CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT. Kids get out of here. Don't worry your time will come.
This is fiction, I have no association with any of these people, and some of them do not even exist in real life. Its all stuff I made up, but its not sci-fi, and I didn't want to start another blog just for non-sci-fi. It does fit here because most of the background is as true as I could make it, so theres that. Good luck.
b
Mr. Funsy
By Bill Gallagher
luxefaire@gmail.com
Deming NM
7400 Words
Troy Collins felt like his life was beginning to resemble a Seether video. Maybe Country Song, or even a combination of Seether videos, a kaleidoscope of absurdities. He took his first bong hit of the day, needing it badly. He drew the hybrid medical marijuana smoke into his lungs, holding, expelling, coughing, then again. The second one was the kicker and he tried hard not to slobber on himself as he gagged and coughed.
Ahhhh, much better.
Troy had just gotten off the phone with one of his neighbors, Rachel Applegate, and without a doubt it had Not gone well. He replayed it in his mind, the screeching harangue, the angry queries: "What did you DO to my DOG??!" She said it over and over again like a mantra, along with with "Missy won't come out from under the bed!" or "She closes her eyes and trembles all over!!!". Missy was short for Mischief. Troy let Rachel bitch onward until she ran out of steam. She ended it all with a final: "WELL?"
"Well what?" he asked, intentionally goading her.
It worked, now her voice became a screaming howl, a banshee wail, and he had to turn down the speaker on the phone, there was dopplering or something going on. He scowled at the phone as it squawked. Troy began to hope Rachel dearest gave herself a heart attack.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY DOG?"
So he told her.
***************************
Mornings in Miramar Florida can be magical things, especially once all the kids have gone off to school, and the work rush hour is over. While the sun rises higher in the blue south Florida sky, the sounds around Ramona and Plantation and Panama Streets become those of sprinkler systems kicking on, and small planes flying out of Perry airport, and the putt-putt-putt of postal delivery vehicles. Other sounds include birds singing, dogs barking, and the low constant hum of University Drive.
With the dogs and the birds and all the rest there are cats too, but they do not make any noise, though they can easily be smelled by animals cursed with highly sensitive olfactory equipments. Yet another affront to this idyllic setting can be construed easily enough: if the birds knew what the cats were up to they wouldn't be singing, thats for sure, they would be hauling ass. But they is birdbrains, poor them. To cats, birds are just vermin with wings, and for the record, almost all of China is in agreement with that, though the Chinese to a one will eat both birds and cats whenever they get the chance. Another of lifes little conundrums to ponder. Watch out they don't eat your ass, is the best you can get from that.
All along Utopia Drive there meanders an asphalt walkway wide enough to accommodate bicycles and walkers and runners. This morning Troy was almost alone on that walkway, heading south toward Miramar Parkway at a leisurely jog. He was followed closely by Missy the Afghan Hound who was on her leash.
The day was crisp and nice, South Florida October. Troy wore gym shorts, tee shirt, and running shoes, which were plenty once the run got underway. He had kept in good shape since high school, where he ran and swam distance. He still did reps with his weights too. His dark brown hair no longer blew in the wind when he ran though, because he found that keeping it short was a lot less bothersome, a lot easier to maintain.
Mischief the Afghan had hair in sheets. These sheets of hair extended downward on both sides of her body and head and even her tail, waving like flags from a center part along the top of her body. Missy ran like all other dogs, one foot in front of the other, but it appeared she was doing it on tiptoes, prancing kind of, with a slight sideways list. The list was just an illusion too, but a good one, even amusing. Missy ne Mischief was getting her exercise with Troy because that was one of the things Troy did to make a living, he was a professional dog walker. He also made surfboards, cleaned pools, delivered pizzas, and grew marijuana, so his schedule stayed full. People liked Troy and he was well known in Miramar. He was 41, had grown up in Miramar, had in fact graduated Miramar high School, then BCC. He owned his house on Panama Street, and was an overall honest dealer in all business, which made him as popular in the community as he wanted to be.
Monday and Friday mornings were Missys, and he had other dogs to walk or run at various times all during the week. He kept a lengthy appointment book, and he also did a lot of record keeping slash communicating on the internet. He had never thought of getting rich, really, but during the last ten years he'd begun to realize that if he was working, he wasn't spending, and money piled up. It was kind of amazing. He jogged on with his mornings work.
A little known fact is that all wild animals, in their minds, are like a cross between Sly Stallone and Redd Foxx, they say it like it is, there are no sugar coatings, no nuance of profanity or violence denied, the more mayhem the merrier, as far as wild animals are concerned. Nobody hears what goes on in an animals mind though, because animals can't speak english.
