Cement sidewalks break down cartilage and yet, we’re not allowed to walk on grass. It’s private property despite 20 years leaning on a cane being a pain in the palm, not to mention hospital fees paid by our tax dollar, but grass, bushes, and flowers are apparently important to one’s reputation as a home owner, apartment landlord, or tycoon.
I smoke a cigarette. I’m a hypocrite, but I do contribute to society. When I feel like Crazy Horse before entering the Battle of Little Big Horn, I stay away from neighborhoods showcasing lawns looking like 400 dollar hairdos.
The debate over whether or not Crazy Horse pumped up his troops with “today’s a good day to die” hardly matters because Dustin Hoffman’s adoptive Cheyenne grandfather said it in the 1970 movie “Little Big Man” and so did David Ortiz and Hunter Pence and thousands of others and vrooooom goes the drag race.
That’s enough religion for me. It’s enthusiastic. Today truly is a good day to die. I’d rather have a seizure in a state of complete abandon, drooling over Joe Mauer sporting a career batting average of .323; highest of any historic catcher because we’re in the middle of being Mauered right now. This is it. We’re really here.
Last time I looked up at a church, there were sculptures looking like gargoyles, a bell tower with horse shoe arches and birds loitering on the ledge and Jesus in full agony on the cross. He’s there in broad daylight and he’s lit up at night in neon. People believe with or without the proof and it seeps into their here and now.
I’d rather be assaulted by a Jesus freak than someone bragging about how much they’ve suffered in life. At some point, it begins to sound like a marketing tool. Jesus already died.
People traffic below the bell tower and megaphones on the light poles. This is Wellington street in Verdun-Montreal. There’s always megaphones on light poles. It puts people in the same groove or is designed to anyway, but most of us have wires stuffed in our ears. I always do and I play my music loud.
Makes for a good attitude adjustment. Gets a stumbling drunk home at night. Gets me thinking. Screw the whiners and kings of pain and Praises be to winos. Put them in luxury boxes and let them spin executive dials a while.
There’s a few shoes that have been abandoned reminding us of alien abductions with or without the proof. I look down at my own shoes and feel glad I’ve made it this far. This would be a good day to die or a good day to organize baseball cards into new categories.
I make yet another promise to the wind and think about that movie Smoke Signals and the song John Wayne’s Teeth. “Are they false. Are they real? Are they plastic? Are they steel?” It doesn’t really matter to me. Scenery is scenery. Scenery at a private university cocktail party I crash or scenery at the back of a McDonalds filled with the meek wearing rags and waiting for Jesus. Great plains, Red granite rocks, waterfalls, crossing guards who smoke cigars in parked cadillacs. Endless cast of characters. Endless roll of different scenes.
Today is a good day to die and it will be tomorrow as well and 30 years from now, 50 years, more.