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The Moon-Madness
Mar. 18th, 2005 02:28 pmI caught the moon-madness while drinking a silvery sweet water mislabeled as an energy drink. I bought it at a tiny convenience store because of the twisting, hellish shapes on the outside of the tall narrow can - crude and strange, like precise cuneiform quickly scrawled by a particularly talented gorilla. The can said that it would drive me moon-mad. It said it, right there on the can, that I'd go moon-mad. I assumed it was another product of the Madison Avenue Hyperbole Factory. The moon-water tasted like those intense, passionate nights spent dancing wild and lovelorn. Just like those free and lonely nights, except with more corn syrup.
That was sixty hours ago. I'm tired enough now that I checked into a hotel to write. I remember stealing a firetruck in Berkeley and riding north, radio pounding out the phat beats, until the truck ran out of gas somewhere in the forests of Oregon. I remember hunting in the forest, convinced I was a wolf, until I met a runaway teenager on a motorcycle with a monkey on his shoulder. We rode into Portland and got a gig at a local pub, borrowing instruments from the opening act. I washed my face in the men's room, and we went on stage - me, the teenager and the monkey. Serious, hardcore, dirt-in-the eyes rock-and-roll. Unfortunately, we weren't very good. The bartender was angry at us for doing such an awful show and he only gave us a grudging thirty-five dollars. I never did catch the kid's name, and, in case you're wondering, I definitely didn't have any alcohol.
The next thing I remember, I'm in a bus stop in Chicago. Suddenly it's Friday, I'm dressed as a doctor, I've got an astrolabe hanging from my neck, and somehow I have the laptop I'd left back at home in Pacifica. If the clock is right, it took me about half an hour to walk seven miles. I don't remember how I got here, but I remember convincing the clerk to give me a room for free. I should probably call my boss and explain my absence.
Anyway, the can is still half full. Want the rest?
That was sixty hours ago. I'm tired enough now that I checked into a hotel to write. I remember stealing a firetruck in Berkeley and riding north, radio pounding out the phat beats, until the truck ran out of gas somewhere in the forests of Oregon. I remember hunting in the forest, convinced I was a wolf, until I met a runaway teenager on a motorcycle with a monkey on his shoulder. We rode into Portland and got a gig at a local pub, borrowing instruments from the opening act. I washed my face in the men's room, and we went on stage - me, the teenager and the monkey. Serious, hardcore, dirt-in-the eyes rock-and-roll. Unfortunately, we weren't very good. The bartender was angry at us for doing such an awful show and he only gave us a grudging thirty-five dollars. I never did catch the kid's name, and, in case you're wondering, I definitely didn't have any alcohol.
The next thing I remember, I'm in a bus stop in Chicago. Suddenly it's Friday, I'm dressed as a doctor, I've got an astrolabe hanging from my neck, and somehow I have the laptop I'd left back at home in Pacifica. If the clock is right, it took me about half an hour to walk seven miles. I don't remember how I got here, but I remember convincing the clerk to give me a room for free. I should probably call my boss and explain my absence.
Anyway, the can is still half full. Want the rest?
