A friend on social media commented today: "Just listened to your CD, 'Peace Country Woman' again, and it really holds up."

Another friend had produced the CD for me as a wedding gift to my wife back in 2005. The title song is pretty much the only "commercially viable love song" I have ever written, because I came up as a prog rocker and writer of mostly strange songs. But when I landed in the "Peace Country" of NW Alberta, it wasn't much of a leap to add "Woman" and have a Neil Young-style song title. Once I had the title, the song wrote itself. To my friend, I replied:

"Thank you for the heartening words, brother. A songwriter / singer I respect once told me, after listening to the song 'Peace Country Woman': 'You are an awkward songwriter.' I thought it was a little high-handed, seeing as he'd only heard ONE of my songs. But because I held this person in high regard as an artist, it still made me wonder if somehow I actually SUCK as a singer / songwriter and just don't know it--kind of like Barney Fife. Jesus, no singer wants to be a Barney!

Other musicians have since told me "Well, 'PCW' is in 4 / 4 time, hard to fuck *that* up, and you didn't." Plus, the woman I wrote it for liked it, which is all that matters...

Those who DON'T want me singing should be warned that I just changed my guitar strings and have been practicing daily...

I started with no calluses on my fingertips at all; been over a year since I played guitar regularly. First week, a blister on my middle finger got infected; I squeezed out the pus and (though grimacing frequently) kept playing:

"Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen (easy to play, but you must, like a baseball pitcher, throw every last ounce of your body and heart into singing it or it doesn't work),

"Father and Son" by Cat Stevens (even more meaningful to me now that I am both a father and a son),

"Across the Universe", (written by Lennon, played by the Beatles, covered by Bowie). My 5-year old twin sons love to join me on the chorus...

...and yes, I'm even working to remember some of my own older songs. Amazing how we can forget our own stuff; it seems especially easy to forget the really simple ones, the 2-chord wonders. (Then again, "Eleanor Rigby" has only two chords).

Before I die, I'd like to re-cut the song "Peace Country Woman" with some harmony on the chorus and some sort of musical solo--guitar, harp (harmonica), or what have you. If only I had a personal studio...

But WAIT! I own a Tascam Superstudio with 8 tracks! Bought it some years ago, been in the closet all this time. Now it's all set up with mics and etc., but the tech manual made no sense to me even before I lost it. Time to go on line for tutorials...

My 'comeback plan' is this: Play every day for a year, THEN start thinking about recording..."

I stopped keeping you around

What good would you be to me now

But oh when I see you on TV

Or in person I think it is meant to be

I just want to feel your touch one more time

Remember when I was yours and you were mine

I miss the sweet touch of your blade to my skin

Maybe we could do that again

The way you so deliciously cut in to me

It made me feel free

But I don’t keep an X-ACTO knife close by

Because if I do I might just die

I’d crave your kiss every night

I wouldn’t be able to fight

I’d let the blood flow

I’d have to just let go

You never know by just looking at people what's really going on with them. That happy couple isn't so happy. They have secrets, they tell lies. She writes pretty words and shares beautiful pictures telling the world that their lives together are perfect. Look behind their smiles. Look into their eyes. Can you see it? the sadness? Can you see the hurt behind her smile? Can you feel the sorrow in his heart? His eyes wander, looking for, an escape. He reaches out to strangers with his soft spoken words. Trying to fill the hole in his soul. You never really know what's going on with anyone, so smile and remember they are just like you. Looking for love. Looking for happiness.

We dropped off Lucy and drove to Pahrump to have a drink in a brothel, a glorified double wide. The whores were ugly, but they made good drinking buddies. One told us through a throat of two decades of chain-smoking that she cleared 80K a year, working half of it, and that her husband worked on oil rigs down in the gulf, so they basically had the same schedule, and they were going to retire early. Amanda watched her walk away with a fat trucker. She shook her head, “80 thousand. Jesus.”

