Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Hawaii Five Oh What a Time (part 5)So after coffee and fruit we start off for Diamondhead. Robert is keeping the top up today as yesterday he used only 15 sunscreen. We call him Toast for the rest of our stay here. Diamondhead is visible from all over the coast from Hawaii Kai to Barbers Point. It's not as tall as the mountains behind it but it sticks out there. It's a crater about 150,000 years old. So you start by driving through a tunnel into the floor of this crater and then taking a long hike up to the highest point overlooking the sea.
The guide book keeps us from looking as idiotic as the tourists trying to go native in their shower thongs and sandals. That worked okay for about the first 300 yard on pavement but then it becomes a rough trail cut through lava and ashrock. We even saw a chick trying this in heels. One could make a nice profit running a bandaide or Dr. Scholls concession here. But we were properly shod in thick socks and sneakers as the trail got steeper and led to steps and through tunnels so dark I had to remove my sunglasses to keep from continuously slamming into the sides. About a hundred and seventy steps and two tunnels before you reach the summit. Amazing view all around. It's heavy competition with the many Japanese tourists for photo-op positions.
Once again I'm fascinated by that culture. Being an obsessive person myself, I find many obsessions quite useful. I understand obsessions. They seem to have an obsessive need to capture every memory and moment in photos. I do it with notes in my little book. They seem highly prone to fads: the young ladies in their tight jeans ( I appreciate that) even in tropical Hawaii and their lightened hair making them look alluringly exotic. Then there are the always-in-use cellphones, the ever popular karaoke joints, video games, animi, and I learned recently that there are more salsa dancing joints in Tokyo than Latin America. I like salsa dancing. The travel and photography thing, of course is huge with them. These are good things. useful things. Well, okay the video game thing I could do without. They seem to be a very successful culture even if you just look at the business side. I'm eager to learn more.
The climb down Marblehead is effortless except for the footing. I don't see anybody in bad footwear making their way off the top. Maybe medics have carted off the ones who broke down on the way up. We have a late breakfast at Waikiki Cheeseburger. Fun place, retro music. Great burgers. They also do French toast well. Cathy is wearing the cool T-shirt we bought there of a Hula girl raising a cheeseburger to the heavens like a host.Cheeseburgerus vobiscum. I worry that somebody will send Cathy to fetch them coffee. The waitress is thrilled she's got it on. We kept her in her seat, though.
Back at the Ihilani by the lagoon, I watch too impossibly drunk ladies stumble down to the edge, tear off their cover-ups like artless strippers and fall into the water. I'm startled at how wasted they are. One seems to favor lying in the water and I'm sure she'll pass out and drown. Her sandals keep floating away and people retrieve them for her. I'm getting ready to run and pull her face out of the water when she wakes up and stumbles onto a chaise. She falls off of it several times and her sandals float away again. I'm sure she fell asleep there, after I was summoned to dinner. I'm equally sure she didn't have adequate sun protection. We never saw them again. I should have checked the burn unit at he hospital. Robert told me later that they got flagged at the bar after way too many MaiTais. And stumbled away angry. One had a black eye.
And you know this became a lyric. And Alas, the lagoon rhyme actually works here.
Her Life's a Mess
Bud Buckley Copyright 2005
Fifty-ish. No more nifty-ish
Falling down drunk in the lagoon
Sunscreen misses frame seared flesh
She's a living breathing cartoon
And her life's a mess
Her life's a mess today
She can't even guess the rest
Head collapsed on her folded fists
Baby wave wakes her, moves like a starfish
She studies the inviting veins in her wrists
Coated now with the day's sandy harshness
And her life's a mess
Her life's a mess today
She can't even guess the rest
Drifting sandals, She couldn't care less
Shades almost hide the bruise on her face
But not that what she can't confess
Not what she can't replace
And her life's a mess
Her life's a mess today
She can't even guess the rest
Well that could use some more work but I thought it was interesting that this one just spilled out of me like too many MaiTais.
posted by Bud @ 7:27 PM
Monday, May 30, 2005
Hawaii Five Oh What a Time (Part 4)MEMORIAL DAY
My blog today is being published in the form of a column in MaliciousBitch.com.
Go there now and read it. While you're there, look around and become a subscriber. It's one of my favorite stops every day on the web.
posted by Bud @ 7:16 PM
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Hawaii Five Oh What a Time (part 3)Monday morning at 5:00, I had many cups of coffee by the shark pond that is actually part of the lobby but still outside. Again, outside is in and inside is out. There is also a pond with enormous rays gliding around like humongous flying filets with eyes and pointy tails. There are other ponds with those cartoon-colored fish, severely thyroidal starfish, urchins and anemones. There are other things I couldn't identify but were vaguely recognizable from the Japanese menu. The sharks, I should explain, are baby hammerheads. Interesting but not threatening. Toy hammers, if you will. I never saw them nail anything.
Later I go for a massage. Terrific spa with every contraption for self-absorbment you'd expect. Wonderful massage from Jackie, a native with fingers of steel that are at the same time soothing as silk. Not quite like having your ass rubbed by The Terminator but not like a $200 whore either. Not that I'd know anything about that. This is followed by a scented steam bath and a 360 degree needle shower. It only sounds painful. It's actually highly reminiscent of Woody Allen's Orgasmatron. I float out of that place. Later we have brunch in the open but covered dining room. Yup, inside but you're outside. Birds even come in and steal crumbs from time to time. I'm beginning to notice that many Japanese girls are lightening their hair, making them look very exotic. I find them very pretty in either color. I find the Japanese very interesting people in every respect and it is my finest wish that they lose the raw fish and seaweed habit. I do notice this particular group at brunch is chowing down on an American breakfast buffet. Hard. Hope is alive and it's name is bacon.
Cathy and I drive into town and I get my glasses fixed. The doctor will take no money. Is this an alternate universe? Later we sit by the lagoon, people watching, and then go off with Mic and Robert for a long walk around all four lagoons. I contemplate rhymes for lagoon besides goon, moon and maroon. Somehow I only come up with baboon, cartoon, typhoon, balloon, cocoon and spoon. I put my notebook away. This is a rhyme scheme I will not be harvesting. It's the cliche' aversion thing.
