There was a house in the middle of the country. A house of outcasts and miscreants. They did dirty deeds outside of the law to reflect the ugliness of the world. Nothing was particularly immoral, that was why it was considered counterculture. What they did all was in an attempt to be real and they lived during a time that encouraged being a sellout. Make that money, watch it honey, ain’t we got fun. Have fun, die young and whatever you do don’t get to know yourself or know who you are before it is thru. Fortunately the counterculture say the tide is turning, and they were members of this elite group.
None of them particularly got along, but they co-existed better than most that live in a house with a miniscule kitchen and one bathroom usually can manage. They all were very anti-authority, so spats and misinterpretations that reminded them of the opposition of their past relationships flared up every now and then. On a whole however, these individuals were all very respectful roommates.
The one inhabitant was a drug lord, nothing hard, purely grass and he was travelling to LA for the dankest bud available to bring to the east coast market. His journey was delayed for the night and his couple travelling companions were sleeping on the hardwood floor of the family/smoking room. The blow up bed would be set up with fluffy sheets and bouncy pillows. The wiener dog would waddle by every now and then and give each a lick on the face before he peed with pleasure all over their fluffy sheets.
The other male roommate was a musician trapped in a beggars body. He wanted so much to be free from the constraints of this reality, and sometimes he would get close. He would almost take others with him to this magical place where the rules don't apply. Of course when the companion on the reality skip experience reawoke they were pissed at him, so it always circled back and bit him in the ass. He was very bitter about it but he didn’t know why. He had just returned from a trip to Denver. He had successful buddies there that it seems treated him like shit. Making a buddy pay at your place and then demanding they shave in the small bathroom versus that spacious one, sounds like an entitled dickhead to me. But he said the vibes were good in the west and he felt freed from his daily constructs to the point where he could be happy again. Life puts on those pressures to the point where you feel you will explode. It is your own mind reliving its fears over and over because life is boring day to day and most of us are trying to pass the time. It’s when you stop doing that to yourself that life gets interesting again, You have to know those things and then release them and then go back to living somewhat normally. Coming out the other end is the part that feels touch and go at times. Maybe we never do. Maybe life is the tunnel.
The third inhabitant would be considered anti-social to the extreme but in reality she did her best to avoid all definition. She wanted variation and diversion and was abhorrently bored when it didn’t come her way. She spent her days drawing and had just begun doing massive installations of graffiti. She was a silent flight risk and everyday I wondered when she would fly the cuckoo's nest. But she never did...at least not yet. She threatened to go off on her bicycle across this vast country, to the desert. The desert was calling her home. All women must visit the desert to understand their true nature. So calm, beautiful and serene seeming, with so much growth and activity happened just out of sight. There is more than meets the eye with both desert and woman. She would bike there one day with all her belongings strapped to her back.
The fourth was a thirty year old trapped in an old woman's body. She fried bacon in the Vegan kitchen and poured scoops of sugar into her coffee. Coke was a staple and she would walk around with one in her hand and her other hand pressed on the small of her back, grunting in pain as she shuffled across the floorboards. She had charm but mostly because of her age it was considered overbearing. A thirty year old can do that, but an old woman “know your place!” Still in her old age she was coming back to life because of the counterculture influence she didn’t quite understand but enjoyed being around no matter how much she huffed about this and that. No one took care of the weiner better than her, and the cat was nearing fifty pounds because of her over attentiveness. The dog thrived under the coddling, the cat just slept, ate, shit and purred with contentment. Every once in a while he would demand a rub with some incessant purring in your direction, but really he just wanted a cozy place to curl up and sleep.
“With all that recycled air someone’s sure to give out.” Yelled the drug lord guy as he told us he missed his flight by 3 minutes because his fat friends had to get water and a pretzel before boarding. Airplane travel is the pits. Without thinking what could be said and finding nothing worthwhile on topic, the anti-social girl spoke up.
“Did you see that huge dead spider over there by the sink? Yeah it huge. I won’t even pick it up dead. It’s just too big.”
“Everything's dead it's winter,” said the musician ferociously. He got up from his chair and headed toward the cat’s litter box. It was his turn to clean it.
“The stench from the cat litter is diabolical. He must have eaten something already dead. God!” He Stormed up the stairs with his godzilla steps.
“You know what’s funny?” The old lady said to no one in particular. “If all of this had been said in French it would have sounded chic instead of angry. I want to make a film that has people saying random French things throughout that have absolutely no reference to the action taking place on screen. What could be more French?” she laughed to herself. No one responded or took any notice.
over & out. ANgr