I'm tired and awake. Which I guess is how most people get tired, but the specifics isn't the important part, if there actually is an important aspect. But someone who's me needs to get back to work at their music after a lengthy time of being unmotivated (in a sense) and lazying about like a bum. Lately its felt like I've picked up a guitar just to 'waste' time or whatever the case might be, and haven't actually completed writing a song, or started one that meant anything, since June, which for me is a little too long. So now that I know what I'm doing, it's happening, or so it seems.

A-minor and D-flat, keep it real and all that.

But before I go, will repost this from the ye olde days of yore:
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                 Blushing Swashbucklers Disguised As Ghost Junkies                8-11-07

Experiencing menacing winks, always too tired to sleep or stay awake. When lost in worlds of imaginary sceneries, being taken to new low dungeons...stoled and stoned within the pages of Robert Frost, literacy sprinkled like rain, drenched our shoes and blind our eyes when I become everyone. Too confused to be straighten out. Can't hide from the turquoise coffin, when she sees me...must remain with the savage vegetarians and only eat jelly beans. No one heard William when he fell into view of the back of our minds. Never wrote a song for cupid or Ian Hunter, when the collection of heroin rushed into our rooms we lost track of all other intentions. Poured a glass of orange juice, admitting it made me weep when it was over. The son of the sun got cold, 'cause of being stuck in the shadow, so struck a deal with the devil, the stepson of the moon, to plot the early demise within an eclipse of his father...time may have something to say about this. Don't go, don't depart and become a superhero, could never outlast against Flash, he'll run circles around you and you'll be fooled by a guy named Wally...wouldn't want to live in a world where that happens.

Hobos on the run, Preston Sturges wrote our movie with orange crayons on purple construction paper, filled our bindle with dirty underpants and cans of rotten tuna. Continuity never evident, scrambled like the eggs on train tracks when partaking in nightly slumbers. 'Ah, shucks, thanks for nothing and this hockey puck' said someone to somebody over breakfast, overheard with eyes looked away and ears locked in eavesdropping, out of the boredom of my own conversation with myself. Personification of Dylan, creativity at the doorstep of protest and controversy, anarchy's misery is the only answer. Color of roses, transfixed mixtures - sliced sanity. Disturbing compilations, turtles with a strange fetish; monopolizing stupidity for their own need. Self-rewarding patriots, Americans with shrines to Adolf, my closes allies in freedom. Door off the hinges barely hanging with the anger of nights and grumpy days, singing melodies of faux foul follies, dangerous candlesticks of wax dripping down to the silver polish, want to be your friend like a regular Abbott & Costello, when comical situations explode from normal inaccuracies.

A day in prison, free as the inmates on the outside living their lives in worry. Dodged romance to mingle with activist activity, seriously joked with Wavy Gravy on board of a moving freight train heading straight into the ocean to wet our appearance, swam with the fishes...crawled on out before our clothes started to decompose. Burst balloons given by hapless vendors, sniffed a rose picked by jolly depressants, torched the films starring an almost handsome James Cagney...say goodnight, for the day tricked us into eating water for an early dinner.

If you take my life, you wouldn't have much...so give it back, it's all I've got. Can't change who I am, don't want to change you, don't believe in change...except with dimes. Ten cents, ten fingers, ten commandments to break. Everything's changing, we sees it when our heads are stuck under the dirt, ostrich-like, disarming the bombs, solo countdown to doom...day like this smells of a reminder; scattered suicide notes and neatly trimmed flower beds.

Dumbfounded messiah sneezed, spread his disease in rattling rhythm on us all. Caught free in the middle, mocking the ones higher up, stuck at the bottom and where we're at. Every new face is part of the joke, not us so no harm when it's all in secret. Petty originality influenced by deceased nitwit poets and sweet marshmallow vixens. Been stranded on an island in space, giant robots pinched at my flesh...busted my eardrums and only left me with a couple of sticks. Without the pain, the sorrow just fails and can't begin to stand. Glory glued to my heart, pride duct tape to the bones...thrown in the pyre, and crumbled into this living decay. When drinking red Kool-Aid...it could be cherry or perhaps strawberry blood, only time I'm happy - when life isn't pestering like an unwanted chore in the back of my mind...or what little that's left of it anyway.

Skipping pavement to the boulevards, crashed through glass where hallucinating parades aren't allowed. Kicked out onto the street to start this all over....

Experiencing menacing winks, always too tired to sleep or stay awake. When lost in worlds of imaginary sceneries, being taken to new low dungeons...stoled and stoned within the pages of Robert Frost, literacy sprinkled like rain...whatever.

As I awoke from that coma, I sensed something strange in the air. It wasn't flatulence or a hippopotamus, no, it was something more unusual. So I leaped out of that hospital bed with the awesome up and down feature that we all think is so very swell and I threw on my very best Thanksgiving sweater with many pilgrims and turkeys on it, and I yelled for a cab. But since couldn't get one I hopped on a random businessman and he whisked me away to my apartment where I flipped through my diary. I searched high and low for information about who I was, since now I have amnesia...did I mention that before? No? Well, I do. But don't ask how I remembered where I lived...it was in my wallet or something, my name wasn't, that's not so strange. But back to what's important. Looking through my diary, that I somehow immediately knew where to find, I found a small clue. It told me of a girl, by the name of Emily or Marge, I've already forgotten while looking at it. I tried calling her, but the phone...it confuses me, so I made smoke signals instead. But that businessman, who apparently won't leave, told me that regular non-amnesia people don't use those anymore so that girl, Alice or whatever wouldn't reach me back. I told him to mind his P's and Q's, then I asked him what 'P's and Q's' meant, he told me and I thanked him, amnesia people still have manners, we aren't rude...just stupood. <--see, told ya. But that's more of a visual written gag, so don't have anyone read this to you or you might think they're a lot like me. Me, not he who wrote this, he's sane, but I'm not. I don't know what you are, hope you're not some kind of super advanced robot like Isaac Asimov warned us about, but don't ask me how I remembered about that, maybe I don't. But since I mentioned it, obviously I do. Don't confuse me.

