Friday, April 02, 2010

...time machine

...and no, not THAT kind of time machine

Saturday nights are usually quiet for the likes of the bastard.

I'm a family man you know.

anyway at 10:30, my ladyfriend and me are watching yet naothe episode of special victims unit

because it doesn't pay to be a victim


if you're a SPECIAL victim, your story gets ripped from today's headlines.


the phone rings.

it's the past, "hey past, how's it going?"

"bastard, what are do doing?"

"well I'm in my peejays and getting ready to turn in for the night". I do this but I never seem to get to bed before 2 anyway.

"well get your pants back on. the past is here andhes calling you out. so you must come. and the past is buying"

so how could the bastard refuse.

at the gigantic bar I went to was a friend from junior high school who friended me on the virus when I told him a story from 8th grade health class to authenticate my identity.

he had a smoke on him.

damn, I wanted to smoke too.

but I wanted to drink more.

so the past who can be the collector got me my bracelet.

and I went for my drink only to be waylaid by my old old guitarist.

you see, the bastard was in more than one band in his day and lou was in a punk band with me.

hell, he WAS the damn band.

I met many from yesteryear.

some reminded me of times I felt waould be best forgotten but tonite I was kind of glad to remember them.

that shit keeps you humble.

keeps you from trying to steal another man's girlfriend from him.

keeps you humble.

keeps you drunk too. the host kept passing me shots of whiskey.

the past never tasted so good.

I came away drinker than I needed to be but glad that Sherman, my benefactor from the past called me to come back in time with him Saturday night.

more later.

—the bastard

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