As the full effects of the altering mind alternatives wore completely off, I was experiencing a fair amount of clarity; at least just enough to think my menial little thoughts. There was Uncle Klyde who only wanted somebody to walk with him barefoot in the woods. That's what he liked, and nobody was going to ever convince him that it was an uncomfortable situation. But there was this man that I wanted to speak with, Myron Deemers, who had some potentially fitting information so I heard, or at least a new mix tape. He was into martial arts and old-school comic books, and he held just the sort of throwback thoughts I was searching for. He understood the destructive nature of the industrial complex of this scrap built city that was feeding the fire in my head, and the implications of multiple forces attempting to control it. He also had a really nice Neil Peart poster I wouldn't mind trading some items for or stealing outright. I could put that in my room as a way to cover up the manila paper wall coverings in my living room. Improvements were on the way.
Upon reaching The Booth, I contacted Myron via self-serve tenant phone near the front center. After 30 years at the carpet factory, I could smell Myron's chemical stench from this area. It was nauseating, and also caused me to lose control of my bladder, right then and there. My journey from site to site, from personal disaster to disaster, and from memory to memory has led me here, an expansive distance from my previous location and mental state. “Take the left hall, then back,” said Myron on the phone, preceded and proceeded by the whistling tunes of himself and the distorted sounds of his stereo. As I turned left and approached Myron's cave, the sonic sound became more and more clear. This impressed me. I stared at the door as if to say, “You, door, are the barrier that my life hinges upon. Please, do not allow for peep-hole use to discriminate. Thank you.” I took my last drink of available water and turned the rusted out creek knob, only to enter a room of darkness level 10. Technical experts tell me that that means no light exists in there. I walk in and close the door behind me anyway, knowing full well that I could certainly be crushed, slashed, shocked, or exploded, as had been the case throughout the past few days. Instead I was greeted with a soft bean bag object and a cold soda. Both forced onto me. Of course, nothing except Rush's Mystic Rhythms could be heard. Loud and on vinyl, as Myron would have it no other way. We listened 3.5 times before Myron slowly faded the sound down. Silence. A slowly dripping faucet was the only sound that broke this awful sound minimum. Soon though, I would see that my visit was well worth my precious time. The silence and darkness were soon both simultaneously distorted by the event of the millennium. A laser and music opera so well put together, that even Tomita would be in awe. Yes, that's right man, Tomita. Somehow Myron had procured several large screens, panoramic sound, and key visuals of the task at hand... all set to a Rush soundtrack- only the most pertinent songs, I need not explain this to a readership that is all too familiar. Red Sector A with mesmerizing laser pulses illuminating the evil images of the city forefathers. Little people being crushed within thick concrete walls as spotlights burned through their hollow existence.... etc. etc. I nodded in agreement, and took notes mentally. Every now and again I would see Myron himself, illuminated in standard poses as he controlled his complex systems, which he took much pride in. He was in harmony with these contraptions, and the running of them went far beyond the bits and pieces of operation manuals that you and I are used to (I don’t believe in them personally). In one scene he would be dressed in a silver suit with sunglasses, and in the next he would be spinning on the floor in his top break dancing move (to the faster paced songs). I continued to watch as I ate the macaroni salad and fish filkets (not quite filet quality) provided as part of the deal. “Myron is always kind to his guests,” I concluded aloud. Then things got a little out of hand and off the track of what I had supposed. The video clips quickly cut over to kind views of picnics without rain and local tourist attractions such as Wolf Creek Sludge Pit (the largest mine tailings sludge pit in the world), the beautiful shores of Lake Maestro, and the largest shopping facility in the tri-county area located on 44th and Greenmillard Way... all set to the music of Rush. I was now put in an obviously compromising position, as I questioned Myron's intentions, attempting much too hard to speak over Geddy Lee's screams and spewing the crushed macaroni all over my frontal pants. He could not hear me, of course, as any smart sound man always wears protective eye wear and ear wear. He also had special gloves on and his hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, which was the latest style at the time as far as I could tell. As usual, several seminars would have to settle this. Myron, the master of seminar, had previously worked with several cohorts putting on multiple day events at the Super 8. Diagrams, dancing and key speakers were used to effectively send messages and push motivational programs. Mainly Myron put on seminars about the cost effectiveness of tapes relative to compact discs. That's a good one, and I can attest to the economic benefits. I have well over 20 tapes, and all of them are in great shape and provide me with listening enjoyment. Now, the way I see it, tapes are above and beyond human genius. You see, they consist mainly of small traveling energy wavelets and packets of particulates... yes, I understand, I can explain this later with the other things. So, as the laser extravaganza came to a slow end, the main lights came on to show Myron, dressed in a higher class business suit, drinking relentlessly from a 2-liter bottle of Big-K type soda. He dripped the sweat of his labors, and maybe even shed a tear. The video presentation was somehow personally touching to him. I could tell he had worked hard in preparation. He stood defended by two immense bookcases filled with multiple media forms containing specific, important, and no doubt complex information. Old blackboards bared equations that I believed with my technically lacking mind to be highly technical. Strongly reliable rumors had suggested that Myron was into some pretty deeply scientific things, and that's why he drove around mysteriously in that mini-van with the Jesus bumper stickers. Quickly, Myron put his right hand into the air and made a quick fist pump action. Two friends entered from what I thought was the bathroom carrying new items to the seminar. The information began, as Myron set himself up right-centered near his white board; dry-erase markers in hand, not to be sniffed as is usually the use for them in this part of town since the rubber cement supply ended several years back. Kids these days will sniff anything within reach to try to be more like their dad.
