It's hard to imagine having a serious discussion with James Brown, and not only because he's dead. I guess I imagine that he would be really hard to understand and that he would have no patience for talking, preferring instead to dance or sing or have a lot of sex with women. He was an amazing musician, but a good conversationalist? Who knows. Maybe he was very different in person than his stage persona. I don't know. Something tells me he wouldn't be interested in a guy like me. "Would you like to have coffee and just visit for a while, James Brown?" I bet he wouldn't even answer me. He would just furrow his brow in confusion and walk away, wondering what the hell I was thinking. I don't know.
Speaking of bad segues, check out the next paragraph.
I'm in this funk lately. It's not at all like the sort of funk James Brown was usually in. It's much less funky and more sort of dense and foggy. It's not like sadness or even dissatisfaction, it's just like constantly forgetting where I am and why and wondering who I am and why. Do you ever feel that way? I bet James Brown never felt that way. He always felt good. He always felt like being a sex machine. Can you feel it? Can you feel it, people? I can't. Not always. Sometimes, but not always.
Speaking of jokes I've told before, check out this bad segue.
James Brown is in heaven (or possibly Valhalla) (or possibly hell) hanging out with the funkiest people in history. Or maybe he's just gone. How can we possibly know what happened to James Brown? It's one of the mysteries of the universe, one of the many, many mysteries. Probably not the most important mystery, though, unless you're James Brown. And let's be honest: you're not.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
