Try not to regret two pints of whiskey sour the night before even as napalm grade heartburn provides a sizzling wake up call. The aroma of burnt paper hangs in the air. Hints of melted plastic and cordite accompany it. Eyes feel glued shut, peel the lids open by hand. No need for higher gears, there’ll be speedy thoughts for a while.
In the ruins of an unfamiliar house, bits of memory crawl back holding handfuls of jigsaw pieces, but not enough for the full picture. Remember the makeshift stripper platform made of beer cases and a closet door… someone starts to make it rain, and a joker tosses a grenade in the cloud of cash… no one hurt badly – I think – so it’s just crazy fun. No cops summoned by the explosion because fuck-all, it’s the Fourth of July. Or rather, it was the Fourth.
Rise off the floor to the painful realization I’m not young enough for this shit. Charging through dark and stormy weather on mules, exploring the Rocky Mountains while searching for Uisce beatha – it’s easy to make a night of binge drinking sound poetic. The truth is less glamorous: pounding cocktails and firing shots; but it is true. Right down to the puke full of chicken bones.
Along one wall scorch marks like black veins connect pockmarks from M-80 explosions. A hazy conversation creeps into mind.
Someone tosses an M-80 at the wall then examines the mystic blast pattern. He says, “I’m making a new zodiac. For the Fourth. Just the Fourth. It doesn’t matter any time other than now.”
I said, “We definitely need that.”
“Like this eagle here, the one carrying bullets.”
I recommended, “Better if it spits bullets.”
His eyes go wide, “Fucking yeah! And if it’s your sign then you, man, you know how to wail on guitars.”
I asked, “Anything about patriotism?”
“Nah, not the eagle. I’m thinking like naked Ben Franklin. Something badass.”
The recording gets garbled after that. Vague hints of a discussion about tacos, but the rest is lost. Yet, I feel I’ve held on to the right parts. Though that said, I wish I could remember more about the hooker found in the dumpster behind the liquor store. So many questions… was she alive? Was she a she? If alive was she using the dumpster as a private fuck booth? But I accept that some mysteries will never be solved.
Heading into the bathroom I find a guy in a conductor’s cap sleeping in the bathtub. Just to be safe I pull out the stopper, and let the water drain. He stirs, mutters something like choo-choo, then goes back to sleep. I find some mouth wash. The mint puts up a good fight, eventually vanquishing the taste of rust and cheese coating my mouth. I pee, however, there isn’t strength enough to flush. Urine be my Kilroy, distinctive copper tone, I’m off to the kitchen.
Broken bottles litter the hallway triggering the reminder we engaged in a kind of snowball fight, gleefully tossing bottles at one another. I still can’t remember whose house this is, but whoever it is must be a grade-A lunatic to let people bust it up the way we did. At one point Sid stuck a lit Roman Candle out the fly of his jeans. Pretending to jerk off he feigned cumshots of flaming balls. One of those fireballs hit a guy named right in the face.
Sid shouted, “I ejaculate fire!”
And we all cheered.
In the kitchen are the remains of a spit roasted lamb. The greasy carcass lies on the table. Clawed and covered in bite marks, the flanks appear to’ve been attacked by a zombie horde. Through a kitchen window I can see a black circle full of ash where last night’s bonfire raged. We danced drunk and naked around it, throwing handfuls of fireworks into the flames, and running like giggling savages as colorful explosions chased us into the dark.
When neighbors complained, we tied them to nearby trees, and set their houses on fire, while scream-chanting, “Ah-meri-kah! Ah-meri-kah! Ah-meri-kah!”
I find a relatively clean glass, and fill it at the sink. Chug, refill, drink calmly – nothing makes water taste better than dehydration. I jab my hand into the side of the lamb. Tearing off a chunk I take a seat. Gnawing on the hunk I take comfort in small fortunes. Like fortunately I passed out with my clothes on which means there’ll be no treasure hunt for my pants, a sign I’ve grown some restraint as I age.
Getting older is a terrible thing. Yet, it makes one appreciate traditions more. The signs that something can last mean a lot in the face of creeping mortality. It could be said youth, in part, is about creating traditions, and being older means making sure those customs last. We used to go up to Gray’s Lake, break into my neighbor’s lake house, and spend the weekend getting drunk, stoned, and seeing how many fireworks we could set off at once – 1000 sparklers flare up like the mouth of Hell. But the sparkler bombs are no more. We clung to the things that made us truly happy: booze… and the company of good friends.
I find coins on the floor. Pennies welded together, I can’t remember how or why. Tequila fuels many ideas, but not much reason. Dish fragments from plates blown to pieces target shooting. Fist-punched holes in the wall the result of some forgotten contest. Graffiti down the halls spanning the spectrum from fine art to inane scribbles. Burnt, warped photos strewn across the floor. Nordic runes carved into the ceiling warn of Ragnarøkkr. A pot of blood boiling on the stove beside an old reel to reel tape player I’m afraid to rewind. Some things are better left unknown, and who knows what evils its words might conjure?
