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Twisting all the bad things into good

Nov 28, 2012

The Day the Music Died....Again. Chapter 25





The final delusion is the belief
that one has lost all delusions.
- Maurice Chapelain

     
 MONDAY. 10/13/10
     
     Jeff will be here any minute to take me home.
      
     Take your time, friend. Take your time.
     Pull over.
     Drop that top.
     Soak up that South Florida sun.
     It's beautiful, this place we live in, where you were born, where I almost died.
     Take the scenic route.
     It's a nicer drive.
     Might actually be faster. 

     I'm the first person ever not relieved about being released from a mental facility.
         
     Ride on, Kimosabee. Ride on.
     Ride gently right into that desert wind.    
     Try to avoid the green lights along the way.
     I'm in no rush.
    
     Cruise A1A with your cruise control set on 23, or 19, or 17, or crawl, if you can.
     See how low you can go.
     I did.
     Find out how far you can go on empty.
     Did that too.
     Go out of your way all the way here.
     Stop by my place.
     Grab me my man shorts and laceless Converse.
     You'll see all those things I don't want to return to.
     
     Don't speed, JJ.

     Easy, Tiger.
     Take a stroll through Lion Country Safari.
     Swing through Monkey Jungle. 
     We got lots of time.
     Maybe you don't, you needing to go back to work and all.
     But this ain't about you.
     Not today, sunny boy. Not today.

     Always vios con diablos, Padre Pio.
     At least one of us can still be saved. 
 
     Ride the trail less ridden, cowboy.
     Take your Mustang, that steel horse you ride, lead that black beauty down into the valley, make her drink the water under the burning bridges. 
      Or stop and put some gas in her, or something.
      She's been good to you.
      Better than I was to my black Mustang.

      Don't pass out at the wheel or anything. 

      Take in some Shakespeare in the park, bromeo.

      Don't take shortcuts, son.

      Get a haircut, hippie.  

      Just take your time, good buddy. Take your time.

     Our mental telepathy sounds a lot like I'm your crew chief, and you're my driver.

     Take a pit stop, get all four tires changed, even if they don't need changing. 
     Then get em' rotated.
     Always pass on the outside, further outside you are, longer the distance to the finish line.
     Don't draft no one. 
     Stop and read every sign.
     Real race fans like slow drivers.
     They make the race last longer. 
     Everyone is wasted, and nobody wants to go home.

     No need for a lead foot, champ. No need.
     Don't be Jeff "Gordon", be Jeff "Gordon Lightfoot". 
    
     Light feet, Gordon. Light feet.
    
     10-4, good buddy.

     I'll be here.

     Left turns only.
     Keep going in circles. 

     I'm not going anywhere. 

     I'm just going to sit on the couch and listen to those still in need of therapy.

     Maria was leading group. She's the one Brian told should hang out with him and how she would love crack. Someone at the table was on the verge of a breakthrough.

     But Maria interrupted.
     "James, why don't you come join the group?"

     Because I'm no longer in the group.

     It's not you, it's me.
     Call it "creative differences".
     Blame the higher ups, they made the decision, knowing I could have never made it on my own.
     Now, I have to try to make it on my own.   
     I'll never forget our time together.
     It was definitely something.
     We are the patients formerly known as  Jimmy Mac & The Whoevers
     But you'll always be The Whoevers, and I'll always be Jimmy Mac &.  
     Nothing will ever change that.
     I'm retaining the "&" for when I find a nice girl to jam with when I'm not playing music.
     
     For now, I'm going solo, on the lonely road again, goin' places that I've never been again and seein' things that I may never see. I can wait to get on the road again, on a tour up the East Coast.  

     The Jimi Mac Experience is coming soon to a city nowhere near you or anyone else I know. And when I get there, I'll be playing to an empty house night after night. The crowd won't be chanting my name. They won't even know who I am.
     I'll be as recognizable as a ghost.
     BOO!
     I'm not scared.
     They can boo me, inform me to what degree I suck, suggest I get my no talent ass the hell off the stage.
       
     But I'm still going.

     I'm going to write every song like it's my swan song.

     I might not make it big, but I'm gonna make it. 

     If I can't hack it, I'm sure there's a North East South County. 
     It just might have a different name.
     Hopefully it's a name without "Retardation" in it.
 
     I'm leaving The Buena Vista Psychosocial Club.
     They've stripped me of my Members Only Straitjacket.
     Cut from the A-typical Team. 

     I'll find my place though.
 
     I'll charm my way into another club, maybe A Gentlemen's Club for Pricks, where I'm not only the only member, I'm also the president.

     I'm gonna look into the Look At What Happened To Me Club for the Greatest American Zeroes, for those who once flew, but never learned how to land without crashing into trash cans and other things that get old real fast, like child actors and other adults who peaked before puberty who now get together to discuss what they've done since. They meet once a year for an hour. They always begin with a moment of silence that lasts 60 minutes.

     After praying on it, I turned away from the 10% membership tithing to join the Bible study for guys who can recite Scripture, but don't believe everything they read.


     I'd kill for a chance to join A Deerhunter Hunters Hunt Club for people who'd shoot a deerhunter before even considering shooting a deer.

     I heard nothing but a bunch of talk about a weekly Wannabe Writers Group. It's members meet and discuss how never having written anything will not get in the way of their dreams of being great writers. At each meeting, a different member presents their unwritten work for the others to critique. This sounded like a great place to share the writing I'm finally gonna start doing someday, as soon as something worth writing about happens to me. Their meetings seem to go on for years because all everybody ever does is talk. 
     This group meets in the same room at the same time as The Hunting Club for Bird Watchers.

     Maybe I'll hook up with some swingers club for jealous prudes.
     A debate team for nihilists.
     A legal club for legal retards.
     Mensa for mongoloids.
     A fan club for haters.
     A players club for guys with no game.
     A breakfast club for people who don't get out of bed until lunchtime.
     Maybe I'll pay up front for a 5 year gym membership so I can start stacking roids since I'll be working out everyday for a week.
     Maybe I'll join a one man gang, and I'll kick my own ass as an initiation, and then do it again when it sets in that I don't even have one girl banger in my gang to bang with.
     Maybe instead of stacking gang signs, maybe I'll learn how to do that stacking thing with the cups, but instead I'll use shot glasses and prescription pill bottles.
     
      "I'm about to get out of here. I'm just waiting for my friend to pick me up."



2 comments:

  1. But I didn't understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.

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