Goodnight Tulsa

goodnight tulsa

goodnight tulsa
you broke me bad
goodnight mary
a kind of kindness I never had

some habits…
you never can kick
I've got a pocketful of bad ones
take your pick
they're winning, they're winning
hell most of them have won
but I just wanna be with you
when the morning light comes

goodnight tulsa
you broke me bad
goodnight mary
a kind of kindness I never had

you taught me to drink
you taught me to steal
you taught me to duck
and never really feel
I'd ride this one out
if I could sleep through the night
but it's so cold here
under your mean street lights

goodnight tulsa
you broke me bad
goodnight mary
a kind of kindness I never had
… goodnight tulsa
… goodnight tulsa
… goodnight mary

some people are cats

some people are cats

no matter how softly you call them
or what promise you hold out
they won't come.
heartbroken, you pretend not to care.
but then suddenly
you look down, and
they're spiraling your leg.
you enter a purr-induced amnesia.
it takes embarrassingly little love
to make you forgive a cat.

The portable funeral

The portable funeral

He walked around all day
Every day
With a funeral in his head.
He never could quite bring himself
To bury her.

a sort of haiku

My house is empty. Without you in it, all the objects are useless.

How it all started.

How it all started.

It's about God and Devil. They used to be good friends man. But they fell in love with the same Girl. Some chick named World. And that's why They started hating each other. They were always fighting to get Her attention and get in Her pants. Just stupid kids. But then God knocked up World. At least, that’s what everyone thought. And World decided to keep It, ‘cause She was tired of guys and their games. I think She was lonely or something. So She had this really cute bastard baby, Jesus. This really pissed Devil off... He pulled God into court, saying the kid was His. Because, you know, He'd been screwing around with World too. And besides, it killed Him to see God and World as some happy little family. So Devil and God had a custody battle over Jesus... and World just sat there and let them fight it out, ‘cause she was torn too. Jesus did sorta look like Devil… around the eyes. It dragged on and on… It just got stupid. Finally, World just went to live with her mom in another town. Last I heard, God and Devil both ended up in prison. Jesus is gone too. He got in a car wreck one night and didn’t make it.

Vegas

Vegas

He booked his last flight to Vegas. He’d spent his entire life going there for trade shows, conventions and sales meetings, first with his father, and later, as a salesman himself. He didn’t drink. He didn’t gamble. He hated strip clubs. Even the hotel sheets made him itch. Vegas represented everything wrong with his life, everything wrong with America, every compromise he had ever made, every chance he never took. This time was different. He landed in the late afternoon, rented a car at the airport, stopped at a liquor store on the edge of town, and then drove straight west out into the desert with the radio off. After about an hour he pulled over into the low sagebrush and parked, facing east. The sun was nearly gone now. He took off his shoes and stood there beside the car, lightly breathing in the muted desert heat. Then he stripped off his suit coat, his tie, his pants, his undershirt, his boxers, his socks and his watch. Naked, he climbed onto the hood holding nothing but a bottle of his father’s brand of scotch and sat with his bare ass on the warm car roof, legs dangling over the front windshield. He just sat there and drank… watching Vegas burn like a circus funeral pyre out in the distance.

The Middle

The Middle

I still sleep on the left side of the bed.
Like I’m waiting for you to slip in beside me.
We both know that isn’t going to happen.
I wonder if you see me-shaped holes everywhere.
I should move over to the middle.

Inheritance

Inheritance

I just stood in the spitting rain
Grinding autumn leaves
With my creased leather boot
While they buried my father
Beside a damp wood.
Funerals make you think.

Earlier, they tried to give me his chair,
A scratched watch, some letters,
Old photographs, a blue robe,
Dog-eared books, a record player...
Remnants of his unvarnished life.
I told them, “Give it away.”

Besides, I carry his mark:
I leave parties suddenly.
I’m good at making bread.
I smile like a wolf.
I constantly need to be alone.
Children trust me.

We're bound together, he and I.
But when they lowered the box into the ground
Something broke loose.
I looked up, through watery shrouds of breath,
And saw something shooting away
Like a distant star,
Very alone and terribly free.

Emma

Emma

Otter tail
Monkey chest
Pancake lips
Deer butt
Pig nose
Rabbit belly
Gator chin
Velvet ears
Chaplin ‘stache
Squirrel legs
Chocolate eyes
Labrajumpaloveatfetchadorsnuggltriever.

The best part of growing a beard...

By far, the BEST part of growing a beard is getting to shave it off.

...

Incrementally.

[WARNING: THIS IS A RIDICULOUSLY NARCISSISTIC BLOG POST -- EVEN MORE THAN USUAL]


Note the huge zeeb on my right forehead...
This is the starting point: "Full Beard In Bed With Zit".
Also known as "The Myspace Pillow Shot".


Now Let The Cutting Begin! It's A Beard Harvest!

...


I call this one "Gay Civil War Era Train Engineer".
Excuse me, do you like Mutton?


So thoughtful...
"Where DO these train tracks lead anyhow?"
A coal-powered bathhouse, perhaps?



This is just straight up "Serial Killer"...



Off With the Chops! Perhaps the "Ugliest Kissey Face Possible".
Note the single eye being closed.
Does it say "I'm Quirky" or "Permanent Brain Injury"?



I dunno... The Handlebars...
They DO offer something to hold on to... visually, I mean.



Look Ma! No handlebars!
I call this one: "Scott Common Circa 1983"
Or... "The Carpet Installer"



Again, why do serial killers love mustaches so...?
"It puts the lotion in the basket, or it gets the hose again!!!!!"
And yet... It also has a certain "Porthos of The Three Musketeers" quality...



