I am Thankful to be a Fishhead

Thanksgiving week is upon us once again, and at first glance, it appears the only thing to give thanks for is having a full day off with family to cook a real meal, watch football and generally loll around.
But there is much more I am thankful for...
I am thankful for finally electing someone as President who will tell the truth and work to better us all.
And I am thankful that I still have a job, even if I am not making enough money to pay all my bills in one month. Which of course makes me thankful for retirement accounts, and extra stuff I can sell to people who do make enough money to pay their bills, though I will miss that guitar.
And I am thankful that I have three other guitars to comfort me in these lean times, because they make me money, they look very cool in the living room, and they make me feel rich beyond belief.
And I am thankful that my brother is having us over to his house, and that he is doing all the cooking, so my kitchen won't be all screwed up for weeks afterward. And yes, I don't clean up real often, so I am also thankful that I could give a shit if you think that is slothfull.
And I am thankful that in fact my brother is buying a turkey that is fully prepared and cooked because he is an absolutely dreadful chef, so the meal will be good, and my kitchen will still be clean.
And I am thankful that I have some of the most talented and seriously twisted friends to play music with in no less than 4 different groups over the holidays which means I can actually buy some Christmas presents and get paid to party and jam and eat free food and drink free liquor and make really loud but bitching noise with three guitars, a drumset with my new Swiss Paiste cymbals, and of course my treasured congas. So to those of you who thought being in the band in high school was nerdy, go fuck yourself.
And I am thankful that I am a Fishhead. And not just any Fishhead, but one of the founding members of the "Joe Willy, Neckbone and the Fishheads" Fishhead! It means I am certified by the Guild of Working Blues Musicians to sing about dirty stuff, marital discord, drunken and disorderly behavior and jailtime in front of anyone I want, get paid for it, and do it over a microphone at loud volume so they cannot miss the nasty words I am singing.
And I am thankful that lately, the only time I have been in a courthouse was for jury duty.
And I am thankful that my dog Dizzy is absolutley ecstatic if I just come through the front door, regardless of what time or day it is, or what mood I am in. In fact, if I am drunk, he is even happier and thinks it is really funny and we must be paying a new game if I start knocking stuff over. Of course this game can turn really bad if he gets spooked by something I do and he bolts out the front door as it is ususlly late at night and very dark and he is pitch black and intent on being as far aaway from the house as he can be in a New York minute.
And I am thankful that I work for a Ford dealership and not a GM dealer so that there is some chance I will still have a job after the first of the year.
And I am thankful that Sarah Palin has continued to prove just how crazy funny she is by pardoning a turkey and then giving an interview while two of the freed turkey's friends and probable family members are butchered and exsanguinated by being crammed in large funnels covered in the blood of all those who preceeded them directly behind Sarah while she discussed how lucky she was to be there. Makes you wonder if she even wastes her time cooking the turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, or just rips the live bird apart with her bare hands and eats the entrails and heart while still warm and pulsing before she heads out on the tundra to beat some baby seals and have monkey sex with a grizzly bear. What a girl!
And I am thankful that the Swedes are such good engineers so that my two 1993 Volvo's with over 400K miles between them both run and I can flip the bird to anybody who has to make a car payment.
And I am thankful that I live in a country that allows me to write this drivel without immediately being run in for any number of trumped up charges only to have my head cut off like one of Sara's turkeys.
And I am supremely thankful that I am not conflicted with traditional religious values that would make me crazy with guilt and rancor and a phantasmagorical belief that something happens after I am gone, because I absolutely hate to leave a party and I would be very pissed to die expecting some nirvana only to find a complete void. Especially if I had been getting up and getting dressed to be social and nice at church on Sunday mornings with people I found to be shallow and hypocritical when I could have been sleeping in and watching Meet the Press before football.
So, thanks to my friends, thanks to most of my family, and thanks to me.

The Blue Willy Trio...smokin!

This week, a new chapter in the saga of the Joe Willy Band as we do an unplugged Blues thang with just three of us at the local Pub. A little Vino, a little blues and always a tab to pay.

