JB
This is hereby to certify that you are strong and mighty. And yet caring and gentle. The approach to people disgruntled is beyond compare and more than fair. Your style? Trailblazin'. Your musical tastes...entirely old school.
If cloning were legal the government, albeit clearly informed of your every whereabouts, would have contacted you some time ago to make this world a better place. What they are waiting on would be an inquiry for another time when life aint so dire.
Please remain focused. We the people are here to congratulate you on being a member of a superior race.
Thank you for your attention to such matters.
Sincerely,
The General Public
Showing posts with label Seymour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seymour. Show all posts
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Monday, September 21, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
One son...Two son...Three!
An air of nostalgia, sentiment and hopeful anticipation hung over and around these hallowed halls of Fenway Park Thursday, August 6th, 2009. Thankfully, for all you diehards, the infield remained intact and was properly roped off, with the stage tucked into the triangle in deep center, facing out into the infield. There were approximately 2,500 seats fanning out from leftfield through center. If such an animal had existed, the mosh pit most certainly would have been in deep left, extending to the edge of the bullpen.
All ya need is love and it was The Patriarch, who had not been to a Beatles show back in the HEY! (though most certainly a fan!) calling the shots.
We arrived at Yawkey Way, only to wait at the gate. Seems it wasn't quite 5 o'clock...so we took a trip instead, one block over, to view the Green Monster, passing hordes of people in Beatle's regalia in the process,(Give Peace a Chance, a bright red, yellow and blue Abbey Road shirt, and one Yellow Submarine.) finally to arrive outside, vents and pipes visible, craning our necks looking on up at the looming faded green architecture...no-one in our traveling party seeming the slightest bit impressed.
I had to admit...there were certain crucial elements missing in the equation:
"Papi does it again! This time the other way over the Coke bottles onto the Mass Pike!"
We were back in the flow of traffic before I knew what had happened.
So much for the air of nostalgia! Music and people seemed to escape from every alleyway and crevice. The evening had the hurried air of a ballgame, with vendors barking orders to schoolboys setting up shop in bright yellow golf shirts.
You may say its just evolution but there was a hearty buzz spreading over a four block radius held under the pungent shroud of grilled sausages and peppers and onions.
"Cokes here!"
"Crackerjacks!"
All those lucky to attend shared the same knowing smile in passing, making sure appointed ones, while on watch, were well within reach, pointing out the Ted Williams statue and the newly renovated, House of Blues.
We passed the Cask and Flagon; the baah where Robin Williams' character in the film, Good Will Hunting, passes on tickets to see about a girl, who turns out to be the love of his life.
"...who knew Fisk was gonna hit that homerun...?"
Memories, pounding this very same pavement seemingly spring up like passing dust clouds...from the evening in the alley with a small sea urchin, which turned out to be an oversized water rat hissing bloody murder as I turned the corner completely unawares, to Gameday, early in the fall, ticket in hand, walking just 2 blocks, free of hassle or parking charges, only to leave sorely disappointed in need of a fix, the Sox being held to just one hit!
Life lessons, if applied accordingly, may teach success through acceptance and constant adaptation, but this evening's crew at Paul McCartney was on a quest. Follow me til we see a #9 hat for the old man; who had made several attempts to no avail to retain and yet, this deal was, by no means, dead.
We were to settle into a pleasant August evening, but not before the aformentioned was secured properly on his head.
No more monkey business, let's get down to brass tact's...one of the best hitter's in the game....some would say THEE best...(though in baseball terms, hitting 1 outta 3 stores aint bad at all...'less you happen to be inside and you're counting on the scenery, which turns out to be sorely lacking!)
From one bookend to the other, tonight of all nights, respect was due: it's true, my Dad, King Roddy Dod, had pulled out the Blue and Red LP's as the start of a healthy musical education: I dig a poooooony! The Beatles; who don't know 'em? The four lads from Liverpool, who were actually 5 or six, if you count Billy Preston in the mix and the oft-underappreciated, Pete Best.
