"Cryin' won't help you. prayin' won't do you no good
When the levee breaks, mama you got to move" - Kansas City Joe McCoy
It's hard to know what I'm talking about if you didn't live through it. Sure there is no shortage of print and other media explaining the times, probably one of the most famous episodes in American History, certainly the most flamboyant, until now.
We were all dancing on a warm summer breeze with nothing but a nice fat joint to pass the time with. Underneath, however, everyone had a gut-wrenching fear that the whole thing could explode any minute. Then Viet Nam ended, Nixon resigned, Manson was behind bars and everything settled back into a tense but placid normalcy. Most everyone I knew felt that we had dodged a bullet, we took the worst that could be thrown at us and come away somewhat unscathed. But the fear was still there and it crept along a little bit each day. Politicians regained control and oh so slowly began to tighten their grip.
The "Free Love" generation was dead and buried, what's worse is that many of these same idealists switched sides, secretly they thought that they could change things from the inside. It seemed plausible, it might even work, but, and this is a biggie, they had no clue that a leather-chaired, wood-paneled boardroom at a prestigious law firm could twist you into a mold of their choosing, or the easy money that could be made after the super tight grip of the weasel special interest groups, lobbyists, sunk their fangs in deep. They thought "What the heck, I lived on alfalfa sprouts and yeast for two years in a commune, I've done my comeuppance". The only problem was that by the time they got chewed up and then spat into the halls of Congress, they became far worse than any of their predecessors.
So that brings us to the here and now. My innards are tied up into knots and I don't think I've felt any emptier than I do now. The media and their belching screaming heads have compressed my world into this tiny area, and even here I feel that unless we get some help, and fast, we might be headed down a treacherous path where child molesters and flagrant liars rule the day. No t for me, uh uh.
On my back patio sits a large styrofoam cooler that contains a copious amount of bottled beer, long necks only, please. Digging in I pull out a new flavor Sam Adams. It goes well with how I feel and the time of year, I think it's called "Banshee Blue", guess I'll find out why. Taking a deep drink I walk into my living room and head up the stairs to the bedroom. There, in the top right corner drawer is Dad's sock drawer. The same place where my father hid all his illicit and fun shit, even the girlie mags he swiped from me vowing to chuck 'em but never did. Guess we had the same taste in smut. With the advent and advancement of the internet, there is no more need to hide mags in the drawer. Now the contents reside in a hidden folder deep within the dark confines of my own personal dark web. Dark indeed, I frighten myself with how far down the corridor my depravity has taken me. The brain, being the erogenous organ, happily views this nonsense even if nothing else twitched much anymore, "Big Lou's like you, he's on meds too"
The great bandaid of this world, medication keeps most everything in check, but there is no telling when the dam might burst and Redeeming Love would be all but lost by the fury of the flood waters. I crave redemption from my stupid life, from this stupid existence filled with trivial crap day in and day out, waiting for the other shoe to fall. One of my friends on Facebook posted a cartoon after one of my particularly vile venom-spewing whining outbursts, they seem to come more frequently these days. Anyway, he posted a cartoon of Homer Simpson's father saying nothing but shaking his fist at a passing fluffy cumulous cloud. Very apropos, Bravo!
I seem to have strayed a bit. Actually, I might be able to answer my own musing about yesteryear and now. There, in my sock drawer is a complete set of "Heroes of the Blues" cards drawn by that master complainer, Robert Crumb. They pretty much contain the answer to everything or at least point in a good direction. Produced by the Yazoo Recording Company, these cards are what I refer to when I think of "Make America Great Again". They were produced at a time when the Arts seemed to be having a revival and good old times recorded music was resurfacing thanks to the CD. Many hate the format but so much has become obtainable that was not earlier with vinyl, So, praise the Lord, I have been saved! Sometimes all it takes is an old sock drawer.
While I am at a high point on this emotional roller coaster, I'm going to cut and run and save the rest for another day, enough spewing for the moment. Adios.
