My friend’s butt dial was nothing of the sort. Thinking of me, and loving me over the span of decades, he dialed my number and held his smartphone in air, surrounded by thousands of fans, that I might hear the music I love.
Dancing is better with a corn dog in each hand
Corn dogs flew high for three minutes and sixteen seconds. I burned the rule book to the ground. My friends were absorbed by the music.
Tequila, cops and grace
Tequila, rubbed on scabs, often results in the boys in blue showing up to make suggestions.
The futile fury of a final letter
The arithmetic of Abraham, plagiarized from that textbook, would be a phosphorous round tracing every word spoken from the stage.
It all begins with the word
In the quiet, he said six words and left: “It all begins with the word”. Despite being an artist, my mind has always made my hands appear to be hopeless blobs. In one second, my blobs were made eunuchs, but my mind was freed.
Dirty hands drawing a circle
Closer to the water, the mud, sand and muck that coat the rocks begins to cover one’s hands and, with the passing of enough time, begins to dry on the skin.
Mindfulness, meditation, chance and The Village Vanguard
I always knew The Vanguard would be down stairs. Not sure how. Not even sure when it came into my field of vision. I just knew the music would be closer to subway trains.
Myth of the Knotdog
The debate surrounding the integrity of brown vs. yellow mustard became reminiscent of the feud between the Alphas and the Omegas.