Still Figurin' Out Who I Think I Am

This one's about the mothership, a story, and editors.

"We’re going to a party/festival! The party can be anything you like: quiet, loud, formal, informal. Tell us where we’re going, what’s happening, and what you’re wearing."

Well alright now! Maybe I'm dreaming this whole thing up; I'm not sure. Apparently I had to be rescued the other day because I turned up missing and was only found after ~Minja~ checked out her porthole and saw a body. Maybe I'm still in care. Maybe we're all back on The Mothership, and we're heading for home...I don't know; I'm not a fun patient.

The festival? We're Canalside...on the cusp of Lake Erie. During the first summer the free Thursday concerts moved there from downtown Buffalo and Niagara Square. While it was great seeing the packed Square with thousands out looking for fun, it was very congested...at the finally-being-redeveloped Canalside, a sprawling expanse, there is so much more room to spread out and enjoy a concert festival-like atmosphere. For pretty much free...just don't bring a cooler, because buying food and drinks helps keep it that way every week throughout the summer.

Charlie ~ came out in his dopest attire, complete with a feather sticking out of his fedora and a tight pocket square in his formal jacket. Brother Nature wore a Canadian flag like a cape. Jeans, boots, and a flag/cape are not always good life choices, but I can't speak for what passes as a good idea on the west coast of Canada. Andre just wore a giant oversized diaper...because sometimes you just have to go, and if you've been to an all-day experience, you know you could wind up waiting longer in the pisser line than the beer line.

Me though? I can't find my hat. I must've lost it when Andre pushed me overboard on Deck 10 during a smoke break the wind kicked up over the Finger Lakes. I guess. I dunno. So I'm going sans hat to the shindig, which means my dookie attempt at dreadlocks will be in full effect. It's one thing to wake up in the morning and think they look almost kinda awesome; it's another when you have to leave for something and nope the fuck right outta those thoughts. I've been too lazy with them, and they need to go, but there's no time- there's never enough time- to always get the desired look down. So my freak head is flying with IDGAF as the co-pilot. Besides, I'll look good in the morning, right? I got one of them hair-ties around my wrist, so I can do the awkward hipster messy man-bun if I need to. Won't be the first time.

The fest itself is just nuts, especially when you're stuck in a 9-5/8-4 you're slowly hating by the day. Everyone comes out for the big names...not just the "woo hoo party chicks" who use a free concert as an excuse to get shitfaced on a Thursday, but actually almost everyone.The Mothership had landed; we were just grateful to see it dock in our city. We were the star children.

And then we had to go home; walking some of the cobblestone streets until we stopped at Pearl Street   to pee and reassess. And had some ridiculous pints. And made new spontaneously-combustible friendships from talking trash off the balcony.

At the end of the day, always go see George Clinton. Even if you're rocked off the side of a boat (in all the metaphorical ways). Always go to Canalside if you get the chance, because you never know who you might fall in love with musically. Just take my advice. The flowery orange and white swim trunks I wore that night that I can't fit into now and have since donated will thank you.

"If you hear any noise, it's just me and the boys."
Lyrics.  

RIP, floral orange swim trunks.

"April 27 is 'Tell a Story' day in the United States. Scotland and England celebrate this day on October 27. Celebrate 'Tell a Story Day' by telling a story...it can be fiction, non-fiction, a tall tale, or folk lore. If you want you can tell a story about why the British holiday and the U.S. holiday are exactly six months apart."

Sorry. Canadian sooory. I don't have a good story today; I just wasted my one good story of the day up above there. But I have a bang-up live version of Hawksley Workman's "Your Naked Body On The Beach"   that comes with him telling a good story...Thank you soooo much...you feel like hearin' a story, like I feel like hearin' a story? Anybody got a story or anything?

Ohhhh goodness...stories of love, well, I was driving a lot and it's spring afterall and when you're driving a lot along farmers' fields and elsewhere, spring has hit the animals and they're out in the fields doing the things they do, and then, there's us...and I'm only hoping we're doing the things we wanna do too. Is that true?

Ummm, this is a song that you may never have heard, but it belongs in a place in your heart. And that place...give it here...is like, just home from the dentist. When I was younger I had superior teeth to my brother; I never had any cavities, and he always had cavities. And I would make fun of him, and I would make fun of him, and he would get angry with me. My brother didn't...whistle very well either; I don't think that had anything to do with the bad teeth. They're not bad to look at; it's not, like, he spent too much time without a facemask. It's more like, well I don't really know but he certainly is a very good-looking boy; he got the looks whether he got the teeth or not.

And I guess that's all that matters when spring rolls around and animals are sniffin' out the best ones goin'...

Then he breaks into a lovely live version of this, complete with cha-cha-chas and vocal inflections one could only hone after live performances of a song he was too scared to release because his original demo sounded so flat and lifeless. We all have another thing to learn from this.

"Let’s put on our editor’s hats and help someone who has handed in his novel’s manuscript. Even before the middle, you find out that the central problem is extremely weak, so weak that it doesn’t even make sense (to you) for the writer to have written as much as he has. In which ways would you assist this writer, or else, what would you say to him?"

Nope. Not my job. Don't want it. I can't be that guy. I've been a dirty SOB sometimes and exampled dispicable behavior, but no. I won't tell someone who's been in the heat of writing their own thing that it's wrong. I wouldn't want someone to change my thoughts around, and granted, my experience is with poetry and blogging, so I don't know about novels...but if you tell me I should change a line because you think of something different that will change the intention, I'll tell you very nicely to kiss my ass.

But what sucks? I worked once with a creative genius here on the dubbyadc, and she was just a fuckin' kid but we would rework each others' items like remixes. We had a great collaboration thing going. It was amazing. We had a good back-and-forth, with no pressure, and we would just email ideas and...balls...I never (at least I don't think) saved any of them. I could go Zero 7   on her most "Climbing Up The Walls"   words. I had liberty to add a verse, and editing license. And then she went away and so did my will to collaborate with anyone on anything.

The point is...it's really hard to take people out of their original emotions when they write something. Novel, poem, whatever. I write when the moment strikes me and if you wanna play around with it, ok, but I'm not changing anything in the original if it means conceding. I'm crazy selfish that way. Don't change my words because it's what you don't want to hear, and don't work with me if you don't like the outcome. I get weird sometimes. I put that upfront.

And I come with a pedigree and my own issues. I'm still trying to figure out the work-with-me/help-me-out dynamic. It happens all the time. Why am I such a deviant? Ugh.

But anyway, I'm getting back on the eff out this place to either nap or play with P15 more. I'm going with napping. Or maybe not. Peace, loose booty doin' the bump, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!

RIP, Buffalo legend.