Oscar Fever: Boils and Nausea!

dearest Readers,

if you're like me you ingested that foul concoction on Sunday evening known as America's Elegance Pageant, aka Glory Hole Time, aka The Oscars. This is a time when the famous and attractive and famously attractive don elegant flowing robes and celebrate cinema and themselves and their excellent plastic surgeries with a long booming ecstatic celebration party.

Now I have no beef with the red-carpet coverage (except that it could/should be an hour or three longer) and no beef with the red-carpet hostess duties served nimbly and ably by one Kathy Ireland who employed grace as she held her body at curious angles all evening long and shouted enthusastically at her interviewees, and I have no beef with the charm and elegant double-team of Mssrs Martin and Baldwin as they wove a sonic tapestry of extremely funny jokes and pierced the parts of my heart that had previously lain un-penetrated.

No, none of these things bothered me.

So, I imagine you're asking, what then Taffy, is your beef? Reader, the answer is coming.

Here it is:

There were zero, count them, zero (ie donut hole, ie 'the big abyss', ie nothing, ie not one) award nominations for what you'll agree with me is probably the year's best film, if not the decade's , an soul-shattering and heart-blistering, sweet and tender little gem entitled "Did You Hear About The Morgans?" whose title could be directed at Academy voters but w/ a slight addenda to make it more of a probing inquiry so it goes something like this "Hey, you nearsighted and selfish Academy voter: Did You Effing Hear About "Did You Hear About The Morgans!" Or were you too busy congratulating yourself on tiny movies nobody cares about!!!" I mean really: Precious? (an inner-city story about inner-city problems like drugs and rape? Yawn!) Up? (an old person dies and goes ballooning? Pass)! The Hurt Locker? (wartime and bombs? kind of a bummer isn't it?! ie, who cares!)?! Up in the Air? (George Clooney has sex in airplanes with minors?!) Is this the best Hollywood could do?

If you're like me you were slightly mollified by the inclusion of Transformers 2: Rise of the Machinist in the sound editing effects category (runner-up for most amazing movie of the year!)

But no plug of any breadth or girth can fill the gaping orifice that is left behind by the not-recognition of SJP as Best Actress (who btw can act effing circles around Sandy Bullcock!) and DYHATM as Best Picture, Best Screenplay, Best Score, Best Everthing, Best Tonic For What Ails Ye! You blew it Academy voters! You effing blew it!!

Health Care Bonanza: Mental & Otherwise!

Beloved Readership,

you are no stranger to my recent burning infatuatory glee at the throbbing sensations provided by that carnival ride in Vancouver (ie, the Winter Olympics!) and you are aware that my attentions are there of late 24/7. But let me share with you the fact that yesterday there was something equally as invigorating: the bipartisan health care summit!! My cube-mate had it on stealthily so I listed to some of it as well and I learned many things, primarily among them that Republicans don't like the 2400 page Congressional proposal or President Obama's 11 page proposal (which can only mean they don't like to read!)! Also, according to that curiously orange-hued man from the House, John Boenher, we have the best health-care system in the world! He actually said that. Well, hold the press(es) sir because at this juncture I would like to jump in and contest with that fact Mr Bohener and I will do so by sharing a story with you:

Now, let's be clear, this did not happen to me but to a friend of mine. This friend was having pains in the backside area rearward, (ie, anus) and there was bleeding when he (or she) defecated. This is not a good thing and there was lots of straining involved. Not knowing what to do my friend went to the emergency room and waited in urgent care for hours (!) while other people who came after he (or she) did got to go in first!! Reached for comment, my friend says: I understand that a kid with a broken arm gets priority but do you not see the man out there pacing up and down and squirming in the plastic seats!!? He is in such discomfort that he can't sit and he's inadvertantly barking at small children "it hurts!, ooh, it hurts!". At long last, they let my friend in to an examination room and he (or she) was attended too by an unkind health-care worker who appeared to sneer at his concern (granted the friend was sobbing profusely at this point) as she said "It's just a hemorrohoid, jeez relax". She then sent him home with a pat on the back and a tube of cream that he had to apply to his parts (ie, anus) in a very undignified manner!

