Like a sudden memory I feel it coming on, the flash of a bizarre experience. I’m in Hunter Thompson’s las vegas in 1971, high on the sheer speed of the digital information age, wearing the vivid suit of a clown ninja fresh out of four days unwashed in the bush. There’s nothing in my bloodstream that didn’t grow free on the earth (or carefully cultivated), nothing that required any factory technology more complex than a backwoods moonshine still to make. No amyls or coke Mr. Thompson, but I fired a backwood bat to the face and I’m deep zone focused into the drive. Steady and even while my thoughts and visions stir.
What the fuck am I doing in 1971? How did I get here? I bask in the incredible weight of panic, seizing my spine and sending an electric rise into the hair on the back of my neck: this is not 2013! I’m in the past! WTF?
But, here I am, so I may as well ease back and see what’s good. Turns out I’m not in a red convertible, but some kind of super-spy european sports car that was the freshest high performance sensation in 2003. It’s all black. Black paint, black leather, matte black wheels. To the locals, I may as well be a space alien. Henry, did you see that car that just went by? WTF?
A full sight of me would be better than any drug. The red baseball cap with the airbrushed image of graf rabbit with a spray can in its paw, an image of yellow paint and L.A. hep hop style fresh out of 2007. Black mask, gold eye of horus. Sun-colored shirt with liquor stains and a hand-painted red chinese symbol that reads: monkey. Black waterproof BDU cargo pans with the reinforced seat and padded knees. Shoes that were once a seizure-inducing lime green, but are now caked with so much dive-bar gunk that they’ve faded to an easy moss color. One tattered black glove on my right hand, with seven blue sequins glued onto the back in the shape of the big dipper.
I move funny. My body language is out of the ordinary to them, out of sync. My vibe is different and they can tell, but the Fear has them and they really can’t help but do whatever it takes to remove me from their lives as soon as possible. If that means refilling the spaceship with whatever kind of gasoline you got here, sun, I’m on my way to Vegas to do a show, then so be it. Sure, the twenty I hand them sparkles in the light and features an alien image of a famous dead president–but it’s in english and that’s good enough for them. God bless america folks, thanks for the refuel. Peace! Then I’m gone and it’s over, just another freak coming down the freak highway from one freak city to another.
It’s a good thing they didn’t see me appear out of a flash in thin air onto the highway at 88mph, streaming a trail of fire down the blacktop. The locals don’t have it quite right, I’m not a space alien. I’m a time alien.
I’m the Baytime Vader. And I’m going to las vegas.
your dear friends,
spring of 2013 & now
“Let’s go take a look. We’ll do it straight this time, mostly anyway. Their cameras don’t see everything you know. I’ll call up 2pac, Tecumseh, and Cleopatra–the real one, who was african, or black as they call it–and we’ll ride co-pilot. If there are Any Problems, I’ll get my attorney on the line. No need for concern. You’ll only gamble a handful of hopes while we’re there, you’ll barely notice the loss. Put your money where your mouth is. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”