My apologies, but today, my mind was on vacation, with a nod of amends to the great Mose Allison. I wanted that mind to be seriously on task, and I had a laundry list of agenda points, not to mention some great ideas for blog posts, but the poor thing kicked his boots up on the desk, flipped me the middle finger and mumbled something along the lines of “Suck one, podna.”
Some days are like that. You wake up, you’re about six miles behind the eight ball, and what are you gonna do? Maybe you got lucky last night, or in my case, maybe you didn’t; maybe you turned in early instead, practiced some guitar, ran through a few tunes, had a couple of online conversations, posted some weird shit on your Facebook page, and then laid down where you sleep and listened to drunks on the sidewalk below. Maybe you drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by the pinched loaf of Steve Perry’s voice over a harsh sea of amplified Velveeta, emanating from the tape deck in the same cab, the same goddamn cab that keeps blasting Journey at 1:45 in the morning when it’s picking up fares.
Yellow Cab No. 219: You’re on motherfucking notice for this shit. I’m serious as Rush Limbaugh’s pilonidal cyst.
So my sleep patterns wre slightly disturbed. Had some weird dreams, too; nothing like the quasi-religious experience from the night before, though. Woke up, decided it was too late to do the normal thing I do on Saturday mornings, instead prayed, meditated, did Metta (this Buddhist lovingkindness affirmation thing I’ve done for a while), farted around online, bathed, fixed a sandwich, got my skanky laundry together and went down to the laundromat.
Blogged, or tried to. Had the attention span of a highly animated insect. Couldn’t stay on task. Wrote a postscript to my blog post on Russ Solomon speaking at Time Tested books last week, because something was bothering me and I had to amend it. Eventually, I listened to the brilliant debut album of DoomBird through earbuds, finished drying my stuff, folded it, and overheard the attendant and his friend talking about Jersey Shore.
So, of course I had to join in.
More on this subject later; it actually was what I was trying to write — some sort of postmortem for the only good thing MTV’s done in years. And now it’s done. I’m going to go into withdrawals. Anyone have any vegetarian baked ziti? I feel like not only am I being excluded from surf and turf night, excluded from ravioli night and excluded from chicken cutlet night, but I’m being excluded from some essential wrinkle in the time-space continuum wherein I am about to turn orange. I need some gel in my hair. I have been praying to obscure saints I’ve never heard of, imagining Dino himself coming back in a giant rabbit suit and visiting the MTV programming cabal and saying, “Y’know, you guys have seriously foisted the stupid with this show The Hills, specifically with Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag, and you need to atone for that shit right now, or the universe is going to collapse in on itself in 28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes and 12 seconds.”
One imagines MTV central got that memo, that they had to move. And they did. But we need more. I’m starting to turn orange. I’m smelling pickles under my bed.
Anyway, the laundromat conversation was the coolest. These kids seem to think Ron Ron Juice was the key male character, even when I argued in favor of the toolbag with the blowout, Pauly D. Ron was roided up and got pussywhipped from jump, and he was dumber than a wrestling coach, too. Whereas Pauly D had a chill guido aspect that more closely synchronized with the Rat Pack cats and other suave Italian-American cultural figures. He just didn’t give a shit, in that way that Dino didn’t give a shit. Plus you gotta give bonus points to anyone who gets “Cadillac” tattooed down his side, or maybe you don’t, but I will. As for The Situation, we all agreed that he was a megadouche, a tool to a laughable degree. But a self-aware tool, nonetheless. The kids also agreed that Jwoww was the coolest female on the show, and I’ll go along with that. And she could kick The Situation’s ass, and should have for all the bullshit he stirred up.
But I don’t want to tip my hand here, because I still have half a blog post good to go when I finish it on this very subject. And it’s getting late, and I want to run through a few things before I head down to Old Ironsides to see DoomBird and By Sunlight. If you’re reading this before too late this Saturday night, I’m the tall bloke in the tan fishing hat. Say hi if you like. Kiss me if you’re beautiful. —Jackson Griffith