Amends for the past few days
I believe I have some amends to make. You see, I’ve been somewhat of a swaggering butthole the past few days, and I’d ascribe that jankified state of affairs to, well, I’ve been feeling like utter crapola, like I’ve had some kind of low-grade flu bug that didn’t outright kick my ass as it just left my woodrow in the ditch. “Headache, neck ache, unnatural feelin’s, body hurtin’, think somebody did somethin’ to ya,” as Prophet Omega of the Peaceway Temple, 488 Lemont Drive, Apartment Q-258 — that’s the Kenmont Apartments — used to tell his parishoners. Yes, I’ve been a horrible, insufferable twat, a “glum cunt,” as Mel Gibson might put it after a cocktail or thirteen.
So, I’m sorry. I want you to read my stuff and be transported to a sweetly groovalicious place, where enchiladas dripping with cheese and piquant cumin-accented sauce grow on trees and the river flows with cane-sugar Coke, or lime-flavored Jarritos, or tequila if that’s the way you roll. I’d rather not send you to some crummy little verbal purgatory because I was feeling all achy and butthurt and crappy and desolate and emo and frankly, fucked up, and I let my fingers do the talking and then thought later, great howlin’ idiot Jeebus kicking loose magenta nuggets of putrefying quiche ’round some totally ugly Volvo where Xenu’s yokels zampoughie, what TF was I thinking? Y’know, I’d rather that you laughed instead of went, uh, what a sphincterous old fnarf that guy is.
I. Am. Genuinely. Sorry. Really, I am.
Speaking of laughter, I got back from a noontime errand, and was looking at these posters up all over Tattooed Drunkard Corners, and of course I read the text first: “Blvd Park = Suck” on the top line, “Musical Charis” under it,something about the Press Club and Monday September 13 at the bottom. Hmm, I thought. I got in that stupid little dustup with Blvd Park, but actually I like that band and think Brian Ballentine’s a really good songwriter, and maybe I’ll have to make that promising little soirée for a Mad Dogs & Englishmen fix. And Musical Charis, well, missed ’em last night at Old I, but wanted to go but I’d been feeling like a tossed-off slice of pizza dragged by a mangy dog through an motor oil-splattered gutterspot covered with cigarette butts and last night’s good-time vomit, so I stayed away. Having missed the Partridge Family circa 1970 because I’d discovered the joys of marihuana and Frank Zappa, it’s always good to get a postmodern fix, albeit filtered through a prism of au courant fashionableness. And while that may sound snarky, I really mean it to sound sincere. Aside from me getting crinkly about the wake-up calls, I rather enjoy the music of both those bands.
Then I stepped back, and saw the glasses on the face on the poster, and thought, wow, once I had a pair of Brooks Brothers glasses that ugly, so ugly that my ex-wife used to make fun of me when I wore them, and then I looked at the fellow on the poster’s ugly mug. “Oh, fuck,” I rather exclaimed. “That’s me!” Willis, a Press Club regular who’d been having a smoke on the sidewalk, got a panicked look and mumbled, “Uh, see ya later” before making a beeline for the bar. Guess he thought, considering my recent well-curdled mien, that I might get pissed off or something.
But no. I’m not mad. Which is a good thing. Y’all made me laugh pretty good. So, Brian and Timmy and you guys, and Harley, too, it’s all good. Yeah, I got upset, probably because I have this really nice new steady job after a couple of years of unemployment, or chronic under-employment, and I just can’t function all that well on three or four hours’ sleep, then get up to be on the road by 7 a.m.; I really need to be able to think on my feet and produce good work. So I got a little indignant about it. What I realized is that I really need to move to a nice, quiet place, and I’m in the process of doing that, and then when I need a dose of live music, I’ll be able to come out on my own volition, rather than have it sprung on me when I’m trying to sleep. I love live music, but my requirements have changed. I need sleep, too.
As for the other amends I have pending, those I gotta make in person. Such is life. —Jackson Griffith