I don't know much of anything.

If the rain fell on me, I wouldn't mind.
If the fog rolled in and swallowed me, I'd disappear into nothingness.
Here today, gone tomorrow.
I can sit by my window, at night, with a candle on the sill.
I can gaze at the stars until I'm lost.
Mesmerized. Mind-boggled.
In awe.

I can walk through the woods alone.
I can sit quietly and let it all happen.
I can sense the magic. The sadness. The wisps of eternity.
If it ends tonight, it ends tonight.
So be it.

Fire is cleansing. Smoke is sacred.
I want to go out on a pyre, like Hindus do, although I'm a nonbeliever.
Order is a human imposition.
Time is an affliction.
Paint me in ash and release me.

I've been sad my whole life.
I've been restrained - inwardly and outwardly.
I was beaten down and strapped to a plow.
When my turn comes to fly, let me go.

My father wanted peaches the night he died.
My sister brought some over.
I never knew that, until today.
I guess I don't know much of anything.
In fact, I'm sure of it.

My downfall continues, unabated. Accelerating, even.

I'm seriously considering packing it all in. My life no longer makes any sense.
Before 8 o'clock this morning, I was cussed at by one man and fired by another.
I don't have a job. To say that this came out of the blue is an understatement. My (ex) boss said he was sorry and that he knew that it seemed as if he had lied to me last week, when he told me not to worry, that he wasn't going to let me go. Well, guess what? He did lie.
I was handed a check for $300. That's what I'm worth. $300.
I worked so hard. I went in early. I tried my best to get along with the asshole I worked with. He's a snake, but hey, I've got to hand it to him - he won out.

I think I've had an epiphany: There is no order to the universe. It's all chaos.

"Father Christmas, gimme some money..."

 

"In the midnight hour, she cried Ho, Ho, Ho..."

I usually put my Christmas tree up the Saturday after Thanksgiving. My mom used to say - and I agree - "Get one holiday out of the way before you start on another."
There was a time when I wouldn't be caught dead with a fake tree. Until a few years ago, I ALWAYS had a real tree. But now, well, what's the point? I'm alone, the trees are a mess, and they're expensive - then you just throw it away after New Year's day. (You have to leave your tree up until the new year. It's good luck.)
So, last night I pulled my sad, white, plastic tree out of the closet and put the Chet Atkins Christmas album on. That's been a tradition in my home since I was born. Chet always gets played first. Then, it was on to "Rebel Yell," by Billy Idol. Yep, oddly enough, I always play that CD - loudly - when I put my tree up. It started in the 80s: I wanted to hear the new album I'd just purchased, while I hung the garland. It's been an unconventional tradition ever since.

 

Let's go to church!

From the time of my birth, until the age of 14, my mom took me to the church just down the road. She didn't have a driver's license, my dad always worked on Sundays and we only had the one car, anyway - so, unless my uncle stopped and gave us a ride, we would walk.
This was an uptight, white-bread Baptist church. People spoke in hushed tones. If the preacher was preaching and one of the deacons said "Amen," folks would stare at him. Once, we had a group of 4 teenagers, from another church, come sing for us. One of the girls began to sway to the music. Afterwards, I overheard an old woman comment, "Did you see that girl? I thought she was gonna start dancing!"
When I was 14, right before my dad died, my sister and her husband started going to a Nondenominational, "holy roller" church - across the river. Soon, my other sister and her husband began attending. Then my mom and I started to go. Pretty soon, both of my brothers in law's families began going there. It was like a movement. It spread like wild fire.
The Nondenominational church held its services in a run down recreation center in the projects. It was a diverse crowd - consisting of the old, the crippled, the mentally challenged, the blind, children, drunks, drug addicts and even a gay guy, who wore clogs to church. While the preacher sweat, paced frantically, pounded his bible and turned red in the face, the congregation would sing, cry, shout, speak in tongues, jump, run up and down the aisles and fall out on the floor. Everything short of handling snakes. It was culture shock to me.
I do have some good memories of going there, though. For one thing, I began to date the preacher's daughter. She wasn't the brightest girl in the world, but she was cute and extremely sweet. I still remember her fondly. Another unforgettable thing for me was seeing my mom, for the first time, playing guitar and singing - in front of the whole church! I had never seen her do anything like that. She was so confident. It was shocking and I developed a whole new respect for her. Later, my sisters got into the act and I began to play with them. It was an invaluable first experience of playing in front of an audience.

