Twenty minutes at MJQ

Word!
August 20th, 2006
~Rob M.

It was one in the morning last night when the Jagermeister shots kicked in and the DJ played "Janie Jones". One of my unwritten rules to life is that whenever one has a chance to dance to The Clash one absolutely must! So I left Teddy Bear & Magpie at the bar to watch my drink and made my way up to the floor. It was packed shoulder to shoulder. I had to squirm through the outer ring of 'shufflers' to get a decent spot. 'Shufflers' are people who can't or won't dance but insist on being out on the floor anyway. They stand there around the perimeter, doing the meat market two step: That's one foot to the left, then (with no apparent regard to the beat or the rhythm), they lift one foot back to the right, swaying their upper torsos listlessly as they desperately press their drinks into their chests. Hence 'shufflers'. Though here in Atlanta it's also known as Buckhead Ballroom Dancing.

Luckily I found an opening by two toxic blondes. They dance cute. They know the song. They're in love with rock'n'roll... woaahh! They're in love with gettin' stoned... woaahh! They're in love with Janie Jones! But they don't like they're job, noooo...oah! I let Strummer & Jones take me over LOA style. I ride the machine gun fire of the drums. I explode with the guitar bursts smooth. I move with the grace and the fire. I sing out the words loud:"But the boss at the firm always thinks he shirks/But he's just like everyone, he's got a ford cortina/That just won't run without fuellll... FILL 'er up, Jacko!".

The DJ reads the floor right. He reads the vibe and the mood crystal clear. He roles the beat right into Billy Idol's 'Dancing with myself'. The floor lets up a quick drunken cheer. More Shufflers stagger up to the ring from the bar. We get mass spillage. The Toxic Blondes are shimmying. Their expensive bangs swing wild in their faces. Their eyes flash revealed, veiled, revealed. Some cat with a fauxhawk is clapping along to the song. His woman is shaking that ass stupid. Three Frats are doing some hip-hop stomp they must've seen in a video somewhere. Check out the skinny chick with the Frank Sinatra hat going ballistic. I catch a quick flash of her naked in my imagination, she's bent over a few lines of quality and still wearing that hat. Look at the little asian guy in the Reservoir Dog suit go. Look at him shimmy through the mob like they're not there. Little Asian Guy slips on a wet spot on the floor. He goes down. He catches recovers with a flat palm down and pops back up immediately like it was just one more move in his repertoire. Little Asian Guy is my new hero!
( In which our hero shakes his rumba! )

Fuck!

Robert Anton Wilson died this morning. Just read this from a link from Warren Ellis' page:

"Robert Anton Wilson Defies Medical Experts and leaves his body @4:50 AM on binary date 01/11.
All Hail Eris!

On behalf of his children and those who cared for him, deepest love and gratitude for the tremendous support and lovingness bestowed upon us.

(that's it from Bob's bedside at his fnord by the sea)

RAW Memorial February 07
date to be announced"

I first read Robert Anton Wilson when I was in the Navy. I picked up the Illuminatus: Triology on a whim during a brief shore leave in Va. The book consummed me almost immdediately. The ideas, the philosophies, the one liners popped in my neuro synapses like candy fire works. I read that book in the mess hall, in the bilges, during my watch and in my rack where I sacrificed precious sleep to get in just one more page of his unique magick.

At night, sailing across the Atlantic Ocean, I would sneak out to the fantail for a quick cigarette. I would look out across the dark waters and day dream up the Lief Erickson. I would imagine this huge Golden Submarine rising out of the night. The ship would sound general quarters. I had to act fast. I would lept over board and swam for it. I would imagine myself a member of Celine Haggards crew. I would imagine a better life was waiting for me "in the universe next door".

Kerouac made me want to write, R.A.W. showed me what it was that I wanted to write.

Goodbye you mad, wonderful soul. Thank you for sharing your wit and wisdom with a world that has precious little of it's own.

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Hail Eris!


Robert Anton Wilson or RAW (January 18, 1932 – January 11, 2007) was an American novelist, essayist, philosopher, psychologist, futurologist, anarchist, and conspiracy theory researcher.