Bobby Lightfoot's Unfettered Bitterness, Cynicism and Disappointment Week #1: Me 'n' My Crazy Buds

Me and my crazy pals! Nuts, the whole kit 'n' kabibble!

We have so much fun! Fuck, I've known these guys since 8th grade! Man, we went through everything together, baby. Everything. There's Lou, he's a crazy one. Woah! Lou'll text you some craaaazy shit on yer cell phone when you're in the middle of a meeting at work!

Jeff's the sensitive one in our kooky pack of buds. He's always tore up 'bout some skirt or another and check it- he reads fuckin' Octavio Paz poetry. Woah! Whatta softie Jeff is. But hey, we don't hassle the guy, you know? He's a great fucking guy. He just feels things, y'know?

Then there's Frank! I fucking LOVE that guy! Funniest son of a bitch you ever met! Frank's all the time telling great jokes and just comin' up with off the wall shit that really makes you think, you know?

And Dave! I think I'm closer to Dave than any of my other awesome pals just because we have so much in common. We've seen each other through a lot, Dave and I have. And let me tell you somethin', just between you and me: if I was hanging from a rope over a bed of burning coals, well brother, I'd want Dave at th' other end of the rope. I was his best man! Helluva guy, Dave.

Yeah, me and Dave and Frank and Lou and sensitive Jeff. There's not much we don't do together! Tell ya, it gets harder with each passing year as wives and babies enter th' picture but man, we stick together. It's fucking sick, I tell you. It's like fuckin' Porky's or some shit. And I know those guys will always, always have my fucking back and they know I'd put it all on th' line for them. It's a good feeling.

A good feeling.

Actually, this is all a lie. I don't actually have any friends like this. I know that some people do and I wonder what it's like. Like, when I play someone's wedding or party or some shit, and there's all these friends? What's that like? I don't have any fucking friends like this. I've got people I scrabble out a fucking living with, you know? And some of them are pretty great and some are insufferable like with any other cross section. If I had a wedding it would be a pretty sparse little afterparty. Where do all those people at weddings come from? I don't know that many fucking people. Woah! And it's like they were in fucking My Lai together or some shit and the bride's sister's best friend's husband was coverin' the rear with that trusty M40; they're so close.

When I was in LA and that I had really intense relationships with people I played with. Because you're all living in each other's pockets and sharing the odd intimacy that being comrades in arms and relying on each other for really basic things creates. But they were all pretty much cunts that were just really talented. I can't think of a one I wouldn't pretty much just cross th' street if I saw them now. I'd be like woah that sure is a nice poncho in that window across th' street boy.

Poncho. Ha ha. A fucking poncho.

Thing with bands is that they are the most ridiculous thing on the planet and once you reach a certain age you realize that Every Band Is Spinal Tap anyway and you sort of can't deal with being Nigel Tuffnel any more. Not at 35, man. 35's when you're sort of starting to dream of being Shostakovich or Dylan or Bird. It's acceptable to be completely immature in life as far as I'm concerned but one should at least cast an eye to age appropriateness in the high stakes world of music. That Mick 'n' Keith shit rubs me the wrong way sometimes. It's not that I don't think they should make music and tour and all that, it's just they should, I don't know, use their experience to bring something crazy and vibrant and difficult into being.

Yeah, I had some friends here that I was looking to reastablish with but they're sort of cunts now. I don't know what gets into people. I wouldn't cross the street if I saw 'em but that's probably a couple years down the line. My fucking friend of a million years John got all judgemental with me and it broke my heart. And I gave him every opportunity to reverse the damage and he just wouldn't take th' cue. I was in this band with him and my other friend of a billion years Paul (yeah, I know- John and Paul) and after a couple of months I was just dragging myself to rehearsal. What a fucking travesty. And then I bailed and that was it. Paul's fucking great, a great guy and a walking Beatles encyclopedia so we've always got shit to talk about but he's the most unavailable guy on the planet. Getting him on th' horn is like pullin' fucking teeth. John's a great guy too. I don't know what went up his ass. What the christ is it that gets up people's asses? Is it in the fuckin' corn? Avoid the corn. Jesus Christ in th' fucking gloaming, man.

In the gloaming.

It's my own fault. It's all my own fucking fault. I like when things are my fault because that means I have control over them. Shit that ain't your fault? Well, it just goes down on your ass and you're like a deer in the fucking headlights, vato. You're like a little anty doing slow circles in the swirling eddies of The Big Flush.

But somehow I think it would be easier and shit would just go down a little easier if I had a few ants to jaw with as we're swept slowly into The Plumbing, man. Bouncing between the Porcelain Walls of Existence and the Fetid Log Of Fate.

Wow, that was evocative. I feel so close to me right now. I feel like I could just ram my elbow into a brick wall and pull an earlobe off. And then I'd stomp my own crotch and go on a shrieking cocaine rampage through th' southwest. Knocking shit over, bars and little convenience stores is Tucumcari and shit. Tucum fuckin' cari. It rises from th' gloaming like a stucco Oz. Man could find a life out there. Maybe lay claim to a little homestead and grow dope or something. Sell it to the government.

I got stuck in th' '86 Dodge van 20 miles out of Tucumcari once. That's why I remember it. I had to put in a new radiator in Flagstaff and I topped th' coooolant and left the fucking cap and I boiled over in th' desert in the middle of the night. So I cooled her and found a bottle of Windex and between that and a half bladder o' piss I was able to fill th' radiator.

For weeks afterward the engine spewed acrid piss bubbles. It fucking rocked so hard I would be literally doubled over with laughter, tears coursing down my tanned, athletic visage. Having a van that spews urine bubbles is a unique, unique thing, soldiers. You're not going to run across that sort of thing much in Scarsdale.

Only outside of Tucumcari New Mexico. On a warm summer night. Limpin' into Tucumcari on piss 'n' Windex. With a 9 mm. in my belt and 80 ounces of fresh, untrammeled Colombian Marching Powder.

O.K. No 9 mm.

Yeah, no coke either. I had half a warm Rolling Rock, though.

But it had to go in th' radiator, dontcha know. After a careful filtration process to remove impurities.