hello ladies
just like pagliacci did, I try to keep my surface hid
Most communal refrigerators are a little bit creepy, but the one at the ice cream factory just got a whole lot creepier. On an unrelated note, my unfortunate habit has hit a new low.
chasing the monster
My loco loco habit continues its relentless downward spiral. Every time that I think I have hit rock bottom, I find that there is a new low waiting to be discovered.
Now I can only satisfy my cravings with the Russian variety of this insidious concoction. It is a nonalcoholic version of the Dude’s favorite cocktail that has been laced with extra caffeine, strange varieties of B vitamins, and designer sugar molecules. The worst part is that I know in my heart that the Dude would never be caught dead drinking one of these things. I know that if I drank one of these in front of the Dude, he wouldn’t judge me; the Dude is not judgmental like that. If I drank one of these in front of the Dude, he probably wouldn’t even see me. I would fade into the background with all of the other things that are irrelevant to the Dude. I have become invisible to the Dude.
I can’t even purchase this variety at a discount from the megalomart. I have to go to one of a few gas stations in the area that carry it, and face the condescending looks of a clerk as I pile five or six cans on the counter and pay for them from the wad of dirty cash that I keep stashed in my car for just this purpose. I could use a credit card, but Floyd would never believe that I am buying that much gas.
I keep telling myself that I can beat this thing, but I don’t really believe it anymore.
this monster is still on my back
I said I bought a soda at the shell station, but that was a lie. I was ten miles down the road with a tall but empty can of delicious energy drink before I even realized what I had done. Floyd found the empty can in my car the next day; she said she isn’t angry just a little concerned. I haven’t had one since, but I am chagrined by my lack of control over this infusion of B vitamins, caffeine, and designer sugar molecules.
13
3a or 666satan
I was way the hell out in this part of cherokee county I had never been to before. Because I have always wanted to own my own compound, I was checking out this old church camp that is for sale*. I am thinking that maybe I can start a militia or cult or maybe even a writers colony**, and the place will pay for itself. Running a writers colony doesn’t seem like it could hurt anyone, and my militia would be a place where folks are trained in the martial arts so they can go walk the earth defending the unfortunate. This could be just the loophole I have been trying to find.
I spent about an hour walking around the place and most of the cabins are pretty beat but salvageable. Some of them were locked and those may have been in better shape than the unlocked ones. I was trying hard not to actually break into anywhere***, but I admit I shoulder-checked the chapel door pretty hard to get it open, and some part of the jamb may have broken in the process.
I stopped at a place nearby that was either called “store” or “food store” to buy a drink and ask about the camp. The guy behind the counter did not look happy to see me, so I bought a cup of coffee and tried not to look at the beer cooler, because really it was not a good morning to start that. He didn’t know if the place was really for sale, but he did know they had a problem with squatters in the back cabins and kids drinking there on the weekends, so cops keep an eye on the place now. Good to know.
The coffee was horrible, so I stopped at a shell station on the way back and bought a soda to get the taste out of my mouth.
* is/will be/was for sale, but there was a camp there so that part of the lead was true at least.
**or a summer camp or a free school
**and anyway I don’t keep bolt cutters or the other stuff in my car anymore
the last loco loco or can we make biscuits
F: (quietly using my laptop to manage farm of online beanie webkinz serfs and apparently pilfering my harddrive)
F: Babo*! Why is there a picture of the refrigerator named “bus stop zero three four dot jay pee gee” on your laptop?
M: Huh?**
F: Why is there a picture of the refrigerator named “bus stop zero three four dot jay pee gee” on your laptop?
M: That was my last loco loco and wanted to remember it.
F: Babo, you are crazy!
F: Do we have any buttermilk left? Can we make biscuits?
*my other nom de guerre, my street name, frequently modified to “Bobs,” a mondegreen for Papa, some of the neighborhood urchins call me “Mr. Babo” despite my disdain for honorifics.***
**Huh!?
***This footnote was supposed to be a tag.
loco loco
It started innocently enough. I grabbed a few of these at a gas station when we went camping a couple of months ago. I usually wake up earlier than everyone else and it is nice to have some emergency morning caffeine that does not require cranking up a propane stove and boiling water and c.
On the long weary post camping drive home, I grabbed another one to perk me up (for driving alertness safety reasons).
Next, I accidentally discovered (by diligently searching the entire store) that the megalomart carries them in multipacks at a discount. So now I was up to a five or six can a week habit. Not too bad, but I could see where it was going.
Obviously a vacation is not a good time to kick the bird on something like this, so I had ready but carefully titrated supply of what I now call the loco loco. All of my companions knew that the sound of the loco loco being cracked meant that we had reached the midway point of our day at the river. I usually tried to be a little sneakier about a given day’s second can (obviously a bad sign).
We have now been back home for a week. I have run out of excuses. This bird is going to be kicked. It will be kicked just as soon as the four pack I purchased yesterday is gone. I swear.
