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!

The Night Rag

I've been writing some lyrics lately, and thought I would post some from time to time to see what kind of vitriolic response I can drum up. This current one was written a few months back with some recent tweaks. I haven't decided what kind of music to put with it, but some nasty, oily blues changes with an edge seem appropriate. A little dark, but they ring true to many feelings I have collected from playing in bars over the last 35+ years.

The Night Rag

The tequila is cold, & the bar will be smoking',
the women so hot, their groove is red, raw & choking.
Don't mess with the band, 'cause they kick & they bite,
Their sound is thick and 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 to 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 in the blight.
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.

Christmas Eve in Blues land

On this eve of Christmas 2007, I have time to reflect on the music in my life. Many songs, diverse lyrics and a wide range of emotions. My band, Joe Willy, Neckbone & the Fishheads is finishing up the final work on our tracks for our first CD entitled "Hook, Line & Sinker." A CD that is fully ten years in the making.

At one of our earliest rehearsals in putting this band together around 1996, I suggested a very tongue-in-cheek title for our first CD as "Hook, Line & Sinker." Our stylish new harp player, BB, immediately went home and wrote the song. It also became the graphic images for our first t-shirt. We had big laughs, but after that we just went back to being a shiftless blues band that played music, chased women, drank liquor and generally screwed off. You can see the original t-shirt artwork and read the saga of the Joe Willy Band at our website at http://www.joewillyband.com/. See, just like papa Wharton the Sauce Boss, we always find a way to plug the band!

Well, the band has been through some mighty changes over this past ten years. We've been through many guitar players (all of them whores), a couple of drummers, a keyboard player here and there, and even a part time female voaclist. I've been in and out of the band three times over ten years, and we've played all over Polk County. As a result, we have become a very tight knit core of four players who have grown to find we really did want to make a CD. We have slowly developed about 15 originals that we evolved playing live, and now have spent the last six months recording the raw tracks. Again, there are some snips on our web site to listen to.

So this Christmas, I am very excited about finishing this project early this Spring, and having a CD to hustle at our gigs. We will be adding two new folks on guitar and bass to really push this project out live, and things look great for us right now.

But there is more music in my life. Lately I have been digging around in different artists material to broaden my scope, and I have come to have some new (and old but revisited) faves in Evanescence, Paolo Nutini, The Goo Goo Dolls, Donavon Frankenreiter, and Bob Dylan. All of them inspiring and different. And if you haven't heard of Paolo Nutini, give a listen. He is a Scottish (yeah, as in MacGregor Nutini!) singer who is very hot in Europe with a very unique voice, and some really great and fresh songs. Anyway, it keeps me going.

More music for my holiday, was spending the day with my daughter Samantha yesterday, and getting her latest installment of a Christmas mix CD. Every time she comes back from college, she makes me a mix CD of all kinds of music. She is very into alternative music only found on the web, and completely eschews the normal commercial distribution channels and artists for the really eclectic and obscure. It is really cool, as I get a very close listen to the soundtrack to her college years, and can only imagine what the video must entail. Scary to say the least.

And then will come Christmas morning music. I wrote an ode to the blues for Christmas, and alluded to getting myself a new Fender Telecaster for Christmas. Well, Leo and the boys at Fender will have to wait, as I could not resist getting a new Taylor acoustic instead. I have played a Taylor for a number of years, but I bought one a litlle further up the food chain this time. I am positively giddy with anticipation as I had to order it, so it isn't even under the tree. But when it comes in, I will quickly put it to use and learn some new material, and book a date for the No Name Band, my acoustic trio. Merry Christmas to me!

So to close out this Christmas eve sojourn, I will resolve to clean the kitchen, walk the dog, make some egg nog and liberally apply the rum. And all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except that fat guy in the corner with a big glass of grogg. Happy, happy, joy, joy!