Don't ever underestimate the power of the music. Crooks can hijack it for awhile but it belongs to us. It's full of love and it's full of magic. Roll over Beethoven and tell Chuck Berry the news. 
Well, I think I'm gonna move. I've been here for twenty years. Never lived in one place for so long. I've told you that I live in a jungle on an island. It's been pretty much a dream for me. Not only that but Jamaica has never lived anywhere else. I'm hoping that she'll be happy wherever we land. 
Well, as you know, the joy is out there. It's up to you to find it. I think Christians hide easter eggs for the same reason that the marines have young recruits climb ropes. It's all about learning to look for it without having your spirit broken.
When I take a minute to consider just how special every person really is, I'm overcome with wonder. When I take a moment to ponder the waste of war, I'm bewildered and reduced to tears.
What if we've finally used up all the rock'n'roll? I mean we ran out of swing, didn't we? All this slick americana stuff seems to be where the "smart money" goes today. Who cares? What a great run. Me, I'm just waiting for the kids to bring us something. We'll know it when we hear it, huh?
Therapists like me. I'll tell anybody anything. That's not necessarily a virtue. Writing songs has been the only thing that has kept me out on the track at times. When I boast that rock'n'roll has saved my life, I mean it in lots of ways. Literally.
It's all in the water, isn't it? There are far more good folks out there than bad ones. Somehow, though, we seem to let the bad ones make the rules and run the game. Those creeps who butted in line and took your lunch money while you were in Phys Ed took over the governments. The churches, too! They control our airwaves and they've wrangled the worldwide web from us. I'm not proud to tell you that they have controlled the music industry since money was first made from music. All the arts, in fact. By that I mean the art business. In my eyes, it's either art or it's business. Nobody asks me.
Went to a memorial service for another friend yesterday. That's what I do these days. You can't have too many reminders of just how precious life is. You don't leave anything but love. Leave plenty.
It's rained all day and now I guess it's gonna rain all night. Okay by me. Jamaica doesn't much care for it, though. The rain seems to make her nervous.
Ah, the glory days. Just kidding. I don't miss a thing. Well, that's not altogether true. I miss all the loved ones who have gone and I miss all the sweet pets who gave me so much. I don't miss any things, though. I don't look back and wish I had kept this guitar or that car. I don't pine for the good old days when music was good and the air was clear and the pants were pulled up. This life is so special and so precious and I'm just trying to pay attention here. Love; that's the deal.
None of us like to think that we're slow, dumb, below average. In fact, I listened to a good friend pontificate the other day on the theory that all of us have a need to feel superior, in one way or another, to the folks around us.
Looks like it's gonna rain all day. I wouldn't care except that Jamaica is nervous about it. She won't leave my side. I suppose it's nice to be needed.
It's always a bit monotonous to be around folks who came up with different music than you. Sometimes I think nobody came up with the music that I did but then I remember just how the Beatles knocked me for that loop that changed it all for me.
When I think about Maxine Brown's "All In My Mind" I'm reminded that it may be the only rock'n'roll hit to feature a trombone. I can't think of a single big rocker in 3/4 time that hit the Top 10 before the Moody Blues covered Bessie Banks' wonderful "Go Now." Surely we would never have gotten past the three minute radio hit if Bob hadn't stepped in.
You think you have time. Well, you do... until you don't. I listened to friends last night grieve and bemoan the fact that they hadn't spent nearly enough time recently with the one they had just lost. Work? Fine. Overrated. Chores? Most of them can wait. Live your life like you did as a kid. Stay outside til it's dark. Play one more game. Love like it matters. It does.
Sometimes when I consider the energy that goes into the drama I'm amazed that there's anything left for the music. Change is easy, I suppose, if you pay attention. If 50% of "happiness" falls within the range of my control, I'm wearing a party hat and no pants from here on out.
As one who obsesses over every turn taken, I often wonder what might have become of me if I hadn't gone into the rock'n'roll racket. Oh, I can do nine to five. I have. And romance. What if I could have done better as a husband, a partner, boyfriend, lover?
So that self- important blowhard, Gene Simmons, has declared rock'n'roll dead, huh? Who am I to disagree? I have to say though: it was arrogant, money grabbing', small- dicked jerks like him that drove the final nail in the coffin.
So I sat with an old pal yesterday and listened while he told me just how miserable I had been for an extended period and how much he had worried about me. It sounded familiar. Now I'm no poster boy for mental health on a good day, if there are any good days, but this was stuff that I could barely listen to.
Everybody's job is important. I guess the secret to happiness, if there is a secret, is to do what a kid would do. Didn't you love to dream and play the role of a hero? Remember running and pushing in line? I just loved to sing and show off and dress up in ridiculous outfits. That's what I do. Oh, it doesn't pay much. I made more doing this when I was seventeen years old than I do today. Of course it was more fashionable then. I'm not complaining.
Look at all this, will you? There's perfection everywhere. Use up all your love. We're only here for a little while. Don't waste a minute fighting or worrying. Everything's in tune. You just have to know what you're listening for.
Why am I always the one with the memories? Long road behind me, long road as far as I can see. I spend far too much time talking to the dog and the cat. They think so, too.
It doesn't seem right to me, somehow, that I can name players from baseball teams in the 1950's and I'm unable to tell you my garbage man's name. I'm ashamed that I even refer to him as "my garbage man." I know who played fiddle in Cat Mother and the All Night Newsboys but I can't put a proper name on any of the hospice workers that I've ever met.
Oh, if only I had the dignity and grace that my cat has. I don't. If only I had the soul and the character of my dog. Nope. I muddle through and do the best I can with what I have to work with.
My storybook life has been almost everything I've ever dreamed. Yeah, almost. I suppose I've learned the lessons as I've gone. Most of them. Well, some of them. I play rock'n'roll. I live in a jungle on an island. I've met my heroes, worked with most of them.
"Here, you need to talk to Ronny Elliott," my pal, Terry Ware, was telling the British kids that he was dragging up to introduce me to. They had come to Okemah for the Woody Guthrie Festival, working on a documentary about Oklahoma music.
The first time I was ever in New Orleans I went straight to my hotel room and found the phone book. Of course the first name I looked up was Antoine Domino. There he was. Then I flipped to Leonard Lee. Yep. I scrolled through Battiste, Toussaint, Kenner and Kador, Byrd. There were lots of Nevilles. I didn't have the nerve to call any of them. What would I say? I love you? I always have?
Well, I'm a sight, huh? You do hear all the beautiful music, right? The melodies are all right there. The art is there for the taking. Selling it? Well, now that's a different business. I'm not much interested in that one.