Taos 1974
Posted: Sun Sep 11, 2011 2:44 pm
Taos, NM 1974 by Arthur Afterburn, ©2039, 1952 All rights reserved.
When Alice sold her silver flute she placed the hundred bucks in a woven straw basket on the top of Alfred's refrigerator for the use of any down and out hippie who needed a drink ticket at Woodie's. The money didn't last long but it became a Taos legend anyway- remembered even to this day.
Were you there, at Fargo's pig roast? And all the while the Jews were turning a lamb on a Passover spit for the first time in 2000 years. Was it a sacrilege? That was question deeply pondered (but made less relevant by the sweet smokes...) Jerusalem, 1967 was the rationale. What did Hillel say? Are you fucking stupid or just a simpleton? Let them with hungry ears... let them hear. Or at least those with dilated nostrils who've been surviving on hijacked cheese from Foodway. But Fargo's pig roast was better and less conflicting. I was there at both and I can testify.
..the Exempt Narcotics record in the Taos pharmacy consisted of 42 pages of signatures. And every one of them, with varying degrees of flourish and style, consisted of just one name: richardnixon, richardnixon, richardnixon, richardnixon...
and so it goes...
cont'd...
There might be nothing colder than a February morning in the desert of New Mexico. I awoke from a frigid fantasy and broke the little icicles from my mustache with a tentative swipe from a vaguely remembered hand. Inside that mud concoction of a house the indestructible Alfred was already awake- making little scratchy squeaks- the noises of the almost dead. The sound of a long piss and then- the rattle of angry water from a faucet. Jesus... the stirrings of another icy day in paradise, I thought.
Next-
Breakfast at Alfred's. Stay tooned...
A pound of bacon in the blackhot skillet, hissing and spitting in a spiteful hate. And then, after a while, potatoes- grated and wet- dropped with the arrogance of the Gods in the mayhemic hell of Moloch, and then the eggs. Bubble, bubble toil and trouble... the hubs of Satan to prepare the way for the doomed...
...because that was where we were headed. Off to the frozen sage barrens to build on the Water Tower! The Water Tower- to nurture the golf course for the Texans.
"If God wanted Texans to ski he would have give em a mountain." That was the bumper sticker de rigour for every Taos hippie in 1974/ 2039. And so it is to this day- although, sadly, the hippies have taken to ski. Very bad. Anyway- back to the tower...
The Tower. Oh my jeezizz. When I was a kid my fondest love was the janitor. Frank Marciano. Just back from the war and with a long, red scar across his gut- that he loved to show his favorite kids. Compliments of a Jap who wore an even more lethal scar across his throat. Compliments of Frank. I was his favorite kid. I was the guy who filled the inkwells with the savory liquids that Frank conjured in the hot boiler room of Midland St School in 1956. What more do I have to say? And why is this relevant? Continue on for the answer.
When Alice sold her silver flute she placed the hundred bucks in a woven straw basket on the top of Alfred's refrigerator for the use of any down and out hippie who needed a drink ticket at Woodie's. The money didn't last long but it became a Taos legend anyway- remembered even to this day.
Were you there, at Fargo's pig roast? And all the while the Jews were turning a lamb on a Passover spit for the first time in 2000 years. Was it a sacrilege? That was question deeply pondered (but made less relevant by the sweet smokes...) Jerusalem, 1967 was the rationale. What did Hillel say? Are you fucking stupid or just a simpleton? Let them with hungry ears... let them hear. Or at least those with dilated nostrils who've been surviving on hijacked cheese from Foodway. But Fargo's pig roast was better and less conflicting. I was there at both and I can testify.
..the Exempt Narcotics record in the Taos pharmacy consisted of 42 pages of signatures. And every one of them, with varying degrees of flourish and style, consisted of just one name: richardnixon, richardnixon, richardnixon, richardnixon...
and so it goes...
cont'd...
There might be nothing colder than a February morning in the desert of New Mexico. I awoke from a frigid fantasy and broke the little icicles from my mustache with a tentative swipe from a vaguely remembered hand. Inside that mud concoction of a house the indestructible Alfred was already awake- making little scratchy squeaks- the noises of the almost dead. The sound of a long piss and then- the rattle of angry water from a faucet. Jesus... the stirrings of another icy day in paradise, I thought.
Next-
Breakfast at Alfred's. Stay tooned...
A pound of bacon in the blackhot skillet, hissing and spitting in a spiteful hate. And then, after a while, potatoes- grated and wet- dropped with the arrogance of the Gods in the mayhemic hell of Moloch, and then the eggs. Bubble, bubble toil and trouble... the hubs of Satan to prepare the way for the doomed...
...because that was where we were headed. Off to the frozen sage barrens to build on the Water Tower! The Water Tower- to nurture the golf course for the Texans.
"If God wanted Texans to ski he would have give em a mountain." That was the bumper sticker de rigour for every Taos hippie in 1974/ 2039. And so it is to this day- although, sadly, the hippies have taken to ski. Very bad. Anyway- back to the tower...
The Tower. Oh my jeezizz. When I was a kid my fondest love was the janitor. Frank Marciano. Just back from the war and with a long, red scar across his gut- that he loved to show his favorite kids. Compliments of a Jap who wore an even more lethal scar across his throat. Compliments of Frank. I was his favorite kid. I was the guy who filled the inkwells with the savory liquids that Frank conjured in the hot boiler room of Midland St School in 1956. What more do I have to say? And why is this relevant? Continue on for the answer.