The Buzzlist Playeth
Have you ever heard of the writing exercise called "Morning Pages?"
It is a daily endeavor highly suggested to clear your head, inspire creativity, bring you back to Earth, or help you leave it should that be the case. There are loose guidelines suggested, one being a mandatory three pages of writing anything and everything that rolls through your head, no matter how scattered or insignificant it may seem.
Nothing is insignificant, though. Absolutely nothing; everything has its place. Even the most fleeting of thoughts can be a major player in the grand scheme of things, perched and ready to light a fire from out of nowhere ... or put one out.
Never let a seemingly random thought go unexamined. Just don't let them drive you crazy, either. I guess that's the trick if there is one.
This is a common tactic used by writers to smash through the barriers of writer's block, or by those who need a little mind-jostling clarity before launching themselves headlong into another day.
It's journaling with a snazzy title.
I've found this practice to be instrumental in remaining sharp and intact with the innermost workings of the creative thought process. And despite being called "Morning Pages," it can be done any time the urge strikes, of course. While you can try to schedule such mental outpourings and such, sometimes a person needs to let it roll on its own timeline. That means "morning" may masquerade as afternoon, evening or the small hours of the night.
The definition certainly has its wiggle room. Anyway, try it out if you haven't already. You might surprise yourself.
My favorite thing to do when I have the urge to write but have no particular direction in mind is to let music determine the path. With the help of a random playlist, I let the unknown guide me. That means writing about whatever memories, emotions or general thoughts rush out of the cellar alongside whatever song the universe decides to play.
It's like "karaoke suicide," just without the karaoke, or the suicide. Strange thing to call that, don't you think? I've always thought so, but that's neither here nor there.
I've rambled enough. It's time to ramble some more.
Tesla - Modern Day Cowboy
Paradise holds many different definitions to just as many dreamers.
As I strolled through the bustling aisles of what those outside of the know saw as just another storage facility, I breezily found myself nestled in the center of my own.
It was a faraway world called Mesa, located in a much larger galaxy known as Arizona. The dry air, scattered palm trees and winter warmth made up enough of a dreamy concoction to make one forget about the pressures of paying the rent and where the next meal would come from. As long as such things as Sweet Tarts, Ramen Noodles and Boone's Farm wine were still being produced and lining the shelves, all would be fine.
Furthermore, living in the telemarketing capital of the world ensured income to pay the freight as long as there were large companies - or even smaller, shadier fly-by-nights - willing to pay starving musicians to cold call unsuspecting targets in an effort to hock their wares. If that meant dealing with everything from a good-natured housewife in Terre Haute to a pissed off grandmother in Boston blowing a whistle in your ear, so be it.
The outcome was most often failure to sell, but such rejection was easy enough to get used to with a thickening of the skin and retaining focus on the bigger picture. It was widely accepted by the horde of musicians who filled these jobs that this was merely a necessary evil between gigs.
It kept us from homelessness and starvation while we walked uphill toward the stage where our real aspirations lied. And besides, if it was found that selling magazines for the Special Olympics (if that was even where the proceeds really went) wasn't working out today, you could seamlessly be doing your best to convince folks to book a carpet cleaning that they neither needed nor wanted, tomorrow.
But the alternate reality and flip-side to the day-side was the night-side ... and that's where it all melted away under the setting desert sun. It was where the warm, dry breeze made it all feel so inconsequential, if only for that perfect moment where dreams met reality within a picturesque scope of breathtaking aesthetic.
That's precisely how I felt while perusing through the storage complex that evening with the blacktop still warm from its daytime baking.
The unit served multi-purposes. While much of it indeed catered to people in need of a place to store furniture, baseball cards or dead bodies, every third capsule or so was rented out to a band which desperately needed a spot to rehearse. Yes, the people who owned these places were shrewd that way - they knew there was good money to be made off the hundreds of bands eyeing the valley as a fertile land for growing their brand.
With the rent paid up front, needless to say.
Break time from my drums and my own band meant taking a long walk through the sprawling musical community that took over in the evening. It was a smorgasbord of sonic bliss, where the smooth stylings of jazz and thunderous rousing of metal were only steps apart. The bands, with doors always open, were very receptive to the revolving audience, just as the roaming spectators were eager to soak in the influence of impromptu performances.
For a culturally-starved kid from Nowhere, Ohio, it was a magical time to be alive. With eyes, spirit and soul wide open, I surveyed, studied and did my absolute best to apply every ounce of what I learned.
And I learned a lot. Despite several years and many lifetimes passing since this era of inspiration, I can still hear Black Betty permeating the air, flowing brilliantly from one of countless storage units turned makeshift practice pads.
And when I hear one of the many tunes tying my mind to this period of life, I am still reminded of all the excitement that came with exploring such a vast world of possibility and potential. The shows, rising up the ladder among the roster of club bands in the valley, the stoking of a desire to realize a dream ...
I suppose you could say I felt like my own personal version of a "modern day cowboy."
It's all still there, waiting to be unlocked by a song from such a completely intoxicating time of pure freedom.
Ratt - You're In Love
The bus ride to and from school was a long one for a kid growing up out in the sticks, especially when nearing my mid-teens. Too old to ride the bus but not yet old enough to drive, I uncomfortably had to settle for the former.