We have dinner at Roy's which is located right there on the golf course of this resort. Robert and Mic do a critique and it gets very high grades. I loved the food. That's all I need. Robert and I discuss the problem of fleeting inspiration. He had noticed me writing a song at various parts of the day in my little notebook. I told him I have to keep it with me for moments when inspiration strikes. He said he has a problem remembering when he is inspired by some menu theme. I learned the hard way to do this. My co-writer Kathy Feeney says once you lose a lyric because you can't write it down, it just blows off into the wind for somebody else to catch. I hate to lose a verse like that as I did not long ago during Shavasana. It didn't drift off on the wind. It melted into my yoga mat. Hard as I try, I can't wring that sucker out.
Tuesday my 5:20am coffee is shattered with the extremely noisy babble of mothers and their babies who are demanding their attention. Four mothers talking without listening. Each have that flat-toned practiced patter reserved for scripts they've recited many times about nothing important. They talk of things that would stereotype them: goats milk, fat free vs. low fat, nannies, sleep cycles, diaper rash. Is it deja vu or are they reciting a scene from Sex and the City? Their tone is smooth but grating so that my morning bliss is molested like sandpaper on cheese. The babies scream to be noticed. The moms' tone doesn't change when the subject changes. There's no emotion, no true interest, no empathy in this tone. It's a tone that just wails, "I'm a young, well off mother. This is my life. You know the drill." But sometimes I think I hear an anger in that tone. Sometimes I think I hear a little desperation, a little resentment. Sometimes the underlying tones seem to be saying, "This is all that unquenchable motherhood urge got for me. This is all that I am and it's not the way I thought it would be. It's not enough. Mother's Day doesn't mean shit. Just leave me alone and let me sleep." But maybe that's just my guy perception. Because the babies are still screaming. Naturally I start a lyric about this. But it's too depressing to see the light of day.
Something uplifting tomorrow; Diamondhead!
posted by Bud @ 7:30 AM
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Hawaii Five Oh What a Time (part2)Before I continue my Hawaiian adventure, another terrific friend, Golfwidow at The Ministry of Sillywalks, is an amazing writer and commentator. She published her first podcast here. Check it out. This girl rocks.
Saturday morning we drove as far up the windward side of the island as time would allow. It was unbelievably gorgeous. People who live here should never need Valium or antidepressants. We changed hotels to meet up with Cathy's daughter, Mickey and her BF, Robert.
He is a Marriott chef in Santa Clara, California and we stayed at the Marriott Ihilani Resort and Spa at Ko Olina, about half and hour west of Honolulu. We stayed there on Robert's employee discount. Otherwise this place was WAY out of our league. It is by far the best place I have ever stayed in. It utilizes the beauty of the island by making the outside in and the inside out. Perfect design that also turns your pockets inside out if you're paying full price.
After dinner we drive back down to Waikiki in their rented convertible. I feel like a teenager again. Can't hear the make out music so I hum Louie Louie, the version I recorded for Andy's Birthday. We stroll the beach and watch the obsessiveness of the local surfers,
a lot of hula dancers,
several street buskers and mimes. There were actually two violinists on the street. One young and one old. The young one is a 14 year old who is saving to go to Julliard.
Isn't that how you got your start, Last Girl?
We take a moonlit convertible ride back to the hotel and listen to some guy like me in the bar. I tip him big. I don't buy his CD because unlike most of his first set which is a lot of material I cover, the CD is all Hawaiian. I can't say I like a steady diet of Hawaiian music. The melodies are sometimes interesting but predictable. The lyrics are totally inaccessible to the language impaired me. The kitschy songs like "I wanna go back to my Little Grass shack..." are just tiresome. I like what Jack Johnson has done with his music. It's not Hawaiian but I can hear the influence. He gets massive airplay here. He may be the musical equivalent to the Duke.
Sunday morning we go on an early catamaran trip. Snorkeling is the key feature. We explore a manmade reef at the outlet tubes of a power plant. A thrill to realize you're swimming in a school of cartoonishly colorful fish. Suddenly I'm in Nemoland I discover that a mustache guarantees water will come in your mask. I tire myself out quickly by pressing my mask to my face and swimming one handed. Back on board we find ourselves in a huge pod of spinner dolphins. They like to spin like a top when they breach, hence the name. I wonder if there are other breeds of dolphins doing various exotic dances when they leap out of the water. The Salsa Dolphin? The Lambada Dolphin? The Foxtrot Dolphin? Naaaa.
Chef Robert looks up a highly rated Japanese restaurant in Waikele where my friend Becky lives. I insist on two things when it comes to food: it must not be fish and it must be cooked. M and R assure me that there will be plenty for me to choose from. I should have added the requirement that it must not be seaweed and it must not taste or smell like the sea. There was nearly nothing to choose from once I threw that in. I ordered a beef and chicken teriyaki combo. This was prefaced with something they put on the table that I couldn't identify by sight. By smell it did not pass my criteria for edible objects. All I can say is thank Buddha for rice. The beef was good but the chicken was all dark meat, covered with fat, skin and sinew and, frankly, revolting. I hope I didn't make Robert and Mic uncomfortable with my obvious discomfort. I tried to be cool but I. REALLY. HATE. JAPANESE. FOOD. It really blows chunks. I don't know how they lost the war. If I had to eat that stuff I'd be so mad I'd kill everything. Twice. Even the Baskin Robbins I had afterward did little to erase the taste or the memory. Could I eat raw fish if I had to in order to survive? Not without first eating my shorts. Even then I'd have to decide if survival was really that important.
No lyric writing today. Vomitaciousness frightens my muse.
posted by Bud @ 7:21 AM
Friday, May 27, 2005
Hawaii Five Oh What a Time (Part 1.2)I'm not going to publish 10 pages of journal notes from our Hawaii trip. That would be like making you to sit through 400 photo slides. I will include a couple of photos and some verses of songs the trip inspired. Nothing is finished. Nothing is ever finished.
Here's a snatch of Day One. In the Tampa airport, I settle in for some deep people watching. Love my new shades. I can visually eavesdrop unnoticed. I get this right out of my notes. First draft:
Faces in the airport, roadmaps of the soul
How heavy is their baggage, I can never really know
T-Shirts telling where they've been. Eyes that write reviews
Gates now open to the sky, which one did they choose?
Not a bad start. I have more but no chorus yet. So later for that.
