Hosing Down

Behold, My Ten!

As I hinted (somewhat erroneously) in my last two columns, it can be difficult to put into proper words one’s true feelings after completing ten years’ worth of timely, monthly Scripture, which has done so much to uphold the principles upon which this great Country was founded and still thrives – the selfish, ruthless pursuit of advantage and gain.

Whatever truths I have exposed, whatever chuckles I may have nudged, it all has cost the lives of several trees, and I find my hands dripping green with guilt. It is my purpose today – nay, my solemn charge – to prove that just one of those trees has perhaps not shed its costly bark in vain.

I recall two of this paper’s founders, Ellen and Lyle Duplessie, prostrate before me and near tears, finally acceding to my demands for a typist, a driver, a masseuse, and a monthly supply of Viceroys and Magnum 40s before I would take on the task of what at least one critic has termed “[A]n unprecedented monthly display of self-abuse.” Alas, almost as soon as I recall it, it proves itself nothing more than another of my wayward fantasies. The truth is somewhere in between, as I once told Britney Spears, regarding her feet.

Magnum 40s are no longer distributed in San Diego; Viceroys are no longer being manufactured (way to go, Brown and Williamson/R.J. Reynolds – thanks for the after effects of my addiction!), and Ellen and Lyle are most certainly with the Lord now. Both Britney and I are still around at this precise moment, proving that there can be, at times, small justice in life.

Oh, I did get a typist – and my greatest thanks go to her. Liz Abbott has taken my scribblings every month and typed them all out for you, as well as doing all she can to keep me sorta on time and focused and within the questionable boundaries of “good taste,” whatever that is. (Notice that I wrote “feet” instead of “legs” earlier; Liz has done much to foster my maturity.) Come January, I should be able to do my own typing (if I live) and give her a bit of a break, but her editorial decisions will be perhaps even more essential. Bless your heart, babe.

And, indeed, we got a driver, an industrious chap who scours the county every month to deliver our finished product to those of you who want it. He’s a fine guy who would probably swear that you deserve it; he actually sees something good in humanity and tends to make me feel ashamed of myself.

Which is where the massage comes in handy. Yes, everyone can use a sympathetic stroke or four now and then, or a little note saying something like “I believed you. Love, Fig” (which I actually received after a performance of Plymouth Rock in 1971). In other words, it can be awesomely bitching to hear somebody say how something you wrote cracked him/her up or stopped someone from murdering an obnoxious relative or kept some dude from forming a Josh Groban tribute band. Lacking the good fortune of such examples, I can still get all tingly down there when I see my own picture in print. So, in a sense, as my homies tell me, “It all good.”

As few of you might believe, I’m not one to make a habit of tooting his own horn. Nor would I normally make a habit of recalling how gosh-darned prescient my column has been over the years.

But let’s face it: these are not normal times, and habits have the habit of popping up when they’re least needed. Was it not in this column:

— In 2003, that the writer (and I refuse to name names) warned that our then-president would “win” a second term?

— Suggested strongly, in 2007, that Michael Jackson was heading for some sort of trouble?

— In 2010, predicted the death of Osama Bin Laden “within a decade”?

— Predicted in 2002 that before the decade ended, a female superstar would emerge, mashing up the chord progressions of many of the most treasured songs from the 1960s and 1970s, calling them her own and naming herself after one of Queen’s most insubstantial songs? That she would call herself something like Radio Gaga? (Try saying that name with a politically incorrect, Asian comic accent, and you may be weewee amazed.)

— Reveal the breakup of the Beatles some 35 years subsequent to their final, true dissolution?

— In 2006 vowed to you, sweet readers, that I would never allow Shakira to sleep with me as long as she remained married and until the whole Israel-Palestine situation is amicably settled? Even now the two nations and the musical goddess are suffering the agonies of the damned, and yet have I not faltered in my pledge. The tonnage of my seed increases, the purpose of my pain is to lessen your own.

You’re welcome.

Yes, indeed, it’s creepy, ain’t it? And downright insane when the fact that none of it ever actually appeared here is revealed. That I can say almost anything I want gives me a chubbie.

When the Troubadour started in 2001, it was a kind of space odyssey built on a dream. In 2011, I’m even more spaced and odd, you see, than I was then; still built like a dream, but with the added maturity only Old Age can successfully scare into one’s soul.

There is a time for laughter and there is a time for no laughter. This is neither.

Instead, it is a time, perhaps, that each of us looks the future in the eye (left or right, it’s of little import) and say, “You’re hot.” When the future blushes endearingly, you’re half way home. Just don’t forget the condoms.

I hope you’ll come and say “hello” or at least “you’re hot” at the Ocean Beach Octoberfest, taking place this year on Friday, October 7th and all day Saturday, October 8th. Once again I’ll be emceeing the mainstage musical entertainment and hosting the Stein Holding and Bratwurst Eating competition as well as judging something concerning the lung power of some brave female contestants – the anticipation renders me nearly breathless.

Then, after that there’s the Troubadour Benefit, and Halloween, Christmas, birthdays, New Year’s 2012 . . . gosh, I’m happy to have been around with you for these past ten years and I thank you sincerely, one and all, and God, I miss you Buddy Blue and Steve Esmedina and Lyle and Ellen! And, bless you always, Kent and Liz!

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