his head was like a balloon when he got like this. and not a helium-filled light balloon delicately bouncing around against the ceiling in the corner of the room in the draft of the oscillating fan but more a manually blown up balloon; heavier and somehow grossly more moist than its helium counterpart and not so much bouncing but rolling around on the dirty dust-ridden floor and basically empty.
he was doing the Elliott Smith eponymous. this, an album especially written for ... and other such moods.
the hf and pompous attitude and 'all is pedestrian' were defense mechanisms, protection. oh, god knows this. he knew this too, probably more than god, but he employed them with purpose. because he was sure that no one outside of a professional freudian and surely no one that he interacted with on a daily basis could ever figure it out, that they were defense mechanisms and that he was one in need of such defense. figure it out for themselves and see through his opacity. oh, they saw. he wore it, the protection, not so well - sort of like a white particulate mask. aside from saying idiot things like 'all is ped.', he over-enunciated his words and used full sentences and paragraphs only when speaking. which generally annoyed the shit out of his family members and basically everyone else that ever listened to him, especially his dog because what dog knows what the fuck "row-ell oh-verr" or "come oh-ver herrre" is?
the stylus had entered the 'alphabet town' grooves. it was a cool and dry night, first one in over a week. something about the harmonica in this one turns his heart to fine powder. the pile of which sits then still atop the liver waiting for that deep inhale - the one that signals the onset of a cry - to blow away...to disappear, the heart. disperse itself around the chest cavity, coating the lungs and back side of the sternum and ribs, and lose function. for a minute or two. poof.
but so he gets up from the desk, sitting on an exercise ball lately to ensure the lifespan of the back is +/- 10 years the lifespan of the remainder of the body, and puffs his chest out a bit with a deep inhalation. puts his shoulders back, mom always said no child of hers employed slumped shoulders, and walks slowly towards the mirror. he lets his head sort of float above his shoulders, swaying lightly as he walks. first looking at the wall. a pain in the back, lumbar but no action to alleviate. and then at the mirror, attacks the face with shitty thoughts. and rubs the sides of his head vigorously with the palms and pads of his hands. eyes shut. tight.
and maybe it was for him - the hf and 'all is ped.' - protection against himself. they were three of him, effectively. that which protected, that which needed protection, and that which observed.
29 June 2010
26 June 2010
furniture
"You're a piece of furniture." It was true, he was worthless until carefully placed in a functional position by someone that knew how to use him.
This type of man? Well, these men...they're purveyors of silent revolutions. Big ideas mostly playing out inside their safe heads.
This type of man? Well, these men...they're purveyors of silent revolutions. Big ideas mostly playing out inside their safe heads.
Dost.
He then says something about Dostoevsky to his friends. But not just something that exhibits a cursory knowledge of Dost. - he always referred to the author that way. One of those shallow sort of ideas (the cursory sort, if you will) displayed in the same superficial manner an overzealous approval-seeking child may employ when using a newly acquired vocabulary word..."The gerund was eating breakfast next to me in the cafeteria."
No, this, in depth. He tells them of this story Dost. employs for Ivan in The Brothers K. The story, employed, according to our boy, by Dost. to shake one's faith in mankind: a bone-shivering display of punishment introduced by a general on a servant boy that has injured the paw of one of the general's hunting dogs...
After shutting the boy up for a night...
'The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It’s a gloomy, cold, foggy, autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... ‘Make him run,’ commands the general. ‘Run! run!’ shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... ‘At him!’ yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother’s eyes!...'
He had quoted the passage, verbatim. And by 'stands the mother of the child' he had risen off the couch to stand in front of the group of friends. His arms outstretched to the side, as if crucified. And speaking seriously and moving his eyebrows up and down with emphasis. And then hands together, interlocked with index fingers in a teepee touching bottom lip. A deep and throaty rasp for the general's speaking parts. 'At him!' - pointing and taking a sip of beer to pause. A bit of spittle falls when he carries on with the quote. He, our boy, was losing faith in MK himself...all was pedestrian and such.
"Th'fuck is wrong with you?" At least two of his boys say in stereo. And then from another, "First, Brothers K was written for reading in the winter, fuck, no one wants to think about that shit in the airy summer months. Second, keep that shit to yourself when we're sitting here drinking and third...turn up the Elliott Smith."
