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the new sound, funny
rockin
soopageek
imi was there looking like Vishnu and Janis reclined on a Victorian chaise lounge. The walrus was Paul and there was Mr. Mojo Risin'. A heated debate was afoot re: satin, rabbits, thin dukes and shades of pale. The Space Cowboy (aka The Gangster of Love aka Maurice) had peaches shaken from a tree he was sharing with the man who left a good job in the city. In the corner were three gamblers: one who could spin a fortune wheel and throw dice, one who knew when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em, and one who wound up on the wrong end of a gun. Neil was asking Mr. Soul if it was strange if he should change, but someone asserted that a Southern man don't need him around, anyhow. The devil, while pleased to meet you, proved to be unsympathetic and was forced to endure children of the beast shouting at him, rednecks challenging him to fiddle duels, and one weird fucker who kept insisting he wear a blue dress. The pinball wizard and a magic man had failed for the eighth time today to create a working romance elixir and were consulting with Madame Ruth (yes, she has a gold tooth displayed, but without a New York brim she's merely bad and not nationwide), despite the witch doctor's insistence that ooo eee ooo aah aah would be sufficient. A multi-generational/racial discussion on the rain was underway: have you seen it? who'll stop it? will it be red or purple? The only thing that's certain is that blue eyes will cry in it, possibly on prom night, and it may include men, hallelujah! It was agreed among hustlers that turning a trick at 53rd and 3rd was sometimes difficult but "Loose" Lucy demonstrated a crafty preference for 8th and Forty Deuce. A large contingent were asking who was in the house and were answered, by name, repeatedly, who was in the house. Some suggested that the roof be raised while some thought they should just tear the roof off the sucker. When people started chanting "We don't need no water, let the mother fucker burn," Run thankfully stepped in and reminded everyone whose house it was. As a wacky non sequitur, Flav let everyone know what time it was followed by a hearty "Yeaaaaaaaah boooooyeeee." A bum rush might have been considered had it not been for the deterrent of the S... the S1Ws.

I gazed at the jacket art and read the liner notes. I memorized every sound and every word. At school, church, and home, I was the good kid, the A student. With my record player, I was the world's forgotten boy, the anarchist and anti-Christ who could walk like Brando into the sun then dance like a casanova.
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That was fucking amazing.

For me, the devil just grinned and shook my hand - "No" was all he said.

feel'n bout half past dead

I recently saw The Last Waltz for the first time. I'm not the biggest fan of The Band there is, but it's a great concert film none-the-less.

Re: feel'n bout half past dead

It's a fucking spectacular film, and I'm not a fan of the Band, either...I've read they had to edit it so you couldn't see the coke on Neil Young's nose when he came on stage. Of course, Scorsese did most of the group a big disservice by acting like Robbie was the brains & talent in the group....

But my favorite concert film ever is Stop Making Sense. Hands down.

For some odd reason, I feel compelled to comment with this:

"...but it's still rock 'n roll to me."

You totally ripped that post off from the talented writer srs_bidness!

great stuff.

i must however regrettably inform that your Controversial CSS Style is something like 300% more unreadable in Ubuntu / Firefox than it ever was in XP / FF. i literally had to copy/paste it into a text window to be able to read it. i stared and stared, but my brain just... rejected it.

STILL one of my favs.

srs_bidness finally bows down to his true master.

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