August 2004

A quick and dirty recording of my arrangement of Charlie Patton’s Some De Days.
–>> mp3

OK, so I’m drawing a blank here, and I keep going back to trying to write that damn song I lost before. That one I stole from the line I heard from that girl who was a riverboat captain. I can’t re-create it for the life of me. That’s what happens when your mind is as sharp as a piece of cheese… full of holes, and stinky.

So here I sit trying to kick-start my brain and all I can do is kick myself in the ass.

I would have probably gone for a bucket of blood today, but the bartender knows me too well and loaded me up with a Vodka and soda before I could say a damn thing. Then before I could start writing in walks this really hot twenty something and as the trickster fate would have it, she actually sits next to me. She tells me her name and that she’s a college student. But of course, she’s waiting for someone. She takes her slender, well-manicured fingers and taps the numbers of her hook up on the digital device that she holds like a junkie caresses a spoon. But the hook up shows up and misses her sitting at the front of the bar and waltzes to the back. The fucking troll. He didn’t even notice her. She waves him down. He doesn’t see her. Finally the bartender goes back and tells the idiot that the hottest chick in the bar is sitting up front and is trying to track her down. The fucking guy looks like a total dweeb. Typical. She’s hot and stupid and he’s a fucking troll. Life goes on.

Across the bar is a woman in her forties who’s wearing a wedding ring and has made sure that every guy in the bar knows it. She’s almost come on to every guy in this piss factory and for some reason they’ve rejected her, well not outright, but they’ve rejected her from omission. She so bored that she’s actually picked up the cell phone and is talking over the blaring tones of Al Green. Why do they need this cell phone thing? Can’t they just get together with the people they are talking to on the phone in person and just enjoy themselves? All of this makes very little sense to me.

So today on the satellite radio I had the time to listen to Cheryl Crow “All I want to do is have some fun,” (at least that’s what I think the title of the song is) and I think I heard it for the first time today. Now that may be hard to believe that someone who spent a whole lot of fucking years as a radio disc jockey never really listened to that song, but when you’re on the air you can’t really pay attention to music. It’s just the background of the job, and all the while the music is playing you’re trying to think of something brilliant or at least logical to say between the records. So, anyway, I’m listening to this song and I’m realizing for the first time that it’s actually a bar song. Of course no one hears anything else but the chorus, but it’s a bar song. It’s a one of those “traveling songs” much in the vein of one of those Allen Ginsburg poem/songs. It’s observations of the drunks in a bar in the middle of the day. I’m impressed. Tom Waits she’s not, but not bad.

Here’s a couple of different mp3 versions

–>> mix 1

–>> mix 2

I wonder what she looks like
when she peels that skintight dress
who finds the folds and tears it off
when it hits the floor to rest

She pulls her pink skirt taught
her back curves into the chair
as the hunter grips his arching bow
and aims recklessly to the air

the firelight is burning
and the flames are licking higher
We’ll set the world ablaze tonight
in the glow of this raging fire

a neon pale reflection
draws shadows on the wall
tattered sheets that bind our shroud
as her locks head for a fall

Her will bends to breaking
with breath that fires the air
sparks that gap my fingertips
and we dance the edge of dare

A distant train is moaning
The riders brought down to their knees
her cry betrays a longing
of a sigh that birth’s release

This darkness that corrupts love
will lite the shadows bounds
the beads of lust surround us
and race to hallowed ground

the firelight is burning
and the flames are licking higher
We’ll set the world ablaze tonight
in the glow of this raging fire

Still I wonder what she looks like
when she makes the long trip alone
and she turns the last lone light off
at night when she gets home

Updated again with very rough mp3

mp3–>> link

jackie remembers
goin back now fifty years
still the lines and scars
haven’t dried one single tear

she moved here in 80
to find a new life
after raising four kids
dropping out as a wife

Tonight the moon is hiding
behind a silver cloud
and the wind is kicking up
Along with Jackie’s doubts

Oh Jackie found out today
just how much you can’t own
when you’ve drifted half a lifetime
and the tide won’t wash you home

She used to be a contender
She used to be so young
But now she cry’s “Oh dear Lord God
look at what I have become.”

back in her day
She could launch a thousand smiles
with the wave of her hand
She could drive this poor boy wild

the moon is hiding out
behind a silver cloud
and the wind is kicking up
Along with Jackie’s doubts

Oh Jackie found out today
just how much you can’t own
when you’ve drifted half a lifetime
and the tide won’t wash you home

