We have lived other lives, don't think we haven't, in our mind. As a matter of fact you're looking at a former member of the Eagles, who has eaten spaghetti at Dan Tana's with Warren Zevon who had a gun and we had to stop him from waving it around and getting us all busted, and in 1923 in Dover Delaware we joined the Klan but only because we were drunk, and dropped out a month or so later after finally sobering up at our brother's cabin near the quarry where the dynamite didn't exactly help our hangover, and we remember dying in an old people's home in Bethany Pennsylvania with a cornfield out our window, and our son who smuggled us in a bottle had his little boy with him who looked at us like we were a scarecrow, which we could hardly blame him. And he made us think about how that old ball just keeps on rolling, and how that little boy would one day be where we were now with his little grandson looking on. And this one time, shit. We were in a bar in Gettysburg Pennsylvania. Smoking a cigar with a fellow who looked like Calvin Coolidge. And the corn in that field outside the old folks' home, how sweet it smelled in the night with the window open.
We staggered around in our dreams drinking tequila right out of the bottle, Cuervo Gold it was, this was in Georgia where our mom had just purchased a fancy new house with, get this, a scenic-looking roadhouse right on the grounds, it was like a dream come true, our own private bar! And there were midgets streaming out of the bar, playing horns, there was like a full-scale midget musical in progress, and we walked around thinking life is going to be good from now on, what with this bottle of tequila in our hand and our very own roadhouse to drink in with midgets and everything, we could put whatever songs we wanted on the jukebox and nobody could say boo, Sweet Home Alabama and John Coltrane together at last! But then we woke up in our bed here in DC and it was goodbye tequila, goodbye very own roadhouse, goodbye happy midgets playing horns in Georgia where we remember telling our brother Jeffers who was with us, "Never thought we'd have our own bar in Georgia!" And it's hell sometimes waking up, from a dream as sweet as that, and something tells us we're going to have to pack our dream self off to an alcohol rehabilitation facility, because frankly the son of a bitch is out of control.
We've purchased our last book based on the blurbs on its back cover. We've been fooled over and over again, but never again. The blurb that broke the camel's back and caused us to buy our latest bad book went something like "I couldn't put this book down! Not even after I finished reading it! I finally had to go to the doctor who had to physically separate me from the book by removing my fingertips with a scalpel." We read that and thought, "Wow, this book is sure winner!" You know the rest. The damn book stank. Not only could we put it down, we had to put it down, the stench was so bad.
Our wife is always telling us we're an idiot to believe the stuff they write on the backs of books. But we're basically helpless over our endearing faith in the stuff people write on the backs of books, we're a trusting person by nature and why would anybody lie, although we do it all the time, though not on the backs of other peoples' books.
But blurbs have practically ruined our life, our house if filled with crappy books we got bad-blurbed into blindly buying and then putting down in disgust, fooled again by bozo the bad-faith blurber who probably owed the author or the publishing company a favor, or was just a flat-out idiot, though not as big an idiot as us for buying the book based on Bozo's blurb, which we should have known was a tissue of lies but no not us because we're the real Bozo, the Bozo who believes in blurbs, the sucker with the credulity impediment, the man who will swallow literally any old swill.
We're definitely going to see it this weekend. But don't tell the wife, because she thinks we're going to see Cop Out. And we're going to have to find a gentle way of breaking the news to her, by which we mean a way that doesn't cause her to say, "Like Hell. We're going to see Cop Out. Put your coat on."
It can truly be said of us that the only thing we like better than a good movie is a bad movie, and The Crazies is--based on the trailers we've seen--as promising a bad movie to come along in a long while. It's got crazy people in it! Who froth at that mouth! And they're taking over! Christ, it's just like real life!!
But the wife may be intent upon a comedy, which we like as much as the next man, more than the next man actually, but not in this case, not with The Crazies in the running. It's like the Bible says, There's a time to reap and a time to sow, and a time to watch a horror movie with Timothy "The Olyphant" Man no matter how bad it is.
Well not us. We see humanity muddling on forever, fumbling and stumbling and spilling catastrophes all over itself. The End Times? Wishful thinking. We're the show that never ends, the tragedy with a laugh track, the joke whose punch line is always just off the horizon, a mushroom cloud that can't quite get its pants on.
The smart money, of course, was always on Mick Jagger. Or us. We'd be the first to admit that our brief affair with Carly was characterized by a certain degree of self-absorption on our part, and we've long harbored the fear that "You're So Vain" was about us, and in particular the night we spent in a posh hotel suite in Nova Scotia staring into a full-length mirror at our naked (except for apricot scarf) self while Carly sulked about saying, "Come on, put some clothes on already. I'm hungry!"
But turns out both Mick and yours truly are in the clear. Mr. Vain, it seems, was none other than David Geffen, the artists' rep turned label owner who liked to drape drop-dead gorgeous women over his dwarfish elbow until the day he came out and admitted he was gay.
Boy is that a load off our mind. Now all we have to worry about is Deep Purple coming out and identifying us as the "stupid with a flare gun" in their hit "Smoke on the Water." Which the stupid was us, but hey, we were in Switzerland, and shitfaced.
We don't know about you but our mom did a number on us, which seems to be the purpose of life so far as we can tell, to be born, then have a number done on you by mom or dad or both, then turn around and have your own kid so you can return the compliment. And so it goes on, the great chain of fuckedupness never to be broken except by that rare mortal who is too lazy, selfish, smart, brave, gay, or just plain broken to perpetuate the infinite cycle of misery meat propagation, which when you think about it the earth is just a massive factory farm dedicated to the production of a supply of human beings sufficient to stuff the face of death, with his massive mawl and molars slavering at the end of the conveyor belt we call life, his appetite insatiable, his source of souled meat filling baby strollers.
Thanks to our pal Ben, we're able to vent our outrage at the actions of Russian zoo authorities, who recently sent a chimpanzee to rehab to treat his booze and nicotine addictions. Said a Russian newspaper, "The beer and cigarettes were ruining him. He would pester passers-by for booze." Oh, boo hoo. In our heyday we were often known to do the same thing, and there wasn't a set of bars between us and our victims. Incidentally, the chimp below is not the boozy Russian chimp but a Chinese chimp who evidently enjoys the occasional cigarette after a meal, but doesn't get drunk and heckle passersby like the Russian chimp does, saying taunting things like, "Gimme a beer, and while you're at it, tell your old lady she can blow me."
Who likes both hockey and the blues, here (to celebrate the birthday of Bob "Bear" Hite) is Canned Heat's "Fried Hockey Boogie." Personally, we think the first guitar solo is the pits, and the bass solo is flat-out insufferable, but you can tell the Heat's heart is in the right place, what with that riff that sounds like ZZ Top grokking with Norman "Spirit in the Sky" Greenbaum, and the singer who asks "Are you REALLY" experienced?" followed by "Love is a beautiful thing" and who's going to argue with that, except maybe all those people who have watched their love turn to shit, which is what the blues are all about to begin with. Love turning to shit. Oh, and if you're crazy, Part Two of the song is here. It's been broken in two so it sounds like you're listening to an eight-track, which always used to break songs in half, and for anybody who remembers them listening to Parts I and II back to back is guaranteed to bring back some bad memories, if not an outright flashback.
With a wind so strong it blew all the stars into a narrow corner of the sky, where they huddled together for warmth. It must have knocked out the electricity on the moon too, because the whole planet went dark, and shivering shrank into itself, and the small dogs on the street hung taut at the ends of their leashes, suspended in the air like barking kites.