The Anthem 4: Cooked Up Crow

No sour grapes here, no Designated NFM Judge bitterness, just the delicious taste of cooked up crow.  Shot, plucked, quartered, marinaded, grilled, seasoned, and enjoyed.  The marketing department of Nebraska Furniture Market couldn't have been more clear in what they were after.  An anthem of home, of feelings, of family, of sights, smells, and the pursuit of happiness.  Sell Cheap, Tell The Truth missed the mark, not even making it to the public voting round.  Of the 10 songs that advanced, 7 have the word 'home' in the title.  I used this critical word only once, tucked in the 2nd verse, after a wailing harmonica part.  Evidently, my double down on Mrs. B was a mistake.  History and company culture were largely ignored by the insiders, scoffed at by the NFM Designated Judges, they were listening for something different.  I just wanted to move product.

A cynic might conclude they're reverting to a Sell High, Tell Them Lies creed, but thankfully I'm not a cynic.  Just wish the public could've decided, my entire strategy assumed ascension to the public voting stage.  But wishes are just wishes and bitching is just bitching, they are worthless activities, a horrible way to spend time.  Frankly, a bit relieved to avoid the top 5 Omaha trip stage, where the remaining contestants receive a free one-night accommodation voucher.  Weirdly, and cheaply, travel costs to the event are not covered.  A gas card should have been offered.  But my suggestions (there are others) are for the marketing department and their lawyers, the steerers of the sales strategy, the creators of the contest rules.  Clearly, they need help.  The songwriters remaining are my heroes, and as my crow was enjoyed, I participated in the voting process.

The Danika Portz tune, House Becomes A Home, is on another level from all others.  Anthem velcro, with a perfectly executed piano opening, excellent vocal phrasing, and a noted lack of lyrical cheese.  A seasoned Nashville musician with years of USO tours and a big smile, she should run away with the $25K.  Got my vote.  The Snackboyz tune, Flex Anthem, is shockingly entertaining, they must be one of the Omaha 5.  Kyle Sexton's Home Has A Place In The Heart gets into the historical aspects of the company and is well written.  The current vote leader, 20% to 19% over Danika, is Bethany Cranfield's Welcome Home.  After another listen, appreciate the workplace culture vibe and understand the support the song is getting during the early days of voting.  Probably John Rose with Memories is next, "infinite moments, smelling the donuts" is a fabulous line.  Several could make a run.  Elections are odd, as we all know.  Enjoy Omaha, all the best to all the best.  A wine toast with wine made from the best grapes, the sweet ones, the juicy ones, the perfect ones.  The ones that aren't sour.

Some Like Hot Cheetoes is considered a classic by many.  Vantaggio, of course.  Queso, Biltmore Blonde, Two Step, Novocaine, and Cold Meat Blues.  Songs of commerce, instruments of rocketing sales, diddys of distinction.  My jingle portfolio is well stocked, some written and recorded, some just written, some just clear in my mind.  One day, years from now, The Jingle Hut, Inc. could revolutionize musical advertising.  One day, perhaps.  For now, Nebraska Furniture Mart is on their own, but Danika will bail out the marketing department.  It will be fine, just fine.  Houses will become homes. They will thrive, their Anthem will be way better than anything from The Room Store or Rooms To Go.  Truth is music, and music sells.  Vote.

20/20 Gonzo 21: Public Intoxication

A delegate dash to the Democratic National Convention.  That's what we got, folks.  Either a 78 year old male or a 77 year old male after another 78 year old male killed his campaign and a 70 year old female considers bailing out.  All are considered Caucasian by most objective observers.  Too soon to tell if the lack of diversity, or inclusion, will hurt them in the November general election against the Republican candidate.

Interesting this war on the undiversified dairy industry, have mixed emotions. While no other mammal drinks the milk of another mammal, main concern is the potential elimination of cheese.  Think of Italian or Tex-Mex without it, depressing at best, inedible at worst.  A world without queso seems odd, but gotta respect the fight for female cows.  A dairy gig has got to be the worst, grass grazing and slaughterhouse processing seems the better option for any cow, regardless of gender.

Lines were long on Super Tuesday in Texas.  Surprised to see 72 year old Joe Walsh running for President of the United States on the Republican side.  Really like his stuff with the James Gang and his impact on the Eagles is well known, but it seems some political experience could help his chances.  Guess he's attended to his closet skeletons, all research indicates he's a cool dude, nothing too sinister, nothing too lame.  Probably a few speeding tickets, maybe a public intoxication, some minor hotel vandalism allegations, nothing major.

Windshield Breakers And Tumbleweeds

time to shine.

guns up everywhere.

final four cred.

the techies of Texas.

undercover horn.

amped on amber vision.

lets make our free throws.

conga drums and wild jumping.

name the fruit contest.

the United supermarkets Arena.

that oughta be a technical.

44 works.

don't let 4 shoot.

time out on the floor.

Rodman showed up for the gorilla toss.

shoot.

sweet caroline.

andre emmet day.

the weinerschnitzel dog race.

winner ran off the track.

airball from half court for the grand prize.

5 grand from caprock.

for heart deezeez.

not time for that.

to go cold.

the pom pom girls were right on.

karaoke cam.

get loud geico.

lockdown defense is all it took.

sent them techies home crying.

this ain't your scene.

lines ain't my scene.

blue jean blues and dusty pebble roads.
windshield breakers and tumbleweeds.

Flown Like A Mule

In darkness the blinking light is constant, a beacon to guide the landers, the birds of the night, the propelled, the lifted up, the crow flyers.  Everyone knows of straight lines, it is practical, reasonable, possible, and preferred to float above.  The ground is busy, crowded, and confining.  Air is the high road, spacious, and liberating.  Piloting is obsessing, an alternate lifestyle complete with siblings, secret codes, and Crown Victorias.

Commerce was a jump, Magnolia was a leap, the Arkansas morning air was fresh and cool.  Full of tree farm oxygen, smelling of pine.  The soggy bottoms, the muddy fairways, the weedy greens.  Sloppy, sloppy golf, but glory shots by all.  Wal-Mart bags of ice beer, an overpriced pool, and one working cart at Magnolia Country Club.  Evidently, El Dorado Country Club, up the road, has decimated the membership, and for good reason.  No one wants to be a part of an electrocution.

A spirited start with defensive intensity.  Up in the space, swatting and reaching for everything, lots of obstruction, lots of pestering.  Easy buckets.  Then the clamp, then the streaky, then the turnovers.  Blood, concussions, collisions, step backs, put backs, and kick backs.  Like kicking mules, like an air guitar, like 5 cannon balls from the Texas cannon, a decoy by the end.  Deception is the art of winning.  Community establishments and downtown folks, lit up by the fight, neon and open, loud and excited.  Playoffs secured, some madness in March assured, this ride ain't over yet.

Mental checklist of flight.  Visual inspections, the rudder, the props, the seals, instruments, navigational tools, tire pressures, buckles, headphone ears.  Then the engine roars, get it hot.  Taxi the runway, tower permission to depart, easy lift, climbing and veering east.  From Perrin Field at sunrise, my elementary education continues, learned to fly.  Over Bonham, then Blue Ridge, at 3,000 feet, solo, for five solid minutes, executing slight turns and slight climbs and slight dives.  Flown like a mule.

The Superiorists

With a flip of the glorious bird.
Tweet tweeting and chirping.
The twin finger on the other hand.
Ready for the double flight.

To all the judgers and branders.
The smug, the superiorists, the ridiculers.
Shamers, the behind-the-back slanderers.
The fucking thieves, the idiot racists.

