My parents put me in this contraption. It is called a bicycle. The way it works is that your mommy sits in front of you, and you sit in the back, and she moves her legs around, and the road starts to get all blurry.
We did this the other day. I felt like I was in a Dennis Hopper movie about controlled substances. Everything got all trippy, man. It was like, we were moving, but like, I was sitting in this chair, man. If you ever find yourself in this position, and you look down at the swiftly-flowing ground, watching the bicycle wheels spinning round, the spokes blurring into an infinite division of time, measuring the fragmented compartmentalization of the individual specks of sparkly stones embedded in the road surface, it makes you want to order a pizza. Or, like, ten pizzas.
I don’t know why this trippy stuff gets you so hungry, but it does. You want to eat an entire bag of hemp-and-soy flavored potato chips from Whole Foods. Seriously, though, I think part of the trippy-ness of this is because they make you wear this helmet.
I have worn floppy hats and caps, but they all basically say Carl Reiner on a fishing trip. The helmet thing is different because helmets change the way you feel about everything. Look at snowboarders and skateboarders, and soldiers and construction workers dangling off tall buildings. They are risk-takers. They are all pushing it to the edge, man. That’s what I feel like in my orange helmet, sitting in my trippy, flying chair. I am getting all extreme and stuff, just sitting there. I am out of the comfort zone. I am riding out of the box, man. I am out of control sitting in my chair, with my mommy sitting in front of me, watching the world flow by like an Impressionist painting, as if I knew what that was. But in this trippy experience, man, I feel like I do. I know Monet. I can’t tell you how. I just do. Had I visited him as he was painting those water lilies I would have jumped into that pond. I would have eaten the water lilies to see what they tasted like. I would have cried when my mommy hauled me out of the pond and said it was time to go home and get lunch.
I would have stolen a look backward as she carried me ass-first out of there, screaming my head off, but noticing the old man daubing at his canvas, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, muttering at the noisy children who pollute his peaceful pond with their ravings.
Trippy, I’m telling you. Totally. I can tell you Jackson Pollack did mash glass into his paintings with his bare feet, that Braque was mildly pissed when Picasso ripped him off, that Munch originally went with a tunnel instead of a bridge for the background. This is what happens when you get on one of these bicycle things and everything starts to blur. You start knowing things you didn’t know before. You start riding out of the box, man. It’s weird. Pass the potato chips. I’m so hungry.