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"You've got the real type of thing going down get down There's a Whole Lot of Rhythm Going Round... ...awwwwee Want the Funk Give Up The Funk ...awwwwee Need The Funk GottaHaveThat Funk"
Somehow the subtle stylings of President Clinton and the boomBASSity of Bootsy, the Minister of the Mothership, got me dancing by myself on the front porch at twilight. Of course, many cigarettes, a couple of opaque porters slugged from the bottle and Mother Nature got me in orbit.
I'm still adjusting to Fridays when my alternate does Reggae Vibrations. Ten years, this gig, now. So my CD/LP flipping fingers get itchy long about eveningtime. StoneToTheBone with James Brown's "Licking Stick." And "The Payback." A might dose of Greasy Funk makes the medicine go down. Or Get Down. Letting Soul Power be my crutch to lean on a grey day. Silly chores for most of it. Getting bids (for the landlady Herren Barbara von Frankfurt)from remodelers to detonate and excavate the bathroom. And window replacement. A fair amount of legwork for a renter, but they always fit the bills. Plus, I'm taking this all in for when the real building gets underway. Mine. Doing recon for getting someone else to do the bottling of the hot sauce. It would be nice to have some of this stuff sitting on a the counter, instead of under it... too much like bootlegging.
And I remember that feeling. Sitting on the backseat with my brother,legs too short to touch the floor, as my mother and Bobby (her cousin-mentor) do the slow cruise on Church Street on Sunday... how poignant. Black guy stealthily appears with the pint of bourbon. Eyes search for patrol cars. We creepaway. The party continues. To date, I have never bought a pint of brown liquor. Well, maybe dark rum. Burnt out, at twelve, from mixing drinks. There's an encyclopaedia of stories from this dark side. Strange leak from the former life. And I tend to care less and less about that which has gone on before. Johnny Rotten and Bob Marley both had pointed barbs for "Boring Old Farts." Boring Old Farts go on at length, repeatedly. Anyway, I missed out on Disney in those days. Never got brainwashed. End of Geezer transmission. I need to find a PDA, or voice recorder or something. Always, the overnight drive back home is the best time for wild notions. In between the work world and the backhome one. A brief opportunity for the imagination to bubble to the top. Drawing projects. Complete songs. A gutbucket bassline. Thinking about where to go from here. When my key slots in the door... the atmosphere pops the baloon. Tomorrow. The agenda? Replace the brake pads on Dianne's SAAB. While my hands are still greasy, finish removing the cylinder head on the Trooper. I need my truck back. But I would rather... Buy a new MINI. Throw some CDs, shorts, thrift store-Hawaiian and cowboy shirts in a bag, my airbrush in the trunk, and follow Rt. 66 as far west as I can go. Dance in a honky tonk with a Patsy Cline. Build surfboards on the Oregon coast. Fall Head Over Heels. Dirty fingernails sound a lot more probable. Awwwwwwee Need The Funk! Gotta Have That Funk! At Length.Repeatedly. |
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