POEM: January 31, 1991

January 31, 1991

I speak directly into your ear
and your head twitches, then pivots,
your mouth gaping as if surprised.
But there are no surprises here.

You are childlike and helpless
so I kiss you. Your cheek is whiskered
and warm, your skin a thin casing
barely holding the heat and bones
that want so badly to leave.

As you focus above me, staring
at something I cannot yet see,
I tell you exactly what I am doing.
More for my benefit than yours.
To excuse this invasion of privacy.

Death seems a formality now.
It is the dying that I'll remember.

With each full breath
you move further away.

(from the chapbook LAUGHING IN ITS FACE, 1994; photo by ???; photo (detail) by me)

POEM: at the corner of smoke and mirrors

at the corner of smoke and mirrors

in your backseat stuffed bags
of bread, toilet paper,
and oxydol.  two kids banging
heads. 

we inch closer.  

the little voice in back of my head
begging for candy before we get home.

creeping forward our eyes lock and i know 
i'd ditch it all for the chance to touch your face

smiling "go ahead"

we do
first me
then you

spitting gravel
your exhaust like perfume drifts through my window
as i reach across the seat 
tossing skittles to the screams
and adjust the gridlock in my jeans.


(from the chapbook STUNNED BY THE MOMENT, 1990 - also published in The Chiron Review; photo by me)

POEM: My Name Is Jimmy

My Name Is Jimmy

I sweep the floor at the arena.
During the summer I chase
foul balls at the softball games.
You might think that's not much

but it is. Once they let me hold up
the flag during the national anthem.
Sometimes I watch the cheerleaders.
Once my brother showed me a picture

of a woman without any clothes on.
I wanted to reach out and touch her hair.
I am short and slow. They told me so.
Mostly i just sweep the floor.

I do it well. I walk straight lines.
My Dad picks me up after the games.
He drops me off. Then he picks me up.
When I get home I watch the television.

I watch sports & listen for the scores.
Sometimes they show tapes of the games.
Once you could see me in the background.
I was sweeping the floor at the arena.

I sleep in my sweats and I dream.
I dream of other arenas. I dream
of large crowds. I dream of me
sitting with them drinking cokes

and laughing. Then there's a timeout
in my dream and I get called to the floor
to sweep. I do it well. The people clap
in my dream. They like straight lines.

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1995; also published in Heartlands Today)

POEM: Note For My Wife

Note For My Wife

Honey, I was here.
You were not.
Now you are here.
But I am gone.

Alas and alack
We have fallen prey
To those omnipotent gods:
Space and Time.

But rest assured that someday
The more powerful god of Chance
Will bring us together
At which time I will

Take you in my arms
Gently part your legs
And spend my love in you,
Your husband.

p. s.  There's pizza in the fridge.

[from the chapbook Stunned By The Moment (1990); also published in Howling Dog (Detroit, Michigan); pizza by Totino's CrispCrust; photo by me]

THREE POEMS: that one moment, trying to get comfortable & Divorce

that one moment

.

wind blowing shadows
across the window shade

wolf creek flowing
in its own bed

that one moment
all was clear

inside you i felt
the circle of generations

the pitch & tumble of time

.

.

.

trying to get comfortable

when i was married
we lived in the second to the last house
on a dead end street. one summer night
we were sitting on the porch when
two cars traveling at about 3 MPH
managed to have a head-on collision
right in front of us.

the 1st guy had turned around at the dead end
and the 2nd guy was about to do the same.

the first one says to the police:
"i didn't see him coming"
the second one says:
"me neither"

my wife and i howled with laughter,
even our 3-year-old son was giggling.
they went in to get more kool-aid and
i reclined the chaise a few more notches

.

trying to get comfortable
.
it was a pretty night
fireflies flickering
and the dull slow motion crunch of the collision
echoing like a song in my head.

.

.

.

.

Divorce

.

Shutting the fridge you say
"How can it be that we spent
six years together and I didn't know
that you ate pimento spread?"

