Have to say life without a driving privilege sucks.
Then there’s wage garnishment, and I can tell you “garnishment” is what you might call a polite word for it. And it’s an odd thing because the Gun Nut tells me he hasn’t had a driving privilege since Carter became President, and it hasn’t stopped him from driving anything. But me, I don’ t have his sort of good fortune with law enforcement, because a man in a uniform looks at me and reckons I am guilty of something. Which has to be why I understand the pyramids in the Slipperz video that goes along with Flip Out.
Course, it’s difficult, because if you put the Slipperz songs onto a play list and you can hear them all, one after the other, Church Wine is louder than Flip Out and both of them are much louder than What Can I Say. And I don’t know how to fix the problem. So it was probably a mistake on my part to fail to warn the Gun Nut that one of the songs on the tape I gave him is louder than the others. And when it came time for Church Wine, the Gun Nut had sort of nervous reaction to the sudden increase in volume and pulled his hand gun, which for some reason he carries around with him where ever he goes. Anyway the bullet goes straight through the window of his trailer, which was fortunately open and he shoots a hole in the gas tank of his pickup. Which is the sort of thing that upsets the Gun Nut’s dog, and by the time it was all over volunteers from the fire department where beating out the flames in the hayfield that runs passed the Gun Nut’s trailer and ends up on the other side of the fence from where I live.
I guess you’ve got to know that round here the fire department expects some sort of voluntary contribution to the old fire fighters pension fund if they are called out for something that might not of have been an act of god. And the fire chief gave me the impression that by no stretch of the imagination was his Sunday disturbed by an Act of God. I guess you also have to know that the Gun Nut does not take kindly to anything that might look or sound like he’s to blame for anything, he being a patriot with a flag in his yard, who spent more time than maybe was good for him in Vietnam.
Which puts me in something of a crosshair, because I have to think that maybe with the wage garnishment and some kind of a contribution from me I am pretty much certain to have no money for rent by the time next Friday comes around. So I go all shoulders back and head up high and I ask the Chief what he reckons a person in my position, with wage garnishment and no driving privilege and who picks up the road kill for the county to earn his wage would be expected to contribute to the Old Firefighters Retirement fund. And he answers me; “What ever is on you heart.” Which wasn’t something I actually wanted to think about, because on my heart was written some very unpleasant words for the Gun Nut.
Anyhow, “What ever is on your heart” strikes me as a good way of thinking about the nineteenth Slipperz line from the Basement Tape which is “Someone’s own thing is as easily.”
So I was listening to what my pompous ass friend calls “the first utterance in the song What Can I Say?” And I come to realize that there’s a chance my pompous ass friend hasn’t actually listened to “What Can I say?” much beyond the first couple of seconds and the ‘boing-boing-boing’ sound, which he has some kind of obsession with, because when I told him that the nut bake at work who stuffs animals is some kind of wizard with the electric and might have to go to jail because of a mistake his ATM made, my pompous ass friend got all excited and tells me he as to visit with the animal stuffer while the little shit still has his liberty. And why does my pompous ass friend need to do this. Because, he’s decided the ‘boing-boing-boing’ sound upsets his rabbits, and if he could get the ‘boing-boing-boing’ sound on some kind of recording loop he could play it out the window of his shed without having to run outside to chase them.
My own thought was that maybe it was time for my pompous ass friend to thing seriously about professional help, but he doesn’t reckon on any one knowing much more than he does about just about everything, so I have to tell him that I have no idea where the animal stuffer lives and that fraternizing with an animal stuffer who might also be a criminal mastermind is not something I want on my resume.
Any way he goes into a huff, and I go into a huff and this Saturday’s trip back from the grocery started to look like an unpleasant experience. So I relent and I give the directions to the house where the animal stuffer lives and we park in the driveway with the windows closed for about half an hour while some bloody great dog peas on the tires when its not trying to mount the passenger side view mirror. You’d think the barking might have roused somebody sooner than half an hour into it, but we could see movement in the house and kind of didn’t want to waste the gasoline it had taken to drive all that way.
