johnny9fingers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
johnny9fingers) wrote2010-06-04 11:15 am
johnny9fingers) wrote2010-06-04 11:15 am
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I am all alone in my pad, man, my piled-up-to-the-ceiling-with-junk pad.
So next on the comfort rereading list comes a classic.
I am all alone in my pad, man, my piled-up-to-the-ceiling-with-junk pad. Piled with sheet music, piled with garbage bags bursting with rubbish, piled with unnameable flecks of putrified wretchedness in grease. My pad, my own little Lower East Side Horse Badorties pad.
I just woke up, man. Horse Badorties just woke up and is crawling around in the sea of abominated filth, man, which he calls home. Walking through the rooms of my pad man, from which I shall select my wardrobe for the day. Here, stuffed in a trash basket, is a pair of incredibly wrinkled-up muck-pants. And here, man, beneath a pile of wet newspapers is a shirt, man, with one sleeve. All I need now, man, is a tie, and here is a perfectly good rubber Japanese toy snake, man, which I can easily form into an acceptable knot looking like a gnarled ball of spaghetti....
Ah, the life of a musician....hey. Even though I left behind the Anarcho-Syndicalist squat somewhere in the 80's, and now consort with the high-and-mighty* I still have a fondness for the chaos of those years. Nevertheless, those who do not agree with me on this fondness for content should note the content doesn't detract from prose. This novel is the exemplar of the 60's hippy musician's stream-of-consciousness as prose, and though rooted in 1970/71, still, to my mind, has not been bettered: though it has been stolen from, copied, and watered-down.
One of the great American comic novels, it should be on reading lists in schools: though of course they'd have to bowdlerise it before it got past school reading boards.
Anyway, that reminds me: it's eleven o'clock and I must breakfast.
*Relatively speaking, and for a given value of high-and-mighty. I don't ever seem to meet any of the new oligarch's, for which I suppose I can be thankful.
I am all alone in my pad, man, my piled-up-to-the-ceiling-with-junk pad. Piled with sheet music, piled with garbage bags bursting with rubbish, piled with unnameable flecks of putrified wretchedness in grease. My pad, my own little Lower East Side Horse Badorties pad.
I just woke up, man. Horse Badorties just woke up and is crawling around in the sea of abominated filth, man, which he calls home. Walking through the rooms of my pad man, from which I shall select my wardrobe for the day. Here, stuffed in a trash basket, is a pair of incredibly wrinkled-up muck-pants. And here, man, beneath a pile of wet newspapers is a shirt, man, with one sleeve. All I need now, man, is a tie, and here is a perfectly good rubber Japanese toy snake, man, which I can easily form into an acceptable knot looking like a gnarled ball of spaghetti....
Ah, the life of a musician....hey. Even though I left behind the Anarcho-Syndicalist squat somewhere in the 80's, and now consort with the high-and-mighty* I still have a fondness for the chaos of those years. Nevertheless, those who do not agree with me on this fondness for content should note the content doesn't detract from prose. This novel is the exemplar of the 60's hippy musician's stream-of-consciousness as prose, and though rooted in 1970/71, still, to my mind, has not been bettered: though it has been stolen from, copied, and watered-down.
One of the great American comic novels, it should be on reading lists in schools: though of course they'd have to bowdlerise it before it got past school reading boards.
Anyway, that reminds me: it's eleven o'clock and I must breakfast.
*Relatively speaking, and for a given value of high-and-mighty. I don't ever seem to meet any of the new oligarch's, for which I suppose I can be thankful.