Now, this is only a test...you have the biggest thing since "the biggest thing", you...
a. Exit?
b. Remain?
Just to explain and offer: there may be a wrong answer here people if you're opposed to secluded mansions on the English countryside and working with two, nay, THREE, of the best songwriters eva!
Needless to say, respect was paid to one of the greatest hitters in the game, Teddy Ballgame, pre-game, as we found the hat, secured and settled in on a new task: what and where to eat? Peppers and onions? Inside the park or out? Does pizza work? How 'bout a Fenway Frank?
We settled on a stand up bid in a boatload of chicken fingers and orange fries complete with watered down 5 dollar cokes all across the board'zept for Junior who fancies H2O.
Could this transaction have been a potential hoax?
The Patriarch, who had, beside a love and appreciation for fine music, bestowed many a witty saying, "I have no gas and less money, Don't go to Detroit",and the grandpappy of them all..."ask your mother", appeared bemused,as he stepped outside the velvet ropes of the snack stand, pocketing a small amount of change, shaking his head.
(and of course, the Red Sox gene in a brilliant biological process, which may be both a blessing and a curse)
Th King always escorts The Matriarch, 'less he wants ta make trouble...and tonight was no exception....calm and peaceful...yet beating with boundless energy.
Though not a screaming beehive, the Mrs, adoring all the same with miles of smiles, a fan of the mush and stuff and charm, and of course the happy ending, was certainly not to be disappointed (She had been annointed Ground Control early in our Existence, maintaining strict control in the ranks and an elephant never forgets!).
A Day In The Life...which seems like...Yesterday.
Got To Get You Into My Life. Jet. The Long and Winding Road. Let It Be.
Fully satiated and inflated, we pushed aside the plastic cartons of chicken remains and looked out over the flowing mass of people passing...
Where was the vendor with that special souvenir: a photo to bestow upon a cheap frame, thus preserving the evening's trifecta: one son...two son...three!
We nabbed a signed 5x7 in a hot alcove complete with frosty beverages and made our way inside; ticket to ride secure for any wiseguys. My baby don't care...witness one Seymour Grime, a musical understudy his ownself, sitting back with the Matriarch to the left and King Roddy Dod to his right, Junior clinging tight on his first night inside Fenway inquiring at one point,
"Is that the Sox dugout Daddy?"
That's my boy! Indeed it was and all for the Paul McCartney show more than a few rows behind the 3'rd base dugout.
"This i'd be perfect tickets to a game Dad..."
...and even better just to be in the proximity of a legend. It's coming up...on the hour! A potential A number One on the long list of brilliant songwriters....Lennon, Dylan, Joni. Neil Young.
Ever the artist with playful jests, still zesty at 67, and witty beyond belief, Paul McCartney picked up 5 separate instruments during the course of the evening like normal people brew tea, yet with more care and concern, forging a sincere connection before offering to the Fenway Faithful,
"Babe Ruth never had it so good."
Paulie, you had us at hello. Diehards on the lookout for Beatles tunes and beyond were not disappointed. Drive My Car. Helter Skelter. I'm Down. Hey Jude. Day-tripper. My Love. Lady Madonna. I Saw Her Standing There. Let Me Roll It. Yesterday. Get Back.
He even pulled out the ukulele for a tribute to the late George Harrison with a rendition of the sweet soul serenade, "Something".
Sir Paul was all charm and wit. In fact, he just wouldn't quit, jousting and making sport of a perfect August evening, with a cool breeze wavering, walking the runway like a supermodel in jest at one point. He owned the joint! Of course they threw in a ripping, Live and Let Die, which made Junior jump with sudden explosions and bright fireworks bursting at the base of the stage.
The band, consisting of guitarist, Rusty Anderson, guitarist/bassist, Brian Ray, keyboardist, Paul Wickens, and drummer Abe Laboriel Jr. were beyond tight. It might not be right how tight, almost like Dylan's band in the 90's.
Store it away on a shelf.