Just a dream...

I'm walking through a grimy back alley-way, somewhere, and I spot a row of dumpsters. In front of one dumpster is a dead lion. In front of the next, a dead tiger. The next, a dead leopard. In front of the last one, there lies a decapitated man. His head is next to his body. All of the bodies seem to have been there for, at least, a couple of days. I'm wondering to myself, "Why isn't this on the news? Why isn't someone investigating this?"
Now I'm in a sort of seaside pub/restaurant. It's rather small and crowded. People are eating and drinking. I'm sitting on a kind of L-shaped couch that's built into the wall. There are groups of tables and chairs throughout the rest of the area. The couch is full. My mom is there. We occupy the 2 corner spots. I hear a man begin to sing. He's seated on the long couch, also. There are 3 or 4 people between me and him. I recognize his voice immediately. He's singing "Easy Street." It's Edgar Winter.
Edgar Winter, in my mind, is Rock Royalty. I actually have his autograph. He's one of my vocal heroes, but I'm worried that no one else will know who he is. I nudge my mom and say, "That's Edgar Winter. He's one of my all time favorite singers." At this point, I notice my friend Rick, sitting at one of the tables. He's looking at Edgar, smiling and nodding his head in time to the song. I think to myself that he only knows this song because David Lee Roth covered it on his "Crazy from the Heat" album.
Although slightly drunk (I think he's actually a non drinking vegetarian), Edgar sounds terrific - but he stops in the middle of the song and begins to talk. Now, Edgar is a Texan, but in my dream, he has an English accent. He proceeds to ramble on about some perceived wrong-doing by someone in the music biz. He produces a comic book and passes it around as some sort of evidence. He's very bitter.
Edgar Winter, in real life, is a Scientologist. Say what you will about those folks, but they all seem to be very positive people and are usually rather successful. Go to his website and check him out. He seems like a great guy.
A small, animated, girl steps out of the crowd. It's Lisa Simpson. Lisa begins to pace back and forth in front of Edgar and questions him, like an attorney. She's trying to make a point. She's trying to get him to see that things aren't so bad and he should just let his grievances go.
Maybe that's the point of this dream.
Oh, who am I kidding? This shit is bananas.

 

Fantastic realities. Realistic fantasies.

I don't want to be part of someone's fantasy. I don't want my function in a relationship diminished in that way. Fantasy has a place. It's a release valve, of a sort. I have fantasies of my own, but I don't feel the need to drag anyone else into them. What I do wish someone would participate in is my reality. I guess that takes too much courage. Or, maybe my reality is too god-awfully drab and dismal - or just down right bizarre - for someone to attach himself to.
I'm an artist. I have a head full of whimsy - bright and colorful. I also know the Horror of Being. There's a dark and murky side to my dreams. Even so, I like the day in and day out. I like getting up, going to bed, taking care of chores and living life.
After putting all of the drugs and alcohol behind me, I can remember how it felt to suddenly be straight. I felt altered, like I was on something.
Reality is a drug. Turn on.

Long misty day. (Add an "s" and it's a great Robin Trower song and album title.)

I ate entirely too much today. Then I lounged around and watched movies ("Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" and "Labyrinth"). Eventually, I decided I needed to get out of the house.
I went down town and walked around a bit. It was cloudy, gray and rainy and the streets were nearly empty. All of the shops were closed. There was ample parking - an unheard of thing for the down town area. Actually, it was kinda nice. Cool, but not cold. I wish I had brought my camera. I always forget my camera.
I'm dreading going back to work tomorrow. Why do I have to be made to feel this way? Why does my boss continue to let me be treated badly? I feel like a guy in one of those movies where he wakes up one day and his life has been turned upside down, but no one else seems to notice. People around him begin to think he's nutty and, as time goes by, he too begins to doubt his own sanity.
Everyone says to hang in there, but god, I'm getting weary.

Thank you, Jeebus! I have Internet connection!

