Tuesday, November 19, 2002
I barely got to work on time this morning because I was simply captivated by the amazing story of the Dixie Chicks. Those crazy girls.
I was also flipping by Direct Effect on MTV. Hey, Busta Rhymes, I like your work, your talented, you've made it, you don't have to fukn promote your album every time you're on camera and shout out your fukn agent every five minutes, just tell me what goddamm video I'm gonna watch and shut the fuk up. And DJ Clue, I know you're playing the game, but could you at least tone down the ass kissing? Maybe take it from a 12 to an 8?
Cranky meets Def Leppard meets coffee bean meets happy boy. Now this is the mindstate for which the ultimate works of art of the last century were surely created.
Randy Rhoads' ghost jumped up front and rode shotgun this morning after I dropped off Mrs. P at school. Silly me, I hadn't even noticed him in the backseat when we first hopped in the AlfMobile. "Ya know, Alfred, that's a heck of a good woman you've got there," he said.
"You don't have to tell me that, Randy."
For the next couple minutes, he was strangely quiet. I was about to say something stupid like "damn Olowokandi had a monster game against Golden State last night," but as I looked over, I noticed a tear in his eye. I thought about asking, and then didn't. Let him have his moment. Memories of a lost love? Ponderings of relationships undeveloped? That girl that he always figured he'd come back to in a few years after he sowed his wild oats playing axe for the Madman? Whatever it was, he seemed over it just as we turned the corner to the Alf Mansion.
"If you could come back and do anything in the world besides play guitar, what would you do Randy?" I asked him.
"I don't have to tell you that, Alfred. I'd rather be a dead man bangin' out hits for the Reaper."
And he didn't have to tell me that. And he felt better. And we laughed and parted ways and got on with our day.