Me and Bulford almost got picked up by the cops after his show at Logan’s on Thursday night. Fucked out of our minds on all-too-decent pot, we took our bottle of Southern Comfort into an empty parking lot. Bulford made sure he grabbed a DETOUR AHEAD road-sign on our way to sit. We sat, we drank, we played I Never with the Southern Comfort. We finished, and as we go to stand, I realize we have lost our lid, the road sign at our feet.
We look for the lid.
We are still looking for the lid when I see, out of the corner of my drunken and pot-paranoid eye, the white nose of a quiet cop car.
I chuck the Southern Comfort bottle, with its last remaining shot, into the bushes beside me, before the car even makes it all the way into the lot.
“What are you doing?” cop asks.
“Nothing, we were just heading home.”
“No you weren't; you were in the bushes.
Were you going to take that sign?” cop asks.
“No, it was there.
We found it.
It was there when we came.
It’s our table.
We were just looking for our lid.
We are heading home to Fisgard.
It's our table.
We were just looking for our lid.
Do you want my postal code?"
I had to space the text out like that because that's exactly how clipped and enthusiastic his speech was: Bulford, being boyishly gay and drunk, gets way too into it. I’m standing beside him by the car window, calmly eating chips out of a large bag. I may have actually pissed myself from laughing later on. He’s a Pisces, idealistic and optimistic, of course. High energy.
The whole time I was munching on these chips, saying to him, “come on. Come on now, let’s go.”
I mean, I really didn’t feel like being arrested again. But, “it was just sitting there. We found it. It’s our table,” would be a pretty fucking funny thing to be arrested for.
Posted by caroline at March 14, 2005 5:34 PM