People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin
When I say that I'm o.k. well they look at me kind of strange
Surely you're not happy now you no longer play the game
People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me
When I tell them that I'm doing fine watching shadows on the wall
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go

Ah, people asking questions lost in confusion
Well I tell them there's no problem, only solutions
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if I've lost my mind
I tell them there's no hurry
I'm just sitting here doing time

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go

I was sitting in my living room. In my recliner.  It doesn't rock. It just reclines.  It was late and I could not sleep. 

Had a few knots in my back, which are persistent lately.  A while back I seperated my shoulder and ever since, from time to time, I get hellacious knots underneath the blade.  They can't be worked out on account of being cover by bone.  It's just the way it is.

That's neither here nor there.  It was a bright night outside.  I could see moonlight making cookie cutter shadows all over the concrete out in the back of the house.  When, all of a sudden, through the glass door I saw a bright light shooting down from the sky. 

It was heading toward the southwest. A big ball of flame, bigger than any shooting star I ever saw, a little like a flare, but it was not a flare... just some bright light falling.  I don't know where.

There was no crash.

There was no thud.

Just a falling light, out back, coming through the cold, moonlit darkness. 

For a second, I thought about investigating.  But, I opined that not knowing what it was or where it went was better for my curiosity.

I got up and went to the kitchen.  I was not hungry but I started up the gas stove and set the blue flame.  I set upon it a small cast-iron skillet and made some eggs.  When they were done, I let them cool and put them in the refrigerator. 

In the morning, they would be my breakfast, and that would be that. 

No reason for none of it.

That's all I have to say about that.

So, I've got this friend, who's a drummer. We talk all the time.  He's a different kind of musician than me.  For starters, he makes way better money than me.  He plays country music, which ain't THAT different than what I do. BUT, he plays other peoples stuff, so he's able to relax. Sit back play.  Party and walk off with a wad o' cash. 

 

He thinks it's nuts that I'm not playing right now.  He's always askin' me, "Hey Mat, when are you going to start playing again? Doesn't it drive you crazy? Man, I couldn't stand to put things down like that? How long's it been?"

 

The idea of doing an album then taking a sabbatical is fucking insane to the guy.  He's not the only one.  I get asked this all the time by others.  But I explain to them, as I do him.  "I'll do it when it hits me." 

 

Right now, I'm comfortable doing shitty carpentry on the new house and working on my golf game, which I've rediscovered.  These things kind of ground me for now. Grounding ain't bad.

 

See, I'm kind of obsessive compulsive. Those who've seen me drink know this. Right now, I'm obsessing on miter saws and drivers.  It's a little soothing. There's something Calvinistic/Zen about it.  I figured it out the other day. It's the same ethic with both things. "Do what you're supposed to do and the reward is exactly what you earned." 

 

Or, as another friend said about a totally separate thing, "Just let it do what it do."  There ain't many other things in life like that.  Music ain't.  Drinking ain't.  Or maybe they are.  Who fucking knows? 

 

Anyway, the other day, my drummer buddy looks at me and asks again, "Dude, when are you gonna play, again?!"

It was earlier in the day than I needed it to be. I needed a fucking shower and some caffeine.  I felt like shit and later when I saw my puffy, black eyes in the mirror, I knew I looked it, too. 

Anyway, he asks me that question again. And after just sitting there for a bit, I said, "I dunno.  But I'm gettin' the itch…."

 

That's all I have to say about that.

The check-out girl at the Walgreens smelled like booze.  I don't know why.

She was red-faced with a nose like Santa.  Her head looked like an ass that had been spanked five times too many.  If you saw her, you'd know what I mean by that. 

But damn, what a booze smell.  It just wafted at you, like a 5'3" wave ... red tide.  I dunno why a body needs to get shit-eyed to run a register at the drug store.  Some people are their own damned mysteries.

So, anyway, a while back, I'd determined to get a haircut.  It was bugging me, as it sometimes does. This and that came up.  Bad time, no time, etc.  A month went by and every damned time I looked in the mirror, it bugged me more and more.

So, I did what anybody, who is me, would do.  I sheared the whole damned thing, my head, that is, clean.

I ain't never had it so short. Even as an infant. 
It's growing back already. My hair grows fast. But it's been jarring for some.

Lots of people don't recognize me, which is nice. The ones that do, say things, like, "You lose a bet?"
"I must have," I tell 'em "I'm talkin' to you, ain't I?"

Then there was this comment.  "I dunno. It makes you look mean. When you make expressions.... You just look mean now."

Oh well, as they say, it grows back.  I don't mind it so much.  But damn, if it don't get cold.

That's all I have to say about that.

 

 

 

So, I read today that Heath Ledger died. He looked fucking bad ass as the Joker in the new Batman trailer. So much for sequels.

An apparent overdose of pills.

Which begs the question; "Exactly what the fuck does it take to kill Lindsay Lohan?!?!!!"

Seriously, a handful of drugs knocks off Heath Ledger and this chick is still alive? What do we gotta do? Beat her to death with the pill bottle?

She had one good performance in her LIFE. Now, she's a parade of bone boob pics and mug shots. Die al-fucking-ready.  She's like the Jason Voorhees of Fire Crotches.  Please die before somebody greenlights a direct-to-video "I Still Know Who Killed Me."

That's all I have to say about that.

 

 

 

I was sitting in a bar, not long after Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize. An OC conservative-type looked at me and asked, "So, you think he's gonna run for president now?"

"Why would he want to?" I said, "he was already elected."

The guy gave me a sarcastic laugh, then got quiet and thought about what I said.  He shrugged. 

 

For those who don't remember (there's a few of you), Al Gore won the general election against Bush in 2000.  Then due to a glitch in the electoral system and some fishy coincidences in Florida, they gave us the president we deserve.  Take that however you want to. 

2000, was a freak. 

 

Which brings me to the subject.  John McCain won in New Hampshire Tuesday night.  Some people are surprised. I'm not. He won there in 2000.  He was a front runner, the maverick candidate who talked straight and could've drawn on independents.  That was before he became a lapdog to Karl Rove and backed the guy that stabbed him in the integrity.  Now, he's a little more bitter and angry and kind of comes off like a guy who's got one last shot at getting what was rightfully his.   He was a helluva candidate back then. I would've voted for him then.  Now, not so much.  Not at all.

 

See, where it all went wrong for him was South Carolina. 

There's a story some of you may know.  It's the story of John McCain being the father of an illegitimate black child.  There are many things you can be in South Carolina and still get a nod.  An ex-cokehead who hides behind the Bible is one of them. The father of an illegitimate black child isn't. 

The fact that John McCain is the father of an illegitimate black child was something that was not widely known.  The people of South Carolina found out before I did. 

They found out about it through something called a "Push Poll."  A "Push Poll" is like a real poll but it's unique in that gauges peoples opinions while pushing something or someone under a bus. 

 

See, the people of South Carolina were asked questions about who they liked. George W. Bush? Or John McCain? They could answer whoever they wanted and it was recorded.  Then they were asked qualifying questions for example, "If George W Bush introduced a program that…. Would that change you opinion?" Then they could answer however they felt and it would be recorded. 

Where it got dicey was when it asked a question to the effect of "If you were to learn John McCain was the father of an illegitimate black child, would that change your opinion of him?"  Then all hell broke loose.  Because although they weren't telling you "John McCain was the father of an illegitimate black child" they were putting the possibility out there and once it's out there, it can't come back, unless it's not true.

 

The problem was, it was true. Sort of. 

 

See, years ago, John McCain and his wife, Cindy, adopted a baby girl from Mother Theresa's orphanage, in Bangladesh, and brought her back to the States for medical attention.  You can twist that into "father of an illegitimate black child" if you were so inclined.  Bridget McCain does have dark skin and what not and an orphan by definition is illegitimate.  And well, he IS her father now. 

These things happen.

 

It's never been conclusively proven that the Bush campaign was directly responsible for the smear tactic. You could draw conclusions by asking the question "Who had the means? And, Who had the most to gain?"  That's up to you.

There was a Professor named Richard Hand from Bob Jones University who openly admitted to a more egregious smear, claiming McCain had actually sired children out of wedlock. (I'll let you make your own "Dick Hand Smear Job" jokes.)  But what are you gonna do? If you're a South Carolinian, you change your vote to Bush, who McCain had beat severely in New Hampshire. 

