Last Night

Helpful female pharmacist: would you like a bag?

Me: (mumbling, headphones on full volume, but on temples instead of ears. Low, tinny music mixing with cvs musak. ) No thanks, I'm going to eat them all the way home.

My subconscious: (suddenly awakened) hmmm ? what? What's happening...

Help. Fem. Pharm: Excuse me sir?

Me: I say, I'm going to eat them all on the way home.

Sub: Dude...no...

Pharm: (looking around for assistance, should she need it) I don't think that'd be such a great idea.

Sub: don't...please. Just go. Turn around and...

Me: (words come out weird, as I'm making up each one up just before I say it) I nnnng-don't ah-even nnknow wah-what's in there. What are ah-thuh... They?

Pharm: they're nambdydamddeedoo-amycin.

Sub: I beg of you - I AM you, and yet, you've unmanned me and it's come to this. Begging.  Please, say no mo....

Me: ah! Aho... What's is that any wuh-ah-good?

Sub: (weeping)

Pharm: (pausing a few beats too long, locking me in a hostile stare) You could get a heart attack and die. Sir.

Me: (shamefully averting my gaze groundword) ahhuhah.

Sub: (deep-breathing itself back together) ok it's done. Can we leave it? The girls going to need therapy just from your awful  breath! You definitely ruined her life, and she's probably going to call the cops. Since when are we just TALKING to people, old man? I must've missed the...

Me: Mwah-ell, ah-wish me luck-eh heh. uhhhh...Heh.

Pharm: (already far away from counter, looking away on purpose)

Sub: Dude...(shakes imaginary head, imaginary arms out, imaginary palms up, look of bemused incredulity on imaginary face)

Revelations I

She was hot, but behaving so strangely that Lomba was giving serious thought to having somebody escort her away. It wouldn’t be so terrible, he thought. Certainly, no violence would be needed. Spun like this chick, a resourceful man could probably remove her without any kind of physical effort at all. A glassine bag full of white powder, perhaps an acorn-sized knob of strangely named, bat-to-the-head potent weed. and ... It wouldn’t take small, unmarked bills to entice this one, he was sure of it. His name was Chris Lomba. He was 21 years old, scanning for his people to take care of the hot, crazy girl. Chris could see her as he moved around. She appeared to be talking loudly at a tree on the median just adjacent to a busy tank. His busy tank. He walked faster.

***

Hey…

It was a man’s voice from right behind him. Lomba didn’t respond. He was on patrol, walking a long perimeter around his tanks, still wondering what to do with the hot chick.

Hey…Dude!

It was early on the lot, and already people were buying gas. That was a good sign for Chris. There was, however, a scene developing. The gas huddle had now expanded to enwrap the tree-whisperer and her growing entourage. Somebody said she was singing to the tree. She had eight or nine people around her, iphoning from one knee as if she were a queen hearing oaths of service. Lomba had four huge tanks of high-grade gas in a van with like three hundred people teaming around it. Soon the police would come for the girl. His heart hurt.

The same dude’s voice rang out a third time. Lower now, almost secretive. Closer.

Dude. You Lomba?

Lomba took a furtive glance around and before long found the voice-source, a dirty, rank-smelling boy with a long scar down a dicey looking face. It was one he’d seen before. The owner of the face was short, 5’ 7” if he was even that. The owner of the face was skeleton-thin, and when he spoke, a cloud of awful, stank, almost - visibly dense vapor came issuing forth as he spoke. The owner of the face’s eyes were LSD-ified, his pupils .12 gauge. His head was tilted back all the way in an addled parody of a nestling chick. Chris smiled at the thought and tried to brush past the weird kid.

The guy was fast. Lomba found himself looking up at concerned faces before he’d even realized what’d happened. He tried to talk but his wind was spent, pressed out of him from the force of the throw. His hearing was full of helicopters and white noise. Chris’s back began to heat up, he could feel himself tensing. The little guy was staring down at him now as well, and extending a hand. He was speaking, but not to Lomba:

Ho Hoooo! Had enough big man.

The kid was shouting the words, it seemed to Chris. Why would he be…

Bad breath didn’t wait for an answer or an hand. He seized Lomba’s wrist and propped a nike against Lomba’s feet and yanked him up, in close. The breath…It was like a weapon. The dude’s grip was iron and anger, but his voice was barley a whisper. He was smiling. As he spoke, he locked coal black pupils with Lomba’s:

You’re fucking Chris Lomba. You’re fucking going home, or you’re fucking dead…

He walked away then, before any reply or retaliation could be mounted. Lomba stood there in the middle of the dusty lot trying to figure the event for exactly 80 seconds. Then he filed it away in his head and got back to the present.

