| The Secret of Gin The Secret of Gin
by j. bryan shoup
Whether it's gin or jinn knocking at my door, it's all spirits one way or another. I'll take them all down the hatch - thinning my resolve or letting ancestors get a pawhold on my voicebox. This old **** rocks, this stuff from 1997 - when men were men and better ensembles drew a full crowd. There was this moment at a Slapstick concert when the microphones all went out - the lads & lasses in attendance raised up the refrain, singing again & again "I don't believe in anything at all." Tell me that sort of call & response doesn't give you a bit of a religious thrill. I'm killing time with Horus & Chokaro (back alley, avoidin' my old lady an' shooting dice) - tomorrow I'm due to teach metaphysics to mice. It's nice weather we're having - it's raining gin from the top of neon clouds. Loud, proud (and rowdy), the crowd is still singing out "I don't believe in anything all," even fire exits. I'm making my way through the flames (fueled by the gin) and I'm the only one thinking of escape, so I'm the only one who'll have a bootleg tape to remember the night by (everyone's going to fry, they've got their mouth wide open for Old Tom and the studio regards this little art film as a bomb so there will be no sequel). Everyone is my equal in regards to anything I've ever set my mind to - you could do it better if you took the time.
__________________ zXe
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ba-na-na |