Maybe I'm a Bohemian, genetically pre-gravitated to embrace a funk & quill lifestyle as Buddhist monks favour shaving and waving. Or maybe the beer and the writing are incidental and I’m merely a hapless slave to the whole James Brown SEX MACHINE Arghhh! Arghhhh! Arghhhhhhh! groove.
One thing is for certain-as-yer-Nooveau-Iron-Curtain* — this Brown palaver rocks way more like a Ken Hom wok than the musical rumpus generated by the other famous musical Brown, namely Errol from Hot Chocolate.
* Crimea: Harass, Arras, Impasse.
Let's examine the evidence.
Here's Brown (James, Machine of Sex), testosterone bursting from his soul in vanderGraaf hairdo fractals:
And here's Brown II (Errol, Thing of Sex), feigning an orgasm while choking on a cucumber of unknown origin:
This is why I hang out in bars.
As fusions of entertainment and speculation go, hanging out in bars bulges from an otherwise flat landscape like...like...like — hell, I dunno...
Is that a gun in your pocket — or are you from the 70s?