Expensive Evil - Kokomo, or Global Thermonuclear Burnout

A vacation.

Welcome back to Expensive Evil, a nonfiction series about my biannual trip outside. Only fools post on Saturday, so here we are. I planned a quick and dirty entry, and found a blockbuster. One covering an island bachelor party. Kind of. Not at all. The first third’s free and public. The rest is for the people keeping me alive. Either way, thanks for reading.

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Rated T for Teen. Comic Mischief, NYPD Habits, Consumer Revolts.

1. Kokomo

Not literal Kokomo.

These titles normally click at the end, long after the paywall. Making sense is a subscriber bonus. But the Beach Boys’ favorite island is beyond my budget and interest. “Kokomo” has played on loop in my brain for about four months, and tiptoed onto the playlists I curate in place of an internal monologue.

I’m serious about the internal monologue. My head’s silent as a judge’s conscience. I’m told that’s strange, or proof I’m missing a few screws. That’s fine. Personal narrators sound maddening. I can barely deal with the imaginary cohost here.

Kokomo. Keep up.

And Brooklyn, where I perfected my brooding routine. It mixed classic Wayne moods with new school Parker wit. Almost like a Ennis-era Castle, but on different lists. And miles ahead of any given Spawn. Sadly, there weren’t any gargoyles in Owl’s Head Park. Just an owl statue. You can’t brood on an owl statue.

I noticed the invitation at 3 AM. It was sent at a sane time, two days earlier. But I haunted Owl’s Head after hours. Business email felt more palatable by the trees and ramps, and Meta apps went under business. After all, Zuckerberg read along. I looped a surf soundtrack, like a dozen other identical nights. With some other flavors.

The habit started with “Economy of Death,” the psychic opposite of “Kokomo.” Then the Spotify robot pulled up “Kokomo.” Don’t ask me why, the machine’s whims drift further from apekind every day. Maybe I needed pacification after The Refused, to avoid canceling my membership or slandering my representative. Ironically. Comedian slander’s ironic.

From there, I was hooked. A full surf rock binge, a genre that turned out to be less malt shops and Batman dances, and more street racing and crabs. Who knew? The milkshakes and Batusi were fun too.

I’ve been training. Focus on the forward story, it has better questions. What kind of invitation was it? How can I spot pebbles at 3 AM? Was I listening to “Kokomo” at that literal moment, or was that an MFA lie?

Mostly rich kids. How else would they learn to write dick jokes? Reading better ones, from more successful clowns? That could take weeks. I had powerpoints. We’d have enjoyed them more if the NYPD hadn’t maced half the campus. The half that talks in class, no less.

I didn’t predict that, as far as stressors go. I knew there’d be email, politics, minimal pay, email, commuting, email, student breakdowns, faculty breakdowns, and email. I was already in the doghouse for unrelated drama. Yet the NYPD piledriving the anti-cleansing club wasn’t on my bingo card. My mistake. Whatever you’re up to, bet on Eric Adams’s kids ruining it.

Not that I hated the NYPD. But for the sake of good officers, reforming the—Sorry, those are my New Yorker notes. I hated the NYPD. More than before, which defied conventional physics. I should’ve emailed CERN, that’s valuable data.

I was drained. Wrung out. Fried. Trespassing like a child, to escape failing the children. Maybe deadbeat dads felt that way all the time. I’d have asked mine, but his number just led to screams and a smell like brimstone. And he couldn’t write dick jokes, so what did he know?

In the park, I could train myself for a change. You have to train to survive. Dorks love Dragon Ball because it’s nonfiction.

A bachelor party, which I normally deleted on sight. Reaching 30 summons gender reveal invites from everyone you know, and 40 people you don’t. If you shared a math class, a postcard’s coming for a wedding in Antarctica. But this invite was from Donatello. A friend that deserved more attention than I’d given. Nothing erodes your rules like a guilt complex.

I thought about it, decided I was busy, and went back to carving.

The surf-nonsense shifted to Daikaiju. An instrumental metal/surf act with songs named after mechs and Godzilla rivals. The most laser-targeted entertainment I’d found in years. It had all the specificity most gender reveal invites lacked.

You can cheat at home.

Granted, not the groom’s style. Another mark against leaving my gargoyle. Fireworks were part of the stock deal. Was there a point without a family court afterparty?

And I don’t remember TV. Something had to lose the war for my time. The tube’s dumber than books and duller than games. Though I did remember MTV’s bachelor party pitch: one last sprint at fun before love became terminal. Obvious slander by Big Fun. Love’s great. Few manifesto authors feel excess love.

That occurred to me around 5 AM. Long after I’d tired myself out, and finished half a Chainsaw Man reread. I hadn’t seen the sane side of the sunrise in weeks, and tonight was no exception. But this time I noticed.

I clearly wasn’t busy. Might as well do nothing on an island.

2. PHL

I’d heard Philadelphia was beautiful. With a 5 AM flight, I took that on faith. Donatello’s travel agent must have sniffed out my insomnia, or a discount for vampires. I sped past American history by train, noting that somewhere beyond the glass sat a cracked bell. Unless they’d replaced it with a CVS. You know how developers are.

I found Philadelphia International Airport less beautiful. Not hideous, but sterile like all functional airports. Good. Proper flight’s dry work. Airports with charm should, by and large, be avoided. Their flights had higher chances of ending in the water. Diving’s much more fun at twenty feet than twenty thousand.

I’ve heard that one. I think crashing’s the problem.

I imagined that plunge with a smile. We still hadn’t boarded an hour after departure time, per Frontier Airlines tradition. More idealistic passengers grew antsy. I chewed a protein bar, and imagined the Luke Cage powers the non-meal would grant. I could survive a Boeing special. Assuming I ever got on a plane.

Two Barebells later, the flight was formally delayed. Passenger chatter picked up an edge. I ran out of Barebells. Either curiosity or Maltitol withdrawal set in, and I paid the agitated chatter more attention.

“I need that margarita,” noted a spiritual Jimmy Buffet. He was dressed for the part. “There’s a tall one waiting for me in Punta Cana.” His kids, twelve-ish, agreed. Maybe they had margaritas waiting too.

“Can you believe they’d do this?” said half a pair of Disney tank tops. Her mood didn’t look very magical. “Can you believe they’d do this?!” she repeated more loudly. Murmers of assent. She gradually drew a crowd of agitants, while her boyfriend adopted a vizier role. I was witnessing a society’s birth.

And enjoying it. People-watching, like Warhammer, thrives off its environment. I’ve abused that metaphor before, and I’ll use it again. Wargames, like high school, make a fantastic lens for life’s highs and lows. That’s why we mostly play them in high school. Or forever.

Six frantic travel agent texts told me to stay put. As if I’d leave before the punchline.

Deferred passengers formed lines, which devolved into clans. Frontier reps faced siege from a thousand ravenous, hideously sober enemies. Making the next bit of news even less welcome.

“The 5 AM to Punta Cana has been cancelled.”