:)

Beautiful Music
THAT 70's SHOW
by Jennifer Ryan
07/25/07

:)

Flirtin' with Disaster

I sent my idiot beloved to the concert without me, escorted by my faithful consigliere Michael Kelso and my trusty sidekick, a 1967 El Camino with a fucked up radio, a smashed tail light and a bumper sticker that reads Draft beer, not boys. I'm working an extra shift and not minding much at all, since old Dorthea is teaching me how to be a chef in a semi-fancy restaurant. I like to cook and it's not so hard at a place like this. She sends me to the Piggly Wiggly for all the leg quarters they have in the freezer and Dorthea shows me how it's done here, all la-dee-dah with orange sauce, garlic and onions. It's served over some fancy rice that takes more than a minute to cook and vegetables I didn't grow up with, like three kinds of squash. She teaches me to slice fast and make sophisticated cuts that will dazzle our guests and I transform turnips into little flowers for practice.

She talks a lot about growing up in the south and explains family recipes that make me want to gag, like hog intestines, or chitlins. She laughs that when she married and moved north, she made chitlins for his family and their immigrant neighbors called the cops, worried that the smell was a dead body. She was fifteen years old at that time and when the police came she threw herself to the ground and begged them not to murder her and her new sisters; the sisters of her husband. They laughed their asses off and left, noses covered, and that was her introduction to midwestern hospitality.

She remembers little things, dumb stuff, like the old iron biscuit cutter they were given as a gift because it's maker had ruined it and it wasn't circle shaped at all. My personal favorite story involves the dress and matching head scarf she made out of an old table cloth a neighbor had discarded. Her laughing is near hysterical when she exclaims, quite unabashed, that "all those northern folks thought I was a country nigger straight off the Aunt Jamima bottle. Couldn't throw nothin' in the trash with out askin' me first. No sir."

Her husband worked and died young on the trains, moving back and forth across the country to support his family, though his own father had died building some of the very tracks he traversed. She has the best old stories about beautiful and fascinating people and remembers everything first hand, such as the sinking of the Titanic and the Great Depression. All her uncles were cowboys or railway workers, except for her cousins who were bookies and involved with the mob. I'm learning a lot from her about cooking and about life, and find I really like it. Maybe I've found my niche; perhaps my destiny is to be a great negro chef.

But back to my story. I sent Eric to the concert with Kelso because I had to work. Everything should have been fine. The worst I imagined is that maybe Kelso would wonder off and be left behind - no big deal. I taught Eric to drive a stick years ago and frankly, he and the car are my central concern. So fifteen minutes until midnight, I finish tomorrow's prep work and start cleaning up, because if every thing isn't spotless Levina and her sisters are thrown into a psychotic episode and there's nothing more disturbing than pissed off Amish women. I'm almost finished when Laurie calls me, taunting that Eric and Kelso are in lockup - got pulled over after the concert and daddy's asleep, but maybe she should wake him up. We argue, expectedly, never able to resist tossing around words like orphan and whore, but she promises not to say anything for now. Whore.

In minutes I'm at the police station, unable to find a parking spot for the Vista Cruiser. It's not just a concert night, it's a Saturday, so every person in town under thirty is either locked up or claiming someone. A group of young ladies pass and I smile at them, but they notice my uniform and the station wagon and laugh wildly, making me feel like the squarest asshole in the world. I pull off my smock and throw it in the back seat, pissed that I'm here smelling like garlic and with frizzy hair.

I've been on a first name basis with the Point Place police department since I was six years old, first as Bud and Edna's kid, but later as a young mastermind able to hold his own against the mundane criminal element that menaces a place like Wisconsin. The desk sergeant is Jacob Peele, hair graying now and with a little more weight than the younger man who constantly threatened to box my ears. He smiles when I reach his desk and greets me as Mr. Camino, quite the smart guy as he tells me how shocked and disappointed the boys were to pull over my car but not find me in it.

"I'm here for Eric Forman."

"Of course you are. Curious as to why were holding him?"