The wake rips down the seawall
And the moon’s reflection floats
As Jackie dreams of all the years
She spent rocking the boat

Tonight she’s headed skyward
right into the stars
and this old muddy city
won’t see Jackie any more

the moon is hiding out
behind a silver cloud
and the wind is kicking up
Along with Jackie’s doubts

Oh Jackie found out today
just how much you can’t own
when you’ve drifted half a lifetime
and the tide won’t wash you home

Last year my daughter, who is a budding film student, decided to take on an acting gig with an Irish theatre company here is South Florida. Although, she doesn’t have any intention of becoming an actor, an understanding of acting is an advantage for someone interested in filmmaking. And for a young girl who had never taken on an acting gig outside of her High School productions, she did a damn good job. But about half way through the five months of rehearsing for the play, she made what I thought was a pretty flabbergasting remark. She said, “I don’t like the Irish.”

Now, for someone whose mom and dad are as Irish as Patty’s pig, I could only stand there with my mouth open and think, “what the fuck?” She clarified: “I don’t mean Irish Americans dad, the Irish from Ireland are really assholes. They are cold, rude and nasty.” I blew it off as just another piece of tripe from a sixteen year olds mouth. But in the last few months I’ve given it some thought and I too am convinced that she is right.

Now don’t get me wrong, I know quite a few Irish folks, from the old sod, who are quite nice. But if I’m going to be really objective about it, they’ve all been here for a couple of years. They still may have a bit of the brogue, but they’re in actuality, quite Americanized.

Just the other night I wondered into the McSorley’s they opened up on Fort Lauderdale Beach. Just too set the record straight, this place only bares resemblance to the McSorley’s in New York in name only. There’s no chicken bones hanging from the chandeliers and I know that James Joyce never set foot into this place. However many wino’s have, it use to be one of the cheapest (and one of the most charming) dumps on Fort Lauderdale Beach, “Banana Joe’s.”

And on this particular night the place was full of a bunch of English Birds all celebrating “Hen’s Night” for one of their lucky (or unlucky, as the case may be) flock. And as most of the English usually do, they we’re having a grand time of it. But behind the bar was another one of those cranky, Irish immigrant bartenders with his head shaved like a bad footballer on crack. This guy had to be one of the most miserable excuses for a bartender I’ve ever run across. I won’t go into details, but the words of my daughter came back to haunt me. And I thought of all of the nasty Irish bastards I’ve run into in the last couple of years. And she was right: They really are the coldest, nastiest, rudest, most insincere bunch of losers I’ve ever run across. The final insult came from the guy when my drunk buddy, celebrating his birthday, left him about 80 bucks for a 75 dollar tab. Not wanting to stiff the guy, I threw in another ten bucks. I handed it over to him and asked him, “Are we good?” He replied: “I guess it will have to be.” You could have knocked me over with a shamrock. So I told him, “In that case, bring me another round.”

My father, god rest his soul, would probably kick my ass for uttering such blasphemous words. His dying wish was to touch the soil of Sligo one more time. But if he we’re alive today to see these pricks from Ireland that bear no resemblance to the wonderful, jovial Irish son’s of bitches that settled in this country over the last couple of hundred years, I’m convinced he’d want to kick their arses, not mine.

PS: I want you to know that I was wrong about McSorley’s. My bad experiences there I believe was the result of one bad bartender who is no longer there. It’s a great bar with wonderful Guiness and very friendly bartenders. It gets a definite thumbs up.

jf

When I was a kid growing up a block from Fort Lauderdale beach back in the ‘60s, roaming the shoreline, fishing for snook and checking out the wildlife was always a highpoint of my day. We would spot ghost crabs, sand fleas and the occasional sea turtle hunting for home to drop their eggs. Yet somehow this experience beach combing as a youth never prepared me for the wildlife I’ve been experiencing lately on balmy Fort Lauderdale beaches.

I first noticed this beach exotic while staggering home one night from one of my favorite beach spots. One little corner that’s almost stayed exactly the way it was when I was in my late teens. “The Parrot Bar,” still lives in what locals used to call “The Village.” Gone is the “Upper Level,” the laundry mat on the corner and “The Village Zoo.” But somehow “The Parrot” has survived almost unchanged all these year. Kevin is still behind the wood bar pulling beers after 25 years and “The Parrot” still has that funky beach bar feel that has all but disappeared from a trendy Fort Lauderdale Beach tearing itself down and reaching for the sky with blue neon and overpriced martini’s for 40-something’s pretending to be 30-somethings bloated with botox and Britney.

