I Need A Neil Young Guitar Solo In The Middle Of This Post

I Need A Neil Young Guitar Solo In The Middle Of This Post

"Every day I get up in the morning and go to work
And do my job -- whatever
I need some sentimental hygiene"
- Warren Zevon


Started the day dry and responsible. Well, mostly. At 6:30AM I was driving in the dark, smoking Winchesters and bellowing along with choice tracks on Mr. Bad Example.

Funnily enough that's what I was doing at 10PM as well.

Worked a short day for the temp service, sent home after lunch. Got a few things done at home (and a bazillion more not) before going off to pick up Katie.

She was just finishing up dance class. Her hair seemed more brushed out than usual. My little girl is more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

We had a ludicrously silly episode throwing a ball around the apartment, knocking over her drink and my CD player, laughing our asses off and pretending to try to kill each other with an orange ball with Bugs Bunny on it about half the size of a basketball.

There is NOTHING like watching a five-year old girl do a Herbert Lom impersonaton. "I will take this ball, which should rightfully be mine, and then...I will kill you! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

I had to stop after ten minutes from being totally out of air. Not from playing. From laughing so hard my back hurt.

Oh, and she thought one of the rearranged signs at the begining of Fawlty Towers read "Farty Towels."

My kid kicks ass.

Dropped her off and called D. We're shooting for shared physical adventures tomorrow night. Finally. Anything might come up to fuck it all up (and I don't say that against her, I just know shit happens with this one that's beyond her control) but I'm pretty confident that tomorrow night will be what I've been looking for for a long time now.

She makes me insane. If she works as good as she talks, I might not be able to MOVE afterwards. My heart might not be in this one - OK, it kinda is, since I DO really like her, I'm just still working through feelings aimed miles away - but when you get to HEAR a woman say what she says to me...I've not been that hard in a long time. I could've drilled a hole through the wall and hung Elvis off the end of it on the other side last night after she was done with me.

The urge to treat myself arose. I can't afford it. I stopped caring after thirty seconds. Fuck it. I feel powerful things happening in me that need the assistance of some high-quality seafood to help bring to fruition.

A pound of steamed black mussels, a few pieces of Irish soda bread, and two pints of Guinness later, I was IN THE GROOVE.

So I went to see the Danger Girl.

God, she's a killer. She's also very attached to her man.

And - if the doctor appointment she has Monday confirms her suspicions - pregnant.

She had the greatest expression when she told me that. She's not sure what to think yet - she's both very happy and not sure she's quite ready - but it's pretty obvious that she wants it, and I told her the truth - I bet she'll be one fuckin' cool mommy. She's an interesting character - the fire-red personality with so many shades of the rainbow in each direction - a mix of a crazy 18-year old girl who does shit I've never had the balls to do before very recently and still haven't made the time for: and a very responsible young woman who works 80 fucking hours a week and for all her crazed edge and intensity seems to have her head far more firmly set in place than mine will ever be.

I admire the fuck out of her. Oh, I'd like to FUCK her too. But I know that won't happen, and just enjoy being around her. I hope I can find a way of interacting with her on a closer basis - she genuinely seems to have an actual interest in me, even if it's totally "platonic", and hey, that's cool. I need more FRIENDS like that.

But yeah, I'd suck that pussy so hard I'd have a hangover the next morning if I had the chance.


I glided into the car, feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof, just like some asshole country singer. I screwed a Winchester into my cigarette holder, fired up the engine, and cranked the fuck out of Zevon. Singing along, imagining my angel dressed in black.

I always scoffed at the guys who hit middle age and suddenly felt the need for a flashy sports car with a killer stereo. But tonight at only 36 years old, in a reliable and fuel-efficent, highly practical but not exactly otherwise impressive car with a different colored driver's side front fender from a deer accident three months ago, and a stereo that distorts too soon, I suddenly felt that urge. Speeding along in some chick-magnetizing vehicle with James Bond devices planted throughout, some stupidly expensive piece of audio gear cranking up the Words Of The Prophets. (The Gospel According To Warren. The Letter Of Neil Young To The Zuma-ites. The Revelation Of Zappa.)
A ravishing redhead beauty in black leather at my side, ready to fulfill my every need but absolutely and rightly demanding that I satisfy hers. Together on some dark lost highway. Two young lovers in a jet-black death-machine. Stoned. Ripped. Twisted.

Good people.

I told a friend the other day that I'm trying to reclaim the childhood that I feel was robbed of me. But I also intend to KEEP that childhood. Maturity is an over-rated concept. The mature slow down and fade away. The young hit the wall at high speed and go out in a blaze. People make their own choices, and more power to them. But my choice is to buy the ticket and take the ride, and I'm finally - after years of my own personal kind of fear and self-loathing - finding the strength to do just that. I feel myself remaking my life, remolding it into something I can call my own without reservation or guilt. I'm not there yet. Not even close. But I've got a nice start. Today it's merely a dream to distract myself from the reality I slog through. Tomorrow it will become its own reality. I can feel it. I feel a lot of other shit, some of it terrifying, but mostly I feel on a path of my own making. For once. I'm tired of playing follow the leader. Those motherfuckers don't know any better where they're headed than I do, they just get to carry the stick. I've got my own stick. Yeah. And I'm gonna use that sumbitch.

I picked up a jar of pasta sauce tonight for dinner with Katie. THe lady behind the counter - probably well into her '70s - saw me with my long black coat and my hair down and said, "I hope this doesn't offend you, but..."

I smiled.

Then was surprised.

"I saw a documentary last night about President John Adams. You could play that part. You look just like him."

Huh?

I just looked up pictures. I don't see the resemblance, but...

In the past few weeks, I've been compared to both Sam Kinison and the second president of the United States.

I think that's fuckin' hilarious.


Dressed in black and tossing back a shot of rye,
Dougie