“Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.” — Henry Rollins
. . . . . . . It’s nighttime in the club. All the hep cats are here. Hey — there’s Arnie. Hi, Arnie! And Billy’s with him, arm slung around Arnie as they stumble drunkenly for the washrooms. Hey you motherfuckers take your piss quick and get your asses back here I wanna innerduce you to somebody.
. . . . . . . This is the Cradle reader. Arnie, Billy, good to see you back. Cradle reader, these are two of the heppest hep cats around. They make the place swing.
. . . . . . . Why do we swing? Cuz on account o’ we’re alive, baby. It’s like, why do you have a party? Because you’re alive, duh? Let the vampires and the zombies do their take on dead-life, where we’re from it’s all alive and happy.
. . . . . . . Because happiness is a hep trait. Oh sure, some of us use heroin or cocaine, we ride that 8-ball to temporary paradise and long-term downfall, but it’s just a ruse. Inside, we’re crying out for sobriety. Just kidding! Sobriety and the hep cat don’t mix. We’re like oil and water, man. Just a little black goo on some pristine running H2O.
. . . . . . . The Beatles said it best in Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band: “They’ve been going in and out of style / But they’re guaranteed to raise a smile.” See, that’s the thing, buddy. We hep cats are always going in and out of style. But that’s just the way the wind blows. Sometimes you’re hot, sometimes you’re cold. It’s all cool, if you savvy my meaning. It’s cool to be hot just as it’s cool to be cold. The audience is fickle, man, let me tell you that. As Nero fiddled, some cheered him on. It wasn’t just the nosebleeds, either. Some of them Senators in the front ranks were clapping and applauding in time to his magic time fiddle.
. . . . . . . Each hep cat is a low kind of emperor, if you seez my meaning. He’s the king of nothing, but he’s got a vast domain. But he’s cheerful! Why not? You only live once — if you can’t be cheerful, wipe that frown off your face and be neutral. First cheerful, then neutral, then frown-y — that’s the proper order of life.
. . . . . . . Order and structure. It’s got a jazz-y kind of rhythm to it. It moves in and out of the music page, sinuous like any old snake is. Order and structure. You can groove on it. The Nazis sure did.
. . . . . . . And here’s another thing, partner — when you groove, you need a dance partner. There’s an old Outer Limits episode where only the men do the dancing. With other men, I mean. Girls may be limited in the way they think, but they make good dance partners … squashing those breasts against your chest is bliss, man! In the breast department, bigger is better o’course. God made those mammaries to be spread around.
. . . . . . . And cleavage! If you got something there, you can show some cleavage, awright? The world’s better with some discerning cleavage. Just as gentlemen prefer blondes, those selfsame gents want to see a split between those honeys, some shadow lost in the gorgeous mountain peaks.
. . . . . . . Jeez … the club’s smoky tonight. All the regulars got their ciggies or their Big Smokes out. The cigar’s making a real comeback, you notice? Nothing says “Good Churchill” or “Bad Stalin” like a cigar. You can pick your poison, pick your image, pick your license, pick your reason. It’s all good in there.
. . . . . . . The club’s kinda like a church, y’know what I mean? We go to pray to each other and ask for forgiveness for stealing the other guy’s girl. But we hadda do it, you know? She was just beggin’ to be seduced. Look at those gently heavy-lidding eyes, fellow, and you’ll see we had to do it. She was gettin’ tingles in her nether parts for us! Tingly-tingly!
. . . . . . . Ah … the lady-tingles. Half the babies in the world come from female desire, and the other load from male needs. It’s an even split, in our books. Chicks want it too. The hard-D. Believe it. They pretend they don’t, but when the vibrator comes out, it’s men they’re fantasizing to, not each other. Cleavage doesn’t make pussy wet. Nossiree. It’s the hard-D or nothin’. Nothing makes the song rhyme like a little wet time.
. . . . . . . I’m gettin’ horny, man. When’s my girls coming in? I got three of them. One for every other day of the week. On Sundays I sleep alone. It’s like how I am when they’re menstruating. Alone. They can save that bloody rag shit for their therapists and their homo friends and their girlfriends. I’m alone on Red Cardinal days, strictly put.
. . . . . . . Us hep cats gotta stay clean. Gotta keep our distance from the sewage destinies of this world, like work. Oh, Christ! You think we go to work? We find our own ways to get coin. Some say it’s worth it. Some say it isn’t. It’s in the hustle, man. It’s an age-old fight against the forces tryin’ to level us down, forever. There’s some that hates the hep-cats. We ain’t alone in our struggle, though. Most of the youth side with the hep. Why not? They’re forever tryin’ to be just like us. Then they grow up and into conformity. It’s funny how the unnatural world grabs them by the throat and makes them pretend natural thoughts. Some call it Supermarket World. Some call it the lazy, go-back-at-’em, grabathon spiel. I just calls it bullspit.
. . . . . . . Ahhhhhh … I’m not trying to be black or negative, just trying to spit some dark truths between knowing smiles. You get my message loud and clear. I’m a smuggler of dead ideas. I’m a wheeler-dealer of bad chances. Just lookin’ for a little love.
. . . . . . . You’ll know when you get yours.
. . . . . . . Buckaroo.