11 August 2012
Lady Luck. You do not get far down the dusty trail of life without that bitch riding in the saddle with you.
That was the first thing that came to mind as I sat down to write this, the damn near 2000th installment, of the Dope City Free Press.
How much luckier can a man be when he can shuffle a few bottles around in his bar, bottles he would prefer not to be poisoned with at the moment, and find a half empty bottle of Macallan's cask strength, just the thing for a hot August night, just the thing to fuck you up on a Friday night.
Oh, he can be much luckier than that. For this afternoon I did find a couple dozen Bob Dylan cds in a thrift store, thereby filling out the Bob section of my music collection which I have been adding to slowly, in vinyl form, since I began making thrift store buys to bulk up my collection twenty years ago. The only other such find of an individual artist's work happened many years ago when I came across thirty or forty Ella Fitzgerald records.
Besides the Bob I also picked up a three cd Led Zep box, the 3rd cd of which is an interview of Page and Plant, the old hippy cunts. Junior high school rock and fucking roll to this grey haired old boy.
And that was not all. A four cassette box set of the other Bob, Marley, covering his recording career from beginning to end. Jamaica, if you have not heard, rawks: from the days of slavery to London 20-fucking-12, motherfuckers.
Lady Luck. I would not be here without it.