Exile on Main Street (Part I)

At least I have her love, the CITY she loves me. Lonely as I am, together we cry...

One of the major themes of today's political landscape can be broken down as simply the disconnect between Big Cities and Rural America. "Main Street not Wall Street" was the kind of bumper sticker slapped across the mouths of every ambitious politician this side of a bag of Doritos over the last two years. Both parties tried to capitalize on this social class rivalry, stopping short of outlining gang colors (Green$$ for Big Cities and Cow-Manure-Brown for Towns).

In this current showcase we have the Liberal "Elite" Democrats cast as the City Slickers while Conservatives are pegged as more in touch with Small town "Real" America.

First, why so? It started a million years ago when principles and tendencies started forming unavoidable trends of political affiliation. Lets examine the two sides, starting with the Left. The Right will be covered in my next post.

The Liberal Elites

The Liberals have been called many things over the years. During the Civil Rights era Liberals were looked at as radicals. Radicals because they had an easier time mixing with the blacks and hispanics. Radicals because they favored employees over their bosses as best exemplified by the Labor Unions generally backing Democratic Candidates. Radicals because many of them broke out of breadbasket Religious ideologies. And Radicals because they fervently opposed War, took an impressive amount of drugs and idolized Rock n' Roll icons rather than they're parents.

But why "Elite", Lou? Well, simply put, generally people that live in major cities are exposed to more culture. They most likely would be exposed to at least 10 Nationalities on their morning commute to work alone. More nationalities lends itself to expanded ideas, understanding of those different than yourself and overall nature-of-the-beast coexistence. It's this kind of intellectual curiosity that goes hand in hand with the "Elite" stigma.

So you may be asking yourself, "How do liberals accomplish all this? How is it you can be a minority-loving-working-class-hippieface yet still morph into a snobby intellectual Elitist? The Answer: Lots of Yoga and multigrain granola bars.

Seriously though, I blame the Beatles. Or rather British Rock n' Rollers as a whole. See, they made the previously underground (and under-appreciated) style of black Blues music...white and cool. Simply put they gripped a lot of youth in this country, not through force or guilt but through their musical taste buds. Divide and Conquer! Pretty soon many of these kids got out of their poop kicking towns and moved either all the way East or all the way West. Plus, most of the Ivy League schools were in the Northeast.

Teachers, Artists, Musicians tended to lean liberal.

Why is that? Well, I believe that the job of parents are to instill rules and be the bad guy. Say "No", to many of the things kids want to do. It's a really tough gig borne mostly out of sheltering and overprotecting of a loved one. Who can blame them? But for me, the job of a teacher is to break them out of norms. Show them there's a lot more across the oceans and of course, question authority. Who's the authority? Police, politicians, priests and parents. The 4 P's of Conservative America! This was a huge threat to society so hence the attack on teachers and free thinking "elite's".

more to come...I'm sleepy.

Pose for Me, Baby

Can't help but laugh about certain words. If a picture is worth a thousand words, why do some words spark up so many pictures in our heads? The word I'm thinking about today is "poser". The thought of that word conjures up so many flash-card-style memories of 7th grade smirks from prepubescent know-it-all brats. Hard to believe that 13 year old kids that haven't so much as driven a car, drank a beer or much less earned a buck took such ownership of words like poser. Maybe because we couldn't squabble over much else (nobody was getting laid yet either), so I guess musical taste was the only currency available for drawing lines in the sand.

It was the early 90s. The hit video for "Jeremy" had all of us uniform wearing private school kids mesmerized. As the so called grunge wave hit our neighborhood, I remember certain kids immediately trying to sell the rest of us as if they came straight out of the womb sporting mushroom haircuts, dirty converse, all the while wrapped in red flannel. None of this is new, I guess I just can't help but crack up at how some of these "original and pioneering" flag holders for being "legit" kids threw around the word poser at everybody else who jumped on a micro-step slower. Funny study of human nature. The truth is, same is true for adults today.

You know how it starts, you hear about a band through a random friend or "indie" radio station that nobody's heard about. All of the sudden you're actively yet secretly working for them. All is well until they make it big. Boom. Your little baby's all growns up and she's banging the pop world six at a time. Pretty soon t-shirts are exploding faster than popcorn off of [insert fantasy hot chick's] blouse. And, naturally, you want EVERYONE to know that YOU knew about them FIRST! To this I say, stop being a freak show.

