© the other press Opinions March 17, 2004 Opinions Are Like... Brandon Ferguson OP Contributor This is about happy thoughts in sad times, when the sadness is still toler- able, while the sadness still makes me laugh. As bad as times may sometimes feel, it’s still so easy to remain upbeat, even in the face of some pretty harsh assholes. I came across two of them this weekend. Both were met while delivering papers, for which and you may call me a putz if you must, but frankly I quite enjoy it. It gives me a chance to walk around and smile at folks, dance in the streets while parked illegally, bringing sunshine and written word to a bunch of oth- erwise uninformed people. The streets were alive with the sounds of orchestrated chaos—a mish-mash of humanity, a pinch of outer-sanctum, a dash of inner- dwelling, good music to dance to. Hey dude, thanks for the brake while I cross, and here’s a dance as your reward (it’s truly a tragically worthy reward, both awkward and purposeful, as impossible to respect as it is to abhor). When walking the streets, I walk between the ladies and the road because my father told me it was the right thing to do. We had some good discussions on our last walks together—I tried to explain to him that certain forces in the science of good manners could not possibly convince me that a runaway Buick was going to defy the forces of physics and be deflected away from the lady, not by logic, but by sheer chivalry. Sure pops. “Like the pink t-shirt says, punk: Just do it.” Okay old man. It was best not to rile him to the point of Nike and No Fear t-shirt phrases. The walks were strenuous enough on him without the hyperactive aid of endorsement adrenaline—those shirts worn proudly to symbolize his lengthy career as a die-hard average soccer player, played and coached (even refereed) with a passion only exceeded by his love for my sister and me. The clouds hung heavy over the banks of the Fraser on this Friday afternoon, like fuming pumas ready ee. Page 10 to pounce across from the scummy shores of Surrey, if not for the swirling waters keeping them at bay. The sun stayed north of the Fraser long enough—warming my way through all the wonderful thoughts from the walk—for me to have met a stupid and sad asshole. Crossing a side street, traveling South along 6th Street, a mother and daughter talking about mother- daughter stuff, me _ waltzing behind—a situation presents itself. The flashy green lights of 6th have been solid red for a while, indicating that at least one of the two cars fac- ing east should accept this rare gap- in-traffic gift and move across. Due to the unused light change, literally everyone in the heart of New Westminster was watching what developed. A fairly pulled over fam- ily sedan was being berated by a plump anger-glazed ham in his boxy oxidization-glazed Pontiac, cursing the sedan for making him have to make a decision. True, how could he have known that the sedan, clearly as far to the side of the small road as was possible, would not take advan- tage of the lights good fortune? Truly, great thinking would have to occur. What made the canned ham’s anger spasm bearable was the return of the flashy green lights, announc- ing that opportunity had just left the building. While wasting his voice and conviction on undeserving tar- gets, the stupid tin-canned man missed the damn light. I don’t think we've reached that terrible point in history where everything is absolute- ly dreadful, because I can still find ways to laugh at sadness. The only time I was encouraged not to walk between a lady and the road was when the opportunity pre- sented itself to walk between a lady and a maniac exhibiting very little respect for much of anything, com- mon sense being first on his person- al assassin’s list. This seemed like an opportunity. With mom and daughter safely onto the other side of the sidewalk, and with a welling urge to tell this idiot exactly what I thought of him, I strolled over to the Pontiac Spam to give him the open-handed Jesus http://www.otherpress.ca pose ghetto stink eye. Like a mashed potato and gravy bar of soap, the fat bastard is unsure whether I am friend or foe. He inspects me as I examine him. He is bald and bent forward, no doubt from a life spent stooping over, picking up after others, kissing ass when it counted the most, or just from extreme xenophobic curiousi- ty—this man only ventures in when he feels it is safe to vent. In me I’m sure he just saw sexy. I stoop to just above his level, low enough to be in his space but high enough to maintain condescension, and ask, “What's with all the nega- tivity man?” Clever, but wait, “You pick on them as if they were your inner demons. So busy being angry built before reverse lights were born. The