What would you do with YOUR time machine? Like, after you got over the mind-whack of what that actually meant. That you could dial up a time in the past and transport yourself there, knowing what you know now, walking amongst the populace as the secret God of Tomorrow.
When would you chose? What would you do? How would you do it?
That’s the subject of my song Time is the Jones, focusing on a sloshed sled-head who smokes a lotta weed, drinks way too much, tries to do good, loves being bad and scared he’ll come back to a screwed-up world, forever changed by his own past-tense behavior.
Fortunately for us, he’s stoned more on the concept than on reeking havoc. In fact, he chooses times to go back and help improve a given situation, though always mindful of things potentially going wrong. You’d better carry some fire power in case of trouble. Stay on the path, don’t mess with mother nature, that kind of thinking.
It’s enough to give a guy pause. And admit to a room full of one that he’s a user, addicted to The Jump, high on fore-knowledge, crazy to hang with the superstars of history and prove his worth by nudging them towards their glory.
And it’s got to stay a secret, an invention second to none that nestles in a 2-car garage under a $20 tarp that no one, not mom, best girl or some five-star general gets to know about. Because that would be the beginning of the end of the world as we know it. Never mind you’re the someone who stumbled onto successfully building the thing. It’s an ultimate weapon of destruction with virtually unlimited magical power to change things.
Which makes it the world’s largest dollop of insanity. And when you’re on that kind of level, the best way to handle it is to have another drink, right?
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