So here I am in the audio control room of the Art Institute of Pittsburgh, using an analog board while I should be using a digital, being put on audio for this sketch comedy show though I know little to nothing about it, hungry like the wolf, having the audio setup (that I didn’t even want to do) fucked up by other people, taking order, was here at ten and nobody else showed up until twelve except the Zombie King. (Cuz he drove us here).
But I’m not complaining.
I am seriously considering leaving this life behind to become a hobo. Jack Kerouac style. Eating beans and nachos and shitting in a stump. Riding the rails, smelling the sweet air of 48 states and sleeping in the woods and bathing in the reflecting blue moonlight of lakes and riverbeds with nothing but a survival guide of poisonous mushrooms as my aid. And a star chart. And a radio.
And now the Zombie King is leaving for work. So as he hugs his goodbyes, makes out with Pharli, and Eric laughs from beneath his army helmet, well, *my* helmet, I say adieu as well. Sounds strange? Fuck. It’s a sketch comedy show. I don’t know what’s going on.
But I am not complaining. I am zen. I play SFX of crickets, pull my fedora over my eyes and pretend that I am back on the bayou, sleepily awaiting new orders.
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