Epic, Childish Ego

To begin with,this was not written for you. I am forgoing you, my target demographic for a loftier more refined audience, that being the dozen or so miscreants that subscribe to a blog called "the blind butcher". Im more used to this format and will cut and paste it there later. I have the distinction of being the dumbest person to post on that blog and have often wondered why I am still allowed access as an author there. I strongly recommend all of you in "Rebstock" (170 + strong now, represent yo!) taking the time to find it and no matter how painful it is , read as many of the butchers posts as you are able. My blogs are usually a festival of drug addled stories about deviant sex, This might stray. There will be no mescaline trips ( though I took an awesome one recently ), prostate exams by strippers named candy, or high speed pursuits. No skidmarks will be measured, no dental records consulted. I find myself unable to sleep this evening because i have a stabbing pain in the lower left quadrant of my back. This ,I know from experience is a kidney stone. No big deal, its not my first. I actually pass them pretty easily. Wide urethra. To assist the process im drinking huge Cape Cods and have brought my old friend Vicoden out of retirement. Piece of cake, just a little ouchie.
Some random thoughts..........
When did I lose my youthful idealism ?
Does anyone else love Craisins?
Mary Ann or Ginger?
Is Billy Squier really gay?

Just to catch everyone up on my life, (like you fuckin asked) Ive been back in Austin two weeks and life is perfect. Im seeing the boy (Rhett 8) several times a week and have the most wonderful girlfriend ever. The stone in my Kidney is actually welcome. I dont know where I heard it but a certain number of fleas are good for a dog, it keeps em from brooding over the fact that.....theyre dogs. Ouch! too much vodka not enough cranberry. Im adjusting to the idea that This amazing mystery woman has no scheduled crises for me. No surreal drama. No pending neurosis, psychosis or plans to hit me with this vodka bottle. Shes sane. Shes smart (except for seeing me). and im fuckin crazy about her.I haven't looked at or thought about another woman since we met. My plans to move to south western Australia and sell weed on the Roller Derby circuit are postponed and possibly canceled (sorry Funk). The one thing that has been neglected is my music. I haven't written a song or even played my guitar much since I moved. The few times I have been happy or content have been the least creative times in my life. I write in pain, when im alone, I write in prison. Fuck I guess ill take the trade. I have well over a hundred songs I aint doing dick with anyway. I do miss playing for people though , i liked the attention. But I am bartending again and that satisfies the urge a bit, it also pays, which is nice. The stabbing sensation in my back seems to be getting worse, hopefully this is an indication that the stone is loose and on its way out.
More random thoughts...........
Who are the tiny expensive 8 oz cokes for?
At what age will my son care about his zipper being down?
Why do I FUCKING HATE french toast?
Am I the only one that wanted to see Blair and Joe from "The Facts Of Life" 69 ?
Why do people drink Merlot and pretend its not sucking their face into some fucked up , bark flavored vortex ?
Why wont John answer his phone?


Anyway, Im in love and I cant write....or I wont write....whichever. I heard thats what happened to the Afghan Whigs. Dude got on meds and just quit writing. Our loss, but how could you want it the other way? Not that Id ever compare myself to Greg Dulli. Did i spell that right? Im sure I should be inspired. But my need to create comes from what isn't, not what is. Or perhaps I was just writing to get laid and now that doesn't matter anymore. I hope there's more to it than that. Knowing me I wont rule it out. I have no process. Ive never been able to sit down and write a song. Usually im doing something else and am overcome by one. I scramble for a pen and anything I can write on. A matchbook, napkin, business card, coaster, receipt ,money, etc. I once was able to positively define the difference between an artist and a songwriter when I found myself with no toilet paper, I pulled out a song and used it . An artist would have saved the song and just walked away. I am not willing to suffer on that level for art. Ok so I found my point, Id rather be happy than productive. No real revelation there. Im sure it doesn't have to be one or the other,but thats what it is for now. Perhaps in the future i can learn to write from an existence instead of an absence, maybe my work will even be better, I dont think it could be much worse. But the people who I hope will like it, always do and the people I could care fucking less about, well, who fucking cares. Ive got to go pee now.