I mutter "I don't know" and wonder
at exactly what moment things break:

"The heater in the car kept me warm
all the way home last night.
This morning I turn it on
and nothing."

You mention your roof. "By the way

the parent-teacher meeting is Monday"

We agree that we have a bright boy.
We remind ourselves of our luck,
eyes locking for a moment, then you ask

"How many shingles can I can buy for 90 bucks?"
As I ponder the cost of a heater for an 81 Honda.

("that one moment" and "trying to get comfortable" from the chapbook TRYING TO UNRAVEL SOMETHING, ANYTHING, 1998 - "Divorce" from the chapbook LAUGHING IN ITS FACE, 1994)

Damn Foreigner!

While driving to the grocery this morning I had the perverse pleasure of hearing on my local classic rock radio station the classic rock song "Hot Blooded" by the classic rock band Foreigner.

Much has been written over the years regarding exceedingly bad lines in rock songs. This couplet from "The Beat Goes On" by Sonny & Cher comes to mind:

"and men keep marching off to war

electrically they keep a baseball score"

and even the greats have stumbled now and then:

"can you cook and sew?

make flowers grow?"

(B. Dylan)

It should be noted however, that I am still holding out hope that Mr. Dylan was trying to get under the skin of the politically correct folks with that wince inducer.

.

And I will take The Turtles word for it that they were only joking when they wrote:

"Elenore, gee I think your're swell
And you really do me well
You're my pride and joy, et cetera"

Because if I find out that they were serious there is going to be some big-time shit going down soon.

Regardless of the examples sited above, it wasn't until this morning, when i gave "Hot Blooded" my full and undivided attention, that I realized that there may not be another song in the annals of rock that maintains such an incredible level of insipidness from start to finish.

In case you have forgotten, the boys sprint from the starting gate with this memorable opening:

"Well I'm hot blooded
check it and see

I got a fever
of a hundred and three"

Oh yeah. The old "I'm sick" gambit. That's always been a big turn-on with the ladies.

For me, this line roughly translates to:

"Hey baby, you wanna do it?
I got the flu"

or, for the sake of rhyme, how about?:

"Well I'm hot-blooded,
the night is ours

I'm hot-blooded, baby
I got SARS"

Yeah I'm hot blooded
that's an acronym
it stands for

Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome"

And as if to show that opening killer rhyme about the 103 degree fever wasn't just beginner's luck, the boys immediately ratchet up the stupid quotient a notch or two with this:

"You don't have to read my mind

to know what I have in mind"

For the sake of clarity let me repeat that:

"You don't have to read my mind

to know what I have in mind"

Yep! Sure enough. Identical words *do* in fact rhyme! Well I'll be a sumbitch!

After about two additional rockin' minutes of grilling and intense badgering by the band:

"Do you do more than dance?"
"Did you save your love for me tonight?"
"Can we make a secret rendezvous?
"Shall I leave you my key?"
"What are you doing after the show?"
"Will you be ready when I call your bluff?"
"Are you hot, mama?"

the guys treat us to the classic rock song's entirely too ubiquitous and always clumsy menstrual inquiry:

"Is my timing right?"

It is at this point that Foreigner *finally* asks the [ahem] age-old question:

"Are you old enough?"

?!

Whoa, whoa.

Time-out.

Uh . . . fellas?

Word to the wise.

This particular line of inquiry regarding age should *always* be at the very top of your lyric questionaire. I can't emphasize this enough. Besides the obvious legal implications inherent in the question, there is the practical consideration that, should the young lady in question (or under questioning, if you will) respond "no, i'm sorry, i'm not old enough," you will be able to quickly "ramble on" to the next town (hopefully with your 103 degree temperature still in tow) for a different "rendezvous" with another "hot mama" who may perhaps *legally* "do more than dance."

just a suggestion.

but anyway - back to the song:

"now it's up to you,

can we make a secret rendezvous?

oh, before we do,

you'll have to get away from you know who"

[ED. NOTE: apparently the inquiry regarding the "secret rendezvous" went unanswered in Foreigner's first round of direct questioning]

It would appear that since the dramatic level of the song has plummeted to new depths (perhaps because of the inherent one dimensionality of the lyric (i.e. doing "more than dancing")), the band feels a last second need to employ the old Shakespearean "deux ex machina" scam and introduce this mysterious "you know who" character into the last stanza of the song to spice things up a bit.

and, to be honest, the dramatic affect is quite riveting.

