I’ve got only a few close friends. Very close friends. Friends who know almost everything about me. Friends who id be comfortable with knowing everything about me. Friends who I’ve spent massive amounts of time with, learning, teaching and absorbing all these intricacies from each other. About each other. In all my life though, there are some who can be singled out as being those who ive spent more time with than any others. I’ve got a friend from Bosnia, Alen, who is certainly one of those, and it goes without saying that there are innumerable stories I could tell of our times together. There are innumerable stories I am going to tell of our time together.
Firstly, I must preface this particular tale with another particular tale. A tale of hard drugs, one monstrous night and an ill-conceived bush trek the following day, with some more iller-conceived jumping from small heights onto hard rocks. it wasn’t the first time that we’d been out to “the place where the people live” and had a massive party. this time, it was just less massive in numbers. there was “about five” of us. “1”. “2”, “3”, “4” and “about 5”.
we spent a riotous night having wild arguments and debates; insane wanderings in massive darks fields with cameras and flashes and trees with branches, bare and slender, reaching up with wailing arms and torn faces from the years exposed to mother nature. nothing but pure night sky to light our way. we chased the sun. we ran from the sun, and when it came, and on it went.
we drove up the road later the next afternoon. extremely fast, on dusty country roads. exhilarated. and when we arrived, it was a cavernous sliver cut in the earth, a perfect slice of water cut into the rock over many, many years. As we climbed down the steep rocky stairs, and slowly lost any effective stairway, steps became bounds, and jumps and drops and skips over gaps, down down down, until we were about 15 metres below the surface of the earth that our cars were parked on. Still. quiet. imagining the water that would have been flowing through the pulse that was mesmerising us: a vertical wall about 6 metres opposite of where we sat, coloured with the ages of water levels in the earth’s crust. It was like an iced vo vo biscuit. very pleasing, but an excessive amount of colours, I feel.
Unfortunately, actually answering the question at the end of this paragraph – which you will automatically do by reading it – won’t actually change the outcome of what I write.
maybe that’s a bit over the top? Well, you weren’t there. So you only have your choice to decide: “I believe this” or, “I don’t believe this”. What’s it gonna be?
In the meantime, and during that time, Alen had managed to pretty severely hurt his ankle in some of our antics on the way down to “the-place-near-the-place-where-we-go”. We found him later, retired hurt, following the trail of the bass from his car (we knew the way as well) humming and warbling down into the cavern, then screaming at us when we eventually found him back at his car, head pressed to the headrest, his pain remedied.
And on it went.
When we eventually had to leave and drive the few hundred kilometres home, Al’s foot had become so bad that he could barely operate the pedals as he was driving. Luckily – after a massive rampage throughout the trek that we had with a machete, the owner of which seemed strangely convinced that he needed to take it with him (Alen is a very convincing person) – Al still had arms, so steering the car home wasn’t a problem. His acceleration and braking left a lot to be desired. But isn’t that always the way? Unnecessary fluctuations.
He had to get it looked at, and he did.
Into plaster it eventually went, and a usually uncontrollably boisterous and animated man, was now moving like the hunchback of Notre dame, undulating at speeds across rooms, refusing to use his crutch to help him walk (Alen didn’t like inconveniences).
I suppose that’s where this part of it all ends.
Because – a few weeks later – the next thing we know it, we’re at the gig and we’ve heard that the debilitated Al is going to make his way along for the unmissable fun.
Unfortunately, actually voting in the next section – which you will automatically do if you are feeling the fresh spirit of this story – will not actually change the outcome of what I write.
Vote now if you think
a: Al decides not to come because he realises he can’t walk, in a club that really encourages people to use their feet.
b : He turns up and just takes it easy, but gets really mashed and dances seated (although fully going off to the drum n bass) for the entire night, with a massive grin on his face.
c: He gets involved, has a bit of a dance, then leaves early.
(the crowd is deathly silent, waiting to hear him continue)
“you think I can’t represent the people?”
(not a sound. maybe a distant fart toward the back of the 100’s of rows congregation.)
(he screams, his sudden uncontrolled Slavic gesticulation accidentally throttling the microphone stand with its microphone, onto the floor of the stage hitting one of his aides in the chest, causing the crowd to erupt into laughter)
If I have one… (voice cuts off here and enraged, he tries to scream over the top of the crowd’s jeers without the mike and his voice crescendos instantly into the impressive vicious of not being heard. he sets fire to the dais in order to get the crowds attention again, and then promptly stamps it out when they quiet down. The burnt leg at the back of the leg of his trousers falls out as he steps onto the dais, which also crumbles with a shudder, as his weight overbears the burnt shell of its base. He is forced to continue, half shielded by the microphone, which he has had to adjust down towards his face, sunken lower, his feet plunging into the black badass evil doomsome blackness of the black burnt shell of the thing that it was before it was burnt. some kind of home for a sea creature?.
the microphone looks like a funny beak, you can hear his inane yelling, but can’t distinguish what he is trying to say).
