NOTE: A short ditty on holograms, gingers, and dancing like a tornado.
NOTE: I wrote this earlier this afternoon. Hope you enjoy!
In honor of Ray Sr.
In uniform, clutching your sweetheart, standing outside your shop
Photos of you linger in my mind long after you breathed your last
It’s been 27 years since you first marveled at my funny red mop
Your name, your memory, your photos inspire me to give all I have
Retirement City. I coined the phrase to describe Thibodaux, La., the town where I went to college. The name is not meant to be flattering. The city suffers from an identity crisis. On one hand, it has a small university with 7,000 students. Yet, the city’s leadership seeks to turn it into a retirement community.
In related news: I turned 27 last week. Yes! One year closer to the new retirement age — death!
My friend G-Ratt joked on my Facebook wall — I think he was joking — my birthday meant nothing while I lived away from the “bayou land.” He concluded with a line that stuck with me: “Retirement city misses her children so (song title?).”
I promised him I would turn his line into something. Here’s what I penned tonight. It’s a tad melancholy. The first verse is me talking. The second verse is Retirement City speaking to me. Yes, I gave Retirement City a voice. Enjoy!
I wanna breeze, instant gratification, no pain
I wanna go auto pilot, cruise control, instant fame
I want drama free, head on straight, no complaints
I want it all, this minute, don’t wanna wait
Yet, I know my wants are not the game’s name
Life is a wave; even the tallest wave breaks
Better to ride it than run for the nearest cave
Hiding in the dark won’t illuminate
The bad days exist to teach us how to relate
Walking a mile in others’ shoes is underrated
My wants are not my needs, and that brings shame
But I am human and not without blame
These days even the sun feels cold
It hides behind clouds of woe
Waiting for a flight to somewhere remote
But distance is no antidote
Like warmth is no substitute for growth
Just an excuse to remain in the mold
And then what do you have to show
When your clock reads all zeroes
In honor (or dishonor) of Nancy Grace’s now infamous “The devil is dancing” quip about the Casey Anthony not guilty verdict, I penned this mini-rock opera, “The devil is dancin’.” I’d imagine the music for it is something like Charlie Daniels torching his fiddle till his fingers bleed or the slinkiest, sweatiest disco beat you’ve ever heard. Yeah, it could go in a number of ways.
Nancy Grace, I know you’re somewhere this morning putting on your daily scowl. You’re probably practicing your shouting in the mirror. Something’s working you into a fury. And that’s all well and good. But just take a moment to calm down. I think you’ll enjoy this piece.
After all, the devil is dancin':
One of these nights I’ll write a full poem. These stanzas come from two distinctly places. I’ve named the first “And Again Tomorrow.” The B-side is “Sears Tower 2009.”
Stay restless, first in flight, questioning why
Look above, take stock, steady for the climb
Better than yester, that’s all I aspire
And again tomorrow, the journey so divine
One hundred stories in the sky
Heights for which solace is hard to find
No more fireworks, only a gusher inside
Waiting to blow at an inopportune time
I had R. Kelly’s “Trapped In The Closet” stuck in my head last night while reading news about Rep. Anthony Weiner. Ridiculous, I know. Weiner admitted Monday he posted a picture on Twitter of himself wearing nothing but an underwear-masked erection. He originally said hackers posted the photo — a bold-faced lie. He has since admitted to having sexually explicit online chats with six women. This Weiner is out of control.
And so, inspired by Weiner and R. Kelly, a man known to rock a sexual scandal himself, here is “Capitol Hill Ecstasy.” I can’t wait to record it on the first ever Cajun Tomato ep. Maybe my friend Jordy Pujol will drop a guest verse referencing his darling, Ron Paul.
Guys remember: You can always call the Penis Photo Prevention Hotline, or 3P Hotline, if you’re feeling the urge to send lewd photos to the object of your lust.
Here are a few non-sponsored, carefully constructed words:
Grandeur, it’s fool’s gold
Don’t let yourself be taken
Your heart is a treasure
Don’t be standard, be something greater
Love lover, know no exceptions
Tell no lies, make no concessions
Lover love, know no exceptions
Tell no lies, make no concessions