Wait, I Haven't Ordered My Guitar Yet

"Chesapeake, the company that McClendon founded more than two decades ago ended up reporting a $769 million loss for 2012, a dramatic reversal from $1.7 billion in profit the previous year. Since then it has sold off $3.6 billion in assets, a selloff that may ultimately reach $7 billion by the end of the year, the company said in May."

Seriously, how can you lose $769 million dollars? Could it be by paying musicians to drive 3 hours to do 3 hours of automation work and then turn around and drive 3 hours back but pay them 12 hours? Don't listen to me, I'm an asshole. And don't worry, none of this applies to you because you all bicycle to work merrily with reusable bags in your basket.

Sober Thoughts From A Drunken Man

I watched the movie Heathers yesterday and laughed and laughed through the whole thing. I was drunk then but I'm sober now and reflecting on the movie. It has Winona Ryder and Christian Slater doing a Jack Nicholson impression and if you haven't seen it then you might want to track it down because I predict it will be on the hit list of the new censorship regime that is fixing to take down American liberties. Of course, what you think of Heathers isn't going to be a big priority when we're all wearing uniforms to our job in hydroponic food towers where the toilets flush up and soil and complicated filters purify our shit and piss into water to nourish the GMO vegetables. Humans can adapt to 23 hour/day solitary confinement so I'm pretty sure a child born in a food tower will be no more or less unhappy than a caveman born in Manitoba 9000 years ago. The principle is a philosophic bone that Oggy likes to chew but it's irrelevant. Our generation will force the next generation into conditions I'd consider intolerable, but that's because I've been to Yosemite, I've limped up a hill in the pristine Okanagan valley in the fall when the only sound I could hear was a cow bell far in the distance...I picked apples off an old tree and ate them in the afternoon sun. So I've been spoiled in a way that will be impossible eventually and I'm probably projecting my own enjoyment onto others. I'm not even sure most people alive today would have joined me had they known where I was going.

Word Got Out

One white eye

shaggy

waiting for scraps

Hurricane Category 5

The oldest pain killer

This was Cow Milk's favorite beverage. I toasted him with a 2x4.

Tupelo Honey

I've been listening to more Van Morrison than is good for me lately and while the album Astral Weeks was reportedly sung entirely by Van Morrison and an acoustic guitar and then everything else was added later by stoned genius jazz musicians, it doesn't really work as a solo acoustic set. Sure, Van Morrison could make it work but Oggy has his limitations.

Tupelo Honey is one of those songs that I've heard quite a bit and never really paid attention to it. But now that I read the words it makes no sense.

The chorus is a love poem to an angel. The first verse is kind of a vague reference to tea, which needs honey, and the narrator wants no part of it. The third verse is a liberty march anthem from Dylan's journal which is unrelated to the song but had meaning for the time it was recorded in 1971. And that's the whole song. It escalates and builds in interest but that's all Van Morrison's doing. The lyrics don't go any further. It's like he wrote a verse and a chorus that sort of made sense, then he took another verse from another song and figured it would do more harm than good to rewrite so he recorded what he had and no one really noticed. But the song itself, analyzed, sucks balls. Even the chord progression....[ Bb, dmi...Eb...Bb.  // Bb....dmi....Eb....F] is monotonous. So it's perfect for Oggy's master play list. Someone asks for something by Van Morrison, "Maybe Brown Eyed Girl"....Oggy winces...."How about Tupelo Honey?" and everyone is happy.

This is dedicated to Cow Milk Blues who texted me from an ambulance on his way to the ICU as he'd had a heart attack today. I really meant to record more songs with him, including this one, but it never came together. I feel that Cow Milk might be better off checking out entirely, making room, as Updike would say, for the fresh meat. He's worn out and maybe the next dimension will be better. He's done with this life. From now on he'll only be repeating his songs.