Lawn Care is Essential, Brother

“When the going gets tough, the tough get drunk”

So goes the credo long ago established by legendary über-group Situation Tranquil, the internationally acclaimed seminal rock and roll geniusi behind the brilliant landmark albums “Static Love”, “Show Me Your Fusebox”, “Drowning in Time” and the ground-breaking web-cast “Stop Remaining Sane – Live from Pompeii”. This tumultuous party-credo, combined with the ever-constant attention of typically overzealous paparazzi, has over the years individually catapulted each band member slash icon into fortune and success, forays into bacchanalian excess, bouts of ribald and questionable ethical behavior, languorous stints in spiritual rehab, and greasy stints in motor stables.

Snippets from the Creative Life – Part 1

KF prefers to write lyrics in strip clubs, high-class ones, where the women
are knockouts with long legs and low self-esteem. He is inspired by the
low lighting, which makes his laptop screen shine like a beacon of hope, a
warm cabin in a maelstorm of chaotic thought. He can think here, focus
here, in the dark, between the leg-my-crotch private lap dances and nude
onstage dancing by women named after car models.

Meanwhile, in rural West Virginia, Iggy Burnett is working on page 1 of his
first novel. “Hell, shit done worked for Hemingway!” he spits as the
three-legged dog shats near the yellowed refrigerator on old Miss McHenry’s
porch.

It is late on a drizzly Thursday when Dr. Trash finally pulls his too-red
rental into the driveway of Elman’s Welsh chateau. He puts the Hertz Rolls
in park, sits back, and takes stock. The house is wide, actually wide, not
just an optical trick of its one-car driveway. Its façade is respectable,
even charming; a handsome house on a pleasant moss-lined
Llandfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrudrobwllllantysiliogogogoch street. The
house has oil central heating with a new boiler, and the property features
not one but two wells. Not bad, thinks the Dr., with a ripple of pride.
Little Elmo has done himself right.

Dateline Baton Rouge: Ennis flips his front porchlight on, and looks out
his window to see a figure at his door. Even in the new moon darkness,
there is no mistaking the man’s rabble-tested jank. Billowy and blunt,
proud, bold and bulky, Ralph Sims stands on Ennis’ front porch grinning
like a goofy pup. His meaty arms fold across his barrel chest, and he
grunts out a “So. Got a lawn needs mowin’?”

Wok awakens with a start. The alarm clock is bleating loudly, and Wok
slaps his hand over the snooze button. He sits up in bed, yawning and
rubbing his eyes. Outside, the wind is blowing fiercely, and the Wokster
can hear the mighty oak tree creaking as the wind whistles through its
tattered leaves. He clambers out of bed and stretches. Suddenly he
remembers - isn't today rehearsal? 3:45pm – he’ll have to hustle to catch
the train to Boeblingen. Wok throws on his fatigue pants, makes his way
down the spiral staircase and brews a pot of der Kaffee. Strong and black,
like the dyed van dyke he wears as testament to his Teutonic heritage even
though he’s Jewish. He pours himself a bowl of Fruit Loops, and runs out
the door. Frau Veitenheimer from next door shakes her head as the
barefoot, shirtless rock god, cereal milk spraying like a flock of
speck-sized pigeons, dashes past for the bus at the corner.