I have a greeting card that I mean to send to someone but always forget...it's one of those where an old 1950's picture has an out-of-context caption. A pie is being pulled out of the oven, the baker clearly showing off her goods to someone else, and it says "Funny, I don't remember asking your opinion."
If you ever get through this stage of life (and maybe you have) there are folks who have been down that road before, and they dispense advice. Some of it is noteworthy, but more often than not it's re-assuring. That's really what anyone needs. But then there are others, desperate for a new life, who would love to take over yours. They'd like you to know what they would do if they were you. Because you'd immediately do it, right? You'd take unsolicited "advice" and just run with it?
We shun man-made tripe around these parts...either with un-returned messages or polite smiles and then we leave the area. It's because in a world that we let become complex, I continue to crave simplicity.
All we were doing was sitting in a park. There were cares, of course, but we knew it was a window with no cares...and we just laid out there. Under a tree. And we looked up...and that was it.
"Look at all this stuff up there. What do you think of all this? That's a pretty big tree. You know, sometime soon, you and me will plant a tree. And you'll get bigger. And you'll start to think that the tree will never get as big as you. Then one day you'll come home and see the tree is much bigger than you. Someone did that when I was young, and you can do it. Isn't it nice they did that? We get to sit under this big tree."
This description was met with odd vocal sounds, hopping legs, and giggles. I can only hope she understood what she can considering the circumstances. We saw the doggies...we saw butterflies...sitting in the shade. I couldn't ask for much more without it becoming complicated and expensive. Too busy living it up to wonder what people think we "should be doing" today.
And hell, I got a t-shirt from Smiley that said I'm more fun when I'm drunk.
When you're in Dealville, it's all about finding gold as you know. But it's what you do with it that makes the difference.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Thursday, May 02, 2013
And the hits just keep on comin'
I was there in Hollywood on Tuesday to see the sun break through clouds and shine down on Shotgun Tom Kelly as he received a star on the Walk of Fame. In a long radio career, it was another validation of his success. And yet I couldn't help but think that this would be the last star on the walk of fame for any radio talent.
There were days were a personality would entertain you between songs, and the talent and style ran the gamut. If they were good enough, you stayed listening to the station even if the song playing was not your favorite. But that style and theory left the business long ago. When the Telecommunications Act of 1996 went into effect, and the corporations began buying stations at a furious pace, they realized staff would have to be reduced to turn a profit. The most expensive staff at a station is the air talent...one of the two main reasons a person would listen to a station.
Of course, listeners would tune in for the music as well, but without the personality you're left with just a song. Said corporations would run study after study to find what songs were recognizable to play it safe. All the while, on-air talent had two choices: try to go elsewhere and suffer the same fate, or watch the actual talk time reduced to 30 seconds before an 8-10 minute ad break. "Stay tuned! I've got Van Morrison and Chicago coming up next!"
Time marches on, and now it's 2013. You have a generation who's had no need to listen to the radio to hear the songs they like...the airwaves cluttered with stations playing the same songs they did a decade ago just to keep those who remember radio (hint: 30+) around. It's the bed congress and the corporations made for themselves, a mattress of diminishing returns.
But what of the talent? The jocks? Some went into other forms of entertainment. Some went into production. Some, voice-overs. (The "celebrity voice" trend of ads makes it harder to find work) But many were there to salute Shotgun, exchange pleasantries, but really talk of the old days. Yes, I was successful, it really worked out. Thanks a lot. Now...well, I've got a few things I'm working on but...
It was Shotgun's day, though, and it was celebrated in his style. We dined on hot dogs and toasted a man who just wanted to play the hits. He's been doing it for decades...and instead of grandiose dreams of others (some realized, some not) he has an afternoon drive shift, a top floor apartment, frequent trips to Hawaii and a lifetime of memories. THAT is success in broadcasting by anyone's measure...and it's Solid Gold.
There were days were a personality would entertain you between songs, and the talent and style ran the gamut. If they were good enough, you stayed listening to the station even if the song playing was not your favorite. But that style and theory left the business long ago. When the Telecommunications Act of 1996 went into effect, and the corporations began buying stations at a furious pace, they realized staff would have to be reduced to turn a profit. The most expensive staff at a station is the air talent...one of the two main reasons a person would listen to a station.
Of course, listeners would tune in for the music as well, but without the personality you're left with just a song. Said corporations would run study after study to find what songs were recognizable to play it safe. All the while, on-air talent had two choices: try to go elsewhere and suffer the same fate, or watch the actual talk time reduced to 30 seconds before an 8-10 minute ad break. "Stay tuned! I've got Van Morrison and Chicago coming up next!"
Time marches on, and now it's 2013. You have a generation who's had no need to listen to the radio to hear the songs they like...the airwaves cluttered with stations playing the same songs they did a decade ago just to keep those who remember radio (hint: 30+) around. It's the bed congress and the corporations made for themselves, a mattress of diminishing returns.
But what of the talent? The jocks? Some went into other forms of entertainment. Some went into production. Some, voice-overs. (The "celebrity voice" trend of ads makes it harder to find work) But many were there to salute Shotgun, exchange pleasantries, but really talk of the old days. Yes, I was successful, it really worked out. Thanks a lot. Now...well, I've got a few things I'm working on but...
It was Shotgun's day, though, and it was celebrated in his style. We dined on hot dogs and toasted a man who just wanted to play the hits. He's been doing it for decades...and instead of grandiose dreams of others (some realized, some not) he has an afternoon drive shift, a top floor apartment, frequent trips to Hawaii and a lifetime of memories. THAT is success in broadcasting by anyone's measure...and it's Solid Gold.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Aged give or take half a century
One of the complete surprises from the Thanksgiving Las Vegas swing was a liquor treasure chest. Folks from the North Country were on their way, and pounding the bottle is a common way to mask the pain. Preparing for the visitors meant taking stock of Big Ed's inventory...and even he had to admit he knew little of what he owned.
To everyone's surprise, the doors opened to show dozens of bottles of varying age. With wonder matching that of a junior high school-er opening dad's liquor cabinet for the first time, we examined the booty. Some bottles had sealed shut. Some had cracked, with mysterious shrapnel inside. We didn't lose hope, though, because each bottle became a comedic defense by Big Ed not knowing or remembering why he'd own such elixirs. Then, out of nowhere, this gem presented itself:
.JPG)
That's an unopened bottle of Chivas Regal, with a TAX STAMP. I'm old enough to remember when liquor bottles of all sizes had these red stickers. Then we view the tax stamp:
1966
Everyone was stunned, and even I had to ask: at some point, Big Ed (or someone) purchased this bottle. This bottle sat in his cabinet as he moved multiple times. It made the trip over a decade ago to Las Vegas. Packed and brought along because...he might need it for parties. It remained, and when I was asked if I wanted to take it home with me, the answer was swift.
Consuming it was another matter. It is a spirit...but does it go bad? (No, it doesn't) Does the extra age increase its value? (Apparently not: this isn't wine) Is it worth anything? (No takers) Well, I guess I'll just have to drink it.
Is it a special occasion thought bouncing around my brain, or casual nervousness? Whatever the case, I waited a handful of months until I decided to go for it.
.JPG)
Opening this sucker was not the easiest task...but with some prodding, it accepted its fate. A sniff test produced the expected: yeah, it's Chivas. Smells right. Color is fine. Nothing has settled. Into the glass...let the cubes cool it down. The taste?
It tasted...a bit thin. I wondered if, over time, it weakened. A quick glance at my report card shows that I enjoyed Consumer Chemistry in high school, but they don't grade on the chemicals I enjoy, so that was of no help as the glass was finished with ease. I ate some Cheetos and realized that I might as well have another. Poured #2, and it was a much smoother affair. Maybe things did settle somehow, someway. But over time, glass two was finished, and I was starting to think I was a better drinker at my age than I--
SLAP
"Good evening! My name is Chivas Regal, and I'm sorry it took me so long. I was stuck in this bottle forever. I am a genie of happiness and joy. Well, well...it appears you hit this pond a bit quick. This time it's my fault. I was asleep. Do you feel it now? Haha! I bet you do. Isn't that enjoyable? It's enjoyable for me, too. Thank you for bringing me back to life."
This conversation ended once Smiley came home, but even she couldn't detect what just occurred: this old friend was woken from a decades-long slumber, and it was ready to party. Every occasion is the right occasion as long as there's moisture in the bottle.
