I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer and a secret plot to destroy AmericaJuly 26, 2010
Some people speak to their government by contacting their congressman, others call some windbag on the radio. I just pick up the phone and speak to the NSA agent tapping my line.
“Hey Jackal,” I say, addressing the guy who’s been listening to my phone calls for over four years. “I’ve got a theory I want to run by you.”
“Sure, go ahead,” says Jackal. “It’s been a slow day here. Slow week. Slow year, actually.”
“Do you think that there’s a conspiracy to depress the economy so that we can cultivate a new generation of blues singers?” I say.
“Do we need a new generation of blues singers?” says Jackal.
“We just might,” I say. “Name me a new blues singer who has emerged in the last twenty years? Name me one.”
“I don’t listen to the blues,” says Jackal. “And I’ve hacked into your iTunes folder and you don’t listen to the blues either.”
“But I know who B.B. King is,” I say. “And the Blues Brothers. And I haven’t seen anyone rise up to take their mantle since whenever I last saw them.”
“What does economic collapse and blues music have in common?” says Jackal.
“The blues are based on hardship,” I say. “But now that there’s been civil rights victories and other advances in quality of life the only blues well left to tap is being poor as shit.”
“What would this shadowy wing of the government stand to gain with a revitalization of the blues?” says Jackal.
“I don’t know, maybe this secret cabal is lead by the disembodied brain of John Lee Hooker that’s hooked to a super computer,” I say. “Maybe they’re carrying out the last wishes of Bo Diddley who was the leader of the Opus Dei of blues music. I don’t know, you’re the American intelligence agent. You tell me why the theory I came up with after drinking a whole bottle of bacon-flavored vodka out of a stolen prosthetic leg is correct.”
“Where’d you steal that leg from?” says Jackal.
“Hey, this isn’t about me, this about a clandestine Legion of Blues trying to obliterate capitalism so we can get new blues musicians,” I say. “Now what can you tell me about a T-Bone Walker/Muddy Waters hybrid creature who feeds on the suffering of divorcees and the unemployed?”
Jackal hangs up. I think he’s in on this plot. Makes sense… his wife left him. He’s not allowed to see his kids. He drinks to kill the pain of loneliness. If he can play the slide guitar, I might have to waterboard him for intel on B.B. King’s devious plan to turn The House of Blues into a giant robot bent on crushing America and sounding soulful while doing it.