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when it comes to music, my mind is a cheap slut at a biker bar. let it be ryhthmless for just a while... allow the drone of computer fans or internal combustion engines to lay down a surreptitious backing track, and my subconscious wants to go home with the first melody it hears. case in point: AkebonoOnThe Edge (thanks to his own marital upheaval, smelling of vodka at work) dropped his usual S0pranos reference when he first arrived, cloaked in "once... twice... three times a lady". and that's all it took. now, i love the funk music. Lionel and his be-sequined and bellbottomed conspirators tried, i'll give them that. but there's this unwritten law i live by: let a song begin with tinkly piano or moody, swishy synthesizers, and i want to see the Sandman from the Apollo bring out the hook and send 'em home to catcalls, boos and hisses. instead, it's a wink and a pout and we're on a stinky matress in no time. and the fucker WILL NOT LEAVE. it didn't help that the phone lines and internet were down all night, either. nature abhors a vacuum. speaking of nature, it also seems to abhor dreadlocks on pale white guys. the single twelve-inch knot i've been sporting for the last two years is hanging on by but a few strands, as i found last night. too much flapping around in the breeze in convertibles. or disillusionment with religion. or dancehall music. something. it's days are numbered. and i will weep for it, when it takes its leave from my neck. life becons, in its humid and overcast fashion. |
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