Prodigy's Life in Vague, Enigmatic, Slightly Confusing Terms

This diary does not (entirely) reflect my life, but perhaps my sole purpose of living: to have you leave more confused than you came in. Everything within is the truth, if you can manage to decipher it. Viel gluck, meine landeskunde.

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50. Monday, June 22nd. (Canadians, man pt. 1)

    It occurred to me that this is a very boring diary/journal/recollection of events/what have you. I tell almost no interesting stories and when occasionally something interesting does happen, whatever humor or interest it might have had at one time has been thoroughly negated by my attempt to confuse the heck out of you. In order to rectify this, I will tell you an anecdote. This is entitled: Canadians, man. (Please excuse any language. This is an accurate recollection)

 

    Canadians are a rare breed of people, I’ve found. Over the course of an entire day sitting on the street corner, I have discovered that there are very many strange people in Toronto, as well as that streets are not the cleanest nor most comfortable place to spend your day. I could explain why I was engaging in such an activity in a foreign country, but that would be too simple. Instead, I will recollect an exchange between a group of people sitting with my brother and I and a very cool man who embodied my entire thoughts about the situation. He and I were kindred spirits. We might as well have shared one mind and cynical view of the universe. But enough hype.

    Laura and Rai were strangers whom we met early that morning. They were sort of punk in appearance and generally nice people. Anyway, this man walked up. He was the type who is hard to classify; he could have been anything from a biker with a Harley to a beggar on the streets. He had a very variable, flexible look with his slight potbelly and light colored beard. He was not the sort who inspired confidence, but neither the sort who barred it. He simply was.

    “What are you guys doing here?” he asked Laura and Rai. This, in my opinion, was a very valid question. When you see a group a teenagers essentially camped out on a street corner, you would have to be either very oblivious or very uncaring to not even be the slightest bit curious as to what they are doing or why they are there. I respect that this man, instead of assuming we were well-dressed hoodlums, asked straightforward.

    “We’re here to see Nate Reuss!” Laura replied happily. So happily. 

    The man blinked. “Who?”  My thoughts exactly, man. Exactly.

    “The lead singer of the band Fun..” (side note: I bolded “Fun.” because it is not “Fun” it is “Fun.” with a period. Therefore, if I had put “Fun..” at the end of the sentence, I would look like an imbicile who doesn’t grasp the concept of a correct ellipsis, but if I had put “Fun.” and ended the sentence, I would look like an imbecile who doesn’t even know that the band “Fun.” has a period and is not simply “Fun”. You see my dilemma.) 

    There was no recognition in the man’s eyes. I feel you there, man. “What do they sing?”

    “Oh, you know, ‘Some Nights,’ ‘We Are Young…’” Laura replied kind of vaguely. 

    The man’s eyes were still blank. “What’s ‘Fun’ stand for?” (he didn’t know there was a period. Or at least I’m assuming he didn’t, but how do you indicate that in speech anyway?)

    “Um….”

    “Fuck your neighbors,” another girl with red hair, named Whitney, I think, spoke up. 

    The man stared at her in confusion. I did too, for that matter, and he spoke my thoughts as if we were one. “‘Your’ starts with a y.”

    Whitney wasn’t expecting to be called out on this fact. “Well, ‘your’ as in u-r.” 

    With a shake of the head, the man indicated his confusion/despair/disapproval of the young generation. He turned back to Laura. “So, you guys waiting for tickets then? What time does this thing open?”

    “Seven,” Laura replied. It was eleven in the morning. “And we already have tickets.”

    “Then what the fuck are you doing here, then?” the man asked. THANK YOU. Someone finally said it. I tell you, he and I could’ve been great friends. So yes, that is is a very good question, what were we doing there eight hours before the doors even opened? Pray, tell.

    “We want to be first,” Laura said. “We want to be right up at the stage.”

    Well, there it was. The man shook his head again. “You guys are fuckin’ crazy.” I quite agreed. If only he had known that I hardly knew who this Nate Reuss guy was and there I was, eight hours early. He surveyed the lot of us crazy kids and then opened his mouth to speak. I expected him to deliver some gem of advice, or at the very least another comment I could identify with. He did not disappoint. “Anyone got a buck?”

    Ah, yes. You and I, man, we are kindred spirits. Whitney didn’t even question it, handing over a two dollar coin as the man said something about paying for parking in the meter for his son. Perhaps he was not a street beggar then. Regardless, he took the money, bid us good day and left. I was sad to lose the one voice of sense I had heard all day. 

    But all was not lost. If I could not sympathize with the voice of sense, I might as well turn to the least sensible voice I had heard in a long time. After all, in comparison, we as a collective group looked slightly more sane. Note that I say slightly. 

    When the man first approached, he seemed pretty normal. (For the sake of not confusing him with the Cool Man, I will refer to this new man as the Mug Man for reasons soon to be explained.) He was dressed in a sensible suit, jacket and everything. He seemed slightly out of it, but he was well-spoken and surprisingly witty. The one anomaly in his appearance was the fact that he held a mug with “TORONTO” written across it. Tied to this mug was a long piece of cheap plastic ribbon. I didn’t think too much of it. What was there to think, anyway?

    “Hello,” he said.

    “Hello,” we replied.

    The Mug Man raised his mug. “I’m just out taking my mug for a walk.”

    We looked at him. He appeared to be serious. “Okay,” one of us said. 

    He set the mug on the cement. Grasping the other end of the string, he began to drag it across the concrete. It made a horrid scraping noise. “It looks like you’re taking it for more of a drag,” someone said.

    “Come on,” he said to his mug. “Come on.”

    The Mug man and his mug disappeared on their….walk.

    I wrote it off as a strange happening and decided it was probably an anomaly. Canadians, man. About an hour further into our vigil, the Mug Man returned. He had shed his jacket. He had also lost his mug, incidentally. “Where’s your mug?” Whitney asked.

    “Oh, I took it home,” the Mug Man informed us. “I wanted to go to the mall, but I was afraid it would get mauled. It’s already been mugged enough times.”

    I naturally found this puns to be brilliant because my sense of humor has simplified from enjoying complex, thought-out jokes to laughing at every remotely funny pun or random piece of information that pops into my head since I joined Tumblr. So be it. I laughed. No one else did. They were apparently unimpressed by his puns. The Mug Man moved on once more.

    Again, I thought this would be the last I would see of the Mug Man. Not so. He appeared one more time, this time wearing a penguin hat. Note: this is not a Penguins hat as in the hockey team apparently from Pittsburgh. This is a fuzzy hat that a child would find fascinating and cute in an over-priced gift shop. He said nothing to us this time, but simply took his mug (which he had once more) onto the fake grass around a small decorative tree on the sidewalk. He “walked” it in circles around the tree, urging it to pee. What he thought this would accomplish, I honestly have no idea.

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