Grumpy At The Crossroads

Latest Grumpy column coming out in a forthcoming issue of Tsunami Mag. Grumpy sells his soul at The Crossroads and writes perhaps the greatest blues song ever written. Oh yeah baby.

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com), and he ain't nothing but a loose cannon feeling bad.

Things are pretty bad in the world of Grumpy. I'm feelin' kinda blue. I ain't got no job. Down to my last bottle of bourbon. My girl left me for another man. I'm at a crossroad. Maybe I'm at THE crossroad and it's time to make a deal with the devil.

Recently I had to interview local band The Beards. Maybe you've heard of these guys. They write songs about beards, then they sing these songs about beards. Just beards, beards beards, and mostly just how much better a man is if he's got a beard. Real men are supposed to have beards, and it's offensive to their manhood and the natural order of things to scrape away their beards.

Their song titles are things like No Beard, No Good; Who Told You To Shave Off Your Beard; and If Your Dad Doesn't Shave, You've Got Two Mums. Weird thing is that as basically silly as these songs sound, they're actually pretty good. Get these for some well-crafted lyrics: “I'm not in the mood for strokin'/ For pink bits pokin/ Chocolate sauce/ Intercourse...” Kind of idiotic out of context, but within the context of the song, they work the way, say, Spinal Tap's Big Bottom works (“Big bottom, big bottom/Talk about bum cakes/my girl's got 'em/ Big bottom drive me out of my mind/ How could I leave this behind?”). Inspired, really.

In thinking about my current situation, The Crossroads and making deals with the devil, I recalled the quote from the movie The Crossroads that said “Blues ain't nothin' but a good man feeling bad.” So I made a deal with the devil, and low and behold came up with a blues song that I hope is as good as The Beards' folk/rock or Spinal Tap's metal. My song goes a little something like this...

One day my baby asked me (this was before she left me)

She looked at me through swimming pool eyes,

And asked me what was on the TV (on the TV)

I turned to my baby (yeah this was when she was still here)

And told her through a breath of sorrow and beer,

What the hell kind of crazy-assed question

Is that to ask a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy like me?

I'm just a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy,

With the loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy blues.

This other time she asked me (as she walked out the door),

Through a sad smile as she held packed bags,

If it bothered me that she ain't gonna be here no more.

I put down my guitar and looked at her (she was still here, but she was going)

Told her there was no way for a guy like me of knowing (of knowing),

And anyway what the hell kind of crazy-assed question

Is that to ask a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy like me?

I'm just a loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy,

With the loose cannon, rock 'n roll vagina-lovin' guy blues.

There is more. Lots more. But we're running out of space, and besides, I don't want my heartache to get inside and mess you up the way it done did me... did, because it hurts real bad, my heartache. You can trust me on that, you can done do.

Right now I'm going to sit here all by myself, out on the porch with my faithful pooch – T-Bone Kincaid – and write me some more heartfelt lyrics to I'm Just A Loose Cannon, Rock 'n Roll Vagina-lovin' Guy With The Loose Cannon, Rock 'n Roll Vagina-lovin' Guy Blues. Sold my soul to the devil for this, but I think it will be worth it in the long run. Don't think my song writing has ever been better.