Old spymasters used to whisper about intentional sacrifices, low level info catchers killed for Kali in the hope she spared the world. And spurious reasoning seemed to prove them right. For every Bond wannabe bleeding to death in a Moroccan alley, drowning in Venetian streets, murdered mid-sex, the world lived another day.
Such thoughts come to mind considering the night ahead. At my buddy Sid’s, the neighbors have painted their faces into colorful calavera, while they kill chickens for the orishas. I offer them a bottle of rum from the freezer. They take it gladly, and I wish them the best of luck.
“Which rum you give them?” Sid asks.
I shrug, “Does it matter?”
Sid says, “Yeah, if you want the offering to mean anything.”
He checks the freezer for what’s missing. Nodding he says, “That’ll do.”
“Since when do you believe in gods?”
He sighs, “Since we need all the help we can get.”
The sentiment seems shared by all this evening. On the stroll to Mr. G’s we pass wild mummeries. The street lamps have all been shot out. Lighting the way are burning pyres covered in various birds. Exsanguinations of goats run red rivers down the gutter. Revelers in phantasmagorical maquillage dance to music blasting out of cars, houses, and nearby bars, a chaotic cacophony of mixed styles blending into a delightful mess. The noise is meant to get the attention of the heavens; and some assist the effort by wearing ornate accoutrements: decorative plastic eyewear, ridiculous elaborate hats, and fake flower leis. Whatever may glance down from above will surely get an eye snagged on the sight below.
A yellow muscle car comes screaming around a corner, the “driver” seated on the roof wearing Viking horns. He opens his mouth to shout something, but the vehicle drifts into a parked pickup. As the two cars disintegrate the “driver” is flung out into the darkness. Everyone cheers. No one checks on him, though a keen ear may’ve detected the sound of snapping branches… or bones. Either he survived, or he belongs to the gods. One more sacrifice to earn us a better tomorrow.
We stepped into Mr. G’s, and joined the worldwide effort, contributing our own sacrificial brain cells, aiming for a global googolplex.
For whatever reason, the owner of Mr. G’s decided to hire a DJ, a young Puerto Rican with a neck tattoo, who plugged his laptop into the stereo system, and proceeded to run a playlist. Sid, unable to stomach electronic music for more than thirty seconds, did his best to remain calm, but forty seconds in started lobbing empty shot glasses at the DJ. The practice caught on, and Regulars eventually rained glasses at the DJ until he fled. I took his laptop, appraised its value, but decided it would be safer to smash it out of existence lest he return.
#
Without prompting Reilly starts a story:
“Someone’s talkin’ like, ‘No one really knows when a new year starts.’ ’nd I’m like, ‘Okay, that’s interesting.’ Noddin’ Ima sippin’ muh beer, I realize ‘s a cup of piss. Literal piss.”
“Literally,” I correct him. Why I have no idea.
“You wanna finish my story?”
Shake my head, “Nope.”
“Right. So liter-rally piss. Happy?”
“Not typically.”
“I’m fucking telling a story,” Reilly says.
“Then finish it,” signaling for a round of shots.
Reilly takes a minute to remember his place, “So this jackhole is yammering about are-bit-tarry , dates.”
I suspect he meant arbitrary, however, I let that one slide. GG pours us a few artillery shells, while Sid finishes rolling a joint. She flashes a playful frown that says, “Really? All out in the open?” to which Sid replies by blowing her kiss. She catches it with one hand, rubs her vagina, and sashays to another waiting customer.
Reilly continues, “Sos he’s talkin’, while I’m like why I got dis piss? Fogs is clearin’, but not fast enough. I mean I might not’ve needed to be holding it for fuck’s sake. Then I ‘member Fake Dave was in the bathroom.”
“The Fake Dave?” I ask, “The real Fake Dave?”
“The one and only,” Reilly nods.
Sid taps me on the shoulder. Laws being what they are, it’s necessary to go outside to smoke.
I say, “Hold that thought Reilly.”
“For a beer I might.”
Oddly enough, I don’t feel a need to buy the end of the story. On the way out I can hear Reilly wrapping things up. Tossing words to any ear willing to hear he sits basically talking to himself.
