Carnivals out of town

“Finch Point's eyes spotted a bonfire near the carnival today. Tell your kids to stay home today, and for all y’all who could care less about society, please boogie down from the funk that is this neighborhood. It’s an infectious groove constant that is sirens of both types, record needin bums with feelin, and soul suckin men who feed off hate and seedless aggression. We must stand strong and keep the good news in our step; come be a part of the Finch Pointe Catholic Church, and become enlightened through the power of the lord, you see we…” on and on the crazy old man who supposedly lived the best years of his life in the 70’s went on to support the church and bring in newcomers. Living in the basement of a Catholic Church with an old senile man and a p-bass it was normal routine to pay the pastor back by standing on street corners trying to get more people in the church so the pastor could easily pay off his bills and other necessities. By the time the old man (by this time you are probably hoping that I will say what the old mans name was, but I wont) finished his “inspiring” monologue, a few people clapped, and one guy with a name tag that said “Brockman” (dang, you gotta be one cool guy to have your name be a slang term) screeched like a hippo elephant hybrid a few foul obscenities in such a harsh tone that I wont even try to type what he said. All in all Brockman (if that’s even his name) seemed pretty upset about the whole thing, so I gave him a free pen (embroidered with the Catholic Church logo, which was a cheap banana yellow menorah because of a factory mix-up) in which he commenced to shove it where the sun I’ve heard doesn’t shine. I looked up to the sky hoping some sort of angel might take me to a place where I might have been in a mariachi band, but all I could see was smoke from what looked like a fire coming from the carnival…so much for fried and pickled goods.

It aint so bad...

I walked down the old stone steps of the church after service into the cold cloudy weather to go to work at the neighborhood pawnshop, “Gimme That”. As I was heading down Black Avenue I saw an eighteen-wheeler going down the street, not in a hurry, just casually cruising down the tar stripped avenue with a revolving metronomic rhythm with each wheel turn. The way the wheels of the truck revolved in many circular motions sent me to a few years ago around this same time of year when a touring mariachi band came through Mexico, and at the time I wanted to be just like them. But certain dreams such as those I had long since given up. I was an American now and I intended to fulfill my responsibilities as one which meant working as little as I can to earn just enough to sustain my needs, looking at women only as objects for pleasure, selling myself to anything fried, living in even the sketchiest church just to feel like I fulfilled my religious obligations. Being my first month in the neighborhood I thought, “it aint as bad as my grandpapa said it would be”. So I walked down the church’s stony steps, and headed to my new job at the pawnshop “Gimme That” while humming one of my grandpapas favorite Santana songs.

blog 2

I couldn’t truly decide between the fried goods or the pickled pig’s feet, but in all reality I would most likely eat some of my left over Chinese food when I got back to the church. The carnival which already looked like it had been here for years called to me today when my boss(“proud” owner of “Gimme That”) said he was tired of looking at me, and told me to take the rest of the day off and go check out the new carnival. So I did, I played the rigged games, got my money stolen eight times by the same monkey who I think was putting the money back then taking it again just for kicks, and tried to figure out where all the clowns were. After all of these wonderful attractions I figured it was about time to eat so here I was at the fried and pickled goods stand. Between the eerie green sunlight baked and crusty jars I could see the slim figure of a tanned babe aching for some attention. I asked her what her name was and through her bleached teeth she said “Sugar”. I then bought her a bag of fried stuff and walked away, I mean “Sugar” is clearly a prostitute name, and I certainly wasn’t going to chance it. Although I suppose in this kind of city you’re bound to catch something, right Castro?