The Bearded one started working again, after a 6 month period of unemployment filled with a momentary dabbling in hashish (not really, I just like the word hashish), a brief attempt at a career in heavy drinking (eh, it was brief but i made friends), abject poverty proceeded by flirtations with the Peace Corps that were deterred by my dad's mentioning of the probability of my developing dysentery or encountering someone in a grass skirt that shrinks heads as a hobby. Then I thought about the word derelict and how my dad always used it to describe the hippies that hung around the university that he worked at. I thought that derelicts might not shower as often as its "suggested". And they might wear berets and grow their beards to lengths that most office managers would deem "unruly and indicative that you might be eating primarily from cans of chili". Office managers are keen like that.
But I looked up the meaning of derelict, and I don't think being one pays well. Some women like derelicts, but only if they call themselves something ridiculous like "The Lizard King" and can properly fill a pair of leather trousers. My brother, who happens to be the CEO of Derelict Inc., hangs out with a woman who calls herself Miss Kitty Kitty Kitty. I know this, because in trying to reach him I called her number and someone notified me that I had reached the voicemail of Miss Kitty Kitty Kitty. I thought one Kitty was ample, but Miss Kitty x3 felt it needed saying twice more. So all things considered, I couldn't move forward past the summer of dereliction without an indication of looming employment.
The only real qualm I have with regular employment is having a boss and the hassle of showering regularly. I entertain delusions of an eternal life filled with stinkyness and ginger ale. Or maybe that's just retirement. But bosses I can deal with. It's a matter of properly gauging what your boss will tolerate and then exploiting or exploring his threshold of tolerance. I had a boss that would harp on me about clocking in early and I pointed out to him that he was the only man in history who had a menstrual period and that he should mention that to someone at Ripley's Believe It or Not. He then proceeded to express his dissatisfaction with me through a flurry of f-bombs and telling me that i was about to have " my own period, period of unemployment that is". Not true. I quit and found another job.
But yeah, I'm working now which meant the unabomber beard had to come off. I never got a chance to wear a robe and dance like Allen Ginsberg, but i did manage to find remnants of previous meals in it. I don't think i could go full derelict anyways. I'm not much for wine or heroin.
Oh yeah-Michael Jackson.
My mom said to me the other day "You know, that Michael Jackson was some dancer". And I thought, what a raw deal. You write Thriller, then O.D. on anesthesia. And therein lies the beauty of Keith Richards. Long after all the amateur junkies have been laid to rest, Keith is still plugging away. Mind you, not in tip top shape but existing, breathing air, still beating the cash crop/dead horse that is a Rolling Stones tour. Makes you think Michael should have spent less time getting nose jobs and more time shooting speedballs with ol' Keith. He might still be around.
Yer pal, Luke
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