Piss Boy

I realized the other day as i was putting together some rather expensive shelves that i had become Lester Burnham, you remember him don't you? Lester was shot in the head while he sat at his kitchen table daydreaming about his life and the people he loved by his closeted neighbor Col. Frank Fitts, it's a divisive film to say the least but the fact is i had become  Lester, which is not in all ways a bad thing, it's just that i was sitting around and looking at all the utter shit that cluttered up the fucking world.  I had recently been painting cold-air returns, never in my life have i had an interest in these fucking things, turns out there is a whole industry behind these insignificant pieces of metal and over the years they've apparently fucking evolved, evolved enough not to fit my wall so i got to spend some quality time with a can of spray paint so that i could put the old ones back... the last time i had a can of spray paint i was vandalizing schools as a youth in Parma, Ohio... now i was outfitting the Queen's castle to her specifications...

Now i never had a career like Lester did, i mean he was solidly white collar, he wore a suit and tie, the most reputable gig i ever had involved a uniform with my name on it, the first was classic gas station attendant threads and the second, because the Big World Bank Machine loved to blow money on useless shit, made me look something like an unfashionable suburban golf fanatic, it was fucking hideous, my rather prominently domed female boss made me model it for her an another female VP when the uniforms arrived, they thought the uni's were awesome, i told them i felt like a clown.  Lester also finagled his own exit while i would have stayed in this gig for life, the pay was shit but the bennies and the vacation were sweet and it was a rare day that i actually worked for more than three hours, mainly i read books and handicapped races, sometimes slipped out for a pint or two, jerked off, slept, fucked about online, it was fucking brilliant, then it got shut down, and that is how i ended up here...

And where is here? the fucking suburbs, a strange and weird landscape populated by people i don't really understand, the inhabitants are both friendly and evil and odd, it's a bit like high school but with fancier cars... and now i am in this world and i find it both fascinating and absurd, a world where one could have a conversation about cold-air returns or any other number of meaningless and vanilla discussions at the drop of a hat, there is an air of hamster on wheel, day upon day crammed with useless tasks and chores, i want to ask these folks why they don't just get a job if they want their days filled with shit, you see i am stuck on my island, the men of the burbs talk of work and golf and the women just talk, having no job to speak of and no interest in golf excludes me from the former and being a male excludes me from the latter, it's a bit more Ozzie and Harriet than the 24 hour news cycle would lead you to believe, the stay at home crowd is still overwhelming dominated by women, it's why all the supermarket  rags warn Hubby to beware the yoga instructors and the stay at home dad... and because of this status i find i am generally dismissed as if my position somehow indicates a lack of intellectual prowess, then again i probably can't smile and break into a discussion about various strains of cannabis and how i like to play astronaut by combining said strains and seeing what happens, fucking exploration man! though if i was talking Scotch it would be completely legit...

And so like Lester i work out and get stoned, Lester got a job at the fast food place and i got a job working around the gaff doing all the shit i never knew how to do, i don't mind the process i find it quite zen teaching myself new things and refining the ways of the old, like making your own freebase it's trial and error, the old ritual de lo habitual, a favorite saying 'round the lounge, the ritual of the habit, besides it also allows me to blast Bowie records and have a cup of tea, and i'll even give old Sam credit, he never preached, the critics and naysayer said it was ham-handed and obvious, i'd beg to differ, sometimes you have to look closer, listen with a quiet mind, there is no mention of god in the final soliloquy, it's spiritual but godless, it's an opinion on a question that we all ask ourselves at some point and time and the basis for the biggest charlatans in the world to beg for money, it doesn't matter, no one knows the answer, at least not anyone who can tell us... and it was unfortunate that Lester got shot in the head because i think the veil had been lifted, Lester had it sorted, or as sorted as one ever gets but once you get it sorted shit means less... and more, you just become a better judge as to what really matters...

In the end it's just a couch, such a simple statement, it's just a fucking couch, doesn't matter if it's made from Italian silk or purchased at Crate and Barrel, it's just a fucking couch, a place to sit, there are many places to sit and they don't have to be expensive, silk, or Italian... the new one at my digs is only the former, bought and paid for by the breadwinner, that of course is not me, i am piss boy... or Lester... or fuckhead... i'll answer to anything really, like Lester i do not delude myself with some picture of domestic tranquility, it is two people who barely know each other and more than likely don't want to, and while that may not be ideal it is the natural way of things... shit gets planted, shit grows, shit blooms, shit dies... or becomes an icy and indifferent vacuum, much like space, and the couch is a symbol, of meaning to one and meaninglessness to the other, neither is right, they are just different approaches to coping with the rising and setting of a giant gaseous orb that throws heat, allotted so many of these we do our best to apply some sort of meaning to it, who am i to impose my meaning, sometimes i'd like to see people care more about people than stuff but it's a capitalist society we live in and we are brainwashed from a young age to believe that stuff is what makes us happy and not the people around said stuff...

It took Lester a long time to figure out he didn't need all that stuff, l learned early on it was superfluous, the happiest times of my youth were lived hand to mouth, now there is much stuff, cold air returns and couches, fucking coffee tables and bookshelves that are used to hold books that have never actually been read, decorations for all intents, none of it is mine, i do have some stuff, mainly books and records tucked away in my one room, i'd miss them if they were gone but i'd forget about them soon enough, the only indispensable thing in my life these days are the boyos, one of whom crept up behind me while i was writing this and asked if i was writing a story, sort of i told him, then i walked up the stairs with him and we read a bit together before he fell asleep... and like Lester you can often find me sitting in various rooms throughout my house, usually looking as if i'm contemplating something, sometimes with a slight grin, sometimes an outright smile, sometimes a sneer, sometimes a look of total indifference, i relish those moments of quiet, where the only thing i can hear is the  humming of my eardrums, maybe a cat purring, the sound of silence or as close as i can get to it...

And i often wander around when the world is asleep, i make my way in the dark, i look out the window, i creep stealthily outside of rooms and listen to the boyos breath in the night, i climb steps and see the couch, it's just a fucking couch, and it has it's meanings and lack thereof, it's alright though, i think i got it sorted... or as close as one can get, of course i've been wrong before... and i'll be wrong again, who knows, might be the most comfortable couch i ever sit on... if i ever sit on it...