I Interrupt This Poetry Slam...

...to say I am sorry for my lack of grace lately.  I've been weathering some storms all month, and I've been slipping further behind in my reading and my responding to many of the wonderful comments and correspondence I have received.

It may not seem like it to many of you who read Irish Gumbo regularly, but it is true.  I have been lacking in time and energy to stay current as I like to do.

Hopefully, the seas will calm soon and the headwinds die down.  I'm counting on it to keep my grip on the tiller.  Until then, I want to thank everyone who has been reading my work.  I enjoy hearing from you, but even if you don't comment I am very grateful for everyone's eyes on this here palimpsest dedicated to the noise in my head.

Thank you all, so very much.  The poetry slam will resume tomorrow.

Peace,
IG

Bonfire of My Vanity

I was engaged in some redactive exercises on some of my writing tonight, something I tell myself to let alone but rarely heed that advice.  I guess its true that a writer is never really finished with anything.  There is always something that can be tweaked, a phrase rewritten or even a pesky typo to correct.  Often when I reread something I wrote previously, I cannot resist the urge to "fix" something.  It is a hard habit to break.

So as I wrote earlier, I was doing the editor dance, going over some older posts, and I discovered a curious thing.  It was not a mistake, it was more of an absence.

It was an absence of comments on a post I wrote back in January.  Not that I flatter myself to think that all that I write will always get people to respond with something, but that was the first time since probably 2008 that a post I wrote garnered the big goose egg.

I am embarrassed to say that it bothered me a little.  I tried to set it aside, but vanity got the better of me and I really do want to know what (if anything) you, the readers I am most fortunate to have, might think of this:

SPIDER

To be fair the original post was on a Saturday, and I know full well people have much more important things to do than to feed my tottering ego.  But I am a curious fellow, so if you have some spare moments...

Call to Arms

Oy.  I came home and realize that I must write, yet again.

This blogging thing.  It has its own reality, yes?

I had an epiphany, dear readers, tonight while chatting with the ladies behind the bar.

I have written of many things here on this, my blog.  Tell me, dear readers, what have I not  written of?  What can I write about, that I have not yet addressed?

And yes, this is a request of you.  Send me a topic or idea you would like me to write about.

Happy Friday: The Nice Files

Let's just get it out there that this week has been a stinker.  Not catastrophic, not my-house-just-fell-into-a-volcano kind of bad, but a stinker all the same.  A big, greasy wurst of Too much to do, wrapped in a charred pastry Blanket of Angst, topped off with a nasty dollop of Too Many Bills.  Oh, and I was going to be home later than usual.  So it is safe to say that I was all prepared to get home, change into my sweatpants and hide under the pillows on my bed.

Fortunately, there was an alternative waiting for me, times two.

NICE THING #1:  The tea I ordered a week ago, shipped the cheap, slooooow way, finally arrived and was perched on my doorstep.  Hooray!  I likes me some India black tea, of the Assam lineage, and now I have fresh malty/smoky/brisky to warm me up these chilly mornings.

EVEN NICER THING #2:  Earlier this month, I commented on this post by Unmitigated, and made a remark about a book in the background of the photo.  Well, to my pleasant surprise, the lurvely and thoughtful Mary replied to my comment and offered to send me the book if I would read it.  So today, in my mailbox, was the package containing the book*.  How about THAT, dear ones?  That is all kinds of nice, and that made my day.  In New Orleans, they would call that a 'lagniappe', a little something extra, which warms the heart.  If you can, drop by her place and say hello.  Thanks, Mary!

*"The Dymaxion World of Buckminster Fuller" in case you wanted to know.  Yeah, yeah, I'm a geek. 

I Got (Indie) Ink on My Fingers!

Good morning, one and all!  And isn't it a fine morning?  I am so pleased to announce that I have been honored once again with a feature on Indie Ink!  Today they are posting my poem "Kudzu", and I would be tickled pink if you would visit and drop some comment luv on it.  Please do browse the posts while you are there, some mighty fine stuff to be found.  And let them know what you think!

