Friday, September 22, 2017

Paper Covers Rock

Alright, let's roll. It's time to finish some songs. I'm dying to play. Is there any reason to put together a record, a CD? Nothing comes to mind. If radio's not dead it's certainly on life support. How do I know that folks don't buy CD's? Because I don't buy them.

In the past I've put out records to give myself an excuse to finish songs. Now what?

The play, that's what.

"What do you do, Ronny?"

"I write plays. Musicals. Transcendental smut."

Stay tuned.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

One Leg At A Time

Coincidence? Everything that Grandma told me when I was three matched what they told me in Sunday school. By the time of the Summer of Love it was all old hat to me. Turns out I was a hippie just waiting for hippies. Peace and love and rock'n'roll. What's new?

I've cast my lot with Jesus and Buddha. Brigitte Bardot and Lord Buckley. Bucky Fuller and Rosa Parks and Mr. Rogers and Al Einstein.

You want intellectually stimulating? You've come to the wrong place. I preach the obvious.

Peace and love and understanding.


Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Stir Occasionally

Cable news seems to be taking a toll on my emotional well being here lately. Not the news shows- the content. The bad kindergartners have taken over the classroom. The really bad ones. While they pull down their pants and threaten each other with nuclear annihilation, Mother Nature keeps getting up on the wrong side of the bed.

Now the morning air is getting brisk and I can see a sky full of stars when I first go out in the morning. That always gives me the blues. If I knew why, I'd tell you.

The blues never seem to last. Nothing does.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

The Little Bang

Read more than you write. Listen more than you speak. Love without expectations. 

Why would you listen to me, a small fish in a small pond? Why not? I'm not selling anything. Sometimes you're happy and sometimes you're sad and that's just the way it goes. Always tell the truth but don't hurt anybody's feelings. Most of us don't ever get over hurt feelings.

How much you suppose they pay those guys who write fortunes for cookies? 

"What do you do?"

"Well, I once wrote hillbilly songs. Now I freelance fortunes for cookies."

Monday, September 18, 2017

Prayers and Poems

Call me a sentimental fool. No, really- call me a sentimental fool. I try as hard as I can to unlearn every grownup notion that has seeped into my repertoire of stupid adult tricks. I want to love everybody who needs my love and pet every dog and cat. I want to sit at the kids' table for holidays and I want to take a nap in front of a big fan. I need pajamas with feet and I want to lick the spoon when cookies are made. Of course I want cookies made often. 

I want someone to be there when I wake up from a bad dream. I need someone to remind me to share what I have and to hug me when I do.

Naked, of course, is naughty and I want to dance naked and I want to laugh. I want to laugh till milk runs out of my nose. Oh, I want everyone else to dance naked, too. I don't want to stay up too late. I need for someone to tell me that I'm a good boy.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

She Turned Over Once

Well sir, I wouldn't sell you a car that had three hundred thousand miles on it. I just wouldn't. Now, I suppose that some folks lie and claim that those zeroes represent just one trip around. It's easier to get away with that today, especially if the interior is clean. Spray some of that stuff from the auto supply place and it even smells "new," whatever that means. Oh, it may have some more life in it but, then again, it may not.

Patina is fashionable and I love the look of rust. Marble seems to take on character with cracks. Plaster walls, too. Persian rugs bore me to death until they get those paths worn into them.

New songs come on the radio and I'm thankful that folks still pour every bit of their soul into those three minutes. It seldom does to me what a scratchy old Beatles record does, though. 

Like the rest of the world, I can watch puppies and kittens on YouTube all day. Babies, too. When push comes to shove, nothing moves me like the love in the cloudy eyes of an old dog.

Old hearts that have been broken again and again and have turned over more than once probably have some use. They're not gonna use them in a transplant. I wonder if that Organ Donor thingee on your driver's license expires?

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Land Of Plenty

There's plenty for everybody. There should be a heaven and it should be right here. There's enough money for you and everybody in your neighborhood. There are enough hospital beds for everyone ailing. What hillbilly evangelist lied to your cousin about Jesus being a socialist? Of course he was. Jewish, too. An Arab. 

Those radio waves don't belong to some government agency to sell off. That oil under the Gulf of Mexico doesn't belong to BP. Nobody asked me about selling any mineral rights.

Ol' Sam Walton may have worked hard to open a store and I'm glad that he did well. That doesn't mean that his great grandchildren should enslave a bunch of folks who live with no dreams of a future. For themselves or their offspring.

This world, this government, this culture censors folks like me. They marginalize us. Mock us. They can't arrest us. Not here. Not yet. I don't threaten revolution. Not with guns. I hate guns.

Oh, we have heroes. They just don't get on cable news very often.

“We should do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian Darwinian theory he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.”  R. Buckminster Fuller