Poor Little Fellah

Perspective has to be one of the most flexible materials in the known universe. I thought I knew myself. I don’t. I thought I was aware of the world. I’m not. The stars are expanding with a silent malignancy that’s been diagnosed but goes untreated; there’s a monster in the center of the galaxy swallowing life on a scale so incredibly vast that the very thought of it makes my heart stop, and then it vomits this chewed, destroyed life back out into space in a stream of bile so poisonous that it kills all in its path. Meanwhile, here in Springfield, Coach Brody is disgusted with my putting form, and is worried it will never get any better. He’s right to be worried. It won’t.

Dropping acid on the golf course was insane. The whole image of Brody-as-a-rodent expanded into this crazy cartoon character, living and breathing in front of us, with his red eyes strangely benevolent and his dimpled balls lurking mischievously in his tight pants pocket. Whenever his back was turned, laughter would overtake me to the point where my knees would buckle, and I would sit down hard with tears streaming. Brody would stop his oratory on hand placement and glance back at me with a slight scowl on his face, and—I swear to fucking god it’s true—he would wiggle his nose, chin up, testing the wind, just like a mother fucking rat. Even his nose hairs seemed to be as long and stiff as whiskers. I kept expecting him to paw the air with his tiny hands, but it never happened. That would have been too good, I suppose.

After a while, my antics put Brody off enough that he turned to me, leaned on his putter, and, regarding me with the sad smile of a man who understands simplicity, said something like, “You need to understand that golf is like Buddhism. If you are sufficiently practiced, you can determine your own game. But you must quiet your mind, son.” To be honest, he made me stop and think for a minute. The whole idea as it applied to life was obvious and eluding all at once, and I intended to ponder the matter until I got to the very core, but then the whole sky shifted and the hills undulated imperceptibly; a fir tree standing next to me began to breath deeply and I lost the thread of my thoughts.

When dusk came to the rolling green, the world turned mystic: a quarter moon hanging in the middle of the sky, with bright stars dotting the ceiling and fading away as the colors turned neurotic near the horizon. A low mist rolled in and hugged the ground, causing me to grab my own head to make sure it was still on my shoulders, and not floating away in the cosmic jetsam. I turned to Sugarbear to see if any of this insanity was registering with him and was completely shocked to see that Coach Brody had vanished entirely. I panicked just a little, grabbing Sugar’s arm and I kinda squealed, what the fuck happened to the rat man? Sugarbear and Johnson cracked up at that, hitting knees etc, and I was like what the fuck, and Sugar dries his eyes and says, “Dude, he fucking left like ten minutes ago. You said ‘later days, better lays’ to him.” Wow. I know it happened, but maybe it was like something that was happening to a future Pendel on another plane. I was entirely yet pleasantly befuddled about the whole thing. I was speeding through the universe at fifty THOUSAND miles per hour on a rock that was spinning fast enough to cause me to go flying off into space where my head could quietly explode without bothering anyone, and I was wondering if Coach Brody liked me. I voiced this concern out loud, and Sugarbear just laughed even harder. “Oh Jesus, Pendel. Brody probably doesn’t even know your NAME, man. He doesn’t know ANY of us. Just take it easy. It’s only golf. It doesn’t matter at all.” How the fuck could Brody not know my NAME? Sugar shook his head. “Look, don’t think about it. Why would you even want him to know? You don’t want people knowing shit like your name if you can help it, dude. That’s like one of your main fucking problems, Pendel. You tell everyone your name, man.”

It struck me like a rubber brick that I had no clue what Sugarbear’s real name is. I asked him. He said, “Exactly, dude.” My head continued its comfortable spin. I wandered off on my own and never made it back to those guys.

Soon it was full on night. I wandered around the vicinity of North Fountain Blvd, in and out of the neighborhoods, disgusted and thrilled by what I saw; much was hilarious and my head vibrated with inner guffaws at nearly everything. The artificial light splashing across lawns and trees was fucking creepy cool, all yellow and white and secret, and none of these people snug inside their asshole a-frames and split levels knew that the lunatic was now among them, haunting their driveways, watching as they cleared their plates from the table and seethed at each other over apple cobbler and coffee.