***

Clegg: It’s what?

X: Silver. Real deal Silver.

Clegg: Silver? ‘the fuck!? You said acid. fuckin’ acid…

X: Fuckin acid dumbass. Fuck. Fuckin’ guy does three years and forgets the names of drugs. Sad. It’s like they took your soul. And your ass-soul.

Clegg: I need a lot of it. One six-foot medical for three full sweet-breath vials. You get one. I get two. Fuckin’ idiot.

X: Two. That’s enough to make a hundred sumo wrestlers see nothing but dragons for the next three months. Making up all those years you spent not taking acid Clegg? Be careful. Shit’spower. You heard what I did just then? Ass-Soul? Asshole? That’s sick!

Clegg: Fuckin’ idiot.

***

Chris Lomba had gotten here early, AND he brought exceptionally potent, medical-grade nitrous oxide delivered in gigantic, heavy duty balloons. The main risk was the exposure. Chris’d brought five tanks for the one night stand at the Greek. Thistle hadn’t played a place as small for a long time, and although the venerable old lean-too only had room for 10,000, excitement was already in hyperspace. People were giggling, taking drugs, smiling goofy smiles. Chris had taken along two guys from the east, getting an additional six from area contacts. Seeing the crazed mob seething into the Greek Theater, he wondered if nine guys would be enough. Lomba hated getting his hands dirty, but he could tell the night was going to be hectic. Checking his watch, Chris began walking toward the box office. It was time to have one of his tanks busted.

Lomba’s method was simple, easy to execute, and though this was the undiscovered left coast, Chris felt confident in his ways: He would deploy three tanks at first, positioning them between cars in a fifty yard triangle between three rows. One of the tanks would be loud and conspicuous, let people huddle and congregate, let them walk back and forth countless times getting high and acting loud and stupid. Later on, after the hot tank had been dealt with, the two others plus an additional two more tanks would be tapped. They afternoon tanks would be relocated, and operating in almost total silence until the sun came up.

***

Lomba: Just that.

Nat: Just that? That’s it?

Lomba:

Nat: OK. Ok, we gotta go.

Lomba. Ha! I made almost thirty grand last night. Now I’m gone because some vagrant says? Fuck no. Uh Uh. Run? Me? They warned me once…You don’t know…

Nat: Twice

Lomba: Twice?

Nat: They warned me night before last. A girl. You saw here. Remember, the girl talking to the tree?

***

Chris Lomba had been going to Thistle shows for 20 years, and for 15 of those years he’d been an enthusiastic seller of the gas. Chris’d whiled the first six years of the 1990’s following the heavenly ether of an amazinglytalented rock band in the prime of the career. He still believed that that Thistle, the Thistle he chased and stalked like a crazed ex for all those years, was probably the greatest rock band in the whole entirety of space and time. As ‘94-‘95 became ‘98-‘99 though, there was a weird sort of changing of the guard out there in the lots. Most of the people who’d been in orbit around Thistle began to drop off, victims of legalities, matters of the heart, and hundreds of other odd decisions and circumstances. But instead of bailing along with 90% of his friends on tour, Lomba stuck it out, still digging the band, still selling gas. By 2000, Chris was netting over 50,000 dollars for the annual, twin, six-week periods of Thistle tour. The band had winnowed it’s schedule down to a science, targeting maximum profit and minimum energy expenditure. The years flipped by like seconds.

In the year 2010, Chris Lomba made $958,045 dollars in profit, moving gas at 27 Thistle shows, all on the eastern seaboard, all within six hours driving distance. It was his biggest year financially, and during it, he’d seen exactly one show by the legendary Thistle. Near-million dollars for half the tour.

Lomba resisted the left coast – more out of habit more than actual reason - for as long as he could, but in 2012 he caved, hard. Tickets were purchased for himself and three friends. Thistle’s west coast dates were just like the east: built by the years, prioritizing convenience, subbing LA for NYC, San Diego for Key West. Four weeks in April, and Four in September. Another million for Lomba, earned outside, in hot weather. Lomba packed“Crocs”.

His system was pure and efficient and time tested. His operation was state of the art, Jamie and Kai had been with him ten years, were at least reasonably competent. He brought the girl as well, of course. Natalie he brought to all live music events, because concerts, for Natalie, meant blow jobs. Something about the loud music got her mouth “O”-ing like crazy. The rest of her wasn’t enough of a problem to weigh against bringing those willing lips.

Natalie’d made over 250,000 dollars last year helping Chris, selling soft drugs far away from the tanks. She was excited at the attempt on the opposite coast, and excited by California. Lomba was developing a rug-burn rash on the end of his prick and they’d only been here a week. The tripping slut out at the tree wasn’t making it any easier. The girl was just ridiculous. Entertainment level. A ten? Lomba considered it, watching her from way to close to his sacrificial tank. He heard it blasting away every few seconds. Every minute or two there was a loud “Pop!”

