Saturday, May 14, 2005

Hell of being Frank

Soundtrack: The Hives / Hate to say I told you so

I stood outside the pub, tasting the acrid warmth of my Stuyvesant and digesting the once mooing flesh of a newly made bovine friend. Thoughts drifted as they do, thoughts of the brunette caressing me, thoughts of the secret future I have stored within that is but a breath away from revealing, and then...thoughts of...Frank?

So I chuckled and gagged on the smoke, hiccuping and snorting at the same time. Who is this weirdo in the back of my mind that thinks such random stupidity? I have no idea but as I'm at a loss for anything else to write about, other than my leering over Har Mar Superstar below, I'll tap tap tappity away on my thoughts of frankness.

To be frank.

So I wondered, like the chicken and the egg, at the genesis of this and the man behind the word. And I saw an old country town, almost western style and I saw Frank as he lurched through dusty streets and face to face with the common man, would tell them just exactly what he thought of them.

(To be honest, it was late and cold and I was tired so the Frank of my imagination could come up with little more honesty than telling everyone, You Stink!)

Ah, Frank, genesis of the Well of Honesty. Telling it how it is! No-one spared his acidic yet wise tongue as it painted the world the colour of truth! Frank! Go to him for advice for you shall not be handed loaves of half-baked truths, Frank shall slice straight to the crust of the matter and you shall toast his forthright manner as later you rise to the challenge he has presented to you.

Mythical Frank. And I stepped back inside the cosy comfort of that country Hotel and prepared myself to somehow explain this rambling thought process to my companion and just before I did I had one final mental image.

That of Frank's Headstone which read:

Here Lies Frank. Though He Never Did.

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