Billy raised his beer to his lips, “She’s bullshitting you.”

The bartender laughed. He looked like Charlie Rich. I handed menus around. Each sex act had a title and price, mostly by the hour. It was a fancy menu, also, full-on uptown bistro. I smiled at the bartender, “Of course the prices are suggestive.”

He grinned, “They are.”

I leaned into Christine, “I mean, what trucker’s gonna lay down $750 for A Night at the Brown Roxbury?”    

It was night when we left. The gorgeous Martian layout of the drive was relegated by the Moon to oblong shapes and lumps in the light black desert. I passed a microbus, “Goddamn, that guy poured a strong drink.”

Christine looked over, “Stronger than Craig?”

“I want to say yes, but I don’t think so.”

She opened her phone, “I have service out here.” She dialed and put the call on speaker, “Craig, we wanted to tell you that a bartender in a brothel pours a better drink than you.”

He said bullshit and she hung up. We laughed. I smiled at the road, “Ruthless, Mama.”

“Wait,” she said, “that was mean, considering, you know.”

“The fact that his whole life is on the skids?” Billy said.

“That’s why,” she redialed and put him on speaker again. “Just joking, Craig. We love you.”

“No we don’t,” Billy said.

“Where’s John?” he asked.

“Right here, sweet tits.” “

“Hey.” “How are you, man?”

“Anyone else in the car besides you four?”

“Maybe some crabs Billy just picked up. You alright?”

“I’m alright. Court date’s in three weeks. Fucking attorney’s charging me for everything that goes on. Talked to his ass for ten minutes on the phone and he charged a hundred bucks.”

“Harsh.”

“Oh, and Donna’s pissed because she wants to work nights but the second hand smoke doesn’t fly with the kid. Days are alright, but she’s only making chump change. I keep telling Brad to go non-smoking. There aren’t any non-smoking bars on the drag, and the bar would kill because people with more money would come in here. Anyway, I hired her back last week. I see her here when I first come in, then at three in the morning when she’s asleep.”

“Anyway she can work somewhere else?” Billy said from the backseat, “a different bar or a swanky restaurant?”

“She’s looking. It’d be nice to have her on the same schedule as me. But maybe right now this is the way it’s gotta be.”

Billy leaned his head between our seats, “Craig, are you two fuckin’?”

“We did a few days ago. We’re getting along and shit, just hard to cope with the stress, and cab fare sucks ass. But no one’s hurt or dying. How’s Vegas?”

“Billy’s getting a tattoo,” Christine said.

“Get outta here. Of what?”

“He won’t tell us.”

I looked at the phone, “A tribal piece on his lower back.”

“Little slut.”

“Craig,” Billy said, “we’re going to hang up and drive and talk shit about you now.”

I closed the phone and handed it back. A text message returned.

Christine held the phone up:

-DICKS-

“Fuck, what’s that dude going to do?” Billy said.

I talked to the rearview, “He’s going to work and raise the kid and eat Donna’s shit. What else can he do?” I swerved to miss a coyote after my high beams wouldn’t move him any faster. Billy froze, “Holy shit. I’ve never seen a coyote in the flesh before.”

I looked for him in the rearview, “Boy needs to learn some self-preservation.”

“I keep thinking about those girls back there.” Amanda said, “I mean, don’t they see a problem with what they’re doing?”

“Oldest profession in the world,” Christine said, “that’s a choice they make. Not that I feel good about it, but if they’re happy with it, fuck it.”

I looked over at her, then to the rearview, “Pretty much. But I imagine it’s like being a stripper, only more honest than being a stripper. The money’s hard to walk away from.”

“Not that hard.” Amanda said.

Billy looked at me, “Thinking about becoming a whore, John?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Dave’s not making your ends meet?”

“When I get back I’m going to start sending my writing out, maybe see what all the agent talk is about. I might need an agent. I don’t really know.”

“You never talk about your writing, man.”

“You’re welcome.”

