The Gonzo Wolf

Me and mine are sitting up drinking coffee in the hotel room doom scrolling. Outside the door, two maids are having a disagreement. I don’t speak espanol, so I cannot solve their issue or successfully intervene.

Instead, I’m quoting aloud scenes from Jabba’s palace in “Return of the Jedi”, translating like 3PO, and cracking-up my wife.

We’re on vacation, until we’re not. Actually, we’re going home early. There’s no place like it. To the ‘tis crowd, you know what I mean.

Random thought: sometimes, I think I’m insulting musicians by calling myself such, because I don’t have classical music teachings. Not purposely, but subliminally; it has to sting just a bit. To someone who’s dedicated their life to music, I mean. Bled for it.

I tried. Bryan Adams is a liar and a fat-mouth.

It’s something I’d wanted my entire life, but we were too poor, or I was too distracted by women to give a shit. Unfortunately, that was my one super power; I was really good at having sex and making chicks believe my bullshit. My glam-metal upbringing demanded it. It got me far until it didn’t, so I had to learn how to me all over again. Some folks don’t like that, and that’s fine and dandy.

Same old story; same old song and dance, my friend.

Now, I’m older, and know damn well my time is limited within this vessel.

I’ve sung my whole life (to other’s discomfort), and written poetry/songs regularly since childhood. If anything, I’m more of a singer/songwriter, but no one wants to hear that unless there’s an instrument involved.

So, in a last-ditch effort to outrun the fucking devil, I reverse-engineered the guitar like a goddamn crashed, alien spacecraft. In doing so over the last two years, I unlocked something in my brain long forgotten since I was a thirteen year old kid laying awake at midnight, studying my ceiling, and “Living On A Prayer”. I’ll never be the best, but I’ll die fullfilled. Gold trophy. 100%.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. I begin learning music on Monday, you telepathically whiny twats. That’s why I stopped doing so many open mics. I don’t have the milage, and they know it. I’d expected to get blatantly called out on it by now, but not everyone enjoys confrontation like I do. Man, I feed off that stuff.

For fuck’s sake; shut your eye-holes! You don’t have to say it. I’m an empath.

I love you all, but…

“She’s not my mother, Todd.”

If my personal crescendo doesn’t blow the roof off all the mausoleums in the cemetery, I’ll have to go to Oates’ Military Academy, sir.

Maybe we’d all stop talking to ourselves if someone would reply with something other than a snappy comeback, but thus is modern life. I had to lock my phone in a bag last night at a Bob Lazar event. It mas magic for three hours.

Speak. What better thing to be than a singer/songwriter in the next American Revolution?

I’m too old to fight back.

I’ve said some of this before, but there are new people. Be patient.

Breathe.