Words From The Midwest V

Greetings from the desk of The Supposed So; the chic, undeniably inadept voice of the warm but bewildered temperaments. As I sit here – on my back porch – I am filled with the feeling of regret that I smoked the rest of my cigarettes already and don’t have anything to replace them with but nicotine gum and The Patch. Even now, I am ferociously chewing and chewing and still no relief. And to make matters worse, I can smell one being burned from the next yard. Maybe I’ll bum one.

I can’t do it.

I do it far too often.

At any rate, welcome to the fifth installment of Words From The Midwest. I am at least enjoying The Champagne of Beers as I type this and – sip – the mixture of the mint/tobacco taste of the gum and the frothy, degenerative bubbly that is Miller High Life is making me a little sick to my stomach. But no matter. I plunge ahead.

I’m listening to Elf Power right now but don’t have too much to say about it. Its pleasing, sixties, pseudo-psychedelic Pop is the only thing I can stomach on this frail Sunday Evening. I had a good day. That much should be said.

But I’m also slightly bored as I write this and am comforted only by the knowledge that tomorrow is another day of being at Camp and hanging with one of – well, some of – my favorite people in this city. Nay, this world. Tomorrow night will see the same with even different people and I couldn’t be more pleased.

For the past couple hours I’ve been reading Hunter Thompson’s collective works for Rolling Stone Magazine and I’m not sure I need to tell you that it is truly some of the most inspired writing ever penned. His riffing on everything from the Nixon Resignation and Watergate to meeting and conversing with Jimmy Carter when he was still a nobody ex-Governor from Georgia is truly making it so this night without cigarettes is slightly more bearable.

One of my sisters is coming in from Maine on Wednesday. The other is coming in from California on Friday. Thus, it will be a goddamn awesome week to cap off my birthday which was just about as good as a regular-old-birthday can be. I’m twenty-six now. Feels good.

I’ve switched the music to The Faces because I don’t know Elf Power well enough to completely ignore it as I write this. And I know The Faces pretty fuckin’ well. Not as well as I know The Beatles and not even close, really, but I love The Faces and I’ve already stated that they’re probably the best straight up Rock and Roll band to ever have been formed and, hell, probably ever will be formed. Dirty garage rock with a folk twist at times, I goddamn love The Faces and Rod Stewart in general until he turned into fuckin’ Barry Manilow (sic) and started making music only middle-aged Mothers could ever truly enjoy hearing.

Cindy Incidentally makes me want to get as drunk as possible and scream the lyrics from the top of a picnic table that might as well be the one in my backyard but seeing as how it is the Sabbath and the Jesuit Volunteers that live beneath me are having a Community Meeting next door, singing it quietly under my breath will have to suffice.

Hell, I’ve paused it by now anyway.

Chewing and chewing and chewing, I wish I had a cigarette.

I think that’ll be all from my desk this evening. I hope you enjoy the beginning of your workweek. Hell, I don’t have one of those and you’ll have to forgive me for saying it. To quote Bill Hicks, “You know what the best part of my job is? I don’t have a boss.”

Envy me? Nah. You probably have more money than I do.

Sincerely,

Michael

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