Friday, April 7, 2017

Suburbia - Riders on the Storm

To call the clubhouse a colorful place would be like calling a church holy, its colorful alright and sometimes it's downright batshit, you see some of the characters that frequent the place and your protagonist here have been drifting in and out of each other's orbits for the last 25 years or so, some of course are brand new characters in this ever changing novel cum memoir cum bullshit-fest cum gospel according to Kono but the fact is that some of us have been attempting to melt what's (left) inside our skulls for close to three fucking decades, some admittedly with more success than others...

For a few years now there's been a story making the rounds about a guy and his devout belief that Jim Morrison is not dead.  Not only is James Douglas Morrison not dead but he's been living on the outskirts of Las Vegas and is an ex-biker now just a sweet old man with long gray hair and a big old gray beard. I know this because he's showed me the picture he has of him.  It is a subject that most people will do anything to avoid bringing up in front of our boy for if you do you will be subjected to a matter of fact presentation of evidence based on facts and first hand knowledge of Jim's current whereabouts, it's a sublime look into the mind of an acid casualty... who also happens to be fucking the adult daughter of said supposedly deceased singer, at least that's his story...

In the little town of Podunk U. there was little tavern where the locals hung out and a few of us student types, the townies called us the Art Crowd and for all intents and purposes we were, at least in that shit backwoods town, we were sculptors, writers, painters, poets, typical self righteous college asshats, my last two years at school i held an exalted place in the hierarchy of the Art Crowd, i'm sure this is covered somewhere here on the lounge but this shit's been going on so long i couldn't tell you where, now among this crowd i was the writer, a fucking poet maaaaaaan, with my thrift store sweater and flannel shirts i dressed the part, i took huge amounts of hallucinogenic drugs and had a grand time and though most people never read or heard a fucking thing i wrote i had a reputation of being a budding genius, the cult and myth of personality, there's the fucking title of the post and not the shit that's on the by-line... Raymond was a year or two behind me and would buy grass off me and was always talking to me about Dylan and the Doors, through the years it stuck with him that i was a poet maaaaaan, and so one night as i pulled my tenth tube at the clubhouse i decided to take the plunge, though i don't have a degree in it, like Vonnegut, i sorta fancy myself an anthropologist, of the cultural and crazy variety, i mean life's fucking grand is it not?

So i broached the subject... and his eyes lit up, a grin crept across his face, his voice picked up a notch, the casket man it's too small right? he said.  He had a new audience to espouse not just his theory but his proof, it's too small... too small, it's obvious it's not him he stated, he then began to wind this intricate tale, like he'd been reading too much Umberto Eco and doing too much DMT, being quite stoned myself i couldn't even begin to follow it, not so much because i was stoned but because it was downright lunatic asylum batshit... and it was in this tale that he had met this girl on a message board, a message board where he was talking about his theory of small caskets and not dead rock stars, and as the gods and fate and Ray Manzarek would have it this woman just so happened to not only know where Mr. Morrison was living but she also happened to know him personally and not just personally but more than that she was his damn daughter, Wanda...  now all of this is told to you in the most matter of fact and confident way, Raymond should've been a trial lawyer or a cult leader, his gaze pure and intense and friendly, he's telling you these things as coolly and confidently as the weatherman tells you yesterday's fucking weather, all i could do was sit there enthralled and nodding...

And so through the power of the Internet true love was born, how often does that happen? hardly ever according to Raymond, not like this and so they met and talked and fucked and he told her how he needed to meet her dad, she said she'd see about it, that her dad was a very guarded and private person but that she'd talk to him and explain how shamanic they both were and how they'd enjoy each other's company, that Raymond was okay and not just some crazy asshole wanting to meet the long dead lead singer of the Doors, who of course wasn't dead... and i'll be damned if  Wanda's love for her new man and her father didn't bring to fruition a meeting of the minds...

Raymond showed me pictures of this meeting, he had gone out west to meet the man, of course nothing was ever implicitly said as to the old guy's identity, it was just understood, in fact Raymond told me that at one point the old man and him just stood across the room and conversed telepathically, that they were placing their thoughts in each other's mind, it was all explained in glowing generalities with a lot of "youknowhatimsayin'", nods and winks and serious looks, as an old poet myself (Raymond's words) i knew, what i knew i had no fucking idea but i think i was supposed to know how to talk to fucking dolphins or something, i thought of broaching the theory that maybe this old man was just that, his new Internet woman's old man, a guy named Kevin who much like himself may have eaten the brown acid back in the Summer of Love, but far be it from me to piss on this man's reality, it was all getting very Carlos Castaneda, i took a rip and watched the smoke hang in the air above the coffee table and slowly slunk back into the other conversations taking place, Raymond gave me a knowing nod, it was as normal as talking about mowing the lawn or fucking golf, and i wondered what are we doing in this Hyacinth House? to please the lions? in this day... (more to come...)



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