From out of the whispering past: Mac Davis

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Back in high school I was lucky enough to have two excellent friends who were also great musicians — Heroic Imp and SKP. They’d jam, and I’d make up some words — insta-tunes, written and recorded in one night. And that right there was my introduction to the idear that writing and recording music is good for the brain.
Post-high school, sometime around 1987, Imp and I were at his Jersey City pad, most likely suffering an MSG hangover. He took out the 4-track, guitar, bass, and drum machine, and we wrote up a little homage to country-singing-legend-and-sometime-movie-star Mac Davis.
When we were done, musta been after midnight, we switched on the tube and there was the man — Mac himself — in North Dallas 40. Imp recorded a sample on the spot and then went back to his Tascam to work it into the tune.
The result has been on a cassette in various closets for 17 years or so. But this weekend I finally figgered out how to turn cassettes into MP3s — surprisingly easy once the plug is in place. Easy and kinda like magic.
Thus it is, that all these years later, Mac Davis rides again. Giddyap!
Press Play to play.
playtime: 2:07
file specs: a scant 1.9 MB

x-post: and the Wetumpka. Sweet Wetumpka. Of it all.

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It’s Monkey Vortex Monday. In today’s installment, Croatian malcontent Rodney K. puts our longstanding feud aside for one minute and 45 seconds — just barely enough time to bust it Poet-Makes-a-House-Call style with: Welcome to the City of Wetumpka — another all-new, all-free, all-MP3 MVRT experience, brought to you by the good people at BackMan. BackMan: equipping the backs of our Presidents with noticeable, rectangular objects for more than thirty years.

Doorway conversation

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Talking with her about her brother's death
years back now. And it's the first time we talked.
She just had a kid
first kid
last month
my son's almost four
good guy
big boy.
Their house looks the same
even the table
even the carpet
and I tell her that.
The house even smells the same.
But you can't say the house smells the same.
Or ask if the sofa's still covered in plastic.
I think of him often. I tell her that instead.
I tell her he meant a lot to me, which is true. She says thanks.
And then I use the word "maudlin." I say: "Sorry to be maudlin."
But it's the wrong word. And that's what sticks with me later.
It's not maudlin.
Her brother's dead.

Ah, yes. Here’s the outrage.

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you: I have to put the cat to sleep.
me: why?
you: he’s leaving the dentist’s poop all over the house.
me: how does he get the dentist’s poop?
you: I give it to him.
she: why?
me: yeah, why?
you: because he’s bored. he needs something to play with.
she: but how do you know it’s the dentist’s poop?
you: I am the dentist.