By JACKSON MORNING | December 13, 2012
Denny's at 3:00 a.m.
- A Travelogue -
These thoughts were initiated by my own experience in a Denny's at 3:00 a.m. and yes I was three sheets in the wind. As I dug into my Lumberjack Slam I had an epiphany, a word or experience I never thought I would have - it just hit me square in the balls.
Fat Chick Paraphernalia
Sure, you expect to see whack jobs but everybody? It's like Werewolf Time, but only when there is a full moon can they transform and at a'round 3 a.m. across America, Denny's transforms from a mixed bag of humanity to the witching hour. You see a similar transformation on city trains and buses, a certain hour hits and all the zombies rise from the dead looking for prey.
I gloated in my drunkenness, wiping a mushy piece of bread against my empty plate. I knew I was the only real homo sapien in the place and I beamed my contempt across the sloshy misbegotton hoard. The glow from the greasy plate brought some perspective to my fledgling mind. The buzz simmered and the hot shitty coffee worked a little de-numbing magic and my role as judge and executor mellowed to friend (distant) - no, a sympathetic acquaintance that, suddenly, felt the apprehensive compulsion to record the groan and hiss of Denny's at a'round 3:00 a.m.
At first, I did only Friday and Saturdays but the photos, videos and stories I began collecting were so incredible I felt euphoric like I had uncovered Big Foot.
…and like a greasy poem…I rejoiced…
VIP!!! Denny's Big Slam Roll VIP!!!
Bacon can lift a nose and so can out-of-touch-hipster-types…These dudes think they got game but not with those that sleep inside at night.
Street Guru and a legion of faithful followers, who work the fandango of the Denny's Golden Glaze Donut Effect. Madness, neatly packaged and some Hot Joe, a smoke; is all you need to send them off and it hits that spot. They keep their bellies empty for the booze they need to find, like desert dwellers in a constant hunt for water, and they know their unceasing tenacity for gold will bring them nirvana.
Death…Call it sleep, passed out, unconscious…inside Denny's you are a function…A number that fills in a designated space whose sole purpose is to consume. These motions create patterns unto themselves and they dance a tango sailing over our limited senses….They're our subconscious, that hall that splits in two, to the left where there is no personal God, only an erection to The Black Hole Followers and to the right are those that know.
Bacon Mandala (draft)
Symphonies of Forgottenness. The melody is rhythmic and out of tune because it is easier and brings bad taste to the door with heart-warmed acceptance…the distant jingle of shot glasses rubbing against each other, which I always liked though they are not shot glasses, they are the mini syrup jugs whose mortality rate is not much longer than a fly's. "They get worked more than 2-for-1 blowjobs from crack mama's," a regular once told me.
Dirty girls rule the coop and there are sexy dirty girls even though you know you better have your pecker wrapped in tinfoil and a small disease prevention pocket kit handy if you somehow get lucky? The kind of luck that should be called, cross your fingers and pull the trigger.
...the sound of oil and voices frying...
Denny's was founded in 1953 by Richard Jezak and Harold Butler in Lakewood, California. I know they would be proud to welcome the
new generation of Slam Eaters.
The wave of oblivion gave and turned into a tsunami.
An orgy of production in violation of common ethical standards of decency…but it's home.
You have to go somewhere besides your cage even if it means doing something beyond stupid, which only becomes a consideration after a quart of 80% proof of anything and beers, a chick drink…blow?....Grandma's pills?…Whatever, you ain't got a pea of logic pumping through your brain, only that sensation, like a crack addict's needs and mine/yours becomes the need for a warm booth and a warm plate of - close your eyes and say ShaZam! Denny's!
You're so hammered you don't know what you're ordering only the same hot grease cometh. You won't remember what you slurped down only that it was perfect: a ritual that should never be questioned. Redemption from the techno, booze, dead baby rap, uppity chicks, watered down drinks? Put a name on a bad trip that somehow becomes an unmistakable want, though with a Zen Master's sense of being that locks in when the grease rolls.
News · Fetish · Nothingness
The glare off the menu hits a fat beauty across her custom detailed nails…Thoughts of fat girl nail styles vs. skinny girl styles excited me...The fat chick paraphernalia was overtaken by other extremes like a fat chick hippie fondu.
The leftovers of a forgotten race…lost…left out in the cold because the cave is full tonight.
Drop dead stinking drunk?
FOOD…You know it is the worst shit on the planet though
nothing could be closer to perfection than what comes from
the clanking monotony of the kitchen where prepackaged portions, halves, dashes,
sprinkles, pounds, frozen bags falling over each other uncomfortably, the click-clack-slam-mangled voices,
with the sounds of human motion pushing and plowing through swinging doors,
garbage bags, plates, swishy-slipperiness…
Fat museums could have been constructed…A Hall of Fame to just hanging flesh. Rolls…cottage cheese clumps…uneven ripples with a mind of their own, lamb chop arms flapping with a cold booze scented breeze, scars, drunken burn marks, a warm sense of sweat like being near a sauna or tropical waterfall…strange motion…fat clouds to sleep in…muffled laughter seeking escape from a contained lava lamp liquid and you know you better not flick your lighter…The slap of flesh in fierce battle, enthralled in a slow out-of-breath kinky screeching wheels against a slickly coated oil/exhaust caked street, as beat-up as the lively fatness cutting eddies of BO and stuffy air across an immaculate haze of unmolested reality…