Air Guitar Nation, Persepolis

[joystreet]

Sooooo I wouldn't tell Lech and Jesse that it was a shame they weren't in South Jersey at any time, but if I would, it would be tomorrow night, when the Beach Theatre shows none other but

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Part 1

[anonymous]

I already saw that film. Although it may benefit from a viewing on the big screen.

Here is a funny excerpt of a conversation between my aunt, who is a motherfucking valley-girl nightmare (every word that issues from her mouth is steeped in such glib superfluity that, when accumulated and subsumed into the structure of an insipid and utterly vacuous sentence, the effect is that of a knife-wielding rodent repeatedly stabbing you in the eyeballs as you are strapped to a plank suspended over lava) and I:

Her: You should totally wright a screenplay about us and this trip, huh Lech?

I: They already made Apocalypse Now.

If I make it out of here alive, I will spin you wondrous yarns, the stuff of nightmares. Imagine our situation in Trinidad, but replace Jess, Seth, you and I with: my aunt, a demon spawn, possessing the same social skills and emotional maturity as her six year old daughter (both of whom are insane, in the latter I see an explicit inclination to act in ways that suggest a violent social pathology)+++ my septuagenarian grandmother and her octogenarian husband who is suffering from lymphoma and Alzheimer’s (during particularly precipitious moments he will break into song - his take on old man river during a rowdy three hour drive was a favorite)+++ my mother, her ear perpetually glued to her cell phone in rapt communion with her latest beau+++ a cat that bites down as hard as he can on your hand or runs nipping at your heels when he wants food+++ and me. In one ordinary sized home.

I have the couch to sleep on, which wouldn’t be bad if the cat didn’t try to curl up on my face every night just after I nod off. And for some unfathomable reason it is always freezing in the house. The weather is absolute perfection, but the house temp never rises above 60 degrees. It must get down to about 30 at night.

My uncle just walked into the hovel that I commandeered this morning and handed me two small round pills, apparently pure THC. I shan’t be ingesting them.

It began benignly enough: 3am, roll out of bed with no sleep to finish packing for 7:40 flight. Mothers boyfriend drives us. Nice douchebag. Belt sets off detector. Seething, disgusting mass of humanity envelopes all. Running late. Make it. “Seat with extra leg-room please?” I am placed in the worst possible seat between two men, one of whom remarks “You sure got the short end of the stick, no pun intended.” I realize that I will murder my co-passengers if forced to sit in this seat and I inform the attendant of this dawning realization. Luckily there is an unoccupied row that I can have all to myself. Even this is quite uncomfortable for six hours and it dawns on me that I may not always be this lucky. There may be flights that I actually have to walk off of. Unbearable turbulence with seatbelt sign lit-up for 3/4 of flight. We survive only to face the house of horrors which sits in a pleasant little development in Napa Valley.

My aunt and uncle live in a parallel universe where every conversation devolves into a shouting match. EVERY CONVERSATION.