I was sitting on a random boulder that some idiot had stuck in their own lawn—I assumed to make mowing as difficult as possible—staring at a quaint little abode across a street that I had never even heard of, when the front door opened and Mr. Hanson stepped out of the door and sat down on the porch steps. My mind began to bleed. I mean, what the FUCK, you know? Seriously, what are the FUCKING CHANCES OF THAT? Nothing so frighteningly random had ever happened to me before EVER, and I was shaken to my very foundation by the thought that I might in fact be wrong about NEARLY EVERYTHING. The street lamps were illuminating the land all wrong, they seemed to roam and refused to hold steady, and the breeze was blowing the leaves in the trees like a hand brushing against sheer curtains—or were they moving by themselves? They are in fact alive, no? Hanson had brought a small cooler out with him, and after setting it down pulled a cheap can of beer from the inside and cracked it open. He took a swig and then set the can down and began to rub his temples. It was hard to make out the look in his eyes. He was too far away and it was night. I know he hadn’t noticed anybody watching him yet, and since, luckily, the past few nights had been rather chilly, I had my black hoody with me and so pulled the hood over my head.

No sooner had I done that when the screen door to the house banged open, and a very petite woman looked down at Hanson, and with what can only be described as HATRED, threw a book at him. Paperback. As she did, she hollered at him so the whole freaking neighborhood could hear, “Here, maybe you want to break THIS, too!” As the screen smacked back shut, I could here her say, “Useless!” before disappearing again indoors. And then, AMAZINGLY, Hanson dropped his head into his hands and started fucking sobbing. Ugh. Holy fucking shit. Even from 30 yards away I was totally embarrassed for him. I was completely confused, stuck on the question of how a person could break a book per say, when the door bashed open again, and the scrawny chick was back, only this time she had her own drink in her hand and she just stood there holding the screen door open with her foot. “Jesus, look at you. This is crazy that I have to put up with this.” Funny, I was feeling the same way about Hanson just a day or two ago. I slid as quietly as I could off of the boulder, and moved to the shadow of some shrubs planted just a few feet away. Just in time too, cause the woman looked up and down the street, I assume to see if anyone was listening to her berate the man with the moustache in front of her. “Come inside, Andy.” Andy. Did I know that? Hanson made a fucking gross sound like he was sucking snot back up his nose—a sound that I HATE—and his voice was all cracked like a CHILD, and he says “No!” Wow. Such defiance.

“I don’t want the whole goddamned neighborhood seeing my husband crying like a sissy on my own goddamned porch, Andy, now get in here!” Oh my god, the fucking drama! The veins were standing out in her THROAT as she screamed. If she didn’t want the freaking neighbors to know, then why in the hell was she yelling so damned loud? Well, whatever. Obviously she DID want people to see. Obviously she wanted to make a FOOL out of the man. Much to my chagrin, I began to feel bad for Hanson, and oddly protective. If anyone was going to yell at this asshole in public to make him look foolish, it should be me. So anyway, again he refused her, saying “You’ve got no right talking to me the way you do. Go back inside. I want to be left alone.”

And so she kicked him down the stairs. THAT’S RIGHT, FUCKERS. She moved fast like a horse and just booted his ass right down the steps. He tumbled like a sack of shit and hit the sidewalk hard on his shoulder. He just laid there and whimpered, and it struck me for the first time that he was probably fucking wasted. Then the boney chick’s foot lashed out again, this time kicking the cooler and the open beer down on top of him. He did nothing. He just lay there in a growing puddle of suds. She hollered, “I HATE YOU!” and disappeared inside. Hanson just kind of rolled around on the ground, moaning “No, no, no…”

I was utterly appalled.

Porch lights started coming on in the houses around me, and I knew it was time to make myself scarce. My buzz had abated greatly, and I was feeling very suspicious of the world, but my skin was still alive and my spidey sense was still tingling, so I made my way home and sat up half the night rocking out to Mayhem by the light of my flashlight.

People are twice as mysterious as I had originally thought, but Mayhem still fucking rocks balls. Life is getting more interesting, if not better, and it’s hard to say if I will ever snap back completely from the incredible coincidence of finding Andy Hanson, too wasted to stand and crying on his front porch.

Playing With Fire

I have a lot of balls in the air.

Yesterday I heard from my miserable Uncle Ben regarding my retarded legal struggles. The police, on the strength of this blog, are going to go ahead and try me in A COURT OF LAW. Ooooo. I am shaking in my mother fucking BOOTS. Fuck the cops, fuck the court of law, fuck the LAW, and fuck my goddamned useless lawyer, Uncle Ben, for giving me up.

