Prospect park.
We went up to Griffith Park ... with a fifth of Johnnie Walker Red ... and smashed in on a rock, and wept ... while the old couple looked on into the dark...
Oh, hi. Just trying to recall some ancient lyrics from The Band, off the Cahoots album. Not their best work, but still worthy of a listen. I don't know what brought that to mind aside from this nagging desire to, I don't know, go out into the park across from my house and take a few swigs of red eye. Why? Just because it's time for something completely different. Though something completely different might be standing out there with a tray full of cocktail sized vegetable samosas and a big vat of apricot chutney. Hang the whiskey. (Never sat very well with me anyway. That's more a drummer kind of thing. Fits very nicely just under the drum throne.)
Summer at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill sets the mind a-wandering, I must admit. Much like winter does. Fall and spring too, for that matter. Everything about this place makes you think of moving on. That's why it's freaking abandoned! Even the HAMMERS couldn't stand it here any more. (In fact, a lot of the bricks seem to be trying to make a break for it as well, dropping off into the river, crumbling their way into the next world.) I don't want to make it sound like I speak for everyone in the Big Green entourage when I muse about drinking in the park - not a bit of it. We've all got our separate dreams and ambitions. That's what keeps us feisty and restive. Though not Marvin (my personal robot assistant). He's only feisty and restive when so programmed.
Fortunately for the wanderlust in all of us, there are offers on the table. Trouble is, the table is not in the mill... it's someplace quite far from here. Madagascar, I believe. At least that's what our sometimes agent (and one-time keyboard player), Tiny Montgomery, tells me. He has promised Matt, John and I a hugely remunerative tour and has written up all the paperwork in his six-room lean-to in northern Madagascar (near Mahajanga) but cannot fax it to us because he doesn't have a fax machine and we don't have a fax machine and.... Well, as you can see, it's complicated.
Tiny may fax the thing anyway. Marvin (bless his heart) has offered to stick his finger in a wall socket and see if the fax will come out of his butt. If it comes through, come get me. I'll be in the park.
Oh, hi. Just trying to recall some ancient lyrics from The Band, off the Cahoots album. Not their best work, but still worthy of a listen. I don't know what brought that to mind aside from this nagging desire to, I don't know, go out into the park across from my house and take a few swigs of red eye. Why? Just because it's time for something completely different. Though something completely different might be standing out there with a tray full of cocktail sized vegetable samosas and a big vat of apricot chutney. Hang the whiskey. (Never sat very well with me anyway. That's more a drummer kind of thing. Fits very nicely just under the drum throne.)Summer at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill sets the mind a-wandering, I must admit. Much like winter does. Fall and spring too, for that matter. Everything about this place makes you think of moving on. That's why it's freaking abandoned! Even the HAMMERS couldn't stand it here any more. (In fact, a lot of the bricks seem to be trying to make a break for it as well, dropping off into the river, crumbling their way into the next world.) I don't want to make it sound like I speak for everyone in the Big Green entourage when I muse about drinking in the park - not a bit of it. We've all got our separate dreams and ambitions. That's what keeps us feisty and restive. Though not Marvin (my personal robot assistant). He's only feisty and restive when so programmed.
Fortunately for the wanderlust in all of us, there are offers on the table. Trouble is, the table is not in the mill... it's someplace quite far from here. Madagascar, I believe. At least that's what our sometimes agent (and one-time keyboard player), Tiny Montgomery, tells me. He has promised Matt, John and I a hugely remunerative tour and has written up all the paperwork in his six-room lean-to in northern Madagascar (near Mahajanga) but cannot fax it to us because he doesn't have a fax machine and we don't have a fax machine and.... Well, as you can see, it's complicated.Tiny may fax the thing anyway. Marvin (bless his heart) has offered to stick his finger in a wall socket and see if the fax will come out of his butt. If it comes through, come get me. I'll be in the park.
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