We will call ourselves "The Blue Willy Trio."

We are looking forward to cutting it up a little free and unplanned. We are using our lead guitar player, the lead singer and his harmonicas, and me on congas, guitar and vocals. As always, we will pull out of our ass whatever you will remain seated and listen to. If you attempt to leave, we will grovel and spin like good jesters and charlatans seeking your approval and tips. Yes, we are whores.

But Whores with a heart of gold. Whores who can play more than mere sexual acts of wonder and desire. We are Blues musicians.

Years ago, I played almost exclusively Rock and Roll. I thought Blues guys were too dark and down for me. But I remember the wise words of an old friend who was an awesome guitar player and unapolegetic whoredog who taught me much about life as a musician—"I ain't playing to make money, I'm playing to get laid." And get laid he did. And he played the raunchiest Blues I had ever heard, even though we were a Rock band. He had my full attention.

So for the last 15 years or so, I have grown into a Blues man who plays some Rock and Roll. And it's all good. I have learned to love and embrace our national treasure in the down home idiom of the Delta players and their big city counterparts.

So come on down some night to Tanner's Pub in the little hamlet of Wiener Haven, and hang out with the boys on stage playing a little Statesboro Blues, or Louisiana Blues, or Sweet Home Chicago. We'll get ya going, and the Blues will set ya free! But bring cash, and don't approach the band too closely, they are dangerous mens!

And with that, here's some words I wrote in a previous post that seems appropriate:

The Night Rag
The tequila is cold, & the bar will be smoking',
the women so hot, they're red, raw & choking.
Don't mess with the band, 'cause they kick & they bite,
Their sound is thick and it's sweet, and they're on for the night.
I'm ready for whatever, bring it all, bring it now—
the bands got no name, and the night sings through them now—

Drink me, eat me, dance & play on me son,
Don't stop till I'm gone, don't ease up on the fun.
Nothings covered, no one's safe, we're all scared of the night,
feel the heat, make it steam, lose yourself it's alright.
I'm running, I'm gunning, jump this miracle feat.
watch it slip, watch me fight, It's my time on this beat—
time goes out like a light—when it’s lost, it’s not cheap.
Can’t go quietly, or go soft, back into that night.

A good friend of mine recently wrote about her feelings regarding race. How we got here, where we were, and where we may go. She was very personal about her personal journey through southern bigotry and our journey along the white and black path to equality.
Through this journey, she spoke of her guilt just by being white, and how we all filter the world in our own way that makes reality as we know it. i tried to assure her that that guilt was not hers, but an "oily film we all wear."
But her words made many connections for me, and instigated deep philosophical thoughts (okay, only in comparison to say, Monday Night Football which I also have been thinking about as I get ready to leave work this fine Monday evening) about filters and reality and the mind.
It occurred to me that mostly we feel that what we see is the filter we use on the world, but I think that is wrong, or at least naive and overly simplistic. I think our entire body, and the world all around us—our hands and feet and limbs and hair and eyes and ears and skin and dirt and air and people and everything combine to absorb the entire realm of existence and universe that we are aware of, as if we are an infinitesimally small sponge deep in the middle of an infinite ocean. All that we take is delivered to our personal filter, the mind.
In this mind, the filtering occurs which defines and identifies our world to each of us uniquely. In this way, reality is only the synapses and electrical activity in our mind. Our mind is just the final stage of the filter which creates our reality. So as each galaxy is made up of millions of individual stars and their associated wave structures, energy and gravity, so are the millions of synapses in each brain.
This makes me think that it isn't what is "out" there that is important or real, it is what ONLY happens as a brief chemical and electrical event deep inside us that is real. All else is handed to us by what has come before our newest thoughts.
Now if this seems inconsequential or silly, I submit it is only because your internal reality is not as real as mine, or you are Sarah Palin. but seriously folks... The thought that we are effecting change does not seem as real to me as the thought that we are only "witnessing" what our collective nerve impulses have already absorbed and processed. Our entire existence and the construct we know as the universe could easily be a mass fabrication of minds processing incorrect initil data that us brought us to the wrong current conclusions.
And this is where I found this thought process so interesting. True revelation may only come when the universe we have created actually hands us new data that we have not had, that does not fit theoretically or physically with what we think we know. Walla! We are all really just nodes in an energy field in a storm in the void. Or, we are frog like creatures with magical abilities, pink skin and outrageous musical talent that do nothing but play Beatles music through the millennium.
Needless to say, this is a long walk from the state of race relations in this country. And I promise, I have not been drinking or imbibing anything that set me into an Alice in Wonderland stupor. I'm just saying!
So here's to hoping change can come from within and without, just like Mighty Quinn the Eskimo. Now if you expect me to parse the meaning(s) of an early Bob Dylan song, forget it. These mysteries will remain until the end of days!

