kanji

03 April, 2005
hard done by

another precipitous rise-and-fall on the angry red planet.

in the infinite wisdom of the invisible, i find myself between crests and troughs... attempting to find some middle ground. such is the windmill that aim my lance.

wow, does that ever sound like a load of bullshit. so you'd think.

for the last two weeks, i'd been whipping up a psychological frenzy in anticipation of Friday's marathon show for the radio station. these are always the events that bring out the most imagination and exhilaration... even though the two hours of payoff pass by in such a haze as to be unrememberable.

if that doesn't sound like the progression from chase to orgasm, what does?

in any event, there hasn't been the occasion for the penultimate cigarette.

the backdrop for every day since i've returned home: rains of biblical proportion. brimstone. pitchforks. the flood.
after twisting the key in the ignition of the Tachikoma(Miata) before making the trip to the studio, there was just one more CD that i had to have to find peace with my preparation. even knowing that the handbrake was almost useless, and the tranny had to be in neutral though parked on the hillside, i bolted up the steps to the house. no sooner had i reached the porch, i heard the crunch of gravel and the engine note change... and saw movement over my shoulder. after cursing the inevitable excrement, i flew down the stairs as it gained momentum. i scampered alongside, managing to get the door open. in a lifetime of seconds, i tried to find my opportunity to jump in to find the brake pedal... all the while shifting my glance from car-to-tree-to-feet as the speed increased. when the tree at the bottom of the drive was much too close for comfort i sidestepped in defeat... though missing it by inches, off the car leapt across the lane and bounced into the four-foot-deep creekbed.
thank you, God.
regardless, the Show Must Go On. i yelled for Yoko to call the wrecker while i dug into the trunk for my CDs and LPs... just then remembering to shut the ignition off. no choice but to dash for the station with minutes to spare, at the mercy of the towman.
as expected, the program flew by in its perversion of time. and, we made a lot of money. laughed a-plenty. were visited by a Jamaican ex-pat with ties to the music industry, who put me on his cellphone to a performer who i'd thought long-since lost.

almost compensation.

i decided to drown my sorrows in bounteous amounts of alcohol 'til daylight, and the skies dawned with hurricane-style torrential downpours... whilst my backside bloomed with an arsecherry the size of a grapefruit. another little gift to make pain-and-accomplishment one and the same.
while i self-medicated in discomfort on the futon, came the stench of flooded basement... the sump having lost a washer. in pain, in knee-high boots, i waded through the muck to effect repair... done, i made my way upstairs to while the day away in agony.

they weren't kidding when they said that it takes an asshole to be the boss.
an angry red one.

.


hit me with your rhythm stick




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