Dreaming The Life

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There is nothing better than down time. Place that down time in Amsterdam, and you’re in some serious pig heaven. Today, Darryl Jones proudly played the role of carefree pig on furlough. He deserved this. 94 shows in 90 days takes a serious toll on the body. He will be the first to tell you, he is no longer a spring chicken.


He took a long toke of the high-octane reefer stick soaked in brandy. He held it in as long as he could and exhaled loudly. An apparent millennial boy sitting at the bar judged and mumbled under his breath, “Ignorant American.”

Darryl heard, and paid no mind to the 20-something hipster poseur. No matter how hard that doink tried, he was never reviving the damn beret. If Samuel L. Jackson couldn’t do it, fuck that guy. Fuck that guy! Who’s living the dream? Certainly, not that guy. I’m living the dream. His lower lip hardened with pride.

Mid-thought, Darryl’s high caught up with him, which is the case with classic Thai Stick 1982. It has the tendency of slapping you upside the head. He was floating through a 24-shades of aqua poppy field, the sign said so. His eyes, happy sponges. The smell of ripe color, affable moisture. The symbiotic relationship between the two was beyond mortal poetry. Yin and yang co-existed like the best calls and responses of Hall and Oates. Harmony simply was. Nothing needed rhyme nor reason. Falling was grace, and grace was falling around him, while he, who was also grace, fell. Peace was omnipresent on his tongue.

He was rudely awoken from his beautiful stupor by a shrill nagging voice with an affected British accent. “Save the dancing for the stage, Jones!” It was his boss. It was Mick Jagger. “Bus leaves in two hours for Brussels. Chop chop.”

Darryl was embarrassed that his staggering was mistaken for dancing. He was more ashamed that he thought he was living the dream. What sort of dream has a prick tube for your boss?

Dancing

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