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subject appears to be a white male, early 50's, pathologically tall/skinny. brain patterns show evidence of a life in alcohol - first swimming in it then running from it. fingers show wear from years of guitar playing. heart presents slow repair, through writing, from being broken by rock and roll.
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Christmas Is For Suckers: A punkrockblues Holiday Special
I am right now, this very minute eating the absolutely best peanut butter brownie I've ever had in my long and sorry life, warmly ensconced in the friendly glow of the regular customer and the computer screen. The Library here in Fowler has been a great friend and friendly place to me during the squalls of the everyday war, the small stuff I complain about when I should be writing about music or counting my blessings, for Christ's sake.
There's that name again.
Anyway, music, hmmmmmmm. Lately ain't nobody moved me except John Mayer and, boy, ain't he the shit? Boy can do it all, he said like Foghorn Leghorn, only in type. Haven't really been listening to music lately 'cause, for some reason, the 1st thing I packed was my stereo. The move's been postponed until after the 1st of the year for various reasons, all of them good and sure to lead to a better state in the long run.
How vague was that, huh? Might be I oughta run for something.
My buddy Carl Simmons can tell ya, if ya ask him, that for all my misanthropic ranting I'm the guy who cries at phone commercials, ok? 'Here Comes a Regular' by the Replacements reduces me to tears as does 'Somewhere That's Green' from 'Little Shop of Horrors' so let's say I'm not really immune to sentimentality, just that most the time I know that my strings are being pulled, though that knowledges makes the heart rending any less effective. Like I say, perception is all. Which leads me to the following question I've been avoiding asking for a looooooong time.
If perception is all, why have I chosen the perceptions I have?
In my defense I'm going with 'faith is like a record collection, it reflects the needs, desires and oftentime the failings of the collector. In this case, the collection is one of beliefs, shared assumptions, iconography, tradition and..........' In other words, kill the spirit with words. Which leads me to Christmas. The word and the hype have killed whatever spirit the highjacked day purported to hold. I'm too tired to even feel left out anymore. I see the commercials for all the chainstores ('America Shops While Iraq Burns', indeed) and all I can muster is a slight case of resentment 'cause everyone's dressed better than me. It's like getting mad at St. Patrick's Day. 'Let the rummies march!', as my old man would say.
Let the masses shop, it's Christmas for Christ's sake.
Posted by: timbyrnes at 17:28 |
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