24: “I Have Learned to Enjoy Every Single Aspect of SXSW.” An Interview with This One Dude I Know Pretty OK About Going to SXSW

Me: OK, so you were telling me about the first time you had the thought, “My God, I hate music.”

Dude: Yeah right, it was in Austin, Texas on the Saturday evening of the South by Southwest music festival, in 2004….I was limping out of Beerland to find someplace to eat. (I had broken a bone in my foot while jumping up and down to The Spits, but wouldn’t realize it until a week later, after walking through three airports (Austin, Houston-Hobby, Midway) and several typical Chi-town commutes of walking several blocks to busses and trains, and the “sprain” wasn’t getting better…) Beerland wasn’t the problem—it’s still my favorite bar in Austin—and the bands who were playing in Beerland weren’t the problem.The problem back then was everyplace else. From mid-morning to the crack of dawn, the city surrounding Beerland was filled with live music, and most of it, after three days and nights of this, all sounds the same. 4/4 One-Four-Five honky hokum.

Me: One-Four-Five honky hokum. What do you mean?

Dude: “Louie Louie.” “More Than a Feeling.” “Blitzkrieg Bop.” Those are fine songs in and of themselves, but when it’s all you hear for literally hours at a time, like: Here’s the intro, here’s when the drums kick in, here’s the verse, here’s the chorus, here’s the verse again, here’s the boring guitar solo, here’s the breakdown, here’s the end, and here’s where the fevered ego frontman talks and talks and talks as he introduces the next song, “Ass Grab,” and it’s about grabbin’ ass (or something).

 Me; That’s when you had that horrible thought.

Dude:  “My God, I hate music.” Exactly.

Me: Wow. That’s tough.

Dude: And I meant it. It kinda floored me, because I had never-ever had such a blasphemous thought before. It was always quite the opposite, a life centered around bands-bands-bands since the age of ten, and live music since the age of seventeen.

Me: How do you move forward after enduring such tragedy?

Dude: Well, I wrote it off to sensory overload, but that thought lingers, and it never goes away. And it’s the perfect comment on rock and roll, on the music industry, on any and all festivals, and on what every rational human being should feel after more than two days at Clusterfuckstock.

Me: Cluster-whuh?

Dude: Clusterfuckstock. AKA, South-by?

Me: So you’re saying that that was when you first had the thought: “Music. It’s the worst.” Is that right?

Dude: Sure, but:I want to be perfectly clear that, in spite of what I said above and what I will say below, I actually and earnestly love SXSW. The good outweighs the bad. While I have no interest in moving there (and I’m sure the locals are quite happy about that), Austin is a wonderful place to be in March, after slogging through another upper middle west winter. Beer, shots, margs, food trucks, friends you don’t get to see more than 2-3 times a year if that, bands you never get to see, new bands who inspire, laughing til you can’t breathe….I’ve broken my foot during SXSW, caught the flu during SXSW, came down with food poisoning from an Arkansas Wendy’s that led to vomiting all over the rental van’s steering column while entering Dallas and then the drummer had to wipe the vomit off the wheel before he drove before we made it just in time to play and before literally dozens of trips to the Beerland men’s room before playing the gig with clenched ass…grown quite familiar with the AAA tow-trucks and the unintentional cultural exchange program that seems to go on between myself and the red state mechanics dotting the hinterlands between Chicago and Austin. I’m not complaining. I’ve grown to enjoy every aspect of this experience! I’ve learned to accept failure, flatulence, and bankruptcy as a basic fact of life for low-level musicians on tour, and I’ve learned that “This is Spinal Tap” isn’t strictly a comedy, and by this point—finishing my sixth visit to SXSW one month ago—I’m grateful for similar lessons taught to almost all of the bands who play there.

Me: What kind of lessons? What do you mean?

Dude: Well, I bet more bands break up on the Saturday of SXSW than any other day of the year. It’s like what Thanksgiving weekend is for college freshmen still dating their sweethearts from high school.

Me: Why is that?

