(no subject)
It's just now turning dark. The party won't be over for hours to come. The pool water will still be warm from the heat of the sun, and the guests will drink champagne while lounging with their feet hanging over the edge and splish-splashing. Clink, clink, let's have a toast!, they'll insist, and Johnny will stand up, stand tall, whilst people whistle and give catcalls. John-ny, John-ny! He'll say something devious and fun and Johnny-like. The opium talking, or the alcohol? A mixture of the two, perhaps.
Johnny will feed his guests orange halves, dripping with juice, fresh from his own groves while music drones on in the background. In one of the guest rooms there will be three or four people getting it on, and when they pass out from sheer exhaustion, Johnny won't have the heart to make them go home. The more, the merrier!, he will say, and he'll probably even take them to breakfast in the morning. Somewhere dark where the bags under their eyes will not show, and no one will bother to ask questions.
I listened to the message he left hours ago. And then I listened again. Astin, baby, where are you? Astin, man, you're missing all the fun. Astin. Come on.
It's amazing how much of the world you miss when you don't pay attention to it whizzing past your face. I spent the last three hours watching the History Channel: where the past comes alive. One hundred and eighty-two years ago, Missouri became a state. One hundred and fifty-seven years ago, the Smithsonian Institute was created. I haven't been to either. Missouri's the 'show me' state. What a claim to fame.
It's dark. The tiki torches will be lit. The men will slip out of their wet swimming trunks, and the women will wrap themselves in their sarongs. Those who are staying longer will return inside for a smoke or a puff or a gulp or a fuck. Maybe all four.
Johnny's voice whispers in my ear along with the crackle of static. He tells me that he knows I'm listening, he sighs when he knows I will not pick up, and then, finally, click. But it happens only after the series of cheerful and carefree voices asking, Johnny, honey, who're you talking to? Come on, you're missing all the fun...
Johnny will feed his guests orange halves, dripping with juice, fresh from his own groves while music drones on in the background. In one of the guest rooms there will be three or four people getting it on, and when they pass out from sheer exhaustion, Johnny won't have the heart to make them go home. The more, the merrier!, he will say, and he'll probably even take them to breakfast in the morning. Somewhere dark where the bags under their eyes will not show, and no one will bother to ask questions.
I listened to the message he left hours ago. And then I listened again. Astin, baby, where are you? Astin, man, you're missing all the fun. Astin. Come on.
It's amazing how much of the world you miss when you don't pay attention to it whizzing past your face. I spent the last three hours watching the History Channel: where the past comes alive. One hundred and eighty-two years ago, Missouri became a state. One hundred and fifty-seven years ago, the Smithsonian Institute was created. I haven't been to either. Missouri's the 'show me' state. What a claim to fame.
It's dark. The tiki torches will be lit. The men will slip out of their wet swimming trunks, and the women will wrap themselves in their sarongs. Those who are staying longer will return inside for a smoke or a puff or a gulp or a fuck. Maybe all four.
Johnny's voice whispers in my ear along with the crackle of static. He tells me that he knows I'm listening, he sighs when he knows I will not pick up, and then, finally, click. But it happens only after the series of cheerful and carefree voices asking, Johnny, honey, who're you talking to? Come on, you're missing all the fun...