What someone doesn't post about will tell you more about them than what they do. Post. About.

All Growed Up

Seven years since I was on th' charts.

Six years since my last long tour.

Three years since I've seen LA.

Six years since I've signed an autograph.

Six years since I've signed a contract.

Five years since those Hollywood gigs.

Five years since I've seen Dave Navarro and Scott Wieland.

Ten years since I've known it was over.

Two years since I started making good music.

Three years since It Came To Me.

So Yeah If You Read My "Long May You Run" post you should ckeck it out again because I put in this god damn story about Death on th' Hollywood 101.

Just a Friendly Reminder

Those four things over there under "Streaming Bobby Put Up Or Shut Up" are lovely songs for you.

From his Orangeness.

NEDDIE COME BACK

Christ, my statcounter well-nigh hit 350. Christ.

It's like when they wanted us to have Rob Thomas on our goddamn single.

Not to compare Ned to Rob Thomas, of course. Rob Thomas has a micropenis.

I've heard.

Long May You Run

Goodbye, '94 Saturn SL. You were my best car ever. You were the best 850 bucks I ever spent. You were a callow child when you entered my life at 140,000 and you've grown into a sage and fearless companion at 270,000. Babe, if I could dream of getting you through Emmisions we'd rack up another 100K together, but it ain't gonna be. You need rings, babe. Rings and seals and all that. I wanted you to see 300,000 but I understand if you don't feel the same. I know you don't want to fuck up the environment, burning oil and all that. That wouldn't be you.

I know you're tired, babe. I know you want a dirt nap and I'm going to give you one. They're going to make you into a shiny new zippo. Oh, wait- there isn't enough metal in you for a zippo.

A bic, babe. You'll make some chokin' smoker happy. A beautiful, chartreuse bic.

I remember my first car that my ma gave me when she got a new one. That one rocked too. That was an asskicking li'l sideways engine rice burner of the highest order. Th' '87 Mazda 323. Only wheels I've had younger'n 100K. I think she was pinnin' 90. My first car, baby. And she packed it in one day on th' 5 South in Del Mar in '98 and that was all she wrote and I was a little heartbroken. A little verklempt. But she was nudging 2 Large by then, man. It's a lot to ask of a little lady. Lightfoot miles.

She saved my life once, man. Coming down the Hollywood 101 one fucking night after a gig in Tahoe. Me and ratface there, th' guitarist. I forget his name. And a goddamn bucket load of gear. Jesus.

When you're coming south like that it means you've just driven The Grapevine. If you've ever driven the Grapevine north of LA you know what a mean, haunted, scary little motherfucking event that is. It's a smoggy, dark, bleak stretch of overheat city. Long, long, long climbs and drops and trucks pulled over everywhere and that horrible, sickly reek of hot transmission. Always the same, man. Who came up with that polesmoking little piece of Vehicular Bermuda Triangle? Some ASSHOLE.

So we and the Mazda are all a little weary coming down that 101 which is a god damn concrete tunnel of doom through th' middle of Hollywood movin', oh, usually around fucking 80. Jesus Christ.

This white truck (SUV?) two lanes over blows a tire. I see it and then I see the headlights slowly getting brighter and the fucker's slowly, slowly going sideways and cutting into the middle lane. And then it starts to close in on gravity, going a good 75 MPH. fixing to roll sideways down the god damn forsaken 101. Bumper to bumper and fast, man. Fast as shit through a...a...fast.

So I see those lights pointing almost at me and I drop out of fifth into fourth and I just floor that little fucker. ZAMM! It's like Luke ditching the fuckin' Death Star. BLAZE up onto the guy in front of me and cut into the middle lane and just leave. We get clear by a god damn foot and that big white fucker starts rolling sideways down the 101 at 75 miles an hour. Crashing and roaring and screaming and taking out cars like BOWLING PINS and it's in the rearview and it looks like a fucking Spielberg movie, the death, the horrible, sudden death that's happening.

And what's his name is like do you think anybody died? And I'm like, yes, yes. People died. Various people died there on the 101 under Cahuenga. Yeah. It wasn't our Time, man. It wasn't our Time.

Man, I guess it just wasn't our Time.

And we sat on the curb outside a Denny's in fucking La Mirada and just shook and just thought about it and about what it meant, that it wasn't our Time. It was so LOUD and big and FIERY and the only difference between us and people that died was like 3 seconds. 3 polesmoking seconds.

When's the day I'm going to be on the other side of those three seconds? Is it tomorrow? Is it?

