The last swig of any beer is always the worst. Either cuz it's the luke warm reminder of what you just drank, or it is the last standing soldier you just plowed through like a Tet Offensive. Swirling the pint glass around in my hand, I eye the backwash feeling the inherent sadness of the whole situation. Another night in Palookaville.

Never could actually pinpoint the occasion when my current lifestyle went bust. Then again my money is it never has, but it's this god-forsaken town. No amount of boo-fucking-hooing is gonna take me back to the glory days of decadent Austin. It's like pissing upwind, something you only wanna do once and learn from it.

I decided it is in my best interest to put this beer out of its misery. No use in putting the beer through my art-fag nightmarish mental dialogue. As I put it in my mouth I see a sight that has always made me smile in boyish delight. The world through the curved glass on the bottom of an empty pint is one of the most beautiful sights you'll be blessed to see. A St. Arnold's blessing to you.

The fact the vision usually comes when you're slightly inebriated is definitely not secondary. For a long time, I thought if I could keep myself buzzing constantly long, I'd reach a self-induced nirvana. But that's bankrupt. You'll be selling roses on the corner within a year. Trust me, I've stood on the void of total-alcoholism with two of my best friends. Lucky for us, we released this rock-n-roll would kill us, and we backed away slowly.

The room tone of boisterous murmur is in quite contrast to the surly punk screaming out the juke box. All these people in a sea of singularity, pretending like the Lost Boys of Peter, pretending to be in a crowd. All the while each one wakes up in the middle of the night worried they are truly alone. That they aren't special, they just don't belong.

I think this is what disgusts me the most about being along in a 6th street bar. The emotional lashing out to gain a sense of acceptance. The shiny-eyed lies of a man trying to get into the realm of his femme-de-dois. But the girls all play their willing part, it takes two to tango.

The snipes of the cacophony, which I heard, put a strange smile on my face. A million half-truths will be woven into a fabric of late-night amour, all to be unraveled by the light of dawn. The self-important grandstanding of a seasoned six street scenster to get into the bell bottom hip hugging pants of a Ritz pool whore is the mating dance of our generation. I, for one, am disgusted by it.

I guess that's why I walk alone, I'm a stranger in strange land, even though this is home. As I shuffled closer to the door, I feel a hand grasp my shoulder in a way only friends are allowed to harass one another. I spin to see the smiling Chester-cat grin of Casino. Underneath his seemingly endless supply of cool hats, his eyes danced with all-knowing, mostly cuz he's seen the shit go down in times we can only simulate in retro-fads. He's the shit, and the world is his. He is what one day I hope to become after all my fucking around.

You never know how you are going to meet in the sphere, it seems like everybody who is anybody who visits town comes here. Mainly, no mater how fucking fab you are, Casino keeps it cool. On tonight's plate were locals of whom I knew but had always made it a point not to know.

"Just trying to stay five steps ahead of the spider", I quipped motioning I did not need, or want, another drink. "The town's lost it's decadence and is gaining it's suburban 'innocence'."

"Everything comes full circle, just to bad Austin turned into the next big thing. It's still a cool town, just different."

We both half-smiled at each other trying to believe what he just said, trying to convince ourselves that we could swallow the notion of an Austin rebirth. The comfortable silence of knowing even if it doesn't, our kind will survive to make a scene another day. "Oh," he said as if waking from a glassy realm we had just made, "I want you to meet to meet Angie. She's trying to make a difference like you."

I prepared to give my non-chalant smile of half-caring till I saw the epitome of beauty in the most classical sense, As she smiles, I realize I am busted. Casino melts into another conversation as soon as the introductions are complete, leaving us to butt heads like rams in the Rockies.

"I was just leaving," I said looking for the best way to get out of this situation. I don't like to lose, and just her smile made me feel like the US World Cup team. Having hung-up my players card a few years back, I have long ago forgotten how to lay down the mack with this caliber of a woo. My fight or flight is kicking in, I choose flee.

