Friday, March 9, 2012

Before They Make Me Run

My version of March Madness is waiting for April, and I'm not talking about a high priced hooker.
You made it through February. You made it through by numbing yourself, because February is a nothing month, and to feel would be in such dramatic contrast with the nature of the month that you would go stark raving mad.
Then March comes around. You are starting to feel something. The blood is beginning to flow  with passion and your senses are on high alert. Yesterday was insane delicious, was it not? Sixty degrees on March 08. The doors to the screened in porch were open a bit, the cats were going in and out, I was going in and out, the drivers side window was half way down on the commute in, same window was three or four inches down on the ride home at 8:30 in the p.m.
A deer very politely crossed my path on my road 14 seconds before I hit the driveway.
My god I came alive yesterday.
The wind has been howling and I'm even digging that. It is life. I like the sound.
I am poised. Didn't mine last year's good weather for enough gold because I was on a singular mission to succeed. A mission from god.
Now I'm coming out of a three month funk smack dab into the middle of anticipation. I am internally aligned and ready to fight for my right to party. I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, and a pawn. The only thing I haven't been is a King. I'm ready for that now.
But you gotta be careful. March is a cruel and an ugly month. Warm, frosty, ice, rain, sun, snow. You can't peak too early.You can hum and thrum and rock and roll, you can even smile, but don't burn yourself out. When that first seventy degree day hits in April you need the energy to grab it by the cojones and squeeze the living  hell out of it.
Truth: I dig the real March Madness. I am not a dedicated follower of fashion or college sports, but I dabble. March is an excellent time to dabble in college hoops.
Carol and I will, when we are in between or waiting for or thinking about, jump to the tournament. And inevitably there is 1.2 seconds left, the score is tied and Gonzaga is preparing to inbound the ball.
The adrenaline, the youthful vigor, the noise, the athleticism. Sweet Jesus it just makes you come alive. The game winning shot and the explosion of delirium that follows that. That is hope, my friends, that is reward. Two things you get very little of in life. Played out on a basketball court on national TV in front of rabid fans,family, schoolmates and basketball junkies.
The flip side is the losers. One and done, baby. That is supreme pain. We get lots of that in life. Tears, towels over heads, shock and disbelief.
I don't know a goddamn thing about these teams but I love filling out the grid. Won't somebody give me a grid? I love doing it because I know I have as much chance to win as the blowhard who thinks he knows everything about college hoops. You know the guy, the guy who will explain his picks with the air of a college professor and smirk when you show him your picks. Then you kick his ass.
It's random, baby - don't you get that? You cannot predict passion, and that is what is beautiful about the whole thing. How will passion interact with each player's individual skills and the team dynamic to impact the outcome? That is life, baby.
Got a poem idea rattling around my brain. Poem, short story, limerick. Don't know. Titled "They Make Me Wait." Inspired by "Before They Make Me Run,"  by Keith Richards. He wrote it just before an impending drug trial and upon reflection on the death of his friend, Gram Parsons. The soul of the thing is that he has had his fun, he's consumed drugs with passion, enthusiasm and appreciation but the walls are closing in. He hears the footsteps and has decided that he is going to take control before they take control. He's going to walk before they make him run.
That's how I feel about the Revolving Committee of Assheads who keep me waiting. Feeling amped up and juiced as I do right now, I need to take control. I cannot allow these slime coated weasels to make me run. To make me dance at the end of their strings.
Gonna walk, baby. Gonna walk.
I'm waiting for you April. Don't disappointment me.

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