They were doing 'From a Basement on the Hill'
No, this, in depth. He tells them of this story Dost. employs for Ivan in The Brothers K. The story, employed, according to our boy, by Dost. to shake one's faith in mankind: a bone-shivering display of punishment introduced by a general on a servant boy that has injured the paw of one of the general's hunting dogs...
After shutting the boy up for a night...
'The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It’s a gloomy, cold, foggy, autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... ‘Make him run,’ commands the general. ‘Run! run!’ shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... ‘At him!’ yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother’s eyes!...'
He had quoted the passage, verbatim. And by 'stands the mother of the child' he had risen off the couch to stand in front of the group of friends. His arms outstretched to the side, as if crucified. And speaking seriously and moving his eyebrows up and down with emphasis. And then hands together, interlocked with index fingers in a teepee touching bottom lip. A deep and throaty rasp for the general's speaking parts. 'At him!' - pointing and taking a sip of beer to pause. A bit of spittle falls when he carries on with the quote. He, our boy, was losing faith in MK himself...all was pedestrian and such.
"Th'fuck is wrong with you?" At least two of his boys say in stereo. And then from another, "First, Brothers K was written for reading in the winter, fuck, no one wants to think about that shit in the airy summer months. Second, keep that shit to yourself when we're sitting here drinking and third...turn up the Elliott Smith."
They were doing 'From a Basement on the Hill'
25 June 2010
An Instant
He walked right in the door. Same as every day. It had been a long one, this day. Stress and worries and not much time for the quick phone calls, two to five minutes each, they usually had during the workday, three or four times a day, where she updated him on the minute details of exactly what she was doing or had been doing or was thinking of doing next and why or how she planned to do it. He loved those calls for all their nothingness and triviality that meant so much because it was between the two of them - like the one this week where she called only to say that the roses that she planted in their garden had bloomed. "B, did you see the roses?" "No" "They bloomed, like 20 of them, they look so good." "Really?" "Yeah. That's all." "Okay, bye." "Bye."
And she was there. There she was, as she was most nights, sitting on the couch with her 'fur babies'. She called the pets 'fur babies'. This particular night was stifling hot. And she was less sitting as she was poured onto the couch in the manner one employs so as to not have any two pieces of the body touching, anywhere. Fingers even spread apart. Seeing her induced a smile and memories of how he would come home to her back when they lived in an apartment, with a roommate, in a different place. He would come home later in the evening from work than she. She would wait up for him, sitting on the couch, this one more a love seat, in this exact poured manner - keeping cool and lazily looking at some television show with the remote hanging in her hand hanging off her arm hanging off the side of the couch. And he would, before even placing down his bag, climb onto the love seat, opposite her, and grab her feet or legs or some other nearby body part and squeeze. That's all. Just squeeze. And she would smile, before even looking up to acknowledge that he had come in and before even saying hello. And but this would be communication enough.
This was home for him. Just as it had been back in the apartment. A catharsis. Immediate and total. Home. No, Home! Really, a purifying of emotion. Like coming to the surface of the sea after a near drowning. And it wasn't so much that he was home - like this was his house - as it was that she was there and that she meant 'home' to him. Comfort. Stupid pet names. Subtle knowing smiles. Nighttime laughter. 17 on a scale of 1 - 10. Spooning (when it wasn't so hot). Telling her about nightmares and vice versa. Throwing a leg over hers in the middle of the night. Being late for work because being in bed with her sure beats anything the day can bring. And remembering that time, the exact time, that they realized they wanted to grow disgusting and old together. This 'home', this feeling, could get him through anything, he was sure of it. He lived for it, I guess you could say.
And so he looked at her, wryly, out of the side of his head. And smiled. A satisfaction all over his face. And she knew, he thought, and she smiled back, he thought. Nothing more. Nothing more needed. And 'thank god for this' he thought to himself.
And says..."Happy Birthday, Bushkies." And they'll talk more later, I'm sure, but it won't match this instant - like meeting her again for the first time. He started dancing around the room. Dancing and sort of strutting. He had totally forgotten about the day, about everything. He's moving like James Brown - sort of. An idiot. She made him do this. Not like forcing him to do it, the 'dancing', but something about her turned him into a child. Like seeing her triggered this trick the back of the brain liked to play on the front, it always had, whatever it was. An idiot child with one pursuit, a single objective...to get her to laugh. However brief and fleeting - so long as it was a true laugh. That laugh, so pure, all the reward he needs.