For no other reason than liberty.
Certainly not in anger or malice.
More like punctuation for the apathetic.
These two wings from the same bird.

DD7G
CG
DD7G
DCG

20/20 Gonzo 20: The Boogie Red Nation

This Berniac claimed if Bernie was a commie, then I was a commie.  Just trying to break it down, the overtaking of capitalistic institutions, the classless society, where basic needs are met, where the rich become poor, the poor stay poor, the government decides, and public protests are disbanded with tear gas, tanks, and Wi-Fi blackouts.  It is true every Russian I've met I've liked, they seem proud, funny, although, a bit guarded.  Like they know something I don't, but it's too depressing to bring up, we were alive and aware in the 90s, when the commie crack up happened.  When the boogie red nation, the CCCP, the USSR, greedily crumbled.

But superdelegates don't care.  Who are these people?  The shadiness, the shadows, the vape filled back rooms, the creeps of these national committees, whipping up the money, greasing whatever, saying whatever, doing whatever.  Run by the parties, whoever they are, whatever they do.  Elected by nobody, that's for sure, that's been verified and certified and validated.

Lone votes are like mist, a hint of cool moisture, but meaning nothing, and worthless to the overall ecosystem.  The greenhouse controls the air anyway, the outdoors is irrelevant.  Humidity, pressure, lighting, and cameras, all controlled, all decided.  1984 all over again, complete with an Animal Farm vibe and Huxillian dream.  The brave shall live and die, the meek shall live and inherit, and they shall inherit what they do not deserve to inherit.  The land of the free and the home of the brave. 

On Display At The DMA

Saw one with European towers.
Checked out the Mexican Flowers.
Walked the place for 2 or 3 hours.
On display at the DMA.

Postcard about a retro session.
9 separate screens of voice inflection.
Can't miss the wood carving lesson.
On display at the DMA.

Wall art from 500 BC.
Rooster in red, looking mean.
Crown worn by a Mayan queen.
On display at the DMA.

Fisherman with one glass eye.
Safety matches in perfect light.
Cotton balls and Texas skies.
On display at the DMA.

Yes, the Dallas Museum Of Art.
Across from Clyde Warren Park.
Best art around these parts.
On display at the DMA.

GGCG
DDCG
GGCG
DCGG

The Anthem 3: The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

The waiting is the hardest part, it's my petty pet peeve.  Sell Cheap, Tell The Truth was submitted weeks ago.  The rules and timelines of The Anthem Contest were clear, I knew February would be a challenge.  The anxiety will nudge a bit during the early March initial judging process, prior to public voting.  Referring back to page 7 of the fully capitalized NEBRASKA FURNITURE MART SONGWRITING COMPETITION OFFICIAL RULES, a tremendously formal document, all submissions will be screened by one or more NFM designated judges.  Then, at NFM's sole discretion, up to 10 submissions will be chosen for public voting and will appear on the competition website.  The rules also indicated only submissions that are chosen for public voting will receive prior notification by email or phone.  Don't call us, we'll call you.  Ruthless, but the most pragmatic method for sure.  Take it on faith, take it to the heart, the waiting is the hardest part.

To even consider public voting process strategies or tactics seems presumptuous and entitled, but it's impossible not to think ahead.  First, the rules are clear.  No shenanigans!  Any macro robotic scripts, bribes, or other fraudulent means to achieve voting success will be quickly squashed and the submission thrown out of the contest.  Legit is the only way with NFM, integrity is in the song title--Tell The Truth.  My loose plan is to engage my various contacts, introduce the contest, and ask they participate in the voting process.  Not to vote for my entry, to be clear, but to participate in the voting process.  Fair and square, best song wins.  Entitlement is for the weak, nothing is deserved, prevail on the merits.  Maybe I'll catch some breaks, maybe I'll catch some luck.  Like the song goes.  Perhaps my tune is the best anthem for Nebraska Furniture Mart, perhaps it's not.  We'll see, I expect it to win.

In the meantime, to remain occupied, plenty to keep me busy.  If a person is blessed to live a long life, it's roughly 30,000 days.  To me, that doesn't seem like a lot, so spending days anticipating tomorrows seems wasteful.  Got full time work, where I get to lead a group of corporate professionals at a world class private company in the financial services industry.  Got full time family, where my wife of 28 years and 2 daughters aged 19 and 21 keep me grounded, loved, and motivated to try and pay my bills.  Got other musical projects, including completion of Some Dude Named Amos Vol. 6 which features 5 songs released in the 70s, among them Hotel California and Bobby McGee.  Texans Don Henley and Janis Joplin can bust out a tune, so it's a significant challenge.  Always reminded that NFL Hall Of Famer and overall football legend, Jimmy Johnson, went to high school with Janis in Port Arthur, Texas.  Something in that water for sure.  Got a tennis career, of course.  Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company is in full flight.  Third year of the five year plan.  I remain an unpaid, unofficial, affiliate of the brand.  We are much like NFM in some ways it seems.  Their anthem, which I wrote couple of years ago, is similar to the approach taken with Sell Cheap, Tell The Truth, but that was more of a brand defining situation.  NFM is 85 years old, and doubling down on their values.  Lots to admire, lots to learn.  My backhand is grooved out better than ever, my hip hurts.

Driving home from work yesterday, noticed an electronic billboard on the south side of 121, between NFM and Toyota World Headquarters.  The Anthem Contest was being advertised.  A gleaming NFM delivery truck was in the right lane next to me, cruising in late afternoon Collin County traffic.  The Billboard changed, evidently Tony Bennet was appearing at the Winstar Casino in Thackerville, Oklahoma on April 18th.  Doubt I'll make the show, casinos bore me, but I like his version of Fly Me To The Moon even better than Sinatra's.  Perhaps it was a good sign.  We'll just have to wait and see.

The Silence Box

Three doors in my mind,
all ready for the show.
Don't pay me no nevermind,
play it out, then I'll go.

First door, it's the past,
memories and dreams came true.
Figured it would always last,
time takes away our youth.

Next door is the future,
oh, the possibilities.
Travels, love, and humor,
peace and tranquility.

Last door is right now,
what I feel and what I see.
Feel like a getting loud,
need to find a jamboree.

Then the doors all shut,
heard the clicks of the locks.
All the noises, they went hush,
back into the silence box.

AmEmDG

20/20 Gonzo 19: Cartoon Convention

"Listen, if you can't keep your seat, of you can't quit name calling, if you can't quit throwing fits, I will march all of you right back to the 1st grade!"  The teacher eyed each one of them, a serious glare.  The cliques were already formed, they snickered and whispered despite the lecture, they simply did not care.  They started making bodily noises and laughing, they threw things at each other, they made faces, they slouched, they interrupted, they pointed.  Calmly, the teacher sat back down at her desk, guess it just comes with the territory, the way it goes in the 2nd grade.

All the calculators broke in Iowa.  The phones were whacked, the tabulators didn't know what to do, the guy who developed the caucus counting application wasn't around, something about being arrested at a cartoon convention in Seoul, South Korea.  According to the police report, he was in a jail cell after attacking two convention attendees dressed up as Tom and Jerry.  Witnesses saw the crazed man, dressed as Spartacus, pull a sword and swing it around and around above his head while running towards the victims.  Luckily, in self defense, Jerry caught him with a roundhouse kick to the jaw, knocking him out cold.

On the D.C. streets the hecklers are relentless, the order is gone, the rules about talking, formality and dignity.  Where the actual clowns work, where the bums get their dimes, where tailpipes smoke.  News conferences to declare crooks and creeps, interviews to express outrage, fire pits to burn copies of speeches.  Headed to New Hampshire, time is up here, need a recess, need a snack, need to work on my multiplication tables, division is next, then fractions, then decimals.  Like all elementary skills, math is developed by guidance, repetition, and reinforcement.

