2003-12-08 - 6:07 p.m.

Synchronicity in Seconds.

One of the Office Bitches noticed at quitting time that my knuckles were callused. Funny thing is her noticing my hands almost got me splat-fucking-dead, today. Here�s how it went:

�Are those from Kung Fu?� Office Bitch asks, touching the larger middle one.

I make with a pair of fists and I show her the �ball-peens�. The first two knuckles on either hand are very pronounced. The look like the round fucking ends of a ball fucking peen hammer, if I have to spell it out for you encephalic bastard children.

From years of rabid drunken rage followed by years of bone conditioning and punching shit there�s a lot of calcium, scar and callus build-up. I don�t have any feeling on the surface of them. I can stick a pin straight in the fleshy layer.

It�s the inside that hurt today, I was thinking on the Skytrain home. They are developing a case of arthritis and it�s noticeable when the rain is commin�. I�m like Uncle Brotherfucking Jeb, sitting on the stoop telling weather with his bunions, but with better teeth.

So I was walking around the Science World bubble, along the water smoking a cone, getting the stories I told myself straight in the ol� mellon ready for later transcription and development � when I recall a passage from Chuck Palhanuik�s new book, �Diary�.

A constant theme is that you really can read people like a book. Their handwriting. Their walk. Their wrinkles. Their hands. It�s all there for the reading. I think that�s where my main Super Power comes from. Reading people.

I�m not just sucking sunshine from my own arse when I say I�m an uncanny judge of character. I�m not just ignorantly assuming I am, either. My woman is also pretty fucking precise in the same department, but there are several people that she got stung by, that I saw for what they were right from day fucking one � and told her each time, YEARS before the stinging.

It�s everything. Body language. Interchange. Eyes. It�s all there. Like everything else, you can do it, or you can learn it. Or you can do both.

So this is what I�m thinking, getting it all down, journal-style in the brain. About this time I�m walking through the parking lot of the local Chrysler dealership and see one of those cool little Crossfires, which are still only Chrysler cool, but for the Mercedes SLK under the hood. Nice fucking gear.

Me and the 30ish salesman, this is what we�re talking about when - back to the road - I see his eyes widen and an airhorn from the traffic behind me.

So I quickly glance towards my right and see a BIG fucking SUV � about six fucking feet from yours truly � barreling into the dealership parking lot after cutting through two lanes in front of a cement truck, who had to lock his shit up.

Or at least that�s what the salesguy said after he picked me up off the deck. I�d stepped and spun away from the Esplanade (or whatever that Olds SUV is called) but it�d still caught me on the clip and spun me arse over teakettle.

Motherfucker kept going.

Here�s a quick judge of character for ya: 60 year old Asian, big SUV driving, not having any sense of depth perception, rhino cock choking, little dick immigrant suit FUCK! THAT�S WHAT I FUCKING SAY YOU CUNT!

I know what he looks like. I walk a lot. I can only hope to find that plate number some night. He doesn�t know enough to hope I don�t find him.

So there ya have it. From callused knuckles, to nearly splat to journal entry in under an hour.

Synchronicity in Seconds.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

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