Letter to My House Representative
The show finally started and all bloody Hell broke loose. Fruta Bomba was trapped in a repetitive time loop of madness. Bob too. Strange sound were slipping into our mindsight. Were we too loud? Maybe, but we weren't even talking. Or were we talking? It was too difficult to ascertain.
Music blasted out the loudspeakers and lazers blasted into our eyes. The music was funky. Not feverish, but funky. Earlier the cashier laughed at us when Fruta raved that he wanted two tickets for disco fever. It was actually disco funk but boy had we concocted a fever of our own. A hallucinogenic fever with no hopes of letting loose.
Sights bent, the mind revolving around its eclectic center, the star machine was in complete control. Where we being too loud? Again, it was difficult to tell. Were people mad at us? Possibly, but for what god forsaken reasons? Did they know we had the Fever? Were they just as sick as us? Screaming and chanting obscenities at the euphoric sky? Fruta Bomba was curious...
"Seth, are all these people going through this? Do they see things like we do?"
"Fruta, I think they would be in a better position to know than me."
"No. But do they work here? Huh? Do they work here?"
It was all nonsense. But not really. I understood what he meant yet his words had no meaning. Everything looked strange. People were dancing wildly up front. They looked like spaghetti in swimsuits Some women in their fifties, or sixties, or maybe even late forties were seated in our line of sightless site, seated in a time capsule of nostalgia. One quickly overcame her self doubt and latent insecurities. She stood up, stuck that timeless finger in the air and danced like an animate fossil of her times.
The music was her savior. This was flipping us out. The sound and her were indistinguishable. Fruta was flipping, Bob was laughing uncontrollably trying to express the illusory humor manifesting itself in the invisible walls around him. He was worried that he had peed himself. The thought was too funny to contain. He did pee himself. No! It was a dream. No, he did. Yes, he really did pee himself. No. He was unsure and needed answers, quickly.
"Seth, did I pee myself?"
"Yes of course!"
Bob looks down and sees it. Sees nothing dripping down his dry pants. Fruta Bomba thought this was funny. For the rest of the show we tried hard to convince Bob he had peed himself, which he did, but had not.
"Seth, tell Bob he peed himself," Fruta would rave mad like a lost hyena.
"Bob, you peed yourself."
"Really?"
"No."
"Yes."
"Oh my Gawd it's true. There's piss everywhere."
The show continued in this manner until it was almost over. The music was different but it sounded all the same. One song caught my ear though, Its just an illusion. And that it was my friends. The grandest illusion of it all, the eternal trick let loose from the Mad hatters sleeve. We needed Alejandro to make sense of it all. Somehow Alejandro knew all the answers. Either Alejandro or the car. Either would do, but the phone systems were in operable and we didnt have to call the car. I tried opening my phone just in case and was blinded by phosphorescent Chinese letters telling me to do unspeakable things to myself.
The show was intriguing with or without the glasses. It was difficult to tell whether or not I was wearing them. The glasses just put themselves on whenever they wanted to be put on. I had no say in the matter. Even when I closed my eyes I could not escape the lazers. They were everywhere, even and especially behind my eyelids.
Class today started at 11:30. I took the opportunity to sleep in a bit and work on Legal Ethics homework. Doesn’t that sound like a contradiction? Legal Ethics. I then did my yoga thang in the placid heat of my room, once again aligned with Kali and her wild deadly arms. The wonder, the excitement, the sweat, the peace. Yes…. the peace. It was serene and my entire body was free to breathe except for the taboos sheathed by my underwear.
My first class was Constitutional Law. Professor M was a blast. An old yet lively man from
“I love Butter. Oh, yeah … I luuuuv Butter! Mmmmm, Butter, yeah!”
to
“The news makes me want to toss my big screen out the balcony.”
and, while referring to the dietary value of skim milk
“No one says to themselves: I want to be a little nutrient deficient in my diet”
His anecdotes included a tale about how at night he drools all over his pillow. “I admit it,” he said, “I’m a drooler,” leaving us to wonder whether we were in fact in law school or comedy hour at the improve. “One of my goals for this semester,” he’d rant “is to give up casual profanity. Hell, I’ll just do it next semester.”
Needless to say the class was amusing, but it was also educational and challenging. It is, in fact, one of the classes I have been looking forward to taking since even before my enrollment in law school as I am wholeheartedly convinced that the solution to this country’s dipshit prohibition problem and the resulting drug war lies somewhere in the Constituion itself. Could it be that the drafters of the document inked it out on Hemp paper? Who knows?
Actually, there was a case explicating the substantive interest test of the 14th Amendment’s Due Process Clause that almost justified weed being legal until, of course, the following case. By simply adding the words “legitimate concerns” to the test Congress has been empowered the machinery to promote its blind ideologies through arbitrary and practically unregulated lawmaking.
Nothing much else happened in that class except that I sat next to some old friends: Lizz and Ana. Lizz is a mormon who got married last Thursday upon her return from a trip to
“I’m not a hippy”
“Sure you’re not.”
“Don’t classify,” was the best I could come up with, but that was probably a mistake being that “don’t classify” is probably one of the most hippyish things you could say next to “man” or “trees are people too.”
Devil’s advocate notwithstanding, she was probably right. I do share many characteristics with the stereotypical hippy, namely my affinity for manipulating and exploring the boundless macrocosm of consciousness and my undying respect for the natural world. But I identify myself more with the Beats than the hippies. It’s just a stylistic preference. I dig the Beat lifestyle and their free spirited bohemian methods of self expression. And who can deny that the beats in essence gave birth to the hippies, to the Heads, to the Flower Children who peacefully fought for our right to BE by simply being. That is arguable but it sounds tantalizing.
I also sat next to Ana, her highness, the queen of Malibu and my Spanish telenovela loving Russian whose fleet of oak carved ships are probably playing reruns of “Que Pasa USA” in the mess hall.
“Legal Ethics” was next and then the nap to end all naps, followed by Entrepreneurship. Entrepreneurship: what a class, man. Not only is Professor C educated and engaging, but he is a gangster as well. Probably the same gangster who wacked Joe Pesci in Casino. I felt an instant connection and he has a way of reaching out and reaching to his students in a way unsurpassed by any law professor I’ve encountered thus far. The class got me actively thinking about several business ideas that have been lingering in unmanifest world of this material reality. For the class we are literally going to finance and start a brand new business, proceeds of which will go towards funding inner city kids’ educational endeavors. Though business aint my thang, I do have several fun ideas to take over the world and the class serves as the perfect tool to actualize my thoughts. As such I am going to treat it with curiosity and respect.
SO far my courseload has been infinitely more interesting than the first year. I also feel more confortable around my peers and roommates, which is great considering that my anxiety and stress last year , combined with the feeling of wanting to accomplish more than I could chew, that feeling of being overwhelmed, was responsible for my inefficient performance. We’ll see how I do this year.
I have a great feeling about these pens. Got them last night, along with a bottle of electric blue Gatorade for