streamy guest-blog

Hey, JeddieNingo here, with a brief guesty-bloggie appearance, letting Arlen Sundry know a new feature's been instituted over in the right rail, under the "Streaming Bobby" header: A few of Bobby's musical confections have been put up for your perusal and delectation. There are many more, and as I bring Bobby up to speed on the whole HTML thing, we'll start rotating some others in there so they stay fresh.

I think these are some of the finest, maturest, most clear-eyed, musicianly songs you're going to hear this or any other year. Influences range from Stevie Wonder to Steely Dan to late Andy Partridge, and the things he does with voice-leading and chord coloration are as accomplished and assured as Bert Bacharach in his prime. I shit you not, Jackson.

I'd put some thumbsucking crap in here about personae and how the Bobby Lightfoot you're used to in this blog is only the aspect of my brother's personality that he chooses to show you -- his id, if you like -- but that's best left for the stuffy confines of my own territory, don't you think?

Welcome, instead, to the balanced, brilliantly sane, and astonishingly talented musician you haven't met yet.

All right, this crap is making me edgy. It's time for an extended period of humor.

I went to this idiot's right-wing xenoblog and he just sounded like me, minus a hundred I.Q. points.

Fuck it. You won, dick. I think I finally understand. You won. You made me lose my temper.

Man, I'm just as bad as you, only smarter. So I have even less of an excuse. I get it. Thanks.

I Can't Believe I Didn't Notice This

Our Fucking Side

Their Side

Hey you right wing shit heads!

Welcome to my ass kicking blog. I've been expecting you idiots because I couldn't help but go all vituperative on your stupid, Bush-defendin', intelligent design-advocatin' blogs this weekend.

Figured I'd get this up quick so if you start flaming my cool-ass blog you wouldn't be greeted with the frightening countenance of Sal The Feist. See, she's an agnostic.

You guys would run to Bush's defense if he started cooking and serving black children down at his "ranch", wouldn't you? What the fuck is it with you people?

You know, until your assboy got into the White House I was pretty much apolitical. Or, better said, I didn't think either of the two parties was worth a god damn. But this guy? This guy? Come ON.

You and I both know that this little war of words is just about over. It's going to the streets next. You know that. And I know you fucking bowhunters have the guns, god knows, but we've got the numbers. Contrary to what your stolen election(s) would indicate.

So fuck you and bring it on. I've had it with you ignorant cocksuckers and the sooner I face you across a god damn field the better. You're all pussies anyway, with your faggot contemplative poses and your stocks and your glasses. Acting all civil and contemplative while the things you say and the things you write belong in glass cases in the American Museum Of Shit. And your peabrained henchmen- the ones you got all worked up with the Morals thing. Jesus Christ. Look at you. You're in such a fucking hurry to stuff the whole universe into your pieholes, the sooner you're fucking mulch the better for everyone.

I can't think of one instance in history where one bunch of rich, lying, venal assholes have fucked a country in the ass with such finality. Congrats.

I'll see you at fucking Antietam.

"What I'm hearing which is sort of scary is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality. And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this -- this (she chuckles slightly) is working very well for them."
--Barbara Bush (NPR, 9/05/2005)

Fishin' With The Feist

Nasty, mangy, mean, pushy, bossy, filthy little feist.
Nasty little piece of work. Tough little customer. A mean, pushy, mangy, worm-rolling little feist. A flea-bitten, wall-hugging, rug-running little snit of a dog.

A smelly little rat of a dog. A pushy little Napoleon of a dog.

And don't think I'm badmouthing her either. This is the sort of talk that Sal the Feist loves. This is the kind of dog that revels in a mean, pushy, dirty reputation. That's just how this rotten, mean, fleabitten little dog is. This is the kind of dog that, if you hug her just wrong she'll growl at you and if you do it again god damn bet she's going to sink her teeth into your nose. Fucking with Sal The Feist is definitely not on the To Do list, man. And god, the breath. The breath. Like a hot, pungent putrescence. Like a fetid distillation of pure rottenness.

Don't get sentimental around Sal The Feist. Not around this tough little customer. This is the kind of flea-bitten little rodent you want to steer well clear of.

Lori adds adds a small exposition of this little rat:

With Sal the Feist, it's all about "Dogs" (i.e., Sal the Feist). In her little mind, it's all about her.

Dogs Food
Dogs Water
Dogs Toys
Dogs Sun Spot
Dogs Bed (it's king)
Dogs Yard
Dogs Boys
Dogs Dads
Dogs Moms
Dogs ________ (fill in the blank)

Dogs! Dogs! Dogs! And should you ever forget, she threatens that she'll make a phone call to "DogsDogsDogs" her attorney. We're afraid to push our luck but in the back of our minds, we're confident that she'll retract her complaints.

You say she's ?pushy?. Pushy? That's the understatement of the year. She's an absolute mess! She gets upset when you walk out the door. She gets upset when you close a door on her but even more when you hold it open for her to follow you through. She growls, barks, and jumps in an attempt to nip you in the rear. Usually connecting!

She chases the cat up the stairs and isn't satisfied until he's back in the bedroom he came from.

With a little lift of her lip, she causes a 90lbs Golden Retriever to drop and cover.

From under the bed covers you'll hear a growl when you move her aside because she?s taking up 2/3 of the bed.

It's gotten to the point that we cannot say ?chipmunk? because she became obsessed with one living in our rock wall. We?d have to pick her up and carry her into the wooded area so she would do her business.

Heaven forbid, two people should sit side by side (let alone smooch)! She worms her way in. She'll fight and grunt and growl until she's in between what ever is going on. If, while snuggling, you want privacy, you'll first have to go through the battle of closing the door in her face.

