oh Really?

I'm not sure how did it. I mean, the memories are there, at least some of them, but how?  I don't really know.

     For instance: I did a morning talk show.  Radio. I co-hosted a talk show.  That's bizarre to me. Not only did I do it, but people actually spent their time listening to me. Strange. I spoke for several hours a day, essentially to myself.  When you think about it, it takes a special kind of person to talk to themselves for that long. And for awhile, at least, that special person was me.  Just jawing on and on about whatever I thought was important that day...

       I sold tobacco and wine and other high-end booze and smoke. Not only did I do it, but people actually spent their time listening to me. As though I knew what I was talking about. I'd go on for tens of minutes sometimes about flavors and tasting  notes as though I'd come up with them.  The real truth is that I read a little bit, took what I read to heart, and then seriously believed all the "notes" that I'd been handed by other "connoisseurs" and thought that I was really doing something. Thought I knew a thing or two about the swill I was schilling...

     Why did people listen to me? On both fronts.  I'm genuinely baffled.  Did  I ever really know what I was talking about? The answer is probably no.   But they went along anyway.  Why?  I guess I can portray a sense of confidence if I'm selling something. I mean, I do it now, and people readily flock to grab whatever I'm selling. It's sad.  Sad for them sure, but they're lemmings. I can't really blame them.  Sad for me, definitely, because I feel like a fraud.  Not even because the product is bad, but because I'm toeing the corporate line. I'm basically giving a speech I've been given by someone who thinks they are more important than me., or smarter than me. What's sad is they don't truly value their customer base.  If they did for real, they'd pay less attention to the formula and more attention to me and them.

       The truth is that everyone has found a formula, and it works well enough that they don't question it.  I mean, take my "pay" away, and they'd find another monkey to push the buttons and say the words.  And so it goes.  On and on...If necessity is the mother of invention, we, as a people, haven't needed for a long time.  Too long of time.  Where's the new shit?!  I know, I know.  It doesn't exist.  One guy says you have to be a part of a system in order to fuck it up from the inside.  This is not a new notion.  But I've been on the inside enough to know that nothing really ever changes.  Kinda sad really.  Nothing changes and I'm doomed to be a part of the repetition.  I will suck off of the bullshit teet until I'm weary of sucking.  I'll die following, of this I am sure.  But, goddammit, give me alittle bit to go on...

     Nope?

              Nothing?

        Ok then.  You're welcome!!! Here I go to say what you've told me to. Almost exactly.  Aren't you proud of me? You should be.

    So there it is.  I'm but a cog in this seemingly worthless machine. Forever buying in just like you are.  And it will always be.  Those that could actually make a difference will fall silently like they always have; and anyone who could make a real difference will slip into the background as intelligent flies on the wall ever commenting on how bad it is, and how good it might be if only they'd take part...

concoction

...Winston reds...."no additives" as if other cigarettes just had tons of extra stuff in them. On a cheap night some Pabst to accompany the Winston's. On payday or someone's birthday or when Biff was in a good mood, it was good scotch or wine or microbrew...maybe some Davidoff's, or Nat Sherman's, or a good stick like a Padron, or a Casa Magna, or a Fuente short story, or The Griffins.  Sometimes a Peterson and some Dark Horse, or a Nording and some Haddo's, or a Bjarne with some Autumn Bairn (English Oriental Supreme)...Either way there was almost always booze, and definitely tobacco.  It was our livelihood so we indulged. Heavily.

     Orlo was feelin' good one night so we picked up some Mead from a wine store on the way to Paris. It was the only place left to smoke in Denver really other than Bar Bar, but that was a different scene entirely.  So that night it was Mead, my first taste of Mead; and it really warmed the body in a good way, and I felt happy for the rest of the walk, and for a moment I felt good about what I was doing. 

      We got the usual carafe and sat down for Friday night chess. Couldn't tell you which pipes we had on us or the tobacco choice that night, but it was good.  I know because it was always good.

     It was my move.  I know because it was always my move.  I'm bad at chess but Orlo didn't seem to mind. He just had to keep me on task a lot.

                                       "You're move....Davis.....Move!"

I didn't really mind either. 



     The walk home always kinda sucked because the night was over and I never wanted it to be.  Whatever we had imbibed had worn off.  The smoke and coffee had given me heartburn. It was cold and usually wet.  But occasionally a little more something to smoke and we'd hit up the late night hotdog stand on the far side of the pedestrian mall. It gave me just enough energy to get home. 

     Bed.  After those Fridays I slept like people should sleep. Well. 

     The next morning, rested and clear headed, I'd wake up the right way, naturally and without an alarm set. Heat up the frying pan, do a few maintenance pushups, fry up an egg with some bacon, devour it, a few more pushups, then shower, then work.

     I'd walk in feeling good about the previous 24 hours and wonder what that Saturday held.  Orlo was in a different mood entirely because he had a family to feed and a store to run.  When Biff wasn't there he left it all in Orlo's lap.  He did that because he knew he could handle it, but it looked stressful.  Cory Benjamin was there, with his prayer beads I'm sure, sweating a lot and guzzling water from that hideous orange bottle he'd had for what looked like a decade or two. And then the regulars. Saturday's were different because we didn't have the downtown business guys.  Instead we got Travelers and the weekend regulars.  Never knew who was going to walk in. A Bronco, a politician, a dumb stoner wonderin why we didn't sell blunt wraps...it was always a crap shoot. But it was fun.  Saturday's usually more so.

..............