overheardinmyhead

'Hood Watch

A few moments ago I pulled up in front of my building and parked. A woman, in her late forties, was out for a stroll. As she walked past my building she saw my neighbor going through his mail, tossing a bunch of it into the blue recycling bin. She stepped out into the street and hid behind a car all the while spying on him.

My neighbor pulled a piece of paper out on an envelope, folded it up and placed it in his jacket pocket. He walked up the steps to the sidewalk and headed off down the street towards Douglass.

The woman noticed I was heading for the steps to my front door. She said, "Excuse me--"

I cut her off. "Don't worry. He lives in downstairs." It was obvious why she was worried. My neighbor is an immigrant from Central America. He has brown skin and our neighborhood is a predominately filled with affluent whiteys.

"Oh. Thank. God. I thought identity theft!" she sang with a gravitas often reserved for an operatic tragedy.

"No worries" I said in a tone I hope conveyed: you're a racist-- just keep walking down the street to the cleaners to pick up your white robe with the pointy hood.

I can understand why she thought this guy might be going through someone's mail trying to steal their credit card statements. It does happen. But I wonder, if I were going through my mail and tossing it into the recycling bin would she have even paid attention? I doubt it. But hey, everyone's a little bit racist, according to the puppets on Avenue Q, so I'll cut her some slack.

Suitcase Monster

Do you have a monster that lives in your luggage? I do.

One of the unexpected surprises of not traveling very often is opening up an extra suitcase to see what's been stored in there. My mom used to make these monsters in the late '70s. I think this one was given to my grandmother. I forgot I had him. He deserves to live on my bed-- or under it if that's his preference.

It's easy to trace the tracks of my tears

There's almost always that scene in spy shows where a bug is placed on an operative so his or her whereabouts can be tracked. It used to be the good guys would have to follow a succession of beeps throughout the city.  It was the beep version of the Hot/Cold scavenger hunt we all played as kids: the more rapid the beeps became, the closer they were to the target.

But this was before GPS enabled maps. Nowadays in these kinds of shows a map comes up on a screen and a little red blip of light pulsates around the target. We get to see on the map where the target is moving without the expense of a location shoot.

This morning I was tracking a package via the UPS website. I thought, Wouldn't it be cool if I got to see in real time where my package was? It'd be downright thrilling! A little red blip would start pulsating somewhere on a map and I'd start squealing with delight. "It's on the move! I can't wait for it to get here!"

Every time the red blip would stop I'd become a mess. "What's taking so long?! Why hasn't the blip moved in five minutes?! Don't they know I'm completely incapable of processing anxiety the anticipation of waiting for this package requires?! MY GOD I'M GOING TO EXPLODE! HURRY UP AND DELIVER MY PACKAGE!"

By the time package actually showed up at the door, I'd be curled up on the floor in a self-soothing state of rocking back and forth muttering to myself covered in cuts with a bloody knife by my side. I would have no energy to get up and even sign for the package. The driver would leave one of those fancy Post-It Notes saying he would try to deliver the package the next day, between the hours of such and such and such and such, knowing full well he wasn't going to adhere to a real time schedule. I would have to log in again, if I had the energy, and start the whole tracking process over again.

Oh my god, this is the worst idea I've ever had. Well maybe not the worse but I can write with some certainty I never want real time tracking of packages now. I really do have a hard time processing anxiety the anticipation of waiting requires. Every time I order delivery my life is cut short by a few months because I worry a lot about being able to hear the door bell ring.

God, I need some Xanax, stat.

I don't understand

Today I walked over to Harvest Urban Market to grab some soup, in a container obviously, because cupped hands + hot soup = hilarious story with 2nd-degree burns and I don't need the burns. Normally when I walk to Urban, I walk down 8th Street's west sidewalk. Normally it's shadier, as in blocking the sun, but today it was shadier, as in debauched, because there were a lot of drug addicts and hobos waiting in line to get food from the Lutheran Brothers' Services. I crossed to the east sidewalk after getting to Folsom because I didn't want to deal with them.

Up ahead of me was a guy carrying a duffel bag by his hand, but up over his shoulder and on his back. This is how I carried my duffel bag in 6th grade and what caused me to have some serious wrist issues, though those issues could have been from chronic masturbation. Who knows, except for Jesus, for he was in my fantasies. Anyway, this guy also had some serious high water jeans going on. The cuff of the jean stopped a good two inches above his ankles which were Fritos Chili Cheese colored.

The guy turns around when I'm about six feet behind him and stops. He looks me up and down. I keep walking. He is muttering to himself. After I pass he yells at me, "Are you with the KGB?! You're a fool for following me! Especially when the FBI has me under surveillance!" He started laughing maniacally. "They'll get you! You fuckin' commie!"

I did not engage him. I did not turn around. He started singing "We Will Rock You." I got to the corner and of course the light turned red. I was going to have to stand at the intersection with this crazy guy. But as soon as he got to the corner, he made a quick right and walked down Howard Street.

*sigh of relief*

I'm standing there at the intersection and in the left hand lane of 8th Street, closest to me but across the intersection, is this 20-something tranny wearing moon boot platforms running in that lane.  She starts running through traffic and I'm just staring at her thinking "she's going to get killed."

She looks at me and yelled, "What are you looking at, commie?!"

I was like, what the fuck? I'm wearing what I always wear, except I have on my Kangol navy blue cap instead of a baseball cap. Maybe they think it's a beret.

So my question is: where do babies come from?