" 33 "

I'm awake.  It's 2:09 dark thirty in the AM.  Instead of coming home tonight from the bike shop around midnight toasted, roasted, thrashed and ready to crash, I came home pumped up hard with my fire still stoked and burning on a full flame.  I performed some minor domestic magic, emptied the pick up of the trash I brought home to take to the dump on, at this point, some vague and hazy date in my soon to be immediate future.  I fitzed, farted, and diddled around with basement stuff til almost two and then sat down here and pumped Neil Young up to way past wow. 

Two beers later my boiler seems to be calming down.  Obscure relief valves I did not know I had have opened releasing the adrenalin built up but not used to full capacity over the course of the previous 16 hour workday. 

I ponder the wisdom of re-stoking the furnace with some sweet sour mash knowing that in a few hours I have to get up and do it again.  Go to the bike shop and play fire fighter attempting to douse numerous small blazes threatening to burn out of control unless I at least cast an angry eye or token gesture in their general direction.

In the meantime, as my brain struggles to come to grips with this new conundrum, I am still awake and by now I am tapping my old white boy feet to "Warehouse".  Oh no, it's almost over.  What to play next at volumes no human should even entertain introducing to their brain?  So loud I can feel inner juices bubbling up seeking escape from the din I have subjected them to.  Yes, some tunes are meant to be played just shy of painfully.  Later in the morning I will most likely want tunes I can barely hear as I struggle to chase and shake drunken cobwebs out of the way as I move into another day.

"Turn that crap down.  You'll go deaf ferchrissakes.  And where are you then smart ass?  .....................I said turn that crap down..........no, turn that crap off.

Uh?  Dad, you talking to me?  Can't hear whatja saying.  Got the tunes up.