HEIL!
Alas, no beard escapade could ever be complete without a brief stop in Nazi Germany...
For the record, this is named a "Toothbrush Mustache".
Dammit! Hitler ruins EVERYTHING!



And finally we return, full circle, to where we once began...
But wiser somehow...
To that most subtle of facial hair statements: "The Soul Patch".
Otherwise known as "I'm White But At Least My Lower Lip Can Have Soul"


I hope you enjoyed this trip through the Facial Hair Forest as much as I did. Somehow though, I don't think that's possible.

Ahem.

Enough of that.

~John

Back in the (swim, bike & run) Saddle.

Well now...

I started back with triathlon training this week.

Holy shit.

I'd forgotten how big the difference between a normal workout schedule (well, my normal one) and a TRI workout schedule is... I spent the last 4 months doing 2-3 runs a week, 1-2 bikes a week and 1-2 swims a week. As of this week, I'm doing... hell, 2 workouts a day (swim, bike, run, weights or core) with Sundays off. It's not as bad as it sounds though... It's only about 1 to 1 1/2 hours a day. Even your dentist tells you to work out 30 minutes a day. So yeh... Where was I?

I can tell something has radically changed in my schedule. By 9:00PM I'm a zombie. Which is funny... because I'm not exactly a crazy party guy to begin with. I've gone from nerd to uber-nerd.

Gimme a protein milkshake dude.

In A Bookstore (Live in New Mexico)

This video was filmed on a little tour through New Mexico took during the winter of 2007. We stopped for a little golf at the Rio Grande.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=PWDebrnUR7E

I'm working on a new theory.

I got a very short haircut a week or so ago. And then decided to grow a beard.

I *thought* these two things were unrelated... But then it dawned on me... "Hey John, this is John. Perhaps those two things are very related."

And so, I began work on something I will tentatively name my "Global Equivalence of Hair Theory". (GEoHT) Every man hopes to find his one, true, single purpose in life. His 'masterwork'. Perhaps this is mine.

It goes something like this:

The total global amount of hair on the planet, proportionate with the population, at any one time is a constant and must remain constant. This means that when one person gets a haircut, another must grow a beard. When one girl gets a Brazilian, another man must not shave his back. When one indie hipster grows an ironic mustache, another will drunkenly shave off their eyebrows.

Etc.

Dude, you're just another pawn in the global hair game. Sorry 'bout that.

What's truly interesting about this is... by what mechanism are we humans moved by the "invisible hand of hair equivalence" to grow or remove our hair in order to nudge the planet back into hair balance. Is it electro-chemical? Pheromonal? Psychosexual? Metaphysical? Is it just the internet?

Much research is required.

Please share your thoughts, below, with your comments.

Oh... and if you, for some insane reason, think my theory is "hairbrained"... How could you possibly prove me wrong??!!!

Same Scar

same scar

hold on, your innocence
is all you get to spend
it hurts me just to see you blush
the universe is waiting for your touch

you're lovely and more than that
it'd break me into half
if any harm came to you
but I know that it's coming, there's nothing we can do

get ready
don't wither
i know where you've been
i know where you are
get ready
don't wither
coincidence
I have the same scar

the taxis are running
the tv's are humming
the camera loves to see skin
hollywood is waiting to break you in

and it might be painful
and you might not know it
but you'll feel the cutting
when you're in the moment
the scarring helps you
'cause it toughens you up
but try and remember
everyone's got the same scar
same scar

lover go to bed
I'll see you in my head
I'll sculpt you out of air
put you in a bubble, floating over there

CHORUS X 2

coincidence
I have the same scar

coincidence
I have the same scar

coincidence
I have the same scar

...

This is a song that will hopefully make it to the new record. To me, it's about how living is trading innocence for some sort of life wisdom... And that process, that cutting, is inevitablepainfulbeautiful. And there's a weirdly powerful thing that can happen when we show our scars. In some ways, this song is related to Psalm 151.

A: You're gonna get cut.
B: But it'll be useful... Lessons.
C: And this thing that you're going through? It's normal. Everyone goes through this.
D: You'll be okay.
E: Oh, and we all pretty much have the same scar(s).

Lyrics to psalm 151

I wrote this song a little while ago... I wanted to write something that would actually be useful to someone.

It seems to me that sometimes, the thing we most need to hear is, "It's gonna be okay. You are gonna be okay. Just hold on a little longer."

There are only 150 psalms in the bible.

psalm 151

there's a calm inside you
there's a calm inside you
you're gonna find it some day
some day soon

there's a fire inside you
there's a fire inside you
you're gonna find it some day
some day soon

there's a storm inside you
there's a storm inside you
you're gonna find it some day
some day soon

you're never going back
you're never going back
you're never going back
you're never going back

there's a word inside you
there's a word inside you
you're gonna find it some day
some day soon

you're never going back
you're never going back
you're never going back
you're never going back

there's a voice inside you
a little voice inside you
you're gonna find it some day
some day soon

songs for a new record

I've been working A LOT lately on getting songs ready my next record.

I've been writing a lot -- even more than usual -- for the last year and a half. So I've been sifting through about a hundred ideas... and about 40 songs. Pulling the songs out, seeing if I really, truly like them... how they sound, what they say... and then, if they feel worth it, I put them under a microscope and make sure they're really done... and then I play them for close friends to see what they think. I might record them, as rough demos, and drive around listening to them... and let my brain just float around, thinking of how they might be arranged better, or what instruments would sound good, or listen for ideas about harmonies, or complementary parts... always staying open to new ideas that could change all or part of a song...

