In the Company of the Damned
I am fortunate to be counted as a friend of the married couple who own and operate Comic Relief (to be codenamed Mr. and Mrs. Comic Relief?), my comic book store. They are also friends with an old marching band comrade of mine, Lauren, codename: the Smoke Eater. One evening a couple weeks hence, the Comic Reliefs ran into the Smoke Eater at a horrific local bar and informed her that I, in all my resplendent glory, was back in Grand Blanc. The Smoke Eater composed a short note for me on the back of a receipt, informing me of her mobile phone number. Before I saw the Comic Reliefs and had a chance to receive from them her note, the Smoke Eater emailed me. I emailed back and gave her my mobile number. (Welcome to the future. I still say I'm owed a damn rocket pack.) The Smoke Eater called me the next day, we chatted briefly, and made vague plans to spend time together.

This Wednesday, a fortnight later, I ran into the Smoke Eater while picking up the week's new comics. She scolded me for not calling her and I gently reminded her that the telephone is a two-way device. She responded that she had previously called me; so, the obligation had been mine. Very well, if that's the level of maturity at which we're to operate, so be it. I then asked the Smoke Eater what she was doing the following evening, Thursday night. She froze like a deer caught in headlights. "You can't put me on the spot like that!" Ye gods, woman, you wanted me to call you! Now we have the chance to meet face-to-face. A plan was agreed for me to ring the Smoke Eater on Thursday evening, to be followed by indeterminate socializing.

I called as agreed and after some tiresome wrangling we rendezvoused in the parking lot of Kickers (or Kicker's, I do not know which), her favorite watering hole. Sweet mercy. It was, as are pretty much all the bars in the greater Flint area, a nightmare, a dank, dark pit with a low ceiling, a few insipid electronic gambling machines, a plethora of televisions so you have to neither face nor converse with your tablemates, and that unmistakable musk of men and women who have been well and truly defeated by life. I was in the company of the damned.

Over the course of the next hour and half, I met several of the Smoke Eater's fellow part-time firefighters; heard the phrase "dirty Sanchez" used more than in any other similar interval to which I have been a party; listened to the meandering tale of how a married couple had purchased a new refrigerator, a tale replete with protestations against the price of major appliances; and witnessed an escalating series of accusations about which member of the company was guilty of the most egregious inebriated idiocy. The "highlights" of the evening were the Smoke Eater's outrage at being judged by a friend who had caught her using chewing tobacco and a monstrous discussion about the cinema. Napoleon Dynamite was praised as a cinematic triumph (my words, theirs were more crude) while Shaun of the Dead was disparaged as two hours of her life that Tuba Girl could never recover. Hot Shots and Hot Shots: Part Deux, among the premiere comedies of ours or any age, were also counted among the worthless. I sipped my Guinness, did my level best to focus on the Florida State-Wake Forest football game, and waited for a sufficient window of time to pass for my exit not to be construed as rude.

For the life of me, I cannot understand why the national suicide rate is not higher. How do those wretches muster the courage to face another day of... that... without succumbing to the sweet release of self-annihilation? I am uncertain of what to feel in this instance. Scorn? Contempt? Pity? I have fulfilled any obligation I might ever have had to the Smoke Eater, and all the arrayed legions of Hell could not force me to again set foot inside that vile place. I've already washed the clothes I wore last evening, but I must admit to some temptation to ritually burn them, to truly purge them of the taint. I like those jeans, though, making a bonfire unlikely. Going forward, I fondly hope that my memories of the evening fade with admirable rapidity.

For a more positive view of Mankind: Neat!

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Five Iron Frenzy, "Pre-Ex-Girlfriend" from Five Iron Frenzy 2: Electric Boogaloo (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: Every man wishes to win the heart and eventually the hand of a girl who is better than he deserves. Go for broke, lads, you've nothing to lose and everything - because she's everything - to gain.