The Plague Of Idiots (in F. Major)June 21, 2009 at 5:38 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 15 Comments
When I was growing up, such a carefree and curious child, I wanted to be all sorts of things. I cycled through pilot, poet, gigolo, sailor, farmer, and professional kite flyer. And then, just as I was about to graduate with my licence to inseminate, the idiot plague hit.
Worse than the swine flu, it was. Zombies everywhere, spread by contagion through sound. If they would just shut up and listen for five minutes the cycle could be broken but the side-effect, constantly hearing their own voices repeated back to them like an echo meant the idiocy implanted itself deeper and deeper.
The job of creating a silence fell to me somehow. This should be a tragic paragraph about how a sensitive soul became deafened to the delicate arabesques of harmony in order to save the world but the truth is, I enjoyed it. I was made for it.
I took my inspiration from the greats who came before me, Van Helsing, Bukowhiskey, Bon Scott, Squires, oh excuse me, he said, putting his half-empty glass down on the piano, there’s one now. See him? Waving some document and claiming that he is that which comes after that which came before. You know, son, he said patting me on the back, sometimes I still feel sorry for them, shrugging his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. I looked down at the piano and the only thing I could think to play was,