What to write, what to write…
When you have that itch, that craving to smash your fingers against those supple keys, yet the itch to continue your current novel hasn’t quite arrived in a timely manner.
I guess you just start typing, and see what comes of it. Hell, you never know what could happen when you start tapping away at those keys, almost anything.
Did anyone else know Guinness Blonde existed, it’s god damn delicious! Dare I say better than standard Guinness. Definitely more palatable as a midday refresher. Standard Guinness is a deep drink for deep times, a thick brew keeping you afloat in evenings of deep conversation at bar tables. This delicious blondie, on the other hand, is light enough to drink even with the inevitable heatstroke brought upon by doing as much as stepping outside in the Manhattan summer.
Individuals who prefer the heat to the cold are criminals of the darkest caliber. The cold really is an upper. It keeps you awake, alert, quick-paced, and quick to the draw. The heat, on the other hand, is a foul, simmering monster that takes everything from you and leaves you to rot. Maybe I just have extreme sensitivity to the heat; maybe I just dehydrate very easily. All I know is that coming into a warm building from the sharp cold keeps me energized and ready to go, while heat destroys me.
All that can save you from the lethargy and exhaustion of the heat is a 25-minute lukewarm shower, coupled with hours upon hours of hard, uninterrupted sleep. Only then can you be cured, but not everyone, including myself, always has the luxury of the extended time needed after a wild bout with the heat.
Am I really sitting here talking about the weather? Who does that? I need to get deeper into this Lime Rosé, maybe then I’ll start to gain some sense of rhythm, some centering to keep this bout with the keyboard going.
Ah, who am I kidding? When the heat gets you, you’re screwed through and through. There’s no serious writing to be had, only wallowing in misery and the sheen of sweat and exhaustion that won’t leave you even after 45 minutes sitting on the shower floor.
Ah, good old Jerry Temporary. My friend. Hope that bullet wound didn’t give you too much trouble out there. I love you man, you should come home. Egypt Station was great, but I mean really come home. Get back together with Ringo, go up to Bethel woods, and just play. Play for three days straight. Who needs an ensemble of artists when you can get the greatest setlist of all from just two fine-looking brothers. I’ll be there. Heck, I’ll gather the old SLC group; we’ll all be there.
Strange, but revolutionary ideas on the 50th anniversary of the greatest event I never lived through. Carlos Santana stepping out there, a head full of LSD, doing his best to push out Evil Ways through that thick cloud of acid. What I wouldn’t give to be out in that jam-packed field, sitting on the shoulders of some woman five feet taller than me, screaming for the encore.
What was the Woodstock crafts bazaar? Was it real? It’s advertised on the massive poster ad I have, but I highly doubt it ever came to fruition. Too much degeneracy and orgasmic sound for one to set up a booth and sell jewelry, ay? I could just tab over and turn to Google. I’m sure I can find some grainy, black and white photos of some hippies strewing over some beads, but is it worth it? I’d rather just preserve the mystery; did this convention show floor ever come to be?
Eh, I think I’m done for now. I have a very nice buzz coming on, and I’ll probably head out in about 20 minutes or so to meet my attorney for a supper. This has been my interrupted train of thought signing out for the hour. GOODNIGHT