Indie Ink

C'est bon, c'est tout!

Pod People

To podcast or not to podcast, 'tis the question.

This is my dilemma.  In the continuing saga of my web development class, we were asked whether we would prefer to set up and use a Twitter account, or post a podcast to our blogs.

The catch?  If we already had a Twitter account, we would have to do the podcast.

Hmm.

I'm torn.  I've been toying with the idea of a podcast for a while, but haven't acted on it.  I'm lacking a mic for my laptop, along with a webcam.  Plus, I don't exactly have a James Earl Jones kind of speaking voice (unless I'm deliberately putting it on).  And, I have no idea what I'd really talk about.

Writing seems easy compared to putting it in motion...and with sound.

Maybe I could do a video of me holding placards with what I want to say, tossing them aside like Dylan a la "Subterranean Homesick Blues". Or "Mediate" by Inxs.

Maybe I could do a spoken word version of "Gun Street Girl" by Tom Waits.  I can carry a credible raspy take on that song...but I don't know if I could maintain it for the whole piece.  And no one wants to hear my slightly nasally drone going on for four and a half minutes.

See, that is part of the problem: when I speak, in my head I sound like quite the orator.  But whenever I hear the playback, I start to squirm.  Maybe its just me and my insecurities.  Oy.

This is where the ability to write does not necessarily translate into the ability to go multimedia.  The more variables present the greater the complexity of any system...and while I like complexity, I have a hard time dealing with it if it is complexity beyond my comfort zone.

(flippingacoinflippingacoin...)

This goes back to my high school days and the dreaded oral presentation in English classes.  I hated that shit, man.  I always felt flustered to the point of paralysis.  I just don't know...

I know!  I could read from behind a curtain, like the Wizard of Oz!

Nah.  What was I thinking?  I got it: What do you think?

Gumbo for the Silver!

Two years.

Two years ago today, Irish Gumbo came to life in this here blogosphere.  461 posts, lots of tears, laughs and weirdness later, here I am still at it.  A small miracle, that.

Back then I really had no idea how this thing would evolve, or if it would evolve at all.  Mutate is perhaps the better word, 'cause I'm all about the mutations...

I say small miracle, because it is the second longest personal project I have ever undertaken.  The first was my personal (longhand) journals that I began in July 2003, the month my first children were born.  Those journals I kept up for almost five years, much longer after the twins passed away. 

And then I got tired.  Or something. 

Anyway, I decided I would put them aside for a while, just to see what it was like.  It was nice, not having that personal pressure in my head to "produce" something, to do that daily entry.  But as many of you know, and as I found out myself,  my fascination with and love of the written word did not fade away.  It was there, always, a presence or breathy whisper in my ear:  "Write."

I couldn't resist the call, I'm a sucker for a pretty lady who is kind to me, even if she occasionally makes me nuts.  If that isn't love, I'm not sure I know what it is.

Two years.  A few months back I considered giving up on this blog, too.  The pressure inside and out was piling on and I felt like I needed to hibernate.  Life and stuff, you know.

But I didn't so I'm here, for better or worse.  On this, the two-year anniversary of this the hot mess I call Irish Gumbo,  I want to say thank you to all you kind folks, new readers and long-time fans alike, who put your peepers on my page.  I've made some interesting connections, met some of you in the Real World (and hope to meet many more), and generally had a grand time sharing, learning and reading.

Thank you, one and all.  A long, strange trip...and I hope you'll stay on for at least a few more stops...

Sharing the Salt of the Earth

Assignment, Part Quatre:

No doubt, we live in a very visual world.  As part of the ongoing saga of the class assignment, we were asked to post a photograph on our blog.  Long time readers know I have posted many in the past (but not quite as many here, now that my photography blog has been up and running for a while), and the assignment was a nice reminder to post another here.  Ergo:

I discovered this in my photo archives while browsing.  I like it, a lot.  I enjoy its simplicity and homey elegance.  It also dovetailed wonderfully with the thematic swirl of thoughts in my head, now that I've been thinking so much about blogging and sharing online.

