Other times i pet this cat, yes i'm a fucking loon, she's a sweet little thing with blue eyes and a crooked tail, she likes to keep her ass on the seat and rest with her head and paws on my leg, she passes out and i stare off into space, her purring will remind me of the ocean, that ocean will take me to a boardwalk and a bicycle and the cool summer night wind on my sticky skin, how every apartment was like an oven, and i'll blink and the ocean is bluer and the language is different and i'm holding young Nick Disaster's hand as we walk on the large flat rocks and get hit with salty spray from a churning Pacific and then i flip up my legs and the cat adjourns to the blanket next to me, i lie back and think of all the things i could be accomplishing and chuckle at my almost stunning devotion to idleness, when the only thing that matters is the three inches both in front of and behind the eyes because that's all there fucking is, i don't understand much anymore, a love and devotion to the boyos that was out of, and maybe still is, my realm of comprehension, never have i worried about two souls more than those two and i'm sure i'll continue worrying about them until that last exhale, the lunatics these days don't realize that we're all supposed to have a good time...
And the other day i heard this song, and there was a time in my wasted youth when i was fucking so close to my John Hughes dream that i could touch it and lick it and fuck it and hold it, and i was coming back from from the paint store and i was pleasantly stoned and this damn song came on, a song i hear every so often and gives me the biggest shit eating grin, cuz way back when in my favorite club, a place called the Nine of Clubs and then the Alter House, was this cat who i didn't know personally but who was a few years older than my 20yr. old self, a bit of a lovable fuck-up who seemed to have a love/hate relationship with many people, and about the time the acid started to mellow which was usually late into the evening or early into the morning depending how you looked at it, he'd sneak into the DJ booth or yell up and this song would come on and Jimmy Jazz would dance his way around the club, singing at the top of his lungs as if his life fucking depended on it, it was an expression of pure joy and after seeing it for the first time one night this song was forever etched into my mind, i'd see the display many more times and every time Jimmy spent three plus minutes in nirvana, it was three minutes more than most people get a day and some never get, ever... you could learn something from that dancing fool...
3 comments:
There's a word for what we are. Slackers. I can piss about with the best of them. My distinctive lack of any meaningful financial or professional success is on account my preference for doing absolutely fucking nothing. I've never felt bad about it and I doubt I ever will.
I haven't thought about the Nine of Clubs for a few decades. Jaysus, was I ever that young?
Doing nothing, especially when it involves a cat, and dope is an art that few can practice properly.
And what a joyful evocation of Jimmy Jazz you give there.
Exile- There's nothing to feel bad about, that's the Man telling you and indoctrinating you from a young age to work/consume/repeat, it's why everyone always asks "what do you do?", i now respond, "I just am." You should be wear that Slacker badge with pride, i do. And there was a time when i practically lived for the Nine and the Lift (or Aquilon), taking drugs and dancing to the wee hours with strange women, it didn't suck did it?
Looby- Why am i not surprised you can appreciate the art of Idle? it's quite the lost art in the age of busy, as if a full work/social calendar is the new currency, fuck that i say! i'll be on the couch pleasantly stoned with my cat listening to records, i often look to Henry Miller, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Alan Watts to steer me in the right direction (and the bong)... they almost always do.
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