High 5ives and the Strict Policy Pertaining To

I prefer furtive fives on the sly after some sleazy shots of Corralejo @ The Tap Room in Hotel Congress while the sweat of swamp cooler hell stings my eyes and the throbbing grooves of a local Tucson, Too-stoned power trio thump wildly in the next room; overriding my heart beat and my desperately dwindling inhibitions. Then, amazingly, I begin to high five with reckless abandon. I high five the hippies and the cowboy poets. I high five the liquid lesbians and the trust-fund hipster college kids. I high five Tiger:

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/TheRange/archives/2009/05/29/tiger-celebrates-50-years

and a couple of the bouncers. I high five some homeys and I high five your Mom. I high five the punks and I high five some Yaqui. Then, in a simple twist of cosmic misfortune, I accidentally Buddha Palm one of the bouncers, but he amazingly takes it in stride because of my enthusiasm, my glassy eyes, and my surly, shit-eating, sheepish grin. The room spins. Exhaustion looms. The world fades to black, for whom the bell tolls, holier than thou. Enter sandman. I go with a cowardly lion growl and lazy deuces chucked towards God and everyone. Don't mind me. I'm just looking for my hat.

Then, curiously, I wake up in a pool of my own sick on the floor of some party girls slump block adobe casita off of 4th Avenue. I grab my clothes and my head, wandering off into the hellish fury of the rising Sonoran sun oven, and vow, never again, to brandish the overwhelming and mysterious power of the high five in vane. Word is bond.

 Beck - High Five (Rock The Catskills)