I appreciated skateboarding growing up in the '90s and all. Can't say much for the kids trying to turn tricks, I mean...no, yeah. So, not much appreciation for the ones now who wear girls' jeans. How do you do any tricks? How do you move? As if being Caucasian didn't screw with your agility enough already!
Nonetheless, I DID find it screwy that whenever a skater-poser would instigate a fight with a Mexican, they'd use their board as a melee weapon.
One day, as I was walking past my former Middle School, I saw a group of "skaters" (there WERE some REAL skaters in the next town over) messin' with some Mexican. They all looked to be about my age, Junior in High School, what is that? 16? 17? Well, the Mexican takes a fighter stance, the skater takes a feminine hay-bailer swing and gets slugged in the gut. While down there, he grabs his board. But, in a rare, fortunate twist, the Mexican pops him in the nose, snatches away his board, and proceeds to bludgeon the kid with it until it breaks. Much to the astonishment of his crew, who stared stricken at the Mexican rather than looking upon their bloodied hero/leader. Just as they all were coming to their senses, the cops come rollin' down the street. The Mexican, oddly traveling alone, made a clean get away. The others got cleaned up by THE MAN.
If you don't find that hilarious you might want to consider never reading my blog again. In my world, that was DAMN funny!!!
The Beating...
The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
THE PLAN for Labels
CHARACTERS are influential people in my tales.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
Blog Archive
Saturday, February 16, 2008
The Skater vs. The Mexican
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 Responses:
Post a Comment