Article written while listening to "Whipping Post" by the Allman Brothers Band
Oh jeeze. This is quite a commitment. First of all, when I wrote the title, I meant the twenty two minute live version of the song, not the weak-ass five minute studio version. So I'm going to type constantly throughout this entire song.
I'm 57 seconds in. Well, 63 seconds now. But I was 57 seconds in when I typed the beginning of that seconds. Sentence. I typed "seconds" instead of sentence. I could fix the typo, but then it would destroy this article's sense of raw, freely-flowing, uh...stuff. And besides, it would mean I'd have to get rid of these sentences discussing the fascinating typo.
I'm about 2 minutes in, and a mad guitar solo has started. I wonder what the people in the audience would have thought if they knew the show they were watching would ultimately be the basis for this article. I wonder where they are now. I wonder if they'll read this article and think, "I remember that show. Whoever wrote this is insane."
I wonder if I'll revisit this in ten years, and think "What on earth was I thinking." I wonder if anyone will read this article. Well, obviously YOU will, whoever you are who's reading this at this exact moment. Well, not really this exact moment, because at this exact moment, I'm typing this article. But at some point in the future, this present moment will be the past, if that makes any sense. It doesn't. I wonder if this article will be found in 100 years and people will wonder who the hell THE was. Actually, this article can't really be "found," since it's not an object, it's a piece of memory on the internet.
But if it was printed it could be found. The vocals have come back in now. "All for lovin' you." That's what he just said. Now, the chorus again:
"SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE I BEEN TIIIIED TO THE WHIPPIN' POST!!!!!"
Etc. Etc. Ah, I almost just took a pause in typing, which would be a violation of the task I set before myself when I pressed "play" and started typing. That task, of course, was writing an article while listening to this song. Perhaps I should print this article, and mail it to the Allman Brothers Band. They probably don't have an address I could easily mail it to. Even if I did, it would probably just confuse them. It confuses me, and I'm the one writing it. That's confusing. I am confused by my own confusion, when I consider possible future confusion.
Future. Ummmk. Whoever is reading this is reading it in the future, or what now seems to be the future, but will someday be the past.
There is an advertisement to the left of the edit box for Ellington Condominiums. Why the hell would I ever want to go to some random condominiums in Philadelphia? Actually, the phrase "Luxury" has me fairly interested. I just might have to abandon my old life, and move to Ellington Condominiums.
Actually, it would be fairly interesting to start a new life based on the four random advertisements on the side of my screen. In this case, I'd live in Ellington Condominiums, I'd drive a 2009 Ford Flex Crossover, I'd have a Legal Copyright Online that I made using LegalZoom, and I'd...do something involving navigation. All the ad says is watch the Land Rover LR3 navigate a plane from Nice to Corsica." Perhaps my job would be to go back and forth from Nice to Corsica over and over again.
Well, I'm about halfway through the song now, so I can therefore assume that I'm about halfway finished writing this article. The song has slowed waaaaay down. This is a kind of mellow part of the song. I just adjusted the volume slightly, because this part is quieter. I have a microsoft word document minimized, and I really have no idea why, because taking a break from writing this article to write in Microsoft Word would be a violation of this article's purpose. What is this article's purpose?
This article's purpose is to be an article written over the space of twenty minutes, to provide the two or three people who read it...something. I'm not quite sure what. I'm actually not sure why I'm writing this. Why am I sitting in front of a laptop, typing? Why am I here? Why are we here? What is the purpose of life? Mmmm...from a purely biological standpoint, the purpose of life is to create more life. To have sex, in cruder, more amusing terms. So the universe crawls towards its demise, but living things create despite this.
The song just sped up again. I've been writing very little about the song, instead I've been getting distracted. I tend to get distracted. Writing this article got me distracted in the first place. I got distracted from getting distracted. A constant stream of distractions. It's 9:54 in the morning. I just adjusted the volume again. I turned it up. Then the song got louder, so I turned it back down. That served no purpose at all, I undid...uhm.
"SOMETIMES I FEEL....SOMETIMES I FEEEEEEL LIKE I BEEN TIED TO THE WHIPPING POST!!! TIED TO THE WHIPPING POST!!!!"
He normally says "and lord, I feel like I'm dying," but he appears not to be saying it in this final verse. Instead, there's a drum roll of some sort, a quiet one, and the guitar is going, slowly. Playing, slowly. Meanwhile, I'm writing, writing, writing, writing, actually, typing. Not writing. Writing involves a pencil and paper. Although there is a pencil sitting next to my keyboard. Is that a tympani? It sounds like one. There is a lamp next to me, but it is off. I wonder if anyone reading this has made it this far. If I was reading it, I probably wouldn't. It isn't all that interesting. Perhaps I should introduce something absurd, like a toothbrush or a mango. It's worked before.
It is now 9:58 AM. There are 3 minutes left in the song. Three minutes. This is quite an epic performance. Not enough to meet the attention spans of some people, I'm afraid. Some people can't concentrate on anything. Some people can't think particularly well at all.
jfjjfjfjfjfj. I just typed some random gibberish. Goodness gracious, why on earth did I put this momentous task before myself? Not that typing for twenty minutes isn't something I've done before, but I normally have some sort of purpose when I'm typing, whereas now, I have none, other than to fulfill my purpose. There is purposefulness in my purposelessness.
"SOMETIMES...WHOA, SOMETIMES...LORD, DON'T YOU KNOW THAT I FEEL THAT I'M DYIIING"
50 seconds left. I'm not ready yet! I don't want it to end! There's more I want to say, I just don't know what it is yet! It's gonna end, I can't stop it. Unless I rewind, but that would be cheating. Hope you enjoyed my ramblings.
The audience is cheering. Briefly. I forgot to