Bla(h)fasel-Blog

Der Uwe war die letzten Tage ziemlich beschäftigt. Nein, ich meine nicht die Geburtstagsfeierei. Er sitzt schon seit Tagen an einem Rätsel. Und zwar hat er einen Text, in dem sich etwas versteckt hat, und das sucht er schon eine ganze Weile ziemlich erfolglos. Und weil ich mir das nicht länger mitansehen kann, hacke ich den Text jetzt einfach mal hier rein und hoffe auf Eure Mithilfe. Achso, an der Seite vom Blatt ist Platz für genau 111 Eintragungen, und nach allem was ich weiß gehts wohl um Musik… Und hier nun der Text:

„I want to tell you a story. It’s a dirty story of a dirty man, a story about me. Ah, you got questions? And they’re surely gonna be „Who are you?“ and „What do you want from me?“, right? Well, I’ll answer the questions with a question: „Can you wait for the answers?“ I’m sure you can wait, and by the way, you can call me Al.

So, right now I’m in the mood to tell you my story. It’s the story of a loser, an‘ it could be you. I’m a loser just the same, so it doesn’t matter anyway. You see, I was born to lose. I was born down in a dead man’s town, in the middle of nowhere. I always was a problem child right from the start. Even back in my school days, I always got into fights with the others. Fighting classmates, fighting teachers, fighting my parents… fighting the world. Needless to say, girls didn’t like me either. Whenever, wherever I approached them and asked them „Do you wanna dance?“, they’d rather dance away with some other guy.

Finally, the time came that school was out for ever, and I went to New Orleans. It seemed just like paradise. There were beer drinkers and hell raisers, and I thought, well, if you can’t beat them, join them. And soon enough I was one of the boys, hangin‘ round with ‚em. I became a working man, working on the highway, driving trucks from here and there to everywhere. Still, it was working for the weekend, basically. Every Saturday night was alright, and everyone knew when the boys were back in town then. Those were the days…

Naturally, girls were around as well, and some rather pretty women they were. Charlotte was one of them. She was a prostitute. Twenty-five bucks and you were a happy man, twice the sum if you wanted to give the dog a bone, so to say. Actually, there were other girls as well. Rosie, a very huge one, and I mean huge. Or take Roxanne, cute she was. We’d usually go to that run-down hotel where she’d made the sun rise. They really were goddesses for a sad man like me.

I really wasn’t a lucky man. I was missing something, until I met sister Mary. She was a whore just the same, but she was different. She was into that fetish stuff, wearing a nun’s costume and such – don’t ever say that nun’s don’t have fun… But that’s not what struck me. It was her eyes. Those big bright eyes you could lose yourself in. Blue they were, and cold as ice, sometimes at least. But that was just a mask. The face behind the mask was the one a distressed little girl. She would not show many people what was behind her blue eyes. We were like… like partners in crime, she just had that certain something, just like everything she did was magic, with the slightest smile she took my breath away. It was more than a feeling, it was… real love.

Ah, wait, did I tell you that I was a motorcycle man back then as well? Man, I really was into these machines. Rolling down the highway, Mary on my back, riding the wild wind, feelin‘ alive… A free man on the loose, so to speak, running wild across the desert plains of the midwest. You know, just like the movie, Easy Rider or what the name was. Summertime, blues music in the bars, taking a sip of wine in the evening of the day. That summer, we were travelling from coast to coast, finally going to California, Mary an‘ me. We had a real cool time there, all summer long. Yeah, that was my summer of ’69, but as it often happens, as soon as the good times roll, the times they’re changin‘. We ran out of money ’n out of luck much too soon.

We had to leave our hotel in California, being vagabonds in the western world… In the end, I’d sworn I’d never be going back again to California. We returned to our tribe in New Orleans. However, the change had to come, I knew all along. Somehow, our relationship fell apart. „Don’t stand so close to me„, that’s what she used to say. What in the world had happened to her, I didn’t know then. She started telling me little lies, told me we could still be so happy together. It wasn’t to happen.

Days later I found her, crawling on the carpet in her room, high on drugs. She just couldn’t get enough, couldn’t cope with life. She’d have needed a little help from her friends, but there ain’t been nobody but me. That wasn’t enough. It was a creeping death, slow, painful. She’d stick the needle in, face death with a grin, succumb to the needle’s lies. Drugs got her comfortably numbed, her eyes became the eyes of a stranger, to me she became a stranger with a familiar face. Weeks later she died.

From that day on, nothing really mattered to me anymore. You know, many people exactly remember the time that Kennedy was shot in ’63, in Dallas, at one in the afternoon. For me, her death was the same. All I could hear was the sound of silence in my head, all I could see was shades of gray before my eyes.. Since I’d been loving her, I had been the proverbial live wire, bursting with raw energy. And now there was silence.

Good lovin‘ had gone bad. Sure, it had been heaven and hell with her before, and I had sometimes felt like screaming in her face. I couldn’t live with her, I couldn’t live without her, strange as it may sound. Since she’d been gone, there was no reason for me to be heading for tomorrow’s sunrise anymore. All my life I had feared to have to be living on my own.

Anyway, I was still loving her. Well, as the saying goes, only the good die young, and so did she. The room’s silent, screams of agony, my agony, the only sound. I never could enjoy the silence of my empty room. It took years to get accustomed to it. But take a look now, what has changed? After all this time, I’m still much the same… I believe she’s waiting for me somewhere, far beyond the stars. Well, and now there’s nothing left to say for me, except that my body’s numb from sitting n‘ my throat is dry from talking. Heck, it’s already 12 past 9, barkeeper, a whisky on the rocks!“

Könnt ihr dem Uwe mal helfen? Der kriegt sonst nämlich noch die Krise.