Okay, I’m back
Comrades, I return from the socialist paradise of Obamastan bringing great tidings! Which is to say, my bee-yotches, that I’m gonna start writing again, because that seems to be one of the things I do well when I apply myself. So, rather than kick off with a really long-winded post, I’m gonna start out simple, kinda.
Where have I been? You know, working, coming home, practicing a bunch of tunes I’ve written on guitar, staying out of trouble, living a boring life, sleeping, getting up, lather, rinse, repeat. It’s hardly the stuff of wonderful comedy. The biggest excitement lately has been the parking lot wars in my apartment complex, which culminated in a jeremiad posted on everyone’s door that included tow-truck threats, stuff about the pool that I never use, and a new sticker, one allotted for each apartment.
Here’s hoping that puts a crimp on those ladies in the back apartment, who take up two spaces plus one more sometimes when one of their boyfriends stays over. Not that it’s a hassle or anything; I can go park on the street if the lot’s full. But I like parking back there since I pay rent here. Stupid, huh? I mean, the rent is reasonable, and I only have to put up with the orgasmic moans of one of my downstairs neighbors once in a while, which can be amusing if you yourself are finding satisfaction somewhere, but when you’re going through a drought, the effect of hearing that can be mild butthurt escalating to full-on crankiness.
The remarkable thing is that I’m not getting cranky or even butthurt, even though this has been one of the more prolonged droughts of my existence since my pre-sexual years. Aside from one brief emotional rocket-ride-slash-crash-and-burn earlier this year that I may or may not have completely hallucinated, I’ve been pretty much the mystified lone single since Jerry Brown got elected governor to replace that little orange Schwarzenshmeggege fellow. The last time ol’ Jer was governor, he supposedly was getting sideways with Linda, and I was working in a record store and dodging the amorous advances of horny MILFs left and right, not to mention getting busy with plenty of fine ladies closer to my age. So I can’t blame Governor Moonbeam, but these days I have a happy day if some sweet lady smiles at me, or gives me a hug.
Anyhoo, it’s gonna be time for Plan B, methinx. Gonna hook me up some fly suits, a low-riding Cadillac, and a new body of mellow but sexxxy songs with a lot more of an Al Green or Marvin Gaye feel, maybe. Gonna get me a band that can walk the jawaka right out into the audience and drop some panties, and I’m gonna work on my neo-soul man act. Yes, that’s it: If I can combine Al Green and Marvin Gaye with maybe a little Leonard Cohen and perhaps a touch of Serge Gainsbourg, I most likely won’t be complaining about any dearth of lovin’ down the line.
Or, maybe I’m just done and don’t know it. Ergo, shuffleboard, horseshoes, bocce ball. More soon. —Jackson Griffith