File under the header, Rx, when seeking health and wealth of the soul and sound. There is a stealth bomber on patrol after all these years, who still runs an extremely tight ship. Closing my eyes...were we sure it wasn't 1964? Maybe I'm amazed? Though in all reality there were two towering screens projecting Sir Paul and his enthusiastic band laying down the gems of a 50 year career, one after the other. Popping 'em out like they were kids. It may have been better than Shea 1965 with most of the screams drown in a powerful surge of hallmark renditions to the delight of a packed house.
Live and Let Die. Hey Bulldog!
All ya need is love and it was The Patriarch, who had not been to a Beatles show back in the HEY! (though most certainly a fan!) calling the shots.
We arrived at Yawkey Way, only to wait at the gate. Seems it wasn't quite 5 o'clock...so we took a trip instead, one block over, to view the Green Monster, passing hordes of people in Beatle's regalia in the process,(Give Peace a Chance, a bright red, yellow and blue Abbey Road shirt, and one Yellow Submarine.) finally to arrive outside, vents and pipes visible, craning our necks looking on up at the looming faded green architecture...no-one in our traveling party seeming the slightest bit impressed.
I had to admit...there were certain crucial elements missing in the equation:
"Papi does it again! This time the other way over the Coke bottles onto the Mass Pike!"
We were back in the flow of traffic before I knew what had happened.
So much for the air of nostalgia! Music and people seemed to escape from every alleyway and crevice. The evening had the hurried air of a ballgame, with vendors barking orders to schoolboys setting up shop in bright yellow golf shirts.
You may say its just evolution but there was a hearty buzz spreading over a four block radius held under the pungent shroud of grilled sausages and peppers and onions.
"Cokes here!"
"Crackerjacks!"
All those lucky to attend shared the same knowing smile in passing, making sure appointed ones, while on watch, were well within reach, pointing out the Ted Williams statue and the newly renovated, House of Blues.
We passed the Cask and Flagon; the baah where Robin Williams' character in the film, Good Will Hunting, passes on tickets to see about a girl, who turns out to be the love of his life.
"...who knew Fisk was gonna hit that homerun...?"
Memories, pounding this very same pavement seemingly spring up like passing dust clouds...from the evening in the alley with a small sea urchin, which turned out to be an oversized water rat hissing bloody murder as I turned the corner completely unawares, to Gameday, early in the fall, ticket in hand, walking just 2 blocks, free of hassle or parking charges, only to leave sorely disappointed in need of a fix, the Sox being held to just one hit!
Life lessons, if applied accordingly, may teach success through acceptance and constant adaptation, but this evening's crew at Paul McCartney was on a quest. Follow me til we see a #9 hat for the old man; who had made several attempts to no avail to retain and yet, this deal was, by no means, dead.
We were to settle into a pleasant August evening, but not before the aformentioned was secured properly on his head.
No more monkey business, let's get down to brass tact's...one of the best hitter's in the game....some would say THEE best...(though in baseball terms, hitting 1 outta 3 stores aint bad at all...'less you happen to be inside and you're counting on the scenery, which turns out to be sorely lacking!)
From one bookend to the other, tonight of all nights, respect was due: it's true, my Dad, King Roddy Dod, had pulled out the Blue and Red LP's as the start of a healthy musical education: I dig a poooooony! The Beatles; who don't know 'em? The four lads from Liverpool, who were actually 5 or six, if you count Billy Preston in the mix and the oft-underappreciated, Pete Best.
Now, this is only a test...you have the biggest thing since "the biggest thing", you...
a. Exit?
b. Remain?
Just to explain and offer: there may be a wrong answer here people if you're opposed to secluded mansions on the English countryside and working with two, nay, THREE, of the best songwriters eva!
Needless to say, respect was paid to one of the greatest hitters in the game, Teddy Ballgame, pre-game, as we found the hat, secured and settled in on a new task: what and where to eat? Peppers and onions? Inside the park or out? Does pizza work? How 'bout a Fenway Frank?
We settled on a stand up bid in a boatload of chicken fingers and orange fries complete with watered down 5 dollar cokes all across the board'zept for Junior who fancies H2O.