I grin and tell him I assumed the boys in blue saw my El Camino driving on the road insead of the sidewalk for once and became suspicious. He agrees that this is absolutely true, but they found something disturbing in my trunk and he asks if there's anything I'd like to admit. A surge of panic runs through me for just a second, because I don't know what he could mean. The last time I checked my trunk, it contained a spare tire, a moth-eaten old blanket, a couple of flash lights, an old thermos with no top and a some manuals from high school shop class.

He pulls a manila envelop from behind the desk and looking disgusted, dumps its contents on the counter before me. Two of Jackie's beloved Barbie dolls lay naked and dirty, their tiny wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. I flash back to the last time Jackie and I broke up, the night I kidnapped her dolls and drunkenly performed lewd sexual acts on them. At least, I think that's what happened. I was very drunk at the time, but I think Fez took pictures. I hear a couple of the guys behind us laugh, I'm sure this has been the talk of the station, and though I'm slightly embarrassed I tell him he can't hold my boy for dolly torture. He informs me they found weed in the glove compartment. Seventy-five dollars bail, here's a ticket for Eric's appearance. Fuck.

I pay the money and wait, suffering the knowing winks of the men I'd waged a water balloon war against at the age of nine. They smile and agree I don't look so damn tough now, and what can I do but cast my glance downward and silently concur. The last eleven years have not been kind to me, as is obvious from my steam soaked and oil stained clothing. And if that isn't humiliating enough, I'm going to have to explain raping those damn plastic dolls to Red AND some jerk court officer. I'm almost nineteen years old and all I have to my name are a gangly boy toy and an ultra hot car. The thought of that sobers me quickly as I realize that it is so much more than I deserve or ever thought I would have. I smile to myself and think that as long as I've got Eric and the Camino, I'm doing alright.

Kelso waltzes out of the holding area with a huge grin and proudly exclaims that he did it standing up in a bathroom stall with the brainy chick who graduated a year ahead of us. I laugh, secure in the knowledge that he's hallucinated, but gently tell him that I believe he believes it. I look past him to see the officer still holding open the door, but no Eric appears. I haven't time to be alarmed when the officer calls out for him, "Come now, lad. I've told you already, we'll not keep you locked up just because you're afraid of your boyfriend."

Eric walks out slowly, with a shy wave and something of a nervous smile. Kelso admits casually, as if an after thought, "Forman wrecked the Camino." Eric squeaks that it's just a scratch, but Kelso huffs and extends his arms in wild hyperbole. "Yeah, a scratch like, a mile long or something." When I calmly tell Kelso I get the picture, he practically screams, "we're talkin' from tip to tail, man!"

I smack Kelso in the arm so hard it makes Eric flinch, probably because he's sure he's next. I take hold of Eric, leading him to the car while demanding to know how bad it is really. Kelso jumps into the back seat and launches into some drunken bullshit about being sassed by light post. Eric ignores me completely and says that his dad is going to kick him out. I agree that if he finds out, he probably will. This could be it; the last big fuck up. Red has laid it out repeatedly, in terms that are in no way uncertain, that drug use in his house equals death by foot in the ass. There are about six weeks left in Eric's school semester and I have to be honest, I can't afford tuition plus the rent and utilities on our own place. It's kind of a one or the other situation. Surely Red wouldn't be that damn cruel. Then again ... no. No he wouldn't. "He's not going to find out, don't worry." I try to be nonchalant when I turn and ask, "so when I see this scratch, on a scale of one to ten, it's a what?"

He looks hopeful as he rates it as a three. Kelso laughs and hollers, "It's an eleven!"

Eric leans back and tells him to shut up and I take a deep calming breath so that I can be rational. Then I switch gears and holler, "DAMN IT! How the hell did you manage an eleven!"

He explains with such frustration that it comes across as a single sentence. "I was trying to roll down the window after Kelso farted and he grabbed my arm so I couldn't and I over corrected and it's only a three! OKAY? OKAY? A three!" He closes his eyes and turns away, letting the night air cool him. I put my hand is his hair and caress, softly cooing that everything will be alright as soon as I kick Kelso's stupid ass.

Kelso whines that I always take Eric's side and then has the nerve to get angry when I agree with him. "I will always take Eric's side over anyone. He has sex with me, you moron." He throws himself back against the upholstery and mumbles the word gross, which makes the both of us smile. Eric leans on my shoulder and wraps both his arms around mine as I announce to Kelso that I think I'm going to get some tonight.

