I’m bored with this music thing already. It’s no fun. My iPod played Tom Waits this morning and all I could come up with was the time my brother was suspended for smoking pot in high school and sentenced to spend his week stripping wallpaper in the family room as punishment, and he spent the whole time tripping his balls off and listening to Small Change. That’s about the whole story, right there, and it’s not even mine.
Plus? I thought you’d be tired of hearing about the Kid, and since he and I were Really Done This Time, I tried to change the subject. Switch it up. But I was getting 75 hits a day writing about that little shit, and only 22 with this. 75 isn’t a million, but it’s three times more than 22, I tell you what. Plus nine. So fuck it. If I could spend a year writing something I didn’t like because I thought someone, somewhere might maybe want to read it, I can sure as shit spend a little more time writing about something I love because 75 people I know actually do. And it’s not like this is the Superbowl or anything. I can go in the locker room at halftime (or, you know, five minutes into the first quarter) and change the gameplan if I want.
So huddle up, folks, and I'll draw the Xs and Os.
The bar where I met that little shit is closing in a week. Starting tomorrow, I’ll pick up where I left off in May and spend the next seven days filling you in on the place and all the characters, so you’ll have the playbook for the Shit Show that I know the closing party’s gonna be. Starting tomorrow, there'll be sex and violence. Starting tomorrow, there'll be strong language and explicit situations and content suitable for mature audiences only. And starting tomorrow, if that’s where you met me, there’s a strong chance there’ll be you. So fasten your seatbelts, buckle up your chinstraps, keep your arms and legs inside the cart, put your head down and get your shinguards and shoulder pads on.
Because today, right now, I'm disco-napping. That goddamn Kid showed up at the bar last night with a skinny little, pretty little 22-year-old girl – and went home with red hot smokin' me. Little shit kept me up till 4:00 a.m. Guess there's something to be said for a TV-MA rating after all, you know what I'm saying? But I have every reason to expect an instant replay in a couple hours, and if I’m gonna keep winning playoff games that easily just by stepping on the turf, this Old Lady's gotta get her rest.
And a little Gatorade probably wouldn't hurt.