Sponge’s Nightmare

Welcome to Sponge’s Nightmare, a bubbling meandering cauldron of misapplied effort and hipster poetry read to you through the trebled-feedback of  a close-contact mic by an over-weight, moled, part-time-courier-part-time-bartender bearded millennial with metered earlobes, a brim-flipped-80′s bicyclist hat, woman’s jeans and a tattoo of a chicken and pig on either foot, because it was good luck for sailors, and yes he somehow probably gets laid more than you – but never mind that when you are sitting in a place with ripped couches older than the edged and depressed but happy go lucky staff, burnt-out candles plugged into wine glasses, carefully chalked menus, weird-ass Turkic carpets dragged back from Kazahkstan by some weird-ass Norcal hella-douche who’s rich parents paved and plugged his travel schedule so he could make vague references, in liberal fashion, to faraway places and up his pussy percentage and admissions to an overpriced brain-washing colony before he could runoff to be hand-placed into pretend i-banking 10 years after its prime. Gaze through the smoke still lingering from lost freedom and see our brown haired chubby host – the black haired one with the gap in his teeth works across the street at the pizza place, the other branch of which was shutdown for tax fraud and employing Brazilians illegally – you know the ones who rape fourteen year old white girls at roady/loady house-parties in the tier three ‘burbs – not mention their being the same muchachos who spell my four-letter name wrong on the fucking pizza box. With a grin all the more pathetic because this is fun, he’s rolling his fat hips and slowly pointing in the air – don’t break his chi by talking to him about OWS – no not the hedge fund bidding on billions in bust government sponsored resi loans but “the movement” – ’cause all you’ll hear are vague references to evil corporations and partially recalled quotations by Noam Chomsky, which stick to this sticky linoleum floor better than to the tap-water-fed brains of the city. If you sat at the bar, the stools are ripped and the dated home-printed menu has food crusted on it, but at least you aren’t stuck in at an apartment party hosted by a fat asian girl, and your now domesticated friend who thinks he’s succeeded – their two cats twitching their tails at the frowns of his african art on the wall. Not for those given up for dead – The Nightmare is the place of those with sponge-like insatiability lost in the urban madness, who refuse despite all evidence to believe there is a tomorrow that will hangover a brain piecing together the gaps – no it is not a stroll under the lime trees in a fascist jacket to Alexander square to attend some exotic techo club in an office tower with a Scottish chick whose pierced titty you suck in an alley on the way home at 4 in the morning, but its all you got whether you are 93 feet east, in all asia or talking to the lord hobo himself. You can take your triple-hopped quad doppelbock artisan beer and stroll outside to the sand pit where modern metal art stands rusted out, and pass the bar positioned in a hollowed out vw van, and plop yourself in make-shift seating to listen to the blazard-blowhard couple twang seemingly ripped tunes on an acoustic guitar in front of a fire pit – and they’re actually pretty good – playing music that is all the better given the fact that it you don’t recognize it –  it has no happy woman singing, no whiney ass-clown moaning and best of all you can’t understand the words. A nightmare has mornings, and if you were there on a rained-out emerald city morning before the Chilly-Chally-Bra-Cali’s migrated north like the spickarros of Mexicano, you might have a had a rooibos red velvet Chai latte thicker than a milkshake, as you watched those other lost playing d&d and reading samisdat zines, Banned Books or pulling a beard smoking rolled cigarettes on a balcony, as the rain came tumbling down.