Neighbors

The man across the street, in an attempt to mow his lawn, ran over an object of what I'm guessing was metal and just blew my eardrums out in stellar fashion.  Both of them.  I'm sitting here, watching him now, trying to restart the pathetic push mower he has and feeling quite voyeuristic.  He's wearing Syracuse colors, which I suppose I can appreciate seeing as how 'Cuse is close to where I live and because their college basketball team is who I always seem to end up rooting for during March Madness.  Adorned with a white t-shirt and old Nike sneakers, I can't help but wonder if he is really athletic or not.  Perhaps he is one of those "poseurs", the "u" added for effect, who likes to give the air of athleticism when really the only exercise he gets is from playing beer pong and walking across the room to change the television.  I'm guessing he doesn't have a remote, or he broke it somewhere along the way in one of what I assume to be many drunken escapades in his duplex.  That noise again-- ripping my concentration to shreds as I sit and try to blog about my neighbor, someone who is no more than a stranger to me.  I hear their parties from across the street often times on the weekends-- cars are lined up along their side of the road, and the porch is filled with smokers and beer can empties and girls who smell like sex.  I've never been able to peg how old they are, though this particular individual (we will call him Rick) looks to be no more than about 26 grand years of age.  Rick owns a red vehicle, which affirms his affinity for blondes and cheap beer.  Because he is mowing the lawn, I can't help but think he grew up without a father figure, instead in a household where mom's soap opera fantasy world was too much to penetrate and he learned how to at least keep some things clean and trimmed in life.  Rick is screaming at a dog in his backyard, and while I can't see him because his mowing duties have taken him to the tiny square of grass behind his house, I know the dog is not his.  A rottweiler perhaps?  Something mean, for certain.  A male about Rick's age--Jared-- just pulled up in his electric blue pickup, with rims that keep him higher than the weed next to him in his front seat, and a painted black hood he stole from a junkyard because he just lost his job after the fender collision.  He is carrying a Pepsi-- and it isn't Diet-- I can see clearly from the label that there is no silvery saccharin lining to be confused with the real thing.  Jared wears sunglasses, and he just invited himself into the house without a knock.  While I hear mumbles of this apartment and it's savvy lads on Fridays, my knowledge of them is liminal, so I can't say for sure if Jared really lives in my neighbor Rick's apartment, or if Jared is Rick's friend.  The bushes are overgrown, and in my humble opinion Jared should do some damned lawn work and stop leaving it all for Rick-- the poor, fatherless son-of-a-bitch.  This is, of course, only if Jared in fact lives with Rick; if friendship is the only connecting factor, then I say to hell with Jared pitching in.  Perhaps Jared is busy doing the dishes as we speak, for at this point I can see neither of the two 26-year old, party-animal beer-pong savants.  Jared does the housework, and Rick does the lawn work.  A happy family.  Maybe what I've seen and heard is all a fallacy-- based on my observations isn't it possible that the two are lovers?  Rick and Jared.  Jared and Rick.  "Join Rick and Jared in their celebration of love and mutual admiration on the 25th of October, 2010, at their humble Batavia apartment.  Wedding to be held on the section of green grass in their front lawn, facing the street, where lawn has been mowed.  Appletini's and chocotini's provided generously at the reception following immediately after at Gold Country Ridge Golf Course."  I hear them laughing inside now, together.  I'm not sure if it is at the television, because Rick tickled Jared under his chin, or because they know I'm watching.

No Excuses

Hello, friends.  Enemies.  Co-workers.  No-names.  Whoever you are, howdy.  I'm starting up a blog because I need to get my arse in gear as far as actually going somewhere in life-- somewhere I actually would like to end up, that is.  I mean I've got some things to say, and this "no excuses" blog may actually make me a better writer and a person.  Though, for either of those to happen, it's going to take a lot of words and a lot of effort.  It's too late to function properly right now, and I'm still damn tired from the weekend, so my first exciting blog post will be within 24 hours.  My sleeping patterns are erratic, so take note in future posts and try to figure out how much sleep I got the night before while reading.  Don't let the bed bugs bite, folks-- and stay tuned!