Monday, November 04, 2002
But no. Monday just bitch-slaps me right from word go. Making me WORK. I mean, geez whut is this? Don't I deserve to get flowed cash just in light of my winning personality and overall charm and amiability? Aren't I simply owed a living free of responsibility and duty when you take into consideration how goddamm cool I am?
Well? Your silence I will take as a resounding no, by which you can stretch out that o and shove that n where the sun don't shine and leave me to my caffeinated rondevue in beantown.
You know when you look and you look and you think, I shalt never find, and then, out of the blue, like a bolt from Zeus's thunderstick, it cracks you on the head like a louisville slugger. I discovered in the Cheapo Music used CD racks the golden goose I had so long sought: Ozzy's Diary of a Madman. for those not in the know, this was the last studio album to feature the unparalleled guitar work of Mr. Randall Rhoads. His tragic accident would occur during the touring for this album. capiche? otay. so i was stoked beyond words, especially in light of the $6 price tag. it was word em up to the 18th level of kriptonics.
You may say, crapola, Joe, what's the dillio, just buy it off Amazon or yahoo or some shit, why waste all that time rummaging through record shops, to which I will politely and delicately respond: FUCK THAT SHIT. Yeah and get screwed on shipping and have some pimply faced 12 year old use it as a spoke clicker on his BMX until it finally finds its way into my hands, and then I have to travel to fukn juno alaska to return it and bitch slap an eskimo.
I don't want it to come to that. So I scour the used cd racks, cuz alf don't buy old cd's new if you know whut I mean. It's just not done, it's like puttin sour cream on a pancake. Homey don't play that.
So I get home and I pour myself a tall glass of homegenized goats blood. I light the sacred candle given to me by nikki sixx when I toured with them in 85, preserved just for this moment in time, space, and 5th dimension fondue-smoke. "Over the Mountain" kicked in, Randy's guitar work started tickling my brain, and there he was. The rock god draped in leather with a roach clip hanging from his feathered locks. The axe kept wailing, I started crying, tears of joy at the rebirth of a fallen soldier. Randy muthafuckin Rhoads, in my home, making oatmeal in the microwave and english muffins in the toaster. Make yourself at home, g-dog. It is all g in the heeze.
Imagine, the greatest guitar player of all time, rocking out, and you'd think that was enough, I mean, that would really take the cake for almost any paranormal exeperience. But peep this. I'm slamming away on my air drums, with the drum sticks I bought in a Kalakaua music shop, and suddenly, one of the drum sticks gets yanked out of my left hand. Whut the fuk? I know it's not randy, cuz he don't play no drums. I know it's not my goldfish, he was at the movies with his girlie. I look over, and what do I see, but a floating, severed arm, banging away through the air, perfect time, keeping up with every beat to ultimate precision.
And then I understood. It was the ghost of Rick Allen's arm. The long lost appendage of the unidextrous drumming machine of Def Leppard had come back from the spirit realm to join in our inspired jam session. So Rick Allen's arm was taking care of the drums, randy was on lead guitar, I started wailing out the lyrics to "Flying High Again," matching Ozzy tone for tone, inflection suddenly filling my voice box. With this kind of line up, I'm mad tempted to try to get a hold of Rudy Sarzo, the former quiet riot & ozzy bass player, and see if we can get a band going. Anybody got his number? I'm very serious and even though I'm not paying dollars, you gotta admit it makes hella sense.