Love is always a virgin.
I badly needed Merle Haggard to open my country show. Dolly Parton was the headliner, and it was a large venue. Dolly was more famous at the time, a far bigger draw, but not strong enough to sell the arena without help. They knew each other well.
Dolly is one of the smartest people I have ever met. With hair, she barely cleared my belt buckle. Her voice sounded the same whether she was singing or talking. When she disagreed with me, she would say something like,” Now Mr. Boff, that’s not exactly what you mean is it?”
Haggard was a convicted felon, a bank robber. He had spent a good deal of time in prison; my guess because he wasn’t a particularly good thief. When asked by the press what he learned in prison, he answered, ” To never pull my jobs in small towns.”
His band, “The Strangers” was populated by musicians who just happened to be on parole when his tours began. His drummer, who arranged our meeting, appeared to be his manager, but this was murky.
I liked him. I don’t believe he disliked me. But it would have been an exaggeration to call our conversation that night a negotiation. I was already paying him more than enough, and we both understood that. I knew he wanted, maybe needed, the money.
This man left you not hunting for more like him. He was simply as tough an old fucker as you could meet. A hard face with dangerous lines that had to scramble to pretend to smile. His hat combs his hair.
He said very quickly to me after we sat down, “Mr. Boff, I don’t believe the Good Lord intended a man to open a show for a woman”.
And with that, I flew home.
The next day I called Dolly to report what had happened directly. She said she would call me back. Merle did not pick up phones. She left a message with his drummer to tell Merle.” The Good Lord Dolly Parton wanted to speak to him.”
He opened the show.
I only watch attractive people have sex.
As a youth, I was curious about what beautiful gay people did to each other. Once I got a handle however on the structural opportunities they brought to the table, the same disinterest in the unattractive repeated itself.
My riddle is that I am not attractive myself, yet I still demand what I see and sexually touch to be beautiful.
All men are this way. Ask them.
The Early man quietly sniffed out beauty. It was a successful system, and we multiplied, notwithstanding our super repulsiveness for millions of millennium.
All that ended with the advent of perfumes.
In the early fifties, we began soaking ourselves in the French liquid, Chanel # 5.
This fluid instantly made billions of unpleasant people attractive to the nose.
The collapse of scent coincided with my resolution that only visual beauty matters.
It inevitably gave rise to news people picked because they are good-looking and not smart.
Clemson Boff, my puppy, eats ants. These insects, particularly the black and large-scale variety are hamstrung and virtually defenseless by their propensity to follow each other in a perfect line. Slow moving prey is perfect for lazy ass predators like Golden Retrievers.
He will lay close to their entrance opening into the kitchen and leisurely lick them up until he exhausts an entire nest.
Should he dose off and miss a couple, I will hear a substantial thud as he smashes the escapees with his giant front paws.
I will be pleased when my entire generation is dead. We are in a dark ditch of old and muddy grudges and have nothing left to say.
By far the most stimulating part of every hurricane season is the continuous and frenzied efforts by NBC and The Weather Channel to land Al Roker within the photo-opt of hurricanes.
He is picked up and moved like a tubby black chess piece to be shown buffeted by sidelong flying rain and wind.
At 7:30 this evening I heard someone accidentally on the air in the rain yelling at him to “rent a car and move a little to the left.”
Let the French Burka bathing suit incident be a warning to those cultures who torture, subjugate and mutilate women worldwide. The women of France will always stand against fashion persecution. Viva la superficiality!
I am guilty of never giving Hilary the benefit of doubt but always forgiving Trump for things for which he deliberately leaves no doubt. This is a very upsetting election for me. Nothing is more annoying than introspection.
There can be only reasonable certainty that two other people have had sex. And men are never to be counted on as affidavits in this regard. We are dirty creatures more than available to disgrace women, let alone ourselves.
Keith Moon always insisted he had had her. My mother that is. I knew him well enough to leave him be about his fantasies. We all did.
The trajectory of her last years and death was not unlike his.
They headed south like seasonal geese, straight into God’s jet engines.
Their memories, like feathers, are scattered everywhere around my past.
I showed him a picture of my mother once; she was attractive. Someone had snapped it in the decade of the flowered smock.
The smock dress, a product of the 1950’s, was the church’s last attempt to stifle any hint of a woman’s sexuality.
Keith got over her but never that dress. He was inclined, for years after, to sidle up to me and whisper in my ear if I had any luck yet in finding one in his size.
The child to touch is the one who never laughs
The child to kiss is the one who dreads it most
The children to hug are the ones with arms wrapped around their own shoulders
When they think they are alone.
Laughter is greater than love
It is the first sign of every new spring
Laughing together is a circle that never shuts you out if you step into it.
Laughter helps forgive the crime of death
It can even be done alone
Gentle laughter is the only sound pain can hear