When we look into the face of a baby or we stare at the innocence of a puppy or kitten, our hearts melt. It's a big part of the design. After a life of loss and hurt, the sweetness is often back in the face of the older folks, the aging dogs and cats.
Let's face it, the ones in the struggle need the love, too. We work hard to justify withholding love and affection. It's a weapon. It's a mean one. I suppose all weapons are.
Flat on your back, the stars in the sky will show you the way.
Okay, William S., you're right. I wasn't here for the beginning. It's not likely I'll be here for the end. Yeah, we were all born at night. Not last night.
Prop me up, pin some wings on me. No matter how much I change, no matter how many times I re-invent myself, I always seem to be me. Hold the phone... it's for me.
Yeah, maybe I spent too much time worrying about the rhyme. Probably paid too much attention to the muse. Every single song that's worth singing is about love. We've all seen Townes quoted, "It's either the blues or it's Zippity Doo Dah."
Close but no cigar there, buddy. I love Zippity Doo Dah. It's either about love or you really should have saved your breath. Love is the glue that holds together the stardust that is us. Please disturb. I love you.
Maybe everybody does have a dark side. Maybe there really is no light without dark, positive without negative. Shouldn't we be moving towards something like light and lighter? Let's let the good guys run the show for a century or two. Let's not shoot them in front of the Dakota, nail them on a cross, burn them at the stake.
When I was a kid they took me hunting a few times. I went fishing once. Oh, I never shot anything or caught anything but I tried to like it. I guess I always knew that it wasn't for me.
When my cousins went camping I often got taken along. I thought I was enjoying it all. Looking back, I was miserable. I hate sleeping on the ground. I can't stand that mildew smell that permeates the inside of a tent. My idea of a good camping trip involves a penthouse suite at the Pierre with room service. I would have liked that at twelve, too.
When I tell you about my adolescence I seem to mention "building hot rods" frequently. Oh, yeah, I had some fine, fine cars but, truth be told, I never built much of anything. It has only been in the last few years that I have finally figured out that I have absolutely no mechanical aptitude. None. I never killed myself in my '32 Ford because it usually wasn't running.
I could go on and on. I've tried to like Miles Davis, kale, big roller coasters and church sermons. I hope I'm not a fraud.
A friend asked me to play a couple of songs for her mom's funeral a few years back. She asked for Amazing Grace. Well, fine. Of course I had never played Amazing Grace but it made sense. Then she asked if I might do Sentimental Journey. She told me that it had been her mother's favorite song. It's one of mine, too, but I worried that I might not do it justice. I promised that I would see what I could do. Well, even with all the minor 7ths and augmented chords, it sounded just like any other Ronny Elliott song when I did it.
It has taken a long, long time but I'm pretty sure that I've got some idea of just who I am. My only regrets have to do with hurting others on the long road to finding out. I love old dogs and banana pudding. I'm crazy about pretty girls and babies. Great hot rods drive me wild; I just can't build them. I could listen to Duke Ellington or Stringbean for hours and be satisfied. Sometimes. On another day it's all Ernie K-Doe and Billie Holiday. I'm happiest when the music's on shuffle.
My heart fills with love and sometimes I don't know what to do with it. That's crazy, I know, with all of the living things out there that need it so desperately. It's all about the peace and the love and I'm really, really lucky that I know that. Make someone happy with love. That's the deal.
Stop me if I've told you this. It was 1965 and our band, the Raveons, was booked for a big show in Miami. First time we had ventured so far away from home. We were pretty cocky and fairly certain that fame and fortune lay some three hundred miles south of us.
We loaded all of the equipment that would fit into the back seat of my '61 Chevy and filled a small U-Haul that we hooked to Warren's '57 Thunderbird. I was way ahead of the T-Bird with our drummer, Don Smith in the front seat with me, by the time we approached Yeehaw junction, the halfway point of the journey. The explosion of that big 348 big block was dramatic. With a cloud of white smoke behind me, I coasted to the shoulder of the highway.
