Monday, September 09, 2002
sublime, damn this album is solid. shame that guy had to pump heroin in his veins until he was dust in the wind, ain't it?
Gawd, I am just in no mood to make any kind of sense today. I really must apologize to you two people left over reading my blog, I know I've been sucking ass lately. But I like to think that what I lack in cognizance and direction I make up for in vibe.
Am I wrong?
So anyway, I was thinking about some deep thoughts today but I can't remember what they were. Something about like are we really here or is all of existence just a speck of dust on a cockroach's antenna on the dirty floor of your neighborhood butcher shop? I mean, when you think about it, the whole universe might just be one smidgen of slobber on a chilli cheeseburger getting eaten by a black labrador retriever named lindsey. You know it could happen, but you're just not prepared to accept it, are you?
The more I write of this drivel, the more I realize that I am a hopeless hack with the misguided mindset that anyone actually gives even one quarter of a rat's ass. Then I look outside, see the clouds covering kailua, and I think, where am I, who am I, why am i. Is my name oscar or jacque?
These are the thoughts that keep me up nights, gripping my sweaty pillow in a fistfull of dissatisfied angst, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out the window buck naked and howl at the moon with some unrecognizable jelly like substance foaming out of my mouth, madness in my eyes, a haunting solo being played by randy rhoads' ghost on my roof. He lives up there, you know. You can't see him during the day, but sometimes I'll lay in the driveway, and pretend I'm looking up at the stars, but really I'm trying to spot randy, seeing if I can get a little free concert action. And last night, damn I had him fooled, he looked down, I could see him, but I didn't look him in the eye, he's skittish like that, he'll run away. So anyway, he didn't think I could hear or see him, so he hung his legs over the edge of the roof, plugged his guitar into God's eternal outlet, and started jamming. First he fucked around a little bit with what sounded like Mr. Crowley and then it was just off and running, hitting chords that I honestly don't think I've ever heard from a human guitar player. It was like he'd tapped into the cosmic force, the juicy-juice, the good stuff, that on this earth is totally inaccessible. It was really an awesome moment, one of those lonely yet connecting pieces of a lifetime. Cuz we were together, me and randy, diggin on his tunes, but I had to play it off like I was totally oblivious, when really I wanted to stand up and dance and air-guitar and scream and whip my non-existent long feathered hair around and scream out an arcane rhyme.
But I couldn't, I chilled, I listened, and I watched a master at work. A man who even in death was continuing his mission of bringing rippin music to those looking for the truth.