But back to my new beach friends. One early evening a few months ago, between the young lovers trying to beat the nine P.M. meter maid and the latest crop of homeless digging for priceless beer cans, I spotted something scurrying along the beach out of the corner of my eye. “Probably just a sand piper or maybe a ghost crab” I thought, but I haven’t seen one of them in years. Then another fluffy creature and another. Having spent enough of my life waiting for the “A” Train on 4th Street, in my heart of hearts, although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew what it was. So I stopped and watched the action. These little furry rat bastards are everywhere. And as much as I hate to say it, Fort Lauderdale Beach is teaming with rats. Not just the usual rats blasting their Harley’s or cruising the strip with their leased BMW’s, I’m talking real, honest to God, vermin.

I can still remember when I was a kid, back when you could pull your car up on the sand, the fine folks that ran the city decided they would tear out the last batches of sea grass along the beach. Back when a short trip up the coast to Jade Beach in Pompano meant climbing through some small dunes covered with sea grass to the best surfing spot in South Florida (or at least that’s what we would tell ourselves). I’m not sure why the city officials got rid of the sea grass along the coast. Probably something to do with that whole ‘60s thing of making everything over in man’s own image. Making the beach as sandy and flat as possible. But they did it, and it was done. And then some politician a few years later, in their infinite wisdom, decided it would be a good idea to give the sea grass another go. The environmentalists loved the idea, the beach preservationists loved the idea, and it was an idea that any mother could love. And the sea grass was planted again. Hell, they even irrigated it. Even I liked the idea. That is until I learned the true secret of the sea grass. It’s one giant rat nest.

I make the trip up the beach in the early hours of twilight quite often. And on any given night, without really trying, I can easily spot a couple of dozen rats as they scurry between the sea grass and the trash cans lining the walls of Fort Lauderdale Beach. I’ve often sat and watched their mating rituals and playful scurrying at one spot across the street from Birch State Park (where I’ve never, ever seen a rat), and witnessed a half dozen happy rats playing “raid the trash can.” But it’s not the trashcans that are at fault, because as a good estimate, from the garbage I see on the beach, only a small percentage of the beach goers are even aiming for the can. And as much as I love those sea oats and sea grass, I have to admit it; the wispy sea plants are the real problem. If it wasn’t for the inviting and fluffy home the sea grass provides, the rats wouldn’t have a place to live.

The truly amazing fact for me is that I’d bet next months pest control bill, that none of the recently planted beautiful people that have been taking up residence in all of these new giant condos and the past and future crop of tourists have any idea that they are enjoying the golden sands of Fort Lauderdale beach within inches of colonies of teaming rats. Maybe the Mayor of Fort Lauderdale could take out a few ads this tourist season to tell all the winter guests that the exotic sands of Fort Lauderdale Beach are intermingled with rat turds. Or that “The Rats are Running on Fort Lauderdale Beach.” Could you imagine the shock and horror when Millie and Ed from Massapequa find out that the beaches of Fort Lauderdale are crawling with rats? And even if someone decided to deal with our rat friends, can you imagine Fort Lauderdale Beach littered with signs warning of poison or traps set to catch vermin. And to think we could have all of this without having a subway.Such a deal!

But I think I’m going to take my discovery in stride. Hell, if you can’t beat em’ join em’. There’s nowhere to fish along the sea walls with all of the development so I’m going to try my hand at a little rat fishing. In fact I’m making a trip down to T&R tackle today to see if they have any of those new rat-rigs.

Maybe music to come for this:

jackie remembers
goin back fifty years
still the lines and tides
haven’t dried a single tear

she moved here in 80
to find a new life
after raising four kids
dropping out as a wife

jackie found out today
just how much you can’t own
when you spent your last dollar
and you’re still all alone

She used to be a contender
She used to be young
She say’s “Oh dear God look
at what I have become.”

back in the day
I could stop any clock
with the wave of my hand
and just one single look

but jackie found out today
just how much you can’t own
when you’ve lost your last dollar
and your still alone

The wake laps down the seawall
and the moon turns the soul
still she dreams of the years
spent rocking the boat

Jackie’s flying out tonight
right thru the stars
and this old muddy ol’ town
won’t see jackie no more

but she found out today
just how much you can’t own
when you’ve spent your last dollar
and you’re still all alone

