.. .. .. ... .. ... .. ... .... ... ... . ... ... .. ... .. . ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .... ... ... . ... ... .. ... .. . ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .... ... ... . ... ... .. ... .. . Ok, made some improvements since our last show here. Opened up the stage, hung some seats up as a balcony, feel free to shake your jewelry. We also scrubbed and coated the stairs with a slight adhesive - easier in those heels you chicks like to wear ... next one then is a bit of a piano tune ... here goes ... ... drop me a line ... maybe this time ... Well the ALT thing hasn't been too fruitful for me. I have met some fine people as friends, and had an opportunity to reintroduce myself to regular writing. And friends are good and writing, I suppose, is something inside me. But it wasn't the goal when I came here. Don't ever want to sing Manilow at a show or at an audition - except, yunno, to annoy Theadorus Magnificus and get him to play something really loud. So, no no no to Manilow, I come to sing rock, and I came to ALT for something a little more sexual and mating oriented. Not much happening there - hope that doesn't sting. There has been one chick, one on my end, one could say. But after a consequential set of her candid, unconscious and casual<b> confessions </font></b>the disconnect is so comical and thorough it literally makes me laugh. And not the higher above middle C giggle laugh but the low baritone totally left hand on the piano laugh of life and resignation. So the disconnects are direct and incompatible. And I won't outline it to respect her privacy and identity. But ... drop me a line ... I still hope for it to somehow turn into something it's not. I still hope for her to essentially change at her core. I still hope. Though when hoping, of course, I don't think of it as change. More a growth, an inevitability. She will blossom to her true essence. Right, that's about it. And so I hope that sometime there will be this magical message sitting in my inbox. Many months have passed. And yet, yes, tomorrow a line will be dropped. drop me a line ... maybe this time ... I so love that, the way the melody rises, you missed it tonight because sometimes when I practice I sing that and my voice breaks - not out of pitch inadequacies, I can get up there. But it breaks purely out of emotional content. Who knew that Paul guy could write such stuff? Such simple words, and yet ... maybe this time ... So nothing in the inbox. And it's just stupid, the looking, and the basis for the looking, and again the looking, the looking ... or not looking, just the small small expectation. Keeps you away. Charlie Brown is damaged every time he runs for that football. Stay away. Or me, anyway. And that was the bit in an earlier post. Some saw it as a delight in talking with oneself, of having the best conversation partner, of knowing who to go to in order to get the right answer. And that wasn't it, at all. Though I must say the whole notion of there being a Spirit of Lonliness I found very satisfying intellectually. But the thing there was much simpler: when you feel lonely, you are tempted to believe that things are possible which are in fact not. Lonliness throws things up to you as possibilities which you know are deadends, which you know will only end poorly (I least I know ... I see things, sadly); yet lonliness still heartlessly throws them up to you and offers them as things to do. You knock down one of the silly possibilities and he comes right back with another, round and round it goes, ever shrinking you to the point of "just ditch all your 'standards' and the core that you know and just do it, who cares about the outcome?". It wasn't about me, even though - duh - it appeared I was talking to myself. It was that dynamic of deconstructing a personality's essence while on the surface talking to myself. The dynamic deconstruction, another grand offering of our beloved condition. Still nothing in the inbox. Kinda stupid. And sorry about the 'duh' ... that was exasperation more than a put down. Now if you'll allow me to put on my bass ... (dum, dum, dum) - cool, in tune ... then ... an old rocker, from an old rocker ... (Ted, off mic: ) Jeez, it's about fucking time ... Shut up, you're the guitar player. I have the mic, you don't get to talk ... (Ted, off mic {popping the bird}: ) Front man this, buddy. One, two ... ah one two three four - You tell lies thinkin' I can't see ... you can't cry cuz ... tgd