 

It's gotta be a damned insane-ifying thing to have a noble act turned against you like that, especially if it costs you the Presidency.  It's gotta make you crazy.  Maybe you say and do anything to get one last shot.  And maybe when you come back, you're never quite the man you once were. 

 

If you're Al Gore, you get your Oscar and your Nobel Peace Prize and remember that more people actually voted for you.

If you're John McCain, you go through the whole damned thing again and wonder if those bastards out of Carolina have put away the sheets and ropes.

 

I do wonder who South Carolinians will vote for this time.

I hope American Idol has better contestants this year.

I saw on the news this morning that Taylor Hicks got dropped by his label. 

Elections are crazy things. 

 

That's all I have to say about that.

 

 

 

Rock the Casbah is the most consistently relevant song written in the last 25 years.

A Terri Schiavo joke can still stop a conversation in its tracks.

Pizza is becoming less satisfying to me.

Now, I get why people like Costco.

Dallas radio used to be cool. It sucks ass now.  I miss Indie 103.1.

I like cold weather more than hot weather.

My left knee hates cold weather.

I sleep better on the couch.

I'm not mean as often as I used to be.

When I am mean, I'm meaner than I've ever been.

I am less bitter than I once was.

My friends are more bitter than they once were.

I still miss old pets that have died.

There's only one person I can think of that I miss on a regular basis

and I've missed her for almost 20 years.

 

 

That's all I have to say about that.

I don't care what your mother says. If you don't actually create anything, you ain't creative. 

I don't care if you call yourself a writer. If you don't write, you ain't a writer.

I don't care how old you are. If you don't nut up for the ones you love or the things you want, you ain't a man.

I don't care how much money you're living on. If you don't work for anything, you ain't worth a shit.

 

Draw a line in the sand, say THIS is where I claim my ground, and take one on the chin.  Win, lose or draw, do your damnedest to hold that line.  Just make anything mean something for one Godforsaken moment in your life. That's all anybody asks.

 

 

That's all I have to say about that.

 

 

So, the other day, I heard a man say the words, "This is America! Speak English!"

 

It infuriated me to no end.  I'm kind of a moderate.  There are some conservatives who call me a liberal.  But there's a bunch of liberals who think I'm not one. So fuck 'em all… but that's neither here nor there. 

 

I just hate closed-minded bullshit.  Especially, closed-minded bullshit that is completely incorrect in its premise.  "This is America! Speak English!" Seriously, that's what the guy said. That's what he thinks.  That's the feeling in his heart when he stands amongst strangers, from all backgrounds, in a public place. 

 

It took everything I had not put him in his fucking place and say, "Listen here, fucker.  This is the UNITED STATES of America! Speak UNITED STATES OF AMERICAN! If you want to speak English go back, to ENGLAND, where you fucking came from!" 

 

I stopped myself because if I'd said it, it probably would've sounded way less funny than it did in my head… particularly, because the guy didn't have an English accent. 

 

Yesterday, I stopped in at McDonald's for breakfast. Usually, I do the drive through but I was driving the truck and it doesn't have cup holders. I dunno why.  It's kind of no frills, the truck.  I don't mind so much, I don't usually spend more than twenty minutes in it, at a time.  But that's neither here nor there. 

 

So, I was in McDonald's. It was slow. There wasn't anybody behind me in line, so I thought about mixing it up and being friendly and such.  I looked at the menu and noticed they now have a Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit (my usual) and a Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle.  I wondered what the difference was, so I asked the girl behind the counter.

 

"What's the difference between the Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit and the Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle?"

"You want the Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit and the Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle?" She asked.

"No," I said. "I'm asking, which one's better? The Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit or the Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle?"

"The Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit and the Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle?"

"Right," I said. "Which one's better?"

"What to drink?" She asked.

"Huh?"

"The Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit and the Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle and what to drink?" She asked.

I told her again that I didn't want both.  "Look, if you were gonna choose one, which one would it be? The Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit or the Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle?"

 

She just looked at me and blinked real hard.  Then she looked behind her (I don't know why, the only thing there was the soft serve ice cream machine) and looked at me again.

 

"The Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit and the Bacon Egg Cheese McGriddle. And to drink?"

"No, I just want… give me the Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit meal," I told her.  I was feeling way less friendly. 