I'm also starting to think about what *kind* of record this could be. Looking at the songs and starting to thinkg about how they could fit together... like puzzle pieces. Imagining what that larger picture might look like. Very early stage.

They ("the recording people") call this step, preproduction.

I'm really excited about these songs! And this next record! More excited than I've ever been about any record, actually.

Here are the songs that I feel are strong, tonight... (these things can rapidly change):

carousel
don't follow virginia
psalm 151
paper plates
the turnaround
do you know my name
same scar
ghosts
good heart
let it rain
thinking 'bout god
somebody ought to break down
following cynicism

Here are the songs that are still in the running... for different reasons:

walter whitman
i do, i don't
right now
pass that bottle down
don't need you
messy mind
together
black ribbons
clara
to know you
lift this man up
the letter
farmer's only son
into the light
artificial day
in the dark

I love this part of the process...

Let's move to Japan.

If i understand it correctly, the premise of this japanese game show is to jump in either freezing or boiling hot water (I'm guessing freezing... as that makes more narrative sense) and sit on a button that jiggles a bikini-clad girl until her top falls off.

It makes perfect sense to me.

Personally, I think that's a lot of work to see a topless girl.  But I'm lazy like that.

Pop

"Shoot if you must this old gray head
But spare my country's flag," he said.
- John Greenleaf Whittier

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I know about these two poems and A WHOLE LOT OF OTHER STUFF because I am my father's son. He's an incredibly smart, big-hearted man with more integrity than anyone I've ever known. He's lived through some fairly horrible things, but you wouldn't know it. He's a talker, until you mention it. He's loved his wife (my mom) without ceasing from the moment he saw her, 47 years ago. He can be really intense and overly critical at times... and then he'll realize it and apologize. He reads constantly. He cries without shame. He's funnier than hell. He hates it when I call him Pop. He calls me "J" sometimes, in shorthand. I could go on...

Oh, and he's responsible for quite a lot of my strangeness... I owe him for that.

I don't know why... but I've been thinking about him constantly the last several days. Yes, I called him. And emailed him as well. We haven't connected yet. But we will.

I could write a long time about that man... and probably will.

Here's a photo we took together when he came to visit me last summer:

(This is him after 3 mojitos, on an empty stomach, at altitude.)

And another:

(This is him saying, "Enough with the photos, please! But I'll humor you, John...")

you handed me your pocket

you handed me your pocket


it was white and frayed, tattered and soft.
it was cotton.
it was the place your hands went
when they were bored
or nervous.

it was a simple gesture really.

drive north and west

drive north and west
watch the land open like a night blooming flower
open like a hand
palm upturned in green stillness
waiting
laid flat like a slowly rolling quilt
throw upward across the belly of america
to float softly down in pools

we are puzzles in this larger puzzle
see how it all connects?
windmills, dusty roads, fields of wheat
towns with their people
open hands pushing back the sun
a little shade for squinting eyes
look to the sky
one sky
filled with stars and clouds and sunlight
lacking nothing, nothing.

ballad of the china cup

i wrote this one a while ago. i might bring it back out for a drive.

ballad of the china cup

sweet girl who is lovely and so quick to smile
freshly fifteen and learning to drive
with hair just as deep and as dark as your eyes
amazed and awake with your eyes open wide
i won't tell you confusion is coming
your china tea cup has no cracks in its side

young boy in the clinic who is learning to wait
for his girlfriend upstairs who is bleeding and dazed
and the protesters hurling protests through the gate
and you know that you love her, but your love is too late
do you hear the sound of a crashing?
your china cup is beginning to break

woman of y ears who married too soon
your children are gone and your husband's left too
you are weeping and sleeping each day until noon
and you're covered in rain from a sky that is blue
don't look up to the sky for a reason
it's your china cup darling -- it's leaking on you

dear father who is watching his son waste away
your heart's made of stone and your feet made of clay
your rulebook for living is missing a page
the chapter on kindness has nothing to say
but the class is always in session
your china cup's crumbling in front of your face

old men in the subways who ride just to sleep
and the ladies in rest homes who live for t.v.
and mother and father and you and me
and the millions in graveyards laid out 'neath the trees
we're all trading our youth for some wisdom
and our china cup's crushing to dust at our feet
our china cup's crushing to dust at our feet

Hairacle

This one is tough to interpret...

I think it's saying "insomnia".

different ships

different ships
nov 19, 2007

an old man died yesterday
some knew him as "The Bachelor of Brno"
handsome, a bit of a womanizer
a character, stuck in his ways
"It's complicated…" he was fond of saying

he lived with a woman… not his wife, really
more of a shipmate, riding this final sea
she's there now, in the apartment alone
recalculating the points on her compass, probably…
shifting winds, new landmarks, she'll bury him

they are on different ships now.

cause and effect

if you believe in cause and effect
as I do
when you see a hole
you look for the shovel
when you see a scar
you look for the knife
when you see a great love
you look for the heart
when you hear music through an open window…

music, physics, chemistry, war, love
they all teach the same thing
ultimately: you affect me

new cardinal direction

I am leaving now
it took such a long time
but these trips we conceive
always seem to come
at precisely the right moment

if we make our own meaning
why do we make it so hard?

the phone will ring less, if at all
my boots will wear down, walking
aimlessly through that old city
just a large, ancient metaphor
for the same complicated walks taken inside

if we make our own meaning
why do we make it so hard?