Could this transaction have been a potential hoax?
The Patriarch, who had, beside a love and appreciation for fine music, bestowed many a witty saying, "I have no gas and less money, Don't go to Detroit",and the grandpappy of them all..."ask your mother", appeared bemused,as he stepped outside the velvet ropes of the snack stand, pocketing a small amount of change, shaking his head.
(and of course, the Red Sox gene in a brilliant biological process, which may be both a blessing and a curse)
Th King always escorts The Matriarch, 'less he wants ta make trouble...and tonight was no exception....calm and peaceful...yet beating with boundless energy.
Though not a screaming beehive, the Mrs, adoring all the same with miles of smiles, a fan of the mush and stuff and charm, and of course the happy ending, was certainly not to be disappointed (She had been annointed Ground Control early in our Existence, maintaining strict control in the ranks and an elephant never forgets!).
A Day In The Life...which seems like...Yesterday.
Got To Get You Into My Life. Jet. The Long and Winding Road. Let It Be.
Fully satiated and inflated, we pushed aside the plastic cartons of chicken remains and looked out over the flowing mass of people passing...
Where was the vendor with that special souvenir: a photo to bestow upon a cheap frame, thus preserving the evening's trifecta: one son...two son...three!
We nabbed a signed 5x7 in a hot alcove complete with frosty beverages and made our way inside; ticket to ride secure for any wiseguys. My baby don't care...witness one Seymour Grime, a musical understudy his ownself, sitting back with the Matriarch to the left and King Roddy Dod to his right, Junior clinging tight on his first night inside Fenway inquiring at one point,
"Is that the Sox dugout Daddy?"
That's my boy! Indeed it was and all for the Paul McCartney show more than a few rows behind the 3'rd base dugout.
"This i'd be perfect tickets to a game Dad..."
...and even better just to be in the proximity of a legend. It's coming up...on the hour! A potential A number One on the long list of brilliant songwriters....Lennon, Dylan, Joni. Neil Young.
Ever the artist with playful jests, still zesty at 67, and witty beyond belief, Paul McCartney picked up 5 separate instruments during the course of the evening like normal people brew tea, yet with more care and concern, forging a sincere connection before offering to the Fenway Faithful,
"Babe Ruth never had it so good."
Paulie, you had us at hello. Diehards on the lookout for Beatles tunes and beyond were not disappointed. Drive My Car. Helter Skelter. I'm Down. Hey Jude. Day-tripper. My Love. Lady Madonna. I Saw Her Standing There. Let Me Roll It. Yesterday. Get Back.
He even pulled out the ukulele for a tribute to the late George Harrison with a rendition of the sweet soul serenade, "Something".
Sir Paul was all charm and wit. In fact, he just wouldn't quit, jousting and making sport of a perfect August evening, with a cool breeze wavering, walking the runway like a supermodel in jest at one point. He owned the joint! Of course they threw in a ripping, Live and Let Die, which made Junior jump with sudden explosions and bright fireworks bursting at the base of the stage.
The band, consisting of guitarist, Rusty Anderson, guitarist/bassist, Brian Ray, keyboardist, Paul Wickens, and drummer Abe Laboriel Jr. were beyond tight. It might not be right how tight, almost like Dylan's band in the 90's.
Store it away on a shelf.
File under the header, Rx, when seeking health and wealth of the soul and sound. There is a stealth bomber on patrol after all these years, who still runs an extremely tight ship. Closing my eyes...were we sure it wasn't 1964? Maybe I'm amazed? Though in all reality there were two towering screens projecting Sir Paul and his enthusiastic band laying down the gems of a 50 year career, one after the other. Popping 'em out like they were kids. It may have been better than Shea 1965 with most of the screams drown in a powerful surge of hallmark renditions to the delight of a packed house.
Live and Let Die. Hey Bulldog!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
थे लेंग्थ ऑफ़ थे ROAD
No beginning or end with little respite or separation between; this treadmill adds inches to already accumulating baggage (and it started as such a glorious day!).
