PRECIOUS

Every soul is precious, therefore expensive. When Satan purchases souls, he drives a stupid hard bargain usually. It's commonly, "Hey yo bro, I gonna give you money and hoochimamas and blingblang diggity material stuff, and I promise not to run over you with a train like for at least 20 or 30 years, but I get your soul." And you -- or me -- says, well that sounds like a good deal, plus I won't really find out for decades if it's a bad deal, and I can deal with that!
So you say yay.
But once the deal goes down, bro, your soul is gone. Yes you may still be soulful, if you were soulful. You can still play the piano. You can even get better at stuff. Enjoy the bling, get the bang for the bucks. But you have sold your soul. Today.
Off the rack, off the planet, out of your hood. Gone.

A sparrow's soul is particularly precious. So Satan (I don't believe in Satan, but I'm considering changing my mind on that) comes at sparrows cautiously, circumspectly, respectfully, slyly. He works 'em. Gently. But like everybody else, once the deal is made, the sparrow's soul is lost. Even if he still files tax returns and chauffeurs his kids to away games.

Sparrow is precious. Sparrows would be better off in eastern religions where there is no Satan to tempt them. A nice relaxing religion would be good. Cross-legged, not kneeling. Hard to take off and fly from a kneeling position. But not impossible.

margarine

I know. I misspelled it in the last post. Slathered it on too....
Well, I have an idea how to get more people reading this. And it has pretty much stayed intact as a PG-13 kind of blog.
Boring often, but, well, mine. Dark, I am told. Well, hell, I am a lonely old man with a wild life, a wild insane unpredictable life, and musical gifts (songs just come to me, and they are good) My hearing is a bit damaged in my right ear, y'hear?
And I live up on an old Black Colony in Texas. And I am said to be a hippie.
You both know all this.
My grandson's name is Keaton, and he is of mixed ancestry, men and women.

Tonight a strange and wonderful thing happened. mark O'connor, whom I do respect, though I am not able to reel off his discography (and when I went to see him 4 years ago, he played swing, and I fell asleep) MYSPACE FRIENDED ME!!! O My Gawd! Well. Maybe I'll send him a record. a valentine. I already pitched me as a possible teacher at one of the camps.
Big apple here I come. Or big banana.

What I want to do is produce the definitive Texas Style Contest Fiddle Record. 2 players. I won't name them. I am not one of them. I would distribute it for free.
The question is, would people believe in it if it didn't sound like an old crappy ghetto blaster??

Belief is important. Or not. If I don't do this record before February '09, please scold me, take me to task.
I also want to get this band started, The Sweet Bunch of Daisies. Four fiddle players, all sing, all double on other instruments.
Material to be original, but old-timey, and new-timey. Is this mere fantasy? Or just fantasy.

Love and Butter

When my children say "That's bad for you," they are checking for trans fats or corn syrup. Actually more likely it's trans fats.
My personal dietary belief (the only one!) is that sugar is bad for you. Makes you fat, might kick you into diabetes (old wives tale probly), whatever. I do not believe fat of any kind to be "bad for you." Butter. Nothing better.

Except love. Love trumps all. And we all would rather hear "I will love you forever" than "Here, have some more butter."
Although I contend that these two sentences are synonymous. Well not really. I mean a promise can't be the same as an offer. Except that when you're in love anything is possible. "I'm crazy about you" does mean "If you want, I will churn butter for you." To everything, churn, churn, churn. There is a seizin', churn, churn, churn.

That's where the antacids come in.

My favorite yoga teacher talks about being "juicy." Love is juicy like that. It's slick, but not like a car salesman. Love is never anything to be ashamed of, yet it will make us blush, weep, and it can cause insomnia, migraines, shattering of glass, and animal abuse. Not to mention child abuse.

I love you for reading this. Try some margerine. You'll see what I'm talking about.

alone but kissing

Can I get alone? Yes most certainly. Right this way sir. Would you like someone to come kiss you perhaps semi-monthly?
No thanks, and I'll kiss my own ass from now on. No tongue. I will also bite my own ass and of course wipe it. Semi-monthly.

Those who doubt, doubters, need to get their own crowditors, editors, not to mention collaborative attorneys.
Here are some new professions and gadgets for the near future:

false news generator
mobile celibacy check station operator
physical rapist
emotional rapist
thai dyer in triplicate
booze hound trainer
bored interest adjuster
fool detector
back-door man ejector
booter
hooter
shooter
booter monitor
hooter blocker
shooter shooter

I'm training for all of these, since advertising seems shaky at the moment, and it's depressing working on industrials.
Here's another one:

depressed tongue depressor.

twistin the night oy vey

You came to see me but failed due to fear. You came to give me a kiss, but left the kiss at your house, because there was no kiss at the venue. The venue. I had no warning, no indication, No instructions for assembling the kiss, no, lost forever.
Forever I tell you. Because of fear.
I am not one to talk. I am not brave at all, though I occasionally do scary things...I always believe I have it all under control,
In this case there is no controlling anything, and my level of frustration is all the time off the never been a chart that went this high. (low)
I have made no promises to myself, so I am not breaking them. Therapists aren't always right. I don't have to seek and work to put in place that which I authentically want in my life. I can just twist and roll and roll and twist and roll, and hopefully sooner rather than later a hole will open up in my path and I'll just roll in. And that will be the end of this twisting in the wind. This daily torture punctuated by gasoline fires and third degree burns.
Kiss-less. Listen I get it. I wish I would have written more tunes before I rolled into the hole, but it is of no consequence.

Kisses sweeter than wine was an old lyric that old folks liked. Folkys I mean. Kisses are not sweet. Kisses are shackles. Kisses are demands. Kisses are punishment for love. And love grows from deprivation, grows well. And then encounters fear, and dissipates. The only question is when. Part do us death. Part do us. Part. Then stalk. Because I can't live without you. And those kisses. Though they are not sweet. More like swordfights. Touche.

The Great Precision

I'm getting up there, was born in the forties y'know, so I am prone. Well prone more. And prone to utter sentences of the form "It's a shame people don't _________________ anymore" or "It's hard to find a good ___________ anymore" or just
"You can't trust anybody anymore."
Funny thing is, I am said to be unworthy of trust, though these comments are diminishing even as my trustworthiness is waning. Irony appears to be plentiful. Though you won't find an iron in my house. Thus more wrinkles.
Seriously, I do feel people are less precise, less articulate, communicate less well. In fact, I can't understand them at all much of the time. Especially when they whisper.
So it comes as a shock to me that we may be headed into an era that may be called The Great Precision. So unlikely.
How can you even find the target?

By the way, I am not clinically depressed. I don't care about my IRA's. In part because I have lost precision. I no longer keep a check log. This is wrong. I am counting on a bank to be precise for me. Come on bank, you can do it.
I was at the bank yesterday, and I noticed some dwarfs working there. This is good, because it's easier for them to get down.
Be precise, you know.

If I got everything I think I want today, it would kill me.
Yes, I'm sure.
Thank you all for withholding taxes and other stuff I don't need to handle.

And thank you for all the birdsong, because without it what would a pecker be worth? Exactly?

Things You Wish

Things you wish didn't exist, but they do:

a rubber ducky covered in dirt and mildew
constipation
millions of humans
large quantities of crystal meth
mosquitoes
great fortitude and perseverence in really misguided people
ingrown toenails
the field of medicine
AIDS

Some things that don't exist, but too bad darnit:

God
Satan
someone who will love you forever
a decent car
respect
silence
a place you can go
a really smart therapist
someone who will comment on your blog

Why People Do That

They don't know any better, and they didn't die yet.

Socialism

Great day for me today. A piece of music I "wrote" will air on some kind of network TV. Or cable. Cable is different from network. They are mutually exclusive. And that's what I want to write about today. Exclusivity. That and that there are just not enough hours in the day. Thing is, I find there are freaking plenty of hours. I grab a can of sparkling water and just go joy-riding in rush hour. What a rush! Or sometimes I sleep. There have been days recently where I slept 10, even 12 hours, because hey there WERE those hours!

Why? My job has become relatively easy, I rarely exercise, and I have absolutely no social life. There is a vast emptiness.
Some would say "You should do volunteer work." or "You should date." or "For Godssake don't date." There is an emptiness. It's like enforced meditation. First I check in with myself. Then I focus on the breath and say .... Shit.
Because I have excluded vast possibilities from my life. Positive stuff. For awhile, even eating was out. That didn't last.
But dancing does not appeal. I saw a man in his fifties dancing last Sunday and he looked idiotic, kind of like a Maurice Sendak Where the Night Things Are creature. Poor guy. I know I know. He was having fun. ?
I don't do ceramics either. Never have. And I have this enforced no dope or alcohol thing. Frisbee? Not me. I will take a walk every now and again, and get on the floor and do the occasional yoga inversion or core strengthener. But the big thing that there isn't: a social life. I was working on it for awhile, and I do make friends easily. I am effing likeable. I used to read, so I can say the names of books and authors with alacrity. And it's probably true that if I tried to pick up some of the little baby friendships I started over the last year or so and ditched suddenly for solitude a few months ago..... well I could do that. Nobody is mad. Some of 'em have "moved on." Maybe. I don't think any of them got married. And there is of course the vast vat of as yet untapped potential acquaintances. But I don't know. I was thinking of checking in with one of those the other night when I was working at a bar, and she looked at me and said "I don't mean to be rude, but I just don't feel like @#$%^&*()_ talking to anybody right now." I had not said a word. And did not. But I thought about this. This woman was taking a strong stance, for the moment at least, against socialism.

And that's what I'm against. You can't reallly get out of your own head anyway. Sollipsism is right. Some people can't even get out of their mother's womb! The ultimate socialism -- parenting. And another thing I don't do anymore. Retired.
Miss it though.

90 days

I believe it's been that long since I blogged. Why? Because it's been that long since I've done anything. Why blog now?
Well I noticed the writing was pretty good before, and I wondered if I could still be at that level. And I have started feeling like doing things. Which means I actually do some things and wish I was doing others. Or had done.

If you were an astronaut, it would best to be Russian. Not Balkan. If you have moderate hair loss, does that make you Baltic?
I know if you are tired of civilian life and a decent swimmer you may Scandanavian the Coast Guard.
But why bother.

Eventually you will have to split your assets and, OW!, that smarts!

I have a dog visiting me that was named after a place where animals are kept, often in deplorable conditions -- Zooey. Zooey does this thing reminiscent of singing. Howling sort of. Controlled howling. She does it when I play the piano. She seems to be trying to hit notes. Many singers I know do this too, and they live in places where conditions are deplorable.
Like Hungary. All the time. And if they're on the road a lot, Romania. Bears leave Denmark. All the animals left the Arkansas dry land. Except the alcoholics. They only saw 12 steps over and over again. And it was not clear if the steps led up, down, sideways, or (likely) nowhere. Or, more likely, to a Christian church of some sort. Most likely one with it's origins in Germany, Switzerland, or England.

Zooey is obnoxious and her ratio of weight to bad breath may be the world record.

But don't quote me on that. That's the Maine thing.

Freedom of Speech

Free to be dumb, as in deaf and.... s'what it means. It seems quite American, the exhortation to Keep Your Damn Mouth Shut.
Obviously I will not have sex with 2 year olds. And the diaper remark does not refer to nonegenarians.
I sound angry. Not angry. Confused all the way up the mountain.
As in:
I climbed the mountain, thru the mist to find the wisdom at the top
But missed
Or there was no wisdom,
Only convertibles, both cars and people,
Eager and willing to change their religion.
Or to wake up every day completely God-less.
More moral than me probably, though I doubt this possible.
Denial is not my middle name. It's not my first name either.
That's Danny, a child's name, a stage name. It's all an act. And the audience is thinning.
Though, good news,
I am eating again.
It upsets my stomach, but damn the stomach, full torpedoes ahead!

I will not pull down a post again.
I am not non-harming. Heck with Buddhism. There is no tradition. I'm gonna try Catholic. Though I hear it's a bit rigorous, the path to communion, Holy Communion.
Batman.

One thing for sure. Not sure what it is though.

The Eye of Something

Not sure what it was. Felt like a downdraft. A strong series of wind gusts, cool, perhaps up to 40-45 mph. But we heard no thunder, there was little or no rain. Just wind from a storm far away. This is my life, kids.

I was running a little late, sadly, to a reunion meal, supper with my lovely wife, on sabbatical starting this week after years of work (I was glad to see her), and with 2 of my 3 daughters -- the wise pregnant one, and the fun bright musician one.
They ordered for me. Flounder. (not an instruction, it was the meal). And for themselves, they all got that chopped salad which is pretty good at the Belmont. We're outside in front of the blaring speakers, I complained a little, not much.
There were umbrellas supported by the tables, lotsa folks, happy hour. Dale Watson starting in 30 minutes.

First here's our food, incl. my flounder with sides (a really good corn souffle), and the 3 salads. Then within moments, the wind. Every umbrella went down, chairs, tables, glass smashing all around us, the PA speakers swinging wildly (the band came in second on that score). But me, I'm just eating my flounder --- focused see. I'm eating my flounder and people are dashing and yelling, crisis. No no I say, let's just stay and eat. Our table is still here. We don't need the other tables.
Danger, danger! No, no. More glass smashing (you know how I love that). Bird with Strings was blaring "I'm in the Mood for Love" (best version ever done). And I was Calm -- in the eye of the thing.

Megan insisted on protecting her unborn nephew (and thus the mother thereof), and I was reluctantly shuffled inside -- where no disaster could possibly intrude. Then Jon Blondell sat down with us.

This is my life, kids. Stuff is flying all around me (The World is Exploding All Around Me --- with Love, yes Bob, and Love's companion, longing, agony. A new word: longingagony. Love.)
This is what the world does. Earthquakes tidal waves melting glaciers wars pestilence bad bestsellers bloody machetes.
I, I captain, I felt utterly exempt, safe. Not my time. I can eat the glass if it flew in my flounder with no ill effect.

I am completely innured to crap flying around my person, and I am in the eye of the storm at all times. I am indestructible, It seems. And I can succeed at any endeavor.

I don't care where it rained or where the lightning struck. It did not strike me in the eye, Corn souffle in the mouth.

Later fear drove us to set up inside, then embarassment lead us to set back up outside, A little extra offer, but we're pros.
Only bad thing : the reverb can on my old amp is busted again, Bummer. Post it, dumb flounder!

Because I love you

I will give you everything I can spare and then some. Because in the giving I feel so unbelievably good.

Freckles are powerful and will overcome drug addiction. There is a river called time, and we can get separated in the currents, but with focus, desire, and a little effort, we can wade back to each other and help with the not drowning. The river becomes ours. We will be cool in it in summer, and watch the snow fall slowly around and in it in winter. And melt.

When we started, we were wild. We neither had nor needed oars, compass, life vests. A compass would be nice, but vests are totally not happening. Your soul holds my soul's hand. Arthritis be damned. I will play you Irish music if you wish. Perhaps your mother would have liked that.
Perhaps she still does. I can offer lots of music. I can offer my spirit, my life.

The darkness comes from the place where there is no love, where the river goes underground into the dark, and, to be honest, I get scared. I reach for your hand. If it's not there, I wonder.... I lose hope. I am not enough for me in the big-ass river of time. It's too long. My arms are long enough to hold you. But you have to be close, and call for me a little. At least a little.

Because you remember to, want to.

The Stuff you can Count on

ones and zeros
cheerios
applesauce and redi-whip
hair and grass to grow, up to a point
losers to be sore
winners to be sore
oboists to be wealthy
Oprah Winfrey
all computer operating systems equally
batteries
wars to fuck things up in mostly unpredictable ways

AND WHAT YOU SHOULD NOT COUNT ON:

people (they will come through in the end, but often you'll wish they had just stayed where they were)
wolves
religious people
atheists
corporate sucesses who write books that Oprah likes
live sound people
lists to be exhaustive
marijuana to always be okay
America to always be strong

marriage, love, divorce

marriage is
love is not
divorce is

and it's all life and death
they are

the idea that we can be non-harming is a potent and potentially harmful idea, as ideas go
the idea that I love you is sweet
when I have the idea that I no longer love you, that sucks, for both of us

so, I love you all, forever

and since you don't exist, I can be lying, and it doesn't suck!

why should I do tomorrow? Other than that I have no crystal ball. Brighton? A young man named for a town by the sea. I thought for so long it was oneith by land, twoith by sea

revered the story

actually I was more of a Civil War guy, partly I guess 'cause my dad worked at Gettysburg for awhile and there are pictures of him at the scene of Pickett's Charge.

I feel like trying Pickett's Charge right now. But I'm not out of ammunition and I'm just not quite that crazy, at least not in that way. Plus I feel all out of shape from this prolonged laryngitis. Hard to yell "Damn Yankees!"

I'm Sick

I have a cough and cold. I am pretty good at taking care of myself once I get like this, but I do not feel good about it. Worry.
For instance, I have a small supply of excellent cough suppressant which has the salutory side effect of reducing congestion.
But if I over-use this remedy, will it inhibit my body's "natural" defense activities? (I am likely to abuse it, since I feel like total crap, and it has a feel-good side-effect too). O well. Perhaps one of my readers will come over, make me tea, feel my forehead, and look down my throat. It's a slight jump from breathing down my neck---- kidding, nobody does that.
Fortunately I only have 2 recording sessions and a 4-hour restaurant gig scheduled for tomorrow. Most likely I sub out the gig. There's got to be a jazz pianist out there who wants a hundred dollars.

Snot so bad.

Truth, Rage, and me

The Truth is elusive. The Truth we seek in therapy, in church, in spiritual contemplation, meditation, friendship, love.
Who the heck knows?
But every once in a while, you get a new angle from somebody. You were pretty convinced you had it right, then random guy out of nowhere gives you a gratuitous but nevertheless noteworthy shakeup. New Truth.

Here's mine. I've been inclined to think of myself as the sum of my defects (and others as the sum of theirs). This is defective. But I have been making some progress reducing the life-ruining aspects of my character defects. I have been seeking balance, trying to return to my authentic reliable self. Honest.
And as part of this work, this journey, I have dared to look up "rageaholic" in Wikipedia and man that article pissed me off.
And the H Simpson thing is funny (addicted to rageaghol). Anyway, it's real progress for me to be looking at rage and finally getting the obvious but hitherto elusive Truth about it. To wit: Rage is not OK, and some less obvious forms it can take were interesting to see in that dumb article, and none of them are OK either.
Cussing, gossiping, hyper-criticizing...and on up to throwing shit. Not OK. Rage. Bad, scary, overwhelming to me.

So here I am living as that overwhelmed guy on stage with Bob S. tonight. And when he introduces Ollie, Ollie is doing his "I've been up for 6 days, living on caffeine" funny as all get out routine. And then it's my turn, and Bob and I interact a bit, I mention rage, and Bob very sincerely says something to the audience like "So I think Danny has this outer layer of really smart guy, then a thin layer of rage, and then under that this really big glowing golden core --- no seriously Danny is one of the sweetest guys I know." And he meant it.
And it's true ladies and gentlemen.
Bob is smart.
Smarter than me.
One more thing. Hungry Man frozen dinners are f'in great! Especially the Salisbury Steak.

Exactly How Boring is Philosophy?

There was a guy named Gilbert Ryle. And a lot of the philosophy guys I knew in the late 60's when I went to school for that really deplored Ryle. He had this "knowing how vrs knowing that" thing. Damned if I can remember. The innovative part, though, was the knowing how. I think Ryle held that lofty confusions about the nature of Knowledge get more manageable when we see that much of our knowledge is (merely) knowing how to tie our shoes (I think somehow that was a favorite example).
Personally, I was a late shoe-tire. That's right, shoe-tire. Late at a lot of stuff. I am almost universally acknowledged to be incredibly young/immature for my age. You are as old as you feel. Do not be confused though. You are not necessarily as old as what you feel. What you feel is probably only seconds old, yet as old as the hills.
I miss Freud. I miss Jimi Hendrix and Janis. And I even miss Gilbert Ryle. I do not like David Sedaris, though I'm sure he's very good. I don't like Henry James anymore either. And I usually dislike writers like Cormac Mcarthy and TC Boyle who roll around in their virtuosity. Their "knowing how," to tie my shoes up nicely. My bestest hobby used to be reading. Now my hobby is people, and let me tell you, it is exhausting. They are completely unpredictable, except that they pretty much all get pissed if you fall asleep while reading them. Books are so much easier. But they do not move me now. No risk with books.
No glory. No roller coaster. No fallen arches.

You Average American Woman, you, if you had thoughts like mine your head would know how to have those thoughts. And what a luminous waste of time it is most of the time. Still, somebody's got to play hookie from the work of the world and write silly songs and silly blogs and be lazy on all fronts and try to wreak havoc with some success on the lives of the decent and indecent alike.

I am such a disappointment. But it's all good. My work now is to be lazy! Making up for years of over-achievement with daily garbage du jour! Justice would have me utterly alone and lonely any minute now. Any minute now......

It all feels like a rehearsal. Like practice. But there is no big concert. I am learning nothing really -- learning how to do nothing. (I'm sure this is false by the way). But it only sucks if people are hurt. And mostly when people are hurt, they just hurt and I don't owe them an apology.

That's how boring philosophy is. And it's never over. Sometimes there is a cover charge. But you can get on the guest list.
Namaste.

Cereal, as a Heart Attack

I spoke with a friend of mine this week. She was very distraught, rude to customers at her retail job -- very unlike her. What's goin on? I asked. She had read the coroner's report on the recent death of her husband. Sudden heart attack, completely shocking -- "He was at the doctor's two weeks before, and he said he was fine!"
Doctors. Can't live with em.
I noticed, to continue this tack, that I felt kinda ok with my life and ailments until I looked me up in the DSM 4. Then I became a statistic, and I didn't like that at all. I am a real live human. Goddammit. It made me feel very small and desperate to read a description of my symptoms, my life!, in an encyclopedia. Kind of the opposite of googling yourself. You haven't done anything cool and unique in the DSM 4. Or 5, for that matter.

I ate a potato.
I threw away half.
I bought Donettes. God, they rule!
I felt ill and had cravings.
I felt sad and almost cried.
I cried.
I played and played and played the music.
I wrote and wrote and wrote for someone else.
Then I wrote for me, and that felt really good. And someone else liked that music.
I bought a set of strings. And a funny shoulder rest with yellow screw-in parts.
I wrote a thoughtless email. And then sent it.
I took a yoga class and threw up in my mouth.
I saved someone's life.
I deliberately rear-ended a Bonneville.
I broke things.
I took pills for hypertension every day for almost twenty years.
Thank God for that!
?
I was "there" for a friend.
I had no friend.
I had a body for years.
I got older and still had that body.
I failed to fulfill promises.
I forgot your name.
I forgot my name.
I named my forgetting.
I named it Silas.

Whan That Aprille With His Shoures Soote

Something is simultaneously really wrong and really right with me. The same thing. My stomach is jumpy, and it is definitely emotional. I feel like a girl. I felt myself, and I definitely do.
It seems I have no control over certain feelings, yet I seem to have lots of control. This says little.

Only this.

Human Life is precious. Automobiles are not. Diamonds are hard, not precious. Human life is precious. And hard. This is why it is so painful to be alone. "I like my privacy....I've surrounded myself with things I like....I'm quite comfortable with myself as company.....Don't like intruders......." etc
Bullshit.
I hate my own head. I love my own head. I have no monkees in my head. Merely simian thoughts.
Which dog me.
And make me rude.

April Fools.

runnin

A-runnin. You cannot catch me.
I will pick up the phone,
But I will not slow,
Not for a moment.
OK, maybe for a moment.
But then it's down the road like the famous
Cartoon character,
And his ever-failing nemesis
With the ever-falling anvils.
Upon his haid.
His name is this:
Wiley ironically.
A wild animal,
But relatively speaking,
Slow.

In the spring, it's all green.
Saint Patrick.
Grass
Ass in grass.
Mustard, collard, and chard.
All green.
Seeking experience,
Seeking, sweating,
Running,
Never sleeping
Springening
In the Beginning
God created the ....
Without form and void.

The ova walla?
The spinach line.

Good Writing

Although sweetly written, the previous entry, "Had," is full of wrong.
And, sadly, I don't remember writing it. Let's blame sleep deprivation.
Here is the wisdom to be added. Relations among humans are complex, murky, unpredictable, volatile, simple, direct, honest, frightening, sexy, disgusting, moral and immoral.
I have noticed that I NEVER receive calls from the dead people whose numbers I have kept in my cell phone.
Here I feel some certainty.
Otherwise, we were made in His image, and He looks funny, big, little, beautiful, intense, stupider than a fence post, and more lovely than a thousand shimmering diamonds. Among other things.
Some say He is holy. If so, in His image, so are we.
So, for the record, I don't mind being "manipulated" in the course of human interaction -- even though I wasn't. And flopping is less painful than it sounds. Unless you are a TV pilot.
Sorry.
No fish were harmed in the posting of this blog.

Therapy

I had the idea that a post that gave the history of my various therapists and their input and my growth or lack thereof would be funny, fun, poetic, or philosophical, all in that sardonic way of mine.
Then my friend, yes I have a friend, said "and what would that accomplish??" Friends. Cheaper than therapists, sometimes.

I just like my darkness to ooze out on paper. Is that so bad? It's creativity...or at least a bi-product thereof.
Tonight I played varietal jazz to a small crowd in Westlake with the great Mitch Watkins, and the quite fine Rhythm section of Terry Hale and Arthur Kidd. Really quite a nice evening!

But imagine this post as entertaining, negative, dark, and funny. And true. So lets try, shall we.

I had one guy 4-5 times who I don't really remember, But he was the one who told my folks that LSD can do permanent ego damage. (and this a bad thing....it really is.) Later.... 1969 or so I was arrested for possession of heroin. I had a habit (intermittent), and I was young and busted. Went to a full on spychiatist named Pollatsek. Nice place in the West Village. I have no recollection of what we discussed, though I kind of remember a couple things: 1) The Doc was gay and once asked me to "step into the bedroom" (a Freudian slip -- he might have been wearing one -- no actually was fond of pinstripes....) 2) he gave me 100 10 mg valiums to take with me to the WVirginia mountains where I was cut off from all the good opiates and learned about liquor and smoked weed, I'm proud of my ivy league degree, but those mountains were a turning point.
Inbred homebrewin crazies. Loved those folks. And we were the best thing that had ever happened to them.

The NYC shrink was not all bad, though he lisped, and I guess what I got from him was the understanding that I could not get real, that it was a waste of time, if I came to the sessions loaded. Something/ Nothing. And the valium for the road.

Next flash forward MHMR in about 1987-8. I don't remember the woman'sname. Cocaine and a vehicle collision. Then her.
Then a little intervention.
Then I'm in outpatient rehab. Got sober. 4 months later I threw a cat through an open window --- And ronda she be gone. We were only separated 4 months then though. We slid back together. I had been "ANGRY." Then I was sweet I guess. The relationship was strong like coffee and heroin can be, and we just did not choose to "work on it." Then....or ever really. It was ostensibly perfect. Love should suffice. Didn't.
My growth? I got off cocaine and whiskey, pills and weed. Attended AA regularly. WANTED WHAT they had. It appeared.

New Shrink: Jewish man from Pittsburgh. 1992. I went because I was living sober but in odd fear. This fella told me I was Jewish. Did a little excavating. OK, dad's the enemy, the ogre, but
mom's a bit cool and away and busy. And they didn't sleep together. Stan F PHD, pictured me wearing armor that blocks all authentic feeling -- kills the highs and lows (though I was sober then). Worried that I would forever "stuff." And then when I treated panic disorder with benzos and vicodin, I drifted off into addiction again. The sober period had been about 14 years. And Doc F said, "Danny, Choose Life!" enough to make one consider anti-semitism. (I have no problem with being labelled a self-hating Jew, except I don't really hate myself at all, and if I did it wouldn't be for being Jewish -- which I really am not. The Talmud drives me up the wall, except when I read it as like Jack Handy humor. (is that his name?)

Panic disorder. I could go on and on. The treatment at UT cured me. I had to go through twice. But it seems to be holding. Sort of. I still have Clon. in the drawer. Why? It is not my friend.

Denial helps cure this problem -- Unlike addiction. Denial is known to be part of the disease of addiction. If I can deny or minimize the importance of my panic episodes, they will abate. I know this. So different. Less serious by far than addiction -- though it doesn't feel like it when one is in panic....

My current therapist will remain nameless. The issues: recovery, balance/boundaries, self-care, grace.
Crap it's exhausting. Think I'll nap

The Beautiful

In the eyes of the beholder, whatever.
Many things are beautiful.
A full dance floor, these kids these days who've taken classes in Lindy Hop and frantically hop to any beat.
Beautiful really.
My children, all Gor Gee Us!
Growth and change. Skin.

Personally I don't find myself beautiful, but I do have good tone -- and I don't mean muscle. Though the heart muscle is a beaut.

The obvious: sunrise, sunset, tenderness, passion (although I must say passion can be pretty ugly, twisty, lumbering....)
Grey hair is beautiful, they tell me.

Love is beautiful, and therefore my marriage is beautiful, and the potential lack thereof is beautiful, because in its negation it promotes that which it negates.
And again we say, whatever.

The day I took LSD in the spring of 1967, and it wasn't real or wasn't enough, but I spent the whole afternoon roaming around various parks and woods with a friend who kept asking "Are you OK?"
Beautiful.

I think the final episode of the Wire is beautiful, though I keep just catching a few scenes at a time. I know, sacrilege -- a TV show! Beautiful? Beholder, dude, beholder.

Love is beautiful. And the greatest of these is desserts, which spelled backwards is stressed. and love spelled backwards is evol, so Darwin was right and the Bible is metaphoric, dinkbrain.
The Big Book of AA is beautiful.
A lack of pain is beautiful.
And pain is beautiful.

Swelling is not.
Tears are.
Genitals, well not really, sorry.
Eyes, always.
ears, rarely.

And if you want to fight about any of this, that's lovely.
A bounced check. Is a joy forever.
Overdraft protection. Beauty.

The word ass is beautiful, though most associations are not. Well, some are not.
AAA (Triple A) can be quite lovely. But not as good as AA. And of course a single A is what millions strive for.

Ending this post. Nice.

Negative More

Great moments in music today at Guero's. Great dust and wind, grooves and songs. Applause. Guest band, The Fire Ants, were awesome, expecially, well, all of 'em but the keybord looked nine and had quite a right hand. Somthin happend to his left. He mostly rested it.

Erik sang a T Texas Tyler tune, Leah play Nuages and it was a very long cloud, but pleasant. Many folks were there: Greyhound, Obermeyer, Myra Spector, the ring girl from the Cont. Lounge, special friends of special friends.

Tomorrow I will slide outta bed, shower, shave, make a CD of new BOB S material to learn by 3 as I fly around central TX seeing waht might have happened to Ringo. I picture him behind bars or dead. No tags, on the street, lotsa traffic, so splat.
WE MISs HIM. Again our home is discombobulated. The pack has turned neurotic, depressed, dysfunction reigns.

That means the prevailing attitude is "The heck with the word, There gonna turn us into sweaters for cats any day now.
They never liked me anyway. (thinks Oscar)

Sad sad sad, bab bababba. Sad Sad bababababababa. I want my baby, Ringo, with the healed pelvis and the whiny aspects too.

Come back to me my Ringo, you really make me singo. You dingo.

Fetch Ringo (Dog Gone)

This is an unexpected continuation of my most recent entry. Ringo has disappeared. No, wrong word. He just aint here anymore. No splatter remains in the street. But after a day of aggressive Zoey chasing and humping, during which he really pissed me (and Oscar) off, hurt his right front leg somehow, was pulled repeatedly off the bitch, put in isolation briefly....and on and on til about 1 AM....I got Zoey back to mama this morning. Ringo chased the car all the way to the cemetary. When I returned after a long walk around Town Lake and a good Mexican lunch (Maudie's), he was gone.

Some kind soul picked the limping dog up and brought it home, it seems. Maybe. Humane society didn't get him.
I cruised Whispering Hollow after dark looking. Got lost. Don't even know my own neighborhood. I think i need to get out of here soon. The 3 remaining dogs are freaked. As am I. Or I'm projecting. Projecting that there's a good chance we'll get him back. The crazy little thing. And some chance we won't.
And the possible loss is a bit overwhelming. He's a gentle gentle soul who has lived with me for 5 years. Slept with me almost all the nights for five years. Whined a bit. Ate a bit. Yer basic dog. Dog gone.

Seems like a nail in some coffin. Not mine. Maybe the coffin of my residence in Buda. I called the realtor today at Goodwin, who has made a specialty of our road. Fuggit. I can't really record music here anymore. The noise level is, well, fully suburban, with added spice from our nearby industrial operations, cement plant, gravel pits, and construction.
A big world. A little dog. Sad. And lonely.
I think the other dogs wonder who goes next. I know I do. Wonder.

The road to Hell is said to be paved with good intentions. Hey, at least it's paved! I'm sorry I told Ringo F. You last night. He was destroying my newly made bed. See, I got better at it. He got worse. I want to discuss that with him, but Feb. 29 won't be back for 4 years. Sucks. A confluence of BS caused this. Largely me. The magic is turning black.
RIngo weighs about 14 pounds, wears no collar, may limp a bit, quite healthy, very fast, and sweet, and he's in love with a flash of creamy intensity which might as well be an energy drink.

All my people are great dogs

Not Danes. Although I met a Dane. Not a meta-Dane. Well, actually, yes a Danish-American from Greenwich Village.

And all my dogs are great people. The question is, if you talk to your dogs a little -- like say "Fetch, Ringo!" no one calls you on it. Like, that's okay, even though no way in hell Ringo will fetch squat. But if you say "So guys, I think I'm getting a handle on this post-modern- and deconstructionism; essentially it's just a reaction to phenomenology and existentialism that's every bit as self-indulgent and un-disciplined as, say, Sartre or Schopenhauer were...and vague," then maybe you're taking the interaction with the dogs a little too far. I'm just saying.

Really there's nothing any wronger about it than, say, posting a blog that you know at most 2 or 3 of your family members and maybe one employee will read (God Bless you Both!).

And my dogs are really great people. Amazing people. I admire and respect them all. All have patience, fortitude. Some shit in the house. But so do I! I know, too much information.

So progress this week. I have not succeeded in taking a vacation. Far from it. The last two days have been so busy/frantic that I feel like my tongue is hanging out, dog-tongue-like, and my body aches (I feel old). But I have moved through some emotional stages it seems. From extreme lonliness/depression and, well, downright insanity -- through a period of grace in which there is no blinding affect, just the semblance of a "normal" succession of pleasant or unpleasant feelings near the middle of the scale --- to the last couple days, a bunch of anger. The F word popping out of my mouth un-bidden and inappropriate.
I have felt that I detest certain people, musicians I am playing with for instance. Not that they play badly. Most are great players. But I'm seeing the flaws and magnifying them. And I am practicing zero forgiveness. It's really pretty cool. For me. I mean, I can be pretty unpleasant/critical, but usually I cap the view off with the old AD dictum "If somebody is acting shitty, it means they're having a rough time themselves." An axiom. (Like it's almost-mirror image, if I'm pissed there's something wrong with me.) And I forgive, everybody, seeing their human-ness. The thing is, this wild anger that's spilling out recently feels like a kind of red carpet leading me somplace I need to go.
I AM angry. Need to feel it. Ditch it. Get on to the next thing, hopefully something more like the grace period with emotions varying and near the middle of the scale.
I thought about borrowing one of Frosty's guns and shooting out the streetlight at the extreme east end of Whispering Hollow. Really I don't need a gun though. I could just go take the bulb. There's nobody over there most of the time. So who am I mad at? Nobody really. I'm just scared. Seems like everybody I want to talk to is dead. And most of the folks that want to talk to me are annoying, really annoying.
So, thank God for how great the dogs are. I wish they knew how to make the bed. I don't mind doing the laundry.
But I can't make a bed worth crap.

apologi

sorry about last night. I was pretty dark, and there were syntactical mystakes and mspellings. I was falling asleep as I wrote and finally gave up.
Tonight I have a modicum of fear, was jazzed that someone (someone I know) responded succinctly to my ramble of last night.
And today I was a good musician. Pulled off a trio with Frosty and Harvey, and yet another random person complimented me on my singing. The whole world has gone nuts. And some of the world just has its nuts gone.
We'll see about mine, or if I mess my drawers at my gig tomorrow.
I'm a pro. It should flow.
Comments that razz me
Really jazz me
I suspect a daughter
Lurking in the water
Jerking like a fish
On a line
One of my lines
With the syntax
No one can afford.
They should withhold a bit
From each paychick.

Yours in Crisis
John J Menudo

Wane and the Drought

On June 25, '07 there was a break. The hand in the cookie jar was slapped, the Best Western housed the Worst of the Best'uns for a few days, then onward and downward. Then the owner of the cookies left (with the jar presumably -- or most of it), and now here we are. Waning interest in a variety of things. Steadily waning. The fiddle camps turned up the juice on fiddle, but it has waned. The meetings of the secret sobriety society turned up the juice on sobriety, but that has waned. Creative juices are drying up on all fronts. There was, last year, much journaling, poetry, ad music. Now there is no journaling (who wants to read this crap?), little blogging. We're in drought and there is for real extreme fire danger. My myspace profile is boring, and I barely blog. My most passionate feeling of the week after the 2 days of suicidal depression was feeling of "Pore Hillary!_
This is merely a phenomenon. a wet farft. a bit of puke in the gullet. It will pass. But I feel I will never journal again.
Thank God? No, damn shame. Drought. Extreme fire dangler. The journals are so nice to come across 14 years hence.
Because I've always been clever. Less so now as you see............

The inward chapping coincides (as God laughs) with a series of golden opportunities for creativity, devotion, insight, trustworthiness, fun, joy, fame, and even maybe chicks.... Junior Brown has asked me to produce a family TV show featuring his musical performances live in the studio. with famous guests no less. And asap!
Bob Schneider, the most inspiring artist with whom I have ever worked, has invited me back onstage with him. Challenges at work are manageable. Staff is supportive. But I don't got the juice. Not today. Although folks have fallen miraculously in place to help with the Junior deal and I truly believe Junior is ready, I am not hungry for this.
Bob gave me 17 mp3s to check out. I've barely listened. Of course I'll do a lot of wingin it on stage, and it will be fine, but.... a drought, a waning, a drying up, a shrivelling.

No more journals no poetry. No book I am excited about, although I still am liking the Jacobs book on city planning and dabbling ever so slowly in the Black Swan (which is secretly about how stupid I am, wanting to be empirical and all). And I'm supposed to do my second like lightning jazz (but I don't want it to be jazz) record in a day or so next week. The concept is to go down and dirty and simple with the awesome glitch that I will be a featured vocalists and will do at least 2 duets, maybe more, with Alice Mama Saffer and Emily Gimble. Maybe Megan Melara will sing one or two and co-write. Oh and I worked on 6 new tunes with Harvey this week, and many are good (since he's so darn poetic among autre choses.)
THe creative projects are overwhelming. It rains it pours, there is doubt and drought. Drought in the spirit. And I think it's so simple stupid. Sex! We ran plum out!

But don't let me bore you. Stop reading. "Cause this stuff is dry as am I as a bone.
My wife and I renewed our vows last week, and I think she didn't really even know it. Now I think maybe I can run around on her. Now that we're renewed and all. She has encouraged it. The good Italian wife. I thought I remembered her having some Irish, Cherokee, maybe Dutch or German and Native American blood. In any case, I think I'm either gonna try a couple hours with a professional hooker, or go eHarmony. The guys all look cute in the commercials, even if the girls are clearly not of the same aristocratic demeanor of my beloved. Former now renewed beloved. What a wonderful mysterious person. Wonder how her cholestrerol is. Wane north of here. I drought, it's a problem.

It is though. It is the hand of death.

Amusement Park Bench

Ride. Amusement park ride. A fantasy world/life with coke cans and paper trash under the tilt-a-whirl. So much work, it didn't all get done. So much tragedy my own personal one(s) don't rate. The studio/business is built for speed, built to win.
But not if I play hookey. Yet I must get some leisure time in, some yoga etc. or I will implode. I am imploding. No one comments on my blogs, but I bet somebody is reading.
Don't read this part:
I like how my singing voice sounds after I take opiates. Raspy like Ray Charles. Soulful even. So when I make the new record -- record ha! -- Mr. Eclectic, Unplugged is the working title, I may or may not opiate (a verb). Drugs smell sweet children, said Mrs. Hilldebrand, 12th grade English. Then she ran off with another (married I think) teacher. Then ran back and continued teaching. Newspaper in the tunnel of love. She was totally against drugs, hippies, the whole schmear.

I have no love life. I have no hate death. I am lonely, and I am a hero. And I am a schmuck. And I am disappointed in everyone. Everyone. Well no, not everyone. Just work stuff. The kids are great. Especially all of them. It's just....for me...The ride is too scary. I have always detested amusement parks. But, must admit, basically have a lot to be grateful for. Since this is all just a dream. A house of clouds.
The baby needs to stay off the roller coaster. The god of hellfire will return to the mystic east (England) soon. We will continue to play wrong notes. All of us. And we will envy the success of our colleagues. I have no cash. Ever. But I am taking steps to rectify financial distress. And I'm getting a physical Friday. I'm afraid of the nurse. Monica. Her name means nickname. How good can she be? How many tickets for the physical ride? Don't like cotton candy stripers. Don't fish.
Hooked.
Mr. Eclectic. On the spin cycle. Worm me out!

Fiber

I have added fiber to my diet. Guess why. Right! I like that cereal little Meggie likes, Post shredded wheat n bran -- combined often with milk. Not sure my system (by this I mean my body) likes the milk part....

I'm having so much fun lately it's sad. Poor Bob in San Jose is not having fun like me. My fun is anomalous. If I were still happily married I would not be having this fun. So it is sad fun. All of it.