"Aw, man, come on, Hyde. Forman, make him stop."

"I'm sorry, Kelso. I can't make him stop," he deadpans. "He's my man and I love him."

Done with us once and for all, Kelso holds forward both hands in the sign that demands a time out. "Just drop me off here and I'll walk the rest of the way, okay, because I cannot hear this." I promise to behave myself and once he relaxes, Forman and I french each other sloppily. "I swear, man, stop the car or I'm jumping out."

"Kelso, man, When I broke things off with Jackie you did nothing but make out with her in front of me so you could rub it in my face every chance you got."

"At least I was rubbing my face against a chick, Hyde. I've got nothing against the weird and unnatural stuff you guys are in to, okay. You know it's not in me to be judgemental, but there are certain naked things that I don't want to picture. I mean, can't you tell this stuff to Fez or does he just hide in your closet and watch like he did with Eric and Donna."

Crap, I never considered Fez might do something like that to Forman and me, though I think he's done it to everybody. I close my eyes and sigh, recounting all the dumb assed baby talk and making out and private sweet stuff that no one else in the world is ever allowed to know about. I'm going to have to hurt him whether he did it or not. "Where is all this coming from in the first place, Kelso? Since when does any of this shit interfere with your sleep?"

"Since some dick at the concert thought I was Forman's old man." Eric and I both laugh loud at that one as Kelso pleads for our indignation. It's explained to me they ran into people from school, all of whom were made privy to young Eric's sensibilities by his blathering ex-girlfriend. "I guess they figured Eric and I were on a date because I'm so hot that I'm every one's wet dream. Don't worry, though, because I told all of them that you and Forman tied the knot in the gayest pink, flowery ceremony I've ever seen." I feel his hand touch my shoulder as he promises my Eric was both safeguarded and entertained, except for the twenty minutes he needed to nail Brooke what's her name, the poor dear.

Eric informs me that Kelso made up an incredible amount of crap about me to protect his own image, including telling most of the jocks from our high school that I wore a white wedding dress and that Forman keeps me on a short leash. Eric explains he did nothing to discourage this because he was afraid they would start making fun of him instead of me. He swears that he loves me; he really does, but it was funny and he enjoyed not being the focus of their ridicule for once. That's fine with me. I'm tough and I can take it. Ungrateful jack ass.

"Well, Kelso, I don't know how to thank you," I smile. "So when we get to your place, I'll let Forman thank you for me."

He's fed up now and reprimands us for laughing at him, demanding I pull over and let him out. I warn him that such a drastic action would be suicide, which distracts him from his tantrum by peaking his interest. He can't imagine what I mean so I remind him of the vision I had at Leo's place.

"The one where I was a priest and Eric was a chick? You told me you couldn't remember the details anymore."

"Yeah, but Eric told you about the part I did remember, right? The part about you being in danger."

"Eric didn't tell me anything!"

Forman is a little confused at first but plays along as best he can. "Oh, the ... yeah, I thought YOU told him, ummm ... about the curse." By the time I'm finished arguing that I didn't tell him because I thought Eric wanted to tell him, Kelso threatens that someone better spill it. Eric fumbles for the words, struggling to assemble a psychological attack that is both entertaining and plausible.

"Well, you were a monk or whatever and we were in Japan. It was, at least, a billion years ago and I think you know exactly who lived in Japan a billion years ago." Kelso snaps his fingers in recognition and Eric nods seriously in confirmation, "That's right, Kelso. It's Godzilla. The spirit of ancient Godzilla swore revenge on you and promised to be reincarnated as modern Godzilla in the year 1979 and, oddly enough, right here in Wisconsin." Eric shrugs, fascinated that ancient Godzilla could possibly know such details, but Kelso maintains that it makes perfect sense, as the creature obviously possesses psychic abilities.

