IV/MMXXVI
Age chases away reluctance, but while I await maturity's blessed arrival in their hearts, which may or may not precede the second coming, today is a fresh opportunity to live up to the legend.
Hey y'all,
Another lunar cycle, another edition of Club YME.
ICYMI
January: I/MMXXVI
February: II/MMXXVI
March: III/MMXXVI
An excerpt from my mind
Portraits of Park Life
"We all have different rules for living." That's what the shoe salesperson said as we both gawked at the floppy, sunbaked dicks across the street, each adorned with a quirky ring, and a pair of hands awkwardly negotiating with a slice of pizza.
"How in the hell are they going to ride their bikes comfortably?" I blurted out, immediately regretting words that had no reason escaping my mouth. I have a problem with that. Thankfully, she ignored my question, redirecting our conversation to the store's ongoing promotional campaign. A tacit acknowledgement that this was garden-variety stuff for Haight Street.
I'm 56 years old. The better half of those years have been spent traversing these foggy hills, but there's always some new convention I have to get on board with. That's another thing I have a problem with. She spun the iPad my way, prodding me to fill in my information for a chance to win a free year of shoes. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing whatever these designs are called; who needs more than five pairs of shoes anyway? A pair of cleats, one pair of loafers, one pair of dress shoes, and two pairs of sneakers, one for running, the other for casual activity, should do the job just fine. Still, I signed up, thinking about a few kinfolks I could picture slipping on a pair of these oddities. I left the store and caught another glimpse of the maroon members twenty paces away from a thrift store I suppose might have been of little use to their proprietors, or rather invisible to them, instantly reminded of the blood-red stained crotches of the anti-circumcision gang, who parade around in all white demanding imprisonment for all circumcisers. I wondered whether they would find my mutilated member attractive.
As I cruised down Irving Street, flanked by all the culinary treats the easternmost continent has to offer either side of my Prius, I chewed over the salesperson's words, searching for how to define my lore. I hear my soccer friends, for lack of a better word, whisper all sorts of hogwash when I enforce the rules of engagement—el presidente, according to Mikel, a pain in the ass, according to Ashwin, a weird spoilsport, according to Fabien, all behaving as if they have an ambiguous relationship with a well-structured game. Age chases away reluctance, but while I await maturity's blessed arrival in their hearts, which may or may not precede the second coming, today is a fresh opportunity to live up to the legend. Someone's going to be on the receiving end of an appropriately mistimed shoulder barge. What can I say? My legs don't work like they used to, and it's a contact sport, after all. The Prius growled as we climbed one of the Inner Sunset's inclines, seemingly a signal that it would have demurred accompanying me on this journey home if it truly had a say in the matter. I took in the Doelger-style homes, an array of colors assembled with no deference to the color wheel, as I eased into my parking spot, envisaging what hid behind their walls. Lawns peppered with dog shit, I suppose.
When I walked in to our home, I found Genevieve whistling the tune of Alain Souchon's Foule Sentimentale in our kitchen, surveying the trove of onions that would certainly soon be transformed to her storied soupe à l'oignon. She welcomed me with summoning eyes, quickly pecking my lips as she battled the tears from slicing four whole onions. "Magic is never painless," she piped, warding away the growing sympathy in my eyes. "Tell me about your day," she added quickly.
I retreated a few feet away from her workspace, leaning on our colonial cream countertop island before I began recounting my encounter with the nude bikers, whose tools were temporarily seared in my conscious, and likely subconscious, mind. She cackled, sounding almost hysterical as her tears collided with this new sensation my tale introduced to her body. "Gilles," she exclaimed, "how long did you stare at these innocent men?" Embarrassed by Genevieve's playful rebuke, I thought better of sharing my plans for today, electing instead to head up the wooden steps of our quarter-turn staircase, pondering whether the spitting image hanging on our walls saw the world just like his father. Only one person should be able to excavate all the remains of my mind.
