A Man's Gotta Do Whatta Man's Gotta Do

I have NEVER believed this, believe it is meaningless. What is it, a John Wayne thing? He was an actor. I've seen him on TV.
Much prefer Clint Eastwood. That movie based on the life of John Wesley Hardin, or Harding. Whichever. Where he shot people dead and then spit on them. Awesome.

John Wesley Hardin was a misguided Texan Confederate survivor trying to buck history. I could wikipedia it, but my recollection is he was not executed but rather died in a silly gun battle after a bit of incarceration. Hated the carpetbaggers, I know. Which irks me, since I am one.

But what does that mean? that expression..... Nothing. A man doesn't have to do anything. A man has to do stuff in order to achieve goals.
And sometimes a man (I've discovered this recently) is completely, I mean completely, without the means to some ends.

For instance if somebody doesn't love you, oh well. Or if somebody is too afraid to do a right thing, nothing will budge them except -- now note this exception --- an even worse fear. We all, at some time or other, lack the courage of our convictions. But I am toying with this idea of "a greater fear."

I think it is my only hope.

I know you crave more detail. Let me try an example. Pretty easy actually. The parachute concept. No way Hozay you're gonna jump out of a plane. But wait, the plane is on fire! How long would you hesitate? Not even a minute.

Similarly, you believe that if you (another example) leave your job, you will not find another. You will not be able to pay your bills, etc etc. I actually had this worry in 1980. Then I dealt with the torture of being too afraid to leave my miserable (to me, prestigious to others) job by taking so many pills and drinking so much that my liver got really enlarged and leaving/quitting the job just happened. When I awoke, I had a new life. The money and jobs came. I smiled. My liver shrank back down. Life got pretty good. Really good actually.

A man's gotta do.....pills and booze. Is the moral.

objectionable content

I'm confused (you knew that). I am aware that my blog contains highly objectionable stuff, but I've been careful to refrain from the use of profanity and do not let the reader in on the intimate details of my life, like my occasional bathing or other hygiene.
So it's probably just another software glitch (it looks like that), this thing that comes up oddly on the screen that says I have flagged my own blog as containing OC.
Crap.
I'm not gonna worry about it. I have high water to drive thru today. I'm gonna worry about that. I know, Turn around, don't drown! But should I actually listen to THAT computer.

I hate computers, but they are my mother.

F

D

Doing the Impossible

I Live
with a Bear.
Bear is a dog.
Gone it.
The other dog. The really cool one.
She could herd cows. Loud.
I was sure she'd be trampled, but for her twas no prob.
And she fed herself. Not in the human way, not the suburban way I mean.
She killed rabbits
and ate road-kill
and the occasional fried turkey wing.
Bonzenal.

I dug a hole in the backyard in February and laid her in there.
I was worried she wasn't really dead, but the rigor mortis was pretty much of a
giveaway.

I like the urban dictionary, but I don't consult it much.
I like the playing of guitars, but not often.
I approve of reading, but when?
I like a big stage and lights. They make me smile.
I've been on and off those stages since I was about 20.
40 years. Almost impossible really, since I am no
Mark OConnor or Yoyo man nor a natalie mcmistress, nor even
Blevans or other jazz giant.
I'm just a little guy who feels the music and carries a work ethic so heavy
it weighs me down in my sleep.
I awake working.
And recently I find I enjoy practicing.
It is a relief from the unbelievable insanity that is my life.
The intense love of several other humans.
One claims she's an alien, but that's obvious.
Smart Martian.
Another seems to love me so much she can't stop crying. And her airport was broken. (She says its grief, but there is no such thing as grief -- euphemism for regret)
I love everybody I know. Indiscriminate. And when my remark "Sustaining anger takes so much effort I would rather just forgive..." is met with silence, I worry, and forgive.

Lest I come off saintly or daily lamish: None of it is working, while it all works.
Luck? Good luck. Bad luck. It is all luck.

And I will please all the people all the time, and I will love all my loved ones and it is impossible. And there's always tomorrow. Til there isn't.

fool that I was

is likely the fool that I am. Though I feel wise today. Oddly I am certain I will forget today.
A Thursday? AH, I had a rehearsal. At the church. The christian soldiers were marching marching, quietly to the bathrooms. No, that was on Sunday Sunday. Monday, that's a day. I often rehearse with a band. Great band really. "the creative opportunity." "the creative thing" is what people miss when they depart. I do the best I can. Honestly.
But I'm paranoid. Classic paranoid. That's why no posts for awhile. Paranoia is boring kids.
1. They are all out to get me.
2. They are all crazy.
3. The outcome is unpredictable and will not be to my liking.

I have a young Facebook (or is it FaceSpace?) friend whose little motto talks about kissing a lot.
And kissing well. An easy well in which to fall. I kissed this friend once, and I think it startled her. Her neck was kinda sweaty. Which I ordinarily like, but she's such a young thing, and I am not. She's a friend of friends. And I am not.

Friends. Yes. Always liked Quakers. For years, I have been one. It's the paranoia.
Understandable, given the shifting sands, waves of salty water, and onslaught of telephone messages requiring response. I tried really hard in about 1999, and again in 2002. I believed the outcome would be mainly good, acceptable, understandable. I might get some disease and die, but probably not, and I was strong and could handle shit. Fool that I was.

bin laden

I was eating meatloaf with a friend today, and he looked up (from a half a forkful of mashed potatoes) and said a bit malevolently "Osama bin Laden is a pussy!"
The purported murdering part of the man is not admirable, the fanaticism is stupid and dangerous, but a "pussy?" No, it's not that. I think maybe compared with Joan of Arc for one, he is pussy-ish.
But it would be stupid of him to just step out and get caught and then say public stuff to rally his peeps and write poetry before he got executed. He probably would not actually write poetry. Remember he's just a rich kid with an exotic hobby that has cost him his health and comfort. I don't believe him to have a great deal of creative drive, though he must have some charisma and some imagination. Anyway, he's so 2 thousand and 1.

What I want to know is why my government has spent, what, billions trying to catch this guy, and they haven't spent a penny trying to catch me. Is it that I don't know what to do with a Kalashnikov? Hell, he probably doesn't either. I was growing a beard last week, but they come in so grey now I always cut 'em back to the flesh before I get even a week's worth.

I have been laden. What will you give for him?
And more importantly, why? I'll see you to martyr.

all downhill from here

I woodshedded a bit, played a lot of gigs, supported the ever-growing family the best I could as a musician. Then lo, lucked into a business which made use of my music skills and in which I learned more music skills, more people skills, and the art of scoring to picture. Other stuff too. Built a team to do more work than I could do alone. Great team. Great feeling. Great run.
Now I'm rich and can kick back and let the kids do their thing. Pat 'em on the back. Every so often they call me in when they need a heavy hit of some sort. NO! It's all lies. Not rich, not trusted by my "team." Can't hit at all anymore. I've been doing $50 club gigs, writing songs I hope will make somebody love me (which fail usually -- and love is over-rated), and alienating every living thing in my path. All that was before this recession thingy. Now what?
All downhill from here. Can't wait. But mostly, that's what I do.
Although I did learn a fiddle tune this evening. Hell amongst the Yearlings. Got a version from Dale Morris, bless him, and iTunes had Benny T and the wild Clark Kessinger.
There's the big bucks. Contest fiddlin.
Tune of Choice. ? She'll be wearin red pajamas when she comes, scratch, scratch.

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.