Goodbye Sarah...

Note to Sarah...your arrogance and ignorance are only surpassed by your ambition—a very dangerous situation. You have highlighted all that is wrong not only with Republicans, but with politics as usual in this country. When in doubt, lie, create innuendo, divide, make it someone else's fault (the press, the RNC, McCain, your Brother-in-law, your employees, etc). When one considers all the high points of your limited career, it is clear you are motivated purely by greed and the acquisition of power without any regard to your actual abilities or fair play. I think we have all underestimated the power of Barack Obama to effect change, even in the Republican Party. The RNC and their brightest new members (no, not you Sarah) will see from his example that dumbing down the populace (Joe the Plumber comes to mind) and working to foment hate through lies and innuendo does not win the day. I suspect even they will be positively affected by the Obama wave, and we will see an evolution even in the RNC that will be most welcome to lift all of our body politic up. You will be cast aside like a dead wolf missing a paw that some barbaric hunter hacked off to make a buck. Good-bye Sarah—go home, give the clothes back and SHUT-UP!

There is a dog howling somewhere...

It is a testament to the depth of our depravity and utter lack of a national intelligence beyond that of my faithful dog, "Dizzy," that in the midst of this war on terror, and the worst financial crisis since the great depression that we are discussing lipstick on pigs.
While the glimmering of acknowledgement that the world is leaving us behind, we stridently shriek, "but we are still the grewatest nation on earth," the best that the Republican party can sling is that Obama is too liberal, and he called Sarah Palin a pig. I say, if the lipstick matches, get a purse from that sow's ear! Quite frankly, John McCain and his entire election team can kiss my freaking ass! How does this man and his pet swine sleep at night after advertising complete fabrications and then insist they are the ones being wronged?
And lest we forget, the lowly swine offers itself up to our breakfast, lunch and dinner tables where we happily knosh up the entire animal, (at least in the south that is) without the blink of an eye. Arnold from Green Acres must be rolling in his little muddy grave. That is, if we didn't eat him and crush his bones up for some fertilzer or dog bones! I only hope Wilbur the pig is no longer around to bear this disrespect. But on to the McCain mud machine.
Lest we forget what it means to be a liberal, let me remind us of some of the glory we deserve. Women, which party and group of like thinkers fought with you to give you the vote? That's right, the Liberal Democrats. And who gave us Medicare and Medicaid so your parents could afford the small fortune in medication that their Republican Doctor prescribed for them so they could live AND eat? That's right, the Liberal Democrats. And why do we have National Forests, Wildlife Preserves, the Appalachian trail and millions of acres of protected forest and pristine lands? That's right, the Liberal Democrats, and oh yeah, that left of center liberal Republican Teddy Rosevelt. And who gave us Civil Rights and Social Security to show our respect and the value of our elderly? That's right, the Liberal Democrats. So you non-liberal Republicans can again, kiss my liberal, Democratic ass, beacuse I will not apologize for thinking that people, children, elderly and the infirm matter more than profit and greed. Liberal is NOT a bad word. Liberal, as in "Liberty" and the notion that to be free, we must be equal in our "liberties" is a concept that is the heart of our democracy. It is only in the hands of oil sucking, war mongering, greedy little pigs like Dick Cheney and George Bush that this concept could be bastardized beyond recognition. And as for John McCain, the latest incarnation of the worst of their party to claim ANYONE ELSE is a "tax and spend liberal" is hideous in light of the Bush administration handing us the largest budget deficit in our entire history. And therein lies the lipstick on the pig.
Now my dog "Dizzy" is thought to be named for the great Dizzy Gillespie, the jazz trumpeter with the bent horn. And in fact, Dizzy has one ear permanently bent over like Mr. Gillespie's trumpet bell. But no, one only needs to spend 30 seconds to a minute with my loving dog to understand that he was named "Dizzy" because he is, dizzy. As such, he would make a lousy Vice President. He does not support abortion rights for women, he does not support equal pay for equal work, and he generally is a chauvinist pig when it comes to women. But he would still be a far superior pick than Sarah Palin. I come to this conclusion because he is not ready to force his religious views on anyone; he would not think of shooting wildlife of any kind as guns scare the living shit out of him; he does not support drilling in the Arctic Refuge, the Gulf of Mexico or anywhere else. And he is not a liar, a beauty queen or speak with a harsh midwestern twang that causes me to want to oil something or take a hammer to the TV. And besides, even with his limited native intelligence, he is a staunch supporter of Barack Obama.
So in closing, I feel it is important to point out one last time that John McCain, Sarah Palin and the entire Republican party can kiss my freaking ass, lipstick and all!

