The Acrobats

You take the pa-donk-a-donk.
And you swirl it 'round, over your head, like one of them Terrible Towels at a Steelers game.
"And you don't hurt nothin'?"
Not really. I mean, there is certainly some stiffness the next day, but not enough to discourage you from doing it again.
"Wow. It sounds amazing."
It is.

The trick with high-wire acrobatics, high-wire acrobats will tell you, is to keep your eyes firmly closed the entire time. That way you can't see the floor come up and clobber you. The surprise is the real thrill. Like all good surprises. I saw one guy: did it with a monkey on his back. It was breath taking. In a monkey-on-you-back-high-wire-act sort of way. Yeah, one of them.

The tragedy, I figured, was being reconfigured into some sort of plain yogurt kind of thing. Where instead of some sort of slightly mouldy fruit taste, it just tastes like sour milk. Not in a sour cream sort of way either, but more of a cottage cheese Jell-o Jiggler sort of way. If that is the way your sort sort through that sort of thing. I could never really tell from this distance.

And it's not like a homespun Denis Leary sit-com or even a cutting-edge homosexual sit-com where all the gay men are played by straight men, so there is no kissing. But it sure opens doors for all those straight men longing to play gay on the small screen, or the big screen. But like one terribly offensive comedian said to the other in the film Tropic Thunder: "never go full retard." Never.

But it was the air, I suppose. That fishy air. That salty air. It tastes like potato chips, if potato chips tasted like salty, fishy air. It doesn't taste like anything actually. We never go out. We take turns sitting on our one chair and staring blank stares at our blank walls 'til all hours of the day and night. We have no idea what the air tastes like out there. Just that the tap water tastes like dolphin piss and when you turn the tap on in the bath tub the water is yellow, so it looks like dolphin piss, if dolphin's actually piss and it is actually yellow. Which is why we never take baths. Which is why we store our summer clothes in the bath tub because summer is never coming and our closet is too small to fit more than one season at a time.

It's not like that.

It's not like there was any difference it could make, it was different this time. I guess. It was like this. It was like the walls were paper thin and we are bombarded on both sides, in both ears, from both ends, endlessly, relentlessly, without relent, morning, noon, and sometimes night. Like we are living in the living room of two crazy people hollering into the phone at one another. Or at the TV, in those awkward moments when Denis Leary almost kisses Eric McCormick before their latest show is canceled and we can only watch the 5 and one-half ill-fated episodes illegally streaming them online or downloading rips of the DVDs though bit torrents via web portals as hubcaps, endless hubcaps, are lost to that one pothole just out there >>>.

Stuck in the middle. Might as well make the most of it.

Might as well MAKE AS MUCH NOISE AS WE CAN. See if we can their attention. See if they too shut their mouths and crook their necks and strain their ears towards the paper-thin walls to hear the muffled racket that sounds like a minor car crash and the ensuing fisticuffs between a suit late for rehearsal and a ballerina late for work.

Fuck you! Don't stop short at that light like that or you deserve to be rear-ended.

Yet for all the racket the acrobatic monkeys have been making these days the phone keeps on ringing and heated discussions about paprikash breakout via long-distance and we want to hunt down the inventor of unlimited long-distance calling after eight, Alexander Graham Macaroni, and give him a piece of our minds, but he is way out on Signal Hill, and it is a ways up there, and the weather these days has been mild but it could turn at any moment and we'd be caught upwards of a kilometre away from home without proper hooded jackets and jack knives and butter tart recipes and have to fight off wolves with ski poles or book jackets and it'd all be a terrible waste of a day that could be spent listening in on neighbours conversations with their daughter in Windsor (either one of either one) or bicker with Oprah over what kind of stripe is most slimming, the yellow one down the front or the back.

But I guess it is called misadventure. And small victories looking like walking with heavy feet. If our pain cannot be stopped, it must be transferred. We need cowboy boots. We need fancy horse riding boots. We need big top hats. We need Circus Circus ball caps. We need acrobats.

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