Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco)

All these houses look like an eight-year-old drew them on the back of his Pee Chee folder. Like Wayne Manor or Barbie’s fucking Dream House. With all the accessories. That one probably has a half-car, half-boat, half-airplane parked in the back.”

I hadn’t slept that well since the time I ate some suspect “chicken” in Mexicali and then accidentally took an Ambien thinking it was Imodium. A great night’s sleep, but I had to throw away the sheets the next morning.

I would be the first to admit that I knew nothing about interior decoration. I was a mattress on the floor, milk cartons and one-by-sixes bookshelf kind of guy. But even in my ignorance, I knew that living room was a marvel of bad decisions and unfortunate combinations. A display that I could only describe as Powerball chic.

They wore the uniform of the desert bro. Think frat boy who never went to college. Jersey Shore without the water. Farmer’s tans made by the sun instead of a cancer machine. Ed Hardy shirts and backward baseball caps. Oakley sunglasses, even at night. Goatees or shaped three-day growth. Essentially they all looked like middle relief pitchers on vac

Models in those magazines were like no other. There was something about the girls that was hard, surly, and working class. Girls that ate ribs, chewed tobacco, fought dirty, and had no idea what Pilates was. My kind of women.

The trampoline: the white trash swimming pool.

“I know, Bobby. You have no fear. Fear is afraid of you. You wouldn’t be scared of the ground if you jumped from a plane and your parachute didn’t open. ‘Fuck you, ground,’ that’s what you’d say.”

“You’re going to steal a gun?” “You say that like I’m a criminal.

We had beaten the shit out of some young Mexican motorcycle enthusiasts. The fact that that felt like a step in the right direction really illustrated how little we knew about what we were doing.