So, that's the tale. It is quite unfortunate! I would urge you to share this story with your Congresspeople and let them know that there are Americans with serious medical issues that demand attention, not disregard and laughter and tubes of ointment. Healthcare needs more than just slathering some medicated lotion on it and calling it a day. No friends, healthcare needs gentle massaging and nudging and probing. Republicans should know that! (note: I am an independent!).

Dream Fantasy: Twizzles & Bits!

Dearies,

were you to let your gaze fall into the confines of that humid, dark box I call my head you would surely find an endless loop of bounding, leaping, triple-axled, sweaty-bodied mania. That's right: I am still in love with the Winter Olympics! (note: this despite the semi-constant hovering of that elfin creature they call Bob Costas who pops up at the most inopportune times saying things like "let's cut away from ice dancing and go back to Whistler for the men's ski jump flip-o-rama". hey guess what Costas? some of us don't want you to cut away from mother-effing ice dancing! some of us are just now falling in love with mother-effing ice dancing!) Which brings me to my point: I love mother-effing ice dancing!!!!

Yes, you probably thought that with the appearance in my dreams a few nights ago of the shimmering tree-sprite that is Johnny Weir that it was all sewed up, and that I had found my calling (or at least the luring trills of a potential BFF) and that the Winter Olympics had soared to the highest roost possible but my god, after watching a few minutes of ice dancing, my jaw fell into my lap, my skin broke into goose-pimples and I heard myself making involuntary little chirping sounds as a microwaved burrito lay untouched on the paper plate below me. Which is to say: I was transfixed, transformed, transgendered and transported! (note: not literally on the third one). It was a glorious, body-quaking event, one that I felt resonate to the core of my being with such a strength and potency that I have not felt since Christmas time when I saw a double-feature of "Did You Hear About the Morgans" and then a few minutes later "Did You Hear About the Morgans".

Here's what happens: 1)Boy and Girl enter ice rink in fantabulous costumes, some with feathers and boas and straps. 2) Boy and Girl ice dance!!!! and then, hours later 3) Taffy McKittrick lays awake, still quaking with delight.

This morning I am not quick to anger. This morning I am happy to be steeping in the heady brew of incompetence that my day-job supervisor fosters like so many fertile eggs. This morning I am a-soar as I listen to my cube-mates discuss the banalities of their lives. For you see gentle reader, this morning is not like other mornings. This morning I have ice dancing.

Frenzy of Mania: A Madcap Look at One Man's Xmas Journey

Dear ones, pull up a stool and gather ye round as your much-adored and self-adulating blog host and erstwhile writer/narrator spins you a yarn packed with the noughaty goodness of holiday cheer! That's correct: today finds me in a rare good mood. This is likely due to a slight down-tick in the work that's required of me at the day job. No one is really here today except the white-hot fire of middle managment and their inferiors, of which I am one. Where to begin but to tell you about the weekend I found myself crawling into on Saturday morning?

I awoke feeling awash in beer and too much good tiding, having spent the previous evening at the apartment two doors down, where I had been invited to take part in a holiday soiree/fiesta of the sort where people you don't really know but you feel like you do by virtue of living in the same box (read: apartment building) invite you places. This time it was a recent addition to our building, a gentleman who goes by the sobriquet Sprinkles. (apparently no last name). I ran into him at the laundromat across the street the other day and he said for me to come to the party friday night at his house. I had planned to stay in that night and maybe get some songwriting done - it's been a time since my songs have graced your ears - but it was not to be because I accepted Sprinkles's invitation.

