Tapping my inner Ho.


Well. I’ve been snubbed by the Video Music Awards AGAIN. It is becoming obvious that I am going to need lessons in “twerking”; I invite my readers to submit their qualifications to teach me this essential musical skill. Yes, I am not 18 years old any more. But I WILL NOT go gentle into this good night!  TWERK!  TWERK AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT!

A Confederacy of Leeches

    This vision of earthly beauty is “Kim Dotcom”:
Dotcom himself
There are hundreds of Kim Dotcoms in the world, all doing the same thing:  getting incredibly rich by depriving tens of thousands of artists, and hundreds of thousands more who work (or worked) in the film and music businesses of their livelihoods by running a “file-sharing” website.  And then rubbing it in those artists’ faces by splattering the web with pictures of how “successful” they are.

One Toke Over The Line

My first real road gig was a year with Matt “Guitar” Murphy in 1987. Matt, of course, is a real road warrior, and the gig was a great experience, an excellent hang, and we made a lot of great music. I probably learned as much from listening to Matt play the blues in “G” every night as I’ve learned from anybody ever; it was a real study in how to stretch a melody over the time and how to make every note count, and Matt is a direct link to the guys who made that music up in the first place. His first road gig was with Howlin’ Wolf in 1948. Those tours were also a great look at how a real veteran did the road; of all the things there are to piss somebody off on a 3-month tour of blues joints, I only ever saw Matt actually get pissed off a couple times. We drove through 47 of the 50 states in that year and flew to Alaska. My very first night on the gig, we played in Fort Lauderdale, then drove 1200 miles to Houston and played the next night.

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Pay Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain


Just over 100 years ago, an inquiry by Britain’s Parliament sent out a party in a horse and carriage to drive eastward across London, a distance of about 40 miles, to assess the state of London’s roads and traffic. Their average speed was 14 miles per hour. A hundred years later, when another party made the exact same journey in a car, they averaged only 12 miles per hour. And that with a huge increase in carbon monoxide and lead pollution. Is this “progress”? I guess maybe there was more horseshit 100 years ago. Or was there?

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Chapter Two: In Which I Sell My Soul for a Vox Jaguar Combo Organ


I feel it is finally time to unburden myself of a terrible secret. In the late 1970s I participated in the prosecution of a gruesome experiment in which innumerable innocent people were made ill. Countless others would have been sickened to learn the nature of their exposure to this exercise. But I deceive myself. The nightmare that took place that awful summer was no mere experiment. It was a crime.
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