…with our beans baked… (Part II)

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It’s jam trafficked all the way into the city. 

Pretty much, Ernie’s spent all of this month, all of last month, and half of the month before that gearing up for this concert. He’s been cranking Megadeth’s entire catalogue through his car’s speakers—even all their stuff he doesn’t dig. 

He tried to get us dates, too. But the concert sold out before that possibility presented itself. Plan B? Lure a couple of metal-headed babes (already inside the Riv) with pot-baited hooks. 

If I’m saying anything, it’s all stupid. (I don’t necessarily mean right-at-this-very-moment. I mean right-at-this-moment in Ernie’s car on the way to the Riv.) And after a while of non-stop Ernie, I realize, and then proclaim, “Pot shuts me up.” 

Ernie is definitely not defensive driving into the city. Clearly, he’s missed his calling as a getaway driver. As he casually guns and weaves toward our destination, he volunteers to fill-in movie plot holes. Exempli gratia, with Back To The Future, he explains why Marty McFly doesn’t give himself more time to save Doc Brown. I’m somewhat baked, remember, so I don’t retain the exact explanation—scratch that, my retention is next to nil—but it has something to do with where the time-machine-out-of-a-DeLorean ends up. But maybe I’m more baked than I think I am. See, sometime over the course of this night, Ernie volunteers the explanation twice. Only, the second time, it was to somebody else. Don’t ask me who or why. I was right beside him, though, both times. 

Ernie double-parks in front of his mom’s place to drop off Ernie-the-dog. Then, back in the car, he bangs a left onto Devon and halts it half a block away, in front of a liquor store. He beelines in and beelines out with a six-pack of Miller Lite. Where and when he’s gonna drink that? He says, “On the way.” This turns out to mean anywhere between wherever we park and the Riv. 

After circling many Uptown blocks, Ernie spots a spot. Seems we’re closer to Wrigley Field than we are to the Riviera. That’s something like a two-mile hike. And I gotta pee. Bad. We were still west of the city when the urge became urgent. So long as I’m sitting, it’s okay… pretty much. Once I stand, though, Mr. Bladder’s gonna fire off this instant message to Mr. Brain: “I’m done. You either let this outta your dick now, or I’m letting it rip outta your belly-button two second hand ticks from now. You feel me?” 

19 & 20 November 2004 

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