Dude: I don’t know. I’m just a drummer. But if I had to make a guess, I’d say it’s through a remarkable combination of no sleep, dehydration, piled-on hangovers, frito-piearhea, and the stresses of loading in and loading out and trying to park an out-of-state van while literally hundreds of others driving out-of-state vans are attempting similar feats, any and all inter-personal issues between band members come to light.

Me: Frito-piearhea?

Dude: Among other things. But it’s a perfect storm, and it’s awesome! Everybody Hits the Wall. Everyone has lost their voice. Everyone’s in a bad mood. It feels impossible to force down those cans of domestic beer, but it’s drunk anyway, out of habit. You ask, “How you holdin’ up?” and you get the best answers! People are tired, they’re miserable, they’re hungover, they’re broke, they hate music, they hate their music, they hate the people in their band, they yearn for silence. Everyone’s bleary-eyed and haggard. Oh, the futility of it all! Why are we here?! Rod Rooter from Big Enterainment hasn’t been at the showcases to point his cocaine-stained index fingers and say, “You got the goods!” And by Saturday evening, at the parties, you play for no one. Because no one wants to hear music anymore. Sneak the Stones onto the bill of a house party on the east side. Nobody will give a shit! Sorry, Keef. Music is the worst!

Me: But it’s fun though, right? I mean, that’s the whole point. Beats workin’.

Dude: Sure, and as to hitting that wall, what’s great is that when you know it’s going to happen, and you know what to expect, then you can sit back and enjoy it. Two thousand bands played the 2013 SXSW, or so I was told. Two. Thousand. That’s a lot of quixotic ego coming face-to-face with exhaustion and rejection. Because so many drive thousands of miles to get there, then they play in front of three people, three people who are paying more attention to their smartphones anyways.

Me: Dude.

Dude: Uh-huh. So, hopefully, you learn to laugh at it, accept it, enjoy it, and know that this too shall pass. Because, for most, it’s a damn fool thing to do with one’s time. But it’s what you signed on for, right? And we haven’t even gotten into the financial part of it. You realize that somebody, somewhere (beer companies? Bars? Bartenders? Silicon Valley? Pepsi? “The Industry?”) is making pretty good money from this, and it ain’t you. Which is another reality to confront, sooner than later.

Me: And this is why you love it?

Dude:  And this is why I love it. Yes. It’s a test, of sorts, of your brain, liver, heart, soul, conscience, constitution, and (most importantly) musicianship. OK, kid. You’re a unique snowflake and all, but behind your aloof demeanor and your tattoos and your taste in clothing and your haircut, do you really want to do this? Do you love music, even when you hate it? Like to party, bro? Yeah? Prove it. To yourself, because nobody else really gives a shit.

Me: So what’s the point. The end result?

Dude:  When you push through the other side of that wall you confront on SXSW Saturdays, you’ve killed your inner ham-and-egger. You’ve slain the weekend warrior within. You’re a Road Dog—fartin’ freedom (aka Doritos Locos Tacos). There are no illusions and delusions. There’s no thinking about it. You go home, and you did have fun, and you hope you sucked less than you did before, and you hope you’re learning, and you will keep trying trying trying, [sings] “oooh I been dirt, but I don’t care,” and all you need is a night or three home, and you’re ready to get back out there, in spite of/because of.

Me: So I guess it’s “Thanks again, SXSW?”

Dude:  Definitely. Hope to see you next year.

23: Tips for Surviving an Excruciating Hangover While the Chorus to the Eagles’ Song “Take it to the Limit” (Just the Final Chorus, the One with the High Harmonies) Runs On an Endless Loop in Your Skull

