Monday, June 7, 2010

Struggle Vs. Saturday

Some days I don't know why I even bother getting out of bed. And I don't mean that in a depressive, sad, the state of the world is so bad kind of a way, but more in an angry yet laughing to avoid slapping someone in the face kind of a way. Though, if I really think about it, a lot of the frustration I feel may be entirely my own fault. Here is the thing, I'm a planner. I love plans. Hand me a plan and watch me start to glow. Itineraries? I adore them. Building blueprints? I gush. Step by step instructions? That's my happy place. And while people may tout the glories and delights of the spontaneous, the random adventures, the unexpected pleasures, I would counter with the fact that those out of the blue moments are often accompanied by things like food poisoning, getting horribly lost, and prison. Sometimes all at once, in fact. Ask me how!

But sometimes, despite my membership in the church of plantology, I have to wonder if there is some kind of cosmic memo that goes around but passes me completely by. Something along the lines of: "Denizens of earth, please do your best to derail our favorite little documenter of the struggle today by any means necessary, use force if you must, the goals is a complete mental breakdown. Hugs and kisses, the universe". Are you guys all getting that? If you care, can someone please forward it to me next time? At least that way I will be slightly better prepared!

I suppose I should more fully explain. You see, all I wanted to do yesterday was attend the Northern Liberties Music Festival. Call it the fatty-no-friends in me, but I just wanted to enjoy a pleasant afternoon of day drinking and kebab chewing while listening to truly horrible bands serenade myself, my friends, and Strugglemano, who has abandoned the West Coast for a brief respite in the balmy Struggledelphia humidity. But the struggle, my friends,what did it do? That's right, it abounded.

First of all, Strugglemano, who is like a 19th Century French Heroine in this respect, has once again twisted his ankle. Granted, he did so jumping a fence in a stadium parking lot rather then, say, trying to breathe in a corset, but still, his Madame Bovary like accident has left him more useless then Tiny Tim. Because he finds walking in crutches to be quite a work out (and who DOESN'T, those things are rough!) he is confined to a 1 mile radius or less for the time being, and you have to allot time for breaks.

Second of all, for some reason these pesky people keep wanting to see houses even though it's the weekend and I'm tired. Some people have no consideration for others. I found this to be especially true as I biked away from one showing and almost immediately found myself being clothes-lined across the neck by a rubber coated wire tied between two telephone polls. As I lay on the ground with my bike gently crushing my left leg I caught a hand-written sign out of the corner of my eye. "Road Closed". Illegal much?

Third of all, of the many people I invited to enjoy this hard won afternoon of fermented hops, bright sunlight and sticky little children dancing to metal bands, only two of them showed up, and one of them happens to be related to me. So, while Kelly (hi, Kelly!), Strugglemano and I risked skin cancer, heat stroke and the perils of experimental artisanal beer (lemon grass, ginger and wheat, it's not all it's cracked up to be) to enjoy a neighborhood festival, well, we did so alone. The few, the proud, the sun stroke victims.

It's moments like this, my clothing sticking to my body like flypaper, passersby asking me if I've recently showered or been caught in the rain, abandoned by all those who had sworn to stand by me (or rather, slump by me in the shade), when I wonder, is it me? Should I not be so excited by plans, if the plan is going to let me down, die before it comes to fruition, leaving me as a footstool for my brother's swollen joints? Do I expect too much of people, by assuming they will fulfill their promises and actually show up to things? Is expecting anything from anyone a fool's game?  Maybe it's me, I think, maybe it's me.

But on second thought, I realize, that's just crazy talk. It's not me, it's everyone else. Step it up, people. Follow the plan.It's our only weapon against the struggle, take it from me. And at least now, thanks to Saturday's adventures, I'm struggling with a tan.


  1. "Northern Liberties Music Festival" sounds like some antebellum Merry-Making Jubilee dedicated to self-righteous, tee-totaling, stout neck-veined Puritan woman spouting ill-capitalized Rhetorick from daises doubling as donkey carts in Victorian era hand-me-downs.


    Homemade beer makes everything fun. That said, I'm not sure what the "study of plants" has to do with how TIRED you are. Are you making up words and pretending that other people are dumb when they don't know them? Or if they pretend to know them it's some kind of secret victory for you? "Yeah, I, um, had a cousin study that..." It supports your theory that it's not you, it's them, after all "they" illegally closed a road with string or twine or rope or any of our other fine Colonial Made Hemp Based Produckts and who could have foreseen that?

    Well God of course, but maybe he had too much wheatgrass in his moonshine beer, and got lost and arrested on the way to the hospital to get his food poisoning checked out.

    But that's o.k. Because it's the struggle that means something. Struggle on.