Lomba was watching her. And in the far end of his field of vision he could see Nat, way at the end of the next row, taking to some wook family. Nat was no slouch. This other chick though…Wow. She was wearing a black headband over her tits, and what looked like skimpy black panties and nothing –not a damn thing – besides. Her skin was a miracle. Lomba was tasting good tastes just looking at it.

***

K: Where did Clegg say they…

L: (whisper) shut the fuck up.

K: It’s 4:30. Nobody…

L: Shhh

K: Jesus.

L: I’m concentrating.

K was keeping his eyes peeled. The two of them were walking around a musky tent city tucked about a half-mile from the stages.

L: What did he…

K: “she”

L: She?

K: Yeah “she”. It’s always “she” now. Haven’t talked to the man in almost three weeks.

L: Fuck.

K: Yep.

L: She’s a fuckin…

K: Yeah. She is. Is that?? Ah…

L saw K pointing in the dark five feet away. The girl had told him to come after 3:30 flashing the black light at “tents in the middle”.They’d made two passes, K waving the big black light around his legs, checking the tents they passed. It took minutes. The words “these fucking guys”, big, on the side of a nice Bean four-man job, SPF-graffiti scrawled in the girl’s penmanship. They were five feet away making the tent. L stopped. K kept going. Then he walked a little farther on before looping back. L just stood there.

K: Fucking idiot

L: What?

K: You’re just standing here, idiot.

L: They’re sleeping.

K: Just give me the off.

L: Here.

K: ”Deep Woods”?

L: It works! Remember Merriweather.

K: No. Give it…

Khris took the tiny can of aerosol and sprayed it on his hands and around his legs and arms, then around the bottom of the L.L. Bean four-man and all over the top. Then on his hands and all over the fly until he could see liquid Off beading up and rolling down, dripping. He could hear snoring from inside, and when he stood up, he could see one of the dudes faces. He was snoring away, mouth open, and did not move when K reached into his pocket and snapped a bic to the Bean 4-man.

They were on the outskirts of the tents, almost 100 yards away when the first cries went up. Moments later the screams began, male and female, pain and horror. L and K heard it all from the dark borderland in the shadows around the camp, and before long they could smell what they’d done: a porky essence hanging over the tents, shot through with smoke and fat. L was starving.

***

Lomba: I think…How did it happen?

Nat: We gotta get the fuck out..

Lomba:

Nat: Pack shithead. we gotta go.

Lomba: Accident. Right? I mean, right?

Nat: Pack!

There was a loud knock. Both Chris and Natalie jumped. To Nat, the sound was no kind of knocking. It sounded to her more like somebody ramming a backhoe against the wall of the hotel from the outside. The wall, she felt, might only hold out for another few minutes. She was mistaken.

***

Jedra: They’re still at it

Clegg: Wow.

Jedra:

Clegg: Who’s DOES this?

Jedra: He’s caking out. I watched him all day from close up. He was running conspicuous decoy tank, he had pop-proof balloons…Who’d you send to talk to him?

Clegg: Well they all say “pop-proof”. I sent Sol.

Jedra: Really? Sol. Huh.

Clegg: You were close?

Jedra: I was fucking two feet away, talking to a tree. I wore underwear.

Clegg: Go get the boys. Use K & L. work it out. Fuck. Who fucking DOES this!?

***

The “office” was a garage. They brought the two of them in, and found Clegg lashing Coke into his nose as if it were free, and of unusual potency. There was a crow-bar on his desk. Nat and Chris were wrapped head to toe in heavy-gauge duct tape, with only faces showing, just as Clegg had instructed. Sol dragged them in like duffle bags, Lomba face-up, Nat face-down. Chris could smell the evil breath like a poltergeist in the room. Sol stood away and waited for his boss to speak. Clegg sat tapping away at his iphone for a while before speaking, like he was so busy he could hardly make the time. Finally, he looked up, put the phone down, and addressed his guests:

You’re chris?

Lomba just stared.

This is…Kristen. No…Don’t say it…Meg. GWEN! Gwen?

Lomba stared.

Sol said:

Natalie.

Clegg said:

Shut up Sol. Natalie. Right. Ok, so whatever. You guys came here, and I was polite. I spoke nicely. Agreed?

Nobody moved or spoke. Clegg went on:

OK. So, that in mind, you sort of leave me no choice here. You must know that, they tell me you do business in New York. They say you’re a success.