I emerged back downstairs matching my dark blue and white adidas shorts with a red adidas running t-shirt. In my bag, my funky smelling copa mundials sat next to a couple adidas balls and pinnies to organize the teams. We drove the Germans out of our country, but welcome them on our bodies every day. Genevieve escorted me to the door, bearing the apprehensive grin that mystically sprouts whenever I'm heading out to play, as if the thought of my physical exertion automatically triggers her anxiety's germination process. "Don't come home injured, bud," she whispered, returning to her regular register to add, "it's 40 years too late to be a professional, my sweet."
There was no place in between my ears to store her pleas. Even if there were, it would not matter one bit. Once I get on the field, only one thing matters: winning. Today will be no different. I got in the car, turned onto the perennially noisy 19th Ave and headed to Golden Gate Park, the city's present to its 800,000-strong contingent and millions more. A couple of the boys beat me to the pockmarked field, eagerly awaiting my arrival so the show could get on. Each of the field's holes bore its own story. Most were likely dug by gophers, some might have been mined by a larger four-legged animal, a couple were believably installed by a sprinkler contractor, but all were uniquely treacherous for our ankles. Aside from the patched up grass, everything else is perfectly designed to please the human mind, including the invasive flora. The eucalyptus, cypress, and oak trees all stand gallantly, graciously inviting the park's visitors to mull over centuries' worth of faces and stories. I spotted my buddy Julian surface between the blue gum eucalyptus and snapped into action, picking out yellow pinnies for both of us.
A few pleasantries later, we were at critical mass, which meant it was game time. The opposing team featured a bunch of regulars. There was Ovie, who treated every confrontation like a dance duet, provoking voluntary and involuntary reactions from defenders with repeated micro-feints before passing or dribbling the ball with a touch specially developed in the empyrean. His teammate Nacer did not possess a similar gracefulness, instead relying on his power and an almost peerless understanding of space to influence proceedings. The two of them made a formidable pair, but their team had a clear weak link I planned to target all game: Artie.
Unsurprisingly, it was a pretty even affair, both teams having scored twice in the first 30 minutes. There was a loose ball in the middle of the pitch, a chance for a breakaway, maybe even a go-ahead goal. Artie had his eyes on the ball as well, approaching the machine-stitched sphere of synthetic leather and rubber with his signature meekness. Now's my chance, I thought, as I hurtled towards the ball with the same verve as De Gaulle, expecting him to pull out of the challenge. Reality was a whole lot different; Artie steadied himself, absorbing my contact, then shrugging me off before laying the ball off to Nacer who balanced the other side of the equation. I landed squarely on my shoulder, mouth full of grass, writhing in agony. Right away, I knew I should have called it a day. I just couldn't bear the thought of being humbled by Artie of all people, so I kept playing. I fashioned a wry smile as I convinced myself it was worth it to maintain my image as the enforcer.
I don't know what score the game ended. We're lousy scorekeepers. At least I am, especially when I'm on the losing team. I assured my inquisitive friends, for lack of a better word, I was fine, telling them not to lose sleep over my shoulder. I promised them I'll be back at the same time next week, although the pain threatened to dull all the function in my brain. All I needed was an ice pack, Advil, and a warm bowl of soupe à l'oignon. I plodded towards my Prius, working overtime to mimic the gallantry of the trees.
The whole journey home, my eyes and my mind sat in different worlds, as I fixated on what I would tell Genevieve about my latest wound. After arriving at Chez Lebeouf, I staggered up the staircase, cursing Messrs. Doelger and Rousseau for designing homes on this hill. This time, I found Genevieve seated at our dark walnut mango-wood dining table, her legs folded between the table's bookend-like legs while she graded essays on the effects of climate change on food security in developing countries. I opted to set the table as she wrapped up, delaying her inevitable admonishment. I always say the most beautiful thing about a relationship is its ability to evoke childlike wonder and blitheness. The feeling of a reprimand, however, is the one thing I wished to abandon post-frontal-lobe development.
