bring the noyz

Like many others, my dear reader, I have little doubt that you are sitting there in drunken despondency lamenting the fact that you missed the past weekend's celebration of all the really dyn-o-mite things that happened in 1978.

First and foremost on the list, was the birth of The Wife.

Well, to ease your pain, here's a little taste of what you missed:







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(whoa)

What the fuck was that? Green screen shenanigans?

Apparently not.

Oh, and by the way. You also, my dear reader, are a "terrific hologram".

We have just seen the future, baby, and its murder.
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. . . or somehow related to the delusional idealistic fantasies of a slightly drunken cynical man. . .

Either way.

Within moments of finishing my previous post, this song came on Radio Paradise:



And yes, I still hope it's not just a whisper.
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Wow.

I'll leave all the "truly historic blah blah blah" for the pundits, pollsters, and aspiring politicos.

For tonight I'll even suspend my cynical misgivings and dabblings in "conspiracy theories" and alternative views of reality.

For the moment I'll share the dream that when it comes time for us as a nation to shift from "yes we can" to "yes we will" I can count myself squarely on the side of the willing and the doing.

I want "change" I can believe in. I want to believe. I do.

You'd have to have a heart of stone not to also be moved to tears watching Jesse Jackson, a man who was with MLK when his life but not his dream was cut short by an assassin's bullet, weeping in the Chicago crowd.

But I've always been a cynical irreverent bastard. Cripes man, I supported Bill the Cat for President in my first Presidential election. I don't know, maybe I just have higher expectations for those that claim the mantle of our nation's leadership.

Anyways, that's not what I want to rant about now.

I want to write about this. . .

I vividly remember a Sunday morning, five or six years ago, around this time of year. It was football season, a post tailgate Sunday morning. Following a night of what was I'm sure was filled with excessive celebration and alcohol consumption, I found myself sitting in my living room flipping the channels on the television.

Matt was there. As was Curtis. The Wife was still the girlfriend and soundly sleeping in our bedroom in the pre-Boy era.

It was well before noon on a Sunday. Through a hangover cloud we were still feeling young, decadent, and invincible. We drank a few beers and passed a bowl or two around. In between music videos we would browse the cable news channels and the Sunday morning talk shows.

There was a story about a young up and coming state Senator in Illinois.

And I remember this as clearly as though it happened yesterday.

Curtis turned to me and said, "That man is going to be the first black President of the United States."

So tonight my dear reader, please join me and raise two toasts. Raise the first to the next President of the United States, because, well um. . . not to raid a phrase, but because we can.

Then raise the second to an intuitive and insightful brotha who ain't here.

You bastard.

You were right.

Sweet Jesus, do I ever miss you now.
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Soon, yes very soon my dear reader, it begins. The sights, the sounds, the smell and the spectacle of The Election.

First town weighs in at midnight

You ready?

Are you ready, my dear reader, for the promise in the year of election?

So who's gonna win? Love? or Money?
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the end of an opus




Sweet dreams.



. . . but a whimper
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