Amanda laughed. Billy scratched his skull, “I hear you’re really good.”

“Been at it a lot and for a long time. Nothing makes me sicker than a writer or any type of artist who brings up the contents or reasoning of their work in conversation, even moderately.”

“Christine and I are from L.A., John,” Amanda said, “the fact that you don’t talk about yourself or your writing is fucking awesome.”

Christine laughed, “All the assholes out there, the insecure, narcissistic pantie wastes. They infest the music world, too. And they infect it.”

“I’m sure they infect all the forms,” Billy said, “I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to rely on the arts for a living.”

“Which is why I don’t,” I told him, “but something needs to break soon, or rather I need to actually try to push my work, but the game sickens me. It feels like a trap either way I play it, but I’ve been thinking long and hard lately about a way to spring it.”

Christine smiled at me. Amanda looked at her and grinned, and we were quiet until we saw Vegas, which meant we saw the light of the Luxor stemming from a line of gold in the middle of nothing.

“You know what I want right now?” I said.

Billy looked ahead, “A thirteen year-old Korean boy to make out with.”

“And a big ass candy bar, like a slab of chocolate and a bottle of iced tea. Let’s hit the Sev on the east side.”

Christine laughed, “You’re serious, you want to drive to a certain 7 Eleven when they’re all over.” “I used to love this one. It’s right by my old place.”

Billy watched the road from his window, “I’m in.”  

I hadn’t been there in almost ten years, but I drove right to it. Amanda sat at a slot machine, next to an old couple who chain-smoked and fed the machine cups of quarters without winning or flinching. I found the chocolate and tea. Christine grabbed an orange juice. Billy sat next to Amanda. I paid up and we walked over. I broke off a corner of chocolate and sucked on it, swallowed a gulp of tea and offered a piece to Christine. She shook her head and laughed, leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. We watched Amanda play poker. Billy dug into his pocket and bet the maximum. She drew five jacks on deuces wild and won 250 quarters.

She laughed, “Oh my god!”

The couple next to her smiled reluctantly.

I looked at the jacks, “$62.50. Not bad.”

“Should I keep going?”

“Cash out,” I said, “keep the good luck. Plus, Lucy’s waiting.”

“Lucy Luce,” Christine said, “I miss Lucy.”

She went ahead and played two more hands and lost eight quarters, cashed out and we left.

“Told you that Sev was good mojo.”

“Hell yes,” she said, “go, East Side.”

I've always seen things as an eye for an eye. Although I do see the moral issues in the death penalty, I understand that it is reasonable in certain situations.

I've always liked to look at it through the eyes of the victim's family and friends. Say Victim got murdered by Killer. Killer got caught by Police. There are mountains of evidence against Killer. Victim's Family and Friends miss Victim very much and are disgusted by the sight of Killer. How I see it, Family and Friends would probably want Killer to suffer as agonizing a death as Victim did because Killer was so heartless to take away their precious Victim and has now left an empty void in their hearts where Victim once was.

So, why not use the death penalty?

I often hear of people calling the death penalty "inhumane." While that is true, is that which Killer did to Victim not also—if not more—inhumane than the current methods of execution used in our society?

I've also heard people argue that the methods of execution are too "expensive," so we shouldn't do it. While the lethal injection and the electric chair are indeed both expensive, is keeping Killer in jail for the rest of Killer's life not more expensive? Also, why use lethal injections and the electric chair when rope is cheap and reusable?

Ted Bundy.

Serial killer.

Sentence: Death.

Is anyone sorry?

John Wayne Gacy.

Serial killer.

Sentence: Death.

Is anyone sorry?

Yang Xinhai.

Serial killer.

Sentence: Death.

Is anyone sorry?

Thug Behrem.

Serial killer.

Sentence: Death.

Is anyone sorry?

Aileen Wuornos.

Serial killer.

Sentence: 6 Death Sentences.

Is anyone sorry?

