Your Eyes Do Not Deceive You, I'm posting. And it's about Carpool.
I could've called this "cigarettes and coffee" or "homeward bound" (as the high Brian suggested) or other such cliched names, but instead I'll just say what I'm going to say and get back to my good friend Zinn here.
I go to school with Reid and Brian. Reid drives, which in and of itself is a relatively scary thought. That said, our newly drug-free friend nonetheless slept a grand total of 6 hours over the past 3 nights. So while today was exhaustion-hallucination free, we still had a contemplative ride home. Reid was in a barmy state of melancholy and thought, and felt like pissing all over everyone else's parade (tell me if you know of an adjective that will encapsulate that feeling). Onward.
It began, as many of Reid and my conversations do, around my hypothetical death - I believe it had something to do with grotesque car collisions.
Peter: "If I'm going to die, I'm going to die my way."
Reid: "What's that, Peter? Heart attack while fucking a bitch on Cialis at age 16?"
Brian: "He's 17."
Reid: "I know. He's a ghost. Petey O'Reilly."
Later, as we exited the freeway, Reid remarked, "Look at downtown. I was on the other side of that. 23 miles on the other side of that." The story goes something like this: Reid and Jesse dropped Colette off after a long night of Garrett's "Powerchord" and "He Smoked Me Out" ballads, at 7 AM on Sunday. Today I culled bits and pieces of the story from Reid: "I didn't even know we had a City of Industry," and "There were moments, like 30 seconds really, where I didn't pay attention. But I only missed one exit." On to the gist:
B: "Jesse told me you were driving on the wrong side of the road." Reid: "It wasn't really my fault. They were running the triathlon through there, there were cones everywhere. I mean, it was my fault, but it wasn't really my fault."
After a brief discussions of Mexicans (inevitably accompanied by a dissertation on my racism toward Asians vs. Reid's toward Mexicans), we got back to HP, and stopped at B's so he could change. He came back and the two of them started chatting about something, I don't really remember what, but a dazed Reid did at some point say "I'm just staring at your nipple, man." Later, he got on the phone, in what might be the most incoherent sober phone call I've ever borne witness to. Excerpts: (jokingly) "No, I don't have any coke, Jesus, stop asking me for coke" and "I don't have a hose."
His final thoughts of the day, though, were about Indians: "If they're from India, they're Indians... if not, they're Indjnns. Or muslims, or towels. I don't actually like India. Well, I do, but they have a terrible government. With their nukes, and that sets the Pakis off. So I guess it's the Pakis fault."
And there you have it, my first themed entry. I felt it was a little bracing and a little comical, much like Reid's driving. Specifically, Reid's driving on Vine at DeLongpre, where near death didn't involve Cialis at all.
I go to school with Reid and Brian. Reid drives, which in and of itself is a relatively scary thought. That said, our newly drug-free friend nonetheless slept a grand total of 6 hours over the past 3 nights. So while today was exhaustion-hallucination free, we still had a contemplative ride home. Reid was in a barmy state of melancholy and thought, and felt like pissing all over everyone else's parade (tell me if you know of an adjective that will encapsulate that feeling). Onward.
It began, as many of Reid and my conversations do, around my hypothetical death - I believe it had something to do with grotesque car collisions.
Peter: "If I'm going to die, I'm going to die my way."
Reid: "What's that, Peter? Heart attack while fucking a bitch on Cialis at age 16?"
Brian: "He's 17."
Reid: "I know. He's a ghost. Petey O'Reilly."
Later, as we exited the freeway, Reid remarked, "Look at downtown. I was on the other side of that. 23 miles on the other side of that." The story goes something like this: Reid and Jesse dropped Colette off after a long night of Garrett's "Powerchord" and "He Smoked Me Out" ballads, at 7 AM on Sunday. Today I culled bits and pieces of the story from Reid: "I didn't even know we had a City of Industry," and "There were moments, like 30 seconds really, where I didn't pay attention. But I only missed one exit." On to the gist:
B: "Jesse told me you were driving on the wrong side of the road." Reid: "It wasn't really my fault. They were running the triathlon through there, there were cones everywhere. I mean, it was my fault, but it wasn't really my fault."
After a brief discussions of Mexicans (inevitably accompanied by a dissertation on my racism toward Asians vs. Reid's toward Mexicans), we got back to HP, and stopped at B's so he could change. He came back and the two of them started chatting about something, I don't really remember what, but a dazed Reid did at some point say "I'm just staring at your nipple, man." Later, he got on the phone, in what might be the most incoherent sober phone call I've ever borne witness to. Excerpts: (jokingly) "No, I don't have any coke, Jesus, stop asking me for coke" and "I don't have a hose."
His final thoughts of the day, though, were about Indians: "If they're from India, they're Indians... if not, they're Indjnns. Or muslims, or towels. I don't actually like India. Well, I do, but they have a terrible government. With their nukes, and that sets the Pakis off. So I guess it's the Pakis fault."
And there you have it, my first themed entry. I felt it was a little bracing and a little comical, much like Reid's driving. Specifically, Reid's driving on Vine at DeLongpre, where near death didn't involve Cialis at all.