"Hyde, I can't believe you didn't come to me with this information right away. I mean, it's Godzilla, the smartest of all the dinosaur monsters to ever walk the planet and here I don't speak one word of Japanese." His disappointment both delights me and breaks my heart, because I know he'll be an inconsolable wreck when the monster doesn't show up to lay waste to the city. He throws his hands in the air and huffs. "I'm going to need a phrase book, twinkies, some fire crackers and about thirty rolls of duct tape, and that's just off the top of my head." He asks if I can remember anything else, any detail that might aid in Godzilla's capture and defeat. I swear I don't, but warn him that he's going to need a hell of a lot of twinkies to set up a good trap.

"No, the two of you are going to need a hell of a good story to keep Red's foot out of Forman's ass when you guys get home."

I ask to borrow some of his duct tape and twinkies, in case we need to set a trap of our own, but he denies me, certain he'll need every bit he can get his hands on. Forman continues to whine that his father is going to kick his ass, swearing that Red doesn't remember what it's like to be young and have young people problems. "It's like, the biggest problem my dad has ever had is deciding whose ass to shove his foot in."

:)

Green Bay, Wisconsin, 1956

It was sometime in late February when I made the trip back to Green Bay to do the one thing I'd been long dreading. I look back on that day with a feeling of incredible regret, because it permanently and irrevocably changed my life.

I'd managed to get good steady factory work in a plant in Waushara county and was ready to buy my wife her first home, but met with constant obstacles. The car was falling apart, we didn't own our own appliances and our first baby was expected in August. Our apartment was drafty and small, inadequate for raising a family by any standard. Kitty worked at the hospital to help build our savings, but she'll be a mother this year and a mother is not made to work unless her husband can't support her. We'll be trapped in that apartment another year unless my father will float me a loan.

I loved my father very much back then; I respected him. He was an upright guy, a hard worker, an unflinchingly responsible, no nonsense Irish flat foot. He was also a hard man, an unforgiving bastard sometimes, but nothing I couldn't handle because I took after him more than I've ever cared to admit. I have since day one and I firmly believe that was my saving grace. He prepared me for the lifestyle military service affords and raised me to be the head of a household. I joined the navy at seventeen and defended my country in both Japan and Korea, much as my father did in the Great One. He was a church attending Christian and a staunch Republican, ready to knock some sense into the entire pansy-assed world should the occasion arise. I admired his steadfast resistance and ability to dominate and control any situation, but I was his oldest and favorite son, his clone and heir, and I never saw the side of him my baby brother did, not until that day.

My mother had been gone about one a week, fulfilling her role as a dutiful daughter by caring for her own ailing mother in South Bend. The freshly shoveled walk boasted no ice at all and snow was piled at least three feet on each side. It was a horrible winter that year, I remember, making our apartment near impossible to heat. Kitty and I both suffered the season with long lasting colds, which led me back to my father's home. I trudged that sidewalk in shame and stood long at the front door, ready to swallow my pride and confess to him that I was a man who couldn't support his family. My heart pounded as I entered and I broke into a cold sweat at the prospect of approaching my father with my hat in my hand like a common beggar. Though I'd fought and killed in war and buried childhood friends in foreign soil, I was terrified of standing before him like a dumb ass; a failure as a man. As I toured his home, I thought perhaps that I had earned a reprieve, that no one was around. How unbelievably wrong I was.

I stepped onto the back porch, thinking I'd find dad working with his tools. What I found was my fifteen year old brother handcuffed to the porch railing. My father's service revolver, his trusty companion since the day he'd first walked a beat, lay several feet away on a table top next to his reading glasses and his morning paper. I froze in shock as Marty looked up at me in terror, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. He knelt on the deck, unable to straighten and I knew when I saw him that my father had beaten him viciously. My father hit us all the time when we were kids, his temper could be unquenchable, but he'd never done anything like this to either of us; at least, not to me. This I never suspected. Had it happened before? Marty would never tell me, not then and not now. Unbeknownst to me, I was dad junior in his eyes - another enemy, a merciless second tormentor.

For as long as I can remember I've suspected my baby brother to be queer. There is no singular event to which I can trace that suspicion, no defining moment or dominating trait. Despite attending every social function with Mary Louise or her sister Ellen, he tried to play the ladies man and failed miserably. I always suspected that he had something going on with the physical education instructor at the high school and I discovered it was fact when I found the man's picture taped inside his copy of Peyton Place.