I mean seriously, about the only truest of the true original appreciators of your now favorite band were a couple of hairy gay dudes with tie dye shirts in Seattle. (I also feel its important to note I imagine them with cartoonishly long noses and Lennon-style-circled-lens reading glasses) And really? I like me better.

Yes, me. The guy that lives 3k Miles away from any real grassroots musical towns. Put it this way, if the music traveled all the way down to Miami, I'll bet the farm it brought a 10 piece luggage-shit-load of "pop" with it so stop fakin' the bacon boys and girls.

In the end, when it comes to good taste, it's better late than never.

Fire in the Hole

In light of yet another slew of shooting frenzies in America, it has come to my obvious conclusion that we cannot be trusted with sling shots much less fire arms.

I think we can all agree that most of our countrymen are dumb as cat shit. There is overwhelming evidence of this. I mean, we voted Bush Jr. in twice and made Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian famous for getting pounded harder than a gerbil at Richard Gere's happy camp. Seriously, I don't trust people enough to fold my taco bell food correctly yet I'm supposed stand with the gun-ho gun hoes at the NRA. Conservatives have fought gun control for years citing the American pastime of hunting small and ferociously furry deer, quail and duck while thousands of students, coworkers and bystanders are the ones getting fucked. Has anyone seen a hunting show recently on Spike TV? These guys look like they're in a porn except when I wait for a hot bunny to come out and get poked, it's actually a real bunny getting smoked.

It really kicks my ass when some of my own friends defend our gun toting American culture. They speak about getting prepared for the possibility of them being victimized. They look at a situation where kids get shot at school and say "See, if the teachers and students ALL had guns, they could have stopped the shooters or at least given them a good fight." Its this type of ass clown thinking that has our country ranked at the top of the Moron charts. Imagine a wild west America where everybody walks around strapped waiting for the paranoid sniff of danger, horn honking will become obsolete!

It is my belief that merely bringing a gun into the equation triples the chance of somebody pushing up daisies. Some asshole with a gun tries to take my wallet usually wants money not a murder wrap. Chances are, if I pull a gun instead of my money clip, that lowlife probably knows his way around a gun more than I. Basically I've successfully turned losing 50 bucks, a credit card and my hole punched subway sandwich cards into getting bucked at with a hole punched up my ass. No thanks. Take the money, I was gonna probably spend it on crap anyways. Having a gun at home is harmless, right? Not if you're this lady.

http://www.kfdm.com/articles/hanel-33000-montgomery-husband.html

Some people are even more amazing. They compare gun control to Fidel Castro and the Communist takeover of Cuba. They believe that Americans need to be armed in case of a "big government takeover" of our civil liberties and possible revolution. Like if Farmer Fran and his Ole' McDonald shotgun is theoretically going to stop a tank rolling down US1. Everybody needs get their head out of their ass on this one.

Guns make nobody safe.

Grassy Knoll

My friend Kris and I were drained and beat up after a formal suit and tie family function. My irresponsibly late dials began to lose steam as the discouraging drive back from the beach began to take its toll. It became painfully obvious there was only one true alternative here : Taco Hell; only this particular munchy hunger had an experimental feel to it.

We decided to order about 20 dollars worth of food which translates into about a thousand tacos. Only we didn't choose the run-of-the-mill tacos we usually enjoy, we decided to get creative. Meximelts, bean burritos, Taco Bell Grandes, enchiladas, crazy chalupas; anything under the sun which we felt would expand our Taco Bell horizons for future drunk visits.
After the first bite I took of that random ass guacamolito I realized we likely made a gross mistake.

There is no such thing as luck. Luck is simply when a two idiots, a Santa Claus bag full of tacos and opportunity meet.

On this night opportunity came first in the form of the ghetto-ist, bass pumping, gold teeth wearing thug-mobile Cadillac I have ever seen. Without a word or warning I threw a Roger Clemens lazer burrito right through the open Cadillac passenger window reminiscent of the JFK assassination. Those ponies were seriously ready to kill us. But still, I imagine it's difficult to think and drive rationally with sour cream and alpo meat stuck to the fake Versace's.
I easily lost them going around the block. When we hit the clear peeling down 32nd Avenue I realized my buddy was choking on his first bite from the laughter. I don't think I have ever seen a more sincere laughing attack 'til this day.

