Wednesday Morning:

Everybody is on cranky patrol today,
in case somebody might be in a pleasant mood.
“Good morning” is not the thing to say.
And if good attitude is imbued?
“God damn it! Not today!”
Smiles are out, it’s understood.
Prisoners taken? No! No way!
Where does anybody get off feeling good?
There is mother . . . fucking . . . hell to pay!
Nobody, and I do mean nobody, should
have a nice day!
So shut it up if you would
have a good word to say.
They’ll find your carcass in the wood
if you don’t watch your step today.

Geez Louise.
. . .

Burma Shave

How long was I dreaming?
Sitting at the wheel
Steering with my forehead
Sitting on my thumb
Careening down this highway
In my automobile
Runnin’ over road signs
Just to break the tedium
Well the road
Is muddy
Where it ends
Is your grave
And the punch line
Old buddy
Reads Burma Shave

Saw the Buddha in my headlights
That old son of a bitch
Swerved with the purpose
Just to end his little game
He bounced off the fender
And disappeared into the ditch
He moves fast for a fat man
Threw off my aim
Well the road
Is muddy
Where it ends
Is your grave
And the punch line
Old buddy
Reads Burma Shave

Head cop in my rearview
Head cop up ahead
A fireplace in the basement
Mansions in the sky
Stopped to help a holy man
Whose face was turning red
While chanting for the innocent
He swallowed down a fly
Well the road
Is muddy
Where it ends
Is your grave
And the punch line
Old buddy
Reads Burma Shave

Okie Zen:

If you pass the Buddha on the stairs, he will likely be too winded to say anything more profound than "how ya doin'?"

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Lori's Song

I called up my momma. I thought she should be the first. Then I flagged down a Venusian, sent the word through the universe. Now I’m goin’ through the phone book tellin’ everyone I can. I love Lori Ann. I’m in love with Lori Ann.

I see her across a crowded room, it feels like we’re alone. And when I’m feelin’ out of place she loves me right to home. And nobody’s goin’ home tonight until they understand. I love Lori Ann. I’m in love with Lori Ann.

When I see my Lori smile I feel just like a king. I look into her blue eyes, it makes my soul sing. And when she’s lovin’ me each night I’m glad that I’m the man who loves Lori Ann. I’m in love with Lori Ann.

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The Guitar is a Transposing Instrument
(A jargon laden rap probably incomprehensible to anyone but musicians)


FAQs:

“What is a transposing instrument?”
Transposing in this context means that notation for some musical instruments is not written where the notes actually sound. When playing a notated C Natural on a B-Flat trumpet, the note players are trained to blow is actually a B-Flat. It gets worse. Improvising on an E-Flat Saxophone in an ensemble, the player will ask the pianist what key the tune is in (say the key of A major). E-Flat is C so F Sharp would be the correct key for the Sax to play along in A.

As the song goes: “I’m my own grandpa!”

“WHAT? I’ve been playing the guitar for forty years, and it is not a transposing instrument!”
Sorry. But the fact is when a guitarist plays the C on the third space of treble clef, the note actually sounding is middle C (the ledger line between treble and bass clefs). Guitar notation transposes an octave above concert pitch.

When Carlos Santana is screaming those oh so high notes way up the neck, in concert pitch he is actually only getting to the top of the treble clef. Standard guitar notation would put him many ledger lines above the staff, but it’s just a mirage created by whoever decided guitar music should transpose an octave. The low E string of the guitar is notated below the third ledger line under treble clef, but actually sounds a staggering 7 ledger lines below the staff (or one ledger line below bass clef).

As the song goes: “Don’t Bogart that joint, my friend.”

WHAT? That’s wack!
Personally, I would prefer guitar be written in concert pitch using two staffs the way piano music is. The thinking probably is that it’s easier to read and write the music in one clef. So, they cram over 3 octaves into a one octave staff? To me, the complication of learning to read bass clef would be a lot simpler than dealing with all those ledger lines. When I rule the universe, that’s the way it’s going to be. So, get ready!

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Coyote Moon

It was the moon of the coyote’s dream. He climbed to the top of the world and howled at the moon until the sky was as blue as the blue of her eyes. And the moon was a swirl of white. It danced in a blue starlight. He dreamed that moon followed him the rest of his life.

It was the tale of a man and his wife. They climbed to the top of the world and the blue that he saw in her eyes was as blue as the coyote sky. And the moon was a swirl of white. It danced in a blue starlight. That moon followed them the rest of their lives.

