Soon I’m going to starting tweeting things out, and when I do, heads up. I’m not the kind of person who’s going to tweet small. When I start tweeting, I’m going to be all in, tweeting the living daylights out anything I can get my hands on. If it pops into my head, it’s getting tweeted out, I don’t care what the hell you think.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that failing to tweet out any old crap that occurs to you robs the rest of the world of the ability to know what kind of crap flows into and out of your brain in any given moment. This can mean the loss of valuable data that can never be recaptured. These are the very ideas, entirely unfounded, that you’re one day going to assert as fact, why not tweet them out to see if the public enjoys them?
One thing I’m going to have to do is quit my job, as I expect to be tweeting 24-7-365 in a tweeting blitzkrieg aimed at flooding the market and rendering all other tweeters irrelevant. Except, in all honestly, for sanity I should probably tweet no more than 24-7-361, giving myself Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, and July 4th off. Come to think of it, I should probably take at least one day entirely off each week so I can worship as I see fit. So that's, what, 24-6-309?
May also seek out a robot who can tweet in my stead now and again, whilst driving me around.
Sometimes, I like to go old-school, whether it be by dressing in a leisure suit, or listening to classic rock, or refusing to recycle anything. Sometimes, I’ll go old-school by putting grass clippings out with the rubbish instead of leaving it for compost pickup. Because going old school means keeping it real. And life was more real back in the 1950s anyway, unless you were a woman, or gay, or black. And although I sometimes don’t like to admit it, when people don’t keep it real, I feel robbed. And I believe that not keeping it real has gravely affected the national psyche, which has been on a long and steady decline since about 1776.
Those of you who have been paying attention, I mean really paying attention, are aware of how my research has spurred a new school of old-school thinking, which puts much more emphasis on the old and less on the school. My kids keep telling me that school is overrated anyway, so why not make the new school of thinking about going old-school less school-related.
You know what I’m saying.
It’s rare to find crusty members of society’s upper echelons in dive bars in Jamaica Plain, but the Midway isn’t any old dive bar anymore, and sometimes the knickered and powder-wigged citizen of yesteryear likes to show up there to rocque out with bandmates.
I have to remind myself whenever I go to a music venue that closes at 2 in the a.m. that the headliner isn’t going to show up until some pretty late hour. But with it well past midnight and no Upper Crust in sight, I was beginning to wonder if I’d make it to the end. Of course, for members of the leisure class, time is a constraint that can be ignored. So I nursed a beer while bands like Top Heavy and Gene Dante and the Future Starlets played their sets.
I’m pretty talented at zoning out at 11 at night – my bedtime! – but Gene Dante isn’t easy to zone out to as he possesses a set of full-throated glam pipes (that lucky bastid!). And anyway, his lyrics are enough to wake up an old fashioned fellow such as myself (and maybe make him blush a little). Consider this nugget, called C Star, which he played on Friday night.
You’re scandalized, but it’s just a song, people! I saw Gene after the show, but failed to ask him to let me get a picture for this blog. If I had, I’d have insisted that no articles of clothing come off.