"Which way you walking?" she said in a voice that would have made Odysseus's struggle against the mast ropes.

The age-old question. One which has no meaning behind it, yet everything to me at the moment. It is a polite way of saying, ' I don't care enough to care which way you go, but it you're going my way I'll bless you with my presence.' Or I could be reading to much into this. Probably the ladder since I realize this a full ten seconds after she has asked me.

"Well?"

"West."

I feel the words stumble out of my mouth. I bet she thinks I am doing a Jerry Lewis impersonation I say it so oddly.

"Cool, mind if I walk with you?"

Mind? Mind? Fuck, I wouldn't mind if you hit me with a baseball bat, cuz it already feels like you have. Gathering my skills like a gambler gathers his deck, I smile back.

"Sure."

We burst through the doors together out onto the phantasm of stupidity that is Sixth Street. The smelting pot of tourism, frat boys, underage college kids, bums, aggro cops, and the random fool make for a Mardi Gras feel every weekend. They had given up idiocy for Lent, now they are reveling in it.

"My name is Ran,"I say as we stand right outside the bar.

"Yeah I know, Casino usually doesn't lie."

King Ass, that's what I feel like. I'm sure she is impressed with my mad mic skills. The electricity in the air tonight was mainly due to the oppressive heat mixed with sex. You can feel it, the hook-up. The look in the eyes of guys desperately searching for women is a primal thing. The worse thing is they usually travel in packs, and this surely is the reason Angie had garnished my services as an escort down this street of darkness.

We turn and start the trek to the Congress area where she has parked. The weird thing is as we started walking our gate magically matched. Most people don't notice this, but when you see an old couple they seem to have metronomes inside them to match the pace of their partners. It is as if we'd walk miles together before. To make a long story short, it freaks my shit.

"I heard you write," she says trying to mean it in the most non-shleck way she can. I know that she knows, that I know that she knows we both like the cut of each other's jib. Fuck, that sounds straight out of middle school, but she is giving me a goofy feeling of a girl I'd like to be "going with." I feel giddy as a small school girl.

"I write, but getting people to read it is another matter," I reply, trying to sound clever.

Then she does something for the ages. She lets down her guard as we wait for the light at Trinity. She turns to me and braces herself for a thing that hasn't existed on this street in years. Straight-talk.

"Look, it's quite obvious we both find each other attractive, and we both knew each other at least have some kind of credibility, otherwise Casino would not have introduced us. Basically, what I am saying is let's drop the small talk, all the posing and pretenses, all the social bullshit of our generation. For once, I'd like to be real. I want a real coffee shop and pie talk."

How the fuck to come back to that? All your life you wait for something, and when you get it you realize you had no idea what to do with it. I am a little girl and she is the pony, and I am at a loss on how to ride. But not wanting to destroy a fantasy, I fuddle.

"I guess so."

This is what I say. What the hell? A million times I was cold as ice and laid down the mack like a seasoned veteran on girls I half as much care about as this one. Maybe this is the problem, I care. I actually care what this vixen thinks. Even though our total time together was now at a grand total of fifteen minutes; I feel timeless with her. It maybe fantasyland or it maybe real. I am not willing to take the chance.

What if it is real, then I am blowing the love which most people only dream of. An instant and lasting flame that burns in your heart like good pasta primavera. If this is the case, from the current reaction she has from my stellar response, I am blowing it.

"No, sorry," I say stopping in mid-stride. "No, I'm not going to build that gay-ass male ego wale. I do like you."

I nod to some punk rawk kids I know filing into Joe's Generic Bar. Mainly that is done to avert my eyes from hers. I am fagging, god I hate when I'm broken like this. Luckily she looks just as disconcerted by the recent turn of events and stares down the sky. Yes Chicken Little, the sky is falling.

Then after what seems the length of time of a good power metal solo, we look at each other. Now, I've never been a fan of fuzzy puppy warm feelings, but that cute panda is forming in my stomach. My god, her eyes. Every kitsch cliche becomes a reality, all in the span of her face. Good fucking night.