As a drove my eyes grew wide. I wanted more. I became a man possessed. I became LOU HARVEY OSWALD in this bitch. It wasn't about the tacos anymore. It wasn't even about the accuracy. It wasn't even about the laughter from my buddy. I just got blood drunk with burritos. It was like fishing with dynamite! I'm sure the nice young couple out on a date didn't expect two enchiladas to smack 'em in the pelvis? What about the four spring breakers coming out of Señor Frogs brimming with all the allure that Miami brings? Did they in their wildest dreams foresee getting Rambo'ed by a Taco Bell Grande? Probably not.

Looking down at my side it seems Kris was turning shades of purple. I realized it was time for a good finale similar to the end of a fireworks show on 4th of July. A taxi, an older woman walking her dog, a Johnny Rockets server; nobody was safe from Operation Shock and Awe. All of these actions have their penalty in the eyes of karma which is something I can deal with. Let a bird shit on me at a football stadium or may my "dude" flop out through my boxers when I bend down to get the morning Miami Herald. Any of these consequences are understandable.

Regardless I know I went too far when I flagged down two corner spot pushers on a Grand Avenue backstreet. As they approached the car to negotiate for what they thought was a few dime powders, the onslaught of remaining tacos and burritos bursted out like a Fidel firing squad. One dude actually fell off his bike riddled by soft and crunchy shell ammo. I'm sure those guys have seen it all on the mean streets of the grove but they'll be hard pressed to brag about this particular shooting. It was the funniest memory of the night, but I easily could have gotten us killed. The lesson I take with me is that fast food can kill in a number of different ways. It's best to just go home early and make a sandwich. You'll definitely live longer.

A Horse of Course Not?

Correct me if I'm wrong but what the FUCK is the deal with cops on Horseback trotting down Biscayne Blvd like its a super bowl Bud commercial? I'm mean seriously, are we in the wild west? What purpose can it possibly serve? I just want you all to imagine the scene this morning at the local police department. It seems some clown cop decided that enforcing the crime element in often shady Downtown Miami requires SEABISCUIT. Last time I checked the horse has been updated since the days of yore...its called either the motorcycle or even his sissy sister "bike". Can we get these cops a golf cart or at the very least some ass powder from riding that thing all day?

Honestly, if I'm a criminal about to get the job done I'm probably more worried about the results of last nights women's basketball game then a cop on a caballo. I think pony cops actually encourage crime more than anything. Gunfight at the O.K. Corral...Gables? Really?

And do you really think our friend Mr. Ed is having a good time out there in the 80 degree weather? Well, he is not. I speak fluent horse due to my family racing and owning horses most of my life. When I rolled down the window the horse goes "I need a fat cop on my back like I need a baseball bat across the face". That was enough for me. Went home pissed enough to write this blog.

Also, in this economy its hard enough to find a job as a midget and now cops want to rape another one of the small man's options. MAKES ME SICK. Word Association: Horse is to Midget Jockey as Dounut diving-High Divorce Rate having-drug planting-dick is to Cop. A bit much? Maybe.

Some may say "Hey bro, a horse cop gives us that warm fuzzy small town feel that we big cities lack...besides, cops are more approachable on horse than inside a cop car". Now, before I bash this simpleton theory...its true, we do live in a time where cops are about as down to earth as Christian Bale on the set of Terminator. Asking a cop for directions or help with a flat tire would more likely draw guns and arrest than actual help these days. All that aside I am a city dwelling Liberal. FUCK MAIN STREET. I'm so sick of hearing all about this mythological "Main St." But that's a whole other blog I can charge up later. Whats next? Are my cops gonna be wearing snowflake sweaters serving eggnog on Grand Ave while a crackhead breaks into my car? No thanks Skippy.

Vote for Lou 2008

I just want to begin by explaining that although this piece is political, relatively partisan and 100% relatively maybe sorta true; in no way do I intend to shit on a morons right to vote or a bigot's right to free speech. These are simply accounts of how my own personal political journey made it's way to this years election.

At about 5:30pm, just about the time the average yahoo like myself gets home from work, a fuck- force barrage of political coverage floods the tube like gay dudes at a Yani concert. MSNBC, FOX News and CNN all have their rock stars Keith Oberman, Anderson Cooper, Bill O'Reilly and Chris Matthews all jockeying for position to either change my mind or lie til their noses knock over the cue cards. Although I love to watch the daily events, just to store inside my basket of bullshit, I must agree that none whatsoever have swayed my political opinion. Watching however did make me wonder as to how I arrived at my current political affiliation. When did I make this independent choice to stay Democrat?

