There are few moments that occur in the universe that lend themselves to the description of positively poetic. One such snapshot of confluent perfection was recently brought to my attention thanks to one of my fellow captives of the 68 BLOCK ZOO. The human actor whose thought process and impending action resides at the core of this episode shall go unnamed; however, should he step forward to claim ownership of this happening with pride he would be due the highest of high honors. After all, it’s not everyday that a hero is born…
Our tale is set in a viral, pathetic zone of existence that many people have experienced for themselves; neck deep in a herd of human cattle mooing their way down that disease saturated incubator ironically known as a “breezeway” to board an airplane. Try briefly to imagine yourself in the middle of that line of raw humanity. Sweaty, annoyed, stressed, full of overpriced over-processed airport food, and generally anxious to get anywhere but here; these are the characteristics that envelop the essence of this vestibule’s vibe. Now imagine that it is 6 a.m., and you’ve gotten a single solitary hour of “sleep” prior to putting yourself in this poor predicament. Why is that the case? Known as Standard Operation, or Standard-Op in the philosurphy world, that is exactly the protocol of what one does on their final night in Las Vegas after non-stop binge drinking for seven dark days.
This cramped corridor of consciousness is where our hero finds himself. Lets call him Colden Haulfield. With two trusty fellow comrades flanking Colden on either side, the trio comprised a sort of Trinity of the Fiesta Spirit that radiated effervescence within this melancholy moment in space-time. Bellies full of booze and uneasy smiles across their faces, the team pushes on despite the fact that their souls are utterly exhausted from a week of debauchery. The three look at each other, basking in the glory of their ability to retain beating hearts after such a concentrated consumption of cocktails, and shake their still smirking heads (in slow motion of course).
Suddenly, a strong draft weaved its way through the antechamber, signifying a rift in the cool energy produced by these ravenous ragers. The source of this cumulous cloud over the enigmatic energy came from our hero, Colden. What started as a slight tickle in his tummy quickly churns and turns its way up his esophagus, without warning and minus mercy. Colden, being the Samurai of Slosh that he was, instinctually searches for the nearest receptacle capable of withstanding the violent velocity of the Vegas vomit. To his right, a blank white wall; to his left, two empty handed amigos displaying looks of severe confusion in conjunction with their own nagging nausea. “Damn it,” Colden exclaims in a tone of ultimate desperation.
This is the moment in which Colden becomes a legend. The average drone would no doubt deliver the goods in projectile fashion, most likely landing on the oldest and most proper looking lady no matter how far she may be from you in that quagmire of a queue. But not Colden. Realizing the stench the substance would generate within that already doomed passage, an epic sacrifice was quickly conceived on the part of our hero. (As he wiggled and writhed, the weight of the straps on his shoulders initiated the inception of the idea.) Thus, in an attempt at salvation of the innocents, Colden reached for the sack on his back full of relatively meaningless material possessions. Slowly, Colden placed the bag on the ground, unzipped it, stuffed his cranium within its depths, and proceeded to purge poison. One harrowing heave was followed by another. Loud gasps mixed with sharp shrieks filled the air as those around him began to notice the exorcism, until arrived that last cathartic cry suggestive of the light at the end of the tunnel.
Once finished, the man-myth-legend stood to his feet. With bloodshot eyes and a chin dripping with drool he zipped the bag closed. Understandably embarrassed, Colden slowly retrieved his head out of the tail-between-the-legs position only to lay eyes on the most peculiar sight; the entire breezeway had their gaze immersed upon him. At first our hero's heart sank. However, he was soon surprised to notice that rather than daggers into his soul from the fellow foyer inhabitants, their stares exhibited almost admiration. A transformation of the contour of the eyes that were fixated upon him soon thereafter commenced; beginning with wide open oculars from utter amazement, quickly the shock dissipated and the wrinkles in the corner of those peepers surfaced along with cracked lips. Smiling faces soon erupted into small giggles, shortly snowballing into a symphony of snickers. Colden didn’t know who started the applause, yet a minute after his praying to the Jansport God our protagonist found himself being praised by the sheep for his brave surrender.
