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Love & Bed Spins
Apr. 16th, 2013 04:00 amFile it:
Full throttle overload. Too much tragedy porn unfolding in real time. Too many loops of shell shocked man on the street dispatches witnessed. Too many talking heads spewing open hysteria, nonsense and blind speculation. Too many guesses and not enough facts. Twenty-four hour news cycle roid raging across the senses. Helpless, angry and shell shocked I text the Contact to see if s/he wants to meet up for drinks later.
Contact texts back and agrees.
Indeterminate hours later and we arrive at the Drunken Kilt. We order doubles and shed psych damage from and off the day past. We vent and swap war stories. We roll up the sleeves on our psychological wounds and find time to talk everything from Dada to geopolitics in between. Precisely four drinks later and I find myself a spectator as the Contact challenges this local kid to a game of pool. Some tattooed twenty-something with a beard and glasses.The kid takes the challenge all cocky of a victory as easily lined up as an 8 perched on the corner pocket.
So naturally the Contact wastes no time in kicking his ass and sinking damn near every shot s/he lines up.
"Is that your boyfriend?" This country accented gal asks me in awe watching her man get spanked by the Contact with the speed and authority.
"If only I was so lucky, ma'am." I wink and down my whiskey. The Contact is on fire. A Hawkeye or Green Arrow (forgive my geek lexicon) behind the pool stick. I regret missing the chance to lay a little cash on hir when I had the chance. A gentleman's wager, if you will, with the promise of a spread wide enough to tip the bartender generously with.
Later though, I'll find myself talking with the kid who got his ass handed to him by the Contact as he tells me about the time he met H.R. in Washington or challenging Lee Ving to a brawl outside some dive up north. I listen with rapture. True stories in his book and I'm always happy to listen to a traveler's tale or two no matter how questionable the facts may prove when arriving at more sober conclusions.
Back home now, ready to crash solid after a last bowl and purposefully avoiding the news of the day in fear of being mesmerized by recycled panic. I'll let it wait until tomorrow. Another day to rise so we can shake the dread and doubts from our notions and do our best to make these next few trips around the sun worth a damn.
Anyway, regretting that I said yes to that one drink beyond when I should have said no and extending sincere my open stupid honest wishes for the best where or whenever your eyes should chance upon this missive.
With love and bed spins,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Fuck-Up Artist
10-4 over and out.
Full throttle overload. Too much tragedy porn unfolding in real time. Too many loops of shell shocked man on the street dispatches witnessed. Too many talking heads spewing open hysteria, nonsense and blind speculation. Too many guesses and not enough facts. Twenty-four hour news cycle roid raging across the senses. Helpless, angry and shell shocked I text the Contact to see if s/he wants to meet up for drinks later.
Contact texts back and agrees.
Indeterminate hours later and we arrive at the Drunken Kilt. We order doubles and shed psych damage from and off the day past. We vent and swap war stories. We roll up the sleeves on our psychological wounds and find time to talk everything from Dada to geopolitics in between. Precisely four drinks later and I find myself a spectator as the Contact challenges this local kid to a game of pool. Some tattooed twenty-something with a beard and glasses.The kid takes the challenge all cocky of a victory as easily lined up as an 8 perched on the corner pocket.
So naturally the Contact wastes no time in kicking his ass and sinking damn near every shot s/he lines up.
"Is that your boyfriend?" This country accented gal asks me in awe watching her man get spanked by the Contact with the speed and authority.
"If only I was so lucky, ma'am." I wink and down my whiskey. The Contact is on fire. A Hawkeye or Green Arrow (forgive my geek lexicon) behind the pool stick. I regret missing the chance to lay a little cash on hir when I had the chance. A gentleman's wager, if you will, with the promise of a spread wide enough to tip the bartender generously with.
Later though, I'll find myself talking with the kid who got his ass handed to him by the Contact as he tells me about the time he met H.R. in Washington or challenging Lee Ving to a brawl outside some dive up north. I listen with rapture. True stories in his book and I'm always happy to listen to a traveler's tale or two no matter how questionable the facts may prove when arriving at more sober conclusions.
Back home now, ready to crash solid after a last bowl and purposefully avoiding the news of the day in fear of being mesmerized by recycled panic. I'll let it wait until tomorrow. Another day to rise so we can shake the dread and doubts from our notions and do our best to make these next few trips around the sun worth a damn.
Anyway, regretting that I said yes to that one drink beyond when I should have said no and extending sincere my open stupid honest wishes for the best where or whenever your eyes should chance upon this missive.
With love and bed spins,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Fuck-Up Artist
10-4 over and out.