Well hey there. Sick of snow? Well, here's a tale to give you a mental vacation in a sunnier clime, 25 years ago, back when the world was innocent.
This next part was supposed to be posted for you last Sunday, but it wasn’t good enough. Maybe it is now.
Song from my lady to you, for this next part. Get yourself all shitiated.
Katheena lived up to her word. A small car zoomed down the country lane on the outskirts on the upper west side of Fuckno, Califuckyourfacein, and slowed before it came up to the multitudinous vehicles parked among fig tree rows and along the sides of the road.
These cars were increasingly covered with dust from new approaches, and the ones that had arrived the earliest were the ones now caked with it the most.
Many more would be coming.
This driver evidently knew enough to slow down a bit before arriving so that the dust cloud behind him was quite small. He must have delivered to some rich old fucks that lived in stately ranches on the outskirts of this high desert valley megalopolis at least once before.
It only takes one time to learn a lesson when someone is shouting at you, huh? No one wants to eat dust on their Thai food.
This guy ended up staying. He was now the life of the party.
You know that the one who feeds a party is the one who makes the party.
Among the obligatory platters of spicy chicken wings, steamed white and house fried rice, spring rolls, savory beef skewers and such, there was also one of many large containers of various combinations of awesomnality that held my personal favorite: Gaeng Ped Dang, tender chicken in red curry coconut cream, with tender potato chunks, bamboo shoot slices, tomatoes, Thai eggplant, and some sweet green leaves of some sort.
Gawdamn, son. Shit was five star hot. Amen and give me some napkins so I can wipe my forehead.
Katheena had indeed lived up to her word, if not her mettle. She supplied the food. She was missed by those who knew her. She would have had herself a time.
Folks helped this guy carry his wares in through the garage to the large dining room table which would cock punch you if you were not careful.
Those in the immediate vicinity began to drool, but a few of them did something curious. They stuck their hands in their pockets and looked down, or away. Cheap bastards.
This was an odd thing to see. Anyway, I went up to this delivery guy and said, “Hey there, how you doing?”
He looked surprised, but then he smiled and said, “Not bad. How are you?”
Yeah, who cares about the delivery guy, huh?
I asked this guy his name and he said, “Long Duk Dong.”
Then everyone ate.
I kid you.
He said his name was Than. Then he said the best thing ever to a crowd of hungry bastards. “This food is compliments of The Ipumbel Cay, in honor of Bryan. Please eat our food and be well.”
Folks took their hands out of their pockets and began to line up, all smiling.
Tellesco and Minacca brought dishes and silver ware to the table, and I told everyone to let the guest of honor have first preference. Of course, Bryan was buzzed out, but he sure could use some food at this point.
It did him well.
Sean stood tall and crossed his beefy arms against all the others, and waited until Joey and I and our circle of friends and fiends get our plates loaded up.
Next, he let the band members dig in. Finally, he allowed those who had helped Than carry the containers in to the dining room pile up their own plates.
Then Sean loaded up. That there, my friend, is the practice of true leadership. The Chief lets the elders and children eat first, then the populace, and he eats last, in order to ensure that all will eat.
But in this case, he was not the last.
We left the rest to the free-loaders, the scavengers, and the hands-in-pockets.
Than wasn’t hungry, but he was thirsty. Boy, could that guy drink.
Jerry saw someone wipe his greasy hands on the living room drapes and picked him up by the arms. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He glared into the poor dude’s eyes, shaking him. “You need to get the fuck out. You have no respect for this house.”
He set the guy down, but I could see something about him; I could tell he was restraining himself. This sent a clear message to those in the immediate area about respect. But it sent a clearer message to me that Jerry was on the edge.
Jerry was always on the edge. I would find out. You will, too.
This sent the clearest message to the poor dude, who turned white and walked out the front door. This guy would be back later, after he stewed about his treatment for a while, even if he didn’t have PTSD from this event.
I walked over to Jerry and tried to get a sense of what the fuck. “Holy shit, Jerry?”
Jerry giggled and said, “Oh, sorry about that. Was he a friend of yours? Is it OK to wipe our hands on curtains and furniture and perhaps the family dog?”
I shook my head. “Of course not, and thanks for watching out for Tellesco’s home. But that was kind of harsh. Ya think?”
Jerry didn’t giggle. He stared at me for a long moment, and then he whispered, “You haven’t seen ‘harsh.’ You haven’t seen anything at all.”
This gave me the willies.
Jerry giggled and said, “I mean, that fucker won’t be rude like that without thinking first, will he?”
I said, “No, he probably won’t wipe his hands on drapes ever again.”
Jerry simply said, “Nope. He won’t be rude again until it is absolutely necessary.”
Huh. That was weird.
Night began to fall, and while I followed good old staggering Bryan down to the hidden vault of wine for some more bottles, my friends were upstairs, and someone turned on the large rear-projection television set in the living room.
Above, we could hear many feet shuffling and loud laughter, and then they were silent.
Now all I could hear was the sound of Bryan murmuring to himself as he read the labels of vintages that some old rich world travelers had amassed with joy in their eyes, and we were exploiting these treasures with out truly appreciating them.
Sometimes we do not truly know what something is worth to us until it is lost, stolen, wasted, gone?
Bryan pulled the cork on a bottle, and somewhere near France, an angel had fallen to Earth, into the sea.
