Na-Jo
"Na-jo" is being cleaned up right now. That adds one more phat cut to the "Indian Love Song" theme- others being the "Rose of the Mountain Trail" and "Silver Star".
I had just written a long and rambling entry here, when my caffeine filled appendage then hit a button that livejournal didn't like. So now I'm back to square zero, attempting to write and not feeling it at all.
I'm feeling increasingly anxious these days, and not just because of the copious amount of coffee I ingested this morning, which is still acting far too strongly on me at 2:29 p.m.
Next Saturday I leave for Oberlin to see Emma, and from there we head directly to Spain. I'm thrilled to be able to have the opportunity and good fortune to do this.
In the meantime there has been a lot of preparation, most of which I'm been putting off, and which has grown increasingly oppressive. Finding a place to live when we return seems to be the number one priority, but since Monday my search has yet to yield fruit. Yesterday I visited a place I thought wouldn’t be too bad, especially given the location kitty-corner from Shoreline Park and a 10 minute walk from Leadbetter Beach. Sure, it was a little small- one room and a bathroom- and there was no kitchen, with portable electric burners operating as the principal cooking devices, and the dishes to be done in the mini bathroom sink- but Emma was a little less ecstatic. Finding studio apartments in this area for less than a thousand is a challenge; and when they do exist, they get snatched up within a day or two. What a pain. Anyone got a place they know of that would take two?!
My roommates are also making me feel increasingly uncomfortable these days. It’s like the pretense of friendliness between us has dropped completely now that we both know I’ll be gone by next Saturday and their old chum will be moving back in. Not that we have come to blows, or even nasty words, but the gulf between us has only seemed to widen in the past few weeks. Certainly, I haven’t worked terribly hard at being good buddies with the two of them over the last six months. It’s just that getting blazed on bong rips and bombed on beers every night just doesn’t do it for me anymore. And I don’t think it ever did. Still, they have been quite good to me; and I won’t forget their generous free hand-overs of their bikes, helmets, wetsuit and weed.
The cylinders have been really hot lately- the 4000 releases being much better musically than anything I’m come across so far. Good instrumental tunes, interesting whitey jazz, even a gospel tune or two by one of the earliest recorded African-American groups, the Jubilee Singers. Amazingly, I just cleaned up the tune Annie Laurie played by Harry Raderman’s Jazz Orchestra that contains one of the craziest and wholly surprising bagpipe interludes ever recorded.
My hair is beginning to regress into its primal feral state. I hate thinking about this shit, and would just let it grow into the shoddy afro it would eventually reach if I could. My only justifications are that next week I'll be seeing Emma's parents for the first time in a year or so, and that I don't want the Spanish to treat me any worse than they probably will (un americano con pelo largo!). Plus, I'm scared of going to a random barber. Today, I gave it a shot and strode into Campus Cuts, only to find the greasiest, long-haired dude with a pair of clippers I've ever seen. I stammered that 30 minutes would be too long a wait, then hightailed it out of the place.
Damn, what problems I have! It seems that the principal measurement of the good life people live in western society can be determined by the quantity of discussion regarding the weather, the amount of whining about the price of gasoline, and the mental anxiety invested in one's hair. Still, anyone out there with a pair of scissors with even the remotest qualifications I will gladly pay to cut my hair.
Well, looks like I rambled on anyway. Speaking of mindless word association, here's a great little comic tune-
The little Ford rambled right along, sung Billy Murray, written by Byron Gay, recorded in 1915
I had just written a long and rambling entry here, when my caffeine filled appendage then hit a button that livejournal didn't like. So now I'm back to square zero, attempting to write and not feeling it at all.
I'm feeling increasingly anxious these days, and not just because of the copious amount of coffee I ingested this morning, which is still acting far too strongly on me at 2:29 p.m.
Next Saturday I leave for Oberlin to see Emma, and from there we head directly to Spain. I'm thrilled to be able to have the opportunity and good fortune to do this.
In the meantime there has been a lot of preparation, most of which I'm been putting off, and which has grown increasingly oppressive. Finding a place to live when we return seems to be the number one priority, but since Monday my search has yet to yield fruit. Yesterday I visited a place I thought wouldn’t be too bad, especially given the location kitty-corner from Shoreline Park and a 10 minute walk from Leadbetter Beach. Sure, it was a little small- one room and a bathroom- and there was no kitchen, with portable electric burners operating as the principal cooking devices, and the dishes to be done in the mini bathroom sink- but Emma was a little less ecstatic. Finding studio apartments in this area for less than a thousand is a challenge; and when they do exist, they get snatched up within a day or two. What a pain. Anyone got a place they know of that would take two?!
My roommates are also making me feel increasingly uncomfortable these days. It’s like the pretense of friendliness between us has dropped completely now that we both know I’ll be gone by next Saturday and their old chum will be moving back in. Not that we have come to blows, or even nasty words, but the gulf between us has only seemed to widen in the past few weeks. Certainly, I haven’t worked terribly hard at being good buddies with the two of them over the last six months. It’s just that getting blazed on bong rips and bombed on beers every night just doesn’t do it for me anymore. And I don’t think it ever did. Still, they have been quite good to me; and I won’t forget their generous free hand-overs of their bikes, helmets, wetsuit and weed.
The cylinders have been really hot lately- the 4000 releases being much better musically than anything I’m come across so far. Good instrumental tunes, interesting whitey jazz, even a gospel tune or two by one of the earliest recorded African-American groups, the Jubilee Singers. Amazingly, I just cleaned up the tune Annie Laurie played by Harry Raderman’s Jazz Orchestra that contains one of the craziest and wholly surprising bagpipe interludes ever recorded.
My hair is beginning to regress into its primal feral state. I hate thinking about this shit, and would just let it grow into the shoddy afro it would eventually reach if I could. My only justifications are that next week I'll be seeing Emma's parents for the first time in a year or so, and that I don't want the Spanish to treat me any worse than they probably will (un americano con pelo largo!). Plus, I'm scared of going to a random barber. Today, I gave it a shot and strode into Campus Cuts, only to find the greasiest, long-haired dude with a pair of clippers I've ever seen. I stammered that 30 minutes would be too long a wait, then hightailed it out of the place.
Damn, what problems I have! It seems that the principal measurement of the good life people live in western society can be determined by the quantity of discussion regarding the weather, the amount of whining about the price of gasoline, and the mental anxiety invested in one's hair. Still, anyone out there with a pair of scissors with even the remotest qualifications I will gladly pay to cut my hair.
Well, looks like I rambled on anyway. Speaking of mindless word association, here's a great little comic tune-
The little Ford rambled right along, sung Billy Murray, written by Byron Gay, recorded in 1915