Where the Wild Things Are (For Ms Gloria Slakoff)

This phenominal children's picture book always made me wonder; Where is that land where all the wild things live? I've since discovered pockets of society - the underworld - that the wild things inhabit. And apparently -  they're also at the Maricopa County Courthouse. (And no, I'm not going to dole out juicy details about my case, so stay in your seat people.)
The wild thing I speak of, came to me this week in the form of a blind homeless man. I know it's not fair to satirize the handicapped, but since I'm still technically a member of the club, I'm giving myself a hall pass. And in this instance, there was no avoiding this scenario. It came to me.

It started when I was seated in the courthouse cafeteria trying to avoid my fellow jurors and any related family members. I heard the hollering right behind me. It wasn't angry or scary yelling, but rather a controlled, suave, trash-talking session. To my surprise and delight, the debating men I thought I heard - turned out to be a singular gentleman: blind, black and offering up a foul odor that was drifting nearer and nearer to my lunch. He sat alone at a table in the middle of the very corporate legal lunch hussle, unphased. With his best gangster lean, he proceeded - as smooth as jazz, and in a voice I can only associate with a true pimp - to shout and gesture insults. Each exclamation seemed less and less related to the one prior, but not less in fervor. Oh no.  He gestured like he was smoking a blunt, and between words, he produced a clicking noise...you know, the type that is reserved only for a sleezy wink, or even for throwing the guns.

With my back almost directly to this man, I leaned back and enjoyed the show:

"Sheeeeeiiiiiiiiiit. Is hot outside." - Fair enough.

"Buy me some'm good baaaaaby." - Hopeful, but unlikely.

"You want seix? No ma'am! I don't give a shit!" - Delusional, as nobody in their right mind would be asking for sex from this man.

"Get owwn outta her, girrrr." - Fair enough.

"I toad her, I'm 52; I'm not gon listen to yo cryin." - Again, appropriate.

"What happen to you? You prolly had about 15 yawds in the hood of my trunk!" - Wait, what? 15 yards of what? And why is it in the HOOD of your trunk?

"Let me tell you. How does he know Gary? Fuuuuuuuuuuck you. You. Can't. Get. NOTHIN'" - My mind drifts to the CFO of my past job, in which case, not very many people do indeed, know Gary.

"My Momma. My Baby. My lady. My Guuuuuuuurl." - Hmmmm.

"I tried to tell em, ya hear. But you know...motha fuckas...they just don't listen." - Touché, sir.

I think we can learn a lot from our fellow wild things. At the very least, we're guaranteed a chuckle, which is rightly what I received. Thank you, insane blind man. You bettered my lunch hour.

 Dedicated to my dearest Gloria Slakoff who, above all else, loves lunch... precisely when this "sighting" occurred.

Location, Location, Location

One of the biggest selling points about the apartment that Neil and I reside in is the location. It's in the middle of the city, with easy interstate access and our third story loft has premium views of Camelback Mountain.  But for us, certainly the most important characteristic of our residence, is what we are privy to witness of the other neighbors. I don't want to come off creepy - it's just that I'm so, so curious.

On one particularly steaming desert Saturday, we watched in delight as our dexterous neighbor launched his very own pigeon eradication effort. The ditry bastards liked to perch on his patio, and he had had enough. In the sweltering heat, he proceded to hammer and drill an intricate algorithm of cross strings across the entry-way of his small adobe patio. Hours later, he was pleased and took his tools inside to enjoy a celebratory beverage; he had conquered.

Pictured is one Grade A, top-choice, people-watching instance. If you look closely, you'll see a plump and unphased pigeon perched inside the said patio. I watched it happen. The little bastard landed on the edge, and simply side-stepped right inside as if he'd done it a hundred times.

I called Neil outside to enjoy the spectacle, and we sipped our icy beers awaiting the devastation to ensue.

We never did see the determined man emerge from his apartment that night. Likely, he saw the fruits of his toils resulting in nothing, which was just...too much to face. Especially when you have a captive audience...

And I can't help but notice the irony of the whole affair. Building unnecessary barriers just to have them literally, stepped over. Superabundant effots to keep something out, to witness its ease of access just seconds later. I write this knowing good and well the existence of karma. But before it strikes...I'll just enjoy the sights. It's something nice.