My father stepped out of the garage and smiled, waving when he saw me standing dumb struck over my brother. He walked tall, proud of himself that he'd tied down a fifteen year old boy and beaten him with a belt and G-d knows what else. He stood in front of me and said my brother was a faggot, but not anymore. A jolt of terror spread through me and I became light headed in fear of what he implied. I'd never really known my own father until that day, never saw him through the eyes of others. I'd quarrelled with my wife so many times and decried her harsh and naive judgement. She could never put into words what she found so despicable about the man. It was some undefinable thing that she just knew, something innate that told her he was not to be trusted. And I defended him to her. Now I saw the man, not yet sixty with gray hair and horn rimmed glasses, threatening my terrified brother.

I knew he couldn't really mean to kill him, it had to be some sort of horrible game devised to scare him straight. I felt sickened as he launched into a speech about his own father, a lawyer and a hanging judge, and his grandfather, a revered grand master of the Klan. His uncles, cousins and his own brothers as well as theirs were police and military officers, all proud and upstanding, all defenders of our country, just like himself and just like me. Law abiding, law enforcing, honorable men; not homosexuals - not heathens like Marty.

Something snapped in me then, hearing myself compared to those people. I met no resistance as I picked up my father's gun from the table, since it seems he thought I wanted to play, too. I don't know where the voice came from, somewhere above me though it was my own, and I heard it tell my father that it would sooner put him down like a rabid dog than raise a hand to an innocent boy. There's so much I don't remember, we fought for so long. I don't recall kicking in the porch railing so Marty could run free, but I remember holding the broken wooden beam in my hand and shaking it with such fury I thought the world would end. I know my father's anger matched with mine as we sparred, both shaking in our rage. I had betrayed him, was a worthless son, an ungrateful bastard, and a disappointment. I'd broken the chain, the long haughty line of Republican, nigger hating misogynists. I was every foul word in the dictionary to him suddenly, yet had never felt such pride. The father who was my idol, was to me the very measure of a real man, wasted away and died in front of me that day. We never spoke to each other again and I never got the six hundred and fifty dollars for which I'd come to ask.

I collected my teenage brother from his bedroom, stuffed his school clothes into my old navy duffel and told him to leave everything else behind. I held his hand as I lead him out the front door of the only home he had ever known, because I was his father now. As I put him in my car I heard the man who used to be my dad say, "both of my sons are dead!"

He did not allow my mother to contact us and she obeyed him until the day he died, not knowing she had a new grandson until the funeral. I came with Marty and stood beside my father's casket as a courtesy to my mother and as a show for our neighbors, none of whom were aware of the sick secrets that destroyed our home. I shook hands with his old navy buddies and the guys from the force. I thanked them for their kind stories and thoughtful considerations, introducing them to my beautiful new baby boy who they all swore looked like his grandfather. I silently prayed that was untrue, I begged G-d to never let a fate so cruel befall my child, and I knew somehow my prayers would be answered.

Marty turned nineteen the very day our father was put into the ground and years later he told me it was one of the happiest days of his life. He told me that he stood over his father's grave and rejoiced as the victor, reviling in the old demons vincibility, but feeling no remorse because he was certain they'd be reunited in Hell. Marty was terribly far gone in those days, tried to commit suicide twice and was institutionalized for several months before I could keep him at home with me and allow him to be around my children.

I had so much to atone for and I achieved it through him, I think. He slept on the sofa of our cramped apartment with Laurie's crib beside him. As babies go, she was a poor confidant for my brother, but an excellent judge of character, screaming all night, every night to drown out his stories of unrequited love and teenage angst. When we purchased the house in Point Place, Laurie was three and Eric had just been born. Baby Eric was Laurie's polar opposite. Where Laurie resembled me, not only in dashing good looks but in unyielding attitude and intolerance for stupidity, Eric took after Kitty in both calm patience and sweet disposition. Everyone marveled at our quiet, happy bundle who never seemed to cry, probably because both fists were shoved into his mouth at all times. Marty drug the bassinette into his room every night so they could play house. I would stand outside the door as my brother told baby Eric all his secrets and dreams, pouring out his heart to my son as if he were a living, wiggling diary. Marty swore to me Eric would be a shrink one day, that he could see it all in his tiny, knowing eyes and I believed it. When you are as pliant and easygoing as he was then and is now, people gravitate toward you with their issues. It's only right that a person with no threshold for idiocy be allowed to hang up a sign demanding fifty bucks.

