong-dong. People everywhere on any given day. About two streets over it got really bad. The Levi's store, American Apparel and a whole fuckton of people milling about. You could barely walk in a straight line if you had the bad luck of being down there during the busy hours. Which is why it struck me as very odd to hear the familiar roar of a harley. In a place like Seoul you rarely see choppers, or tattooed people, as people will automatically assume you're part of a gang. So it was pretty damned scary to hear this thing and then see it slowly roaring it's way right through the middle of the crowd. People were almost diving to get out of it's way. Partly because he was on a giant chunk of steel that would flatten you, and partly because the guy was wearing almost nothing besides leather chaps, a black leather vest and more nasty-looking tattoos than you could shake a stick at. We watched from an alley we had ducked into and just as if nothing was going on at all, a smooth black lexus calmly padded it's way through the newly-plouged hole. Ho, shit was about all I could think.