I mean, do any of you *really* know who the "who" of "get away from you know who" is? I know that i don't know who "who" is, and I spend an inordinate anount of time thinking about this kind of stuff. maybe consulting a "who's 'who' in rock" reference book would answer the question. If not, I guess who "who" is will have to remain one of rock's mysteries just like - is Paul dead, did Bowie sleep with Jagger, and what is the exact circumference of Jimi Hendrix's cock.

The remainder of the song continues in pretty much the same vein with the collective temperature of Foreigner's blood apparently remaining quite hot and, at least for the first 2:20 of the song, showing no signs of abating. But in deference to the band, I think that it is only fair to let them, as the kids say nowadays, "take it home":

"hot blooded, every night

hot blooded, you're looking so tight

hot blooded, now you're driving me wild

hot blooded, i'm so hot for you, child

[NOTE: see "suggestion" above]

hot blooded, i'm a little bit high

hot blooded, you're a little bit shy

hot blooded, you're making me sing

hot blooded, for your sweet sweet thing"

(taken from the unpublished E-CHRONICLES, 2003, with revisions from 2008, photo by me)

POEM: careering

careering

snagged

ever so briefly

your time here's

done been did

by chance (happen

stance) you glance

at work and friendship

falling all at once

short in the tooth

and early in the day

you set out in full drift,

the leaves from the trees

summer letters of resignation,

a swirl of gold (fool's perhaps)

and the wind whispering

"take wing"

(from the chapbook TRYING TO UNRAVEL SOMETHING, ANYTHING, 1998 - Boy And A Balloon drawing, 1987 by Andrew Smith)

POEM: choking in piqua

choking in piqua

in the 1st grade i hated cornbread.

it would stick in my throat.

i would always be out of milk

and unable to wash it down

so it just stayed lodged there.

as did sister mary so and so 
towering over-

head 
commanding "we must finish our lunches

think of the starving children in new guinea"

but i could only think of this one kid

me

choking in piqua.

the cafeteria would slowly begin to empty:

first my oldest sister, nodding encouragement

then a neighbor girl, pointing and laughing

then a younger sister, smiling 

leaving me

with a black and white nun

and a black and white world.

making it all very clear:

i would have a hard time swallowing this

but swallow i would.

(from the chapbook TRYING TO UNRAVEL SOMETHING, ANYTHING, 1998; color photo, 2002 by Suzanne Gourlie; black & white photo (detail), 2008 by me)

POEM: Brave New World

Brave New World

Carrottop maples have sung
their praises on the lawn
and as I rake you stumble
at my heels, Marco Polo in miniature,
unearthed treasure in hand
culled from the deep recesses
of a newly discovered backyard.

And raising a stained palm
you show me a walnut
and proudly call it "ball"
just daring me to differ.

(from the chapbook PRAYERS & LAUGHTER, 1990; photo by me)

POEM: Catholic Boy

Catholic Boy

In a darkened marketplace

sin and penance barter.

Gruff, one-sided bickering

Latin phrases rising from the dead.

Then in a hushed tone, this moral equation:

"Six Hail Marys for six transgressions"

The mathematics of absolution.

Bounding home

full of grace

the Lord is with me,

and not taking any lip

from past sins I bust

through the backdoor cleansed.

But reprieve and the day

are brief: a hurried lunch,

the skinned knees of singles

stretched into doubles,

and then -

another storm settles

south of the border

and idly climbing the stairs

I know full well

it’s belly up on the bed boy

the cycle begins again.

