I’m so happy.
‘Cause today I found my friends.
They’re in my head.
— the prophet Cobain
He’s staring at me.
It was a weird day at the track. A woman was running the wrong direction. The Kid on the Green Bike was bouncing off the fence. And the bees were gone.
The table was still there. The police tape was still there. The signs were still there. The bees were not.
This can mean one of two things. Either a beekeeper has taken them to live on the farm with my grandparents, or they’re hiding. Waiting. For the right time.
I watched the Twilight Zone as a kid, and it taught me a valuable lesson: The world is black and white. I’m not sure how this relates to an ominous bee story, but I’m sure Rod Serling could bring it together in the third act.
My left ITB is bugging me. Mo, ever the jokester, suggests stretching. Mo cracks me up. Then she suggests running the wrong direction, since the only other person on the track is running the wrong direction anyhow. It’s funny how you can be married to someone for 16 years and not know them at all.
But in the end it’s OK. I’m in the Zantes but I took the insoles out because I think they had the Bad Mojo, and things felt OK. Mo has Pop Tarts. I have a Hershey bar. I prop my feet up. And he’s staring at me.
Cobain. He’s across the room. He’s inside the guitar. He’s giving me the Stink Eye.
Every day it’s the same. I’m sitting here, reading a short story about an insane elderly man who finds himself in charge of the country, and Cobain is staring at me with those steely eyes. Not to be confused with Steely Day eyes. Becker and Fagen have never given me the Stink Eye.
Why is he doing this? Is it because I once threw away a perfectly good Fender Jaguar? My brief flirtation with Hole? My fervent belief that Neil Young is the only True Religion? He won’t say.
He just stares at me. Black-and-white Cobain looking out of a technicolor guitar. A Twilight Zone epidode waiting for a debut. Dead Grunge King and the Missing Bees. Although that may have been a Smashing Pumpkins album. For the record, Billy Corgan has never given me the Stink Eye.
Maybe you can explain this one day, Cobain. Why did you have to kill yourself? Why are you staring at me? What the hell does “Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet” mean?
Mostly, stop staring.
Oh, well, whatever. I’ll just prop up my feet and wait for Mr. Serling. Never mind.