Thursday, December 8, 2016

Raining Cats and Dogs






There are only a few notes and twenty six letters in our alphabet. Apparently each of us can see about ten million colors. Seems to me that surely all the songs have been written. All the stories, too. I'm pretty sure I've seen most of my ten million colors.

It's all reruns from here on out, pal.



                                      

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Sputnik Soup






North, South, East and West. Eskimos, de old folks at home, Manhattan skyscrapers and cowboys. Maybe my mind doesn't work like yours. I was wired for another century, another world. As dignity grows fainter in history's rearview I grow wistful. Sentimental.

The therapist asked, "Ronny, would you consider that you're more sentimental than she is?"

Upon reflection, I'm more sentimental than everybody. Dang.




Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Dime Store Perfume






Hey, Baby, they're playing our song. In 1956 Brigitte Bardot was twenty two. I was nine. That didn't affect our love affair. Of course the mademoiselle didn't know a thing about it. Still doesn't.

Walter Mitty's got nothing on me. I've broken my arm, my nose and my foot. Not bad divided by this number of years. Oh, and my heart. Nine hundred and seventy three times. Doesn't do much for my average. Even Knievel's got nothing on me, either.




Monday, December 5, 2016

See Through






These moments of clarity come so infrequently. I don't know anything and I know so much more than before. Am I unraveling or is the world? Does it matter? Politics is not science. "Political Science" is a college course. Economics is not science. Ask a real economist. Ask Paul Krugman.

Not much impacts our life more than politics unless it's economics. It's like the NFL. It's like reality TV. 

Come back to us tonight, Woody Guthrie.




Sunday, December 4, 2016

Sentimental





Me? I miss my Leroy Lettering set. Test patterns. I long for that sound that radios made while the tubes were warming up and the dial was scanned for your station. Most of all I miss love and romance. I'm too old for it now. To be honest I'm not sure that I ever had it. I miss what I took to be love.

I did have a Leroy Lettering set. I was no good with that, either.


                                     

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Seriously Slow






Worrying about worrying. Now that will keep you up. Turn your hair gray. Trying not to worry- that's worse. I'm no good at drinking any more. Maybe I never was. I've gotten what I wanted, what I needed, from drugs. 

Now it's me and the dog and the rock'n'roll.

This is what I've always secretly longed for.

"What?" you ask, "Sitting around in your underwear ending sentences with prepositions?"

Don't toy with me.




Friday, December 2, 2016

Because You Have To






Yeah, you do it because you have to do it. If you're lucky your Col. Parker will eventually find you. Your Henry Higgins, Your Brian Epstein. If you're really lucky, really lucky, he won't. You'll do it all your life because you have to do it.

Let me be blasphemous here for a minute. Picasso was a brilliant young painter. He was probably a genius. He broke new ground along with a few of his contemporaries for awhile. Then he got rich. Famous. Not surprisingly he wanted to get laid. Then he spent years as a hack, putting both eyes on the same side of the nose because he could. He was Picasso. At the end he painted erotica. He was an artist again for a bit.

Elvis changed the world. The planet had never seen or heard anything like that. Never. Then he worked Vegas. He went to Hollywood. Along came the white suits and the scarves. Voila! The first Elvis impersonator. His name was Elvis.

Oh, I could go on. I won't. Yeah, I wish somebody, somewhere would mail me a hundred bucks for a song or two. Don't hold your breath.

I do it because I have to. I'm lucky.