A quick video of me playing Kick the Birdie with the ancient chinese ladies
Mar 20, 2007
Apr 5, 2005
Lapel Pin's and Paper Cups
Staring through the sultry air and cheap Israeli L&M smoke tormenting my sclera, I was astonished at the specticle taking place all around me. The loud American pop poring forth from cheap "realistic" speakers and the Budweiser infused my brain with an uncomfortable sense of the familiar. My mind slips and I see this place as Sarah must have seen her bedroom hidden amongst the rubble on her way to the goblin castle.
My delerium is quickly shatered by my change, which I refuse in good spirit. This sends a sort of madness into the bartender unlike any I've ever seen before. I watch in confusion as the long blonde barman lights two sparklers which he holds against the back of the twenty shekels I left him. He then shrieks a shriek that a forbiden siren would be proud of. The sparks chaotically dance, reflected technicolor in his crazed irises, and I sip my lager. "We're not in Kansas anymore." The processional soon morphs into a spastic lurch, the kind commonly found in evangelical spirit filled southern sanctuaries, as the shekel sacrifice is taken to its not so final resting place. The long blonde slam dunks the bill in a tempered steel pail haning from the ceiling and loudly rings a bell to signal the end of the ceremony.
I take my drink and her's and head back to our tabled island in the middle of this confused sea of girations. I lean forward and question, "what the f&@! are we doing with our lives?"(slow empahsis on the first three words) "Living?" she answers quizzically while leaning back and downing some more of her exotic fire water. I watch as my comrade in inebriation slides closer to her destination. "Good hands," I briefly think to myself.
The entrance to the scene:
Viva,
La Podarosa
My delerium is quickly shatered by my change, which I refuse in good spirit. This sends a sort of madness into the bartender unlike any I've ever seen before. I watch in confusion as the long blonde barman lights two sparklers which he holds against the back of the twenty shekels I left him. He then shrieks a shriek that a forbiden siren would be proud of. The sparks chaotically dance, reflected technicolor in his crazed irises, and I sip my lager. "We're not in Kansas anymore." The processional soon morphs into a spastic lurch, the kind commonly found in evangelical spirit filled southern sanctuaries, as the shekel sacrifice is taken to its not so final resting place. The long blonde slam dunks the bill in a tempered steel pail haning from the ceiling and loudly rings a bell to signal the end of the ceremony.
I take my drink and her's and head back to our tabled island in the middle of this confused sea of girations. I lean forward and question, "what the f&@! are we doing with our lives?"(slow empahsis on the first three words) "Living?" she answers quizzically while leaning back and downing some more of her exotic fire water. I watch as my comrade in inebriation slides closer to her destination. "Good hands," I briefly think to myself.
The entrance to the scene:
Viva,
La Podarosa
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