Ordered A Robot

My own confidant.
My own restaurant.
My own debutante.
Got me what I want.

Ordered French croissants.
Ordered whiskey shots.
Ordered a robot.
Got me what I want.

Need it a la carte.
Need it super sharp.
Need it torn apart.
Got me what I want.

Have a topless car.
Have Martin guitars.
Have a chocolate bar.
Got me what I want.

To all humankind.
To all unaligned.
To all undefined.
Got me what I want.

Found some peace of mind.
Found some good good times.
Found some words that ryhme.
Got me what I want.

EAx3
DAE

Inslamnia

GC
DC
GD
CG

DG
CG

Isolate each point.
Focus in.
Gonna rock this joint.
Bout to win.

Fighting off the yawns.
Coffee up.
Three hours til dawn.
Filled my cup.

Get the Melbourne news.
Inslamnia.
Down under Blues.
Inslamnia.
Sleep deprivation.
Inslamnia.
Infecting the nation.
Inslamnia.

Concentrate again.
Check the draws.
What's up with the men.
King Nadal.

Money's on Novak.
He can't lose.
Like inslamniacs.
Hit the snooze.

Check in on the gals.
See what's up.
Osaka went down.
CoCo's tough.

Serena won't quit.
She can't lose.
Got a nice outfit.
Hightop shoes.

**co-written by AJ Chabria

Connor Cruse Karma

Our group was ready to hit the courts.  We had just enjoyed the featured exhibition match and formal ceremonies, which took place between separate 2-hour drilling sessions.  Each session featured 4 rotating local tennis pros working a group of 10 players.  The annual TeamConnor Smashing Childhood Cancer Event at the Lifetime Fitness Indoor courts in Plano, TX was not to be missed.

Since my initial involvement the year prior, I knew what to expect.  Goes like this:  The tennis pro gathers the group at the net.  After quick introductions, a drill is explained.  We nod like we understand right away, but it usually takes a few minutes of confusion and further explanation before we get in the rhythm.  Then it's constant movement, swings, overheads, volleys, and encouragement.  After 25 minutes, the tennis pros rotate and we repeat.  It's a tremendous workout, the fellow players are generally friendly, although I wasn't so friendly when I smashed an overhead and smacked a fellow driller on the side of her foot.  The sound echoed loudly, her husband glared at me, I apologized sincerely, she was gracious and merciful.  Later, her husband almost took my head off in a volley drill.  Chivalry is still alive.  I was happy when they won designer earrings in the raffle, and I was disappointed to lose out on the Del Frisco's prize.  Karma is still alive too.

During the formal ceremonies a couple of 7th graders spoke about their buddy from school.  He was being honored but was too ill to attend.  His buddies spoke of his fight, they thanked all the players for coming, they told us of how funny he is, how he inspires others.  I look forward to meeting him next year.  The event organizers told us about TeamConnor, about how Connor kicked his original cancer to the curb before succumbing to another cancer caused by the cancer treatment.  My eyes filled with tears.  That was years ago.  Since then, the TeamConnor organization has raised millions for Cancer treatment research.  Great promise lies in gene replacement therapy and other potential methods.  Science is a gift from God, it must be explored to its end.

Afterwards, while drinking a cold Red Stripe beer on my McKinney patio, I thought of Connor, of the buddy of those 7th graders, of other children I've known with cancer.  I thought of my grooved out backhand, I worried about my overhead, my hip hurt, I was proud Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company was involved.  Then I wrote this:


--Instantaneous Automatic Maneuver--

Rotations and directions, everywhere they pointed.  Side to side, front to back, four tries.  Make them count, follow through, move forward.  

A turn should happen first, the first move.  Then a step up.  Like an instantaneous automatic maneuver.  

The odd crowd, internalists mostly.  Keeping it in, needing an outlet.  They are smashing.  

Care is expensive, the research is stalled.  Get to the point.  The genes done it, family history don't lie.  

Molecules and atoms can be made right.  Keep it going, the rallies are fine.  Let's work up some sweat, get the legs moving, quick feet, on your toes.  

Pick up 5, make a big circle.  Jump in whenever.  The tennis underground is represented, make time for the burn out drill.  

Shower up, the cold will do its magic.  Fresh and clean.  Red Stripe hit the spot.  Brand awareness, for the love of the game.

Thanks for your mission, TeamConnor.  Appreciate donating the indoor courts, Lifetime Fitness.  Dug the goodie bag, the delicious sandwiches, and the two drink tickets.  Thanks to all who contributed, to the tennis pros and all the other volunteers involved.  Bless you, Joy Cruse.  Sorry for hitting that woman on the foot, really smashed that one.

Oh, and to hell with cancer.  Connor Cruse Karma is still alive.

Killer Caterpillar

She was a killer caterpillar.
Scooting down the lane.
Avoiding the annoying.
Groovy groovy games.

Could get crushed or smushed.
Wouldn't take much at all.
A slip, a rip, or even a the yips.
Could get killed by a tennis ball.

Kept on going never knowing.
What might happen next.
Eventually, she broke free.
Then I became perplexed.

Then about then, she turned and went.
In the sweetest little voice.
My, oh my, I'll be your butterfly.
Won't have to scoot no more.

Then that killer caterpillar.
With her blushing eyes.
Got took by a bird, a swooping bird.
Off into the sky.

GC
FGC

Trash Day

Wild trip around the sun ahead.
Time to slam it down.
Things racking my peaceful head.
Going underground.

It's morning.
Again.
We're awake.
Again.
Let's all ride.
Again.
Hold on tight.
Again.

Kick the garbage out of they way.
Send it to the city dump.
Think today is your trash day.
Get rid of that chump.

E
DAE

AEx3
DAx3
E

20/20 Gonzo 18: Full Of Waste

One house manager had his pants pulled up to his chest, the oddest thing ever.  He talked fast, he stuttered, he smacked, he seemed unclean, he seemed washed out, he seemed someone to avoid.  Could only imagine the odor, was watching through the TV, but those around him kept their distance.  No shame in B.O., but it is an infringement on others, especially with anti-sweating deodorant products getting better and better, and readily available.  We pay our congresspeople enough to expect reasonable hygiene.

Diversions upon diversions, proof that hasn't been proved, ridiculous proclamations, theatrical flops.  Binders, post-it notes, cufflinks, microphones, a robe.  We the people, we know a Pinocchio, we know how rats operate, we can smell.  These are wasted days, but no one needs them anyway, this is not the people's branch anymore.  Yes my fellow Americans, these days are full of waste.

This next question came from the back row, the head honchos wanted to know, the public deserved the truth.  The card was passed along to the Chief Justice of the United States, he seemed confused, he conferred with his aides, he took a huge gulp of water.  He adjusted his glasses.  Then he read the question, directed to the President's lawyers.  "Why doesn't The Don ever look worried?"

20/20 Gonzo 17: Sloppy Joe Of The North

The constitution is nothing like apple pie and baseball!  This house manager must be on something.  First off, apple pie has light, fluffy crust, and next, baseball is more about steroids, surveillance, and TV contracts.  Still don't understand the vileness of the offenses, or the righteous reactions, or the ramifications.  It will all be made clear by spring, in the meantime the TV heads are cheering for their side, insulting the other side, and likely washing down lots of pills with lots of booze.

