Yeah, so what? It’s a cliche, “sleep is weird,” but who cares, it’s true and you know it!
Sleep is so trusted, so hard-wired, and rarely questioned. So consider this buck stopping, at least momentarily, to at least introduce the possibility that sleeping is crazy: the act of getting in a bed, closing your eyes, not moving for a bit of time, then having your body slow to a crawl, while you lose consciousness, and begin “seeing” these usually-provocative yet incredibly-fragile strings of thoughts, colors, then you open your eyes many hours later, having lost so-and-so amount of hours. Lost! But we never question, why. Why do we daily commit this unthinking bodily ritual, trading so-and-so years of our life for restfulness, the energy to make the time that we do have more productive, fulfilling. Hmm.
Do you think you’d give up sleep if you had the choice? Like, when you win the lottery, you can either get your winnings paid to you in installments or get it all in one lump sum, a straight shot. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I love sleep, I wouldn’t trade it for the Dickens, but that doesn’t stop me from questioning it, and it doesn’t change the fact that sleep, this zombie-inkling in all of us to power-down daily, is weird! Sleep is weird, weirdo, yes Sleep, I’m talking to you, you’re freaking weird, I love you, but you’re freaking crazy-weird, yawn.
So lately I’m extremely wary of throwing away receipts of any kind in public garbage cans because what if someone finds one of my ATM receipts and somehow, you know, deflowers my credit score. I couldn’t handle that so I make sure to throw those away at work, home or some trash receptacle that I can fully trust. Hey, is that too much to ask, a little peace of mind when I throw away my garbage, without having to look over my shoulder every five seconds to make sure no ones mussing about in there, examining my wrappers. In fact, if that low-fat lemon yogurt container I just threw out never gets looked at by another set of human eyes, I’ll die a happy man. Cause, you know what they do in there, those trash-people, don’t you? I used to think they were looking for spare food too but boy was I wrong. No they’re looking for information. That’s right. They’re scraping for DNA, collecting identities to do who knows what with them, sell em on ebay, on the auction block, for crying out loud. Who’re the slaves now? Hey, stop looking at my wrappers! What’s the big idea?
So we were visiting the gorillas at the Bronx zoo. It was that amazing-weather-Saturday a few weeks ago that punctured a hole in the earlobe of Spring, which has since closed up, of course. And since the sun was doing its thing on this particular day, lots and lots of people were at the zoo, parents constantly pointing out the animals to their helpless children, you know, as if little Haley or Ashton was blind and dumb, “Is that a zebra? Look sweetie! Does that zebra have stripes?”
We were in the second of the main gorilla viewing rooms, the narrower of the two. It was super-packed. I was reminded of that scene in Jaws 4 when they’re in that shark tunnel and the glass gets punctured, chaos ensues, death, blood, etc. Ricky and I were in the way back, hugging the glass wall, trying to breathe, when a scenario unfolded involving a woman who, for the purposes of this blog and good old-fashioned hyperbole, I’ve dubbed “the angry lady.” She was standing in front of us a ways, when someone pushing a wheelchair went by her, apparently clipping her on the heel. Needless to say, the Angry Lady flipped her muffins!
“My foot! My foot!” She cried. The man pushing the wheelchair stopped, apologized profusely. “Jesus Christ! You could have taken my entire leg off!” She said this right to the person pushing the wheelchair and the woman in the wheelchair herself, who presumably couldn’t walk. They apologized some more then wheeled away. But the Angry Lady had not finished her impressive display. “Why are they bringing that thing in here?” She whined to her husband and son. I looked at Ricky amazed, uncertain whether “that thing” referred to the wheelchair or the less-than-human disabled person in the wheelchair.
And she kept it up for a good 5 minutes or so, extracting every once of pity possible from her family (who I was quietly pitying). “No I’m ok, it just hurt a lot,” she assured them like a trooper. And we, Ricky, myself and the pregnant gorilla behind the glass just shook our heads thinking, “Some people.”
First one happened about a week ago: Ricky and I were coming home and there was a Latino-delivery-guy waiting outside our place. He asked if we ordered food, and we were like, “No, but we’ll let you in,” he thanked us. “Must be the girls upstairs that ordered,” one of us said. And while we were climbing the stairs together (since the girls live on the third floor), some deep-tickling inside me nudged, “Make some small talk with the delivery-guy, Matt” so I obliged this feeling and asked, “Pequena?” And the guy seemed a little embarrassed, “Oh no, Thai,” he answered. Yeah I made the fatal leap of assuming he was delivering Mexican food cause he was Latino. Terrible-horrible-blah. Ricky beat me up afterward, so I got what was coming to me.
Second is a bit more subtle. Happened a few days ago. I was leaving work, waiting for the elevator, and some cleaning-guy was starting to vacuum, and I was nearly certain of two things: firstly, that I heard him fart, and second, that he knew I heard him fart. We were alone mind you. And he starts walking toward me and says, “I’m sorry,” and I answered, “Ah, it’s fine,” while making the universal gesture for “it doesn’t smell that bad,” even though it sort of did. But slightly confused he then says, “Excuse me,” and moves past me to plug in his vacuum! He was just saying, “I’m sorry,” like, “Sorry, I just need to get past you,” but I mistook it for a fart-apology. What a world!
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