I wouldn't bother reading this if I were you

I guess since I bitch about my health occasionally in here, whining weakling I can be... oh damned me, running toward nothing and never sure why I am in this rush at all? Well, so here is I guess news. I would skip this whole entry if you don't know me, let me tell you now though, because this could get boring -- an old fart describing his health problems just may not be your cup of tea -- it sure ain't mine. I prefer to suffer in silence but my fingers move and move over the keys, whether my thoughts are providing them with pleasing enough impetus of not...



Okay, so the surgery I had been dreading is not needed. After running a zillion tests, they basically told me that I will be in pain forever, but the surgery is unneeded, because the fusions are solid. There. That wasn't too gross for all concerned, I suppose.

THE BOO'S FEST has me all elated.

This is a bit of an over exaggeration, my usual asinine hyperbole, which I will now follow with treacle... At least the festival does stand as a great metaphor for why this city makes you fall in love with her. You begin to see an organism made up of people and buildings and dogs and beach and that great blue plank of water leading off into the horizon. The musical score for the dance of this creature has to be played on Buddy Guy's guitar at a tremendous speed and volume, belting out blues full of whisky and late night.

This weekend Grant Park, on the shores of a shimmery blue lake full of sail boats and in sight of two epic stone museums, beneath the skyline of Michigan avenue the city sets up three stages and the blues is crooned, yelled, bellowed, drummed and strummed and blown into the crowds. A sound heard mostly through clouds of smoke and booze comes out into the daylight for a few brief hours...

Most of my Blues memories are of smoky bars and unknown black guys missing a few teeth and maybe some hair, hawking smoking signed CD's for as much as they can get. Mostly guys who are either broke or day jobbing. Good musicians... Fine, world class. Usually. God knows not always. I actually herd an Asian guy singing about how he had the 'Boo's." one night. I was out with my brother and we had seats right in front of the stage so we kind of had to hide that we were laughing whenever he said the word, "Boo." The effect was gone (I hate the way this sounds now that I write this down. I can't help that I laughed like a chimp at this. I certainly would never think someone better or worse for speaking with an accent or anything, mostly, except for actions and eloquence).

The drunks tumble through my mind, slapstick fools carrying drawing pads and napkins scribbled with long poems about poets surfing through bars in the wee hours of dead nights. Not that I am one to drink, mind you. I have before though, and the blues is one pastime that I love to experience while plastered. Sad. Like dancing. I used to love to dance when I had a few beers in me, but without the booze, going out dancing is about the last thing I want to do.


This weekend I am going to the festival. You would think something like this would be crowded? No. Grant Park is big enough that there is no great congestion of people during this festival... Unlike the fourth of July, which packs hundreds of thousands of people in like sardines (and is thus off my list of things to give a shit about doing).

I guess the only point to this bit of writing is to describe a good day here on the shores. I usually am so fucking dark that I surprise myself (though I am not psycho, I swear).








Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.