Recently, I’ve noticed that I’ve fallen into a rut of sorts.
Every day it’s eat, sleep, fly kites, shoot trap, hang glide, score PCP, poop and repeat. I’ve allowed myself to succumb to the human tendency to craft routines, so as to streamline one’s existence to varying degrees. Although this is an efficient way to live, I grow bored with it.
Thankfully, just as I sink knee deep in my doldrums, my old buddy Brad Pitt rang me up from one of eight satellite phones in his freshest G5. If that jet’s walls could talk, they’d probably scream.
Anyway, our convo went something like this:
“Big Will. It’s Brad. Just picked up two-dozen of the ripest peyote buds from Ignud, my old Sherpa buddy that I met during my work on ‘Seven Years in Tibet,’” Brad said. “Dude knows his stuff. I’m barely two deep, and I think I can already feel my brain sprouting miniature brains inside my skull.”
Now, this is classic Brad. Tripping the funk out, travelling at 450 mph, bragging on his crazy international contacts and his fantastic movie career in one fell swoop. It gets a bit old, but the dude’s freaking global, so I get over it.
“Wow, Brad. Can’t say I’m not surprised, but I can’t say I’m not impressed either,” I said. “Where are you, or we, heading Pitt stain?”
He hates that nickname, but I do what I please.
“I’m heading to pick you up. A group of my extremely talented actor friends are getting together on the top of Mt. Rainier to help tag some mountain goats for the Department of Natural Resources,” Brad said. “Kind of tedious work, but I can’t think of a better way to spend a Tuesday.”
“OK. Well, there’s a slight problem,” I said. “I’m sitting on my couch, and you’re cruising at about 28,000 feet.”
“Oh, don’t sweat that. I’m detaching my helicopter as we speak. There in 20. Deuces.”
Mere moments after I heard those chopper blades whirr to attention, the trees around my house started dancing something fierce with Brad opting to use the street in front of my place as a makeshift helipad, stopping Main Street traffic in both directions.
People gawked and snapped photos as I climbed into the cockpit, and leaving crumbled concrete in our wake, which will probably not be repaired for years, we took to the skies. Looking over to greet my old buddy, I immediately noticed that his pupils were the size of dimes.
“Wow, Brad. How are you driving this bird right now? You’re sweating like you’re on death row,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure driving a chopper while under the influence of some crazy shaman’s sweet peyote is fairly ill-advised.”
While I was talking, all Brad was doing was looking out the window, seeming to have not heard a word I just said. I was wrong.
“This is nothing. I was on LSD pretty much the entire time I was married to Jennifer (Aniston),” he said. “Compared to that, this is like brushing my teeth.”
Rising up to meet his circling G5, Brad seamlessly docked his chopper. Taking the attached elevator, I wasn’t surprised at all to see a gaggle of celebs mixing it up, drinking Louis XVI cognac while they watched the championship game in a checkers tournament, of all things.
Circled around Johnny Depp and Adrien Brody, the crowd “Ooh-ed and Ahh-ed” as Depp picked apart Brody’s defenses. Johnny’s back row unmoving and resolute, Brody was swiftly overtaken, and Depp immediately called for his winnings. Behind it all, a familiar album was playing on Brad’s reel-to-reel system. Shocked, I inquired about what we were hearing.
“Brad… Is this the original master tape of Hendrix’s “Electric Ladyland?” I asked. “I thought he lost it in a taxi, and they had to re-record the whole album?”
“Yeah, good ear. Cost me three million, but I’m going to categorize it as a worthwhile investment,” Brad said.
Not concerned with the musical selection, Depp wasn’t letting Brody off the hook.
“Adrien, I believe you owe me one soul,” Depp said. “I didn’t want to do that to you, but you shouldn’t have been so insistent. Pay up, sucker.”
As Brody and Depp discussed exactly how to pass one soul to another, I realized that everyone on board had the same black hole pupils that Brad was sporting. Fearing for my safety somewhat, I took Brad aside to voice my concerns.
“Brad, is everyone on peyote?” I asked. “Who’s driving the plane?”
“My pilot got swine flu, so I gave him the afternoon off,” Brad said. “It’s all good though, because I finally got to use the autopilot feature on this baby… Will, why aren’t you on peyote yet? Chomp some of these rascals down. I’m going to do some crunches.”
Well, needless to say, I dabbled. I only chomped one of these green racket balls, but let me tell you, that was all it took to ride that wave. Almost immediately, I could see the past and the future simultaneously, knowing that the Packers were going to finish the season 6-10 and where I left my favorite Pez dispenser at the exact same time. High quality shit, to say the least.
Feeling the plane begin to descend, I knew the Mt. Rainier mountain goat mission was nearing its apex. Brad took a few of us at a time, regretting to inform us that Adrian Brody wouldn’t be joining us, apparently due to a dire need to have a long conversation with his mother.
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