Lomba just stared. Clegg picked something out of his pocket. He held it up, looked at Nat:

You see this? You know what this is?

Nat just stared.

Clegg grabbed her by the chin so fast, Lomba would have sworn he had seen a special effect. He squeezed her cheeks, and Chris saw him holding the thing from his pocket over her open mouth. She began to mewl and lo like a new calf. Lomba saw a bluish liquid splashing down Nat’s face and all at once he understood.

Clegg finished up and held the empty Sweet Breath container up in Lomba’s face. Nat was weeping. Clegg said:

I got another one big guy, wouldn’t want you feeling left out.

He grabbed Lomba’s chin.

***

When they’d finished up, Clegg locked the outside gate, ran over to Sol’s running Crowne Vic, and motioned to the still duct-taped couple in the back seat:

Walk them out into the Desert at Livermore. Leave the tape.

J&C IV: Semi - Cougar Sodomy

Crowe saw Stephen. He was positive, but the little freak was so far away, by the time Crowe was able to negotiate the fifty-odd yards of staggering, Jeff's creepy kid’d had time to run away three times over. Now Crowe was seeing little Stephens everywhere, zipping and dodging, profaning him as they streaked past:

(Whoooosh…)

Fucker!

(Zooooom…)

Stupid dick!

(Foooom…)

Asshole!

(Shoooooaummmm)

Dummy! Crowe yoo Fuckin’ dummy!

Crowe gave what chase he could, but what he could wasn't shit. He eventually found himself standing in the middle of what he saw as an interminable lake of hot crimson and bright yellow, but what was -  in fact - a vast, day-glo expanse of rubberized concrete. Splotches of colored water were shooting and dancing all around him, making tiny little gasps before each launch. Before long he'd moved into a cross-fire, the water blasts all zeroed and engaged on his person. Soon the rythmic shots of water, and toxic Trout Lodge atmosphere was just way too much. Crowe felt himself dissolving. He looked down at his feet, and found two different colors of Croc disappearing at once. His knees gave way, then his bathing suit, his belly button, his back, neck, and - finally - his poor, acid-compromised head: all of it washed out in theomnipotent water until there was nothing left to wash. That’s when he remembered – once again – that he’d still not jumped into the water with the giant bag of coke in his pocket. He looked, saw a sign, and ran.

***

Guy has a window where guests shit. It's framed like a picture. He runs outside to jag in the woods and watch. Sporks usually, if not really big spoons. Shamrocks before cottage fries, any day any day.Spam. You know what they say. Hey well you never know. I wonder what the fuckthat means: a “stich” in time. My my my.

Crowe was nearly driven mad on the short walk to the bathroom, by an orchestra of simultaneous, vacation - flavored jibber jabber. Inside the john - however - was a different story. It was quiet, darker than the main room of Trout Lodge. There was about an inch of liquid on the floor, and the inside of the bathroom smelled more pissy and more chlorinated than the outside, but the silence. The quiet. Crowe saw four legs under almost every stall-door: two little ones, hanging in air attached by rumpled bathing suits, and two with hairy ankles, and flip flops. Encouraging, softly spoken sounds filled the air, along with the unmistakable crack of smelly farts from tiny asses:

Good goin champ. Great job. More? Poop more? Ok! Great! Nicepoopy buddy! Your brother pooped, now you poop. Oh yeah baby. Right there. Oh Fuck.FUCK FAHHHHHHHuuuuughhhhk….

Crowe cased the entire room and no fucking Stephen. Now, as he felt the paranoia and confusion  come raging up - yet again - from within his evil parts, Crowe began to growl like an angry mutt. Soft at first, a barley audible humming between his grinding teeth, but dark, aggravated, and violent within moments.

Rrrrrr. RRrrrr. AArrrrrr. RarrrRarrr…

More than one child began to cry, and words of encouragement turned sour. Somewhere Crowe left as soon as he could focus on the door. He made it out, and sat at the first free space he could find: a lifeguard chair manned by Excusemesir.

Crowe saw the guy, but did not recognize him. He was too busy being thankful, and appreciative of his new-found resting place. The tripping was easing off, turning away from the disengagement and anger of the first two hours, toward the self-confident wanderlust of the next six. Before long he felt the anxiety and craziness of the Trout lodge falling away, as he was borne aloft. He looked up, at an entire regiment of babies, naked and smiling, tethered to his lifeguard chair with velvet string. The babies were farting mellifluous farts, propelling them towards space and beyond in fantastic, fart-powered efficiency. The gas was blasting and flowing around him, it smelled like victory. Victory and really, really high quality weed. Crowe was inhaling to beat the band when everything backed up on him. The farts, the weed, the altitude, farting flying babies…Something was off, and now he began to cough. Big, loud, round-sounding hacks and evil, sharp little barks began flooding from his head. The flying fart babies were crying, and scared. Crowe looked down, and was terrified. He could see the earth far below him likea tiny light-blue pea in a field of black. His mother’s voice bellowed about him and when she spoke, fire filled everything up. Crowe was terrified. He was burning, coughing and falling. His mother was yelling:

