Starstruck And Broken

Who can I pay to haul these beautiful memories away? The sweeter the memory, the truer the love, it seems, the wetter the tears. If I ever told you that I loved you, I loved you, by God. If I didn't tell you, I just didn't get around to it. 

Too shy or just socially awkward in some cases to express myself, I've let a few off easy. Little Miss Dynamite got away unscathed. I've annoyed and bothered more than a few to the point that I had to remove myself from their worlds. Poor little Alison. It's been steady, if uneven, since the third grade.

You know that old hillbilly saw about dogs chasing cars, "Well, what would he do with it if he ever caught it?" Buddy, I've caught a few. I can't say that nothing good ever came from it but, then again, here I sit, wringing my hands.

Cursed with good memory, I've never fallen out of love. I miss my mom, my grandmother. Every aunt and uncle, every cousin. As the list grows shorter I miss every musician who ever crossed my path. The sweet dogs and cats, the pretty little parakeets and the odd rodents run through my mind often, if irregularly.

Ricky, the little boy in my second grade class who wouldn't cry if I could go home with him after school- yeah, I tell that story all the time. I wonder what ever happened to Ricky.

As usual, you can't believe a word I say. I wouldn't trade these memories for anything. I guess the best deal would be to make it into someone else's dreams and memories. The sweet ones.

Put It On His Tab

Restauranteurs don't usually charge celebrities. Shouldn't the rich ones be paying their own bills and leaving something behind to help cover the cost of some hungry diner's check in the future. Can you explain to me why we tend to avoid the gaze of the destitute while scrambling to touch the hem of the garment of the pop star, the surly athlete, the rich and famous?

Doesn't the new testament claim that Jesus hung out with fishermen, kids and whores? Seat me at that table. Pass the bread, please.

Learning To Burn

If only we could all start over. Is it any wonder that so many cultures revolve around the concept of reincarnation? When you look at the innocence of an infant, the joy of a puppy, the sheer exuberance of a baby goat- everything seems fresh, tinged with promise.

Over time I seem to have developed a real appreciation for rust. Marble seems more interesting and beautiful with chips and a running crack. We've all learned from flipping past Antiques Roadshow that you don't destroy the patina on the Tiffany lamp shade by polishing the bronze! Young lawyers will pay big money to have the custom shop at Fender beat the hell out of the new Stratocaster so that they won't have to do it themselves.

My role models will forever be the children. Any regrets that I drag through life revolve around fear and hurt. I'm one of the lucky ones. I've had more love and kindness in my life than seems possible. Stuff? Well, I've always had more than I need even if it hasn't always felt like it at the time. There have been periods where I've had to beat up my own guitars.

Like you, I'm here for love. Most of us admit that up through the first or second week of kindergarten. I didn't go to kindergarten.

Tough guys get hearts tattooed on their biceps and love hard.

                                   

All The Gold

Is all the joy in the memories? Have we really been "going to hell in a hand basket" all this time? Somehow the real world seems to have been appropriated by some diabolical cosmic cartoonist.

Personally, I thought that the Occupy Movement brought a fresh breeze down Main Street. It just didn't last.

Now we have perpetual war, failing health care, a crumbling infrastructure, politics of hate and division and a warming planet. That's not the bad news. They have managed to divide us into two basic camps so that only half of us believe all that. To make matters worse, we're the optimists.

Culture seems to move in fits and starts. Me? I'm having a fit here, waiting for a start.

                                     

Light From A Dead Star

My favorite artists are always inconsistent. Maybe it just makes me feel better. Rock'n'roll wasn't designed to be played with a net. I've got hundreds of new songs started. I hope one or two of them are worth a hoot. I'm finally dying to get into the studio.

When the voices in my head whisper, "Yeah, right- just what the world needs: another Ronny Elliott record!," I clear my throat and respond haughtily, " Well, they didn't need those others, either!"

I remember a joke from Dig Magazine:

Little Julie came home from school beaming and rushed to show her mother the shiny dime. When her mother asked where she had gotten it, Julie explained that the boys on the playground had given it to her so that she would hang by her knees from the monkey bars.

"Honey, they just want to see your panties," her mother explained.

"I know! I tricked 'em. I didn't wear any."

I've based what might be loosely called a career on little Julie's philosophy.

Really, Who Cares?

Now that I'm obsessed with the fear of loneliness, how will I ever know if I'm lonely. All the lofty thinkers have left me anxious. Live awhile, die forever. 

You know all those beautiful, twinkling stars that they tell you died tens of thousands of years ago? Hook your dreams to one of those babies. Me? I've got banana pudding from Publix.

A Dancing Fool In The Gentlemen's Department

Earl Palmer was a tap dancer as a kid. So was Hal Blaine. In case you were born in a barn or maybe you're a bit younger than I am, let me tell you about these two. From the beginning of rock'n'roll up through the '60's, one or the other of these two gents played drums on pretty much every record that matters. Little Richard, Shirley and Lee, Fats Domino, Eddie Cochran, Clarence "Frogman" Henry records? That's all Earl.

The Ronettes, the Beach Boys, the Righteous Brothers, Curtis Lee? That would be Mr. Blaine. Yeah, of course it would.

Me? Yeah, I took tap dancing, too. I'm a dancing fool. In my head I could have worked with Bill Robinson or the Nicholas Brothers. I know how to tap. Of course I'm a fine pianist and guitar player, too. In my head.

Now I don't want to sound racist, but unless your name is Donald O'Connor or Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire, I really don't think you should be dancing in public if you're white. It's never pretty.

Here's my class. See the kid on the left? Yeah, the big one. The kid who's really a little too old to be taking tap lessons. He kicked in the toe of one of my patent leather shoes while we were practicing "slap, toe, step." It wouldn't pop back out and I quit.

We can only guess where I might be today. You know the story.