Friday

Wondering how long I'll be okay with the starving artist wannabe in low output low income mode routine -- I mean -- if they put a gun to your head and told you to form a rock and roll band, you might write a song about a death sentence and an electric chair powered by solar energy, a cloudy day and the governor calling with second thoughts, but he's placed on hold . . . and you end up hiding in a dumpster outside the recording studio, quietly placing cell phone calls to taxi cabs, you suddenly realize that their guns were all made of latex . . . but do this: with the microphone -- somebody wants to take it from you -- talk them out of taking it, and then hand it to them nicely. Usually they wipe down the machine between sessions, but it's been so busy. Here's a song they just added to the karaoke machine memory bank: it's about the steady steady squeak that drove the busboy crazy. He said it sounded like a tiny voice, his kindergarten sweetheart. Saddened, he realized his madness was incurable. He decided to steal a U-Haul truck and load it down with books at every single Friends of the Library book sale he could sneak into. He’d read in the truck by flashlight. If he couldn't be sane, he reasoned, he could at least be book smart.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

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Anonymous said...

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