Lord? *sniff-sniff* What’s that smell?

bb

Like Jack Black says in High Fidelity, “Let’s
see-eee-eee-eee-eee…” Six, five, four, three, two, one.

That line goes to eleven, just as this one
this one and the next one will. I don’t know why

I write this way, but even when I have few
important things to say (which is often) it

still gets me into the flow of things. So … um.
Music, and stuff. Tour busses. Double Deckers.

First time I ever heard Chubby Checker I
was on a trip to Gettysburg with my mom.

The first time I ever heard Dave Grohl sing,
he sang about Ritalin – a medicine that…

…shit. What was I talking about again? Gin?
Coke and whiskey? “One bourbon. One Scotch. One beer.”

John Lee Hooker. He was in The Blues Brothers
with Jake and Elwood. Uh-how-how-how? How did

they get him to play with them? Who knows? They did.
There’s Aretha Franklin, too, Cab Calloway,

the immortal Jack Napier and The Good Old
Boys Band, Matt “Guitar” Murphy, Donald “Duck” Dunn

and the one … the only … Mister Ray Charles,
tickling the keys of an organ he whips out.

“Shake Ya Tailfeather” plays, a crowd of people
dance in the streets – including Uncle Phil, from

The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Mister T. They’re
In there somewhere. I’ve tried to find them, but it’s

like playing Where’s Waldo and I never did
like those books… Did you know that during filming,

John Belushi was out wandering Windy
City streets when he randomly knocked on a

door, introduced himself and asked if he could
take a nap on their couch? True story. What’s the

point of all this? There isn’t one, but that flick
is amazing. Right now I’m out on the beach

writing, and a bronzed Bo Derek lookalike
is bouncing past. Oh my God. Is … is that a

tramp stamp? I wonder if she regrets getting
that baby blue cross on the small of her back.

Lord knows I regret the one on my shoulder.
Silver lining: it’s a constant reminder

of just how big of an asshole I can be.
Too bad I don’t know any artists who could

help me design something around it. Back on
the beach, I see England. I see France. I see

pink bikini bottoms and a strapless top,
her tan skin pulled tight across a bony frame.

She makes me think of George Hamilton and his
leather luggage. Now a couple … a man and

woman … tourists. They have a camera and
it looks like the Georgia Bulldogs threw up on

them. I bet if I “woof-woofed” they’d bark back at
me. The same could be said about the dark blonde.

Instead I sit here, smoking cigarettes and
watching the waves roll in, then away again –

writing, waiting for my ship to come in and
feeling more pretentious than Jim Morrison.

I have to go to work now. It’s 10:10 on
August 3rd, 2015 – the year of our…

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