#
Pool balls collide, cracking like thunder. The jukebox sings as if the seventies are alive and well; that era of rock still reigns supreme. A delivery boy arrives carrying several pizzas, and is promptly hogtied, and thrown in the basement – no one feels like paying. Several of the senior lady-regulars slip off to have their way with him, while the rest of us pound beers, and gorge on greasy pizza. A few folks sing along with the jukebox, though they can’t quite remember the lyrics:
“A dull lesson sent pumps into a vat
With a boulder for a shoulder
Feeling kind and colder, I tripped that Mary go down
With her cock teasing, wheezing, and sneezing
{indecipherable}
She was!
Blinded by the light, wrapped up like a douche
In the middle of the fight.
Blinded by the right, warped up like a douche
In the riddle of the night...”
And they keep singing even after the song is over. Bobby and Jennifer decide now is as good a time as any to go over the details of their custody battle, while their kids desperately focus on the television showing New York’s countdown. No illusion about their future, I buy the kids thimbles of whiskey. Sid disappears with GG, and a half hour later the two come back wearing each other’s t-shirts, her tits turning the Motörhead logo into something three double d; only I know better than to make stupid jokes. Mainly because they think no one’s ever seen the two vanish to her battered GTO for a quickie. The secrecy is part of the romance.
Ol’ Davy shouts, “Let the booze flow like blood refilling soldiers in the war against sobriety.”
A few cheer the old poet, “Sláinte, Davy.” He’ll never finish the piece, though he’ll cover a bar napkin in inky murmurs.
It could be any Friday, Saturday, or Tuesday. The only difference is that at midnight silence descends. The septuagenarians emerge from their basement orgy with the bewildered delivery boy. The jukebox karaoke crowd halts their performance. Bob and Jennifer cease fire. Their kids start the countdown, and soon the whole bar is one voice, “Five, four, three, two…” and as the new year approaches I walk outside with a pint. A brief ovation comes muffled through the door.
Lighting a cigarette I can see the sacrificial pyres are now just embers. The red rivers no longer flow, though the stains remain. Even the wreckage from the ghost driven car/catapult vanished at some point. The revelers though, they still dot the streets, shooting fireworks into the sky, adding temporary stars to the night. Brief constellations made of Roman candle ammo offer a new astrology – the promise of a new day. And shuffling out of the dark is a figure in a horned Viking hat. He looks dazed, but not confused. His eyes are set on the door to Mr. G’s. What didn’t kill him made him thirsty, a taste of madness is never enough – it’s time to glut on insanity.
Holding the door open I say, “Glad to see you made it.”
“Me too.”
So a new year begins.
Such thoughts come to mind considering the night ahead. At my buddy Sid’s, the neighbors have painted their faces into colorful calavera, while they kill chickens for the orishas. I offer them a bottle of rum from the freezer. They take it gladly, and I wish them the best of luck.
“Which rum you give them?” Sid asks.
I shrug, “Does it matter?”
Sid says, “Yeah, if you want the offering to mean anything.”
He checks the freezer for what’s missing. Nodding he says, “That’ll do.”
“Since when do you believe in gods?”
He sighs, “Since we need all the help we can get.”
The sentiment seems shared by all this evening. On the stroll to Mr. G’s we pass wild mummeries. The street lamps have all been shot out. Lighting the way are burning pyres covered in various birds. Exsanguinations of goats run red rivers down the gutter. Revelers in phantasmagorical maquillage dance to music blasting out of cars, houses, and nearby bars, a chaotic cacophony of mixed styles blending into a delightful mess. The noise is meant to get the attention of the heavens; and some assist the effort by wearing ornate accoutrements: decorative plastic eyewear, ridiculous elaborate hats, and fake flower leis. Whatever may glance down from above will surely get an eye snagged on the sight below.
A yellow muscle car comes screaming around a corner, the “driver” seated on the roof wearing Viking horns. He opens his mouth to shout something, but the vehicle drifts into a parked pickup. As the two cars disintegrate the “driver” is flung out into the darkness. Everyone cheers. No one checks on him, though a keen ear may’ve detected the sound of snapping branches… or bones. Either he survived, or he belongs to the gods. One more sacrifice to earn us a better tomorrow.
We stepped into Mr. G’s, and joined the worldwide effort, contributing our own sacrificial brain cells, aiming for a global googolplex.
For whatever reason, the owner of Mr. G’s decided to hire a DJ, a young Puerto Rican with a neck tattoo, who plugged his laptop into the stereo system, and proceeded to run a playlist. Sid, unable to stomach electronic music for more than thirty seconds, did his best to remain calm, but forty seconds in started lobbing empty shot glasses at the DJ. The practice caught on, and Regulars eventually rained glasses at the DJ until he fled. I took his laptop, appraised its value, but decided it would be safer to smash it out of existence lest he return.
