Happy Mother's Day to all of you sweet moms out there.
In deference to you mothers, I have included references to three moms in this tale. Hopefuly, your offspring treat you well. Unlike the bastards in this next installment of the Trinity/Bryan chapters.
You need to read the story from yesterday, Saturday, before you check this shit out, baby.
This is for Paul, Sean's Brother. You will see.
Bryan and I began to bike around the high desert megalopolis of Fuckno each weekend, and he did this while wearing bell-bottomed jeans. Mind you, those types of jeans were recently cool for the girls a couple of years ago, but before that, it was only cool in the seventies and before even then. Not in the eighties, or "gayties," as my wife refers to that decade.
My lady has always been into straight rock, not the New Wave Duran Duran/ Depeche Mode stuff that MTV was flouting back then. Furthermore, the crankiness of true Punk Rock never even made it to Maine in the 80's, so it seems.
Bryan's shaggy white-boy afro, his bell-bottomed jeans and Hush Puppies (remember those?) may have made him appear tough in Joooovie, but out there on the New Wave streets of his own homeland, Californication, he was a dud, not a dude. Gag me with a spoon.
His flaired out pant legs kept getting caught in his bike chain, and he'd crash. Often, he would end up bleeding. The very last time, he tried to cross a busy intersection when this happened, and came to an abrupt halt directly in front of the white Mercedes convertible that luckily had slowed to let him pass, but not enough for his sudden stop. His bike got thrashed, and he rolled across the hood of the screeching car, and sprained his ankle because the bike was still attached to his jeans.
He ended up with a big rip down his inseam, so that all his commando, hairy manhood was dangling in the street, and his ass cracked a hairy man butt smile up at the afternoon sun overhead, dripping poop.
Dude got the shit knocked out of him.
I helped him drag his bike and torn pants over to the curb all tethered together, while the Lady Who Wore Red Ray Bans jumped out and began crying at a loud and shaky volume.
This was before we were told not to move someone that has been in an accident, but Bryan was built like a friggin tree trunk. The freaking-out lady grabbed her purse, threw a handfull of money at him, then climbed back in and sped off to her manicure, dented hood and all.
Bryan sat there in a daze while I snatched all his payment for his services from the road. Folks had stopped and a few were hovering over us, wanting to help but unsure about what to do. They saw his bloody elbows and scratched jaw, and his hairy, dangly manhood.
I waved them on. "He's OK, go on, he'll be all right." But something had changed in Bryan's mind. He decided there and then to stop wearing bell-bottomed jeans on his bike.
I hadn't yet introduced Bryan to my other bud, Sean. They were opposites in some ways, but actually, quite familiar, in others, such as in the breaking-the-law area.
You see, the main difference between them was that Sean was a cold-calculating son of a bitch, and he liked to control everything and test all the parameters, and then go on and find how close to the edge he could get before all hell broke loose. It ususally did. Control Man.
Bryan was born a do-gooder, but ended up with a violent temper, though life's path. It took quite a bit to press his buttons, but then, when the last button, the wrong one got pushed, well, you had better get the fuck out of the way. You better hide, and not trip over a tree root while running away. Out Of Control Man.
To place these two opposing forces of nature into the same glass beaker would either result in a massive explosion, or, being equally opposite, they might just cancel each other out, and implode everything in the immediate area: a black hole.
I really didn't want to find out, either way.
But the reason I bring up Sean is this: He knew how to dress, because of his brother Paul. HSean scorned my inability to dress well. Yet I was making money. So Sean showed me that my money could buy me clothing that would not get me laughed at, beat up, and quite possibly, I could get a chick.
"The clothes make the man." Don't laugh, I had actually subscribed to this clothing-industry-important notion back then.
And it really did work. Go figure.
Bryan hid his junk with one hand and rubbed his fucked-up afro with the other.
"I need to get me some new clothes. These jeans are fucking dangerous."
That is how Bryan got Reborn. Yes, corny and cheesy as hell, but you would not even fucking believe how things turned around for him. And this is all true.
Sean and his older brother Paul went to the same rich high school and wore the same Polo button downs and Izod shit, and I was wearing "o.d." So Sean found out that I had some cash, and we'd travel via city bus to the various malls, where he'd help me pick out what was known as "Preppy" clothing.