I have been without Internet connection or cable since 9:00 yesterday morning. I felt like a junkie trying to get online. In a brief moment of connectivity, I managed to squeeze out the last post. Then the TV, which had been barely discernible and very fuzzy, went out altogether and I had no Internet again.
I saw a truck in my neighbor's yard and began to have hope. I didn't think anyone was going to come out on Thanksgiving day to work on the cable. Then I realized that this is probably one of the biggest TV days of the year. I'm sure there were a lot of irate sports fans calling in.
One reason I was upset about not being able to go online is that I had a horrible day at work yesterday and I needed to be able to vent. That guy on my crew who has been causing so much dissension went ballistic. I could feel my heart pounding and I thought to myself, this is stupid, I'm outta here. I don't know what's going to happen when I go back Friday.
At least I can blog and surf the web, now. Phew!

Happy Throgsgafen!!

"Throgsgafen" is the "Old Low Norse" equivalent of our Thanksgiving, sort of. It's actually a week long celebration of food, drink, sex and excess in general, culminating on Throgsgafen day.
Of course, none of this is real. It all comes from the mind of writer John Irving. It's in his book "The Water Method Man." (See earlier post.)
Happy Throgsgafen, everyone!

The last Rolling Stones tour...

In one of my rambling dreams last night - the type I've been having since I started my newest meds - I was at a Rolling Stones concert. What made this extra weird was that Paul Simon - who seemed like a composite of Paul, John Denver and Cat Stevens - was opening. And, it was being held in what seemed like a high school cafeteria. Also, I had a strong impression that this was the last Stones tour ever.
Due to the small space, we (my friend Chuck was with me) were very close to the stage and seated in the type of chairs you would find in a cafeteria.
At one point, during Paul's set, some kids (there were lots of kids there, for some reason) walked in front of the stage on their way to the concession stand, or the rest rooms. This angered Paul and he began making up a song about rude kids.
I had brought a guitar with me (?) and at one point, during the opening set, Mick Jagger, who was just milling about, said he would sign it for me. A girl sitting next to me, shoved a tin lid, of some kind, under my nose. I pushed her hand away. The lid contained some sort of granular drug that I was supposed to snort. "No thanks" I said.
Boy, that Paul/John/Cat guy was a jerk!

The Dull Glow of One's Veneer.

When I'm alone and lonely, I crave the love of another human. Someone who will stick by my side, to the bitter end. When I'm with someone, when we're talking and having a lovely time, I treasure my independence - even if they're perfectly sweet and smart.
It could be that I just haven't met THE ONE, if you can believe in such a thing.

I bought some prune juice today. I read labels and everything. Made an informed decision.

I'm listening to Brian Eno's "Apollo (Atmospheres and Landscapes)." I don't have this one on CD, so, even though I love it, I don't play it as often as some of the others. Daniel Lanois and Roger Eno accompany him.

I don't know about that prune juice. Something told me that I needed some in my diet - and it's got lots of potassium - but, I just had a swig and...well, maybe I need to get it really cold. Yeah, that might help.

So, walking and sitting and talking on a beach, at night, in November - a rather pleasant night in November - is a fine thing indeed, in and of itself. A big, bright, nearly full, moon is an added treat. Nothing new to report, though. My views, your views. My problems and yours. Let's pass some time, maybe hold hands, and not hurt each other, ourselves, or anybody else. In our modern existence, this is considered a top notch evening. All you could ever realistically hope for.

It's in the low 70s today. Sunday. I have on a tee shirt and some shorts. No shoes.
I have several good DVDs I haven't watched yet. I bought something good to eat. It's very quiet here. Only the dreamy sounds of Eno, on vinyl.
I'm burning incense, in a home-made burner I constructed. Well, I drilled a hole in a fish-shaped bottle that once contained a Liebfraumilch. It was the first bottle of wine my ex wife and I bought together, right after we got married. In another life-time.
The incense is some kind of dark eastern spice. I love the spice scents, but I have a special place in my heart for strawberry. That was the first incense I ever smelled. And bought.

People live in fantasy worlds today. Maybe they always have. I dunno. There doesn't seem to be any foundation to their desires. No infrastructure. There's a big, gaping, hole at the center of their "realities" - and a flimsy facade that projects all they have to offer. Scratch for instant disappointment. Or, harden yourself and expect the worst. Or, the least. Or, nothing at all.

I'm often made to feel ridiculous for being passionate. It used to be considered noble. Poetry and literature and art and music were higher callings. Not anymore. Now it's all commodified wall paper. The dull glow of one's veneer.

I think most people are emotional cowards.

Obsessions. The Water Method Man.

