I come fully prepared to talk about supper clubs, The Hat Pack, the futility of it all, professional locksmiths, unprofessional landlords, professional "contractors," ladders, distinctive tape measures, flashlights and sticky fingers, flying buttresses, Appalachia, apes painting window trim, you and your stereo and how great you are, whether or not it's socially acceptable to call someone a mental case, red plastic shopping bags, what a $250,000 house in Los Angeles looks like, shoes dropping, best case scenarios, water water everywhere, Puerto Rico, Dominica, and what the hell is a U.S. territory anyway?
Great podcast. I listened while shopping in Target and it had me laughing my ass off. People were staring for good reason this time. You gotta watch out for those ladder weilding fuckers named Dave who try to fix things. I have been known to weild a ladder but have never stolen a tape measure. I have on occasion pretended to be able to fix something but not in someone else's home.
Food for thought for sure. That the numbers are not so great, that they are not taking over the world, that freedom of speech is for everyone or it does not exist. But I'm wont be making them sandwiches...
Getting an email from Gene Simmons, why young boys must rock, spending fifty thousand dollars on a collection of outtakes, getting onto a cruise ship with really old rock stars, spending $250 on a collection that is basically The Beatles dicking around while being filmed, Ektachrome 500, the miracle of HAP (again), metadata, When The Saints Go Marching In, tediously listing things like some kind of idiot, Beatle harmonies, the Wailers, little record stores in little lake towns, and a few thousand other words or debatable wisdom.
Over the river and through the woods, to Bukowski's house we go. This is just me talking about what it was like there, and how I wound up there. It's a brief tale that I thought you'd like to hear. But don't let it inspire you to go to Bukowski's house uninvited. That wouldn't be cool. Don't be that person. In California you can shoot someone through your front door and never see the inside of a police station for doing it, keep that in mind as you go about your day. It's probably a good thing to keep in mind in general, as a rule for a happy life.
Yeah. Couldn't listen to the audio from where I was.
I mean it, tho. It's touching to hear about the condition of Bukowskis writing room, even after all this years. Also great to hear that Linda and mjp buried the beef they had, tho it appears to have been a misunderstanding from the beginning.
and I think not wanting to set foot in the house or not wanting to go up to the writing room [...] just stupid. Stubborn, too cool. I was denying basic human desire and curiosity, and that thing we all have of wanting to be close.
Oh, I understand that. I went to Paisley Park in October, and I'm glad I did that. Even as a tourist.
As opposed to what I felt at Bukowski's house, I did feel the Prince ghost everywhere in Paisley Park. Maybe not surprising as his ashes are there. It's one of the first things they show you when you walk in. "Look up there, those are Prince's ashes."
I would have liked to go into the control room in the main studio, we only got to see it from the other side of the glass. But like Bukowski's typewriter, the battered old Hohner telecaster guitar was there, all those fruity swirly, curly-cue guitars, pages of his hand-written notes and lyrics. His clothes. Lots of his fruity, swirly, curly-cue clothes.
Just no Prince. Unless you count the ashes, which - well I don't think they could lay down a proper bass part, so I say they don't count.
I should have talked about Paisley Park a little bit in this "Bukowski's house" episode, but what can you do. The mind wanders. Especially at my age.
Lucky you. The only time I've been in that room, there was a lot missing, since the Huntington-exhibition was just running.
No typer there or the radio or the wine-glass with dryed-in stains from him - they've all been at the exhibition. Of course I did see them there. But it cut something from the athmosphere in his room, I guess.
Still, What an experience!
I know EXACTLY what you talk about here (at least I think I do). And I don't mean Prince or Bukowski, but a very different thing. A feeling. A strange mixture of presence And absence of a beloved person or a situation or a memory. Or an immortal poet.
reading storm and thought of Roni's lines
and Jan's life too
from congrats, Chinaski...
I have piled myself with a mass of
grand abuse, been
careless toward myself
almost to the point of
I am still here
leaning toward this machine
in this smoke-filled room,
this large blue trashcan to my
full of empty
the doctors have no answers
and the gods are
on your patience.
I have helped you all that
now one more poem
and a walk out on the balcony,
such a fine night there
I am dressed in shorts and stockings,
gently scratch my old
look out there
where dark meets dark
This episode is two days late for reasons which may reveal themselves when you listen. And who wouldn't want to listen to a scintillating discussion about deviled ham, touring Prince's home and recording studio Paisley Park - a cotton candy Barbie dream condo if ever there was one, landlords, looking for a new job, minimalism, money, security as a trap, pots and pans and music, and remaining civilized.
Oh Canada, the San Gabriel Valley, LSD, white bread, the Oscar race (pretty sure he's white - har har), the wonderful and marvelous (and now dead) Joe Frank, the proximity effect, Craigslist again because apparently I'm a masochist, and last but not least on this abbreviated episode for an abbreviated month: how I became a Bitcoin millionaire!