She smiles and brings her finger to my lips and brushes them clean of something.

"You are drooling like a rabid dog." She giggles.

Game over. Game fucking over man. All my cards are instantly played and I know it. I decided there is only one way out. My Bo and Luke escape from Roscoe and Flash. I kiss her. Kiss her rotten.

She looks like a dog pissing on an electric fence, a look which quickly melts into one of al'righty then.

"I think we're ready for the coffee and pie."

We find ourselves in a corner cafe worthy of that overdone '50s painting. Now we are about to square off like two prize fighters. To really find out what the metal of the other really is. To see if there are weaknesses or kinks in the armor.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked me my sign," she says.

"If I actually believed in that shit I would have. I just think it's another excuse people use for not succeeding on a daily basis."

"Surely, you have to believe in something. Otherwise, when you fall, you don't have a cushion."

"Let's just say I might break my neck, but I survive."

"Well, even Superman broke his neck."

"Oh, I was hoping I could blame all my problems on bad parenting or a traumatic childhood experience, but I guess that's not going to work on you."

"Richard Simmon has better chance of getting me in bed than that happening."

By this time we are mutually laughing at the antics of the other monkey. Kick ass, a funny girl. She even made a handi-cap joke to make a point. I am about to start the sparring again when the waitress finally meanders to our booth.

"Whatcha want?" barks the waitress, who seems more interested in the booth down the row which also housed what appears to be her boyfriend.

"How about service with a smile?" Angie counters, girls kick ass.

The gum literally almost fell out of the flo-prototype waitress's mouth.

"Now I got your attention, I want coffee and chocolate pie, what are you having?"

"I'll also be having service witha smile, with coffee and banana creme pie on the side."

"Okay, " she manages to get out before she storms toward the counter.

"Banana, huh? Very Freudian, you trying to make subliminal messages about later?" she quizzes.

"Oh, like your chocolate pie wasn't a single."

"Heh, I could make a million bad jokes, but the Senator form the great state of good taste abstains."

We laugh, then she got a funny look on her face.

"I caught you in a lie."

"What!?!"

"You said you didn't believe in anything, yet you site Freud."

"Yeah, but that's based on facts and studies, not fantasy thought up by a civilization that's long since gone defunct."

"Sorry, but I'm gonna half to call bullshit on that."

"Why? It's a proven school of thought."

"Freud based his schlock on a group of sexually oppressed Victorian housewives, and this is suppose to represent us all?"

She looks startled as I giggle at this.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, just oppressed Victorian house wife sex life pretty much describes my current bedroom scene."

"Join the club."

Just as she says that, Flo the waitress (as she will be known), slides, and I mean fucking slides, our pies across the table and slams down the coffee and takes off. Nevermind, I get choco and her the creme.

"You seem to have my chocolate," she says leaning over to get her plate.

"And you seem to be handling my banana."

She looks my in the eyes and says, "better be careful what you wish for, chief."

"Heh, you said chief."

"Sorry, kemosabe."

"It's okay, boss-man."

"No sweat, jehe."

"That's good, tuff guy."

"No worries, captain."

"No skin off my teeth,....", I pause, not knowing another epitaph, "okay, you win."

"I usually do."

"Don't get cocky, this was only round one, and you still got my banana in your hands."

She shakes her head playfully, and we trade prisoners. Luckily, silverware is already on the table so we didn't need to bother princess over across the diner.

"So how do you eat your pie?" she asks.

What does she mean? Feeling a test I think for a second. I finally arrive at the most obvious answer.

"Usually I just eat it. You know, the whole fork in the mouth thing. Works best for me."

"No you smart ass, " she says laughing. "Do you eat layer by layer, or all three at once? You can tell a lot about a person from that."

"How so?"

"Well, later by layer you like to divide and enjoy things on a singular level. All three at once, you like the mix life all at once like a gestalt painting. That's what makes you happy."

"I think you're putting to much into pie eating."

"Or you don't put in enough."

"For the record I'm the type of guy who..."