I want to extinguish "you"
I want to extinguish "I"
a life filled only with proper names,
new stories, unexplored rooms,
unfamiliar constellations, a new cardinal direction

if we make our own meaning
then we can write a new story.

if i wasn't going to europe.

i'd want to make a very ROOMY record. with gorgeous, open sounds.

i'd play keys, acoustic guitar, and then electric guitar if necessary, in that order.

i'd record a lot of my newer songs... a lot of the songs i played at the Thin Man show...

paper plates
the turnaround
pass that bottle down
don't need you
do you know my name
same scar
to know you
i do, i don't
right now
walter whitman
ghosts
good heart
let it rain
thinking 'bout god
messy mind
clara
lift this man up
the letter
carousel
don't follow virginia
psalm 151

i'd want the bass to sound very old school. definitely not modern sounding bass. i'm hearing that round, darker, muted sound from 60s soul records.

this record would groove. it it's own way.

hmmm...

there'd be female backing vocals on the record. perhaps my friend sara.

i'd probably pull in someone (or maybe more than one person) to fill in the "harmony instrumentalist" slot... guitar, keys, maybe laptop.

and a male backing vocal. maybe my friend ian and/or my friend jed.

i'd want to get the tracking done before christmas. mixed before saint patricks. cd release show before easter. i've decided that the most detailed one should get about recording schedules is to mention holidays, you see. any finer granularity is asking god to sneer at you and fuck with the project forthwith.

i'd probably do the overdubs at my house, in my studio, emmasaurus.

the drums would have to be done in a great room. don't know where. or with whom. again, i'd want the drums to sound open and gorgeous... definitely not "rock" or "funk".

at *this* point in the email, i've used the word "i" eleven times.

the focus of the record would be to simply communicate great songs as delivered by amazing performances from very cool people.

air. breath. voice. room.

that's key.

a balance between [production value / gloss that makes it listen-able over the long haul] and [that honest dirt / looseness that i love].

if i wasn't going to europe.

what do you think?

Beautiful gas station

beautiful gas station

I drank a while
told some lies
I sank a mile
tranquilized
You know I tried
I'm not sure why

the evening's gone
here comes the shroud
it's almost dawn
we're in the clouds
I'm a swan
just one more song

but paradise is waiting
like a beautiful gas station
shining gold, shining gold
way up in in the sky

I took my shot
I took my pills
I smoked some pot
I had my fill
you know the drill
it's all downhill

I'm in my prime
I'm singing songs
I'm killing time
they're bangin' gongs
I don't belong
I don't belong

would someone please get me out of here?
would someone please get me out of here?
would someone please get me out of here?

but paradise is waiting
like a beautiful gas station
shining gold, shining gold
way up in in the sky
but paradise is waiting
like a beautiful gas station
shining gold, shining gold
way up in in the sky

sing it loud (paradise is waiting)
sing it proud (paradise is waiting)
sing it loud (paradise is waiting)
sing it proud (paradise is waiting)
sing it loud (paradise is waiting)
sing it proud (paradise is waiting)

When the roaches have finally won

Years from now...

When the roaches have finally won, I wonder which remainders of our defeated culture will make it to the 'Greatest Hits of the Humans' compilation video that all the roach kids will be watching on RoachTube?

It's something to shoot for.

Presidential hair.

I woke up this morning... (no, this is not a bad blues song), let Emma out, shuffled over to the bathroom mirror and took a looksee at this morning's hair oracle:

I looked in the mirror and immediately thought, "Andrew Jackson..."

But not just any Andrew Jackson... the middle-aged Andrew Jackson, three quarter view. This one...



At least, that's what my hair told me. It said, "Andrew Jackson..."

And I thought... "Presidential"

That's what happened. Don't shoot the messenger dude.

Does this mean I should run for president? I don't think so...

So I did a little research on A.J. hoping to find a a little nugget, a factoid, a small skeleton key to help me open this hair puzzle:

• During the American Revolution, at the age of 13, he refused to shine the boots of a British officer and got severely beaten and cut (bayonette) for it.
• He was born in North Carolina (so was I), even though South Carolina also claims him.
• He took Pensacola, Florida (my home town) from the Spanish, barely having to fire a shot.
• He was one of the founders of the modern Democratic Party.
• He was a big proponent of "indian removal" in his day. (yikes)
• He had great hair.

I dunno man... I have no idea what this one means. Perhaps it will unfold as the week progresses.

Dialogue 1

"We have the strangest times together."

He says this to her. She looks up from her work and says, absent-mindedly, "Do we?"

He backpedals a bit... "Sometimes... I mean, yes. Often."

But she has moved on.

He wonders if this is her actually being unaware or if she is just forgiving.... forgiving of his tendency to blurt out thoughts when they are just poured, fresh and molten... not solidified. Does she know this about him already? Has she already learned that there is very little be threatened by? Is it trust? Or boredom? And really, does it even matter?

Two people can co-exist in so many ways.

On being arrested.

I was arrested once. It was in Boulder, Colorado, of all places. There was a mix up. It wasn't my fault. Really. It's really too boring to even describe.

They take your shoelaces and belt, at the jail, you know. I tried telling them, "Trust me. There's no way I will kill myself over this." But policy is policy, Jack. No exceptions.

That's my problem: mindless authority.

And that is what will eventually get me thrown in jail real good.

It nearly happened again a couple of weeks ago. looking back, I can see how very close I was to being arrested. But at the time, in the heat of my self-righteous moment, I felt invincible... bullet proof.

I'm quite certain that I wasn't either of those things, now, looking back.

I was pulled over for speeding in a school zone. It's that simple, really. I could give you the details... explain how completely ridiculous it was. How obvious of a trap it was. How small the signs were. How flatly bureaucratic and matter-of-fact the cop was. But I won't. Besides, a reasonable person could also just as easily say, "Dude, you were speeding. Shut up."

