Home I’ll Never Be (unfinished short story)

The Roeper to my Ebert is none other than one Tony Joel at the Evergreen State College.  As schoolboys we went through a series of violent rivalries and friendships, finally settling as the latter a few months prior to freshman year of high school.  His teenage years were characterized by extensive reading of Dick.  You may also be familiar with his website, Dogchan.com, which he occasionally moderates.  Lately he’s been taking the days off to focus on improving his DJ skills (I’ve heard three of his songs so far, and still await his remix of one of my acoupella recordings)—a vow, so to speak, only broken by puffs on a windmill or a lowly cigarette.  He doesn’t drop acid much, but plans on majoring in chemistry in order to fulfill his dream of building his own trips.

Tony’s currently back from Reed.  Right now we’re sitting on a bench in Missino Creek, one of few peaceful hangouts in downtown San Lu’bispo.  He’s telling me how he loves the Evergreen State College’s environment and I passively reply by stating my intent to transfer to the liberal school, therefore getting the fuck out of the California public education system before it hails more furloughs.

“You totally should,” he said.  “Plus the girls are down to earth, not at all like what you have here.”  The average San Lu’bispo girl, though artificially gregarious and clad in fluorescents, is too drab for your psychoanalysts.  These women of the Bleat Generation, even the ones incapable of thought, all possess a certain delusion.  They think that they can see through any man, whether he’s a Bleatnik, the guy next door, or the man upstairs.  What wonderful fun it is to walk around uptown San Lu’bispo!  Every day a commoner spends uptown is Judgment Day, except that these Bleat women aren’t exactly God and the angels.

Tony takes a hit from the Glass Elevator, his lanky bong, and then passes that transparent Lincoln to me.  I nod as I, half-high, recall that poem I wrote back in August of ’09.  It wasn’t so much a poem as a reworked cover of Kerouac’s campfire hymn from On the Road.  I don’t remember the original lyrics as I threw them into my recycle bin during an enjoyable college day.  However, I’m too high to forget my quasi-original masterpiece, and burst into song, a capella but accompanied with Tony’s scattered laughter:

Home in Santa Rosa

            Home in New Jersey

            Home in San Lu’bispo

            Home I’ll never be.

*                                  *                                  *

Now, let me explain Dogchan, Tony’s magnum opus by default.  Since the eighth grade, Tony and I had a go at creating videos on this dated site.  While Tony’s work on Dogchan has been recognized as art, mine has only been recognized as shit.  The administrator of Dogchan would rather extend his piccolo peter to Tony’s uninterested mouth than deal with any of my hijinks.  From April 2009 to April 2010, I enjoyed spamming Dogchan with cartoon character crap such as Mr. Krabs, Randolph from CatDog, and my personal favorite, Eric the Vampire.  My reasons behind this “constant spam campaign” are numerous, but a lot of the credit goes to a young man by the name of Cooper Van Ottol.  Cooper—I’ve always called him by his Dogchan pseudonym “Etar”—is an Internet outlaw of sorts.


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