They hovered like silk suited blow flies. Feasting on the sweetmeats of their newest sensation, while the cast offs of each of their self serving wakes, struggling to remain afloat in thick pools of moisturizer and Courvoisier, subsisted on long hollow accolades sealed with the industries Judas kiss, two quick pecks in passing, one on each cheek. 

Janis stood apart from the crowd, leaning heavily against one of the marble columns that separated the lavish ballroom from the hallway that led to the most common of facilities, trying to decide which one of them held the greatest appeal.

Grabbing another flute of champagne off a passing waiters tray, she downed it, and having made her decision, headed for the can. 

Parting her velvet sheathed thighs, she straddled the commode in reverse and unfolded on the tank lid one of the tin foil squares she had so lovingly tucked away for just such an occasion. Clasping the empty body of the gold and enameled pen she had once used to sign an autograph for Dizzy Gillespie himself outside a now defunct club in Soho between her teeth, she lit her lighter with one hand and guided the precious aluminum square’s contents expertly over the flame with the other. Greedily drawing in the rising smoke, she held it, as the tidal pool of its warm caress washed over her. 

Reentering the room she was headed instinctively for the bar, when she was ambushed by Guy what’s-his-name, the newest man with the golden ear.  

“Janis, darling, there is someone you absolutely have to meet.”

Tightening her grip on her suede fringed clutch, she pressed it’s precious contents firmly to her chest as he guided her through the pulsating sea of discordant bodies.

“They are hailing her as the next Joplin. We could use a couple of pictures. Your seal of approval if you will. Who knows, it might even bring an old platter or two of yours out of hiding.”

This piece was inspired by Jim Adam’s Song Lyric Sunday’s call for songs that had any of the following words in them:  Bottom/End/Middle/Side/Top.

I chose, Stuck In The Middle With You, co-written by Gerry Rafferty and Joe Egan, and performed by their band, Stealers Wheel in 1972. A dismissive tale about a music industry cocktail party, Rafferty once called the song  a parody of Bob Dylan’s paranoia.

 

Stuck In The Middle With You

Well I don’t know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain’t right,
I’m so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I’m wondering how I’ll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you

Yes I’m stuck in the middle with you,
And I’m wondering what it is I should do,
It’s so hard to keep this smile from my face,
Losing control, yeah, I’m all over the place,
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Well you started out with nothing,
And you’re proud that you’re a self made man,
And your friends, they all come crawlin,
Slap you on the back and say,
Please, please

Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,
‘Cause I don’t think that I can take anymore
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Well you started out with nothing,
And you’re proud that you’re a self made man,
And your friends, they all come crawlin,
Slap you on the back and say,
Please, please

Well I don’t know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain’t right,
I’m so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I’m wondering how I’ll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you,
Yes I’m stuck in the middle with you,
Stuck in the middle with you, here I am stuck in the middle with you

Writer/s: Gerald Rafferty, Joe Egan
Publisher: BMG Rights Management