My Special Purpose
These days, there are a lot more dead people than those alive. And the numbers are increasing. Things were different back when ancient Egyptians were called mummies and wrote in hydraulics.
Kids today are experiencing serious hearing loss usually associated only with the dead. It’s all because of those damn iPods—one has to turn them up even more than usual because the earphones don’t block outside noise like the cup-type headphones. And you know when you get all excited and pull the plugs from your ears with an audible bloop! and hold them eagerly out to me: “Dude! Check this out!” Um…don’t.
Don’t get me wrong: I never categorize music—I only organize different kinds into separate groups of similar types. Music is vibration and vibration is just motion that can’t make up its mind. So I take over.
But I straddle duality. I have a special purpose. For I am a musician.
Every morning I lie down on my back, bind a dictionary to my head with duct tape, and perform 2300 sit-ups. Six-pack? I have a whole case.
I let my fingers move softly over the hard ripples as I scrunch them up and down.
To my right is a box of Lucky Charms next to a mini-fridge. I pour milk and cereal into the crevices and valleys of my well-defined abs and eat hurriedly from my stomach.
I examine myself in the mirror, my smooth golden skin stretched taut over muscles and tendons in high relief like a suspension bridge of flesh or the US Pavilion erected exclusively for the 1974 World’s Fair in Spokane, Washington about 320 miles west of Seattle near the Idaho border.
I flick my left nipple softly with a thumb to make it erect and thus symmetrical with the right. And of course it feels good.
I also have the most perfect butt in the world. Barely hinted at, ricocheting around in my fashionably big pants, it beckons you closer. I tuck a corner of my knee length black turtleneck in just so you can be nearer my taut, perfectly toned Golden Globes that I just use mostly to sit on.
Little kids and animals don’t run away from me. Of course, most extremely attractive and intelligent people intimidate others, but I tend to have a very open and friendly demeanor. Even street people trust me, confiding to me their hopes and dreams, and even allowing me to invest some start-up capital if I wanted to, preferably cash.
I can see why everyone wants me. Hell, I want myself. But not now. I have things to do.
I slap myself to get psyched up. Suddenly, out of protective instinct, my other hand shoots out like a cobra and grabs my wrist, wrenching it down toward the floor and forcing me to my knees. Okay, okay, I promise. I won’t slap myself anymore.
I take a deep breath. I lean toward the sun like a houseplant:
“O, Wondrous Thing! Thrust your free-range organic spirit into the spokes of the wheel of our open hearts, impregnating us with the idea of ourselves so that later, when we report back to you, we’ll be able to give a better description!”
Then I grab my thermal camera, pheromone bait chips and DNA trap.
Just stuff I might need.
And I am prepared to dislocate my entire body and squirt through a keyhole, provided the keyhole is large enough to accommodate my squirting body.
Okay. I’m ready. Time for band practice.