(21 ramadhan 1426) serial times, pt 2
The Pkg
(continued from before)
As you may have read in another story about me, I am fond of buses. I have done lots of traveling and have often lived and worked abroad, where buses have been one of my main modes of travel.
It was for the nearest bus stop that I bounded down the steps on that fateful Los Angeles morning. It was the usual sunny L.A. April day as I realized how stoned I was. I really liked the fact that it was, at that point, barely just 9am. “Wake-and-bake” was a catch phrase that needed to be trademarked and copyrighted (like Pat Riley’s “Threepeat” phrase from the NBA's Los Angeles Laker teams of the 80s), or whatever the hell it is that one does to register one’s clever idea with the government, since Bacchus knows one couldn’t have his or her own free and original thought without the government’s putting its unwelcome nose where it didn’t belong so it can claim its share of its citizens’ fortunes.
I walked down the street in a fog, completely oblivious to the box in my hand, the warming sun, traffic, reality. I was flying and invulnerable. I walked with a spring, an ignorance, an imagined smile on my face. In my mind, I could see my smile, which made me imagine I was smiling at the thought that I was smiling.
All of which made me paranoid, another good sign that I was high.
My plan had been that I would take the bus, with the help of one transfer, into Santa Monica where I could check my mail from my rented postal box and send out my pkg. It wasn’t necessary that I go to the same place where I had a postal box, but I also had to do a little shopping on the 3rd Street Promenade at the adidas store; I needed socks and adidas was the only place that I could ever find decent ones. I thought it’d be rich to ride the bus and shop the Promenade while stoned on my last day in Los Angeles.
Things didn’t go quite according to plan, as you’ll soon find out, however.
(to be continued...)
(continued from before)
As you may have read in another story about me, I am fond of buses. I have done lots of traveling and have often lived and worked abroad, where buses have been one of my main modes of travel.
It was for the nearest bus stop that I bounded down the steps on that fateful Los Angeles morning. It was the usual sunny L.A. April day as I realized how stoned I was. I really liked the fact that it was, at that point, barely just 9am. “Wake-and-bake” was a catch phrase that needed to be trademarked and copyrighted (like Pat Riley’s “Threepeat” phrase from the NBA's Los Angeles Laker teams of the 80s), or whatever the hell it is that one does to register one’s clever idea with the government, since Bacchus knows one couldn’t have his or her own free and original thought without the government’s putting its unwelcome nose where it didn’t belong so it can claim its share of its citizens’ fortunes.
I walked down the street in a fog, completely oblivious to the box in my hand, the warming sun, traffic, reality. I was flying and invulnerable. I walked with a spring, an ignorance, an imagined smile on my face. In my mind, I could see my smile, which made me imagine I was smiling at the thought that I was smiling.
All of which made me paranoid, another good sign that I was high.
My plan had been that I would take the bus, with the help of one transfer, into Santa Monica where I could check my mail from my rented postal box and send out my pkg. It wasn’t necessary that I go to the same place where I had a postal box, but I also had to do a little shopping on the 3rd Street Promenade at the adidas store; I needed socks and adidas was the only place that I could ever find decent ones. I thought it’d be rich to ride the bus and shop the Promenade while stoned on my last day in Los Angeles.
Things didn’t go quite according to plan, as you’ll soon find out, however.
(to be continued...)
posted by shaved wave at 13:48
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