menagerie

So I've been up all night thinking and I've decided that a good pair of headphones is a very important thing for a girl to have. A very desirable quality indeed. Then I looked at the radio and decided that I was late for moving my car- I ran outside just in time to see a man in eskimo boots stirpping the paint. "But I was listening to Stan Getz" I shout, but he dosen't seem to hear me, so I scream "What would little Bobby Dylan think of someone who strips paint from a car only five minutes late?" This gets his attention, he says he'll leave the paint on the hood- So I thank him and buy a carton of cigarettes and book a ticket to New York. Feeling happy I do a dance, but a woman in a parka tries to give me a ticket and a fine, so I tell her it's not even snowing and she says "That's right, and we don't want no snow around here!" Dejected by this lack of snow I trade my plane ticket for a bottle of whiskey and go to the late show at the pool hall where some girl asks if I have any chalk I can spare, and the next thing I know we're driving around and she tells me I should try to cop a feel of her leg when I change gears. I have to drink the rest of the whiskey but I eventually take her advice and enjoy myself untill she tells me the Rolling Stones are passe. I have to drop her off right there on College Ave, and spin tires heading downtown. Arriving at city-center I run up the street and down, telling everyone I see that the Rolling Stones have past their prime and do you want to make something of it? I get no takers. This leaves me searching for a vocation, or at least something to occupy my time. One thing is obvious; I have to hurry or I'll miss my flight so I ball the jack to the airport, shouting Mick Jagger is dead, but when I try to get on the plane I remember that I traded away my ticket. They still think I'm sinister and finding a copy of Chaplain's autobiography, along with some letters from Woodstock, seems to confirm their suspicions- After much questionong, and a uncomfortable removal and inspection of my lungs, and lots of sneers and injections they agree to let me go back to preaching the death of rock; with the caveat that I will never be allowed to go to New York again.

EVERY WORD IS TRUE