The Shit Sandwich
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
So we talked, finished the sake, and fell asleep. Then this morning, at the first sign of light, about the time of day when cat burglars decide the sack is full enough, I got up, put on some Bach and typed the following into mouth of the Hungry Brute..
..and on I push, lumbering through the day with these extra pounds, seasonally cheerful but nonetheless shambling along, bumping into things and then shouting at them for their outright insolence, jotting down an urgent note to speak with the proprietor who sold me that unruly lamp in the first place, that hideous bulb chewer that always manages to find my elbow even if I'm in the other room, and then we'll see what we'll see, and I may even consider giving that merchant a little what for and that's what I said and how's 'bout you watch yer lip and maybe you'd like to make somethin' out of it, fugnuggle, huh? Yeah, I didn't think so..
The pizza arrived and I thudded my way to the front door, making a mental note to stop thudding.
"A man should really try to curb his thudding as soon as he becomes aware of it, lest he lead himself to an untimely final thud," said some guy whose name escapes me, but I do remember a Dutch painting of him at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the one where he dons a green hat with a peacock feather, and uses a monogrammed handkerchief to shoo away flies from a large, earthen bowl containing a generous portion of gruel and a fat wooden spoon that he can't wait to shove into his face, while a drunken, bearded fiddler in the background fiddles away, dancing to some fairy dust ditty about bouncing bouffants and prancing pastry chefs.
Yes, it's quite a challenge, stomaching that much poof in a single painting at 10am, and not everyone is up to the task. Many never make it past the first floor. Some get all the way to the third floor, but then leave the building on a stretcher.
"Overdose. Too many dandies in ruffled collars," a doctor says, covering the face with a sheet. "Pity. Should have gone to the Van Gogh museum."
One is better advised to wake up with leisure in Amsterdam. Reserve the Rijksmuseum for the afternoon. The city isn't going anywhere. Rove along the Amstel and watch the tangerine sun unveil a dazzling Dutch morning in a city first chartered in 1275. Enjoy a beverage and bite at a comfortable corner coffeeshop, twiddling away the time, waiting for a more reasonable hour, puffing a Turkish tobacco, or another of your pleasure if you wish, through a long, arced, whale-tooth fisherman's pipe, sipping espresso, stroking your beard and gazing off into space, lifting an eyebrow now and then as you stumble onto a profound idea, the discovery of a clue to one of life's great mysteries perhaps, then tamping your bowl with a golf tee, frowning, realizing the folly of man and fleeting of time.
Madness, you think. Madness all around.
On another note..
How can grown men rock out to Journey and not feel shame and regret? I've seen them a couple of times, these Journey fans, on my way to the laundry room or out to my car. They look like the rest of us to the untrained eye, these 41 year old Steve Perry disciples, but I tell you they are pod people, YES, I said it, pod people, planted here on Earth to soften us up for the big Don't Stop Believin' re-invasion of 2006, featuring Air Supply and the Neutered 6.
You have been warned, unbeliever.
For two days straight these puffy puds next door have been cranking out what must be Journey's Greatest Hits (three words that, you must admit, just don't look right together). How do you ingest a drab, stale, soulless, pop-lite, shit sandwich like that and not ralph it all back up into your own lap? I ask you.
It is foul and requires a response.
To put some juice back in my balls I threw Man in the Box from Alice in Chains into my BOSE BallBuster 901(complete with five channel "Bootsy bass" and secret "Pacemaker Zap" button for some laughs during the holidays) then programmed it to randomly pick songs from Stevie Ray Vaughn, Rage Against the Machine, Metallica, anything, hoping to fire-hose the stench of wheels in the sky keep on turning from my memory while I still had a chance at a normal life. One more Oh Sherry and I'd end up that sad and pitiful patient at the funny farm who makes the burbly burbly sound while wiggling an index finger vertically in front of his lips, staring out the window, studying a hot dog vendor across the street, wondering how some wiener guy figured out "the secret" so early in life. That bastard. Burbly burbly.
What was I saying? Oh yes.
Journey is a band whose songs can be sung while wearing corduroy pants, and that's proof enough that it's just wrong. What wheels in the sky? There are no wheels in the sky. There are planets and moons and stars and galaxies, but there is a conspicuous lack of wheels in the sky. I don't know what kind of pussified, white wine hangover produced that wretched, 8th grade metaphor but it should have been aborted before the ink hit the paper.
Yeesh.
It's like hearing someone call the Bee Gees a rock band. What? Dude, three effeminate pixies warbling in falsetto voices doesn't even resemble a rock band. That's called a gay men's choir. Real rock and roll bands swing their thundering cocks and throw TV sets out of hotel room windows and screw porn stars and punch out photographers and choke on their own vomit. They don't sing duets with Barbara fucking Streisand.
All right, enough already. See what a negative effect it has? Sucked the Christmas spirit right out of me, Journey did. Why, not three days ago, I was watering flowers, waving at neighbors and patting puppies on the head. Now look at me: an angry, itchy-fingered hombre, gunnin' fer a fight with any two-bit, desert rat that's got the nerve ta say sumthin' encouragin' about Stoned in Love.
"Smile when you say that, Mister. You best be waxin' ironical."
Copyright 2005 John Bizarre
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