Saturday, June 5, 2010

Just Tuesday



 And when you're looking for your freedom
 (Nobody seems to care) 
And you can't find the door
 (Can't find it anywhere) 
When there's nothing to believe in 
Still you're coming back, you're running back 
You're coming back for more

    Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness as you walk through the door and ease into the familiar haze of native mildews and humid colognes. As you move to the bar you loudly crash into an unfortunately placed table and reflexively acknowledge that your body is already betraying you. The bartendress half remembers you from your last visit, also on a Tuesday (over six months ago) and also around three in the afternoon, and takes a friendly stab at what you might want.

   "Midori Sour, right?"

   The ride to the bar was punctuated by self-assured interior conversations featuring you as the hip voice of relaxed ingenuity, but with one unintentionally ferocious question you have been reduced to dust. Nervously wondering what could possibly have given her that impression you stare, with exaggerated incredulity, at the genetically homophobic bar back as he thrusts his wash towel into the ice and violently crosses his arms.

Where you goin' what you lookin' for
You know those boys 
Don't want to play no more with you 
It's true

    In your deepest possible voice you tell her a Maker's Mark would be fine and lower yourself onto the bar stool in, what you are hoping is, a fashion that does not in any way betray the epileptic wolverine that is suddenly attempting to escape through your chest. "And how about a Sierra Nevada?" you say, trying to make it sound like an afterthought rather than a necessary component for choking down the bourbon.

    A thin layer of sweat shimmers conspicuously on your forehead as you make small talk about oil filters and mixed martial arts and self consciously stare at the ceiling full of hectically decorated dollar bills; thumbtacked constellations of impossibly good times that radiate an astrology of other people's happiness down upon you. You wonder if you drank too quickly as you order another Sierra.

I don't care what you say
I never did believe you much anyway.

   The bourbon starts its predictable trek through your system, reenforcing temporarily unstable psychic structures and loosening stratified language potentials as the bar back leans forward to hungrily give you his facebook info. But it is too soon. You brush him off with another order, this time a shot and a beer, and without shame, a tumbler of J├Ągermeister. The sun will soon be down and families will be microwaving macaroni and you will not be among them.

    And then she walks in.

    You realize your editing device has been disabled four seconds after you blurt out: "So, what brings a fine young thing like you into a bar like this on a fine day like today?" You're fairly certain that she can read the words "Oh fuck" in bright, rashy letters on your cheeks as she moves into the seat next to you and plops her purse onto the bar. Her skin reminds you, on a deeply emotional level, of some kind of cinnamon frosting. Light gathers around her and-"Oh, uh yes, please. Thank you. And another shot of bourbon, too. Thanks,"- seems to coalesce into wings behind her in an entirely natural fashion. You are absolutely certain that her vagina smells like health.

Sometimes I get overcharged
That's when you see sparks
You ask me where the hell
I'm going At a thousand feet per second

   So much disinformation is coursing through your brain that you start to mumble with a Filipino accent as you simultaneously try to move toward and away from her, clutching at her shoulder and your wallet, as you pretend to intentionally stumble toward the jukebox. Play it off. There is something clearly wrong with the floor design. The air is too heavy. The machine makes indecipherable digital demands that you can't hope to satisfy. Time bends in upon itself. How about Cake?

 We are widening the corridors
And adding more lanes

    "Sarah, really? That is a biblical name." You are not sure that it is. If you were at home you could look it up on line and maintain the illusion. She seems unfazed. She also seems to be sending you messages. Body language messages that you can only interpret as meaningful and positive. What if she is in to you? Or the bible? Think of a joke.

   "My friend has a good pirate joke."

   "Really?"

   "Yeah, he's a good dude."

    You are not sure that she got it. Then you are not sure that you even said it. Then, there it is, she is blurry and you blew the joke.

    The bartendress has changed into a bartender and is bringing you drinks that you may not have ordered. You tell yourself to play it off for the fortieth time that night. It tastes like a Creme de Menthe with an oyster in it. Play it off.

Left my nigga's house paid (what) 
Picked up a girl been tryin to fuck since the 12th grade 
It's ironic, I had the brew she had the chronic 
The Lakers beat the Supersonics

    You are still thinking about sex, just less so. It now seems improbable and there is that thing going on behind your eyes. Then, she flashes into your field of vision and says: "What if it all actually is information, ya know? The universe as a digital computer with reality as a holographic image that embraces reality in a two dimensional sphere that is the best our brains can apprehend?"

     "Yeah, that."

     She seems upset and shrieks, "Listen! The Anthropic Principle, Unconscious Mind, Phenomonology, Historical Contingency,..."

If only I wasn't travellin down this road by my lonely
No one who knew me like you will ever know me
I don't think you understand how much you meant to me 

     "... Information Theory, Yeah, and Goldilocks, Yeah, and..."

     "Sarah, you don't know..."

     "My name is Sandra!"

     "Oh. Solid."