Don't Forget What You Are

So you want to be a rock and roll star?

Then listen now to what I say.

I got a text from a fellow I see once a year, on Christmas Eve when I meet up on the Boulevard with the usual victims of holiday blues.  Once every once in a long while, though, I'll get a strange text from him that I think is a mistake, meant for some other person.  I got one again yesterday.

"Brother, how was your surgery.  Let's have coffee soon."

This was becoming "a thing," so I just wrote back:

"It went well.  They took my testicles and half my brain.  They say I should do fine.  No more crazy nights out looking for women.  Just comfortable nights by the hearth with a glass of brandy.  What more could a man want, really?"

He wanted me to come over and hang out by the pool sometime.  Yea sure o.k.  Soon.  Meanwhile, I was cutting up onions and carrots and celery and garlic for the Great Northern Beans and Chicken dish I was making for my mother.  After our failed pizza party, we needed something good.  Eight chicken thighs.  3/4ths bottle of wine.  Salt, black pepper, and red pepper.  Water.  My goodness, it was good.  

But I forgot to put in the spinach!  Next time.  Spinach and jalapeños.  

We had it with yellow rice and a bottle of citrusy New Zealand white.  A good time was had by all.  

So what do I need with testicles and a brain?  They've only gotten me into trouble all my life.  

I'm kidding, though.  I've never been one of "those guys," and I have a lovely brain.  

Other than cooking yesterday, though, I did nothing but sit at the computer all day again.  I had two beers and music.  That's three days in a row.  Today. . . it's Monday.  Back to work. 

And with your hair swung right,

And your pants fit tight

It's going to be alright.

Yea, I'll get back into the swing of things.  My pants fit tight, alright, and my hair. . . well. . . it's alway swung right.  I mean, no shit. . . I still have hair!  Yea man, I can make it, you know. . . I can really swing. 

And the girls, you know. . . 

If you make the charts

The girls will tear you apart.

Just don't try this without an electric twelve string and some wicked horns.  It's the horns that make it.   

The price you paid for your riches and fame,

It was all a strange game,

You're a little insane.

Let's see. . . I need to text my buddy's wife, the fellow who took my place at the factory and has just left for another position in the Great White North, to see if she needs any help here. The garbage needs to go to the curb. Too many weeds need pulling. And I still need to figure out what to do about burning prints. Yea. . . that all needs to be done.

. . . and the public acclaim.

Don't forget what you are, 

You're a rock and roll star!