May 16, 2010 - The Day the Music Died
For Dio: The Only Appropriate Tribute
Coffee. My mouth tasted like coffee and a little bit like cheese Danish, probably because it was full of coffee and a little bit of cheese Danish.
The constant, clattering rattle of my fellow office workers typing was somehow amplified and made hollow, bouncing off the walls of my cubicle. One half of my hand was asleep, split down the middle vertically: The ring and pinky fingers gone numb. Something about the height at which I held my mouse did that, I presumed. I fumbled it over and closed Firefox. I swallowed my coffee; it was the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.
Shit, I mumbled in shock.
Whats up, man? Everything OK? Stanley, my friend in the cubicle opposite me, poked his head over the wall like the neighbor from Home Improvement. I hated when he did that. Trying to hold a conversation with somebody peeking down at you over a wall while you remain sitting at your desk is so fundamentally awkward. Your seated posture, which seemed so natural a second ago, suddenly feels stupid and inappropriate.
Dio just died, I recited to him, like I had only memorized the words phonetically and had no idea as to their meaning.
What? Who?
I stood up abruptly, the back of my knees straightening so quickly that they sent my wheeled office chair spinning out into the corridor between cubicle rows.
Whoa, whats going on, dude? Stanley asked, coming around the barrier to stare into my face. Oh shit. I know that look. Thats the Im going out to get supernaturally tanked and engage in a series of increasingly wacky shenanigans that accidentally end in tragedy look. Am I right?
No, Stanley, I informed him, adjusting the length of my shirt-cuffs on my wrists and straightening my tie, What happens next is very deliberate. In a moment, I am going to take the elevator to the ground floor, where I will exit this building. I will proceed two blocks east to Promenade Plaza, where I will strip naked and lay siege to the doughnut shop. If police arrive, I will maul them with my teeth. I will escape on foot, and make my way to the fairgrounds out by the paper mill. Once there, I will burn down the circus. Then I am going to steal the largest, fastest car I can find, and I am going to crash that car at a terrible speed into the oldest and most sacred looking tree I can find. I will then mouth-fuck the OnStar operator from the wreckage.All measure of reason drained from Stanleys face.
But why? He asked plainly.
Because Dio taught me, in part, what it is to be a man. Oh, he did not teach the rational lessons: He did not teach me morality, or responsibility, or restraint. No, Stanley, he taught me that being a man means sometimes ruining things in the most extravagant fashion possible. Because you can, and because its awesome. And Dio died today, so now I am going to ruin things. I am going to ruin everything, Stanley. For Dio.
I took another bite of Danish; I would need the calories.
But first, Stanley, first I am going to orally pleasure the receptionist - your fianc - on top of the copier. I will set the machine for 666 copies, and if she has not climaxed by the time its finished making them, I will throw her out the window. Ill be sure to mail one to you, buddy.”
W wh
Whats that? Why? You want to know why, again? Because you didnt know his name, Stanley. You didnt know his god damn name. But you will now. It was Ronnie James, incidentally. Ronnie James Motherfucking Dio.But thats okay: I promise this time, you wont soon forget it.
I polished off the rest of my coffee, and gently pushed him aside.
Welp, I gotta be off now to pleasure your woman and commit some Tribute Crimes. Oh, and Stanley?” I turned, clapping him reassuringly on the shoulder, “Ride the tiger, buddy. Ride the tiger.