My Old Man

Today as i was dragged through the aisles of multiple Big Box Stores, the type of which let you improve upon that most cherished of all things American known as "the home", the dream foisted and sold and fucking shoved down our throats as if once that purchase of said property has been made you have fucking made it!! as if there is nothing left to do with your life? but there is one thing left to do... and the thing to do apparently is to improve that dwelling and make it the domicile of your gawd damned dreams i tell you, whole industries are there to enhance this process, there are television networks dedicated to helping you bring your dreams to fruition, there are people whose whole career is predicated on selling you shit to do this, D-list celebrities i guess, people who look vaguely familiar on the front of some Murdoch-like gossip rag adorning the front end checkout of the local supermarket usually occupying a small space on the lower left cover, and i stood in these aisles of toilets and chainsaws and washer/dryer combo sets, the dutiful soldier, the faithful and solid sounding board for the Breadwinner's thoughts and dreams, i had not a clue what i was fucking doing there, having been forewarned of Breadwinner's plan i spent the early morning sneaking to the garage and ripping clandestine hits of Jamaican Dream, Leafly said it was good for stress and made one happy and energetic, (i might beg to differ on the latter trait but the first two were pretty spot on), i spent a lot of time nodding and looking serious, i listened to a man prattle on about grout and glass tile, the whole conversation could have been in Mandarin Chinese for all i fucking knew, i was thinking about the weird yellow lights and the sounds of birds coming from the rafters, but i'm a good nodder and have mastered the art of masking stoned confusion with the look of utmost interest...

When i was a kid these behemoth Box Stores were just coming into existence and they weren't that one stop cash grab they are now and i remember being dragged along to multiple stores and the look on my old man's face as he nodded and looked serious, the dutiful soldier, that faithful and solid sounding board, of course the difference between my old man and me is that when my parents did this it was his/their money being spent and when Corporal Kono is dragged along there are no doubts left as to whose money is being spent, it is the Breadwinner's and though i may have some suggestions on how this money could be put to better use, legit uses too, like investments and shit, i am not so stupid as to offer my suggestions, i'm like the gawky and nerdy assistant in some female-centric rom-com, my duty is to compliment the star, of course in the American television sit-com scheme of things my old man could at least expect a piece of tail out of the deal (just like the commercials sell us) while i could expect to unload the car and lug stuff into the house... so it goes...

And what started this little reverie was a song i've been hearing on the satellite radio, a small perk thrown my way at least until it's discovered the free trial is over, it came on this morning in the drizzle and i sat and listened as i drove my way towards the stores and i thought about my old man, about how i was doing all the same shit he had done and for what?  to make someone happy? to please? was that the fucking theory? i couldn't really figure it out, maybe i could blame the Jamaican Dream or maybe i just don't really want to figure it out for various reasons though i'm pretty sure i got it sorted but those are the rambling and circular thoughts of the stoned and this isn't about that...

Since the old guy gracefully took leave of the house he paid for he's lived in an apartment on the West Side of Cleveland, first in Lakewood for 8 years and then two blocks over into the city for the last 16 or so, the apartments are like a time capsule, they are also the antithesis of the whole aforementioned industry and television networks, he has the old table that adorned his ex-wife's beloved dining room, it's covered with junk mail, a newspaper, books, a six pack of Pepsi, various coats or jackets hang on the chairs, i'm quite sure he hasn't sat at it in years, the same two couches he's had for ages though i think one may have been replaced with a newer model in the last decade, an old stereo with a tape deck, glasses and dishes salvaged from the divorce that until said divorce were probably being stored in boxes in the basement, but what the fuck does he care?  it's just stuff, why would he spend his time worrying about stuff? the old man reads too much and thinks too much, he goes to work (for something to do) he talks to his lady friend, he converses with his brothers and his son and doesn't really give a shit if he talks to anyone else, and that's enough for him, he's a self-contained kinda guy...

So i guess as the apple i didn't really fall that far, if i was in my old man's shoes i'm sure my place would look exactly the same as his (except i'd have an old turntable and a milk crate of records), i wouldn't give a rat's ass about the furniture other than that there were a few pieces to drop my ass on when the need arose, to this day i can honestly say i've never bought a bed of my own, it's never crossed my mind, and if i'm being perfectly honest the odds are probably pretty good  at some point i'll be in that same boat, i'll have my stack of books and the newspaper, instead of cigarettes i'll have the bong or better yet a plate of ganja cookies to go with my coffee, i'll watch the footie and the hoops, i'll talk to the boyos and laugh and listen to all the things they're doing, i won't sweat my old couch or the fact my few dishes and glasses are as old as the boyos, because the more i go sliding along the more i see how much i'm like my old man, and that's not a bad thing at all, at least not in my eyes, there are ways in which we are completely different and there are unmistakable traits that leave no doubt i am his son, he's a cool cat, i'm surprised his wallet doesn't say Bad Motherfucker on it, so as i walked the hard concrete aisles of the American home improvement dream, i just sat back and grinned, i nodded and looked serious, that faithful sounding board, just like my old man used to be...