The Barley Was Knarley
Flat and sad, the back tire of my bike as I walked it along Wilson Creek coming from a brewery ride. The gang had already scattered. Too many people, afternoon plans, work, almost too drunk to ride. The reasons were varied and legitimate. And it was all fine. The hops hopped, the barley was knarley. Green was everywhere, like the color had been claimed, lifted up, and worshiped. Green upon green upon green as the song goes. And the mind does wander, swimming in brew, clouded by clouds, blasted by music.
The origins of cricket.
Content monetizing.
Retrenching and reimagining.
BMX culture.
Bonsai plants sold on street corners.
Past floods.
Intentional dressing.
Cost of tree maintenance.
Fast fenders.
Crowd control.
Wrecks and unfortunate malfunctions.
The sunlight seekers.
Iron artists and welders.
Apricots and peaches.
Links with links surrounded by links.
Boogie on reggae woman with dead flowers.
Marketing should be raw, underthought.
Even the bean counters agree.
Matt and Adam, or Adam and Matt.
The alcohol % is posted for review.
Jumping curbs.
Baker burger and chili fries.
Nothing But Theives and the whiskey crutch.
Know something.
The future is closer than ever.
And it won't last too long.
Then, as I was walking along obliviously, a car pulled up driven by a small, leprechaun looking man by the name of O'Reilly. He rolled down his window and asked in the strangest voice, "Got a flat, do ya?" And the way he said "ya", like when a doctor tells you to open up and say 'ahhh', was outstanding. He was the real deal. Greenish skin, pointy big ears, smelling of Irish Spring. Like the soap. "Yep, damn tire", I answered, " Nothing to do but walk it home." He insisted on giving me a ride and I was in no position to decline his offer. I awkwardly stuffed my bike in his trunk and we drove off.
All I know is I woke up and I was floating on a magic carpet. In the sky. Elvis and Chuck Berry were there and about to box. I was sitting ringside. To my left was Helen Keller, which I thought was odd. Next to her was Teddy Roosevelt, screaming at Elvis, calling him a rat and a thug. Chuck was strutting around the ring singing Respect, the Aretha Franklin tune. Skinny looking in his big boxing shorts, his legs were like sticks. I figured Elvis would smash him, especially since he knew Kung Fu. But Chuck seemed confident, and Elvis was complaining of a stomach ache. I was beginning to get excited. No sign of the leprechaun, and I was relieved. He was a bit weird and probably on drugs. To my right was Sitting Bull, sitting silently. He had stories he would never tell. His eyes were see through. He didn't need to speak, I knew what he thought. I saw what he thought. Behind us was a sea of people, all races, genders, conditions, all kinds of thinkers. The opinionated and up tight . The apathetic and laid back. The obsessed. They were all half humming, half singing This Land Is Your Land. From California to the New York Islands, something about a redwood forest and Gulf waters. Then the referee for the boxing match, dressed in black and white stripes, took the microphone. He told everyone to "shut the fuck up". It was then I realized it was Redd Foxx. Once the entire magic carpet was quiet, he lifted the mic and proclaimed loudly and definitavely, "Golf is not a sport!" I agreed. Then everything turned into a steam room and I fell asleep. Crazy.