This is the first John Irving book I ever read - and, probably my introduction to the "modern" novel. Up until then, I had been reading mostly classics. I wish I still had my original copy. The cover had a rendering of "Bogus" Trumper, with a Viking style helmet on and photo lenses for glasses. Much cooler. Makes perfect sense, if you read the book. I loaned that copy to a friend, back in the 80s. She, in turn, loaned me Saul Bellow's "Herzog." We never traded back, but, at least, I was introduced to Bellow.
The back cover of that original copy had a blurb which said something like, "His complaint was much worse than Portnoy's. Portnoy didn't have to drink all that water..." And that's how I became aware of Phillip Roth.
Anyway... I love the characters in this book. I've kept re-reading it over the years (it's about time to read it again). And, even though I've read all of Irving's novels, this one is still my favorite.
I once loaned a copy of "The Water Method Man" to my best friend Chuck. He was in an auto accident, in which he flipped his car in a ditch. Luckily, he survived. The book, which was in his car, was soaked with ditch water. He gave it back to me, with the pages all swollen. I still have it. (And him.)

 

Brrrrr!

Judas H. Christmas, I'm cold this morning!
I don't think many people could survive in this drafty old house of mine. My fingers are so frigid I can hardly type. It's suppose to warm up to 70 today, but it's kinda hard to imagine that, right now. I was thinking about going to the flea market, but jeez, I might have to wait a bit.
God, I hate cold weather! I wish I was lying on a tropical beach, somewhere.

Obsessions. Leonardo da Vinci.

Leonardo da Vinci, the Universal Genius: Painter, inventor, engineer, scientist, musician. He was said to have been extremely strong, good looking and a great dancer. Some believe he was bisexual or gay. In fact, someone, using computer imaging, superimposed one of Leonardo's self portraits on the Mona Lisa and they lined up perfectly - thereby suggesting it was actually a self portrait in drag!
I have been fascinated by Leonardo since I was about 10. I loved all of the Renaissance artists when I was a kid, but Leonardo was - and still is - my hero.
(I'm not even going to mention that stupid book and movie...)

 

Obsessions. David Bowie.

I love Bowie! From Folkie to Ziggy to Blue (and green) Eyed Soul Man to Thin White Duke to Top 40 "Let's Dance" Superstar to the well adjusted artist he is today - I love it all. If I was forced, at gun point, to choose only one of his albums to take to a desert island, it would have to be "Diamond Dogs."
God, what a decision!
(Photo by Mick Rock, of course.)

 

Obsessions. Andy Warhol.

I don't know why, exactly, but I've been obsessed with Andy, the Velvets and the whole Factory thing for a very long time. I still have a soup can trash can I got when I was 9 or 10. I've often dreamed of my own Factory type situation, where talented people met and interacted.
I will often pick up "The Andy Warhol Diaries," say to myself, "Let's see what Andy's doing," and open it up to a random page. I just keep reading that thing, over and over.
This picture comes from a beautiful book of photos by Stephen Shore, called "The Velvet Years."

 

The Slow Slide. (New song.)

I'm outside of society
I don't have much of a role
I'm not doing what I should be doing
I just do what I'm told.

Talk about lonely
Man, you don't have a clue
To know what it feels like when you look in the other direction
When I look at you.

(Can't you give a nod to a brother on his way down?)

I haven't talked to anybody all day
Just doin' the slow slide...

Love, what's love?
Are you tryin' to make a joke?
Love is just not in the cards for me
That's all gone up in smoke.

I feel like a pariah
It didn't use to be this way
I was the life of the party
Now, nobody cares what I have to say.

(Is it too much to just acknowledge a brother on his way down?)

I haven't talked to anybody all day
Just doin' the slow slide...

Misery loves company
I've heard that one before
But, I sure don't have no company
Banging on my door.

I don't think I'm a bad guy
In fact, I think I'm as good as you
But, being pushed to the margins
Has left me permanently blue.

(Just a little affirmation that this brother exists...that's all I'm asking for...)

I haven't talked to anybody all week
Just doin' the slow slide...

Obsessions. Marc Bolan / T.Rex. (First in a series.)

I always say, (as, I'm sure, my ex wife and my best friend Chuck will tell you) "A day without T.Rex is like a day without sunshine."
Marc was killed in an auto accident, the day after my 17th birthday, 1977. He lives on in my heart.

 

Nothing for Granted.

Things have changed.
My mindset has altered.
My world view has morphed.
I don't take anything for granted, anymore.