I dropped out of college,

For the sake of my sanity,

Adolescent assholes and dead eyed teachers,

Pretending to be cultured,

Fighting for the little man,

While sipping from a green and white paper cup.

You might as well have punched a hobo in the ear,

For long as you've preached about equality,

There's people on welfare and disability,

Getting enough to get by,

And will never try again.

What's wrong with the world,

Where a hard worker gets canned,

And the company keeps the loser,

Who'll never want more than the minimum wage,

I guess it's the technology,

Phones are smarter than we are,

And we keep it stuffed in our face,

Using it for memes and hook ups,

While our bodies just take up space.

The obese and the ignorant,

Are the deciding factor in these times,

Making things more unhealthy,

And cheapening the labor.

This isn't the place I want to be,

This isn't the life I dreamed of as a kid,

I might as well make myself a diapsid,

And go meet Kurt.

When I drink,

the ever-present pain

in my back dulls

just enough to help me forget

what it is to be human.

When I drink,

you become both

exceedingly attractive

and evermore attainable

within the same passed hour.

When I drink,

the shitty music playing

at this bar, club, hole-in-the-wall pub

takes a turn for the tolerable.

My memories of every song

I’ve ever heard become more fluid,

filling in the gaps where this track is lacking.

When I drink,

my dancing improves drastically,

both in my head and the space I fill.

The muscle spasms are likely exactly the same,

but when swung with far less reservation,

appear better, sexier, bolder.

When I drink,

my teeth tend toward numb

and my tongue unfurls to flap out

every word that’ll fly on the wind.

They propel me forward into what would

have otherwise been a night of dead seamen.

When I drink,

I become more confident, more direct,

more the person I feel I ought to be.

I’ve always been an enabler,

but only liquor lets me put the springboard

under my own feet – vaulting me forward

toward a flight that only gets more exciting

with the prospect of a bigger crash.

When I drink,

I always overlook the warning label

hidden on the bottle’s back corner.

It screams, in its loudest, tiny-print voice:

May cause delusions of grandeur.

These will be fierce, fun, and loyal,

but they will be short-lived.

The body will only turn a blind eye

to the mind’s tricks long enough to bed her.

Then he will slug himself in the gut and purge

everything that temporarily made him think

he could ever be greater

than mortal.

Home, hard to know what it is

If you've never had one

Home, I can't say where it is

But I know I'm going

Home, That's where the heart is

And I know it aches

And your heart it breaks

You can only take so much

Walk on

You've got to leave it behind

Tuesday night

friendly faces

colors and flowers fill the room

and there i stand

black from head to toe,

bruised purple and blue on the inside

'are you okay?'

inside i'm screaming

begging them to search my eyes

oh god, please

show them the window to my soul,

how it has been stained with acid

and shattered by harbored hate

but there he stands

watching over me

'i'm fine' leaves my lips

before i know what has happened

and he smiles

knowing he won again

and they walk away because they heard

what they wanted to hear

i stand alone

wearing a smile

that disintegrates my soul

Dad

You told me

"Daughter,

If you put your mind to it,

You can do anything."

And somewhere between the training wheels

And training bras

And hair dyes and boys

And lies and The Virgin Suicides

You forgot you said that to me

Your young woman daughter

And today

You saw that my room was not military clean

Not pristine

The way you insist all women should keep their rooms

You threw the broom

At my face again

Screamed so loud the neighbor's dogs stopped barking

To listen to you the way I always have to

And I

I held in the tears like I always do

Letting the bile build and burn in my throat

Smoldering just under my head

Letting you bask in my eternal defeat

As you threw yet another fit

"You Fathers

Do not be irritating your children"

Never applied to you I guess

Not when you threw me across a room

Not when a wine glass collided with my floor

For me to walk on in the middle of the night

No

Mother knows best? No

Father knows all

Knows everything

But he forgot that I

I am his daughter

And today when he told me

"Just go"

He knew I couldn't.

So I did.