Lion of Light

Recycled Rock

Friday night's the perfect night to do laundry, at least for Jimmy; he gets the Kenmore a-rocking, the drying clothes a-rolling, puts the strap on his stratocaster and makes his living room his stage. Screeches out a version of an old Zeppelin favorite into an invisible microphone, and knows that washer a-thumping is the stamping of forty thousand feet, that dryer a-whirring, the roaring of a crowd gone berserk; their energy constant, stopping only for the briefest moment (when the cycles shift from rinse to spin) Jimmy plays on! for an hour, from Aerosmith to Metallica, 'til the roars of the poeple are on their last legs; he senses it, and forearms burning, fingers cramped, Jimmy poses for them like Morrison as his chords die a fading death, he punches and kicks the air like Elvis in his prime, pulls his guitar from around him and pretends to smash it, then storms off, leaving it lying there on the dingy wool rug (that his mom bought for him). the clothes are done. It's time to fold them.
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