Salt may be ubiquitous to us, but there was a time in history where salt was a highly controlled commodity, with much more relative weight economically and symbolically than it carries today.  "Salt of the earth." "Worth his weight in salt."  These phrases used to mean so much more, when kings and countries controlled the production of distribution of the mineral.  Even the word "salary" has its roots in the Latin word for salt (sal).

What meant the most to me, though, was the symbolic presence of the salt.  In most cultures, in the folklore and social traditions, to share salt with someone, especially strangers, was an act of kinship and hospitality that was not taken lightly.  It meant something.  It implied an extension of trust.  It meant that those who offered salt were inviting those who were offered into their lives, families or homes.

I like that idea.  I like the idea of shared trust, of offering friendship.  After all, they are (like salt used to be) truly valuable things, not offered lightly and with the hope of reciprocity.

Not unlike the words spilled herein on these electronic pages.  Come, sit, read.  Let us share salt together.

Relief Well

Assignment, Part Trois:

You see what just happened there?  This assignment thing?  It has me on a bit of a roll.  The cap is off the well (again) and today my hindbrain was all up in my mental grill, the Deepwater Horizon rig of my mind.  And I am not equipped with a blowout preventer.  My head may be big, but it isn't THAT big.

More ruminations upon blogging and digital identity kept spilling over into my workday.  Much of it was inspired by the posts I chose to link in my post of yesterday, because I could not help but wonder if they were the right posts to put out there for this exercise.  By 'right' I really mean 'best'.

A common undercurrent to all the blogging I have done is one of mild anxiety.  The anxiety conjured up by always questioning whether my latest effort was my best effort, should I have written that, why did I post that?  When I am in the midst of thinking about a story idea, and writing that idea down, I am usually convinced that what I am thinking and writing about is the best thing EVER!  After all, I wouldn't bother having the thought or invest the energy in writing it out if it wasn't the best, right?

Right?

Yesterday's post is a good example.  I spent an inordinate amount of time sifting through my blog entries trying to find just the right example of what I was attempting to convey.  Constantly searching for the 'perfect' post,  I was always convinced that the next one will be better yet.  So I kept reading and reading, ping-ponging back and forth through nearly two years' worth of archived material.  It was an exhausting trip down memory lane.  In the end, I don't know if the examples I linked are necessarily the best of their type, the ne plus ultras  of each type of post I have ever written.  Honestly, it being late, me being tired and needing to wrap things up probably means I picked what I picked because it was the last one in front of me at the time.

So this is what my subconscious was working on all day: searching my memory banks, trying to compare different posts, having a few "I should have picked that one..." moments.  I worried that maybe the ideas I had in mind weren't quite matched up with the posts I used as examples.

Then again, I worry about a lot of things.  Which is among the reasons why I write so much.

Ultimately, it will not matter.  I did my best with it, and that is truly what counts.  It's all grist for the mill.  To paraphrase a saying I read recently, there is no writing, but there is rewriting.  That is a central attraction of blogging (and writing, period): this ability to rewrite, with shared input.  If I feel like I didn't quite illuminate what I had in mind, well...there's always another post.

Another post, another relief well to take the pressure off the gusher in my head.  Join me in this deep, dark ocean, won't you?

Pleased to Meet You, Won't You Guess My Name?

Assignment, Part Deux:

Continuing along with the them of yesterday's post, on the class assignment I am working on,  I am (was) supposed to write a post introducing my blog and myself.  Welllll...I am pleased to recall that I had already done something (or several such somethings) already right here on Irish Gumbo.

But it never hurts to have a refresher, does it?

To wit, I dug up some previous posts of mine in which I explained or attempted to explain a little bit about myself.  So if one is so inclined as to dive into the mental Loch Ness that is the brain of Irish Gumbo, please go for a linky drive on the following bloggy backroads:

Irish Gumbo, Explained

Portrait of Irish Gumbo As a Punk Rocker

Dudes Who Lunch, Or What I Learned About My Animal Nature

So if you are interested, the above can hopefully offer some insights into This Person Who Blogs.  Or at the very least, you can point and laugh at the dork who writes this stuff!

