Here's a brilliant clip of my number one musical idol.

 

You think death metal or punk rock kicks ass? Grow up and feast your eyes:

 

 

After surviving another miserable winter's Saturday, when the sun peaked out blazing this morning, a certain song title jumped to mind: Clifford Brown's amazing "Joy Spring."

 

And wouldn't you know it, the ever versatile Youtube has a great version for the world to enjoy.

 

This past weekend, a fine evening of music rolled out at the historic Aeolian Hall in London.

 

My friends in the Dirty Love Band, a fine blues group, were the night's opening act. I trotted out

my camera and captured some moments of their performance.

 

Enjoy their musical stylings.

 

I thought I would try my hand at video.

 

Give me a break, it's my first attempt.

 

Enjoy.

 

So here we are. Another year dawns upon us. How wonderful, don't you think?

 

Stay true to yourself, hug and kiss the ones closest to you, give a stranger a smile and an acquaintance a little time when you bump into each other.

 

All we have is each other, our beating hearts, the earth below us and the sky above.

 

Don't waste your time dusting off school philosophy textbooks: go for a walk and look at the flowers and listen to the birds sing.

 

Thanks for checking in. As long as I can keep typing, I'll keep prattling on.

Sometimes one is fortunate to come across many interesting people. Being in an orchestra means you're surrounded by such people.

 

Tonight I received the news that one member has now left us and will now only play in heaven with the angels.

 

To you, my friend, there could only be one fitting tribute, beautiful music.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching the punk rock show this morning, got me thinking about how I miss No Doubt.

 

You see, Gwen went off, got hitched to a rock star, popped out a baby with a ridiculous name, got the Hollywood and English Mansion and stopped rocking out.

 

Jeez, even a former SoCal babe can't escape the trappings of middle-class boredom.

 

My advice: get the band back together, let Gavin sit-in and let the team of nannies care for the baby a few nights here and there.

 

Punk rock needs its righteous babes.

 

 

Enjoy the work of my Roman poet namesake, Quintus Horatius Flaccus.

 

See, how it stands, one pile of snow,
Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield
Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow
With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.
Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,
Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,
That mellower vintage, four-year-old,
From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.
The future trust with Jove; when he
Has still'd the warring tempests' roar
On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree
And aged ash are rock'd no more.
O, ask not what the morn will bring,
But count as gain each day that chance
May give you; sport in life's young spring,
Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,
While years are green, while sullen eld
Is distant. Now the walk, the game,
The whisper'd talk at sunset held,
Each in its hour, prefer their claim.
Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm
The hiding-place of beauty tells,
The token, ravish'd from the arm
Or finger, that but ill rebels.

What a mess it's been the last couple of weeks. I'm glad it's over and we can now focus on the holidays.

 

Enjoy the majesty of classic G N' R!!

 

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

 

Carl Jung (1875 - 1961)

The countdown is on to the holiday wind-down, much needed around these parts. Nerves are frayed, frustrations overflow and things are said without thinking. Perhaps it's the miserable weather right now or the stress of running around and getting things done.

 

A tip: take a deep breath, think before blowing up and empathize with others.

 

It's a cliche, but let's remember the good feelings the season is supposed to engender. Love one another.

Hey J,

 

Enjoy.

 

Saw a fantastic concert by Ms. Ryder tonight. So in an effort to continue shedding a light on emerging and often dreadfully underlooked artists, please enjoy her videos:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

I'm happy to share the following. A lovely mid-Autumn gift. Let Miles and gang warm your soul.

 

... the following as the perfect soundtrack to an evening of chores, or perhaps even something more enjoyable:

 

So these bare-knuckled people want to lead us?

While their bullying taunts get the media fuss

 

They promise hope and freedom, or so they stress

They're strident, confident they can clean the mess

 

If this was the 50s, we'd all be under our desks

We should worry, as they do if they could confess

 

They have no clue, just a burning desire to dress

In a blue power suit and give a fiery address

 

God bless us all, and let's pray we don't regress

Let's strive for more, but be ready to accept less.

Journal keepers, as we are wont to do, sometimes crack a few open to see if anything written ever amounted to anything. Tonight, owing to tomorrow's holiday, allowed me some time to dust a few off.

 

My initial plan was to select a fine example of my youthful brilliance to share with you fine folks, but a cooler head prevailed.

 

These odd snippets cobbled over two decades-- a poem here, a lyric there, the odd story never fully developed, a flighty business proposal or two -- certainly brought back memories but won't be shipping off to any publishers soon. I would die of embarrassment.

 

In more lucid moments, some fine things do peek out. But generally, most of it meanders between heartsick drivel, ersatz 1990s alt-rock cliches and rantings of a directionless insomniac.

 

God, what an arrogant prick. I think it may be time to rev up the shredder.

 

Or start another journal with my new and improved middle-aged ramblings. I think it's time for my wizened barbs to take shape.  

 

Oh writing, you blessing and curse.