well. Not really. I just had that urge to say some smart stuff. I thought maybe the truth about sex (there's a lot of it, but never enough). Thus, getting candid about sex. Or, the more comfortable option: getting sexy about candy.
That goes back to Halloween, when I had the fun time of T or T'ing with my grandson. Keaton. Kick or Keat! All aboard! Anyway, it was obvious that this was a big, sexy if you will, or just fun if you won't....thing for him. A wildly successful business. You go door to door, in a small flock. People open their doors and give you stuff. Your job is to walk around with a plastic pumpkin.
Now I want to know: Will this perhaps work on other evenings? or even mornings? I definitely want to rejoice with Keaton in the existence of the H'Ween tradition. And then explain to him that the business of it is pretty much restricted to that once a year.
Thing is, the whole point of all business is to trick or treat the folks in the marketplace EVERY SINGLE DAY. I knock on your door; you give me stuff. Mostly chocolate. I try to remember to say something. Something smart. Like: The universe is large (not really so smart...more, meaningless). How about My Hair is Thinning. Perhaps true on the surface (of my skull), but not particularly meaningful. Let's see. I guess what I've mostly done for about 40 years is provide melodies and smiles. And my plastic pumpkin stays somewhat full. I play a descending diatonic scale in Bb. You give me a new pickup truck.
I've blogged down, it seems. What can I say that's really smart? Oh. That you should skip the houses with the lights off and no pumpkin out front. Something about not everyone OBSERVES the holiday. Next year I want to trick or treat with creatures I can see clear through. They aren't hard to find.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
the shortness
I really don't know why, but I think I do. Cable channels are a big part of it. And, yes, this will be another old fart remembering the good old days and bashing the now days. Not really. Just a curiosity. In the old days, we got a gig. It was probably 4 hours long. We did it in 2 or maybe 3 sets, with breaks. Sure, maybe long breaks. Now it's a bit of a battle to get a gig. Or not. But you don't have much when you have one. It's usually just a "show," 2 hours tops. There are still restaurant and hotel gigs (?) which might go 4 hours. I dunno. It doesn't matter much. Except I guess partly I'm jealous of all the young acts coming up in Austin now learning how to kick ass in 90 minutes or so. Instead of having to slug it out trying to make people dance and drink for the eternity-seeming four hours in a dance hall. I miss the old Austin. I miss the old Austinites who were here when I got here 36 years ago. They were really friendly, drunk or sober. And they supported me. I really like some of the newer venues. I like Flips. I still approve of the Continental. It's still really loud a lot. I'm glad it's still there. And something about me likes that the band is gonna play 90 minutes and then rotate the heck out of there and go to their other gig of the night (with a different band).
But there seems to be something difficult about getting a group to hang together for very long in this environment. A gig is just not much of a commitment. And if you're a little late to it, you miss a lot of it.
And sometimes you're glad you did
But there seems to be something difficult about getting a group to hang together for very long in this environment. A gig is just not much of a commitment. And if you're a little late to it, you miss a lot of it.
And sometimes you're glad you did
Thursday, July 29, 2010
dizzy from disdain
the blog of dizziness. I need money. I have been stashing money in my business for 18 years. I am told I am not allowed access to it now. My first step will be to quit doing my job. I get paid whether I do it or not. What is my job anyway? Boss? Yup. Maybe I can pick up some paying freelance work. Simultaneously I will commence to have an excellent time. I still don't drink or smoke, so it'll just have to be babes and bow rehairs out the wazoo.
Wahoo!
And baby-sitting (for free), i.e. playing with my wild grandson. CHild of Firee Skies. Afraid, like his ma, of thunder.
I fear nothing. And I don't care what you think
I will write the music I want to write and sell it to 6 people. Or more!
[insert latin text here, please]
Wahoo!
And baby-sitting (for free), i.e. playing with my wild grandson. CHild of Firee Skies. Afraid, like his ma, of thunder.
I fear nothing. And I don't care what you think
I will write the music I want to write and sell it to 6 people. Or more!
[insert latin text here, please]
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
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