Late and not in a writing mood. Listening to the new Devendra Banhart album, minimal but meaty.
Know what I remember?
Towing Joey on my bike. We’d ride around the neighborhood in the summer, he used to call me the “expert tower” because I knew just how to hit the bumps and take the turns so as to make them most comfortable to him. We both had long hair and we never crashed.
Stealing bananas off a tree overhanging the fence on the corner lot so we could make “banandine” from a recipe in the Anarchist Cookbook. Peeled ten bananas, scraped the peels and baked the remnants. Got a lot of black ash and never did try to smoke it.
Digging a hole in Chad’s backyard so we could fill it with gas and light it on fire, then jump over it with homemade nunchucks we’d fashioned from a dog chain and hacksawn closet rod. Late night while camping out, in a tent, in the backyard. Yeah, it was the same night we snuck over to Mary Jo’s to watch Matt make out with Krissy.
Being told I had to go home and change my Led Zeppelin Houses of the Holy shirt. Some girl in the lunchline told on me, “there’s nekkid chicks on there!” We compromised and I wore it inside out the rest of the day. Worked out immensely better for me because it practically forced me to tell the story to everyone I saw.
Purposely building huge air pockets into our clay pieces in art class, in hopes they’d explode like bombs in the kiln and ruin some chump’s real effort. If she wouldn’t have stressed how important it was to rid the clay off all bubbles at risk of it exploding, we’d’ve never known.
Spending the night at Justin’s house and watching a GWAR movie called “Phallus in Wonderland.” Where it came from, how he got it, I have no idea. The same night we put an old Booker T and the MGs album on the turntable and checked the homemade moonshine we were making in his closet. Foul and rotten, we ended up throwing it out.
Taking down my Garbage Pail Kids and Garfield posters in favor of underwear models clipped from the pages of the JC Penny catalog. Anything with chicks would do, really. Swimwear, Surfer magazine ads, Sunday newspaper inserts, whatever. It didn’t matter.
Lying about having had my first kiss, until I actually had my first kiss.
Listening to a friend tell me he’d tried to commit suicide that weekend, but got too scared with the gun in his mouth. We all lied for attention back then, but I never had the nerve to follow up on this one later on. To this day I don’t know if it ever really happened.
Ordering something called “Inda Kind” from the back pages of a High Times magazine. “A legal high.” Rolled up in some Zig-Zags, I’d imagine we smoked three or four cigarettes filled with this fruity crap in some vain attempt to get “stoned,” whatever that meant. Got some killer headaches, but that’s about it. Threw that waste of $30 out.
Taking a break from writing to search the internet and see if someone could still buy “Inda Kind.” Ending up reading about fake week for 20mins and coming back to the page with a blank mind. Re-reading what I’d written and realizing all those things happened between 7th and 8th grade… wow.
Noticing it’s midnight and calling it quits. Dave out.