Bobbleheads and Boobies

Sometimes memories are all you have. As I sit here trying to organize a few random thoughts, it dawns on me that all thoughts are random. At least all of mine are.

For starters, I really hate to brag, but I think I'm gonna make a pretty good old guy. I wasn't much at childhood. My mom told me that I was special so I didn't really know until later in life. I really failed as an adult. I questioned everything. Sex; politics; inequality based on race, economics and gender; neckties; religion.

Whatta' ya rebelling against, Ronny?

Now, I realize that I learned all that I know about love from dogs.

I seem to have rambled here.

Some Folks Work Hard

Somehow it's just not art for me once you re-do it. If it doesn't rhyme the first go 'round, maybe it's just not meant to rhyme. Occasionally I fix a mistake. Usually, they're my favorite part. You know, like on Dee Clark's record, "Hey Little Girl," when the guitar player goes to the chorus too soon. I listen to that song and wait with glee for that part to come along. Man!

The purpose of art should be to make me laugh and make me cry. Teach me something about truth. Remind me to feel. Maybe offer me an alternative to this world they call real.

Looks like I exist for a living and I live for existence. Look around and you're alone.

Rubber Scissors

Maybe I should have danced more.

Did I ever tell you about my favorite shirt? I think you can tell a lot about a fellow from his favorite shirt. In the seventh grade my mom took me shopping for school clothes. We were downtown in Tampa's biggest department store. Boys' clothes were on the second floor.

There it was. Now, I'm no clotheshorse. Never was, never will be. This garment, though, changed everything. This shirt was who I was, who I am.

It was a knit pattern, alternating diamond shapes of purple and olive green. It had three quarter length sleeves and a boatneck. The design element that really finished her off was a double pocket in the front. Picture a kangaroo pouch with a button that might hold two packs of Camels.

Somewhere around here I know that there is at least one picture of me wearing that shirt. I'll try to find it. It didn't last too long. The knit fabric shrunk in the laundry as I was growing at a pretty good clip.

I was never like the others.

You're More Than Welcome

When kindness is mistaken for creepiness, what's a fellow to do? 

The bones of fifty million of my ancestors lay beneath the earth that we walk on every day. Talk about genocide. Once the white man took what he coveted from the native Americans, he brought in slaves from Africa to build what he wanted. To pick the cotton. Everybody needs somebody to look down on.

Jack said that the only truth is music. Who am I to argue?

Everything's Free At Closing Time

Every dream is different and every dream's the same. Truth seems to have been de-valued and honesty appears to have gone out of fashion. There was a time that I would have fought. Those days are behind me.

Now, without romance and truth, with my beloved rock'n'roll a faint memory, I search for reasons. Reasons to fight the good fight. Reasons to get up in the morning.

In those last days Jamaica's tired, sweet eyes told me that she was done. Eyes like those look back at me every morning in the mirror. I see those eyes with every homeless person who approaches me at a traffic light with his little cardboard sign. I'm haunted by that look with each final call for a dog in the pound.

For good measure I check my heart. Love's good but hope's low.

Everybody Has A Price

All my life I've heard all the stories about artists trading their souls for some deal with the devil. Me? I gave mine to the angels a long, long time ago. There have been brief periods where folks hitched their wagon to my star, waiting for the big bucks. They all eventually came to the obvious conclusion. I've learned to accept payment in joy. Of course twenty percent of joy won't keep a manager in a Cadillac.

I've learned to measure success by alternative means. I've had to.

Most of my heroes squandered their fortunes on booze, gambling, drugs. Women! Maybe I'm a decent human being who paid attention in Sunday school. More likely I wasn't afforded the good opportunities.

Don't forget to be kind. Folks need you.

How 'bout Next Year

Oh, I know how to find the sad parts and yet nobody loves the laughter like I do. I'm telling you, they go hand-in-hand. The finest comics frequently pack too much compassion, a surplus of empathy.

I've diagnosed myself try-polar. You hold up an emotion, I'll try it. What other disorders you got?

Don't misunderstand. I'm no comic. I can't remember jokes. Then again, I can't carry a tune in a bucket and I can't always be concerned with a rhyme.