So I settled down for a little bit of a snooze, because Friday night can do that to a person, and when I wake up I am alone in the vehicle, the dog just staring at me as though he’s been told to. I crack the window, just a little bit and start yelling. From round the back of the house my pompous ass friend and the animal stuffer all grinning and happy come sauntering toward the vehicle, and I can tell you I am not happy.
Anyway, my pompous ass friend shows me what’s got to be something like a cell phone, and he presses this button and out comes the ‘boing-boing-boing’ sound. And there’s got to be some sort of magic in the sound because I feel suddenly calm and very relaxed, and on the way home my pompous ass friend lets me use the cell phone, or whatever it is, to make the ‘boing-boing-boing’ sound at sign posts and any cow that happened to be close to the road. Can’t remember when I had so much fun.
So I was talking to the landlady, suggesting that maybe I could do a few chores for her instead of paying rent, and one way or another I was come over by some sort of demon, because I ask her what kind of wine they served in her church.
“I’m not a Papist,” she answers, and there’s something in the way she said it that made me think perhaps she was about to throw up and have to lie down for a while. And I get all panicked, because there’s a thin line between me and the Landlady, and she sees that I am struggling and she says, “We use pasteurized Grape juice.” Which is sort of a relief because I’ve seen the Landlady floundered by the whiskey bottle and singing ‘onward Christian soldiers’ while waving her shotgun. And this is not a sight that calms a tenant who might owe a little back rent.
And when the kerfuffle is done, and she says she’s no intention of letting me near anything like a chore, I get to thinking about the Slipperz line in Church Wine that goes “You taste just like fruit.” Which is kind of clever of Slipperz to cover the bases, and in a court room a person could argue that wine and grape juice are pretty much the same thing, and who says Church Wine has to be an alcohol, because it could be grape juice that’s called Church Wine. Though quite why it has to be pasteurized grape juice, is a little mysterious.
And I’d ask my pompous friend why the grape juice has to be pasteurized, but he’s not called pompous for nothing and he’ll probably sit me down, take me back to something Eve did to Adam in Eden. But droning on and on gives his pompous ass some kind of joy, and I need to borrow money from him to pay a number of fines levied upon my person by a somewhat hot woman who plays golf and I have been told she does not use a golf cart, because she likes the long walk and she does not tip her caddy very well for following after her carrying her golf clubs.
Bo-Bo isn’t a nice name. Makes a person feel stupid, so I had words for my pompous ass friend, when he called me Bo-Bo. All the same he gave me a lift to the grocery, and we got there even though his vehicle probably only has about four miles left in it. And as we crept along for hours on end because of what he calls ‘the young of squirrel’ the only thing we could agree upon was the Walmart. An agent of Satan he called it. The first rung toward the apocalypse, he reckoned, and if you are lucky enough to live in a city, you’ll probably have no idea what I’m talking about.
About near the church of something or other, where my pompous ass friend reckons snake handlers gather, I started remembering the Rolling Stones song that has Mick Jagger singing something like “the church of the bleeding heart of the crucified Mary” and I couldn’t exactly remember what the name of that song was, and I couldn’t quite remember if Brian Jones was in the band or even alive when that song came out, so I didn’t know whether I like the song or not.
Any way my pompous ass friend has this thing about cheeses, and he didn’t think the artisan bread was fresh enough, and he’s shy that way so I complained to the management for him, kind of stamped a foot because it’s very important to get out of the grocery on a Sunday morning before the Baptists let out, otherwise you get a lot unnecessary smiling and it’s pretty impossible to get by the meat counter because that’s where Baptists incline to gather after their moment with the lord.
