If I were a different person, I'd be obsessing over the fact that his phone rang twice before the voicemail picked up, which more than likely means that he saw that I was calling and pressed ignore on his phone, sending my message to voicemail.
However, I'm not that guy. Honest. The thought crossed my mind, but I'm far from obsessing over it.
Instead, I'm obsessing over this poem/parody, which I think is best thing I've read in a long, long time.
Let’s go babe, you and I,
When the night’s straddling the sky
Like a passed-out drunk guy.
Let’s walk down frat row.
Yeah, let’s go
And remember our night in the HiHo Motel
And that wack restaurant with bad oysters. Hell!
Frat row that flows like a stream of spilt beer
When the keg is empty
To point us to the question…
But don’t ask “Where’s the other keg?”
I’d rather sit here and fondle your leg.
At the rager the chicks come and go
Talking about art or something, I don’t know.
The smoke that hits the windows
Yeah, the smoke that hits the windows
Got sucked into my lungs,
Stayed in the pool at the bottom of the bong,
Let the ashes from the cigarettes fall in it,
Slipped under the door, moved real quick,
And since it was football season,
Sprinted down to the field and disappeared real slick.
And for sure there’s gonna be time
For the smoke in the street
To hit the windows;
There’s gonna be time, there’s gonna be time
(Is that from a Dave Matthews song?)
To get ready to meet the brothers you meet;
There’s gonna be time to win and lose,
And time for all the games and scrimmages
That get your picture in the local news;
Time for you and time for me,
And time for a hundred hip-hop-hoorays,
And for a hundred plays and replays,
Before we go hang out with Steve.
At the rager the chicks come and go
Talking about art or something, I don’t know.
And for sure there’s gonna be time
To think “Will they stare?” and “Will they stare?”
If I turn around and trip on a stair,
I’ll put a cap on over my thinning hair—
(They’d say: “Man, dude should buy some Rogaine!”)
My Hilfiger coat, my Abercrombie sweater pulled over my shirt,
My sneakers, Nike and wicked expensive, but still covered in dirt—
(They’d say: “Man, he’d look better in a skirt!”)
Will they stare
If I mess everything up?
In a minute there’s time
For plays and replays that a ref’s call will reverse.
‘Cause I know everything already:
I know the nights, mornings, afternoons,
I measured out my life in bottles of Boone’s;
I know the cheers that die out steady
Before we take another drink.
So what am I supposed to think?
And I know the eyes already, know ‘em all—
The eyes that look at you in a smoked-up haze,
And when I’m baked, taking a munchie run to Dairy Mart.
Or when I’m staring at the fractal poster on my wall,
Then how should I start
To throw out all the butts from my cigarette-smoking days?
And what am I supposed to think?
And I know the arms already, know ‘em all—
Arms with bracelets that are pale and bare
(But under black light, covered in glowing blue hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me think so messed?
Arms that lie on the sofa, or hold a pom-pom ball.
And what am I supposed to think?
And where should I start?
Should I say, I’ve walked at night down frat row
And watched the smoke come up from the joints
Of lonely guys in T-shirts, leaning out the windows…?
I should’ve been a pair of worn-out cleats
Stumbling across turf in empty fields.
And the drunk guy sleeps so peacefully
Soothed by your cooing
Asleep…tired…or passed out.
Stretched out on the floor, here are you and me.
Should I, after another Coors Light,
Have the strength to force out a climax?
But even though I got drunk and passed out, got drunk and spewed,
Even though I’ve seen my liver (turned all fatty) brought in on a plate,
I’m no D-1 player—this is not a shocker;
I’ve seen the eternal coach burn my varsity coat, and laugh,
And really, I almost shit my pants.
And would it’ve been worth it, after all,
After the Schnapps, the Bud, the Grateful Dead
Around the bong, around some talk about you and me in bed,
Would it’ve been worthwhile
To have made the field goal with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a football
To throw it at some crazy-big end zone.
To say, I am Jerry Garcia, back from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, “I’m a gonna tell you all”—
If somebody, hitting the sack real hard,
Says: “I didn’t say that at all.
That’s not it at all, you douche.”
And would it’ve been worth it, after all,
Would it’ve been worthwhile,
After the movies and the semi-formals and the keggers,
After the pornos, after the bowls, after the skirts that hike up to the waist from the floor—
And this, and a hell of a lot more?
Nobody understands me!
But like a Zeppelin laser show put the feelings on the ceiling:
Would it’ve been worth it
If somebody, hitting the sack or taking off her pants
And throwing bottles out the window, says:
“I didn’t say that at all.
That’s not it at all, you douche.”
No! I’m not Tarantino, and I wasn’t supposed to be;
I’m a cameraman, one that’ll do
To shoot a take, start a scene or two,
Advise the director; no joke, he’s a tool,
Kinda laid-back, a little flaky,
Hip, chill, with a real nice pad;
Full of sweet ideas, but kinda crazy;
Sometimes even almost wack
Sometimes almost a douche.
I’m gettin’ old, man…I’m gettin’ old…
Gonna wear my pleated khakis rolled.
Do I need a comb-over? Can I eat this bean dip?
I’m gonna wear loafers and stop looking hip.
I heard the mermaids singing on that bad trip.
I don’t think they were really singing to me.
But I saw them floating on the waves
Brushing their hair in that flashback
Before everything went all black.
We’ve tripped a lot
And seen other mermaids
Till the nurse sedates us, and we’re out.