Needless to say, Al was soon tripping as well and became a complete maniac on the dancefloor as the main act kicked off. At some later stage of the night, Al was going so fucking crazy – on both legs, looking like an astronaut who had just forgotten to remove one piece of his clothing – that the eMCee came down onto the dancefloor, and was busting rhymes about Al being some kind of maniac “representing“, or something to that effect. Needless to say, Al was soon tripping as well. We all were. I am now. As I’m writing this. Metaphorically.* 
Don’t loose the plot. You. But as the night wore to an end – wore, rose, exploded…
to be continued
 this should have been added elsewhere in these sentences but instead, implies an incorrect meaning.
just simple continuations. – We all lost the plot.
Apparently, Al’s leg was sore again. He may well have danced too much. But that’s Al. It’s almost always everything and anything in excess. Laughter included. Which is totally legal. (Although, we often engaged in so much of it, that I wouldn’t myself be surprised if it was indeed outlawed. Because it looked like too much fun.) Anyway, because of this soreness in Al’s leg (unsurprising soreness) I’m the one who is nominated to drive – not really because of the soreness per se, but Al’s inability to drive, and the need for someone who is seemingly somehow serendipitously straight... Let’s not forget the fact that we’re all ridiculously high. (Probably only seconds before I had been asked (told) to drive, I was pressed against a shopfront’s perfect glass, gaping at the mannequins that stared down at me garishly, their clothes helping their entire strange personas to jump into life towards the world beyond their panel-of-glass fence).
I was only snapped out of it when someone interrupted me.
So let’s get in, and let’s drive. And if you motherfuckers expect me to drive in this state, you better appreciate it. Oy keep the noise down so I can limit my brain activity and sufficiently grasp what I now have to do! – Which involves your fucking safe transportation back to his place!
(he points at him)
(everyone is half clambering over each other in the back seat, chanting, yelling, talking shit, reaching for the volume knob on the stereo. I am glancing over to the passenger seat opposite me, shrugging shoulders and rolling eyes and shaking heads, giving my most immediate passenger an attempted confidence in my ability to master driving, knowing full well that I too would have been doing what they were doing, had I not had to drive. The front of the car became the zone of the superior, straight-thinking people. we pressed our lips together again, shrugged our shoulders. I fumble with the gear levers – Al’s car had sequential paddle shift, just to make things worse. I drive off, just as I turn the music down to help me concentrate. everyone goes quiet for a second).
– Holy fucking shit this is intense!
– dude, try and get the gear changes smoother!
– You should see how the street lights look!
– are you actually able to drive?
– I don’t know how you can do that man
– pull into the seven eleven!
The next comment, as we walked into the corner store pretty much made me collapse in hysterical laughter at the back of the shop, curling me up into a ball to hold myself as I screamed maniacally, crying with laughter like a madman. On the floor. In the shop. Now. Get down and give me 20. AND STOP CRYING!
– Who knows what would have been going through the shopkeeper’s head as he walked over me to the storeroom to fetch the few dozen soda bulbs that my friend had requested from the man behind the counter. Not 2 moments had I gathered my breath from my attempted suicide by laughter, then in comes pacing one of the lads from the waiting car outside (oh shit, I’ve got to drive again) his finger in the air as though dismissing man behind the counter who has now become a cricketer at his batting crease, and then a yell at the top of his voice for all to hear: AND YES JUST A PACKET OF CONDOMS PLEASE! – EXTRA LARGE!
It’s hard to exactly remember what happened. Not in exact detail. But I often find that I go into excessive detail for many things. And also, for many things that will effectively have no bearing on the situation – story – whatsoever. It seems the term “talking shit” can be applied to writing too. It just implies far many more meanings. Talking shit can simply only be talking. Shit. God. Now the shit’s talking too.
(Intersection after intersection anyway, the guys still aren’t keeping quiet enough for me to concentrate enough to feel confident about controlling a car).
Or so I think.
.. And then I get to this point where I start to question whether this sequence of events happened on this occasion. Or did they happen on another occasion, and I’m just blending the numerous similar progressions home from nights out in similar areas doing similar things, into one massive painting of an aspect of our lives.
Fuck man, I’ve got only a few close friends. Very close friends. Friends who know almost everything about me. Friends who id be comfortable with knowing everything about me. Friends who I’ve spent massive amounts of time with, learning, teaching and absorbing all these intricacies from each other. About each other. In all my life though, there are some who can be singled out as being those who I’ve spent more time with than any others. I’ve got a friend from Bosnia, Alen, who is certainly one of those, and it goes without saying that there are innumerable stories I could tell of our times together. There are innumerable stories I am going to tell of our time together.
(you lose your memory and begin to tell another story)