"...Likes to eat all the layers at once," she interrupts.

"How did you know that?"

"You would have thought about the pie-eating allegory if you eat in layers," she says smiling. "Wonder what Freud would say about that."

I stop in mid-bite and swallow.

"I'm down 2-0 aren't I?" I ask.

"Oh yeah, pass the sugar."

I give her the sugar dispenser and pause for a second.

"How come you use the dispenser instead of sugar packets? Seems like you'd like to ponder the life story of each parcel before it smelted with the coffee and milk."

She looks at me and then the sugar packets, then the dispenser.

"2-1," she sighs and laughs.

"So why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are two good-looking intelligent people like us alone?"

"I think it's cuz we expect to much. We've grown up seeing the prefect love, or date, or chance meeting on television, movies, and books for years. Everyday love isn't good enough anymore. It has to be a Speilbergian explosion of lust, romance, and desire. A bowling game of 300."

"You think?"

"I know."

"Oh, you know."

"Why? What is your explanation?"

"Easy, we're simply in touch to much, that's why we're alone. The better technology gets for us to communicate, the more isolated we become on a personal level."

This nearly causes her to snort the pie out her nose. She smirks and drinks some of her coffee.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, it's just it's so silly. How could that possibly true?"

"Again, quite easy," I counter, "technology has become the medium for communication right?"

"Yes."

"Okay the more advanced the technology becomes the more of a filter it became on an interpersonal level."

"Anyway, take the phone for example. They let you hear the voice of the other person. You can tell a lot about the inclination and tone of voice they use, but you lose all body gestures."

"Poor Italians."

"Yes, poor people. Now take email. You lose the voice, too. And beepers, you get a short cryptic message. The more advanced it becomes, the more distorted from the true essence it becomes."

"2-2, but that was some serious soapboxing."

"Well, you're the one who backed me into a corner. I am an intellectual goy-badger, had to get out."

"From the soapbox to the cross."

"Are you my Judius Pious?"

"You're just a fountain of pop references aren't you?"

"Like one long Beasties Boys' song."

She is coyly looking at my while eating her pie. We both know. What it is we have no idea. But we both know it like we know our names. We are the secret sharers.

There are few times when all things seem right in world. It is if you are kicking it with Yoda on the good side of the force. Where you feel like this person you have just meet has always been across the table from you. I see her in deep thought, toying with her pie.

"We're perfectly...."

".....insink."

I almost drop my fork as I realize she is thinking the same thing as I am. She took another stab at the pie, leaving some on her chin. I reach across the table and wipe it clean. She catches my fingers and sucks off the filling.

"So I don't get to taste your pie?"

She laughs and pushes my hand across the table.

"What is it for guys, like every 15 seconds you think of sex?"

"Three actually, it's like having a porno playing constantly in the background."

"Oh really? what porno usually runs through your mind?"

"Oh you know the classics. Anything with Ron Jeremy or Dixie Dynamite in it. Preferably 70s film porn as opposed to video."

"That's good, as long as it's the classics."

"Actually, I'd prefer a good Russ Meyer film over porn any day."

"Like the tough girls?"

"Even my feminie side is a lesbian."

"I guess that makes 2-3?"

"No," I reply in a quiet voice, "I believe we're playing for the same team now."

She leans over and grabs my hand.

"About time," she says, sipping her coffee.

"Time is your crime and it's 18 and life to go."

She snorts the coffee through her nose in true elementary school lunch fashion. After gaining control, she has to clear the tears from her eyes. God, what great eyes. I can stare at them forever. Just sit there and stare.

"You know, secretly, I'm all about the metal," I offer her when I think she can handle it without scorching her sinuses again.

"The foot on the monitor guitar power solo?"

"Only if they have a fan blowing their hair around."

"How do you feel about catwalks at stadium shows?"

"You kidding me? You ain't no real rock star unless you are out on one pointing at a topless groupie during your ballads."

We mutually almost lose our coffees that time.