I realize that she sounds "tough" but let me tell you this. She's a spoiled rotten little snit.

She will only eat while standing on carpet. She'll take a mouth full from her bowl and carry it to a rug, drop it and then eat.

She gets embarrassed (ears flat back on her head) when Wilson (Golden Retriever) sees her getting a bath in the kitchen sink.

She slinks around when you catch her sleeping when she should have been protecting the house.

She also thinks it's her job to help discipline the boys. She always manages to get her two cents in if one of them is being sent to his room. She'll stand at the bottom of the stairs and bark at them.

I Forgot My Shirt At The Water's Edge

I listen to "Nightswimming" by REM when I say goodbye to summer. I only listen to it that once so I will never associate it with anything else. It's a beautiful, beautiful song, the last good REM song on the last good REM album.

Tonight I was driving home through the dark fields of Granby, up the 202 from Springfield where I played a fill-in The Chalet with The Memories. This is a great band to sub in for because they're old cats and they play the old way. It's all Stax soul and doo-wop and all the songs fit together like exquisitely engineered puzzles the way songs used to be. If you've got a head on your shoulders and you know how to think and how to let your fingers do the work you've got it made. First time I played with these guys it was out of the blue; I just stepped in and did 4 sets with them- that's 60 songs, compadre, at least 30 of which I'd never heard. "Cara Mia", "Bring It On Home", "Wonderland By Night", "Little Darling", "Get A Job", all that.

It's great, great music and the crowd is older and they know how to listen to music the right way. The old way. And they dance the old way and they're incredibly civil and gracious and you close your eyes and you're on a Stax package tour playing a ballroom in Sylacauga AL in 1962. And at the end of the night you don't feel like you've run a marathon and your throat doesn't feel like you ate poison ivy.

And I drove home and I've had "Automatic For The People" in the glovebox because I knew summer was going to end this weekend but I didn't know exactly when. And it was tonight at 1:30 AM. And I put on "Nightswimming" and I thought about this summer and I played back some highlights and lowlights. And I started thinking about summer when I was a kid and how it was sort of exciting to have it end because you'd be going back to school with all the attendant drama. When you're old it's the same god damn routine but colder.

I haven't enjoyed being an adult. I'm uneasy with it. It's not a natural fit. I do enjoy being a composer with 23 years of experience in the field under my belt and feeling like I'm actually hitting a stride of sorts. The novelty of being called "Mr." and all that was fun for a few years but for the most part it's just a fuckin' bringdown. I don't like realizing that grownups are kind of stupid when you always thought you'd enter this world of fascination and power and intrigue. I mean, look at the fucking retard who runs the country. There's nothing to admire. Grownups are just children who attach value to the stupidest god damn things. For the most part they don't seem to learn their lessons and they sure as shit don't have any sort of corner on the wisdom market. No sir. They're like teenagers with too much money. Buying all this crap and bowing and scraping in front of it.

Summer you get to be a kid here and there for a minute or two. I don't like saying goodbye to it anymore. I think about what I want out of the next 9 months and I just want another summer. I want to know I'll get another summer. I don't care if I spend it being a tedious adult. I just want it. I want to drive through the fields of Granby and be like, "I don't have to pull out 'Nightswimming' for another two months".

I used to want to rule the universe. Now I just want to know I'll get another summer. I just want to know I'll be able to keep my fingernails dug into the mountainside for another year. I know nothing amazing is going to happen anymore. Another few years and I think I'll learn how to live with that. All the other grownups just seem fine with it. Oxen driving a millstone. Round and round. Or maybe I'm just saying what we all feel like and I look like an ox to you. I don't know.

You can't live through your children, people. You have to stay and be present and be interesting. We owe that to each other. A little makeup, a few new books. Some half court, you know? I don't want to hear about your children, O.K.? I want to hear about you. When I want to catch up on your kids I'll ask your kids. Can't you just be sleek and smart and sexy a little? Do you have to be so transparent and so driven to acquire? Why let yourself go to seed and be all worked up about crappy vehicles and cruddy property? Or at least don't judge me because I'm not? Yeah, I know I'm a kook. A kooky loon. An immature kooky loon. I just wanted to keep it interesting. I'm grappling with it. I don't know really how to be but I know it can't be anything that's based on appearances, on any concern over being judged.

Old people I get. They're like a woman who's been through a marriage or two. They don't expect you to solve their problems; they just want a decent conversation. Some laughs. To be surprised. Old people I get. The rich ones are sort of twats, but hey, rich people of any age are tiresome twats. You don't get rich by being generous of spirit or blessed with charm. You get rich by keeping your cards close to your chest and keeping an eye on your fucking stack. The art of accumulating wealth is uncreative and artless. Creativity is a natural human state; it's the purpose of creation. Creation. Take air and turn it into sound. Take dirt and turn it into flatware. Take shit and turn it into a garden. Turn it into food. That's alchemy for you, friends.

Taking money and turning it into more money is like turning air into more air. Turning dirt into more dirt. Shit into more shit. It's unalchemical. It's not for the world. It's not for anyone but you and your stupid brood. That's no way to live or contribute. It's like buying an SUV because you and your stupid brood will survive a crash better. What about the other vehicle? You don't care? You actually don't care?

That's what I'll do with the next 9 months. I'll make more pretty. More pretty for the world.
I'll make something that someone else can use someday to say goodbye to summer. Why is sad so beautiful?

Pain is a treasure
For it's all we have to gauge our pleasure by.

Ain't that a fuckin' fact.

Goodbye, summer.