One Thing Leads to Another

Mount Sandia, near Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Mount Sandia, near Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Sometimes I think all the good songs have been written. Everybody’s been doing something different, applying new wrinkles, and adjusting to changing times so much that it’s gradually gotten hopelessly convoluted.

I told you, baby, from time to time, but you just wouldn’t listen or pay me no mind, so I’m moving on, I’ll soon be gone, you climbed too high for my li’l old sky, so I’m moving on.

Music is so much more advanced now, so much so that every time I turn on the radio, someone’s singing about his pickup truck, his baby, and his shotgun. I got my shutgun, hopped in my truck, and picked up my baby. If it had been the country music of the 1940s, his baby would have been in big trouble, particularly if she was a trifling woman, and that old boy had brung along his moonshine.

MonteBeach1              Lots of music is impressive, but not as much of it moves me. It seems as if I want music that moves me, I’ve got to write it myself.

When the sun comes up on that bright morn, in the quiet that follows every storm, when the demons have all died away, we’ll celebrate your independence day.

I’ve never written a song about a pickup truck, or a shotgun, or a-setting down at the river drinking me some beers with my baby. This explains partially why my songs remain largely confined to my own living room and the occasional bookstore, parking lot, or Mexican joint.

Most of what’s on my FM dial – and I don’t touch my FM dial unless I’m in my fourteen-year-old Honda that doesn’t have satellite – is happy. I like happy. I just don’t like it all the time. Sometimes I like sad.

Sittin’ on the front porch in the rain, wondering what became of me, and why I can’t make things the way they used to be, I don’t know why she don’t love me, don’t know what she wants, try my best to show my love, even as I watch her slip away

When I wrote it, I was sad. Funny how that works.

I was eating chicken wings with Diet Pepsi in a sports bar and got this from watching a pretty coed and her shabby-looking boyfriend.

He’s kind of cute, life’s a mess, sells his weed, keeps the best, hair bunched up in a ponytail, stares at himself in the mirror.

Sirius122310In fact, my songs have started having a phase two in which they are expanded into a short story. This one grew out of just watching two people ten yards away, drinking. First the song, then the short story.

Here’s a link:

All that from watching two college students in a bar. I’ve never seen them again. They may be nothing like they were portrayed in the story, which, of course, is the beauty of fiction.

And, oh, by the way, here is the song:

Not only do I write blogs, here and at Not only do I write songs and short stories. I write novels, and I’d appreciate your consideration of The Intangibles and The Audacity of Dope, the two I have on the market so far.


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