Hence, to this day the incident remains Colden’s most glorious moment- seizing the opportunity to play the role of Catcher in the Rye. It is not often that we, as normal everyday commoners, get the occasion of saving our brethren from such a hellish scenario that would inevitably scar them for life. Therefore this selfless act by Colden has earned him the title of “Knight” in the Kingdom of Philosurphy. Keep fighting the good fight Grabby…
Our tale is set in a viral, pathetic zone of existence that many people have experienced for themselves; neck deep in a herd of human cattle mooing their way down that disease saturated incubator ironically known as a “breezeway” to board an airplane. Try briefly to imagine yourself in the middle of that line of raw humanity. Sweaty, annoyed, stressed, full of overpriced over-processed airport food, and generally anxious to get anywhere but here; these are the characteristics that envelop the essence of this vestibule’s vibe. Now imagine that it is 6 a.m., and you’ve gotten a single solitary hour of “sleep” prior to putting yourself in this poor predicament. Why is that the case? Known as Standard Operation, or Standard-Op in the philosurphy world, that is exactly the protocol of what one does on their final night in Las Vegas after non-stop binge drinking for seven dark days.
This cramped corridor of consciousness is where our hero finds himself. Lets call him Colden Haulfield. With two trusty fellow comrades flanking Colden on either side, the trio comprised a sort of Trinity of the Fiesta Spirit that radiated effervescence within this melancholy moment in space-time. Bellies full of booze and uneasy smiles across their faces, the team pushes on despite the fact that their souls are utterly exhausted from a week of debauchery. The three look at each other, basking in the glory of their ability to retain beating hearts after such a concentrated consumption of cocktails, and shake their still smirking heads (in slow motion of course).
Suddenly, a strong draft weaved its way through the antechamber, signifying a rift in the cool energy produced by these ravenous ragers. The source of this cumulous cloud over the enigmatic energy came from our hero, Colden. What started as a slight tickle in his tummy quickly churns and turns its way up his esophagus, without warning and minus mercy. Colden, being the Samurai of Slosh that he was, instinctually searches for the nearest receptacle capable of withstanding the violent velocity of the Vegas vomit. To his right, a blank white wall; to his left, two empty handed amigos displaying looks of severe confusion in conjunction with their own nagging nausea. “Damn it,” Colden exclaims in a tone of ultimate desperation.
This is the moment in which Colden becomes a legend. The average drone would no doubt deliver the goods in projectile fashion, most likely landing on the oldest and most proper looking lady no matter how far she may be from you in that quagmire of a queue. But not Colden. Realizing the stench the substance would generate within that already doomed passage, an epic sacrifice was quickly conceived on the part of our hero. (As he wiggled and writhed, the weight of the straps on his shoulders initiated the inception of the idea.) Thus, in an attempt at salvation of the innocents, Colden reached for the sack on his back full of relatively meaningless material possessions. Slowly, Colden placed the bag on the ground, unzipped it, stuffed his cranium within its depths, and proceeded to purge poison. One harrowing heave was followed by another. Loud gasps mixed with sharp shrieks filled the air as those around him began to notice the exorcism, until arrived that last cathartic cry suggestive of the light at the end of the tunnel.
Once finished, the man-myth-legend stood to his feet. With bloodshot eyes and a chin dripping with drool he zipped the bag closed. Understandably embarrassed, Colden slowly retrieved his head out of the tail-between-the-legs position only to lay eyes on the most peculiar sight; the entire breezeway had their gaze immersed upon him. At first our hero's heart sank. However, he was soon surprised to notice that rather than daggers into his soul from the fellow foyer inhabitants, their stares exhibited almost admiration. A transformation of the contour of the eyes that were fixated upon him soon thereafter commenced; beginning with wide open oculars from utter amazement, quickly the shock dissipated and the wrinkles in the corner of those peepers surfaced along with cracked lips. Smiling faces soon erupted into small giggles, shortly snowballing into a symphony of snickers. Colden didn’t know who started the applause, yet a minute after his praying to the Jansport God our protagonist found himself being praised by the sheep for his brave surrender.
Hence, to this day the incident remains Colden’s most glorious moment- seizing the opportunity to play the role of Catcher in the Rye. It is not often that we, as normal everyday commoners, get the occasion of saving our brethren from such a hellish scenario that would inevitably scar them for life. Therefore this selfless act by Colden has earned him the title of “Knight” in the Kingdom of Philosurphy. Keep fighting the good fight Grabby…
This makes me chuckle.. am not surprised you are a fellow blogger! Although I need to update my own..haven't been on this thing consistently enough.. looking forward to hearing more from the world of you. Best,LA
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