The Random Griffith

I am the Barry White of Sacramento

Posted in Uncategorized by Jackson Griffith on 29/01/2010

I would like to talk to you about love. You see, I am the Barry White of Sacramento. No, my complexion is far more ruddy than ebony or teak, and near-starvation has stripped away any potential Love God girth way back to lean — but not so mean, because I am all about the love rather than the fighting — Iggy Pop levels. I also don’t have my own shimmering disco orchestra currently, although it’s in the back of my mind, and is somewhere on my “to-do” list. And I don’t have myself a Glodean; I’m dee-vorced, and my ex lives on the opposite coast now (thank you, deity, whoever and wherever you are). And although my life has endured a paucity of pulchritudinous pleasures as of late, within the past 24 hours I’ve run into two former girlfriends, one with whom I had a nice little sidewalk conversation, and the other I merely enjoyed a ride-by but semi-sweet hello — which, coming from her, kinda surprised me and quite pleasantly so. Ergo, perhaps my personal mojo may be changing for the better.

Those encounters, of course, are random, and logically one cannot infer anything from them; it would be like imagining you spotted the J-man on a tortilla when really it was just some umber pattern that vaguely resembled a hippie dude’s face. That is the sort of thinking can get a person into serious trouble. And my awareness of my incipient Barry Whiteitude has nothing to do with those brief encounters, except to indicate that I may be on some kind of right track. For example, I’ve felt the universe pushing me toward starting a certain creative project lately, and when I make moves in that direction, things seem to begin falling into place.

And, just maybe, this is a byproduct of that.

But I believe there may be more to the story. While I personally have not reaped any of the benefits, I’ve observed some strange and wonderful things happening around me lately. For example, there’s this thing about spontaneous sexual intercourse: for some reason, whenever I walk into a room, I’m such a lightning rod of erotic energy that people around me are prone to disrobing on the spot and coupling up. And not only that, but sometimes the energy turns entire roomfuls of people into writhing and humping masses of naked flesh. I haven’t been privy to any “action” myself, or at least yet; I’m guessing that I have become, and am now, such a seething transformer of pure erotic radiation that women fear jumping my bones, knowing they may undergo some uncontrollable nympho-mystical metamorphosis, never to function normally again in polite society. Yes, I am like that.

Sometimes the effect can be unsettling, to say the least. About to step out of the building where I currently reside, I opened the door inward, at the moment when his pelvic thrust into her propelled the both of them through the door into a quivering and grunting heap before me. I laughed, knowing they weren’t in possession of their faculties, compelled by my rapidly oscillating orb of lascivious mojo to do something so stupid as attempt carnal union against the door I was about to step through. As I walked down the street afterward, the bushes shook and shouted with pleasurable moans. Even animals were dialing into the juju. Insects, even.

The major problem arising from having this particular anomaly rocketing from my loins into the cosmos has manifested in my job search. People want to hire me, but there’s an issue in the workplace whenever I show up for an interview, and then spontaneous coitus breaks out around me. “We really like you, and would like to hire you,” one businessman told me, “but our human resources department might have a fit when they find out that people start screwing like bunny rabbits whenever you set foot in the office.” I understood, feeling the weight of my strange karmic appointment. “Perhaps you might land a gig like, oh, Teddy Pendergrass, or Lou Rawls?” he added.

So when Barry White visited me in my dreams last night, I understood. Money will soon be flowing into my accounts, money to pay off everything I owe, and then money to transform me into that icon of tumescent bliss that is so needed for these uncertain times we live in: fine velour suits in various shades of purple and lime green and vermilion and goldenrod, jewelry to accent those suits, hats, shoes and stylish sunglasses, along with a new Cadillac CTS-V coupe in either black or silver, both colors that will accentuate those velour suits. An orchestra well versed in the nuances of rhythm and blues along with throbbing pagan beats will also materialize, ready to help me carry the vision of the Love God forward that came to me in dreams.

A while back, I wrote a song that addressed the thematic material. Perhaps clairvoyantly, I’d channeled this impending future, or maybe I invited it by writing the song. It’s called “Barry White,” and I do hope you enjoy it:

Something’s got into me
Happens each time that we
Hook up to spend some time alone
Something I can’t explain
Something as right as rain
Oh girl you got me going

Every time I’m lying next to you I can’t get enough
Get up get up get up wake up ooh
Baby baby baby every time we spend the night
You make me wanna sing like Barry White

Singing so deep and low
Moving all deep and slow
Oh baby you take my breath away
Time to stir up the juice
Give it up turn it loose
And let the music play

Every time I’m lying under you I can’t get enough
Get up get up get up wake up ooh
Baby baby baby every time we spend the night
You make me wanna sing like Barry White

Oh baby baby I got so much love for you
I’m gonna make you cum all night girl that’s what I’m gonna do
Oh baby baby baby girl you know it’s true
And when the morning comes you’re gonna know I’m so in love with you

So in love with you
I’m so in love with you
Girl I surrender I can’t hold back
Got to give it up
Living to give you love
My train’s rolling down your track

Every time I’m moving inside you I can’t get enough
Get up get up get up wake up ooh
Baby baby baby every time we spend the night
You make me wanna sing like Barry White

Oh baby baby I got so much love for you
I’m gonna make you cum all night girl that’s what I’m gonna do
Oh baby baby baby girl you know it’s true
And when the morning comes you’re gonna know I’m so in love with you

Oh baby baby I got so much love for you
I’m gonna make you cum all night girl that’s what I’m gonna do
Oh baby baby baby girl you know it’s true
And when the morning comes you’re gonna know I’m so in love with you

At the time I wrote that song, I was merely hoping that it would be a powerful cupid’s arrow in my musical quiver, a warm moisture-seeking missile I could indiscriminately pull back and release into a crowd at one of my gigs whenever I wanted to find that sweet carnal release that musicians sometimes like to achieve with a willing person of the female persuasion after a long and satisfying evening of playing music. But so far, I have not gotten laid as a result of this, or any other songs I’ve written. However, other people seem to be, and this effect has accelerated dramatically in recent times, as have the intensity of these strange occurrences.

Now, the above-mentioned infusion of money and velour suits and a new Cadillac may not be happening by next weekend, but I do want you to know that I will be playing Luna’s Cafe on Friday, February 5, and I will play the “Barry White” song upon your request; I go on first, around eight-ish. Being mindful of what typically happens in my presence these days, please be sure to bring enough salad oil for the whole group if you plan on making a spectacle out of yourselves. —Jackson Griffith

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  1. […] Somebody’s churchy-looking grandmother was there, so I eschewed my semi-ribald “Barry White,” because the tempatation to look at granny when I drop to sotto voce and sing the line: […]


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