I knocked on his door. He opened the door with a strange and curious grin that announced he had already been drinking and was wearing a T-shirt that said "Unwrap your present" with an arrow pointing down toward his beltline. "Hiya Taff" he said.
"Come on in". It didn't appear that anyone else had arrived yet but I entered anyway and sat on the couch. "Where is everybody" I inquired. Sprinkles cracked open a couple beers and said "There's a van full of women on the way" and then gave a laugh like he couldn't believe his good fortune at having a van packed with women en route. We were both pretty excited so I replied "Cool, can't wait".

As Sprinkles sat down, throwing his arm around my shoulder and putting his legs on the coffee table, I looked around the room. There were tiny litle sparkling lights twinkling everywhere, in and on the curtain rods, over the refrigerator and so on. I said "It looks like a little faerie lives here". Sprinkles coughed and then said something that sounded like "That's not far off" but I am uncertain of the meaning.

I was about done with my first beer and can I inform you that I don't recall much beyond that? You are correct: I passed out. While I am not proud of this occurrence, I would be lying if I didn't also mention that something amazing must have happened with one of the women in that van. I know this because - though I woke in my own bed, wearing the clothes I left the apartment in - I found several lipsticky smooches all over my lips and cheeks. Must have been a hell of party!!!! God I wish I could grope my way to a memory of it. A van full of women coming to party with you is the kind of thing that only happens in dreams but listen world - it happened to me. The lipstick kisses prove it. Take that haters!!!!!!!!! All of you who claimed I was destined to be alone forever, guess what: Taffy McKittrick is about to have some love entering his world and body!!!!

Now, I just need to find out which woman/s it was that involved themselves with kissing me!

Snack Attack: Front and Back!

Let me begin by introducing a series of observations that may entice, amaze, flatter and astound you: I do not like having a day job. There, I've said it. Last evening found me on the couch in a sort of stupefaction while I watched something named Kelly Osborne on Dancing with the Stars, twirl around and mangle the foxtrot. She most resembled a drunken horse looking for oats at nighttime, flopping and flailing with reckless abandon. It was at this point a tickle of depression washed ashore and let me bathe in it. The only thing that would cleanse my palate of this was a program of microwave burritos and beer which tasted even better than I just made it sound.

Life is a cloud of cottony goodness with varieties of fragrances and tastes. They all surround you and you give yourself over to them in little ways. Come on, think about it!!

Alarm Bell Ringing: Friday is Here!

Good afternoon to you ladies and gents, it is your humblest of humble guitarist/singer-songwriters/nascent famous person/bloggers here again to regale you with the happenings of all things and such regarding one Taffy "Sunburst" McKittrick, aka yours truly, ie me. Can I inform you of the warm glow that spreads through my insides when Friday arrives? Like a warm saline bath shooting through every hole in my body, ending in a sort of fantastic, spritzing spray in a pool wherein that lady from the 50's dives off diving boards and swims to the music of someone in the 50s in her bathing suit. Yes, that kind of day! Utterly amazing and jaw-dropping.

Today I am in the clutches of my evil day-job, doing some anodyne but misery-inducing data-entry, listening to idiots talking about a sale at JC Pennys wherein a giant serving tray ("would be great for this upcoming turkey day!") can be purchased for a small amount of dollars. Need I remind you that this sort of rampant consumerism is a vile blight upon my american sensibility? If you want to give your money away give it to artists (ahem, hint hint, ahem) and musicians (cough, ahem) not to turkey trays. Get with the program people!

Rainy Monday!

Dear beauteous and well-groomed blog-reading audiences, hello! It is a Monday morning and I am typing this lines to you surreptitiously from my perch at the day job where again I am assaulted by rivers of banal conversation (sample, just overheard: "Oh my God, this dry erase pen really rocks!") and rivers of fragrances, most of the putrid variety as factotums and corporate slaves microwave their coffee or their Jimmy Dean Breakfast Bowls and gobble their bananas ceaselessly, like so many garden monkeys. Well, as I have said to you about one-million and one-half times, I am an artist and I should not have to work so moments like this really activate a sort of office-rage in me. But we don't need to go there because you know where I stand on that issue and further, how it makes me feel.