I haven't had fun in years.
Everything is tinged with a somberness.
But, am I happy to be alive?
You betcha! I'm thrilled.

I experience life now with a sense of grandeur.
Or absurdity.
Or inconsequentiality.
It's everything and nothing, at the same time. (The Tao Te Ching makes a lot more sense to me, now.)

I long to see Europe, N.Y.C., California.
I can't see myself taking a long trip now.
I can't see myself being in love, again.
I can't imagine myself ever being successful at anything.

As Bogus Trumper's friend Couth once said, I am "just a Living Man."
(Google Bogus. Read the book.)

I love strawberries. And the beach.
Art still excites me.
And, of course, music.
How could I not have a strong bond with something that has kept me from doing myself in, over the years?
Listen to Lou Reed's "Berlin." Or not.

I want to make a film.
"Death Metal Luv Juice!"
I wonder if my friend Gerg Notlimah is still alive.
If he's still living in a bedroom in his mother's house, with blankets nailed up over the windows.
Is he still a Knight of the Rosy Cross?

Things have changed.
I don't take anything for granted, anymore.

Hello. (Checking in.)

I'm tired, tired, tired. I've had a pretty good week at work, but thank goodness tomorrow is Friday.
I've been feeling good, except for one (relatively) minor thing on the way home today. I had the radio on and I was singing along with Tom Petty. We were running down a dream (he was singing with Del Shannon). Toward the end of the song, I had a VT incident. It was more than a "hiccup," but it wasn't huge. The aftermath lasted about 10 minutes.
These things jump up from time to time, as if my heart is saying "Hey, remember me? I'm not healthy." The weird thing about my condition is, other than taking my meds, there's not really anything I can do to improve things. I just try to keep going.
When my time comes, I'll just drop out. Boom. Oh well, when it comes it comes.
Vivre sa vie!

Non Sequitur

Again, I don't know the cartoonist's name. Check it out at wileyinkearthlink.net.

 

TrashLands

I don't know the cartoonist's name, but the web address is trashlands.com. This was published soon after Ingmar Bergman's death, and, of course, it's referencing "The Seventh Seal". I thought this was kinda cute, even though Ingmar was misspelled. It made me think about blogging...

 

Clarity.

The shiny, whirling disks flew by
I ducked and weaved and watched them go
I sensed a wave of calm just then
And settled into clarity.

The rain came down, like holy water
Far holier than I deserved
Exhilarating, in the moment
The possibilities seemed endless.

But shards of glass, ten stories high
Shot up through the christened soil
In High Drama, the sky tore open
and the disks returned, on fire.

Then all the children began a march
Across this tortured land of woe
Thousands, millions, billions of them
Steadily advancing in eerie silence.

I cried out to the heavens above
Send the rain, the holy rain!
But darkness descended upon us all
And the jackals lifted their heads.

I know the rain will come again
The lucid state will have its turn
I only hope I live to see it
And transcend the awful in-be-tween.

Getting mighty nostalgic in my old age.

I've been looking through a box of notes, letters, drawings and pictures. I had to stop. My heart is breaking.
I miss so many people. Some are still living, but others are long gone.
We used to be young. We worked at a stupid steak house, but we had a blast. We made our own fun. I hope that kids are doing that right now, while they're burning the fries somewhere.
Some of the notes were serious. Feelings, etc. Most of them, however, were just silly. I pulled one of them out. I had written on a scrap of steak house paper the following (for some reason):

I'm through preaching to the unconverted. I fellowship with the believers.
Brian Eno was the straw (under baby) that broke (needles in) the camel's (eye) back.

I think if I could snap my fingers and do it again, I would.

BANG BANG BANG!

I'm digging the new song from Mark Ronson and the Business INTL. It has an irresistible beat, some Q-tip toasting and a great all 'round 80s kinda feel.
Mark was Amy Winehouse's producer. An Internet rumor had it that he was the son of Mick Ronson, David Bowie's late, great guitarist. Not true. He IS the step son of Mick Jones, however. Nope, not the one from the Clash, but the one from Foreigner - of all bands.
On Youtube, Melonmovie commented: "This song is epicly (sic) epic in its epicness!"

 

"...when I hear that old song..."