 

I mean, I understand English isn't her strong suit.  And I sympathize. Maybe she's still learning but until she understands "Either/Or" I'd prefer she was doing the cooking instead of taking my order.  Because I still want to know which one is better and not knowing made me like my Bacon Egg Cheese Biscuit a lot less.  Having said that, maybe I just realized McDonald's breakfast food is really not so great. 

 

I remember sulking while I ate and wondering for a second if Mr. Speak English had stopped at McDonalds that morning.  Smug fucker. 

 

That's all I have to say about that.

 

 

So, this guy, out of nowhere, starts to witness to me.  Apropo of nothing.  I don't know what I do to deserve shit like this.  

Don't get me wrong. I have religious beliefs.  I'll leave it at that.  I respect you enough not to witness to you, unless you ask.  Even then, I'll shrug through most of it. There's better people than me to lead you down the path of spiritual enlightenment.  

But there he goes. "The Holy Spirit guides me to tell you... I know I'm right because the Holy Spirit is in me and the choices I make... When I accepted Jesus into my heart... It says here right in this book.... Look! I am saved and unless you..."

I looked at him and asked, "What religion are you from, again?"

The guy shook his head and said, "I have a personal connection with Christ and the Holy Spirit. I don't define myself the way people who need a 'named religion' do.  It doesn't matter what you call me."

"Can I call you a Muslim?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"Can I call you a Buddhist?"

He looked at me like I'd breathed fart smoke in his face. Then he walked away.
That was it.  

It's been a while since I've read my Bible, but I'm pretty sure there's a good "Bear-false-witness" joke, in there somewhere.  

 

That's all I have to say about that.

 

 

I heard a story on the radio today.  I don't remember what it was about.  I guess I wasn't paying attention.  Fucking human interest stuff, usually involves somebody's cat or something.  I remember it had a quote from some lady talking about being so happy she wept tears of joy.  

I've never wept tears of joy. Never. Not once.  I don't get it.  
I've shed tears of sorrow. Tears of pain.  No joy.

When I'm happy, I laugh. I smile. I smirk.
I've been so happy, I've fallen down. I've fallen down drunk.  I've jumped up and down.

I've kicked things. I've kissed things. I've hit things. I've thrown things.  I've bitten things.  I've broken things.  I've damned near pissed my pants. I've damned near shit my pants.  I've howled. I've hollered. I've rubbed my hands.  I've scratched my balls.  I've bought and sold things.  I've run away with fists pumping, lungs screaming, bones aching.  I've damn near died.  

Honest.  I've been so happy, I damn near wrecked myself and died.  But I've never, ever, not even once, been so happy, I've cried.

That's all I have to say about that.

I think my ma slept straight through the 60's.  She stayed up listening to Elvis, went to sleep when they shot Kennedy (the first) and woke up in time to hear Tanya Tucker sing "Delta Dawn."  Everything in between happened in the darkness for her. 

As a result, she has no point of reference for Motown, Stax, psychedelia or the Beatles.  As a matter of fact she used to hate The Beatles, with the exception of one song.  "I think that song 'Yesterday' is so pretty," she once said. 

 

My mom drank beer as a youngster.  During her desperate housewife stage she would drink Mogen David by herself in the living room, listening to Roberta Flack.  With the exception of the nicotine she gave up when she was pregnant with my sister, that was the extent of her experimentation.

 

Because of this semi-sheltered existence, she doesn't get the behavior of a lot of people.  That may not necessarily be a bad thing.  But still, she doesn't see the sense in a lot of the more extroverted mid-life crises. 

 

A while back she came to visit and started talking about the niece of a friend of hers.  She always starts these conversations with the phrase "You remember so-and-so…." The person in question, if I've ever met them in my life, is usually someone I saw once, when I was two.  She never accepts that I don't know who she's referring to. 

 

We always have these conversations over breakfast.  She likes the way I cook eggs.

Anyway, this niece of her friend is apparently in her early 40's.  The woman was married to a very nice, reserved man for 20 and some-odd years.  Then BOOM, he died.  It came as a shock because he never drank or smoked or went out all night with people who did.  (In all of my mother's stories, people who die, die only after living a model life.)

