01/9/25
Midnight Cowboys, in a non-gay way
|    AgentBrianQ It was a long, long time ago... and I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance. And, maybe, they'd be happy for a while. But February made me shiver with every paper I'd deliver at night; the rain fell on the doorstep along with the bad news that came in torrents, except at occasional times when it wasn't so bad, but usually it was, and I couldn't take one more step. I can't remember if I cried, when I read about his widowed bride, or when I heard about the plane when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which brought it down. But something touched me deep inside, the day the music died. So bye-bye, Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy up the streets (for it is in this location that the levee is located) to the levee but the levee was dry. And them good old boys that our scene revolves around were drinkin' whiskey and rye, singin', "This'll be the day that I die," rattling along the washboard for rhythm, "this'll be the day that I die." Did you write the book of love? And do you have faith in God above, if the Bible tells you so? Do you believe in rock 'n' roll? Can music and fiercely agitating the squares by being Latino, or looking like a square yourself, or being a big bopper, save your mortal soul? And can you teach me how to dance real slow? Well, I know that you're in love with him, 'cause I saw you dancin' in the gym. You both kicked off your shoes. Man I dig those rhythm and blues. I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck, with a pink carnation and a pickup truck, which I was too drunk to steer and ended up taking out many of the lamps that struggled against the side of the road, unable to evade my charge. But I knew I was out of luck the day the music died. I started singin', "bye-bye, Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry. Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye, and singin', "This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die". Through one of the obcurest periods of my life we've been on our own, and moss grows fat on a rollin' stone, but that's not how it used to be. When the jester sang for the king and queen of London, and among them he wore a coat he borrowed from James Dean, who was little loved by the gentlemen of the royal establishment, and a voice that came from you and me. Oh, and while the king was looking down, a man, evidently of the lowest social status, that of the jesterdry, stole his thorny crown, the courtroom was adjourned; no verdict was returned. And while Lennon was wending his solitary way reading a book of Marx, the quartet practiced in the park. He stopped twice or thrice at the gazebo to listen, and we sang dirges in the dark, the day the music died. And we were singing, "bye-bye, Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levee and houses of a close proximity to the levee but the levee was dry. Them good old boys with the appearance of the Andy Capp-esque drunk were drinkin' whiskey and rye, and singin', "This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die." Helter skelter in a summer swelter. The birds flew off with a fallout shelter in which they were situated, and tended to try to go eight miles high, but ended up falling fast. It landed foul in the grass. The players tried for a forward pass, to look good for some article or another which some sports reporter was writing for the local paper, with the jester on the sidelines to be met with. Jazzsoda It was a wet and bitchy night; the rain fell down and threw a fit on the sidewalk, like a spoiled toddler, and the lions horked up horrific torrents, except at occasional truck stops where they stocked Pepto. In fact, the night had very nearly wrecked itself when it was checked by a violent Swede named Marmaduke, who took violent offense whenever someone pointed out that he had the same name as a funny cartoon dog. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a great rude fart of wind which may have come from the Wind Witch, no one could be certain, but anyway it really fucked up the streets (for it is in the best interest of the children that we get the story exactly right, even if it means typing a blue streak). Some would say that it is green weed that our scene needs, but those hippies can kiss my legpit. Anyway, like I was saying, there was a giant, metallic kiwi rattling along the storm drains, and fiercely agitating the local communists, and so we knew all hell was really breaking loose out there. Meanwhile, inside with me there was Leonard of the lamps that struggled against the popular perception that lamps were all he knew about. Through one of the obcurest keyholes in all of London, and among other eavesdropping fucks, I saw a lone penguin, little loved by the gentlemen of the night, whatever you call them, gay hookers, but there's never been any love lost between gay gigolos and penguins, we all know. But this one dude, I'm pretty sure it was a man, evidently of the lowest rider caste, I mean his britches were like barely even on, was wending his solitary wendle all by himself, which is to say he was cranking his stank in the alleyway. He stopped twice or thrice at most, don't crawl up my ass if it was four times but I don't think it was, anyway, he kept stopping because the penguin was watching and what the fuck's up with that? The penguin was humming a song about dancing days and houses of a holy variety. This quickly stopped, of course, with the appearance of the lesbian rugby team and the army transport vehicle in which they were situated, and tended to hang out in most of the time, but that's a story for another time, for some article or another which I plan to write and sell to the New Yorker, or at least one of those shitty little cookbooks you can buy in the supermarket check-out aisle, the kind you don't pick up unless there aren't any attractive women around, because that would be a pretty gay thing to be met with. Milestones1988: Red Bagel's screenplay based on the cover up of the Challenger disaster is rejected for production and accused of being plagiarized from Tootsie.Now HiringRib Sandwich. Tasty barbecue rib sandwich, no experience required, must be available noon today. If position works out, could invite you back every week and some weekends. Please contact Ned Nedmiller at the commune.Top 5 Reasons You Won't Have to Kick Around the commune For Anymore
 Series 15 It was a bright cold day in case you were wondering, and the clocks were striking again. It was always such a pain when the clocks went on strike. No one knew what time it was. The hippies found it liberating, but that's hippies for you. (6/30/06) Series 14 We hold these joysticks here, now you take one, hold it like this, to be funny. They don't do anything to operate the car. One thing driving will teach you is, of course, that all men are cowards when you aim the light gun from a Nintendo at them on the freeway. (12/18/05) Series 13 It was the best of James Best, it was the Dukes of Hazzard, check your local listings for times, it was cracker-barrel wisdom, it was the age of the inbred, it was the epoch of ... epoch... shit, I know what that means... it's a kind of cheese or something? (1/6/05) Series 12 It is a way I have of driving off the very men who might love me, or might just want my skin to make a couch, which it really does beautifully and is good for decor, and regulating the color balance of the room. An insane interior decorator told me that once. (6/28/04) Series 11 "That was a good first day," God said to no one in particular, for He was the only being that existed at that time. And so, He did rest. (6/1/03)            |
