Callie, my parents' dog, was sprayed by a skunk. The stank filled up the house for days and all I heard about was how said stank wouldn't go away, no matter what kind of cleaning product my parents threw at it.
It's everywhere, Mom said.
But after a few days, I wondered if maybe she was making it up.
Then my bike was stolen. It was stolen from our locked backyard. In my head, some spider monkey Crack Head scaled the walls, ab ling them to get in the backyard and swipe my bike- the same bike that had recently been pimped out by Crazy Ray and the same bike that I was using day after day, riding to work or up and down the river. The bike was stolen. I found out the day after I got back from New York. I was up there for the Sox/Yankees game at Yankees Stadium- one of the last games between the two at the Stadium. I walked a few blocks to hitch a free ride back to Philly and despite the headache, felt pretty good about things.
But then my bike was stolen.
The only thing I felt good about was that I didn't punch the brick wall.
That's good, Chris said.
I know, I said. A few months ago I would have beaten the shit outta that wall.
It would have beaten the shit out of you.
True.
But what can you do? If it weren't for reality crashing down on the good times, we'd be insane, living in sunlight all the time and living large and in charge because nothing could stop us. No, all of the shit Mother Nature threw at us Saturday wouldn't be there and Soap Box Philly would have been more like Soap Box Provey last year- a beautiful fall day as opposed to the goddamn shit show that went down this year. The rains were intense- weather I hadn't seen since the boat days and shit if I weren't strapped, rocking my Grundens to protect me from the elements. I guess it was nice knowing that I can still tie a bowlin in pouring rain.
I'll take that one to the bank with me.
If only banks took things like that or car loan people or the student loan people. Why can't personal accomplishments run as currency? No one has money, but everyone has stories of personal battles they've overcome. If we simply ditched money and instead, you could roll into Wawa and buy a few Gatorades with a story of the longest pee you ever took, down at Phish for the Millennium.
But that would be a perfect world, I guess.
And recent weeks have lead me to believe that this world, it's not perfect. It's chaotic and turbulent. It's a constant storm- with the lulls and the bursts of sunshine, followed by torrential rains and winds ripping around so hard they take the blue out of your eyes while your cruising up and down the Wall with a Gator full of Wingers and scrim and arches and generators and broken down Ninjas and whatever else needed to be totted around.
The Sox won, my bike got stolen. Soap Box was a success, Brady's out for the season. Up and down, up and down. If God planned it this way, he should have made us all immune to motion sickness.
But he didn't, did he?
Nothing is perfect.
Nothing.
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