View from a grassy knoll

7:19 p.m. (FR(AT)F) 2003-04-23

Reaped The moon hung low and red that Sunday night: it dangled like the big bloody booger of the universe as we sat drinking bottles of Southpaw in Andre's garage. We had watched Don Hertzfeldt's Rejected and some twenty minute version of The Ring at his house, & now it was time to go home.
As we cross the street to Sister's, we barely notice the gangsta love Honda idling in the parking lot.
Walk down the boardwalk to the apartment, smelling the jasmine blooms. Pick up my bag of Supah Surfer Sinsemilla, tuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, & follow suit with the cigarette-styled one hitter. Grab the keys: time to go.
We walk back out on the boardwalk, beers in hand. Towards the entrance, a strange figure approaches. Strange if you mean polo & chinos, bleached spike gelled frat hair, a neck the size of Texas, and an overly friendly greeting.
"Hey guys! Where's the party?"
We stop. I'm stunned. Not once has a six foot frat boy EVER asked me where the party was. Much less me times three. Much less here in retirement beach city. I look confusedly at my sister. She looks at her boy. He looks at Fratty.
"You're looking at it bro," Andre chimes in, "It's just us three here."
"Oh." Fratty looks disappointed. Suddenly, his hand is squawking. Surprised, he tells us to 'hold on a sec.' That's when I notice the walkie-talkie scanner device in his hand. He murmurs something into the black box, then turns back to us.
"You're SURE you guys don't know any parties around here tonight? Huh? You sure?"
He begins to pull out his wallet & flip it open. What I see makes my ass twitch. I stifle the urge to cover the pocket of contraband. Command my face to remain in poker mode. I want to run. I want to LEAVE. What I do not want is to talk to Fratty, Mr. Dude-Bro, Mr. DEPARTMENT OF ALCOHOL TOBACCO & FIREARMS OFFICIAL BUSINESS, UNDERCOVER UNIT. Fratty has dealt his cards.
"Now." He continues, ripe with authority, "There isn't anything going on tonight you wanna tell us about? Any parties we need to check out?" He's willing us to fess up. I feel like I'm in Moscow, though the cold war was over by '97.
By now we've reached the parking lot. I notice the suped-up Honda a second time. It's dropped, painted and macked out. I do not doubt as to the whereabouts of its previous owner. As the pounding bass begins to ooze from the window, I do not doubt it at all. I can smell the dosia in my pocket now. It's stonger than even all the blooming jasmine that covers the walkway of Sister's place. I have become deaf, dumb & blind. & also clairvoyant, for I suddenly see myself spread eagle on that fucking Honda, Fratty & friend having a circle jerk over the bust of less than an eighth of a drug that should be legal anyway.
"...Any parties we need to check out?" Fratty jolts me back into reality. I'm thinking, Melbourne, Miami, I-fucking-95! Anywhere but here.
"Listen bro," says Andre. "Even if we DID know of any parties tonight, no offense, but we wouldn't tell you anyway." Whoa. Cannot believe Sister's boy just said that. Bonus points for him. I continue my best impression of a deaf-mute.
"Alright," says Fratty. He nods reluctantly to the Honda, now thumping Bass Thugz in anticipation of the night's rewards. "Have a nice night."
And with that the ATF is outta my life. No strife, one love, turn in your neighbors & eveything will be just swell. Needless to say, I lingered awhile back in Andre's garage, to give the boys just a little time get the fuck away from me.
And that, dear readers, was one of the stories from my Easter Vacation.
Sown

Fresh Cut
New digs - 2004-05-25
Bachelor hell - 2004-05-10
Grumble - 2004-05-07
Coachella pt. 2, or goddamn do my fingers hurt - 2004-05-05
Coachella part one, or, this monkey's gone to indio rawk heaven - 2004-05-05