A letter to John, George and Rush

John, I am truly sorry you were in a prisoner of war camp for five years. Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn't that about 40 years ago? Didn't your extreme sacrifice and incredible display of courage and determination convince you that the best principles of our nation—honesty, fair play and equality for all should be upheld by everyone, especially Presidential Candidates? Didn't you find that respect for the individual is one of our most valuable national values? Wasn't it starkly apparent from that experience that we are all equal, and that no man or woman or corporation should benefit to the detriment of otheres, especially millions of others? Wouldn't it be anathema to you to find that a Senior official of the very administration that runs our government had leaked the identity of one of our undercover intelligence agents working for years to combat terrorism just to cover up their own complicity in fabricating data to go to war? Wouldn't you find criminal, any American President, Vice President or Secretary of Defense who had knowingly instigated, promoted and covered up our use of the very torture techniques which caused you so much pain in Viet Nam? If so, why in God's name are you running a hack campaign that insists on promoting lies about your opposition, and attacking the person and his family instead of working to make this a better nation?
And finally, are you really asking us to give you and your Republican buddies the opportunity to have four more years to trample our constitutional rights, hand over huge tax breaks for the wealthiest 2% of the population and the largest oil coprorations? Are you kidding? And with all that, you are actually trying to make the first black presidential candidate look bad by using more lies and subterfuge instead of just being honest and saying you cannot stomach a Black man in power?
Now Rush, you need to get in on this, as you have also trashed John, because he apparently isn't dirty and deceitful enough for you. Is there anyone who actually believes you have any real love of this country, or any decent thoughts of your fellow Americans? Have you ever, for just one minute thought of the damage that you so gleefully spout and what harm it does to everyone? Does it make you feel good to deal in nothing but negative and vicious attacks on people that many times you manufacture or lift from someone who manufactured it? Do you have a gracious, honest American bone in your drug riddled, venomous body?
What can I say, George? You, along with your evil Daddy, Dick, have engineered the biggest money grab in the history of American Politics. You lied to get us into a war that has changed the course of history, and the face of the greatest nation on earth in the worst ways. You have sold our economic health up the river for decades to come. You pissed on our environment and our allies, and ignored climate change and global warming and squandered our position in the world order. You flipped the finger to all of our enemies, dramtically escalating tensions everywhere, and fixed nothing in the war on terror. You diddled at nation building after you turned Iraq into a torn and battered nation, while completely bungling the prosecution of the international terrorist and his organization who slaughtered almost 4000 of our citizens and attacked us in our home, as nobody since the Japanese in 1941. You are a moron, a liar, a greedy robber baron and a chicken-shit drunken cowboy who cannot even complete a sentence without bungling the English language and looking like a buffoon. You should be impeached and jailed, preferable with Dick Cheney and Donnie Rumsfeld. Waterboarding is too good for any of you. What you need is for someone to open a large can of ass-whipping on the bunch of you.
P.S. If anyone reading this is seriously thinking of voting for John McLame, I submit you are either (1) simply too weak to admit you are a racist, or (2) just another rich bastard who is happy to let their greed for their own personal gain outweigh common sense and true patriotism, or (3) you are like Rush and Bill O'Really and are all of the above, or (4) you are Joe Lieberman.
P.S.S. Remember me when Barack Obama and Joe Biden assume the position of President and Vice President. I will be the one with one finger in the air asking you to "KISS MY ASS!"
My name is Brian Everhart and I approve this message.