Don and I waited for what seemed like hours for Warren and Steve Newman, the other guitarist, to pass by us on the road. It was probably a long fifteen minutes. Well, we managed to cram everything into the trailer and all four of us piled into the one seat of the Thunderbird.
When we got to the Florida Turnpike we were turned away at the ticket station. It was illegal for the four of us to be on one seat. Of course the car only had one seat. We had to go back a few hundred feet, so as not to be detected, and rearrange. I crawled onto the top of the amps in the little U-Haul, flat on my back, with my nose mere inches from the ceiling. I rode in that position until we got off the turnpike forty five minutes later. The worst part was knowing that I would have to repeat the ordeal to get home.
Now, I'm not gonna try to convince you that this explains anything about what's wrong with me today. You figure it out.
I will tell you that I don't remember anything about the show. What I do remember is that once I got home to Tampa, I had to convince my pal, Larry Rardon, to drive me back to Yeehaw Junction in his Corvair to tow the big red Chevy home. It was on Easter Sunday. I'm here to tell you that Arlo Guthrie could have made a fortune with this stupid story.
Well, now, I've been accused of having too high an opinion of myself and I've been told that I don't have any conception of my true worth. I've sometimes been told these things by the same people in my life. Maybe they're right.
You see, I'm with Lord Buckley here. Honestly, I think that everyone is special. Really special. Unique. Seems to me, though, that the only perfect characters are fictional. Even the Jesus of the new testament seemed to enjoy the company of the riff raff. John Lennon seemed determined to show us his dark side, all the while preaching peace and love.
Me? I've racked up so many things that I'm ashamed of that I could fill several volumes. You don't have to strain your imagination. I've told you lots of it.
Lazy. I've been called lazy. I have to say that I'm comfortable working the imagination and that often results in callouses that don't show up on the fingers. If the universe needed me to learn how to tune a guitar properly the gods wouldn't have made Steve Connelly and Terry Ware. If I spend too much time thinking rationally about songs and career moves then I won't have time for my muse.
If I have any conceit, I suppose that it all has to do with my good intentions. I want to do right and, in fact, I still really want to save the world. I do the best I can and while I appreciate good constructive criticism, I'm well aware of my personal shortcomings and failures. I've done lots of apologizing over the years, knowing full well that it doesn't undo anything wrong that I've done. I regret every unkind word, every hurtful thought.
I'd sing on key if I could, too. I give you what I've got and I try to do better. I know about love and I will try to be better at it. When I get quiet, when I get still the space people still talk to me. They tell me about the joy.
When we look into the face of a baby or we stare at the innocence of a puppy or kitten, our hearts melt. It's a big part of the design. After a life of loss and hurt, the sweetness is often back in the face of the older folks, the aging dogs and cats.
Okay, William S., you're right. I wasn't here for the beginning. It's not likely I'll be here for the end. Yeah, we were all born at night. Not last night. 
Yeah, maybe I spent too much time worrying about the rhyme. Probably paid too much attention to the muse. Every single song that's worth singing is about love. We've all seen Townes quoted, "It's either the blues or it's Zippity Doo Dah."
Maybe everybody does have a dark side. Maybe there really is no light without dark, positive without negative. Shouldn't we be moving towards something like light and lighter? Let's let the good guys run the show for a century or two. Let's not shoot them in front of the Dakota, nail them on a cross, burn them at the stake.
When I was a kid they took me hunting a few times. I went fishing once. Oh, I never shot anything or caught anything but I tried to like it. I guess I always knew that it wasn't for me.
Stop me if I've told you this. It was 1965 and our band, the Raveons, was booked for a big show in Miami. First time we had ventured so far away from home. We were pretty cocky and fairly certain that fame and fortune lay some three hundred miles south of us.
Well, now, I've been accused of having too high an opinion of myself and I've been told that I don't have any conception of my true worth. I've sometimes been told these things by the same people in my life. Maybe they're right.