so many things this week. . . the rain, the mumps, the spies
i'm going to instead choose kieth richards. i know we joke that after a nuclear disaster it would just be monsieur and the cockroaches, but is the hubris going to far now? what is he thinking-"the drugs haven't killed me? the rock & roll life hasn't killed me? i must be invincible - i know, i'll jump out of a coconut tree. . ."
i salute you, mr richards. remember, it doesn't always work out so well. one day you're going to want to let death out of the sack, i reckon.
1 comment:
I seem to recall a certain author who had an ominous plaid sack that was the villain of the piece. I was a big fan of such mummery.
If Hell was a nightclub, Mr. Richards would be the guy at the door. Seedy, sordid, indifferent, not just a little rakish.
Metafilter used to link to 1981 concert footage of this guy rushing Keith onstage. Keith turned the volume down, unslung his guitar, and calmly walloped the hell out of the guy until security dragged him away. Then he resumed playing without even changing expression.
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