Mischief had caught a whiff o' kitty. She became immediately vigilant. "i smells a fucking cat and that fucking cat STINX! i wanna kills that fucking cat, TWICE, I wanna bite that catz head off and shit down that catzes neck, i wanna turn that shitty piece of trash inside OUT, oh yeahhhhhh i fucking HATES fucking catz..."
Mischiefs nose went up and her attention, such as it was, left the immediate area.
At Miramar Parkway Troy stopped to allow the light to change. He remembered this road when it was tiny, now it was a major intersection with University Drive, and dangerous. He bent slightly at the waist, hands on knees, catching his breath. Then, all of a sudden, it felt just like someone was shoving a cold dill pickle right up his ass! He straightened quickly, and his arms came up on both sides in a classic attitude of crucifixion. Troys eyes bulged and his mouth formed a perfect O, and all of this happened in the blink of an eye. He made the exact sound he would imagine himself making if someone tried to shove a cold dill pickle up his ass.
"OH WHOA!" he hollered near the top of his lungs.
A long haired Florida surfer in an ancient Chevy Impala with all the windows rolled down was stuck in traffic and looked over at this exclamation. Seeing Troy with his arms spread wide he hollered "Dude you look like Jesus!" then the light changed and he sped away.
Mischief had lost all track of things, and by time she realized Troy had stopped running it was much too late to stop what happened. Mischiefs nose was in just the right place, at just the right time, and possessed of formidable momentum. Its tip slid along the underside of Troys right buttock, then slid further inside his gym shorts AND his boxers underneath, and finally right up and into Troys anus. This was facilitated by doggy snot which Missys nose always produced in copious amounts, like all of her kind.
It was serendipity at its absolute worst.
Neither Troy or Missy liked any of this, not in the least. Troy actually broke wind upon insertion of Missys cold wet one into his outer anus, and the fart was unexpectedly loose, some kind of skunk response maybe. Missy whimpered and jerked her head back but not before receiving simian squirt up her long pointed snout.
She pulled hard at her leash then, sneezing repeatedly achphoo achphoo achphoo, honking her own horn for real, looking at him accusingly the whole time, in her doggy mind calling him a sadistic cat fucker and a soap loving mailman.
****************
Rachel was finally, unbelievably, silent. Then:
"So what are you saying? You shit on my dogs nose? I'll sue you if you did."
Troy had enough. "Actually I shat UP the dogs nose, a fine distinction, but one I'll take. I am sure my bruised sphincter trumps your dogs offended nose, even with all the psychosis, both hers and yers. I had to go get my butt looked at, thank you, though I wasn't going to say anything about it. My doctor doesn't think surgery is necessary.
"Surgery?" Now Rachel Applegate was thinking about being sued versus suing.
"Thats right, surgery. I will keep you posted, or my attorney will, because its not about what I did to your dog, its about what your dog did to me. I guess you will just have to find another walker. As they say in southern Japan, Sayonara you all.
Troy broke the connection, glad to be rid of Rachel Applegate, and Missy too, though he would remember Missy for quite a while yet, every time he sat down. He reached for the rolling tray under the couch, and loaded the bong.
Missy was not his first animal related injury, no, things like that happen quite regularly when you try to control something essentially uncontrollable, like mans best friend. The first real injury he had gotten from one of his charges had been a small white short haired dog named Toodles who was so glad for Troys company she became exuberant every time he bent down to put her leash on or take it off. One time she jumped up and licked his nose, and the slimy pink licking muscle from her mouth, her tongue, went up his nose so far it felt like it touched his brain. He got a sinus infection and had to take a course of antibiotics. Up close and personal, uh-huh, thats mans best friend alright. Some people played down his dog walking duties, thought them simplistic, easy. They were the people who lived in Lalaland, and they were many.
*****************
Troy walked out to his surfboard shop in the converted two car garage, to the entrance of his small grow room. He had built a false wall 5 feet in from the back of the garage across the entire width, and it was not noticeable. He never told a soul, and did not plan to. Loose lips and all that. Like many growers Troy enjoyed spending time with his plants, so this little cubby hole became his favorite room in the house, and he would sometimes come out here to make phone calls or attend his patch or just watch it grow. Therapy.
Any excess electricity used was covered by his workshop, which kept an exhaust fan running 24-7, out the roof, and portable electric heaters to aid resin curing. Nature of the surfboard business. He also had exhaust fans at floor level into the garage out of the grow room, and any smell from the grow was covered by chemical odors of resin and catalysts and paint.
