A Bit Of The Old Ludwig Van

In a park in New Britain did Soulfinger brosay some warblies into th' warm summer morning yesterday. It was a horrorshow shoom indeed and right gromky, what with the music bouncing off buildings; verily it scratched an itch in th' zoobies.

I did the first verse of "What's Going On" with just the old goloss and Rhodes and it was compelling to me given the fucking craven, grazzy mess our world currently is. It boils th' kruvvy.

Alas the sun was not my droog after the second hour; I found myself dratsing against the heat, sweating as fast as I could peet water. I must have drunk more than a gallon but I never once had to piss so skorry was it bursting out of my skin. Once I got home through 2+ hours of traffic I was useless for anything th' rest of the day and pretty much just wilted away around 9.

I need some endurance fast. It's not quite the four hours of pirrhuetting that kills me as it is the combination of that and throwing up the entire PA and breaking it down. I'm such a paragon of self-destruction that I even exercise unhealthily; summer is basketball season so we're talking an hour or more of brutal halfcourt in th' swelter. I don't exercise quite so much as make sure I can still take a beating. That's my measure of health.

It's like when I got my vocal nodules and started doing therapy with the emminent Lis Lewis in th' city of angels. She was trying to ascertain all the things I was doing wrong and asked how I warmed up for a show. I told her I usually liked to have a couple drinks and you know, have a giggle, and then put on "Physical Graffiti" in th' car and enjoy some wholesome cigarettes and make sure I could hit all th' notes on "Immigrant Song".

I was not the most difficult case.

Sorry I stopped with th' Clockwork Orange shit. I forgot.