-----

This is one of the things about blogging I find fascinating:  this recursiveness, the ability to metablog, to figuratively step through the looking glass.  Dr. Wesch was right in some ways...nothing for it but to dive in!

A Poem About a Book About a Mirror Reflecting a Picture of a Mirror Reflecting a Book About Poems

Delightfully recursive, don't you think?

I know, it made my brain hurt just thinking about it.  There is, however, method to this madness.  It all started, as many of these things do, with an assignment.  This time the assignment arose in the class in which I am enrolled on the topic of Web development.  The assignment?  Create a blog, post on it and link with other blogs to be created by classmates.  You can see why I would be intrigued by this activity.

Long time readers are probably saying "Dude, you're aces! and DONE already!"

So it would appear.  Truth be known, this blog already satisfies nearly ever criteria required for completion of the assignment.  That's all good.  Part of the assignment is to write at least three new posts before the deadline next week, and I think many of you know there is no way I could resist it.

It did make me reflect on this blog, in a way I hadn't done in quite some time.  The why, the what, the who.  It hit me that there are a lot of questions about identity involved when blogging.  Why do I do this? What do I get out it?  Who is this person who blogs?

After all, a blog can chronicle deep life experience like this: Blood of My Blood...

It can serve a bowl of goodness: Soul Food...

It can ruminate on personal identity: Plume...

It can tell good stories, and poems: Maw of Winter, Mirror Cracked...

It can be funny and fluffy: One of My Favorite Things...(this is one of my daughter's favorite posts)...

It can be all those things and more.  Text and pictures and videos and music, everything that the everyday miracle of modern electronics can bring you, all right there for you to skim or swallow, chew or spit out.  Really, a blog can be about everything and nothing.

The important thing is that it be true to you, because in this age of instant communication and viral spread of information, the only real editor you have is yourself. Control the information, or it will control you.

Blog if you will, there are rewards: connectivity, friendship, knowledge, personal expression and creativity...many wonderful things.  Don't worry if it doesn't seem important.  Everybody has a story to tell, and a unique voice in which to tell it.  I am still learning to raise mine, while writing this poem about a book about a mirror reflecting a picture of a mirror reflecting a book about poems.

Gumbo gets Inked!

Get It Here!

What a fine way to get Wednesday going!  My story "Running Lights" is featured today at Indie Ink!  Please take a few moments and check it out.  While you are there, browse the other writers and artists, drop some comment love.  Good stuff, people, good stuff!

The Turning of the Spit

Is it hot in here, or is it just me? Ow, Ow, OW!

A Gumbo Public Service Announcement for everyone: I am about to get roasted! Former ambulance man and current bon vivant Eddie Bluelights at Clouds and Silvery Linings has cajoled me into lashing myself to the spit for his Sunday Roast feature. I fully give Eddie his props, because you know how difficult (if not impossible) it is to put gumbo on a stick...but he did, so there I will be! 

Please set your reminders, the Roast goes on the fire this Saturday, June 12th at 10 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time, which I believe is 6 a.m. Eastern time in the US. I think. Ah, Google it...time befuddles me, often.

This is a real treat for me, because have you seen the list of past Roastees? Some fine company, indeed. I was delighted and honored to be asked, and I hope you can drop in for some roasted gumbo!

In other news, it hit me today that my previous post HERE was my 400th post. How in the world did that happen? Whew!

Beans and Greens Beat The Blues

A short time ago, the lurvely and talented Angie at GUMBO WRITER gifted me with a big honkin' container of Tony Cachere's Creole Seasoning, which I had heretofore had missed the pleasure of sampling. The only condition associated with the gift was that I try something new with it and post the recipe.

