Rock Accountant

Month: October, 2017

God is smart

When you are young, most things are for the “first time.”
When you are old, “last times” fill your day.
It’s a clever system.

The Ground and Beyond

What if every leaf that falls is the tree’s  probe to explore what is onDMlN3knUIAAemL9.jpg-large the ground?

Pete Townshend : “Did you steal my Money?”

“Can I have a word?” Townshend says by hotel phone around midday.

Like some rare birds, Pete was rarely sighted before late afternoon. It was not an inherently settling experience to talk to him one on one before then. In fact, it was fair cause for dread. He made me uneasy and I him at first. It took years to work that out.
A couple of us were having fun working out a logo/poster for the upcoming Canadian leg of a Who tour when his call came.
Canada is big and mostly settled by moose. So far we had a drawing of a frog with a big piece of Canadian​ bacon in its​ mouth hopping from city to city outlining where they would play. He was dressed in a Royal Canadian Mounted Police uniform. He appeared to be chasing​ a beaver. The bacon was my touch because I grew up eating it.
But that phone call had dampened me, so I headed down to his room.
He did not look well. He had his tea.
”Did you give me money last night?” he said without really looking up. I got the feeling that if I lied to him he would be pleased. ” Yes”, I said.
“How much?” He actually gutturally​ groaned when I told him.
“Fuck,” was all he said
“Who was here?” I asked.
It doesn’t matter I didn’t know them. I must have passed out.” He was hard to read as he answered.
“Want me to put Jim on it,” I said.
“No, it’s gone, thanks.”
And I left.

Pope Keith Moon I

Keith Moon of The Who was working as the doorman at the Navarro Hotel in New York on the night Pope Paul VI died.
It was August 6, 1978,
He,( not the Pope), was wearing a six-foot-long Indian Chieftain feathered headdress.
We were sitting around feeling satisfied that Moon’s whereabouts had been limited. Mr. Russell, the hotel’s manager reported that he was being cordial to the arriving guests and faithfully passing all his tips to the real bellman.
It wasn’t long before he crashed through our door with a phalanx of groupies, bellboys, and security while still wearing his feathers.
“Have you heard the news yet?” He was nearly moaning with emotion​. Some Pope is dead! I heard it from a bloke from Indianapolis as I was carrying his bags into the lobby.”

He whirled on Anne Wheldon our publicist. Anne on a standard day is too terrified to breathe deeply. “Anne, get me someone from The New York Times and Billboard Magazine. Go right to the top I am throwing my hat into the Papal ring.

By now there were maybe twenty assorted people in the room. Crowds were his specialty.

He hunched over the phone with a guy from the Times. We were as quiet as possible and heard him say,
” I have wanted to leave the band for years”,
No, I am not Catholic yet” and “don’t let that motherfucker Jagger hear about this, he is the devil you know.”

He put his hands over the phone and with panic in his eyes yelled, ” He wants to know what qualifies me to be the next Pope?” Bill Curbishley shouted back to him,” Tell him twenty-five gold albums.”

The welcoming toilet

Women and cats are the only creatures that demand a clean toilet. Dogs and men are not affected by a filthy lavatory in any discernable way and oddly, many sniffingly approve.
Women additionally require the seat to be closed when not in combat. Men like their battlefields welcoming​.

The pig joke

Pigs are convincing evidence that humans do not care about the feelings of food if it tastes good.
What follows is a joke that is more than it 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 cleverness. That took time.
The joke.
A guy is walking on a country road and comes to a farmhouse. On the porch sits a farmer and next to him relaxed a pig. The farmer had his arm over the pig’s shoulder while reading to it from a large book. The pig snuggled tightly into him. The pig had a wooden leg.
Curious, and with reason, the traveler asked the farmer how this pig came by such a leg.
The homeowner recounted to him that this pig had saved his life twice pointing while he spoke to a burned section of the home.
“My wife and I got trapped in our bedroom as flames from the kitchen headed upstairs. And this pig, ( he hugs the creature as he speaks), rushed through the flames and led us out.
The traveler​, let it be reliably​ said, was astonished, and wanted to understand more clearly, of course, so he asked, “How was this pig able to run to you with such a mangled leg?”
“No, no,” the farmer insisted​, “he didn’t hurt his leg at all.”
The storyteller now warmed to his tale, “ 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. He saved my life once again.”
The farmer sat silently for an emotional minute like country people are often moved to do.
Respecting his country contemplation for as long as he could, he finally could not contain his prying. He said, “You know you never told me how this pig got that wooden leg.”
The farmer looked at him with an odd and amused condescension. He answered,
“Son, you just can’t eat a pig like this all at once.”

It breaks their hearts too.

When I​ pass a black guy on the street I know he is not like me. I understand he knows that too. When I​ watch a sporting event these same people have always been just like me. Having been an athlete​ I know the same holds true for them. ​It breaks my heart that these protests are taking place. I believe it breaks their hearts too.

Loving Other Men

Men love other men more unconditionally than we love women. It is a woman’s variable charm and physical beauty coupled with the ever phantom terror of a long life without children that draws us inexorably but confusedly to them.
I don’t know what frightens homosexuals most. Likely it is being randomly beaten up or losing Hollywood jobs to Clint Eastwood. If letting them marry is all we have to do to help them have families then shame on us for simply not shutting the fuck up.
I find it tricky to spot a true heterosexual anymore. It is possible that all women are lesbians somewhere deep inside. They get along too suspiciously well. Certainly all married women over forty are gay, and no one could convince me otherwise. Too many hairy backs would grate on anybody eventually.

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