stardust stardom - the connection

Tapping my left foot on the marble-like floors at Stardust,
Juggling a tennis ball out of boredom (out of the blue) after playing a doubles match,
Containing rapid flashbacks of my late adolescence while the broken speaker announces the second coming of Jesus, my heart is pounding 28 times faster than normal and I know I'm not THAT old (yet).

Seamlessly reading books of the departed souls of the underwater library///the lost city had a magnificiently well kept collection of ancient scrolls, testimonies of futuristic bums, poets, visionaries and dreamers, and furthermore there lies the secret of the plan, design and execution of the machine - THE TIME CAPSULE OF REZ. Implementation could take 3 years and change.

Inconspicuous and unobtrusive, yet mysterious and strange. Needless to say that heroes and ghosts have something in common - they will all be oblivious to us through history - IN TIME.

A stream of thought about science and possibly considering faith,
A big apple and a big head or shall I reply to myself - a big EGO,
A beehive of lies reassuring me and my fellow citizens about the dirt in the streets, the voices of crooked politicians and the rambling stupidity of senators in a useless system of pseudo democracy-dictatorship all in one

The news is - be aware and question your surrounding. The future is not really a matter of tomorrow but the day after the day after the day after tomorrow. It might be subjective - might be a waste of time in itself to stop and think about the future, unless there's a catch....what a bloody run-on sentence I just wrote.

Reset.
Rewind.
Emergency.
Repair.
Walk again.
Run wild.
Only to learn how to crawl back into your cave - crawl back like a slave.
You and only you - you gotta save.
The corner of my eye lets me know it's cool - you, me, you, me, them and every living thing in this planet and the galaxies yet to be discovered.

Light speed.
Novelty seed.
Got a kid to feed.
Rest about now sounds good, homie homefry.

Revolver, Allan Sherman & coffee nights

Possibly the best album ever released in 1966 was Revolver by The Beatles. The experimentation never stopped - Harrison and his Indian music influence portrayed, Macca's subtle chamber pop, songcraft and soul manifested, Ringo's empathic with child-like qualities jumping around in the record with consistent drum beats and Lennon's crawling nightmares and genious empowering the record to a different level. I am just amazed at the cohesiveness of this record. It's funny how we are easily bound to love a record so much.

It's 2:35 am and I smell the coffee that's brewing in the kitchen, while Allan Sherman's vinyl is spinning. The laughing crowds on the background empancipate the lighthearted and daydreaming child in me. It's not really soothing to give up a day to think too much about shit, but hey - at least the music is still playing and the wheels are still moving. It's a showdown. It's entertainment. Killing time? Killing my mind? Killing the me in the you and the know in the now. Blabbing about shit - that's all people do. Thelonious Monk's piano might save these nights of boredom. Had a heart attack or hoped I had - not that I want to not live but I want to feel a little more pain, just a tab.

Record is pressed. The music lover is ready to survive with this one record. Going through this turmoil of emotions and shapes and voices and colors reminds me of Miles Davis's Bitches Brew or maybe Lennon's Imagine. Yearning for elementary school. Falling on my face. Sticking around for another toast; this one goes to whimsy barbarellas. Invigorating. Trembling. Make it stop. Make it real. Allan Sherman's melodies are so so good...

Grevious Angel

Hank the first. Hank the second. Hank the third.
There is only one Hank - Mr. Hank Williams - the man with the country heart and the unmistakable folkloric lyrics - God bless his heart.
"How many roads must a man walk down before they call him a man?", said Dylan, but it's really not enough for me some days; the intricate and versatile ideas of this all-star songwriter don't (yeah, don't) cut it for me these days, not when I need a dosage of the real folk - the true heart-out and simple, often forgotten country.
Forget about Faith Hill and her "uplifting" songs and rooftop female vocalism ism ism bagism thism ism ism.
Remember when Brooks and Dunn were a couple of bums?
Remember when Garth Brooks didn't wear a cowboy hat?
Remember when the Dixie Chicks were all but three single hillbilly women scraping for dough?

What really is important to remember is: (considering it's my opinion and it's my blog) that country is not country-radio-pop or Redneck ballads to repeat over and over in a jukebox in a hidden bar in a small town in the deep south or Texas......................................................it's all about heart and soul and the music and the acoustic 6-string old, dusty n' rusty gee-tar and hard-working people in middle america.

Middle America, how bad can it be?
Thank you Hank.
And thank you Woody Guthrie for protesting and never crossing your arms.
Thank you Bruce Springsteen for Nebraska.
I thank the late greats and contemporaries for giving me the push to follow through my journey - I thank you all.

I believe that my heart is country. But I love Rock n Roll.
So help me God.

Pistolchunky

Racing Fake Ferrari

The leather seats of my Ferrari make me smile.
The fancy and useless rims in my four wheels are my motivation to wake up tomorrow.
The headlights in front of my red flaming speed racer talk to me in my sleep.
Hit the gas and forget about insurance.
No worries about gas mileage.
Step on the breaks suddenly and spin around in Newbury Street.
A scratch on my little baby and my world crumbles.
Curved patterns of pavement - Yellow signs in school zones.
Airs of greatness in Sunset Boulevard - Stupid blondes turning their heads to see me.
Habitual relentless dreams of the nothing - I repeat to myself the question "Is this real?"

Car crash. Insurance. Death. Woke up and kissed my girlfriend. Fuck Ferrari.

The Great Divide

Falasies of the restless ego come and go. Unspoken messages greatly separtes us from the outside world. The inside world vanishes with twirls and swirls to the voices that surrender to the ignorance of youth. Yearning for the past, experiencing the present and questioning the future reveals a dark secret. The body deters. The heart cries. The mind is blocked. The soul is stolen. The Great Divide of the good and the bad, the inside and the outside, the real love and the waiting is what people don't talk about - what people dare not to uncover. Years and years of this gap of destruction is mostly a matter of choices, which we all have. What will your choice be?

roadtripatia

traveling is a way of life. being a passenger it's a state of mind. living in a routine doesn't mean you can't trip and you don't need to roll a joint to feel free and at ease. being is beautiful. being is meaningful. being a human being if that will ever make sense to the masses. the things you get to see, the people you get to know, and the world you get to love and hate are worth to live for.

traveling is a way of life. be it a beach, be it a mountain, be it the road, be it the forest, be it the sea, be it the underground, be it whatever you want - it doesn't have to be a place - it's just a state of mind. feel free to ask. feel free to groove. feel free to be free and love. it all makes sense with roadtripatia.