We hop up to Atlanta where we board a direct flight to Honolulu. That's one long ass flight. About 10 hours against the wind. That's at least four bad movies and two semi-disgusting meals. That's a small percentage of my iPod but how long can an ear take an earbud before it will swell up and burst? A movie promo comes on and they gave away the entire plot structure. What could possibly be left given that it was a romantic comedy of some sort? Not even any nudity. I turned to Cathy and said, I'm sure too loudly with those headphones on, "They told us the whole thing. WHY do the do that?" She responded just as loudly, "So we don't have to watch it?" I cracked up for a good five minutes. Cathy followed suit, trying not to wet herself. Just overtired silliness. The move was on by the time we calmed down and we realized the lead actor was talking in Spanish. We figured he was going to break into English in a second or two. But it kept going on and on. The promo had been in English. Why would the movie be in Spanish? But it was. We were dialed into the wrong channel. Another round of laughs and that movie was so over for us.
On our arrival in Honolulu, we find that sleep depravation and driving in a new city with unintelligible names, does not lend itself to matrimonial pleasantries. But we found our way to the hotel, sponged off and changed and we met Chris and Doyle on time. At this point we had been awake for about 21 hours. How two of the nicest people I've ever met can run a site called MaliciousBitch.com would be a puzzle for some. I expected them to be quite normal. But they were beyond normal. They were extremely nice. All three of them put up better pictures of the event than we managed to take but, it's hard to push the right buttons when you're sleepwalking AND euphoric at the same time. Here's one we got the waiter to snap.
Left to right are Doyle Brooks of Corporate Crap and MaliciousBitch.com,(MBC) Becky Pretz of April Fool and MBC Movie Reviews, my fabulous wife Cathy and me, and the amazing Christine Fron of Bitchitude and MBC.
We fell into easy conversation quickly and Cathy loved them right off. They drove us to downtown Waikiki and we met Becky of April Fool. She "got us Lei'd" or gave us leis if that's how it's put. Quite beautiful and such a sweet gesture. Becky fell right into the spirit of things and it was as if we had known each other for a long time. The five of us waited on the beach for our table to be ready at Duke's. I wrote about this yesterday but I should add the dude is a GOD in Hawaii. Oh, yeah, the food was superb too. Free salad bar with everything available. Chris and I had Huli Huli Chicken. And we all had a Huli Huli dessert. I don't know what Huli means but it was a hell of a meal.
I should mention here that Hawaiian has only 7 consonants. All those vowels make it hard for me to hear and say and spell and just deal with in general. I thought the French were bad with the over use of vowels. At least in Hawaiian, though, you do pronounce all of them. The French just put them in for decoration and to confound people with limited language ability. Like me.
The conversation at dinner was fun, articulate and easy-going. Four wise ass writers and one Cathy who is the perfect conversationalist and you know we had a large part of everybody's life out on the table in the four hours we spent together. Even at that, we all wished for more time but we were into hour number 25 of wakefulness now. We would begin slurring any minute now. Possibly drooling and talking in our sleep. So we gave them gift baggies of Florida Goodies and my CD and Becky drove us home. I STILL only got five hours of sleep. And I still keep replaying that wonderful dinner party.
Some more highlights, pictures and lyrics tomorrow.
posted by Bud @ 9:16 AM
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Lagged Out Thoughts From HawaiiBack from Hawaii and writing in a state of jetlagness. I was not able to access my site from the Marriott. I was blocked because once long ago I used the word "Bestiality" in some smart-assed post. So I hadn't seen Becky and Chris the Bitchitude and Doyle (Corporate Crap)Blog until just now. They each put up some fun photos of our five-way rendezvous. There, I gave all the decency firewalls still another reason to block me from my own site. For now go to those posts and see the pics. It's a great time to link to Malicious Bitch.com from Bitchitude or Corporate Crap because they are running a contest with LOTS of winners. I must say that my wife, Cathy and I were charmed from the moment we got together. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to at least a passing thought that it might be a little like on-line dating services. You talk to somebody on -line for a long time, become charmed and then meet face to face to realize the other person has no face. This not being a dating situation, that wasn't my concern at all. I had no real concerns. I just wanted it to go as well as it does when we chat on-line. It was better than that, actually.
Becky got us lei'd right away. Beautiful orchid leis too. We ate an excellent dinner on the beach at Duke's. Thanks for that too, Becky! Chris and I were relieved that we could eat chicken. Chris and I don't do fish. One of the many things we have in common. This restaurant is named after Duke whose last name I won't try to spell. He was Hawaii's greatest athlete. Which is to say he was a surfer. No ordinary surfer, I'm told. Although what I know about surfing is limited to old Beach Boys recordings.
All three of these people are as intelligent and articulate and funny in person as they are in the blogoshere. Add to that how nicely they included my non-blogging wife and you have not your typical blog geek. Cathy loved them right off.
I must say that I encourage Bloggers to get together like this whenever you can. The next one I plan to meet is my pal Andy Martello of Andyland when we go to Chicago for Cathy's Birthday in early October
I will endeavor to include some pics and many more comments in the days ahead. Cathy has to download the shots she took. I have to organized my thoughts and get some sleep.
posted by Bud @ 5:02 PM
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Read These While I'm Away (Four Parts)Here's my last Blog for about a week. It's actually four days worth of blogs. You may want to come back every day and check one out. I'm going to Hawai'i. I thought I'd pull something from the archives and post it here rather than send you searching back. This is earlier stuff before I started trying to express it in lyric ideas on-line. I hope you enjoy it:
From Tuesday, November 16, 2004
TERRORIST DOG TRAINING IN VENICE FLORIDA
I'd like to report this to the Department of Homeland Security but I know they wouldn't believe me. I don't even believe me. This report comes after several consecutive days of close observation and careful consideration. By "close observation" I mean speeding by on a bike at approximately 13 MPH. By "careful consideration" I mean I'm inspired by a lack of inspiration to write or think about anything else. But remember, a pair of 9/11 terrorists trained right here at the Venice airport. Not only that but this is the home district of Rep. Katherine Harris, R, who is believed to be credited for not counting all the votes in the 2000 election. By handing the presidency to her boss's brother, she parlayed her state job up to congressperson AND made this area a certain target for terrorists.
My report today is about the suspicious and consistent presence of large piles of toxic dog doo on the Venetian Waterway Trail. By "large" I mean a turban full. By "toxic" I mean, it's melting the cement. While it is NOT my habit to do drive-by forensic analysis on dog turds, it is impossible not to notice these peculiar canine land mines. I have to swerve to avoid them. This is not easy since I am usually already swerving to avoid persons much older than myself in three wheelers walking their leashed cats. Or I am holding my breath, waving hello and trying to approach warp speed to avoid Cigarman (see yesterday's Blog).
