With Just a Splash of Coke

What does one do when the mind works and works? Those times when it simply will not stop? Breakdowns are unseemly and so motherfucking trendy just now. The whiskey helps once and again. Then again it doesn’t really but the thought that it might equals justification. .. Aye, let us justify…

The odd homesickness has taken hold like a brother-in-law. It is making phantom long distance calls and drinking all my booze. And I don’t recall inviting it. Homesick for what I wonder. The trash-lined streets? The full-blown—nearly comical—racial divisions? The close-mindedness? The backwoods, good ol’ boy mentality? I can’t fathom missing what I loathed for decades.

Then again, home is home. And there were niceties along the long way. There was Joe’s Underground, Vallarta’s, Friday’s, The Fox’s Lair. Downtown was emerging and has since thrived. There was a time when I had a crew. The past eight years though, my audience has consisted of two cats.

….Paris let my number slip and I am some kind of pissed. I’ll call you. We’ll go to Switzerland. We’ll bathe in the hot springs and thumb wrestle until dawn. Ever smoke hash in Amsterdam? But she never called. And now I’ve gone the way of Vince Vaughn. My number is posted to the Web; twenty or two hundred young things calling me at all hours of the night. Hey, I hear you’re hot! But what are you gonna do? Yeah, I’m hot, Baby. But I’m really tired and I have to take Emerson to daycare in a couple hours. Are you at least fourteen?....

I’ll help Uncle G. move his stuff to a storage unit on Saturday. It makes me sad that he is sad. Oh but the lessons we learn and then relearn and finally unlearn. Those fucking twenties! Man, were they ever brutal. I’d sooner revisit puberty. In a poodle skirt. And a tube top.

I think it’s time to bury my face in my hands and feign sleep.

I hope I remember to take out my contacts. They aren’t Whoopi Goldberg blue, but they still hurt if you leave them in too long.

Sigh.