Nobody Calls Me The Space Cowfellow


I find my CD collection starkly lacking in contributions from The Steve Miller Band.  I blame Tom Brokaw.  He has nothing to do with musical acquisitions in my house, but as scapegoats go he’s convenient and lives far enough away that physical retribution seems unlikely.

I noticed this rock ‘n roll deficit as I waded through a stack of compact discs in search of some alternative listening choices for the back of the gallery.  The glaring omission of any “Fly Like an Eagle”, or  Abracadabra”, stood out like a sore thumb.  The very thumb I smacked while assembling those 24” x 36” frames.

I’m not sure if my dearth of “Jungle Love” is causing me to be uncool, or if the fact that I’ve never been “cool” leads me to purchase something like Perry Como’s Christmas CD instead of Mr. Miller’s master works.  It sounds like the typical chicken or egg dilemma, but without the mess to clean up after the hypothesis has been tested.

As early as I can remember I’ve been like this.  Not just indecisive and disorganized, but socially inept.  Many of my peers were successful in adopting an aloof posture in the face of circumstances that left me in desperate need of a change of underclothes.  When I attempted to manufacture a similar facade I usually came off looking either pained or constipated.  By the end of the charade I was probably both.  Still embarrassing, but saving big on laundry.

During my sophomore year in college embarrassment was replaced by 3.2% beer.  Opportunities for humiliation weren’t dwindling, but with the aid of a six-pack I simply stopped holding myself up to such close scrutiny.  Conversations with the opposite sex, which at best had been elusive, and at their worst fever inducing, became fluid and relaxed.  Incoherent, but fluid and relaxed.  At times I became composed to the point of near enlightenment, neither knowing nor caring what was happening in the physical world.  Once, I was positive I witnessed a golden aura during one of these meditations while lying in the parking lot outside my dorm, but it was only creamed corn. Funny, it hadn’t been creamed when it was served earlier that evening in the dining hall. One of many minor miracles I felt too self-serving to report.

Later efforts to achieve any sort of “cool” status were greeted with similar results.  Not a single soul has ever called me “Maurrrrrrice”.





       




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