Learn't to work the saxophone
I, I play what I feel
Drink Scotch whiskey all night long
And die behind the wheel
They got a name for the winners in the world
I, I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama, "The Crimson Tide"
Call me Deacon Blues
This is the night
Of the expanding man
I take one last drag as I approach the stand
I cried when I wrote this song
Sue me if I play too long
This brother is free
I'll be what I want to be.
Dedicated to all the stock market aficionados who know the supposed price of everything.
Happy New Year.
Ho Ho Ho on me! Deacon Blues? I alwasy thought it was "deep in blues"!!
My ears/mind interpretation is soooo bizarre! There used to be an ad on TV and radio that kept extolling the virtues of "the central bay tan." Well, I lived in the Bay Area and, knowing the thick fog bank and getting just a little bit tired of the 35 mph blasts at Bush/Montgomery, I wondered where this magical place was, where you could actually get some sunshine in the Bay Area. So, I finally asked this one snotty tool at the office, "Where is the 'central bay'?" He looked at me oddly, so I sang the lyrics...and he/it gave me a pitying wither and walked away shaking his head, so loathe was he to grace a peon like myself with his superior knowledge. One of the snotty princesses then came over to my desk and showed me abottle of "St. Tropez" tanning lotion! (She, too, being a graceless issue of Tiburon neuveau money, and therefore, I suppose, a Second Generation away from being a street walker, thought my ignorance to be just toooooo amusing.)
It's been a real tough crawl, having to be amongst all you superior mold spores.
I do like mold spores in a good fresh loaf of sour dough bread. Following your metaphorical thread, the real mold spores are easily found near Bush and Montgomery, and certainly on Townsend Street. You should know that. I can carry on airs of great pretense with the best of them, though just a common worker among workers. Some years ago, I was a language teacher in that town. It was quite entertaining to put on a nice suit on a late Friday afternoon and make time with the secretaries from the Financial District in the Yuppie bars, quite near your corner. I knew the lingo, so it was no great task. I could become whoever they wanted me to be. The vast majority were mostly concerned with what was in my mallet, and I could run with that theme as well.
In all seriousness, it has been a tough though interesting crawl for me also. You wouldn't catch me dead or alive at a cocktail party in Tiburon or Belvedere--talk about pretense, and a complete and utter bore to boot. I know that county well, and I have mingled with a few via the art scene. The snotty princess mentioned is likely good for one thing only, and even that would turn out to be a massive disappointment. I would just suggest we have more in common than you perhaps realize.
Mark Twain said the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.