Troy never sold marijuana, didn't want the notoriety, but never bought any either, not anymore. Occasionally he traded a little bit, other times he made gifts, but usually he was just happy to cover his own usage, mainly because the street products had gotten so dirty with drug war chemicals, smashed seeds, and a total lack of respect. When the greedy people made marijuana illegal they made Ja angry, Ja being the super-conscious overmind of which all life forms are vectors. No one can guess the end of that.
Troy knew his health was a lot better for staying away from street weed, and even though Florida lagged way behind the entire world in marijuana legalization, things had really cooled out everywhere. A lot of heavy money in Florida came from the illegal drug trade, and still does. The last thing those people want is an end to prohibition, because the drug war fosters industries they control: prisons, the police, the military, and all of the others who make street drug prices go through the roof and stay there. We are talking about artificial price inflations by mind control media. Quite elegant, from a criminal point of view, and they are the best. Royalty.
Troy believed Ja Rastafa, Marijuana is Good for you. Its much easier to see higher powers in nature than in people.
Troys present grow consisted of four females in 30 gallon buckets, one per, in his own peroxide sterilized soil mix, under banks of mostly florescent lights, the exact same type he used in his workshop. When arranged efficiently, with plenty of directed reflection, lighting can be maximized nicely. And don't forget the one-delta isomer.
Troys females came from seeds sent to him by an old high school pal who'd moved to New Mexico. The seeds were from a medicinal grow where some of the imported feminized seeds sprouted male flowers before harvest. His NM buddy had gotten a real cheap pound of bud refused by the dispensary, and it was seeded heavily.
All the plants tended to be female, but they also tended to pop male flowers more and more as each generation went on. Troy didn't care, they were off a first generation grow of imported seed, and they were free. He always caught any male flowers because he had a very small farm.
Also, because of the nature of those seeds, there were many different types of pot all mixed together in some kind of super hybrid selection. During late growth he alternately smelled diesel, berry, skunk, onion, and even cat piss odors from the flowers, and the real flavors were not evident after drying until cured in jars or tins for some months. The pot was in fact diesel and blueberry and white widow and a few other types all mixed together. Heavy Sativa brands, some Indica. Probably Ruderalis too for the auto flowering.
Overall the weed, after curing, possessed the same odor and even flavor, if there is such a thing, as Brut Aftershave, or even the Brut Deodorant. If there were odors in Seether videos, thats what bud would smell like there.
Troys best friend Dillinger Gottli, The Goat, thought Troy grew outside, in the 'glades, a wild patch out with all the Seminoles stuff. Dillinger didn't ask though, because he too was a benefactor of whatever dimension it came from, and he didn't really WANT to know. Gottli said it reminded him more of Old Spice aftershave, not Brut, but he always tried to buy some, and most of the time Troy gave him some, unless he was low himself. Dillinger usually brought weed, but he was still scoring smuggled bud over in Hallandale, and mostly it was not pleasant. His taste in women was forlorn as well, tending toward big heavy girls and even fat. One of his old girlfriends wore a pager that gave off a steady beep beep beep when a call came in, anybody around her thought she was backing up.
Troy checked on things in the grow room, inhaled the nice aromas and heavy oxygen laden air for a few minutes, checked his calendar which was clear for the rest of the day and all of tomorrow, then decided to head down to Johnson Street on the beach, grab a sandwich, maybe check Dania pier. He kept a board and rods and tackle in the back of his Ford F150, in case the surf was worthy, har, or if schoolies showed up on the beach. This was certainly the time of year for that. Bluefish were his favorites.
************************
Troy had achieved minor fame in Miramar a couple of times over his life and that wasn't over yet. The first time he was delivering a pizza to an old guy with an Italian last name, a regular, Mr. Ricci, and when he got to the house there was no answer. He looked in the window and saw Mr. Ricci sprawled out on the floor, moving but barely, and called 911. Mr. Ricci, who survived his ordeal, was a well liked and important man in Miramar and abroad, and his sons were extremely grateful for Troys "Intervention". There was a newspaper story and many kudos from unexpected places.
