Darkside of OZ

Dark Side of OZ

             I remember those nights; those nights that always featured an emergence from a foggy abyss. We sat on my old couch, an artifact evocative of Ken Kesey and The Electric Kool-aid Acid Test my couch was a gaudy orange color, a color suggestive of psychedelic oranges conjoined into one heaping mass. It was the most comfortable damn couch; the cushions were like orange clouds of polyester goodness. I was sitting on this couch as my friends walked into my little slice of escapism. Darrell Gilmour and Roger Abbot walked into my rock n roll museum like room. Past the Jimi Hendrix mural, the Pink Floyd vinyl jacket memorial, and the AC/DC flag that displayed a civil war style cannon above the anthem words ‘For Those About To Rock…’ and then finally arriving at my Black Sabbath enshrined sitting area and the orange hippie era couch.

Darrell ran his hands through his long brown hair and smirked like a mischievous youth would. “Dude, what’cha doing tonight?” Darrell asked rather enthusiastically.

Roger had stopped at the AC/DC flag and saluted it. Roger’s leather Jacket creaked like all good leather does as his grimy hand touched his forehead just under his liberty spiked hair. Darrell and I just watched him as we held back laughs that so desperately wanted to float out onto the air and on to freedom of vocal fruition. Amusement spewed forth; Darrell and I both exploded into senseless laughter.

 Roger turned to us and flipped us a universal rebuttal with his right hand “F**k you guys.” He voiced with a stiff upper lip.

 “Whatever, man.” I chuckled in return just before turning my attention back to Darrell.

Darrell was like any youthful stoner, a bit crass and sporting the DYI torn jeans, t-shirt, and canvas converses. Roger was…well…he was Roger, a little too punk for his own good. He wore an old leather jacket all studded and riddled with patches of every punk band he never saw live. Darrell sat down next to me and opened his Jansport backpack, and as he dipped into it Roger voiced a drum roll by rolling his tongue.

“Check This s**t.” Darrell produced a baggie of small trees,  a brand new copy of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, and a copy of the Wizard of Oz on VHS “Dude, it is time.” a wide smile formed on his face as the video tape danced in his puppeteering hands.

*                            *                      *

Flowing and tumbling, a billow of white smoke drifted onto the air. Darrell lurched forward as he coughed incessantly, and he passed the green graffix bong that looked more like a smoking shard of Krypton than a plastic delivery system for mental flight.

“F**k.” Darrell strained his face red from the rushing blood “That is some really good s**t.” He laughed between aftershock hacks.

I took the bong, an eager grasp of my hand showed my excitement as I brought the open end of the cylinder to my parted lips, The scratch of flint produced a dancing flame that lit up the innately artistic blue glass bowl. A long draw of smoke into my lungs and away I go down the yellow stoned road. Puffs, puff, pass, around and around we go; how high we got only I will know.

“Dude, where do we start the album at?” Roger asked as I handed him the Krypton smoker.

“Uhmmm….second lion roar.” Darrell responded as he shook his head in disbelief of such a question.

“I, like, thought it was the third, man.” Roger added just before he put the bong to his face.

“You are f*****g stupid, you know that.” Darrell laughed, and I couldn’t help but to laugh as well. The laugh was infectious as it took me into its conformity. A foolish laughter ensued, and Roger just lifted his hand with his middle finger extended as he blew a billow of smoke like an intoxicated dragon.

            I was on a munchies hunt, my head felt like a hot air balloon. Around the kitchen in five cupboards, and a stop in Antarctica for some polar bear cola, I returned to the room, and the guys were hard at work.

“All systems go, man.” Roger voiced as he wore a ridiculously wide smile, a smile of compeletly intrinsic of a happily spaced-out teenager.

            We all sunk into the orange polyester monster, and I laid out the snacks, a package of nacho Doritos, a box of Twinkies, three Cokes, and a plate of cold combination pizza from Papa Murphy’s.

“Dude, we are set.” I said with animalistic and stupefied hunger.

I clapped my hands together and the lights went out as the MGM lion appeared and then faded. In the darkness, the faux heartbeat of the first track echoed our own beating hearts as we settled into the orange cloud of lunacy.

            We were transfixed into Dorothy’s Kansas as we passed a joint. Puff, puff, pass, we handed the spliff off as if we were in a stoner relay. The house landed with a loud boom, and we were introduced to the fantastical world of color and munchkins.

“Dude, Dorothy is so hot in color.” I voiced as I expelled a long trail of smoke, and in that moment my head was a comet.  I passed the joint as I returned to the room.

Darrell held the joint like some bumbling maestro “F**k man, she is like so the girl next door in that blue dress, and those pig tails.” He took a long drag “She totally wants it, I would so give it to her. Those damn pig tails, dude.” He exhaled as he chuckled. We all chuckled and fell silent. All was silent except for the kaleidoscope of colorful music that tickled our brains like only Pink Floyd could. I am sure I wasn’t the only one that slipped off for a brief mental movie of Dorothy being in a rather expletive deleted situation.

            The band played on, and the movie played on, the loonies stayed on the path, but we totally derailed. Twinkies were scarfed in the way Homer Simpson wolfed down donuts, A glutton’s desire for sugary grace feeding a malevolent hunger overtook each of us.

“Hey man, do you think the straw man could bone Dorothy?” Roger asked with a foolish curiosity.

“Does the straw man even have the equipment?” I asked with a collective curiosity that merged with Roger like some transcendent thought shared by a pony express brain cell frolicking between our two compromised minds.

Darrell looked at us both; the look on his face alluded to a similar look a psychiatrist would give to the Mad Hatter “You guys are crazy, the only one who could bone Dorothy would be the Cowardly Lion, and he would totally have crippling insecurities…The other two would need prosthetics from the Emerald City.” He retorted in a scathing voice.

            I looked at Roger and grinned foolishly as a wonderfully wicked response brewed in my foggy brain “So you admit, an orgy could happen in the Emerald City.” I asked with a grin of ridiculous sarcasm.

Darrell’s face shifted and changed as his mind undoubtedly pondered the possibility, and with a raised eyebrow of intrigue he answered “You guys are sick, you know that.” He laughed.

            We all erupted into grand laughter and considered the contemplation that we had some sort of brain damage. The movie played, and Pink Floyd restarted. By the time the horse of a different color showed up, we were in our own far off lands, the blinds were closed and no one was home. The psychedelic hippie couch cradled three stoners as Pink Floyd played to an eventual blue screen of fin.