So Jen, my true love, can be grumpy that she has to accommodate me, but if she wants to go anywhere she’ll likely have to drive. I certainly wouldn’t relinquish the manly power of driving unless I felt there was a need, even if I can’t communicate it. Lately we mostly get stoned and watch a lot of Discovery channel instead of going out anyway. I’m a true poor Southern gentleman, albeit one without a dog. Yet.
My old friends James & Gregory stopped by the house today, totally by surprise. They went to high school together and both continued on to St. John’s up in New Mexico. I haven’t seen them for ages of course, even a lifetime of friendship can’t compete much with both of our new explorations and the adventures of going away to school. Gregory had one of his usual girls in tow; he likely picked her up last night at a bar somewhere in the Metroplex. Gregory is what I refer to as a girl magnet, a male who can do about anything and instantly become the idol of any female presence within a fifty-yard radius. He’s the only person I’ve ever met that falls into this class of male, though I’ve heard stories—nay legends—of more. I guess as laws get more stringent a lot of them end up behind bars since it’s a crime against the establishment to be that damn alluring. Gregory’s a great guy to make friends with since a person can hang around with him and pick up girls vicariously. Since there’s only one of him it’s nice to help out and handle his overflow, or castaways if you will. It isn’t that he’s especially attractive that I can tell. It’s more of an aura, a look or pheromone secretion as near as I can hazard.
I hadn’t seen either of them since Ernie and I drove my VW to New Mexico and went skiing for the weekend a few years ago so I was nervous at first but we quickly settled into our usual rapport. I met James a long, long time ago and I suppose I should write a little about James and his family since they’ve had such a big influence on my development as a person. I love James for what he and his family did for me as a youth. Their home was my sanctuary and refuge from my own dysfunctional family. It’s because his family placed such a value on learning and reading that I was exposed to thousands of great books and artworks that I would have never stumbled across on my own. Through my observations of their perfect nuclear family I learned about class distinction and that money is a blessing never to be hoarded but something to be used wisely and generously. Hell, they bailed me out when I lost $80, all my money in the world at the time, to a three card Monte hustler on the streets of NY. They even did it slyly by saying it was for my birthday. We went to school together in the same gifted classes and drudgery until sixth grade when James transferred to a Catholic school my parents couldn’t come close to affording. We remained close friends until he left for college. James’s house is where I was encouraged to be creative, to think outside the box and to look at a life where careers are based on more than financial reward. James’s generous car lessened the pain and necessity of not having one of my own in high school and during my first year of college. We discovered girls and zits and a mutual appreciation for bad television together. When we speak it’s with the frustrating language people parallel to identical twins. I’m sure his family was slightly annoyed with the way I managed to attach myself to their gatherings, but I didn’t know any better. I went skiing with them for the first time at their private cabin in Lake City near Crested Butte. I went to museums with them, weddings, funerals, art films, Catholic mass and as we grew up together I generally tried not to make a nuisance of myself during my frequent layovers at their dinner table. I also fell into a secret love with his younger sister Maureen because of a longing for her that grew out of exposure and a desire to be a part of their family. When I proudly announced I would marry her one day, she tattled to her parents and I got red in the face when they said they would be happy to have me. I consider the majority of their brood to be good people too. He has 3 older siblings that were gone before he and Maureen came along. I even looked up to James’s dad as a father who wasn’t my father, not a new concept given my home life. For them I even had to rethink my lifelong instinct and philosophy to never trust anyone with red hair. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for their family and I would die for James. I owe them big time and I know it. Instead of fading into poor stupid obscurity I was shown, not made to, appreciate the value of education.
All past history and bullshit aside however, I was glad to get a random visit from James. I had bought him a giant sombrero during my trip to Mexico over Christmas and he thanked me by bringing over a case of Lone Star beer, assuring me that its high-dollar shit up at St. John’s. We got drunk and talked about nothing and everything, just having a good time. I introduced him to Jenifer (she was working) with pride when we went to the Tomato at my insistence for free beer and pizza. There’s not much else to report really because we got obnoxiously drunk. They were envious of my house and I wished we were able to stay in better contact when he left but long distance friendships must progress. Still it felt like one of my brothers had visited for a day and left, so I was slightly depressed to see them go.
Oh, some gossip: James’s sister Maureen is pregnant and had to come home from her first year at college. Life is weird but I instinctively know she will make a good mother and a routine of childcare discipline will benefit her. I sympathize with her upcoming ordeal though. Despite my fleeting dreams of boyhood romance I would like to send a note of encouragement since she’ll have to face hostile familial Catholicism over this, but I’m probably not even supposed to be privy to the secret at all. So Maureen, here is a subconscious mental well wishing aimed at you and your child. Be good and be strong, I’m thinking of you.
Tonight a bunch of us watched Jane’s Addiction’s “Gift” while tripping on acid. I viewed it with a skepticism—usually reserved for alchemy—in a packed living room of people, all of us watching it for the first time. It was a creepy and oddly romantic movie crammed with lots of badass music. Just us, Perry, Casey and the ultimate rundown of the heroin lifestyle encompassing all its death spanning love. Maybe it was the acid but the movie really moved me and now I want to try smack more than ever. Isn’t that stupid? To be influenced by imagery and music so much, just like the evil government said I would be. Maybe organized government is my friend after all.
Yeah right.
Nope, I now know that I’ve pretty much been lied to and fed misinformation about every drug I’ve ever tried. Usually my virginal nervousness turns to disappointment because for some reason the amount of pleasure I equate with the evil addictive quotient just isn’t there for me. And I don’t think I’m special either. In a way it’s good because I want my experimentation with everything I can get my hands on (excluding sniffing paint and PCP, nasty business) to only be a temporary experimentation. A series of experiences I can look back on and say “I did that” or at least use my exploration as a reference for unwritten characters in a bad after-school special or something.