The Flaming Lips With A Little Help From My Fwends Warner Bros Records

04 10

The mirror only served to confirm Wayne’s fears. His t-shirt bulged around the waist. Middle age had not been kind. Slept through the morning, again. He tugged at the soft cotton and remembered that thing his mother had told him about eyes. About how they never aged. Lies, he thought, as he analysed the silk-thread-thin, red lines that mapped a path across their whites.

“What the fuck” – he was talking to himself – “is that?” He wiped the crust from his lids, vaguely remembered the dingy tattoo parlour. He remembered a promise. Something about a dead dog. Something about The Beatles. He remembered Miley talking about some cool band she’d heard. The drummer from The Thunderbolts or something. He thumbed through the text messages he’d missed. Slept through the morning, again. ‘Studio booked 😉 M xo’. He recoiled, eyes watering from the harsh glow of the screen. “What have we done?” Michelle appeared from the bedroom, clutching the tattoo, ruffling her hair. “Have you seen Pitchfork?” She writhed as she sank back into bed.

Downstairs Wayne looked deep into his coffee as he googled ‘Black Pus’. He shook his head. Kids these days. Michelle, calmed joined him. “You’re smiling?” She said. “Yeah, I guess I am.” Wayne’s black hair was still curly, still thick. “That girl needs help,” he said, “and I’ll do whatever it takes.” Michelle turned. That wry smile he’d always loved. “You’re still the man I married Wayne.” He laughed. “Hey, at least Pitchfork are still writing about me.”

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