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In another fifty minutes, I'll be humping my belongings to the car like a pack mule, firmly planting my backside in the driver's seat, elevating the music levels and jetting into the black. This sentence passed, the next upcoming. God, I need a beer... and an hour of BBC escape, complete with the Scottish answer to a twenty-ish Marcia Brady lookalike, with Glaswegian accent, and tartish wardrobe. Unrequited TV lust. The worst kind. It's been almost a month since the last "Vibes" broadcast...pre-empted by a most dreary Jazz marathon. Mercy, I can usually find something to get excited about... but this was unbearable. Consequently, I've been dreading my return, what with budget cutbacks looming... another excuse for the station manager do do what he does so well. Kiss bureaucratic ass. C'Ville can be such a pretentious, self-serving scene. Unless you navigate on a different plane. Regardless, I've been sucking up some cheap Trojan rocksteady reissues... if I must be retro with the playlist, then I'll be be retro with the most obscure tunes... that noone's ever heard, anyway. Right now, I'm listening to a song that I've been looking for for years. Perhaps the sappiest arrangement, ever, for a Jamaican song... Hippo-fart sax, plinkety violins, xylophone (for chrissakes). John Holt's "Memories By The Score." Fecking brilliant. Strange dream, last night. Black-and-white (naturally, for a guy)... in the festering, unattended livingroom of my asshole neighbor's home singing harmony to Beatles songs (the Lennon role) with my long-departed brother. God knows what that signifies. Didn't wake up with a feeling of dread, or sadness. Must've been OK. I've had enough... time for my bootheels to be wandering. Good luck to everyone here in Babylon... hope the sniper gets drilled before someone else's life is vaporized for nothing. |
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