We’ve all been there, haven’t we? That “after work” drink turned into several drinks, and the next thing you know, you wake up in your bed (or someone else’s, wait what ladies!!!) with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, a hazy memory, and, worst of all, the chorus to the Eagles’ song “Take it to the Limit”—just the final chorus, the one with the high harmonies—running on an endless loop in your skull.
Maybe you are going through this excruciating time right now. You’ve googled the words “hangover painful eagles take it to the limit endless oh dear lord please kill me” and no one—not even the Mayo Clinic—has any suggestions. You are on the brink of madness. Everything seems hopeless. All is lost. There is nowhere to turn.
First off: I am not going to sugarcoat this. You are in serious trouble. There are no easy answers. This will take hours, and, in your weakened condition, it will be difficult. There is no silver bullet, no magical instant remedy like listening to the “Beverly Hills Cop” soundtrack or simple hydration and moderate exercise. Modern medicine—such as it is—cannot save you. You will feel adrift in a sea of mellow seventies terror, lost in a funhouse of vicious country rock harmony. Alienated from your own body and your own mind, as the words “One more time…” are sung, and you know that you will relive the atrocity again and again and again.
Please note, however, that I said this will be difficult, but not impossible. I speak to you as a survivor of this devastating earworm. I have been free of excruciating hangovers while the chorus to the Eagles’ song “Take it to the Limit”—just the final chorus, the one with the high harmonies—runs on an endless loop in my skull, for over two weeks now. All I can really say to assuage your pain is that you will one day live to be free of Eagles’ songs trapped inside your head while you are hung over. You will monitor your drinking, and do what you can to make sure you will never have to experience what you are currently experiencing.
You are not alone. Never forget this. People love you and want you to be Eagles-free. Your head will, sooner than you think, beat this thing, and you will go back to having “She’s Tight” by Cheap Trick, and other songs less hellish than “Take it to the Limit,” trapped inside your head for hours at a time.
If it makes you feel better—curse your fate. Curse yourself for drinking too much, curse the classic rock stations for still playing the song, curse Barack Obama because he probably has something to do with it, curse Randy Meissner for writing the damn song. Do whatever you need to do to try and maintain a semblance of comfort through these trying seconds, minutes, hours, and even days. Yes, days. (And nights.)
While I can’t sit here and say “Someday, you’ll look back on this and laugh,” what I can say is that you will emerge from this experience a stronger person. To paraphrase the Buddha: Existence is suffering an excruciating hangover while the chorus to the Eagles’ song “Take it to the Limit”—just the final chorus, the one with the high harmonies—runs on an endless loop in your skull. Yes, my friend, you have been scorched by the flames of rock-country balladry, but from the ashes, you are a phoenix who will transcend the played out and overplayed.
Hang in there, and we’ll see you on the other side, with a gallon of homemade Four-Loko and a copy of John Coltrane’s “Ascension.”

22: Today’s Gossipy Entertainment Gossip: One Direction to Cover the GG Allin Classic “Suck My Ass It Smells.”

Emboldened by the phenomenal success and universal acclaim that greeted their rousing cover(s) of Blondie’s “One Way or Another” and the Undertones’ “Teenage Kicks,” the lads in One Direction are back in the studio to work their teen-dream magic on another classic from the annals (or, in this case, “anals?”) of New Wave: “Suck My Ass it Smells” by the late GG Allin. More details to come, but we do have it on good authority that the proceeds from the sales of the song will be donated to “Stop Pooping!”, a worldwide charity working to cure those afflicted with uncontrollable defecation in public, also known as Encopresis, also known as Ted Nugent at The Draft Board Disease.

Can’t wait ’til it “drops!”

21: Today on Urban Foodie Gal: Why I’ve “Soured” on the Logan Square Lemonade Stand Scene

You ask anybody who knows me and they’ll tell you that this b*tch loves me some lemonade, so when I scored the hookup to check out the soft launch of Alisa and Ashleigh’s Ice Kold Lemonade Stand at the Farmers Market, I thought, “Finally, Logan Square has the beginnings of an outdoor, child-owned-and-operated drink stand scene.”

And let’s face it: Logan Square is long overdue for some lemonade stands. I’m from Hinsdale, and while—don’t get me wrong, people!–Chicago has a lot to offer, many are the summer afternoons when this Hinsdale girl yearns for the days when she lived in a city that actually has lemonade stands on every corner, in every neighborhood, with just the right blend of freshly-squeezed lemons, perfectly chilled, sugar-infused water and the perfect number of ice cubes, served in a ruby red plastic Solo cup by young entrepreneurs acquiring their first experiences in the free enterprise system, bright-eyed and eager to please.