This is one of my favorite songs. Whenever I hear "More Than a Feeling," I'm transported back to a 17 year old kid. I read somewhere that Tom Scholz was trying to write a song like "Just Walk Away Rene." There's even a line that says "I see my Marianne walking away." It would have been really cool if Boston had actually covered The Left Banke. I can hear it in my head.
If I could sing like anyone, I think it would be Brad Delp. Sadly, Brad took his own life in 2007. He left a note which read: "Mr. Brad Delp. Je suis une ame solitare (I am a lonely soul)."

 

Good day.

It's been a long, but good, day. I don't know what happened, but things were different with the guys on my crew. I gave a little and they gave a little. Even though the day ended with me having to call a wrecker to pull our Massey Ferguson tractor out of the lake, we got a lot accomplished. I can't express how much this changes my attitude for the better. Maybe there's hope.
I know I bitch and moan a lot on here, but, as always, when there's something positive to report, I want to make sure I do.
As Letterman used to say: "I'm tired - but it's a good kind of tired."

Mr. Natural's daughter.

As I was driving earlier, I heard an interview, on NPR, with Sophie Crumb and her dad, Robert. They have put together a collection of her art work going back to when she was a child. It's hard to believe that Sophie is all grown up now.
I have admired R. Crumb's work since I was a kid - before I even knew who he was. One of my all time favorite movies is the Terry Zwigoff documentary "Crumb." Sophie was maybe 12 at the time it was filmed. I watch it over and over. I love visiting those people. Siskel & Ebert called it, "A great and astonishing film." I concur.

 

The way it is.

My life is a mess right now. I don't know what's going to happen to me. I think I'm going to have to quit my job and find something else. Everything is up in the air and I have no real money coming in.
I don't know how all of this happened. It has reminded me of how fragile and uncertain life is. One minute you're up and then the next minute you're knocked on your ass, for no particular reason. It all seems to be a series of chaotic events.
I've gotta formulate a plan. I have to make a move. It's not what I wanted or expected - or, perhaps deserved - but it's the way it is.

Bad day.

Today was rough. I forced myself to make it through the day without quitting my job. That would be a very stupid move in this economy. I have to keep telling myself that.
Things are coming to a head, though. I don't think I can survive much longer in my current work environment. After I got sick, everything changed. It felt like the rug was pulled out from under me. All of my years of hard work seem to mean nothing - all of a sudden. I don't understand how this happened. It feels like I'm being punished for being sick.
Normally I would fight, but I'm half the man I used to be. I don't have it in me. And, I don't understand why I should have to fight for my job.
What?! What?! What did I do to deserve this?!

Mouse Lives!

I read the first 6 books in the "Tales of the City" series, then bought the newest one, "Michael Tolliver Lives" - which was published after an 18 year gap. It was so good that, after reading it, I read it again a week later. Shortly thereafter, I re-read all seven books. Not long ago, I re-re-re-read "Michael Tolliver Lives." That's 4 times within a year, or so.
I love these characters.
Armistead Maupin grew up in Raleigh, N.C. and graduated from the University of North Carolina. At some point, of course, he made the fateful move to San Francisco. There are rumors that he is working on an 8th book called, "Mary Ann in Autumn." I can't wait.

 

Omens and fried green tomatoes.

I'm tired, bewildered, disillusioned. I'm worried about me - and someone else. I'm in a period of self doubt. My world has been turned up-side-down, all of the pieces have fallen out, and I'm trying to solve the consequential puzzle. I'm grasping at straws. Trying to make a silk purse - or a gunny sack, for that matter - out of a sow's ear.
Decisions, decisions. I have much to consider.
I'm taking things One Day at a Time, Sweet Jeebus. The signs are against me. They warn me. Generally I'm too stubborn to heed them, but I'm thinking maybe this time I should.
It's difficult to surrender the will. Often, it's all that keeps me from flying apart.
Serenity now!! ("Are you supposed to yell it?" "The man on the tape wasn't specific.")
Tomorrow is another chance for progression - or the erosion may set in. Rust never sleeps with angels.
Isn't it fun? Aren't life's little surprises a hoot?
(I picked green tomatoes today. I heard things I didn't want to hear.)

Herbie Hancock. Head Hunters.

I recently acquired this on CD. I bought the album soon after its release - in 1974, I think. It was, and still may be, the biggest selling Jazz album in history.
I have a habit of putting a CD in my car (no Ipod for me) and playing it over and over, sometimes for a month or two. I'm doing that right now with "Head Hunters."