What is it about 27? Astrologists blame Saturn. I blame fame. Of all the members of Club 27, I don’t think ANY of them were really comfortable with just how famous they became at such relatively young ages. Hendrix just wanted to get high and play guitar. Janis loved to sing her heart out and she had a pretty crappy voice . . . but she still hits me right in my soul whenever “Me and Bobby McGee” shows up on my iPod. Pete Ham and the rest of Badfinger were supposed to be the next Beatles, until they weren’t and Pete hung himself. The Lizard King? I don’t know about him. He was ONE WEIRD DUDE. Pigpen drank. I mean, how can you get cirrhosis of the liver at freaking 27 years old? I know a lot of people will disagree with me, but I liked the Dead’s sound much better with Pigpen than their later psychedelic stuff. Pigpen sounded good even if you WEREN’T high. Robert Johnson? I think the Devil called in his marker. I don’t think young Mr. Johnson really knew what kind of deal he was signing at the crossroads that dark night . . . and yes, I actually believe he sold his soul to the actual Devil in exchange for the ability to play and sing the blues like no one before him and a pitiful few since him.
Whatever curse the 27th year holds doesn’t really matter. All I know is that I’m sad right now and I really think I could cry but it would just make my head hurt worse and that wouldn’t help anything. Unlike a lot of my feelings and emotions, I can tell you EXACTLY the first and, til now, last time I felt this sick inside — April 9, 1994. I was on my way to my crappy job as a dye tech at a textile plant and I heard on my truck radio that Kurt Cobain was dead. I remember distinctly thinking, “Well, she finally killed him.” I still think she did too. Her PI found the body and they were always a train wreck anyway. She just got a little too out of control and shot him then staged the scene.
Now, Amy Winehouse is gone. It was just a little over a year ago I had this nagging feeling in my gut and head and this little internal voice kept saying, “Man, why don’t you try to get in touch with her? She’s a mess and she ain’t always been like that; maybe you could talk some sense into her.” Obviously, I figured that would have been stupid to even try, so I just pushed that feeling away. I wonder, though, if — by some miracle — I DID manage to get to talk to her personally if I could have changed anything. I mean, I’m just a middle age hick from a Podunk town in a Podunk state. I really doubt she’d have listened to a think I had to say . . . but I still can’t get over the memory of that feeling.
I hope y’all will forgive me for picking the picture of her off the cover of “Back to Black.” That’s how I want to remember her — clear-eyed and soaring, not strung out and falling down. She was really a very voluptuous and beautiful young woman with an amazing, smoky voice that belonged in an old Hollywood black and white movie. I heard she started losing so much weight because a magazine critic mentioned in an article that Amy looked a little heavy in the hips. If that’s the case, I hope that writer is happy now. More likely though, the fame led to the drugs and the drugs led to the grave. It’s like I said on Facebook — sometimes that limelight is so bright and hot it can burn the heart and soul and finally the life right out of a person who didn’t really want all that fame in the first place. I just don’t know.
I doubt you will, but I hope you rest in peace, Club 27 . . . you left us WAY too soon with a lot of music unwritten and unsung.
The rest of y’all remember I love you and keep those feet clean.
Budge and I love to eat at Mexican restaurants. She had never tried Mexican until we married and I showed her the joys of pollo fundido and arroz con pollo. I still can’t get her interested in flan, but she does like fried ice cream.
The conversation went like this:
Lately, I have taken to perusing the classified ads gathered on Craigslist.com. Yesterday, I found that the car of my dreams could be mine for $25K or the best offer. The car was a 1969 Chevelle SS 396, and it was hauntingly similar to Marilyn, the ’69 Chevelle SS 396 Daddy bought for me after I wrecked my beloved ’79 Mustang.
That anger has just one problem — it is woefully misplaced. If people want to be angry with someone and blame someone for the debacle of a trial they should ignore the jury, prosecution, and even the defense. The blame for this miserable failure of justice should be placed squarely on the doorstep of one Nancy Ann Grace lately masquerading as a journalist on CNN and before that a prosecutor somewhere. If her handling of the Caylee Anthony murder case is any indication of her skills as a prosecutor, it’s little wonder that she is no longer trying to put criminals behind bars.
The REAL, MAIN reason for my loathing the Fourth of July, however, is simple. I. Hate. Firecrackers. I hate them with a passion the Bloods reserve for the Crips, the passion Red Sox fans reserve for Yankees fans, the passion Cleveland reserves for LeChoke. But you get the point.
“shooting them off!” Personally, I think it’s a compensation thing, but what do I know. All I know is the bombardment starts a good week before the Fourth with just a few random pops, but come the night of “Independence Day” all Hell breaks loose in an all out aerial attack that terrifies my dog, sets many small brushfires, and keeps me awake in fear of my roof becoming a conflagration. It seems to me that the legislature should pass some sort of law that requires people who buy and set off these black powder menaces to at least have a minimum of three teeth. As another safety feature, the “firecrackers” should have some sort of audio amplified microphone that renders the explosive charges inert if the words “Hey y’all, watch this,” OR “Somebody whol’ my beer ‘n hand me that ‘ar lighter.”
Trying to describe depression to someone who’d never experienced it is about like trying to describe a rainbow to a man born blind. Now to be clear, I’m not talking about a case of “my baby done left me blues.” I’m talking about “my baby’s right here and wonderful and I still feel like Keith Richards looks.”
