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i spent some time in the middle of corn country to hang out with the bestie. we don't get to see each other often now that there is more than 100 miles between us, but we try to see each other around this time of the year to celebrate our belated birthdays together. since we both share an interest in piercings, we decided that there is no better way to celebrate this reunion and rotation around the sun than getting some piercings.

she brought me to a place she has been to before, but warned me that the place is, in her words, ''shady as fuck.'' after parking the car in a small gravel lot, we approached the shop and entered into a dark room lined with colorful flash sheets and display cases filled with silver jewlery. a sleazy looking dude welcomed us with a low, grizzly, but surprisingly warm voice and asked what he can do for us. we told him we're here for a few piercings and he led us to the waiting area. this room was dripping in character. the floor was made of red and white vinyl tiles and the brick walls painted in black were decorated with shelves of punk and grunge memorabilia. i look up and notice garlands made of hundreds of raw cone boxes. they must have been there prior to legalization. nice.

we were seated in front of a woman getting a tattoo. turns out, a lady was there with her bachelorette party. interesting activity for a bachelorette party, but what else is there to do in the middle of nowhere? maiden of honor was talking about what to get. the party suggests a rose. borrrrrring. she opposes; she didn't want to get a rose because she already has one with her husband's name. one suggests to cover it up because she's getting a divorce anyway. the maiden of honor agrees and states she hates her soon to be ex-husband. awkward laughter from me. we conversed a bit more, and the party told me they don't know how i can endure piercings. i said i don't know how they can endure tattoos. quick sharp paid vs prolonged medium pain. mutual respect i guess. and i will admit, the healing process for a piercing can be years.

a massive, heavily tattooed and pierced man appeared and called my friend and i over. both of us, intimidated, grew silent. he noticed our apprehension and played the part until he turned on goofball mode. he gave us a big smile and reassured that he was just playing. although this is the 12th time i've gotten a piercing, anxiety never fails to pool up once you sit in that faux leather operating seat. his silly quips eased that anxiety and made the whole process a blast. first the conch. no problem (5/10). but the flat!? holy fuck that hurt (8/10).

at the end, we exchanged our cash tips for a couple of juice boxes. we squealed in excitement at our fresh piercings, and cracked open those juice boxes after saying our goodbyes. cheers!

"Weaving through the coast mountain range in the spring is about as predictable as bull-riding. Sheer faces of jagged rock glisten in the damp and conifers ejecting towers of mist that rise and settle in suspension over the valley and the little metal boxes who haste through it. The sky releases dense rain and windshield wipers at their fastest clamber to keep up with the rate the windscreen is obscured. Just through the thick of it the clouds break and allow the sun to reach back through to bless its children, but this is a mirage. Before long the overcast closes back in and with it the oppressive rainfall, the hazard of the road climbs tenfold again. At times the side windows streak and speckle with water, making blind spots truly blind. In this weather mountaintops have a habit of peering out from under the plume, greeting hello and goodbye as you continue.

Alongside on the highway a lifted black F350 Super Duty defines excess in the fast lane. You can taste the arrogance in the exhaust fumes and when the tires cut through puddles the collateral splashes straight into the windscreen, as if the insatiable driver spit into your face personally.

The downpour and its implications are welcome here. More and more often our summers are replaced by wildfire season. Instead of plumes of mist and comforting blankets of fog we are buried by layers of smoke. Smoke that dries you no matter how much you drink, the smoke that stings no matter how much you blink. The inescapable smell of campfire; proof that there can be too much of a good thing. The smoke that robs you of breath and blue sky. The smoke that brings the bugs out - every insect in the land emerges en masse. In daytime as well as night moths and gnats swarm the light of a gas station like a horde of confused locusts. Mosquitoes do the same but are only after the source of your breath. Every little thing with wings emerges to feast on the Earth's carcass. Driving through the haze will leave the front end of your car looking like a paintball field, minus the neon. Every year this happens and feels more apocalyptic - every year the anxiety grows that our children will catch as many summertime tans as youth in Beijing, or when they finally climb a mountain that called to them as children their reward will be a red disk in a deluge, instead of the depth and blue of the sky colliding with the sea interspersed by flickers of light catching more waves than a hairy van-lifer in the 60s. We would like to believe things were always like this. But we are young, not necessarily stupid - deep down we know the score, but feel powerless to change it. It is an unspoken truth. The best option is to savour while it lasts."
bluntsmoker - 4/22/2024

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