In a victory for male attire sanity and practicality, ties are out.  An unfunctioning burden literally wrapped around the neck, tucked under a collar, and in the way.  At least bow ties stay cleaner, and look especially sharp on those with moustaches, but somehow they add a clownish tinge.  Suspenders seem a thing of the past too, and rightfully so, gone the way of overalls, the athletic clothing revolution has done its thing.  As for females, their attire sanity and practicality is their own, nothing but admiration, appreciation, and support.

Iowa is about the most heavenly place on earth.  Green rolling hills, miles and miles of corn rows, the Bridges of Madison County, folks with big teethy smiles, and maid rites- the sloppy joe of the north.  The buses and vans have arrived, the expresses, the barn stormers, the presidential candidates who will save their lives from Oz.  The corporations are coming with their evil money and and their awful innovations and their dumb jobs, we are not in Kansas anymore.  Ready for the get down, ready for the show, watch the yellow brick road, the scarecrow will be there soon.

20/20 Gonzo 16: Blood Stained Hands

One if the house managers just plagiarized Mick Jagger by claiming the President is "practiced at the art of deception."  He did not, thankfully, go on to talk about blood stained hands or Mr. Jimmy or receptions, but clearly it was an intentional ripoff of You Can't Always Get What You Want.  This is the worst movie ever, the acting is awful, the cinematography is a joke, and whoever is in charge of wardrobe should be replaced.  These aren't legislators or statespeople, these are mostly thirsty lawyers.  Snore.

Pens for everyone.  For no good reason, it's not like an actual president used them, the pens had no worth.  Perhaps they were a reminder of all the praying that was being done, perhaps somber symbols of dastardly deeds done, maybe the ink was black, maybe the ink was blue, maybe they were purchased from the office supply budget.  Or the office party budget.  Either way, seems a waste, pens are so last decade.

A live video feed could work as good, this chamber is a bit stiff.  Everyone is having phone anxiety, everyone is tired of water, no one wants to drink milk.  This is insane!  Surely we can send in some food, no doubt we can pipe in some light music, and for the love of God, hopefully we can do something about the back drop, the brown marble has got to go.  Looks nothing like a modern workplace.

The Anthem 2: Double Down On Mrs. B

Everywhere I saw them now, the Nebraska Furniture Market trucks, as I went back and forth on the great Sam Rayburn Tollway to and from my daily occupational responsibilities, passing their huge Texas location in the ever expanding suburbs north of Dallas.  Like a sign, like an announcement, like kind of weird.  Oh well, similar phenomenon to when you buy a new car, I thought.  Or shoes.  They were everywhere, rain or shine, even saw a picture on Twitter of a delivery in a blizzard in Des Moines.  This place makes an impression.  Over the previous week as I told folks of my anthem plans, many had declared devotion to the place, each with stories of satisfied experiences, notable memories, and overall affection.

I agreed.  As a 2 time customer myself, I had been happy each time.  A natural clearance browser, I once bought the very patio lounger I'm lounging on as I tap these words on a sweetheart deal.  I was there to buy a double recliner couch, with USB hookups, and durable leather.  A forest green flower print recliner and a fly silver make up chair for my youngest daughter, also from the clearance stock, completed my purchases.  Delivery was spot on, think they hit the window.  Only a USB input malfunction months later caused irritation. When my wife made communication with the warranty company, evidently there was some fine print about the USB hookups.  Other than that, it's been 5 of 5 stars in all categories.  Visited with my mom and the expedition and efficiency of the entire experience was outstanding.  A cool and comfortable black leather recliner that lights up, plugs in, and has all the things, including nifty compartments on each side.  She also got a breakfast table and chairs, with nice padding and sturdy construction.  She was thrilled, in and out quick, delivery date and time set.  I believe the delivery hit the window or I would have heard.

All these testimonials, and my own experiences and research, had me convinced the song I wrote as the anthem was complete.  No talking verse needed to be added, the harmonica would help it jump, double down on Mrs. B, the chorus was done, a folk song of heroic capitalism, focused on the customer, an anthem for this age, complete with a modern day Rockefeller.  After a couple of minor editing adjustments, the writing was done.

The decision to record the song completely solo was made quickly.  More control, less confusion, fewer distractions, grand prize money greed.  Plus, with a down home song, acoustic and sparse, lyrics articulated crisp, the less on the canvas the better.  Home recording, in the foyer, vocals and Ibanez hollow body classical guitar through my Yorkville standup PA, captured through a Zoom4 field recorder.  My preferred set up.  D harp fit perfect with the song, the D7 chord adding some Blues tone.  That was the plan, and that's how it went down.  Did two recordings, one with reverb effect, one with ensemble effect, both had distinct moments of lyrical and melodic hooks.  In the end, the ensemble version was chosen, it was the 2nd take and the harmonica was dialed in better.  Also, the first version of the song included an odd pronunciation of Warren.  It seemed a fatal flew, it was ditched.

Immediately, I uploaded the song to my Soundcloud page as required.  For the song image, found the famous Rose Blumkin motto that served as my title and chorus and used it.  Double down on Mrs. B.  Hopefully, NFM will give me a litigation pass since I'm borrowing their motto for their own contest.  Plus, it's in the folk and blues traditions to use whatever.  Her estate can surely have co-writing credits if it's possible, probably covered on one of the pages of the terms and conditions anyway.

Once posted, all seemed done.  Received affirmative overnight feedback from a few trusted sources then officially entered the contest early the following morning.  After screenshoting the confirmation of my entry, posted the song on selected social media medium, connecting to the NFM headquarters and using the preferred hash.  The Anthem is in, it's in the cloud, it's on the cloud.  The lyrics were attached.

Hop

The moon balls were mooning.
It was her only chance.
The other player was better.
But mentality changes things.

Thinking thinking curiously is wise.
Day by day sublimation.
Keeping with the rhythms.
Keeping time.

Sure about the fires, they warm up good.
Once the shot is decided, all in.
Partial aggression will not work.
This is good company.

Lines and angles.
Back and forth.
Side to side.
Move the feet, hop.

Point it out.
Smash the moon before it bounces.
Take it from the sky.
Make way for the sun.

EmAm

The Anthem 1: Hooks And Nooks

The appliance entrance was huge.  An impressive first impression of a retail experience.  The signs out front directed those interested in 'seeing what all the excitement is about' to the far east front doors.  The signs were helpful.  The Nebraska Furniture Mart is holding a contest to identify its anthem.  It's being facilitated through their 4 urban/suburban locations:  Omaha, Kansas City, Des Moines, and Dallas.  I was there to attend the Dallas area Launch Party/Packet Pickup, carefully following the instructions from their website.  The song was written already, during lunch the day prior.  After researching the story of the company and its culture, the song came easy.  With an almost 100 year old motto that serves as a nice chorus, and a story worthy of modern capitalistic folklore, it was really a fastball right down the middle.

Sell Cheap, Tell The Truth is immediately an anthem in its own category, melodic marketing velcro that reinforces value and trust, a lyrical lesson of continuing evolution and reality of a vision.  Mrs. B would, and will, likely dig the song, for the dearly departed hear our music.  It is true.  Now the place is owned by Berkshire Hathaway, Warren Buffet's company.  Guess that accounts for the $25k Grand Prize.  #NFMTheAnthem.  I expect to win.

The packet included 2 stickers, a small note pad, an informational packet, and a medium sized hardcard with important dates and social media encouragements.  All had The Anthem logo.  Another sticker for the guitar case is always a welcomed site, almost regardless of the sticker, I was intrigued further.  The packet was picked up at a table full of chips and dips, the smell of queso hovered.  Two friendly employees asked me if I needed a packet and gave me one when I answered 'yes'.  That was it, only shoppers were around, perhaps I was expecting something different.  There was a guy playing guitar and singing for tips on a stage set up under a huge Customer Service sign, seemed like it was a regular gig for him.  I wondered if he was entering the contest.  Seth Johnston was his name, he sat on a cajon and had a sign indicating he could play weddings and parties.  He had cards.  His tip jar was busting with ones, a few fives, and even a twenty.  He wore boots.  He could be some competition, but I'm confident in my song, especially after reading the Keys To Winning on page 3 of the Informational Packet:

1.  Compose a unique lyrical piece, but not a jingle.
2.  Capture the feeling of home.
3.  Find inspiration in our history.

Check, check, check.  Page 4 got more official, even wording that allows a cancellation of the entire contest if it's a bust.  Eligibility requirements, dates and deadlines, participation requirements, submission guidelines, initial judging, public voting, appearance requirements, licensing, publicity releases, competition modification possibilities, and even a conflict resolution clause involving an arbitration process on the 12th and final page.  Down for it all.

Thinking now about the song recording and feel like Red Headed Stranger vibe could work good.  Willie's raw and rough classic Columbia Records initially thought was only a demo tape.  It was released, as was, in 1975.  Less being more somehow.  Cheap for sure, but not in a trashy way, with an authentic sound, with hooks and nooks.  Will articulate an easy natural voice, easy on the twang, perhaps a harmonica part.  Percussive picking style, will go solo on this one.  Patio recording for sure, on the patio furniture I got from Nebraska Furniture Mart.

20/20 Gonzo 15: Frozen In Their Thoughts

Everybody watched the war.  TVs, iPhones, Androids, tablets, World War III, run for the hills, panic, freak out, stock up.  Rockets and laser beams, destruction and chaos, confusion with reporters on the scene.  Was a time when reporters cleared up the confusion, but no longer.  More about intrigue, frenzy, suspense, speculation, whip it good, then back to the studio panel of dumb experts, former insiders, and uptight stiffs.

World War III was over quick, thankfully, I should note.  No invasion, no draft, no electro-cyber attack blackouts, no gasoline shortages, and no American casualties at last count.  The SCUDS were duds, then they quit.  Best to stick with other strategies, best to keep the lights on, best to keep their heads.  The hackers, the drones, and the 2 trillion dollar army.

Some will never quit, the blame must be put on to something or somebody, or both.  Never can there be humility, faces have to be saved.  Minds are not changed, they are frozen in their thoughts, the brain naturally works to reinforce the conclusion already concluded.  With proper training and persistence, pre-determined conclusion thought patterns can be eliminated.  It can take years, decades even, but it will prevent all types of twistedness.

Sell Cheap, Tell The Truth

Mrs. B from Belarus.
Sold cheap and told the truth.
Started with 500 bucks.
Caught some breaks, caught some luck.
Now it's worth a billion or two.
Warren Buffet had a clue.
Absorb the lessons from Omaha.
Lessons not taught in Ivy halls.

Sell cheap.
Tell the truth.
Sell cheap.
Tell the truth.
Sell cheap.
Tell the truth.
Sell cheap.
Tell the truth.

So come on in, make yourself at home.
We'll help you out, we'll leave you alone.
Whatever you need us to do.
Keep you clear of the overpriced blues.
A couch, a chair, a floor, a bed.
Need an appliance, need to get fed.
Count on us, we'll do our part.
At the Nebraska Furniture Mart.

D7C
GC

GCx8

*written for Nebraska Furniture Mart Anthem Contest.  #NFMTheAnthem

Didn't Sleep Much Last Night

All night long, I thought of you.
All night long, I cried too.
Cleared my mind like you told me to do.
Didn't sleep much last night.

All day long, stared out the glass.
All day long, thought of the past.
Reality has shown me of the truth at last.
Didn't sleep much last night.

All week long, been low down and blue.
All week long, had a low down mood.
Accepted what alread knew to be true.
Didn't sleep much last night.

CGx3
DCG

20/20 Gonzo 14: Junkies Just Shoot Junk

In that summer of '80, when the creepy Ayatollah spooked everyone good and kept holding Americans hostage, against their wills, under threat of death, blindfolded.  Heat wave in Texas, London calling, peanut Jimmy and the Gipper calling each other names.  Death to America, death to all, they kept screaming, death to your flags, to ashes with your flags, fire to your flags, they hated our flags.  Like an Iranian high school pep rally without any women, the Revolutionry Guard team runs through the smoking mouth of a snake, ready to burn flags.  The tailgate parties have ended for most, the game has started and it is no game.

Huddle up and let's all decide to call him a crazed person, irresponsible, dumb, a phone calling, qid-pro-quoing, orange-faced billionaire monster who has the gall to threaten a promise.  Kill them before they kill you seems the strategy, and the robot drones don't miss.  Rough day at the Bagdad airport.  Heaven awaits, hell is right here, bones are just bones, the soul disappears.  Dear ole Iran, seems your vows were heard, your promises of death, your threats of terror.

Speaking for no one, merely an observer, a scribe of the times, on the glowing scene, watching from the front, listening to the rumbles, smelling the embers, anticipating the responses, seeing what is seen.  Long ago America was made their devil, they needed a devil to justify their mardyrs.  The dim will moan, the ashamed will cry, the lost will protest, the junkies just shoot junk.  Movies will be made, books and book tours, and book tour signings, free with a purchase of a book.  1980 was a fine year, sorry some had to miss it.

Beyond Singapore

Ancient people walked through here.

When they were alive. 

Art of Africa, art of Rome.

Leonardo da Vinci, nouveau, The Lonely City.

Surrealism, the Byzantines, the Renaissance.

Steampunk, Picasso, the Modernists.

No fear King Lear.

The Dunlop Tortex Sharp 1.14 mm.

More about Sophia Loren, about Mailer.

To Singapore and beyond Singapore.

Old maps, new cities, eternal heavens.

Downtown from the 2nd floor.

Free rides and historic parking spaces.

WWII eye witnesses, to hell and back.

From Pompeii to Babylon, the Cities of Eden.

The four corners, the pale blue dot, the seas.

Code girls, between silk and cyanide.

That mile high fever, that Pueblo revolt.

Dallas myths and La Reunion.

Generation of Swine, Volume 2.

Defining moments of the gilded age.

Orwell was an English rebel before 84.

The real deal, the eyes have it, patient zero.

Mind over meds, no second chance, atlas.

The monk in the garden.

Journals of Lewis and Clark.

The downward spiral of dumbness.

From so simple a beginning, Genesis.

EmAmEmG.

The Junkyard Court: Collezione Vantaggio

All attended, a table had been prepared.  An upstairs enclave, a darkened round, a nook with a slight cranny.  Music played overhead, the invisible sound systems of the modern world make everything seem movie-like.  Soundtracks of melody and comedy, and blues.  Wine was ordered and discussed and discussed and ordered.  It was admired, it was swirled in glasses, it was sniffed and gargled, it was drank.  Cheese came, with olives and dried fruit, with exotic grapes, with salami.  Bread with jam, then more wine discussion, certifications and travels.  A smooth crisp South African white filled my mouth with an earthy spice taste.  It was very good.  The legs hinted at the drinkability, and the aroma was enchanting.  Pitted olives are preferred, especially on a communal breadboard, but it was a minor indiscretion.  Mercy you, mercy me, it's all we'll ever need.  Then the meeting was called to order.  Keck, Joe Vita, BV, AJ, and I.  They all nodded, Keck quickly went downstairs to the head.  He came back with luxurious reports of the facilities.  We ordered more wine.

Facilitation is a cumbersome task.  The organization of mutual communication intent.  This must be established by an insistent voice.  The fact the gathering was called for the purpose of the 2019 Year End Vantaggio Board Meeting helped gain everyone's attention.  To start, each of the five would have a few minutes to discuss their visions, their ideas, their contributions to the advancement of Vantaggio.  The meeting had begun. 

Much had been accomplished going into the 3rd year of the 5 Year plan.  The formation of an iconic tennis brand, one that stood for excellence, one that stood for endurance, one that stood for slamming grand slam doors.  A logo that inspired, that popped like an international prism of colors, on all manners of surface, in the mud, on the grass, surrounded by cement.  Hard core.  Wristbands, of course.  The facilitation went fairly well, all contributed, speakers were mostly respected, listeners were mostly attentive, ideas were made better, tangents were plentiful and helpful.  Evidently notes were taken, but here is my recollection of each individual's contribution to the dialogue, in order:

Joe Vita:  Advocated a local approach, with a merchandising concept, concentrating on wristband fashion and funcuality.  Argle styles, a smaller size for women, move some product, get some revenue on the books, relationships.  AJ, an expert in tennis shop economics, supported the idea heartily.  He highlighted the per square foot value of the sales opportunity, specialized.  Shop owners had nothing to lose, he thought their capitalistic thoughts.  A very practical and controllable idea.  Keck was jumping at the bit, his idea was an expansion on Joe's.  He went next.

Keck:  With much hand gesturing and excitement, Keck explained his kit idea.  A box of some sort, shorter than a shoe box, each containing wristbands, socks, a shirt, shorts, and a bandana.  The Collezione Vantaggio, as it was later named.  Ambitious stuff from Keck, despite my doubts of feasibility and conclusion that it was a couple of years away.  Truth is, Vantaggio socks, shorts, and bandanas don't even exist yet, but it was the branding Holy Grail, the nirvana of our vision, beyond the horizon.  Keck, always ahead of the curve.  Consider the current trend of vintage tennis.  He was there 7 years prior.

BV:  When Bill spoke he spoke with undeniable authority.  He immediately declared a need to raise $5 million dollars.  Completely surprised I asked, "From who?"  Wine spilled from my glass.  "Investors!" he answered.  Immediately, the stakes were raised.  He agreed to be COO, with Joe and Keck continuing as Co-CEOs.  He will facilitate 4th Tuesday Business Review meetings.  4TBRs.  Quarterly meetings are irrelevant in today's world.  Winners have monthly meetings.  We all agreed.  AJ added "Ask for 5, get 2." and liked the boldness of BV's contributions.  For my part, I was named CMO, Chief Media Officer.

jpg:  I went next and immediately expressed my intention to continue with my tennis writings and journalistic pursuits.  The publication of The Fantastic Formalities Of Tennis had been a triple sub culture smash hit, but it needed some marketing juice and it seemed more of a beginning than an ending.  Observing never goes away.  It will be written down with process and persistence.  Word.  Also, as I already set into motion, my idea of Bandana Thursday at the Houston Clay Court Championships in early April was enthusiastically endorsed by all.  Guerrilla style interpersonal tactics seemed best, although there remains sensitivity to ruffling any River Oaks feathers.  The Vantaggio Bandana Happy Hour will become legendary.  Thanks, Amos.  We'll have to stay two nights.

AJ:  Approaching 10,000 listeners of his At The Net Podcast, AJ's influence on the emerging tennis culture is indeniable.  Former hiting partner of Yannick Noah, custom tennis racquet constructor, and broadcasting academic, his words were heard intently, his ideas were influential, his blessings and approvals were secretly craved.  He was gracious, he was inclusive, his knowledge was on full display.  His stories careened, his life was full of notoriety and accomplishments.  His star was still rising, he was convinced of the Vantaggio promise and potential.  He was a connector, a collaboratore.  We ordered more wine.

From there we finished up at the bar talking of travels and deals to come.  AJ amazed us with his impersonations, his Nick, his Nadal, his Novak.  A night of wine and song, of hope for the future, of toasting acoustics.  Impending appearances, planned sales calls, trade shows, social media strategies, groovy drills, and the 2020 tennis season.  Another ride on the Vantaggio side, down the T with extra pace.

Spur In The Main Road

There is no blame.
Doesn't even matter.
There is no deciding.

It just comes about.

Here we've arrived.
Unable to explain.
Reading our minds.

Distressed frustration.

Silent on the relevant.
Off in another direction.
Spur in the main road.

The more important road.

North by northeast.
Veering only slightly.
On into the night.

Lights still seen for awhile.

Then the cold creekbeds.
Faint through the trees.
Disappearing and gone.

Independence is wild.

Artichokes

Evidently, he was six two.  Been to Rome and surrounding towns.  Unending talking about gypsy tea, beef fajitas, military culture, and dining room dynamics.  Two bottles of wine sat almost empty on their advertisement filled table top.

The artichokes were good this evening, flavorful and firm.  The chicken, usually a bit rubbery, was rubbery again.  Crusty bread and marinara is the actual reason people continue to come.  Bring your own blush wine.

On and on, croutons, cheap friends, international connections, McDonald Street directions, the woman never talked.  'Love and marriage, go together like a horse and a carriage, let me tell you brother, can't have one without the other.'  Italians must tap their toes for hours.  Absurdity, it is an epidemic.  Self help gurus and the power of positive thought.  Begin with the end in mind, 5 years, a decade, whatever is reasonable.  Must do it myself, declare my own life, in service to others.  This floating is nice.

Then more nonsense:  check confusion, wedding financials, impaired driving jokes, New Year well wishes.  A peace hovered finally.  The six two dude left, walking with an old limp.  He was not six two.  His young fiance and lonely bald friend along with him, it was quiet enough to hear the music now.  Sinatra, still cool, big band backing.

In Those Future Days

(Intro)  D7Gx2

D7.                       G.

Just gonna be older.

D7.                        G.

Not much glory in that.

C.                            G

Just gonna be greyer.

D7.            C.       G.

No more baby fat.

Maybe we'll be wiser.

Learn the hard way.

Maybe we'll be calmer.

In those future days.

(Verse solo)

Tomorrow might be great.

Got a Bob Schneider show.

Probably make it safely.

You never really know.

But if I die tonight.

And If I never wake.

Be glad I lived today.

Before it's just too late.

(Verse solo)

Now we are alive.

There's really no doubt.

We can dance and sing.

We can jump and shout.

Maybe we'll be wiser.

Learn the hard way.

Maybe we'll be calmer.

In those future days.

(Verse solo)

(Last line x4 out)

Tilted And Spun

Each yank of the chain, each sideways remark, each twist of reality.  Only natives walk through here.  The funny man and his tribe, like a melting glacier, like the northern lights we've seen in pictures and films.  In the night they flash and glow, they jump and blink.  Mother nature has her own ways, in her own time, for her own reasons.

Humans awoke today.
Then slumbered.
Hungered and loved.
Seasonal reasons.
Tilted and spun.
Made in the shade.

Grouching and goosing and glamourous looks, the world waits for no one.  Tomorrow is just tomorrow, but it will be a miracle too.  An improbable perfect day.  A gasoline dream.  A mosh pit.  No more than a snap crackle shot.  Consciously physical, mentally wandering, spiritually connected. 
 

Twangs And Denton Stories

The back roads worked again.  Old North, came in from the railroad tracks.  Like a speed train, balling from the east.

The winter solstice was just about to reach its climax.  All the stars were covered in clouds, they went unseen.  Life is short.

The lounge was quiet and calm, nothing like the blues of weeks ago.  More normal, more safe.  Found a circle, joined a party.

Sweet singer opener with a mysterious Stratocaster player.  Foot pedals and wha wha's.  High notes on that Townes tune.

Then bags, then pipes, then another alone night.  Stay away dark energy, go to your own place, suffocate.  Without air.

A wired night, twangs and Denton stories.  JT is a friend, just call out his name, he'll come running.  To see you again.

At midnight the place is a hush, peaceful and quaint.  Someone owns all this, someone banks.  Like a glorified high.

Apple On A Chain

Threw it to the canyon floor.
That apple on a chain.
No use for him anymore.
He's just too damn lame.

Spent a year on dinner dates.
Drove from here to there.
At least he usually paid.
Thought he really cared.

Confused a boy for a man.
Just couldn't keep his cool.
Island cougar, leather tanned.
Story of a tool.

Threw it to the canyon floor.
That apple on a chain.
No use for him anymore.
He's just too damn lame.

aaea
eeaa
aaea
edaa

20/20 Gonzo 13: The Local Disco

Somehow we made it in to the House Chamber, me and Bobby McGee.  Crowds and mobs in the hallways were chanting loudly and in unison, they had chosen sides.  On one side, "Go Nads!! Go Nads!!", they were cheering for New York Democratic Congessman Robert Nadler.  On the other side, "Go Mert!!  Go Mert!!", they were cheering for Texas Congressman Louie Gohmert.  Some sort of fight was about to go down.

Surprisingly, the House Chamber was mostly empty.  We were expecting an all out brawl, guess the Nadler/Gohmert fight was happening later in the afternoon.  Like Romero, the bull-fighter in The Sun Also Rises, there was alot of formality involved.  Then the elected officials started taking turns on the microphones, everyone was calling everyone else their "good friend from (insert state)", the "aisle" was repeatedly discussed, they were loud, they were insulting, they were orderly.  The carpet was obnoxious, in God they all trusted.

We kept waiting, eventually we got bored, Bobby was asleep near the C-Span camera operator, who was also asleep. No surprise, the previous night was wild and weird.  On our way home from a night out at the local disco, we had abandoned our car near a flooded swamp outside of town, it just quit working.  The five mile walk back was smelly, soggy, and somewhat dangerous.  Figure I'll wake her when this Nadler and Gohmet fight starts, her body, mind, and spirit need the rest.

Historically True

Clash,
The confused will understand.

Cling,
Your interpretation is enough.

Crunch,
Make the high wire acts squirm.

Clutch,
Hold on like life itself is at stake.

Cause,
The effect will take care of it all.

Clear,
No other conclusion to draw.

Cried,
Made sure someone could hear.

Cross,
Proclaimed and historically true.

Side Street Chaos

Terrible it was.
Houston traffic and its side street chaos.
Even Chevy Chase was a nightmare.
People walking dogs, honks, pot holes.
Through a Ward, then the University.
Brazen attempts, lives put at risk.
They didn't care.

Gowns and caps were everywhere.
Bicycles.
They must all be prepared.
Certified, by the power vested in them.
From the State of Texas.
Hereby declared.

Bake the grits to get that good grit flavor.
Sopped it all up with a toasted baguette.
Poor shrimps, a bit overcooked.
A bloody Bloody Mary for the occasion.
When in Rome.
Find a foolish Roman.

Can't hide out forever.
Can't ride out forever.
Together, forever, Amen.

20/20 Gonzo 12: Superiority Complex 10

Asking and answering questions all in one, a weird way to give a speech.  Everyone was quiet, trying to follow the logic, but there was nothing coherent, just confusion and frozen faces.  Evidently, teaching constitutional law is only for geniuses, but these people seem challenged, like explaining it is impossible.  Too smart to make any sense, but too brilliant to be doubted.  Gibberish, mostly.

The spies are still there, blowing horns and blabbing on the side, trust is nowhere.  News conferences to explain news conferences, podiums and wooden hammer downs.  Let the lady speak, man!  These speed readers never get to the point, just wanna get the empty words recorded in the record--"So ordered."  Manners aside, this is a foolish way to operate.

It is impressive to pray for someone every single day and to have no hate in your heart for anyone.  A sure sign of human endurance mixed with the power of the Holy Spirit or sure evidence of massive Superiority Complex 10.  Probably the prayers are expedited, maybe the prayers are directly spoken to God, perhaps God is a voter too.  The campaigning never stops, they will fight for you, God wants them to lead, the future of justice and decency is at stake.  Superiority Complex 10 can be cured with a trip to the mirror maze at the fun house, where hypocrites cry.

Brewing Slow

After all, the crumbs are enough.
Without the circumstance and pomp.
A more genuine existence of contentment.
Tolerating and allowing for most things.
Involved in few matters of importance.
Avoiding serious talks and damnations.
Pop a light in here, see what can be seen.
This inevitable karma is brewing slow.
Shock breeds more shock.
Madness breeds more madness.
Sadness breeds more sadness.
And they are all raised up to endure.

Sang some blues about heaven and confession, about boom towns and prize fights, about being left in the city on Hooke Street, about deep blues and being in a spot, about hurricanes and train crashes, about phenomenons and wildcatters, about Elmo's dad and WWII.

Texas Slim showed up, the sax player charmed the place, drummers were all over, spinning sticks and waiting to jump on the kit.  The keyboard player had style and a flute fluted throughout.  Forest, the bassist, caught the vibe quick and the guitars were the show.  Joe Vee Zee, with the Stevie sound, played as the soul singer in orange swayed.  The teacher took a turn and played some Van and Allmans.  Outside, the road was quiet, the night had slipped into morning.  The limits were reached, and we all escaped.

20/20 Gonzo 11: Ticker Tape

Nothing is new in the news, it's the same Max and Maxine Headrooms, stuttering and looping.  However, everything seems to be breaking, alerts are brightly alerting, outrage is all the rage.  The ticker tape tells the story, the party affiliation, and the Dow Jones Industrial Average.  The musical scores are like laser beams in a space war, shooting and screeching.  Most know it's the same old tune, nothing is new in the news.

"The law must be respected," they blurt, while ignoring laws being disrespected.  It is a shame of a sham for sure, a sorry public spectacle made worse by the assumption of willing ignorance.  These are dumb people, and they are reliant upon dumb people.  Huffing and puffing, and constant interrupting.  Electric blue is the color for the evening, like neon it glows.

The home districts must be a relief, the capital city is full of posturing and positioning.  Staffs with briefs and cases, with movers and shakers, with whistleblowers and rats.  Just another brick in the wall of thought control, another script of drama, another education we don't need.  This public service is for the birds, the double birds.  Now is the time, this is the place, let those birds fly.

The Junkyard Court: The Original 50 Cent

Dad was a wheelchair farmer.
That South African tennis dude.
Duffle bags, shoes, off to Florida.
Make the dream come true.
Never said come home.
The original 50 cent.
Off to the ruthless Vitas slaughter.
Lesson learned.

Y'all finish up, then we'll finish up.
At Jimmy's request.
Homework paid off.
Nasty played the other guy.
Cracked a tooth, filled it with a crushed pill.

Yao Ming probably got cold feet.
Wrong conception of capitalism.

Play what you want.
Have fun if you want to.
Roll around the world with an asterisk.
Johan knows Glowface.
Make the girls superstars.
We're taking a hit.
The professional globalists.
Good coaching is not conforming.
Richard Williams is a legend.

The musclemen beat the kangaroos.
At the ranch.
Drink like fish, eat like hogs, the beat life.
Southern Hemisphere folks party.
They got BBQ too.
Elbow.
Seniors have the most fun.
Played there in Mandela Square.

Go ahead and say it will fail.
It will.
Even Davis figured it would end one day.
The World has no chance against Europe.
The enigma is running out of time.
We don't need him.
Footnotes are usually funny.
And train wrecks are tough to ignore.
Lay off the tattoos, the mainstream ink.

Echo My Reiteration

To be so kind as to.
*explain your rationale.
If you wouldn't mind.
*paint a masterpiece.
Sorry for confusion.
*explain it again please.
Before moving along.
*make an observation.

Engaged in eyes, discussions wavering in time. Working to the bone, ignoring the mountains.  Honey is the name, and if it's all the same, jump this train, say it plain.  Reasons and actions, healings and fractures.

Pardon the intrusion.
*caught up for now.
Sparkles are still there.
*twinkles and winks.
 Echo my reiteration.
*how lovely it all is.
Until we meet again.
*sleep peaceful and dreamy.

Automatic Deduction

Pull the screen tight.
     It's removable.
Do not enter there.
     Cameras are all around.

This is an office.
     Automatic deduction, but tasty.
The broken strings seem sad.
     They have no sound.

Aquariums and lights.
     Leather sofas and wall art.
Harmonica with some shake.
     Ten soldiers and Nixon coming.

As Volume 5 drops.

E
A
E
AE

Capo2

20/20 Gonzo 10: Bushy Eyebrows

Live from the governing chamber, it's been decided.  Communists sure know how to party.  Lots of vodka straight up.  Lots of fish dishes.  Bushy eyebrows.

The ladies, sturdy and strong.  The children, obedient and energetic.  The men, determined and proud.  Cover up the history, bend the truth.  Strike a pose.

The peasants can be fooled, but not the civilized.  The commies are righteous liars.  The worst kind of liars.  Humorless, in an arrogant way.  The worst kind of way.

20/20 Gonzo 9: Toxic Shock

In the capital city this week, 9 tons of manure was shoveled off the streets.  Even those with graphite coated iron noses succumbed to the awful smell, running for the inside.  Almost all reporters refused to cover the story, fearing toxic shock, blindness, and even death.  Only two brave gonzo soldiers went down to the streets and sludged through the shud, the shit and mud mixture well known on the farms and dairies and in the tent cities of America.  Me and a fast talking dude named Geraldo, who said he was really famous, got the real story of the shit show.

The fumes hit us like a head-on wreck, initial aghasts turned into stubborn determinations and we began to breathe normally through our nostrils, getting our entitled oxygen.  Next thing we knew, we're interviewing a gas-masked Speaker Of The House and she goes on and on about peaches--peaches this, peaches that, she sounded like Mrs. Vader under the heavy looking air filters and mist covered goggles.  Perhaps it's what the cows ate that caused the disaster, some kind of peaches anomaly, an intentional prank.  Geraldo was indignant, he had questions, he waved around his huge microphone, he spit when he talked, he yelled about peachable fences, he was crazed.

Finally, the water trucks came with soap and high powered hoses, and after 4 hours of constant work the streets were opened up to the public.  Geraldo and I were exhausted, we had reported back with abandon the entire time, we talked to shovelers, sprayers, spinners, and spastics.  They all blamed each other for the peach incident, of course, but we kept pressing the issue.  We got answers and we got answers right then and there, our journalistic creed was on the line.  Running with the footage as is, no edits in the production process folks, no bullshit.

Same As It Ever Was

Watching what Cincinnati does in the morning.  Same as it ever was.

Roads are alive with the busyness of workers.  Same as it ever was.

Skyline reflection off the Ohio River.  Same as it ever was.

Snow covered roofs leftover from a fall cold front.  Same as it ever was.

20/20 Gonzo 8: The Magnificent Ones

Let's stop this thing down and call up our finest.  The Vets know the score, and what it cost to make our score enough to defeat our enemies.  Those taxing, murderous, dispicable Red Coats, burning down the White House, our own inevitable bloody uncivil quarrel, the European monsters, and never forget the Pearl.  Then there's the jungles of Asia, The Middle East, and the unending tragedy of war, which struck home in late summer of 2001.  War should be more rare, but evil should be more rare too, and it's not.

Before, during, and especially after war, the American ethic of brighter-days-ahead prevails.  We lifted our defeated enemies up from their own deserved ashes, brought them back into the world fold.  Planted seeds of an economic forest, even the oil fields of the Arabian desert were turned to gold by Americans.  While the Kings and Princes of the region seem to be making out fine, little is heard of the Queens and Princesses.  I worry for them.

Perhaps we have not followed through for our own, perhaps our Vets are not welcomed back with that same brighter-days-ahead American ethic we offer our defeated enemies.  The sacrificial one percent, the most disciplined, the heroic, the most distinguished.  Not all who enter make it through, and they've all given up something either way.  Thanks Vets, y'all are the magnificint ones.  And, be patient with the slithering snakes near the Potomac River, we'll let them eat the rats before we clear 'em out.

Movie Reel

1.  The water settles down calm eventually, the wind, currents, and waves come and go like a careful melody. 

2.  The parade goes by, a movie reel is following, wrapped and sent to processing. 

3.  Change is for others, evolution is the way there. 

4.  And there must be defined. 

5.  After dreams come true, after the blessings, after knowing life goes on forever. 

6.  Becoming a true person, not enduring, without worry, without regret. 

7.  Give it away, it's not worth the time, it's not worth the effort. 

8.  Gratify your mind with space. 

9.  Follow nothing, seek nothing. 

10.  Maslow had too many issues. 

11.  Simplify desires and find a working cycle. 

12.  We are creatures, after all. 

13.  The manufactured sounds of waves somehow keeps the birds away. 

14.  Protect the isolation for now, the desolation angel will come soon. 

15.  No good company.

Texas Cool

Mad is no way to live.  Rituals the same, life clocks back and forth around us.  Nature cares less and dignifies the day anyway.  Crisp fall, Texas cool.  Leaves, blowing in the wind.  Disappointments don't matter anymore, they are just left to flutter about.  Ambition lost, took the wrong fork.  But without worry seems the right road to me still, which can seem without care, even careless.  Disrepair, like nature in a way.  And it is.  Because of this, it's a transient scene.  Connecting along the way, then moving on.  Vagabond life, simple and true, point to point.  The times, they are a'changing, but time means jack to me.  Avoid the pitiful trap, the snare of lies, the cages of the soul.  There is nothing good there.

The Farmer's Market Miracle

Think about reality.
Where the next meal came from.

The farmer's market miracle.
A squash for the skillet.

Location doesn't matter.
Easy on the air.
Get the breath back.

Movement.
Which is real.
Which is freedom.
Which is alive.

The small circle knows.
Health is involved.
Of all kinds.

20/20 Gonzo 7: Screw Turkey

This is the life of an artist, waking when woke, shot of hot coffee beans, brewed up right.  These snakes still have fangs, but there is no venom.  They shed like a scaley husk of rebirth, renewing themselves always.  Devouring the hens and eating their eggs.  The pit is their destiny, they will slither away soon, they wanna keep their heads.

In the countryside, folks know about the narrow, the actual, the required.  These fits and tantrums are a daily feature of the intelligent class.  The hair product and make-up is slathered thick, the necklaces sparkle, the ties pop.  Occasionally, a drop of spittle will hit the camera lights just right.  "Thank God for the deep state."

Reminded of snakes, and bastards, and sickos, and the devil punk, pleased to report the justice laid down on those ISIS effs.  Stick with it, our super soldiers can eliminate them all.  Screw Turkey, they could've done this already, if they wanted.  Burning cages, beheadings, videos.  Journalists included, which hits close to home.  We are free and brave, but not as free and brave as we used to be.