OK, that’s the last time I’m going to use a variation on that “No Sleep ’til Brooklyn” theme, which probably never really worked to begin with.
You remember my van, right? Well, here’s a little refresher:
That’s me, on the far right. This is where I am staying at the moment – in Fresno. Before I left I was told that Fresno is the meth capitol of California. I’ve seen a few examples of this, but I’m clearly not hanging out in the right part of town to witness it in all its glory.
Last night I turned in around 11:30, after a day off from performing, one I spent hanging out at a cool local coffee shop with other Rogue Festival performers.
I drank way too much coffee all day long, and ate way too little, so when it came time to close my eyes, it was an uphill climb, one made especially challenging by some guy in the neighborhood driving around blowing his fuckin’ horn!
I don’t know much about meth, haven’t spent any time around tweakers, but I guess the thing to do is to get all methed up and drive around town all night blowing your fuckin’ horn! And the best way to do this is to wait until I’m aaaaalmost asleep, right on that ledge, then start in with the blowing.
Whoever this guy was definitely had an interesting sounding horn. Much more deep and resonant than your average beep-beep horn. So as I drift in and out of sleep, I picture this guy, spending all of his money on meth and a really cool horn for his shitty car, and on Monday night Fresno there’s nothing he loves more than driving around all night and, you guess it, blowing his fuckin’ horn! I’m even guessing that his car is named Dinah.
I slept until about 10, and probably got about 3 hours of actual sleep during those 10 hours. As I lay there in the van, pondering my day, I heard the guy’s horn, only way in the distance. He’s still at it? Shouldn’t he be home cleaning his house by now or something. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on meth? And wouldn’t you think that somebody would have called the cops on this guy by now?
The gentleman whose house I’m parked at, Geoff, was in his back yard gathering up tools for his work day, so I popped out of the van and asked, “What is that noise?”
Of course, the noise stopped, leaving me standing there like a crazy person, buckling up my pants, putting my shirt on backwards, demanding to know where the voices were coming from.
Then finally, the horn sounded in the distance.
“THAT noise!” I demanded.
“Oh,” Geoff said. “It’s the train. They have to blow their whistle at each crossing.”