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November 27, 2002  Trying with moderate success to catch up from a week lost to the big black hole of communications which is West Texas. Trying. But with all the NOW of the HERE drilling itself into my flesh like the fast electric needles of a tattooist's gun, it's hard to spend time focusing on things written just yesterday. The NOW here in New Mexico with Dave is once again proving to be quite a force to reckoned with. And reckoning is about all I do these days. Something strange happens when Dave and I get within snorting distance of each other. What is it exactly? I do not know. It's definitely a tripped-out magical gig, and I'm grateful as George for it. George, the cashier at the video store where we just picked up a handful of new releases in trade for something George wanted, a thing he somehow instinctively pegged us for and for which he hailed us across a crowded store to get. It's the kind of weird flashbulb pop! moment that you never forget. Unforgettable by dint of its very unorthodox, unforeseeable, uncircumcised.. whatever nature! Un-somethingness. The kind of thing about which folk songs and children's bedtime stories are written. Timeless. Historical. Hysterical. Just plain unfuckingbelievable. Kinda like this picture that I'm inserting here for NO GOOD REASON AT ALL! Aside from Michelle's obvious.. um, appeal(s).  It was the Night Before Tryptophan and all through the video aisle, not a movie was appealing, not even Green Mile. Then suddenly the clerk to my profound surprise, barked oer heads of shoppers, "I'll take care of you guys." What is this? I thought aloud. Is he speaking to us? Who what where why and how? "I think he's gay," was Dave's well-reasoned guess. Why else would he say such a thing, and to us? It came down to one movie, for expensive are they, I picked a Jodie Foster, cuz me, I'm NOT gay. And when at the counter we finally arrived, "What's that you were shaking to the spare-changers outside?" The clerk we fast learned was a pill junky at heart. He'd pegged us coming in the door, right from the start. Seen the pill bottle. Not an accidental thing. This guy was pill hungry. Ritalin-a-dong-ding. Dave told him the truth. Why the hell not? That's the beauty of prescription drugs, get high and not caught. For how can they catch you, when on paper they let you, get higher than Jeezus and furthermore coach you? Haha ha ha ha! And ha! And ha! And hahahaha! Anyway, the impetus behind this whole batch of poetic gibberish, is that some guy named George rented us videos tonight in exchange for a handful of pills. Which even the most jaded of you out there have to admit is rather unique. Just more good old American weirdness on a humpday night in New Mexico. And all because he caught sight of Dave jiggling a bottle of his Ritalin, maraca-style, tauntingly at a handful of change-begging kids out front. "Give us that!" we heard them say. "That's what we want, what we want anyway!" Aaaauuuuuuuuuuughggghghgh! Help! Someone shut off the stupid rhyme scheme machine in my stoned head. Impossible. You're better off... Dead? Air. Then this coming in over Dave's hunky-dorey Call Wave online answering service: "Hi, Scott Frank is using Dave Cuneo's answering machine. What happened to our wayward friend and is there anything exciting going on tonight besides the pictures on that box in front of you?" We called him back. But what he wanted, we couldn't supply. We were too high to drive. "I'd so like to help you, oh Scott Frank the Great and Profound, but Dave is attention deficit and I'd drive us all into the ground. Dave is A.D.D., and I have Eliphantitus of the Pineal Gland, and both of us have THTD. We are Too High To Drive. Another sip of Tecate beer. Say what you want about Mexicans pissing in the hoppers, but at $17 a thirty-pack, this is one golden shower I'll take. Oh, Jeezus! Did I say that? Or just think it? I'm waaaay to stoned to be typing. SOMEBODY STOP ME! -Lord Fluke RSM, the Wicked Wizard of Ooooz "Dave, here in New Mexico, aren't we all just a little fucked up?" |