You fuckin’ bum Crowe I told you not in the house not in the house but do you listen no you don’t listen you never listen you’re lazy and retarded Crowe you dumb fuck lazy fuck dumb lazy fuuck fuck fuck fuck…Sir? Sir? Sir? Youcan’t smoke that sir? You can’t smoke that in here sir? You can’t smoke that sir? Is he allright? Sir? Excusemesir?

Crowe awoke. He was holding a gigantic joint, which he immediately recognized having rolled just before they got out of the car. He was holding it in one hand, and he was thinking about babies. Jeff was shaking him, but he’s stopped now, and was beaming into Crowe with a big shitty grin, and glassy, .12 gauge pupils. His voice was both a scream AND a whisper:

Dude, I just fucked that old lady in the bathroom!!! In the Ass!!!

***

J&C III: Dixie Cup

***

J: Holy balls that was funny. I feel lightheaded.

C:That's the acid talking dude. Touch your hand to you nose and it will get better.

J: Ok.

C: Not like that. That's not the way.

J: Ok

C: Better...

J:Ok

C: Ya...no wait, no. Fuck no. Did you ever find Stephen?

J: Ok. Who?

C: That's it!

J: This is two fuckin’ hands...

C: Yes. Your son, Steven? Remember burnout? He's here with us? He's five? Seen that?

J: I have to walk around with both hands on my nose? Fuck!

C: Yeah. Nope. Hey give me the cocaine.

J: You HAVE it dickfuck. Give me the fucking acid!!

C: Ha! I fooled you fuckerface! You've been drinking it for the last three hours!! I fucking RAINED on your snapple when you weren't lookin...Put like a tablespoon into that fucking thing at least. Hope you didn't have plans for the weekend.

J: My Snapple?

C: Yep. Heh. Funny. No? Fucked up! Whooo?

J: Mmm hmmm. Funny. Where was "my snapple" again?

E: Excusemesir?!!! SIR?!

***

Jeff left Crowe with “Excusmesir” and crept back to the entrance. Crowe had gestured in this direction when queried about the Snapple. Jeff had a vague memory of putting his son's lifejacket on somewhere, but that was just after three hours of constant driving and cocaine inssuflation. There were no memories. Even so, he didn't have to look long for the lost beverage.

It was on a table, next to the similar-looking Snapples of a very large group of two adults, and hundreds of small children. Jeff recognized his Snapple immediately, mostly because Crowe had written “LSD HOMO” on the label with a Sharpie. Jeff could read the big block letters from ten feet away. The small girl who he watched pick up the bottle, however, didn't look old enough to read. The child opened the snapple, and before anyone could object, bolted down an enourmous gullet-full. Another child came running up, also pre-literate, yelling:

Mine…Mine…Mine…MYYYYYYYyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyne. Mine…Mine...ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jeff remained stationary, dumfounded at the kid-chaos. He watched the second child grab the first’s Snapple mid-swig, spilling the acid-o-fied iced tea all over herself and the first child. A grown - up, 50-ish looking woman in a beige sarong came rushing in. She separated the children, threw out some stupid-sounding kid conflict platitudes, and then snatched up the tea. After this, she wheeled, and dumped the remaining half-Snapple in a pitcher - already in use for other, non-narcotic tea - at the group's plastic table.

Jeff watched, stunned into immobility, as the sarong-lady poured out ten tiny dixie cups of iced tea. A small Asian kid grabbed a cup and began sipping. Just then a pair of red-head twins of questionable gender grabbed a cup in each hand and started tossing them back. A fat kid wearing cords buried a cup in one go. A tiny baby girl crawled to the tables edge, helped herself up with a chair, and started clutching at the remaining Cups. She was able to score only one cup, before Jeff finally broke his stasis. He hopped over, grabbed the three cups, and drank one of them before the sarong lady peeped him and started getting up again. He rushed her, handed her one of the last two acid-cups and “clicked” his against hers in impromptu toast.

To us?

The woman took the cup, smiled back, blasted the tea down in one shot as Jeff did the same.

To us! Someone crying?

***

J&C #2: Big Cock Jesus

JM: He's what?

C: Whore. He sells himself sexually for money.

JM: No

C: No? Yes.

JM: ??

C: Yeah. Truth. How'd this get by you ? he's tellin' everybody for a while there...

