Hav-A-Tampa
I lace up my boots and march out the door -forgetting to lock it behind me. Sloshing through the soggy, trash strewn gutter I make it -just in time- before the liquor store closes.
The local hindu tries to swindle me (as usual). I'm thankful for the company. I snag a few loose Hav-A-Tampas on the way out.
"Bumbaclot!" I scream at the dump truck in front of me.
I come home and hurl terrible anathemas at the TV. Catching my reflection in the window I look tired and sad. I fetch a tumbler out of the cupboard and drop a few clear, clunky ice cubes in. The ice crackles as the glass fills up with warm, amber coloured bourbon. Spontaneously a phrase pops into my head and I'm off and running.
Typing with a cigar in my mouth I feel like Hemingway with half the sperm count. (It's a Hav-A-Tampa afterall).
"Downpressor man where you gonna run to?" wails Peter Tosh. Lately I can sing this with all my heart and not feel guilty. Not that I ever felt the usual guilt -paternalistic pangs of sympathy for the help as they brush the crumbs off my blue blazer. No, I've never turned to my chums and said, "You know, we really should do more," as we waited for our drinks to get freshened up.
My kind of guilt is born out respect and sensitivity. "As the bee takes away the nectar, and departs from the flower without harming its color or fragrance, so let a sage move about in the village."
This has always been my philosophy. And in this spirit I've never wanted to feel that I was in anyway appropriating a stance of black militancy simply to enhance my own potency or credibility. I always hated those motherfuckers. Probably why I didn't go to my high school reunion. Oh wait did that happen already?
I never got the email.
I know where I'm most at home. The blowing tumbleweeds of Dylan's "Desire"; the breathy yelps of Neil Young's harmonica on "Harvest"; The long, expansive ride through emptiness is my morning dew. My further shore is the border of Old Mexico.
My heart pounding, the bailiff grabs my collar.
"Step in" he orders.
My knees tremble.
"Damn." I think. "If I'da just resisted the urge for one second..." I'd still be free.
"Maybe I could still go back and pay?" No. It's too late. No clemency for me. There's no pardons for two-bit cigar thieves.
What on earth was I thinking? Hav-A-Tampas?
Not worth a dollar much less a year.
"I've got an answer." the majestic harmonies of CSN promise. I cling to that hope.
The local hindu tries to swindle me (as usual). I'm thankful for the company. I snag a few loose Hav-A-Tampas on the way out.
"Bumbaclot!" I scream at the dump truck in front of me.
I come home and hurl terrible anathemas at the TV. Catching my reflection in the window I look tired and sad. I fetch a tumbler out of the cupboard and drop a few clear, clunky ice cubes in. The ice crackles as the glass fills up with warm, amber coloured bourbon. Spontaneously a phrase pops into my head and I'm off and running.
Typing with a cigar in my mouth I feel like Hemingway with half the sperm count. (It's a Hav-A-Tampa afterall).
"Downpressor man where you gonna run to?" wails Peter Tosh. Lately I can sing this with all my heart and not feel guilty. Not that I ever felt the usual guilt -paternalistic pangs of sympathy for the help as they brush the crumbs off my blue blazer. No, I've never turned to my chums and said, "You know, we really should do more," as we waited for our drinks to get freshened up.
My kind of guilt is born out respect and sensitivity. "As the bee takes away the nectar, and departs from the flower without harming its color or fragrance, so let a sage move about in the village."
This has always been my philosophy. And in this spirit I've never wanted to feel that I was in anyway appropriating a stance of black militancy simply to enhance my own potency or credibility. I always hated those motherfuckers. Probably why I didn't go to my high school reunion. Oh wait did that happen already?
I never got the email.
I know where I'm most at home. The blowing tumbleweeds of Dylan's "Desire"; the breathy yelps of Neil Young's harmonica on "Harvest"; The long, expansive ride through emptiness is my morning dew. My further shore is the border of Old Mexico.
My heart pounding, the bailiff grabs my collar.
"Step in" he orders.
My knees tremble.
"Damn." I think. "If I'da just resisted the urge for one second..." I'd still be free.
"Maybe I could still go back and pay?" No. It's too late. No clemency for me. There's no pardons for two-bit cigar thieves.
What on earth was I thinking? Hav-A-Tampas?
Not worth a dollar much less a year.
"I've got an answer." the majestic harmonies of CSN promise. I cling to that hope.
posted by El Bozo at 1:59 PM
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