Seeing it again today brought me back there.

Friday night, November 11th, karaoke at the too-famous-for-its-own-good Brass Monkey in Koreatown. I don't frequent that place as often as I once did. It hasn't been the same since Luke left.

You—under the pseudonym of LaToya—adorable, brimming with sass and moxie... but not in that annoying Hollywood Hipster bullshit way. Thank fucking goodness, too. Seriously. This Los Angelistic fake life-stlye I'm forced to witness in an outing is beyond annoying.

Your alias was called out by the host and the word "Supersonic" flashed across the karaoke monitors.

"Great," I thought. "Let's see someone else fuck this song up to shit."

I couldn't believe my ears. You gave J.J. Fad a real run for the money. Even the end—the fast bit that no one knows—absolute perfection! That sass, that moxie, you worked it in straight properly... not like that fucking disgusting and talentless hack Fergie. What the hell is her deal?! Seriously. Fergalicious?! What the fuck is that tripe?! Who's the moron that gave her a microphone? I still have night terrors because of "My Humps". I'm shuddering right now.

I got a free subscription to Rolling Stone when I ordered my copy of Dub Side Of The Moon. A couple issues ago, her withering mug was on the cover. I nearly scratched my eyes out and fed them to rabid rodents whilst filling my bloody eye sockets with freshly-squeezed spoiled lemon juice and coarse sea salt. That leathery texture, all pixelated—I mean, what the fuck, she couldn't send them a proper high-resolution photo? There is nothing good about her and she has the uncanny ability to convince the meager-minded that her drivel is some form of art. She's kinda like King Midas except, instead of turning things to gold, she turns anything she's associated with into a steaming watery spray of hangover diarrhea. Fuck you, Fergie.

But I digress. We chatted. Your camera snapped photos. You wore my glasses. I found your hair clip for you. There was a conga line. You took a sip of my whiskey and grimaced.

My ride was on his way out. In my drunken haste to insure a way home, I left without exchanging information.

You let your real name slip once. That's the best I've got.

I wonder if I look as ridiculous in those photos as I imagine.

ln time, every sad ending will become happy. The sad ending is only because the author stops telling the story. But it still goes on, it's just untold.

--- Francis Blake, Twin Falls Idaho

My eyes sting
Tinge
Tart
They feel like a lemon tastes
And endorphins won't kick in

My focus is all broke-us

I remember the day I fractured my foot
I had the strength of an army
Super human
And I felt no pain

It hurts to hurt

And endorphins won't kick in

Maintaining maintenance
Cardiopulmonary resuscitation
Bypasses me

Derailed

Fixtures permanent
Fundamental foundations
Losing root
And I can feel the soil slipping