Intermezzo
Some questions continue to pop up in my email. For example, "Will Vox Day ever show up in this narrative?" Yes, but kindly remember that the series began with the twin questions, "Why do you continue to associate with that Vox Day character?" and "Don't you realize that being connected with him will ruin your writing career?" Ergo, my entire point from the beginning has been to communicate that a.) I'd already spent quite a few years riding the career roller-coaster long before I ever met Vox, and b.) I'm perfectly capable of ruining my own writing career without his help, thank you very much.
The next question that pops up with surprising frequency is, "Do you still drink like that?" The answer is, thankfully, no. While I can still remember how much I used to enjoy a good single-malt scotch, my gastroesophageal junction has since transformed itself into a purge valve, and whenever I attempt to drink hard liquor now it goes straight to Condition Red and starts screaming EJECT! EJECT! EJECT! Two beers is about as much as I can handle these days, or maybe a glass or two of red wine, but only if consumed slowly and with food. Therefore, like Bruce Wayne, I have mastered the art of going to a cocktail party, ordering one mixed drink, and then holding it in my hand and keeping it going with fresh ice and ginger ale for the rest of the evening.
Next, a question closer to my heart. "Did you really go cold-turkey and completely quit doing music?" Why, thanks for asking, because the answer is a resounding no! While I've long since sold off all of my amps and P.A. equipment, and in one heart-breaking incident had to sell off all but one of my vintage Gibson guitars to cover a family financial emergency — and I'm afraid that the osteoarthritis does mean my fingers are no longer nearly as nimble as they once were — I do still own a few instruments, and under the right conditions (see BEER, above) have been known to pull out a guitar and perform that old Donovan classic, "The Intergalactic Laxative," or maybe even lead a group sing-along of everyone's favorite Weird Al Yankovic song, "Yoda."
As far as being a songwriter, though, I'm afraid that compulsion slipped away, quietly and unnoticed, sometime in the late '80s or early '90s. As best I can tell this is the last song I ever wrote, and I haven't played it in an age. I can't even remember all the chord changes, but imagine a sort of doo-wop C-Am-F-G progression and you're on the right track. It goes something like this:
And once upon a time there was a third verse, too, but I no longer remember it. I think you get the general idea, though.
Catch you tomorrow,
~brb
The next question that pops up with surprising frequency is, "Do you still drink like that?" The answer is, thankfully, no. While I can still remember how much I used to enjoy a good single-malt scotch, my gastroesophageal junction has since transformed itself into a purge valve, and whenever I attempt to drink hard liquor now it goes straight to Condition Red and starts screaming EJECT! EJECT! EJECT! Two beers is about as much as I can handle these days, or maybe a glass or two of red wine, but only if consumed slowly and with food. Therefore, like Bruce Wayne, I have mastered the art of going to a cocktail party, ordering one mixed drink, and then holding it in my hand and keeping it going with fresh ice and ginger ale for the rest of the evening.
Next, a question closer to my heart. "Did you really go cold-turkey and completely quit doing music?" Why, thanks for asking, because the answer is a resounding no! While I've long since sold off all of my amps and P.A. equipment, and in one heart-breaking incident had to sell off all but one of my vintage Gibson guitars to cover a family financial emergency — and I'm afraid that the osteoarthritis does mean my fingers are no longer nearly as nimble as they once were — I do still own a few instruments, and under the right conditions (see BEER, above) have been known to pull out a guitar and perform that old Donovan classic, "The Intergalactic Laxative," or maybe even lead a group sing-along of everyone's favorite Weird Al Yankovic song, "Yoda."
To the tune of The Kinks hit, "Lola"
I met him in a swamp down on Dagobah
where it bubbles all day like a giant carbonated soda
S - O - D - A, soda
I saw the little runt sitting there on a log,
I asked him his name and in a raspy voice, he said, "Yoda"
Y - O - D - A, Yoda
yo- yo- yo- yo- Yoda!
(guitar riff, etc.)
As far as being a songwriter, though, I'm afraid that compulsion slipped away, quietly and unnoticed, sometime in the late '80s or early '90s. As best I can tell this is the last song I ever wrote, and I haven't played it in an age. I can't even remember all the chord changes, but imagine a sort of doo-wop C-Am-F-G progression and you're on the right track. It goes something like this:
The petite brunette with erect nipples
said, "I've read all your books!"
I tried to tell her that I only write short stories
but she had such an eager look.
And then she gave me a hug, and a lick on the ear,
and took me by the hand,
and led me over to the bar, to introduce me to her husband.
She said, "Let's go back to my room, and get acquainted, you and me."
I said, "What would your husband think?"
She said, "He wants to come along and make it three!"
Chorus:
When you put on a "pro" badge, you won't believe your eyes.
Women throw themselves at you, and so do half the guys.
And you don't want to be rude to total strangers,
but they push you to the brink.
And that's why so many pros at cons
just hide in the hotel bar
and seriously drink.
Next verse:
The obese dyke in chain mail
stuck her broadsword between my thighs
and said, "I WRITE POETRY ABOUT HEROIC WOMEN
WHO DON'T NEED ANY GUYS!
SEE ARTHUR STOLE THE GLORY FROM LANCELOT,
WHO WAS MORGANA IN DISGUISE!
SO SHE CUT OFF HIS BALLS
AND STUFFED 'EM IN HIS EARS,
AND THEN GOUGED OUT HIS EYES!"
I said, "That's very — er, interesting,
I'd like to see it some day."
She said, "NO! I KNOW HOW YOU MEN WORK!
YOU'LL TAKE MY GREAT IDEA AND STEAL IT AWAY!"
Chorus:
When you put on a "pro" badge, you won't know what to do.
Anybody who ever typed a paragraph wants to try it out on you.
And then they stand there with those puppy-dog eyes
and say, "Tell me what you really think."
And that's why so many pros at cons
just hide in the hotel bar
and seriously drink.
And once upon a time there was a third verse, too, but I no longer remember it. I think you get the general idea, though.
Catch you tomorrow,
~brb
posted by ~brb at 1:36 PM
