Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Geoff gets his paper

I feel like I'm fucking Tony Soprano. Fucking, in this case, is an adjectival gerund, not a verb.

Now, imagine yourself on a train in a station. Good. Now, imagine me putting on my bathrobe, walking downstairs, out the front door and grabbing my now-home-delivered-three-times-without-being-stolen-once New York Times.



Just like Tony.

The song being played in the clip is, just for the record, "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlife" by a group called A3, I think. Which got me thinking that, if there was one way in which The Sopranos was superior to Battlestar Galactica is was in the amazing choices of music they would lay on you. Which then got me thinking about my boy Marty and how, out of the blue, as the credits rolled at the end of "The Departed" came this sustained bent note ... then another ... then another ... bent so beautifully that it sounded like a violin ... and it was the beginning of Roy Buchanan playing "Sweet Dreams."

One night, in the early 70s, my dear friend Gerald (who was just recently promoted to President and CEO of [Redacted--Insert name of hoity-toity retail establishment like Bergdorf Goodman] Direct--which is a name I'll never really understand. I mean, isn't it a more direct experience to have a [redacted] salesperson personally sneer down his or her nose when you tell him or her that you only want to spend $800 for a navy blazer than to buy, say, cuff-links online?) and I, accompanied by two girls (mine cuter than his, if memory serves), drove my father's '67 327 Camaro (burgundy with a black vinyl roof) from Charlottesville, Virginia, to a nightclub called "My Mother's Place" in Washington, DC, to listen to some live music and try to get lucky. Me more than him, if memory serves. And who did we run into? Roy Buchanan and the Snakestretchers playing the blues so hard that the bunch of snot-nosed teenagers (amongst whom we counted ourselves) who were dancing and making out and otherwise making alcohol- and drug-fueled spectacles of themselves on the dance floor were forced, by the sheer genius of the man, to stop and watch him play.

This would be something like that:



Lord have mercy. I'm amazed we made it back to Charlottesville.

Buchanan killed himself a couple of years later, frustrated by his inability to generate commercial success despite his theistic prowess with the axe.

Good Night, Sweet Prince. And flights of telecasters sing thee to thy rest.

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