I dreamt last night I was on the boat to Heaven.
Some dude stood up and shook dice at me.
“What are you, some kind of D&D freak?” I said “Sit down.”
The guy then pulled a bottle of whiskey out of his jacket and offered it to me.
“Dude, this boat’s already got me seasick. Put that away and sit down.”
He frowned, and that’s when a great big wave hit.
I shoved him overboard, took the bottle, and drank it.
Someone told me to sit down.
I told them to shut the fuck up.
Sanctimonious little prick.
Tag: music
Lifetime listening
They say that a CD should provide a lifetime’s listening enjoyment if you handle it properly, but it turns out that even a scratch-free CD will degrade over time because the data layer was often made of cheap material. And even though some CDs had a Gold layer for the data layer, the laminate used for the CD still can degrade.
This is not a problem if you plan on dying young, like all of your rockstar heroes. Or if you just buy one hit wonders and crappy music that you never want to hear when you’re fifty or sixty.
Reno
Johnny Cash once sang that he shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
So, I stayed out of Reno. Even if he was on tour on the other side of the world.
Just couldn’t take a chance, you know.
Now that he’s dead, I go to Reno all the time.
I walk along the sidewalk, smiling wide, and laughing when someone tells me that acting like a greenhorn will get me shot.
“No way,” I say calmly. “Because Johnny Cash is dead.”
They draw their guns and scowl.
I hope they’re not related to him. Or clones.
Sir Hugo Daft
Sir Hugo Daft’s compositions are the product of a musical genius and a bloodthirsty sociopath.
Refusing to limit himself to traditional instruments such as the cello or the flute, he dabbles with police sirens, car screeches, women screaming for help, and other noises meant to frighten and distract listeners.
He is just as proud of his seven Grammy awards as he is of his lifetime ban from terrestrial and satellite radio.
“You’re causing dozens of accidents a day with your music!” said the FCC Commissioner.
Daft smiled, accepted the ban, and waited for the Pentagon to buy his weaponized compositions.
Good night, Elizabeth
The king’s daughter climbed into bed and closed her eyes.
“Good night, Princess Elizabeth” was composed by the Royal Music Guy as her personal lullaby, and the gentle strings and muted horns carried her into the land of dreams.
“She’s asleep,” signaled the Royal Music Guy to the orchestra. “Let’s go.”
Tuxedoed figures rose quietly from their seats and tiptoed out of the room.
“Why can’t she just listen to the song on an iPod?” asked the cellist.
“It’s a good gig,” hissed the bassoonist. “Don’t blow it.”
The Royal Music Guy whispered “Good night” and gently closed the door.
Taps
Regulations state that every burial gets a bugler.
The problem is, the enemy took out Rogers and Menendez – the only two guys who play the bugle.
“Who knows anything about playing music?” shouts the company commander.
Washington stood up. “I scratched a bit in clubs.”
“Sit down!” shouts the commander. “Anybody else?”
I nudged Washington. “Think we can rig something up?”
He nodded.
And I stood up.
Washington and I rigged up a bugle to play a track out from a speaker in the bell.
And it worked great
Until it rained, and the damn thing shorted out the camp.
Play The Ponies
My uncle Dexter would disappear every Friday night, and then return for Sunday brunch.
Sometimes, he’d have cash stuffed into his pockets, and other times he be flat broke and sporting a black eye or two.
“Your stupid Uncle Dexter plays the ponies.” my mom would say. “Stay away from him.”
So, that night, I followed him from street to street, until he reached the racetrack.
He wired up all the horses to a massive keyboard, turned on the power, and played them like a pipe organ.
It sounded awful, but not as bad as my sister practicing her violin.
Gastronomical Orchestra
Laying back after an exceptional meal, I listened to the squelches and squishes inside my belly.
The more unusual the meal, the more unusual the sounds.
So, I went on an epicurean adventure, seeking out incredible unusual foods to construct melodies, harmonies, choruses… I recorded them all and mixed them together into the most amazing gastronomic symphonies.
For live performances, I’d throw a banquet, and offer up dishes that would turn the audience into my orchestra.
As long as I received more curtain calls than citations from the health department for food poisoning or cases of gastritis, I was happy.
Fiddlers Zero
Old King Cole was a merry old soul, but not any more.
Rebellion in the colonies had cut off the shipments of tobacco, so his cherished pipe and bowl lay empty.
And he’d caught one of his fiddlers fiddling around with the queen.
“Execute all three!” shouted Cole.
The musician’s guild refused to send any more musicians to the castle.
Well, except for Angus McPherson, who played the bagpipes, but Cole rejected the offer.
Angus stayed in the guild hall, practicing Amazing Grace all day long.
All. Day. Long.
So they spread a rumor that he was fucking the queen.
Jim
I went to college before the advent of the Internet and music piracy. The compact disc was king, and they were sold in long boxes meant to fit within the record store racks as the records themselves were on the wane.
The long boxes served as cheap miniature posters, easily tacked or taped to the walls to advertise our taste (or lack of taste) in music.
The Best Of The Doors hung above a candle, and at night we’d light this shrine to Reverend Jim Morrison.
Instead of spending hours praying to him for better grades, I should have studied.