Now, considering that I have just now gotten off my duff, I can now present what I think is a workable recipe, one that I just made up and turned out quite well. Especially if my full belly is any guide. Herewith is my cure for the aftermath of winter blues, ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

BEANS AND GREENS: AN EARLY SPRING TONIC*

1 pound red beans (I used some light red kidney beans)

1 head of bok choy

2 smoked ham hocks**

1 medium yellow onion, peeled

2 bay leaves

3-5 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed

6-8 cups of water

Tony Cachere's Creole seasoning - 3 tablespoons for the initial boil

Pick over beans to remove any pebbles or other debris. Soak beans in enough water to cover from 6 hours to overnight. I let mine soak for about six, from morning to late afternoon. Pour off water to rinse off the beans. Drain. In a big, oven-proof pot (mine was a 5 quart cast iron dutch oven), bring 6 cups (for thicker beans) to 8 cups (for thinner beans) of water to boil, after having put the ham hocks in to start. When it starts to boil turn in the Creole seasoning, onion, garlic and bay leaf, lower the heat to simmer for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 250 degrees Farenheit, with a rack situated to keep the bean pot in the center of the oven. After ten minutes or so of simmering, place the beans in the pot and bring back to a boil. Once boiling, cover pot, and CAREFULLY put it in the preheated oven. My target time was about 2 to 2 1/2 hours cooking time. I did scoop out some of the water before putting the beans in the oven because it seemed like too much for the amount of beans.

Start prepping the bok choy with an eye to adding it to the pot with about 35 - 40 minutes to go. Trim the bottom off the stalks. Slice the green leafy parts off the white, firm parts of the stalks. Cut stalks into thin pieces, crosswise on an angle (to make it purty) about 1/4 inch thick. Set aside. Trim the leaves a bit so that they can be stacked up in roughly equal sized pieces, in layers. If they are really wide, you may need to cut them in half again. Cut the leaves crosswise into pieces about an inch wide by two inches long. Or let them stay as ribbons, either way is good.

With about 30 minutes to go, check the beans. If they are too dry, add a little boiling water to cover. Mash a goodly portion of them against the side of the pot to thicken things up. Add the bok choy stalk pieces and stir well. Cover and put back in oven for about another twenty minutes. Check beans, add more water if necessary, and start adding the sliced leaves. Let each handful cook down for about 30 seconds, adding more until everything is in the pot. Cover and continue cooking for about 5 to 10 minutes more.

At this point, my beans had hit that stage of doneness where they were firm enough to make it to my mouth before they melted away, just right. The Creole seasoning was right where it needed to be, I didn't need to add salt or Tabasco or extra pepper. The bok choy was firm enough, adding a delightful texture and squeak and chew. I have to say, The folks in New Orleans know whereof they speak when they talk about a bit pot of greens being a tonic for thin blood tired by winter. So good, ya hurt yaself, and I could feel my blood waking up, shaking off the blues. I served my beans and greens over steamed white rice, and washed it down with a glass of pale ale. Tasty, tasty stuff!

So there you have it, my first big deal using that delish Creole seasoning. Do me a favor and pay Angie a visit (link above), tell her I sent you, and spread the love.

Oh, and this time, I remembered to take out the bay leaves, without biting on them. Whew!

*Sorry, no pictures. I was so caught up in making, eating and thinking I forgot to break out the camera to record them in all their glory.

**Later, while chewin' and thinkin', I realized that this dish still works without the ham hocks. I would increase the seasoning in the initial boil by about 1/2 to 1 tablespoon more.

A Gumbo PSA

Achtung, liebe Jungen und Mädchen und Unentschlossenen!

Regarding last Sunday's post titled "Arrhythmia", it has come to my attention that many folks were concerned that something was wrong with Yours Truly. Looking back, in conjunction with This Post, I can see where that conclusion was a reasonable one to draw.

I am pleased to report that the event depicted was purely fictional, and I am fortunate to have no experience with arrhythmia, then or ever. As far as I know. 

To those whom I have not already explained, the post was the result of a boredom-inspired, "5-Minute Fiction" writing exercise I gave to myself. The photo just struck me in a way I could not define, and the idea just came to me.

Although I did not intend to cause consternation, I'm pleased to see that it seemed to work well as a story! Thank you all for reading, and for your interest and concern!