With all that being said, it is nearly impossible to register my profound disappointment and deep depression over my experience with Alisa and Ashleigh’s Ice Kold Lemonade Stand. I’m still so p*ssed, I don’t even know where to start.

But I’ll try, so ok: Let’s start with the prices. Fifty cents for a cup of lemonade?! Are you f*cking kidding me?! I mean, yeah, sure—I get it—the cost of living expenses are higher here, but to pay that much for a cup of lemonade is price-gouging, if you ask me.

So the price was Strike One, but I decided I would see this through, no matter what. Oh, but just when I was about to cut them some slack, Strikes Two and Three reared their ugly heads. (Or, should I say, fingers and nose, but more on that later.)

Strike Two happened as I watched one of these girls try and make their lemonade. (I didn’t bother trying to learn their names, I was so disgusted.) While one of the girls sat at their table coloring in a coloring book (too cool and aloof to say hi to me, but whatever), I watched in horror as the other girl made their so-called lemonade. Was she squeezing lemons into a pitcher? Uh, no. She had that powdered, out of a can, store-bought crap, and with a spoon, she unceremoniously dumped the powder into the pitcher. Do you understand me now? THIS LEMONADE STAND DOESN’T USE REAL LEMONS!!!

Since this is Logan Square, tell me: Is this supposed to be one of those “ironic hipster jokes?”

What. A. Bunch. Of. Bull. Sh*t.

Strike Three was happening at the same time as Strike Two. With her nonspooning hand, this skinny Logan Square girl was picking her nose as she stared up into the sky and sang Taylor Swift songs, completely oblivious to how disgusting and unsanitary she was being. It was as gross as the inside of a “dive bar,” which, in case you’re wondering, is a type of drinking establishment that has been in business for more than ten years.

Nonetheless, I persisted in my folly, as I like to support small businesses, at least once. I ignored my nausea and my “three strikes and you’re out” rule and placed my order, hoping against hope that somehow things would get better.

They didn’t. Coloring Book Girl was rude and a total b*tch. She didn’t have change for a five, so, as if I wasn’t already paying too much for lemonade, I received as change, three dollars and forty-three cents in the form of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. This was a severe inconvenience for me, as I don’t enjoy having that much change in my change purse. FML.

Don’t even get me started on the lemonade, if you want to call it that. It was lukewarm. No ice cubes. The powder granules stuck to my tongue. It only took one sip to convince me that this was the worst cup of lemonade I have ever tasted on one of the worst days of my life ever.

But don’t get me wrong. I’m still hoping for the best for Alisa and Ashleigh’s Ice Kold Lemonade Stand, because the hood needs a decent lemonade stand, totes now. Until that time comes though, all I can say is: OK, Logan Square. You’ve got skinny jeans, PBR, and art school attitude down pat, but when it comes to Lemonade Culture, you’ve still got a long way to go.

Until next time, this is Urban Foodie Gal, saying… “Thanks for letting me dish!”

