March 28, 2004

Elephants are humping to Bonnie Tyler

My neighboor, upstairs, is having a party. On the one weekend night ever in the universe that I have deemed it time to work on my battle raps for The Ivory Tower, there is a low end plague upon me. I am trying to squeeze out 2100 words of "Pleeeeze lemme go into your school, pleeze ple-e-e-ze", after, as per my momma, I switched my thesis-y game plan 180 degrees and my brain is drinking straight from the dog bowl now and no words are right enough. MEANWHILE: Upstairs, there is someone with a lot of drunk junk in their trunk thugging the ancient hardwoods of 1809b in a box-wine influenced humpty dance to "eighties music".

So, I took off on the bike into the Chicago fake spring, and every three blocks pulled to the curb to say hello to people I knew out in their dapper weekend wear, clasping their lover's hand, making a trail for the smokey bar. Everyone I met and spoke with today, barring Julianne, was wasted, starting with my sister, who I picked up from O'Hare at 11 am after her 8 day college spring break in Miami, she returned with extra sunburn on one side of her face, puffy, knotty platinum hair, no voice and shoeless. She was like a hot pink hobbit.
Being someone who has not touched the stuff in eight years, it's still a funny context.

An hour later, my bandmate Dave calls and asks if I have seen Al. Apparently, after taking some super potent shamanistic use hallucigen, Al attempted to leave the house naked. They managed to keep his clothes on, but he slipped out the door undetected shortly after. Al told me later at band practice, "for 40 minutes I was overwhelmed by the falseness of the universe. I saw everything as it was - paved over. Everything became lego-like. Cigarette smoke and wearing clothes seemed like my biggest enemies." Totally.

Mid-bike ride, I ran into Dave and Al and Lauren, leaving a party with pink teeth, a wide slosh in their steps and pockets of fancy Euro-candy they pilfered from Lauren's advisors ritzy party. (This being the midwest, where we like our collars deep blue, any party they does not have a 55$ keg of Pabst in the corner is ritzy...). I walked them home the few blocks, smoked Dave's cigarettes and stole a cup of water, while Dave regaled us with new stories of their jr. Eminem neighboor, on house arrest next door, who because of his ankle decoration, stands on the porch, begging any and all passing company. He just got out of jail for stealing the other next-door neighboors car, and is lying in wait in his mothers home. Dave's drunken genius went like this "What sort of mother are you if you are screaming at your son "You Motherfucker" like, 12 times a day? Does she know the implications?.."

Posted by Jessica at March 28, 2004 02:33 AM | TrackBack

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