I wrote a song today

I wrote a song today. What a strange and wonderful gift it was to be able to write a complete song in less than ten minutes. This is coming from someone who can literally take years to finish a song, more often than not abandoning the work in progress to the scrap heap of half-songs, a useless pile of decent melodies, vague lyrics, and missing bridges. What was different today? Was it the coffee I had this morning? Don't think. Accept the gift. Move on. Write some more half songs. Eat a cookie.

Open apology to all of the musicians I've known

Music is something that I can't ignore. It has brought me happiness, excitement, depression, peace, exasperation, friendship, identity, release, confusion, any many other indescribable thoughts and emotions. Music is the way that I interpret the word creativity. Sometimes I want to give away all of my instruments, burn my crates of beer-soaked microphone cables, and pick up writing, or pottery, or some other solitary form of expression. But making music, at least the way that I like to make it, requires other people. It needs interaction and conversation. It thrives on good company and flounders in solitude. The problem is that I have continually proved to be a pain in the ass to my fellow musicians. I have always allowed my moods to screw up friendships, music or no music. Bands have come and gone, time has passed, and many things have been forgotten. But regrets have a way of resurfacing. What I would like to say is this: I am sorry for all of the stupid things I have done and said. I'm sorry for letting my ego become a reason. I'm sorry for allowing too much time to pass. I am not sorry for disliking Bela Fleck, and I will never apologize for liking early R.E.M. So what good will these words do? Words never really do much, but at this point it's the best I can offer. Better yet, let's jam....

Lenny was a buffalo

Lenny stumbled over to the Southwest Plain. Sometimes the reservations let you in at night, after all of the tourists are gone. They brought out the drums, and the amps and guitars, rocked it out loud underneath a big New Mexico sky, after all of the tourists are gone. They passed around the big blue jug, wheels started spinning in the back of his mind, opened up a river of mud and a ribbon of light. Thought he was a raven, he was a buffalo.

What can we aspire to above the life of a frog? A frog is not a dog, a dog is never a frog, a wart never grows but merely shows up. A frog in a kennel, a dog in a bog, a snake with a chin, a fish with a grin. Pay me my money down you damn reptile.