20: WHAT TO DO IN THE EVENT OF FINDING A VINTAGE COPY OF FLEETWOOD MAC’S “RUMOURS” IN YOUR MA’S BASEMENT

1. Remain calm.
2. Briefly indulge in idle fantasies re: what you will do with the large sum of money you shall receive for this nearly priceless artifact. A timeshare in Fort Myers, Florida. A luxury pontoon boat. Nice cheese.
3. Remain oblivious to the fact that there are only roughly forty million copies of this album on our planet.
4. Remain oblivious to the water damage, scratches, and that musty smell of the album you hold in your hands.
5. Immediately call your nearest record store and inform them of your discovery.
6. Make your anecdote concerning your discovery as longwinded and as seemingly pointless as possible, and please, for the love of God, mention several times how you found this copy of “Rumours” in your Ma’s basement while you were doing some cleaning, and there it was, in a Jewels-Oscos paper bag containing just that and a VHS copy of “Buns of Steel.”
7. Re: Long-Playing Vinyl Records. Please ask, at least once, “Dey still make dose?”
8. Keep your proverbial cards close to your proverbial vest. You are sitting on a gold mine. Casually get down to brass tacks, by posing the Big Question by saying something along the order of, “Yeah, so uh, how much should I expect to get for somethin’ like dis?”
9. Keep your trade options open. Mention in an offhand manner how you’re thinkin’ about puttin’ it up on yer cousin’s Ebay account, but ya thought you’d ya know support a local business before taking dis copy of “Rooo-merrrrs” into the global marketplace.
10. Think about it some more, and recall how your kid brother has some records in his basement that’re just collectin’ dust—yer Supertraimps, yer Uh-tah-mick Roooosters, yer Bahhhz Skaaaaigs, yer Yerriiuh Heeps, and maybe even somethin’ by yer Beeetullls ya ever hearda dem heh heh?
11. Prepare for intense negotiations.
12. Consider a contingency plan/prepare to have your bubble burst.
13. Enjoy the ride. Players only love you when they’re playin’.

19: “Hey! How Did Your Poorly-Planned, Shoddily-Executed Three-Day Juice Fast Turn Out?”