 

After her mourning, this niece of her friend fell in with some rat-bastard drunk – a real low-life, who has been married numerous times and has been divorced by all of his ex-wives because he was a rat-bastard drunk who left them all penniless.  According to the narrative, he's the kind of guy who exclaims things like "Everybody knows, I've drank all my life! I ain't stoppin' now for nobody."

 

That's the fact of the story and now, this jackass whirlpool of self-destruction is taking down the once sure and steady niece of my ma's friend.  She goes out drinking all the time…is close to losing her job. She's bank rolling his binges and is now on the verge of selling her bought-and-paid-for house to buy something else he likes.  My ma has no idea what would drive somebody to be that stupid.

 

"Well, that's the damned thing with drunks and junkies, ma." I told her.  "They all seem so goddamned exciting when you're around 'em.  Life is vital and thrilling.  Every moment is dramatic and every night you narrowly escape a car wreck, a bar brawl or a police chase.  It's freakin' breath taking and you'd trade everything you got for that thrill ride.  Then one day, you come to on the floor, with a bloody nose, a missed court date and some psychotic, writing suicide notes, in the other room.  That's when you realize all the excitement was just you, marching to your doom, like some idiot lemming with an open bar tab.  Drunks and junkies, all for goddamn nothing."

 

My ma kind of looked at me cock eyed for a second. 

 

"Well, I've never been a 'junkie,'" I said, defensively.

 

My ma's legally blind, so sometimes it's hard to tell if she's thinking, agreeing or judging.  She just looks at you. 

 

We sat there eating our eggs and bacon, drinking Coca Cola for breakfast.  The little jam box in the kitchen was playing a Beatles mix cd of mine.   "I need to re-burn this," I said. "It skips on 'Norwegian Wood.' I hate that." 

 

She nodded.

 

That's all I have to say about that.

 

 

 

I was standing in the line at the 7-11, getting my newspaper and a drink.  The woman talked damned loud.  She wanted somebody to notice her, maybe.  She had a spray on tan that looked like it was administered by a blow torch.   I figured she stole her sunglasses from Bono. 

She filled some coffee in a cup.  Took a few swigs, then filled the cup back up.  She did that a couple of times before she put the cap on the cup.  "I just cain't seem to wake up today," she said to no one in particular.  Then she walked toward me because I was the back of the line.

"Alice!" She yelled to her kid. "Buy something healthy! Get some strawberry milk or chocolate milk! Put that water back!"  She raised her eyebrows and said to me, "I ain't gonna pay for water. I got water at home."

The kid walked up with a bottle of sugar milk.  "Pomegranate?" The lady said.  She took a hard swig of coffee and handed the cup to her kid.  "Go fill this up again. Hurry! Momma's next in line."

I paid for my paper and drink. Then left. 
A half a mile down the road, I wondered if pomegranate flavored, sugar milk, was really healthier than a bottle of water.

That's all I have to say about that.

 

She was one of those girls, who described herself as "bi," to make herself seem more interesting, even though she wasn't really "bi."  Then once you got to know her, as a person, you discovered she wasn't really "bi," and suddenly, she seemed significantly less interesting.  She was one of those girls. 

 

Then you'd wonder if she was ever interesting to begin with, or, if, maybe, you'd just given her credit based on this one false fact of sexuality.  By then, it didn't really matter. You'd wasted hours listening to insipid stories about how everyone else in her life was a "psycho" who'd "stalked" her or "tried something the last time" they "got high together."  She was one of those girls. 

 

She would talk about how she wanted to write a story where nothing bad happened.  People just loved each other.

"Why would I read that? What's interesting about that?" You'd ask.

"The world is too full of conflict.  I just want to write about something where there's no conflict." She'd say.

"There's always conflict.  This morning, I didn't want to get out of bed but I had to go make money. That was a conflict.  Do I order another beer and then go piss, so my new drink will be waiting when I get back? Or, do I listen to your bit about a 'story with no conflict' and wait to go piss? There's the conflict. What do these 'love people' do?" You'd ask.

"They're superheroes." She'd answer.

"That makes no fucking sense."

 

You'd close your eyes tight and rub a cold beer bottle across your forehead, just to pass the time, while she talked.  When some other guy came up and talked to her, you'd feel like you just passed off a bad penny.  Then you'd cut and run.  She was one of those girls. 

 

That's all I have to say about that.