"Raising Cain"
Father & son, "the
gruesome twosome"-- were driving out to a wedding reception in the "ole' meat
wagon", hauling our King Kong asses to the post-nuptials of finer-featured,
slender-framed Gen-X'ers-- a nephew and a poopy-faced bride, to be exact-- like
the toiling of spilled seed and balding pates and poorer prospects this side of
a pathetic October like the wrung lemon of a squeezed sun and falling
temperatures like the calling of the sepulcher, or at least a CD of stolen Bruce
Springsteen tracks like the Saint of recessionary pathos and clingy negligees on
a windswept porch down "Thunder-Fuck Road".
Yes, "Adam raised a Cain" or at least "Father Adams did" as the song ka-chunked with its hard-drivin' beat, like either a mean-grilled steak or the table edge diggin' into your belly like the portent of gorgin' commonsense as John Lee Hooker made a face as if he had bit down on a rotten crawdad and knocked back some bourbon with ice-cubes to relieve "that stink".
I was
trying to explain to my Dad, "The Principles of Power Negotiation", or rather
non-principles, "as you pulled the strings" like a sly fox and beat the auto
dealer "at his own game" as we passed a plaza of sleek, beautiful cars like the
blue, sparkling "show-room" givin' you a taste of "Paradise City", where outside
the joint they kept the grass green and maybe floated through some bimbos as "a
point-of-sale" as they cracked a whip and exploded forth with mirth on
television like an APR-credit-mongering Santa Claus on this side of ass-kickin'
cowboys boots, or at least businessman's loafers.
And there the writer was, Roger Dawson. . . . . a full-time public speaker "who really knew how to rub it in" like a grinnin' possum of oily, hyper-American tropes; everything from Ronald Reagan boring a hole into Gorbachov with his steely gaze, to the punishing squall of the "Highway of Death" as fighter jets zoomed overhead like eagles and put the Iraqis in their place in a "Desert Storm" of measured wrath, and everything that would appeal to a business-minded Republican at the local rotary club, ever self-congratulatory and fat as a goose about to be plucked, when the whole gig was about one-and-half steps above "The Missouri State Trooper Association" or "The Fraternal Order of Firemen", selling tickets to a semi-existent country music show scheduled for "The Night Before Christmas" where nothing would be stirring except for the scoundrel banging a prostitute in a Casino Queen hotel room.
Whether or not this was really the character of Richard Dawson, my Dad was grinnin' like perhaps a lower-grade species of possum, simmerin' in irony's juices-- yes, as "Adam(s) Raised a Cain" tugged at his bowels like burblin' crude.
Green beret "wannabes" crashin' "Medal of Honor" banquets, trying to soak up that aura of valor as they sipped on a 7-Eleven "Big Gulp" with glittery caginess, "but had to be escorted off the premises" by the Marine honor guard.
Hulk Hogan, as the World Wrestling Federation's biggest star, finding no financial gain in throwing his considerable clout behind a fledgling movement to unionize the athletes, "form their own gang", and come up with some kind of safeguards for this punishing way of life. . . . . . "clothes-lining" it in its tracks like a big, squelching thumb as he flexed his muscles and snorted cocaine as he had his picture taken with the kids and wrapped himself in the American flag.
Or back in H.L. Mencken's day, to get around prohibition you went up to a hunting lodge "out in the boonies" known as a "blind tiger". A metal slot would open at eye level, and a voice would ask what you were there for.
"I want to pay 10¢ to see the 'blind tiger'".
"Well, he's sleepin'. Come on in anyhow".
And they'd serve you booze, and one would have an image of the stuffed floor rug comin' alive and snarlin' and grabbin' on to your ankle with its jaws as you howled and limped along, spilling your drink all over the crotch of your pants.
And then some 450 galoot from some junk-yard john pops his head over the men's room stall and starts screamin' at ya' as you crack jokes about the bride's family.
And there you are. . . . . when the little kids start pokin' you with chop sticks, grinnin' like a goat, hip-hoppity as a grass-hopper, crazy as a bug, then you'll hiss at 'em like the rictus mouth of a possum backed into the corner, poked with a stick. Like a man workin' the fryer at McDonald's, mutterin' to himself, and when someone asks for "extra salt on their fries" he throws the vat in their face with a detonation of grease and dirt and Tex-Mex taco sauce like the white man's "last hope" layin' on its back on the yellow grass on the side of the interstate, cursin' God. That's Cain for ya', and he's comin' to a juke-joint near you. Be there or he'll wave to you in hell!
(-- Or this side of Red-State Missouri)
"He said his name was 'Cain'?"
*******************
"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
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