06.17.11

I told myself tonight is a quiet night. The next three days are stacked. I was reading. I considered the similarities between me and other staggering geniuses. I put on a film I had been meaning to see since my brother took me to see Murder by Numbers in theaters when I was underage. Y Tu Mama Tambien. I found the title comical, titillating back then. Five minutes in, the door opens. Shit. He’s drunk. He mentions something about a piecepipe. His reference was to the sixer of Leffe Blonde he picked out just for me.

“This is Hertzberg’s favorite,” he tells the liquor store owner. The owner suggests picking out one of the cold ones in the fridge, a concept that never occurred to my roommate, who’d been eating well and drinking better for the past six hours. He regales of his tales Zellas and then Lottie’s. Having sense enough to go home, he stopped by a liquor store, thought of what little beer we housed in our apartment, thought of me and what I liked. He walked in with this six-pack, one that I’ve been fond of all week, and my first thought was: “shit. I’m not watching this movie tonight.”


 

We talked. We caught up on the events of the evening, his infinitely more interesting than mine: after a streetshow and cooking myself dinner, my night was entirely domestic. I read, I wrote, I watched. Nothing more. It was supposed to be a quiet evening. He showed me the Leffe: new Life. We talked, we caught up, we listened to each other as well as the music I put on in the background when I realized the movie I was watching would not be finished this night. He exclaimed arbitrarily: “Christmas!” “Jesuits!” An absurdity of statements on par with the Upright Citizens Brigade’s finer moments. I had to indulge. The six-pack I had bought myself earlier was bland: it sits idly in our fridge: I couldn’t say no to Leffe. Delicious. 

He tried to convince of the relevancy of the Flaming Lips entire cover album of The Dark Side of the Moon. While he was entranced entirely within the music, my mind was elsewhere. The Dark Side of the Moon. Never has an album been so brilliant, so profound in its boredom, no matter what twists and turns the Flaming Lips exalted upon it. We smoked on the patio. I desired no cigarettes. 

“Hertzberg, would you like to join me for a cigarette?...I understand if you wo—

“I was about to say ‘yes’.”  

We smoked. We talked. We discussed our similarities, specifically in regards to musical taste. And yet, this album was gnawing at me. I can NOT get into it. It is beyond boredom. My mind was completely wandering, my mostly-sober mind, could not comprehend the scope of the album. He was enthralled. He was entranced. I tried to think of anything that I love so much he does not. London Calling. Spiritualized. Hissing Fauna. None of it. It is our one anomaly. Perhaps I am in the wrong? Perhaps this is an album I need to know? I need to appreciate it…but I’ve tried. It’s not for me. The album ends. We step outside for one more smoke. I play the ADHD DJ, rotating between Swedish alchemists, basement jackers, and morning bender inspired Morning Benders. We smoke again. We related to all of this. We dance on the patio, me never allowing more than a minute or two of the songs we enjoy, testing myself to see what I can impress him with. We never talk serious tonight. We neglect discussion of family ailments, weekend plans, philosophical qualms. 

We stand in silence. I want to sleep, but I don’t say anything. I finish the remaining Leffe. Neither of us go crazy. I am not spinning on the floor tonight, but we enjoyed our time swaying, mimicking the music. 

The next three days are stacked. He poured on Woods, I poured myself Saki. He falls asleep to Frank. I type these words.