"Stop it Lovey."...laughing
And she was there. There she was, as she was most nights, sitting on the couch with her 'fur babies'. She called the pets 'fur babies'. This particular night was stifling hot. And she was less sitting as she was poured onto the couch in the manner one employs so as to not have any two pieces of the body touching, anywhere. Fingers even spread apart. Seeing her induced a smile and memories of how he would come home to her back when they lived in an apartment, with a roommate, in a different place. He would come home later in the evening from work than she. She would wait up for him, sitting on the couch, this one more a love seat, in this exact poured manner - keeping cool and lazily looking at some television show with the remote hanging in her hand hanging off her arm hanging off the side of the couch. And he would, before even placing down his bag, climb onto the love seat, opposite her, and grab her feet or legs or some other nearby body part and squeeze. That's all. Just squeeze. And she would smile, before even looking up to acknowledge that he had come in and before even saying hello. And but this would be communication enough.
This was home for him. Just as it had been back in the apartment. A catharsis. Immediate and total. Home. No, Home! Really, a purifying of emotion. Like coming to the surface of the sea after a near drowning. And it wasn't so much that he was home - like this was his house - as it was that she was there and that she meant 'home' to him. Comfort. Stupid pet names. Subtle knowing smiles. Nighttime laughter. 17 on a scale of 1 - 10. Spooning (when it wasn't so hot). Telling her about nightmares and vice versa. Throwing a leg over hers in the middle of the night. Being late for work because being in bed with her sure beats anything the day can bring. And remembering that time, the exact time, that they realized they wanted to grow disgusting and old together. This 'home', this feeling, could get him through anything, he was sure of it. He lived for it, I guess you could say.
And so he looked at her, wryly, out of the side of his head. And smiled. A satisfaction all over his face. And she knew, he thought, and she smiled back, he thought. Nothing more. Nothing more needed. And 'thank god for this' he thought to himself.
And says..."Happy Birthday, Bushkies." And they'll talk more later, I'm sure, but it won't match this instant - like meeting her again for the first time. He started dancing around the room. Dancing and sort of strutting. He had totally forgotten about the day, about everything. He's moving like James Brown - sort of. An idiot. She made him do this. Not like forcing him to do it, the 'dancing', but something about her turned him into a child. Like seeing her triggered this trick the back of the brain liked to play on the front, it always had, whatever it was. An idiot child with one pursuit, a single objective...to get her to laugh. However brief and fleeting - so long as it was a true laugh. That laugh, so pure, all the reward he needs.
"Stop it Lovey."...laughing
15 June 2010
...
he sat there, blankly. like ... - just like that - ...
the electroencephalograph would actually show long, slow delta wave frequencies. lazy and passively undulating. stage IV sleep type stuff - not so much idle and non-thinking as comatose and non-living. the neurologist would actually pull the electrodes off the scalp, bring them to six or so inches in front of his face to examine quizzically. he'd look at them while turning them back and forth, side to side, like a jeweler turns an examined gem and actually blow on them once or twice. then, not satisfied, he'd shake them vigorously before bringing them, the electrodes, to his ear like one does a broken watch. all before reconnecting them to the patient's lousy scalp.
the celtics were being shellacked in the nba playoffs.
he had unfortunately gotten to this point where all had become trivial. it was a bit of a dangerous spot to be in - 'all is pedestrian' became his mantra but he meant more insignificant than just undistinguished and ordinary but 'all is pedestrian' sounded more highfalutin and pompous than any other mantra he had tried out and that was the effect he was after...frankly, so did 'highfalutin and pompous', sound more hf and pompous.
the electroencephalograph would actually show long, slow delta wave frequencies. lazy and passively undulating. stage IV sleep type stuff - not so much idle and non-thinking as comatose and non-living. the neurologist would actually pull the electrodes off the scalp, bring them to six or so inches in front of his face to examine quizzically. he'd look at them while turning them back and forth, side to side, like a jeweler turns an examined gem and actually blow on them once or twice. then, not satisfied, he'd shake them vigorously before bringing them, the electrodes, to his ear like one does a broken watch. all before reconnecting them to the patient's lousy scalp.
the celtics were being shellacked in the nba playoffs.
he had unfortunately gotten to this point where all had become trivial. it was a bit of a dangerous spot to be in - 'all is pedestrian' became his mantra but he meant more insignificant than just undistinguished and ordinary but 'all is pedestrian' sounded more highfalutin and pompous than any other mantra he had tried out and that was the effect he was after...frankly, so did 'highfalutin and pompous', sound more hf and pompous.
