Sunday, January 22, 2023

The Stars Are Still There

In case you've been wondering, all the stars are still in the sky. From my second floor landing, here in Dorset, I see them all, all that I remember, when I get up in the middle of the night. We've plastered those little glow-in-the dark ones all over the bedroom ceiling so that I don't have to get up.

Now I've lived like an adult and I've lived like a child. I remember when folks referred to having fun as a grownup as a "second childhood." 

If I tie a silk ribbon around my neck, it won't be to impress my boss or my banker. I eat cake for breakfast and play on the floor with dogs.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

Thursday, January 12, 2023

Keeping Portland Weird

When I'm not worrying about freezing to death, I'm thinking that the roof might blow off at any minute. It rains pretty much every day, usually for the better part of the day. I love it.

We're sticking stars on the ceiling and we're drinking Ovaltine like there's no tomorrow.

The dogs are happy and the shed is up. I guess life is about perfect. I wake up and see her face every morning.


Thursday, December 8, 2022

Wrong Side


Well, sir, it's cold. I knew that. Of course they're all driving on the wrong side of the road and I expected that, too. I mean, I've been here. Every exchange attempting to settle a bill leaves me holding out a few notes and all the change from my pocket. Sometimes Kate helps me. The fact that all attempts to settle in quickly become Monty Python episodes will keep me humble forever. I may be hit by a bus from the right at any moment. I can't become one of them until I have a bank account. I can't get a bank account without presenting a utility bill. I can't open a utility account if I don't have a bank account to pay my utility bill.

Stay tuned. I'm nothing if not tenacious. Sorry.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

Thursday, November 3, 2022

Union Jacks and Hot Rods


I've been trying to get to England since 1965. Oh, I've been a few times. I've played and toured there. I've visited friends. I'm finally going to live there in any way that the immigration folks see fit. It's taking some doing, to be honest.

Parting with things that I considered holy has been odd. Objects that I would not have thought would ever leave my presence. Turns out it's easy. Stuff is just stuff after all.

People? Well, that's rougher. Folks promise that they will visit. Maybe they will. I will surely be taking the memories that we share.

It's new memories that I'm going for. I've got new songs to write and everything that I want to write about is over there. My heart has it right. I couldn't be happier. I couldn't be luckier.

Saturday, October 15, 2022

Hillbilly Lotharios & Posh Angels

Elvis died with about five million bucks in the bank and lots of debt. I remember worrying about his finances. Here, the King of Rock'n'Roll lay dead as a doornail, at peace for the first time since 1956, and I fretted about his financial affairs. 

Seems I've always agonized over other folks' money problems. Mine? Not so much.

There have been times when I have had a few bucks squirreled away and times, more times, where I have lived paycheck to paycheck. Keep in mind that I write hillbilly songs. I don't get many paychecks. Oh, I've swept floors, scooped mud, peddled real estate, written newspaper columns, fought pollution, promoted concerts and indulged in other activities that kept the wolf from the door for periods of time between big hit records. Truthfully, I'm a little tired of waiting for a big hit record.

Somehow, I've never figured out this quest for gold, records or otherwise. I collect parrot jokes. Doesn't require any license, wardrobe or degree. I keep rocks. I've built up a lifetime's fantasies and I'm working to indulge every last one. None of them involve money.

I've got the best life in the world. Sometimes I lose a little sleep over your economic well-being.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.


Saturday, October 1, 2022

Maybe If I Dream It

If I could do it all over, I'd be kinder. Softer. Oh, I suppose I've done alright. I mean I could have done worse. 

I wish I had played more slow songs, more tunes in waltz time.

I should have listened a lot more and talked a lot less. It's not as though I've had a lot of important information to disseminate. There's that one line that I took from Lottie and that's about it. My act, my repertoire. Well, I steal from the best- you've gotta give me that.

Maybe I've learned to love right. Lottie showed me that, too, but I probably took it for granted while she was here. The dogs and the cats took up the slack.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.



Thursday, August 18, 2022

Trips To The Attic

All thoughts are random until they get strung together with others. Most of mine remain at least slightly obtuse even then. Here are a few of today's.

Religions always go with the good colors. Saffron robes, pink and purple pope get-ups. Why do they dress the nuns in black?

If we let the public know that billionaires in the US don't pay taxes and that our taxes go mostly for war to benefit the billionaires, don't they suspect that lots of people are gonna cheat and lie when tax time rolls around?

If you don't believe in a creator, you might as well enjoy the carnal delights with gusto and without guilt, right? If you do believe in a creator, surely you don't think that She designed reproduction of the species requiring something sinful. Do you?

Oh, I could go on, as you know. I would like to say that I have better things to do. I don't. It's just that short attention span.