Dear Bum Diary,
LAST UPDATED:
FEBRUARY 3RD
By Dalton Feldhut
I write this entry with a heavy hand, but under a weight most others could bear. It seems that time has slipped my mind once again, as I furiously scribble my incoherent babble at a time far too close for comfort to the deadline (my apologies sir christopher). My one and only excuse is that until this very very late evening, the spark hadn’t yet sparked, so to speak. In my defense, the beginnings of the week were a cacophony of making shitty coffee and selling said shitty coffee to the most ill-mannered individuals I have had the displeasure of meeting. So pray forgive, as I think in this final hour I’m going to catch that elusive electric bastard and stuff him right in my mason jar.
Among the macchiatos, matchas, and the mists of the dishpit, a mirage forms. A familiar outline of a man appears before my eyes, but only ever so faint. A sudden but reassuring feeling washes over me. As I reach to confirm what my eyes can only hope to be true, the droplets dissipate and I am left to simply take mental note as I ask the man at the register for the remaining $0.77.
It seems that tragedies occurred in droves as I was left to waste away inside those dreadful, neutrally-toned walls. We find ourselves not but a week out from the inauguration of the Apprentice, and we’re already losing planes, trains, and automobiles at a clip. If I’m being quite honest, the shock and awe would normally subside far too quickly to make room for the next doomsday; however, my frequent—and little lazy if we’re being Honest Andys here—usage of an automobile to make the 3 minute commute to my job came to a sudden and screeching halt, for what I believed to be no real reason. Yet, I’m beginning to fire up the rarely used gears in my head to question whether these aerial accidents are to blame for me ditching the unnecessary carbon emissions.
I’d like to believe the walks have done me at least some good though. Foggy mornings were always my favorite, and Mother Nature looked upon me quite kindly in that regard. Strolling along to a soundtrack that would make even Tom Hansen seem respectable, I could not help but, again, notice that familiar outline among the various nimbuses; only this time, the image appeared just ever so clearer to my naked eye, whilst instilling that same sense of reassurance I had felt before. I knew this man, whoever he may be. I was sure of it. Yet, I desired not to confront my mania just yet and placed the cloud on the shelf for later.
I could honestly say I had no complaints for the first time in a good while. My terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad five days of customer disservice were nearing their end, with a much-needed—yet, far too brief—respite waiting for me in the next two days. Freedom, at last.
That was, until, the ring of a bell sounded in my mysteriously unbranded, most definitely-not JVC earbuds. One of my dearest, Mr. Ope, was inquiring as to whether I could help him move into his (gorgeous) new apartment. The darkest despair overtakes me suddenly and completely. Before I proceed, I simply must express that I would lie down in traffic for the man, and would never hesitate to come to his aid, even the most frivolous of requests. HOWEVER, it is important to note that I have had a respectable and lengthy side career in the Packing & Removal Industry. I would go as far to say that I’m putting up LeBrady numbers: 23 houses, 837 boxes, 56 food runs, only 10 dishes destroyed. I believed my time in the league to be long over, wear-and-tear holding me back from leaving it all out on the court one last time; but I simply could not ignore the man’s call to action.
The occasion’s beginnings had its grunts and grumbles on my behalf, but as far as moving house goes, all went mostly according to plan. Accounting for the need to disassemble some furniture, donate some perfectly usable glassware, joyride an electric scooter through Beverly Hills, and have a government-mandated smoke break somewhere in between , we were only a few hours off schedule. Laughs were had and stories were shared, the whole shebang. A success in my book. Like the absolute sweetheart he is, Ope rewarded my less than stellar veteran efforts with a charcuterie board containing a few personal favorites of mine: caffeine, an enormous poster of The Cure, and a “bitchin’” bacon burger. With whatever the fuck “monk fruit” is coursing through my veins, I left my first day of faux vacation with a chemically enhanced—yet real nonetheless—appreciation for my friends. How foolish I was to doubt the man that has never failed to boost my dismally low spirits. Hell, he got me to enjoy moving. Quite an endorsement of character if you ask me.
It was only on the eve of my deadline (and last day of sweet sweet vacation, might I add) that I noticed the outline of a man appear before me once again. Like clockwork, the calmness washes over me. The man calls out in a whisper so faint I had to remove one of my (alleged) JVC earbuds to fully lend an ear. The man utters, “Zdravo.” As I open my mouth to respond, I’m interrupted by a familiar ding in my left earbud, calling my attention to a text from fellow Bum Diarer, Benjamin Uribe.
”LAKER NATION WE ARE SO BACK”
In my confusion, I scramble to Twitter to frantically key-search “Lakers” to understand what has the fellow so ecstatic. Scrolling past the usual LeBron the rants and roleplayer stan account reply-guys, my eyes are instantly drawn to a particularly entertaining jersey swap. It depicted Mavericks star, Luka Doncic, sporting the esteemed purple and gold. How hilarious. If only. However, above the ridiculous photoshop, I notice a tweet from famed insider, Shams Charania, stating that the Lakers were indeed acquiring the Magic Man from the Mavericks for pennies on the dollar (my apologies Mr. Davis, surely you understand). Most wrote the announcement off as a classic case of an anonymous copycat jerking his troll bone. However, as the minutes turned to hours, and other reporters chimed in, all we were left with was one of the most shocking and lopsided trades in sports history. Call it divine intervention or a contrivance in pursuit of a more entertaining entry, I began to feel that sense of reassurance take over completely once again. Woes be gone. Work be damned. The world could very well be ending soon and I simply cannot seem to bring myself to care. Luka Doncic is on my fucking basketball team.