FROM THE ANNALS OF THE FLINTERNET...Hang Out --> Passover --> Pass Out --> Hangover

This year, my mother and I decided to host a Passover Seder. Unfortunately, none of my friends wanted to come.

4:28 PM – Upon mother’s request, I tidied up the house by hiding all unseemly items (Third Reich flatware, radical Palestinian literature, etc.) in the garage before the massive influx of judgmental Jewish retirees begins. Should I start drinking yet? Probably. Will I? No. One must learn the fine art of pacing. And of not blacking out in front of aforementioned retirees.

Fig. 1 - A rare image of North American Jews in their natural habitat. Note the presence of spectacles and red wine.

6:45 PM – Went for a burn cruise under the guise of “returning some video tapes”. Fortunately for my plan’s success, none of the other Jews were hip to the American Psycho reference. I smoked some hash, the unleavened form of marijuana. This seemed appropriate, since it was all Moses and his band of wanderers had to take bong rips of during their 40-year desert adventure.

7:19 – Seder in progress. Being the youngest person at the table by a margin of no less than 30 years, I had to read all Four Questions. Thing is, in the Haggadas we used, they weren’t phrased as questions, but rather as statements. So I had to amend each with a Seinfeldesque, “What’s the deal?”. BAM! Turned it into a question! So glad I got stoned.

7:37 PM – A vicious argument over what qualifies as a “macaroon” just erupted. I left the table without excuse.

7:51 PM – The lady with short, grey hair has some sort of hearing-aid device implanted DIRECTLY INTO HER SKULL! It is somehow complimented by a super Star Trek-looking ear piece. Baller. Except she can’t hear worth shit.

8:07 PM – The retirees have begun prying into my personal life. No good can come of this. I just chased two Klonopins with a swig of gin. That ought to shut them up (or at least make me misinterpret their verbal judgments as enchanting psychedelic folk jingles).

8:23 PM – Just had a rousing, 12-minute conversation with a Matzo ball. Nice guy. He said his name was Christian, which I found odd.

8:40 – The women are arguing over who saw Joan Baez live in concert the earliest. Right now the winner is Ellen, with 1963. I am currently overhearing two separate conversations about Bob Dylan……..

8:43 – Now there are two conversations about Judy Collins! They both evolved independently. I feel as though I’m watching the origin of land-borne life itself. Except everyone keeps saying really embarrassing things.

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Visitation Rights for CF Edley: Feelgood

Beer something at the frontwindow of a bar with old friends Davey Moore and Jeddy Huxtable et alia, when a severely cerebral palsy black man wheels mechanically swerves to a stop. Davey says he knows the guy, names Kevin , comes in for services at his clinic, likes to chat using his laminated sheet of common words, phrases, letters, numbers to point at with wild hands. I want a cigarette and Jeddy against his Ayurvedic wisdom decides to join. So we stand outside because this is Berkeley and smoking is murder even "in" open-air patios, with Kevin. He posts up next to us. His cornrows are frizzy. He's drooling down his beard onto his coat. He posts up and swings his hands around. We say hello, honestly hello because we are all good and equal people here and he has a good cv from our dood inside, Davey. He wants to speak but cannot. So I try to pass him his speak-sheet. But fail. And he does it after some struggle. This is a way of life. He points slowly and with difficulty. The body does not accord the mind in its brain. Kevin (we know his name but it doesn't feel fair to use it, kind of like recognizing Gary Sinise in a record shop) points the phrase: "Hello." Then: "How are you?" And we say well, man, well. You? He doesn't answer that cuz it would take time and dood is kinda clearly a little worried about something. He points: A-S-K. And we say ask. He nods angly. He points: "Man." We say Man. "White." White. B-A-L-D. Bald. White bald dood? Nods. Work. Dood works here? I don't see one. I see a black bald dood. Kevin raises his hand. Davey joins us, "Hey Kevin, I work at the clinic, do you remember me? I'm Dave." We all introduce. Kevin doesn't care to say if he remembers. Long story, I know. But it has a sweet payoff. So I go ask the bald black door guy if there's another "close-cropped" man working there cuz Kevin's asking and it seems important, but this lil fuks and fahk, I can see it in his mouth. Okay. So I go back. They've figured out dood is white, bald, short, works here, wears a blue shirt. Too many facts to be crazy. I'm going back in. I holler at our very stoned looking server guy. "Is there a shortish bald white dood in a blue shirt working here?" "Yeah, E.J. the manager." "Shit yeah, cuz Kevin out front is asking for him and it seems important." He smiles, "All right, I'll have him come out." Back outside, I'm fucking pumped, I can feel the love, "Allright Kevin, is his name E.J.?" Huge nods and sounds and smile and waving arms. And we all laugh. "He's on his way out." Promptly comes E.J. "Hey Kevin, what's up man?" Kevin looks nervous, E.J. looks totally happy to be dealing with Kevin. All love, leans over to watch Kevin talk. A-M. "Am." I. "I." B-A-~~~~. "Am I what?" 7. "Seven." No. 8. "Eight." 5. Then me and E.J. say together "Eighty-six?!" And E.J. "What you think I'm gonna eighty-six you for spilling a coke?! No way man no way, come inside! You're a regular." We're all laughing hard. Kevin laughs deep and waves his arms around and gets pats on the backs and smiles real good. And we kept drinking very very happy.

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