Book 4. The Second Coming. Continued..
No, not the day of El Senor, The return of Jesu Christo, not the Morning of Armageddon, The up close and personal, desperate “splainin’ of Judgement Day, No Herald Trumpets, nor big fat smirking self-satisfied “I Told You So’s” faces in your face, No pillars of flame, and brimstone rain, pitch forks “a forking””imps a imping”, or mighty book of life unveiled. no back to back to back televised famous faces making last-minute confessions of shocking infidelities and perverted lust fueled obscenities at the last just in time minute to be sin free, no Stereo Technicolor 3-D Revelations, nay, tis ain’t the sky splitting, sun splitting, Uranus splitting thunderous thunder-clap of almighty settle up and pray, pay your debt, face the music and dance day, gateway to eternity day, nope, it’s just scaddywaddy do dah, the boy who wouldn’t give up, and wouldn’t go away, coming back for more, day.
Yea, though I have traveled the skyways back and forth between the Isles of dreams and the greystone mainland a hundred times or more, this trav is different. This is me myself and oy, on my way to battle the bull (my own) nose to nose, eyelash to eyelash, mano a mano, to grab ‘im by the snortin’snorter and fling ‘im up and over me shoulder and “wrascal him down” into the dust, and make him say ankle!, uh..inkle!..oinkle? (ah..heck, you know what I mean!)
Actually, to do something even more difficult, unheard of and unlikely than that. To break through the scrim scram scrum, over under around and through To, to, to, the unthinkable, oh nirvanita in rags, to seek out, search out, uncover and discover.. Oh glory day in the morning, and finally find my ever elusive, non-intrusive self-effacing, timid and dream struck, long-lost, star-crossed, drunk on the milky way, wandering in the wilderness, trembling lipped, dewy eyed, tender-hearted and good to the last drop, invisibly inked audience, and then somehow earning the ultimate cereal box prize in life, their love.
And and and.. there fore from and by, my success as an artist at the uber ripe and pleasantly plump age of ..well…sixty four. (and beyond, heck yes, and beyond too, don’t forget that part) Empty-handed except for the git-fiddle on my knee, and with nothing more than a mumbled mantra and the continued amusement of the almighty, to assure my success. (The mumbled mantra part requiring that I never forget to close each set of my ‘umble musical offerings, with the sobriquet “Goodnight Mrs. Pennyfeathers, where ever you may be.”)
As far back as 1963, my fadder dear was convinced and tried to convince me that if I didn’t maker it by 18, or 19 or at the latest 20, it would be too late, I would be too old. I think (and thought) that his prospective was singed by bitterness about his own career in music, and the deep resentment that he and many other older musicians harbored about Rock and Roll, displacing their cherished genres and rudely shoving their sophisticated romantic, melodic dreams aside, in favor of greasy haired vulgarians gyrating while emitting farmyard noises, and singing lyrics like “Uh Huh Uh Huh Uh Huh” and Uh Huh Uh Huh Oh Baby” (which was of course exactly what I aspired to be, do and sing..which flipped him out even further)
Poor father dear, he sired (when he realized he had) in his words, a “young prince” who rather than aspiring to become “William The Wonderful”, and someday purchasing a likely bar in a good drinking locale for the beautiful and beneficent retired king “Fadder Dear the First” was instead “Fidel The F%*kin’ Bomb thrower from the Islands” who appeared to imagine himself as Elvis The Pelvis’s misplaced twin “Enis The Pe*is” but who (by decree of King Fadder Dear) was hence forth to be known instead as “William The Helpless” (except of course when he was singing “Danny Boy”, “Galway Bay” or “The Rose Of Tralee.”…Continued
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