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Sheepy was talking about how nice it will be to be free from the bombardment of seasonal music, and that one more play of "Jingle Bell Rock" could be the final straw inducing criminal insanity. Monk then realized, on this Christmas morning, that he has not heard that song. He has been riveted to the All-Elvis station, trying to catch "Merry Christmas, Baby" as many times as he can. By only listening to Elvis music, he missed out on a whole season of other great Christmas songs, and it will be another year before he can enjoy them, until he realized that he still had the day to catch some of the merry tunes and salvage something of the season.
Aside from the issue of how could Elvis not record "Jingle Bell Rock," how could Monk let the season pass by like this? And I'm afraid that noir fiction is much to blame for this obliviousness.
What can one say? People quit the world and this crucible of life all the time. Some people swallow their gun, some do deep abstract art on their wrists, and some swing by the neck from the ceiling fan.
Then you have the other kind, the chihuahua-hearted souls who cannot steel their nerve to take that leap of faith and give the final stamp to their world-weary convictions. Life for them is just a long, slow goodbye. I've probably seen them all: the alcoholics, the drug addicts, and even the sex addicts - and none of them are too pretty. But perhaps the worst of all are the pop-fiction addicts.
You know what I'm talking about. You see them at the paperback aisles opening the new Grisham or Stephen King novels, or the latest spy, crime, or romance stories, feverishly skimming the first pages and looking for the promise of that peculiar kind of emotional high that can only come from a fast, page-turning narrative of foul murder and sleazy sex. Yeah, it's sad. Just yesterday, on Christmas Eve no less, Monk was strung out and poring through Amazon.com's stock, and he ordered Fade to Blonde and Little Girl Lost.
What can I say? It's like I was telling Dee, I never promised you a happy ending. This is real life, boys and girls. And it's almost never pretty.
*lights up another cheap cigar, takes another look at the dead letters, nods his approval from behind a dense cloud of foul smoke, and watches the screen fade to black*
xXx
Sheepy was talking about how nice it will be to be free from the bombardment of seasonal music, and that one more play of "Jingle Bell Rock" could be the final straw inducing criminal insanity. Monk then realized, on this Christmas morning, that he has not heard that song. He has been riveted to the All-Elvis station, trying to catch "Merry Christmas, Baby" as many times as he can. By only listening to Elvis music, he missed out on a whole season of other great Christmas songs, and it will be another year before he can enjoy them, until he realized that he still had the day to catch some of the merry tunes and salvage something of the season.
Aside from the issue of how could Elvis not record "Jingle Bell Rock," how could Monk let the season pass by like this? And I'm afraid that noir fiction is much to blame for this obliviousness.
What can one say? People quit the world and this crucible of life all the time. Some people swallow their gun, some do deep abstract art on their wrists, and some swing by the neck from the ceiling fan.
Then you have the other kind, the chihuahua-hearted souls who cannot steel their nerve to take that leap of faith and give the final stamp to their world-weary convictions. Life for them is just a long, slow goodbye. I've probably seen them all: the alcoholics, the drug addicts, and even the sex addicts - and none of them are too pretty. But perhaps the worst of all are the pop-fiction addicts.
You know what I'm talking about. You see them at the paperback aisles opening the new Grisham or Stephen King novels, or the latest spy, crime, or romance stories, feverishly skimming the first pages and looking for the promise of that peculiar kind of emotional high that can only come from a fast, page-turning narrative of foul murder and sleazy sex. Yeah, it's sad. Just yesterday, on Christmas Eve no less, Monk was strung out and poring through Amazon.com's stock, and he ordered Fade to Blonde and Little Girl Lost.
What can I say? It's like I was telling Dee, I never promised you a happy ending. This is real life, boys and girls. And it's almost never pretty.
*lights up another cheap cigar, takes another look at the dead letters, nods his approval from behind a dense cloud of foul smoke, and watches the screen fade to black*
