Hard Charging Fool

When the drug hits the vein the strut becomes more pronounced…a gliding walk that is aided by the breeze floating through downtown. They can see the reflection in the silver spoon that was previously shined by their tongues. “I’ll show you the world tonight babe. We can see it. We all can see it.” Who says that?

I like the reflection of the beaded water after a summer rain with the neon sign showing through each drop and the prism of color cast into the night air. We all look at our reflections, admiring the selected threads, in the tinted glass with the electro-funk music emanating out into the line, beating with the rhythm of our hearts. The bass brings you to life. Everybody pays cover here. Some wallets are heavier than others, but apparently tonight we’re going to see the world.

I observe a messy Kleenex with spires of blood...”wait...this is one of my favorite songs...”

“...and it’s hard to believe the mess you’re creating. With your triggers and trash heaps, hidden and waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey.”

There’s no power of refrain on the lips of the children tonight. It is hard to believe. I don’t seem to care, no one does. The only thing on my lips is Bulleit Bourbon and it tastes mighty fine this evening. It’s a nice compliment to the Vicadin I visited with earlier. They slow-dance together in my belly, and their vibes send a sense of calm throughout my bloodstream and into my limbs. Stop my anxiety and the restlessness that is ever-apparent in a moment of sobriety.

Swaggering over are the bad boys and the bad girls. Swing-rope diving into whatever river of decadence was chosen somewhere in the neighborhood of 6:30pm to 8:30pm, when Sprint, Cingular, and Verizon digitally carried plans from one hipster’s ear to the next. Some perfected gesture of hand-shake is given and topical conversation is exchanged. A girl looks at me. Then looks at my friend. Then looks at me again. The look. I know that look. She’s a blonde though. I like brunettes. Whatever. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. I’m sure she’s bored. Or I’m sure she’s boring. They always are.

Next song comes on. I don’t much like this one but for the mood it’s about par.

“...life is just a lonely highway. I’m out here on the open road. I’m old enough to see behind me, but young enough to feel my soul. I don’t wanna lose you baby, and I don’t wanna be alone. Don’t wanna live my days without you, but for now I’ve got to be without ya...I’ve got a pocket full of money, and a pocket full of keys that have no bounds. But then I think of lovin'...”

Geez...play something else.

Fuck it. “What’s your name? Oh yeah? Is your last name Sarandon? It would be much cooler if it were. YOU would be much cooler if it were. What are you drinking?”

What lies outside these walls is none of our concern. We’re twisted. We’re suspended. I think to bring up the important matters that I wanted to share with my friends, but hell...would it matter? No. I can’t stop staring at the girl in the sundress in the corner. Maybe she has some answers, or would like to hear those that I can offer. Maybe she’s not crazier than a boiled barn owl. She probably is though. They always start out normal. Much to my disappointment...well, it ends up quite different. It seems my friends have retreated to the bathroom…yet again. I’ll have a cigarette.

‘Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse?????’ I fucking love this song...who the hell played this fucking obscurity? I’m buying that kid a drink.

“...heeeeeeeeyyyy, let’s cross the sea and get some culture. Red wiiiiiiiiiiine with every meal, and absinthe after dinner. We look good side by side...walking back to the hotel. We’ve got to get something to eat and to drink yeah. We’ll find a place to stay that’s not far off the main way...we’ve got to plan our day...Rodin at the Orsay...and find a way to cram it all in before we drink hard again...let’s get a bottle and drink alone tonight.”

“Yo, have you heard that new Arcade Fire album?” “It’s pretty fucking cool. Where’d you guys go? Oh right.” Our vision as a collective is getting more rotten. Not just visual vision. Pathological vision is getting worse. In fact, if we were in an open field in Europe during the war with a Browning .30-ault-6, we’d be sawed down. We can’t see past our own noses right now. Could we ever though? I’m not sure that we could. Then it hits me. BAM!! Fucking psychosomatic distress. The brain shifts into high gear, and starts hurling violent vibrations down my spine. A pretty fucking large existential crisis starts churning behind my eyes. It always does at this point. Oh shit...we’re the middle children of history (sound familiar?). We’re likely unfortunate parallels to The Sun Also Rises. If Pete Townshend were here, I’d kill him. *Shit I had to get drunk just to write whatever this is* Smile though, don’t let them know what is going...wait, wait, wait, go have a cigarette.

That “Young Folks” song is still a fucking jam. It’s bringing me back to normalcy. Youth and young love. We stare at each other. Boys at girls, girls at boys, boys at boys, girls at girls, with hypothetical fingers crossed hoping that we intersect tonight with someone who carries with them the bucket of butterflies that our stomachs are so ready to ingest. Make me want you. We’ll flash that ever present sequence of events in our drunk, blurry heads thinking “insert YOU into such and such vision I’ve had of the perfect so and so.”

“...no one will surprise me unless you do...”

“So have you done any traveling? That’s awesome. Yeah, I’m actually going to blah in blah. I’m going with two of my blahs. It should be a blahtty, fucking blah. I KNOW!! Life’s too short to sit around and not see the blah. I think it’s so awesome that you’ve blah. So what do you do? That sounds blah. How’d you get into blah? I have a blah who blahs...small blah.”

What????

Another cigarette. Someone has a camera. This is the interestingly unique time when we do things that wouldn’t normally cross a mind of sobriety. Because who loves it better than to look over these digital images the next morning and say things like, “MAN, shit got crazy last night. You remember this girl? Wait *clicking through* remember this one? Remember what she TOLD ME? HAHAHA!! I KNOW!! Fuck man...what was her name? She told you that too??? What a crazy bitch!!! Myspace worthy? This girl was awesome...remember her? Who talked to her most of the night? I thought she was pretty cool...I talked to her for awhile. And who’s THIS dude. He just stumbled over and started throwing up gang signs in our pics?!?! What a douche. HAHAHA!!!”

We lose one of our party to a fight. They’re too busy sorting it out with the significant other. After a 45 minute text message skirmish, they have conceded and lost the battle, BUT hopefully they’ll win the war. I close out their tab for them. “Good luck with that. Hey be careful...holla at me tomorrow.”

Wow, fucking clink the beers, it’s that car commercial song...

“...see me driving down the street. I’m bored with looking good. I’ve got both hands off the wheel. The cops are coming. I’m listening to the music with no fear. You can hear it too if you’re sincere...cause I’m a...”

*Screaming* “You know this is Iggy Pop right???” “Yeah he does vocals for this song.”






In youth, there are moments that we strive for. With youthful integrity we hold onto ideals and dreams with a death grip. The sad part is that many of us have to watch them die before our eyes. The thing that is our ultimate hope is that we can hold onto those ideals and dreams with our youthfulness and somehow collide with maturity enough to see them to fruition. But mostly we watch them die. We are the kings and queens of modern society. Our cares are minute, comparatively. Only to be born in another nation. Our mothers would mean more.

Bad boy lines up and boots the game winning field goal sending me home. Fucker always wins doesn’t he? I blink and you’re gone.

Not this time. I’m convinced...slow and steady wins the race.

I love my friend’s stories. He’s a lot like me. Too much like me. Because he is me.