blame for this defect, apparent- ly, lies in my jurisdiction. Walking from where I had parked, heading towards another street to cross, a mountain of asshole stand- ing near his poorly parked boat mumbles something unflattering my way. To quote the Champ of Rock 101 fame, I says pardon? Putting a finger to my ear as I walked in Mt. A-hole’s direction, indicating to this Canadian Waste jumpsuit wearing behemoth that I was unable to hear his undoubtedly gifted sentiment, and would be happy to come closer—I mean, why wouldn't I want to have my faults appraised by a garbage man? My best friend was a garbage man until Ill be damned—even assholes can have moments of wordy brilliance you missed the free pass to cross the road. Chickens are smarter. More than being angry, you're just plain dumb. You suck.” I step out of the man’s path of, from, and to ignorance. Now free of my pathetically menacing wrath, the schmuck has the gall to pull out and offer me the slow-down middle fin- ger, which I wouldn't have thought much of, if that’s all it was. But it was so much more. The stupid and angry fellow, when I stepped towards his car to applaud his per- formance, inserted his extended fin- ger up into his nose, giving me the best snotty-middle finger salute I may ever get in my life. Sheer bril- liance. I laughed and clapped my ass off, giggling frequently over the next couple of newspaper bundles. The next morning, while out scouting for places to drop papers off at, I took to parking lots like sub- urbs take to hilltops. Weaving in and around wherever I had to get to, I had the amusing misfortune of going behind an asshole’s extended Ford LTD while he was busy defying norms of time by glacially executing a reverse parking job. His car was recently, wearing Canadian Waste gear with far more class but no less fashion sense than this gorilla of an asshole, and my friend is far more articulate in the explanation of my shortcomings than any Ph.D. pencil pusher. So, when I say that I’m deal- ing with an asshole garbage man, please know that the garbage man thing is purely incidental. The dirty refuse collecting bastard assumes a threatening pose (his size alone was threatening enough, real- ly) and informs me that “maybe next time, I'll just back right into you.” “But,” I implored, employing both tact and logic, “that would just be stupid of you.” Rumblings of frus- tration flowed like lava to the top of his smelly head, anger boiling in his eyes, ready to spew forth at any moment. I smiled. I even almost laughed. “Pretty smart you little prick. I don’t think you'll try sneaking in behind me again, knowing that you'll get a trunk full of Detroit steel in your lap, will ya?” He heaved a deep breath like a bull hungry for more Pamplona flesh. I complied. I even laughed. “Well, I know that I’ve got insur- ance, so if that’s what you ever feel the urge to do, then I'd urge you to do so,” I say, being the smarmy bas- tard that I am. I have been feeling fairly con- frontational of late, and although I would have been absolutely thrashed for my efforts, still I felt that it was a battle worth waging. The absurdity of a Safeway parking lot brawl over a reverse-light deficient tank taking his sweet-ass time in executing a maneuver that hasn't troubled me since I was a sixteen-year old Young Driver dork—the whole scene struck me as sad. He muttered some swear words, turned his mammoth back on me, and walked away. I couldn't contain my grin in the face (or back) of such sadness. “Have an excellent day, sir!” I sang like a bird in the morning. For whatever reason, niceties inspire assholes to great rage. It goes against every primal response that could be expected in such an atavis- tic situation. I should spit, curse, stomp or charge—I should not wish the combatant good will. As fast as a recessive gene is passed on to inbred offspring, this trash junkie whirled around to face me like a trailer park dervish, responding, “Yah, fuck you too.” Feeling confrontational as I was, yet unflappably playful, I stood my ground and looked the smell storm in the eye. “All I said friend, was, have an excellent day.” Clearly confused, the asshole shook his head rather than his fist, turning dejectedly away from a fight that was never meant to be. I also conceded closure, turning back towards another interminable street crossing. Before I could fully cleanse myself of this encounter, Garbage Man called out from the Safeway entrance. “The impetuousness of perverted youth is as pervasive as it is annoying.” Pll be damned—even assholes can have moments of wordy brilliance. Like the butterfly who refutes its cocoon, or the wilted rose who momentarily experiences a second bloom, even an asshole can occa- sionally string a few words together.