#
Without prompting Reilly starts a story:
“Someone’s talkin’ like, ‘No one really knows when a new year starts.’ ’nd I’m like, ‘Okay, that’s interesting.’ Noddin’ Ima sippin’ muh beer, I realize ‘s a cup of piss. Literal piss.”
“Literally,” I correct him. Why I have no idea.
“You wanna finish my story?”
Shake my head, “Nope.”
“Right. So liter-rally piss. Happy?”
“Not typically.”
“I’m fucking telling a story,” Reilly says.
“Then finish it,” signaling for a round of shots.
Reilly takes a minute to remember his place, “So this jackhole is yammering about are-bit-tarry , dates.”
I suspect he meant arbitrary, however, I let that one slide. GG pours us a few artillery shells, while Sid finishes rolling a joint. She flashes a playful frown that says, “Really? All out in the open?” to which Sid replies by blowing her kiss. She catches it with one hand, rubs her vagina, and sashays to another waiting customer.
Reilly continues, “Sos he’s talkin’, while I’m like why I got dis piss? Fogs is clearin’, but not fast enough. I mean I might not’ve needed to be holding it for fuck’s sake. Then I ‘member Fake Dave was in the bathroom.”
“The Fake Dave?” I ask, “The real Fake Dave?”
“The one and only,” Reilly nods.
Sid taps me on the shoulder. Laws being what they are, it’s necessary to go outside to smoke.
I say, “Hold that thought Reilly.”
“For a beer I might.”
Oddly enough, I don’t feel a need to buy the end of the story. On the way out I can hear Reilly wrapping things up. Tossing words to any ear willing to hear he sits basically talking to himself.
#
Pool balls collide, cracking like thunder. The jukebox sings as if the seventies are alive and well; that era of rock still reigns supreme. A delivery boy arrives carrying several pizzas, and is promptly hogtied, and thrown in the basement – no one feels like paying. Several of the senior lady-regulars slip off to have their way with him, while the rest of us pound beers, and gorge on greasy pizza. A few folks sing along with the jukebox, though they can’t quite remember the lyrics:
“A dull lesson sent pumps into a vat
With a boulder for a shoulder
Feeling kind and colder, I tripped that Mary go down
With her cock teasing, wheezing, and sneezing
{indecipherable}
She was!
Blinded by the light, wrapped up like a douche
In the middle of the fight.
Blinded by the right, warped up like a douche
In the riddle of the night...”
And they keep singing even after the song is over. Bobby and Jennifer decide now is as good a time as any to go over the details of their custody battle, while their kids desperately focus on the television showing New York’s countdown. No illusion about their future, I buy the kids thimbles of whiskey. Sid disappears with GG, and a half hour later the two come back wearing each other’s t-shirts, her tits turning the Motörhead logo into something three double d; only I know better than to make stupid jokes. Mainly because they think no one’s ever seen the two vanish to her battered GTO for a quickie. The secrecy is part of the romance.
Ol’ Davy shouts, “Let the booze flow like blood refilling soldiers in the war against sobriety.”
A few cheer the old poet, “Sláinte, Davy.” He’ll never finish the piece, though he’ll cover a bar napkin in inky murmurs.
It could be any Friday, Saturday, or Tuesday. The only difference is that at midnight silence descends. The septuagenarians emerge from their basement orgy with the bewildered delivery boy. The jukebox karaoke crowd halts their performance. Bob and Jennifer cease fire. Their kids start the countdown, and soon the whole bar is one voice, “Five, four, three, two…” and as the new year approaches I walk outside with a pint. A brief ovation comes muffled through the door.
Lighting a cigarette I can see the sacrificial pyres are now just embers. The red rivers no longer flow, though the stains remain. Even the wreckage from the ghost driven car/catapult vanished at some point. The revelers though, they still dot the streets, shooting fireworks into the sky, adding temporary stars to the night. Brief constellations made of Roman candle ammo offer a new astrology – the promise of a new day. And shuffling out of the dark is a figure in a horned Viking hat. He looks dazed, but not confused. His eyes are set on the door to Mr. G’s. What didn’t kill him made him thirsty, a taste of madness is never enough – it’s time to glut on insanity.
Holding the door open I say, “Glad to see you made it.”
“Me too.”
So a new year begins.
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