“Yes, there are certain things which must remain hidden from the dark of night, and discovered anew, when the day grows bright.”
Above, our friends were quiet as they listened to the televison.
They were watching breaking news on the cable Music Tele-Vision station, which was what they used to air sometimes in between music videos, back when they broadcasted live, and when something tragic had happened.
A Night Flight jet fell from the air before reaching France, heading from the USA towards Germany.
An angel fell to Earth, to the bottom of the sea.
"Hey there Will. I found a bottle hidden way on the top shelf, and it looks really old."
"Bryan, what do you think of Jerry?"
"I dunno, I mean, he woke me the hell up last night. Then we had some more fun. He's OK I guess."
"Doesn't he seem a bit weird?"
"Well fuck yeah! Weird purple hair and he's dressed like that Predator Alien or someshit."
I walked over to find Bryan studying this new area of the vast tomb of wine shelves. "You know, I think he's dangerous."
Bryan turned with another bottle in his hands and he woke the hell up. "You do?" He was quick like that.
"Yup. I saw him pick a guy up and scream in his face for wiping his hands on some drapes."
Bryan's eyes crinkled. "Well, that's cool. He's not dangerous to us then, is he?'
I thought about that.
This time we didn't drop any bottles. I stopped at the secret panel and listened with my ear to the wood. Folks passed by talking, and then it seemed safe. So I pressed against it with my armload of reds and whites and it swung out.
In the kitchen we found no one. Good. Bryan pushed his rear against the panel to close it.
Outside you could hear the ska band warming up with their sound down. All you could hear was the drummer and the muted tones of the guitars and the trumpet.
Minacca came in from the living room with an armload of dirty plates. Instead of bitching about careless losers and their mess, she simply placed them on the counter and turned back to us.
"That's a lot of dusty wine bottles. Where did you get them?"
Chick dug to the bone. I said, "Well, it's a secret."
She simply nodded. "OK. You should know that some guys showed up with kegs. You might not be needing those?"
Bryan smiled. "These are for me."
Minacca laughed, and it was cute; it sounded like wine glasses tinkling to a cheer. "You must be pretty thirsty, Bryan."
Bryan set the wine bottles down on the quartz marble counter and said, "I'm going to be thirsty in a few days, and for a while. I'm stocking up against that."
In the backyard, Sean and some other folks were piling up a mountain of aged fig tree wood. Bryan and I went over to him.
I said, "You know, Sean, it takes a while for the fire department to get out here."
Sean patted me on the back. "Who gives a fuck?"
The delivery guy Than appeared out of nowhere with two blue plastic Solo cups in his hands, full. "What a beautiful night, huh?"
Sean reached for one of them. "Thanks man. All this work makes a man build up a thirst."
Than stepped back. "Hey dude, there's more over there."
Sean studied him for a second, then he laughed. "A double fister after my own heart."
I guess Than was nobody's bitch.
He looked at me. "What's up, Willie boy? Gonna help out with all this old fig wood?"
"Yeah, sure, but what do you think about that Jerry guy?"
Sean muttered, "Dude's a fucking freak. I've got my eye on him."
I felt relief. Of course Sean would be on the alert. But it was good to hear him say it.
Bryan lifted his bottle to his lips. Dude wasn't bothering with glasses anymore.
Sean let out another laugh. "What you got there this time, Big Bryan?"
Bryan wiped his purple lips and held it out to Sean. Sean finished the bottle and rubbed his Buddha belly. He burped. "Now that is some fine-ass grape kool-aid."
More people began to show up. The ska band threw the volume up and began to play.
Those guys with the kegs were charging people ten dollars for a blue plastic cup, free re-fills. Lines formed.
More lines would be forming, of another sort.
Then we would go figging.
Then the bad guys would show up.
And that is the next, final part of the Night Flight Series, my friend.
Shit got fucking ugly.
New tribe, undiscovered. Welcome brothers, to a new fucked up world for you.
Achoo! Sorry about that. Nice knowing you.
Speaking about tribes, what about protecting your own tribe? As in, trade-marking the Palin name, thank you Sarah and Bristol? I’m paling as we speak.
Ya know, when you glean your movie director skillz from having worked at a place where folks once actually had to travel to in order to rent something called a "VHS" tape cassette in order to watch a movie, then you should not be called to the mat for stealing. When it is done very well, then it is called "Homage," which is a French term describing reverence, a referral to the art of which you have studied, back when you were "borrowing" from your place of work. Hacks steal, you see. True artists "Borrow."
Here's Q.T. vs the many films from which he borrowed in order to create the classic "Kill Bill" duplex of complexes. A mash-up.
Antidote, some nice world landscape pics for you.
For me, Europa has enough oxygen to sustain life? No, not across the seas, but the moon that orbits Jupiter. Be afraid of invading aliens now.
Why you should not ship a sweet looking cupcake-impregnated cake by mail.
Freaky pencil drawings, but intrinsically drawn.
Hot chicks from the World Cup.
WTF pics from the olden days. Heheheh
14 engineering feats of the modern age.
Rivers are cool. I am from an ancient river culture. This is combined with science. Yum.
Well thank you for joining me here at the Mighty TDC for this chapoter of the Night Flight Series.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
OK, one more for ya, for fun before our Super Bowl Sunday. The ads.