When the Monkeydust Settles

If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?- Lynyrd Skynyrd After playing a few times at Whiskey's Saloon, I am invited down the road to a place not so distinctively called "The Beach House".  The Dude, Vato and D.J. have by now christened the jam sessions "No Jacket Required" aka NJR.  I figure this refers to the fact that many talented musicans show up, are just handed equipment and jam. I had seen this phenomenon in New Orleans with a friend and fellow musician named Tony.  I ask the same thing that everyone asks me when I invite them to this place.  "WHERE is it?"  It turns out to be the westernmost liquor license in the county.  I cast a wary eye at the cloud accumulation in the sky and attempt a run at it on my motorcycle. I arrive and find motorcycle parking, thankfully, because the other option is in a sand dune.  My street tires  and thin kickstand would not handle that.  There is a bonfire going, as usual and as I m

I hear the train acoming, it's rolling round the bend.-Johnny Cash All my life I was told that one day, I would understand Bob Dylan.  I STILL don't.  I did come to understand Johnny Cash, though. He was a regular guy with regular guy problems.  I first listened to "Ring of Fire" as performed by Wall of Voodoo and became intrigued.  Johnny even had Trent Reznor write a song for him called "Hurt".  I highly recommend both, however, I digress, this post is about the stripped bare original core of Cash's music.  I would come to know Johnny Cash well. I got word that another open jam had been going on at a place called "Whiskey's".  I had been invited more than once by Joe, a drummer that has shopped where I work for years.  "Bring your bass, and quit making excuses!" He messaged me.  "These guys will like ya, I hate ya, but that's besides da point." He tells me with his usual Philly attitude. Fair

You should try this little game. Just close your eyes, forget your name. -Jim Morrison A message comes through on social media.  Open Jam at a place called "Jade N Jewl".  The usual gang should be there, so I make plans to attend.  My GPS sends me down the wrong road and I have a bit of trouble finding it.  I eventually find the venue.  I park my wife's Mustang and peek inside.  I see a few familiar faces and go in to say hello.  Vato is setting up the audio, and I head back outside to retrieve my bass guitar.  I take a bad step and fall onto the front sidewalk.  Jacob is there and helps me up.  "How much and what are you drinking?"  He asks.  "Nothing yet"  I reply sheepishly.  I get my gear and go back inside.   A drummer named Joe that I have known for a while is there along with The Dude.  Another drummer named Dennis comes in and sits next to me.  "What's up?" he says.  I nod hello and reach in my pocket for the recentl

(monkey) Wheels are turning (monkey) Something's burning (monkey) Don't like it, but I guess I'm learning-Peter Gabriel Another open jam is announced at a venue called "The Drunken Monkey".  If you have lived here in Bay County long enough you start to refer to places of business as "it used to be this or that". It used to be The Saint Andrews Cooler.  It used to be J. Krash's.  It probably used to be several other things.  It will probably change names several more times until the end days. I look up the address on the internet and realize how close to my house it is. I grab my bass and ride my motorcycle there.  The parking lot is paved with pot holes and broken glass.  "Great"  I say to myself.  I see another motorcycle parked up on the large sidewalk and tuck my bike in next to it.  A voice from the side of the building says "Hey, don't park there, it's the vomit zone."  "Thanks" I tell the