Let me instead bring in a new modality of conversation and that regards the weather: rain. Buckets and sheets of gooey rain came a'rainin' down this morning early-like. I awoke in the autumn dawn, face down on the sofa, dvd still frozen on that triumphant frame at the end of "the mirror has two faces" where that lady runs out into the street to tell that man not to go. (side note: what can I say, I am an artist and I won't prejudge what I take into my body artistically speaking but I can hear you sneering from here about that movie. Well, I love it. So there). My bigger point - and I do have one - is that the rain awoke me.

Is there anything more like angels crying on your shoulder than rain-drops? It's one of those questions that can't be answered.

Delectable Monday: A Promise

Today Monday is playful with me, rubbing me under my chin like I am a good servant but also giving me hints of goodness, like the promise of perfection akin to a freshly-purchased chewy granola bar. This is how good it feels to be here in this planet on the present day. I am announcing this to you!!!

My 'day off' last week afforded me a rare perspective and allowed me to look inside my own head and heart, an introspection of epic and sonic proportion. A deep and penetrating inventory, not dissimilar to a body probe or colonoscopy, where it hurts yes, but afterwards you have discovered beautiful things about your self, your body, your world. I came to realize - after all those waffles - that there are certain things I enjoy about being alive. Waffles are one of them. Myself is the other. There is no enriching gift to yourself like your own self. Go on and look in the mirror and then begin to create art. It's the only way!

Monday: Wasp-Stinging Rear-ward!

Yes my friends, a thousand times yes. Today the sun was a glistening orb in the guzzling sky and rain clouds threatened me but moved on as if to say "not today good sir! you carry on and continue creating songcraft and light and spread it across the world like so much savory nut butter". Sweet reprieves are wonderful things to receive: they provide you with the information that whatever you did or are doing is correct and appropriate. My point, as behooves the title of this post, is that I feel like i've been stung on the backside by a hive of angry wasps and I am now running away from them and toward the arms of Destiny.

To be more specific: things have quieted for ol' Taffy since "Dr" Albert Tubman took leave of me. I learned a lot from our interlude certainly. I think I've addressed some of those items in previous posts so I won't start testing your patients by doing it again. Here is a laundry list things that have rained out of the sky on me since he departed: furniture is back, check. able to buy groceries again, check. job is boring as usual bursting with people who think they know all about life and living since they can afford a mortgage or an electric car but who don't appreciate the simplicities of life like apples or buckets of fried chicken, check. a gorgeous honey-haired creature interning at the reception desk, check. Taffy mothereffing McKittrick about to unleash a malestrom of songs and bewitching tunes on top of your face like a turkey pot pie slathered with country-gravy, check!!!!

Punched in Face: Depression-Fist

Hello dear one(s). Again, we find myself at the edge of a junction and an intersection where I am drinking full pint glasses of Depression, letting it course through my body's arteries and veins and then once it has been processed and excreted I drink yet another pint glass down, straight no chaser. Why does the Depression-Fist hold such sway over me and have such powerful punches? Let's explore it in the following way: I am an artist. With a mother-effing day job. These two things should not exist in the same sentence, much less two sentences back to back, and yet there it is. There you have it. How can the world have somehow not gotten the summons that I-am-creating-art-down-here-so-I-get-a-free-pass!?!? This un-realization sometimes brings me to the brink of anger which mutates and gets transformed into Depression. As if that weren't bad enough (it is Taffy, i hear you all screaming, it is!) then we must explore and penetrate the deeper indignities and daily machinations of said day-job, wherein I - your hero - finds himself engaged in meaningless banter about office reorganizations, the best hue of file folder, the range of tastes in a corporately-processed yogurt, something called Lady Gaga, and, most punitively, the best new show on tv featuring a gang of models who pretend to go on a reality cooking show and design shoes for an ox-merchant. Whatever!! I cannot be bothered by it, by any of it.

Hey Universe: Listen up!:
I am a mother-effing artist! With a mother-effing day job!!

Midweek (R)evolutions & Amazing Thoughts come a-Drippin' down!!