Gimme' Heat to Eat!

I'm taking a page from an old friend this weekend and going to hear AND taste the blues with Mr. Bill Wharton, aka "The Sauce Boss" up in Orlando. Talk about hot...Bill's slide playing is every bit as burn-alicious as his hoit sauce "Liquid Summer."

When Bill comes to town, I just get this overwhelming urge to do things that hurt. I put too much spice in my food. I listen to music turned up way too loud. I yell at the dog. I beat on my drums. And I stand out in lighting storms and howl at the thunder. It must be the dead of summer in central Florida, and "the livin' is easy, and the fisheads are jumpin'."

I played three weekends in a row, with three different bands at the same bar, and I guess I am just in a mood to hear one of my favorite blues guys jack it up another notch and buzz saw the crowd of suits that show up at the House of Blues in Orlando. If there is anyone that can cut through the crowd and get to the meat, it is Bill Wharton. "Let the Big Dog eat!"

In fact, Bill is so inspiring to my musical persona, that I will probably do some songwriting this weekend. I already have the nuts and bolts to a song I am writing for Bill called, "Gimme' Heat to Eat." I feel certain he will leave me sweating and drained Saturday night, and Sunday I will revive myself with a cold brew and some hot gumbo and go on to write some justifiably nasty and clever lyrics for songs about snakes, liquor, women, gambling and money. Ain't life grand?

It seems that lately, I have been on a tilt to acquire more musical toys than I am really allowed, except that I find that as I am still divorced, there is nobody to stop me from going to the music store whenever I damn well please. And while there, I just pick out what I want, beat on it for a while, and then take it home like a shiny new pet dog. The result is that I have a new Telecaster, a new Stratocaster and a new Tube amp with way more power than I can justify, which is of course the criteria all guitar players use to purchase amps—they get one that is way louder than any mortal can actually listen to.

But my base urges do not end with simple acquisition. No. I am now in the process of getting custom pickguards, replacing the neck on the Tele with a hard to find vintage "V" neck in satin finish, and getting quotes on having the Tele body painted Fender "Surf Green" to ameliorate my desperate need to move to the Carribean and languish with my extensive musical instrument collection in a beach bar where I play roots music and drink no-name rum with nothing but ice. Again, ain't life grand?

So here is my advice for the present...eat gumbo with lots of hot sauce, fire up whatever musical instrument you play, even if it is just the howling, off key raving of your own voice, like something caught in a bear trap, and flip the world a finger to show your utter disregard for your own cosmic safety and the natural order of things, because as we all know—there is nothing natural about the order of things as we know them.

Sunday FishHead Soup Blues

As the pot boils on the stove, and my back hurts to remind me I turned 54 this past Wednesday, I am reminded that having the Blues is really a great way to contrast the candy coated crap that most people see as the good times. Things look really great when you have really suck-ass blue moments to compare them to.

I have learned many things in my 54 years, and Ms. Moon reminded me of an important one in her Valentines day rant. Valentines Day? Speaking of candy coated...The thing she reminded me was that all of the drudge and smack that we experience can be just as enlightening and meaningful when you consider those you love, and how each of these little specs of life give you the perspective and framework to enjoy it all.