(from the chapbook PRAYERS & LAUGHTER, 1990 - also published in Riverrun; photo by me)

"Jesus Christ Superstar" yeah, right . . . try "Jesus Christ Supernaive"

I’ve always been a big fan of the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack. I bought it went it first came out back in the 70s and still listen to it on occasion. So I was pleasantly surprised when I stumbled onto the movie while channel surfing late one night last week.

Unfortunately, about a half hour into the movie my mood changed pretty quickly.

I mean - what a crock of shit. I can’t believe for one second that the guy didn’t see it coming.

Give me a fuckin’ break.

As a general rule, when a group of folks ask you to haul a goddamn 120 pound wooden cross for a couple of miles you can assume that they’re up to no good. But no - the guy hauls it anyway.

And that ain’t even the worst part.

Get this. His *old man* put him up to the whole thing!

"Son of God" my butt. How about "Son of Psycho"

I mean, c’mon! What kind of father would make his own flesh and blood do a thing like that? Yeah, yeah, I made my son take out the garbage every once in a while, but a sack of garbage is not near as heavy as a wooden cross, and besides it was downhill to our trash cans and from what I understand that Calvary hike was like straight up.

To be honest, I'm not sure I'll ever watch the movie again.

Because I know the next time I'm gonna just wanna reach into the screen and grab the guy by the neck and scream: "Jesus *CHRIST* Jesus Christ! Can’t you see that this whole fucking thing is a set-up, man?! You gotta get in front of this and you gotta do it now. There ain't gonna be no Abraham/Isaac change in plans or no last minute reprieve. This shit is *really* going down. My sins ain't your problem. You gotta ditch the old guy. I mean he was an "absent father" anyway. Joe held down the fort! C'mon man - you're one of my heroes dammit!" But it wouldn’t matter none cause you know he’d still haul the damn thing up the hill and people would pat him on the back for it and say "thanks."

What a waste.

I mean - excuse me, but didn’t anyone *for just one second* think about calling some type of Family Service agency or something to report the old man? And don’t give me that "divine family" crap. "Divine" my ass. Try "dysfunctional."

What a joke.

And people wonder why they’re still fighting over there.

(taken from the unpublished ANNALS OF POSTAL BLOWFISH, 1995, with revisions from 2008)

POEM: kittykittyykitty

kittykittykitty

honey under
patch of fur
luscious pink
petal garden

sweet peach shining
a frantic storm
a gorgeous beauty
floods my tongue

a moan a cry
a joyful terror
a language as vital
as life's pounding blood

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1995 - thanks to Lords of Acid for the photo)

ANDREW AND THE PRETTY PUNCHERS

POEM: rock." and roll- (the dayton "sound")

rock."
and roll-
(the dayton "sound")

it's the first day of spring and
i'm driving home from work when
the guy on the radio tells me
he's gonna play journey's 3rd
album in its entirety but
first he wants to play some-
thing by styx from their "pieces
of eight" album (more like "pieces
of shit" by stynx i'm thinkin') then
he breaks for a local lounge commercial
where a bunch of southern dix-
i.e. "all-stars" (a band that includes
former members of molly hatchet and
blackfoot) will be "servin' up a steady
diet of good old confederate-fried
rock."

and roll-
ing down the window

i let in some fresh air.

only four more days till
the new guided by voices album.

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1995 - also published in The Dayton Voice; photo by me)

POEM: "My Biggest Fear Is That I'll Live Too Long"

"My Biggest Fear Is That I'll Live Too Long"


A rosary is squeezed
as if pressure itself
could extract sin's infection,
or in each glass bead graces
were pitted.

The radio's faint hum
is like an anchor thrown
down. The leverage of this world
to lift one's prayer.

A prayer for the daughter
carried, but not held, a prayer
for the husband whose fever
these hands could not break, a prayer
for the strength to understand
why these walls seem to recede
and this bed no longer creaks
when you shift.

And a prayer for peace.