Thankfully, my Sony Walkman was there to accompany me.
This was a time right on the cusp between cassettes and the introduction of the compact disc, which was still in the stage of rumbling rumors regarding the future of music consumption. For then, cassettes still ruled the day. I wasn't necessarily interested in the concept of this compact disc thing, anyway. It sounded complicated to me.
I mean, how were you supposed to make a mix tape? I smile when I remember how much of a real concern that was once upon a time.
I do ...
I vividly remember the careful planning and consideration that went into making each mix tape. Not only was it necessary to figure out which songs to include and in what order, but a cautious eye was also needed to monitor how much tape was left on the supply reel. God forbid you would overestimate how much tape was left, lest you run out right in the middle of trying to squeeze one more tune on the side.
Then what? Start over? Ugh.
Sure, cassettes made it easy in theory to do such things. But damn ... it was better, not to mention far more convenient, to just get it right the first time. Patience wasn't my strongest virtue back then.
Some would argue that it still isn't. But time has taught me the value of it, and I do my best. So those naysayers can keep it to themselves. If they don't, I just may lose my patience.
And then they will be correct ...
I still recall with satisfaction the mix tape I had carefully crafted that contained this particular song. It accompanied tunes from bands that had become my heroes, such as Judas Priest, Dokken, and I believe there was even some Triumph in the mix somewhere.
I was beginning my transformation from an 80s pop-ist to a straight-up rocker, morphing from a Michael Jackson fan and novice breakdancer into an adolescent version of what I would someday become in full color. My prior influences had sparked an interest in musical outlets and the pageantry that came along with the package, but rock and metal was beginning to grab ahold of my imagination and not let go. The way I saw it, I had no choice but to follow.
There I was, being shuttled to and from school each day in a metal container with wheels and no shortage of diesel fumes, intently anticipating the opening riff to this song and the goosebumps that would accompany it. I had the song order memorized from playing it constantly, so much that it eventually took on a warbled sound from the tape growing warped.
But I didn't care. The places my imagination went with each listen made it sound perfect and pristine. There was no need to make another copy, no so long as this one was still able to serve its purpose. This was a time when simple was satisfying and less was more.
Does anyone else miss those days?
On a side note, I also used to joke to myself - and to perhaps a few others - about the title of this song. I imagined that instead of You're In Love, the song could just as easily be called Urine Love, although the meaning would most likely be altered dramatically. But maybe not. All I know is that it sounds so similar, and childish humor is good for the soul. Why not just go with it?
OK, I lied. I said I used to joke about it. Truth is, I still do.
That's what this entire section should have been about. Sorry, I dropped the ball ...
Next.
Sammy Hagar - I Can't Drive 55
Anyone familiar with this song knows it is about that wacky Sammy Hagar and his propensity to drive fast.
No matter how hard he tries, he simply can't follow the speed limit. Not to the grocery store, to church, on the freeway, the highway, the byway ...
Nowhere.
This guy can't help himself. He is in danger of having his ass thrown in the city joint; at least that's what the judge said.
He said, "Boy, just one more ..."
For the love of all things holy, Sammy, get ahold of yourself. You're driving with one foot on the brake and one on the gas? Just how irresponsible are you anyway? You're probably not even placing your hands upon the steering wheel at the proper 9 and 3 positions, are you?
Yeah, it used to be 10 and 2. But now safety experts have updated the outdated, recommending that 9 and 3 is a safer statistical bet than the prehistoric 10 and 2. And some even argue that dropping as low as 7 and 4 could be safer still. So many choices.
Which is really the safest?
Which one should I use? Have I been unknowingly cruising along so irresponsibly all these years, ignorant to the danger I was in with my hands at 10 and 2?
It doesn't matter at this time. What's really important is that this menace to society, Sammy Hagar, probably doesn't use any of the above. No, I imagine such a renegade steers with his knees, trying his best illegal move until another black-and-white comes to crush his groove.
Again.
All the while, Sammy appears wholeheartedly defiant about the entire mess. His sarcastic, daring demeanor while being locked up for 125 is obvious; his remorse nonexistent. It leaves one to conclude that this loon is, without question, the most dangerous, reckless individual who has ever hit the road ... and he must be stopped.
Take his keys. Lock him up. Install steering locks on all of his Lamborghinis. Just keep ... that ... guy ... off ... the ... road. Especially now that he's 74 years old. Lord have mercy, it's a catastrophe waiting to happen.
This is also the infamous tequila guy, but I won't even go there. It makes the mind shudder. And while it's all a-shudder, it has to see Sammy Hagar as the new Public Enemy Number One. Sure, he wants you to think he's all about grabbing dreams while wondering why it can't be love, but I believe - through his own words and actions - that veil has now been lifted; the true evil is unmasked.
Burn the records, boycott the booze, cancel this man. Think about the children. Do not trust him to influence the children.
Also, do not take one bit of this seriously. Sammy's cool. This is meant to be entirely satyrical.
But this is also 2021. Disclaimers seem to be necessary.
I'm off to drive fast with my hands at 10 and 2 with some RATT blaring. Or some Judas Priest. Anything but Sammy Hagar.
Later.
