Tomorrow my brother arrives. It's been some time since he's visited. I think the last time he was here I was still in my old apartment - must've been about two years ago. His stay was shorter last time, but we still managed to make a few memories. One night, I had drunkenly scaled a building that was under construction, climbing a tall ladder to the top of a roof, thinking myself King Kong. Devilish angels buzzed around my head like fighter planes, the machine gun rattle of their bad ideas zipped loudly past my ears while I pounded my chest. After I conquered the building I realized the only place left to go was back down. Once we got back to my place I passed out in my loft bed, floating in my little slice of heaven between the mattress and the ceiling. I got out of the bed repeatedly during the night to vomit, and eventually took my brother's place on the floor with the air mattress. He told me that he knew those Jalapeño cheesesteaks I ate looked funny. I thanked him for letting me know.
This time I'll need to outdo myself, to make a better memory. I don't have much time to conjure up something new and irresponsible; by this time tomorrow he'll be here. I think I'll pick him up at the airport in a stolen car full of abducted children, wearing no pants and drinking a 40oz of Molsen Ice, listening to gangsta rap; that NIN vs 50 Cent mashup of In Da Club and Closer. My rap name will be Trent Jackson, aka The Red Baron.
Speaking of music:
I think I'll take him to a music festival in southern California, where he can discover his Bohemian roots. We'll ride to Indio and camp out in the desert, searching for a muse, listening to outcasts and watching arcade fires. Perhaps he'll find a nice hippie girl smelling of patchouli and rose water, with flowers in her hair.
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