The Moonblog of course was framed against a long and successful marriage, which unfortunately escaped me after thirteen years, but the concept works for family and friends as well, and even the dog, when he behaves.

I find that a good bottle of Sweet Basil store shelf spaghetti sacue can be made to sing when you cook up a little ground chuck or hot sausage, and plenty of garlic, stewed tomatoes, mushrooms, thinly sliced carrots, onion and celery, salt & pepper, a touch of hot sauce and plenty of extra virgin olive oil. Usually I had a touch of sugar also. I can make a sauce like this and never miss an Italian restaurant, though i do have to clean the kitchen afterward. That would be the suck-ass part.

So if I have the blues because there's nobody to share this with, that's okay because I don't live in Afghanistan, I am not a Republican, and I can whip out my guitar and paly myself something by the Subdudes, or learn one of my new faves by Paolo Nutini, and the pasta was hot shit, and I have lunch all made to take to work tomorrow. So don't sweat the small stuff, and of course everything is the small stuff!

The Vagaries of the Time/Space Continuum and Rent

Well, I started this blogging thing on a whim, and at first, all was well with the world. Then, my job status changed, and poof! I went back to 55 hour work weeks, played some gigs with my bands, and suddenly my kitchen looked like there had been interstellar war fought along the counter tops, and the evil Spacula Nebulae creatures had spewed alien detritus in their mewling death throes on the floors, walls and appliances. Or,...I might just have neglected the place from working, gigging and sleeping too much.

Anyway, my job status went back to a commission status, and the pressure of imminent homelessness weighed heavily on my reality. So I bucked up and fought the good fight, sold some stuff to make some money, and you guessed it—I slipped into the NONBLOGGER PARALLEL UNIVERSE!

Then, I gots chastised by the Blog Queen, who had incented me to become fraught with blog in the first place, oh miserable and unworthy me. So, hark! Let the heavens ring with the sound of my return to the wormhole of blogdom. The space/time continuum can now return to an existential stasis that keeps all in balance, including democratic candidates, my landlord, clocks everywhere, good and evil, yin and yang, blah, blah, blahg, blag, blog, blog.

On a more Terrestrial note, I am exceedingly happy to report that "Joe Willy, Neckbone & the Fishheads" were welcomed to the stage at the Lake Wales Mardi Gras several weeks ago, after a long and dangerous journey through the digital wasteland known as..."why are we making this fucking CD ourselves without an engineer and a studio?" After almost 12 long months of recording, we have added our new guitar player, and proceeded to kick some Mardi Gras ass at the local festival to a rousing, albeit drunken throng on the streets of Lake Wales, FL. We played a long and intense set of faves, including three of our original cuts from the still evolving CD called "Hook, Line & Sinker." A good time was had by all.

And, as fate would have it, I celebrated my Aquarian fest birthday on the 13th with the acquisition of yet another (now totalling two) 1993 Volvo. So now I can lay claim to being a two Volvo family. This latest is a really sweet old 850 GLT sedan with 125K miles, which makes it 145K miles newer than my 1993 960 wagon. I should write the Swedes and tell them to come do a commercial about this, with pictures of me and my drums happily loaded into one of their creations with 270K miles on it sailing down the road on another mission de blueage, to spread the word of musical redemption, underage drinking and public displays of overt sexuality. You know, party, dude, er, Swen! There was no planning here, the deal was just too good to pass up.

So to all/both of you who may read this, I am working too hard to make money I don't want, but that somebody I have never met does want, in a galaxy far, far away. And so I retain my small but important grip on reality by beating the drums, picking a little Taj Mahal on my guitar, keeping the dog out of the garbage, and thanking the Norse Gods for their great wisdom in imbuing the Swedes with such fine automobile design and manufacturing skills.

In closing tonight my children, we should all pay homage to the Goddess of Blog. Ring her name true to all who can read. Revere her substantial gifts, and feed the universe on the depth of her blogisity. And bow to the superior nature of her enlightened spirit. Merluna, Merluna, Merluna, we chant as her mighty pen takes to the page. And listen for the sure sound of the beating of our blessed little hearts!