First off, I live in the absolute worst place in the world to be a Democrat...South Florida. And Not just Miami but a previously Red-dominated Key Biscayne. For this I have my parents to blame who grand fathered my ass into the Democratic Party. Their choice likely due to their New York college years, love for John Lennon and loyalty to the party of John F. Kennedy. What I later discovered was that JFK was actually a four letter word and most people here though "Lennon" was a fruit that mixed well with sugar, water and ice. Thank you mom and dad.

Now before I could make up my mind... certain events made it for me. I was about half way through the 7th Grade at St. Agnes when my father though it would be a good idea to take me to the Presbyterian Church(where elections are held) on Election Day. Apparently my dad was doing community service for some dumb misdemeanor and wanted to use this opportunity to campaign for Bill Clinton, a new and relatively unknown Democratic candidate. Standing in the heavy sun with our Clinton/Gore 92′ signs and posters...we were clearly outnumbered. I remember my classmates coming up to me with their parents asking why would I vote for such a loser. Mind you that we were in an economic recession and just returned from war in Iraq under the Administration of a Bush family member...sound familiar? Anyways, just as we were thinking of wrapping it up, a dark green brand new Jaguar pulls up and rolls down the window screaming in our general direction. It was a half bald, middle-aged wealthy Cuban guy who I still see on the Key all the time. "You basterd Motherf#ckers! How dare you hold up that sign for that sonofabich! If he is elected this country is going to hell! We're all going to get taxed off to live in Hialeah! Your gonna see this country go into deep economic misery if he wins...MARK MY WORDS your idiots!"

The biggest shock of the day ended up not being the rant of the right winged jack-off. The real mystery was how my father never got arrested for reaching into his car and almost choking him by his tie. I love my father a little more for this minor awesome detail.

The problem with Mr. Jack-off's theory is that I did mark his words. It turns out we enjoyed the record longest period of economic growth in our entire history. Moving along.

Despite all the successes of the previous administration, Al Gore was not viewed by many as a sexy candidate to take over after Clinton. In 2000 I was now 20 years old and working in my first office job at a firm called Morgan Enterprises. Some regular "TPS" report-type cubicle job where I basically faxed a lot of stuff and stared blindly at my computer playing solitaire (This was the year 2000 B.C.F.B - before Facebook). I ended up putting in my resignation after "Dorislaydis Sanchez (exaggerated name) so eloquently told me "I should go on the bus with the rest of the N*ggers and vote for Al Gore" and that he "is obsessed with indecent sex and the ozone layer." Normally I wouldn't care but it was the big boss' sister. God knows I wasn't going to get a good recommendation from that job so I did what any other pissed off 20 year old would do. A Jerry McGuire "this fish has manners" grand fuck you exit.

Turns out we should have been on the case with the "ozone obsessed " guy now that polar bears and penguins are washing up on South Beach like some God Damned Christmas Coke commercial.

Even still after the attack on 911, the battle cry for most Bush supporters was "man I'm sure glad we have "un Cowboy in el White House...VIVA Bush!" Not only that but the whole time I was dealing with my then girlfriends' dad who urged me to vote republican because Liberalism=Socialism and "or else these God damned n*ggers will take over". Amazing. It was like I was living an everyday "After School special" version of Groundhog Day.

So 2004 couldn't come fast enough as the war in Iraq was in full swing. All the troops took a wrong turn en route to Afghanistan and landed in Sadaam Hussien's living room like a bad episode of wife swap. Naturally I believed the nation would choose a decorated Vietnam war hero like Kerry over a Yale Cheerleader (I'm not making this shit up). But no, somehow the Democrats lost the election. It was a fast break open "lay-up" and the Democrats tripped on their shoelaces on the way up court.

How could this be? Simple. The right wing has mastered the Art of Buzz Words. They have learned to control the masses of no-name, expressionless Middle Americans you commonly see packing up televangelist shows by thousands...or Alabama football home games.

a) We are Christians.
b) We don't want GAYS to get married.
c) We want to fight; Democrats are pussies.
c) If you ain't Pro-Life you must be Pro-Death.
d) USA! USA! USA! USA! (Cheers are starting to sound a little German)
e) Small Government (so the good old Confederate Southerners stay Republican)
Game Over.

