My Senses Have Been Stripped

There's this place on the Lower East Side. I can't remember where or when. It's name escapes me. What use am I then? Hardly any. But the place is great. I'd look it up if I were you, next time your in town that is. Otherwise, what's the purpose?

There's also this place out here, the other side, that reminds me of the place over there. The name, in this instance, does not escape me. But I can't remember the entire name, just a part. Like a puzzle with a missing piece laughing and taunting beneath the covers. It's dark, the kind of place that lends itself to anonymity. No names in there...maybe that's why I can't remember it? The green felt stretched across the pool table has stories to tell. But it's voice is scratchy, too many long ago smokes have done their damage. That just lends to its authenticity. And drinks, so many spilled to fill a mountain of doubt.

What was particularly pleasing about the place on the Lower East Side, like so many others over there, is that my 4th pint was on the bartender. How groovy is that? The disco ball spinning its excited smile at the thought. Yummy. Time to go home. I've had my fill.

See you.

Today is a Long Time Away

The trip down Newport resulted in a phantom of neglect. Vacant stares like magnifying lens' piercing the marine layer. Yesterday's sun gave rise to today's neglect. It is said that Hodad's makes quite a burger. I'm not so sure what all the fuss is about.

Tomorrow's hero will be today's villain. But what a time will be had on the run from the law. Sirens blasting through the OB night, the serenity broken for the sake of a scoundrel. Like so many others, caution is but a lost cause, thrown abhorrently into the rainy sky, hoping.

The streets are littered with the Peninsula Beacon. Does anybody know how to read? Not that I can tell. That guy standing over there, reflecting on his reflection in the storefront, is one of ours. He was lost last week and will not recover. His reflection but a memory of what can happen when the tide turns.

I'm lucky I'm looking through an open window. The possibilities are limitless. Crawling across the spectrum of the abyss into the unknown. Thank you sir, may I have another. Anything else?

See you.

I Have My Bob Dylan Masque On

Which way to Carnegie Hall? An outstretched hand, a shivering finger pointing east. I turned my attention. Can that really be the way? The streets are narrow and the buildings smoldering. The stranger had on a mask of Bob Dylan, but his hair was bone straight. I figured it was best to giddy up. No use sticking around. His assurance was puzzling, considering his lack of pants. Then again, should I expect anything less? He was, after all, wearing a mask. And it wasn't even Halloween. There's got to be some kind of lesson.

Without a second thought, I put my Richard Nixon mask back on and headed down the street. I've got places to be and Carnegie Hall is that-a-way.

See you.

When You Hear the Beep, It Will Be 3 O'Clock

The bearded statue with the obscene nose laughed maniacally at the floundering clouds filtering through the vestibule of its crowded mustache. Its monocled eye peered menacing through the vague traces of the absence of purpose. Grotesque hands caress the hilltops of our minds. His words dance as a dervish wrestling beneath the hidden confines of his own imagination.

There's a neighborhood in Seattle called Fremont. The vibe is aaaalright. There's this troll that lives under a bridge at the top of a hill. A hidden car from a long-ago accident disappears into the memory of its own purpose. I'm not making this up. I have the pictures to prove it. And because it has a beard, I figured I'd tell you about it. The mustache was pretty cool too. What to make of it all. I leave that to you.

See you.

Smoke Rings of My Mind

That last one didn't have much to do with beards, did it? I'll feign ignorance and accept that maybe there's a good reason. Another Dylan reference. I wonder where it began, and when it will end. If you can't find the beginning, but can see where the path leads, does that mean that you are within the midst? Smarter people than your humble host can try to tackle that one. Instead, I'll mention my beard from this past growing-season. In a word? Uh, how about freakin' nice. That will do nicely. It's little brother, a wild and wide-eyed cowboy, settled in.

Portland could offer a permanence of the kind that the fetching Mrs. J likely dares not consider. Can I say it? Here goes. Year-round. I'm going to let that one settle in and allow it's fingers to gently massage my brain with the tender embrace of home.

I wonder if Mona Lisa really did have the highway blues. Is there an answer to that question? Who would know?

See you.

It Takes One to Know One She Smiles...

And puts her hands into her back pocket...Betty Davis style. Wow. I really dig that lyric. It's just, sooo...cooool. Dylan at his finest lyricism as he wraps a lasso around the perfect thought and dares you to question his genius. It's not that I really intended to venture into Dylan today. There's always time for that. But this song is spinning on my record player right now, punching a hole through the silence of a Sunday afternoon that is neither sunny, nor cool. It's just a Sunday in June, much accustomed to the gloom as it settles into its neighborly reproach upon the sanctity of our soles. The waves beckon with a forceful shout as only they can, the spray shedding its skin across the limitless confines of dull.

There was just another skip on this song. How that came to bare, I haven't the slightest idea. The needle is new, beyond question. The storage is consistent, the vinyl nestled into its sleeping chamber that doubles as a colorless sleeve. Clean, spotless, yet there one is again. 180's laugh with the fright of an October night where rain casts out the shadows. Methinks there's something greater at play here.

I grab the flimsy little brother, out of West Germany, a print that has found its way across the great expanse of an ocean and 2 continents and settled into a slumber in my collection. Bob Dylan has so many brothers, they know no bounds. The sound is slightly off, not nearly as fetching nor deliberate. There is a tentative approach. Unsure of its place in the lineup. It's just not possible to help. There exist only so many, and they must be accepted with relish. I guess we have ventured into Dylan without even knowing it. That can happen when the time idly pursues its goal of finding the next hour.

Portland is a pretty cool town. The sort of place that leans in with a whisper and says, "Hey. I know you. Come. It's ok. The possibilities are...possible. Hmmm?"

Until then. See you.

Hmmm...I Don't Know What To Think

I really don't. The Black Crowes just released a new record. It's pretty cool. A little bit all over the place, but some really good stuff in there. I picked it up on vinyl. They released a limited number on nice colored wax; The first LP is on green, the second one is as white as snow. Pretty sweet. I think side 4 is the best. They harness their roots.

Anyway, my beard is back, and quite frankly, it's pretty bad ass so far. It's been stretching the surly bonds of lavender for the last 2 months. The fetching Mrs J has been amazing from the start. She's really pretty terrific. No pictures though. Why? Well, I'm just not feeling it. Posting them is all well and good I suppose, but I think I've moved beyond all that, whatever the hell the "that" is, but that's really beside the point. I don't know where this is heading right now...maybe it's only heading around the block? Maybe it's a little more than that. But my mind's eye only sees what it can, and some things are beyond the realm of possibility at this point.

Back to the beard. A mighty wind blows in off the surf, but my beard shields me from the misty confines of an ocean's breath. A hearty companion if there ever was one. This might be my best effort yet. I haven't had anything to complain about. Only a few sheltered touch of grays, but they only add to the limitless possibility of the future.

Thanksgiving is next week, we're about 8 or 9 days out. I guess it all depends on how you count days. It's frustrating, I know. Mrs J and I will cook a magnificent feast, one that the gods will surely smile upon with abandon and thirst. Too bad. It's ours. We'll talk then. See you.