The King is long dead, having left the building early, despite being seen a few years ago singing a duet with Celine who was only born the same year Elvis first did the song.
The only two Bee Gees left are in their sixties and Mick Jagger’s lips are succumbing to gravity as much as Linda Ronstandt’s tits. The sound tracks of our lives ooze like morphine from the speakers in the waiting room of death, while strange nondescript creatures like a Justin Bieber slither in from the other side of the room. The Man in Black sang Ain’t No Grave Can Hold My Body Down,
but it seems to be holding well so far, unless by ‘body’ he meant his body of work, which he really didn’t.
An abundance of rather absurd games are offered to distract the residents from where they are and why, like politics and religion and consumerism and all are lulled into a calming stupor of thinking their lives have meaning, until eventually their number is up and they wink out of existence, just as all others before them.
I join a few grizzled waiters of various ages, around the perimeter of the room, participating as little as possible in the stupid and mindless games, keenly alert for my calling, as it has become a welcome relief to know the time here grows shorter; a relief from the unbearable pressing of monotony and insanity that pervades the only species on the planet to have evolved enough brains to be so insane, but never enough to get past it.
It is somewhat comforting to know that Jerry Falwell is just as dead as Harvey Milk. So few, it seems, can even see the past road traveled or that all ‘exits’ except the last one are dead ends; that the Hotel California is their lives and they can check out any time they like but can never leave; an arrogant grain of sand before the Universe, thinking itself important and powerful, oblivious to the fact that it is only Dust In The Wind.
signed, Dusty.
TRB
