And Wegthor Be Still as Bright...

I´m sitting in a restaurant with my parents back in my hometown and my father is yelling at me as usual: Regardless of whatever it is he´s started with this time around, he´s ending it with the traditional, And you can´t go on living your life like that, you´re about to turn thirty years old. His words bridge the great divide of lamb servings and green scatterings between us, then sublimate like the distant droning of a bee wading through a Styrofoam box, and mingle with the white noise surrounding our table.

I´m having a hard time concentrating.

The sleeping pills I got from my mother last evening haven´t lost their effect entirely so I´m still experiencing a bit of zoning out every half a minute or so. My father´s words are lost to the restaurant´s din but I´m not even making an effort to pay any attention because I´m staring at this drop-dead gorgeous blue-eyed blonde two tables from ours, whom I´m certain I´ve gone to High School with like more than a decade ago.

I know this guy who´d swear on a box of Stolichnayas he got into a drunken threesome with her back in College. He´d had the blessing of attending the same College as she did, see, in the same middle-of-nowhere town where I suppose there were no better things to do than get into drunken threesomes with people you went to High School with.

Not that there´s anything wrong with that, I mean.
Me, I coasted through College by skipping class and going to the old arcades downtown.

And my knees haven´t healed yet. F*ck.
I´m looking at this trophy blonde sitting at a nearby table at the restaurant and even though I´m supposed to be thinking of getting into drunken threesomes with her, I can´t really stop thinking of Jax-Ur for chrissakes. Jax-Ur. Jesus f*cking Christ. Guy was this old Superman villain from back in the sixties and just like the rest of his brain-dead Phantom Zone ilk, he was some sort of a moron himself if you really think about it: Set his rockets to space and blew up Wegthor instead.

Wegthor was one of Krypton´s two or three moons (I forget). So he killed a lot of people and ended up exiled into the Phantom Zone. Which is like, the perfect place for peeping toms to watch over drop-dead blue-eyed blondes going into drunken threesomes with your pals, if you think about it.

But my knees haven´t healed yet and I just want to go back with all the running in the evenings after work. I´d trade up a lifetime of drunken threesomes with that blonde plus a stack of Silver Age Superman comics-- for one last running up the street beneath a cold June thunderboomer, leaping over trash bags and oh by the time you get those endorphins going into mad drunken threesomes with you and all the caffeine in your blood...

Story of my life, though: Set my rockets to space and blew up my patellae instead.
And Wegthor Be Still as Bright.