I regain my posture and say, "Ballads are all about the ladies. Of course, everything I do, I do for the ladies."

"So I noticed, " she says pointing out the dribbles of coffee I have managed to get on my shirt.

"Yeah, I got a drinking problem."

Again, the laughter of a newly from couple escapes us at the same time. You know the laugh, the kind that grates you when you are alone. A position to many of our generation find themselves in today. Super jaded, super isolated.

But not me, not tonight. I feel like the feeling a massy star song gives you. Of love that could be, but may never be. She is gazing back at me in a way I have forgotten people look at each other. A look I've seen my grandparents give to each other when the family is gleefully encamped around them on Christmas. A content look like no other.

I have forgotten I am even holding her hand it feels so natural. It hits me then how sweaty both our hands are. Yet, her hand fits so perfectly like an ergonomic masterpiece. A predestined hand shape to one day be hold in mine, at this moment, at this place. Right here, right now.

"I know," she says as she presses her hand into mine. "They're like puzzle piece. Kinda freaky, huh? You know, when I stepped out tonight, I had no idea. No idea, of you. Of the way you make me feel. You are the monkey wrench, but one that confuses me. I thought I could be happy alone. No games. No nothing. I guess I always just needed to love myself before I could love anyone else."

"I always feel guilty when I make love to myself and don't take myself to a dinner and movie first. If it's Saturday and I know I'm dating Rosey and her four crazy sisters, I like to maybe even get a manicure and hand massage, but that's on special occasions."

"Do you take anything seriously?"

"No, unless count computer games, but then I discovered cheat codes. Now I feel dirty when I play. Especially when I put in the code to get the girl from tomb raider get naked, then I feel both dirty and lame."

"Computer Nerd?"

"Phear my ereetness."

"You don't have that evil star trek or comic book sickness do you?"

"I did, but I went to Schik, they made me watch NFL and grunt a lot until my machismo reached the appropriate level."

"No loin clothes and drums?"

"Naw, just pork rinds and cheap beer."

"So, quit skirting the question, why do you never take anything seriously?"

I sit looking at her like she is an oracle, only I forgot my black ram and Macedonians. This is the question I didn't have an answer to, mostly due to I am afraid to ask myself. Our generation is built to scoff at any sense of tangibility or tradition. Can I actually be the end product of the society I long thought I am above?

Would she laugh if I tell her this? That sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night sweating, consumed by the fear I am truly alone. How I look out my window to the skyline and cry. I cry like a fucking baby because I am afraid.

I decided all systems go with this girl. Ground control to Major Tom, count down started, mission on.

"I'm afraid of my singularity in this society of obsessive pluralism."

"Huh, I think I'm losing something in the translation. Perhaps a symbolic allegory involving the condiments will help."

I look at her and I know she truly wants to know. If we can bridge the last river Qui and both realize the essence of our refusal to adhere to any organized organization, then we can form our own together. A dyad for the ages.

I look at the table for acceptable materials to distill the jinx of our generation. If there is ever been a point for all my reading, studying, observing, and corresponding, all my thinking, it is for this precise pinnacle, this zenith of fabricating a new quilt of socialization.

I take the sugar dispenser and pour out a pile of sugar.

"See this is everybody. We're each a grain of sugar. To the untrained eye we look like a pile of sugar, but upon closer inspection you realize it is actually a pile of individual pieces. The only way we ever seem combined fully is if we're dissolved by a common medium."

"Society melts into one, if you take it seriously. I guess what I'm afraid of most is losing myself in the coffee. Losing what makes me, me, when society makes it's demand on me to be part of it. I am afraid of being alone in a crowd, only I am more afraid of being changed, manipulated and alone more. I'm afraid of the coffee."

She looks at me then at the mess I have made on the table, then back up to me. She sighs and slowly shakes her head.

"I am sorry, but I just can't buy that. It's just, ...... wrong."

She stands up and throws a couple of bucks on the table and goes out of the door. No good-bye, no explanation of what is right to the wrong. She just leaves me there wondering.

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