The second time resulted from someone calling code enforcement on him, about the dead surfboards piled at the side of his house. He promptly used the debris, as the citation called it, to decorate his yard in fine artsy fartsy style. He made a cool enclave out of surfboards buried halfway or more in the ground, it looked like a giant shell, and then he put within it a plaster statue of Whoopi Goldberg he got at one of the stores on Hollywood beach. He painted the statue all white, blanco brilliante, as the can said, and put a small solar powered flood lamp shining on it at night. Everybody who saw it thought it was the Virgin Mary, and the Sun Tattler hailed him as a newly discovered local artist. Troy supposed that some Art just had a wholeness about it that people found attractive. "Perhaps," he thought to himself, "The best an artist can do is avoid ass holeness."
No little feat.
Over time Troy added to his yard decoration, always in a tastefully gauche surfer kind of way. He liked a lot of odd plants out front, and bird feeders that looked like part of the landscape, not obvious as bird feeders. He found out you don't have to advertise the feeder, birds find it just fine whatever it looks like, because they are after the bird FOOD. Its not "Build it and they will come", its just put the food out and they will come. When the Tattler got really hard up for human interest stories someone usually paid him a visit and the paper always ran a picture of his yard "Improvements".
Today the traffic to the beach was gnarly, and it didn't help that Troy was catching the end of the lunch hour. Travel on the roads just became crazier and crazier as the holiday season progressed. All the rich northerners flocking south mobbed south Florida starting in September and ending in April, and this was anticipated and even loved by most people, although that wasn't always so. Once, long ago, during the nineteen eighties, some people in Fort Lauderdale got on a high horse and demanded action against all those misbehaving school kids who visited the area every spring break, engaging in wanton sex and drunken debauchery. They put up walls and had the police hassle the kids, and within a few years they shut down a 750 million dollar a year industry which had grown as a tradition since the nineteen twenties at least. The youngsters, really young adults in college, took their business elsewhere.
This had adverse effects across the entire local economy. The star islanders were ok, but downtowns and suburbs started applying for more federal money like right away. Royalty is always somehow able to bail itself out of financial troubles and its own mistakes, innit? Today south Floridians are more sensitive to tourism again, which has always been a major industry within the state.
Troy parked in the garage there on Johnson Street and walked along the beach to where he was going. The wind was a blustery east, and he was glad he was in jeans and a light jacket over his t-shirt. The surf was maybe two feet and werry mushy mon, though the gulfstream way out off the beach looked to be turbulent and big. Those waves almost always passed these beaches by. Sometimes those big swells visible outside were actually breaking upcoast, from Hobe Sound north, and Sebastion could be real fun when the time was right. Here, now, the tide was going out, or already low. There were massive sandbars showing within a few feet of the beach break.
When he got to Frankies, which was very near the paddle ball courts, and was right on the beach itself, Troy looked around and saw some people he knew; nods here and there, but there were a lot of tourists this time of year, so he quickly found a place at the bar and ordered coffee. Frankies was very hip, Elvy Musikka hung out there occasionally, it was a big smoker crowd, many of the night customers went out on the beach to smoke, then came back in for coffee, liquor and/or munchies, all of which were totally superb, best anywhere, and even cheaper than the Cosmos Coffee chain which had become the working persons staple.
There were two construction type guys getting drunk down the bar, roofers from the looks of it, and Troy could not help hearing the biggest one, he was loud.
"So I'm drivin' out to the beach today and theres a traffic jam and I finally come up on the problem. Its a Cadillac, hit the car in front of it, mashed it good. The driver of the Caddy was a dwarf, of all things, and the policeman is writing him up as I idle by. I hear the dwarf say "Officer I'm Not Happy!" The cop sez "So which one are you then?"
The intended recipient of this story just shook his head, looked right at Troy, and said:
"His mommy is a dwarf."
The joke teller started in, "She is not a dwarf, my mother izza same species as you and me..."
"Well, You may not recognize her next time you see her, 'cause I shaved her back!"
Troys eyebrows rose up to about the middle of his forehead. He wisely said nothing, grabbed his coffee and went to find a table outside on the porch, under the thatched roof, somewhere less like a you-know-who video. As he thought this a Seether song, Fake It, came blasting out of the juke box in the bar like an omen.
He hurried away from there.
********************
The beach was alive with music from the nearby Bandshell at Johnson Street. It was a local band who sounded not bad. That Bandshell on the beach at Johnson street had been conceptual inspiration whereby Troy had created his own masterpiece, the Surfboard Whoopi Shrine (Which everyone thought was The Virgin).
It was becoming late in the afternoon, and there were many strollers on the beach road. The guy on the bench across from the restaurant, under the coconut palm, was weaving palm frond hats which he sold to passerby. He wore only swimming trunks, not even flip-flops, and of course one of his own creations. Troy had talked to the man more than a few times. He said his name was Nat.