Can this be sane?
Dig the scene; dirty windas down in open celebration, 21 gun salute, brothers-n-arms ripping down THEE 'merican hiiiiiiiiigh-way, pumping diverse stereo soundwaves, capable of almost anything... 'cept dealing wit Tha Man...
You've just left South Station said the sign; where they fighting for every square inch, lump & bump, axe ta grind, before our puttering vehicle is shuttled down another side-street-dump lot- littered with graffiti and fast food laser-light beams,
We come to an even brighter clearing. The bird had landed. Men working.
We come upon a yellow booth, peeled stickers splattered, automatically it spits out a yellow ticket. There is a stranger lurking in the background beside a sign that reads: Everyone Pays a Toll! We gaze up into two black coals that do not seem to share our propensity for the possibilities of a brand new day, but lend what we can for support.
"Pretend to play," I say, or was that just a thought? Lonely island eyes need sumpin' on a road to nowhere.(Making it through another day of gray, handlin' people and they change; consumed by toxic waste is no way to spend a day!).
Then...finally...we were free! Ticket to ride safe and snug, held under the notion of Democracy in the felt visor...Zeppelin vibe climbing...passengers vibing, a la Kerouac and Cassidy on the open road. Miles stretching. Blazin' sun sending messages of colour and vibration down a tingly spine while the hairs stand on end. We set forth toward the flaming horizon.
The music continues to rise above a spotted jungle of concrete vipers vying... "cryin won't help ya...praying wont do ya no good..."
Pines line, straight, in a stretch on both sides of the road...-gazing down, mildly concerned, parents gathered 'round the cluttered roadside remains, scattered, as the traffic slips on by unaware...
Neatly outlined in and among the design, members of the BSP, on the move, winding the traveler's way, watching that prized possesion slowly slip, slide and fade away, lost behind the night clouds settling in, released from another burning sky... Say goodbye!
Hey wait, in a flash, was that just the ticket? Question...confusion...panic...why had it flown out the window? We were good people...looking one to the other, up to where the ticket had once been and back again. How could this happen? Wasn't this road paid for anyway?
Holy Darwin! What were the immediate plans for survival?Question...confusion...panic... That orange and violet sure is streaming....when the clouds move...dancing in diamonds and peer-row-wettin on the shore of new lands...
While we sit at a total loss...it had all turned out wrong! Where had the open road gone? The ability to walk alone in unfamililar territory, barefoot, if only to taste the passing winds? Could we ever get it back again?
Everything may appear normal but it's not...passing a boxcar Volvo and then, whirling into the middle lane, an irridescent V-dubs van pays us little mind, smoke escaping.
Where do angels go when they know it's time to fly the coop? Suddenly to be filled to the gills with a glow that quickly becomes a sea of cherry red break lights impeding the flow, rupturing any chance for immediate gain or security, much less serenity. ...unto a silent soliliquy... Out of the question! We shall see 'bout redemption...speeding to pass through hoops and iron crested carefully crafted parameters: time honored art as form to hang on a mantle and greet the people with rigid lines and a fee; a wicked design with a new promise for a betta toe-maw-ra!
We pull up alongside a giant winda and the vehicle comes to a stop. We gaze into a tiny green tank. The machine, a late edition model of the infamous Big Pig, huffs and puffs but does not blow us down. There is a woman in her late 40's, road weary, caked with makeup and oversized jewlery who bends down low, illustrating a decrepit timeline, before hissing,
"Ze teek-ut!"
"Yaaaaz, Mumma Sez-Main, can you even try to understand?"
It wasn't beginning well...
"When we left South station on this here, bee-you-to-full day to do nothing but play....a proclamation if you'll allow Ma'am-"
"-Ze teek-cat, verst!"
Slow ennunciation.... wicked ways...we were in for it... Wasn't this road paid for?
"Ze teek-cat, or, veil charge, lungth uv road. No teek-cat? None?"
It was with our last Lincoln parted that we rode on in silence. The Length of the road?
...and it seems like we've been paying for it eva since...
