I was stopped at an overpass, when...
I was stopped at an overpass, when I
noticed a homeless man walking to a 2011 Impala. Here is how the scene took
place.
 |
| "The sign says it all. Conversation will cost you extra." |
Man, bearded and in
his late fifties to early sixties, walks over to 2011 Impala wearing black corduroys
and an overly used Carhardtt’s military jacket. He has a jocular disposition and
accepts a ten dollar bill in his fist and points to the portion of his sign
that says “God Bless”. The young male in the car laughs, looks forward and
drives forward through a now yellow light. In doing so the driver (who has money
to burn; the standard double exhaust pipes say so, not I) makes sure that he is
the only one that passes through the current game of Red, Yellow, Green, to the
next place on the transit-based, grid system. The $10+ man looks at the cars
around him and seeing no opportunity turns back to his pleading station on the
overpass, only to see another man, with a similar sign to his own, standing in
the place he had once occupied. Their conversion begins.
$10+ man:
I don’t believe this
shit.
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks:
Believe it; just
fucking happened.
$10+ man:
Step the fuck off
mothafucker. Shit ain’t alright.
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks:
Shit ain’t ever been
right, but the time is. I’ve been watching you dance and court the assholes that
stop at this light from that Sev, that
bitch there kiddie corner; right next to the McCiddees for four god damn hours.
$10+ man:
I work here.
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks:
You did up to four
fucking seconds ago. Right up until you made your last ten dollars of the day.
$10+ man:
I…work here.
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks:
Me too.
$10+ man:
It doesn’t work that
way.
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks:
It doesn’t work here anymore. I
do. If you work well with others you can stay.
$10+ man:
It doesn’t work that
way.
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks:
Doesn’t matter, cause
it doesn’t work here anymore. Open
your fucking ears. If you want to work here then stand to my right…or better
yet—take the medium over there where the cars turn left.
$10+ man:
I was here first.
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks:
All the more reason
for you to take what you got and leave something for others.
$10+ man:
But…
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks leaves the$10+ man and retrieves $2’s
from a Mustang. He then shows the money to the money to the disgruntled beggar
with a big smile.
$10+ man:
I…
Man in Camo Boonie Hat and Slacks leaves the $10+ man and retrieves a
buck from the car in front of me. As I drive off, I make a left hand turn. I can see the $10+ man making his way homeless
from his work. He is mumbling about something, but who has time to care about
what he is saying when I am already late for physical therapy.
Wasatch Pulp
Wasatch Pulp
Welcome to Wasatch Pulp a blog dedicated to, well, um…blogging. There is nothing much else worth doing in this first post except add an internet’s worth of working knowledge about the blog site's name.
The word Wasatch varies depending on where you go to get
your information. One website
will list the meaning as a derivative from an old Ute word meaning “mountain
pass” while another website
will list the meaning as a derivative of an old Paiute word meaning “frozen
erection”. I’m not an etymologist
concerning Native American languages and I also don’t mind my blog being associated
with either meaning. So, you pick your ontological poison as feel free to associate
my content with your “preferred” meaning of Wasatch. It’s between “Mountain
pass” or “Dick Popsicle”. I’m just saying people.
 |
| "So I was walking over a mountain pass this morning when I came across some pioneers that had frozen to death. I shit you not, every guy in the group was sporting a dick popsicle. This day has been so Wasatch." |
Pulp is one of those words that rubs against people’s brain
matter like an overabundance of absinthe. Some people cringe at the thought of
pulp. They think of pulp as trashy serials and periodicals (or as they are
known these days: blogs) which threatens to contain meaty chunks of lurid and
seedy subject matter. If you read other people they’ll tell you that pulp is
something more of liminal substance. They try to reason that pulp, when taken
notice of and reveled in, reminds us of just how random our moral and cultural distinctions
are, and how much life and death resides in the pulpy masses that we often
ignore. Once again I’m fine with any either distinction that you make.
 |
| "I love to see that Nature is so rife with life that myriads can be afforded to be sacrificed and suffered to prey on one another; that tender organizations can be so serenely squashed out of existence like pulp, — tadpoles which herons gobble up, and tortoises and toads run over in the road; and that sometimes it has rained flesh and blood! With the liability to accident, we must see how little account is to be made of it." [Walden] |
So feel free drop off every now and again and to stave off a
little bit boredom at my expense. Hopefully I can write at a decent regularity, and if not, hopefully the small amount of stuff I put here is worth reading. Either way I'd love it if you stopped by now and again.
- T.S.
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