The guy was missing teeth, and his tattoos were faded and stretched into undefinable blobs. His skin looked like walnut shell, and his nose was epic. It must be true that mens noses grow larger as they age, and that meant Nat was probably about two hundred years old.
Thing about him was this: he was not just a King Of The Road, but an OLD King Of The Road, and those guys knew a lot of weird things, had seen a lot of mysterious shit, as Nat himself put it. Though Nat was sometimes quirky, Troy always came away from conversations with him feeling enriched in ways he could not actually define.
Troy owned a couple of Nats pieces, and he had given the man a bud or three over time in simple good will. Ja love. Nat had been one of the early pot activists, had faced and beat a five year mandatory minimum for a few joints during an illegal search in the late 80s. Nat the hat maker knew the search had been illegal, it was a shakedown targeting a whole neighborhood. They were after crack cocaine they said, but it came out later that Fort Lauderdale Sheriff Nick Navarro had turned the 8th floor of the Sheriffs office there on Andrews and I-95 into a major CRACK PRODUCTION LAB, using seized powder. The crack cocaine made by the Sheriffs office there in Fort Lauderdale was then used to flood the local streets in a devious plan to enrich the prison workers and all police, and to racially target whole populations. Like Genocide.
They'll do it every time.
Navarro became famous for stings targeting neighborhoods where he and his lab crew actually supplied the crack, busting many hundreds of people every weekend, most who served mandatory minimums. Once this was discovered Navarro was on the outs but then became the richest security specialist in all of Florida, darling of the old guard.
It was one of the weekend stings Nat had wandered into, totally by mistake, to see an old girlfriend, a classic case of looking for love in all the wrong places. Because Nat knew the prisons were getting overcrowded to the point where the judges were beginning to rebel against the drug war, and because he also was something of a free man, with nowhere pressing to get to, he held out when he talked to the judge the first time after his arrest. Nat calmly and respectfully told the judge he felt the police were without warrant in the search of his body and other personal space, the officers acted Quo warranto, therefore Nat was prepared to take as long as necessary within the system to prove that. He did not want a public defender, and he would not sign any papers, and he wanted his medicine back. It had been one of the earliest cases where use of marijuana as medicine may have influenced the outcome. The judge deliberated not even one moment.
"Case Dismissed. Next."
For awhile Nat had been the front of everyones attention within the Marijuana Re-legalization movement, but he quickly realized that he did not care to be famous, so he then disappeared for awhile. Some people claimed they saw him in Key West during that time. One thing was sure, Nat knew ALL of South Florida like the back of his hand, you never knew where he was going to be.
Nat and Elvy might have had a thing going once, or maybe still did. Troy did not care to speculate along those lines. He watched the old mans hands work, busy about their often practiced activity.
Someone bought one of the cowboy type hats made from palm fronds, and Nat then set the finished hat he'd been working on in the place of the hat that just sold. Sipping beer from a black plastic cup he got fronds arranged to start another hat.
************************
Troy took a drink of his coffee, and saw a petite tanned blond female skate past the front of the restaurant. He recognized that sight. It was Carol Duffy, and she had seen him too. She did a fast u-turn on her skates, almost a pirouette, and skated up to to the railing where his table was.
For some reason people liked to make word constructs out of Troys name. He had been alternately called Troyly, Troyski, Troyster, Troyby, Toy, Troycephus, and on and on. He was also on occasion known as Mr. Funsy, but only by two or three people. The originator of that name leaned her ample bosom on the railing by his table, and he thought back to that time. It was not a perfect time, but very very interesting. This young woman had coined the term one night a year or so ago, calling him Mr. Funsy when what she really meant was Mr. Poopy. She was being facetious.
"I thought that was you and I'm glad because I was looking for you," she said. They were eye to eye.
"Hi Carol."
"Hi Troy, how have you been?"
"Fine. You?"
"I won two tickets from WSHE to the Seether concert tomorrow night, and I was hoping you would be up to escorting a lady to and from the show." She smiled brightly.
"Escort eh?"
Troy said that because he had to say something to cover his shock. When videos become reality it goes beyond strange and into scary. He felt light headed and almost refused without thinking, but he liked Carol a lot. They possessed a certain magic about themselves when they were together that neither even came close to in the world apart. They'd been seeing each other on and off for a couple years. They met at the library. She was 10 years his junior, and was a smoking hot foxy lady.
