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Damn. The two-'til-four DJ is airing out the bleached, jiggly bones (with some hair still stuck to it) of some vintage rockabilly on this, yet another day in the eye of the storm. Well, maybe off to the south, a bit. And,it could be stormier, perhaps. They always say that you should be careful of what you wish. All spring long, back when i was studiously making retro-entries about my bike pilgrimage (and it will return, for my own's sake), i kept going on about how much i'd love to be back in the northwest. This summer has been a testament to what to expect: varying tints of grey on the horizon; that mildewed feeling, coupled with constant glances overhead for lightning bolts and falling trees; depression, most dark; and the withering sensation that plants show all too well when they don't get enough sun. i feel you, plants. N'oome say'n? i'm guessing this is going to be one of those patented Days of Surrealism. Starting before i even hit the sheets after the long drive through the Night Tunnel... close encounter with a doe and a fawn is the driveway. Fixed in the beam of the stationary headlights, they just kinda posed for a minute or two, long enough for me to take into account the pattern of the dappling on the little one's muted gold flank. Not entirely different from the dimples on a cat's snoot, where the whiskers come out. Some things in the natural world look accidental. Those designs don't. Unintentional sleep-in... just at a quarter-to-noon did i let the spy flick i wanted to see the end of come to a wakeful conclusion. Hey, i was almost there, wherever that was. Dragging a brush across my head, slamming down the coffee-with-chicory, dodging raindrops to settle back into a driver's seat... bound for shearing. Finally. Gone are the days of the impulse, walk-in-and-get-it-done scalpings. Looks vaguely Paul Simonon-ish, now. It'll do. Tires making that high-pitched ripping sound on wet asphalt, i aimed through the backstreets that are my home, afterwards. Where the intersecting street fell away to the boulevard, below, there was some young guy, clad only in shorts standing on the sidewalk with his spine bent familiarly. Like he was getting ready to cast a fishing line. Insteady of a pole, he was aiming a pistol-gripped garden hose... making a good twenty foot arc of spew... across the roof, across the street, nowhere that it would make any use. A year ago, that would've gotten you a hefty fine, and disapproving looks all 'round in the height of the year-long drought. Now, it just looks... "free," i guess. No good reason, other than the discovery of how you can draw with water in the open air... the drapey boomerang shapes. With short life spans. Even in a storm. I've been having the usual internal debate about going to hear some music, tonight. The old Should-I-Stay-Or-Should-I-Go thing. Mostly white-boy blues, and thirty miles away. But i'm itching. It began, anew, with the s_ex pist0ls show in DC (google-proof? i think not). No sooner than a brief home overnight after returning from the shore, Biggles and I were back in a car, heading for the CapitOl. Seemlingly early enough to grab a beer or a bite before the show. Not so. Five miles before the 66 interchange, the pulse of the highway stopped. For two hours. To go five miles. Crisis-management skills at the ready, betrayed by a spasming clutch leg. Thinking, out loud, how fucked we were to miss a show due to the internal combustion engine. Eventually, resignedly, we shot for the District... from the dignified parts to the trendy ones, from the bombed out ones, to the neglected ones. And to a nearby parking space. Hosana. Since Biggles seems to know everyone on teh planet, his acquaintance at the alley way encouraged us to get our asses inside, quick. They'd done two songs already, and were playing a short set. And that was all. The Great Rock And Roll Swindle, continues. Great indicator of things to come, and a sublime mental snapshot... approaching the old ticket booth, you could almost see the air distorted at the entry from the bass. Like the air just above the surface of the street at high noon in summertime. And then it was 1977. Loud, but not distorted beyond belief. Top-of-the-lungs sing-alongs. Four unintentional icons, cranky as ever, and as inciteful. After all, the message is to get off your arse... keep a sense of humor... use your brain... question everything... and bang the hell out of guitar strings in the meantime. A philosophy i subscribe to. No, m. Rotten is not a young boy. Or a rail thin one. Or a forgiving one. Nor are the bandmates svelte. So Fucking What. Well played, well said, well met. And that's that.
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