A Blog About Punching People In the Face

Archive for June, 2012|Monthly archive page

Things I saw III

In Thoughts by Tyson on June 20, 2012 at 1:30 am

Today I went to a farm. I saw a little dog just sitting there along the road.



In Thoughts by Tyson on June 19, 2012 at 6:33 am

Things I saw II

In Thoughts by Tyson on June 19, 2012 at 2:48 am

Today I went to a seminary and saw this Jesus.

Things I saw

In Thoughts by Tyson on June 10, 2012 at 2:57 am

Today I saw a man playing a piece of wood as if it were a guitar.

At a bar in South America

In Thoughts by Tyson on June 8, 2012 at 10:31 am

It is lonely, being the only one in the bar, though I suppose that this condition is to be expected when one hits the bars at 1 o’clock in the afternoon. I am in an Irish bar in South America and, having ordered a Guinness, I learn that such libations are only available in cans — not a sin, in and of itself (one cannot be too orthodox in South America).

My bartender is surly and views me with suspicion. The bar has imported the same noxious playlist that blares from many a fake Irish bar around the world. Also, the complimentary popcorn is stale and may have given me herpes.

What is worse, though I began this day flush with purpose, I have since lost steam, likely a result of the six glasses of wine and wholly unsatisfactory (and largely unconsumed) lunch.

This is easily the most depressing bar I have been to. Also, my Guinness smells like fish. I am sad.

I do not pay attention

In Thoughts by Tyson on June 8, 2012 at 9:55 am

Today I went to an art school — I did this because I would like to become an artist. The school was far away and I had to walk through a lot of neighborhoods that I had never been to before, even though I have lived in this city for several years.

The thing I remember most about today was walking over a skywalk. There were hundreds of people on this skywalk because it was the only place you could use to cross the four lane highway. The highway was stuck in wall-to-wall traffic.

As I walked by the overpass there was an old black man playing the drums. I think he was blind, and ironically — for a drummer — he had little sense of rhythm. He was drumming for money, and most people — everyone, really — walked past him without paying much attention. That is the price of being a drummer without any rhythm, I suppose.