12 June 2010
zwiebacks and Berlin
okay, let's have the draft. how much do we have? two eighths. shrooms so good they'll make you feel like you're pissing your pants for the next four hours and the hours will feel like whole days. so, four full days of incontinence? whatever, you ready?
who's first? well i picked 'em up, i'll go, then you get the next two. fair - there are some boomers here. blue and purple...nicely grown. agreed, hit some switches on the stereo, it's not loud enough - and does it always have to be this 80's shit? hey, you want to hang out here? yeah, shut up. then it's going to be my choice for music until we start tripping - then we'll go one for one on the songs - and you can play your Simon and Garfunkel shit, every living boy in new york, and you can tell me all about how Simon switches to the minor chords at the end of america. only - only living boy, pick!
'Take my Breath Away'
ah Berlin (rummaging through the sandwich bag of mushrooms), reminds me of that time we ended up eating your step-brother's zwiebacks after getting baked. haha, i forgot about that - my mom was a bit irate. i'm telling you kid you're not going to be yourself tomorrow, after these. shut up, who's here? Schmitty and the Plumber - no, i'm serious, don't you have an interview in the morning? what are you, the police?
Schmitty still wore this shirt that read:
Pete Smith
5'10" - 175 lbs
145 IQ - 1340 SATs
BS Philosophy - Unemployed
Likes: Radiohead, Blind Melon
he had been wearing it since graduating - 14 months ago. kid was smart but filthy. the Plumber was wearing another concert t-shirt under his unzipped zip-up hoodie. navy blue with black thermal lining, the hoodie. he buys one, a concert T, at every show, for every band, on every tour - he has seven my morning jacket tees...the pirate ship one, probably being the sickest.
i fucking hate this song...Schmitty, about the Berlin.
who's first? well i picked 'em up, i'll go, then you get the next two. fair - there are some boomers here. blue and purple...nicely grown. agreed, hit some switches on the stereo, it's not loud enough - and does it always have to be this 80's shit? hey, you want to hang out here? yeah, shut up. then it's going to be my choice for music until we start tripping - then we'll go one for one on the songs - and you can play your Simon and Garfunkel shit, every living boy in new york, and you can tell me all about how Simon switches to the minor chords at the end of america. only - only living boy, pick!
'Take my Breath Away'
ah Berlin (rummaging through the sandwich bag of mushrooms), reminds me of that time we ended up eating your step-brother's zwiebacks after getting baked. haha, i forgot about that - my mom was a bit irate. i'm telling you kid you're not going to be yourself tomorrow, after these. shut up, who's here? Schmitty and the Plumber - no, i'm serious, don't you have an interview in the morning? what are you, the police?
Schmitty still wore this shirt that read:
Pete Smith
5'10" - 175 lbs
145 IQ - 1340 SATs
BS Philosophy - Unemployed
Likes: Radiohead, Blind Melon
he had been wearing it since graduating - 14 months ago. kid was smart but filthy. the Plumber was wearing another concert t-shirt under his unzipped zip-up hoodie. navy blue with black thermal lining, the hoodie. he buys one, a concert T, at every show, for every band, on every tour - he has seven my morning jacket tees...the pirate ship one, probably being the sickest.
i fucking hate this song...Schmitty, about the Berlin.
luxury complaints
yeah, we get it. you like the toadies.
what?
say it again, huh? say that you like them again. it's just geting tedious. 'oh, half a dozen times a week' and 'oh, oh, Away vs. Tyler, which is better - but not actually talking like that with friends...' who gives a fuck?
