10/06/2005

Instant Fucking Karma


I was accosted on th' street today by a fairly well-put together, seemingly normal woman who turned out to be a psychotic black witch. Like, totally. Someone who had maybe gone off the wrong medication. She threw everything in the book at me, about my mamma bein' a whore and wearing women's underwear (!) and all this. It was amazing. Total demoralizing.

It's not like I could just tell her her shoelace was untied and then bust her in the face with my knee, you know? It couldn't be like my glory days of coldcocking celebrities and dodging gunfire in the desert, you know? I don't think being psychotically, abusively insane offsets the being a woman thing.

Sure did at the time! I tell ya!

God, I slunk away like a lemming. A lemming. I thought I was going to cry. She said she was going to call the cops on me. The cops.

I have dreams like this a lot- check it out: I dreamt Lightfoot was playing some new club in Hollywood where the venue was this huge penthouse on top of some building on like the Blvd. or La Cienega or some ass shit. It was insane. We had our soundcheck and it was sounding so right and we went down to Cantor's to get a sandwich.

We ran into John Meyer at Cantor's and he said he'd come check out the shoe. Fucking John Meyer! That guy can hoist you onto the Crap Train so fast your nuts'll bounce. Yeah, Lightfoot- the asskickingest bar band in Northampton. Straight to the fucking top.

the fucking shoe. What is my major god damn malfunction. So we ride back with John in his Viper and get to the place. But we have to get up the elevators and they're all fucked up. So the other guys in Lightfoot and John Meyer finally ride up one elevator and I get on another one with some Japanese businessmen and then we come back down and get in a shuttle for LAX. And we're like 3 miles down th' 101 when I remember about the fucking show. Fucking John Meyer. Guy's like 13 years younger than me. It's never good when the obeisance flows downhill like that. Not good for anyone.

I'm glad all that's over. I'm glad I never, ever fucked up anything like that. I was a good little difficult artist. I'm glad that I failed on my own merits for reasons beyond my control. Reasons beyond my control. I'm glad that I turned my back on the recording industry before it turned it's back on me. Sort of. A little. Never mind.

I mean, you get all this never give up shit but some things are just like that girl in high school, you know? There are things that just aren't meant to be, no matter how many times you conjure them masturbatorially. And there's a Chump Factor in not knowing when to stop asking Christy Finklestoon to the Tast-E-Freez. And if you do manage to get to th' old tag 'n' bag there's going to be some wart or some odor. Hey, it's not my fault. Don't get all Sister Alice on my ass. I'm just the fucking messenger. Here to deliver the news that life is somehow always less than we want it to be. Yeah, the old liferooni is just a little on the S.A.L. side.

And that has it's own beauty. Because it has to. The more a religion is about being happy with the fucking birds and the trees the better it is.

So what you don't get to marry Finklestoon. You want a woman who cares. A woman who would chase the top of your head over the back of a car in Dallas. Christy Finklestoon would not chase the top of your head over the back on a car in Dallas in '63. Plus, she was born in '66.

Bet YOU'VE never written anything that fucked up, Mr. Smartypanz. Try writing something more fucked up than THAT.

HOW CAN YOU PEOPLE BEGRUDGE ME THE RIGHT TO JUST FUCKING DO WHAT I'M GOOD AT?

Man, I will FIND and SURPASS the limits of good taste. If it takes ALL NIGHT. And I won't be slowed down by th' faint of heart. And the christers. Of Wimpole Street.

Los Angeles is like a one-armed bandit and the coins you put in it are like years of your life. You sort of have to come with just the amount to spend or your compulsion will destroy you and you'll be one of those dudes. Like you have PTSD. And it's no good if you're really about music. That is not the way to go. When I was right at that motherfucking edge music pulled me back and I ain't stopped making it since. When I get a few days without a gig it's like being back in L.A.

where you don't play any music to speak of. In LA you're all about licking envelopes. And signin' checks. And never cashing any. And licking envelopes. And shoes.

Oh, that shit with the psychotic lady took me right back to square fucking one. Any of you who hate me, this is a day for rejoicing.

BUT TOMORROW I WILL BURN, BABY. BURN WITH A WHITE HOT FLAME.

When I recount "Bobby Lightfoot's Asshole Celebrity Fight Week #4: Deathmatch In The Frozen Foods Aisle".

4 Comments:

Blogger XTCfan said...

Beautiful, Bobby. I tip the top of my head to you.

10:29 AM  
Blogger jedmunds said...

Man thats brilliant

11:16 AM  
Blogger Kevin Wolf said...

Don't wory about these kinds of stupid confrontations. You rock, Mr 'Foot.

12:13 PM  
Blogger missy said...

I would chase the top of your head over the back on a car in Dallas in '63...

but I was born in 1980!

I fucking enjoyed reading this post!

2:48 AM  

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