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after ten interrupted hours of remarkably fitful sleep, fighting for scraps of respite, i took my last sips of heavily-fortified coffee seated on the morning-sun spattered steps of the front porch. this may be "country", here, but it's not silent. punctuating the breeze, dozens of species of birdsong... including the man-made variety from the airport across the highway (which also consists of "woo-hoos", our new National Anthem, from skydivers). amongst this many-layered tapestry of pastoral background soundtrack, i heard the tight-scrotal screech of David Lee Roth, piercing through the mix. the chorus, as well... in incessant celebration of Beautiful Girls. again. and again. several hundred feet of distance between sound source and ear tends to dissolve the lyrical and musical nuance. they likes they booty, that much is sure, if repetition is the gauge. thus, nature took a backseat to Classic Rock and it's dominance... revived, again, the ass-ets of the formerly lion-maned ScreechMeister. "Fame. What's your name?" Bowie asked. "Forget? Hell!" replied Mix106 of the Battlefield District. the only element that would have made it all perfect, would have been the jackass in the corral, downslope, braying in duet. hitting notes only dogs could hear. i'd pay to hear that combination. Van Hee-Haw (that almost sounds pornographic... which i'm sure some might have imagined, already). ceee-ment ponds. movie stars. bugs fucking. Ladies and Gentlemen, i give you...
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