At first, I just sat there silently, while he wrote my two hundred and fifty dollar ticket.

That's two hundred and fifty smackers.

$250.

At first, I just sat there in my truck, patiently waiting for my ticket. But then a black rage began to grow inside me. Looking back, I think it's actually healthy to occasionally feel powerless... "Done unto". I think it helps to keep one's ego in check... humbling. (Especially for a white, American male. There is literally no more privileged sub-species on the planet. Top of the food chain, in many ways.)

But there in my truck, I suddently felt like I could lead a revolution... and win.

I started mouthing off to the cop. I started lecturing him, since he had just lectured me about the dangers and pitfalls of speeding (I was going 33 in a temporarily-dropped 20 zone). I told him how utterly obvious it was that they were parked here solely to earn the city a free $20,000 from people just trying to get across town.

I believe the phrase that struck me as appropriate and fitting was "This is fucking horseshit". I used it a lot in a short amount of time. As in: "This is fucking horseshit and you know it."

This is a good way to get arrested.

To his credit, the cop just finished writing the ticket. But not before trying to lamely argue with me a little. I was having nothing of it though... I just said something like, "C'mon man... We both know that this is purely about money -- not about public safety. It's horsehit."

Then I got impatient with him. I sort of told him to hurry up and give me my ticket. I had things to do.

That is a good way to get arrested.

I began using mild psychological warfare... asking him how he felt about being a revenue producer instead of actually protecting people. Didn't he feel misused and manipulated? Was this why he joined the police force?

That is another good way to get arrested.

Then I told him that if he wanted to meet me at the same spot tomorrow at the same time, I'd probably be speeding again... if he wanted to earn another $250 for his monthly chart.

Yes. I could have gone to the pokey at any minute.

...

But I didn't. This time...

I have this sense though... that I'm going to meet the wrong cop one day... and then I'm going to spend some real time in jail. Who knows, if the right circumstances intersect, I might even do some time in prison. If so, the core reason will be the same: utter disrespect for blind authority.

They say, "You can't fight city hall." Of course you can. And you will lose. This is true.

...

I'm not proud of this silly anti-authority thing that I have. I know it is immature and wreckless. But I just have this auto-response to bureaucrats blindly following policy... it's like a violent allergy. It immediately infuriates me. I'm sure there is some deep-seated psychological reason for this...

But honestly, I might have to get that therapy in prison.

Will you write to me?

Conversation with Ross about Prague and Taos

My friend Ross Burns (editor of the auspicious Five Magazine based out of Taos, New Mexico) wrote back to me, upon hearing news of my imminent departure to Prague and places beyond. Our conversation follows:

On Oct 24, 2007, at 1:33 PM, Ross Burns wrote:

Johnny Boy.

My sister's boyfriend is from Prague and I've got a few tips for you:

• Amigos Restaurant in the Vino Hirady area. Ask for Johnny and tell him Ivan G'Vera sent you. Don't know the street, but check online or a guide book.
• U Hrocha (the Hippo) pub on Thunova in Mala Strana.
• Au Gourmands French bakery in Stare Mesto. Try the brownies.
• Drink a lot of Becherovka.
• Go to Slovakia.
• Bring warm clothes, seriously.

Ross


On Oct 25, 2007, at 11:03 AM, John Common wrote:

Hot damn.

All tips welcome. Send more as you think of them.

I can't wait to experience Eastern European solitude. And other things.

John


On Oct 25, 2007, at 11:06 AM, Ross Burns wrote:

Apparently, and my sister's boyfriend Ivan freely admits it, the Czech men are shallow chauvinists who love women solely based on looks. You may never come home.

Ross


On Oct 25, 2007, at 11:12 AM, John Common wrote:

That's insulting... to my innate sense of right and wrong. How could they do that?

That country needs guidance... I'm hardly the one to provide it, Ross, as you know... but i'll try.

John


On Oct 25, 2007, at 11:17 AM, Ross Burns wrote:

Just don't get recruited to perform covert ops in Eastern Europe by the spooks at the CIA. It's hard to go back after they get their hooks in you. Believe me, I know.

Ross


On Oct 25, 2007, at 11:33 AM, John Common wrote:

You always struck me as a walking sleeper cell, Ross.

It's becoming more and more clear to me why you've cloistered yourself in Taos...

John


On Oct 25, 2007, at 11:39 AM, Ross Burns wrote:

Believe it or not, there's a fairly sizable community of ex-hitmen here. I think it's the beautiful night skies and glorious sunsets that lures them in.

Ross


On October 25, 2007 at 11:54:01 AM MDT, John Common wrote:

I prefer to think of your ilk as "freelance consultants".

"Hitman" is such an ugly term.

John

A farmer's only son

a farmer's only son

my name is william
a farmer's only son
I grew up in the wheat fields
and when my days were done

I'd walk down dirt roads
until the stars came out
I always had the same dream
I never had a doubt

it's in my head
it's nearly all worked out
before I'm dead…

I'll build an aeroplane
and fly it to the sun
i'm letting go the reins
to see what i can become
I'll never be the same
a farmer's only son

farming's hard
It turns a man to dust
my father's in the ground now
my mother followed close

she knew i wouldn't stay
there's nothing for me here
just an empty farmhouse
and another wasted year

it's in my head
it's nearly all worked out
before I'm dead…

I'll build an aeroplane
and fly it to the sun
i'm letting go the reins
to see what i can become
I'll never be the same
a farmer's only son

sometimes it seems empty
and sometimes out of reach
that dream that haunts me
and make me lose sleep

I'll build an aeroplane
and fly it to the sun
i'm letting go the reins
to see what i can become
I'll never be the same
a farmer's only son

my name is william
a farmer's only son

Better

better

you walk across the wooden floor
at two in the afternoon
it's snowing gently outside
I'm reading in our room

I hear you making coffee
you know I like it weak
I could tell you what I'm thinking
but we don't have to speak

you make it better
better than i could
you make it better
and that's better than good

Bus hair oracle

I woke up this morning with an extreme case of *bus hair* that I've affectionately decided to name "Elvis Slept Under A Bridge".

