While not exactly epic, this marks BoL’s 200th post, and I keep returning to Gestalt’s tribute to our first hundred (oh yes, self-referential posting. Meta-irony chewing on its own tail). And as such I thought it was appropriate to add a little music of my own.
03 21 concepts.mp3
I know, I know, more Lars. But still, that’s just the warm up. Nostalgia has stricken me to the point where my spine hurts, and I recall the early days of BoL; when we were a loose collective of wandering artisans, adrift in a cloud of aerosol caffeine and romantic dreams. As it happens at the time I was in the midst of a (still unfinished) short story, and I couldn’t resist posting the lot of it to mark the occasion. There’s much, much more after the jump. Feel free to offer suggestions! ( naturally we work under the 
)
Untitled
“Three seasons by, careening down the Eastern seaboard like a pack of rapid gulls.
“You’re entirely missing the point, ” He growled. Max had a face full of Espresso and Dexedrine. The kind of grin that said ‘you’ve got maybe 20 miles, then my muscles start audibly popping and we’d better seek medical attention.’
“As long as we can get some good pie, it’s worth it.” This is me speaking. Although at this point there’s a real question as to how many “I’s’” I am. One or forty-seven, we still managed to fill the back seat with our inaugural presence.
“No, I’m serious,” Max is getting a little worked up by this point, “We’ve got cargo that’s got maybe a shelf life of like a day. If this isn’t off by tomorrow night, we’re fucked!”
“Somehow,” Chelsea said, “ I doubt a trunk full of full of French suppositories and birth control pills are going to rot in our care overnight.” Chelsea was driving. In fact, she was the only one who ever seemed to be driving. It could be she was the only one who had the talent for it. She had the kind of vague red hair that most women dye theirs red-then-blond-then-red-then-brown to get. None of us had ever had the chance to check her to see if it was real.
At this point I start thinking, “What kind of amateurs have I landed with?” This is replaced shortly by: “Why hasn’t anyone ever remarked upon how much trees and radishes have in common?”
What can I say, we’re driving through Vermont, and these are the kinds of things that bother me right now.
“This could be our chance though!” Max is still on his rise; it’ll be at least an hour before he comes down enough to start needing another serious Starbucks fix. Fucking wanker, we should’ve left him in Nova Scotia.
“DaHHling, “ Chelsea drones, “If Providence isn’t over the horizon by morning, then breakfast and anything else you want is on me.” This is one her patented lines, but in three long years, I’ve never known her to lose.
“Umm, sorry to interrupt, but what’s that disturbing ethereal backwash?” The radishes are gone, replaced by some rather impressive viridian clouds.
Turn’s out Chelsea’s been whistling for the last half hour.
“That is the sound of the New Moon.”
“That is the sound of Some one who’s gonna sleep in a hostel.”
“Three Blind Mice, off-key,” I say, “ Is hardly Haute Couture.” Again, this is me, but against my better judgment.
“Didn’t you realize? Its not where you’re going, its how you get there.” Chelsea’s hair whips round in the convertible, framing her face in a crimson nimbus aura.
I don’t have anything to say to this, and I think Max may have finally popped.
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Tags: Aesthetiophilia, I should probably go to bed, Methodology by Etruscan
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