On the way home, and I guess it was by way of some kind of thank you for a free loaf of bread, my pompous ass friend sang all the words from Slipperz Church Wine, and I guess I felt kind of holy and calm from the experience, because the Gun Nut’s dog didn’t bark so loud and when the Gun Nut saw the fox he gave me two hundred and fifty dollars for it. Then when My pompous ass friend asked what business I had with a black plastic bag and the Gun Nut, I gave him the line “something in on you all tonight.” Which is from the Slipperz Basement Tape. And this made him nod his head, like one of the wise men.
I don’t guess Mick Jagger or bloody he-haw from The Doors ever had to bicycle to work at four o’clock in the morning. And my knees aren’t good and at my age the balance isn’t what it might have been, and it’s not that easy to see when the glasses fog up from the steam of breathing heavily.
Anyway, not my job to moan, because we picked up a red fox from the side of the road, and it’s tail was perfect, hardly any damage. It’s head was good too. Bloody fool kid wanted to take it home to stuff for his hobby, but I just stared at him and gave him the “Don’t Tempt Me” look, and he backed off. Which is the only way to deal with his crap-ass nonsense, and he only has the job because his uncle drives the truck for the road kill shift. And I have to be careful of the words I use on him, because he’s been called by the lord to save his money so he can go somewhere to learn about Jesus enough to be a preacher. And his uncle has the Christian music playing while we’re driving around looking for dead things. And You have to know skunk picking up is not my job, unless I piss his uncle off.
It’s all good though, because I got the fox in the refrigerator and the Gun Nut will probably give me two hundred dollars for it. It’s what you call “GOING TO STAY UP LATE” money. And I could get “DO YOU LIKE ME TOO” money, but I got no interest in a shoot out with the National Guard.
I’ve been listening to “Flip Out” and watching the video, and I’m no longer confused by the pyramids. Which is nice. Then, I’m playing the song again and I realize the title of the song isn’t “Flip Out.” The title of the song is this “If You Leave (Flip Out)” And this gives the song a sadness I hadn’t noticed before. And there’s the line “baby please don’t go,” which the vocalists puts a good part of his heart into. And that’s kind of how I feel about my driving license. Now all I’ve got to do is work out what Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor are doing in the video and I’ll be set.
And it’s May, which is a sadness unto itself, because back in May of 1969 it was the beginning of the end for music. Brian Jones, the founder, guiding light and genius behind the Rolling Stones left the band because of creative differences, legal problems, substance abuse and some crap about mood swings.
Then a couple of weeks later, the first days of July, I heard that Brian Jones had drowned in a swimming pool. Granted he was behaving strangely, driving motor cycles into shop windows, that sort of thing. All the same it was appalling behavior by the other Rolling Stones to just get rid of him because he couldn’t get a work permit for the US tour, and their music suffered and I still find the recent stuff difficult to listen to. But here is a picture of Brian Jones taken by a school girl called Helen Spittle, just before he died. Of interest is that one of music’s great minds died in the swimming pool of a place called Cotchfield Farm, which was where AA Milne wrote Winnie-The-Pooh.
If you are not one to avoid the Celtic Music, and aren’t upset by unhygienic looking bearded people jumping up and down going on and on about seafaring and whiskey, and you have a thing for girl singers who have got to be suffering from some kind of bowel ailment, then go ahead listen to “I syang of mayden.” But you got to know that when it was first sung as a poem it sounded nothing like you’d hear it today. Today we are all wet from video and electricity, and radio, and whatever it is the animal stuffer at work sticks in his ear so he can listen to some crap from what ever that band is he listens to, and bands have only one interest which is to get rich so they can get laid regularly, because to my mind that’s about the limit to thinking in what’s called the pop culture, unless for some truly dumb reason you got a yearning to put the devil in your soul and get richly laid by waving your hands in the air, holding candles, putting the tooth ache expression on your face and singing about Jesus. And that’s all I got to say on the day the magistrate said “You understand you have lost your driving privilege.” And I use the “You look like fruit,” line from the Slipperz song “Church Wine.” And she fines me an additional five hundred dollars.