JM: I dunno. That's...He always seemed so quiet.

C: Nope. All comers too, what I hear. Guy’s got power from both sides of the dish.

JM: What? What?

C: I know that parts true, cause Paquin and Latife's big sister rented him for her bachelorette. One man show. Spendy. Big cock.

JM: Jesus.

JM and C: Big cock Jesus. [Gales of hoffific, medically threatening laughter]

***

Luckily, the Excusemesir arrived just in the nick of time. Crowe and Jeff had been laughing, red faced, tear stained, choking guffaws and helpless, amazed, head shaking when the poor little guy moved in.

Excusemesir. Kept repeating the same fucking thing, was his first mistake. Crowe and JM kept laughing harder each time around. The guy was hilarious at first, then sort of creepy and emotionally manipulating, then just sad, and then eventually somehow ten times more funny than when he'd first showed up.

At one point Jeff thought his friend Crowe might finally be having a heart attack, then – scant seconds later - he became convinced he himself was having one. He suddenly felt it crucial, that he explain all this to JM, but then THAT train of thought suddenly seemed uproarious in ways that Crowe had never conceived before. This helped both JM and Crowe to discover yet another gear of stupid, paralysis-inducing laughter: eyes open, mouth in silent spasm, a single tear rolling slowly down each cheek. This presentation, or course, sparked a whole new tempest of guffaws, and on and on they went.

The guy – a Trout Lodge “security” person in a fluorescent t-shirt that read: “It's always TROUT SEASON!”, either wasn’t getting it, or just wasn’t nearly as addled as his problem-guests. He stood, stonefaced, and watched the two old men laugh. The vicious circle of mirth went on for what seemed to Crowe like weeks.

Sir, excuse me sir? Excuse me sir? Excusemesir? Excusemesir? Sir? Excuse me? Sir, excuse me sir? Excuse me sir? Excusemesir? Excusemesir? Sir? Excuse me? Sir, excuse me sir? Excuse me sir? Excusemesir? Excusemesir? Sir? Excuse me? Sir?

***

J&C # 1: Hallucinations and butt sex at Pee Park.

J: Don’t fuckin’ jump in the water with the coke in your pocket idiot. I know you’re going to, but don’t. Ok Crowe? Just fuckin’ don’t. OK? Fucker? And ditch that fucking Sharpie!



C: So it's a whole new filtration. Chemical free. It's an enzyme. A fucking enzyme! It immediately neutralizes anything with any toxicity at all. Including urine. No piss in this piece. Dude where's your kid?



J: I dunno. Whatever. It's not like he's outside. He can only go so far…



C: He can go outside. Trout Lodge is only the world’s biggest indoor waterpark in the winter months. Look. See? No wall.



J: Well whatever, he's fucking four. I can't molly-cuddle him for his whole life. He'll go fag. Seriously dude? No pee?



C: The fag ship's sailed dude. And no, there's no pee filtration. You can smell the piss under the burning chlorine. Did you just say Mollycuddle?



J: Yeah. Wait…Why?



C: That’s the Autocorrect version of Molly-CODDLE you penis! Just never mind. Gimme that thing...



J: You fucking have it. Gimme that other thing…



C: I don't have it. What about that other other thing?


D: I don't fu...oh yeah. I got it. Here.


***


4/20/2012. Jeff and Crowe, taking their time at Trout Lodge, the world’s biggest, east-coast, indoor waterpark, for six months of every year. The trip is dual-purpose, serving Jeff’s kid Stephen as the centerpiece of spring VK from kindergarten, and giving Jeff and his degenerate friend Crowe a place to do drugs.



The LSD was clean and stout, and launching it's inexorable strike up the spine. Crowe, was having trouble, seeing sounds. Jeff had remained dead silent most of the three hour drive from CT. The both of them, bobbing and weaving around the area like blind men, cut an amusing figure. Their body language told a long story of confusion and uncertainty, like two men walking, side by side, on a very high wire.



Crowe kept thinking about, and then forgetting, about the blow. He wanted it. He thought JM had it. He was mistaken. He felt like talking it out, but by the time he remembered, and actually mustered the mental acuity use his words properly, the moment - he felt - was no longer right. That's when "big cock Jesus " happened.



(part 2 at lunch)

King Harvest

"Corn in the fields, listen to the rice as the wind blows cross the water. King harvest has surely come. "


We aren't in the business of dead entertainer - praise. The fuckers stack like cordwood, and you run out of shit to say. But Levon Helm ain't dead as I write this, so let's call this a thank you note. That's appropriate too, cause if anybody deserves a thank you note from us, it's Levon Helm.

