So, that being said, when blogging I have to have something to blog about...something to say. Thank God for Hyde Park. It has been a while since I have drank out on my porch and now I am regretting every sober moment I have spent. For those of you in the 'burbs, you will NEVER experience the randomness that is Hyde Park and I feel sorry for you.
If you attended the only kegger I have thrown since I've lived here, you know that random bastards will walk up to your home, drink your booze and talk to you as if they know you. Let me share with you tonight's latest encounter. This is a special, albeit drunk, entry because I typically do not write about myself or what is going on in my life.
The night started out pretty typical with me cleaning my place in preparation of my cousin's arrival from L.A. on Wednesday. If you know me then you know that cleaning is pretty typical. Anyway, Jeff calls me at 11:00 to inform me that he's coming over. At this point in time I have a buzz, but no cigarettes so I tell him to pick some up and come on over. We end up on the porch with him talking work and me talking about the latest girl problem I am having...you know who you are.
Anyway, you know that feeling you get, and it doesn't matter where you are, when you realize that you are not alone? Well, I got that feeling. Jeff wasn't paying attention, but I could see this figure out of the corner of my eye walking towards me from across Avenue D. Jeff continued talking (about God knows what because at this point I realized the figure is walking right towards me) and I pretended to be interested in what he was saying all the while thinking "Holly shit...did I pay the cable bill?" I quickly realized that it wasn't Grande Communications, but rather a black dude that looked just like Terrence Howard except with mud splattered pants and a visor. He approached us with nothing, but an Old English 40 in a brown paper bag and good conversation. He introduced himself as "Shortbread" and proceeded to tell us that his homeboy had dropped him off across the street and that he was "into Asian chicks." I believe I said something like " I am into all chicks" which seemed like the least cracker thing I could say at the time. Jeff then put in his two cents, but without his expressed written consent I will leave his comments alone.
It is at this point that I must inform you, the reader, that I did not hear him introduce himself as Shortbread. This is important as when I first heard Jeff call him Shortbread I thought I was going to be killed.
Anyway, I don't know how we got on the topic, but Shortbread proceeded to tell us that he is not into black chicks and that he recently had a DNA test from UT that informed him that he is 30% Native American and 90% Mexican. His math facinated me so I continued to dig further. "I'm 100% short" I said, not even warranting a response. He then told us that he was a black panther and that the black panthers are now led by a white man. I then proceeded to bring up Eminem...again, it seemed like the least cracker thing I could do at the time. With that, Shortbread informs us that he is a rapper and that all he needs is his mouth (please pause and do your best beat box). I bring up Tupac, Jeff brings up Bell Biv Devoe and the rap conversation dies.
At this point Jeff , does what every good friend would do when his friend is stuck in the middle of a conversation with a strange black panther...leave. I know that my front door is only two feet away, but that is no consolation knowing how old my house is and that small cats could fit through the cracks around my doorway.
Conversation proceeds and Shortbread tells me how many times he has been shot. I told him that I don't even like giving blood, but that's not the type of shot he was talking about. We start getting real and he says "Promise me...you'll live every day not fearing death." I said, "I have no problem with death...I'm a believer." He retorted, "I'm a Leo." Not shitting you. Even in my drunken state I couldn't make that up.
I would have loved to have carried on this conversation into the wee hours, but without warning he turned to me and said "Where did I put my catfish?" "I'm sorry?" "My catfish...where is it?" I then told him that he walked up to my house with nothing but a bag of booze. He racked his brain for what seemed to be thirty minutes and said " I left it at the studio. I have to go." We hugged it out and he went on his way. Try getting that type of interaction in the 'burbs. I'm never moving.
Originally Posted on Myspace
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
No comments:
Post a Comment