To everyone's surprise, the doors opened to show dozens of bottles of varying age. With wonder matching that of a junior high school-er opening dad's liquor cabinet for the first time, we examined the booty. Some bottles had sealed shut. Some had cracked, with mysterious shrapnel inside. We didn't lose hope, though, because each bottle became a comedic defense by Big Ed not knowing or remembering why he'd own such elixirs. Then, out of nowhere, this gem presented itself:
.JPG)
That's an unopened bottle of Chivas Regal, with a TAX STAMP. I'm old enough to remember when liquor bottles of all sizes had these red stickers. Then we view the tax stamp:
1966
Everyone was stunned, and even I had to ask: at some point, Big Ed (or someone) purchased this bottle. This bottle sat in his cabinet as he moved multiple times. It made the trip over a decade ago to Las Vegas. Packed and brought along because...he might need it for parties. It remained, and when I was asked if I wanted to take it home with me, the answer was swift.
Consuming it was another matter. It is a spirit...but does it go bad? (No, it doesn't) Does the extra age increase its value? (Apparently not: this isn't wine) Is it worth anything? (No takers) Well, I guess I'll just have to drink it.
Is it a special occasion thought bouncing around my brain, or casual nervousness? Whatever the case, I waited a handful of months until I decided to go for it.
.JPG)
Opening this sucker was not the easiest task...but with some prodding, it accepted its fate. A sniff test produced the expected: yeah, it's Chivas. Smells right. Color is fine. Nothing has settled. Into the glass...let the cubes cool it down. The taste?
It tasted...a bit thin. I wondered if, over time, it weakened. A quick glance at my report card shows that I enjoyed Consumer Chemistry in high school, but they don't grade on the chemicals I enjoy, so that was of no help as the glass was finished with ease. I ate some Cheetos and realized that I might as well have another. Poured #2, and it was a much smoother affair. Maybe things did settle somehow, someway. But over time, glass two was finished, and I was starting to think I was a better drinker at my age than I--
SLAP
"Good evening! My name is Chivas Regal, and I'm sorry it took me so long. I was stuck in this bottle forever. I am a genie of happiness and joy. Well, well...it appears you hit this pond a bit quick. This time it's my fault. I was asleep. Do you feel it now? Haha! I bet you do. Isn't that enjoyable? It's enjoyable for me, too. Thank you for bringing me back to life."
This conversation ended once Smiley came home, but even she couldn't detect what just occurred: this old friend was woken from a decades-long slumber, and it was ready to party. Every occasion is the right occasion as long as there's moisture in the bottle.
Thursday, March 07, 2013
The Heart of Beverly Hills
Lunchtime. The sun shines, though a bit breezy, but it isn't stopping anyone. Even at work, they are dressed differently...dressed to make deals because of the location. Dressed to make you notice how they're dressed. Everyone except me, of course. But don't let that distract you (or them)...I'm a tourist from Sacramento for all they know. Just walking around.
"...was some show they're trying sell internationally, and..."
"...you have to send me that when you get back to work so I can look..."
"...did you hear that cab driver? He said "hope to see you again." Uh...no."
These aren't the grinders at the office park, heading en masse to Quiznos with coupons, wearing the same shirts. There are Bentleys, Rolls Royces, and even an old Camero. This is where deals are made, and they arrive each day in force. As an epicenter, it is an enjoyable show. What makes it even better is the attempts by everyone at making it look effortless. Hey, this is just our life. This is normal.
"OK...this is totally top secret; I shouldn't let this out. So, the script they're..."
"I've got one date at 7, and then another at 9:30...I know, I'm so bad."
Could these quotes happen anywhere? Maybe, though it would be a different setting. A backlot, or swanky restaurant. But the people (for the most part)? Yeah, they don't make these people where I grew up. That woman with the skirt that ends juuuuust below her rump? Of course she got out of that Maserati. The next table over? Don't question their tactics. They wouldn't be there by accident.
And then there's a roughed up Saturn. A wide collar, shades, and unmanageable hair. A laugh that, when spontaneous, is likely a bit too loud. The conversation can be about deals, but it can also be about Foosball. This dish cost $30? Fuck this place...we'll go the other Italian place. No, the other one...next to that one.
The conversation stopped when I sat down. Not because I don't belong, but that they were surprised to see that I do belong. What does it matter? There's a place at the table now. As I look at the freaks, the gems, the models, the dunces, and the gold? I fit in there somewhere. I could step up some material things, but the bell-bottoms? Sorry, they stay.
"...was some show they're trying sell internationally, and..."
"...you have to send me that when you get back to work so I can look..."
"...did you hear that cab driver? He said "hope to see you again." Uh...no."
These aren't the grinders at the office park, heading en masse to Quiznos with coupons, wearing the same shirts. There are Bentleys, Rolls Royces, and even an old Camero. This is where deals are made, and they arrive each day in force. As an epicenter, it is an enjoyable show. What makes it even better is the attempts by everyone at making it look effortless. Hey, this is just our life. This is normal.
