If rock'n'roll was born in 1947, which I have insisted tongue in cheek for years, it looks like I'm gonna outlive it. Oh, I've wrung my hands and whined about the demise for years, heck- decades, but it seems to have passed away peacefully in its sleep with no obit in any of the major papers.
Don't go writing me about how it will never die, blah, blah.
Hey, I'm the one who bellyaches about country club snoots asking, "What do you do?" while pumping my hand way too hard, gazing sincerely into my distrusting eyes. It has taken me this long to recognize that my entire self-image has centered on rock'n'roll.
Now I don't do anything.
I suppose that as long as Little Richard and Fats and The Killer are alive we've got it on life support in some cosmic ICU.
Don't think that I'm mourning here. I don't know about you but I got my gall darn money's worth.
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