It’s like thunder, lightning. The way my mind works is frightening. Wicked storms rolled across the plains in this morning’s small hours, and with every flash!-hiss-BOOM!! that made my eyes pop open, with every alarm that made me sit up straight in bed, I’d wonder whether I could get today’s Teenage Kicks post out of it.
I thought about Thunderclap Newman and Lightning Hopkins, and Springsteen’s “Thundercrack.” “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” and “Who’ll Stop the Rain.” I pondered Klaus Nomi’s singular reading of “Lightning Strikes” and Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm.” I even flashed back to the Saturday mornings of my youth and said Shazam! (though like all young men starting to experience certain awakenings, I really watched the show for Isis).
As the night went on, my bed started filling up with children, frightened by the evening’s festivities. And as they finally fell into the stillness of sleep, their limbs continued to thrash with the energy of youth. Then all I could think of was Dean Martin singing “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head.”
A modicum of fitful sleep was interrupted at 6:30, the alarm reminding me of my normal Saturday morning date. So I got in the car and drove through the rain, windshield wipers slapping out a tempo, keeping perfect rhythm with the song on the radio. I was joined at the gym by the other thunderstorm insomniacs, and my mind turned to King Crimson’s “Sleepless.” Still, no inspiration.
So I got on the treadmill, and as miles passed without moving an inch, I pored over U2’s “Running to Stand Still” and Patti Smith’s “Pumping (My Heart),” but to no avail.
I drove home and concluded there would be no post today. Lightning never struck.