Thursday, March 21, 2013

#ROW 80 1st QTR – POST 27 – WHY PLAYING CHICKEN WITH A WALLACE IS NEVER A GOOD IDEA


This has been one of the stranger weeks in an already strange life. Odd dreams and what not. The latest odd dream was earlier this week. I was restless and dreaming that JC and I had been kidnapped and taken from our house by some old bat and her young ward. We had been separated, and I was trying to find JC. In the middle of of the night. I awoke to this strange boy in bermuda shorts and t-shirt climbing out of bed from beside me.

I jumped from the bed and was running around our real house, when JC came out of the bathroom. “What on earth are you doing?” I, with hair flying and eyes rolling was wielding a very heavy level that would have beheaded anyone I didn't know. “Don't go in the kitchen! There's a strange boy in there. He jumped out of our bed and ran off in there!” JC had a hell of a time convincing me that the “strange boy” was him. The bathroom is in the general direction of the kitchen. Still, one never knows. Hilarity ensued. The next day. I was not really convinced that he wasn't one of Chthuhlu's buddy's, but “C” as he is affectionately known now, pretty much knocked all that stuff off, when I out-crazied him last March.


Maybe he's hiding in the stove?

I have always had very bad sleep disturbances and they have been much worse of late. Blame it on my good pal, PD, yada yada yada. The primary has canceled me until May. I have a dermatology appointment in April for some suspiciously odd-looking barnacles. I got all of my blood work done, but for the 2nd time in less than 2 months, I'm coming down with another dose of craptosis. Yay.

Of course, my disposition, never great around people I know and downright bellicose when confronted with total strangers, got one hell of a workout today. I needed to go to the MetroPCS store to purchase a phone. I missed the store and was carried several miles past my destination. I got off the bus on a main thoroughfare, Hillsborough Avenue. 6 lanes of come-drunk Floridians, who are either all bat-shit crazy, or have consumed way more than their ration of raw meat. Aggressive bastards. The speed limit is 50 mph, but they go 70. There are no pedestrian crosswalks and there is construction with the ever-popular yellow cones, barrels and at least one closed lane, with about 12 inches to siphon down from 3 to 2 on both sides of the boulevard, so everybody is pissed off.
I had to somehow get across this river of death to the other side so that I could travel back the way I came. There were some lulls on the east-bound side, and I made that easily to the median, which seemed about 2 feet tall and 2 inches wide. So, I'm balancing on top of this mother, hoping I don't fall into the turn lane. Blindness and some kind of neuromuscular disorder are not going to help me on the Balance Beam. I get a 0 for execution and style. I teeter there, and my arms don't really pinwheel; this is spasmosis at it's best. I kind of lurch back and forth a couple of times. I know I must look drunk. And I'm getting pissed now. Never a good thing.


It was mostly like this, like every construction zone in the world, except worse, 'cause I had to get stuck in it.

Now, for the west-bound traffic. These assholes are undoubtedly the worst. Had I been able to even find a crosswalk, that would have been my option, but no. So, I waited and waited and waited. And they are truly psychotic; dodge 'em cars, spastic lane changes, some kind of pretend NASCAR, swappin' paint, honking, finger-gestures, everything. When I drove, I loved being out here with these assholes. Now, I just want to get across the street without becoming people jam. After what seemed like a 20 minute wait, the traffic thinned somewhat. But there's not a huge hiatus, because the lights are timed to keep this thing running almost like an expressway, so I have to time it right. Bear in mind, the crossing lights are more than a mile apart and I'm midway, so everyone has had time to work up a good head of steam. Hell, you could be driving a Model-T and hit 30 by the time you got to me.

These cars could see me, see my cane and glasses and the 4 or 5 cars that were there were slowing, I had gotten to the middle lane, and there was this one car, a sedan. This bastard SPEEDS up. So, somewhere in my reptilian brain, I channeled Sir William Wallace and all the people who've been blind or been hurt because of these assholes and I stopped. I stopped right in front of this nutsack and as a Matador faces a bull, side on, I pointed my cane at him, like some kind of “Bull Fight of the Damned.”

I hollered out, “That's right bitch, bring it on! How about a nice little stay in prison, along with that giant-ass law suit that you'll lose! Stop! You see this? This will put you in jay-al!” Taunting now. Of course, I didn't mention that it would probably would put me in the morgue; I wasn't thinking that way. I never do.

That dumb fuck stopped 30 feet from me. I never even flinched. I didn't feel relief or scared afterward. I felt vindicated. For Ivan Roberson, for anyone who has ever been hurt by careless and stupid and bad driving. No more. I felt my blood stir, Sir William yelling “Freedom.” as he fights to free his country and his circumstances. Well, not quite like that, but you know what I mean.

I stood there and looked around for a minute; nobody had moved. I finished crossing the street and never looked back. I bet that nutsack is still cussing me out. Fuck him.
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