Yes, this is a blog first and foremost about my adventures (and misadventures) in music, the kingdom of the bar chords, and the joy they have brought me...therapy bills and all. Still, every now and again I have an experience that turns my agenda of a week's post topic on it's proverbial head. What was to be a depiction of the challenge of writing for a specific audience for the new Kirby Krackle disc has been trumped by something much more topical and perhaps more important for society as a whole; a kind of "where were you when?" moment for the reader. Cause yes my friends, last Tuesday a dream came true in this suburban white boy's heart. This past Tuesday...
I was offered crack.
I know, I know. You're thinking, "Why was he deserving?". I would tell you if I knew. God, how I've asked myself everyday since and questioned my self worth, but it's not for me to answer. I'm not the lord (Dane Cook). I'm also truly not making light of one of our top societal ills. It's a product that causes disease in many of our rural and urban communities, but for a bespeckled white boy from North Seattle raised during summers on a steady diet of Dr. Dre's "The Chronic", Chris Rock stand-up, and MTV...let me have this moment please. Thanks boo. Like I said, I was offered crack. Apple Jacks, Baby T, Bazooka, Beemers, Bangs, Biscuit, Bullion, Bump, Casper The Ghost; call it what you will but I came face to face with two French Fries and a Golf Ball (that means three rocks). Let's start at the beginning...
I had caught the late showing of "The Road" with a friend in downtown Seattle; a book-turned-movie by Cormack McCarthy depicting the post-apocalyptic journey of a boy and his father narrowly escaping cannibals, starvation, and falling trees everywhere they go. Oh, yeah, and it stars Aragon. Ladies...you like? Anyways, the movie got out late and after 2 hours of the most depressing visuals/human interactions you have ever seen on the big screen, your perspective is a more normalized and glimpses are had of such things like money doesn't really matter (it doesn't), and all life is precious (it is). Sad it takes a movie to do that for us more and more, but that's a different post. Moving on...
So, exiting the warm and buttery theater into the cool and crisp night we were greeted by a homeless gentleman who kindly and non-aggressively asked us if we could spare a dollar. Thinking I knew I had a dollar in my wallet, he was nice, had a yellow hat, I liked Curious George, and a few other things...I reached into my back pocket to pull out the paper. The following could be referred to as "slow motion morality". As I was removing my wallet we had brief small talk and via touch alone pulled out the dollar for the man. As I reached out my hand containing the dollar and put it into his, my eyes saw that it was in fact a 5 dollar bill I was giving him. The dilemma here of course was that the cheap ass in me didn't want to give the man a 5 dollar bill, but the kid raised on Mr. Rogers and forced to hide from mentally disabled people when they came to the front door (?) knew I couldn't take it back. The damage was done, and I knew I had lost it. I must have looked happy enough faking my generosity because the man gave me a huge toothless smile and his what I'm sure was mid-70's year old eyes lit up when he realized it wasn't just a plain old dollar.
"WOW!", he exclaimed. "It must have been really hard to give that up!"
If you only knew, dude.
"Thanks A loooooot man!".
And that's when it happened...
"Here...Have some crack!!!"
My paw still out after giving him the cash, I saw them in the palm of his hand as he opened it up and produced three tiny little crack rocks that looked like broken baby teeth. Maybe looked more like baby monkey teeth, I don't recall...it's been a while since the congo. After I guffawed not too quietly with the pride of an inner 10 year-old who couldn't wait to tell all his friends at summer camp that he saw the assistant teachers bra when she bent over, I became horrified; not so much about the crack itself, but that it was stuck to the palm of his turned over hand like spiders walking on the ceiling. His palm actually was shiny and God knows what kept them attached with the gravity of heavens Earth pulling down on them but there they were.
After saying a very brief and sheltered, "No thank you', we walked away quickly. This must have been cultural though (my new default answer for all insanity I can't process) because he started following us insisting that he wanted us to have them. Truly, I believed he did and though very persistent, eventually figured out he had crossed the borders of no trespassing in his cracky world that the bluebird warriors had erected in his honor during the siege of The Cheesecake Factory. Responsible he was to his oath. I would have accepted his gift with my new outlook of trying not to be a rude douche from time to time, but I knew that might make this post kinda weird and thus abstained. Yeah right, I can barely drink coffee without losing my mind. Crack = no bueno por moi.
The most bizarre thing to happen to me in the past 4 months besides that which must not be named? Yep, there it is. I did have few other things that I wanted to touch on this week, but they can wait till next. Like rejecting the offer of mint gum after a horribly rank yet delicious pesto panini, I'm gonna choose to let this one fester for a while.
And kids and kids with adult parts, don't do drugs. Seriously, and not in the sarcastic or jokey way. Even if you don't have self-respect, maybe think twice if only because your don't want someone to write a blog about you offering them crack 10 years from now. Remember, the internet is forever.
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