It slowly dawns on me there are bodies everywhere. Other blackouts still unconscious from last night’s delights. At a glance it might seem like a crime scene: the dead strewn all about in singed clothes, perhaps the victims of some madman’s torture fetish. They lie so still I envy their peacefulness. Or at least, the semblance there of, though I can’t imagine any prelapsarian era before our bacchanalian ways became routine, a time when joy didn’t require excess. It seems like we were always this way, or at least always on the way here.
Gradually the amnesia fades.
Connected jigsaw bits form half pictures, enough to guess full images: Donna shooting bottle rockets out of her vagina; Martin eating glass; two guys beating the shit out of each other – nobody cares why because, to paraphrase Jason Mantzoukas, somebody kill somebody we want to see a ghost! Phil playing five finger filet ends up stabbing his hand, and laughing at the knife nailing him to the dining table because, well, cocaine; fireworks pounding the sky like a cheap World War I reenactment… debates on the finest worst movies ever made; quotes practically retelling films, and tv shows; music demands interrupting songs before they finish...
Still got no idea whose house this is. So it seems prudent to hit the road. That revelation may not end well, especially as a sliver pops into mind. There’s someone in the basement duct taped to a chair. We had a good reason at the time. Thing is, some reasons become less reasonable as time goes by.
Slipping out the backdoor I step over two naked folks who apparently fell asleep while having sex. The fact they fell asleep splitting bamboo dictates I photograph them on my way out. The backyard is doing an accurate impression of Dresden. The entrails of the lamb stain a corner of the lawn offering grim portents of things to come which I can’t bother to decipher. I need donuts.
Half awake I hit the road. My eyes drift to the battered remains of a patriotic piñata hanging in a tree. There’s something about people, mostly children, blindfolded and trying to bash open something so they can devour its sweet, sweet innards… but what that something is gets lost maneuvering thru a minefield of emergency vehicles clearing the roads of last night’s events. The wreckage of overconfident drunks driving so fast they thought they’d fly through brick; bits blotted off the pavement with handi wipes. Chalk outlines telling grim tales of family disputes gone wrong. Good times come at a price.
However, this hang over is killing any potential empathy. So long as I’m hurting I can’t care about anyone but me. Call it selfish then let me jam a railroad spike through your skull and see how much you care about the suffering of others.
I find a bakery by chance. Turn a corner, and there it is. The place is called Nancy’s. Even better, a sign in the window promises the best donuts in world.
Pulling into the parking lot I think, “One can only hope.”
In the ruins of an unfamiliar house, bits of memory crawl back holding handfuls of jigsaw pieces, but not enough for the full picture. Remember the makeshift stripper platform made of beer cases and a closet door… someone starts to make it rain, and a joker tosses a grenade in the cloud of cash… no one hurt badly – I think – so it’s just crazy fun. No cops summoned by the explosion because fuck-all, it’s the Fourth of July. Or rather, it was the Fourth.
Rise off the floor to the painful realization I’m not young enough for this shit. Charging through dark and stormy weather on mules, exploring the Rocky Mountains while searching for Uisce beatha – it’s easy to make a night of binge drinking sound poetic. The truth is less glamorous: pounding cocktails and firing shots; but it is true. Right down to the puke full of chicken bones.
Along one wall scorch marks like black veins connect pockmarks from M-80 explosions. A hazy conversation creeps into mind.
Someone tosses an M-80 at the wall then examines the mystic blast pattern. He says, “I’m making a new zodiac. For the Fourth. Just the Fourth. It doesn’t matter any time other than now.”
I said, “We definitely need that.”
“Like this eagle here, the one carrying bullets.”
I recommended, “Better if it spits bullets.”
His eyes go wide, “Fucking yeah! And if it’s your sign then you, man, you know how to wail on guitars.”
I asked, “Anything about patriotism?”
“Nah, not the eagle. I’m thinking like naked Ben Franklin. Something badass.”
The recording gets garbled after that. Vague hints of a discussion about tacos, but the rest is lost. Yet, I feel I’ve held on to the right parts. Though that said, I wish I could remember more about the hooker found in the dumpster behind the liquor store. So many questions… was she alive? Was she a she? If alive was she using the dumpster as a private fuck booth? But I accept that some mysteries will never be solved.
Heading into the bathroom I find a guy in a conductor’s cap sleeping in the bathtub. Just to be safe I pull out the stopper, and let the water drain. He stirs, mutters something like choo-choo, then goes back to sleep. I find some mouth wash. The mint puts up a good fight, eventually vanquishing the taste of rust and cheese coating my mouth. I pee, however, there isn’t strength enough to flush. Urine be my Kilroy, distinctive copper tone, I’m off to the kitchen.
