Crazy Willy: Willy is a modern hippy and eccentric. Examples and evidences of this truth include the following; Wil, is an avid fan and quoter of the movie Hair. Wil has recently decided to be free of all unneeded possessions and can occasionally be found dragging his worthless stuff down the street in on orange Rubbermade tote to an unknown destination. The greatest and truest love of Wil’s twenty-two year long life is the singer Jewel, who he will never meet. Wil’s options for the summer include either a three and a half month ministry trip to help the poor and unspiritual of China, or go to a three and a half day rave called The Burning Man which takes place in an ugly lakebed in the ugly state of Nevada.
Verno the Inferno, The Little Mexican, And Baby Phoenix: Vern’s The Inferno nickname derived from his brain’s capacity to devour a subject like a California Wildfire. Asking him a question is to receive an encyclopedia of information that is usually pretty interesting. Teresa the Mexican likes to cook tamales, spend time with her baby, and be the good wife that Vern needs. Baby Phoenix (AKA: Maverick) likes to poop his draws, watch Sponge Bob, and pickup on older women.
Matt: Matt is creating a comic book. He is the only person who has me partially convinced that the final two installments of The Matrix Trilogy have any real meaning. He works at Blockbuster. His favorite movie is “Superman”. He was a pre-med student somewhere in Orange County, where he says all the fine chicks reside. After subscribing to the school of atheism for most of his life he has given his life in devotion to a supposed God who once walked the earth as a table building Jew a score of centuries ago. His energies are focused on discovering the full truths of the teachings of this dirty little carpenter.
Dianne, I mean Dianna: Dianne, I mean Dianna likes to play the guitar and sing. Her singing style is somewhat difficult to define. So I won’t. She likes to travel around, which is why she works for Dominoe’s Pizza feeding the masses like Jesus Himself. She reads a lot and thinks a lot and observes a lot from the world around her and makes an effort to contribute her share as well.
David the balding guy from Whittier: David the balding guy from Whittier is of the computer programming stereotype. He believes in predestination and kung fu-not karate. He’s going to Germany to be a missionary, and find a wife named Helga and get a bigger belly. A somewhat immature disciple of the religion they call The Way he is quick to be a Holy police officer of conversation.
Crazy Willy, Verno the Inferno, The Little Mexican, Maverick, Matt, Dianne I mean Dianna, David the Balding Guy from Whittier, and me. We were a cast of characters set on a stage on the side of a mountain around a rock fire pit surrounded by a Vernopedia professed dying forest, under a black liquid April night.
The saturated Red Man tobacco leaves mixed with the product of my overworking salivary glands and formed the exquisite juice that dribbled down my chin onto my blue Hanes sweatshirt. As the nicotine filtered through the mucous membranes in my cheek and entered into my bloodstream, whatever magic spell the Indian chief could conjure to alter my then present state of mind, he did. A head buzz. Whether increased oxygen to the brain or constricted blood veins or psychosomatic symptoms of expectation a second wind kicked in and soon my boots and socks were off and I was walking through the campfire like an imbecile.
For hours we had spoken of things spiritual. The heart of God. Can a good man go the hell? Why believe anything? The stars, the universe, the relationship of all things and the reflection of the Creator Himself in those things. But you hit a threshold and your mind and ears and tongue can only take so much of this type of talk. Sooner or later you have to return to the business of being human beings and much like Jay and Silent Bob, this involves dick and fart jokes. By means inexplicable the deep discussion turned into our own special version of name that tune. When it was the hummer’s turn to hum he or she would search the memory banks for some obscure song from some obscure movie. La di did a dad a da duh. The silliness. Next in the evening’s high-quality variety show we began quoting movies, mostly from the 80’s. You’ve gotta have a poker face like me, dude. Mississippi Mud, Chocolate Eruption, Rocky Road. Does this suck? Huh huh. And the night rolled on.
One by one the sandman picked off my fine-feathered friends. The sun arose through the mountains that could have been clouds and a new day began. Good, bad, ugly, indifferent, the night was the sum total of our prejudices, passions and ignorance. We formed a reflection of the spirit of the Dead Poet’s and danced a tribal dance and ran through blackness and seized the moments and the marrow of life dribbled down our chins, and our heads buzzed.
