May 8, 2004
I was Mistaken
Coming of age in the early seventies as a pseudo-hippie, I was sure the expression was "God is Acid, man". Now I'm convinced the correct phraseology is "God is Acidman". Punctuation is everything, people. I had the pleasure of hoisting a few sasparillas with the Great One yesterday, and it was a hoot. He even picked the Exchange Tavern on River Street, where I used to drink beer thirty years ago as a sixteen year old, and Rob was no doubt playing guitar in there during some of those times. The fact my old ship barky the Eagle was docked outside meant the karma was in our favor.
I hope I didn't corrupt the fellow. I think he was disappointed when he met me. He was expecting someone as handsome as my prose, not the edemic sloth that presented itself. Well, too fucking bad. I didn't paint my toenails red, either.
We decided to have a summer blog meet in Savannah, and will try to arrange it around Kelley's schedule. We tried to pound too much into too short a span of time, I fear. Lacerating other peoples' reputations takes time, and stamina.
I then went to my brother's, to visit him and my older brother and Puddyhead. Good Lord. I had to mix it up with Puddy, and so I engaged in two bouts of spree drinking yesterday. I fear I debauched myself in front of my brethren, and can only hope they found this behavior picaresque. I think I kissed Puddyhead a couple of times, or he kissed me, but I swear to Allah this was only a male-bonding ritual. I don't have a gay bone in my body, although I cannot find my butane lighter, and I have a most unpleasant sensation in my nether regions, right near my Point of Departure. Well, all thing must pass, as they say, and until then I'm using matches.
I awoke at four a.m. with a splitting headache and a powerful need to whizz, but fortunately Puddyhead was not in my bed. Not remembering where I was, I spun in a circle at the top of the stairway landing, trying to get my bearings. The stairs looked familiar, and I almost peed down them, until my good friend Reason raised its head above the oil-slicked surface of my consciousness, and I recognized the bathroom door. I then proceeded to sit and piss like a girl for four full minutes, like the sad, sad clown I am.
The drive back to Jacksonville this morning was Hell. My jangled nerves could only withstand Beach Music, but luckily I found just the station. Wilson Pickett knows from shit, friends. Mashed Potato, indeed. What a sublime metaphor for my state of being. And don't even get me started on Brown-Eyed Girl. I think the lads were calling me that last night. Or Brown-Eye Girl.
And so I must shower, and hasten to World Golf Village, where I have already missed Skeeter's solo routine. If I miss Emmie's, too, I may have to move in with Puddyhead, doomed upon our passing to have our livers encased in Lucite by the medicos, which will then be sent on a Fair Warning Tour of high schools.