 

That is all. As you were, people, carry on, carry on...

I'm Good Enough, I'm Strong Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me...

...now if I just had time to adequately thank them all! Recently I have been linked, and it is a testament to my distraction and general dearth of time that I am catching up to some fine folks of my recent acquaintance.

 

See that there pretty little thang above? Well, I was anointed with it by the ever-intriguing and multi-faceted Mike at Annotated Margins . I had the pleasure of discovering Mike's place earlier this year, and always come away with a new perspective on the Universe after reading over there. Plus, he makes music. Good music. If I wasn't so far away from his stomping grounds in Oregon, I'd be in the audience on a regular basis. Thanks, Mike! Everybody stop by and say hello, it's worth the trip.

I know the rules say to link to seven others, and come up with seven interesting things about myself...but long time readers will know that I suck at rules, plus the time factor is cramping my style. These days, I tend to have to glimpse things on the interwebs as I run past my computer on the way to doing something else, so I'll do my best to get something resembling a response to the rules (if I don't forget).

We can all use a little more sunshine! I need to give a shout-out to new bloggy acquaintance, one I'm taking a shine to, and she's a newbie (relatively speaking). I refer of course to the little ray o' sunshine known as Lola Sharp over at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword. I must have said or done something that caught her attention, because she has been commenting regularly on the hot mess that is Irish Gumbo, and has made me laugh out loud! She was kind enough to leave me some link love on her most recent post, in which she mentioned me in the same paragraphs as some other most awesomesauce bloggers, so please drop in and say howdy.

Whew. So that's my gyrations for the day. Busy like the beaver, I am, and hopefully soon things will settle down to where I can be more attentive...and blog about the things that have been keeping me so busy...

On Not Knowing What I am Doing

Okay, ten minutes...go!

I gave myself a little push, said "Take ten minutes and just write something, then stop!" I have avoided those types of exercises in the past, because I hated the idea of having to stop on an artificial deadline. Then I thought "Yeah, but isn't all of life on some kind of deadline?"

Totally derailed my train of thought. No, not derailed, wrong word, let us say redirected onto a different track. I avoided this stuff in the past because it seems to me in the past so much of the angst I feel about getting things done is predicated on deadlines, because I have always been a firm believer in the "work on it until it is finished" approach, not the "work on it until the timer says to stop working on it".

I once worked with a gentleman who often joked that "There's never time to do it right, but there is always time to do it over!". At which point everyone laughs heartily and says stuff like "Good one!" or "What a kidder!" The real problem was that he believed it, and acted accordingly. The slapdash approach to doing anything drives me nuts, and that was a particularly bad example. Wait, it is a good example of what is a bad example. It always frustrated me that if we just took the time to do it right the first time, which may take a little bit longer than rushing through something, we wouldn't have to waste time doing something over, and thereby wasting more time and resources.

It still gets on my nerves. I have struggled mightily with this problem, in the workaday world. Everything is linked to efficiency, which is tied to productvity which (you saw this coming) is linked to money.

Yeah, okay, we all want to make money. This is an unavoidable fact of immersion in a money economy. The catch to that is it ends up being about pursuing the money to keep making money, which repeats ad nauseaum.

Earlier tonight (the night I am writing this) I saw a short video called "The Resolution Will Not Be Televised" by Jay Smooth*. In it, he says "My eighth resolution would be, Spend as much time as possible doing one thing at a time". Hells to the yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about! I would love to do that because it fits in with my natural inclination. It fits in with what makes me focused and comfortable: being able to do one thing at a time, and do it well. Therein lies my greatest calm, my inner peace. Inner peace: a beautiful butterfly which has yet to alight on my soul.

And that, dear readers, is my ten minutes. Fifteen, actually, because I had to fix the links, but still...

*It's on his blog, illdoctrine.com, a 'hip-hop video blog' hosted by the aforementioned Mr. Smooth (grin). I found quite good. A special thanks to the lurvely Anndi at transition, for bringing Jay to my attention. Word, Anndi!