They'd been staying with their aunt on the other end of town, the upper West side, until, that is, when Sean, as he was wont to do, tested his aunt's buttons a bit too much with his weed smoking, and was shipped back to live with his mom in the same housing complex where I now lived on the upper East side, just below lovely Clovis. She welcomed him back, even though child protective services never found out. That is why he still went to Bullard.
I became a preppy nerd, as much as I now dislike saying so. But I'm being honest, and there, indeed, will be redemption in the name of Punkality.
I don't want to go to Hell in an Izod. I prefer going to Hell in my leather jacket. Thank you, Julian Casablancas.
I spent my money to help Bryan improve his lot in life. Again, yes, very superficial. But I was in Californication, and in such a plastic society as that, what I was doing for him would be regarded as altruistic.
That statement, my friend, is an indictment on the social mores of PlastiCalifornication-Land. And I was a contributor, at the time.
Bryan took to wearing white button downs, but with his own twist: he rolled the cuffs way up to show off his muscly arms. He eschewed the slacks and 501 jeans, and took to wearing tailored dress shorts, if there ever would be such a thing again after the eighties. But because his legs were thick and strong like human torsos, these were tight shorts, and they were high. His junk bulged out obtrusively, to each and every passing lady's delight.
But he did, indeed, take to wearing the Topsider dark brown boat shoes with the white soles like everyone else out there. In the desert. Sans socks.
Fuckers.
We got his shaggy white-boy afro shaved off at the sides, and made a trim bit of a wave on the top. With his Duddly Do Right cleft chin and square jaw, this bastard became a player.
I'd created a monster. Bryan eventually became a friggin Giggolo. No Fucking Shit.
TRINITY
I was wrong about her, man. My wake-up call occurred when I introduced Bryan to Trinity. They hit it off immediately. Hell, they even began to trade jail stories, which opened my eyes the hell up. I'd never suspected or asked if she'd been in Joooovie. She had.
Then they began to discuss drugs. Fucking Wow.
Then she told him that she was having a house party, and he should come with me. Fucking Fucking Wow.
When we left her place, down near Blackstone Avenue, lower East side, we were on our bikes. I'd helped Bryan a little bit to buy a new one, bastard. He was getting his own income, somehow.
"Bryan. You and Trinity hit it off pretty well."
He looked over at me and smiled. "That is one fine chick, buddy. You struck gold."
My insides churned a little bit. "You two sure know a lot about that illegal stuff."
Bryan stopped short and stood there. He waited for me to wheel back around. He said, "Bro, I would never, ever step in between you and any chick. Friendship first." He stuck out his hand, but not in the "hey, how are ya" handshake manner. He held it up, to do the "upright, man hand clench" of brotherhood.
I stopped my bike and looked him in the eye. "You better promise me that."
Bryan's eyes faltered a bit, but looking back now, it turned out to not be for lying. It was that I'd hurt his feelings.
"No." He stared me right in the eye. "I will always watch out for you, man."
He still had his open, expectant hand up. I took it. He squeezed my hand. "I'd rather take a bullet for you, brutha."
Now let's step back for a second while I wash off the bromance shit here.
Bryan had gone to live with his dad and step-mom even though he had tried to choke her, because his real mom didn't want anything to do with him after he'd trashed her home in a fit of rage.
After Jooovie, he'd learned to quell his rage even further, and so it would take even more buttons to push before that rage was let loose.
Of course, such rage, thus being pent up and buttoned down even further, well, you can imagine what would come out when it finally was allowed to.
Next weekend, I will tell you about Trinity's Party. That was the end of me and Trinity. Thanks to Bryan, bastard.
Now for some links
Sunday cartoon for ya. Odd.
Another one.
Japan is weird?
More of weird Japan.
This is just weird.
This is weirder.
This is too wierd. Do not click.
I was bumming after the Trinity thing. Here would have been a site I'd constructed, if html was invented back then, oh, and general population usenet. (Pre-tubes).
From the teen daughter zone.
From the nerd daddy zone.
Now to go take my sun and dotta's momma to the Fiddlehead Restaurant for exquisite breakfast delights. Remember, Mimosas are just an excuse to drink in the morning.
Happy Mother's Day, ladies.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
OK, to get a laugh, one more.
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