Next to the Fraud Police, I have this illogical feeling that the Age Police will soon come knocking.
He wants to drag me to this dimly-lighted cell and lecture me about this seemingly pointless pursuit of the age-old rock & roll dream.
That I am too old to be doing what I’m doing now, accepting one scant late night gig after another (and another one in a year if I’m lucky), that I should leave it to the young, lean, beautiful ones to make songs about their youthful angst and discontent.
The Age Police taunts me that I am way past my prime, that I should be settling down to a regular job where you don’t have to make up little ditties about how angry you are with the world.
I will just let the lecturing run its course, and then when The Age Police is not looking, I will escape and run off into the wild once more.
I’ll get back to writing these little songs that very few would probably hear, until the next time he finds me hiding in this junkyard.
I’ll be found busy, stringing together rusty wires across a rotting board and fiddling with the bowels of broken toys just to make a sound and write another quickly-forgotten song.
I’ve evaded him for the past 20 years (I’ve had close brushes), but what else can I do? Making songs up has become a hard habit to break.