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Along with Ichiran in Japan (I’ll never forget waiting in 35° heat at the Ikebukuro one across from the soapland, only to find an older machine inside that doesn’t take cards), our daily dining establishment on this past trip. And now all I’ve got are my Farmer Boys Cobb Salads whose Mountain Dew refills I’d gladly exchange.

Strange seeing it alongside the White Out I got from someone online, but it’s better than I remember. No rhymes yet.

There was a brunette stewardess with an eyepatch; a vest hanging on the wall moved, indicating the presence of a ghost, whose solid but invisible body the boy and I proceeded to hit with poles, but weren’t sure what effect it was having. Oh, and I had a bunch of floppy diskettes I packed into the only available box, folding some of them in a way that at least the 3½-inchers couldn’t and definitely shouldn’t be. It was his birthday, and Rush were guests, Geddy Lee offering a wall display of their cables and adapters for his friends to pair with their electronic equipment, then finishing with a set where Neil Peart (RIP) set up his kit outside the screen door, he and Alex Lifeson (whose name I got right, but they insisted was “Eric”) used exotic pedals and keyboards instead of directly handling their guitars. To my bewilderment, our young player added “Thunderstruck” to the jam, which the group surprisingly incorporated deftly, equipment levels flickered, and I scrambled for my phone to capture the moment.
But maybe it took being wowed by a Constant-caliber bottle episode of The Last of Us to trigger truly once-in-decades appearances by Elaine Benes and Clara Oswald in our best ages, the former way out of my league though she deigned to lead me as she stomped through the huddled masses of the university halls; I stopped for a quick greeting as we cross paths with the latter, then later received a call from her jealously (!) asking me if that was “Lucille from the restaurant.”

…Of course that’s followed up by one where I’m still in a school somewhere, accompanied instead by two cases of Mountain Dew Pitch Black, a few 20-oz. bottles of a brighter flavor, maybe Maui Burst, some loose cans and unable to move the lot at once, I opted to leave the boxes on the floor and come back for them, my arms full, as I slowly made my way down a wide stairwell. This is why I don’t deserve control of my subconscious, it’s full of insecurity and greed. Seems only a complete clearing of all my fucking hangups makes my dreams come true.

[Title and meme from this new track for old people like us.] Actually, I’m quite enjoying my daily visits to the am/pm down the street, where I would stop on my way to work 9-10 years ago for that refill of crunch ice and Mountain Dew on dispenser lines that must be corroded with just the right chemical buildup it’s borderline toxic and intoxicating. The rewards app helps, and I can’t help be amused that I’m charged 3¢ for tax on my free drink.

It started with a foray into kale, taken plain out of those pre-washed boxes sold along produce department walls as a means to balance my diet against all that brominated vegetable oil and lunches at places that allowed me to refill it, but when that grew too painful to continue, I resorted to adding ingredients more in keeping with the gut flora in my digestive tract, eventually trying to reproduce the Cobb Salad I missed from my daily outings.
Something was bound to go wrong with my recipe, however, as haphazardly as I sourced it, bland turkey leftovers from Thanksgiving, mushy avocados the in-laws bring by, and the packaged greens probably least trustworthy of all, and now I’m on my fourth day of bloody stool (third, if you count actual production thereof) after a killer stomach ache, neither of which would ordinarily be noteworthy if not for the coincidence of my worsening day-to-day performance. Are any of these symptoms worth asking the doctor about or do they just come with age?

A small victory in my lifelong conflict with regional exclusivity, that’s included videogames, media and, um, bigger things, I was able to take advantage of Wal-mart’s failure to restrict its inventory by shipping destination—ironic, that, seeing as how I’ve written up that very requirement on a number of occasions for businesses a fraction of the size… then again, that may be the reason—and reunite with this favorite from the past, once thought gone for good.

An occasion for song?!

LiveWire
It’s the taste that’s stood the test of time
Its name is LiveWire
That defies all reason and rhyme
My favorite color, since days long gone
I liked the juice, the sherbet and Milan—
O-range I glad I knew it was Dew
With the caffeine to get me through
Life on a highwire
LiveWire

We moved into a new house on 15070 Hazel St., from my memory of the new front door the wife ordered but for some reason left standing inside, white with shiny gold accents, including the slot for mail. Soon enough we’d discover why the previous owners were so eager to close: beneath the laminate wood was a green graboid-like monster, and a room connected to the entry opened to a vast underground facility. We fought off its breaches the first night and realized it had the magical ability to repair the floors, hiding evidence of its existence. I awoke on a makeshift island of blankets and flattened boxes and saw Sheila on the couch and asked how she had appeared seemingly overnight, or if we had been in Asia all along. And as unwise as it may have been under the circumstances, she invited over the entire family to assess the situation. I suggested using it to rescind the purchase, as surely this constituted an adequate failure to disclose. Hopping around in boxes kept our housemate from detecting our movements, as did traveling through the circuitous ventilation system suspended from the high ceiling. [That’s the best Eraserhead, Mountain Dew and The Silmarillion could concoct. Signs of water damage along the floorboards.]