Believe you me, brotherman, I used to work for Micro Machines. At the time, I lived in a world, that was more or less totally in my control, and the big valued motherfucker in that world was Micro Machines. I remember those days, sun setting, Air & Space Museum emptying out, cafeteria closing, giant cookies in saran wrap.
Gemini capsule, moon fucking rock. Disposable camera, hot pretzels.
I think I got $10 a day, but thinking back on it now, I don’t did any work. It seems like my dad paid me $10 to hang out while he sold shirts and buttons and bumper stickers. I guess I did simple tasks, deciphering shirt size tags, explaining that even though the label said Sun Dog that the shirts were indeed Fruit of the Loom so don’t expecting no melting, exploding “Three for Ten dollar” tourist shirts. No sir. High quality shirts, silk screened, not some diddly shit iron on. Stolen artwork and lots of drug references that I didn’t really get as a 10 year old, *see my elementary school class photo where I’m wearing a shirt with a cartoon of Bill Clinton’s cat Socks hitting joint declaring “Veggin’ out on the Vineyard”. I didn’t get that joke til like a year ago, if I only I was youth medium. I guess the only other option is to get high with a cat.
They weren’t all drug jokes. Those Smile stickers weren’t as fucking free as their prominence would make them seem. Rival tie-dyed ruined sales to cute Catholic school plaid skirt birds: peace signs are broken crosses, refunds please. Damn, mustache, that’s some Nausea there.
“Sugaree” was the song at the end of side A. My dad went inside into to use the facilities, left me and a white crackhead in charge of the stand, which is was the most visually appealing stand there. Well it seemed like duder was on the nod and the pause of the tape switching sides startled my white crack head pal, harshed his mellow or whatever, but the absence of Jerry Garcia softly repeating the phrase “shake it” sent that dude in to a frenzy. I almost pissed myself, a knot in my stomach ripped, big headed child with an ulcer, I manually switched sides and pushed play so that Grateful Dead could sooth that that dude back in to slumber, while I tried to figure why the buttons dudes were buying said “So many women, so little nerve”. The hell did that mean? Alls I want is Micro Machines. I want that aircraft carrier with the front that opens so I can drive all kinds of tanks and cargo in and out.
We’re back to the classics.
Wordy fiction about two distinguished gentlemen named after cookies (Sir Lord Chesterfields and Sit Walt Macadamia) coming all over one another.
Shit man, I want this blog back, too.