I've learned to pay attention to these moments... To pause for just a second and ask myself... "What is the universe saying to me right now?"

Stop laughing.

See, I've watched enough bad television to know that seemingly unimportant things often contain big messages. Inflection points in the hero's journey, portentous shifts in plot, "accidental" moments of serendipity, etc.

Call it whatever you want... but this is what my bus hair said to me just now:



I'm serious. That's what it said.

And I know better than to argue with something as big as my bus hair.



Besides, I want you to hear these new songs.

P.S. It's also saying, "Buy a comb." And... "Take a shower." And... "Make more coffee."

The best workout I've had in a long time (17 days to be exact)

I called my doctor today to ask him again about working out... I'm already going crazy and it's only been two weeks. I know this might seem pretty obsessive to you... but after working out as much as I did to train for my triathlon, I think my brain chemistry got used to regular endorphin washings...

JOHN: "Can I bike?"
DOC: "Yes. But don't put any weight on your hand."

JOHN: "Can I swim?"
DOC: "No."

JOHN: "Can I do core workouts?"
DOC: "Sure. If they don't use your hand."

JOHN:"Can I lift weights?"
DOC: "What are you... an idiot? NO."

JOHN: "Can I run?"
DOC: "Yes. But if you trip and fall, you're going back to surgery, and it will be very, very bad. Don't trip and fall."

I couldn't believe it... I can run! Woo hoo! I immediately went out and ran. Just one, slow lap around Wash Park. It felt awesome... Then I went inside to their little rec center and biked for a while... Oh my God... it felt so good.

I've been buzzing all night.

I know this is a boring entry... Sorry for that. But I'm totally geeked out to be able to run and bike!

Hand update

Don't worry. This one doesn't contain any disgustingly gross pictures. Just a slightly gross one...

I met with my doc today... The first time I've talked with him since the surgery two weeks ago. The nurse cut away the bandages. The doc took one look at my hand and said, "Let's put you in a splint."

This is great because a splint is way less restrictive than a cast... and I can take it off to shower! No more plastic bags! Woo hoo!

And it's a lot, LOT, LOT easier to play piano with just a splint... which is good... Because I just scheduled myself to play two solo shows (Nov 2nd and 3rd at Thin Man Basement here in Denver). More about that later... (I'll be playing a bunch of new songs from the last couple of weeks...)

I'll see the doc again in 4 weeks. He'll x-ray the hand to see how the bone graft, titanium screw sandwich thing is working... Then I'll know what's next. Probably more weeks of being in the splint followed by rehab.

Here's what my incision / future scar looks like... not so bad, considering, huh??!

My new front door and me.

It's still very new... We're just feeling each other out... taking our time.

There's no hurry. We have the rest of our lives for this.

New song (ghosts)

ghosts

it's early morning
and here we are again
you're in your new life
and I'm here circling

it's still dark out
and the drugs are wearing off
I'm stuck here thinking
about the last time that we talked

I can't leave these ghosts alone
I can't leave these ghosts alone
you're in my head
I'm lying in this bed
like it's a tomb
you left me…
so why can't I leave you?

it's such a cliché
how you moved on and on
but I can't leave
and you know I never could

it's so funny
how the thing that brought us down
is my penchant
for keeping ghosts around

I can't leave these ghosts alone
I can't leave these ghosts alone
you're in my head
I'm lying in this bed
like it's a tomb
you left me…
so why can't I leave you?

oh…. what's the reason?
oh…. what's the reason?
oh…. what's the reason?

I finally get up…
walk around the house
make some coffee
and prove you're not around

these ugly mornings
make me never want to sleep
I'm just a prisoner
who doesn't want the key

I can't leave these ghosts alone
I can't leave these ghosts alone
you're in my head
I'm lying in this bed
like it's a tomb
you left me…
so why can't I leave you?

The guy in the back seat is talking to me.

I had this dream a while ago... And I've learned that when I have really weird dreams, you know the ones -- the DOOZIES -- I've learned to write those down. And man... I've had some DOOZIES over the past year or so.

Yikes.

It's a more than a little unsettling when you get a peak into your own subconscious... And you see how much dark, weird, creative power is there... just under the surface. It's like taking a long road trip -- all alone in your car -- across the country. And somewhere in Iowa, just as the sun is setting behind the corn, you turn around to look at that old abandoned farm house as it whizzes past and you see a well-dressed stranger sitting in the back seat (your subconscious) quietly smiling back at you. It makes you think... "Christ! How long as HE been there? Why didn't he speak up?"

Kind of freaks you out.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The Dream

I dreamt that I was dating a doctor… We were in the early stage of a new relationship… just beginning, but definitely into each other.

The next image was me standing in the shower and I noticed a knot or some sort of bump on my lower chest… I started feeling it with my hand trying to figure out what it was... it felt like some foreign body was inside me, just under the skin. So I kept fiddling around and pulled it out… I don’t remember what it was... some sort of knot -- like you'd see in a tree trunk. Then, when I looked down again, I saw that a gap, almost a slice had opened up from the top of my chest all the way down to my crotch – nearly in the center of my body… This is gross… but my entire abdomen had a huge slice/opening/gap in it! It was like I was wearing a button down shirt with none of the buttons fastened – only it was my body. When I looked down, I could see directly inside my body – I could see my internal organs.