Our history makes our reality, and our history says Band's collaboration with Bob Dylan, from it's early years up until the time it was unofficially over, was the last new beginning for rock and roll. New lightning gifting new fire. Before it, things were one way, and after it, they were another way, and never quite the old way again.

Are there other ways to see this? Probably, but not credibly. Not for anybody born after 1945. '45 puts you age 20 when all this starts to move. Twenty would have been about perfect. Old enough to enjoy the front row seat for a very specific history.

The events!!

Dylan played electric music at Newport 1965, and by that time he'd made his intentions known: His folk thing was to become a rock thing. all these important words, he felt, might carry greater import spinning to a danceable backbeat. The Hawks - long sidemen to the great Ronnie Hawkins, and razor sharp from years and miles in the dirty rock joints of the great white north - were to become his band. The Band. They'd accrued a lifetime's worth of stories and gigs, ushering rock through an awkward, unpopular adolescence. They'd worn matching suits and string ties, playing the face of a nascent counter culture. Now, suits ditched, they'd be telling those stories to new worlds, on giant stages, with the brightest light of all leading them through nightly paces.

They lived, worked, wrote together. They reeled off a slew of records made of a high, fine music, one that would seal, for all time, the idea of rock transcending a sound, becoming a way to experience consciousness. The big questions, with all attendant cosmic implication, pressed into the shape of tits and ass moving in time.

The Band was composed of historically awesome players at all positions. I'm a drummer, so to me, Levon - singing leads while knocking out those beats - was pretty much the center of the storm. The singing seemed tuneful and effective, but the beats - all metronomic tone and soul with snare sounds like burning kindling pops - were some classy fucking beats.

"Rock of Ages" - the Band's essential live piece from NYE shows in 1971 - will always be the touchstone. If a surprise, and way looooong Dylan guest-sit just after midnight on New Year's is NOT the highlight of the show, than what the fuck happened at that goddamn show?! Grab it, hear it. Tonight. It's really, really awesome.

Thanks Levon Helm, for carrying the hottest fire the longest miles. We hope you do not die tonight, but if you do, we would not expect what comes after to be in any way unpleasant. At least, not for you.

Thanks, Levon Helm, for everything you've been so far.

DSL
April 2012

Shooting the Shit: Nate Bargatze

Nate Bargatze is a funny fucking guy. He's also the 46th person from Tennesee that we've met. What does this mean. Well, the "funny" part is - I think - self explanitory. The TN part? Fucked if I know. We don't know 46 people from Rhode Island and we're FROM there. People from TN are ambitious motherfuckers, and the Tennessee Diaspora rolls deep in the population centers. It's a shitty, simplistic theory but how many times a year do we get to use the word "diaspora"? Not many people, not fucking many.

Anywho, here's our little tete-a-tete with Nate. We will let you know about his comings and goings if the UFO's don't blow up the planet before he comes and goes.

***

DSL: Who was the first comic you ever laughed at?
Nate Bargatze: Sinbad. Or technically my father who is a magician and was a clown when I was growing up. He is very funny and always has been.

DSL: Who's the funniest comedian working?
NB: Bill Burr

DSL: What makes comedy important?
NB: To make people laugh. To say what everyone thinks but can't say. Comedy is a relief. It should be at least.

DSL: What does [stand-up comedy] do for the audience?
NB: Hopefully [it helps them] not think about the stresses they have

DSL: Is comedy art or craft?
NB: It's a craft in the fact that you do have to learn things. I don't call it art because that makes it sound gay and the most important thing ever.

DSL: Funniest movie ever?
NB: Pure Luck

DSL: what do you want?
NB: I don't know. Stuff.

DSL:Who's the funniest NEW comic?
NB:Mike Recine, Joe Machi

DSL:What bands are you into?
NB: Taylor Swift

DSL:Talk about Louis CK, cosby, prior, seinfeld...Dave chapelle, Chris rock.
NB: They are all the best. Seinfeld was my favorite comic. I have watched everything he has done.

DSL:What's the best joke you ever heard?
NB: It changes. Right now I am doing one but I will hate it soon enough. My first big joke was probably a joke I do about Wal-Mart.

DSL: How often do you write / update act.
NB:I try to think of stuff as much as possible. I'll go weeks with nothing new and then a week with 5 new jokes. I get up a lot in NYC so tend to write on stage. I'll write the bullet point in my note cards and run it through my head during the day. I got a few guys I call and run it by then if I am not sure of it.

DSL: Profanity: impotent?
NB:Why? I don't understand this question really. I think you are asking if profanity has power? If not, sorry. I think it does if you use it correctly. If you put curses sprinkled through your act they could be very powerful and if you curse every other word then they will not [be]

Nate will be touring and telling jokes for the forseable future. Check him out at www.natebargatze.com, and search "Nate Bargatze stand-up" on youtube. Also, check out the DSL FB page, we'll have Nate links up there all week. Now excuse us, we gotta go google "Pure Luck".

