In addition to walking around with watermelon-boners, how else do the boys spend this most patriotic of days? Kip, of course, is in Ft. Scott with a sparkler in one hand and a hot dog in the other, wearing a flag lapel pin and watching the parade on Main Street. Richard, in Larryville, has chosen to fly his freak flag instead and attend the Replay's patio show this evening. The boys wish their readers a happy holiday!
Now, as promised, the Chronicles from time to time bring you treasures from their back catalogue. Long-time fans will remember Dr. C. as an integral part of the Chronicles long before it even solidified into this blog. He was many things to many people: lover, fighter, scholar, father, poet, scientist, Writer of the Future. A man who once met David Carradine, who once got drunk and commandeered a local party bus, a man who once smashed a glass in Quinton's parking lot so mad was he at Richard for knowing the name of a Freddie Prinze Jr. film. Indeed, Dr. C. wore many hats (and some of them were berets!). Here, from July 3, 2006, is a powerful piece he wrote about Larryville (and America at large). Enjoy!
On the eve of the most patriotic of all holidays, when we celebrate
the document that actually gave us freedom (as opposed to all those
subsequent ones that have tried to take it away (I'm looking at you, "Mad Jimmy"
Madison), three (ostensibly) gentlemen arrived clandestinely at their
pre-appointed meeting place to plan their putsch. It was an innocuous
location, at the unfashionable end of Massachusetts street (well,
maybe the fashionable end, although from my perspective it's pretty near the
craphole) of what might be Anytown, USA. The name was written in blue neon, the
walls of rough-hewn stone strewn carelessly with vague wrought-iron forms.
The floor dirty, the faux leather of the seats worn through in many places
showing the cheap foam beneath. On the wall, above the specials board
(itself a sign of our eroding freedoms, as first $2 anything, then $2
Captand Jack, have been erased) hung a pink tank top available in sizes
small and medium.
The first arrived, a paunchy, thirsty-looking man in dirty shorts and
a clean shirt, aged about 32.75. His hair short but ragged, his face
unshaven, he looked a man beyond hope and fear, a man who could do or
say anything, much to the amusement and dread of his companions. He was
unrecognized. Good, he thought. In an attempt to further conceal his
identity, he ordered a Boulevard Pale Ale rather than anything he
would normally order in this two-and-a-half-bit frat-hut. The bartender,
himself a scrawny, scraggly fellow of dubious parentage brought it without any
hint of friendliness.
The second and third men arrived together, laughing at the fresh
insults of the seditious television they had been secretly consuming. The
second, a sandy-haired Southerner, aged about 32.83, with an easy stroll, a
quick laugh, and a quiet face, came to the bar and ordered a single C-and-C.
His open expression and friendly eyes conceal a deep attic with many dark,
unrevealed corners. People trusted him instantly, at their peril. The
third, a short-blond-haired agon-without-a-cause, came to the bar and
ordered not only a double C-and-C, but a B-and-C on white with regular
chips. He was the fine shape of eternal youth and virginal desire
that makes heroes, a romantic in the body of a sex-stallion in a shell of
frailclay. The second man got a glass. The third, a plastic. The men
adjourned to a booth.
And what did they do here? Talk, as they always do, the kind of talk
that burns searing bright, a consuming flame that begets cold, impotent
ash. But, ah, the brightness of the flame, dancing up and down the
oily height of an untrimmed wick.
And of what did they talk? Most of it is unrepeatable here because it
blinds and leaves not a memory, but a vague afterimage on the mind.
They talked of Sonic Youth, and the absurd hypothesis that people at this
sinkhole of homogenized, mass-market culture would know more about the
aforementioned band than the assorted aficionados of the Replay, a bar
nestled in the midparts of Massachusetts. To demonstrate the
absurdity, the first man asked the waitress what she knew about Sonic Youth, to which
she replied, "I've never heard of it."
The first man refrained from telling high-chair stories.
The second man spoke of his big weekend, walking down Mendoza Road
beyondthe valley of the dolls to the Jetlag oasis, from thence to the land
of greasers, then to the Alabama Ghost country of Pine Hill, finally,
finally, to the sweet bosom of the Rest Eternally Peaceful in the Land of
Avalonean Youth.
They talked of movies, Asia Argento and a movie that the first man
must see (for research purposes) featuring lesbians and sex-bugs.
Superman, Ricky-Bobby, and MIIII were all mentioned.
The second man lamented the lack of Tony, Canadian twins, Jenna, and
brunettes in general.
But for those following the continuing story, know that the third man
waswistful, distant, his heart elsewhere. he barely looked at the
luscious cleavage of the blonde cutie not our waitress. He was pining for a
sweet little (in places) flower he had but barely begun to sniff, let alone
pluckand stick in his buttonhole. And for this reason, he begged that the
experiment be postponed until she went away and left his life forever,
for he could not stand even the thought of another woman while she had her
subtle fingers wrapped firmly around the base of his grey matter.
We shall see what we shall see.
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