The world is crazier than most people know. But I know. I was a clinical social worker for forty years. I am a witness. I retired from social work to write about the sad, the mad, and the savage; with whom I have spent most of my life. I have decided to translate these stories into fiction, because, as a co-worker once said, "You couldn't make this sh*t up. No one would believe you."
Sunday, July 18, 2010
HEY THIS DREAM IS WIERD, MAN
Recently I wrote about my daughter’s (okay, the truth is out) experience in an oldster’s bar. (See: a pre-life crisis) It made me think, and I’m still thinking.
Magical Mystery Tour: IMAGINE:
There is a yellow brick road that leads to a saloon. It is a very special saloon. It is built of stone, so that it looks charming and no one can shoot through the walls. Lush vines grow over the stones and flowers bloom on the sacred pathway to the front door. Beside the entrance are troughs for the very drunk to puke in before they stumble home. The troughs are labeled, “Shame on you, you out of control jackass.”
Inside, there are lots of wooden tables and chairs. They are made of wood so that 1. They aretoo heavy to throw or 2. If you do manage to heave them, they will do some damage. I mean, why waste the effort? There is sawdust on the floor. The lighting is warm. The bartender has ten arms. A rock and roll band plays its heart out.
Some people are drinking, some are talking, some are dancing. And get this:
Some are young, some are middle aged, and some are old. They’re all dancing together.
WHAT THE F—???
You read it right: this saloon is multi-age. There are goons of every variety, race, creed, and AGE. In a special corner baby boomers have fist fights over whether they are liberal or conservative. On the dance floor oldsters gyrate nastily to the music. The twenty something’s think this is hilarious and egg them on. A fifty something year old woman takes off her shirt. Her boobs are low, full, and luscious. A twenty something, not to be outdone, takes off her shirt. Her boobs are high, full, and luscious.
An old man lights his fourteenth cigar and holds a youngster’s head while he throws up. Poor kid didn’t make it through the first cigar. He’ll learn.
A seventy four year old biker roars into the middle of the dance floor and passes out. The dancers help him and his bike to a quiet corner where they can both sleep it off.
The music alternates between Motown, Stones, sixties wierdness, alternative, hip hop, and rap. It’s all cool. Everyone dances. All different, but all nice. People here like to move. And let’s face it, if you dance, you work off the booze,
There are cougars and silver foxes. Sometimes they hit on the youngsters. But, they are so saucy, the youngsters don’t really mind.There are some mixed age couples. Nobody cares.
Eventually the saloon closes down for the night. Everyone leaves laughing. They don’t even make fun of the jerks with their heads in the troughs.
Now THAT’s a cool joint.