And all of you can shut the fuck up; I know he did it. I thought I should tell him about my blog, because I heard somewhere you tell your attorney everything, so I did, because I am an IDIOT. I told him it was all make believe, that I want to be famous (not FAMOUS famous, but you know, internet famous), and that I wanted to write novels when I GROW UP and that this is great practice (HA HA HA HA HA), and he was like, “Pendel, you always seem to choose the least intelligent path. Why is that?” Oh my GOD.

ANY-FUCKING-WHOS, after I tell that rice-eating bastard about my “made up” website, and tell him that it might be best if he KEEP THIS KNOWLEDGE TO HIMSELF, my mom comes busting into my room that very freaking night asking me what the hell is wrong with me, why did I do it, why do I hate her, how could I get hooked on psychedelic drugs and foul my temple (that’s what she calls a person’s body—so gay and gross), why have I forsaken MY GOD—yes, that’s right, she fucking asked me why I have forsaken my god—and I looked her right in the eye and I said, what god, mom? The one that gave you such an awful son? Oh man, she wailed like a stuck Irish pig at that one. She said that if I hated this family so much then I no longer had to be a part of it, and that she’s sick of my lies, and that I have embarrassed her so so badly in front of her DEAR BROTHER, who was so kind to try and help me out of the MORASS of TROUBLE I have created for MYSELF and EVERYBODY AROUND ME. I said if you want me out of your lousy, stinking house, I’ll leave. Just show me the FUCKING DOOR. AND! I told her that if her brother wanted to help me so badly, then why the hell is he TELLING THE WHOLE FUCKING TOWN EVERYTHING I SAY TO HIM?? What the hell kind of lawyer DOES THAT? I am so pissed. I could bite the head off of a fucking Rottweiler right now.

Uncle Ben, if I end up going to jail, I am going to kill you. My own goddamned lawyer acts like he thinks my website is true? I swear to god, I will boil you in your own flow-through pouch until you are tender and fluffy and I will eat you with chicken. Make book on it, asshole.

My court date is a month from now. It should prove to be very stimulating.

The other day I tripped acid again, but it was on the golf course with Sugarbear and Johnson. It was insane. After we all parted ways, my head was still buzzing like a downed power line after a tornado, everything just pulsing with such a hilarious energy, and I knew I didn’t want to go home for a few hours yet, so I wandered the sunset until I accidentally (?) came across Mr. Hanson’s house. My friends, I saw some crazy ass shit.

And I will tell you all about it later. LATER.

Golf Won’t Save Me

At the end of last week I attended my first thrilling installment of golf practice. It wasn’t horrible in that I didn’t have to change my clothes, or get all fucking tired and sweaty, or worry too much about prickish jocks and their brutish, single-minded desire to crush the hope and life out of all who surround them and are different from them—but I realized after just a little while that I didn’t really want to be there and that I’m not really any good at golf. On the brighter side, being good at golf isn’t really an issue when you play on my school’s golf team; the fighting Panthers won’t be taking home any kind of fucking golf cup or whatever the hell the trophy is for putting. Not this year, anyway. Certainly not with Pendel on the team.

It seems silly to call the teacher in charge of this twice-weekly nature walk a “coach,” but we do. Coach Brody is short and thin and rat-like, but he’s not overtly evil—in fact he seems entirely harmless—he’s simply misguided and strange. He seems to think that the high school golf team matters and I don’t think he’s willing to let this delusion go. You wouldn’t believe how many times this guy walked me through a tee-off, and I was knocked over to witness that the one-hundredth demonstration was just as inspired as the first, no matter how half-hearted my efforts. Man, he was FULL of the healing properties of golf, totally consumed by it’s healthful benefits, and this obsession left him so completely bereft of self awareness that—and I swear to freaking god it’s true—he carried his extra golf balls around in the right front pocket of his tight plaid pants, and he always carried two, and they were down right by his crotch, and you could see every dimple in each ball. And in helping me get my swing down (a process which was not helped by the fact that I couldn’t give the slightest bit of shit about my swing), he kept standing behind me and putting his hands on my hips, which fucking FREAKED MY SHIT the first time he did it, but I quickly realized that this joker probably hasn’t thought about any kind of sex in two+ decades. I still felt completely invaded and soon told him that if he planned on keeping his fucking hands he needed to keep them off me.