"OK...this is totally top secret; I shouldn't let this out. So, the script they're..."
"I've got one date at 7, and then another at 9:30...I know, I'm so bad."
Could these quotes happen anywhere? Maybe, though it would be a different setting. A backlot, or swanky restaurant. But the people (for the most part)? Yeah, they don't make these people where I grew up. That woman with the skirt that ends juuuuust below her rump? Of course she got out of that Maserati. The next table over? Don't question their tactics. They wouldn't be there by accident.
And then there's a roughed up Saturn. A wide collar, shades, and unmanageable hair. A laugh that, when spontaneous, is likely a bit too loud. The conversation can be about deals, but it can also be about Foosball. This dish cost $30? Fuck this place...we'll go the other Italian place. No, the other one...next to that one.
The conversation stopped when I sat down. Not because I don't belong, but that they were surprised to see that I do belong. What does it matter? There's a place at the table now. As I look at the freaks, the gems, the models, the dunces, and the gold? I fit in there somewhere. I could step up some material things, but the bell-bottoms? Sorry, they stay.
Thursday, February 07, 2013
The Lion That Roared
The personalities that surrounded me were either indifferent or mirroring the weather: glum. Glum Glummington: The kind of thing where it's hard to find any get up and git. I'm a dealmaker, so I can't say I boogie to that, uh...ideal.
What's this? We're making the turn back to studio life and some of those surrounding the current zone don't like it? Of course not - it's change, and the adjustments these folks take at this aspect in life is their own while watching others move...who gives a fuck? The check is gonna clear, the doctor said I was healthy, and the changes that are happening to me, made by me, are all gold.
Then I was writing Dr. Gold an e mail and I wrote a sentence describing what I was had to do this weekend. (I neglected to include things like drink alcohol and check the lines for the Big Sky, but this would be redundant) I almost sent my own reaction because those are the moments, not when you're in the thick of it, but a random brain separation almost knocks you over. It's happened to me before (good and bad, mostly good) and I'm sure it's happened to you, too. If you stopped and looked backward with any regularity, everything you did that was different from before would seem "odd" or "a cautionary moment." But those of us in Dealville don't live life that way - we move forward. Onward.
There are people who spend time on a daily basis using phrases such as "When I worked at..." "Back in the '90s, I used to" "I remember when you used to have to" They are wading in the pool. We nod, smile, politely bullshit with "That must have been something" and shake our heads when we leave.
As such, we gotta a lot to do: move shit, assemble it, and begin anew...but this isn't starting over. 2013 means staring these deals for the first time.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
"The Record" that (seemingly) made all other Records
LA hardcore band Fear released their first album, The Record, in 1982. It is a culmination of their previous years' hard work in punk clubs all over the place. Their performance on Saturday Night Live on Halloween, 1981, continued to push them toward the forefront of what was left of the general population's interests in punk at that time.
The list of songs are, classically, hilarious in title alone. "I Don't Care About You" and "We Destroy The Family" are just the tip of the iceberg. It seemed, however, that the band was destined to be a one-album wonder. Members were interchanging with other bands (Flea had a cup of coffee as the bass player) and lead singer Lee Ving's acting career was taking off. Whether due to record company contracts or boredom, the band released More Beer in 1985. With Lee still fronting the band it is unmistakably Fear upon listening, but not at the heights of the previous album. I can't imagine (nor will I try) to guess what it was like for hardcore punk bands trying to not only release a record but tour in the mid-80's. Couldn't have been easy. But at the time of More Beer, Lee's acting career in full swing (he's in Clue as well as guest starring in two series in '85, a damn good showing for a punk singer a few years back). So, is this the end for Fear? Moreover, is it any kind of a telling sign that More Beer also included I Love Living in the City, a track from The Record?
The reason I bring this up is that Fear (Lee Ving and 3 other people) are the musicians in The Fear Record, Fear's "newest" album...inasmuch it's a re-recording of that famous debut. All the songs are here with Ving naturally sounding even more grizzled (which is good) and a much cleaner sound (which is not good). Another aspect: lyrics changed. Some of these things can continue to be made fun of...the Wilcox Hotel being one of them. But the filthy, raw edge of Fear slaying everything in society and confused meatheads taking them seriously is cleaned up here. Is that political correctness, or is it cherry picking to please someone?