There was a definite personality clash however, because her mommy clock was ticking loudly, and Troy didn't ever plan on having any kids, nor a wife. Maybe that would change, but not so far. He remembered the conversation, from whence the moniker Mr. Funsy came aborning.
He had said something like, "Carol I'll tell you like it is, I am and may always be too selfish for a normal family life, I'm really wrapped up in my craft and my other work, and a major lifestyle change isn't something I would be happy with."
"A regular Mr. Funsy ain't ya?" she had said. Her face held a frown and a furrowed brow that could attract hurricanes, or tornadoes. Troy figured she would look the same if she had been digging in the garden and unearthed a nice deposit of cat shit. He remembered being slightly intimidated and even alarmed by this Goddess thing he was seeing.
He tried to console her. He thought he should get points ie respect for truth, for being upfront, because most guys seemed notorious for lying until they got what they wanted, but he could see she found no pleasure in that discourse, so a wedge got driven between them that had not been there before.
Carol was serious, as were most unmarried women her age. She had to consider her options, try to figure out what would be best. Now, those options might not include Troy, thats just the way the imperative reigns. Troy had been surprised by this wicked witch outlook, this "I WILL NOT BE THWARTED!" attitude, and it was one of the main things in his life he was dealing with and had been dealing with since it happened.
He thought that right now out here on Frankies patio on the beach he should deal with it bravely, not like a coward.
"Escort?" he repeated like a parrot, before she could even answer the first. "Sure that sounds like fun Carol, what time do you want me to pick you up?"
She skated through the entrance to the patio and up to his table, taking the seat across from him. They made plans.
******************
From The Luxefaire Review Blog:
Seether is an international guitars and drums band from South Africa. The original member and founder of Seether is front man vocalist Shaun Morgan Welgemoed, whose last name is pronounced exactly as it is spelled. Ha-ha. To simplify things Shaun Morgan Welgemoed goes by Shaun Morgan in his professional life, and it fits just fine.
This band from South Africa is nothing like a Combichrist (Evil, Nice) brought by Andy The Plague out of Norway, or other international bands like Australias Pendulum, or the eastern Euro band Cargo Cult, who are sometimes adopted by Americans because of new sounding vibrations, rare resonance.
Seether music is really American music, heavily flavored by American Grunge as grunge existed between 1992 through 2010, or even a little later. They make structured melodic high order noise in a dark and arcane color twice or thrice evolved from its Euro roots. Seethers particular brand of exceptional sound appeals largely to the faction of American society known as Rock n Rollers, or just Rockers, though Seether has also been influenced by some modern American country music, with apparent rebounding effects into that genre.
I prophesy Seether will eventually change country music here in a large way, restructuring Rock in the process, maybe forever. Not since Dave Matthews has there been such a signature sound.
Rock and Country have crossed over for many years in America, but the programmers of radio have ignored all but the type they control$. Country all sounds the same now, TWANG diddley bop poor me and my poor cows and my cheatin' wife TWANG TWANG. Country music here has become redundant like disco was, and some of the xtian type country performers even wear outfits reminiscent of Patrick Hernandez, or KC and The Sunshine Band. Thankfully these new wave American country performers have pulled up short of dressing like The Village People. So far anyway.
Some of the Seether band also identifies with certain mainstream aspects of the country music demographic, ie gun ownership, and their following among hunters is fierce and loyal. Will Seether be another Country/Rock crossover like Nickelback (Who they toured with) or Days of the New? Possibly.
Through his studies under such as Brendan O'Brien, and the way he has learned his way around Nashville, Shaun Morgan is a Grinning Plowman for sure. Now Seether is setting new standards in music, reverberating across normal lines of demarcation, while keeping things alive and well, gaining speed.
As Seether begins to form American music more and more, America also forms Seether, and thats called Synergy.
This goes beyond hope, this is the real thing.
end
Troy thought the article somewhat pretentious, the author was known for that, but it was a refreshingly different way of seeing things, even if slightly kinked. He had been studying the band on the internet since parting with Carol after dinner at the Rice Bowl on 441 near Miramar Parkway. The Rice Bowl had been there for over 40 years, it was older than Troy. The proverbial hole in the wall, the food was very good with an eye on healthy.
He had done the wikis and some other sources, watched a few youtube videos, and overall was looking forward to attending the Seether concert. Many questions crossed Troys mind as he read. What a wild ride those guys were on. Things most people only dream of had become real for them, but stardom is not a banishment of nightmares, not much. Reality at all levels can at anytime become a nightmare, there is no cure for that.
