Not really knowing what the words are supposed to say this evening - 4/10/2011 12:01 AM. My eyes tell me that it is to slumber I must travel. My hip screams for a comfortable chair. My attitude tells me that I have to sit and type for a while. My overall mood is one of melancholy. While worshipping at the temple ruled by a remote control, I surfed myself into a cinematic land I am familiar with. It is a film starring two aging actress who, during my misspent youth, held my attention from a libidinous point of view. Both have weathered time rather well, and there is still some licentious yearning in my loins for these fine ass thespians. It is a comedy dealing with the reunion of a pair of former rock and roll groupies. One, still groupying it, and the other a soccer mom of a decidedly less vociferous demeanor.
One scene details one speaking of the other and how she used to dance with wild abandon (the less vociferous on). The children of Mrs. Mother could not believe their strait laced pantheon of prudence would ever “Let go” in such a manner. The one regaling them with the fable about their matriarch simply replied…”She used to not care what other people thought.”
I listened to this scene and instantly entered the Wayback Machine to a place where everything was music and happiness and reckless abandon. I thought of concerts I have attended, women I have loved (or thought I loved), friends that would stick by you through thick and thin. A friend recently posted a picture of Penn Station in New York and I sent him a message to eat a cheesedog from Nathan’s like we did when we would go to a concert upstairs in Madison Square Garden. He lamented on the fact that his aged stomach probably could not take the abuse...a condition in which I have a commiserate belief.
I think of The Who, and the Concert for Bangladesh, and Yes, and Jethro Tull, and Led Zeppelin, and the Electric Light Orchestra, and many more in that arena and others around Fun City that I had the honor and pleasure to attend. I ask myself when it all left me.
I guess the answer is that it left me the night I took up residence under the Robert Moses Causeway Bridge. Paying more attention to the music then the realities of life brought this about. This occurred several years after the Summer of Love, and sometime prior to Reaganomics. I hold no ideal that any loss I encountered was a result of the music, or the women, or even the lifestyle. I am not of a desire to write a diatribe on the duties of adults, or the irresponsibility of my actions. I remember the music for the melodious message given. I do truly believe that I really loved the women I claimed to. I would not wish to change a thing.
My melancholy is more about the realities of modern day life and how it has grown cumbersome. Well, perhaps not cumbersome as much as dreary when compared to covering up from the rain at Woodstock. It certainly does not compare to the night I almost asked Darlene Pacelli(She had no idea who I was at the time, let alone that I thought I loved her) to marry me. I would have if I had not got sick to my stomach from drinking to many shots of Peppermint Schnapps. There are no nights where I get to watch the sunrise on the Atlantic Ocean while lying on a blanket with that girl from West Babylon whose name escapes me, but whose eyes still shine and twinkle for me when I close mine and think hard.
I sat down with the muse from the film about wild women from ‘60’s and 70’s, with the idea that I should try using my new computer for something other than an avenue for my current addiction…a stupid $6.99 computer game where I can probably break 10,000,000 tonight before I go to sleep. Amazing how life works. My hip stopped hurting (and I did not even have to take any medicine). My eyes are still heavy, but in a good way. My demeanor has gladdened through the miracle of wistfulness. I do not long for better times. I have them with me everywhere I go. I think I will go to sleep listening to music. I think I will dream of a pair of amazing eyes and attempt to put a name to the pretty face.