I've already mentioned the extraordinary size of the feces in question so I won't dwell on that except to say it might be a good idea if the Homeland Security people checked on existing federal grants to genetically alter the width of canine intestinal tracts. The appearance of these kaka things is not something any decent person would go into in any great detail. There being a shortage of said decent people, I will report that this creature must live on a diet of Crystal Burgers, plastique explosives and sulfuric acid. I know this is true because there are no flies within 500 yards of one of these mounds. An angry mob of dung beetles was rumored to be picketing one entrance of the trail with signs ranting about deteriorating living conditions.
As you can imagine, nobody picks this stuff up. It sits there for days, slowly oozing and corroding the cement until it is washed away by heavy rain or gobbled up by aliens seeking new power sources for their intergalactic warp drives. But that's another story. I just wanted to report this one. And so I have.
From Monday, November 15
STUNTMAN MEETS CIGARMAN
It wasn't one of my death defying stunts like when I jumped the curb on my bike and dislocated my finger on the Circus Bridge. It wasn't even like last Friday when the golf coarse sprinkler went off three feet from me, breaking my bike mirror and filling my left ear with that recycled "gray water." This time I just became distracted by the wild parrots sitting on the wire above the Venetian Waterway Trail. I hit the brakes pretty hard to avoid a post, went down a curb and managed to stay upright. My chain came off. That's how I managed to finally meet Cigarman.
I sat on a bench and inverted my bike to work on it. I smelled him long before his shadow entered my periphery. I could always smell him. Even if the wind was blowing the opposite way. It's like my sweaty smell blew into him and he sent a waft of his cigar stink back at me in harsh rejoinder. The amazing thing about Cigarman is that I've never seen him with a cigar. Yet panatela perfume emanates from him even more tenaciously and with a wider arc than an old lady returning from an Avon party. When I've passed him on other mornings, I could smell him coming and going for more yardage than you would think is normal. Cigarman is a planetoid with his own dangerous atmosphere.
But this morning his doggy got to me first and he smelled like a virtual four-legged cigar moon around planet Cigarman. He was a friendly, shaggy little lickyface guy named Fidel. As he stood on his hind legs to sniff and lick my ear while I worked on the chain I had the sensation of being doused in spittoon juice. Cigarman sat next to me on the bench to control Fidel and assault me with his noxious vapor. What he lacked in personal hygiene, he tried to make up for in loquaciousness.
"He won't bite, C'mere, Fidel," he said good naturally, through a thickly coated Larynx. His breath fortified any odor that might ordinarily have dissipated in the morning breeze.
"Yeah, he's a licker, not a biter," I managed to say without gagging.
"Need a hand?"
"Nope. Thanks, nearly got it," but in my hurry to finish and escape, I dropped the chain. I sat back for a minute and turned my head away looking for fresh air. None was to be found in this end of the solar system.
"I seen ya flying by here pretty fast every morning."
I was thinking I can't go fast enough to escape. I wrestled the chain up again and stood to upright the bike. He stretched his long boney legs out and was nearly in a reclining position on the bench. Big lovable smile. I guess it got to me enough to ask him jokingly, flippantly, but not unkindly, "Got a cigar?"
"Oh, no," he said with an air of Who Me? "I got plenty of 'em back at the trailer but I never smoke em' out here. People don't like to smell cigar smoke. Interferes with their sense of nature or somethin'."
"Uh, yeah," I managed, "go figure. See you tomorrow." I peddled off in standing position looking desperately for my next clean breath.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
THE OPPOSITE OF HOT TUNA
The smell of fish and cold weather. Two things that assault my senses as badly as roadkill in an elevator and a root canal without Novocain. I could offer psycho- analytical reasons. There could be nothing more to it than a hypersensitivity to that odor and that feel. Like an allergy. But then there are those who claim allergies are psychosomatic as well. Who cares? Here's my version:
I was a picky eater as a child. I couldn't get vegetables past my lips without a heavy gag reflex. My older siblings, Jack and Judy, used to laugh at me and tell me the nuns would force feed me when I got to school. That was a particularly shitty thing to say to a four year old who was about to start serving a 17 year sentence in catholic school. But I can't think of two people I love more than them. This gives rise to hope for world peace, I suppose.
I'm sure the fish aversion started on our yearly trip to the Jersey shore. With the industrial odors of the Philly and Camden waterfront well behind us, we whisked too quickly through the sweet Jersey Pines. The final hurdle to Long Beach Island was a wooden causeway that scared the living crap out of me. The huge whitewall tires of the '51 Pontiac rumbled over the planks which seemed way too flimsy a separation from the putrid bog rot of Barnagat Bay. We always hit it at low tide. The smell of rotting sea life permeated the car. My brother took enormous delight in wrenching every ounce of humor out of the situation. He insisted that we were about to crash through the planks and tumble into the wretched muck beneath us. My sister was always highly amused by this. My reaction was to curl up on the floor and cower, certain of impending death or, worse yet, having the source of that smell fill my nose and other orifices. So who could eat anything that smelled like that?
Inexplicably, however, is the lone exception of fried flounder. A bottom feeder coated in stale bread and oil. Mercury, possible mold and saturated fat. Never more, of course.
I'll save the cold weather phobia for tomorrow
THE OPPOSITE OF HOT TUNA, (Continued)
Cold hurts. People argue about which is worse, hot weather or cold, but they lose sight of this fact. Stub your toe on a freezing cold day and it's way worse than on a hot day. Unless it's sunburned, perhaps.
But my aversion to cold may be associated with having to walk home from school on cold windy days. I didn't seem to mind it that much on weekends. Especially if it snowed and there was something to do. When I got old enough to be in charge of moving snow and driving in it, my attitude changed dramatically.
Having lived in Florida now for two years, anything below 70 is unreasonably cold. I deeply resent it when it happens here. Usually it's only late at night but we have our days. A nasty trick of nature. It happens more frequently in the winter up here in north Florida where I'm vacationing now on Amelia Island. Down in Venice on the South West coast, it's more unusual.
The most unpleasant winter memory of my childhood, then, involves a family down the block who must have been on an all fish diet. I delivered their paper and once a month had to knock on their door to get their money. On a cold blustery day, an open door into a warm house was extremely welcome. Except there. When they opened to my knock, I was frozen from behind by the day's arctic blast and assaulted by the rush of warm fish monger air. They were nice people. Always smiling. But I think it made them seem demonic in the context of a house that smelled like the dumpster outside an all night fish restaurant. I often went months, not collecting their money to avoid them.
