Eric Clapton
The Wizard of Floyd
Rick James
fat bump
Richard Pryor
sloth-genes
no and definitely not
Casey Jones
full bladder (TMI)
slackerdom
So it was one of those weird parties down on Hudson Street. No one knew who had invited who, but for some reason, everyone who was anyone was there.
Doncha just love to say that? “Everyone who was anyone!” Every time I think that, I feel like I got full bladder syndrome. Go running for the john. But yeah. I know. TMI.
So, me? You know I don’t do nothing. I am the original denizen of slackerdom. Me Mum say I must have sloth-genes, but then I remind her who she woulda shacked up with if that were the case, and her eyes kind of glaze over.
Still, Eric Clapton, Rick James, and Richard Pryor? All at the same gig? Not that it’s a gig, because there was this other band, I think they called themselves “Fat Bump,” but I don’t know what that means. They were all kinda on the hefty side. They kept on announcing that they were opening for THe Wizard of Floyd, but that band, if it ever existed, never showed up.
You know, I was kinda diggin’ Fat Bump, and I’m sittin there groovin. There’s a pile of snow on every table in the place, so you know I’m whacked to the gills. I gotta get off this stuff. Well. Maybe tomorrow. Don’t that sound like a good name for a tune? Maybe tomorrow?
Anyway, like I say, I’m lidded out. My eyes are probly bloodshot as a tampon. Gross. Did I say that out loud? Dunno where my mind is at. Course, most people here would say the same thing, ‘cept there’s this really uptight dude behind me. I mean, he’s yelling somthing into his cell, “No!” a pause. ”I SAID NO!!!!” another pause, and ”Definitely Not!!!!”
So I turn around, and I say, “Like dude. Could you muffle the suds a bit?” And get this. He’s like, wearin’ a suit! A fuckin’ suit! I mean, What the fuck? Oh, and it gets worse. It’s like this guy wandered in from some convention, tho I didn’t know there were any in town, not that I keep track of that shit, because, and you are not going to believe this, but he had A…FUCKIN’...NAMETAG…ON…HIS…JACKET!!! Or whatever you call the top half of a suit. Isn’t there a term for it? Escapes me. Been happnin’ a lot lately. Bad memory. Can’t find words. Fuck it.
Yeah, and the name said “Casey Jones.” Casey Jones? Ain’t that dude been dead like a hundred years.
So I said, “Look dude. Uh…. Casey…. Mr. Casey Fuckin’ Jones. I been havin’ a pretty good time here, even tho I don’t actually no anyone, and well, it’s not my favorite music…” The look on his face said “who the hell do you think you are? I’m big muckety muck blovible, and you ain’t shit!”
But you know how it is sometimes when you’re sailin’ in the clouds? It’s like you don’t give a fuck, and this guy was seriously rakin’ my ass. So I’m like, “You fuck!” And I get up in his face, and bitch slap the phone outta his hand, and it disappears beneath the feet of like, a thousand dancers.”
Casey. My friend Casey. You know them missiles? The ones they lob across the ocean with, like, a nuke on them? They follow that path. Damn! I used to know this stuff. I wuzznt always a slacker, you know. Ballistic! Yeah. Ballistic missiles. Ballistic Mr. Casey fuckin Jones. Face so red you’d think it was painted. Jaw juttin out like Paul Bunyon. You could see the veins erupting in his forehead like rattlesnakes hissin.
He reaches out, and I know he’s about to strangle me, and I’m kinda resigned, because there’s no way I can take this dude, even if I weren’t high as the World Trade Towers. Back when they was still there.
I can feel his hands on my neck, even as he’s just reachin out, and my breath gets more labored just imagining what’s going to happen, and I swear—that life stuff, flashin before your eyes? It happened to me!
Thank god for the bouncers, though. I think they even got a name. The Hudson Eleven. Dunno what it means. They lifted Mr. Casey fuckin’ Jones right off his feet, and hustled him out the door before I even knew what was happinin’ I was, like, still reveiwn’ my life.
So then, I sat down and was takin some more blo when one of them big bouncer fuckers comes up, and, real polite-like, but you know if you so much as protest a millimeter, he is going to seriously drag your ass a mile over broken glass. Nice an’ polite like, he says, “Sir, I believe you have another appointment now.” An I was about to say that I dinnint never have any appointments, but, even coked up as I was, I stood up, and I got the hell outta there. Never did hear Mr. Pryor do a set. Damn! Love that dude like a brother. Sad, though. I heard he kicked the shit, an’ he’s, like, straight as a razor. Go figure.