Monday, September 25, 2006

The Zoning Report

I was somewhere in the vicinity of the Piña Colada galaxy investigating an unchartered cluster of purple moons when the teleporter hurled me haplessly into the void.
I knew there had been a fuckup on the teleporter deck, 'cause I'd been several sections away, I wasn't wearing a protection suit at the time, and there was somebody's hand sticking out of my chest. 'Could be the dilithium crystals', I advocated, feeling the decompression crushing my limgs and ultimately destroying me.

Essentially I woke up and started drinking.

I had been walking around for nearly an hour and the whisky was wearing out. Everything is a sign when you're lowly intoxicated, it's a state of abrupt and immediate neurosis, waiting for the next beer, the new high: Last cigarette? It's a sign. Green light? It's a sign. Entrance fee? A sign.
I lost myself to a jazz place an hour after midnight. What I was looking for was live music, but so far no luck, and here they didn't even play jazz on the stereo. I knew I had something to make up for, not really sure exactly what it was, but I ordered another whisky.

On this imperative mission of scientific observation I saw many noteworthy things to take note of. I noted them down.

After the Great Invation of street prostitutes you couldn't really be sure who you were talking to. The girl in the door? Who paid her? Was she wired? Connected? Why did she insist on fees so close to closing time? And the Russian accent? The Rasta dreads? Then I saw the rich kids with walkie-talkies, covering either side of the street; what were they looking for? Was it a manhunt? Drugs?!
I suspected drugs.
But what to make of the WTs? Everybody know dealers are paranoid people. So these men were covering as cops, but for what purpose?

I bought a burger at a place with a sign saying: 100 000 people can't be wrong. I found out that each one of these persons had been wrong. Strangely, not all dogs eat barf. Shooting stars fell like glitterdust from a titty dancer.

A girl was scratching the back of her neck and sent an indifferently curious glance at me. Analysis. I smiled, but quickly hid beneath my table.
I felt the beers weren't working. Had I been mistaken? What place was this jazz place, really? Everybody sent knowing glances, except for me, the unbeknowest one. I felt like Clooney in From Dusk Till Dawn.
They were all vampires waiting for me to get drunk and suck me dry.
Or worse. They were all prostitutes!
Even the bald couple of guys at the end of the line of losers. It was a test. I felt like an insect and my nerves were burning under the magnifying glass of prying eyes' pressure. What survival instinct would kick in?
They put on off-beat jazz. Had they noticed anything? The couple right across me were making out like horny teenagers. She was waiting for every word he said when they spoke between tounge rotations. I knew I shouldn't have taken that pill. He explicitly said: Do NOT take the pill. I thought it was a rhetorical question, but now I realized it wasn't a question at all.
The beer was definitely not working.
He said unless I consumed an alarming amount of beer the pill would only make me paranoid. Why did he give it to me then? For keep's sake, he told me.
The blonde had nice tits, but she was physically into the dark haired guy like an anteater into the ant hill. Unconsciously I picked my teeth with my tounge. I'd like to see if they quivered if I burped on them. Her tits. Some tits quiver like jellyfish. Anyway.
Downtown Oslo was never going to be quite the same again. Never before had I seen all the cameras, police cars and undercover agantes with walkie-talkies surveilling every square inch of this town. Karma points for karma whores, Christian pedestrians brutally invoking other people's personal space with their perverse teachings. They all had a part in it somewhere. The bigger picture. I was the victim here, watched and controlled. Were they pushing me around with mental force? But Why?
What could they possibly have on me? Nothing.
I stood in line for another beer when it hit me that in this digital day and age, everything could be fabricated. All they really needed was a good shoot of the background and a mugshot of yours truly. The beers began to kick in, I could feel my toes tingling. Damn. I'd overestimated my strength. From passive-aggressive paranoia I became the talkative guy at the urinal. I was checking my retinas for recognizable patterns in the bathroom when I realized I was drunk.

Where to now?
When drunk, real drunk, you don't care about replenishing the species. You want to get even more drunk. And then some. Why shout when you can snuffle?
I had a swaying cigarette outside. A beggar gipsy girl told me I was beautiful. Of course I was. At this point I was drinking out of spite. I left something for her on top of my immediate sorrows and political reforms.
They had turned off the jazz when I returned, and the girls were gone. What was this conspiracy? They had only been talking. What was this? Were they lesbians or communists?
I thought about a girl I knew who presently served a prison sentence in a West African country. For attempt of coup d'etat.
They had to be lesbians, disappearing from their beers and going to the toilet together. Girls do that, go to the john together, but Johns never do that. But you never compromise a full glass of beer, neither John nor Jenny. Maybe they had moved to another table. Can't blame them. But they hadn't.
She had managed to convince her doctor that she was pregnant with the president's bastard child, and in some countries bigamy and poligamy is prohibited. She made herself an enemy of state by banging him. I had just received a letter from her, alive and well, doing fine, thinking of you. DNA doesn't take sides. I had asked the president to keep her a little longer.
MY GOD! was the blonde a double tongued-freak?! No. Poor lighting.
A man came and collected the two girls' beers. They were watching everything. When rap music was put on, I reminded myself of the primary objective; live music. No one was helpful but I wasn't helping myself by sitting here. What political party had decided our common fate - to sit and drool at Swedish rap and Kanye West?
Maybe I needed naked women.
Maybe I needed a little fresh air.
Maybe I shouldn't have taken that pill.
My left eye jerked involuntarily. Was I having a stroke? The lesbians were replaced by a middle-aged man in a red jumper, actually lying on the couch with a beer, patting his backpack. A terrorist? Here? Why not? Terrorists drink beer.

