There is a chap in my neighbourhood that gets about in a wheelchair, and has a parrot that sits on his shoulder. He’s middle aged, wide but not fat, kinda short I guess, and looks pretty cool, as black folk tend to do.
A snazzy dresser too.
The bird, one must assume, cannot fly and I’ve just now realised the irony, but that’s not the point of this story. (I wonder if he owns a fish with no fins?)
The point is that Wheeler — as I have named him — rolled up next to this shoulder-height (for him) wall and Polly jumped off and stormed away. So there sat Wheeler, making gestures for Polly the petulant parrot to come back, and there was something very sad about the whole scene.
There must come these moments where you just think fuck, I wish I could stand. It gave me a little slap in the feelings department.
OMG I’ve just realised why the bird jumped off. It’s a racist, and Polly wants a cracker. How marvellous!
I saw Marley again today, the poorly named dog. I think I’ve written about this before, and if I recall, I wasn’t sure that I had heard the dog’s name correctly, because surely no one actually names their dog Marley, unless they have a death wish, for the dog.
But it is indeed the dog’s name.
The woman at the other end of the leash to Marley’s neck said that her daughter named the dog — I didn’t speak directly to the woman to obtain this information, a nearby old man asked the question.
He was nearby because I pay him $50 a day to walk around near me and make small talk with people so that I can enjoy the banter without engaging directly with you idiots.
Marley had a spectacular tail, I just wanted to smack it about.
There’s a chap in my suburb that looks like what it would look like if Ali G dressed up as Ali G. He’s Ali G squared.
He rides around on his BMX in a strange pose. Like he’s stretching before going on a run, but he’s on a bike. He wears orange tinted Oakley sunglasses and I wanna say an Adidas headband, and always a hoodie — hood up — but you know how those people do the hoodie only half on their head? I guess to better show off the Adidas head band.
Maybe it’s a tattoo, I don’t want to make eye contact.
Anyway, Ali×Ali has got a new toy, an electric scooter. He rides it — get this — sitting down. Like, with his ass on the ‘deck’ of the scooter, about 8 centimetres off the ground, both hands reaching up to the handlebars like a double hail Hitler, and his knees up around his Oakleys.
If I go the rest of my life without engaging in conversation with this dude it’ll be a life well lived. I’ve told Humphrey (my paid conversationalist) that Ali² is off limits.
I just had the thought that maybe I’m the only one that sees the little flies, and the rest of you think I just enjoy an enthusiastic staccato clap every now and then.
I think the hardest part of being a parent is pretending to give a shit about so many different things. Of course I’m not a parent, because my imagining skills are so spot on.
I heard a girl telling her mother that “something something something and Emily was there” and Mum was like “really?! Emily Baskinson?!” and I was like “Oh lord give me strength” and she was like “GET OUT OF OUR KITCHEN!” and I was like “wot-eh-va, there’s nothing decent to eat anyway”.
Well, I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long, a lot happened today and I just had to get it all down. And I didn’t even tell you about the dog I patted in a coffee shop while the owner was looking the other way, and then I looked the other way, and when I looked back the owner had put the dog on her lap and I was like fine, I’d finished patting him anyway.