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7:19 p.m.	(FR(AT)F)	2003-04-23
Reaped	The moon hung low and red that Sunday night: it dangled like the big bloody booger of the universe as we sat drinking bottles of Southpaw in Andre's garage. We had watched Don Hertzfeldt's Rejected and some twenty minute version of The Ring at his house, & now it was time to go home. As we cross the street to Sister's, we barely notice the gangsta love Honda idling in the parking lot. Walk down the boardwalk to the apartment, smelling the jasmine blooms. Pick up my bag of Supah Surfer Sinsemilla, tuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, & follow suit with the cigarette-styled one hitter. Grab the keys: time to go. We walk back out on the boardwalk, beers in hand. Towards the entrance, a strange figure approaches. Strange if you mean polo & chinos, bleached spike gelled frat hair, a neck the size of Texas, and an overly friendly greeting. "Hey guys! Where's the party?" We stop. I'm stunned. Not once has a six foot frat boy EVER asked me where the party was. Much less me times three. Much less here in retirement beach city. I look confusedly at my sister. She looks at her boy. He looks at Fratty. "You're looking at it bro," Andre chimes in, "It's just us three here." "Oh." Fratty looks disappointed. Suddenly, his hand is squawking. Surprised, he tells us to 'hold on a sec.' That's when I notice the walkie-talkie scanner device in his hand. He murmurs something into the black box, then turns back to us. "You're SURE you guys don't know any parties around here tonight? Huh? You sure?" He begins to pull out his wallet & flip it open. What I see makes my ass twitch. I stifle the urge to cover the pocket of contraband. Command my face to remain in poker mode. I want to run. I want to LEAVE. What I do not want is to talk to Fratty, Mr. Dude-Bro, Mr. DEPARTMENT OF ALCOHOL TOBACCO & FIREARMS OFFICIAL BUSINESS, UNDERCOVER UNIT. Fratty has dealt his cards. "Now." He continues, ripe with authority, "There isn't anything going on tonight you wanna tell us about? Any parties we need to check out?" He's willing us to fess up. I feel like I'm in Moscow, though the cold war was over by '97. By now we've reached the parking lot. I notice the suped-up Honda a second time. It's dropped, painted and macked out. I do not doubt as to the whereabouts of its previous owner. As the pounding bass begins to ooze from the window, I do not doubt it at all. I can smell the dosia in my pocket now. It's stonger than even all the blooming jasmine that covers the walkway of Sister's place. I have become deaf, dumb & blind. & also clairvoyant, for I suddenly see myself spread eagle on that fucking Honda, Fratty & friend having a circle jerk over the bust of less than an eighth of a drug that should be legal anyway. "...Any parties we need to check out?" Fratty jolts me back into reality. I'm thinking, Melbourne, Miami, I-fucking-95! Anywhere but here. "Listen bro," says Andre. "Even if we DID know of any parties tonight, no offense, but we wouldn't tell you anyway." Whoa. Cannot believe Sister's boy just said that. Bonus points for him. I continue my best impression of a deaf-mute. "Alright," says Fratty. He nods reluctantly to the Honda, now thumping Bass Thugz in anticipation of the night's rewards. "Have a nice night." And with that the ATF is outta my life. No strife, one love, turn in your neighbors & eveything will be just swell. Needless to say, I lingered awhile back in Andre's garage, to give the boys just a little time get the fuck away from me. And that, dear readers, was one of the stories from my Easter Vacation.	Sown
Fresh Cut New digs - 2004-05-25 Bachelor hell - 2004-05-10 Grumble - 2004-05-07 Coachella pt. 2, or goddamn do my fingers hurt - 2004-05-05 Coachella part one, or, this monkey's gone to indio rawk heaven - 2004-05-05 Random Shearings Rings		Profile Guestbook Mail D-land Older Home 26 Links Bandified Geek Philosopher /. Drudge Worst.Site.Ever.
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Bandified
Geek Philosopher
/.
Drudge
Worst.Site.Ever.