It’s better to be known
for something, I guess
than not be known
at all. I’m often
remembered for my
drunken eloquence on
the state of man; the
All Men Are Dogs speech
was always a favorite
among the old guard
of friends and lovers
and wannabee back wood
revolutionaries who have
now (like me, I guess)
settled out, settled down,
found a more or less
stable job, got married,
and most of them (but me)
are having kids and talking
about their mortgages.
When I talk to them
(especially the women)
they recall my dog diatribe.
I typically lay blame
on the bourbon; but they
know better (and so do I)
and the conversation moves
on to other, better, more
eloquent lies. I try
telling new stories –
it’s crucial to stay current.
So I tell them all about
telling my 15 year old daughter
how all men end up becoming
baboons before they die:
bald and irresponsibly hairy,
deaf, angry, and (in the end)
screaming what seems like
nonsense at the sky – giving
voice to that ageless endless
rage that all men are born with
and that most women waste youth
and beauty trying to understand.
The new story never goes over
in quite the same way;
and usually, at least once
before the end of the dialogue,
the person I’m talking to
will ask if I’ve been drinking.
It would be a shame to
disappoint them. Otherwise,
they will never call again.
