11 December, 2004
brains are getting hot, 'possum in the pot

whatever the dream was, interrupted rudely by the alarm, it involved tatooedWomen (guaranteed Googlehit, that), dim lights, thick smoke, and loud-loud music.
much like the evening that preceded it.
my feet overruled my mind.
despite an aged swedish wagon that threatens to vibrate itself into a percussive instrument, clouds lowering heavily to shroud the hilltops as the wretched light faded (backlighting trees otherwise obscured), and pestilence and mechanical entropy at the house of Biggles, hillbilly rock was the soundtrack for the night.
back at the roadhouse, just down the street from the university. just as foggy on the interior as the wetted streets outside, bodies sandwiched down the narrow bar opposite the fire making fingersnaps of flame, the set was already staged. perfect quiffs and body illustrations and the cacaphony of dozens of conversations at once.
present: ProfessorBeBop, theJuddermeister, MadBrazilian, GeorgeCostanzaLookalike bassman, hardmen, HillbillyWerewolf(i swear-ta-gawd), rockabillyFillies and the FansOfTheArsenal.
then, the TwangBomb detonated.
stand-up drums, upright tripleslap bass, and a virginGretsch invoked the powers of WandaJackson-GeneVincent-EddieCochran-ProphetOfTupelo-Ventures into a sweaty free-for-all. delivered by the lumpy, workshop-shirted, wedge-coiffed, absolutely authentic singer/twangbanger from the mountain corner of the state.
leaves me... Breathless-AHhhhhh.
yet, i still remained the gentleman, pissed though i was on ExtraSpecialBitters. Not that my heart didn't lust... and how could it not, considering the like-minded, music-loving gender of the soft-skinned?
illustrated, or not.
the endless drive back to solitude was a trepidacious tip-toe along the road markings, encapsulated in a cottony bubble of glowing fog.
that may be repeated, tonight.

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