–If you do anything weird to this post, wordpress, I will hunt you down and force you to watch Fox News nonstop.
–Why did the chicken cross the road? Because it was despondent and there was a bus coming.
–Me: “Why are all the flash cards blue on one side?
My 10-year old daughter: “That’s because blue is unappreciated. They’re always sad.”
–Is it just me, or has the Secret Service gone nutty? Not only did that guy get into the White House waving a knife around, but they let some random guy ride in the elevator at the CDC with POTUS. Why the fuck would anyone other than the Secret Service and approved people be riding in an elevator with the Pres.? I read where they put up a new temporary fence on the White House lawn or something. I think ol’ Barack would be better off with a couple toothless hillbillies sitting in worn-out rocking chairs in front of this fence, with shotguns in their laps, drinking ‘shine and spittin’ seeds. “Billy Ed, I don’t care for this here President and his gun-hatin’ ways, but, dagnabbit, he’s the President and no luney-tic is gonna get past my ol’ squirrel gun, here. We’ll run the bastard an’ that Clinton bitch offa the lawn here come next election in 20 and 16, but meantime, he needs you ‘n’ me, cuz them city boys with the microphones in their hands ain’t gettin’ it done.” Either that, or, you know that scene in The Godfather, where somebody (Al Pacino?) comes back to the compound and asks who all the new faces are? There’s hired guns crawling all over the place. Any photo you ever see of the White House lawn, there’s no one around. You’d think our tax dollars could fund a couple overt armed guards, with dogs, wandering the grounds. It’s not 1914, for crying out loud.
–I could do a book report post titled “(Mostly) In Praise of ‘Wild Tales’ and ‘Iron Man'”, but I think I’ll just comment briefly instead. I picked up a copy of Black Sabbath guitarist and leader Tony Iommi’s biography called “Iron Man” in the bargain bin some time back. It was okay, though the early days of any famous musician going from rags to riches are often the best, and reading an endless discussion of his later band lineups and poorly-selling albums got a bit boring. But the early part was pretty cool: apparently when he cut 2 fingertips off at his manufacturing job, he was sitting around feeling sorry for himself, thinking he couldn’t play his guitar any more, but his foreman, of all people, from the place where he got hurt, played him a record from Django Reinhardt, who apparently was missing some parts also. So we owe “Iron Man” and “Paranoid” partly to some guy who wouldn’t let his ex-employee wallow in self-pity on the couch.
As for Graham Nash, his story, “Wild Tales”, was pretty well-done, though it got more than A. Little. Fucking. Tiring. hearing Nash brag about all the endless stream of stray pussy he got while he was married to his first wife. Yes, we get that your hotel room was lonely and dismal after the adulation of the concert crowds, and we get that you were, by your own admission, fabulously handsome, but enough with the bedding of the ladies. To be fair, though, I’ve never been a rock star, or had any much luck with more than a few ladies, or had anything long-term with any woman worth a shit, or had money, or commercial success, or career satisfaction, or left any creative artistry of any kind for future generations to enjoy, or… Excuse me while I stare at some pictures on my wall of my sweet lovely quirky hilarious wonderful little girl, and remind myself why it is that I’m glad that I didn’t suck off my shotgun and pull the trigger about 12 years ago. I’m just being overly dramatic here for effect, though there were times back then, before she came along, when I wouldn’t have given one flying rat’s ass if a plane had fallen on my house and there hadn’t been a “next morning.” Anyway, back to Graham Nash–though he had some editing help, he didn’t have a co-author, that I can see, and it was a well-written, coherent, articulate, easily-flowing book. It had a good beat and you can dance to it; I’d give it an 83. It was interesting, reading about his beginnings with the Hollies, his increasing frustration with their sappy songs, his first harmonies with Stills and Crosby, as well as his photo and printing endeavors, and of course the drug excesses. I knew that David Crosby was a drug lover, but I didn’t know that he was doing an ounce, that’s right, an entire ounce, of cocaine per DAY for a while. That’s 28 grams, right? I seem to remember people being pretty successfully fucked up on 1 gram back in the cocaine ’80s. Definitely an overachiever, that Croz. And of course Neil Young was Neil Young throughout much of the book, brilliant but twisted, and more than a little cranky.
–I’m sure there was more I wanted to say, but it’s getting late. It’s almost nine pm and I’m over 55, so that’s late for us “senior-menu” types. There was no theme to this post; I just wanted to “cleanse the palate” after that “teenage-angst dreck” of a poem I posted last weekend. I blame the whiskey. Maybe someday we’ll discuss “The Firepit From Hell” and “The Great Bee Eviction”, both from summer/early fall of 2014 here in Trailerville. I will “keep you posted.” Meantime, thanks as always for reading.