An Ordinary Crucifixion – No. 7

The toughest son-of-a-bitch I know won’t kill a cockroach. He’ll coax it into an envelope and release it back into its natural environment through a storm drain. The toughest son-of-a-bitch I know can take a hit or five and keep plodding along. He’s a little slower now than he used to be, but has not stopped for a moment. He works 15-hour days. The toughest son-of-a-bitch I know has taught me a lot about standing upright and towing your wreckage behind you like it’s weightless. He’s going to be the Last Man Standing, even with Parkinson’s, even if it puts him in a wheelchair. He’s Pittsburgh’s Dali Lama.

The Last Man Standing

I know the last man standing. He is not me. The last man standing is not a hot-tempered man. He is not an especially violent or powerful man. The last man standing is resilient and indestructible. That’s the secret. He never kills. He lets time kill for him. He just outlives you. The last man standing knows how to mind his own business, pick his fights, and defend himself when necessary. He is not prodigious or possessed of genius. His accomplishment is one of duration. Upon sight of him, one cannot always identify the man who will be the last man standing. I know that he is not me, as I lack the temperament and endurance. The last man standing is not an especially brilliant artist, writer, thinker, lover or fighter. He is simply the least apt to die. That duration is his genius and his gift.

An Ordinary Crucifixion – No. 6

On Duquesne Boulevard, in heavy morning traffic, on my way to work, there were two pickup trucks side-by-side at a traffic light. I was one car behind the one in the center lane, and the other was in the left lane. A woman stepped out of the passenger’s door of the truck on the left. She looked to be in her early 40s, with a bleached blond mullet and tight acid-washed jeans. She walked over to the other truck’s driver’s side window and started talking. I couldn’t hear what was being said. She started to walk around to get in the passenger’s side door of the truck on the right, leaving the door open on the truck which she had left. At that point I could hear some yelling, but still couldn’t tell what was being said. As she was standing between the two trucks, the light turned green. The truck in the center lane drove off. We started moving. The woman was still exchanging words with the driver of the truck in the left lane through the open passenger’s side door. They were paralyzing the left lane of Fort Duquesne Boulevard, in morning rush hour traffic. The driver of the BMW 750i immediately behind the remaining truck looked extremely irritated, but didn’t say shit. Nobody laid on their horn. In my rearview mirror, I looked back at the event, and saw her get back into the truck through the door she had exited when the event started. They moved through the intersection, only to get stuck at the next light beside the same truck.

Bars in the Morning

The real test of a bar is how it looks in the morning, filled with daylight. Most places can’t hold up to that test. Most bars need the forgiveness of moonlight and neon to look good. Anonymity is their character. Broad daylight ruins them. You’re not meant to see a bar that way. Just like you’re not supposed to see a woman without her makeup, but a really beautiful one even looks good without it.

Buttons

This shirt’s got buttons and a collar, so fuck you. In my estimation, that’s dressed up. That’s license to go anywhere: job interviews, hearings, weddings, funerals, and public speaking engagements. I am held hostage by it. It’s so fucking goofy. I hate the extra fabric, stiffness, and complexity, all present for no tangible or quantifiable purpose. I feel like I’m owed something for this gross indignity.