Saturday, January 28, 2006

Gracelandia World Premiere!

It's once again time for shameless self-promotion. This coming up Thursday and Friday, February 2nd and 3rd, will be the world premiere of the original play Gracelandia, written and directed by me. Curtain will be at 7:00 p.m. both nights in the Aurora High School Auditorium.

The play is about a publicity stunt gone awry. To drum up business, a pathetic Memphis hotel submits a story to the American Enquirer that says that Elvis, who was reincarnated as a dog, told someone at the Gracelandia Hotel that the legendary Elvis Disco Tapes are hidden somewhere in the hotel. People do show up, but all of them are intent on getting the tapes--any way possible. Throw in a little romance and you have the Gracelandia.

If you're in the neighborhood, come on by for a great evening of fun. As far as that goes, if you miss it this week, Sparta High School will be putting it on late in March. Save your money; don't wait for Broadway.

The Perfect Day

The perfect day
allusively mocks me
That which is possible
but wouldn't be recognized
until it has left me alone
in the darkness of walls
Having the courtesy to quietly close
the door as it left
But I may not know it even then
Like a long lost friend
who phones late at night
beyond the hour of rational thought
Someone who can't be well explained
to a wife who is too tired
to really care

It's not a list I can check off
one thing at a time
like Karma that collects on the dormant stalks
of the poison ivy
I can never completly eradicate
behind my house
Less virulent in the winter
but still capable of a nasty rash

Maybe it's a dark conspiracy
as unobtainable
as a glimpse into the void
of the infinite
when I wash my hands
between the two sets of mirrors
because it's always my own head
that blocks the view

Perhaps the perfect day
is one I can look back on
like the mirrored surface
of a darkened pool
only this time I can see
all the way to the void
And it reflects back my soul
But what other reflection in that darkness
could there be

Ham Sandwiches at the Last Supper

I have to apologize to all you Southern Rockers. Or not. Not only is Ronnie Van Zant not at Elvis' Last Supper, I'm taking off Duane Allman. He'll be replaced by Mama Cass. It's a great trade. I get another woman up there, but I get...well, Mama Cass. Who can say she didn't live a life of excess? After all, isn't one person's passtime another person's addiction?

Besides, when it gets down to it, I really don't like Southern Rock. Sure, there are a couple of good songs, but most of them go on way too long. And truly, if all of your record collection got stolen (you know, all your old LPs that you're hoping will be worth something some day so you keep them, even though you'll never listen to half of them ever again, even if you could find another needle for your turntable), would you ever bother to replace Molly Hatchet? Did you ever have Molly Hatchet to begin with? Do you really need to hear "Freebird"--ever again? And doesn't "Rambling Man" just get irritating by the second bridge? I rest my case.

So here's the latest update on Elvis' supper:

In no particular order: Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bob Marley, Sid Barrett, John Lennon, Mama Cass Elliot, Sid Vicious, Freddie Mercury, Frank Zappa, Jerry Garcia, and, of course, Elvis.

Suggestions? I could see Sid Barrett going. After all, I already have one Sid up there, but then, I really like Pink Floyd. Still, who would you replace him with?

Friday, January 27, 2006

Good Headhunters

Do good headhunters go to heaven
If they've lived a good headhunter's life?
If they've said their headhunter prayers,
and been good headhunter husbands and wives?

If they've never hunted heads out of season,
and always did their headhunting-est best,
do good headhunters go to heaven
when good headhunters are laid to rest?

And at night do they sit and wonder,
instead of going to their headhunter beds,
if good white people go to heaven
if they've never hunted a head?

Elvis' Last Supper -- Requirements

As much as I would like to put Stevie Nicks in the last supper--as much as she epitomizes the rock n roll soul of excess in everything, she's not excessively dead. Yet. People fall down stairs every day, though.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Elvis' Last Supper Filling Up

There are now 12 "disciples" at Elvis' last supper. They are Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bob Marley, Sid Barrett, John Lennon, Duane Allman, Sid Vicious, Freddie Mercury, Frank Zappa, and Jerry Garcia. There are those who say that Keith Moon and Marvin Gaye need to be there, among others, but who would you take out?

Just a quick explanation of the criteria, those "invited" had to live the quintessential rock life style -- sex, drugs, and--of course--rock and roll. They also had to be someone that was easily recognizable--by me, of course.

I realize that we're short on the ladies. Maybe that's because women are smarter, not quite so self-destructive. Or maybe it's because they're not quite as good at it.


Jonathan Livingston Cat

wanted to fly.
But not for the usual reasons.
Jonathan Livingston Cat
didn't even like birds.

Jonathan Livingston Cat
wanted to fly,
to feel the wind rippling through his fur
the tips of his ears gently pressed back,
and his tail tippity tippity tippity
in the breeze.

All the other cats
thought that Jonathan Livingston Cat
was loopy.
If God had meant for cats to fly
then She would've made them birds.

All the other cats
told Jonathan Livingston Cat
to accept his limitations,
to accept that the closest he'd ever come to flying
would be a pet carrier in a cargo hold.

But Jonathan Livingston Cat
knew that gravity was just a limitation of the mind,
a shackling of the soul.

So Jonathan Livingston Cat made his way downtown
to the very top of the Trans-Atlantic Building,
38 stories above the street,
where ally cats and city cats and cats fresh off the farm
all waited below to see him splat,
because everyone knows that cats can't fly.
Everyone, that is, except for Jonathan Livingston Cat.

With the wind rippling through his fur,
the tips of his ears gently pressed back
and his tail tippity tippity tippity
in the breeze,
Jonathan Livingston Cat sat sail
straight to the street below,
where he hit with a resounding splat,
because everyone knows that cats can't fly.

But Jonathan Livingston Cat did land on his feet.
But then, everyone knows
that cats always land on their feet.