It occurs to me that the life of an Eskimo or anyone living in a northern seafaring/fishing town would be as unpleasant to me as a double stretch in Hell. Yet there are people who retire to places like that. Sr. Mary Confusing said Hell is a hot place. That's her opinion.
posted by Bud @ 10:41 AM
Monday, May 16, 2005
Fighting Blogger DepressionSeems to be a lot of depressed Bloggers out there this weekend. I should hang out a cyber-shingle and take PayPal fees for counseling. I'm not naming names. Confidentiality and all that. I get this general sense that there are a lot of people out there who aren't relating well to the non-blog world as we know it. Or use to know it. We really need to break free from these keyboards a few times a day to see that other reality. I'm not going to get all Matrix on you. Or Carlos Casteneda. But we do construct these separate realities. It's good to visit them all. Get a taste of each. Mingle them up a little but not enough to bore the living piss out of people who don't care about your other life or lives.
Cathy and I excel at being able to move between vastly different social situations. It's a classroom survival skill. And we did survive 34 years of that. We got out in time to be young enough to enjoy ourselves before we become babbling, drooling, repetitious, babbling--did I say that already?--masses of useless protoplasm. Occasionally, however, I do feel like a particular situation might get too, pick one; tedious, repetitious, politically offensive, religiously offensive, obtuse, culturally shallow or flat out so-mind-numbing-I'm-going-to-eat-a-can-o-cyanide boring.
But I have a strategy for dealing with that. Are you surprised it could lead to writing lyrics? Before going someplace that I fear might fit into the above mentioned nervous condition, I imagine a scenario. I decide to pretend I'm going to a secret high level meeting of the CIA. Or, even spookier, a confab of record company marketing officials. Or any one of a number of interesting groups. Then I think about who will be there and I assign personalities to them. Secret identities. It's also important to imagine what the typical conversation might be and assign certain meanings to key words, giving them code word status.
Then I just let the fun begin. I haven't had to do this in a very long time but once I recall that I was at a party where a Laura Bush character ordered the bombing by potato of downtown San Francisco. Once a top record company executive character ordered up a few million copies of my CD with a cover featuring me in nothing but FootJoy golf shoes.
Okay so neither of those ideas turned into lyrics. But I was decidedly not depressed or turned off. Life is short, then you die and somebody finds all those files on your computer you've been hiding. So do your best to lighten up.
I hope they find these links on your computer if you croak this week. I got some fantastic coverage from MaliciousBitch.com. In case you missed it, here it is again:
posted by Bud @ 6:49 AM
Friday, May 13, 2005
Bitchin'Jade at MaliciousBitch.com or MBC has posted a very nice review of my CD here.
Also she conducted an interview of me here. This is where I tell all. I get totally naked.
I'm delighted to help Jade and MBC reinstate their Beatz feature. I hope you'll stop by Beatz and the rest of MBC frequently. I could spend most of my day there. Umm, I sort of do, actually.
posted by Bud @ 9:57 AM
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Life As a BitchIf you've been reading me a while, you know of my enthusiasm for everything bitch. MaliciousBitch.com or MBC, as we call it, is a very amusing site run by Bitchitude and DB (Doyle Brooks). So they have at least five sites between them. I'm going to see them in Hawaii next week and meet Becky of April Fool as well. My pal Andy Martello of Tales From Andy Land is a regular writer on MBC as are Becky with her movie reviews.
I'm especially enthusiastic about the revived Beatz feature because it's written by Jade of Jaded Sunburns who is a very cool new Blogger friend from Phoenix and she's interviewing me for an upcoming special feature. But mostly because this looks like a must read section of MBC. Here's a link to Beatz but if my stuff isn't up yet, I'll remind you, when it is.
I highly recommend you subscribe to MBC. It's always a fun read and it's not just for women. There are different levels of membership, including FREE. I'm a paying member though because I wanted one of their cool T-shirts which came with the membership.
Another terrific writer is Marjo Moore who writes a serious column for MBC. Not coincidentally, it's called The Serious Side and the last article I see there is called, "Uncle Sam could squeeze a diamond outta his ass, he's so tight." See how serious it is?
Doyle Brooks, or DB , writes a Maliciaous Bitch Survival Guide. "What I Know About Women" in The Male Perspective: Entertaining truths about the uppity side of the female gender - for men (and women), by men.
And there are so many other useful and fun features that you'll just have to go have a look for yo'sef.
A day never goes by when I don't find another cool Blogger site from this circle of friends that started with the bunch mentioned above. I don't honestly have room to Blogroll them all. But I sure do love reading them. Maybe I'll try a rotation eventually. Which I'm sure is prompting some of you who read me everyday to say, "Rotate on this." Okay, it was just a thought. No worries.
The Free CD Contest, in case you missed, it can be entered from Sunday's blog.
posted by Bud @ 5:33 AM
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Old Friends and Just OldnessI've been meaning to show this picture for a while. This is my darling wife Cathy Lewis and I with our oldest and dearest friends on Amelia Island, Pam and Davis Turner. They are the ones on the bottom.
We have several very dear friends on Amelia. It's a good vibes place. The Turners are directly responsible for me becoming a performer as I've mentioned many times in this Blog and in my Bio on the main site.
I used this site to input a picture of myself to see what I'd look like in forty years. I'll let you try it for yourself.
Nice, huh? Get any ideas from that? I did. The idea is to imagine the unimanageable. Brainstorm the possibilities and the impossibilities. Consider the lyrics that might come out of that.
In forty years, I could be: Dead; Cryogenically preserved next to other people whose names begin with B; Bionically enhanced, just a terminator with an organic brain; younger as a result of having met the Devil and inventing a new musical form using brainwaves; the worlds oldest working singer songwriter, having attended the funeral of Mick Jagger; the worlds oldest barely living singer songwriter, wheelchair racing Mick; just an isolated old guy shelved and drewling on myself in a nursing home. Those are the more common if not entirely possible possibilities.
Moving on to the entirely fanciful I could be: World's oldest political prisoner arrested for smart assing the president in song; world's oldest male sex symbol having married a young plastic surgeon and getting a viagra pump implant; managing a laudromat on a space station as inflation makes my pension worth a bag of Freetos a month; playing a regular gig on a light speed interplanetary hotel, thus keeping me frozen in time; hosting an interplanetary holographic TV talk show about love with other life forms; traveling back in time to get even with Sr. Mary Confusing or to relive my most tender moments.
