Trik Turner was playing on some long-since-cancelled CBS show in the studio over. We were instructed not to touch anything backstage. We don’t adhere to rules well. There stood Plinko and The Showcase Showdown wheel. They were both dated and worn down. I was sweating Jäger and thought it was great idea. Those $500/wk per diems kept Dimples flush in money and thin in green booze. I spun the wheel with all my might. Damn, 30¢… I wandered into the Price is Right’s studio. The 10 year old, staying home from school with the flu me was totally bummed. It was tiny. Fuckin’ Hollywood, man. When Trik finished up their set, the Zero Crew headed back to Cokewood in Burbank. The road en route was used for the Freddy flicks. This wasn’t Elm, nor scary at all. Damn, the glamour and booze were wearing off. Only one cure would serve, the hair of the dog. Fuck it, we don’t record till noon tomorrow. God I love this California weather.
Brady: That’s a picture of Mickey Mouse. I used to watch that show, but I don’t anymore.
Me: Yeah? Why not?
Brady: I’m done with “used to’s”.
Me: So, you’re done with all “used to’s”.
Brady: Yeah, we used to have Bucka, but hers gone now. We’re all done with “used to’s”.
This is some great life advice from a five year old.m back in my cubicle… yes, I understand that you’re upset, I’ll fix it. Here we go again. Played this game before.
Suddenly my Sidekick buzzed and flashed. My battleship was sunk. Damn you, Little John. I was going to respond in kind but my signal was now lost. This Godforsaken stretch of highway somewhere between Houston and Baton Rouge seems to last forever. This van is probing my sanity. I suppose I’ll have another plug of Grizzly. Fuck, I’ve seen this road no less than four times this year. Hmmm, this credential sticker from that one rad show is still on the ceiling. Shit, that thing is four years old now. What am I even doing here? What is anyone even doing here? In this van, in this state, in this country, on earth. Existence and self-reflection are infinite.
I shake my head and I’m back in my cubicle… yes, I understand that you’re upset, I’ll fix it. Here we go again. Played this game before.
When I was a substitute teacher, I had to get an IVP fingerprint clearance card. I was worried that some murder may have occurred in one of the shithole motels I stayed in on the road and my prints were all over the scene. Thankfully, this wasn’t the case.
Amongst the nicotine and cortisol the battle rages on.
The youthful dreams and naiveté obscured by night are gone.
The bloom once full by light of day now returns to earth.
Quotidian games are merrily played the supernova lurks.
The smell of orange blossoms and the heat of the concrete bring back to sparking up a cigarette at Siesta Villa. Back when Bucky and Grant were alive, we’d chill on the concrete wall, overlooking Horne.
Life was simpler then. We didn’t give a shit and were not yet jaded. Sometimes we fought, sometimes we loved. Some of us are still here, others gone, either to another city or to the great unknown.
How did I make it to 38? It’s hard to kill a cockroach.
Well, time to go to fucking bed, to keep up this semblance of an ordinary life. I wish waxing poetic kept the lights on, but alas it does not.
Time flew, part tense. To death and beyond.