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Monday, February 28, 2011

44 Summer Of Katheena Part 2





Get yourself all set, and press play while you do.

This shit is about someone telling you who you are.



A gold Firebird rumbled slowly up behind me and its nose nudged the back of my leg. I whipped around and almost fell down. A strikingly beautiful young Thai woman giggled and her passenger shook his head in sadness.

The sun glinted off the hood of this long, powerful automobile in the desert air of the school parking lot.

YES.

Katheena and Joey.

The long, heavy passenger door swung open, and Joey stepped out.

"Bitch, get your ass in the back."

I complied.

Katheena squeeled the mag tires of her beautiful ride as we took off, heading to the exit gate.

She exited the lot and swung us left, heading to Cedar Street, fish-tailing her bitch with the sort of skill I would later witness from only one other person: Sean.

Oddly enough, these two never met. I think one would have eradicated the other, in a challenge of awesomnality. I will leave it up to you to decide my friend, which one of these two folks would win.

I'd buy tickets to see this death cage match.

Now, Katheena and Joey were about to tell me who I was, during this day.

Sadly, they would eventually be wrong, and I would be the one to show them how, and why. One of them would part ways with me, and the other would follow along my path of self discovery, and discover his own true identity, alongside me.

You know about this. Little Lion Man would roar.

The arid air of Fuckno whipped through the car, until Kaneetha closed the windows as she navigated among the cars on Cedar Street up to Blackstone Avenue.

She looked over at Joey, who looked back at her, and then she nodded.

Joey opened her glovebox and pulled out some sort of cigarette.

These two folks in the front seat began to fill the interior of her bitch with a pungent smoke that brought to mind the annual torching of the blueberry fields along the coast of Maine.

Joey flashed his devilish smile as he turned around to face me.

"Here."




There is a mall up on the northern streets of Fuckno called "Fashion Fair."

And this is where our lunar module landed. Opening the doors into the packed parking lot emitted a robust cloud of blue smoke, which made some dude entering his own car laugh. He gave us a big smile, and drove off to his own planet.

Out of the arid heat into the arid cool of this behemoth, Joey held out chewing gum. It was a welcomed relief from the strange taste in my mouth.

I said "Hey guys, where is the food court? We need to get some nachos now."

Katheena and Joey looked at each other and busted out laughing. It was contagious, because I busted out laughing too.

Joey caught his breath. "Hold on there a minute, Will. Food is the reward. We got some shit to do now. You want to stay up here for a bit, because food will bring you down."

Katheena pinched my ass. "But when you do eat, it will be the best thing ever."

They headed into the variated pastel-colored crowd before us and disappeared from me as I stood there, trying to decipher what they had just said.

This mall was quite hip. Instead of piped-in elevator music, they played the latest hits from speakers located in planters and in the walls along the walkways. It was like walking along the strip by the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

You had a soundtrack to your stroll, and you felt cool.

Each store had its own soundtrack once you went inside, and this elevated the experience of discovering your own identity.

I know. Off the rack. Shared by multitudinous "others." How can you be an individual while wearing the clothes that many others wore?

But these two folks had a thing for finding the odd, the strange, and the limited article of clothing.

You see, Joey and Katheena had their own source of income, as well as me. They knew this about me. We were young folks with our own cash.

They new something that I had not yet learned:

the difference between fashion and style.

What is this? What is this difference? Why does it matter? To what does it pertain?

Simply this: Clothes make the man. Cliques are colored within their strict rules of adherence, like the Madonna-Wannabees, the Bloods and the Crips, the Preppies, and the Suits who worked in corporate America and told us what was the next cool thing to purchase.

That is fashion.

However, style pertains to something else: self identity.

You search, scour among what is out there and make it your own. You reveal your own individuality through the compilation of your finds along your path, and then you express yourself with the arrangement of your treasures, as you adorn your own little space, your piece of the planet.

You exhibit your individuality by being unique.

We were on a mission.

A Lunar Mission.

A mission of identity.

It involved clothing on that day.

Fuck.

I would soon change the rules.

+++++++++++++++++++


Join me here again next weekend for the continuation, my friend.


God Help You.

God Help Us All.



--willies out.






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