How to choose? Traveling back in time seems like too common a plot. Tempting but I'll pass. Love with other life forms is also tempting. The tolorance thing. We don't want to get into beastiality here. And although I do have more of the My-mother-was- a-Klingon type of thing in mind, I can't feel my way around a story that isn't Star Trek or something entirely too goofball.
The age thing is a subject that ought to be done. I'm just not sure how to approach it. We have several rock stars advanced in age. It's pretty hard to understand if old rockers attract young chicks because of the power, money and attention they have. I will dillegently search for anectodtes on attractive young chicks who run off with average looking guys living on Social Security. Maybe there has been a Jerry Springer show on this but I wouldn't know about that. Besides, can that possibly count?
I want to explore the possibility of actual love, not just attraction. I've always maintained it doesn't exist between old guys and normal pretty young women. I'm not gonna write a lyric about this until I have more data but welcome to my brainstorming process. Time for an aspirin break.
The Free CD Contest, in case you missed, it can be entered from Sunday's blog.
posted by Bud @ 6:10 AM
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
The Dangers of Sleeplessness and Haunting ConversationNothing seems to be happening that's very stimulating this morning. Sleep was fitful. Certain conversations playing through me like a one song iPod. Here's the kind of stuff that sometimes happens at times like these.
Don't Make Me Think
By Bud Buckley copyright 2005
No earth shattering news today, no catastrophes
No major laughs, or amusing gaffs, nobody disagrees
Everything is figured out, directions followed to the letter
We're settled here in Redlands and nothing could be better
Please don't make me think, my mind is on hold
I don't need a shrink, what I think is controlled
I'll believe anything that they say
Just don't make me think
Raise any objection, I got a talking point
Ask me to contribute, I won't disappoint
All I know's from the mouth of the fox
To hell with the earth, how are my stocks?
Please don't make me think, my mind is too old
I don't need a shrink, what I think is controlled
I'll believe anything that they say
Just don't make me think
Killing is bad unless you you resist us
Don't get my point, well that's just a missed bus
Firepower will protect you from foreign infection
My logic only works in one direction
Please don't make me think, my mind is too old
I don't need a shrink, what I think is controlled
I'll believe anything that they say
Just don't make me think
Please don't make me think
I need another drink
So I don't have to think
First drafts beg for input or beg to be put in. The trash.
posted by Bud @ 6:44 AM
Monday, May 09, 2005
This Close to Maybe Thinking About ItMy neighbor Bernadette said, gesturing with finger and thumb an inch apart, "I'm this close to maybe thinking about cleaning my house." I love that line. Applied to a relationship situation it can be a corny country song: I'm this close to maybe loving you. Twang twang twang. I think that's the problem with country lyrics. They try too hard for the hook and turn a clever line into a cliche' in about a week and a half of airplay. I fight this tendency in my writing harder every day. It's not easy. It's right there but it's like succumbing to potato chips just because they're sitting there. You could have a beautiful gourmet meal waiting for you and you ruin your pallet and appetite over 500 grams of useless transfats because, well hell, they were sitting right there in front of you. I'm gonna find a way to use that line even if I have to wait for an opportunity to come along.
However, I'm going to attempt to stick it in a lyric fragment now before one of my many nameless lurkers out there steals it. I know you're out there. Sixty to seventy Blog hits a day does not equal under a dozen comments. I will find you and I will sue your ass for plagiarism if you steal this line.
The key to not cliche'-ing the snot out of a good converstional line like this is to stick it in before the rhyme. Don't use it as the punch line. When interesting lines like that are used as lead-ups to a rhyme or a punch line, the lyrics seem more intelligent. They have a certain density that is often lost on the dense. Used as the rhyme or punch line, it's like saying, I know you're not sophisticated enough to get it any other way so here it is out on the end of the line so you don't miss it, twang twang twang.
He said, "I want you to come with me, I want to take you there."
She said, "I'm this close to maybe thinking I could even care."
Then you have to have other lines after it. It's a shiny submerged nugget that way. Not a glaring cliche'-to-be. That's the type of setup I might attempt. Not carved in stone, mind you, but an example of how I'd start to work it.
Remember the free CD contests from yesterday. Go look, if you missed them. And don't even try to slip that Highway 61 of Dylan's past me.
posted by Bud @ 6:56 AM
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Find the Free CD ContestsThree party day yesterday. I don't drink. No I'm not AA. Just a weak stomach and sense of equilibrium. I eat a lot of stuff I've sworn off of at parties. For me, that's falling off the wagon. To the point I'll bounce like a basketball.
Breakfast at the beach with the Newcomers. I avoided the bacon and sausage, just fruit and eggs. Good start. Strange being the youngest people there. Feel like I should hunch just a little out of respect. I want to whisper the words, "try yoga" into various ears around the picnic table.
Instead, we leave early and head for Sarasota to meet my yoga teacher, Nancy and her husband Mark who is my producer. Hanging out with people at least 20 years younger is more my speed. Mark and I fall into our usual wise ass repartee. All the while keeping an eye on our excessively cute wives. They feed us material, we riff on it and try not to laugh too hard at our own quips. Lunch at the Broken Egg on Siesta Key. Islands are called keys in Florida all along the Tamiami trail. That's the part of famous Highway 41 that runs from Tampa to Miami. Get it? Highway 41 is mentioned prominently in at least two songs by southern rockers, the Alman Brothers and Tom Petty. Okay, NAME THOSE SONGS for a free CD! Unless you already bought one. Name another song I'm unaware of that mentions highway 41 and I'll cough up another CD. And if you use a lyric data base that has a full text search, tell me what the hell that is. I could use it. Even if you don't win, I'll give you a CD if the thing is what I need.
While we're on the subject of CD giveaways, get over to Last Girl on Earth to see a very cool contest. Deni is fabulous. Her Blog is always entertaining. You won't be sorry.
After eating something that noticeably slowed the blood flow to my brain, we headed to the beach to see the annual Siesta Key Sand Sculpture contest. This beach has nothing but the most pure quartz sand I've ever seen. It's a fantastic medium for these sculptures. We saw nothing here that would be banned in Texas or Starbucks (see Friday's Blog) but we did see some mermaids. They were chastely displayed however as opposed to chestly displayed. Note to self, try rhyming a lyric with "Chastely displayed" and "glacially dismayed."