I often find myself asking what is the deal with very hip young people. Granted I - and society - counts myself among them certainly by age but also by elocution and diction and an X factor we'll call poise. But still, I find a wide chasm between their pursuits and mine, these great unwashed swaths of youth. Here are some cases in point: I have no interest in hearing DJ Slapdaddy spin discs at a new fusion thai restaurant that serves drinks they've invented called 'honeysuckle teats'. I have no interest in going to an "art" show where a man in a dirty t-shirt and glasses and a chain on his wallet plays ukelele along with grim medical photos looping on a slide projector. I have no interest in going to a reading at a local independent bookstore featuring a 'writer' reading out loud a 'memoir' about how hard it was to grow up wealthy and summering on the cape when people were starving in Mongolia and so they began some annoying non-profit company that aspired to 'help' people to offset their white guild. Enough with all this hipness!!!

But, all that said, and if i'm being honest the thing that gets my goat the most is very hip young people riding bicycles and not wearing helmets at the same time as they're text messaging and listening to ipods with giant bose headphones listening to the latest bit of Grizzly Bear droppings. Why do you do that? It's so stupid!!! You could die. You really could!

Tuesday: Hot Wind Blastin'!

Man, when you walk outside you can feel it: an electrical blast of hot wind, hitting you smack in the face, like the slap of a walrus on his ample belly or the belch of a lion after he's been masticating an antelope steak with a side of baby giraffe. This is what happens when the indian summer arrives. In short, I have been consumed on this day by hot wind, a-rumblin' and a-tumblin' out of my sides. (note: if you can't tell, there is a song in progress and I have just beta-tested the lyrics on you! ha!) ha!

Things are slowly resuming the contours of their previous shapes as far as my life gets concerned. I was at the library yesterday (as I am right now!) using their computer and going on craigslist (which was slightly complicated since they block it at the library, along with some of my favorite sites) and I found a nice couple who was giving their couch away. I went and looked at it and they were up front with me and said that their dog had vomited all over the cushions the previous day and some of the vomit had seeped and soaked down into the seams but that they had cleaned it all up as best they could and now they wanted to pay it forward and give the couch away for free. Sold!! They drove it over and helped me get it inside. I offered them some beers and/or a microwave taco but they claimed to have appointment at the urologist so they couldn't stay. It was a little musty and dirty but once I through a blanket over the couch it became the new home of my head at night: where I sleep!

And those hot winds kept a-blowin'!!!!!

Wednesday: Birth of a MadMan's Rantings

Well Well Well, and then Well how do you do? That is the question du jour (which means 'of the day" like say a soup or an entree at a fine restaurant). How do you do? Meaning me. How do I - Taffy Sunburst McKittrick - find myself at this particular juncture wherein it is now September and the whole of the August teat dried up and shrunk into the rearview mirror. Where does the time go? (note: yes that is another question, but it is not the question. The question is "How do you do?"). You - a member of my storied and voluminous blog-reading audience have probably given up on ol' Taffy, right? You've thought that I just slunk off somewhere under a tree and maybe part of you even gave up on me. That is fine. Let me announce to you that I have been places in the past few weeks and I have grown in an accelerated manner, like an infant or a baby or - at my most extreme - like an infant baby.

Ah, I'm stalling. Let's get to it:

It goes without saying that Dr. Albert Tubman was a fraud and a much better swindler and bamboozler than life coach. Oh, he indeed taught me some life lessons: don't trust people, don't let people into your heart, and - above all - don't take out a line of credit in your name and sign over the control of said line of credit to a bald, seemingly well-intentioned aspirant orthodontist who promised to help you become a better artist. I won't get into all the sticky details but lets just pretend that I'm saying that I spent several days in the county lockup and upon my release came home to find all my furniture had been sold on craigslist. Even my crockpot.

In short, these are dark and furious times. And I am, by extension, a dark and furious man-beast, howling in the blackness, my gnarled claws to my scarred visage, wailing up at the sky in a guttural and booming roar: why? Why? why?! Mothereffer Why why Why!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?

