Rock Accountant

Month: October, 2016

Girl on the curb

That girl on the curb
looked back at me.

I guessed at what she saw.
It could be what I hoped it was
That left her mouth ajar.

But likely it was my car.

Should die in hell

Many essential people in my life are “Deadheads.”
Do I think they are musical idiots? Sure. But they are in love, so I let it go.
When push comes to shove, we are a musical species. We are all authorities of sound and oafishly clumsy when thinking about everything else. So we need be kind to each other.
That said, The Who are a much better band and anyone who think otherwise should die in hell.

You will disappear

I am certain that when I die you will disappear.

You will disappear

I am certain that when I die you will disappear.

Life is not culmulative

It may be the last time I ever hear this. Mind you not to consider this pessimistic on my part. Every day is no more than firsts and lasts. It is what makes life one of our best alternatives. I can’t even remember if I listened to it more than once when it came out. This does not matter either as living, (it is my suspicion), is not cumulative.

Just sing it again

Like everyone else, my entire life is a song under glass just waiting for me to sing it again.

Life’s hardest lesson?

Beauty is only skin deep.

The Pig Joke

The Pig Joke
By Regis Boff

Pigs are convincing evidence that humans do not care about the feelings of food if it tastes good.
What follows is a joke which is more than what is seems. I first heard it when I was maybe nine or ten years old. I have never heard it told again by anyone but me for sixty years. I memorized it and have used it at dinner parties to woo bright women who possess a sense of humor. When I was young, it did not matter so much their intelligence. That took time.
The joke.
A guy is walking on a country road and comes to a farm house. On the porch sits a farmer. Next to him, relaxes a pig. The farmer has his arm over the pig’s shoulder. They are looking at a book. The pig snuggles tightly next to him with his snout in the farmer’s lap, listening to him read. The pig has a wooden leg.
Unable to control his curiosity, the traveler asks the farmer how this pig came by such a leg.
The homeowner tells him this pig saved his life a couple of times pointing to a burned section of the farmhouse.
“My wife and I got trapped in our bedroom as the flames headed toward us. We figured it was over. Suddenly, this pig, ( he hugs the creature as he speaks), rushes through the flames and leads us out.
The traveler, let it be safely said, was astonished, and wanted to understand more clearly of course, “How was this pig able to run to you with such a mangled leg?”
“No, no,” the farmer emphasized, “ he didn’t hurt his leg at all.”
The storyteller, warming to his tale continued, “ But you know the damnedest thing happened after that. I was fishing in my boat, and this terrible rain and wind knocked me right off and into the water. Now I ain’t never been much a swimmer, and I was making a ruckus, when this pig arrived at the shore, jumped into the water, and swam back with me, my collar in his mouth.”
The farmer sat silently for a minute or two after watching ahead of him like country people are moved to do.
The traveler respected the quiet but soon could not contain his prying. He said to the farmer, “You know you never told me how this pig got that wooden leg.”
The farmer looked at him with a kind of an odd condescension. He answered,
“ You know son; you just can’t eat a pig like this all at once.”

The Who and the Pope

Keith Moon was working as the doorman at the Navarro Hotel in New York City on the night Pope Paul VI died. It was a day off, August 6, 1978, before a Madison Square Garden date.
He was wearing a six foot long Indian Chieftain headdress and for added authenticity was wearing no shoes.
We were sitting around in one of the suites laughing about his potential new career. He was a skilled bellboy after all and given his last week of expenses he would benefit from a little extra cash.

Moon plowed through the hotel room door towing a phalanx of groupies,other bellboys, and our security, still wearing his plumage. His eyes were wide.
“Have you got the news yet?” He was nearly moaning with emotion.
”Some Pope is dead! I heard it from a bloke from Indianapolis as I was tossing his bags into the lobby.”
He was right. The Pope had turned paws up, and the world anxiously waited for his replacement to be announced.
He whirled on our publicist, who hadn’t taken an unterrified deep breath since the tour began.
“Anne get me someone on the line right now from The New York Times and Billboard Magazine. Go right to the top. I am throwing my hat into this Papal ring!”

He hunched over the phone with a guy from the Times waving​ us all to be silent.
He was shouting,
“No, I am not Catholic and don’t let that motherfucker Jagger hear about this; he is the devil.”
He put his hands over the receiver and in fearful confusion
he yelled back at us,
”He wants to know what qualifies me to be the next Pope?”
Anne whispered to him, “Tell him twenty-five gold albums.”
Sadly, It did not work.

Now You Know

All attempts to keep us alive past the age of twenty-two are part of a vast pharmaceutical conspiracy.

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