I may have to eat an extra huge helping of crow if what I think may happen actually happens.
Let's call this a Hurricane Update for all of you in the home audience who have been playing along. For those of you in the loop, I'd like to thank(more) you all for your good wishes sent my way after we lost our house in the hurricane this past August. If you've read any of my pieces here these last few months then you know I've been in a funk over the loss of the only home I've ever known.
The support I've received has been incredible but the fact remains that the insurance company's insulting check for $344 to repair a collapsed house is a drop in the bucket compared to what we need. And we're dealing with a time-crunch if I want to see my in-their-80's-parents back home while they're still breathing.
She's my neighbor and a true Angel if ever there was one. Angel has arranged a benefit for us called "Rock The House" featuring local musicians from our hometown of Sayreville NJ.
Now due to legalities I can't say who exactly plans on showing up that night but I can say this: if you google my town and rock stars, you'll find a few names you may recognize. I can't say that all the names you'll find will definitely perform that night but I know for a fact that some huge names are trying to rearrange their schedule to be there, and security is being hired for the night.
That's all I can say for now except for this: miracles really can happen, I'll willingly eat un-bitter crow if ___ ___ ____ really performs, and as the song goes, who says you can't go home?(less)
I envy you. You noisy black bastard. There you stand in the middle of the road, indignantly staring upward towards me, as if to say, “Fuck-off human. I'll shove my damn beak in your eye.” And you would too, if I gave you half-a-chance. I know it.
(more) You can fly. You are free. I'll admit it. I'm jealous. Here I am, stuck with my two fat feet planted squarely on the ground. My sorry white ass can't jump let alone soar through the air. Without a running start, I'm likely to trip over a phonebook.
You eat what you want, when you want. And if you drank, I'm sure you could pound a bottle or two without the slightest hint of a hang-over. To your hardcore credit, one of the most rot-gut whiskeys is named after you – Old Crow.
Hell, even The Crow as a super-hero was a dark, mysterious bad-ass. Not some goof-ball in lime-green leotards and a codpiece, who is so forget-ably lame, that he has to have the first letter of his name stitched onto his chest.
Whenever Crows get together. It is a Murder. That must be the most wicked-awesome (using language to date myself) gang name ever. The Murderers. These ain't no kids with a rattle-can, The Murderers tag buildings by shitting on them.
Yes. I want to be a crow. I want to fly through the night drinking straight from the bottle and kicking the shit out of anyone that would get in my way. I want to stick my beak into anything I damn well please, be it dead or alive. I want to soar over all of human-kind, cackling my evil laugh, and telling all of you, that I am, the baddest, bad-ass of them all.(less)