Thursday, December 19, 2013
Old Thunderdome Boulevard
It was a dark and stormy night, except it wasn't actually going to rain, more like the barometer was just a bit high and the air a bit thick. It was kinda dark, or dim, I suppose, but there were streetlights. Well, lamps, I guess. But outdoor. You know. Whatever. I guess that saying it was a humid, gloomy night would be a more accurate way to describe the setting. Let's continue.
I was just chillin' out, you know, relaxing in the park, occupying a wooden bench near some trees overlooking a lake, burning a big dumb rasta spliff, smiling, indulgent. I was getting right, laying low, scoping the scene. You know the drill, man. Living. Being cool.
Just down the path from me a drum circle of baked hippies tried to synchronize their rhythm, in vain. Just a bunch of fuckups with hand drums, ample supplies of hallucinogens, and a total lack of self awareness. I set my mojito thermos down beside me on the bench, stood tall, and sauntered over to interview the assembly of burnouts. I felt, perhaps irrationally, that they possessed wisdom, that it was available, and it was crucial I gain it. The moment felt pivotal, important, cosmic.
Of maybe I was just stoned.
I began talking up the dirty little pilled out hippies littering the lawn before me. I shot the shit, and they spoke. (in muddled tripped out attempts at sentences, but I excel at comprehension, regardless of the chemical mental pollution of my conversational partners)
Clarence Overstreet, General Manager of Song Of RICE and Fire, has this to say: "Go away, dude. We're fuckin' partying. You're weird and old. Get away from us." Clarence farted, everyone looked at him, and for the briefest moment, his facade of arrogance crumbled. Stephanie laughed and said "Romo over Cutler? Made sense, but ha ha fucking ha, thanks for the victory."
Unable to tolerate the spite, I moved on to the kid with the crappiest set of hand drums I'd ever seen. "What's up man, how are you?," I asked. He answered, semi-coherently: "I'm Rick. I lost Jimmy. Where's Jimmy? I need JIMMY NOW!" I calmed him down. "It's okay, Dacey, it's okay, pal. You won last week. You won! Don't panic, I'm sure Jimmy Graham will come home soon." A little disturbed, I let the little acid freak continue to twitch in the dewy grass and moved on.
Standing alone, staring at the moon, weeping openly, was a man obviously respected by the rest of the group, but still there he was: noble, proud, and alone. I gave him the slight head raise nod of respect. He acknowledged me by whispering "Randy" and then turning back to the moon. I turned away and left Ed to his moment of silence and reflection. I understood. The Cobb had left the building.
It was too heavy, man. I couldn't hang with this crowd, not like this. Such misery. Such sorrow. These kids couldn't handle their gear. I know, a Zod abides, but damn, this was mournful, even for an intergalactic general/emperor/thunderdome champ like me. I collected my mojito thermos and made for my El Camino a mile away. Time to get free.
But it wouldn't be that simple. There was one more lost soul, writhing in the center of the gravel path. I wasn't sure whether to take a wide curve around him or address him directly. He solved that one by screaming off at nothing. At least I hope it was nothing, he sure as shit wasn't looking at me. "I used to be somebody! I used to matter! I used to have my own stable of bitches! Now I'm... I'm... just another Fulker, and nobody cares..." I made the circle around him. Wide fuckin' berth, best to be safe, you know?
I got back to my El Camino. Some punk was jamming a screwdriver into the lock. I charged. The poor fuck saw me, dropped his tool, and ran, accidentally dropping his wallet as he fled. I peeked at his identification: Saied Esmaeilian. Whatever. Just another ghost of a bad night. He wouldn't matter, in the long run.
I focused, hoping to drive without getting pulled over. I could do this. Game time. Week seven would be awesome to me. Had to be.
9:51 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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