Seether lyrics addressed many things at once: the seemingly built-in fucking up that takes place all day every day everywhere with everyone, the actions of people in groups of more than two (The mindless mob), the utter senselessness in most communication with other beings; all that and much much more is confronted, then pushed in our faces as an underlying theme. Seether lyrics are biting, even scolding, and in all of them there is intimation that things could and probably should be better but we just don't know how and its a mess.
The human condition.
Troy read about the suicide of Shaun Morgans brother early in the bands career, and that was totally horrible. He also read about Shaun Morgans early emulation of Chris Cornell of Sound Garden/Audioslave, even performing with him on occasion, but none of that had a happy ending either. And then, like OKC after Waco, there was Chester.
God what an awful debacle. It is known that Cornell was taking pharmaceutical drugs famous for inspiring suicides, and Troy wondered why they weren't giving that shit out like candy in Mexico and China. How drugs related to any other thing within this melange of participants is beyond all but the immediate players though, and some of them are dead.
People are curious, inquisitive, nosy even. Couple that with advances in cheap miniaturized long range surveillance equipment, and you can see the opportunity for predation giving birth to itself. Famous people soon realize that curious people are the worst nightmare of all, the ones that want to know about the personal lives of their idols, and that means just about every fucking body. And especially about the darker things, its the way we are made after we are born, we are the products of the ideas of the past, helpless and scared little marionettes our whole lives, and the truth of that is the fact that we lie about it, we lie at our cores. They go way way back, these lies, these shadows of forgotten ancestors.
Animal Blind Spots.
A line from Henley ran through Troys mind then. "The bubble headed bleached blond comes on at five, she can tell you about the plane crash with a gleam in her eye, its interesting when people die, give us dirty laundry..."
At the last breath there are no happy endings. People want to share in each others pain so they can produce an illusion for themselves that they are not alone. But thats not true, thats the lie. Alone is all you can be, no matter how hard you try, no matter what you do.
Troy shut the computer down and went to work in his grow room for awhile.
*************************
The next day went fast. There were errands to run, a haircut, a few new clothes. He was wearing black, Carol would have her share of black on too, no doubt. Carol looked better in it because it contrasted and highlighted her naturally blond hair. Yeah, she said her heritage was Irish, but there was strong Swedish in there too.
Troy liked black because he could sometimes blend right into things with it, get into the background, which can be difficult sometimes, if you ever try it. Plus, if there were accidents, which there always were, black hid things well, at least a lot better than light colored stuff. Concerts were notorious for accidents. Troys outfit was a light black jacket over a heavy black t-shirt, black cargo pants and black Vans. Even the rubber on the Vans was black, they came like that.
He picked Carol up around 2 PM, driving the Toyota Tundra, versus his little beach wagon Datsun from the 80s, his hobby and fun car. The Tundra was comfortable, reliable, and economical. Troy thought if robots ever really hit the market he would buy a Toyota.
Carol looked excellent in low spiked heels with little black bows on them, and calf length black pants that fit her awesome legs and posterior perfectly. She also wore a light black jacket covering a black pullover blouse, with pretty jewelry at wrist and throat matching her nails.
They made quite a pair. Troy really hoped he got laid later on, seeing as he was just thinking to himself and all. He would never be so crass as to hint that to Carol, though he knew she knew. He would be a gentleman up until the time came to take off the clothes, and all other inhibitions with them. Then he would stand her on her head and eat her like an ice cream cone. Or something like that. He felt a chubby coming on, so he put his mind back on driving. The evening had not even begun yet, really, and fantasy is not reality. There are no farts in fantasies.
They had a late lunch at Ronzos Buffet Pembroke Pines, it was the restaurant where Troy delivered pizzas around Miramar when he could, or when they really needed him, like on Super Bowl Sunday. The last Super Bowl he worked he brought home just under three hundred bucks, and that was cash money, tips from drunks, we love you Captain Morgan.
From the fresh buffet Troy piled on several types of salad, home made bread sticks, and Cheese Ravioli with Meat Sauce. Carol had the Baked Spaghetti, and Chicken Cacciatore. They talked while they ate, catching up on things, both realizing pretty quickly that neither had a love life without the other.
Troy wanted to try his explanation again, tell her that he could not in good conscience bring a copy of himself into the world as it was. Too many people had children based on self gratification, or a facet of it, and that, to Troy, was the basis of all the worlds problems, right there. He had been raised Catholic, had attended Saint Barts there in Miramar, but he was Catholic no more. He could never see himself being Catholic again. Things he was told did not match up with the things he saw with his own eyes, not at all, and he felt insulted they should ask him to even consider basing his life on what they said was right or wrong. They were out of it, and their war making racket was becoming well known among the mass too. But he did not bring any of that up. Some other time. He was 41, afterall. He could finally tell when keeping his mouth shut worked best.