We didn’t do the three-day juice cleanse correctly. We don’t own a juicer and didn’t have the time nor resources necessarily to go out and buy a good one (hundo, give or take).
So instead, I bought six or seven 32 oz bottles of vegetable and fruit juice. Green Machine. Power Purple. Extreme Rainbow Power Chard. (Not the last one, but you know…) It still had all the nutrients, and—‘cordin’ to the bottle—it was still juice, even though some of the juices were pasteurized, and that’s kind’ve a no-no because some of the nutrients are gone or something.
No matter. We started on Saturday morning. Nothing but juice. Juice juice juice. The first problem in not doing this correctly, is that you get sick of juice wicked quick. Actual juice cleanses, you get a variety of flavors, but us, it was a never-ending river of kale-apple-spirulena-etc,. chased with guzzles of blueberry-grape-peach-rainbow-chard. When we ran out, we bought six more bottles of these vivifiying concoctions.
We cheated at the end of the first day and ate a ¼-1/2 a cup of brown rice each. Had a little more of the brown rice on the second day. Slept through most of these days. With no coffee and no food, toxins pissed out at a regular interval, disoriented and headachey from caffeine withdrawal, the Oscars weren’t worth making fun of. Delirious. Dizzy. Mood swings. Great times!
What’s especially awesome is the conflicting medical opinions on juicing. Some say it’s a wonderful way to remove all the toxins that have built-up in your system as a result of eating too much sweet-and-sour chicken from Ancient Chinese Secret or wherever (these are more on the “live green” side of the internet spectrum), and others say if you juice for too long YOU’RE GOING TO DIE, and also AS YOU’RE DYING YOUR METABOLISM SLOWS DOWN IN RESPONSE TO THE LACK OF FOOD SO YOUR CORPSE WILL EXPERIENCE NO WEIGHT LOSS. There were other, less capslock-worthy, funfacts to go with these, and of course, the comments section claimed such facts were “THE HITLER EDITOR MUST BE FIRED FOR ALLOWING SUCH ONE-SIDED IGNORANCE.”
I don’t know who’s right, or if either side is “right” so much as they’re both right up to a point. Yes, if you drink nothing but fruit juice, your insulin levels will spike and a slew of other things will go wrong and the whole endeavor will be counterproductive because fruit juice gets real old real quick, but also yes, if you actually follow the juicing methods properly (vegetable juices primarily, made out of your own juicer, consumed every two hours or thereabouts, and a wide variety of vegetables and fruits, btw, and not just drinking out of the same store-bought vegetable juices), you will feel good. There’s a commonsense middle ground somewhere; in much the same way you can’t eat fast food three meals a day (and we’ve all tried that, or continue to do that) without feeling and looking horrible, you can’t go on a lazy man’s version of a juice fast without running errands, seeing a picture of a twelve foot Party Sub emblazoned from one end of a Subway delivery truck to the other without wanting to immediately stop what you’re doing and go balls deep on a Cold Cut Combo with extra everything. That’s what happened to me, anyway, on the third and final afternoon of the juice cleanse. I wanted to stick my penis into the vagina of a twelve foot big Cold Cut Combo. As we say in Florida, “I ain’t gonna lie…”
I feel like there was more I wanted to say besides talking about how I wanted to make sweet-sweet love to a submarine sandwich. No, maybe not. We’ve been watching these documentaries about food and obesity and how (this just in…) fast food and factory farms aren’t that healthy for man, beast, and planet, and (this just in…) the food industry just wants your money. Yes. It’s all true. At home, safe by the warmth of central heating, it’s pretty easy to eat healthy, even in Fat City-Chitown, where the 4000 calorie orgies of salt, fat, sugar, booze, cheese, carbs, and celery salt are both plentiful and delicious.
But here’s the thing. I’m a drummer, and when on “the road,” and when it’s summer, I like to get dumb. REeeeeeeal d-u-m-b. When a set is finished, I’m not thinking, “Gosh, an aloe-infused kale-strawberry smoothie would really hit the spot right now!” When on tour, traveling through, say, Arkansas, you’re lucky if you can dust off a bag of trail mix between the Moon Pies and Goo-Goo Cluster Bars in the gas station minimart. Not gonna turn down pizza. Not gonna turn down the hamburgers sizzlin’ on an open grill night and day. Not gonna avoid the Great Chicago Meatwave. The “thou shalt nots” of ascetic living in any form inevitably makes me think of Catholic School, granola-boweled hippies, sanctimonious straightedge vegans, and other forms of joyless fundamentalism, and sends me running in the opposite direction to the nearest Malort shots.
Or, nachos. At the end of the third day of the juice fast, approaching the 72 hour mark, my wife and I messaged back and forth on you know Facebook and shit; she repeatedly described her mood as “hangry,” (a combination of hungry and angry), employing various previously unseen, unheard of emoticons to describe this state of hangriness. When she asked, “What should we get for tonight. Just rice? Or real dinner?” I immediately responded “I’m ready to munch.” Various emoticons later, she typed “Let’s munch on some shit.”
As it turns out, there isn’t a juice version of tortilla chips, diced tomatoes, black beans, shredded cheese, and hot sauce, so it was decided we would have nachos, my (as wife sez) “main munch” in food form, for dinner.
We ate like the Feral Child in “The Road Warrior.” We couldn’t even look at each other as we wolfed it down; we were like dogs with resource guarding issues. Even our dog—who usually sits and begs as we eat—knew to hide. The recording of “Jeopardy” on the TV was our only link to civilized behavior; without Alex Trebek’s Canadian cadence, we may never have returned to the human state.
And now, sitting here on the first morning of going back to regular food, coffee reintroduced to my bloodstream and a fiber-rich breakfast doing, well, you know—all I can say as to what I learned from the experience is to, well, not to bring Buddhism into this boring spiel about First World Diets, but, as we say in Florida, “Screw it, bro…,” all I can say is that a Middle Way sounds best. Moderation, within reason, practicality, and specific situations. Don’t want to fast on carrot-kumquat juice, but, conversely, don’t want to live on a daily diet made up exclusively of couple two-tree dozen cinnebites, KFC Chicken Chokers, Deep Fried Cajun Pink Slime, and twelvers of good ol’ triple-hopped Buck Urine Lite. Oh, and get some exercise, you fucking ham and egger! Sheesh…
But we did lose weight quickly. I think we’ll try this again later in the spring-once we start to feel like maybe we can consider putting juice into our gullets again—and follow the directions. Maybe. Who cares….