Cathy took some pictures:
And here are Nancy and Mark Zampella:
We walked the beach surveying a fine collection of butterfly tattoos on girls waists. Nancy thought it wouldn't be long before a pick-up line for such a thing would become a cliche. We saw a number of cute ass tattoos and some cute tattoos on asses. Doowop lyric: Ogling down the beach I saw two lasses. They had leopard skin thongs and tattoos on their asses. Or would that be a hip hop lyric?
We went to Starbucks to protest the exclusion of Bruce Springsteen (See Friday's Blog) but there was nobody there who could speak any other language other than Baristese. We got our over-priced caffeine fix and ended our day. Mark and I trading recording geek info and a nameste to Nancy.
Back to Venice to a neighborhood Kentucky Derby party. I used to pick the Derby winner or at least an exacta wheel every year. I was a good horse player until Cathy patiently pointed out to me that although I was winning, I didn't win enough to justify the endless hours of handicapping I did. Yes, I'm obsessive. But Cathy is my prime obsession. So I put ten bucks in a random pool and cheerfully lost it to others at the party who will swear today that they picked a huge longshot to win the Derby. I love these people, though. I can always laugh at myself around them because they are so different from me in many ways.
Again, I ate more than any self respecting sumo wrestler should. Later I slept on my back as I couldn't safely roll over. I'm going out on a long bike sprint now. It'll have to be fast to take advantage of superior centrifugal force over shifting girth.
I'll try to celebrate Mothers Day without eating anything.
posted by Bud @ 7:31 AM
Friday, May 06, 2005
Trolling Fark for LyricsWho Are you People?
I've been getting close to 300 hits day for a while now. At least 60 a day read the blog. Who are you people? You come back every day but I don't hear from you. Nothing to comment on? Send me an e-mail through my link button or to Bud @BudBuckley.com. I keep having dreams about people I haven't seen in many years. is that you?
If I'm feeling a need for fresh stimulation, and I don't mean Starbucks, I troll the web to see what sparks an idea for a lyric. Sometimes I only get ideas for Blog entries but going along with yesterday's Blog about humorous, Barenaked Ladies-type material, there is this:
How'd you like to be censored by Starbucks? How'd you like to have a company who makes a few thousand percent profit on a cup of coffee, judge you to be too raunchy? If that doesn't encourage somebody to write something about value systems in conflict, I don't know what will. Be careful, the rhymes for Starbucks alone can get you banded in Texas where it is apparently illegal to mention a sex act in public at a
Maybe you'd have to combine the two to avoid that kind of rhyme misdemeanor. But what rhymes with Texas?
Banned in Starbucks, In Texas I got arrested
So far my luck's been totally molested
That's the best I can do on such short notice.
What can be worse than that? How about having your song, in this case Louie Louie, banned because the lyrics are unintelligible and might be suggestive of things not normally heard at a middle school function. I've worked around kids that age all my life. Trust me, there isn't anything that might not be normally heard in this group. My friend Andy Martello, must be close to raging out at the news that Louie Louie is banned in Michigan. I can't wait to read his take on this. Keep checking his blog to see when he cools down enough to touch his keyboard without breaking it.
Finally this morning, I am deep in thought how one might fashion a lyric around Julia Roberts publicly threatening Robin Williams with a breast milk shower.
I'll shower you with breast milk
I think it's the best milk
To shut your smirking face
And pick up the pace
of this pathetic event
I've been experimenting with non rhyming lines lately. If nothing else this is a fun exercise, is it not?
posted by Bud @ 6:55 AM
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Shocking News From FloridaI wasn't gonna write today but I just love this story that I found on Fark from the St. Petersburg (Florida)Times. Where else but Florida? This state is so full of amazing ideas. You think Carl Hiaasen is making this stuff up? He's a newspaper guy, my friends. He sees this stuff covered everyday where he works. Maybe I should get a newspaper job just for the constant supply of material. Just buy a paper every day, you say? That's filtered stuff. I want to hear it come in on the scanner. I want to hear the reaction of the reporters. I want to see the look on the editors face when he reads the copy. Why the hell isn't there a sitcom based in a Florida newsroom? That's what I want to know.
If I start a lyric on this it'll have a chorus hook with this guys words:
Taser me. Shock me some more.
Then he ran naked out the door
Taser me, I'm ready to die
And he taunted some gun and badge guy
Maybe I need to use material like this to send to Barenaked Ladies. It's definitely their kind of material. Or Weird Al. Who else sings this kind of stuff? Let me know. I'm way behind in my listening.
posted by Bud @ 8:34 AM
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Coffee Land to Andy LandLast night at Stir the Soul Coffeehouse in Venice, FL, I had a splendid time and my friend James Albritton jumped in on Congas midway through the first set. I've written nice things before about James in blogs in January. Here's what the young dude looks like. He is also a very fine singer and guitarist although he considers himself primarily a drummer. We all consider him a top talent and a terrific guy.
Daney Jelley is the Owner/operator of Stir the Soul. A finer human being can be found nowhere. He is one of the amazing owners I've been fortunate enough to work for. I think it's important to mention this since all musicians know there are some horrible owners to work for. Daney's an example of an excellent one. He runs a wonderful little establishment with live music every night. It has the usual coffeehouse fare and wireless computer hookup as well as an on-site computer. Here's Daney:
Finally, today, I can't say enough how much I love Andyland, home of comic juggler Andy Martello of Chicago. Andy has become a terrific friend and I find him to be hysterical to read. We're gonna go see him perform in Chicago this fall unless he decides to get a boring job in the Sears Tower. He is all over the web as a columnist and he is a funny, insightful, outrageous yet sensitive writer. He has two links in my blogroll. Or you can check him out here and here. He's plugging my CD. Hard. He's giving away cool stuff to bloggers who join his penguini posse and do a fan pic like this. But I just did it 'cause I'm a huge fan.
I also want to report again that you may meet visitors from the future at the MIT Time Travel Convention on May 7. Click the site for details. I'm dying to see if anybody in the future ever heard my songs. Time Travel Convention. So if you get there, could you ask for me please? I'm not getting north until mid June.
posted by Bud @ 12:22 AM
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Untouched Photos of Touching PeopleI didn't bother to Photoshop or even crop these pics. They're inspirational to me as they are. In yoga we learn inspiration comes from within and through the breath. I combine that with people and events that inspire me. These were the best gigs I ever played and this is an abreviated photo essay.
