The Pros And Cons Of Harthiking

IN THE AFFIRMATIVE

Convenient Every town in South Florida is the same: massive east/west avenues radiating off I-95. They’re six and eight lanes wide and go from Ocean Drive to about ten miles inland, and then no humans live past there (mostly). The Boca mall is off the second giant avenue south of me. Plus, I could choose between the Turnpike, which is quick, or the surface streets, which contain Dunkin’ Donuts. I could even split the difference and take 441, a semi-highway–it has lights, but they’re spaced awfully far apart–that sounds familiar because Tom Petty mentions it in American Girl. There can be no argument made that the commute would be overwhelming.

Free One would assume. The price would be mentioned were there an entrance fee.

Free As in me. I am free tomorrow evening. I could try to high-karate you with some bullshit, but we both know I was gonna sit here fucking around.

Chick-fil-A Town Center of Boca Raton has a Chick-fil-A in their food court and each time I visit I tell myself, “TotD, be an ally. Have principles,” and then I tell the immaculately friendly cashier, “I would like a chicken sammitch and some o’ them fries what make my nipples go ping.” BUT I only ever go to the one at Town Center; I won’t stop the car if I drive by one. This is called morality, Enthusiasts.

(Town Center of Boca Raton is never called “the Boca mall.” Its fine selection of high-end goods and services–plus The Container Store–is solely referred to as Town Center. It’s the kind of mall where you can buy a Tesla, and there’s no Israeli guys hocking you to buy phone cases. My mall situation currently mirrors my childhood: the one in my town used to be nice, but now it’s just Macy’s and gang fights; the one two towns over is for rich assholes; and 45 minutes away is a flea market packed with mutants and merchandise from alternate dimensions. Needless to say, I like the flea market the best. Remind me to tell you about it; the place is Little Aleppo-adjacent.)

Mallwalk I don’t go to malls often, but when I do I like to get real high and put in my earphones and pretend I’m in the opening credits of a movie. Bitches Brew is rather effective, or heavy German classical. I used to live in the Back Bay of Boston. I was off Newbury and a girl I was dating lived by the South End T station; in between us was Copley Place, where the fancy fuckers shopped. They kept the thoroughfare open late at night during the winter so people could get out of the cold, but didn’t want anyone lingering so they also pumped titanically Teutonic tunes at high volume. Music to surf this beach to; music to kill wabbits by. I remember the trips to her apartment, but I can’t recall her name.

Mickey I have to put “meeting Mickey” in the positive column, right? We could–and I understand that this is an unlikely scenario–become best friends. Mickey could invite me to his campaign in Hispania and ask me about drums, and life, and how drumming is life, and I would impress hium with my keen mind and grasp of Roman politics, and then Mickey could posthumously make me his heir and leave everything to me, throwing the city into chaos and yet another civil war.

You’re talking about Caesar and Octavian. You need to stop watching terrible documentaries about the Roman Empire.

You will pry Mary Beard out of my cold, dead asshole.

Just continue.

Mickey and me would be bros. The end.

TO THE DEROGATIVE

Mickey We all know Mickey. He’s a squirrelly dude. Might go left, could go right, no wait he’s caused a flood. What if Mickey bites me? I’m not accusing him of being a biter; there are no stories I know of offhand of him chomping on, say, waitresses who bring him white toast instead of rye. But life is a series of premieres. And what if Mickey picks tomorrow to initiate the new phase in his journey: munching randos. Don’t forget that, to Mickey, I am a rando. He does not have to afford me the courtesies of xenia, and offer me fine cuts of meat and wine-laden bowls. I will not be anointed with oils by his slaves. There will be no friendship gifts at all.

And Ancient Greece. You need to stop watching terrible documentaries about the entire classical world.

You’re not the Teevee Police.

Don’t capitalize like that.

I’m continuing.

House To attend this event, I would need to leave the house. The word “trauma” gets thrown around these days, but it’s applicable here.

Circle It’s Mickey. There’s gonna be a fucking drum circle. No border collie in the world can herd people into a circle as fast as Mickey with a boxful of bongos. Some of you may enjoy encirclating; TotD does not, possibly due to being an anti-social asshole.

I should go, right?

You should go.

You should blow a duck.

Shut up.

Go suck a duck’s rocket-propelled, corkscrew nightmare of a dick.

No one likes you.

I know.