Eric was six months old when Marty, who was about to start the junior college, ran off with a much older man he'd met at the K - Mart. He called me every week at first, to thank me and so I wouldn't worry. I called him a dumb ass and handed the telephone to my wife. Five years later the man died of cancer and left Marty homeless and half finished with veterinary school. I sent him what little I could, which was seventy-five dollars. Three weeks later he sent me back double and said he'd met Kevin at the horse track. Kevin was followed by Mark and after Mark was Christopher, probably the biggest idiot of them all. Christopher was said to be the one, the one who could aways be trusted and who would never leave. They came to visit one time and one time only. I found Christopher in my sailor suit and Marty dressed like a pirate. I promised Christopher that he could keep the damn uniform if he promised never to wear it in front of me again. They left the next afternoon and a month later Christopher and Marty were history, but kept their respective uniforms for their next big adventure. Since Christopher, my brother hasn't been able to eat a damn box of Cracker Jacks without looking wistful.

:)

There goes Tokyo

We parked outside of Kelso's apartment, arguing for almost an hour before I caved and took him to Leo's place. I mumbled to myself all the way there, pissed that Eric will fall asleep before I can get down his pants. I was sure tonight would be the big night that we'd get to use the safflower oil, maybe even five of six times, because I'll bet you anything that number three "scratch" is really a number eleven "major body damage". I figured I'd call in dead to work and Eric would keep me in that bed for the weekend in an attempt to prevent me from picking up the Camino.

It's nearing three in the morning so I don't bother to knock, just figure if Leo's passed out stoned we can step over him to get to his stash. I use my key, trying not to make too much noise, but Leo is awake and Josh and Irving are still here. They acknowledge us with a nod, but quickly return to their chants. With japa mala in hand, they pray in sync, one mantra for each of its one hundred and eight beads. We are happily excluded from their activities until Josh catches a glimpse of Kelso and freaks out.

"HOUSHI-SAMA!" His beads spill to the floor and he throws himself at Kelso's feet, followed by a shocked Irving who is weeping with what appears to be relief and joy. Kelso turns to me and points out that his Puma tennis shoes are brand new. He whispers that these guys must really be poor to be so impressed. I take Eric's hand and walk to the kitchen for a drink, stopping only to splash hello to Benny, because I much prefer watching these people from across the room.

"Houshi-sama, most honorable one, we have finally found you!" Irving cries. Kelso just smiles as Josh agrees they would recognize him in any incarnation.

"Hyde, man, did you guys hear that?" Kelso beams. "I'm a Hiroshima."

"I'm happy for you," I promise, pulling Eric onto my lap so we can at least split a beer and make out before the night's over. "Ask if they have any pot."

"Not Hiroshima," Irving warns, "Houshi-sama, buddhist priest. You are the great one. Finally, you have been reborn." Josh adds that he and Irving have searched for him for more than four hundred years and demands to know where he has been all this time.

"Well, my dad is named Jonathan and my mom is Karen. They're both from here. Uh, before I was born I was a sperm, and right before that I was in Heaven."

"Of course!" Josh pushes Kelso to his knees in front of Benny's pool and gives him a string of beads. "Heaven was the safest place to train and increase your strength until you could be reborn. Are you strong enough to fight, Houshi-sama?"

"Oh, definitely. So whose ass are we kickin'?"

Josh and Irving seem confused, not that I care because Forman's tongue is down my throat. I mention that since it's so late, we may as well stay up and get my car from impound when they open. His startled look is expected as is his yanking the front of my jeans open and pulling me into Leo's bedroom. I am going to milk this thing all weekend.

"Honorable priest, Jigoku will chose a new form is this life, so that you cannot recognize him. Over the centuries his powers have increased in each incarnation. I fear we have lost much time preparing you."

"Don't be so hard on yourselves, you guys, I've been having a ball so far. So, this Jigoku is a foreign exchange student or what?"

