I went into the national celebration called Black Wednesday not realizing how much I needed a release. The release came in moments wrapped up in ironies. Real ironies, not the poetic moments people mistake for ironies. Then again, I hold off on that because I might get to the end of this thought and mistake my own poetic moments for irony.

I get claustrophobic which works out well because Black Wednesday (the night before Thanksgiving) is the busiest night of the year and most of the night is spent shoulder to shoulder with people at them there bars.

The more and more I wanted to look at the college girls walking through the door the more I felt like their older brother. It’s the stars in their eyes and their desire for the next five minutes that had me aging. We all go through those stages along our ways. Note to self: GET TO THE GYM MORE!

I listened to a band that spends much of their time sounding like chicks in their effort to play for chicks. This works out well because I’ve been listening to DB go on and on about how the mythical lore which made Rock n Roll “Rock n Roll” has all but completely sold out the Man that it rebelled so hard against. He supposed Marx could have been right: you put down a rebellion by paying off the leaders. Forgive him. He’s been listening and preparing his thoughts for Corporate Whoredom regarding Guns n Roses “Chinese Democracy.” DB’s concerned that perhaps the album was the last remaining hope for real music fans to hear quality music on radio stations again and that the only way Chinese Democracy would have given the music faithful hope would have been to remain but a hope and stay unpublished.

Anyway, while listening to The Unit play for chicks and enjoying them enough to where it feel ironic to the point of traitorous…

The Thriller Dance Contest

I realized that powerful music once named “Rock n Roll” then “Rock” might be circling back around. The reason “rock and roll” was “rock n roll” was for a simple reason. With that realization, my traitorous sensation started to subside. As a line from my favorite TV show, Sports Night, promptly put it:

“And in that moment, Dan was reminded once again of why he wanted to write in the first place. It’s for the same reason anybody does anything…to impress women.”
–Sports Night, “Dear, Louise” written by Aaron Sorkin

And while I listened from afar to the comical antics of The Unit, I felt better about the state of things. “Rock” might now have a fighting chance because there’s no more saviors to wait upon. DB disagrees. So it goes. I can’t wait to read his thoughts.

I continued to listen from farther and farther away because me, DB, Gag and Max commandeered the dart board in the back of the room, bought all the quarters the Franklin House cash register had, and hung out by ourselves in the back all night. I love filling up all the spaces on the dartboard with quarters: “NO ONE ELSE CAN PLAY.”

We threw and threw and threw and threw until the end of the evening came and DB, Max and I started to talk about upcoming posts for both the Whoredom and our own sites. Yes, I threw like crap or I would have mentioned how well I did. I don’t have the constitution of the others so I had to cut myself off and sober up so I could give the others a fair game by the end of the evening. I did spend time thinking about that as well.

It wasn’t until the next day – by the way, “Happy Thanksgiving” – that I realized I didn’t spend time about Book of Blues tthe night before. I didn’t think about how to publish a Book of Blues. I didn’t think about how my cousin’s going slower at reading it that I anticipated. I didn’t think about sequels. I didn’t think about the others that want to read it. I didn’t think about the others willing to give Book of Blues additional fresh eyes to look for edits – it’s print. It’ll take many eyes. I didn’t even think about being how far I’ve come to carve out a foothold as a copywriter from Chicago. I wasn’t looking at the blurry-eyed starlight of the future. I wasn’t measuring the shadows from the past. I was enjoying the moment for a change.

Well, sh#t. Maybe I’m a poet, too.

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