The first gig I did for the benefit of the new music scholarship at FDR high school in Hyde Park, NY, was at Ironwood Grille. Helen Avakian, my guitar teacher opened for me. This couldn't have been a bigger thrill if it was Sarah McLauglin. I love this lady. She is an amazing singer/songwriter. An extremely gifted guitarist and teacher. This is Helen opening my show.
Helen also accompanied me and sang back-up on a bunch of my CD tunes. My son-in-law Josh Peni took the day off to play congas at this gig.
My cowriter, Kathy Feeney, hosed off after track practice and ran up the golf course to see the second half of this gig. I saw her smile like this and that's what fueled the rest of the next two gigs. It's ironic that the smile I respond to more than the air I breathe was behind the camera taking all these pics and doesn't appear here. My Cathy. Cathy Lewis. My wife.
Cathy and I visited with the Feeneys and a bunch of kids I taught stopped by to chat. It was like we had only done this last about 10 minutes ago instead of a year and a half. The following day was a meeting with my voice coach, Leslie Ritter, over in Woodstock. When I sound good it's because of her. When I don't, it's because of me.
Later that day I arrived early at the CubbyHole Coffeehouse in Poughkeepsie, NY. I found my poster on the window. Name spelled right. Their homemade sign, inexplicably had me listed as "Bob Buckley." Later we erased it to read "B Buckley." All the kids who were there that night call me "B" anyway. Or sometimes "the B-ster." Or other things they don't let me hear.
Riston Benson was one of my first guitar students in NY when I was getting ready to retire from teaching fifth grade. She learns extraordinarily fast and is now a very good singer/songwriter. It was a thrill for both of us to have her open the Cubbyhole for me. Marshall Hughes another outstanding music student, a candidate for the scholarship this benefit was for, is giving her percussion. I've known both of them for years. They're going to college next year. They just knock me out.
Playing with Helen at the Cubbyhole was the high point of my career. She brings stuff out of me I didn't know was there. We had one short rehearsal the day before the first gig and she rearranged Kathy Feeney's Stargazer so beautifully, it became a different song to me. I'm transfixed in this shot watching her intro. All I had to do was sing. Kathy wants me to record this arrangement on the next CD. I hope Helen has a tape copy of our rehearsal so I can put it up here.
The rest of the night was pure magic. Whichcraft. I never felt better on stage. Here I'm laughing it up with the crowd, many of whom were former students.
Kathy Feeney arrived early to help sell CD's. She arrived as cute as usual but taking a great fashion risk by wearing one of my old ties. She had won it in an academic competition when she was 11 and in my fifth grade. It is a hideous orange and has smiling alligators on it. She always loved it. I was delighted she won it. And delighted to get rid of it. She's just as brave in every other aspect of life too. She runs cross country and track and came to this gig from a big regional meet in the cold and rain. Last I checked she's number 3 in her class but I didn't get that info from her. She could be up the list by now and wouldn't tell anybody. We've been amusing each other with words since she was 9 and in my fourth grade. Ironically, I met her when she was 6 years old and dancing around me and pulling my tie while I tried to have a conversation with her Mom and older sister. Now she's an accomplished Irish Step Dancer. The tie and dancing thing is still going strong.
After I hugged all the fans goodbye and got booked to come back to the Cubbyhole on June 18, Cathy and I took the entourage to dinner at a Vietnamese place around the corner from Vassar College. She took this, and in fact all these shots, of Helen and I. We were both flying high. Not even sure what we ate. I'm reasonably sure it wasn't moving when we ate it, though. End of a perfect night.
There are many more photos from the two week trip up the coast. I'll post them on my Flicker site and let you know if you are one of those people who haven't seen yourself in here and feel you ought to. I'll post them here from time to time, however, as an example of what inspires me.
I also want to report that you may meet visitors from the future at the MIT Time Travel Convention on May 7. Click the site for details. I'm dying to see if anybody in the future ever heard my songs. Time Travel Convention. So if you get there, could you ask for me please? I'm not getting north until mid June.
posted by Bud @ 5:42 AM
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Inside My Untidy MindAny gig I do after the Cubbyhole in NY is destined to be a letdown if I compared. Since it's not a fair comparison, I won't. I'm grateful for it. Next.
Well, next was last night at Bella Luna Cafe in Venice which is a terrific place to play for terrific people. I love the owners and workers there. Below this paragraph is a picture of Deja who is the manager. She constantly cracks me up and she is one of those types of people you'd be awfully damn lucky to work for. She also fixes me a nuclear espresso that could change my groove if I weren't an experienced yogi. Her Dad, Bill, owns and operates this cool coffee/wine cafe and he is a prince as well. I've been fortunate to work for some amazing owners. This gang stands out.
Last time I played there I got the lyric for Sing Through My Pain from the experience. See the April 12 Blog for that. Last night wasn't that kind of night but I had fun with the friends and fans who did show up. And Deja's special coffee kept me up half the night.
Yesterday's reunion lyric will take more thought, more work. Lately I've been successful starting lyrics, waiting for reaction and then finishing them. Music comes much slower. So any and all comments are welcome on yesterday's and the following. Feeding on reaction is an important part of songwriting. So please feed the beast.
My cousins reunion is an interesting problem. I'm tempted to use the family name and allude to my grandfather, Kingston Robinson. Or King as he was called with good-natured derision by his sons-in-law. This is my 88 year old mother's Dad and she is the last remaining offspring of King. Making her the family matriarch. A mantel she does not bear with any seriousness at all. Maybe she would if we bowed down more in her presence.
So much in common, the Robinsons
All hoping they can sing longer than the King
All hoping the last matriarch has won
The war with old age and death's sting
So I started out rhyming within the line to the end and then switched to the A B form of rhyming. The right tune can pull this off but I'm uneasy about it.
If ever there was a situation ripe with opportunity to go all cliche', this is it. I may not finish this one. And who cares about the name Robinson? Just try to make an intelligent rhyme with it. Also there is huge danger in writing about family. They seldom appreciate it. My daughter is a notable exception. She loved the most recent song I wrote for her( see March 25 blog) and wrote me a beautiful letter in return. So if everybody else hates that song, it doesn't matter. It's already paid for itself. But one can't help wondering what dinner was like around the Cat Steven's table after Father and Son came out. Or Harry Chapin when he did Cat's in the Cradle. And I have to wonder if it was really a song Marvin Gaye's father murdered him over.
So this is a look inside my head during the process. Not pretty, is it? But then again it's prettier than that of a serial torturer/killer. Unless they think in verse. No, I'm not going there.
posted by Bud @ 7:39 AM