This is the perfect street for collusion.

The world is coming to an end. I get this feeling because people are worried that the resources they are using are limited. But no one wants to cut back. Other than my family, people still bathe twice a day and use their electricity as if these impermanent privledges are eternal rights, even though everybody knows the end is near. The Alesian Church is especially guilty. I was holed up at my parents' house trying to avoid marauders one evening, the sun having just gone down, when suddenly I heard, and seconds later saw, a white helicopter, descending wobbly and grotesque into the driveway. Either man or machine had been drinking, that was certain. I asked the pilot where he got such a thing and, moreover, gas for such a thing. He chuckled and said, "Well, the Alesians, of course."

He took me to their church. I thought it was "Elysians," but alas, the front door of their "temple" had it spelled all wrong. "They've got it all wrong," I thought. But they didn't. They had electricity, and they were all happy. They weren't talking about God or Jesus at all, just having fun and not worrying. Lots of apocalyptic games like tag and hide-and-go-seek.

A man came by my parents' house the other day. He was looking for my brother, said something about arms dealing. My father said he wasn't home. He covered for him. So he was pretty pissed when upstairs he found the square, clear plastic zip-up travel bag with two .38 revolvers in it. He yelled when he found the guns. My brother deserved it, the yelling, and my brother knew he deserved it. And this fact made him giggle. Usually when my brother giggles it is when he knows something is wrong and everyone else knows something is wrong and he makes it clear that he endorses that wrong something and this was no exception.

So my brother sat down next to me on the striped couch in the living room and yapped on about what a wuss my father - his stepfather - is. I told him he was wrong and he responded by momentarily paralyzing me. I'm not sure how he did it, which is something I often say about my brother (actually it's more like "I don't know how he does it"), but as my body was gradually returned its right to motion, that right I did exercise. Gradually. I began by rubbing his hand. I think we called it Injin burn - or something like that - when we were kids. But that was the nineties, back when we ate dinner at a table and prayed before meals. Then I bit his arm as dilligently as possible.

Then I punched him in the face, but not so dilligently. At first he laughed, but after a harder strike he said something soft and surprised like "Oh, that hurt." It was the kind of thing brothers might do to each other when they're young and horsing around. I guess you'd say we were just horsing around, but really I wanted to kick the shit out of him.

I have to get going now. After all it is snowing outside, the world is about to end, and I have to meet some friends at 40th street, which - I am about to find out - is the perfect street for collusion.

This is clear despite a marked lack of pavilion.

I found out after wondering for some time that Bob Saget gets his mouthwash from Estonia. Also, it turns out that while Estonians speak Estonian, they print all their mouthwash labels in Turkish.

I am on Hendrix campus, which has apparently undergone a total makeover since I last saw it in real life. There is a deep, rectangular hole in the asphalt of the parking lot and it is, for some reason, important. So that is where I park my car.

It looks like Memphis Pencils are playing another show at Hendrix. It is at this point - when I realize I am to perform - that I am back at my parents' house, snorting and licking cocaine off the kitchen wall. The walls were white, don't ask how I found it.

I apologize to my mother for getting blown just as she is leaving. She forgives me, though; she's in a good mood because she and Neil are about to see Frank Zappa.

I'm back into the party atmosphere. It doesn't look like Hendrix. It is probably still Hendrix. The first Hendrix didn't look like Hendrix either. There is a family-renunion/county fair/church picnic sort of thing going on. This is clear despite a marked lack of pavilion. Jesse Belt and I go to the nearby gas station where they return drunk-from beer cans to the shelves. I stock up on watermelon as he is probably buying cigarettes.

There is some boring shit with my family in there somewhere. Where we're going to eat, who's staying at home, whose birthday it is, who's driving which car. There is some really boring shit with my family in there somewhere.

I'm back at the real Hendrix, the real reimagined Hendrix. There is probably a pavilion somewhere. There are some acquaintaces from junior high standing on a sidewalk and I decide not to say hello. Memphis Pencils are about to perform, but alas - I'm in a dermal dilema. My ass is showing. Because my pants are assless.

Don't worry, I've ended up with a towel. Well, shit: it keeps falling down. It keeps falling down and people keep seeing my ass. Shit. Someone asks me about my shirt. I tell them all about how I designed it, but Neil reminds me that it was a gift from JD, that JD had done the design. Oh, right.

More importantly, Jamie Claire approaches me to ask where she should park her car - "Should I park it over in front of that building? I wouldn't want to get an arm on it."

"Oh, Jamie," I think, "I didn't know you were into non sequiturs!" But it turns out a bloody arm, cut at the elbow with hand and all and a Luger next to it, is lying in the perfect fucking parking spot. Now no one can have the perfect parking spot. That is so rude.

Daylight comes and still no police have shown up, but that's okay because the annual Halloween zombie parade is here. We, without knowing who we are, throw rocks at the zombies and say, in all caps, "FUCK ZOMBIES!"

Glorious dolphins result in shitfish monsters.

I am chewing gum in the front pew of a Catholic church next to a couple of Mexican kids who mutter something to me about a sandwich. A nun chides me for the gum, but when I take it out, most of it sticks to my back teeth. Some high school aged kids then performed "Bored By Beacons," a Memphis Pencils song.

Neil comes home. His chin is bloodied and I don't find out why, just that he thought he was going to get "stitched up," but actually got "stitched." That fucking nurse. Neil spits his tooth into the sink and I extract my own by hand, the one to which the earlier gum was stuck. The tooth is so unhealthy that it is translucent, practically falling apart, and it expands until it is the size of that big-ass diamond in "The Rescuers."

There is a story going around that some young black guy was caught doing something naughty - but not so terrible by liberal standards - and that he was going to get a very harsh sentence in a couple of weeks. I think he was expecting up to ten years for a DUI. He was charged for that after doing something lewd or especially negroid at a party. Some friends and I are walking on Dickson St at the intersection with Arkansas Ave, discussing the travesty when a couple of female police officers begin chiding us about how hard their jobs are. We agree, but that wasn't really the point, ladies.

Ayşenur nags me about something, about which something or other I should choose. We are at a picnic.

I am in an Amazon-like river and what appear to be glorious dolphins end up being shitfish monsters, like in that campy horror movie.

An irrelevant speck of dust grows to a size which overwhelms the universe.

A guy from Indiana about my age whom I have never met runs into me at Wal-Mart. We are looking at books. He recognizes me from the internet and says, "Oh, I saw you recently read such and such novel. How'd you like it?" to which I respond "I didn't think anyone read the stuff I put on the internet."

1995 you don't know shit

I am worried when in the eighth or ninth inning John Rocker, Atlanta Braves pitcher from the 1990s, comes hauling ass out of the bullpen, lookin pissed as always, but tonight especially so. Pissed like he's pitching against his New York city-slicker god-questioning, queer-forgiving rivals. Or like I've reamed his daughter, maybe even insulted his wife. ("Your ass is mine, Bemberg!") Then we are in a dimly lit room with baby-shit tan walls. Rocker's not able to do the things he gets paid to do (close out baseball games, kick ass, make an ass of himself in the media) until I turn on the light, which I do without hesitation. I push the pin on that fucking construction lamp and the whole thing is over. No pitches thrown. Everyone's favorite shock-jock John Rocker is gone, never to harass our progressive sensibilities again.