The peace to be found
in this evening's recitation,
or in the swift, sharp knock
of your tardy guest.

(from the chapbook PRAYERS & LAUGHTER, 1990 - also published in Farmers Market; photo by me)

POEM: the laughter boat

the laughter boat

the laughter boat
docks at sadness
cargoless and blue

i would give my vada pinson autograph
for a vision right now
(religious or otherwise)

i walk around the park
counterclockwise
trying to unravel something,

anything. in the air
the bells of st. anthony, sirens,
and the whir of a ceiling fan

the neighbors voices are a murmur
on windy days my house
creaks and groans

i hear sounds.
i want songs.

(from the chapbook TRYING TO UNRAVEL SOMETHING, ANYTHING, 1998; photo by me)

.

POEM: tv xian woman

tv xian woman
(to be read from bottom to top)

babel
tower of
a designer
to heaven like
screw hairdo climbing
for to carry me home - cork
metal hoop earrings, coming
cheekbones - swing low sweet
spidery lashes dancing on frosted

(from the chapbook LAUGHING IN ITS FACE, 1993; photo by me)

POEM: Daily Grind

Daily Grind

For my first check I worked as a checkout boy.

At $1.35 an hour, for 20 hours a week

I would check out all of the pretty, young mothers.

I was 16 and healthy. All I could think about

while bagging their groceries

was me

"bagging their groceries"

After 3 months the boss took me aside

put his arm around my shoulder and said

"You're doing a really good job. I'm gonna

raise your pay to $1.40." He said " Kevin

at this rate - the sky's the limit"

I glanced out the window and began to see

that it was clouding up.

In the fall I moved to the Meat Department.

Boning scraps and grinding kangaroo meat that

was shipped frozen from Australia. Thawing and

jamming anything red into the grinder, I knew

it wouldn't be satisfied until it got a piece of me.

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1995; photo by me)

Rock And Roll Resume 1954 - 1992

Rock And Roll Resume 1954 - 1992

1954 - Born. Elvis Presley records first song.

1955 - 1958 - Can't recall.

1959 - Drive to Chicago with parents. Hum chase theme from "The Lone Ranger" across entire state of Indiana.

1960 - 1962 - Begin to hear strains of Johnny Mathis drifting from sister's bedroom. Am not impressed.

1963 - Buy first radio (Magnavox, 10 transistor). Sleep with it under pillow for next three years.

1964 - Watch Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Cry because they show no close-ups of Ringo.

1965 - Mother & father inform me that it is OK to like Beatles. Declare Rolling Stones off limits. Borrow latest Rolling Stones album from friend.

1966 - See Tina Turner perform on American Bandstand. Retire to bedroom. Miss supper.

1967 - McCrory's Department Store has first six Rolling Stones albums in mono for .39 (3 for $1.00). Don't buy them. Regret it later.

1968 - Mother drives me to Eastown Shopping Center. I buy first two records: Beatles Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and Creedence Clearwater Revival's first.

1969 - Placed in charge of music for St. Anthony Teen Club dances. Resign when club president demands that I play Bee Gees Greatest Hits.

1970 - See first concert: Grand Funk Railroad, Bloodrock, and Atomic Rooster. Friend smokes pot. I don't.

1970 - 197? - Drug/alcohol stage. Can't recall. (See 1955-1958).

1971 - Drive to first concert: Jefferson Airplane and Pure Prairie League at Hara Arena. Run off Needmore Road taking girlfriend home. Escape uninjured. Grounded for four weeks.

1972 - Lose virginity during second verse of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love."

1973 - Leaving my feet, I crack head on doorway leading into family dining room while playing air guitar to Hendrix' "Foxy Lady." Regain consciousness approximately ten minutes later.

1974 - Almost go to St. Louis to see Bruce Springsteen.

1975 - Enter Bob Dylan phase. Refuse to listen to anything else. Visit James Dean's gravesite.

1976 - Save up $100. Buy first guitar. Never learn to play.