They finished their meal and left, both had carbonated water with their food, the drunken party days were over for them. Troy lit an mj ciggy after they got parked at the Hollywood Sportatorium, and they relaxed for a little while before entering the show. The weed was his Miramar Open Source Brute Brand Sticky Bud. It sure did the trick.
At the Sportatorium arena they had to find the SHE van and get checked in. Once they got the attention of one of the harried workers, he checked his list and told them not only did they have free tickets, but also back stage passes, courtesy of WSHE Miami Fort Lauderdale Palm Beach.
There was no way Troy could feel alone inside the Hollywood Sportatorium today, it was filling fast and held upwards of 30,000 people. Carol took his hand and led him to another table of WSHE workers. From there they were ushered back stage to a room full of people and a bar. Troy got them both bottled waters, and that helped with the cotton mouth they were experiencing.
Troy and Carol stood together and just took everything in. It was amazing the things you can hear, if you let yourself. Troy was getting a full story from the people around him, and he knew Carol was too. She squeezed his hand as if picking up on his thoughts. She was able to do that sometimes.
There were members of the local opening bands in the room, discernible by their clothing, which looked expensive even if it was tattered, a cultured grungy look, black fingernails and all. There were also a few members from the act right before Seether, who were becoming well known fast. It was your basic meet and greet, a general hub bub, the low roar of human interaction. A couple of the younger people looked totally blitzed, and it did not appear to Troy that they would make it through the concert in a conscious state. To a one they each held a drink or a beer, taking swallows in a distracted manner, heads wobbling while they leaned on walls or whatever was handy.
Things got quiet then, a hush fell, because, like some sort of group awareness beyond speech, it was suddenly realized that Seether themselves had come into the room and were mingling. Shaun Morgan got out a cordless microphone and summoned the rooms attention, welcoming everyone to the concert, and thanking WSHE for the awesome support. He introduced his band mates Bassist Dale Stewart, and Drummer John Humphrey. He then said:
"Lets play a little musical game. Each of you will quote me some lyrics from a song you particularly like, any band. It will give us an idea what is special to you."
"And how smart you are." quipped Bass Guitarist Dale Stewart.
"Not to put you under any pressure or anything," finished Drummer John Humphrey.
Some of the lyric quotes came from Seether Songs, one guy just said "Fake it", then there were some lines from Olivers Good Morning Starshine, and also a long quote from an obscure band about the beach and surfing and the moon. Many of the inebriated kids had to pass, they couldn't understand the question.
Troy and Carol, blending into the background as they wanted to, were last to go. Carol quoted off the INXS CD Kick, from the song Guns In The Sky:
Feel the sound
It crashes in
All around
It gets in
Now take your hands
And raise them up
Into the air
Its all around ya
Well it could be good
Make us love each other
I have to realize
I own the future
Theres guns in the sky, guns in the sky, guns in the sky..."
Appreciative hoots and clapping happened when she finished, and some of that was because Carol was such a looker, though Troy saw several very thoughtful expressions going on around the room too. She smiled brightly as only Carol can do, then it was Troys turn. He quoted Don Henley, his all time favorite poet philosopher:
"You spend all your life just piling it up, you got stacks 'n stacks 'n stacks, then Gabriel comes along and taps you on the shoulder, and you don't see no hearses with luggage racks..."
Everything got quiet. Troy seemed to have struck some kind of emotional chord. There was a void that needed filling, so he added:
"And while I have the chance I want to sincerely thank Seether for all the enjoyable moments they have given me, and for all those yet to come."
It was like a long sigh, the room relaxed, Carol beamed another smile his way.
Shaun Morgan said "Whats your name man?"
Troy told him.
"Well, Troy Collins, the band thanks you too, for more than you might be able to know."
All of a sudden there was a weird feeling of release inside Troy, the feeling of being part of a Seether video disappeared entirely. It was back to the real world, and Troy was glad. He looked over at Carol, and she put her head on his shoulder. He thought of those lyrics, of hearses and luggage racks, and another change began in him, all part of dealing with things and trying, really trying, to make them work. Nobodys time is forever. He pulled her close.
The pre-show party continued until the performances began. About halfway through Seethers set Shaun Morgan introduced his next song by saying:
"This one is for Troy Collins, and Don Henley."
The song was Fine Again.
fin
