Progress is for Shit

It hit me today. I can no longer play phone pranks. Amongst other things...
We now live in a very modern age indeed, where people want to know just who’s calling them before they pick up the phone. Caller I.D., it’s called. Is everyone suddenly paranoid? Or the old better safe than sorry adage? Or worse, evasive, fickle, and snidely?
Either way, my shit has been rendered null and void.
There was a day when calculating my next victim was a merry affair. Figuring out the voice. The scenario. Timing. Being able to think on my feet, gauging their reactions, only to up the ante if I could, gleefully relishing the shock and terror in their voice. Only people I knew, of course, and all meant in the spirit of play, naturally; my gullible mother got the worst of it, good sport that she is.
Just today, in fact, I wanted to wrangle with a friend of mine’s girlfriend.
I’d given a lot of thought to the character, usually an old, very cranky, somewhat liquid brave, cantankerous beyond believability son of a buck. Today wasn’t any different.
I laid out my plan of attack and hit the numbers.
After a series of rings I heard her hello then without prelude I launched into my nasally, whiny spiel, “Hello dearie, my name is Jim Smiley over at Sensible Pawn Shop, and I got an outstanding ticket for some stuff a fellow gave me by the name of Rooster MacLeod” (his real name is Boo).
Well no sooner had I thrown the bait into the water when I heard her chuckle softly, and I knew I was found out before I had a chance to properly sink the hook, execute my dastardly plan.
So, instead, we had a normal conversation.
How droll. No fault of hers, ultimately. It was what it was. Still, how droll.
I miss the days of mystery and wonder. The days where a little was left to chance and imagination and the law of the land was lax. Everyone still retained a reasonable amount of humor, a freewheeling spirit, and we were given chances to exercise it without risk of personal attack, a rude brush with the law, ensuing lawyer’s fees, or public humiliation in the media.
Not anymore. Those days long gone.
Fuck, all we got now is progress.
Elvis has left the building.
And the colored girls sing...

A Swagger and a Matter of Fact

There was this girl This oriental girl. A waitress.
It’s not like she was obvious and all, but the more I watched, the more intrigued I became with her super human efficiency. And done so without drama, without much in the way of effort to my well trained eye. With a dancer’s grace she worked the room with what bordered on military precision, possessing an almost telepathic sixth sense knowing exactly what you were thinking right when you were about to say it. And better yet, while I watched and took notes on this utterly feline performance, she worked me. Like she meant it. And she did, I soon found out.
A most personable mug, she had me from the, “Welcome!”, quickly followed by an impish smile, never once jotting down a bit of my order, only nodding with Germanic rigidity when I aired my wants. And when finished, she spun on her heel and whoosh! away she went, flashing a beautiful set of pearlies over her crisp, white, uniformed shoulder as she strode away with an Olympian’s purpose. A woman on a mission. Without doubt. Without any parts of second guessing. In the zone.
I felt in good hands.
The egg rolls were a notch above most. My palette critical, yet satisfied.
As I continued to nosh she worked the room like a machine, always in constant movement, a pick up of a plate here, a swipe of a napkin there, another order here, pick up tip there, turn and barely miss another waiter scurrying to a table with a platter of steaming dishes here, nod her head and welcome another couple entering there, and striding back to the kitchen, never once stopping, a ballet of pure motion
Shortly she set down a bowl of soup in front of me, turned and left. I looked down and noticed there wasn’t a spoon. As I was about to say, “Uh, miss, could you bring me a spoon, please?”, without turning or stopping, she kept walking away, holding her index finger in the air to punctuate her statement, and said, “Need a spoon, yeah?”
I erupted in an ear to ear.
Next I looked up, there she stood, holding a napkin like a gameshow display model, “Yes, or No?”, her head cocked to the side, awaiting my reply in all earnestness.
I accepted the napkin then she flitted off with her dancer’s skill, a study in grace and focused certainty.
For the rest of the meal I didn’t want for anything. Nor did anyone else in the room, I noticed.
Her personable nature contrasting her exacting efficiency made the meal a total joy, a resounding success, not to mention the groceries were top notch. That aspect certainly didn’t hurt. Still, to see someone so "in" to their job, performing at the top of her game, doing her level best to make this experience the absolute best I could ever expect, earned my respect, made me appreciate her commitment to the job, the task at hand, as well as giving credit to the person I knew her to be when “offstage”. So many times in life, no matter where you are in whatever business you find yourself, you meet drab, uninspired people who certainly don’t want to be there much less have to deal with YOU. You know the kind. This woman was so refreshing. She and ones like her make this life infinitely more beautiful, more aromatic, more inspiring.
As I paid my bill, tummy full and happy, she came over, grabbed my hand with hers, and with her other pointed towards my truck and the awaiting dog sat inside the cab.
“Is that your dog?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am, sure is.” I replied.
“He must be saying bring me some Chinese food!” Then she squeezed my hand, giggled, and strode away, out of my life forever.

I didn’t share the food with the hairy four-legged one.
But I share this woman with you.
She made my day.

Take note. Do yourself and everyone else a favor. Love what you do. Or go do something else.
Makes the world go ‘round rather nicely, a little smoother than before. And in this day and age, we need all the help we can get.

Agog

Music, a most cruel mistress as well as the reason for living, life’s blood, in other words. A dangerous dichotomy, and one that you’re not able to rid yourself. A terminal disease that will also make you feel like you’re free falling from the highest of highs, only to miss the ground, instead pulling up at the last second and flying parallel to the terra at a speed not yet calculated. Nothing like it. Anywhere. Anytime.
From the very first strains of music I ever heard, I’ve been the cobra to the piper. Rejecting the notion of being a mere spectator, I’ve been driven beyond reason my entire adult life to express myself fully in the artform.
I have.
And I continue to suffer for my art, my craft, and the suffering is delicious as well as heartbreaking.
With a dash of confusion thrown into the stew I watch others around me less motivated, less talented, blessed or cursed with the trappings of success -you take your pick- and I wonder... but mysteries in this life are far too numerable to fathom, and what energy you possess needs to be used for accelerating your pace, championing your virtues, your talents, the ones you truly believe in. Within your skin there’s much to be concerned, so leave others to theirs.
Far from failing, however, I eventually realized my childhood dreams. My years in the spotlight were a virtual fireworks display, vibrating with the pulse of the universe, lassoing the energy of a supernova as I did. And I lived it. To the hilt. For many, many years. Only much later, when suffocating under a blanket of lost passion and a gnawing, powerful disgust of less than motivated people surrounding me did I come to a crossroads. And at that moment, when faced with the reality of my current status, I made an unnerving decision to leave it all behind.
And I did.
The artform is that pure to me, and if I cannot make it or exist in it for the reasons that motivate me, then I’d rather not. The high levels of respect for the origins of your output share no equal, so accept none lesser.
Retiring to a plot of land in the middle of nowhere, I shut the world and all that entails out completely. But I continued to listen. And I thought. I reflected and I reacted. And I learned, And I grew. And I strengthened. And my focus sharpened. And I was happy... or so I thought.
The cruel mistress just wouldn’t let me be. Despite my self imposed exile from the world and everything I knew and loved, she kept knocking at my door, demanding entrance, pleading with me in the softest and most alluring of voices to come take refuge in her arms and caresses.
Cleansed of all that had corrupted my fiber, I couldn’t resist... once again.
Only now am I surfacing from a specific musical journey I’m overseeing which pulled me under, and I gleefully succumbed to its demands, gloriously so.
Once again I disconnected from the world to plunge into the deep azure waters of creativity and I drowned, over and over and over... Abstention from the day to day has never been more divine, and the results reflect it.
Today, however, I’m alone. Work has taken leave. Yesterday I was vibrant and alive beyond measure. I was necessary, vital, every nerve ending on fire, hard wired into the gamma. Yet, today, the circuits temporarily shut off, I am empty. I’m worthless. And, like a drug addict, I need a fix. Bad. I’m dying here while the cruel mistress cackles at the top of her lungs, proclaiming sanctimonious victory while observing my withering demise and flailing, boiling discomfort.
Then the phone rings. A friend from the west coast calls to tell me of the swelling of his heart, as well as the parameters of his horizons, realizing the power and the glory of music we made together several months prior, awed at the reaction to it, explaining how his innermost, spiritual beliefs were rejuvenated because of our time spent together making his music come alive. “Will never be the same. Can see now.” His humbleness sang hallelujah to my vision and the willingness to give it freely, share it as if it wasn’t mine in the first place. And it wasn’t! A call directed my way by angels who understand all too well. A timely, heartfelt thankfulness that bore no price tag. Reinforcing the beliefs in my abilities and the need to press forward. At all costs...
See?
Right when I needed it the most, a balm, a salve, if you will, arrives to heal my weakened heart; a small light illuminating the dark for this woebegone man-child. The circle very much broken, but not in pieces, and very much alive and necessary.
You see? A most cruel mistress.
A most glorious interlude.
A tango I hope is without end...
Strike up the fuckin’ band! Get down like you mean it! With conviction! With purpose!
There isn’t any looking back. Second guessing is for fools and lost souls.
I’m not either.
And I’m far from done.
I’m almost happy.
Thine the glory.
Mine the satisfaction. Mine the burden. Mine.
All mine.
You blood-sucking bitch.

You Don’t Have A Clue

All I want to do is live, be free. To my potential.
Yet people want to weight me down, cast their problems, their hang-ups, their aspersions on me. They decorate me with their worst like a Christmas tree. Ultimately, they want to take me from the game, unbeknownst to them.
My spirit cannot stand it, yet it refuses to be sullied.
They don’t know, as I do my utmost to deflect their damaging emotions, I struggle to keep silent, walking away rather than engaging them, ultimately to achieve some sort of sanity, but also to keep from reacting to their negativity thereby absorbing some of it; a harmony, a balance, of sorts.
But at what price, my silence, my humility, the challenge of keeping the ego in check?
High.
But I will not succumb, and I dig deep in my pockets to pay my fare.
I am able to see where it is from which they dwell from a place on high. And so, therefore, even though rankled, I remain impervious. And, even though I have the change, I refuse to buy a ticket for a ride on their emotional roller-coaster.
But, still, my soul cries when injured.
I am silent, but the burden crushes.
I continue to carry the weight, despite the analgesic doctrine.
But why? I ask... why don’t people look in the mirror to see, at the core, what they inflict upon those closest, and adjust accordingly. A bit of clarity and discretion might serve them well.
The unanswerable question in full bloom.
I will not give in.
I will not pander.
I will not continue to take abuse without a fair accounting.
I am a dog, backed into a corner, my teeth bared, and I’m way past give a shit.
My feelings, too, do count.
You will know this.
And you will respect me.
I know this.
I am this.
And I always will be.
Despite words from those I don’t respect. Whom mean not a flip. I still care. More than others.
And that is why.
I am.
Watch...
me.
Or...
don’t.
I will still...despite, and my gains will look effortless.
I have the scars to prove it.