So anyway, th' blue 323 cashed it in on the 5 in Del Mar and I had it towed to my garage where it was pronounced Dead On Arrival. Yeah, it blew the head gasket pretty good. It happens. Smoking coolant belching out the exhaust, the whole ugly ordeal. Ugly. When something dies like that, like a ruined beast. But it happens. Three seconds, man. I'm telling you. Fuck, is my eyelid god damn spasming. I hate that crap. Knock it the fuck off or I'll tear you out.

Anyway. I'm a little down about losing my girl and I go back to give them the title for the junkyard th' next day and this Mexican dude is back in one of the bays with her and he's got the engine all apart. He's like, my daughter's going to college and she's going to need a car. I'm going to redo the engine for her.

That was fucking great. That was like having your dog get waxed by a car but it only turns out he's going to live with this other really great loving family over in Westfield or some shit.

ANYWAY: My dear little '94 Saturn SL1 Single Overhead Cam 1-point-six:

You rocked, babe. I hope you enjoyed the new clutch and the new fuel pump and the alternator. And th' EGR valve. Hope you felt brand new. Because you never let me down. The one and only time you crapped out was a mile from home. I love you for that. But you know that. You know how I feel about you. I love you. You were everything a brokeass musician could ever dream of in a car.

I'll never forget you. I really mean that. You were my best friend out there in the dark and the cold. All those gigs. All those gigs. Man, we made a lot of cash that didn't come from The Man together, you and I. 1 buck that is Man-free is worth 5 Manbucks. Everybody fucking knows that. I love making non-Manmoney. And I loved doing it with you. We provided a service together, you and I, and the service was Swerve. Helping all those good, honest folk get their swerve on from New York to Maine. Swerve, baby.

Long may you run.

By Way of Explanation

Neddie Jingo guest-blogs while Bobby's Off Making a Living


Bobby checks his look before another gig with Soulfinger

While Bobby is off touring with his little band of indolent musical Negroes, he's asked me to pop in here and clear up an outstanding bit of business.

Pungent and salient in his prose, Bobby occasionally employs terminology and jargon that may float, uncomprehended, over the head of the casual reader, leaving that reader befoozled and bambuggled.

One rather mystifying designation Bobby often serves up is the historically resonant yet today little comprehended term polesmoker.

It is to be hoped that with some patient coaching and didactical skill, we might elucidate a trifle of Lightfootiana for the Two or Three Gathered....

The systematic persecution of the people of Eastern Europe began considerably earlier than most historians would suggest. While the depredations of the Hunnish invasions of the Dark Ages are well known to history, it is less well known that even the ancient Cretans -- a people notoriously prone to cannibalism -- harbored a fondness for the ample, well-marbled flesh of the primitive peoples to their north. Cretan cookery leaned heavily on the slow cooking of meats over persistent fires, and to this practice were subjected prisoners captured in forays that ranged as far afield as modern Krakow. One scrap of the mysterious Liner B script, found on a Cretan privy wall, is thought to make reference to the practice: It is alternately interpreted as the bold political satire, "King Minos is a butt-pirate" or the (for our purposes more interesting) "King Minos smokes Poles." Linguistic scholarship has yet to go down on one side or the other.

Imperial Rome, its evermore decadent search for delicacies leading to larks' tongues and spiced Nubian slave-nipples being sold as delicacies at sporting events in the Colosseum, leaves us many references to the smoking of exotic imported meats, including human flesh brought at great expense from Germania. Livy refers to the custom in typically laconic fashion: "The multitudes feast upon the flesh of the goat and the pig; while Senators Invasor Gentrificatus and Buttox Steatopygus delight in the mutually proffered smoked Pole." Little is known of these Senators, but it is still possible today to see, in the Colosseum, the rooms where the smoking of Poles took place -- known as fumatoria -- usually, for some strange reason, connected to the mens' bathing rooms.

The smoking and consumption of imported human flesh from east of Berlin was well known in Elizabethan times, and was indeed so distressingly popular that Queen Elizabeth herself was moved to inveigh against it in her Christmas address in 1598. This appears to have moved William Shakespeare to allude to the scolding in The Rape of Lucrece:

The time of this, and this to be thy time, behold:
This shall not be the time as time to this foretold
But thou cans't be to this thy name most bold:
To succour he that hast most truly smoked thy Pole.

Isn't that lovely? So poetic!

So I hope that this little historical elucidation has been of some value to you as you interpret Bobby's commentary on current events. Next week, if Bobby will have me back, I'd like to regale you with a rather ribald anecdote involving Sir Francis Drake, an amorous Spanish grandee in Valparaiso, and a tub of mangosteens, as I explain the origin of the Lightfootian term, Felcheteer. Foreshadowing: Bucanero --> Buccaneer; Felchetero --> Felcheteer.