Monday Story #7: The Runner

Danes looked up discreetly, though he figured he’d be all right moving in the opaque darkness back there. His assailant was now either long gone, or at a severe disadvantage. He was less than 20 feet from the shattered glass slider on the deck, but the detective was clothed entirely in black: a black windbreaker, black jeans, black shirt. He’d be invisible standing still, and close enough moving. LD heard a commotion immediately following the shot, and now flashlight beams were playing over his head, weaving faint, restless patterns on the overgrown Summer brush. Danes watched as they advanced through the dark, moving quickly on the same dark yards he’d tracked through a few minutes earlier. At about 50 feet out the lights disappeared. The uniforms were cagey, thought Danes, and had remembered their Academy training with regards to flash-lighting through darkness towards an armed position. Seconds later, an agitated stage-whisper in Danes ear:

That’s you down there boss? Who shot?

Danes whispered:

Porch. be quiet.

Then the sound of a starter-motor, turning, and catching, from what sounded like the opposite side of the house. Danes and Dinnicola were up and sprinting toward the street-lit front yard with no further discussion. Danes – in the lead by a nose - was drawing his weapon, raking the slide as they went.

They hit the corner, veering right, driving on a running car now directly in front of them and the car was parked, lights off. Dent heard other footsteps coming up behind, the rest of anybody left over at the scene. Now in the tiny light of the lawn-lantern, more uni’s were advancing. There were five, including Dinnicola and himself. They cordoned off a circle around the car, Danes could see it was a four door Honda Civic, couldn’t make out the color, the front yards on Fairmount seemed only slightly better illuminated than the back. They closed slowly, each man drawing a two-handed bead on the car. There was silence around the car and misty fog on the windows as they moved in.

***

Minutes later Danes lead a quick tour of the crime scene for the shift-change just arriving. He found Dinnicola outside, getting ready to make a break for it:

This is weird. Tonight, I mean.

They’d sent the other uniforms back to the house the car had sped away from. Now both residence were secured. Dinnicolla, lying on his back outside the still-running meat-wagon, unburdened himself:

The bodies. No bodies in years, now we got three bodies. The shots. Now the fuckin empty car. It’s 12 midnight. What the fuck next?

Jeez, I hope nothing. Tired.

He glanced at his cell, looking for the time, then re-holstered with a disgusted look.

Midnight? Really? Fuck…

Yeah. I’m gonna hit the gym. No chance I’m sleepin.

Right. Gym. Me too.

Dinicolla played at astonishment:

Gym? Really?

No.

You cantankerous fuck.

Tired. I got nothin. I’m leavin’ before anything else happens.

The two of them glanced back at the Burke house, quiet now, bathed in the light of the only functioning streetlamp on all of Fairmount Drive. Danes headed for the rear entrance, and stopped short after a few steps. He’d been facing Officer Dinnicola in conversation, and now LD saw flames behind the rookie and across the street. Gerald Hightower’s house was on fire, as was the house directly across from his, and the house next to that. Danes mind was turning carwheels as he watched angry new flames bursting from homes both sides of the street. Officer Dinnicola chimed in, still on the ground next to the ambo:

Huh. They all left stoves on?

Detective Danes flipped his cell out and started calling first responders back to Fairmount. As he dialed and spoke, he and Officer Diniccola ran, scoping out the house, trying to gain entry, and looking for anybody asleep inside. There was nobody. As Danes heard the sirens ramping up a mile away downtown, he scanned the dark spaces between the burning houses, saw nothing.

He was in the middle of the street when first units arrived and then he was running, checking in with the ranking firemen, hurrying, telling them what he knew. Danes allowed himself at least some small hope the first response had been fast enough, but as he turned to face the rest of Fairmont Drive, the notion of getting lucky died burning: Five houses were burning on one side of the street, and even as his disbelieving eyes looked on, he saw blooms of flame inside windows on the other side as well.

Every single house on Fairmont was on fire.

The detective felt the heat quickly becoming too much on his skin. He looked around for a place to fall back. Somewhere in the back of his mind his instinct for self-preservation was instructing to get clear immediately, but at the last second he saw the runner.

Somebody booking toward the hedgerow separating the back yards of Fairmont from the grounds of Harbour Hill Nursing Home. Danes, for the second time that night, found himself sprinting up the back yards. This time there was no darkness. Everything was burning. It felt to Detective Danes like running through hell.

dogshitart

Thank you Easter Bunny!, 2010
Mixed Media on Canvas
8" x 10"