When this post is finished I am eating some Beans and Rice. You can't stop me from eating like a Spaniard.
To wit (and to your wonder) I am unsure as to what a paragon is. When pressed at some drunken definition fest I would sputter out three syllables and collapse in a state of semi shock. Also, since I am sputtering you can be sure I've had more than my fill of the filler. Drunk as I am hypothetically, paragon is still an important word to me. Among all my lingo it is among the most said and is quite possibly the most cherished. I think it roughly means "something that is emblematic of something else". That's close enough for me. I don't want you to look it up or clue me in. The way I have come to know or understand paragons is mine alone and I feel dirty at the mere fathom of sharing it with the likes of you.
There have been paragons everywhere lately. Lighthouses lighting the way to a more amusing day and an anecdote to later be told on this blog is enough, but not for paragons like these. These paragons are "something that is emblematic of something else". They signify almost all I know and everything about me. They are why I get up in the morning. They are why when I lose the remote I decide to stop watching TV.
The New Hindenburg took a trek to San Diego last weekend to watch the proud Detroit Lions take on a football team that is actually good. The outcome was 52-14, jalapeños were eaten, we looked Russian, and paid our only attention to the Los Angeles Times we smuggled in our moth balled sweat pants. It would have been a waste of an afternoon, 52 dollars, and 52 LaDainian Tomlinson points if not for the heroic antics of Pete.
Early in the first quarter the smell of beer wafted up from the aisle and tickled the tips of our noses. Pete, a grizzled old man in wrap around shades and a beaten flannel, shuffled down the aisle another beer in hand. He stopped and held an innocent conversation with friends. Then he fell. Then he rolled. He kept rolling. Pete rolled over six rows of Charger fans in a garish display of Belushian acrobatics. Along the way he flipped, somersaulted, and crowd surfed as if Fred Durst himself had ordered it.
It could have been over. With a normal person, not a paragon, a simple gesture could have come and gone like a Spring Rain. We should have known better. Most people would stop after one row. They would not be so lost in the moment that they would fall almost forever. We saw the fall, followed the path of the beer trail, and thought it believable that he could roll 16 more rows and off the balcony. Like a Spring Rain it brought flowers. For the rest of the game Pete sat unmoving in his seat. We thought he could be dead. We also considered that the force of the fall had made Peter shit himself. He was worshiped like a god but wasn't ready to revel. He sat there ashamed. Ashamed for an entire half holding onto both armrests and trying not to move. A young buck asked to shake his hand and Pete simply shook his head "no". He wasn't going to showboat, he was simply going to tiptoe out of the row while holding the hand of everyone out of his fear.
Pete is our paragon of showmanship.
You don't know our next paragon, but he assures us that you will. Like so many small friendships we met on a plane. Houston to Detroit the mother of all drab flights. So boring they didn't even do security checks because no one can manage to give a damn.
His name: Joe Blow
His education: Part of high school
His future: Rap Mega Titan Force of Nature
The plane was empty. We could sit where ever we wanted. Joe Blow decided to sit next to me. He shook my hand and said we had the same name, even though we don't.
Next question: Do you like music?
My Question: Yes.
He hands me a CD player. Not an IPOD, a zune, but a big plastic disc spinner. Clunky and irrelevant, I would have been jealous if I were ten. He then played a homemade CD of himself rapping.
I am going to the top, yo
So don't try to stop, bro
To the top, to the top
I won't stop, I won't stop
T and A is in my DNA
These are actual lyrics from the one and only Joe Blow. Joe explained his rap strategy to me from this point on. Never played a show, won't play a show. Instead he will sell CD's from the trunk of his car.
Next Question: What book you reading?
Next Answer: Rabbit Redux by John Updike
Next Retort: Oh. I thought it might be Who Moved My Cheese?
Tired as I was I fell asleep on the plane. I got woken up with a mother fucking punch in the mother fucking arm. I turn and Joe Blow is smiling at me.
Joe Blow: You want some cereal.
Then we ate cereal together.
This would have been fine and enough for him to become the stuff of legend. When he left the plane he got off with his Mom, onward to attend his Uncle's funeral. He left me and our friendship behind but he did give me one last nugget of brilliance.
The back of his jacket said "Joe Blow".
Joe Blow our Paragon of Promotion
No comments:
Post a Comment