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Well, that wasn't like me... passing out in front of the tube just before Chen-san ("the Szechuan Sage") put the hammerlock on the challenger in Kitchen Stadium. Unable to revive myself until 2AM, whereupon I did the Zombiewalk to the bedroom. Burnout, pure and simple. Friday, Rock Marathon day, Number One. Two hours of Jamaican Soul Power inna sixties stylee... Rock Steady from the Studios of Duke Reid and Clement "Coxsone" Dodd. Dag, I just don't understand why this just doesn't bust up the scene, most of the rhythms stolen to form the foundation of dancehall (that gravel-voiced thing wouldn't go far without some killer sound to complement it). It does with me... and with about fifteen pledgers. Nice. Nice and exhaustive. My reward, to burned by the station manager, who snuck in an emergency broadcast spot on the log, hidden from me for most of the program under piles of paper by the previous DJ. Wall Of Shame for me, Dammit. The smart comment he made when I informed him, adding to the ammunition for the bitch-slap I'm saving for the day I leave. The fuse to my inevitable explosion is long, but cumulative. Fat Fuck. Rather than launch headfirst into the mire that is Quitting-Time C'Ville traffic, I decided, instead, to ride shotgun with the Professor for his Stones show. Since Miss Jane had off-handedly informed me that she wouldn't be back until Sunday, as I was walking out of the door (mentally extending her visit at her daughter's), there wasn't much reason to do the usual Friday Night hideout. The Professor has been the Mack Daddy of DJs at the station, twenty-years strong, walking storehouse of the most obscure and soul-stirring sounds known to western man. Deserving of Mad Props. Also, it was a fine way to vaporize another two hours, before making a trip to the store for sushi and beer. What a scene, upon departing... the day-long rain deflating the mountains of snow into mucous-y, shoe-sucking rivers of funk. Here's when the heartbreak happens. Stocking up on some tinned pints of english ale (and attempting to drop them into the trunk of the Miata), one can managed to snag the edge of the protruding switch plate for the trunk light... erupting into a fizzing debacle. Worse that being baptized by foam, was the tragic loss of a capsule of happiness. Criminal, the demise of a defenseless beer, who never meant to do anything more than bring cheer into my world. I salute you, oh gentle intoxicant, for not going gentle into that good night! Freshly perfumed by malt, the ride back home was another edge-of-the-seat experience, with dense continuous fog as my unbidden companion... kinda like picking up an abusive hitchhiker. Safely home, it was all downhill afterwards. What a bringdown. So, here I am, awake at seven-thirty... to the fragrance of septic tank, the meltdown backing up into the basement. Oy. I'm gonna go listen to some live funk tonight, to exorcise the other kind. |
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