So this is one big fucking rat. I mean, huge, smaller than a dog but bigger than it should be. And the fucker is hissing, a greasy, vicious creature bent on escape. How he ended up in the barrel, I have know clue, but he isn't happy about it. I can see the claw marks on the inside wood. If I leave him, he will undoubtedly chew through the wood. But I can't watch it suffer. I know it will be back, trying to get to the relative safety and plenitude of my dry, sheltered house. Still...
I kicked the barrel over. The rat, predictably, tore off like a bottle rocket, straight to the wooded strip between our parking lot and that of the dentist's office adjacent. He is gone - for now.
Now, this wasn't any D.C. rat. Those fuckers carry children and feeble men off in broad daylight. I remember dodging those bastards behind D.C. Space, tails shortened by close calls with doors, always looking for the scraps left by the gluttonous diners.
Hardcore bands, the rats of the music business, never got a fair shake. Some of the real deal, fuck-you punk bands were too early or late for the party, their fates tied to the morality of their respective points in time. They had to live on the music industry scraps, at the mercy of whatever, dope-sick, desperate producer would give them a shot. Unless they were hardcore enough to go it on their own, make their own destiny, shove a finger in the airway of the choking music moguls and fish out some scraps. They were proud enough to refuse charity but opportunistic enough to grab the fuckers by the sac and pull. Real fucking hard.
I find myself at a place where I have had to make that choice. Do or disappear, explode or rocket forward. I have been absent, dear reader, for a bit, sorting through the wreckage of a failed marriage, taking a forced look in the mirror of twenty-odd years. Do I get back up and face this shit, like I once did, middle finger in the air, balls out, full speed and headlong into the brick wall just to see if I can take it; or do I make some pathetic attempt at the straight and stalwart, like I had in my marriage, in my life after the joint?
I think the choice isn't really a choice at all. The black spiked hair is back with some unnatural shade of defiance thrown in, the tattoos, the jewelry, the trappings of the FREAK, rolling in the Deathmobile in spirit if not in corporeal.
JINX IS BACK, MOTHERFUCKERS. LOCK UP THE WOMEN AND WALK A LITTLE SOFTER IN THE ALLEYWAYS: THIS OLD PUNK WON'T PACK UP HIS DOCS.
Much more to come...
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