Skippy Skip Washington

Why is it that whenever I want to write, lyrics from some shitty pop song that I don't even like are all I can think about? I started this page with a "why", that much is certain. After that, though, I was in terrible danger of following with a "can't I breathe whenever I think about you?", which is a line from a song by Liz Phair, which is a certain woman that makes chick-rock even though she's a little too slutty looking to make chick-rock. How in Jesus' name did I manage to leap over this lyrical pitfall? It takes great agili-tah (agility, for those unnapreciative of southern drawls) to navigate one's way to the "is" and avoid quoting some nauseatingly infectious collection of noises arranged and assembled in such a way as to create an aurally appealing experience for the everyman, who would much rather just call it a "song". So, then, that is that. Hm? What say you? You don't like "songs"? What are you, some kind of deviant? A rebel of sorts? Some kind of revolutionary? I'm sorry to piss in your coffee, my good man, but it just doesn't work that way anymore. You have to put it in writing, on paper, or perhaps something that isn't paper but that has enough in common with paper that it can still be written on. Birch bark, maybe. Or perhaps the lower back of a willing and adventurous young lady who wears hats and smokes cigarettes and tastes like espresso beans. No, actually, when you say it out loud, it does sound more or less rediculous. So it's probably just paper. Whatever you in all eventuality decide to write on, what it is you write is what's important. These cats, they don't care how you do it, they just want to see results. It's all about that word that begins with an "a" that I can't quite remember at the moment. Ah, fuck it all, it'll come when it comes. The point is, they don't give a rat's ass about the means. They don't have the same understanding you and I and Eddie have. They can't really be blamed, though; I mean, they haven't ever listened to Skippy Skip Washington, the great white bluesman of greater Groton. They haven't heard his foot stomp against the floor every-so-slightly out of time. They haven't felt the tears he's cried over his own mediocrity on the other side of his unfashionably thick spectacles. If you've seen Skip, in his fedora and chains, then you get it. You've seen him, I've seen him, and anyone else worth a damn has seen him singing his ragtime sorrows. I bet he wouldn't know the "a" word either. He hasn't had a single brush with success or results or achievement or any of their synonyms in his long, hokey life. Stay sharp, lad; you don't want to end up like that, passing your hat through someone else's crowd every Friday night. And before you accuse me, "achievement" isn't the "a" word I was thinking of, so don't call me out on using it a few lines back if you were planning on it.