Is It Really This Damn Hot In Texas, Or Did I Accidentally Set Myself On Fire With A Cherry Bomb?
I recently read that only two of the original members of The Grateful Dead are still breathing, which is a feat in itself considering all the drugs and other things they ingested, not that they remember any of it. Now, are they ‘truly grateful they are not dead quite yet?’ Old musicians are the biggest whiners. Springsteen is now a competent politician and is glad to tell you about his breakdown, when he isn’t trying to remember which chords to play on his out-of-tune Telecaster, which doesn’t say much for him, since there are no competent politicians and he is no musician. He can’t sing anymore, not that he ever could; hell, even Bob Dylan sounded better than him, and at least Joanie could harmonize with Bob, and The Band did all the heavy lifting.
I was outside for a short while yesterday and came back in with brown, crusted skin akin to homemade bread left in the oven a few minutes too long. It was 106 degrees in the shade, and 138 degrees in the sun. My hair is at least two shades whiter thanks to the sun bleaching. Momo believes I suffered a mini-sun-stroke, or something similar, but it’s actually early onset Dementia, or Oldtimers, and my neurosciencetist comedian doctor gave me some cute little pills to take care of it, says in two months I’ll be 25 percent better as long as I continue to play my instruments, which stimulate my brain and keep me focused on something other than sitting by the window and waiting for the postwoman to deliver the junk mail. I asked him if, if I upped the dose, I would be 50 percent better in four months. He has a nice laugh and drives a Tesla. Momo is a retired RN, so she knows he’s full of shit.
Now I sit in my music room, play my mandolin all day, and write nonsense on my computer. Soon, I will embark on my podcast adventure using my Garrison Keillor whisper voice combined with the folksiness of Walter Brennan talking to Pepito about driving the tractor through the living room of the farmhouse. Of course, being a Texan, you won’t be able to understand my accent, so I’ll attach a scrolling screen of the words I speak for those of you who don’t speak Southern. How in the hell did Terry Southern, Larry McMurtry, and Truman Capote ever make it through life with their Southern affliction? I believe Taylor Sheridan would appreciate my unique vocabulary in one of his many TV shows that are filmed around our town.
My buddy, Mooch, is turning 80 next month, and wants he and I to get together for one last songfest on our guitars. He can’t remember the lyrics, I can’t remember the chords, and neither of us can carry the heavy equipment, and our drummer is reduced to playing Ricky Ricardo bongos (without Lucy), so it is bound to be entertaining. We had our rock days back in the sixties, so it deserves one final suck on the oxygen tank and a geriatric version of Inna Gadda Da Vidda, Wagon Wheel, and Blackbird.
Catch you on down the road. The Texan
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Does the postWOMAN enjoy listening to you play the MANdolin, or has she been emotionally scarred by liberal misandry?
I don’t think she can hear me, but I have met her a few times, and she is a nice lady. I gave her a bottle of cold water a while back, so we are sort of buddies now. The post office here in Granbury is quite different: everyone that works in there is friendly, calls you Hon, and always wishes you to have a blessed day, so I don’t believe they are tainted.
I’d love to hear that last concert, Phil. Maybe you could do it on your podcast. By the by … when will that be streaming and what title do we look for?
I’m working on putting together five past stories to read, no video, only audio. Hopefully I will finish it this weekend. I’m going to keep it non-political and non-Joe Roganesque, just good old Texas stories with some Texas opions thrown around for flavor. I’ll keep you in the loop. Hope you can breathe up there with all the wildfire smoke.
this is great fun, Phil and you are busy being creative so you’ll last longer like me with my writing ; we’ll be good Phil till the good Lord lays his handson us and whispers, you can come with me now. I have a home for you 🙂
Good words to live by John. We can’t escape the end, so do the best we can and enjoy what we do, and hope our good Lord likes us enough to invite us home.
If it’s over 100 degrees in your southern neck of the woods, you may benefit from an ice vest. I bought my husband one because he can’t tolerate the heat during our walks. There are ice pack squares that slip into pockets on the front and/or back of the vest. I look forward to your podcast, Phil. 🙂
Thanks, Nancy, I will check into that vest. It’s going to be 106 here today, and in the triples all next week. God is testing my Texas patience.
Adjustments and accommodations; AA for seniors. For your final gig just invite all your old friends. They won’t be able to hear you anyway.
Right on that. I wear two hearing aids, the drummer wears two, when he chooses to, and Mooch needs them, so it wouldn’t matter what we play.
Bravo.
You talk in an accent and vocabulary I understand. I really do appreciate that we have the love & experience of our generation, music and outlook. Strum on. Write on. Right on.
Thank you. As Popeye once said, ” I yam what I yam.” Without my music, I’d be a miserable unit.