Fidget Goes To The Beach.

He woke his butt up that morning knowing he had a tough row to hoe ahead of him, and he was gonna pack a lunch and all, fill-up a Mason jar with creek water and all that, take his wide-brim hat and that sort of thing.

During the night, I had left him something, that I knew he would find as he took the morning air, sunlight next.

In John Deere green.

On his retaining wall.

Emblazoned.

"I'm wild as hell, pony boy."

His cousin kept inviting me to a fish dinner(note I don't say "seafood", because its not all necessarily from the sea, as in "salt water").

What we were really on about was finding some hubcaps for some 70s cars, so called "classic" but not yet officially ranked "antique", but hey, you trying buying parts for them, they might as well be stone age, such that one would expect Stone Henge or Puma Punku to have "body colored interior accents", "european stylings", deluxe wheel covers", and "carpeted floor mats".

Maybe even FM radio.

Spend the extra 12 dollars for it, Barry Gordy.

But imagine him looking at my hooliganism on his private property.  I mean, first, who did that?  Sometimes, and in his perview, there was no doubt.  I mean, "what kind of utterly detestable piece of sh*t would do that to someone?" and in his frame of reference.

He didn't need three guesses.

He didn't have to "phone a friend" or "poll the audience".

We say of static truths, and particularly the conservatives, Platonists and more, that Good is self-evident to the thinker, but yet others, modern and post-modern thinking, it was all parsed and sub-divided into a kind of whole stack of things, such that me painting mean things on his private property, could in some frame of reference, be defined as "good".

We have only, in the end, the average.  Mode.  Mean.  An index, maybe, if one felt adventurous.  It was brought into focus in my own recreational readings, the dividing and subdividing of arrays, proper lines, and so forth, not so saying anything of beginning and endpoints, but that mentioned earlier, not that the line was infinite, because it wasn't, but that the relativist could point to an infinite number of points on even that very limited line.

The words of a frustrated man with a master's degree?  Mayhap.

I watched, just recently, a sub-set, a continuum of oscillations and so forth, and what measurement standard would one say is not quantitative, in reference to making distinctions, but qualitative, in terms of a very intelligent gentleman, probably schooled at Oxford, waving his hand and pronouncing a single word definition, which is so lacking and indefinite.  Is it a philosophy when it seems all the more an attitude, instead?

"Your neck, pony boy."

I mean, I had the unction on him, you know, such that he wasn't answering phones, and he took to parking his little Toyota in his garage and putting the lock to the door, going in through the laundry room door.

I had his name; I had his ass.

So to speak.

If he was on the esplonade, walking around like a european, in his disillusionment and aimlessness, he couldn't afford to let his own unction free, because something deep within would starting running down his pants leg.

His own oscillation then, had attached, a coordinate identifiable in two arrays on graph paper.

I wanted to get up near him when he was distracted and dog tired, with his Mason jar full of his water to drink on break.

It just wouldn't pay for him to come across me on the esplonade when I had some tater wedges in the little calico-print bag, or whatever, maybe peach cobbler egg rolls, me keeping my sugars to the good, like getting liquid nutrition, constantly making out past the foyer to check the balogna, and if it was to the good as well, get my nutritional supplement by licking the sweat off of it.

Quite "high-toned" as it were, myself, mayhap.  Rejected from the Lion's Club and some other, not like him, not like the little toot-sweet voodoo-doll in which I had deposited so many of my own, both real and imagined, slights, offenses, and perceived indecencies.  Such as what was said, with productivity and office culture, good for people to have objectives, workable goals to try to achieve, and sometimes these were short-term and sometimes more ambitious, but to put his little nose in the dust.

(At first run-through, I accidently fudged the spelling of "offenses".)