With Gusto

Sometimes My Fart-Stained Eyes are Nothing More Than A Murdered Holiday, Long Forgotten, Rotting Beneath the Bridge

Having read Bukowski's "Fac-to-tun" in one sitting last night, I decided to sleep-in this morning. Got up at around noon, had sit-ups for breakfast and a cup of coffee for dessert.
Off to Ikuta Park for some exercise. Blew through my chosen paths and on my way out time slowed down.
A tiny little girl in a brown plaid dress skipped down the cobblestones. A man in a suit rode past her on his bicycle. An old couple peaked the staircase on my right. Someone was painting -- I could only see the white square where his or her head should've been. A middle-aged woman fed a whiny tabby cat some treats near a sign I couldn't read. The trees still barren. Nobody spoke.
Then it was over. So I had some curry with rice and a mango thingy on the side.

I'm now a member of a music studio. I rent out the room for about eight bucks an hour, drum-kit and sticks included. Beer is available. So I can drink. I'm part of another rock outfit now, so I'm nursing my chops up to speed.
The first time I went I hadn't drummed in six months so I went crazy. Half-hour drum solo. Stopped to see my broken drumsticks and wood chips all around me. New dents in the drum heads. I returned the sticks and they gave me a new pair. I bought another beer. The strobe light came on indicating my time was up. Musicians piled in the door. They all looked like rock-god try-hards. Maybe their guitar cases were empty and they sat around the lounge, smoking and hogging the cd player.