Chat Fragment 042411 - He Who Sips . . . Liquor

The following was during a just-this-morning YM conversation with the Nurse. She had asked about whether or not I drink alcohol and this was my reply:

Drink liquor? Nope, Nurse. I don't take to imbibing alcohol as a common trait of mine. I do, however, take a single sip of Johnny Walker Red Label on non-specific days. The warmth in my chest from a single sip of scotch/whiskey mix is a nice reminder to feel good and be good in life.

o:-)

[. . . LOOP] The East Side Circus Presents: Clown & Toothless! [LOOP . . .]

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was chilly but the sun was out and I tried to take in as much as I could of the yellow glory. Took a look at the green grass, and the vision of it pops, never failing to perk my mind. Out through the backyard door soon teetered and stumbled a Drunken Clown, a rising smoke-massive lit cigarette held between his bullshit lips, one hand holding a phone to his ear to hear feedback on his bullshit and in the other hand a bullshit-enhancing beer can.

Keystone Light: The Choice For All Moronic Alcoholics.

It's like steroids except instead of making you bigger and better it makes you less comprehensible and far more irritating. If you drink enough of the stupid-water - overdose - you just might piss yourself silly. Proof? This Drunken Clown has the stains to show for it. For multiple occasions.

If you sit on the brown long couch where the Clown sleeps at night you've just been inducted as a proud new member of the "I Got Drunken Clown Piss All Over My Ass" Club.

Congratulations. Being a member of I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. is far more prestigious than going to the Mystery Spot of Santa Cruz. Sorry, there aren't bumper stickers yet available but feel free to take an empty semi-crushed beer can with you on your way out.

There are plenty.

In the backyard I was taking notice of the Clown stumbling his way over to a chair over to the right of me. I kept on photoshopping, not wanting the stench of beer sweats to drown me out of my creative endeavor. The J Buddha picture was in its final clicks. I looked at it thinking she won't be content with it but oh well, art is a subjective matter. J Buddha has seen the pictures on my Facebook and that's that. The process of clicking through to find the image is enough reason for me to do it and was very enjoyable indeed. Drunken Clown sat and continued his bitching and moaning and bullshitting to whomever was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. It was the Clown's aunt, poor thing. Drunken Clown bitched on and on and on about how much of a fuck-up his Toothless Meth-Head brother was, telling of a story about how Toothless went to the Philippines to continue being a complete fuck-up over there, completely fucking up his sister's and mistress' lives in tandem.

I, ever enraged by the simple mention of the addict apparent, chimed into Clown's dissertation on Toothless' Shabu Adventures in the Pearl of the Orient, to which he claimed Toothless Meth-Head was better off on U.S. soil . . .

"Well he was a total fuck-up here in the States too. He's a fuck-up there? He's a fuck-up everywhere" I reply, disgusted.

The Drunken Clown heard this and stumble-spun in his chair facing me.

"SHUT UP" the Clown said with a face of sluggish unease, too sluggish, impaired to give a decent expression. You know? Like the kind sober people can contribute? Or the kind that toddlers are able to portray?

There is no pause and I answer him straight "Well I was the one out here first if you don't like it go somewhere else."

Go be a Drunken Clown elsewhere.

I hear the Philippines is a nice place for fuck-ups.

The Clown no-sold it and continued with the bitching over the phone. Toothless this and Toothless that. Yes, I already know how thoroughly shabu-addicted Toothless and another brother - Magic Meth-Head - really are. So much so that they dollar-vulture every home with the same surname. Some bums beg for money. Other bums have complacent family members.

I prepped my computer, cane and tea [you know damn sure why I drink tea instead of . . .] to go back inside the playroom where my beloved music emanated from. A personally-created playlist entitled "Dig It" played on through shelf speakers. What is the source? An mp3 player that I cherish, containing feelings and memories I felt in absence of the the important life skill of socializing with people, in my long and still on-going time without friends. You have your buddies and I have the Typical Cats. You've got a night out with friends and I've just written a Cliche.

Minutes later I made my way to the kitchen where the Drunken Clown now sat at the dinner table, still bitching and bullshitting to the poor old lady aunt on the other end of the line. Clown looked me with a shit-faced smile and said

"OOhhkay . . . one more. .! . .?" referring to me retrieving for him another can of bullshit-enhancer from the garage fridge. He's easily over 5 cans in.

I stand stoic.

I stand stoic and tell him, "Nope, no more. I'm not gonna do it."

If Drunken Clown wants to overdose and further bless the holy piss couch with pure fuckin' alcohol stumble-flying from his flaccid nicotine & diabetic-debilitated penis he can do it of his own accord. There's NO way I'll be there for the assist.

I'd rather go to Mystery Spot. What is it like over there? I've never been. Does it stink of beer sweats like

[Whoa! Time-out! . . . I just scrolled up to check my writing and with what I saw I instantly realize that I am seeing the very same image, same few seconds in a dream I had nearly a year ago!!! I saw myself writing this exact piece! Okay. Play ball. Spiritual Freak-Out Time over.]

the home-base of the I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. Club?

I rounded my way towards the kitchen and looked at Nick the Slick & Donna-Ninja's water bowl out of habit making sure their bowls are filled. There was water in the bowl but to drive the point home I picked up the water bowl and mentioned "Nick, you need more water" then proceeded to replenish it with fresh H2O.

