Yea, I’m gonna ramble tonight… got absolutely nothing better
to do than listen to music and break in a new keyboard.
May I recommend to your ears a crew called Gaelic Storm.
They sing Celtic ballads, classics old and new… good stuff. Songs about being a man. Ok, so they come
from Southern California, but what the f***. They can sing, and you can
understand their words… pretty rare these days. A lot of songs about life on
the wave, the seafaring life, and of course a fair sampling about epic drinking
(hey, it’s Irish, right?) and some totally sweet sincere love ballads. The sort
of things being a man used to be all about until we were all supposed to turn
into… ah… yea. Right. Wrong. Fuck it.
Turn it sideways, turn it raunchy… Blaggard’s version of “Drunken
Sailor” and hell, you can more than see her kicking up her heels dancing on the
table, you can see she ain’t wearing squat under the skirt and damn, you’re
probably glad your sitting upwind of the show cause like I said, it’s sideways
and it’s well used raunchy like only drunken sailors get after six months at
sea… and… Of course you gotta have three or four versions of “Ghost Riders”
just to pull balance between the land and the sea… sailors and cowboys. Right.
If you wanna save your soul from hell a ridin’ on our range…
Every time I figure out one more piece of the puzzle it does
this to me. Been working on the bloody damn thing for twenty five years. Bit by
bit, piece by piece, this detail, that detail… all the things you got to think
through before you start whittling the aluminum and bending up the lines. I’m sure it will work, I’m sure fully
deployed it would cut like 20, 25 percent off the grid loading in the
summertime, in point of fact it would step up and fight a running rearguard
against global warming. No shit, it
would. I know you don’t believe me, I
don’t have a string of degrees hanging off the back of my name, but that’s what’s
cool about inventing things… all you have to do is satisfy the laws of physics,
make it work and you can tell the overeducated sociotard elitist parasitic idiots
not only what to do with it, you get to tell them where and how as well because
what the fuck, all they have going for them is the government and every assassin
who ever took a corporate contract. Yea. I can make it work, I’ve figured out
tougher things. But do I want to give it to a world that’s ever more dedicated
to worshiping the perverted and the sterile? The debauched and the
dishonorable? Not really. Heavy, heavy conflict in my soul. Yea, another major
corner came clear, and now? Once again… do I want to? For people who mock me
for trying? Do I want to? I don’t know.
Still, it’s to simple an idea, I can’t be the first to see
it. Makes me wonder what happened to the
first dozen guys who noticed it. Dead, or bought off and under black patent to
the goddamn gooks? Who knows. Yea, paint
your wagon boys, it’s time to pull the fuck outa here. Kiss Moria for me, I’m
going to be following a wanderin’ star. I’m
tired of living with the pain of watching what should be beautiful getting drug
down into the obscene.
Betrayed. That’s the
best word for it. I feel betrayed from
so many directions. Yea, it about
fits. The Russians had Lenin, we get
what? Donald the fucking Trump.
Figures. Ani DiFranco… she sings
well, pretty woman, be prettier if she’d take the ring out of her nose. Oh
well, the young folk decorate themselves to match what they see as their world.
If a pretty woman doesn’t deface herself to match the world around her she can’t
be pretty. Sheeesh. At least I got to live a few decades before it went to
hell. They’re looking at a lifetime of hong
kong hopeless for a legacy. Poor bastards.
Herb Alpert and A Taste of Honey… Bright. Cheerful. And
Mason Williams. Classical Gas. A well named piece. I love the song, hate the
memory. It hit the air the week Dad
died. Bittersweet, but that’s just me.
And now for the DJ’s lunch break… here’s to living in the
Garden of Life… rumored as the worlds longest and absolutely best ever… sound
check. That’s how so many of the great things happen… by accident. Can’t make it happen. Like hunting unicorns… you’ll never find one,
you just have to hope one of them finds you.
Captain Morgan is some good shit. Brings out the pirate in yer soul. Seems I
was talking about pirates not to long ago.
Drum solo… had an Indian friend once, at the club and drunk… band did
inna godda da vita, not a bad cover, but the peak of the night was my buddy,
full blood Choctaw, drunk as a hoot owl dueling it out on the dance floor with
the drummer… both of ‘em running rivers of sweat bowing to each other to
standing ovation applause… what a night.
*Grin*
Think, think I’ll petition for some… vanilla fudge when this
one is over… yea… if I’m gonna get drunker, and funkier, it’s about time for
the dissonant and the disembodied of the vintage…
I spend so much time being the adult, the responsible, the
sane… a bane on a passionate man’s soul it is… but it’s the burden you bear to
be a man. An obsolete avocation, that one is… being a man. Very politically incorrect and all that. To
which I say? Fuck you and fuck the camel you dromedaries up on… man I’ll be or
dead I’ll be, but some washed out simulation? Not… gonna happen. I’ll ride with Jethro Tulls “Hunting Girl”,
won’t love her, but I’ll ride with her…at least, as far as the hedge at the far
side of the pasture.\
Oh, the wisdom of the gods of google’s domain… Sekma Hayak,
from Dusk till Dawn… oy baby… remember I do Leia doing this one… whew… fan yer
face, that’s to hot for a mortal boy. Seductive sin, so… entrancing. Careful,
boy. The Captain has been known to fall for a dame like that, and take a crew
down with him.
Ok, drunk I am. En vino veritas. I’m tired, I’m not gonna live a whole lot
longer, and what bothers me is I really don’t give a damn. I should, but I don’t.
Keyboard is doing fine. Fingers? They’re on reflex.
Some velvet morning… when I’m strait… what a song. It’s
always had a place in my heart, the story just rings into my life, always had
from before I knew just how close it really does fit… lord.
I’ve lived, I’ve loved, and soon it will be time to
leave. Is there something beyond? Fuck
if I know. Musings on a “Big Log” as it were.
I once told a rather rude newbie in one of Alex’s shows that the only
way he was ever going to be between her legs was if he died on the moment and
reincarnated as her (n’th) child. At
this moment? Yea, at this point I’d take that option. To not know shit, just,
that I’ve loved this woman before, and… the warmth of her breast, the sensation
of being held… that I owe her a life of honor and nobility, because she agreed
to mother me… yea. Good trade.
I suppose I’m being a damn fool. But… damn fool is better
than damned fool, if you understand me. I
suppose in the morning I’ll get up, and go back to [technical misinformation deleted], and/or stories of sweet little lesbian girls trying
to understand what it is that makes a man a man, or takes of heroes and
heroines vs. the mean evil machine… or, yea. All the things I do to fill my
time.
So few now understand what it is to maintain a passion in
your soul that isn’t a perverted thing, to keep it isolated, keep it pure. It
isn’t easy, to maintain a clean passion in a perverted world. Passion is out of
fashion. Bottom line is if you can do that then the rest of it isn’t so very
hard, not really. It’s just… a judgment call. Is it righteous, or is it not?
Yes, she’s hot, yes, she’s willing… but, is it righteous? Righteous. If there
is one word that I’m bound to that is it. Fuck socially correct, butt fuck
politically correct. But Righteous? That I’ll do my best to honor.
Once every six months or so, sometimes once a year, I allow
myself this… the excuse of a good drunk just to totally feel and not think… I
leave you with Sinead O’ Conner’s version of “The House of the Rising Sun.” There’s still a lot of rum to drink, and I’ve
yet to find the tears I need. G’night.
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