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Sandcastles
(written with much assistance from Mr. Lanny Fiegenschuh)

Leonardo laid down with his back to the sand, but he was too old, too fat to really expect to get tanned. The beach was patrolled by skinny young girls wearing just a thong, and guys like Leonardo just do not belong. He was a portrait of a middle aged artist in the sand.

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

Leonardo saw Pablo in his baggy pants. He was wavin’ a flashlight and doin’ a real goofy dance. Leonardo asked Pablo: “Do you call that art?” Pablo said: “It’s bullshit! But it comes from the heart.” It was a portrait of a middle aged artist in the sand.

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

Vincent said to Don: “Now you just won’t understand ’til your ear’s in a matchbox and your hearts in the sand. Playin’ the fool outside some ratty woman’s door while your dreams drift away from the shore.”

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

Salvadore looked back from the edge of the sea. But torsos in the sand dunes was all he could see. Leonardo painted saints across the sky. Felt the waves on his fingertips and saw his life drifting by. He was a portrait of a middle aged artist in the sand.

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

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Stroker and the Devil

Stroker tells his nightmare
Laughs and drinks a beer
Life would pass beyond all care
But the devil sits right here

Devil live on Stroker
Been 30 years and more
He’s won every hand of poker
Since they came home from the war

Sometimes I whistle in the dark
And I laugh when there ain’t no joke
I swear I hear that bulldog bark
Hear things that can’t be spoke

Stroker tells his nightmare
To everyone he sees
Carries the devil everywhere
And pays the devil’s fees

Stroker wears a casual smile
With napalm in his eyes
He can’t shake the devil’s guile
No matter how he tries

Sometimes I whistle in the dark
Laugh when there ain’t no joke
I swear I hear that bulldog bark
Hear things that can’t be spoke

Looking for an angel
With power over pain
To drive away the devil
And bring us home again

Sometimes I whistle in the dark
Laugh when there ain’t no joke
I swear I hear that bulldog bark
Hear things that can’t be spoke

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The Pinstriped Man.

I love stories about Western Swing pioneer Bob Wills. Living in Oklahoma, I run into a lot of people who heard Wills during his prime. They all have a good story to tell. Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys had a reputation for hard drinking, bare knuckle fighting, and being one of the best live bands ever. Bob Wills also had a reputation as a very honest and generous man.

My favorite Bob Wills story was told by guitar legend Eldon Shamblin, and the Playboy’s drummer Smokey Dacus. It was on a PBS documentary/tribute to Bob Wills aired few years ago. I’ll try to do the story justice.

Wills based his Texas Playboys out of Cain’s Ballroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma through much of the 1930s and 40s. They rehearsed there in the afternoon.

These were hard economic times all around. Every week or so a man wearing pinstripe overalls came into Cain’s. It was always a different person. But for some reason, he always wore pinstripe overalls. The man walked up to Wills and told his story. The story never varied. His mother was out in California. She’d taken ill and was expected to die. If Mr. Wills could just spare fifty dollars, the man could make it out to see his mother one last time. The amount asked for was always fifty dollars.

Bob Wills never hesitated. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a money clip, peeled off a hundred dollars and gave it to the man. Expressing his gratitude, money in hand, the pinstriped man quickly disappeared.

When Wills turned around, he saw the guys in the band shaking their heads and smirking. He always said the same thing: “Well . . . he was probably lying. But, I just couldn’t take the chance.”

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Ballad of Arthur MacAll

A sepia image of Arthur MacAll
Hangs in a frame on an art house wall
Posing so still, so carefree
Noose around his neck, hanging in a tree
There’s nothing to tell the reason why
It’s so photogenic, the way men die
Some might say art imitates death
A bowl of fresh fruit, or a guy’s last breath
Don’t mean nothing to Arthur MacAll
Don’t mean a thing to Arthur MacAll

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Coyote Roy’s Notes from the Subterrestrial Rim:

Further Thoughts on the Art of Songwriting.

There once was an artist named Ken Kesey. He was a writer and used metaphors in his work.

Ken Kesey participated in a study of hallucinatory drugs. He became interested in the mind expanding qualities of these drugs and conducted his own study. The results were not published in any medical journal, but did attract a lot of volunteers. The volunteers were called The Merry Pranksters.

Other artists like Tom Wolfe wrote about The Merry Pranksters. Whether he intended it or not, Kesey became more famous as a counter culture guru than a writer. He used metaphors in his art.

Back in the day, The Pranksters rode a school bus named “Further.” Further took Kesey and The Pranksters to many places. The places were not important. The important thing was whether one was “on the bus or off the bus.” It was a question Kesey might ask you in any context: “Are you on the bus, or off the bus?” Kesey was not asking if you wanted a ride to Woodstock.

