Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Why does life feel so less meaningful when you’re not on vacation? Only my second day back in the saddle and I’m already pining for a fjord. I mean I’m pining hard, my dawgs. I miss the mornings of waking up, drinking coffee, and the big question of the day was what cool ass thing or event are you going to cook up for today’s entertainment, what landmark are you going to envision and record for posterity, whut memory are you going to create, what effervescent combination of words, events, scenery, conversation, weather patterns, traffic flow, and otherwise altogether new experience are you going to dive into at that momentous conglomeration and make it your own, make it something to go even beyond the camera eye? Now it’s wake up drink coffee, and think, ok, I’m going to work, I’m gonna, um, tackle some tasks and like, make the world a better place for skunkwork equipment in the year 2005? Fuk that.

Nah not fuk that, cuz 2005 skunk work determination is whut makes 2006 tromping across some foreign continent possible, and in style, hoes. Dolla dolla bills, be they euros, swiss franks, or pounds, gotta come from somewhere okey doke, and they don’t come from spitting this kind of game, at least not for a brotha named alf-jigga. Not with this filthy trigga and this lackadaisical bigga figga.

So yeah, forgive me my locs, I’m a little tad widsy in the dumps. Nah not big time, just like, coming down off a 2.5 week rollercoaster of dollops of good time boba fett stylees. Yeah that don’t mean shit, but neither would it have if it had made sense, trust me on that. It’s the kine shit that no matter how eloquently I prostrate it, if you weren’t there you can’t feel my skees, and fukn guru will back me up on this, and premo once he gets out the shitter, will have my back. It’s like, this feeling, this kine dillio, wherein, you were totally free of unfettered chains of fukn daffodils or some shit like that, and then suddenly you’re back in the zone, and it’s a good zone, and it’s comfy, but suddenly you want more, you want the three martini lunch with an option for four, you want the café sidling with a garcon named Jacque and an unlimited tap of Carlsberg, or kronenberg, or whatever shit they happen to have on draft at that exact millisecond. You want to have to scoot back your chair in the street as a little car that would barely pass for a grandma’s razzie scoots by economically chugging about 1 liter per 85 kilometers. You want that shit, and at the same time you’re stoked on the local kine Americanized shit that you know so well too. It’s a yin and yang type crapshoot except wherein everyone knows the yin outweighs the yang by about 35-40 pounds, but also wherein the yang is a scrappy fighter that regularly pulls hulk Hogan moves and shakes people out of their skull, big fukn strapping moose of men that otherwise would never look twice at stated theoretical yang and suddenly they on they back. But not this time, not necessarily, yeah it’s a lot like that.

So I guess I’m still adjusting.