it was an undeniably balmy august dusk settling in on the beach town of santa cruz when we wandered into the ideal bar and grill. The air was thickly red and smoky, and the cinco de mayo celebration was in full swing. green beer poured in sheets down a lorax-inspired waterfall on the side of the wall next to the bathroom&phonearea behind the salad&salsa-bararea.
in the back ground a low key techno tune was teaching everyone how to spell fuck.
in front of the bar an older gentleman carrying a flashlight stumbled into an ample-breasted woman wearing a red sweater and a button that challenged "pinch me". they both looked displeased, though strangely vindicated as if their meeting was both disappointing yet confirming long held fears and theories. he set down the flashlight without bothering to turn it off, so that it illuminated the corner of the other wise votive candle-lit restaurant area. from there he turned to the bar and ordered a tall caffeinated horchata latte. she turned back and focused intensely on her shoes. she noted that another woman had worn the same outfit, therefore only her shoes remained to give her exclusive identity in the context of the ideal bar and grill. Fortunately her shoes matched her sweater perfectly, and afforded her the chance to go home any time she liked though from all outward appearances she didn't know that. The gentleman on the other hand was wearing a barrel, which turned out to be the fashion coup of the evening. no one else beyond a small northern euporean of undisclosed gender and obfuscated importance (clad in clogs) had even thought to wear wood. this fashion statement was not the gentleman's intention, though it was in line with his suspicion that the fashion universe would never really understand wood.
sitting away from the bar in the mostly abandoned red vinyl booths in front of the wall of the restaurant area that featured a larger than life interpretation of "boulevard of broken dreams" was an old man moving his hands and muttering angrily, usually to himself. revealed later to be plato, he inched himself in the corner of the booth and used the light from the flash light to make shadow puppet animals. growing progressively more drunk (though we never saw his glass) he bitched more and more about the republicans to anyone who would listen.
we were approached by an inside saleman. he talked in quick light phrases that resembled lemurs and when he walked, he lead with his nipples. i was sure we had met before but couldn't find a polite way to bring it up in conversation. he shared with us some pamphlets that described great works of da da for sale, but took them back as it turned out that the pamflets were more expensive than the works themselves- being higher forms of anti-art. as a final gesture, he formed two fist and put them together in an otherwise inoffensive patch of air hanging idly to his left. as he pulled apart his hands the fabric of reality tore and from the gapping wound he produced a suitcase. he sold us a few jackets with matching logos on the backs that spelled out "innocent victim" in, as near as we could tell, methodically applied coffee stains. he congratualated and thanked us on our fine purchase, and suitcase in hand walked back through the rift he had created.
we wandered back out into the night air- ocean breeze stiring our newly aquired matching jackets. we felt inadequate but intensely satisfied. as we picked our way though the beach(inevitable) detritus on the way back to the car everything seemed more colorless; our eyes hadn't readjusted yet.
that was the same week i saw darkstar. did you root for the bomb? i did. afterwards i looked over at my roomate with deep angst in the pit of my belly, feeling for the moment what a hollow life it was and said "could you answer that?" but it turned out they were looking for the chins. wrong number... or rather right number, wrong caller. it's just one more way everything's been bleak since santa cruz. it's all so depressing, and none of it makes any sense. because nothing compares to the ideal bar & grill.