Carnival of Horrors: The Party I Attended

I am an artist so it goes with out saying that sometimes I do'nt want to be around other peoples, (not that there's anything wrong with that!). Sometimes the Artist needs to sit at home and marinate in his own juices, creatively speaking, and not worry about the vagaries of inter-personal annoyances (ie hygenie, ie politeness, ie diction) or how much small-talk you can spew out in a quarter of an hour. Sometimes the Artist needs to just sit and eat burritos and have a beer or three and play around on his guitar, taking firm note of what may (or may not) plop out. Okay, where am I going with all this? Look no further than the next paragraph.

I went to a party last night that I could not get out of. I don't want to name names or be specific because the many people who read this blog regularly will be able to discover which party I meant but let me just call it "Sandra's" Party. "Sandra" is a person that I know, maybe thru work or maybe not, and "she" decided to throw a party for "her" cousin "Rudolf" last night. There was no way I could squirm away. My whole point being, the Artist doesn't want to go to parties in the first place but when forced the Artist will attend (if only for free food and alcohol) and then slip out the back. Well, the Artist found himself cornered in the kitchen, between the fridge and the table, away from the alcohol while "Rudolf" yammered away ceaselessly about French Movies. Sorry French Cinema. Are you effin' kidding me!?

"Rudolf" apparently considers "himself" a nascent screenwriter/director which is all fine except that "he" has a habit - birthed from his ambitions no doubt - of tieing every possible bit of conversation into a film reference. Herein and hereforth follow some examples to putrefy and turn your stomach:
Me: Good party, eh?
"Rudolf": Eh, yeah like a Rohmer film by way of Assayas.
Me: Okay...So..."Rudolf" how do you like it here?
"Rudolf": Ah, you know. I feel a little like Antoine Doinel in "Bed & Board"
Me: Oh. Actually I don't know what that is --
"Rudolf": You don't!!? Oh My God!! You have to immediately - like tonight! - go onto netflix and put all the Antoine Doinel's in your queue. They are so mother-effing awesome!! Oh My God!!
Me: Huh. I'll have to check that out.
"Rudolf": You know what Godard said to Melville about "checking things out", right?
Me: No.
"Rudolf": This was back in the "weekend" days, oh wait, it wasn't Melville it was his DP Raoul Coutard...

And on and on and so forth and so forth. One of those people who only talks about himself and has no consideration of other people's feelings and thoughts and Artistry. never once was I asked what I did or about the songs I've written or which songs I think are my best, only if I've seen this or that and do I get the Truffaut reference in "Jules & Jim" and where do I rate Agnes Varda and which Godard heroine is most unlike the others and yammer yammer blah blah madness!!!

At long last I was able to squeeze out the back door, pretending to run to the car for just a second, a bottle of wine under my arm (my due, methinks!) and I made it safely home and am now working on a new song about this horror-show party which I will most certainly share with you when it comes.

Holy Crapola: The Artist Thinks Aloud

Dear sweet gummy-bear textured and sweet and delicately wonderful blog-reading audience, hello!! My thoughts have begun to gush like so many underwater geysers, spraying steam and heat and steam-heat and I am afraid at times that the parameters of what contains my mind has a minor tear or perforation and that I can no longer be contained. It's frightening but also wonderful! This is what it is to be an artist.

Right now I am having a mother-effing love affair with this thing we call America. So sweet and tender and soft but also delicate. This is a fragile thing with tiny shoots and buds, not fully yet grown, but we continue to celebrate the majestic nature of it on every July 4th! This is the day, you'll recall from history's annals, that the Constituition was caesarian-sectioned out of the collective birth-canal of the fore-fathers. Can I be fully honest with you? I get a little moist around the eyeballs ever year around this time. This effing country allows me to be me and me to be you. I can dream and think and say whatever I want! I can walk up to you in the supermarket and start spouting song lyrics or my private thoughts and guess what, you can't do a effing thing about it, because this the American Dream!!!

