Fugly Babies vs. Cardinal Richlieu (short story)

SUP? Just got back in from another "free-wheelin-like-Bob Dylan"side trip...I never give up the chance to stop toe-ing the line of the normal and dive right into life. I was afforded the opportunity yesterday. I saw the light by reading the signs in baby-spit....not nearly as repulsive as it sounds...here's what went down...

Went over to a friend's house to meet some others with whom we'd go out and shoot pool with. "The Others" were a couple of dudes we'll call, "Riche" and "Thibault," two French-Canucks who'd moved down to L.A. a couple of years ago -- my homie used to work with them. Upon learning the latter, I was prepared for the worst.

This brings me to homeboy's crumb-snatcher. Such a cherub. A cutie in every way. Dude's girlfriend, Faith, is a colleague too and their baby's picture is prominently posted in at leat 50 cubicles at our work which tells me that I'm not the only one to accept said cuteness. What is it about babies? Just looking at this particular chipmunk-cheeker reminds me of what's great about the human race...all the potential, unknowable benign humanity that their 8lbs,8oz vessels might hold gives me hope as I trip through the daisies of possibilities in my "mi-mi-mi-mi-mind" -- I liken it to that guitar line in Crosby, Stills and Nash's "Marrakesh Express. "All aboard the train!

Tiny little Terra -- when holding her I also think of that string-laden opening of Copeland's "Our Town" -- hope she susses out early that cool parents are an underrated commodity and girlfriend's got two of 'em, yo. (that's not 'anal-lingus, either). Workplace aside, I'd vowed long ago to lay the cards on the table/ keep it real, objective-like and I thoroughly enjoy hanging/ conversing with these folks. There are few things in life worse than looking at a "fugly" (Fuckin Ugly) baby because it forces one to FFWD to what difficulties said "fugliness" will wreak on the child in question plus you gotta lie to the parents (it's just misanthropic to point out the obvious in that instance). Such is not the case with my homies' rugrat or "Miss T" as I call her...

T's a quiet baby, although that doesn't jibe with the Gucci bags under her parents' eyes -- I just visit the spot, yo -- but as far as I know, she doesn't report anything unless there's something to report ie: she's hungry, tucked up too tight in her rocker or she needs a new nappy; otherwise, she's busy. She's got things to do, see, taste and slobber all over. She's checking shite out which tells me she's a thinker (a great sign)...I'm rotating crops of mental maize in the fallow fields of my mind right now, in preparation for the copious amounts of popcorn I'm gonna consume while sitting in the peanut gallery of the heated arguments that I'm more than certain are going to erupt when Terra becomes a teenager and sallies forth by questioning "Ma and Pa"...the oldsters...my friends...I look forward to the day. She's got that spark in her eyes...that "chispa," as the Spaniards would have it -- "La manzana nunca cae lejos d'el arbol" - the apple never falls far from the tree. Prepare yourselves dude & dudette...

This brings me to Riche, the French Canuck I've dubbed "Cardinal Richlieu." His reputation preceeded him --I was told "he's eccentric, snooty and opinionated-- but I'd dated a chick or two from France so I had 'parle vou'd a little Francais in my day," if you will...they're certainly different but once you get past all the cynicism tatooed on their DNA you'll find some really funny shite to talk about to friends/on your blog...

After Miss T left with her mama to the local ice cream parlor with Cris, the wife of another homey, I shot over to The Brass Elephant with her "Pa" and Cris' husband, Enrico -- a mutual friend and colleague. At 'the Brass' We shot some pool, threw quarters in the juke and sucked down more than few shots of Absolut/pitchers of Heffeweissen during which Riche and Thibault showed up and joined the fray. After all this, we left to reconvene over at "E's" crib. to really cut loose. The night was just a baby but the El Monte Fuzz don't play around, son.

"The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive.."*

Once we arrived, E charged up the "que" while everyone else got loose, so to speak. As our embibements fully took control of the evening, Riche's humor became more and more cutting...but man was he funny. A real-live Lenny Bruce typa mofo. (tip your waitresses, I'm here all week, folks). I figured out that the French sense of funny is just as humorous as the American one. You just got to open up the joke properly, skip over the middle - which almost never translates well from French to English, then cut directly to the punchline: laughs around the corner.Americans tend to focus on the gritty trip, not the witty arrival -- that's the key.

...BTW, the term "Freedom Fries" was a huge joke to everyone. We laughed and laughed and laughed every time somebody said it. This circles back to that "potential humaness thing." While I was holding baby Terra on my lap, as her momma negotiated hooking up a new stroller, I realized how cool we all were when we were young...we had to work at becoming the adult assholes that we are and by all means Riche is an arsehole, sometimes (we smell our own) BUT like it was said (albeit in French) about the Cardinal Richlieu (click header for link), who was harder than a coffin nail "..you either like him or you hate him..." whatever, dude. Laters, CeeP.

*...Oh yeah, that quote's from Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run" which I was listening to at the time and thought fit snugly into the thrust of this story. Late, C.