Sea Hell

Onward to 28. It can't come fast enough. I'm ready to put 27 well into the rearview. There was enough bullshit these last 365 days to last me one thousand. I spent the last day of my year fittingly - stuck in a soulless office that hadn't been remodeled since the tenants moved in whilst Carter was the Prez. My ass plastered to an orange Naugahyde stool, I hung out with my boss and poured through file jackets stuffed with Ancient Egypt's palimpsest, trying to assess the value of dozens of Ancient America's oil and gas leases. Fucking kill me. Entomb me like the Pharos. Bury me with my best slaves and ponies, concubines and hangers-on. But drag me out of this day, and into the cool calming dark of a cursed tomb that is the Late Twenties. To speed the departure, Hans threw down with a good suggestion for how to pass some time.

The back-story he told me regarding the video goes something like this:
The audio content comes from the hallucinating mouth of a dude well into an acid trip. Hunkered down in a closet with no one but the demons in his mind for company, The Voice chatters away to himself while his buddies clandestinely roll the tape. Being creative, though perfidious, cohorts, the friends string the words behind an animated short they've put together to match the diatribe. The video sublimates a makeshift Geiko Gecko onto The Voice.

In reality, our protagonist might as well have been a guy named Vic. Squatting in his v-neck, dress shirts and slacks hanging around his Mets cap, pulled slightly to the side of his head for that Suburban Gangsta look that's all the rage these days, he's seeing stars and talking jibberish. And he definitely went to Rutgers. Put it all together, and you've got "Drinking Out of Cups." NOT GOOD FOR (your) WORK. (fine for mine, I guess.)

Yes, I went ahead and transcribed the audio in an attempt to better understand this guy's high. I'll spare you the tension, and tell you I am no closer to understanding what he was thinking than I am to understanding George Bush after reading Bob Woodward's State of Denial. The brains of others are a total mystery.

Truth be told, when I get all baked (and that's been the case for about half this post,) language becomes all the more fascinating. I wonder what everyone's back-story is. What's driving anyone to say what they do? I don't have shit to say to a world that couldn't stop to listen, so why even take the time to open my mouth?

The insecurities that peek out and bare their ugly fangs are fascinating. The connections people have with their world are beautiful. The insights people have into motivation and passion is inspiring. And the taste of dates or European Style rice pudding can bring peace to Palestine. Open wide.

Here is the transcript:


What does this guy think, he’s an Indian?

What is he, a goddamn asshole?

What the fuck is he doin’? Not ever. No way.

Now he’s Johnny Hammersticks, hammerin’ away like he’s…frickin’ Tommy Noble.

What the hell is he doin’? Thinks he’s, thinks he’s got it goin’ bossanova.

No Way…mmmhah, no way! What is this garbage? What is this?

Oh, I’m king of the trees, I’m the Treemeister. I count on them.

What sometimes I praahhg. I like to steilsts. Yeah right. Yeah, right.

This guy’s a faggot. Guy’s some sort of faggot Indian in the teepee.

Whooo, this guy thinks he’s Capitan Knots. Thinks he’s Capitan Tying Knots.

When everyone needs some knots tied, they go to him.

BULLSHIT. Bullshit dice.

This woman’s such a bitch. Thinks she’s Miss Sand. DRINKING OUTTA CUPS.

Bein’ a bitch. I bet her fist. I bet her feeherlusk. Baarned.

Patterskun paherl ‘nd a little kid in the background fuckin’ goin’ CRAAHZEHEHEHE.

Who’s this guy? Mr. Balloons. Mr. Balloon hands.

No way. No way. Get real. Like those things.

Mr. Walkway. Mr. Walkdownme, I’m the walkway.

Lead me to the building – Fuck you.

5,6,4,3, Yeahhh, right. Here’s some stupid bitch.

Who paid for that floor? Not me, no way.

Never payin’ for no floor ever again. Not once, not never. Nope.

Who’s chair is that? Who brought that goddamn chair here, that’s not my chair.

“Not my chair, not my problem,” that’s what I say.

No way. Stupid dresses, stupid flowers.

Lighthouses rule. You don’t like the lighthouse - you suck.

What is this? Sea horse, capitan? What a…sea horse sea shell party?

Who didn’t invite me? Why didn’t I get invited?

Sea horse, sea hell.

What is this? Get real.

I’m in love with sea horses. I’m in love with ‘em, they’re so beautiful and cute. I’m in love with sea horses.

They’re fuckin’ unreal. I love them. They’re like all the clocks. I love ‘em, I love sea horses, and I love lookin’ at ‘em. And I love sea shells, I love sea shell things.

I love things with sea shells and sea horses on ‘em, like blankets and towels and little bags, I love ‘em.

Sea horses.

Forever.