.
not to mention the brooding. on and on. everyone has problems and has to make decisions and has trouble identifying. and frankly mr upper middle class - with your subtle grey house and your shutters and your job and your new grill and polished bostonian size 9's and leather carryall soft briefcase and your polos as t-shirts on the weekend and your high metabolism and soft hands and your decent looks and good genes and loving, alive family and US citizenship - you don't have a lot to brood about.
fair enough
i mean i gotta friend that was born without nostrils. still has a nose though. just a solid cartilagey functionless protrusion in the middle of the face below the eyes. looks like a nose out of a horror film. always breathes through the mouth. nasally and shit, like a constant, subtle snore. no one wants to see a person's tongue like that all the time and the face all lazy-looking and sometimes drooling...but the guy has no nostrils! friends call him C.Tony - short for catatonia. tried for a while to keep his teeth closed - his teacher had told him that it was unbecoming to always have the mouth open. but then he had to floss like five times a day. and he looked just angry-mad, breathing through the teeth like that. smells by placing the item in the mouth to the back of the throat, and sort of snorts the sinus cavity. choked on a yankee candle tealight last week.
okay, okay.
enough with the soft life and luxury complaints then.
what?
say it again, huh? say that you like them again. it's just geting tedious. 'oh, half a dozen times a week' and 'oh, oh, Away vs. Tyler, which is better - but not actually talking like that with friends...' who gives a fuck?
.
not to mention the brooding. on and on. everyone has problems and has to make decisions and has trouble identifying. and frankly mr upper middle class - with your subtle grey house and your shutters and your job and your new grill and polished bostonian size 9's and leather carryall soft briefcase and your polos as t-shirts on the weekend and your high metabolism and soft hands and your decent looks and good genes and loving, alive family and US citizenship - you don't have a lot to brood about.
fair enough
i mean i gotta friend that was born without nostrils. still has a nose though. just a solid cartilagey functionless protrusion in the middle of the face below the eyes. looks like a nose out of a horror film. always breathes through the mouth. nasally and shit, like a constant, subtle snore. no one wants to see a person's tongue like that all the time and the face all lazy-looking and sometimes drooling...but the guy has no nostrils! friends call him C.Tony - short for catatonia. tried for a while to keep his teeth closed - his teacher had told him that it was unbecoming to always have the mouth open. but then he had to floss like five times a day. and he looked just angry-mad, breathing through the teeth like that. smells by placing the item in the mouth to the back of the throat, and sort of snorts the sinus cavity. choked on a yankee candle tealight last week.
okay, okay.
enough with the soft life and luxury complaints then.
06 June 2010
he kept a couple journals, had done so for some time now. this small vertical-rectangular shaped one that could fit in his back pocket. his wife had given it to him when he travelled to asia-pac. this one for immediate codification of small thoughts. like "operational definition of intelligence used by Binet in creating the IQ test...further thought required". and always a larger 80 - 100 sheet composition book. the current, 9 3/4" x 7 1/2", college ruled, and made of recycled waste. the pen slid on the pages a bit - them, the pages, being recycled waste and all. this second one for page- or two-page-long compositions, essays, and other such philosophical musings that he couldn't possibly explain through his "uhm's" and "ah's" in real spoken word. like, the one entitled 'on happiness' comprised of an argument (to himself) that even the selfish seeker of little more than his own happiness (himself included, in this 'selfish seeker' group) benefits from a utilitarianism (greatest for greatest) societal approach to life because 1. reciprocation exists and has spanned evolution and 2. the selfish seeker's own happiness (his portion of the happiness pie) grows with a growing overall pie. if one can envision such a pie.
also, he always did that, started their titles with "on". he read that einstein or some other hero also entitled his/her own ruminations that way.
not sure when this started, the journaling, probably in college when he realized that life inside his head was superior to that outside. plus, he wanted to be an observant songwriter and his memory was a stress-ridden disaster. an overgrown wasteland of misplanted worryings and other weed-like saplings of anxiety. much needless use of the brain's RAM. but just as in adopted garden for the ignorant green-thumb - much confusion between weed and flower, until bloom.
he was doing Rubberneck again, The Toadies. it's 2010. nowadays, it's a half a dozen times a week for this album - strongly concentrated in the friday to sunday timeframe. Music! something about the way it tickled his nervous system.
