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Twenty-Twelve

Salamander Davis — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 17:06:58 +0000

I’ve had some years, 29 of them to be exact, but Twenty-Twelve is going to be the year.

Twenty-Twelve is going to be the year of art. I’ve written a couple blog entries and done some amateur photography, but there is some shit brewing inside me that is about to explode, spraying onto the walls of my apartment and into tents at nearby flea markets.

It is going to be the year of mind-expansion. Two years of living in Los Angeles, traveling the world, and reading have opened my mind to new ways of life, but in Twenty-Twelve I’m going to drill holes in my skull and let things I’ve never even heard of build wings and multi-level decks onto my brain.

Twenty-Twelve is going to be the year of surpassing junior and associate. With modesty is not how I view my professional worth. However, over the past few months I’ve finally busted through the mental ceiling confining myself to an entry-level mindset.

It is going to be the year of friendship. Since growing tired of sitting by myself at lunch in 1998, I’ve continually hit the friendship jackpot. In Twenty-Twelve, I’m investing and nurturing my winnings in bonds. This tattooed girl I might really like said, “you bond with someone just going to Anaheim.” In Twenty-Twelve, there will be costumed footraces, costumed music festivals, and random costumed Tuesdays. There will be art-museum-conquerings, epic hikes, bachelorosities, weddings, and many other bonding extravaganzas with friends old and new.

Twenty-Twelve is going to be the year of love. Despite my unrivaled bouts with unrequited romantic yearnings and related woeful blog entries, I am feeling pretty unstoppable and ready to dominate the Los Angeles playing field, both on match.com and in real life.

And finally, Twenty-Twelve is going to be the year of good-decisions. In my last high-school yearbook, my parents paid to have a message printed in my honor. It read, “we hope to have provided you with the tools needed to make good decisions.” They did, I just haven’t used them correctly. Since winning the friendship lottery in high-school and subsequently discovering alcohol, I’ve rivaled Mike Tyson in decision making abilities. There are some important things in my life that I’ve fucked up and sadly, I’ve done a few things that make me question my worth as a human being. After too many years, I’ve finally read the user manuals for the tools my parents gave me, and am looking forward to squaring and leveling the walls of my life.

I’m stealing their souls.

Salamander Davis — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 22:49:53 +0000

That dude in the motorcycle jacket, listening to something that is bringing him to tears. The touristy grey-haired woman sitting next to him with wagging-tail dog and doting husband. The Deloit business consultant, her tattooed writer/farmer friend, the skinny Asian from New Jersey who is used to rain and inclement weather, and the wise black man from whom they are soliciting advice. All of them. The little girl riding too fast on her bike and her worried dad hollering after her. The wonder-eyed Asian boy in the stroller whose life will go in directions neither of us can imagine. The dude with the tarantula pet and abundance of neck tattoos and his eclectic table of fellow regulars. The girl braving the fifty degree weather in a purple tank top and the woman next to me who thinks she must be from out of town, because all the locals like us are bundled up. The woman who wants a pair of brown corduroy pants, despite her knowledge of them being out of style. Them too. The boy cringing from the taste of some chocolate covered treat he just procured at the trinkets store next door. The confident and energetic lesbian who, if I recall correctly, loves James Taylor. The older, beret-wearing gentleman, strolling confidently along with a gift and card, heading perhaps to his new girlfriend’s place with just the right amount of hope. The same man returning twenty minutes later with a hint of dejection and loneliness on his face. The comfortable Saturday-morning-strolling couple who spontaneously decides they want to get coffee. The ugly little ear-raised pug, tied with a cheetah print leash to the parking meter in the rain, and the girl in the scarecrow hat that smiles at him. The curly-haired actress who signifies her remembrance of me with a smile, despite my three-month hiatus. The limping, but consistent and cheerful man who gives treats to every passing dog, at two o’clock every day. I’ve pick-pocketed all of their souls, tucking them away in my old-man artist sweater for some future unknown use.

That girl.

Salamander Davis — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 15:01:46 +0000

We all know that girl.

She is having entirely too much fun with that plain looking dude in that nook next to the bar where you stand trying to look cool while waiting for your friends. She is wearing that strangely attractive chinese-print-esque shirt that ties with a string around her neck. She’s got that loosely assembled pony-tail that makes her look to be just the right amount of hippy to make you feel like you’re with someone exotic, but with enough normalcy to satisfy your desire for a girl who has a steady job.

When you notice that girl your future life together flashes before your eyes and you begin to plan a coup to overtake the position in front of her smile. But that damn smile she keeps issuing in response to that guy’s drivel gives you pause. It makes you think, “that lucky bastard” and resign yourself to just sneaking glances at that girl for the rest of the night.

Later, after you’ve temporarily, and thankfully, forgotten about her existence, you squeeze in close to the wall in order to let a group of people pass through. You recognize that hippy pony-tail and string-tied shirt as they pass and you look left to catch a glimpse as she heads in the other direction. To your surprise, she does almost a complete three-sixty, while continuing to walk, and looks deep into your soul with a longing glance of love.

By the time you decide that you should rudely leave the woman you’re talking to and give chase, that girl, who you’re now certain is the one—you can tell she likes coffee shops, hiking, and Jason Mraz—is gone.