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Just a Side Note

Something has changed. Yeah. And it’s not fun. Who knows, maybe I’ve finally reached that holy crest of being a total asshole, found the hallowed mind of curmudgeon. But something has changed. Almost every time I’m out these days, I’ve been overpowered by a brittleness in the air. I breathe in and I get a mouthful of aluminum and car exhaust and ulcers. There’s an over whelming sense of something bad wolfing down these times – I think the future is the main course, hope is dessert. My future. My hope. I don’t know, is it just me? My depression. Maybe it’s always been like that, and I’ve been too self obsessed to notice. From what I’ve formalized this year, the world can be a beautiful place as long as you’re willing to be a complete asshole, or get all kissy all over that stink-taint shoved in your face. Shit. What do I know -- I don’t know a goddamned thing. Except, well, I do know this. It’s not fun. 

I’ve always sought solace, or at least, maybe, a little redemption through music. Yeah, I’m that guy. And this year I’ve been desperately seeking some kind of reclamation. Something that reanimates my enthusiasm -- I need fire. I’ve been checking out a lot of new jazz, new soul and electronica, digging deep into the Internet, and yes, it’s a bottomless ditch. But try it. Go online. Get random, throw an allegorical rock in any direction and you will crack something exceptional. There are some incredible new sounds out there. And here’s the crazy thing. These just may be halcyon days. Yet somehow, I’m uneasy. Limping around. Bungled. I can’t help but feel snarled in some muddled, mucky crosstie. Or is it this second martini, (vodka, extra olives, a touch dirty, on the rocks). I don’t know, miasma’s crosstie. (Now there’s a two-buck word for you).

And there’s this thought -- the future isn’t something I expect, but for chrissakes, I’d like to expect some hope while I’m breathing here. Here are a few words to sing if the mood hits you --

Fingers touched, surged and sailed on.

On my skin between words,

A verse sang and hymns and slurs hissed,

 On my skin, time so late so soon, fades.

Yeah, I feel like breaking up

Somebodies pretty assed love song.