TAMBIIIN DONN LIKE IIT! / FUCK THE ARCHIE! / FUCK THE ARCHIE! That’s right folks, Tambin straight up almost broke up with me when I suggested we watch an episode of Riverdale together. She usually only lets us watch films by Studio Ghibli or Wes Anderson when she gets tired of rewatching Stranger Things – but I put my foot down for my 15 year old HOTTIES in Riverdale. She reluctantly gave it a try but ended up spitting directly in my face when Archie sang his ‘song’ early on in this episode. And honestly I didn’t blame her whatsoever (Grundy, come thru with these music lessons ASAP). Feeling demoralized and emasculated I was ready to relinquish the Netflix reigns back to Tambin when she realized Cole Sprouse was on this show and agreed to continue watching, albeit ironically. I love her so much.
This episode deals primarily with the themes of disassociation. Each of our main characters struggles to live within of the archetypes defined for them in the pilot episode.
I sat cross-legged in the longest branch of the tallest tree. Mind blank, frisbees thrown, Buster’s crushed, ducks avoided. In my mind, not a concrete train of thought to follow, but an intangible pervasive sense of understanding brewing. The boundaries between my physical self and multiverse around me slowly blurring with each update to my snapchat story (MENTAL GAME STRONG 💪🏼💯😜). Normal procedure dictates a 17 step process to safely disembark from a transcendence of this calibre. I was not afforded this luxury.
My old friend Brontielle got in touch with me last week wanting to catch up. We were once very close, so I was eager to see her again to make up for lost time. No transgression fell against either party, just the divergent currents of time leading us astray. We met at Dave & Buster’s (naturally). We found that the current iterations of one another had very little in common. She was the creative lead in Snapchat’s filter division, I play ultimate frisbee. She’s a published poet, I vape competitively. She professed her love for horses, I’m afraid of ducks.
The secret ingredient that made folks really taste Irene’s peach cobbler was sneaking in some cherry pits. Could about break your jawbone by accident. The secret of her apple brown Betty was mixing in plenty of sharp slivers of walnut shell.
When you ate her tuna casserole, you didn’t talk or flip through a National Geographic. Your eyes and ears stayed inside your mouth. Your whole world kept inside your mouth, feeling and careful for the little balled-up tinfoils Irene Casey would hide in the tuna parts. A side effect of eating slow was, you naturally, genuinely tasted, and the food tasted better. Could be other ladies were better cooks, but you’d never notice.
(Rant – Chuck Palahniuk)
This should give you a full sense of the way that I am forced to consume all media. Any mention of ducks and I will be sent apoplectically into an anaphylactic bout of terror. As a result I listen to music deeper, better, and just generally closer in every way than any other human being. Does that make me qualified to review music? In no way shape or form. Can I listen to music and report the presence of ducks? Yes, albeit reluctantly.
Me and my buddy Breayson were waiting for his sister Bethtacy’s shift to end so she could drive us to the new Dave & Buster’s to meet up with Dim and Frad, so we had about two hours to kill. The self-improvement grind is still very real so I suggested that we hit up the park for a local walk-about/meditation sesh. Breayson loved the idea so much, we hugged.
We walked around the park for a while and Breayson and I made sure to verbalize every nice thing we saw to each other. I saw a seagull take a danish right out of the hands of a little girl, but she wasn’t upset, just happy the seagull had food to eat. And Breayson just liked the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves.