Friday, June 18, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
fun
The fun part. Dancing. Like when the bad guys ride into town and grab the shop-keeper and shoot the ground around his feet and say "Dance Shop-keeper!"
The fun part. Checking the mail. Like when you get a royalty check. 'Cause you are the king. Of Rock and Roll.
The fun part.
Checking email. So many little prizes, always. Well no not really. Whenever I check email, I have to respond to it. So if I get 40 non-junk emails (not uncommon in a day), that adds up to 40 little chores I have to do. At least.
At least I'm writing. And I think it's wonderful that all these young people have picked up their old Royal or Remington and vented their thoughts in English and other languages.
The fun part.
Like overeating, shooting heroin, shooting herons, shooting heroes and heroines down in their prime.
I was down in my prime, but I'm so much more down now, brown cow, there's not a yard-stick long enough.
No, really things are fun. I live 2 minutes from the Broken Spoke, where I always am made to feel welcome by James W, proprietor and outspoken man older than me.
I didn't ask any girls to dance with me. I didn't want to have fun really. I did drink a coke.
That rocked.
On my grave, there will not always be flowers. On my grave there will not always be grass. Into my grave will I be put by higher powers. And I will lay there forever on my ass.
The fun part.
Like doing the laundry. Not folding it.
The fun part. Checking the mail. Like when you get a royalty check. 'Cause you are the king. Of Rock and Roll.
The fun part.
Checking email. So many little prizes, always. Well no not really. Whenever I check email, I have to respond to it. So if I get 40 non-junk emails (not uncommon in a day), that adds up to 40 little chores I have to do. At least.
At least I'm writing. And I think it's wonderful that all these young people have picked up their old Royal or Remington and vented their thoughts in English and other languages.
The fun part.
Like overeating, shooting heroin, shooting herons, shooting heroes and heroines down in their prime.
I was down in my prime, but I'm so much more down now, brown cow, there's not a yard-stick long enough.
No, really things are fun. I live 2 minutes from the Broken Spoke, where I always am made to feel welcome by James W, proprietor and outspoken man older than me.
I didn't ask any girls to dance with me. I didn't want to have fun really. I did drink a coke.
That rocked.
On my grave, there will not always be flowers. On my grave there will not always be grass. Into my grave will I be put by higher powers. And I will lay there forever on my ass.
The fun part.
Like doing the laundry. Not folding it.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
perfect
Everyone is perfect in every way. So why not just be nice. It is common for me to repeat the (common) wisdom first and most gently suggested to me by my dear friend AD Mannion when he was slowly dying of liver cancer: when somebody is a jerk to you, they're having a bad day. Probably they're just scared or otherwise stressed. Not being nice right then, but basically nice.
I am nice. Often I think, TOO NICE. Folks who know me will chuckle or guffaw at this. Folks who know be casually will agree. From this I deduce: better not to know me too well.
There is a dark angel in there. The Lenny Bruce fan. The Caligula fan. The man with flexible morals and priorities.
This dark man is an angel though. And so it goes. A vacillation between lovely pleasing man and butt. Stinky butt.
This past Monday night I played a show and was given the opportunity to inform the audience that I was once again surprised but pleased and honored to be there. And the boss said he was always surprised and pleased and honored to have me there.
I don't get on the bus with these folks. That would be too much. Then they would know my darkness. And worse, my silliness. I am so silly.
Moderately profound suffering has rendered me less so. But I persist in immaturity and petty self-centeredness. And I don't do enough ... um ... yoga.ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd ohm
I am nice. Often I think, TOO NICE. Folks who know me will chuckle or guffaw at this. Folks who know be casually will agree. From this I deduce: better not to know me too well.
There is a dark angel in there. The Lenny Bruce fan. The Caligula fan. The man with flexible morals and priorities.
This dark man is an angel though. And so it goes. A vacillation between lovely pleasing man and butt. Stinky butt.
This past Monday night I played a show and was given the opportunity to inform the audience that I was once again surprised but pleased and honored to be there. And the boss said he was always surprised and pleased and honored to have me there.
I don't get on the bus with these folks. That would be too much. Then they would know my darkness. And worse, my silliness. I am so silly.
Moderately profound suffering has rendered me less so. But I persist in immaturity and petty self-centeredness. And I don't do enough ... um ... yoga.ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd ohm
Sunday, October 25, 2009
suckin
Man these recent posts have been suckin. I feel fat. I feel owned by dogs and suburbanites. Nobody wants to hear that though. Who cares how I feel? Literally no one. Well, my doctor a little bit. It's his job.
The moment has arrived. The burgers are thrown on the grill. The pan hates the meat, sears it, tries to burn it. The meat flips, and flips again. It's salty. It can take it. Then the house smokes. It seethes. Why don't the alarms go off? Call 911! (Please don't, this is a crowded theater) It's ok. The electric stove in the sad village in the lost Triangle gives up. Cools down. Rests. Circa 2000.
Then we slide the glass door open to disperse the smoke. In fly mosquitos by the thousands? No butterflies, butterflies everywhere, butter flies on the bookshelf with the Bertrand Russell and the Matisse prints, butterflies on the piano, playing the mandolin, singing of their lost loves and their timeshares in the Pyrenees, butterflies in the butter. Redundant. Feeling fat. Owned by God and satin nabbers.
They won't shut up. How are you? Not me
The moment has arrived. The burgers are thrown on the grill. The pan hates the meat, sears it, tries to burn it. The meat flips, and flips again. It's salty. It can take it. Then the house smokes. It seethes. Why don't the alarms go off? Call 911! (Please don't, this is a crowded theater) It's ok. The electric stove in the sad village in the lost Triangle gives up. Cools down. Rests. Circa 2000.
Then we slide the glass door open to disperse the smoke. In fly mosquitos by the thousands? No butterflies, butterflies everywhere, butter flies on the bookshelf with the Bertrand Russell and the Matisse prints, butterflies on the piano, playing the mandolin, singing of their lost loves and their timeshares in the Pyrenees, butterflies in the butter. Redundant. Feeling fat. Owned by God and satin nabbers.
They won't shut up. How are you? Not me
Friday, September 25, 2009
Don't Believe Everything you Hear
For godsakes. A lot of what you hear isn't even a declarative sentence admitting of truth or falsity. For instance, would you believe the whine of South Lamar (aka 71/290) over which 65000 vehicles per day travel? Or is that the whine of 360 -- fewer vehicles but more exhaust, 'cause it's hilly. Or possibly it's the whine of Mopac with a whopping 72000 vehickups a day. It could be any of these. I can hike to them all from my house in 10 minutes or less.
I was boycotting Central Markup for awhile for various non-reasons. Then I realized they have really big grapes a lot of the time and all the girls go for really big grapes.
Otherwise, not much to report. More on declarative sentences though. Gottlob Frege (yes his name means God's Love) said that all thoughts were sentences. And this was the line of thinking that lead L Wittgenstein to say ( in his youth ) that "the world is all that is the case." the idea being that the world is the sum of all the true sentences. I actually buy this. Later Witt changed his tune, but I was never interested enuff to delve into later Witt, or much more of Frege.
Here's a true sentence: I play the cello badly. and another I rock the cello. Both true.
These are not sentences admitting of truth or falsity because they are imprecise, vague, or possibly ambiguous. What is that thing? Vague sentences are those that break the law of the excluded middle (a sentence is either true or false) -- ambiguous sentences break the other law? (the principle of bivalence, that if a sentence is true, it's negation is false). Don't worry, I had to look all that up.
Here's a treat, some sentences with clear meaning. I watched "Shoot the Piano Player" tonight. This used to be my fave movie when I was 16. I got A WHOLE LOT more out of it this time. Jeez what a great movie. A little trite. But so funny. Great music. And Truffaut doing his hommage to Hitchcock with like no budget. There is no bad acting or writing. Beauty.
That movie is what made me do my life like I did.
And it has landed me here, in a backwater scene, where fun is to be had, the past is a dark nightmare, and the future is probably violent or at least difficult no matter how hard we try to avoid violence and difficulty.
I am responsible. I told someone to hit their knees today. Pretty sure they didn't. I certainly didn't. I just kept going til it got dark.
Tomorrow I celebrate 21 years without a drink ( of booze ). I have had desserts cooked in wine, stews, and an accidental bit of vodka that I thought was water. But I haven't been drunk since that Sunday night in 1988 when I bowled in the high 100's and snorted powder in the bowling alley bathroom all night.
Life is much better now? My high score bowling last month was 109 I think.
Don't believe everything you hear. Ow ! ow ow!
I was boycotting Central Markup for awhile for various non-reasons. Then I realized they have really big grapes a lot of the time and all the girls go for really big grapes.
Otherwise, not much to report. More on declarative sentences though. Gottlob Frege (yes his name means God's Love) said that all thoughts were sentences. And this was the line of thinking that lead L Wittgenstein to say ( in his youth ) that "the world is all that is the case." the idea being that the world is the sum of all the true sentences. I actually buy this. Later Witt changed his tune, but I was never interested enuff to delve into later Witt, or much more of Frege.
Here's a true sentence: I play the cello badly. and another I rock the cello. Both true.
These are not sentences admitting of truth or falsity because they are imprecise, vague, or possibly ambiguous. What is that thing? Vague sentences are those that break the law of the excluded middle (a sentence is either true or false) -- ambiguous sentences break the other law? (the principle of bivalence, that if a sentence is true, it's negation is false). Don't worry, I had to look all that up.
Here's a treat, some sentences with clear meaning. I watched "Shoot the Piano Player" tonight. This used to be my fave movie when I was 16. I got A WHOLE LOT more out of it this time. Jeez what a great movie. A little trite. But so funny. Great music. And Truffaut doing his hommage to Hitchcock with like no budget. There is no bad acting or writing. Beauty.
That movie is what made me do my life like I did.
And it has landed me here, in a backwater scene, where fun is to be had, the past is a dark nightmare, and the future is probably violent or at least difficult no matter how hard we try to avoid violence and difficulty.
I am responsible. I told someone to hit their knees today. Pretty sure they didn't. I certainly didn't. I just kept going til it got dark.
Tomorrow I celebrate 21 years without a drink ( of booze ). I have had desserts cooked in wine, stews, and an accidental bit of vodka that I thought was water. But I haven't been drunk since that Sunday night in 1988 when I bowled in the high 100's and snorted powder in the bowling alley bathroom all night.
Life is much better now? My high score bowling last month was 109 I think.
Don't believe everything you hear. Ow ! ow ow!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Leaving Home
Now that I've grown up, it's time for me to leave home. I plan to take little with me. Like Tom Sawyer, or Ben Franklin maybe.
Just a few items of clothing wrapped in a diaper which will swing jauntily from a stick which will sit mostly on my left shoulder.
I will find me a city, where nobody knows me, and settle it down, on the old side of town. I'll find a feeling, and we will be happy, I won't ever run out, like I'm runnin out now. And I'll never be found and I won't have to pay for what I have to do, nor what we've done today [courtesy, HT Young]
The best t-shirts are old. The old t-shirts are trash.
Just a few items of clothing wrapped in a diaper which will swing jauntily from a stick which will sit mostly on my left shoulder.
I will find me a city, where nobody knows me, and settle it down, on the old side of town. I'll find a feeling, and we will be happy, I won't ever run out, like I'm runnin out now. And I'll never be found and I won't have to pay for what I have to do, nor what we've done today [courtesy, HT Young]
The best t-shirts are old. The old t-shirts are trash.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Journaling
Journalling? Certainly not two ells. Noel is best. One 'ell is enough for anybody. But I've got a couple ells in my journalling.
I say, Yeah I journal. And everybody says, wow that's really great. But they haven't read the crap. I do all the time. It's sorta like watching a car crash over and over and over and..... really the same crap pretty much every day for about a year and a half. There's the part that's fun, which I downplay, and then the endless psycho-philosophical babble which can be summed up in a single word. Maybe. (That's the word) Maybe I'll do something different and break out of this hideous rut (rut is in the middle of truth), in which ALL I do is journal. You name it, whatever else it is, I probably don't do it. I, yes, play a little music, and write a little music, and earn some of the money I get paid. But who I am. That person came out last week at fiddle camp. A pleasant, decent sort of guy. Very tired, but decent. Too tired and too decent to journal much.
Then I got home, and out came the journal for the several hundredth recording of the agony and the sort of ecstasy, neither of which is so dramatic really. It's just what happens in the hours. And it is so boring I should stop. But there is a fascination. And fear. So I watch no TV. I wait for the next episode of my lack of a life, which I will faithfully record in my ninth book of journalling this year. Which I will read. And which will, yes, put me to sleep. Like the good dog I am.
I say, Yeah I journal. And everybody says, wow that's really great. But they haven't read the crap. I do all the time. It's sorta like watching a car crash over and over and over and..... really the same crap pretty much every day for about a year and a half. There's the part that's fun, which I downplay, and then the endless psycho-philosophical babble which can be summed up in a single word. Maybe. (That's the word) Maybe I'll do something different and break out of this hideous rut (rut is in the middle of truth), in which ALL I do is journal. You name it, whatever else it is, I probably don't do it. I, yes, play a little music, and write a little music, and earn some of the money I get paid. But who I am. That person came out last week at fiddle camp. A pleasant, decent sort of guy. Very tired, but decent. Too tired and too decent to journal much.
Then I got home, and out came the journal for the several hundredth recording of the agony and the sort of ecstasy, neither of which is so dramatic really. It's just what happens in the hours. And it is so boring I should stop. But there is a fascination. And fear. So I watch no TV. I wait for the next episode of my lack of a life, which I will faithfully record in my ninth book of journalling this year. Which I will read. And which will, yes, put me to sleep. Like the good dog I am.
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