A recent post by Sparkles got me thinking, mainly about purchasing a Nintendo DS Lite, but also about the potential relationship between video games and his notion of 21st Century Misanthropy of the passive-aggressive persuasion. I suppose that it's not an entirely novel approach to an analysis of antisocial behavior, and yet I remain nonplussed by such criticism; Idealjetsam alone craves the avant-garde lifestyle, and he's more than welcome to the zaniness of being triumphantly sui generis. Now that he's officially Tiberious Lyte, Sparkles has all the time in the world to avoid social interaction, and it's not as if I am one to fault his recent turnabout, considering that I am, more often than not, guilty of similar isolationist behavior. We are God's chosen lot, and it's our goddamn prerogative to embody dissonance as see fit. Right?
If you're inclined, perchance, to associate us with the denizens of Gomerville, so be it: you may be correct in your evaluation. Having admitted this egregious character flaw, I will also proclaim our collective inability to care greatly about your nefarious insinuation, let alone your opinion. Like some chump once said, chances are good -nay, great- that we're never going to know you, either with regard to taking the chance, or by virtue of the lack of our capacity to do so. The girl behind the counter at my local Family Mart (you know, the one that really wants to communicate with me in English, and won't listen to me if I speak Korean toward her) has as much a chance to know me as you do, and that's being generous. The feeling is, most likely, one of reciprocity, and that's cool.
Did that come out the right way? Last week, Sparkles mentioned that I don't even know myself, so I really can't be certain as to the veracity of my statements. (Granted, we were at a bar, and he was playing his DS Lite, so it's tough to really know anything.) That was just esoteric nonsense, I told him, and I also reminded him that even if it were true, we hadn't always been these decrepit people residing within us. He agreed with me, insomuch that once upon a time, he and I were Mario and Luigi, respectively.
I still think Sparkles is mistaken, and I'm so desperate to believe that we once had souls that could only connect... (as per Forster's idiotic entreaty) that I'm going to tell you a story. It's not one of monumental importance, nor does it champion a noteworthy cause like feminism, but that's all caretaker bullshit anyway, stuff best left to the posters that never post unless they're in the hospital, sucking food through a straw and deathly bored. Another thing I'd like to stress is that this slice of life occurred quite some time ago, and we were totally different people back then. Well, not completely different individuals, not in the way in which you've become a certified grown-up, but somewhat different; before we had to actually pretend to work for a living, and certainly prior to Tiberious giving birth to a kid who was smarter at age two than I was at age twenty-two. This was back in high school, back when we thought a sideways glance of breasts in Army of Darkness was awesome.
Like I just said, we were in high school and no, it wasn't like something from a book or a Heckerling film. We played some pen and paper role-playing games, sure, but it wasn't D&D, it was Rifts, and we got to hang out at Todd Welsh's place, whose father was a oft-displaced engineer that did contract work for the government, so we had an apartment that was routinely adult-free in which to work our social wizardry, so to speak. To say 'our' is misleading of course, as it was Tiberious that saw most of the action; I was too busy trying to save up some money for the upcoming Sony Playstation, while he was pumping money into his ultra-hip sky blue '92 Suzuki Samurai. The vehicle was, as one can gather, a beacon of light for the female population of our fair city, even if it looked to me as more of a baby blue than azure. In hindsight, I don't suppose that I was one to judge his selection of color, given that I drove a rusted, maroon Oldsmobile Omega that leaked a quart of oil every two weeks. Furthermore, that little bitch of an all-terrain vehicle helped Sparkles get a piece of Ashley Baumgardner, the freshman with the biggest set of adolescent knockers this side of the Cedar River.
Technically, that monumental event transpired during a not-so-unexpected sweltering, humid summer betwixt us boys' junior and senior years, while Ashley was fast becoming a superbly well-endowed sophomore (and a woman). I won't waste much time on a physical description of the girl (on account of the fact that I've consumed enough alcohol tonight, and every other night these past eight years to adequately dull my memory, and because I'm not much for ephebophila), suffice to say that she was a dainty, strawberry-blonde nymph with a preposterous amount of chesty magnificence. You get the gist of it, and you should also get the notion that I found Ashley attractive due to her aforementioned attributes, but also because of the fact that Tiberious had the hots for her; if you can accept that as a valid reason, then you've a good grasp of how high school boys are supposed to behave.
Despite my personal inclinations, I'd like to pause for the briefest of moments, and note that I had little, if any chance to woo the lass away from her fated beau. I drove a goddamn Omega with a malfunctioning FM radio, and I'd be lucky to pick up half of Skid Row's latest ballad. Conversely, Sparkles had a suave something-blue Samurai complete with newfangled compact disc player, one easily capable of blasting the latest in bad boyish hip-hop glory, which he did to devastating effect. That he played Knee Deep in the Hoopla when it was just the boys is beside the point, except that it makes me feel better about myself. It also warms my heart to recall the days of yore, spent chanting 'It's just another Sunday in a tired old street' as we reveled in our incandescent hebetude.
Having resigned myself to being unable to score with such a physically attractive young woman, I partook in another classic tradition amongst adolescent boys, one that may seem almost paradoxical to the previously vaunted notion of stealing another guy's woman: I would help the man achieve his desires. We had the Samurai, and we had the flashy demeanor, but we lacked a plan. As we sat around one summer eve, it came to Sparkles, the unappreciated genius. Flipping through a collection of advertisements in the daily newspaper, he merely uttered the phrase 'shopping cart,' followed almost instantaneously by the words 'drag it.' I had to pause my game of Devil's Crush, and literally pause my brain to contemplate this stroke of erudition. (I'd be tempted to note that Quiet Riot's rendition of Cum On Feel the Noize was playing on the radio, but you wouldn't believe me if I did.)
'You call Ashley, and take the topper off of Sam,' I said while pointing at his amazing brain, 'I'll get some gloves, and swipe a few of my dad's cigarettes.'
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At this juncture, I shall take a break for several reasons. The post is getting to be a bit lengthy, and I know that here at Psychedelic Kimchi, the pretense of brevity is king. Secondly, before I divulge any further exploits of Tiberious aka Sexxxles, permission should be granted by him to do so. Please don't mistake this as an act of kindness, as I stand by my confession of misanthropy; the thing is that Spark has the power to delete any posts he deems contrary to his sensibilities, as well as the ability to post lewd pictures of me. It's all a matter of self-preservation, really. (I'm also much too intoxicated to continue, so...)
Grig Orig
Yesterday morning, a day like any other, I awoke, tamed my piss boner* so that I could urinate the way God intended (not in the shower), smoked a square or five, and killed Dracula.
