This bald headed woman I know emailed me two songs, with a message that read simply, "listen to these and let them inspire you, then write about it."
For a few days I didn't bother to open the files, first, I hate homework, and I really did not like anyone, you know, sending me props. Speaking of which, if you want to send me props, email me and we can work out a FedEx sort of thing. Props.
I was going to host a party for the bald headed woman I know, then she sends me this messy email, prompting me to actually listen and find some sort of feminist inspiration, but instead, I bitch and complain. So, what I will do, is stop right here, listen to these things, music I believe and then, when I get back, I will be inspired.
One more thing. There is always one more thing. I was at a funeral yesterday, it was a celebration, which is the sort of funerals I really appreciate. There I was, a warm, maybe hot, spring day, in the sun, wearing dark glasses, a matching suit and watching the people mourn. For a moment, I was a ghost, hovering over the family, the mourners, everyone in dark clothes, the grieving wife, a grown son with red eyes and a pudgy wife and a much younger daughter, the family stories surrounding her creation are legendary.
I watched for a while, then in a second, I turned and walked up the well manicured lawn, over a slight hill, down the other side, to the parking lot. I got in my car, turned on the radio and slowly drove away. A ghost in a dark suit, and I was not the only one.
The phone rang. For a long time I stopped talking on Sundays. That is very true. Not a word. I think this was the first indication to my wife at the time that she might be dealing with someone not operating on all eight cylinders. Or something. No words. We developed sign language, it was awkward, especially in public, where I refused to speak.
I would recommend this to anyone. First it forces your brain to think in a completely different way. We are all so used to speaking, when you remove that option, communication gets interesting. I did this pre-texting, so maybe a day without speaking is no longer such a big deal. In fact, without the words that fall out of my fingers to fill this blog, I would not speak at all. Strange.
Most Sundays I do not speak, but I almost never answer the phone. Until it rang just a few minutes ago.
Me; Hello.
Mother; Matthew?
Me; Mom?
Mother; How many other mothers do you have?
Me; If I remember correctly the question was always how many fathers, only had one mother.
Mother; That's not how I remember it.
Me; Then again, you have Alzheimers.
Mother; Do not.
Me; Seriously, last time I saw you, the diagnosis was Alzheimers.
Mother; Matthew, stop playing.
Me; I'm being serious.
Mother; You aren't capable of being serious.
Me; Ouch.
Mother; How are the kids?
Me; See what I mean?
Mother; What?
Me; You asked about the kids. You are searching for information.
Mother; You, I know about, I have no interest in you.
Me; Ouch again.
Mother; Do you have secrets I need to know about?
Me; Maybe. Probably. Some.
Mother; At this point, any secrets you have, I would not be interested in at all.
Me; And the purpose of this call?
Mother; You missed mothers day again.
Me; I thought about you.
Mother; And for you, that's enough?
Me; It seemed to be all I could muster.
Mother; Your sister called.
Me; How is she.
Mother; So funny, always with the jokes.
Me; I missed it, which was the joke?
Mother; Your brother sent flowers.
Me; I stopped the car, I walked on a beach, I threw a rock in the water, I read a poem, I had a sip of your favorite scotch. That's how I spent mothers day.
Mother; How nice for you. Your other brother sent me a painting, of him of course, but still, it's the thought.
Me; I'm sorry I forgot about mothers day.
Mother; It's OK, I understand you have memory issues.
Me; Not nearly as serious as yours.
Mother; Ouch.
Me; I know, right?
Mother; There was something I wanted to ask you.
Me; Yes.
Mother; I seem to have lost it. Wait for a second and it will come back. I may be getting old.
Me; May be? Understatement.
Mother; The jokes, the jokes, they are killing me.
Me; And I had my money on the cigarettes.
Mother; Your father wants to know if you want him to pick you up a fishing pole.
Me; Seriously?
Mother; Yes, that's what I forgot.
Me; Seriously?
Mother; Yes, he is going fishing.
Me; But I am not.
Mother; Yes, I know.
Me; So, logically, I have no need for any such fishing pole.
Mother; Oh you know that and I know that.
Me; And Dad knows that too.
Mother; I imagine that's true.
Me; Well, again. Thank you for that. I think.
Mother; I have to go son, it was good to hear your voice.
Me; It was good to hear your voice too, mom.
Mother; I know, right?
OK, my wife and I are in the stands at the dodger game, yes, we are here early, reading shit on Iphones. I checked your blog and found the Bald Headed Woman story, read it out loud, until the part with your mother and you talking. My wife read your mothers lines, I read yours. A few people around us started listening and at the end, an older couple applauded. My wife does a killer New York Jew, because, well, she is. Thanks for the moment.
ReplyDeleteHey yuppy scum first comments, fuck you. I hate you for reading outloud at the game, even if it has not started. I hate that you are reading this blog at a baseball game, fuck you for that and I especially hate that you think people applauded you and your stupid fucking new york accent, fuck you too. Do everyone a favor, if its still batting practice, run you stupid asses out to the outfield beechers, and sit there and any homerun ball hit, stick your stupid fucking face right in front of it. A couple of those and the pompous should be pounded right out of your stupid fucking head.
ReplyDeleteOh and fuck you.
Nice little story though, too bad first commentators are such douchebag fucks. People applauding you reading, please.
Good post, hate the fuckers above me.
ReplyDeleteLaaaa Dee Daaaa, at the game, reading the blog, sharing the scripted part with our baseball loving friends. Please tell me the above couple was hit multiple times by high speed foul balls, please tell me this to be a fact.
ReplyDeleteGod I hate people like that.
If I saw someone reading this blog at an afternoon baseball game I would buy them an over priced beer.
ReplyDeleteSo I am confused, do the songs from the bald woman inspire you to call your mother, or for her to call you? Was that all imagination? If so, was THAT inspired by the music? What were the two songs? Jesus, this post is frustrating.
ReplyDeleteWithout a pic, there is no bald headed woman who sends you music.
ReplyDeleteI think we share the Bald Headed Woman as a friend. I once told her, honey shit the fuck up, your taste in music sucks more than you choice in hair styles. Guess what? No more mix tapes.
ReplyDeleteIs it wrong that the Bald Headed Woman I know gave me Bjork, Courtney Love and Michelle Shocked? Hah, caught ya, right?
ReplyDeleteLove that song.
ReplyDeleteBaseball is bad enough without civic theater faggots reading bad blog posts.
ReplyDeleteFuck all you
ReplyDeleteOK, my take on this is the original post did not make a hell of a lot of sense, then again, I do not come here for sharp commentary on daily events. What is funny is how the comments are really becoming the draw. I am not sure if it's because there appear to be no rules, or that so many people are so quick to attack one another. You do realize that the blog posts are the reason the majority of us come here, right? That said, keep posting comments, cause they are pretty funny.
ReplyDeleteStick with the jokes funny boy, cause when you do political comments, you just aint funny.
ReplyDeleteOr shit.
Yeah, what she said.
ReplyDeleteNewt Gingrich for president.
ReplyDelete