Can this be sane?
Dig the scene; dirty windas down in open celebration, 21 gun salute, brothers-n-arms ripping down THEE 'merican hiiiiiiiiigh-way, pumping diverse stereo soundwaves, capable of almost anything... 'cept dealing wit Tha Man...
You've just left South Station said the sign; where they fighting for every square inch, lump & bump, axe ta grind, before our puttering vehicle is shuttled down another side-street-dump lot- littered with graffiti and fast food laser-light beams,
We come to an even brighter clearing. The bird had landed. Men working.
We come upon a yellow booth, peeled stickers splattered, automatically it spits out a yellow ticket. There is a stranger lurking in the background beside a sign that reads: Everyone Pays a Toll! We gaze up into two black coals that do not seem to share our propensity for the possibilities of a brand new day, but lend what we can for support.
"Pretend to play," I say, or was that just a thought? Lonely island eyes need sumpin' on a road to nowhere.(Making it through another day of gray, handlin' people and they change; consumed by toxic waste is no way to spend a day!).
Then...finally...we were free! Ticket to ride safe and snug, held under the notion of Democracy in the felt visor...Zeppelin vibe climbing...passengers vibing, a la Kerouac and Cassidy on the open road. Miles stretching. Blazin' sun sending messages of colour and vibration down a tingly spine while the hairs stand on end. We set forth toward the flaming horizon.
The music continues to rise above a spotted jungle of concrete vipers vying... "cryin won't help ya...praying wont do ya no good..."
Pines line, straight, in a stretch on both sides of the road...-gazing down, mildly concerned, parents gathered 'round the cluttered roadside remains, scattered, as the traffic slips on by unaware...
Neatly outlined in and among the design, members of the BSP, on the move, winding the traveler's way, watching that prized possesion slowly slip, slide and fade away, lost behind the night clouds settling in, released from another burning sky... Say goodbye!
Hey wait, in a flash, was that just the ticket? Question...confusion...panic...why had it flown out the window? We were good people...looking one to the other, up to where the ticket had once been and back again. How could this happen? Wasn't this road paid for anyway?
Holy Darwin! What were the immediate plans for survival?Question...confusion...panic... That orange and violet sure is streaming....when the clouds move...dancing in diamonds and peer-row-wettin on the shore of new lands...
While we sit at a total loss...it had all turned out wrong! Where had the open road gone? The ability to walk alone in unfamililar territory, barefoot, if only to taste the passing winds? Could we ever get it back again?
Everything may appear normal but it's not...passing a boxcar Volvo and then, whirling into the middle lane, an irridescent V-dubs van pays us little mind, smoke escaping.
Where do angels go when they know it's time to fly the coop? Suddenly to be filled to the gills with a glow that quickly becomes a sea of cherry red break lights impeding the flow, rupturing any chance for immediate gain or security, much less serenity. ...unto a silent soliliquy... Out of the question! We shall see 'bout redemption...speeding to pass through hoops and iron crested carefully crafted parameters: time honored art as form to hang on a mantle and greet the people with rigid lines and a fee; a wicked design with a new promise for a betta toe-maw-ra!
We pull up alongside a giant winda and the vehicle comes to a stop. We gaze into a tiny green tank. The machine, a late edition model of the infamous Big Pig, huffs and puffs but does not blow us down. There is a woman in her late 40's, road weary, caked with makeup and oversized jewlery who bends down low, illustrating a decrepit timeline, before hissing,
"Ze teek-ut!"
"Yaaaaz, Mumma Sez-Main, can you even try to understand?"
It wasn't beginning well...
"When we left South station on this here, bee-you-to-full day to do nothing but play....a proclamation if you'll allow Ma'am-"
"-Ze teek-cat, verst!"
Slow ennunciation.... wicked ways...we were in for it... Wasn't this road paid for?
"Ze teek-cat, or, veil charge, lungth uv road. No teek-cat? None?"
It was with our last Lincoln parted that we rode on in silence. The Length of the road?
...and it seems like we've been paying for it eva since...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