It FREAKED ME OUT.

So the next scene was me walking into my doctor/girlfriend’s office – kind of interrupting her at work so that she could diagnose what the fuck was going on with me. She examined the split in my chest… Looking at me with a sad, terminal expression on her face she said, “You have New Half Disease.”

New Half Disease.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Then I woke up. And I googled "New Half Disease". Nothing. No relevant search results. It’s a fictitious disease that the guy in the back seat came up with... A figment of my dream life, evidently.

I hesitate to do this, but feel free to comment with your dream interpretations on this one.

And go.

New song (paper plates)

I've been working on this one all summer.

Until today, it's just been a sheet of paper, covered in scribbles and coffee tattoos, in a stack of other papers covered in scribbles and coffee tattoos, that I've pulled out occasionally... Normally, I look down at it, sigh heavily, doodle something in the margin, and then shove it back into the pile.

But today, I think I *broke through* on this one. It came as a reward for faith in my "taoist songwriting method". Reverent non-action. (wink wink nudge nudge)

It even sounds okay (to me) when I play it with one hand on the Rhodes. Which makes me think it might have a spark...

paper plates

you're writing haikus
on paper plates
what if he loves you?

you say you don't believe
in soul mates
what if he loves you?

you're turning inside out
and outside in
what if he loves you?

you want to read the book
but you won't begin
what if he loves you?

what if he's just waiting for you to call
he's waiting for your call
do you think he will wait forever?

you think you're tough
but you know you're not
what if he loves you

we can write our lines
but not the plot
what if he loves you

on the way home
hand around your phone
on the way home
late at night, so call

what if he's just waiting for you to call
he's waiting for your call
do you think he will wait forever?

NOTE: This is the second song that I owe K. It's for her friend, T. I used one of K.'s now-famous 'character sketches' as guidance and inspiration. Honestly though, I only use these patron-submitted materials to get started... and then the song grows its own legs, and acquires its own will... After that, I run along behind it -- and try to keep up.

This movie.

We are all much more alike then different.

We want the same stuff... Same drives. Same fears. Same desire. Same itch. Same scratch.

I think it's funny how we spend so much time focused on the 0.1% that makes us different, while the elephant at the table is the 99.9% in us that is IDENTICAL. I guess it's ego that makes us focus on the differences.

They say there are only a handful of stories in the world... only the minor details change. One source has boiled it down to 7 basic plots:

- [wo]man vs. nature
- [wo]man vs. man
- [wo]man vs. the environment
- [wo]man vs. machines/technology
- [wo]man vs. the supernatural
- [wo]man vs. self
- [wo]man vs. god/religion

Ronald Tobias says there are only 20 "good stories"...

1. Quest
2. Adventure
3. Pursuit
4. Rescue
5. Escape
6. Revenge
7. The Riddle
8. Rivalry
9. Underdog
10. Temptation
11. Metamorphosis
12. Transformation
13. Maturation
14. Love
15. Forbidden Love
16. Sacrifice
17. Discovery
18. Wretched Excess
19. Ascension
20. Descension

(I'd like bottle of #2, a gravy boat full of #12 and platter of #14. For desert, how about we share a dish of #19?)

It's comforting to know that on one level, I'm fulfilling an old role inside an ancient archetype. This jacket's been worn before. And I find it charming, a little sad, and extremely forgivable when I see someone (including myself) who believes that what they are thinking or feeling is entirely unique or new.

I don't mean this in a defeated way -- at all. I think it's actually good news. It's very good to remember that everyone around us is working their way through a plot that we have either been in, are in, or about to be in.

This also means that I'm a supporting actor in your movie. And you in mine. Occasionally our movies intersect -- like right now -- and we have the chance to really affect each other... Maybe I'm the guy walking down the street who ducks out of the way during the car chase. Maybe you are about to step into your love scene. Maybe that's us fighting each other... or driving out into the desert together.

We'll see.

Our primary job is to live our roles honestly. And to never settle for bad writing.

Any interest?

While completely stoned in dilaudid, I got bored and decided to try something out... I wonder if anyone would be interested in this kind of thing...

Click here for JOHN COMMON stuff












Or this...

Click here for SWIM TO THE BUOY stuff

John Common on iTunes

My two last records, WHY BIRDS FLY (2007) and GOOD TO BE BORN (2006) just got added to iTunes!

Check it out...
(and turn a friend on to it too!)

Click here! WHY BIRDS FLY on iTunes!





Click here! GOOD TO BE BORN on iTunes!

Another story from Why Birds Fly

The television is always on in her apartment, softly
babbling about the latest tragedy... a river of news from
the external world. She likes to imagine that her own life
is a news channel. She doesn’t go out much; she has a
big decision to make. Planes are going down inside her.

(from the Libretto to Why Birds Fly for the song 'Do You Hate')

Another another story

It’s heartbreaking to watch someone solve for X,
stuck inside a broken equation, hoping for a new
math. The saddest stories are the ones where you
know the ending before the characters do.

(from the Libretto to Why Birds Fly for the song 'Before You Met Me')

Another story

My phone rang one day. I picked up and heard a
perfectly real voice say, “Is Robert there?” I paused.
I needed time to gather myself. Falling in love can
be disorienting. “Is Robert there?” she said again.
With great pain, and after another uncomfortable
pause, I said, “I’m afraid you have the wrong
number.” And just like that she was gone..

She’s out there somewhere... I can always dream.

