"I'm almost certain the rodents are laid-back little Franzetta corporate-weaned cranky, snot-ass Mall-thugs parked so low on the refurbished black pleather couch huffin' Hello Kitty nail polish cannot bring a smile to their fevered rectums that pass for faces..." ~Gramm Parsons makes a memorable splash in a chemically triangulated dream event.
DEEP BREATHS.
The telephone woke me up. FedEx is here with my new watch. WOOHOO! I cannot remember what it is because it takes eight days for a ONE lb. package to traverse America via The Disabled Three-legged Aardvark Affirmative Hiring For Shipping Companies program. Mandated by Obamacare (page 2,138 in the footnotes). See? SEE? Told-ja this would happen!
Intercom: {lady FedEx voice}Got a package.
Me: I'll buzz you up. Hey, can you bring it in and toss it to me...
Intercom: No, we have regulations...
Me: I'm a quadriplegic and I'm not feeling well.
Intercom: Well...I...
Me: Kick me in the foot when you come in. Hard as you like...
Intercom: *white noise static*
Me: Shit.
And Cue Barry White. *knock knock* Door opens. "I'm over here." Cute-hottie FedEx babe looks over and laughs, "Well, this is a first." Me smiling avec debonair visage, "Thank you." Uber-cute FedEx fox tosses package onto corner of king size bed. Leaves chuckling and thereby proving Penthouse Forum letters a complete hoax. Again. Pfft... Oh yeah, it's the Swiss Made Stuhrling Original automatic movement skeletonized in a 44mm tonneau-shaped case with a rare green dial and black Italian leather strap with complimentary green stitching inlay. I'd forgotten this as the non-union Aardvarks take their sweet fucking site-seeing time crossing America The Beautiful. Sweet. ShopNBC is an opiate for watch junkies. Sweet, sweet watch.
Boutros Boutros-Ghali. I need to come back down, listen to some actual music played by actual people who have mastered their instrument. Voices honed in tiny holes in walls. Broked-down-side-of-[insert a random East to West/West to East Interstate highway] roulette. Where do we go then, Grip? Maybe this will help. Maybe, just maybe the public access channel in your town is lucid. They're almost bumping up against that dive bar that gets a stray show quality tonight. Road Warriors who'll split your lip if you were to say, "You guys are good, the lead singer should go on American Idol." It's really not an endangered species, known as "Musicians". They are out there, free-range so to speak. Then again, it happens here frequently, other towns not so much. Music is a primordial soup here in Portland. Slopping through the goo is nearly unavoidable.
The ancient dino-mind drifts a bit. A rusty gear shudders to a stop at FM radio. What's a radio? What's a FM? WAAL Binghamton 99.1 Music was thick and meaty juicy sweet. All of FM Radio was a velvety smooth fondue revolution. Can you smell the Land on the Moon groove? At midnight the Whale would spin an entire vinyl album without interruption. Everyone who played a Woodstock, Altamont, Montery Pop, Isle of Wight, Newport, and smooth assorted magic dudes appeared from nowhere, out of thin air. As a young boy on the sidelines, it was as if everything was happening all at once. At the same time. American culture was a wild, dangerous and hard-ugly and beautiful weird fireworks show.
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