There comes a point in time, when you start to wonder about the good things and the bad things in your life. But mostly, it’s the bad things that get the most attention. And you wonder, if it’s a bad thing and you know it‘s a bad thing, then why is it a part of your life? It’s like frozen cookie dough. You plan on using it to make dozens of cookies to be shared with friends and loved ones, but instead, you end up eating it in large chunks, knowing in the back of your mind that it’s probably not a good idea to be eating raw dough with all those cases of samonella being reported, but you do it anyways because it’s oh-so good. And then you discover, by the end of the night, you only have enough dough to make two decent-sized cookies. It makes you a little sad, but you just shrug your shoulders and put the rest of the chocolate-y goodness in your mouth, thinking in the back of your mind, to hell with it. It’s exactly what I was thinking when I thought of my is she-isn’t she friend, Collete.
Ok so maybe things with Colette weren’t as resolved as I thought they were. Maybe I just didn’t get it, like I thought I did. But it’s hard when you’re a guy. Girl’s just have this weird power/control over guys. Just look at Samson and Delilah. Edmond Dantes and Mercedès. Paul McCartney and Heather Mills. Poor guys. Never saw it coming. But I was smarter than that. I knew better. And that’s when Colette called me.
Apparently, when we were in Phoenix the previous week, she had entered a contest at the mall to go see pop singer Fergie and won two tickets. And who did she invite? Yeah. Me. Colette told me that as soon as she found out she won, she could think of no other person to invite but me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t honored, but I didn’t know if...oh to hell with it, it was Fergie! And anyone who can piss their pants in public and still hold their head up high is A-OK in my book. I mean, we’ve all been there after a couple of drinks and dancing in a party bus with a stripper pole, right? And besides, this was just a friend only outing…as Colette pointed out many times. God. You take somebody to a Gwen Stefani concert and your pegged as “Concert Buddy” for life. Ugh.
Two days and a two hour car ride later, we were at the Dodge theater rockin’ and a-rollin’ to a really awesome performance. I was wearing my Ed Hardy jeans, the ones with the skull bone and heart patch in the back pockets, which I had been saving for a rainy day, but since it never came, I figured now was as good a time as any. Fergie was awesome. Who knew that a thirty-something could still do cartwheels? Sure, her back would probably be killing her the following morning, but hey, it wasn’t my back, so…rock on! And it was during this rockin’ performance that Fergie sang a song that really spoke to me. Even though it was entitled, "Big Girls Don’t Cry", I felt the lyrics could go either way. Minus, of course, the exception of the word, “girl.”
Fairytales don't always have a happy ending, do they?
And I foresee the dark ahead if I stay.
I hope you know, I hope you know
That this has nothing to do with you
It's personal, myself and I
We've got some straightenin' out to do
And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket
But I've got to get a move on with my life…
Amen sister. Story of my life. But little did I know that while I thought I was dealing with a major problem, somebody else was dealing with an even bigger problems.
After the concert, we headed to a local gas station to stock up on energy drinks and peach candy rings, since spending the night at a hotel was out of the question. I wanna say that it’s because temptation was just not a road I wanted to travel on, but the truth is, I forgot my credit card and Colette was overdrawn on her debit account. Ironically, the road we were traveling on ended up being closed due to forceful winds and a monsoon-like rainfall. Guess it was a perfect time to be wearing those Ed Hardy's, after all. We had no option but to turn back. We ended up at a Denny’s, where we ordered banana fosters, chocolate chip pancakes and a side order of chicken strips and french fries. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to eat such a random mix of food so late at night/early in the morning, but when you’re killing time and trying to stay awake at a 24-hour diner, you do what you gotta do.
We left the restaurant at the crack of dawn, and after being in town for not more than one hour, I got that fateful call. It was from my boss Alice, giving me a rundown of the tasks that had to be performed and completed that day. After assuring and reassuring Alice that everything was under control, she told me that Freddie, her brother-in-law was like Nicky. Nicky was a close, personal friend of Alice and her husband Azten, until he was shot and killed in an alley this past March. To this day, no one really knows what happened, but it’s assumed that Nicky got caught up in a drug deal gone bad.
ALICE: David…Freddie is like Nicky. I don’t know what to do.
ME: You mean he’s weird? Yeah, I could’ve told you that Alice. Why? What he do?
ALICE: No, I mean, Freddie is like Nicky.
ME: Cuz he sells drugs? Well, there’s nothing you can really do…
ALICE: No. David. Listen. Freddie. Is like. Nicky.
ME: Alice. I get it. He’s weird. But why?
ALICE: David. Freddie is where Nicky is.
ME: Well where is Nicky?
ALICE: David, I have my daughters in the car. So please understand when I tell you that Freddie is exactly like Nicky.
It was then that I finally got it. I later learned that Freddie was shot and killed in an apartment complex over a pair of designer jeans. I know! I mean, that could've been me! I could've been THE guy shot in Phoenix over the pair of jeans I was wearing! It was so surreal. After all, I had just seen Freddie the week before when he came in to see Alice. He was his usual self, wearing a button down shirt that was fully open, exposing his chest tattoo of an Aztec god holding a half naked Aztec woman with enormous breasts and telling me of his weekend and how some girl at some party just couldn’t get enough of him. Which is weird, because every girl I know that has met him have told me specifically that they would never, in a million years, go out with him.