(from the Libretto to Why Birds Fly for the song 'Wrong Number ')

A story

He met her in a bar. She loved how he seemed so
present. He loved how she kept him off-balance,
effortlessly. Things went awfully fast and, at first, they
didn’t notice how the pieces never really matched.
But she was good at avoiding the obvious (a family
strength). And at times, mostly when no words were
being spoken, it felt very right. Also, the sex was
astonishing. So they stayed. After a while though, even
the booze couldn’t put enough distance between them.
Then one night, at their bar, she surprised both
of them. She got up and never came back.
The symmetry was crushing and lovely.

(from the Libretto to Why Birds Fly for the song 'You Stay')

Meet my new friend, Dilaudid

Dilaudid

Generic name: Hydromorphone hydrochloride

Why is this drug prescribed?
Dilaudid, a narcotic analgesic, is prescribed for the relief of moderate to severe pain such as that due to:

Biliary colic (pain caused by an obstruction in the gallbladder or bile duct)
Burns
Cancer
Heart attack
Injury (soft tissue and bone)
Renal colic (sharp lower back and groin pain usually caused by the passage of a stone through the ureter)
Surgery

Most important fact about this drug
High dose tolerance leading to mental and physical dependence can occur with the use of Dilaudid when it is taken repeatedly. Physical dependence (need for continual doses to prevent withdrawal symptoms) can occur after only a few days of narcotic use, although it usually takes several weeks.

Hand surgery update (Thank you!!!)

Hey,

I had my hand surgery yesterday... THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who's contacted me about it, wishing me well, checking in, offering to 'lend a hand', and generally being amazing and sweet. It's really great to be reminded that I have such good friends and people who care about me. I'm a lucky guy for sure...

After the surgery, when I was just waking up from the general anaesthesia, my doc told me everything went really well... I don't think I dreamed that either. :-) They also did a local anaesthesia "nerve block" that made my entire left arm COMPLETELY DEAD. That was so very, very weird! It didn't wear off until 2AM this morning either. I knew this because the pain woke me up. I stumbled into the kitchen and started slamming dilaudid (2 pills every 4 hours).

Man, I am completely stoned. A friend and I just went to the grocery store... it was quite hilarious. I was spouting inappapriate things to the deli person, I think.

So anyway, now it's up to fate (mostly) and me (a little) to get healed up over the coming months. It would be pretty *fabulous* if everything worked as planned and I got my hand back, good as new.

Fingers crossed... ouch!

If you're interested in seeing what they did to my hand, click this link. (Watch out -- it's kind of graphic/gross...)

Hand surgery - Gross!

As expected for the day after surgery, it hurts lot... but the dilaudid is working pretty well and I'm sure it'll get better/easier by the day. I'm just glad that to finally have this process started -- I'm ready to move on! (With two good hands.)

Thanks again everyone!

the crows have gathered on the high wires

the crows have gathered on the high wires
overlooking this patio where we sit,
sipping cold white wine.
I know what you do…
let it lay on your tongue a bit
before letting it find its way to the back of your throat.

the sun set hours ago and it's getting cool.
the candlelight flashes still lives across your face.
I've stepped into an oil painting by the great drunken master...
warm tones fade to black. your face is half shadow, half grace.
music is creeping out from the hall. no one is listening.
good and evil left their names at the door tonight.
they're wandering toward us,
arm in arm, chuckling.

miles away,
a mountain settles,
a deer drinks from a stream,
a man and woman fight about something,
dogs are barking,
lonely trucks barrel down the highway,
a clock stops and a tired piano begins to play our song...
I look at you through the bottom of my upturned glass
and you turn in to the dream I never dreamed.
you laugh at something I said weeks ago and light a bent cigarette.

I've studied you too much.
I've lost the subject and need distance.
I don't say any of this.
instead, I excuse myself,
stand up, walk to the stone wall beside the sleeping crows,
stare at the moon behind the clouds,
and write you this letter in my head.

Come On Eileen X 13.1 Miles

I did the Boulder Back Roads half marathon this morning. The run went well. I wasn't trying to push myself too hard for this one... I just wanted to end the season with a good long workout.

Check.

The course was beautiful... dirt roads north of Boulder, behind the reservoir. Lots of trees... their leaves changing. The first 10 miles felt really good. The last 3.1 miles required some focus. My legs ache like a mofo right now.

But that's not the point.

The point is... The entire race... and I am talking about the ENTIRE RACE HERE... all 13.1 miles... I had the song 'Come On Eileen' playing in my head.

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

and over.

and over.

Why? What cruel, bizarre, unholy, masochistic, self-flagellating brain virus made me do this? What programming error was tripped in my cardio-addled head? What did I do to deserve this? Was it some horribly punny joke made by my unconscious mind? Was it because the band that wrote and recorded this disgustingly-catchy song was named "Dexy's Midnight Runners"?




Look at them... Bedecked in overalls and mullets... Oozing Cockney blue collar charm, like some Dickens nightmare prancing through a 1980s version of a broadway song? It's like a song from the cutting floor of "Oliver: The Musical".

After the release of this music video, in 1982, people referred to it as, "a tribute to the armpit". I think that's due to the over-abundance of untrimmed hair throughout the piece -- with the biggest offender being Kevin Rowland, the singer, songwriter and front man.

Kevin, wherever you are now... I shake my fist at you sir! I never liked Eileen, dude. And I don't want her to come. Or come on. Or whatever sick pop double entrendre you might have been pulling back in '82. Keep Eileen to yourself man.

And get outta my head.

fall

is the sense of something dying
something familiar
slowly fading into auburn light

soft shadows gathering
all about
they are in no hurry

summer cedes to winter
through fall's stained glass