I Know It's Only Rock And Roll, But I Like It

I Know It's Only Rock And Roll, But I Like It

Ahhh, home at 9AM. Rock and motherfucking roll, baby.

I certainly don't expect every gig to beat the whimpering shit out of a massive whale ass the way last week's did. And we didn't last night, but about halfway in we did get into some damn fine rockin'.

The most confident and the most skronkinest guitar solos I've done in this past couple months of taking to my beat-up white Strat copy. It served me well last night, and I was pretty fucking proud of the way I had the other guys watching me while I dipped into my low-rent Hendrixian noise-merchant mode. I ain't SHIT next to my heroes, but I'm working on it. I've never felt as good about myself as a musician as I have in these past few months, warts and all.

A is sending me phone numbers this week. I'm going to start teaching up there on Saturday afternoons, hopefully in the next couple weeks if we can get people scheduled. We had to clear it with the boss (who I've known for years but hadn't seen in at least five) and it took all of about ten seconds. "Sure, why not?" was essentially his attitude.

Yay! Progress is being made. I'm in for some hellishly busy weekends, but I'm ready, baby.

Slept on and off at the same rest area this morning, wrapped up Dougie-burrito style in my new comforter. (Try not to think about that burrito thing too much, kids.) When I moved in with Sheryl, I pretty much stole a blanket from her right away, and she let me take it with me when I left. I'm like Linus with these things - I use them until they have huge fucking holes in them and STILL feel weird about letting them go, and still have a hard time adjusting to a new one. I've still got that one, but the new one was needed.

From skronk guitar solos to security blankets. Welcome to my fuckin' world, boys and girls.

I worked Merle Haggard's Reasons To Quit into my solo set, appropriate given the absolute lack of booze in my veins for this gig. Water, honey, and a thermos of hot tea fuelled my ass last night. Felt fuckin' good, too. Oh, I'm still gonna drink SOMETIMES at gigs, fuck, why NOT? But it's now all dependent on where I'm spending the night afterwards.

I've been doing this solo thing for almost a year now, but I haven't sang a lead vocal on top of the band until we did a pretty damn good Bang A Gong last night. Credit T for snaking his way through that groove, building just the right foundation for the rest of us to work off of, and for me to do my fat hairy bassist rendition of Marc Bolan. It KILLED, and now I know I've got something to look forward to at each gig.

I thought about you the whole time, Abby...

The shit drive down SR35 at that time of night, buzzing with caffiene just to survive, is not my favorite part of the week. Nor is waking up every 20 minutes in my car on a cold night at a rest area. But I'm out to prove something to myself, and I'm doing it.

Jesus fucking shitbaskets, I can't write about this crap without sounding far too proud of myself. Hey, I spent ten minutes looking for my capo last night before finding it in my pocket. I'm still a dumbass sometimes too! Whee!

Drove home through Dayton and down SR48 listening to Let It Bleed. Something about singing along to Stones tunes on a Sunday morning drive home from a gig just warms my little black heart. The tape flipped over to Sticky Fingers, and I was raving along with Mick about them tasty black girls when I pulled into home.

I came through the door and my alarm clock had already gone off, spilling the classical station through my apartment. I think it was Mendelssohn that was greeting me, welcoming me home from my dirty life and times. I wonder if Zevon was a Mendelssohn fan...

Grab the stick, shift gears. Time to go get my daughter and re-enter the other side of life.

I seldom feel as alive and real as I do right now. Fuckin' hell. HAPPY? ME???

You betcha, bitch!

Love,
Dougie

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