Broken bottles litter the hallway triggering the reminder we engaged in a kind of snowball fight, gleefully tossing bottles at one another. I still can’t remember whose house this is, but whoever it is must be a grade-A lunatic to let people bust it up the way we did. At one point Sid stuck a lit Roman Candle out the fly of his jeans. Pretending to jerk off he feigned cumshots of flaming balls. One of those fireballs hit a guy named right in the face.
Sid shouted, “I ejaculate fire!”
And we all cheered.
In the kitchen are the remains of a spit roasted lamb. The greasy carcass lies on the table. Clawed and covered in bite marks, the flanks appear to’ve been attacked by a zombie horde. Through a kitchen window I can see a black circle full of ash where last night’s bonfire raged. We danced drunk and naked around it, throwing handfuls of fireworks into the flames, and running like giggling savages as colorful explosions chased us into the dark.
When neighbors complained, we tied them to nearby trees, and set their houses on fire, while scream-chanting, “Ah-meri-kah! Ah-meri-kah! Ah-meri-kah!”
I find a relatively clean glass, and fill it at the sink. Chug, refill, drink calmly – nothing makes water taste better than dehydration. I jab my hand into the side of the lamb. Tearing off a chunk I take a seat. Gnawing on the hunk I take comfort in small fortunes. Like fortunately I passed out with my clothes on which means there’ll be no treasure hunt for my pants, a sign I’ve grown some restraint as I age.
Getting older is a terrible thing. Yet, it makes one appreciate traditions more. The signs that something can last mean a lot in the face of creeping mortality. It could be said youth, in part, is about creating traditions, and being older means making sure those customs last. We used to go up to Gray’s Lake, break into my neighbor’s lake house, and spend the weekend getting drunk, stoned, and seeing how many fireworks we could set off at once – 1000 sparklers flare up like the mouth of Hell. But the sparkler bombs are no more. We clung to the things that made us truly happy: booze… and the company of good friends.
I find coins on the floor. Pennies welded together, I can’t remember how or why. Tequila fuels many ideas, but not much reason. Dish fragments from plates blown to pieces target shooting. Fist-punched holes in the wall the result of some forgotten contest. Graffiti down the halls spanning the spectrum from fine art to inane scribbles. Burnt, warped photos strewn across the floor. Nordic runes carved into the ceiling warn of Ragnarøkkr. A pot of blood boiling on the stove beside an old reel to reel tape player I’m afraid to rewind. Some things are better left unknown, and who knows what evils its words might conjure?
It slowly dawns on me there are bodies everywhere. Other blackouts still unconscious from last night’s delights. At a glance it might seem like a crime scene: the dead strewn all about in singed clothes, perhaps the victims of some madman’s torture fetish. They lie so still I envy their peacefulness. Or at least, the semblance there of, though I can’t imagine any prelapsarian era before our bacchanalian ways became routine, a time when joy didn’t require excess. It seems like we were always this way, or at least always on the way here.
Gradually the amnesia fades.
Connected jigsaw bits form half pictures, enough to guess full images: Donna shooting bottle rockets out of her vagina; Martin eating glass; two guys beating the shit out of each other – nobody cares why because, to paraphrase Jason Mantzoukas, somebody kill somebody we want to see a ghost! Phil playing five finger filet ends up stabbing his hand, and laughing at the knife nailing him to the dining table because, well, cocaine; fireworks pounding the sky like a cheap World War I reenactment… debates on the finest worst movies ever made; quotes practically retelling films, and tv shows; music demands interrupting songs before they finish...
Still got no idea whose house this is. So it seems prudent to hit the road. That revelation may not end well, especially as a sliver pops into mind. There’s someone in the basement duct taped to a chair. We had a good reason at the time. Thing is, some reasons become less reasonable as time goes by.
Slipping out the backdoor I step over two naked folks who apparently fell asleep while having sex. The fact they fell asleep splitting bamboo dictates I photograph them on my way out. The backyard is doing an accurate impression of Dresden. The entrails of the lamb stain a corner of the lawn offering grim portents of things to come which I can’t bother to decipher. I need donuts.
Half awake I hit the road. My eyes drift to the battered remains of a patriotic piñata hanging in a tree. There’s something about people, mostly children, blindfolded and trying to bash open something so they can devour its sweet, sweet innards… but what that something is gets lost maneuvering thru a minefield of emergency vehicles clearing the roads of last night’s events. The wreckage of overconfident drunks driving so fast they thought they’d fly through brick; bits blotted off the pavement with handi wipes. Chalk outlines telling grim tales of family disputes gone wrong. Good times come at a price.
However, this hang over is killing any potential empathy. So long as I’m hurting I can’t care about anyone but me. Call it selfish then let me jam a railroad spike through your skull and see how much you care about the suffering of others.
I find a bakery by chance. Turn a corner, and there it is. The place is called Nancy’s. Even better, a sign in the window promises the best donuts in world.
Pulling into the parking lot I think, “One can only hope.”
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