Falling In Love With A Gun Street Girl, and Other Tragicalamities

Every so often I get it into my head that I want to write songs. Or even just one song. This is not one of those times...and its all Tom Waits' fault. Unintentional, I know. 

Falling James in the Tahoe mud
Stick around to tell us all the tale
He fell in love with a Gun Street girl and
Now he's dancing in the Birmingham jail
Dancing in the Birmingham jail

I love music, all sorts of music. I listen daily, I am getting on more artists' mailing lists, and I think I may be getting a Christmas card from iTunes. Sort of like the year I got a card from my mechanic, after I brought him a couple of boat payments worth of repairs in the space of about two months.

Took a 100 dollars off a Slaughterhouse Joe
Bought a bran' new Michigan 20 gauge
Got all liquored up on that roadhouse corn,
Blew a hole in the hood of a yellow corvette
Blew a hole in the hood of a yellow corvette
 

Clarification: Tom Waits alone is not entirely responsible for this dilemma of mine. Pearl also had a small but important part to play. In one of her delightful posts involving music (this one) she mentioned '16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought Six' by the aforementioned Mr. Waits.

Bought a second hand Nova from a Cuban Chinese
Dyed his hair in the bathroom of a Texaco
With a pawnshop radio, quarter past 4
Well he left Waukegan at the slammin' of the door
He left Waukegan at the slammin' of the door

The song I am quoting is not that song. However, '16 Shells' played a crucial part in getting me to "Gun Street Girl", which I am liberally quoting without permission, 'cause I like the song so damn  much. It was after reading Pearl's post that I ventured over to iTunes to do a little research, and in the process I made a withdrawal from the memory bank. This withdrawal stirred up some things, it sure did.

Sitting in a sycamore in St. John's Wood
Soakin' day old bread in kerosene
He was blue as a robin's egg brown as a hog
Stayin' out of circulation till the dogs get tired
Stayin' out of circulation till the dogs get tired

When I saw the title to '16 Shells' on Pearl's playlist o' the day, I had a flashback to my days in college, listening to the school station ('WUVT' for anyone curious or keeping score) on my old turntable/cassette deck/stereo combo. It was a fairly low-tech number, tethered to a pair of Radio Shack speakers clad in that 'trying-hard-to-be-classy-but-uber-fake veneer' by skinny wires of the strip and clamp variety. It was outclassed by the block-rockin' stereos that many of my fellow dorm rats shoehorned into their rooms. Still, it was mine and it worked.

Shadow fixed the toilet with an old trombone
He never got up in the morning on a Saturday
Sittin' by the Erie with a bull whipped dog
Tellin' everyone he saw
They went thatta way
Tellin' everyone he saw
They went thatta way

The scene I was flashing on was early Friday or Saturday night, I think, and I was sitting in my dorm room wrestling with the eternal dilemma of laundry money or beer fund. Prepping for a night out was easy for me, because I was such a dork that my expectations were pretty low. I was listening to WUVT, I forget the name of the "show", but it was a pretty typical for a station trying hard to be hip and cool. To its credit, they aired a lot of what would now be called 'alternative', and some just plain bizarre. In short, it was perfect for me.

Now the rain's like gravel on an old tin roof
And the Burlington Northern's pullin' out of the world
With a head full of bourbon and a dream in the straw
And a Gun Street Girl was the cause of it all
A Gun Street girl was the cause of it all

It was then I heard Tom Waits for the very first time. It was a slow tempo song, that started out with what I thought was a banjo, accompanied by the rhythmic clank of a stick hitting a bottle, or soft blows on an anvil. Then Tom Waits started singing in that whiskey-soaked growl of his. I was transfixed. I hadn't heard anything quite like that, ever, and I was so caught up in it that I missed the DJ saying the name of the song. As it happened I heard another song sort of like it the next weekend and had the presence of mind to call the station and ask. the song was "16 Shells", which was on a different album than "Gun Street Girl". There were enough similarities in an aural sense that I figured that 16 Shells it must be. Funny, after that I forgot to track down the album and it slipped my mind for years and years, until the irrepressible Pearl brought it up in the post I mentioned earlier. Weird, how that works.

