Back from the Dead

There will be no rhyme or reason to this little update; I just feel like typing right now. And I suppose I should, given how long I've let Walking Blues fester.

And yes, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I can't die yet! I have to wait for a more stylish age to check out, like twenty-four or twenty-seven. Rock and roll!

But how? Maybe a swan dive from a tall building, playing a blistering guitar solo, choking on my own vomit and suffering a heart-attack as I plummeted? Yes, that will do. I would naturally have to be high on some combination of drugs and, just before I hit the water (yeah, I just decided I'd aim for a pool), I'd use the the shotgun I'd be carrying. Boom! SPLASH! A triumphant exit, with odes to Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain and Jones. Hmmm. Not grandiose enough. Okay, maybe I could do all that, but in a Porsche, for a touch of James Dean? The back seat would be crammed with homemade kevlar-bound editions of previously-unseen (and excellent) poetry, which would bring to mind the untimely deaths of say, Keats or Shelley. Why the kevlar, you ask? Well, because the car would have to be loaded with explosives, so seconds after it landed on the bottom of the pool, a time delay would send it skyrocketing right out again! Picture a huge tidlewave and a mushroom cloud.

I hear there will be a Family Guy movie coming out in the near future. Should be neat.