Okay, so where was I? Ah...yeah, smoke signals. If I could cue a flashback to three years ago, I somehow remember one morning at 3a.m. while in my vintage He-Man underpants watching F-Troop and that's how I find out about smoke signals, before that I just thought they were a myth, like Gene Hackman's third eye, but boy howdy, they're ever-so real and kinda useless, we'd have more luck with two cups and a string...but not those guys from that show, they're better than us because they're on tv. I wish I was on tv sometimes, then I'd have better writers who can stick to better continuity, geeks love that kind of stuff, or so I've heard, maybe, I forgot. Back to the story at hand of my dilemma; after the signals of smoke failed miserably I went to wash my hands due to some ash and dirt, that's disgusting. With my hands properly taken care of, I moseyed over to that businessman, who now resembles a lamp and ask him which state we're in. He didn't reply back. Silent treatment, how rude. I flipped his switch off and on, off and on and off and...yeah. The bulb blew out on me eventually. Guess he wasn't too bright, but that's buisnessmen for ya.. Oh, look! A unopened box of Apple Jacks! Wait...how does someone with amnesia eat? We're not look like norms, your modern way of eating nutrients frighten us. There's no one here to explain this, so guess I'll have to starve.

Now, as hungry as a tramp with a karate fetish, I leave that place and fall down a flight of stairs, Ouch, arg, bonk, crash and bang was overheard...you know, like sound effects and my screams of comedic pain, walking down stairs is a lost art form to someone like me. You may brag about it, but I'll just have to weep. Though, those tears will soon become dry because I found what I was looking for, a goldfish. His or her name is Val, it's very androgynous...though technically a goldfish wasn't what I was looking for, just got sidetracked, so flushed him/her down a Taco Bell toilet and rushed to the nearest police station. They put me behind bars for rambling about like some goon, yeah, they thought I was one of those insane folks you've heard so much about in your Highlight magazine. Now I'm sitting in jail...there's a cot and I share this cell with this rather friendly fellow, he's telling me why he's in for, but I've already forgotten and tell him that there's no way that Walter Mondale could climb Mount Everest, due to not having any idea who and what they are, but he didn't ask me about that apparently and so he started banging my head against the concrete wall. But that's when the deputy came by and unleashed me back to the outside world, said something about there being a misunderstanding and I wasn't criminally insane, and there's no crime against amnesia, though in my case there should be. Standing outside the 1940's jailhouse, I roamed about this pleasant town, the bright summer sun was shinning down as I gave the salvation army Santa a nickel and tossed a giant radioactive rat a jelly-filled donut, yeah, everything was going just find and dandy. But that was before...before IT happened. IT, something so terrifying, only one thing can be said to explain it...

to be continued!

See, if this world was like it was about 67 years ago or something, we'd all be monkeys, because Darwin dude told us about evolution for some reason. I'm no scientist, nor am I a smart enough geek to actually know what I'm talking about most of the time, maybe at some point I was, but that was long ago before I was born. You know, if snails are like, really slow, that means they're not very fast, That's how I explain junk. Because when it's all said and done, everything's quite simple and easy, like making waffles...but less disgusting, because waffles aren't pancakes, Hellboy eats pancakes, but back on topic, if there was one by this point...anywho, knowledge isn't always in a book. I found some on the back of a taffy wrapper because it gave off a joke, something about a lake or whatever, I forget. That's another thing, memories are dumb. I lost mine back in '46. Didn't so much lose it as I gave it away to this local newsstand guy for a copy of Detective Comics, that was back when ol' Batty would be an actual detective and not a movie star. Movie stars aren't always bad people, not that I know any, and outside of Dulé Hill, probably don't want to, but can't always believe the press. Hey, remember the printing press? Neither do I. But do recall the fetter. Not sure why I brought that up. Guess it was to discuss giants. I don't like 'em and never will, they might step on midgets. James Dean was in a movie called Giant, supposedly he was a rebal. More like a no-good punk. Joe Strummer was in The Clash. Definitely better than the Beatles. Doug was got to meet The Beats outside of a burger joint. Dirty hippies ought to be banned. Or band together to play Galaga for some unbeknownst reason. I had a reason for wrting this, like to reveal some great big earth shattering thingy, but totally got sidetracked and forgot. Maybe next time. But then again, maybe not, shattering the earth doesn't sound too pleasing. You're welcomed.

Here's a picture of Ampersand on the cover of issue 16 to make up for all those words up there:

See? That could be us, all smart and reciting Shakespeare on stage...but nope, we're flesh creatures. Wait...how does that evolution gimmick work? He's gonna be us? Maybe he's you and you just don't know it yet. That's it! You're a monkey comic character! Maybe I can be Gleek? Please? He's neat, blue and from space. That's rad. But that means someone out there is Gorilla Grodd...I'm shaking and scared, must go hide underneath my blanket.

BYE!