I went and "taught" a 2+ hour lesson on fiddle and piano to my new friends in Westlake who live in a wonderful house and are possibly happy to see me. I don't charge them for this, since I have no curriculum in place. Though they have learned some stuff. In just 2 weeks! After that I went over to Lamberts, thinking I would see Emily and the Marshall Ford guys and eat a bbq sandwich. And all that came to pass with the added bonus of Matt being there so I could get him a beer and chat, and Erik was there playing great fiddle and let me sit in on Fat Boy Rag.

Then I zipped over to Cafe Caffeine to catch Megan Melara at her monthly thing there. Her gig. Was tired from the sandwich and from being old, but she asked me to sit in, and playing woke me up. She has a throat thing, so she felt she had an off night and quit kind of early. I put a chocolate muffinny thing on top of the bbq (which was already on top of the Post cereal).

Megan's "crowd" is decidedly of a different sexual orientation than me. I feel that I am doing sociological research when I am at her gigs, which shows maybe that I am a sex/racist. The folks all treat me real nice. They just don't want to sleep with me. Except maybe one or two of the guys. But really not even them, since I don't belong to a gym and don't care what clothes I am wearing (this may change). There are babies there whom I cannot explain.

Megan's singing and writing knock my mismatched socks off, throat problem notwithstanding.

After that I went home. At about 2:30 AM I had the worst (perhaps only) stomach cramps I have ever had in my life and spent the next hour in the little room with all the drains in it, wondering if I should call someone before I died.

But I toughed it out, since I am a man of fiber!

Need and Cushions

I was going to write about need. About how if we need something, we are automatically needy. And nobody likes needy. Yet we do. But I'm not going to write about that.

Instead: The Saga of the Pillow Thing

4 or 5 decades ago Mr. and Mrs. Kaye (the first Mrs Kaye even?) purchased a nice couch, long enough for a 6-footer to sleep on, comfy. Don't know what those pillow parts are actually called, but you know those firm yet cushy pillow parts -- the ones you sit on, lie on, not the smaller ones in back of you that you sit back on. Those are actually pillows I think. I guess the bigger ones are called cushions -- maybe they're all cushions. You get the idea though.

So. The couch lived in Atlanta for a long time. It saw Kaye girls grow I think. It probably saw the first Mrs. Kaye become ill and disappear. And then a new Mrs. Kaye and more children, mostly girls. Lots of Atlanta folks sat on that couch. Some drank wine. Some did not. The pillow parts (cushions?) had removable/washable covers, and they were fersure removed and washed a few times over the years.

Then all the Mr. and Mrs. Kayes were dead, the condo got sold. The couch was old then (2001), but the Levins, who were in charge of the Kaye estate, chose to move el coucho anciento to their house in Buda, Texas "in case anybody in the family wants it at some point." It resides now in Ezra's room. Sort of in the way. A place to sit, but more a place to throw junk. Piles. Ezra does not reside there. In fact mostly who resides in the house in Buda is just old man Levin and some dogs. Oscar, a very fine dog, and Zooey, another very fine dog, sometimes come to visit. Now that Oscar is neutered and fat, he requires special rigging to enable him to leap from the floor up to the bed where he sleeps when he visits. Enter the old white pillow. The old man grabbed one of these pillows and placed it on the floor by the chair next to the bed, so Oscar could make the leap with some grace. Zooey got into some turkey bones or something and had episodes of diarrhea all over the house, notably including a big clump/lump/wad on the old pillow, right in the middle of it in fact. She also peed on it. Or maybe Ringo did that.

Anyway the old man unzipped the cover, removed and washed it, dried it, replaced it over the stuffing. Now the pillow thing is good as new. A bit of the stuffing came loose. No biggie. That good old Atlanta stuffing will make it to the Creedmoor Dump within a week. A bit sad? Nah. No one really needed it.

No one in their right mind throws away something they need.

Mail Menopause

Only recently uncovered, dissed and doubted, but it's real, oh too real:
Mail Menopause. When mail gets to that certain age, it just starts falling out of the box. Sweating. It can get angry and often asks for money, sometimes lots of it. Hormone replacement works well, but who's gonna get a complimentary Wall Street Journal or National Geographic to remember to take a pill every morning? No, it's a real toughie. And decades-long relationships hang in the balance. Folks tell their mail, "Don't make any important decisions -- you're not in your right zipcode!" Homeland Security is at a loss. And FedEx won't touch them. Some pieces of mail actually shower twice or three times a day. Doesn't matter if they become illegible. People are scared to read them anyway....
There's nothing to do but wait it out. With compassion. Maybe get a hobby. Collect porn. But not stamps, not postcards! Use email. Or just don't communicate at all. It gets better. Really it does.

cancer

Not just an astrological sign anymore, cancer is the scariest. My partners's dear wife has some sort of carcinomas and that sucks. My mom died of the crap, so I can talk.
I have trouble being serious though, so please don't get mad.
There is some poop psychology/holistic science voodoo out there now, quite related to my last post actually without my knowing about it. Something about UT finishing a study that says that stress/negative emotions/really mostly ANGER
is the number one cause of cancer. Obvious bullshit. But what's funny is this. I came to the realization that everybody is probably angry all the time! I know I am. Either I am self-destructing in anger, or being snidely whiplash with anger, or working AA steps to "find my part in it" so as not to drink from the #1 offender: resentment (that's when you re-feel anger, re-sentiment) hahahahahahahahahahaha. And all that anger we all carry (and "stuff") from our childhood because we didn't get to be loved enough by a mother or father or bro or sis or (in my case) the large groups of neighbor kids who sat on me and spit. Man that pissed me off. People even get pissed about their grades. Their pay. Their job or lack thereof. The fact that they build a life with somebody and do something stupid or look ugly a few times and then their God-destined love of their life leaves and shops a bunch at Target. Which is disappointing all around.
Target causes cancer. Worse than agent orange.
Breasts cause cancer, especially breast cancer, but lack of breast-feeding is what started me being pissed off.
Enough about me. What caused your cancer? Don't let it be rage at me. I'm just the messenger.
Oddly though, I don't seem to have any cancer. Just a few cysts and boils and an unbearable amount of emotional growth.
Pisser. I know what you're thinking...."Emotional growth, my ass!" It's benign though.