I regret an awkward silence that took place when I met Paul McCartney at Safeco Field. In a smallish room, he said he’d had a dream a few nights prior about crossing a river in a tub. I told him a dream I’d had about crossbow hunting for politicians with Chewbacca. I described how there was a herd of Jeb Bushes springing around a forest like deer and grazing on fields of money grown by Saudi Arabian children. Chewbacca had Velcro instead of fur. New Jersey governor Chris Christie was a bull that mounted anything that moved. Chewbacca crossbowed him in the ear. Paul McCartney said, “Velcro fur sounds nice.” I told him all the smaller animals were hopping up and sticking to the Velcro. Chewbacca was saving them from the large, horny bull. After Christie was killed, Chewbacca and I were taking a leak side-by-side on a tree, and Chewbacca wanted to have a “sword fight.” That’s when the awkward silence came. Because I asked Paul McCartney if he ever used to have sword fights with his pee. “You know,” I said, “where you’re peeing next to someone and your pee crosses their pee?” He didn’t answer. He did laugh, though. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I guess he sort of nodded. That’s bullshit, though—I know he had sword fights when he was younger. He and John Lennon probably had sword fights all the time.
Other 2013 regrets. I regret what the Big 6 agrochemical companies—Monsanto, Dow, BASF, Bayer, Syngenta, and DuPont—are doing to the world. I believe they're killing the bees and killing us all. I don't regret recent findings by a team of Japanese physicists suggesting the universe may be just a holographic projection.
I regret that people can't take heated mud baths while listening to Master Musicians of Bukkake play live seven days a week. There could be an amphitheater full of sonic-mud-soaking sarcophaguses (sarcophagi?), an hour a day, every day. We'd live forever.
I regret that the sound of the sink dripping, the clock ticking, and the gigantic metered bang of the construction-site pile driver down the street fell into the most disgusting and unforeseen cadence. A sick beat. A beat that matched and fed me into the Battles' song with Blonde Redhead's Kazu Makino, "Sweetie & Shag." Now I've listened to it five times, and this column is due.
The last thing is a drive-in diner in the middle of the Mojave Desert. I regret to inform you that it is floating in the air. You stand in its shadow, wrapped in the warm, rotten smell of leaf-succulent yuccas in the breeze, and listen to the rusted hovering structure creak and teeter. Yuccas smell like spoiled meat to attract flies because they help the yucca's pollination (ask any botanist). A rope ladder drops out of the diner's door. You climb it. When you reach the threshold, you see Stevie Wonder sitting inside at a Fender Rhodes keyboard. His eyes are open and completely transparent, so when you look at him, you see the desert and clouds through the diner's windows out the back of his head. Wonder says, "I'm glad you decided to climb," then plays you "Lookin' for Another Pure Love" off his 1972 release, Talking Book. Guitarist Jeff Beck is there. It sounds un-fucking-believable. When the song is finished, he presses play on Sex Worker's "Next to You" and serves red wine and flatbread. As the song ends, he turns to you with desert-sky eyes blazing and says, "This place, you know, this rock we're on, it's just a Super Ball bouncing way off the roof of a big black Buick station wagon. One bad bounce, and it's gone." Then, regretfully, your time with Stevie comes to a close. Time to climb back down, hike back to civilization, and resume life. It's so hot out you can see heat rising from the sand like charmed invisible cobras.