Lee might be bored...he might need cash...or he might have simply wanted to record the same songs all over again and you can just eat shit. Maybe Lee still gets the Fear vibe in his brain but abandons the thought for a genuine comeback. It's not as though this is a unique phenomenon...look at any state fair: you find bands from the 1970's & 80's just churning out their greatest hits. The audience gets just what they're looking for, the band gets a nice check, and on it goes.
(And even if Lee didn't think they were a punk band but more what concert-goers expected a punk band to be, or whatever)...punk bands do this too, but when you know their ethics and mantra back then, it is a little off-putting years later. Your writer can quote Ms. Cervenka of X when she famously said "There's going to come a point when people say 'sure, they're desperate. I just paid $6 to see them.'" Well, even with the handy inflation calculator, $6 is $14.62 now...not $45, which was the ticket price to an X reunion show last decade.
So, is this kind of music truly of youth, or is that what we as listeners and fans remember? Just as comedians who drag their old jokes out of the mothballs are greeted with sighs, musicians re-recording their own songs is a curious plea for attention. Punk music just seems different, which it is: music created and reflected in its times. By making a "2.0" version of the original product, it continues the marginalization: a move you wouldn't expect from one of the genre's greats. Then again, if I said this to Lee, he'd just tell me to fuck off...and everything would be all right.
The list of songs are, classically, hilarious in title alone. "I Don't Care About You" and "We Destroy The Family" are just the tip of the iceberg. It seemed, however, that the band was destined to be a one-album wonder. Members were interchanging with other bands (Flea had a cup of coffee as the bass player) and lead singer Lee Ving's acting career was taking off. Whether due to record company contracts or boredom, the band released More Beer in 1985. With Lee still fronting the band it is unmistakably Fear upon listening, but not at the heights of the previous album. I can't imagine (nor will I try) to guess what it was like for hardcore punk bands trying to not only release a record but tour in the mid-80's. Couldn't have been easy. But at the time of More Beer, Lee's acting career in full swing (he's in Clue as well as guest starring in two series in '85, a damn good showing for a punk singer a few years back). So, is this the end for Fear? Moreover, is it any kind of a telling sign that More Beer also included I Love Living in the City, a track from The Record?
The reason I bring this up is that Fear (Lee Ving and 3 other people) are the musicians in The Fear Record, Fear's "newest" album...inasmuch it's a re-recording of that famous debut. All the songs are here with Ving naturally sounding even more grizzled (which is good) and a much cleaner sound (which is not good). Another aspect: lyrics changed. Some of these things can continue to be made fun of...the Wilcox Hotel being one of them. But the filthy, raw edge of Fear slaying everything in society and confused meatheads taking them seriously is cleaned up here. Is that political correctness, or is it cherry picking to please someone?
Lee might be bored...he might need cash...or he might have simply wanted to record the same songs all over again and you can just eat shit. Maybe Lee still gets the Fear vibe in his brain but abandons the thought for a genuine comeback. It's not as though this is a unique phenomenon...look at any state fair: you find bands from the 1970's & 80's just churning out their greatest hits. The audience gets just what they're looking for, the band gets a nice check, and on it goes.
(And even if Lee didn't think they were a punk band but more what concert-goers expected a punk band to be, or whatever)...punk bands do this too, but when you know their ethics and mantra back then, it is a little off-putting years later. Your writer can quote Ms. Cervenka of X when she famously said "There's going to come a point when people say 'sure, they're desperate. I just paid $6 to see them.'" Well, even with the handy inflation calculator, $6 is $14.62 now...not $45, which was the ticket price to an X reunion show last decade.
So, is this kind of music truly of youth, or is that what we as listeners and fans remember? Just as comedians who drag their old jokes out of the mothballs are greeted with sighs, musicians re-recording their own songs is a curious plea for attention. Punk music just seems different, which it is: music created and reflected in its times. By making a "2.0" version of the original product, it continues the marginalization: a move you wouldn't expect from one of the genre's greats. Then again, if I said this to Lee, he'd just tell me to fuck off...and everything would be all right.
Monday, December 10, 2012
So you want to bowl 5 games in 2 hours
Interesting choice. If you make that decision, here is the outcome:
Friday, 6:15PM
On the drive home, you notice your left knee is sore, but it is brushed off due to it being the end of the work week. It's also been a week of driving, and long periods in the car are not to your (or anyone's) benefit.
Friday, 9:45PM (approximate)
Sitting inside a movie theater, you see James Bond being told he's missed a step. You sympathize with 007, but you feel a jolt of energy in your legs. I bet you could bowl another 5 games! Such exercise is needed, or something...hey, how old is this carpet in here?