"confusion of the difference between time and space in the statement 'it started raining' when weather systems generally move across the atmosphere...further thought required."
also, he always did that, started their titles with "on". he read that einstein or some other hero also entitled his/her own ruminations that way.
not sure when this started, the journaling, probably in college when he realized that life inside his head was superior to that outside. plus, he wanted to be an observant songwriter and his memory was a stress-ridden disaster. an overgrown wasteland of misplanted worryings and other weed-like saplings of anxiety. much needless use of the brain's RAM. but just as in adopted garden for the ignorant green-thumb - much confusion between weed and flower, until bloom.
he was doing Rubberneck again, The Toadies. it's 2010. nowadays, it's a half a dozen times a week for this album - strongly concentrated in the friday to sunday timeframe. Music! something about the way it tickled his nervous system.
"confusion of the difference between time and space in the statement 'it started raining' when weather systems generally move across the atmosphere...further thought required."
04 June 2010
the face
staring at the mirror staring back at the face. the cheeks used to be fresh Jello molds. the face, you know? so valuable. the brain is cool too, i guess. a second tier kind of cool. but the face. in this society? oh gawd. the man of status is not the man of strong intellect. not yet. and holy christ do we need status. social comparing and ensuring one can point to at least one thing, one trait or possession, that is better on/for/with you than on/for/with all of your acquaintances. doesn't have to be the same thing for all acquaintances but there has to be something for each of them. winning every conversation. and "owning" people. and saying 'fuck that guy, he sucks and makes me uncomfortable' if there is nothing you found that actually sucks about him.
freaks.
our progenies though. our progeny. ha! will they laugh. they will have such gigantic heads, teeming full of cerebral folds and massive prefontal cortices. won't even be able to refer to them as 'heads', the houses for their brains. the term 'head' will be a joke. reserved for someone of feeble constitution. foreheads like GD elephant men. no?
his boy called:
'you want to do some Marley tonight?'
'i'm already on the Toadies with a head full of triumph, can't stop now, knowwhatahmeen?'
they debated a bit, just whether 'Tyler' or 'Away' is the better Toadies song:
'at any rate, and I think we can both agree with this, it doesn't get any better than the way he sings;
"...and if I'm asleep, make sure my blanket covers me, yeah...when i'm away..."
regardless of meaning. he puts his whole life into that effing lyric.' but they didn't actually talk like that with each other.
saw the boys play a few nights back. the boys from brooklyn and cincinnati. something about meloncholy made to sound so sweet and triumphant that actually makes me happy. some fairweathers from i don't know where or how that took off early anyway. some diehards from Sad Songs, or Alligator more likely, describing the band and it's wino frontman to friends they wanted to impress. some college kids dancing like flopheads with no neck muscles. some girls screaming like "i can fix you, Matt. i can." and other such moist longings. some supercilious prick that actually took his balls out and rested them on the chairback in front of him. just left it there all night, the sac.
freaks.
our progenies though. our progeny. ha! will they laugh. they will have such gigantic heads, teeming full of cerebral folds and massive prefontal cortices. won't even be able to refer to them as 'heads', the houses for their brains. the term 'head' will be a joke. reserved for someone of feeble constitution. foreheads like GD elephant men. no?
his boy called:
'you want to do some Marley tonight?'
'i'm already on the Toadies with a head full of triumph, can't stop now, knowwhatahmeen?'
they debated a bit, just whether 'Tyler' or 'Away' is the better Toadies song:
'at any rate, and I think we can both agree with this, it doesn't get any better than the way he sings;
"...and if I'm asleep, make sure my blanket covers me, yeah...when i'm away..."
regardless of meaning. he puts his whole life into that effing lyric.' but they didn't actually talk like that with each other.
saw the boys play a few nights back. the boys from brooklyn and cincinnati. something about meloncholy made to sound so sweet and triumphant that actually makes me happy. some fairweathers from i don't know where or how that took off early anyway. some diehards from Sad Songs, or Alligator more likely, describing the band and it's wino frontman to friends they wanted to impress. some college kids dancing like flopheads with no neck muscles. some girls screaming like "i can fix you, Matt. i can." and other such moist longings. some supercilious prick that actually took his balls out and rested them on the chairback in front of him. just left it there all night, the sac.
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