I drove in today. My horoscope is getting deadly accurate recently, so there is something pending. There were some nice ones in the cafeteria. So young. The ones my age are shit. When I look at to the younger ones, that shit calls me pervert. Tough life, huh?
I bought this excellent music book. Lead riffs by BB King. Incidentally, BB comes from one of his original titles—the Beale Street Blues Boy. I tried to call Moogie later but he’s got that 15-year-old across the street drunk again. Seems she’s into dildos and funny uncles. I knew as much. These days get what you can.
[Author’s note 2017: it would be wise for you to put the time that passage was written into perspective. First of all, the age of consent in 1982 was 14. Federal over-reach had not yet stuck its nose into the bedrooms of the nation and the responsibility for teen behavior rested where it always should--with the parents and not with the state. By 1982, the old joke went, a virgin was an ugly sixth-grader who could run fast. Plus, remind yourself that 1982 was still the free love era and AIDS had not yet become equal opportunity. It really was a free-for-all time never to be repeated.
In the cafeteria, be reminded that the phone company in those days did not hire anybody under the age of 25, so the ones I was spotting only looked young. They were not young. I was still new at working in the headquarters and was in the process of learning that 99.99% of the women in the place had serious mental and behavioral problems. The other 0.01% I still know today. She’s the executor of my estate.
In the end, I did not get to Beale Street until 2012. And did not sing there until
[Author's note 2020: Memphis may again be in the picture, this time a real vacation. Nothing definite yet, but I did not know the Reb has never been there.]
