Dear Lyzako,
As I sit here and look up I see a centipede just languishing near the top of the wall, pretending that I can't see him. Somehow he knows that I'm ready to smash, full of hate and frustration as I am. If only I were six-five instead of five-six... he'd already be dead. As it is, I just watch. The prick still hasn't moved, by the way.
My trek into Ferndale started with parking up the street behind Buffalo Wild Wings, then nearly getting plowed by a car turning left as I crossed towards the public lot behind Nine Mile. The woman came within a foot of knocking me down and I still had my phone in my right hand, keys in the left, held my arms out in a 'What the fuck's up?!' shrug, which the bitch pretty much ignored. I watched her gesture through the window as though I'd done something wrong, but GODDAMN! I was in the fucking crosswalk. For pedestrians! FUCK THAT CUNT!
After my near-death experience I strolled up Nine Mile to Woodward, turned north and sat my dumb ass down at the Bar, where the bartender met me with my usual... a pint of Blue and a water.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"I may eat something."
I didn't, though. Five pints later the Tigers had iced the Indians 2-1 in a game that featured two incredible pitching performances and only lasted a couple of hours. The Tigers used everybody they had after their starter, a new kid named J.J. 'Jay' Jerkjizzbucket-J, pitched his ass off and held the Indians to a single run. Zumaya looked good and got the one out they needed in the seventh. Rodney was hot, too, dominated the eighth. Then Todd Jones came in and shut them down and it was over, a pop fly to center field for out number three in the top of the ninth.
I decided it was high time for me to leave, being short on cash an long on fatigue.
I took my time getting back to the truck, walked slowly west on Nine Mile and window-shopped at the Dollar Store, checked out the sun-faded packages stacked in the windows as I tried in vain to call another friend. “We're sorry. All circuits are busy now. Please try your call later.” I imagined that I'd killed a hive or two of honey bees just attempting the call, felt worthless and guilty. A block down the road I thumbed another number into the phone and got the same message.
On the way home I stopped at the BP station on the corner for munchies, noticed that the 25 oz. Blues were on sale - 2 for $3.00. There was loud rap music playing in one of the parked cars when I walked into the place, fluorescent lights burning my eyes. Inside I picked up a couple cans of Blue, noticed that they were different than the last time I'd bought them - taller and more slender, made to drink easier by holding in your hand I suppose. The ones they had when you lived here were fatter and more squat. Oh well... Big Blue is still BIG. I also picked up a 99-cent bag of Bugles (Grandma used to supply us with them while she taught us how to play penny-ante poker) and a bag of Better Made Sizzlin' Hot Cheese Crunchies.
Better Made... It's what's for dinner...
Cheers and Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman
PS: That motherfucking centipede is still up there, though he's moved to just above the window. Do they bite? I'm going to bed...
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