18: Tonight

Tonight on “Alaskan Cold Guys…”
Tonight on “Alaskan Gypsy Wedding Flippers…”
Tonight on “Young Neurotic Urban Vaginas Trying to Fornicate with Young Neurotic Urban Penises…”
Tonight on “Beverly Hills Party Pups…”
Tonight on “Las Vegas Casserole Moms…”
Tonight on “The Real Data Clerks of Menomonee Falls…”
Tonight on “Chop Choppers Chopping Chopped…”
Tonight on “Gosh, Will You Take A Look at These Loud Rednecks Playing Up Their Loud Redneckiness for the Camera…”
Tonight on “Alcoholics Anonymous…”
Tonight on “Bourbon Bunnies….”
Tonight on “Kale Wars…”
Tonight on “Chard Boss…”
Tonight on “Ramsay’s Bric-a-Brac Nightmares….”
Tonight on “Extreme Stuff…”
Tonight on “Thistlebrush Writer’s Retreat…”
Tonight on “Backstreet Rodeos…”
Tonight on “Cajun Titty Bar…”
Tonight on “American Cleavage…”
Tonight on “Ghost Buddies…”
Tonight on “Cheese Puff Chompers…”
Tonight on “Fashion Fuck-Ups…”
Tonight on “Reheat My Fry Vat…”
Tonight on “Swamp-Ass Ventilators…”
Tonight on “Saffron-Infused Risotto Boys…”
Tonight on “Soft-Spoken Police Cops…”
Tonight on “Lawyer Dogs..”

17: A Lame Comic, Performing for Librarians…

“OK…OK…What if Samuel Richardson’s epistolary novel “Pamela” was updated for today’s audiences, and turned into a series of tweets…I think it would go, a little like this—here we go:…”

Story #16: Jerry the Canary from the Bird Sanctuary: A Story for Children

Once upon a time
In a bird sanctuary
There was a bird named Jerry
Jerry the Canary

He flew off to school
Where he learned about wings
And all sorts of things
…but then they tried to teach him to sing

He’d try and he’d try
Every morning and afternoon
But under the sun or the moon
Jerry couldn’t carry a tune

“Aieee! What’s that racket?!”
The teacher he did wail
“It sounds like gravel and rusty nails,
Like chalkboards and fingernails!”

“It’s Jerry the Canary!”
The other birdies would exclaim
“He don’t sound the same!
He sounds super lame!”

So Jerry flew away
From the bird sanctuary
And that’s the last they saw of Jerry
That shrieking yellow canary

But as he took his leave
Jerry had this to say:
“Songs Ican sing! Music I can play!
When I find the right birds, you’ll see me again someday!”

Jerry flew across the skies
Searching throughout the land
For the right group of birds
To form into a band

He landed near a honkytonk
Where country music did abound
Where birds line-danced all around
To country geese who were honkin’ sounds

“Hey y’all, it’s a canary!”
Said the fiddler with a smile.
“If you sing in our style,
Won’t you set and stay awhile?”

But he’d try and he’d try
Under country stars so bright
But twang it as he might
Jerry couldn’t sing it right

“Bubba what’s that racket?!”
The fiddler he did cry
“Like wild pigs in a sty!
So bad, it stings my eyes!”

“It’s Jerry the Canary!”
The country birds said in a rush
“He don’t sound like us!
Y’all, I wish he’d hush!”

So Jerry flew away
From country music’s aviary
And that’s the last they saw of Jerry
That shrieking yellow canary

But as he took his leave
Jerry had this to say
“Songs I can sing! Music I can play!
When I find the right birds, you’ll see me again someday!”

Jerry flew across the sky
Searching throughout the land
For the right group of birds
To form into a band

He landed in a college town
Where all the birdies liked to jam
Where all the poets would slam
Where all the students would cram

“Dude, it’s a canary!”
Said the guitarist with a smile
“If you can jam in our style,
Won’t you play a long long while?”

But he’d try and he’d try
As they played for oh-so-long
But his voice was not-so-strong
Jerry’s jams were oh-so-wrong

“My mellow is harshed!”
The guitarist he did bemoan.
“It’s such a bummer tone!
How the singing makes me groan!”