Still can’t get the music right for this:

The band came together
Ribbons spun to the ground
We stood proud down river
And found peace in Lee’s ground

South of the bent willow
Jenny swore she won’t forget me
And then Lincoln told the band
To play Dixie

Through blue smoke and thunder
In the cane and the vine
The cotton bales drifted
And our chains came untied

Still it feels like some freedom
Cost more than their victory
And then Lincoln told the band
To play Dixie

Away, away, away down south in Dixie

My kin all spread north
For a new way to work
But the shackles they gave us
Cost more than they’re worth

I curse this new country
The old ways still fit me
But today Lincoln told the band
To play Dixie
Today Lincoln told the band
To play Dixie

Away, away, away down south in Dixie

I’ve said from time to time that I believe South Florida is basically “LA without the benefits.” As with most things that emanate from my grey matter and cracked lips, very few people ever understand what the hell I am talking about. And just so that I completely understand what the hell I’m talking about, I’ll explain it to myself.

In LA, underneath the fault line of unending sewerage that’s pumped into our television sets and into the Pacific Ocean, at least there is an underlying lie of creativity. Los Angeles calls unto itself from across the globe actors, writers, would be rock stars and all manner of aspiring creative types. So underneath the crap that gets produced on celluloid and in the digits of this new age of content for everyman, there is still an air of creativity. The folks in LA may go there to be famous or to become great (and wealthy) filmmakers, but because the lie lies on a bed of content, underneath the floating flotsam and jetsam, there is a respect and admiration for the creative and even though many would not admit it, art. LA is built on a foundation of business, but without the writer or the actor and the artist, deep down inside the moneymen know that they could and would not exist without the artists, assholes they may be.

Here in South Florida, the other land of the last resort, the transient nature of LA exists, along with the edge of the world in the other direction. But instead of a world that exists from exploiting the blood and soul of the artist, it’s a land that exists on death and trading real estate from this vanishing swampland like pork bellies. So in SFla, the great brass ring is the business of the pantsuit, mortgage, cemetery plot, condo rules, percentage point. It’s a land that has been built from the foundation of speculation and the turning under of the land. And the great influx of the north to this land of mud and mosquitoes is rebuilding the coastline and waistline for a world that smells like Queens and rots like the Fishkill’s landfill. So this world, this South Florida becomes a new great divide. A land rush for the newly dying and the latest speculation of the bust yet to come. So be it as full of shit and a phony as the great fault line, still the fault line is held together with the glue from the sinew ground down from countless men and women with actual souls. Here, only the souls are laid to rest.

Even New York, a city based on real estate and subsisting almost wholly on commerce and the grey suited businessman, it too has an underlying community of content. The artist and the writer and the poet and the musician and the misunderstood live between the cracks of Wall Street, just across the East River, where rents and rats keep it honest and dirty for a time. Hell, after all, the place was bought with beads.

I have a recurring nightmare where I’m being consumed by vampires. You know, the old Boogie Man scenario. I’m usually taken in by someone who appears to be one thing and then turns out to be something else, in this case, a vampire. I often wake from this horror and pull the covers over my head like a little child and pray God to let me go back to sleep without the damn vampires glistening teeth and glowing eyes. It’s so real it scares the living shit out of me. I’ve always believed that this vampire dream is possibly some Jungian symbolism or perhaps a curse left behind from some former jilted lover. Some fear of others taking my life from me in some symbolic way. I always figured it was the vampires out to get me. But today I had another thought. What if I am the vampire?

I’m beginning to think that my recurring vampire dreams are a horror of my own actions. As someone who dabbles in words I have become the thief of others lives. Since my own experiences will only pale in comparison to the host of stories and lives that surround me, I’ve become, unconsciously at first, and now consciously aware of others around me and dreaming of their stories and lives. I listen to the words of others, not because I give a damn or have any empathy or concern, but because I know that at any moment I could harvest a word or emotion from their lips. I listen and sometimes look into their eyes, but like the un-dead, I take the heart of their lives and the sum of their soul, the blood of their very existence. Is the horror of my dreams my own judgment against myself for the theft of their personality, a sin that may be more vial than the spilling of blood? The theft of their very heart and soul and the substance that makes them who they are has become my crime.

I have become the gatherer of tears. The dream-stalker.

I believe I’ve never been in love
I’ve only been infected
And when I’ve tried to spread the germ
It’s only been rejected