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...no, not a song title, this time. My favorite Friday night escape, of all things, is watching the Iron Chef... I call it Kung Food (back in the journal a-ways). It's a tossed salad of martial arts voiceovers, over-the-top acting, sometimes questionable ingredients, and truly bizarre philosophical reflections. Like this title. Well, it makes sense in context, but it's a great head-scratcher on its own. Tilted entertainment... just the way I like it. When life is like the Theater of the Absurd, one surrounds oneself with absurdity. Consequently, the quote has absolutely nothing to do with 13 Friday 2002. Except for the absurdity part. There are some days (besides this one) where I learn, early on, that attempting to dismantle or repair anything mechanical or electrical is a complete and utter waste of time... only to end in tears. Or a tool slung to a great distance. My profanity quota was reached early, after another body-building failure to dislodge the Crankshaft Bolt From Hell... which Grandma would say (to the horror of all) was "tight as dick's hatband." And having the timing belt slip. Throwing in the towel... I slammed myself into the Volvo driver's seat, to be treated to nada when twisting the key in the switch. Dead battery. Fuck a duck. Sod it all. The only cure was a road trip to get my prints, look for a card reader, huff down some sashimi (tuna and salmon, smoked eel! and seaweed), and grab a couple non-reggae CDs. Floyd Tillman, father of Honky Tonk. And Sam Moore's lost record... to satisfy my craving for some deep soul. Ah, oh, is it ever that. Testifying, not Signifying. If that's escape, so be it. Mother Nature might be providing an escape from DJing outdoors on Sunday, as well... the remnants of Hanna suggested to dump a few inches of rain on this here east coast desert. The sound of rain will be a certified soul shot. |
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