"Jigoku is evil itself. In your last life you fought, sealing him in the netherworld. But he was not defeated, only ejected from this plane of existence. He will return to you in every life until his soul is extinguished."

Eric and I exit the bedroom hand in hand as the gang surrounds Benny's pool. Leo takes his special and favorite blue bong from the armoire, the one I thought I'd have to die to use, and fills it. We smoke and Eric blows some to a playful Benny who jumps through a poorly formed smoke ring. I'm not sure if I really just saw that, but if I did - that was fucking awesome. Man, I needed this tonight. Eric jerked me off a little rough because Leo's dog was watching and it made him tense and then he almost bit my shlong off when Dr. Zhivago barked at him. I figure once we get home Red will make sure neither of us can relax and I just really like this pot, man. I should give Red some of it! Irving remarks on how amazing it is that the three of us found each other so quickly in this life, and I shrug, really not interested. It was a cool vision I had here, but I don't really believe in any of that shit. Although I'm sure a samurai warrior is exactly what I would have been in another life, if I really lived before. I sigh and picture Eric as the young girl in a green miniskirt from my hallucination, but my reverie is broken as Kelso announces that Jigoku, the evil one, is coming soon.

"That's why I came here tonight, actually. Jigoku has revealed his new form to me." Irving and Josh are near panic as Kelso tells him about the Godzilla thing Eric made up earlier. We choke back laughter and tears as Kelso lays out the facts as well as his plan.

"Most honorable priest, I do not think this is a genuine vision." Josh says, looking overly concerned. "Jigoku could be trying to fool you."

Kelso says there is virtually no chance of that. "I've been waiting for this all my life. It's real."

"But Houshi-sama," Irving stammers, "Godzilla is a movie!" Kelso disagrees and corrects him, confident that Godzilla was actually a documentary.

Irving and Josh join hands with Kelso, reciting a mantra in japanese, and even though I don't speak the language, I'm sure my stoned ass heard G-d help us. Benny splashes them all and Kelso childishly splashes him back. The monks demand Kelso accompany them back to their monastery in Kentucky, where he will be trained in kung fu, meditation and the mystical. He's more excited than I've ever seen him in his life as they explain the basic spells and other magics he will learn.

"But most importantly, Houshi-sama, do you have an automobile? We hitchhiked here."

"In the morning I'll hit my mom up for gas money and we're goin' to Kentucky, man!"

They warn he will train hard for the final battle, because it's one that could well determine the fate of all mankind. Uninterested, I lock Eric and myself in Leo's bathroom so we can take a shower together. I think he's feeling guilty enough to soap me good.

:)

To be continued ...

:)

For those illegally downloading the soundtrack

:) Flirtin' With Disaster by Molly Hatchet
: )Godzilla by Blue Oyster Cult

:)

I'm told that by making so many references to the 70s, the younger readers who WEREN'T ALIVE THEN are being left out of the loop, so let me note that:
:) Cracker Jacks caramel corn has (or used to at least) a picture of a guy in a sailor suit on the box.
:) Aunt Jamima syrup was one of the many products on the market that depicted african-americans in an unflattering and stereotypical light.
:) Peyton Place was one of the sexier and more scandalous literary works of the 1950's. It would probably be equivalent to the TV show Desperate Housewives
:) A gay person was often referred to as "queer" or "a queer", although "gay" had already gained popularity. Homosexual(ity) was often reserved for labeling as a mental illness. Queer was one of the politest terms that could be used, even though it's not so common anymore.
:) A consigliere is the most trusted adviser to a mob boss. What's his name who played f or Springsteen's band was Tony Soprano's consigliere.
:) Someone asked why I spell "G-d" this way. No, I'm not Jewish, but I like their idea that the name is too Holy to be written and because someone might destroy the paper on which it exists. Sometimes I forget and don't find it in a story, so that's why I'm inconsistent.
:) houshi-sama - honorable buddhist priest
:) japa mala - prayer beads
:) Jigoku - hell (Naraku also means hell, or underworld, but I've used Jigoku for him here to make the reference as generic as possible for readers who don't plan to follow this stories optional "Inuyasha" sequel)