Brody was taken aback by that, but I got some guffaws out of Sugarbear and Johnson, both of whom have become a point of despair for Brody, it seems. He has totally given up on their swings, and mostly we just walked around taking swigs of cheap wine that we poured into empty Pepsi bottles, occasionally hitting some balls into the woods or sand traps. It was good for some laughs. We got pretty toasted. Best of all, Coach Brody is so into his own head that he barely even noticed I had joined the team. I think he’s happy anyone gives a shit at all. The irony is we DON’T give a shit, and that’s exactly why we are there. Maybe that’s why everyone loves golf. It’s the only reason I can think of.

When practice was over, he simply walked back towards the direction of the school. He said, “Okay, fellahs, that’s enough for today.” Then he turned on his heels and left. It was pretty abrupt. I think he thought we were walking behind him.

I sat around the last green with Sugarbear and Johnson until well after sunset. There’s a small lake right nearby—supposedly it’s meant to throw off your game or some such lame-ass bullshit—but actually it’s very pretty, and I could tell why a person might like to trip acid there. It’s bound to be a good time.

When the wine was almost gone, I got the usual urge to talk more than I should while drinking and I started to tell Sugarbear (and Johnson) about something that happened a few months ago: Clare and I are like two years apart almost exactly, and her friends are all right around 15. Like any other girl, she has her friends over to stay the night all the time. So once, this girl named Vanessa comes over. She’s very pretty and very blonde, and she has the darkest eyes…they’re fucking crazy. It’s like I see the middle of the universe in her face. But you know, she’s very young, just barely not a girl anymore, and I try not to think about Clare’s friends too much as a rule anyway, mainly because I would hate to fuck up Clare anymore than I already have. I guess what the hell would it be to her if I make time with one of those girly girls—and besides, I know so many guys dating 15 year-olds, but oh well. I have enough problems. But Vanessa…wow. Trust me, if you saw her, you would want to change yourself—and then you would find it impossible, and then you would be crushed with the realization that a girl like her could never be yours, and then you would throw yourself off of a building. And as you lay crushed on the pavement and bleeding out of your anus, it would dawn on you that none of the buildings in your town are tall enough to be lethal, and then you would truly rue the day you came to believe you could win the heart of Vanessa.

So that night, she and Clare are watching TV, and I’m sitting on the big chair behind them. I think they were watching the fucking Hills or some such horrendous fucking malarkey. I was just spacing out, until Vanessa started brushing her hair. Before I knew it, I was fixated. It was hypnotizing. Her face was so blank, bathed in the TV’s unnatural light, and her movements so graceful, fluid, and automatic; she was one of the most beautiful machines I had ever seen. I don’t know how long I had been staring at her, maybe like five minutes or something, but it was long enough that I had forgotten there was a room around us, or even a world around us, and so I barely noticed when she said to me—without her eyes even leaving the television or the expression on her face changing—she says to me, “Stop looking at me, creepy Pendel.”

Creepy Pendel. Is that what I am?

When I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. She filled my vision even with my eyes closed. I tried like a freaking five-year-old to close my eyes even tighter, trying to block my imagination from seeping through the cracks of my lids, but it didn’t work. So I tip-toed into Clare’s room and just watched Vanessa breathe. With her motionless except for the slow movement of her chest, it was even more hypnotic than before. It was like she had never even been born; like she was out in space floating, waiting, without orders yet given, no hopes or fears yet in her; she had no need to be peaceful—having not yet been made aware of the shitty horrors of the world, and thusly had no need to be at peace—and so even peace was absent from her face. And again, I don’t know how long I had been staring. I was maybe even sleeping at her side when she said, so quietly that it thundered in my ears, “You’re scaring me.”

So I went back to my room. Probably I fell asleep. Who knows and who cares.

When I was done telling that story, Johnson was just looking at the ground with a strange smile at the corner of his lips (which I get A LOT, btw), and Sugarbear was shaking his head. “Pendel, you have got to get it together, man.” That was all he had to say about my story. Most likely it’s all I deserve.

I think I write too much for one post. I’ve been looking around at the other blogs out there (it’s a big step for me to come right out and use the word blog in relation to myself), and none of them seem to go on as endlessly as I do. I think I must bore the shit out of people.