Friday: And I am a Lovely Man!

Hello Team -
It has been far too long. Well guess why:? my nose has been up on the grindstone and I have been twirling about (metaphorical) and leaping (actual). Things in life sometimes bound around like a fleet of deer, skirting praries and grazing in meadows. This is the places where you'll find my head.

Items of a amorous nature - meaning love - have been popping up repeatedly like so many untreatable acne scars: I continue to be smitten with the idea of being smitten. I want to love and be cuddled so freaking bad. To that end I have written 2songs this week which I will be posting forthwith and forthward. The first is intitled: Here Come's Taffy McKittrick! and it announces me as a person of leisure, one to be reckoned with. The other is called: Pretty Please! and it deals with a woman who does not want me in her life but I think i can be if I ask nice. They are both solid songs!!!! Enjoy this gift of breathing and living love and life!

Thank You: A Thursday's Whispers

Hello Team! It is your humblest of humble Taffy Sunburst McKittrick here and I want to go ahead and inform you that I am missing the parameter of the datapoint. Ha, you probably don't know what that would mean. How could you because you don't work at a putrid day job like me or with me. I rolled in this morning and grabbed a cup of Maxwell House (that's all they brew here!) and sat down at the computer. I began tinkering and fingering the database, that's my job after all, and guess what: go on guess: I spilled my cup of coffee on the keyboard. Ugh!! It's times like this that I want to climb in my van and pull up to a street corner and ask the beautiful-est woman on that corner to climb in and run away with me. To a place where pony's gallop and billygoats graze and the sun blasts away. Enough of this madness!!!

Hey guess what Wednesday?:I have depression!

Man o' Man. It comes a-whistlin' off the plain, curling and blowing and moving and flowing like so much thick cloud. A grey paste that you cannot use to stick papers together with or that you'd cook with. No, this is a paste you inadvertantly apply to your hole body, as if it were lotion or unguent. Once it hardens well then you just sit there and think, now what? If you haven't figured it out my blog-reading friends, I'm talking about love. Hard love. Rock Hard Love Sensations. They are rippling like the first step of that dinosaur in the water glass.

Last night I came home from the terrible horrible unfortunate putrescent day job. I had hoped to talk to my friend but, big surprise, she didn't respond to my phone calls, emails, texts, or sexts (again!) which send your's truly into a tailspin of tallboys, microwave burritos, and some kind of chef show marathon. I don't know what it was. I was lost, alone, afraid. I did a lot of wondering and muttering, in that order. How do artists manage these terrible things like love and confusion? It is a question with no answer but I won't stop asking it. Ever.

A Tale of Two Fridays

Glum bum sadness bubbling up and around me like so much thick gooey lava. Last friday, as I'm certain you recall gentle blog reader, was a banner day. A time of fervor and all-out excitement. This was codified in my tune "It's Friday, Motherf*cker!" which was like me roaring from the rooftops all about how grand it was to arrive at a Friday. Today. Well not so much. Sigh.

As you know from my song "Swine Flu Blues" I had a date the other evening. A first date. A glorious first date. Or so I thought. Or rather it was on my end. So to speak. I've called. I've emailed. I've left texts and sexts and there is no apparent response from the beauty lady who I dined with Tuesday night. All that is left, I presume, is my sadness and the memory of what happened over that hot artichoke spread. Magic was created there. A powerful and virulent magic that has never been matched. Where are you and why won't you call me back??????

I know you feel it too. Please call me back baby. :(

Fantastic Friday!

Greetings gang. The end of the work week has come to a blissful and eruptive halt, thank God! What a terrible time I have had working this week. Yes, I understand that I am grateful to have a job but I implore you to spend 1/2 hour doing what I do with the people here, who have maladies that range from 'smells like cheese' to 'blisteringly incompetent' and everything in between. Whatever, this is part of my life so this is part of my art-making. Everything goes in!!
New song in a bit.