“What would Kerouac do?” Logan says as I hug him goodnight. Urgin’ me to sit at the fucked up typewriter. Bang it out by the candle light. No power. No heat. And I wish I could say that’s how I pounded this out. But I’m still gettin’ the feel of the typewriter. And Kerouac didn’t have Google Drive offline editin’. And I don’t think I got enough candles to burn that long. Now I know why ya always buy candles when ya see ‘em. But Kerouac never liked acid much. And I blew out all the candles to set the mood. Would he have spilt the whole bag of Apple Jacks in bed tryin’ to open it? And why didn’t anyone tell me how fuckin’ expensive cereal is? I won’t even end up writin’ this fuckin’ thing till the next day anyways. And what the fuck is my deal with Kerouac as a fuckin’ motif?! I don’t even like the guy’s writin’ that much. Just another fuckin’ average white guy.
Oscar’s sax cuts through the dope smoke lingerin’ over the crowd. The squeals tingle along your fuckin’ spine. Thinkin’ of that meme of I think it’s Charlie Parker. Jazzers logo. “Kerouac would nut if he saw some jazzers like this…” Somewhere Kerouac is rollin’ over in his grave at the realization On the Road dead ends in Cave World. John Coltrane always said if you wanna be a better horn player, be a better person.
“I love the trashiness!” Em smiles. Sippin’ a Twisted Tea. Thinkin’ I was sketchy back when we first met. Does “sorry… I monkee…” hold up as a reasonable defense in court? All’s fair in love and rock n’ roll. Or so they’d have you believe. Third time seein’ the shrimp sandwich surf in across the stage. It gets better and better each time. Existential sheddin’. Like a thorough rewatch of BoJack Horseman. I still remember the first time. Bubba puttin’ on the Shrimp Sessions. Jesus Christ drinkin’ his mother’s piss! I felt fuckin’ alive. It’s now been ten months since the last time I railed a line. Since the last time I felt the crystals freeze and dry up my nostrils. Maybe break a few blood vessels. Give the snot a nice pink hue. Show Charlie Parker who they call fuckin’ Bird man! Fuckin’ flyin’. Lessons from the Jungle Man on how not to eat or sleep. Is the freebase diet an extension of the body dysmorphia? Wail! Wop! Fuckin’ burst through the baggie. Fish it outta the urinal. Snort it anyways. Can finally keep up with these racin’ thoughts. The twenty four seven mundane chaos of the everyday. Every chemical reaction has an equal and opposite reaction.
Nobody told me cereal was gonna cost so much money. That boredom is pain’s not so well adjusted cousin. The chronic but unspecified existential despair. “The same worms that eat me will someday eat you too…” Head rattlin’ like the shakers in Tor’s hand. Milk the clock with mental anguish. Cry in your car and down a spoonful of kratom on your smoke break. Does that still count as California sober? I hear the kids are vapin’ that shit today. But I don’t even know if you can sublimate kratom. Shit. Says the generation that used to smoke spice outta plastic and aluminum. Whatever takes the edge off. Ya think Kerouac would hit a kratom vape? “It just ain’t enough man!”
Dance with the bloke that tells you work won’t be the same without you. Bumpin’ shoulders. “Justify somethin’ profound…” Confessions of a retired ego addict. Post-cringe aesthetic. When does the self-awareness become a satire of your self-loathin’? The blurry anecdotes must have some vague glimpse of beauty in it? I thought I had it all figured out. Insanity is doin’ the same thing over and over again expectin’ it to make you happy. One more pill will do it. One more line. Ya know. To help ya sleep. Every chemical reaction has an equal and opposite reaction. Dance against strangers at after hours till you wish the sun good mornin’. Escape. Ten months. Ten months without that insanity. And the world hasn’t felt any less surreal. I still feel like I’m floatin’ in the ether. Vapor trail of a personality. Hidin’ in the corner. Too afraid to do more than wave at these people that I’ve known for years. I think they call that love. That depersonalization of sharin’ in life’s most intimate moments with these people. These people that say such nice things about you. These people that enjoy your presence for some god unknown reason. Vibin’ with the comrades that make you wanna be less sketchy. The people helpin’ you mythbust the urban legend of unskilled labor. Swing to the sax squealin’ homages of the Stooges. John Coltrane says to be a better person to be a better horn player. These people bring out the shame in the satire. But shame has always been my greatest motivator.
