Monday, January 12, 2004

Enjoy Every Sandwich

Ten days and ten nights without a post? Pish-posh!

Here's the thing: I like Warren Zevon. Bless his soul, wherever it may fly, etc., but I think he's the coolest. The good doctor Hunter S. Thompson agrees with me, as do the Daves: Barry and Letterman. While I can't claim to have grown up listening to Zevon records on my dad's broke-ass Panasonic, the accounts I've read of this man's life make me wonder what exactly I'm doing with mine. Even during times of misfortune, he laughed, made records, toured, watch sports, canoodled, cavorted, and wrote dark and oddly boisterous music. If I had Warren Zevon around, I wouldn't have to drink.

And yet I find his music secondary to his character. I find the nimbus of worship surrounding him to be, at its core, an appreciation of his persona, of this relentless optimist, a man who could make you laugh about getting lead poisoning. I'm just saying...Werewolves in London, Excitable Boy, all these Zevon greats...they don't do a lot for me, musically. Lyrically there's no denying. And his singing is top-notch. But the man was no composer. Flaccid piano stompers and limp guitars abound, and it leaves me cold. As always, I'd love to be shown wrong.

While Dick is out at the electric motion pictures, I am taking the time to recollect myself after being so cruelly debased at the teat of Mother Liquor on Saturday. A deep violet Kev-O-Licious is delicious, but a Kev-O-Licious with a top-up of disinfectant is divine. A drink born of hoary nights, my friends.

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