Even though my vision was blurry, the blonde's tits were still perty accessoires on what to rest my weary eyes. Maybe I should ask the couple if I could just go with them, and satisfy my voyeurist needs? Would they care if I was sitting there? She looked seriously like she seriously wanted to seriously fuck him. It wouldn't get serious on my part. Too late, too drunk, no starting point.
What could I contribute with? I don't make much sense when I'm sober and keep my mouth shut when I'm drunk.

A woman with a tremendous forehead sat down on a table next to my person. After a quick assessment of the past, I realized I had never came on anyone's forehead. Moral agony hit me in a pang! Right then and there I broke out of my paranoia and fears and physical heart aches; and made a resolution. I needed to get outta this town. Expand my horizons. Yes. This place had too many fake blonds, and fake blonds go bald. The only baldhead I'd ever love to love's Sigourney Weaver in Alien3. That's one in eight billion.

I contemplated a date with my librarian; a classic beauty, strong and slender body, swan's neck and promising bossom. I don't even do dates.
At this point my heart was in severe pain and I had trouble breathing were I sat. Would I make it past 35? Thirteen years left? Bad number. My draw.
I decided to find the last brown pub in space-time. It was just around the corner. An ex-convict kind of place, but it still had some style. Although you had to watch yourself. Strong men. 21st century, everyone wears a condom. For various purposes and positions. I turned before entering.
Was it beginning to rain or was I crying? I leaned at a parking meter and caught the eyes of a Spanish lady driving by in a Wolksvagen minibus. Did I arouse too much suspicion? Was I aroused at all? How was that even possible?

I came to a point of dying. It's a point you don't want to be. I was even thrown out of a place called 1 Way for not being black enough.
It was at this point of no return I fell into Teddy's.
They told me I had fifteen minutes left before they closed serving. I went to the toilet and had a sit-down with myself. This was probably the best time to not drink any more and get on my way home. Relax in my black leather chair with a wiff of whisky. Yes, it sounded like a sound idea. But I vetoed it and bought one last beer for my last fist o' coins.

Including my previous experiences this evening in my current considerations, I wasn't sure whether anything I did and observed was true and intersubjectively accessible, or a decisive pull-of-the-plug in terms of consciousness' electricity; BUT I was quite confident that two ladies in the bar had given me the green light. And as you can remember, that's a sign.

I decided to have a cigarette, though, and collect myself. Good idea. My other half was leaning on a dumpster, and the multiple personalities had a row with themselves. This place hadn't changed much since the forties. Not that I was around back then, but that's what they said. My arbitrary guess was that the same legend could be effortlessly applied to the girls at the bar. The curse of blurred vision. I would have to squint at bitch-slap-range in order to know for sure in that light.
Outside it was nice to see that I wasn't the only one with coordination problems, though. People were either running like sissys or marching like tin toy soldiers.

One of the two came out to me when I was standing there. She had - in fact - been here since the forties. At the same time, as a male of the species, I felt a little sorry for myself when she left. We talked about how I'd stopped her hiccups, scaring her to death by the dumpster, and how there are actually more bacteria cells in front of you than person cells when you're standing in front of a person.
Okay, so it was a good thing she left. Embarrasing pickup line.
She looked like an older version of Björk. Why did she exit to smoke just a few minutes after me? To smoke? Was she high? Who did she work for? What office in particular? Vice or Organized crime? I was guilty of at least both. Her brown eyes were like rotten cheddar surveillance cameras when she asked for my name. I gave her a fake name. It can't be a crime.

The night tucked itself in during that late hour in 1950s surroundings. I was ready for a meal, or taking a piss, or a troublesome threesome with those two lesbians in the corner. These were older and less intellectual than the previous ones. But even the idea didn't seem appealing to me. Hazy selfless drunkard among all these sane people. I stumbled out the door like a dog waking up from the narcosis at the vet's, glad to still be alive. Was about time to get home and high, hear the last tone of Glenfiddich's folksong before passing out.

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