Before the recession I didn’t drink PBR. I had class.
Before the recession I didn’t use coupons, either. Well I did, but not so seriously. And I couldn’t calculate them so well. I didn’t know that two boxes of x with a fifty cent coupon is still less per y than one box of z even without the coupon. No, I didn’t. And when I saw the little piles of coupons that crazy ladies leave on the shelf I ignored them, like they weren’t even there. Yesterday I found a better coupon in the pile. And I left my not as good a coupon in return. I’d joined the coupon underground without even realizing it. Before the recession I didn’t belong to the coupon underground. I would never have belonged to a coupon underground. I had class.
I take a sip from my PBR and think.
Before the recession I ignored restaurant coupons. Now we have them in the car in a little folder. Coupons for everything, everywhere. All kinds of food. Denny’s even. Denny’s. Before the recession I didn’t eat at Denny’s. Not even Rock’n’roll Denny’s. I had class.
I’ve only eaten there twice since the recession. Three times if you include the Cypress Park Denny’s. Which we aren’t. We’re discussing the much hipper Rock’n’roll Denny’s. It’s in Hollywood, right off the 101, on Sunset Blvd. With that kind of propinquity it ought to be one of the hippest places on the planet but jesus effing christ it’s a goddamn Denny’s so let’s get real Brick. Wasting people’s time talking about a Denny’s. Even if it’s a rock’n’roll Denny’s.
Before the recession I didn’t talk to myself in my own blog.
We still call it Rock’n’roll Denny’s but I dunno, it doesn’t seem like a rock’n’roll Denny’s anymore. Now it’s just another stupid Denny’s. It’s changed. Those were different times back then. The poets they studied rules of verse, Lou tells us, and the ladies they rolled their eyes. Except we didn’t, really. No rules of verse got studied, and ladies rarely rolled their eyes. We just raised holy hell at noisy underground holes in the wall and drank too much beer and smoked too much of Pope’s dope and wound up at Rock’n’roll Denny’s because we had the righteous munchies and the parking lot was fairly safe. Rock’n’roll Denny’s used to be full of characters and denizens and Wild Man Fischer. I miss Wild Man Fischer. He’d sing for you in the parking lot if you didn’t run away. Sing Don’t Be a Singer.
A sad tale it was, too. Liars and swindlers and chiselers, Frank Zappa broke his heart. He’d sing that broken heart out there right outside the doors at the Rock’n’roll Denny’s, and I’d give him a buck and try to get away. There were eggs in there with my name on them. Eggs and hash browns and bacon and wheat toast and a big glass of orange juice and keep coming with the coffee. Sometimes the waitresses were gorgeous. I’d watch them walk away in their little skirts and comfort shoes and dream tiny little dreams wide awake.
This is the final draft of this magnum opus. The first draft was shorter and a mess and had an altogether different ending that went like this: Rock pspsrt svissossssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssm. That’s it. That last word has only two vowels and a train of sibilants. Looks like a snake crawled across the keyboard. But there was no snake. I just fell asleep. I didn’t fall asleep at the keyboard like that before the recession. Though class had nothing to do with it. I just went to bed earlier. You can’t blame the economy for everything.