I thought I had navigated the table setting artfully, evenly maybe, but Genevieve had been studying me out of the corner of her eye. And when I sat down, she gently extended her hand towards mine, asking, "my sweet, what are you agonizing over?" I narrated my fall to her, choosing to start the story from the moment I first fantasized about barging into my opponents. Genevieve decided to sheathe her disapproval when I sheepishly met her concerned gaze with flattery, offering her words back to her.
"Magic is never painless," I remarked while struggling to tear apart a piece of bread.
We ate the rest of our dinner in silence, concentrating on the textures of our deep blue stoneware plates and confetti-colored basket-weave placemats. I was in too much pain to even fathom digging a bigger hole for myself with my irksome mouth. I imagine she was temporarily scarred from having to digest pages of uncannily intelligent analysis from students' super parrot assistants. When we had both finished scarfing down our bistro salads, baguettes, and soup, I stood up to clear the table, wincing with each movement. She motioned for me to forget about it, to freshen up so we could head to the emergency room.
I complied, meeting her in the passenger seat a half hour later. Foule Sentimentale played on repeat as she drove to Parnassus, where judgment day awaited me. I tried to lift my spirits even as the pain suddenly morphed, first mysteriously developing legs, then walking over to my chest, before growing hands, which attempted to rip me open from inside. I composed myself as she steered into the hospital parking lot, a futile attempt since the world as I knew it was no more. I leaned on Genevieve as I stumbled to the emergency department intake area, feeling like the oddity in my chest was one thread away from ripping me into pieces. I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead, took a deep breath and began to describe my condition to the desk clerk behind the glass screen. With every word, one of her features became blurry, like I had unwittingly signed up to a game of Where's Waldo? As I slowed down to get my wits together, I felt my legs buckle, my chest explode, and the world slowly disappear, until all I could see was nothing.
The Main Event
get that bass up!
and bump your head!
Listening Notes
Used to think I'll never feel again
'Til my ol girl made me feel the pain
Really neat, very beautifully alliterated, battle raps for you
Lay around and think, ain't nothing to do
Checking out some Fromm, some Sartre, Camus
Mingus is our own, damn Roach can drum
I'm never alone, I got my daughter, her mama, so nice to (meet)
I do have a child, but my inner child is still alive, I climb trees
I make sure that she never sees so she don't try things where she is not seen (what's up?)
Doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot
Brr, brr, brr
Brrt
boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom
I die for this shit like Elvis
Peace to all my people paper stackin'
Askin' for the S is like askin'
For the satisfaction of climaxin'
The moral of the story is this
You ain't lickin this, you ain't stickin this
And I got witnesses
you at home with a safe you ain't got nothin' in
just remember ALL CAPS when you spell the man name: YME
This shit right here, this my year
Stepping out feeling like the shit, my dear
Forget those fears, drip no tears
For the real, let me make it crystal clear
My thoughts, dreams, plots, and my schemes
That's what's on my mind when I toss in my sleep
My heart like my pen when I jot and it bleed
My cart full of sin, when I shop it's a spree
Roc got all the guns, tecs, mac millys, 12 gauges, dezzys, semis, and he's liable to burn holes in your belly like Henny
Elon digging through the cell phone records?
Everything for sell, even hell, my nigga
Soon they'll be tryna sell the air, my nigga
Can't afford to have one wasted or fall through
'Cause if one make it, we all do
Success is by committee, never all you
It's never all you
Took care of everyone, that’s a fact
Somehow along the way things went off track
The casualties of carrying a world on his back
The most powerful man on earth might snap
"Oh, I think they like me" is the motto of the minstrel
You fuck with the big dogs, won't make it to trial
The genocide will be televised 'til it's normalized
The quota rised, immortalized in the oil price
Enjoy!