Saturday, 10:12AM
You're awake: no problem there. It's when you roll out of bed - it appears that "lumbering" will be your method of transportation today. Each step is deliberate. You attempt to keep your normal pace, but your lady can tell something is up. A hearty breakfast makes you realize, while eating, that your wrist doesn't hurt. That's because when it comes to the roll, you know what you're doing.
Saturday, 11:26AM
Well, that "nice, long shower" felt comfortable but did nothing for your condition. Keep fighting it. Walk it off. Going up and down the stairs multiple times makes you wonder how it occurs without effort on a daily basis. Someone asked if you "stretched" but isn't that like asking a drunk "Did you pace yourself?"
Saturday, 6:12PM
When crossing Wilshire Blvd. along Beverly Drive, you're given roughly 30 seconds. This should be no problem at even the most leisurely pace. Today, however, you pay particular notice to each car turning west. You'll make it, but...hey - look, someone is walking a dog. What's going on, pup?
Sunday, 9:52AM
Things seem better at first glance, but movements are still pained. A memory comes from out of nowhere to your brain: you have finished playing catch with a family friend in your childhood. You are told that you're lucky: you aren't sore after doing a workout. But this was no workout - this was a Christmas party with free booze...that is until you saw someone openly cough uncovered on a pitcher of beer. It was dry from then on. At least you don't have a cold.
Sunday, 7:23PM
Now we're getting somewhere. You're on glass 3 of Sangria, people are laughing, and you're sitting on the floor. Sure, getting up looks like a TV tray trying to walk on its own, but at least it doesn't hurt. The key is drugs...why haven't you taken those wonderful pills? If there's a pill that can make you or your surroundings better, why not take it?
Monday, 8:04AM
Shit, why are my shoes so far away? Seriously, where are those pills? Summoning the ghost of Belushi...help me.
Monday, 12:16PM
How was my weekend? Oh, it was fantastic. Had a lot of fun. Wished it would never end. Could you hold that door open for an old man?
Friday, 6:15PM
On the drive home, you notice your left knee is sore, but it is brushed off due to it being the end of the work week. It's also been a week of driving, and long periods in the car are not to your (or anyone's) benefit.
Friday, 9:45PM (approximate)
Sitting inside a movie theater, you see James Bond being told he's missed a step. You sympathize with 007, but you feel a jolt of energy in your legs. I bet you could bowl another 5 games! Such exercise is needed, or something...hey, how old is this carpet in here?
Saturday, 10:12AM
You're awake: no problem there. It's when you roll out of bed - it appears that "lumbering" will be your method of transportation today. Each step is deliberate. You attempt to keep your normal pace, but your lady can tell something is up. A hearty breakfast makes you realize, while eating, that your wrist doesn't hurt. That's because when it comes to the roll, you know what you're doing.
Saturday, 11:26AM
Well, that "nice, long shower" felt comfortable but did nothing for your condition. Keep fighting it. Walk it off. Going up and down the stairs multiple times makes you wonder how it occurs without effort on a daily basis. Someone asked if you "stretched" but isn't that like asking a drunk "Did you pace yourself?"
Saturday, 6:12PM
When crossing Wilshire Blvd. along Beverly Drive, you're given roughly 30 seconds. This should be no problem at even the most leisurely pace. Today, however, you pay particular notice to each car turning west. You'll make it, but...hey - look, someone is walking a dog. What's going on, pup?
Sunday, 9:52AM
Things seem better at first glance, but movements are still pained. A memory comes from out of nowhere to your brain: you have finished playing catch with a family friend in your childhood. You are told that you're lucky: you aren't sore after doing a workout. But this was no workout - this was a Christmas party with free booze...that is until you saw someone openly cough uncovered on a pitcher of beer. It was dry from then on. At least you don't have a cold.
Sunday, 7:23PM
Now we're getting somewhere. You're on glass 3 of Sangria, people are laughing, and you're sitting on the floor. Sure, getting up looks like a TV tray trying to walk on its own, but at least it doesn't hurt. The key is drugs...why haven't you taken those wonderful pills? If there's a pill that can make you or your surroundings better, why not take it?
Monday, 8:04AM
Shit, why are my shoes so far away? Seriously, where are those pills? Summoning the ghost of Belushi...help me.
Monday, 12:16PM
How was my weekend? Oh, it was fantastic. Had a lot of fun. Wished it would never end. Could you hold that door open for an old man?
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