Warped Los Angeles
August 26, 2009
Sunday morning: I stir slightly from my sleep, the delicate *snick* of the Braun KF520 coming to life. Soon the house is filled with the aroma of brewing coffee, and a man of near-fifty contemplates a relaxing Sunday at home.
Perhaps whipping up a batch of beignets to go with that coffee, and carefully dissecting the Sunday Times. Front page through Sports, the Calendar sections next, and yes, maybe even clip a few coupons.
Hey, really– what’s up with Parade magazine? Do people really write these letters asking about Liza Minelli every month?
We’re saving the Travel section for the orgasmic bowel movement that is sure to announce its intentions following cup o java nombre trois.
By God how I love a Sunday morning of leisure!
But then: What the?!!!…. Tbone is knockin at the door, the dog is barking, Anthony lurches out of the spare bedroom dressed only in his Evel Knievel Pajama Bottoms….
It ain’t over yet–It’s show day, bitches!!!
Jumping back into the van at 9am, we’re immediately hit by bad news:
the pork rinds are getting disturbingly low at this point.
A quick stop at Mercado Blanco and we are stocked to the rafters with brewskis. We refuse to let our friends and family pay 12 bucks per cup of swill. I am still lobbying for the buy-a-shirt-get-a-beer-even-you-minors-if-you-don’t-tell-Mom, but I am voted down. Burning bridges and all that, wot?
It’s last day at camp, and the tribes come together for group hugs and teary promises to keep in touch.
Joey Shithead actually takes me aside and calls me Ponyboy, tells me to Stay Gold….
Joining the Old School Merch Mall is ol pal Edward Colver, he of the hairy paws on the backwards gun. Great to catch up and see his fine work, yeah?
Too much to do! Too much to see! Overload!!!
It’s all over too quickly, and we are left loading the van in the dark;
the refuse of a thousand broken promises collect in the parking lot corners like snowdrifts.
As we load in our battered tools and injured bodies, I imagine the melancholy of the Carny packing up after the Fair has ended—but at least that tortured soul is comforted by a new town on the horizon and the gram of crystal meth in his shirt pocket!
For us, it’s the end of the line….
What a great fuckin time, and back home now with plenty of Summer left for our beloved ocean breezes and groaning plates of Chile Rellenos–Cheers! M