Moving Target,Volume 3, Issue #2, Spring 1992
by Scoop Smiley
Jeez, I love my days off. The alarm will go off at the usual ungodlyhour, I'll wake up, push Mr Sandman aside momentarily rearrange my genitals(maybe into the shape of a nesting swan) do the solutions of the crossaround the warm womb-like flannelette sheets, followed by the "Worldin Action" figure, give the clock and the courier business the fingersthen full pike back under the sheets. I repeat this process every houror so just to remind myself that it's still my day off of course, thatI'm still anatomically correct.
When I'm tired of this (around twoish) I'll bounce up and into the kitchento put on the Mocha pot. Ah, there's nothing like getting wired from theoff. On with the tape deck for a spot of necked funkiness at Vol. 10, Ijus' lerve dancin' in the buff.
After leisurely dressing I find myself in quandary. Should I stay orshould I go (out)? You see, I've found that if you go out, the day goesfaster but if you stay in it drags. So I skin up a herbal ciggy to contemplatethis theory, put the Mocha back on, select another and take my clothesoff for another celebratory dance. Someone calls round, a bloke from thenext street to ask to keep the noise down. We exchange a few words. I givehim rapprochement and secundum, he gives me fumarole and gusset, it seemslike a fair swap. He shakes me warmly by the throat and leaves.
I know, I'll write a piece for MT [too right: Ed] so I hunt around fora pen and paper, settle down at the kitchen table, pen in hand, brain inneutral and suddenly realise I haven't descaled the kettle this year soit's on with coat and down to the de-scaling shop. On the way I meet amate who tells me he's holding a pony and is just on his way to the Hareand Hounds to see a man about a dog, I decide to tag along to investigatethe nature of the beast. An expedition of epic proportions ensues, fromHare 'n' Hounds to Dog 'n’ Duck, from sober as judge to pissed as newt.As my mate gets a round in I look out the window, it’s night-time, my theoryis vindicated, I knew I should have stayed in.
After a few more sherbets I leave behind my comrade with my head heldhigh and my feet held higher, I'm being carried out, I make my way home.Sometime in the early hours I come to with a heaviness in my chest andam unable to breathe, I'm having an asthma attack! Then I realise I'vebeen lying face down on the carpet all night. I stagger to bed with mystomach on spin cycle and a drill in my head. No sooner has the aforementionedlimb hit the pillow when that fucking alarm explodes.
After shaving my tongue and kicking the cat, I oh so delicately pedalto work with a Film Noir of the mights performance in my head for company.
"Good day off?", enquires the fat controller before hittingme with a Mayfair to Shad Thames, my lip quivers as I leave the office.C’est la Guerre.
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