silverrevolver

Dave is ranting about the OLCC again, his intelligence matched only by his parinoia, "They have my made my house unlivable, I need to get the fuck out of this town!". He is convinced he is is begging to show signs of diabetes 2, his back is out again -- at least his record is mastered. Meantime Sandy cracks his back and nods tenderly and lovingly, turning to me and rolling her eyes when he's looking away or lost in his rant about the man. He is infinatly stimulating and brilliant, abliet a touch mad (by my standards even!) and every record he plays me is amazing, and somehow every cover hower strange and obscure seems familliar, as if I've seen it before; the sad Mexican clown, crying a single tear in his pink showercap, a rubber dart stuck to his forehead. He looks at me and tells me that the Replacements were listening to Hedgehoppers Annonymous and questions me rhetoricly about how our society is dead, has been dead for at least a century. I ask a little less rhetoricly, "Where is there left to go?" He shrugs, lowers his glasses on his narrow nose, scratches, takes them off (without his glases he looks a bit like a chipmunk), wipes his forehead and says, "I don't know man, but the OLCC and bar culture is destorying what little is left here. I don't know, because I'm full of shit and know nothing, but it seems to me that we need to drop more science in our art."

Now we are talking about the Mayan calender, the gulf stream and the myth of Occeana -- he's telling me that Atlantis is a metaphor for the gulf stream. I'm thinking of that first conversation when he was screaming at me about evolution being a bullshit theory. I arguing technicly, dropping names and essays of my favorite cocks to suck in evolutionary biology, not realizing that he indites all our science because of cultural perspective. I chuckle to myself at the memory as I take another bong rip, realizing that he lives on real estate investments and doesn't have to work, making his ideas meaningless because he doesn't have to run the wheel as I do, driven by the urge to eat, pissing my paychecks away on Pabst Blue Ribbon and oyster shooters, chaing tail that isn't worth chasing. I don't want 5000 records in a three story Victorian house, he fights the system so madly because he is more trapped than I, it feels better to have nothing, even if I am addicted to my cell phone and my laptop, as rightly says in disguised critique, the only thing tying me to the society is seven hundred dollars a month, I can gtake any risk, because I have nothing to lose. I sit back in my usual spot on the couch by the window, (the one with the bb gun hole) they on the floor, I smile and listen to the next record, make a mental note of the title, in gratitude for my life, especially for my neurosis.