There are three parts to my day. First, I wake up. I throw on an undershirt. Maybe it catches a milk stain, some kind of spill. I write a few things, mostly throw away nonsense. Then I change into gym clothes. I come with the sweatshirt, the wrestling shoes, the short socks and shorts. Band practice sees me go casual, a little serious, maybe a sport coat; some kind of decoration formal enough for serious creation. When night comes, and if I do peek beyond the curtains, I get a lot going. It's time to wow. I take a shower, a cold one. My pants come, the suit comes on. I locate a tie. Everything sharpens up.
I come across these get togethers and people stare at me like I'm some kind of lunatic, like I've committed some kind of error. The motherfuckers look like they just crawled out of bed; they look like a hungover Nickelback member. They shoot a comment. I take it easy. I know their bored women are not so bored now, not so bored as color shoots into the night as a decent being arrives.
Good God. Have some imagination!
We did a great deal of promotion tonight. I told a girl I once hunted wild game. She opened up on me. I don't mind. I'm a predator.
Tonight was a success. I haven't hunted in years. It's not like I'm going after your dog, Dorothy. Still, I wonder about hunters. Why do it? Aren't we supplied with the food we need? Is hunting some kind of bloodlust. Instead of deer or hogs, does our mind's eye see people there, like our high school teachers or exes or bosses?
Can a kill be pure anymore. That's it. I don't believe my mind is pure. Therefore, I cannot kill without guilt. There it remains.
Gig in Georgetown. Saturday. The sound will blow a mind to hell. The kick and the snare. The fucking guitar. Blaring keys; popping bass. Prepare yourselves. My voice is clear, angry and powerful and resonant. I see the women there, like bunnies. And I'm a big, ferocious bear, BEWARE!
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