Once upon a time there was a person called The Kid. TK wanted to write his own rock and roll songs. Although he didn’t call it that (nobody called it that), what he was trying to do sounded a lot like art. He wasn’t using brushes or oil paint or nothing. But TK really wanted to express something in his own way and maybe other people would hear it.

After a few years, TK became frustrated at the lack of progress. TK took a seminar, paid for it actually, where they told him he had to set goals and take steps to achieve those goals. TK thought maybe playing in some local clubs would be doable.

TK studied the problem. First he found out none of the musicians in local clubs were playing original music. The successful people were playing other people’s music. It also turned out the local club owners were really looking for a Cajun band. People who like Cajun music drink a lot, and the club owners really wanted them in their bar!!

TK never really thought about Cajun music, but found some other musicians, learned some Cajun songs and put together an act. Soon he was playing in local clubs. However, he wasn’t playing rock and roll, wasn’t playing his own songs, and it didn’t feel much like art.

The Kid got somewhere, but somehow got off the bus getting there.

Back in the day, The Pranksters rode a school bus named “Further.” Further took Kesey and The Pranksters to many places. The places were not important. The important thing was whether one was “on the bus or off the bus.” It was a question Kesey might ask you in any context: “Are you on the bus, or off the bus?” Kesey was not asking if you wanted a ride to Nashville.

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A Peace of My Mind

Peace has been on my mind a lot lately. I was struck by a comment David Letterman made the other night when the topic turned to his son Harry. It was something along the lines of how hard it is to think about war when you love your children.

It made me realize that my own son is about the age I was when the United States went to war in Southeast Asia. The thing I remember about the ten years that followed is every time I watched television, read a newspaper or magazine, listened to the radio, or even talked to people the war was on. It permeated every aspect of life with the specter of horrific death on a grand scale. Supposedly, that ended over 30 years ago. I think about it every day.

Thankfully, my son is too young to go to war. But, I wonder about how the news of Middle East wars dominate his days. Just like the Southeast Asian conflict, there is no sensible answer to what it’s all about. The current thinking seems to be the tar baby paradigm. We’re just bogged down with no clear way out. Sounds familiar.

Would it be such a bad world if there were no wars to fight? We walk around like we’re the most intelligent beings to ever rule the planet. Yet, we expect different results as we initiate the same kind of ill considered military actions that failed before. Our own stupidity is as much a threat to our security and prosperity as any foreign enemy. How long will our nation survive if we don’t wise up?

Peace is not a heroic vision of glory. There’s not much romantic Spartan adventure involved. The payoff is a day we can look at our children and not feel a chill up the spine. I really don’t think it will happen in my time. But like the bumper sticker says, sometimes I “Visualize World Peace.” Would it be such a bad thing?

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The Answer

Sometimes I feel lost on a desolate plain, where the wind rips the soles of my shoes. It tears my eyes, howls in my ears, and grabs at my hair and my clothes. If I open my heart and surrender my pain, I flutter away like a cloud. I join everyone who has gone before, and those who have yet to arrive.

Looking up form the depth of the ocean I swear I see shimmering stars. Too soon we will know the answer and maybe we'll laugh pretty loud.

Don’t bother to ask the big question about the future beyond the end. Let’s just say we fall in with a river that flows to the eternal sea. Lights in the depth of the ocean sparkle as stars in the sky. Drawn to a flame we must answer to whatever lies beyond.

Looking up form the depth of the ocean I swear I see shimmering stars. Too soon we will know the answer and maybe we'll laugh pretty loud.

Sometimes when I sit in an empty room, I hear voices that no longer speak and I’m tempted to ask the big question about the future beyond the end. If I open my heart and surrender my pain, I flutter away on the stream. I drift with the current of water rushing down to the eternal sea.

Looking up from the depth of the ocean, I swear I see shimmering stars. Too soon we will know the answer, and maybe we’ll laugh pretty loud. Too soon we will know the answer, and together we will laugh pretty loud.

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White Man Down: A Conservative Calypso!

White man down!
White man down!
Racists keepin’ the White Man down!
Sonia sound like a Socialist noun
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Newt Gingrich twittered the town
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
White civil rights is gonna drown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Rush Limbaugh’s head spun aroun’
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
Don’t her face look a little bit brown?
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Pat Buchanan spoke uptown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
Hair standin’ up like a rodeo clown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Ann Coulter soiled her gown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
Shot the camera an awful frown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

White Man down!
White Man down!
Racists keepin’ the White Man down!
Sonia sound like a Socialist noun
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

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