Today is my son's 25th Birthday. Happy Birthday, my son. You always make me proud, Gabe. I dedicate this to you, because you know your identity, you young Native Man. I apologize for the gross pictures below... hehehehe
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Here is a song for my bud Richie Fowler, who turned 40 yesterday. You have joined the 40 club. I would have bought you a 40 oz. and finished my own alongside you. Then, as they say:
A good friend will bail you out of jail.
A Real Friend will be there alongside you in jail, saying "Damn that was fun!"
Richie likes the summah time. He likes the heat.
And, this song is also perfect for a Summer With Kaneetha.
Now get yourself all set, as you have many times before here, for some punk tales.
Press play while you do so, my friend.
Got yourself all good and ready? Let's go.
IDENTITY
Kaneetha was a force of nature. I wonder what she is doing now? Probably still rocking the world, in her own way.
Back then, the summers of Fuckno had the longest days you could imagine. Palm trees lined every street and fragrant, purple bouganvillia scented the air with sweet. It was the era of Reaganomics.
This sweet scent covered up the odor of farmland, there in that irrigated valley which grew one-third of the whole world's fruit produce back then: the San Joaquin River Valley.
But I had my own sweetness in mind, and sadly, I would never get to taste it.
When you look at a woman, you must consider how much care and attention each one takes with their appearance.
Some make more effort than others. Some do it wrong.
Some do nothing.
Some rise to heights of glory.
...And others make sad attempts to cover up for their other indulgements: food, booze, drugs, or eventually, over-tanning.
What is essential here is to understand the concept of identity.
You can tell when someone has arrived at their fully fleshed-out concept of Identity.
This is a Roman version of Katheena.
Katheena knew who she was, what she wanted, and how to get it. She attempted to show me. And for this, I will be forever grateful. Because while I appreciated the sentiment and the effort, it only revealed to me my own Identity.
And that was: Punk.
So here's the tale of The Summer of Katheena.
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The Summer of Katheena
Now, you must understand that I had never before met such a force of nature before. Her self-concept, her view of the world, was so alien to me that I was immediately swept up in an intriguing infatuation with her.
Here is a modern tune to elucidate how it felt: odd, somehow intriguing, but ultimately: alien.
Yes, indeed, I was quite taken with her. You can probably tell.
She came up to me in the hallway before lunch one day, mid-May, and slapped my ass.
I turned around, and she smiled. "Meet me in the parking lot. Me and Joey are going to steal you."
I had no idea what in thee hell she had in mind. But I did what any horny teenager would have done in such a situation: I wept a tear.
Um, fuck no. I threw everything into my locker and slammed it shut. She was already gone. No trace of her.
I looked around for the nearest exit, and simply could not tell.
Now, here is a feeling that I cannot describe adequately, but here is my best attempt.
You have a roll at the Craps Table that won't quit, and you are betting behind the line, on the line, and on some good sides, and then you lose it all.
For just a moment, right? You Can Get It Back.
Or,
You are having a dream where you are:
1. Flying
2. Hitting a home run, or stuffing the winning basket
3. Having the best sex ever
..And then you wake up, and it dissipates.
What do you do?
You try to go back to sleep, to recapture this feeling of awesomnality.
In this case, I ran to the parking lot.
I did not know that she had a Firebird with gold tint on the windows and a shiny, excellent black bird over the hood.
I was lost.
And felt like I was waking from
Thee
Bestest
Dream
Evah.
Without having gotten to the best part yet.
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Join me tomorrow for the continuation, baby.
Here's how I saw how I felt about her, from her point of view, she would later tell me, in this modern song.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
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