Politics is Amazing. They label people worse then those of us who crowned girls "whores" for making out with 3 dudes back in school. As you can see I am just as guilty as everybody else. Those of you who say the presidential candidacy is not a popularity contest...send my best to the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus cause your living in a crazy house. Clinton got in because he was "cool" and Bush Jr. got elected twice for being a "cowboy" so roll that up and smoke it.

Even now with Obama I am seeing the same exact history repeating itself. I shit you not, even the Key Biscayne Chicken Kitchen workers got political as they were making my chop yesterday. "Obama es un Communista Papo" as the guest behind me carrying his baby couldn't resist saying "it's true that nigger is gonna drown this country". I started thinking "isn't the country already drowning?" I got so zoned in that when the worker said "here's your Cuban[chop] sir" I go "fuck that I'm Colombian" and we all laughed.

Either way I can honestly say that my idea of a Liberal Democrat perfectly fits my personality and lifestyle. I guess like the Kennedys I grew up in a great neighborhood with all the advantages that most people don't receive. Yet instead of spending their days on the boat getting high or moving to the South of France to party their ass off, they chose a life of public service for those who are poor and less fortunate. Joe Kennedy Jr. was killed in WWII, Jack was a war hero as well and later got killed as President. His younger brother Bobby got killed after many years in the Senate and of course Ted Kennedy has been in public service for decades as Senator of Massachusetts. Sorry for the history lesson but here's my point. Yea they enjoyed booze like any other Irish Catholic. Did they have ties to Frank Sinatra and the Mafia? Possibly. Did both brothers sleep with Marilyn Monroe? Possibly hell yea! And I'm okay with all that to be completely honest with you...but you know what makes me like the Kennedys even more?
The fact that this election year, to the fear of all above storied racists, they helped pave the way so these so-called "Damned N*ggers" can finally take over. Go Barack Obama.

Strawberry Lou's Forever

Now I never was a big fan of losing control. Just there wasn't a big attraction or curiosity to see purple elephants, green horses and polar bears on tricycles. I viewed acid as a dumb gringo type tendency geared by boredom ...much like bungee jumping or skydiving. Just-Kidding-Suicide and volunteer hallucination just wasn't my thing...or maybe I was just a big floppy sissy that felt my brain would explode like rainbowed popcorn in a hail of confusion.

This also pretty much went for most of the other drugs running through the shit faucet of my younger era. This fear of drugs helped me hide behind the "Wizard-of-Oz" type red curtain of morality amongst friends and girlfriends of the time. Many times I casted judgment over those who respected me as some sort of Willpower Godfather who was impervious to such open mouthed awe when it came to drugs.

Now I did however drink like a fish...like a fucking shark... I know whales are big but I felt they might be too light in the shorts to proper emphasize how liberally I drank. My drug limitations were gloriously rationalized with excuses such as; my family drinks enough to drown a giraffe, Xanax bars are prescribed by the good doctors of America and weed comes from nature....man. It was debatable as to whether or not my drugs were harmless or more dangerous than the others...but this is my story of karma handing down the ugly, fat sister of all life lessons.

I was about 17 years old and working at a Coconut Grove coffee shop after school at Gables High. It was an extremely fun job from what I remembered except for the fact that I mostly got paid in girls phone numbers and ice coffee dreams. Realizing I needed to make extra money I took on a new venture where the demand was high and profit margin favorable...selling Acid to idiots in my circle. First, I needed somebody to point me in the right direction and give me the ground rules and regulations.

Brian, a mushroom haired surfer of some kind, had about ten years on me in age but thousands of years ahead of me in acid knowledge. Aside from the coffee shop, the dude had several other free lance jobs that kept his beamer paid, beeper chirping and rent covered. One of those odd jobs was street marketing in which he made sound most profitable and easy. I, on the other hand, was all thumbs with this sort of thing. I mean, I could fuck up a cup of coffee. Once I bought a pound of weed and it molded up like Joan Rivers in two days. I guess it's safe to say I wasn't put on this Earth for this sort of business yet I thought acid would be a sure fire easy thing to sell. No weighing, no calculating, no slacking...just boom-boom give me money. He got me a sheet of acid and quickly warned me about the details.