1977 - Patti Smith falls off stage at Bogart's in Cincinnati. Lands on me. She is drunk. Smells terrible. I feel lucky. Drive home very aroused.

1978 - Embrace punk/new wave movement. Drive to Subway Records in Cincinnati every week to buy 45s. See Elvis Costello at Bogart's. Almost go to see Sex Pistols in Texas.

1979 - Get first apartment. Roommate builds 12,000,000 watt amplifier. Plays Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers album. Amp smokes. Then melts.

1980 - Begin to follow local punk/new wave bands. Become infatuated with organ player for Human Switchboard. Get her autograph. Lead guitarist from The Dates approaches me after first set at Walnut Hills bar. Tells me I'm cute. Get his autograph.

1981 - Accidently run over cat on way to Toxic Reasons show. Friend cries. Run over another one on way home. Friend cries louder.

1982 - The Dates and Human Switchboard break up. Toxic Reasons move to LA. I sell approximately 500 records. Go to graduate school.

1983 - 1991 - Complete graduate school. Get a good job. Buy a new car. Get new girlfriend. Get new girlfriend pregnant. Get married. Have a baby. Get promoted. Buy a house. Separate. Get divorced.

1992 - Buy boombox for eight-year-old son. Gaze with envy & wonder as he dances from room to room.

(from the chapbook LAUGHING IN ITS FACE, 1993 - also published in The Dayton Voice; photo by me)

REVIEW: andrew and the pretty punchers, canal street tavern, 9/17/08

from The Buddha Den Dayton, Ohio's #1 music blog:

"Closing out the evening, perennial Dayton-faves ANDREW AND THE PRETTY PUNCHERS brought the requisite small-town catharsis that is their stock-in-trade. Although relatively loose on this evening, the band still mustered an intensity and dynamic range that continues to expand with each performance.

With several new songs in tow, the band continues to refine their everyman-singalongs as the hooks become more potent, but less obvious. Likewise, the band's new slower dirge-like number allows the band to further expand their range, all the while retaining their ability to hold the audience enraptured. Yet again on this night, ANDREW AND THE PRETTY PUNCHERS proved that they are indeed one of the best bands in the current Dayton crop"

http://www.myspace.com/ANDREWTHEPRETTYPUNCHERS

THREE POEMS: Ike, Schmike - ye olde Smith homestead still stands tall & strong

The remnants of hurricane Ike rolled into town this past weekend. He threw his best shots at ye olde Smith homestead and all he had to show for a half day of huffing & puffing was a 2 foot strip of siding resting in the side yard.

So come with me if you will as we climb aboard "the wayback machine" and pay tribute to that stalwart of nearly 50 years of inhabitancy, ye olde Smith homestead, with three bits of poesy from yesteryear:


father & son

Every morning
you stared

at the crack
in the plaster

above the stove.
Coffee cup curled

to your lips
like a weight.

Dressed in the shadow
of the overhead light

the hands of the clock
would slowly push you

away. The slam
of the backdoor

sending a cool draft
that swirled under the table

then circled me
like a coat.

(from the chapbook STUNNED BY THE MOMENT, 1990 - also published in The MacGuffin)



on the street where i grew up

the trees have all but disappeared. once
as a child the rain hit my cap at an angle -
each drop spilling over the bill into my
pocket.

now the hollowness of regret
is replaced with acquisitions
and we slowly fill our houses.

but i am beginning to see that what really matters
is what passes this window.

the sky is like pewter and the snow
melting on the neighbor's rooftop drips
from the spouting. i can almost taste it metallic
on my tongue. each drop pecking deeper
into the ice. working through it.
seeking something new.

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1996)



look, it's faith

when i was a boy my father took me to crosley field
to see the reds. i would look for vada pinson but
remember most seeing henry aaron get his 3000th
hit. an infield single that tommy helms knocked down
but did not throw.

when my son was born
my mother said "surely this
makes you believe in a god"

it didn't.

but when i see that roberto clemente died
after collecting exactly 3000 hits i feel
the seed of faith take root.

now i pass ball with my son in front of the home
where my father passed ball with me. two spots
worn out where i place my feet every spring.
we squeeze each throw and offer it back -
the simple, repetitive, call & response of prayer.

