cousin update #2: he’s still awesome.

me update #infinity: put me down.

touchingthesunnotes:

Ya’ know Frankie, I drink too much booze these days.  Not bad ya’ see, just a little debilitating when it comes to doing some shit.  Don’t care much.  Life is a bitch, Frankie.  Wasn’t always that way and even now not every minute.  Ya’ know Frankie, let me tell you, the girls, the old ones, the young ones, the make ya crap your pants hotties.  You like that word, I have no clue what it means.  Anyway, Frankie, I get these smiles on the street, in line, shit – everywhere.  Like today a hottie – it has meaning to me, carrying a damn orange little dog, poodle like ya know and I am walking dressed like Sunday morning jogger – haven’t shaved in a week and just picked my ass, can’t remember, maybe my nose.  So here she comes and, ya’ know Frankie, I get this smile, little turned up corners.  Not the smile at something funny type, or a freak type – I don’t know, maybe it was.  I nearly missed it looking at that damned orange dog.  Kid, it gets better, this Sunday morning gal, weird clothes, but the kind that draw your eye to parts where decent men – ya’ know Frankie, that probably don’t include me, don’t look except in the most discreet way – ya’ know.  Well, this, let me say, lady, gives me a wink.  Now that, kid, is a new wrinkle.  The smiles could be just to the cute little ole man – but the wink.  I took my finger out of my nose, hell, maybe my ass and walked on.  The thought came that all this could easily be explained.  And it has crossed my mind before.  Frankie, so listen and see if this makes sense.  Suppose, just suppose, I have this aversion.  You like that word? This aversion, or maybe the fact that I buy really cheap pants, to zipping ‘em up may be a source of the smiles.  Don’t get me wrong, perversion is a word I know, but practice on very rare occasions.  Ok, Frankie, roll your eyes, ya know what I mean.  But, hey, listen, maybe those damn cheap wal-mart pants -  Ya Know Frankie, the last pair of pants I bought that cost more than $9.99 was in 1966 at Ray Beers fine clothing – have zippers that just are not up to the task.  Now that I think about it, that zipper on those Beers pants, those of us in the circle of cool called it Beers - kinda sucked too.   Yeah, yeah, back to the story and why I get these damn smiles and maybe the occasional wink.  So, Frankie, it is possible and I am not saying this is reality, the ole zipper malfunctions and the boys - Why in the hell do we call them boys?  - are a bit on public display.  Ya’ know Frankie, and I have to say this with all humility -  You like that word? – I got what I got and maybe a smile might be in order.  Crap, I look in the mirror on occasion and get a little giggle myself.  So, ya’ know, I take what I get and keep walking making it just a little better day.

You guys, this is my dad. He asked me to help him make a tumblr and I basically said JUST MAKE ONE AND MESS AROUND WITH IT SO EASY NO WORRIES and this is his first post. He is a sage from Topeka, Kansas currently hiding in Taipei and needs a reservoir for excess brain magic. This is it. I’ve known him my whole life (badum-chaaaa) and I encourage you to follow him.

Tommy Ying, eight years old, smashes the fortune cookie with a tightly balled fist. He picks the slip of paper out and announces, “How to say peach…” Tina Ying, sixteen, impatient and lofty, snatches it from him. “Taozi,” she says. Tommy reclaims the fortune with a scowl. “You will soon be great with an extra propeller,” he says. Finding this unsatisfactory, he throws it aside and reaches for another cookie. Tina picks up the fortune and exhales sharply through her nose. “You will soon be greeted with an exciting proposition.” Tommy shrugs and repeats his process. “How to say fever,” he begins, before Tina says, “Fashao. FA-SHAO,” and then darts an exasperated look at her mother. Cathy Ying dabs a napkin at the corner of her mouth and continues telling Charlie Ying about their scandalous neighbor. Charlie leans back and balances himself on two legs of his chair while nodding absently. “Peach fever peach fever,” Tommy sings, “you’re gonna get hit by a bus.” He throws it aside and reaches for a third cookie. Tina eyes the fortune for a moment before picking it up. “Patience is the key to happiness,” she mouths. In the next five seconds, Tommy destroys another cookie and knocks over his water, Cathy sneezes violently into her napkin and Charlie falls backwards into the table behind him. Tina stares. She scoots back quietly and stands up. “Peach fever,” she says under her breath. She walks out of the restaurant and to the minivan. “Peach fever peach fever peach fever…”

Evenings when I wish I could call you and say, “The sky is so pink right now.” Call anybody. You’ve had a rotten day being idle and trying to shrug off the devil. Drive to CVS and buy brown eye shadow. You always get the cashier with a lazy eye, an older man with a hunched back, and you feel awful about it because he should be handsome and home with his family. As if all people live plain lives to provoke you. Walk outside, the kind of sky that makes your bones ache. It’s nice out. “It’s nice out!” Wish you had walked. Wish for sidewalks, wish for looming oaks. Go to the gas station and buy two choco tacos, a smores ice cream bar, a whatchamacallit, a frappucino and an “iChill.” The cashier asks you if you’re trying to stay awake. He asks if it’s all for kids or adults. “Grown ups,” you say, and you swear he says “burn them all” but that can’t be right.

Come home and go to the roof because movies tell you that’s where solace is kept, but there are just hundreds of whirring AC units and gargoyles guarding Manhattan. A loft with big windows framing a big screen. The urban sprawl you’re vulnerable enough to feel affection for.