happy pills for an unhappy life

we're spending bills
on fleeting thrills,
on brief escapes
through colored pills

that skew the mind
to help us find
the passageway
to life sublime.

but we've all learned
when candle's burned
reality's
always returned.

a surprising discovery

Me and Dave were off from 5:30-8:30. We hopped into his car, a 1997 black Plymouth Neon with a purple pinstripe, and went to the deli to grab some dinner. I ordered my usual. Sub. Pepper turkey, pepperoni, lettuce, tomato, hot peppers, melted cheddar and deli mustard. Dave picked up a chicken cutlet sub with toppings I simply don't remember. Maybe there was bacon. There were probably tomatoes.

Obviously, mine was the better sandwich.

With food in hand, we got back in his car and meandered through town towards Route 22. A few marshmallow clouds dotted the sky and a cool, calming breeze helped the trees dance a little dance for anyone who took the time to watch. The windows were down and the music was up. It was a beautiful day.

We turned left on 22 and drove a couple miles North before turning right onto 304. There was no conversation. It would've been superfluous. We passed Taconic State Park and turned left. I smiled at the sign for Copake Ironworks. I'd seen it countless times over the years but never actually followed its directions. I guess the curiosity just wasn't that strong.

Besides, who wants to go to the Ironworks when a twin waterfall is calling your name?

The parking lot was close to full. We found a spot that may not have actually been a spot and turned the car off.

"You sure you want to park here?" I asked.

"What? They gonna tow me?"

I didn't think they would. But I also didn't think Sean would've gotten towed when he parked his car on the side of Empire that night.

"Your car. Your call." I grabbed my sandwich and stepped into the early evening.

He did the same.

The ground crunched beneath our flip flops as we walked. The trail to the falls was 3/4 mile at a gradual incline but we barely increased the pace of our breathing. Summer was 6 weeks old. We were in better shape than we'd been all year.

We stopped when we hit the New York/Massachusetts border so I could perform a time honored ritual. I whipped it out and sent a stream into New England.

"Ever pee across state lines?" I asked.

"Dude," he laughed, "I've shit across international borders."

The crowd had thinned out by the time we reached the falls. It was getting late and the park rangers were packing up their trucks to head home for the night. We climbed down to a large boulder at the base of the falls and ate our sandwiches without saying a word. The cascading water was all the conversation we needed.

Once dinner was done we started talking about what to do next.

"7 o'clock," I said. "Want to head back and take a nap?"

"Nah. I slept through third period. Let's hike down the stream instead of taking the trail. That should take about an hour, no?"

"But we're wearing flip flops."

"Sorry. Didn't know you had sand in your vagina."

He had a point.

I looked up to make sure the park rangers were gone then took off my flops. My feet would provide better traction. We started moving downstream, climbing from rock to rock. The water, ice cold as it rushed by, was avoided at all costs. Still, the moss was slick and our feet slid off the rocks on more than one occasion.

About halfway down we reached a precarious point. There was a mini-fall, five feet or so, that would require us drop down into a shallow pool. We moved slowly towards the edge and stopped in our tracks. A man was hanging out in the pool. He had a shaggy brown beard that was dripping water and his hair, black, was slicked back. A gold medallion hung down his neck to rest in his 1970s style chest hair. And his bush, yes, his bush, was wild like a lion's mane.

The man was as naked as the day he was born.

Me and Dave looked at him, then each other, then at him, then back at each other. The man, to his credit, seemed to welcome our intrusion as we dropped down into the pool. He shared a smile and followed us with his eyes as we continued to move downstream. It's like he was inviting us to join him, to drop our clothes and hang out in the pool to discuss the day's events.

Maybe his offer would have been more enticing if his shriveled wang wasn't completely hidden by hair. Then again, I've made it a rule to avoid naked bumpkins with inviting eyes.

It's just safer that way.

a weird beginning

Everyone knows Weird Al. Not personally, mind you. Only a select few actually meet him for cheese and crackers. But everyone knows the name and thinks of such wonders as "Like a Surgeon," "Fat," and "White and Nerdy," among others.

But it wasn't always glitz and glamour for our friend. It used to be an out-of-control perm and late night appearances: