Thursday, February 17, 2005


I've been staring at this stark white space for minutes. What was I going to post? I've been ruminating on the abysmal, hypocritical administration and thought about throwing out a rant on the injustice of having been saddled with these morally bereft scum for the next three years. It's been done though, and now it just gets lower and deeper. I can't wallow in that today. I had a deeply mellow swim at Noon, and so...I don't want to harsh my mellow, maaaaaaaaaaaaaan.

Jimmy Smith died. I remember hanging with RT Mouse and his Uncle John in the beery, bluesy night, getting an education about many important things...jazz, R & B, the whole vibrant world that existed after hours during the Eisenhower Years, when we were allegedly a conformist, grey society of Corporate Men and Women and Children, kept safe by John Foster Dulles and terrorized by Tailgunner Joe. While all that was "going on" people like Smith, and Brubeck, and Baker, and Coltrane and Gillespie were vibrating and sizzling and leering and laughing, and getting "kicks." Oh yeah. "Kicks"

I need kicks now. I can pull the ripcord in 6 minutes. I must go home and get some kicks. Play with The Little Buccaneer, play bagpipes, maybe even some old records, on a turntable. Remember those?


Blogger Roy said...

Play with The Little Buccaneer, play bagpipes, maybe even some old records, on a turntable.You play bagpipes? Man that is so cool. Those things make chills run up and down my spine.

1:11 PM  
Blogger Harry said...

Hey Roy,

Indeed I do. Have for 33 years. Damn. Hard to belive I've done anything that long. Tonight, I will play a lament for Hunter Thompson.

Fortunately, the Little Buccaneer loves the sound of the pipes. It would be a bitch if my son couldn't stand one of the few constants in my life.

2:18 PM  
Blogger Roy said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

6:45 PM  
Blogger Roy said...

Yeah, I deleted the last comment because a typo happened to me and made me sound like Tarzan. What I said was: My son plays guitar better than I do. Not, better than I did at his age, but just . . . better. And that makes me feel bad, and good.

6:49 PM  

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