Riding in the shadow by the St. Joe Ridge
He heard the click clack tappin' of a blind man's cane
Pullin' into Baker on a New Year's Eve
With one eye on the pistol and the other on the door
With one eye on the pistol and the other on the door

So it was that when I went to look it up on iTunes, eager to hear some good stuff from my semi-misspent youth, I was quite surprised that it wasn't what I thought. I was confused, because I could still hear the song in my head, after all those years, and yet it didn't match. Chagrined and a little nostalgically melancholic, I riffled through the discography for a bit until I came across the title 'Gun Street Girl'. The sample played and I was immediately back in my room, 20+ years ago, feeling like a real hipster and looking like a dweeb and wishing I could play or sing something as cool as all that, even if not like Tom Waits. Why do I bring this up, you may ask? Because it was exhilarating and humbling at the same time and I had no idea at the time how a song like that would affect me so many years later...

Miss Charlotte took her satchel down to King Fish Row
And she smuggled in a bran' new pair of alligator shoes
With her fireman's raincoat and her long yellow hair, well
They tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire
They tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire

So it was, just this past Sunday, I was meditating on my so-called writing career, listening to some tunes and thinking big thoughts when the lyric bug bit me again. I like writing prose, but poetry and especially songwriting fascinate me. Similar ends, different methods, between writing a story and writing a song. My fingers and my brain were beginning to twitch as I thought back to some of the haiku and song snippets I had experimented with in my journals. "Some great stuff" I told myself, "I could do this" and I just as I reached for a pen, "Gun Street Girl" comes on the iPod. My train of thought immediately came to a screeching halt, as I sat there transfixed by the song and the gritty story it was telling. I drew my hand back from the pen, figuring songwriting would have to wait a little bit longer.

Tom Waits beat me to it, the glorious bastard. I'm in love with a Gun Street Girl, and I don't know how to tell her so.

I said, John, John he's long gone
Gone to Indiana
Ain't never coming home
I said John, John he's long gone
Gone to Indiana
Ain't never coming home
Bangin' on a table with an old tin cup
Sing I'll never kiss a Gun Street Girl again
I'll never kiss a Gun Street Girl again

 GUN STREET GIRL

Okay, But What Kind of Meat?

I went to a local museum last weekend with my Wee Lass, to attend a birthday party for two of her classmates. In the room reserved for the festivities, I saw this sign upon the wall:

Everyone is a specialist these days. I think I'll pick...baloney.

In other news, I have been selected for another award, for a Post-Of-The-Week honor from the one, the only, the lovely Comedy Goddess! Please stop by, drop some luv and let her know I sent you. Please. Plus, she has wine!

A Friend of Mine Said "I Quit Smoking Cold Turkey..."

"...and I said, 'Whaddya smoke now? Ham?'..."*

Badabing! Yes, ladies and gentlemen and indeterminates, I am a comedian! Sometimes...

You know, in my line of work, I regularly get accosted by idiots pretending to be savants**, people asking me patently stupid questions and the like. So it didn't surprise me when IB at Idiot's Stew bugged the shit out of me asked me very politely to lay up a guest post for his "Turkey Palooza" fest of all things Thanksgiving-ly bloggable. Having a soft spot in the Gumbo ticker for idiots, especially idiots as cool my bud Ian (an idiot who actually knows something, mind you), I immediately said f#*k off moron yes, I would be immensely pleased to be a part of such a horrendous travesty festive and heartwarming event in the blog-o-sphere. So my chilluns, go forth and visit Idiot's Stew for to read my humble contribution to the party.S tay awhile, rifle through his CD collection, steal some books...just don't touch the beer unless he says its okay...you'll enjoy the visit I'm sure!

*Yes, I ripped that off from Yakov Smirnoff. What? It's funny!

**Oddly enough, have not been accosted by any idiot savants.

And I just remembered to include the link. Ai yi yi...