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No fucking way was Bad To The Bone a novelty song, Thorogood concluded in a bourbony haze. He finished spreading on the margarine and settled into his green Laz-E-Boy.
Back in the day, he had owned Connecticut radio, up and down the dial, CCC, HCN, PLR, it was Lonesome George and the Delaware fucking Destroyers all the way. Toad's Place in New Haven. The Webster in Hartford. The Sting in New Britain.
Move It On Over. One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer. Who Do You Love. Whom? Which was it? Fuck it, he couldn't remember and no longer cared. The blues were dead in him, drowned in the booze that once had fueled them. Least I still got my teeth, he reasoned.
Thorogood picked up the stereo's remote and pushed play. He grabbed the bottle and cranked back the wooden Laz-E-Boy handle. Blaring forth from the speakers came the raunchy slide riffing of I Drink Alone. And he did.
Date Written: December 18, 2003
Average Vote: 3.8