I'm in my room with the door locked as if a mad scientist fumbling through this "project". I had been warned to use gloves when handling in order to not risk absorption of the acid through my pores. Well, since I didn't have gloves handy I was forced to hold the acid, scissors and a composition book on my lap for the acid squares to land... all while wearing thick white tube socks like some fucked up hand puppet show on PBS. Only this mad scientist was living with his mother who randomly stormed in to check for booze and loose teenage girls. This was one of those days.

"Luis Alfredo! Open up!" I almost shit my looms at the though of my mother realizing I was involved in something like this. The poor woman had put up with many of my other delinquencies, tendency for fights and overall disregard for all authority...but this would have drove her head first into the funny farm. I was in full homeland security alert ORANGE when I hastily closed the notebook and ran to get the door. Little did I know a few acid squares flew sneakily on the carpet, conspiring to shake things up like a fat man doing jumping jacks. I guess I was more concerned with tossing the socks and supplies to notice any squares I had to pick up. I think you know where this is going.

It's been a hard days night and I've been working like dog. It's been a hard days night and I should be sleeping like a log. After a long, hot shower I was looking forward to this well deserved rest. I crawled into bed happily and began to sleep for about 35 minutes still wrapped in a towel like some sort of fucked up Lou-fajita. Suddenly an overwhelming surge of energy came over me like adrenaline-pumped Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction. This strange suspicion lead me to check the bottom of my shower-wet feet only to find two curious little white squares stuck to me like a postage stamp...of Satan himself! Charged with panic, I rushed over to my bathroom mirror and found my pupils the size of grapefruits, confirming the now undeniable. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

The screams could be heard throughout the house which got the attention of my poor mother. "What's wrong?" she said. Clearly, like any other rebellious and hardened high school bad ass, I did the natural thing which was...wig the fuckkkk out and sing like a Canary! "Okay Mom, here's the story...I accidentally took a drug I was holding for a friend and I'm afraid a Red Elephant is gonna pop up and make me join the Marines! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, What do I do, mama help!?!!! I'm not sure what came first...my brilliant exit strategy solution or the Bruce Lee: Fists of Fury slaps by Mama Restrepo. Either way I knew I had to get to Adrian's house.

"Are you sure I shouldn't take you to the hospital?" she said. "No, Mom, trust me Adrian does drugs like these all the time. He'll know exactly what to do" So now I've sold me friend down the river as well. "What!!! What in the hell is going on here!!!" she yelled as we pulled up into Adrian's driveway. I told her to stay outside for the moment as I promised to keep her updated.
At this point I was starting to flow into trip mode. I remember walking into Adrian's house and noticed all the dark colors making deep drum-like noises while the really light colors were making high pitched piano sounds. Full freak out time was eminent. Here I am, the number one drug basher in America, staring into the teeth of something I feared like a motherfucker.

Adrian was a calming agent during these crucial few minutes. He realized that acid was a mental drug that needed to be confused into thinking everything was gonna be fine. "Look bro, you remember Chemistry class at Columbus right? Remember the PH balance thing? It simple bro, your on ACID...so how do you balance out an ACID?" A BASE!!" Brilliant Answer Adrian! MILK, that's it, MILK! The almighty "does a body good" was now turned into an LSD tonic! Desperately I started chugging the milk like Ron Burgundy out of the gallon. With my mind at ease thanks to my Placebo-faced friend, he sent me off with some sensible advice. "First bro, stay away from your Mom during this situation, Mom's and acid don't mix well. Two, try to just sit back and enjoy the shit. Three, our buddy Willy is having a party down the block so just try and keep your mind occupied until this shit wears off. And last, hurry up and get the fuck out cuz my Dad is wondering why your wearing a Gallon of 2% Milk on your shirt." Milk was a baaaaad choice.

Walking alone down the block with a half empty gallon of milk and a head full of acid, my poor mother slowly stalked behind me in the car refusing to leave me alone. When I arrived at the party my friends had trouble deciding what was funnier, the accidental trip or the fact that my poor mother was parked across the street nervously observing. After a couple of hours of partying I realized everybody was increasingly boring and my acid was getting less active. With one quarter left in this ballgame I realized I needed a strong finish to end this bizarre episode. I picked up the phone and called Monica, the Winston Wolf of all late night problem solvers. I knew I could count on her to keep my mind occupied for the 4th Qtr. My poor, confused mother delivered me over to a booty call which I think that was a first. At any rate it was a touchdown and I slept like a baby.
Looking back at all this its safe to say I learned lessons on many levels.