Shuffling around in the cool summer air after a week of sweating under the weight of heavy weather, I shrug my shoulders and think about my breathing. This is hours before I double over in pain from a night of dairy. Remind me I should never eat iced cream or drink milk after the sun goes down. The trees and the breeze caress me like a lover and I can't help but desire every day to be like this. What jokes I play on myself!
So I smile to myself and keep walking. I overslept for an after-work nap and now I wander, groggy, towards Mike's house. It's 930pm. We were supposed to meet earlier but I got caught up in a tangled web of sleep and phone. He had to run out for some sort of secret mission at 830 but said he'd be back in an hour. So I decide I'll sit on his steps and wait for him to return. I joylessly smoke a cigarette as I sit on the wooden planks of his porch. Amazing how quickly the mind gets bored. 25 minutes pass. I send a message to my girlfriend telling her I'm at Mike's. I stare at the parking lot and concrete apartment house that border his house. 35 minutes have passed. I start singing made-up songs to myself. One is about a gay cowboy and goes like this:
If I were a cowboy
I'd still chase all the towel boys
frolick a-round the cabana
If I rode the range
it wouldn't be so strange
to find me in a polka dot bandana
45 minutes have passed and I'm still sitting alone on the steps. I smoke another cigarette. Gawd I'm ready to quit. Blech. But I'm letting myself smoke until August 20th, when a small creature will return to us. I had stopped smoking for 9 months...9 months! And then I was drawn back into the fold by taking an innocent puff on clove. Oh the tragedy! I'll still smoke at parties most likely, but this every day thing has to stop soon.
Mike rides up on his bike and says, "Oh good. You're here!". He walks in and immediately makes me a drink. We go straight into a conversation about politics- same old frustration constantly renewing itself. The world is going to shit. Oh well, we're all doomed..."and no one knows what's going to happen to anyone besides the forlorn rags of growing old."
I think of Dean Moriarty. Ha.
A few more drinks and I'm feeling pretty unneccesary. I start waxing passionate about the Pretenders. I read him my open letter to the Rolling Stones. He says "Well put!". I tell him he must download Thomas Dolby's Europa and the Pirate Twins to truly understand what the guy was trying to do pre-Blinded days. It's Dolby's best tune and no one's heard of it! I feel like a music-geek evangalist and I love it. Music still gets me excited almost every time. I demand that he downloads "The Wait" off the Pretenders first album. But once he plays it it sounds more lackluster than I had remembered. I start thinking about the Jam, the Smiths- he plays something off their first album and I try to argue with him about Queen Is Dead (he hates that album, i think it's their best). He plays Rick Dees "Disco Duck" and I flinch. Then he tells me that in September of 1976 this POS was number one on the Billboard charts for a week. Number One! Fuck!
I start to falter as we put in the vinyl I bought him while out east. It's an album titled Zingers from the Hollywood Squares! and it has 70s era Hollywood Squares jokes on it and is basically unlistenable. But we make it through 5 minutes of terrible oh-we're-naughty cocaine fueled humor before we can't stand anymore. The laugh track almost drowns out the celebrity banter. Paul Lynde is holding court for a Hollywood that (thank god) never had staying power. The jokes are just beyond bad-
Host: Mister Red Fox for the block- Do most stolen cars in America get recovered?
Red Fox: I once had a car recovered in zebra.
(insane audience laughter)
Host: Paul Lynde in the center sqaure- Do snails caress each other?
Paul Lynde: I've never seen a horny snail!
(explosions of laughter)
Uhhh...what?
There is this sensibility in the 70s for which I can't quite find the right adjective. It speaks of lazy writing, adults with an adolescent humor about sex, and, of course, cocaine. The mainstream TV, music, and comedy of the 70s- it's all so wonderfully horrible.
I stumble home and find my bed and fall asleep before I can tell my cat goodnight.
So I smile to myself and keep walking. I overslept for an after-work nap and now I wander, groggy, towards Mike's house. It's 930pm. We were supposed to meet earlier but I got caught up in a tangled web of sleep and phone. He had to run out for some sort of secret mission at 830 but said he'd be back in an hour. So I decide I'll sit on his steps and wait for him to return. I joylessly smoke a cigarette as I sit on the wooden planks of his porch. Amazing how quickly the mind gets bored. 25 minutes pass. I send a message to my girlfriend telling her I'm at Mike's. I stare at the parking lot and concrete apartment house that border his house. 35 minutes have passed. I start singing made-up songs to myself. One is about a gay cowboy and goes like this:
If I were a cowboy
I'd still chase all the towel boys
frolick a-round the cabana
If I rode the range
it wouldn't be so strange
to find me in a polka dot bandana
45 minutes have passed and I'm still sitting alone on the steps. I smoke another cigarette. Gawd I'm ready to quit. Blech. But I'm letting myself smoke until August 20th, when a small creature will return to us. I had stopped smoking for 9 months...9 months! And then I was drawn back into the fold by taking an innocent puff on clove. Oh the tragedy! I'll still smoke at parties most likely, but this every day thing has to stop soon.
Mike rides up on his bike and says, "Oh good. You're here!". He walks in and immediately makes me a drink. We go straight into a conversation about politics- same old frustration constantly renewing itself. The world is going to shit. Oh well, we're all doomed..."and no one knows what's going to happen to anyone besides the forlorn rags of growing old."
I think of Dean Moriarty. Ha.
A few more drinks and I'm feeling pretty unneccesary. I start waxing passionate about the Pretenders. I read him my open letter to the Rolling Stones. He says "Well put!". I tell him he must download Thomas Dolby's Europa and the Pirate Twins to truly understand what the guy was trying to do pre-Blinded days. It's Dolby's best tune and no one's heard of it! I feel like a music-geek evangalist and I love it. Music still gets me excited almost every time. I demand that he downloads "The Wait" off the Pretenders first album. But once he plays it it sounds more lackluster than I had remembered. I start thinking about the Jam, the Smiths- he plays something off their first album and I try to argue with him about Queen Is Dead (he hates that album, i think it's their best). He plays Rick Dees "Disco Duck" and I flinch. Then he tells me that in September of 1976 this POS was number one on the Billboard charts for a week. Number One! Fuck!
I start to falter as we put in the vinyl I bought him while out east. It's an album titled Zingers from the Hollywood Squares! and it has 70s era Hollywood Squares jokes on it and is basically unlistenable. But we make it through 5 minutes of terrible oh-we're-naughty cocaine fueled humor before we can't stand anymore. The laugh track almost drowns out the celebrity banter. Paul Lynde is holding court for a Hollywood that (thank god) never had staying power. The jokes are just beyond bad-
Host: Mister Red Fox for the block- Do most stolen cars in America get recovered?
Red Fox: I once had a car recovered in zebra.
(insane audience laughter)
Host: Paul Lynde in the center sqaure- Do snails caress each other?
Paul Lynde: I've never seen a horny snail!
(explosions of laughter)
Uhhh...what?
There is this sensibility in the 70s for which I can't quite find the right adjective. It speaks of lazy writing, adults with an adolescent humor about sex, and, of course, cocaine. The mainstream TV, music, and comedy of the 70s- it's all so wonderfully horrible.
I stumble home and find my bed and fall asleep before I can tell my cat goodnight.
I've never heard of the place you mentioned. But i officially love coldstoned.