“It’s Jerry the Canary!”
The jam-birds said as they exhaled
“You sing like a sick whale!
Dude, you gotta bail!”

So Jerry flew away
From the jam-birds who were so hairy
And that’s the last they saw of Jerry
That shrieking yellow canary

But as he took his leave
Jerry had this to say
“Songs I can sing! Music I can play!
When I find the right birds, you’ll see me again someday!”

Jerry flew across the skies
Searching through the land
For the right group of birds
To form into a band

He landed near a jazz club
Where the birds were cool and slick
Where the horns played tasty licks
Where the drummer’s style was “Sick!”

“Daddy-O, it’s a canary!”
Said the sax man with a smile.
“If you swing in our style,
Let’s improvise for a little while.”

But he’d try and he’d try
As their playing was so tight
But his voice was such a fright
Jerry’s jazz swung no not right

“Man, that cat can’t hang!”
The sax man he did opine.
“Our ragtime tastes like brine!
Our too-de-loo lacks shine!”

“It’s Jerry the Canary!”
The jazz birds had to chirp
“He sounds just like a burp!
Get outta here you jerk!”

So Jerry flew away
From the jazz birds so contrary
And that’s the last they saw of Jerry
That shrieking yellow canary

But as he took his leave
Jerry had this to say
“Songs I can sing! Music I can play!
When I find the right birds, you’ll see me again someday!”

He went into the city
Unsure of where else to be
Hoping he would see
Birds who were just like he

And that is where he heard it
In a club without much light
Birds making with all their might
A sound so wrong, it’s right

The drummer was a pigeon
He could not keep the beat
He’d fall right off his seat
His kit was incomplete

The bassist was a blue jay
She only had two strings
Her plucks were like ker-plings
She did not know a thing

The guitarist was a peacock
Whose amp was much too loud
His persona was too proud
As he tried to wow the crowd

But the audience was happy
As they leapt and flew and danced
And with every passing glance
Only one thing left them askance

“This band is pretty good,” they’d say.
“I give them a 7.2.
They’d really know what to do
If they had a singer, too.”

Just then the song it ended
And Jerry approached the stage
He said, “You guys really rage!
But I have some wisdom that is sage!”

“That’s right, I’m a canary!”
Said Jerry with a smile.
“Since you have a sound that’s wild,
I’ll sing whichoo awhile!”

Jerry sang and he sang
And the band was such a mess
‘twas the sweet sounds of success!
The crowd felt truly blessed!

They played around the world
This was the music kids craved
The critics they did rave
Their songs ruled the airwaves

In interviews with journalists
Jerry was quite frank
Their music was so rank
And his singing sure did stank

But he never stopped and he never quit
Even though he couldn’t sing
Which shows anyone can start a band—even Jerry, even Sting
Heck, if you wanted, you could do most anything

So be like Jerry the Canary
And start your own show
It’s a lot of fun, you know
Just open your mouth, and go!

Story #15–”A Love Supreme” Ranch Dressing

“It started with a simple vision: Create an all-natural salad dressing. Mix simple ingredients into a zesty blend of complex flavor. Collaborate with the salad’s spiritual core, thus heightening, and never overwhelming, its savory inherent essence. Let each mastication be an unceasingly restless search for the attainment of perfection. A humble offering to humanity, and the Spirit that lives in all beings. And so, after an intense period of spiritual awakening and introspective retreat into richer understandings of the harmonious interdependence that is the potential birthright of each and every one of us, we reemerge and consider it our privilege to present to you…“A Love Supreme” Ranch Dressing. Named in honor of one of the greatest jazz records of all time, we present a salad dressing that aspires, like the best of John Coltrane’s timeless music, to continually evolve, grow, and reach to the edge of the cosmos, while still rooted in earthly tradition. Whether dining alone after a long day’s toil, or feasting with beloved friends and family in the name of merriment, may you experience endless “tasty licks” as you bask in the prismatic ecstasy that surrounds us all. Take It Easy, or, as they used to say in Latin: Sumam Eam Facilis.”