(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1997 - also published in Heartlands Today; photo by me)

Stupid White Guy Tricks, a painfully true story

it's 1990.

i am sitting at a desk in my living room in trotwood, ohio, paying bills and taking in the sweet smells of honeysuckle and gunpowder that tell me that spring is here and the dayton satans motorcycle gang has buried another fallen comrade with a 20 gun salute at the drexel cemetery located off of west third street.

life is good.

i haven't been laid in months. but neither has my wife. on the floor, our son andy plays with his legos, anxiously awaiting the arrival of his new friend, dennis.

suddenly, there is a tapping at the door.

"it's dennis!" andy yells.

as the door slowly begins to crack open our cat "blackie" takes this as his cue to make a bolt for the great out of doors where life is full of adventure, cat fights, and feline leukemia. as the door slowly opens blackie is about ten feet away and at full bore. as is my custom i scream "GET IN HERE BLACKIE!!!" blackie does a quick about face and hightails it to the back bedroom as the door suddenly opens leaving a frightened dennis in our doorway.

andy's new friend dennis is an african-american.

our eyes meet and while i'm thinking "shit. there goes 25 years of civil rights down the crapper," dennis's eyes seem to be one part terror and one part "my mom and dad were right about the white man."

i try to make a quick recovery and say: "hi dennis. i'm andy's dad. did you know we have a cat? it's black. it's very pretty. we call him blackie."

dennis looks suspiciously around and of course there is no such cat because i just scared the holy bejesus out of it with my aforementioned bellowing. dennis backs away from me, over to andy and the legos, while i head to the back of the house to find blackie. i find him cowering under the master bed and grabbing him (lovingly) by the nape of his sorry ass i haul him into the front room and introduce him to dennis: "see dennis - this is blackie." dennis pets blackie and blackie begins to purr.

and suddenly all is well in legoland.

today dennis and andy have decided to build an airport.

ANDREW AND THE PRETTY PUNCHERS brought it to me and now I'm going to "bring it (to you)"

[thanks to the buddha den for the photo]

Congratulations to ANDREW AND THE PRETTY PUNCHERS for a great show at the Canal Street Tavern last night. The fellas were on the 3rd leg of their 2008 GOODBYE OHIO Montgomery County World Tour. I estimated the Wednesday night crowd at about 140 although the Canal Street doorman had it closer to 31.

The new songs sound fantastic! even better than a bunch of the stuff on GOODBYE OHIO (GO), and if you've heard GO then you know that's saying something. Really catchy and poppier stuff. I say: "yum-yum . . . eat it up."

When I got home I was pretty pumped up and, believe it or not, I actually wrote a song. well, the lyrics anyway. It was pretty weird because you hear about how songs just come to songwriters. Well, I think that's what happened to me because once I got started it just kind of all spilled out. I was completely drained after the process. It felt like the words had been there inside of me all of the time, and I just had to get them out.

Let me know if anyone who would like to add some music to the following:


"bring it (to you)"
(k. smith)

i'm gonna bring it
bring it to you
you know i'm gonna bring it
cause that's what i do

bring it bring it
c'mon baby
why do you fight the fact
that it's being brought to you

now we've been down this road before
and you know what i mean
you can leave your pain at my door
cause i'm the best you've ever seen

bring it bring it
c'mon baby
why do you fight the fact
that it's being brought to you

it's been brought to you before
but never like this for sure (except by me, once)
you're going to a new place now baby
and i'm here to hold your hand within my hand

bring it bring it
c'mon baby
why do you fight the fact
that it's being brought to you

[repeat chorus]

welcome to "the many moods of kevin's myth"

hi.

welcome to my blog.


reporting live from deepest east dayton i remain,
kevin (smith)