What Is A Booty And How Would I Know If I'm Shaking It?
I really intended to fly like Dedalus out from beneath the nets of sadness and hopelessness after that last Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Depressive, and back into the sun of some kind of comic (strip) vision. But I’m hoping you’ll indulge my mood.
I dropped the wife off at the airport on Saturday night and, after loading her up like some sort of pack mule, sent her off to check her baggage as we waved goodbye to each other until I was actually pulling away from the curb.
I needed to pick up some blank VHS tapes so that I could capture the TV viewing she would miss over the next two weeks, so on the way back I stopped off at a nearby shopping complex, you know the one. It’s always got a Best Buy, a Target, a Barnes and Noble and a Bed, Bath and Beyond. It’s the regulation set-up now. You’re not allowed to drive 5 miles without hitting one.
I grab the tapes, but I also pick up the latest George Clinton/P-Funk All Stars disc, a double set for the price of one called How Late Do U Have 2BB4UR Absent? I hadn’t picked up a Clinton disc in a while and, prepped by the last P-Funk show I saw not long ago, it looked worth taking a chance on. The truth is that even though I don’t buy that many CD’s, I’m desperate to hear something that excites me. Unfortunately, I’ve decided that there isn’t much chance of that these days. So, you go with the name you know.
Then it was over to the Barnes and Noble where tables were piled away with the season’s most promising offerings: the latest musings from Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, Jenna Jameson, and other literary luminaries.
I strolled around endlessly, hoping my eyes would be taken with something interesting or original but it all looked tired. Or I was tired. All the same old spines glared back at me as if to say, “Go home, Jake…It’s Anginatown.” And a truth I’ve been trying to avoid settled on me with the decisiveness of a falling rock:
I was bored. Finally, after all of my efforts to stay interested in what was going on in the world around me, I was horribly, horribly bored. By it all.
Besides which, why should I have to look so hard? I understand that one has to dig for that rare diamond, but either the artists have run out of gas, I have, or the consolidation of the media has now prevented anything of quality and distinction from appearing in the ugly glare of the spotlight.
It’s depressing.
Which is why I thank god for the wife. You could take all the books away, all the records, and as long as I had her to entertain me, I’d be all right. She’s the smartest, funniest, cleverest person I’ve ever met and she constantly makes me laugh and smile.
She’s entertaining even in spite of herself. “What are you laughing at?” she’ll ask and all I can say is “Nothing, dear.”
“What do you mean, nothing? I can hear you laughing and I want to know what’s so damn funny!” And I laugh harder.
But she’s not here. Not for two weeks. Which leaves me to make my own fun.
The Clinton helps. Sure, there’s some misses along the way but there’s gonna be over two CD’s. But it’s mostly compelling, with a handful of things that are endlessly repeatable. So I go on to repeat them. Endlessly. Late into the night.
Look both ways before you cross my mind
George still sounds interested and he’s older than me.
I am Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk in the Zone of Zero Funkativity. I will never dance.
Then again, there is nothing that the proper attitude will not render funkable, right? Perhaps I can relearn to patriotically pledge allegiance to the booty.
I mean, ain’t nothin’ but a party. Right?
I dropped the wife off at the airport on Saturday night and, after loading her up like some sort of pack mule, sent her off to check her baggage as we waved goodbye to each other until I was actually pulling away from the curb.
I needed to pick up some blank VHS tapes so that I could capture the TV viewing she would miss over the next two weeks, so on the way back I stopped off at a nearby shopping complex, you know the one. It’s always got a Best Buy, a Target, a Barnes and Noble and a Bed, Bath and Beyond. It’s the regulation set-up now. You’re not allowed to drive 5 miles without hitting one.
I grab the tapes, but I also pick up the latest George Clinton/P-Funk All Stars disc, a double set for the price of one called How Late Do U Have 2BB4UR Absent? I hadn’t picked up a Clinton disc in a while and, prepped by the last P-Funk show I saw not long ago, it looked worth taking a chance on. The truth is that even though I don’t buy that many CD’s, I’m desperate to hear something that excites me. Unfortunately, I’ve decided that there isn’t much chance of that these days. So, you go with the name you know.
Then it was over to the Barnes and Noble where tables were piled away with the season’s most promising offerings: the latest musings from Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, Jenna Jameson, and other literary luminaries.
I strolled around endlessly, hoping my eyes would be taken with something interesting or original but it all looked tired. Or I was tired. All the same old spines glared back at me as if to say, “Go home, Jake…It’s Anginatown.” And a truth I’ve been trying to avoid settled on me with the decisiveness of a falling rock:
I was bored. Finally, after all of my efforts to stay interested in what was going on in the world around me, I was horribly, horribly bored. By it all.
Besides which, why should I have to look so hard? I understand that one has to dig for that rare diamond, but either the artists have run out of gas, I have, or the consolidation of the media has now prevented anything of quality and distinction from appearing in the ugly glare of the spotlight.
It’s depressing.
Which is why I thank god for the wife. You could take all the books away, all the records, and as long as I had her to entertain me, I’d be all right. She’s the smartest, funniest, cleverest person I’ve ever met and she constantly makes me laugh and smile.
She’s entertaining even in spite of herself. “What are you laughing at?” she’ll ask and all I can say is “Nothing, dear.”
“What do you mean, nothing? I can hear you laughing and I want to know what’s so damn funny!” And I laugh harder.
But she’s not here. Not for two weeks. Which leaves me to make my own fun.
The Clinton helps. Sure, there’s some misses along the way but there’s gonna be over two CD’s. But it’s mostly compelling, with a handful of things that are endlessly repeatable. So I go on to repeat them. Endlessly. Late into the night.
Look both ways before you cross my mind
George still sounds interested and he’s older than me.
I am Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk in the Zone of Zero Funkativity. I will never dance.
Then again, there is nothing that the proper attitude will not render funkable, right? Perhaps I can relearn to patriotically pledge allegiance to the booty.
I mean, ain’t nothin’ but a party. Right?
posted by Count Screwloose at 2:30 PM
4 Comments:
Yay for P-Funk! Have you seen Yvonne Smith's documentary? "Parliament Funkadelic: One Nation Under a Groove" - fun stuff. Your wife sounds adventurous!
-Jill
I think so, if this is the one that was on PBS a little while ago. Nice job, too.
And you know the wife's adventurous. She married me.
RG
I wonder if The Big Guy didn't mean for us to be entertained [i]all the time.[/i] Maybe entertainment was supposed to fill the gaps between the other stuff. As I struggled to complete my Top 10 albums of 2005 (I gave up after two) I vowed to make next year some kind of Year of Action, where I will just DO STUFF that didn't involve me sitting back and waiting. I will be hammering bookcases together and pruning bushes and maybe even baking a cake. Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.
You've hit the tigerbomb on the head, Field Marshall.
The idea that one's own life might be deserving of a little of the same attention that we lavished on others' activities was a radical one, in my mind and in the minds of many of my compatriots. And so we did precisely what you mentioned - sat back and waited for something to happen.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but let's face it: it sometimes felt like one was waiting for the next fix.
I'm hoping I've managed to put a little balance into my life, yet, as you see, it's very easy to relinquish the reins and begin to do that zombie stroll through the entertainment complex in hopes of putting the credit card through its paces. And easy, too, to blame others for not making your life more exciting.
If I were to rewrite this piece, I think I'd try to bring your very accurate observation more into the foreground. Good call.
Here's to the YEAR OF ACTION!
RG
Post a Comment
<< Home