This morning I was about to throw it all away,

with a nod to Elliott, but I like a few of the lines I’ve written, and nobody’s here, besides.

Haven’t YOU realized by now that…

Tag: Me

I never say “never” but I’m guessing that I will never get a tattoo. There are four primary reasons for this. But if I were to invite [which is as good as saying, "I am inscribed thusly"] the imprimatur, the list would be the facsimile signatures of:

Metablahg [Beta]

Eiffel Tower 1969. About the moment I decided that having my picture taken was only slightly preferable to jumping over the railing.

I still haven’t figured out whether this thing is going to suck my soul dry, or not. From a very young age, I was hip to the aboriginal tip that photographs take more than your picture. This will be an ongoing inquiry.

What would Warhol blog? I am not alone in wondering. Or am I? I concur with Paddy Johnson’s  reclassification of internet “people” as so much freight: e-cargo transiting through and along my personal knowledge track. 

It’s easy when nobody knows you’re there

Ignoring everybody, that is.

Books, covers, to be judged by. Sometimes you can. The provocative title of Hugh MacLeod’s book caught the corner of my eye just as I was breezing past the reshelf cart on my way out of a mindless bookstore browse. Already suffering from acute Borders’ syndrome (visual overstimulation combined with the frustration of  finding nothing worth buying), I was in the perfect mood for one final I-don’t-think-so. “Ignore Everybody” eh? Easy enough for this off-the-charts introvert, skeptical philanthropist. “And 39 Other Keys to Creativity“? Ah. One of those here’s-the-answer-listy-books I particularly enjoy dismissing with my bland proprietary blend of pity and disdain for the author. So, the gauntlet was thrown… and Ignore Everybody rose to the challenge.  Twenty minutes later, I forked over the cash. And roughly six weeks after that, here I am.

How was your trip?

That’s what the back of my Amtrak ticket asked. Well, Amtrak, it was fan-effing-tastic, I can tell you. As of about 1:30 a.m. on 25 July 2009, I’d guess there were about 500 of us up there in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, NY, who could’ve died happy right then and there. At least, if you had any sense that’s how you felt, and that’s how this wild-eyed fanatique saw things after hours of being solidly rocked to within an inch of her life… by none other than the Flamin’ Groovies’ Cyril Jordan and one incredibly Roy A. Loney (the Boy himself).  After a mere lifetime of waiting, the fantasy cum reality of seeing and hearing — not one (a nonstop ticket to ride in itself) but both of these glorious, soul-stirring THINGs* rock the rafters was almost, almost, too much for the girl. Thank God I’m made of strong stuff. Strong enough to be lookin’ for more.

The night’s venue was the very cool Southpaw (amazing sound, great prices, nice people) and Roy and Cyril were back ‘n’  forthed by the rollicking A-Bones. The opening Underthings were one snappy surprise — modern musical accessorizing with all the desired snags and slubs characteristic of rock ‘n’ roll wear ‘n’ tear.  Try them on cheap. It was a magical night, no question. A thoroughly surprising (quite possibly surprised) Wreckless Eric lead a Wooly Bully onstage onslaught, fergoshsakes.

I’m not sure how I lasted this long without ever once breathing in the same rareified air of a by-the-power-possessed  Roy Loney. The obvious explanation: that fate predestined my sacred rite to be replete with baptismal waters poured forth from the hallowed font of Cyril Jordan’s DA.  Magic Christian, indeed.

I’ll stop now. If you’ve read this far, you already know what I’m talkin’ about.

If you haven’t, well, I couldn’t be happier that no one is reading this blog . Because I learn by doing and, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to be slogging through my apprenticeship with me.

This blahg is dedicated to the Flamin’ Groovies: rock ‘n’ roll purveyors of the finest kind.

*THING: n. [thing, in this blahg, NOT from computer science]  descriptor;  a word used to identify an item in an information storage and retrieval system [i.e. my brain] that defies further classification due to its superlative, mystical, matchless, and/or genius  qualities; the reification of perfection. “Buster Keaton. Yeah, he’s a THING.”