to tweet while dreaming.


we were at a bar, some place i didn't wanna be, some place called the tiger lounge, and there was a reason i didn't wanna be there. there was loud awful music from the main room, and out back, a bunch of wannabe punks with colored hair, piercings, all black, all bullshit. "you were right," my friend said. and what he meant was that i was right about the bar. it was crap, and it wasn't 1997, and punk wasn't cool anymore, and it hadn't been for a while, and who the hell were these fakers trying to kid anyway? you wanna smoke some pot, my friend, the one whose idea it was to go there, asked.

so there we were, passing a pipe back and forth on a dark night in may. next to us, a trashcan bonfire. the guy who smoked us out had some speech problem, and it might've been due to the fact that he'd done a lot of hard drugs in his life. even if that wasn't the case, the drugs certainly couldn't have helped any. he told us about the time he had gotten pulled over and harassed by police. my friend, the lawyer, told him to never talk to police, and that talking to the police can only hurt you. my other friend kept repeating to the retarded kid, "joey! listen to this man." i thought about it. i was high, but i thought about it. i thought about the times i had been pulled over, and the first thing the officer always asked me was how fast did i think i was going? stupidly, i always answered a number over the speed limit. talking to the police can only hurt you. i was high, but i knew that much. better yet, i remembered it.

"dude, that guy was retarded," my friend said. "i mean really retarded." he drew out the word retarded like it meant something. by then, the awful band was finished playing its awful rock and roll or whatever the hell it was, and nirvana's "something in the way" was playing on the speakers. maybe it was 1997, after all. i sat down on the porch of this place, the tiger lounge, and i was sitting on a nasty old orange sofa. suddenly, my friend started to sing: "it's okay to eat fish because they don't have any feelings." but he wasn't really singing it. it was like a spoken word bit, and his cadence and volume rose each time he repeated it. "what the hell is that?" i asked. "it's sinatra doing nirvana." it's okay to eat fish. because they don't have any feelings. "you're freaking me out," i said.

suddenly, this roadie showed up, and he started wrapping up a microphone. he started singing something else. i watched these two dudes singing, and what the hell was going on anyway? before i knew it, we were going across the aurora bridge. "dude, that guy was retarded." "yeah," i said, "he was like, 'did you do too many drugs? i did too many drugs.'" my other friend chimed in, "did you know this is the number two bridge in the country where people come to kill themselves?" i thought about my friend, the one who did a lot of drugs, the one who jumped off a bridge but didn't die.

i dreamed of kurt cobain that night, or maybe it was a kurt imposter, i couldn't tell. i kept trying to tweet "kurdt," the incorrect way he'd spell his name, but my hand kept slipping and i kept typing in my mom's old screen name instead, lrdstn. how i got lrdstn out of kurdt, i'm not sure. all i knew was that it was impossible to tweet while dreaming. it was also the first time i dreamed of my iphone, or at least an instance that i could remember. i'm addicted to the internet, and that's that. all because i ate a cheeseburger with a side of tater tots at 2 a.m. while stoned.

i drove us home, and i probably shouldn't have. i took a sharp right on angeline st., going up the hill, and a cop must have noticed because he followed me a couple of blocks. it would've made a good story, though, and an end to one hell of a night. all that talk about not talking to the cops, and then i'd be able to see how much i actually remembered. if i could put theory into practice. i was aware of it all. was the car swerving? was i giving off any hints that i had spent most of the evening inebriated? "just be cool," my friend said. "i'm good," i said, "i'm not even drunk," though my voice faltered. i made it to martin luther king, and the prick turned left. i breathed a sigh of relief.

i pulled up in front of my apartment. "god," i said, slamming the door shut, "it's good to get away with something."

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