Behind all the thrivin’ is a whole lotta cryin’.
“I don’t think they get the chant…” Drew says as the crowd floods out into the street. Drippin’ in sweat after the set. Someone else’s beer. Someone else’s sweat. I’m wet. And I think in an aroused way after Viagra Boys. Standin’ in line to merchandize endless anxiety. Advertisin’ is just product propaganda. Shoot ‘em up with 5G and send ‘em to the woods. Feel like a hipster in a warzone. The commies don’t carry cash these days. But drive a car full of tampons. Maybe I didn’t get it either. I don’t think anyone should identify so much with these bottom feeder lyrics. Kerouac wouldn’t call this shit welfare jazz. Although. He’d probably call ‘em punk rock losers. Feel how fuckin’ dirty those subs are! Just some more average white guys. Railin’ knock off Viagra ya found at the cigar bar to cure your coke dick. Maybe it says a lot that everytime I find a new Viagra Boys track it translates the thoughts in my head. Racin’ too fast to process ‘em into feelings.
“That made me wanna start goin’ to raves again.” Em sparks the joint under the marquee. Take me back where all universes converge. Fraggle Rock. Let me dance my cares away. And feel fuckin’ alive. Some guy talkin’ about how he’s seen Ween forty times since 2017. Everybody looks so mature these days. Slowly becomin’ more and more well adjusted adults. Learnin’ how to communicate their feelings. Their pain and boredom. Well adjusted people don’t write little songs. Or type gibberish for hours in the afterglow. But I’m slowly losin’ an interest in sharin’ these words. Just another average white guy with nothin’ special to say. We gotta take care of this human thing before we can do that individual thing. And ya still aren’t well adjusted enough to tell your friends how intimate this experience is for you. How much they’ve inspired this growth in me without knowin’ it. Impactin’ the way I think in the micro-interactions in my life. Maybe it’s not a good thing to identify so closely to the esoteric, pseudo-Kafkaesque glory of becomin’ a shrimp. A bottom feedin’ creature in the gutter that doesn’t sleep or drink water. Or clean the bathtub. But rock n’ roll can save lives.
Beat your thigh to the beat till you bruise. That’s the closest you get to self-harm these days. “Sorry… I monkee…” is no excuse for this behavior. Goblin mode doesn’t even hold up in a court of law. I bet the free fall to the bottom of the spiral would’ve felt nice by the end of it. Give everyone a dime bag of my ashes at the funeral. “Oopsie… Accidentally did a line of Nips…” But guess we’ll never know. Ten months. To bein’ alive and learnin’ how to grow.
One body pinballs you into the body in front of you. Catch your feet. Another body hits you from the left. Nearly knockin’ ya to the floor. Someone catchin’ your arm. The crowd vacuum seals together. Bones collide in the primal way we attempted to connect. Liquids landin’ on your face. Baptized in beer as the aluminum glistens overhead. Jesus Christ drinkin’ his mother’s piss! How did I use to drink so much beer and go in the pit? “Baaaaar- beeee- quuuuuuuuu-UUUUU-uuue…” I can feel the existential sheddin’. How does it work that Viagra Boys are the soundtrack for someone’s growth? Take a shoulder to the gut. Learnin’ how to connect emotionally. Not just physically. Someone nails ya in the spine. There’s no community without connection. And no connection without sharin’ these fucked up little feelings we struggle to deal with. Ground yourself in front of Em. “Don’t kill the part of you that cringes… Kill the part of you that is cringe…” I think that’s Dostoyevsky? Or Mark Antony. Or my coworker Nick? Feel the shame and self-awareness and let it transform you. Puke in your mouth and swallow it. That’s gotta be the white person equivalent to ayahuasca. Swallowin’ your own vomit in the Viagra Boys pit durin’ “Sports.” Ya think Kerouac would do that shit?
