Peter Piper Pizza = Hell on Earth

In my town there is a pizza place that makes its living off of offering children's birthday parties, with pizza, video and skill games, soda, cake and ice cream. This is a small child's idea of heaven on earth. Sugar, multicolored walls, fast moving video games, those wacky tubes to crawl through, all make for a fine time for kids.

If one child decided to have a party there, it would be just fine, but multiply this activity by a factor of ten, and you have real mayhem. Kids running everywhere, lights flashing, and the sheer volume of the place gives one a headache within minutes. Add to this noise music through the PA system, interrupted every few minutes by an overly happy employee, "wishing ANGELA to have a happy 5th birthday!!!" Clearly she is happy, with the cup of video tokens she's been given to put into the skeeball machine. All her friends showed up with presents. There is the pizza, cake, and soda, inducing the endorphin rush they love so much.

The grim-faced parents endure this insanity, every few minutes checking their watches to see when the two hours of torture will be over. The parent who had their kid talk them into holding the party there (BECAUSE JIMMY HAD HIS PARTY THERE!!!) try to make the best of it by orchestrating the movement of the tokens, pizza, drinks, cake, ice cream, presents, goodie bags, etc. Because of the volume, it is difficult for parents to talk to one another, and it comes down to:

"Hi, I am Dave's Dad."

"I am Timmy's Mom."

Check the watch. Shuffle around a bit. Maybe play a video game. Watch the kids run around after one another. Shove a carboard slice of bad pizza into the gullet, and wash it down with some flat soda from a pitcher. Check the watch. The only redemption is that after two hours, the place is left behind. But in its stead is a ringing headache, with ears to match, and a child who is hopped up on carbohydrates, wondering when they can have their party at Peter Piper Pizza.

Not in a million years.

The Man on the Left

In many places I have seen a descriptive term used for people that drive in the left lane. That term is the LEFT LANE BANDIT! These people may drive faster or slower than other drivers, but they never leave the left lane of traffic. I have no idea what kind of person this is, but I picture them as one who likes a smoother ride, or perhaps he missed class on the day they were teaching "Slower Traffic to the Right."

There are two ways to deal with this creature of habit. One is to pass the bastard on the right while the slower traffic looms ever closer. Another way is to climb right onto the bumper of the man on the left and flash your lights, as if you were in a real hurry and wanted him to move over so that you could get your pregnant wife to the hospital.

Today on the highway I saw something unusual. Two left lane men in tandem, one a faster driver, one a slower one. I took the first option to avoid the whole situation, passing the bastard on the right, keeping a watchful eye out for the everpresent semi truck. Then I saw this white sports car pull up behind the slower LLB in a green pickup truck (with camper shell filled to the brim with crap) and stay on his bumper like he was being towed. The man in front refuse to yeild the lane. The man behind refused to pass on the right. I'm sure each knew the other was there, and it became a test of wills to see who would move first.

I imagine a conversation going something like this:

Man in Front: "Sheesh, why won't this crazy guy get off my bumper!?"

Man in Back: "Sheesh, why won't this crazy guy move over? Can't he see I'm right on his bumper?!"

Finally, after about ten miles of this, the truck gave in and moved over. In the sports car, I looked over to see who was driving. It was a large bald man, smoking a cigar. Finally, I had a face to put on this man on the left.

More thoughts on Hunter and Gene Scott

Hunter was a dark lover, a dark warrior, a dark magician, and a dark king. He had all four of the major male archetypes down pat. Someone like that has gotta attract a fan base, especially when he had the writing talent he did. Such a deviant and viciously experimental soul who had the ability to churn out text will definitely be missed in this lifetime and the next.

I had yesterday heard that Dr. Gene Scott had passed on. Gene was just as strange, with his ministry in LA as Hunter was in the mountains of Colorado. We will miss Scott too and both pairs of his glasses, and his running horses.

Out of the ashes of Hunter S. Thompson's remains

I learned of Thompson's death this morning, thinking about what good could come from one of the last vestiges of the old counterculture of the 1960s and 1970s. A new counterculture must begin, and soon. The finger points inwards, as I search for a new source of strange and dangerous writing. My wife doesn't understand Hunter as I do. She saw him as a man who was dangerous and mean to others, knowing full well what he was doing. Perhaps he was. But there was something vibrant in the self-destructive way he lived his life and wrote his lines. I too have taken my share of bizarre chemicals and seen a lot of televsions meet their makers.

In his death, I am inspired to write. And write what I am seeing and feeling, not just the pretty shiny stuff. I envision my writing ability as hiding in a large ornate wooden box in a dark room, with a heavy lock keeping the lid down. That lock has been broken by the events of today.