While going over some notes in a writers' meeting this morning, I stumbled across the following, entitled "Notes for Blog." If you think this is weird, ask Julie about that time I found a crumpled up post-it note that I'd inscribed with this cryptic message: "We must go back to the YMCA. We must wrestle with the muscular Christians." Or how about this one (written on the back of a bounced check notice, natch): poster abt. roommates -- guerrilla warfare & hydration.
What could it mean?
I want to talk about five years. I want to think through the first five years of the 1970s, because that period witnessed my birth, but also because I have developed new interests and resurrected old obsessions. I want to talk about Nellcote and Exile on Main Street; I want to talk about Marlon Brando. I want to talk about Meredith Hunter and the Hell's Angels, but I also want to include a discussion of Rumble in the Jungle and the Mr. Olympia pageant at which Arnold Schwarzenegger won his sixth and penultimate and last non-controversial title. I want to talk about about Morrison and Hendrix, but mainly about Janis, and I want to know what you know about Anita, Bianca, Marianne, Tommy, Spanish Tony, and the lot. I want to know about the sweet black angel coming to rescue the crossfire hurricane and maybe ignite Jack Flash. I want to get all of that. For one thing, because
...and then that's it.
I think I meant to do something with that, but it's lost to me now. Hmmm. Also -- hasn't that shit been done to death already? Had I just woken up from a nap? Possibly.