Still it was sad. I mean, here was a guy, who was my age, wore designer jeans…was unlucky in love…and the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if maybe I had the same fate in store for me. Ok, I’ll admit it’s selfish of me to even think of my own well-being during a time when someone had just passed away, and I may as well have booked my ticket for that hand basket people are always talking about, but the similarities was just way too much to not be considered a coincidence. I mean, I don’t think I’ll be killed in a tragic shooting, but who’s to say I wont? I always felt that the way I would go would be falling to my death, that way I could get that flying thing out of the way before I go. The point is, you just never know when your time is up. That’s why everyone’s always saying to make each and every moment count. So is it bad that my each and every moments are still associating with Colette?
Ok so maybe things with Colette weren’t as resolved as I thought they were. Maybe I just didn’t get it, like I thought I did. But it’s hard when you’re a guy. Girl’s just have this weird power/control over guys. Just look at Samson and Delilah. Edmond Dantes and Mercedès. Paul McCartney and Heather Mills. Poor guys. Never saw it coming. But I was smarter than that. I knew better. And that’s when Colette called me.
Apparently, when we were in Phoenix the previous week, she had entered a contest at the mall to go see pop singer Fergie and won two tickets. And who did she invite? Yeah. Me. Colette told me that as soon as she found out she won, she could think of no other person to invite but me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t honored, but I didn’t know if...oh to hell with it, it was Fergie! And anyone who can piss their pants in public and still hold their head up high is A-OK in my book. I mean, we’ve all been there after a couple of drinks and dancing in a party bus with a stripper pole, right? And besides, this was just a friend only outing…as Colette pointed out many times. God. You take somebody to a Gwen Stefani concert and your pegged as “Concert Buddy” for life. Ugh.
Two days and a two hour car ride later, we were at the Dodge theater rockin’ and a-rollin’ to a really awesome performance. I was wearing my Ed Hardy jeans, the ones with the skull bone and heart patch in the back pockets, which I had been saving for a rainy day, but since it never came, I figured now was as good a time as any. Fergie was awesome. Who knew that a thirty-something could still do cartwheels? Sure, her back would probably be killing her the following morning, but hey, it wasn’t my back, so…rock on! And it was during this rockin’ performance that Fergie sang a song that really spoke to me. Even though it was entitled, "Big Girls Don’t Cry", I felt the lyrics could go either way. Minus, of course, the exception of the word, “girl.”
Fairytales don't always have a happy ending, do they?
And I foresee the dark ahead if I stay.
I hope you know, I hope you know
That this has nothing to do with you
It's personal, myself and I
We've got some straightenin' out to do
And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket
But I've got to get a move on with my life…
Amen sister. Story of my life. But little did I know that while I thought I was dealing with a major problem, somebody else was dealing with an even bigger problems.
After the concert, we headed to a local gas station to stock up on energy drinks and peach candy rings, since spending the night at a hotel was out of the question. I wanna say that it’s because temptation was just not a road I wanted to travel on, but the truth is, I forgot my credit card and Colette was overdrawn on her debit account. Ironically, the road we were traveling on ended up being closed due to forceful winds and a monsoon-like rainfall. Guess it was a perfect time to be wearing those Ed Hardy's, after all. We had no option but to turn back. We ended up at a Denny’s, where we ordered banana fosters, chocolate chip pancakes and a side order of chicken strips and french fries. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to eat such a random mix of food so late at night/early in the morning, but when you’re killing time and trying to stay awake at a 24-hour diner, you do what you gotta do.
We left the restaurant at the crack of dawn, and after being in town for not more than one hour, I got that fateful call. It was from my boss Alice, giving me a rundown of the tasks that had to be performed and completed that day. After assuring and reassuring Alice that everything was under control, she told me that Freddie, her brother-in-law was like Nicky. Nicky was a close, personal friend of Alice and her husband Azten, until he was shot and killed in an alley this past March. To this day, no one really knows what happened, but it’s assumed that Nicky got caught up in a drug deal gone bad.
ALICE: David…Freddie is like Nicky. I don’t know what to do.
ME: You mean he’s weird? Yeah, I could’ve told you that Alice. Why? What he do?
ALICE: No, I mean, Freddie is like Nicky.
ME: Cuz he sells drugs? Well, there’s nothing you can really do…
ALICE: No. David. Listen. Freddie. Is like. Nicky.
ME: Alice. I get it. He’s weird. But why?
ALICE: David. Freddie is where Nicky is.
ME: Well where is Nicky?
ALICE: David, I have my daughters in the car. So please understand when I tell you that Freddie is exactly like Nicky.
It was then that I finally got it. I later learned that Freddie was shot and killed in an apartment complex over a pair of designer jeans. I know! I mean, that could've been me! I could've been THE guy shot in Phoenix over the pair of jeans I was wearing! It was so surreal. After all, I had just seen Freddie the week before when he came in to see Alice. He was his usual self, wearing a button down shirt that was fully open, exposing his chest tattoo of an Aztec god holding a half naked Aztec woman with enormous breasts and telling me of his weekend and how some girl at some party just couldn’t get enough of him. Which is weird, because every girl I know that has met him have told me specifically that they would never, in a million years, go out with him.
Still it was sad. I mean, here was a guy, who was my age, wore designer jeans…was unlucky in love…and the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if maybe I had the same fate in store for me. Ok, I’ll admit it’s selfish of me to even think of my own well-being during a time when someone had just passed away, and I may as well have booked my ticket for that hand basket people are always talking about, but the similarities was just way too much to not be considered a coincidence. I mean, I don’t think I’ll be killed in a tragic shooting, but who’s to say I wont? I always felt that the way I would go would be falling to my death, that way I could get that flying thing out of the way before I go. The point is, you just never know when your time is up. That’s why everyone’s always saying to make each and every moment count. So is it bad that my each and every moments are still associating with Colette?
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