My Shoe-Wine Drinking Hero: Lux Interior
Far as my figuring reaches, Lux Interior's had a busy year.
He's either been:
A) Twisting on the far end of the Kingdom at a rickety tiki bar flaming out past cloud nine. Of course, shaking ass with St. Peter, both garbed in white latex and heels. Mr. Pearly Gates having been convinced by Mr. Interior that the true male potential is finally realized only when inhibitions exit...and heck, son, pumps give a man's ass that extra little upside-what-side-look-at-whichever-side switch.
Can I hear an amen for trash dancin' in Heaven?
And a praise be?
B) Or perhaps Lux Interior's standing crown-daddy on hell's throne a mic in his mouth, sunglasses and a speedo, hollering sex-camp lyrics at a den of demons and sinners with Satan at his feet, licking his bleeding knees.
I guess it doesn't matter much where he is because the man is ripping it up wherever he's at.
Today is the one year anniversary of Lux Interior's death.
He rode the world for all it was worth and then a sweet, sick step more.
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