Thursday, July 20, 2006

Tripping Balls

My TRIP:

The smoldering hour of 12:39AM found my plane slamming down on the smarmy tarmac at LAX. The Mexican couple next to me cradling their bundle of joy was on their way to Guadalajara. It was hard to tell if they were from LA or Mexico. I guess it doesn’t really matter, I was home.

I finished reading WIRED and realized I hate that magazine. I always think I’m going to like the MAG but when I read it I always come to the same conclusion: this sucks. It’s like Dominoe’s. Good in theory, sucky in practice. I read it at airports and doctor’s offices. Basically I eyeball their “gadgets” page, secretly lying to myself about which time-waster I’m going to buy next. I never do, mainly ‘cuz I never need the over-priced Sharper-Image shit they hawk.

Wired articles are about as interesting as watching scotch tape go bad. The lead article was, “Two types of Genius. Which type are you?” I thumbed directly to the report to see if they listed my brand of lazy, cantankerous acrimony there. I didn’t see myself. The Professor’s lifetime of research culminated in an idea: there are two types of genius: the kind that burn red hot and blow up like Orson Welles, and the kind that stick around so long that they finally wear everyone down like Mark Twain. A sort of genius by water-torture. Well blow me down Olive Oil. What a discovery, like no one thought of that before. Was he smoking weed and playing Sim City when he came up with that? What about the underdiscovered geniuses? Most of the poor sand dabs reading this article, including the KingUnderPin writing it.

There was also an article about how Rupert Murdoch had bought out My Space. Great. The old salamander mucked around in the dark with NEO Cons and Swillary Clinton long enough to buy more teenage crap. Have another picture taken. Needless to say, I didn’t want to read it. WIRED sucks. It’s for geek-wannabe’s. The type of idiot who confuses metrosexuality with Geekiness. Just because you’re a dork, doesn’t mean you’re a geek, Mr. Bojangles. These guys think they’re techno-savvy because they use a Mac. I hate it. Every time I hear some yokel launch into the MAC bullshit, I just think, “There goes another one. The shit’s expensive so he figures it must be good.” Go buy a Saab you pretentious flounder fucker. Very few of the sexually-frustrated drones called people actually know anything about computers. Yours truly included.

Anyways, I was on a return flight from a stay (of execution) with my family. The itinerary follows:

FRI night: 11PM

My friends and I assaulted a Korean BBQ restaurant off of Western. I had traveled there with My Girl and her very hot Girlfriend. Both black. Both loud. Both indescribably sexy. Tiny shirts and big cans and singing trashy seventies-sex-disco. By the time I got to the BBQ joint, my guts felt like they’d been sitting on the grill for hours. I don’t drink, so I had to lose my mind on the meat. I ate marinated everything. In fistfuls, sputtering curse words in between kim-chi gulps and dirty jokes. AT 12AM I realized that I had to get up at 4 AM to make the flight. I’m not even drunk but early morning regret has set in.

SAT: 3:48 AM

My scorched eyes crack open before the alarm goes off. My belly feels like a slave ship trying to make the middle passage: full of hot sweaty meat and entrails slowly turning in cramped compartments.

I get up because that’s what I do. I get up. Morning, noon, and night, the first order of business is always getting up. If you can’t get up, then you might as well flick it in and watch the Price is Right reruns until neutered dogs come down from the Holy Whiteness and swoop you up in a vanilla chariot.

(I hope the shower can trick my eyes into thinking I’ve had 8 hours.)

I walk my girl’s dog in the dark. As awful as I feel, I hate pissing in the house even more. If I smoked, I’d be smoking right about now. At this time in the morning, I walk aggressively. The Drag Queens and Spitfires are just leaving the clubs and they love strangers in the dark. I don’t go that way and I want them to know it before they get close. I hope the dog will scare the homosexuals away: ironically My Girl’s dog is gay too. Just as I picked up the dog’s shit in a plastic home depot bag (becoming acquainted once again with its moist heat) I almost racked my face on the biggest blackest spider I have ever seen. GOD was looking out for me because I just happened to see the spider web right before I hit it. It had caught the crystalline glare of the indifferent street light—I was saved. The hard-backed motherfucker was spinning the damn thing in front of me. He looked like a poison bubble with legs. The web stretched across the entire side walk. I left him alone to let some other MoJo-Potato Biter make it his business. I hate spiders.

On the way to the airport I snag a coke zero and my Sirius radio.

I slide through the airport like one of them little wood-elves in a Swiss clock. Perfect timing all the way. I am the Baryshnikov of airport ballet. I have a few minutes before I board the flying tube, but by now guts already have momentum and sleep is out of the question. Even the Starbucks slab-sticks aren’t here yet, so I have to go over to the generic stand called Java-Java. Sometimes repetition is an expression of art, sometimes it’s a lack of creativity. In the case of their coffee, it was the latter.

The plane was jammed to the gills. Crying kids and confused old people. Both ends of the spectrum were represented.

I arrived at Sea-Tac and the wet, green, grass told me it was cold. That’s when I realized I had forgotten a jacket. Fuck it. Too late now. I’m heading to Sequim which is supposedly warmer than anywhere else in Western Washington. They call it the Banana Belt. Although, it seems to rain just as much in Sequim as it does in Seattle. Sequim is the town near the area of my ancestors: the Jamestown S’Klallam. I’m here to visit my Dad, my step mom, and my sister…only, my dad’s lawyer buddies are in town and they got bottles of scotch to burn. I’m supposed to hang with them at the Lavender Festival. This mixture of scotch, blistering ego, and gay ass lavender creates an unstable compound. Things go awry. Mayhem lurks below. Ugliness is the order of the day and while the sun sets, treachery bares his grizzly fangs….to be continued…

2 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

more more more sings Andrea True how do you like it how do you like it...does your sexy girlfriend sing a porn queen's disco song? I am bought in...cannot wait to hear how lavendar-scottch swill can chill a banana belt visit home. And without your jacket. Ugliness mayhem grizzly fangs. Place gonna get raided. OAB

7:52 PM

 
Blogger MAC COCAINE said...

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8:20 PM

 

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