rites of passage

either way, it arrived. The age of aquarius was marked by something as random and unforeseen as the San Francisco Giants winning the world series. The smallest big city in the world would be overrun by a feeling of 700,000 people all making the existential leap into possibility where none exists. Relationships were rocky towards the end of the era of Pisces, the fish. But this was everything in the new package. Everything was brought to the surface in Aquarius through arguments, body language and a return to another accepting era of consumption and an accelerated fashion show getting its ridiculous speed in direct proportion to how many eighties movie stills were available on the internet and how many delay altered songs used samples from the eighties to dance to redundant 4/4 rhythm using a kick on every eighth note or a Roland 404 sampler.

That's how I know that's the Clash. I was there...in the nineties. Motherfuckers. Ha ha.

I'm glad that "ha ha" replaced "lol". Sometimes I don't even laugh.

My only knowledge of the age of Aquarius comes from three Aquarius friends.

1) Jane: Broke my heart, but remained a distant siren in my life because our friendship was true and she had ridiculously hot lips. I made fun of her chicken legs but in truth they were worthy of an adjective in a Prince song. I wrote a story and named her Rhiannon. She could read me like a book. She reads the world like a book.

2) Perry: painted over paintings I had done of waves while we collaborated on two eight by five foot pieces of plywood at the Decompression while on mushrooms while the Mermen channeled electricity through their surfed out guitars in a confluence of (a) painting in front of thousands of people (b) surfing since childhood and (c) seeing my life written before me as the world sped up and I slowed down, all in weird coincidences that centered around my going to Black Rock City. It was collaborative so the hallucination must have tripped Perry into what seemed like a fit worthy of Jackson Pollock. Water was thrown with paint and rubbed on the canvas. Everything was graffiti. My waves were gone. We laughed afterwards. The world is absurd. Why does it matter?

3) Mariah: After I got of the bus I bombed down Castro. The cute girl with the knee-high socks, a sideways hat over her long blonde hair and cutoffs went straight down the hill to 18th. "You beat me!" I said to her at the 33 bus stop.

"This fuckin sucks," she said. "The bus isn't coming for like an hour."

"Where do you live?"

"Twin Peaks."

"C'mon, I'll give you a ride." I said, walking up the hill.

She's drunk and nineteen.

We talk about life for a good twenty minutes between the walk and the drive.

A few weeks earlier she fell skating and blacked out from a concussion.

She has pictures of her black eye on her iPhone

I saw her on a train. She gave me a hug goodbye on Clayton and 17th. Then she yelled, "Did I leave my sweater in your car?"

The guy behind me honks and yells at me, something I couldn't hear. I hand her her sweater and as I flip an illegal u-turn in a five-way intersection I catch a glimpse of her, skateboard in hand (not a longboard, a legitimate hardcore skateboard with 55 cm wheels and a blunted twin-tip), with her sideways hat and knee socks.

Where the hell am I right now?

Too bad she has a girlfriend.

Ha ha...