What is the point?

I would rather serve water to a dog than to serve alcohol to an alcoholic.

Soon after I went back into the playroom where my treasured music and super-important-write-write-station netbook computer was located.

I sat down, logged on to my blogger.com account and began typing . . .

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was . . .

Paranoia Pollock Pioneer

Saturday October 16, 2009

The sky attains its later fashion. A vibrant blue transforms into hues of cultivated violets and passionate reds, diving slowly into the western hills of the valley. The evening ballet occurs once more. This particular night holds the promise of a sleepover. A few drinks. Maybe even a few laughs. Changing moods and changing skies check this blithesome eventide. Welcome to tonight.

Ding-dong! The assembly arrives, returning from a Great Mall - a misnomer, no doubt - to a corner house marked 613. Courteous smiles appear accompanied by introductions delivered upon entry of the front red door. Brody and Jess are no strangers to this place and are the first to walk through. Behind them stand Neil and a rather amicable fellow by the name of Nebo who has driven them here. Among these few is a resident of house, J. Norman, chief of the gathering.

It is not too long before another troop lands. Their purpose? To ask the 613 group in joining their 4-member gang on a trip to traverse haunted grounds at San Felipe. On the driveway they discuss, joke and shoot the shit beneath a now twinkling firmament. The streetlight glows its lucent purpose, a yellow splendor splashing upon the youth who ardently speak of the night's potential. Who will go? And who will stay? The ghosts, they wait for the eager tender age.

Those of 613 opt not to go. They bid farewell to their friends. Nebo too has departed, restricted by the 23:00 curfew set upon him. The ones who remain make way towards the backyard to partake of a herbal treat. Once done, they head back to the computer room to drink a drink admittedly not legally allowed them. The cheers soon run high.

Giggles emerge from the computer room. Sobriety has left and said "Goodbye!" and in its place a tipsy awkward stumbles forth. Huzzah! A pronouncement! Neil has to go home. A curfew on his head, his current state of mind only increases the bounty. The parental posse will be on the lookout; of this, Neil is most certainly aware. Paranoia, paranoia. He no longer believes in the sureness of his step.

He looks at his comrades and asks with bizarre worry, "Am I walking straight?"

Neil steps after step step, each audible sneakered tap on the floor exposing the forced control.

"Am I walking straight?" he asks again.

"Yeah" his friends respond with a chuckle and a smile.

"No, really, am I walking straight?"

Anxiety is the orchestra that fills his voice but you can not tell by the look of undeniable calm on his face, almost a complete uncare, yet the band tunes up and again Neil asks,

"Am I walking straight?"

Another cautious stride.

"Yeah" his friends say assuredly, amusedly. It's enough to go home with.





Neil, the aspiring trapeze artist, supplies directions from the backseat. The sunless ride home acquires a soundtrack thanks to the nebulous tunes of 89.7 KFJC. The lyrical drones jive like court jesters to wasted kings and a queen. Brody. Neil. J. Norman. Jess. They're all here. So is Neil's favorite query.

"Quit playing around, do I really walk straight?"

"Yes."

Still rootless on the matter of his march, Neil decides to stop by Nebo's to show him his recently obtained circus act skill. A detour is made. The vehicle rolls into a neighborhood and out steps Nebo. One need not hear what transpires between the sober and the stoned. Eyes upon them easily see a one-man sidewalk parade as Neil takes step after step in front of his friend. Neil returns to the vehicle, the strangely aloof look still on his face and he proclaims, "Nebo says I'm walking straight. I can go home."

Inside the apartment complex is a street one long way down. Street lamps line either side the entire length through. Behold and marvel at this alien sight, an imposing funeral procession of the day now gone. Cars quietly whisper their way through, careful not to disturb the mourning of a lost sun. Be wary of the speed bumps, for they are frequent and guard the solemnity of this long way down, simultaneously opposing the booze-dope tempered.

Neil lives at the other end. For all the speed bumps littered across like a tar and gravel minefield, navigating this straight effectively replicates - on wheels - the difficulty of the Neil predicament. Too much or too little put hesitation on the driver. Appearing foolish is a no-no. Bump. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I'm not feeling well" says Jess. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I need to throw up." Jess opens the door and upchucks the evening's liquor dinner onto the bump just passed. At first it just looks like a quick spit, but no, as soon as this is mentioned Jess finds herself opening the door. Bump. "That was definitely vomit" someone says.

Drive.

Bump.

Vomit.

Drive.

"Just open up the window."

Bump.

Jess pukes toward a glass window that isn't supposed to be up.

"Too late" another person says.

It continues on the long way down. The liquor regurgitate mostly ends up outside. One attempt fails. The faint sound of booze-dope retch hitting vehicle interior floor is heard. "I don't feel good" says Jess. If a giggle hit the air, it wasn't apparent. Nobody takes delight in feeling that ill on a proposed night of mirth.

The long way ends and the vehicle turns left, leaving behind a bump-ridden road painted Pollock style in tints of hurl. Jess is spent, her form sunk in the rear seat but tells everyone that she's feeling better. Neil steps out and is left to his fate under stars and streetlight in front of his home. "Good bye" and "good luck." Heavy on the good luck. A couple more laughs are traded as he takes one more practice walk on the tight rope. What becomes of Neil upon his friends' farewell? Who knows, who knows, such is the story of a youth and his first toke.