Immortal....corrupter!
Wow, yesterday was most certainly a day that makes it worth it to get up every morning and play this ridiculous game day after day after day. The sort of day where the roulette pays off, the gods smile upon you, and everything, regardless of triviality, seems to have and underlying import that imbues it with a delicious quality you cannot ignore.
It was the sort of day that makes me want to give up my life and become an Epicurian beach bum, forsaking everything except that which is entertaining...but that won't do. The materialist in me realizes that everything I did is somehow dependant upon money, and beach bums are prone to wasting all of that upon drink and obnoxious Hawaiian shirts, so there goes that idea.
I would need money to be witness to the awesome GWAR show, unless I wanted to risk the gargantuan bouncers grinding me into protein pills. No doubt that they could...yesterday I realized that biceps 4 feet around are nothing to be trifled with, but I digress. The show was amazing, with the fire blowing, the dismemberments, the glittering gore arcing towards the ceiling and raining down upon the teeming mass of fanatics. The Mexican GWARdian Angel acting as every drunk's personal Memnon, enticing him to do reckless things like jump off the second floor in order to inform a redhead that he would like nothing better than to lick her nipples...the beastial beauty of Beefcake the Mighty's goat-boots...it's a pity that the good things in life always have a price.
Even the subsequent trip to Middleburg, driving home the plastered fool who had been lulled by the Siren's song of the Mexican, was not without its worth. Left driving Brendan's car Tiamat, following the Saturn of the drunk, driven by newly-met Danny and accompanied by Matt, the 2 hour trip should by all accounts have been horrid. Yet, it provided a welcome opportunity for conversation with my passenger as well as a wonderful change in scenery that offered itself as a topic whenever the inspirational font of our discussion ran low. I'm sure the trip would have been worse had we had the vomiting dependant in our vehicle.
Seeing the state of the inebriated man and the fear that one day I will be in such a helpless position sometimes makes me want to give up the vice of liquor and live my life dry...but the Epicurian again emerges and, beguiling the rest of me with promises of responsibility and caution, assuades my better judgement and convinces my homunculus that such a drastic decision only be enforced should I actually be in that condition one day.
Thankfully, two things came and brought the evening to new heights after our little field trip. The bright orange sign of Village Inn was there with open arms and lots of pie to placate us after the discovery that KFC no longer carries cobbler, and we feasted upon the all the sticky sweetness that allows itself to be contained within a crust (if you are ever there, get the pecan pie. Mellow, unassuming, and appropriately mild, it easily beats any of its saccharine cousins from Publix or Winn-Dixie). Then everyone's hero Connor entered the scene bearing wonderful oysters which were hastily devoured on the beach at 3 AM. Two of my best friends, the just-met acquaintance Danny, the shore in the dead of night, and six hour-old steamed shellfish were the ingredients of a divine concoction, polished off with cinnamon toast at Connor's, and several hours later, eggs at Brendan's.
There are only several times that I can honestly say I wish I could freeze. Usually content to observe my life and laugh at the occurrences, these such moments are witness to me being possess with the rare spirit of connection with the world about me and the people I am with. It wasn't even 24 hours ago that I was in DV8, screaming along with hundreds of others, barely 14 hours since I sat and filled myself with an apple pie, and 12 since I lay upon Brendan's floor eating Nutter Butters(R) and staring at the ceiling fan, and yet they stay with me as if they had been etched into the backs of my eyes. It would only take a few fingers for me to enumerate the occasions with which I enjoyed life to such an extent, and my inability to affect these moments to my own design leaves me with feelings of both impotence and a gambler's desire to throw it all out there and keep rousing myself from blessed sleep in the hopes that that particular day will have one such instant. Nothing would make me happier than if I had the ability to record my life at these times in such an entirety and perfection that they would be indistinguishable from the events themselves, but regardless of all my wishing and hoping, the gems in my life always end, and leave me grasping at their fading silhouettes.
If only clocks could stop.
It was the sort of day that makes me want to give up my life and become an Epicurian beach bum, forsaking everything except that which is entertaining...but that won't do. The materialist in me realizes that everything I did is somehow dependant upon money, and beach bums are prone to wasting all of that upon drink and obnoxious Hawaiian shirts, so there goes that idea.
I would need money to be witness to the awesome GWAR show, unless I wanted to risk the gargantuan bouncers grinding me into protein pills. No doubt that they could...yesterday I realized that biceps 4 feet around are nothing to be trifled with, but I digress. The show was amazing, with the fire blowing, the dismemberments, the glittering gore arcing towards the ceiling and raining down upon the teeming mass of fanatics. The Mexican GWARdian Angel acting as every drunk's personal Memnon, enticing him to do reckless things like jump off the second floor in order to inform a redhead that he would like nothing better than to lick her nipples...the beastial beauty of Beefcake the Mighty's goat-boots...it's a pity that the good things in life always have a price.
Even the subsequent trip to Middleburg, driving home the plastered fool who had been lulled by the Siren's song of the Mexican, was not without its worth. Left driving Brendan's car Tiamat, following the Saturn of the drunk, driven by newly-met Danny and accompanied by Matt, the 2 hour trip should by all accounts have been horrid. Yet, it provided a welcome opportunity for conversation with my passenger as well as a wonderful change in scenery that offered itself as a topic whenever the inspirational font of our discussion ran low. I'm sure the trip would have been worse had we had the vomiting dependant in our vehicle.
Seeing the state of the inebriated man and the fear that one day I will be in such a helpless position sometimes makes me want to give up the vice of liquor and live my life dry...but the Epicurian again emerges and, beguiling the rest of me with promises of responsibility and caution, assuades my better judgement and convinces my homunculus that such a drastic decision only be enforced should I actually be in that condition one day.
Thankfully, two things came and brought the evening to new heights after our little field trip. The bright orange sign of Village Inn was there with open arms and lots of pie to placate us after the discovery that KFC no longer carries cobbler, and we feasted upon the all the sticky sweetness that allows itself to be contained within a crust (if you are ever there, get the pecan pie. Mellow, unassuming, and appropriately mild, it easily beats any of its saccharine cousins from Publix or Winn-Dixie). Then everyone's hero Connor entered the scene bearing wonderful oysters which were hastily devoured on the beach at 3 AM. Two of my best friends, the just-met acquaintance Danny, the shore in the dead of night, and six hour-old steamed shellfish were the ingredients of a divine concoction, polished off with cinnamon toast at Connor's, and several hours later, eggs at Brendan's.
There are only several times that I can honestly say I wish I could freeze. Usually content to observe my life and laugh at the occurrences, these such moments are witness to me being possess with the rare spirit of connection with the world about me and the people I am with. It wasn't even 24 hours ago that I was in DV8, screaming along with hundreds of others, barely 14 hours since I sat and filled myself with an apple pie, and 12 since I lay upon Brendan's floor eating Nutter Butters(R) and staring at the ceiling fan, and yet they stay with me as if they had been etched into the backs of my eyes. It would only take a few fingers for me to enumerate the occasions with which I enjoyed life to such an extent, and my inability to affect these moments to my own design leaves me with feelings of both impotence and a gambler's desire to throw it all out there and keep rousing myself from blessed sleep in the hopes that that particular day will have one such instant. Nothing would make me happier than if I had the ability to record my life at these times in such an entirety and perfection that they would be indistinguishable from the events themselves, but regardless of all my wishing and hoping, the gems in my life always end, and leave me grasping at their fading silhouettes.
If only clocks could stop.