It’s a ‘throw on the jazz and throw off everything but your pants’ kind of a day today.
And remember — most of my current posts are prepared in advance like trussed boy bands hurled before the skinhead masses of some deprived and depraved fascist regime, so rest assured that no jazzery pantery is taking place at 10am on a Thursday morning. Right now as I touch tippies to keys it’s Wednesday afternoon, and after a dull, rain-blitzed day, the sun has shown its face with Madonna on the cover of Vogue unashamedness and it’s all I can do to Duds Off and Peterson On Down.
Some would call me an exhibitionist, but there’s no-one else here to witness my trill-inspired semi-naked cavorting, which kind of nails that analysis as bogus.
However, as a writer, I have to get all this stuff down immediately, including the near stumble at the top of the stairs as my underpant hem snagged in the door.
You want my take on all this?
It’s a curse — a miserable, wretched, life-sucking curse.
As for the pelvic thrusting to piano lick after piano lick, I’d do more if I could. I’d get up and on and active and maybe even go and climb a mountain or something.
But my combination of nature and nurture has marked me out as an instant vomiter of all I consume — the parabolic, projectile gusher of the moment.
I’ve learned to live with the deal, along with crying myself to sleep most nights over how I’m so frequently stolen away from the heart of the action to write crisply about the throb of its pulse, but I content myself with the thought that the boppo dance halls of the world are being spared my juvenile cavorting.
Last time I tried that squat thrust gymnast breakdancing shwmoodle, I snagged more than the hem on my underpants.
But that’s another story.