Good morning, all wants and needs; all booking shows; all stupid recordings. Welcome to another edition of Words.

I prefer to take a step back from my essays on music and such to just have a post where I just write and see what happens.

I really don’t even have anything to say. Really, I don’t. But it’s almost obligatory in my mind that this series must continue, becoming at least a hundred pages altogether, compiled into a paperback book and put up for sale. No one will buy it. I’m sure of that much. At least not right away. My mom will read it and either like it or not but she – I know – has been reading these things all along. And she is, perhaps, one of only a small handful. But no matter. I soldier on. Because nothing I do is really for anyone else anyway; it’s for me. It’s so I have something to do. It’s so I can go to bed every night knowing there’s a little bit more of me down on paper or recorded to tape, sent into the ether of the internets for an unsuspecting audience to one day be garnered, pulling me out of obscurity and, perhaps, out of poverty as well. And I do have some hope of this actually happening. But the question of when is most certainly always on my mind.

Maybe I’ll tell you that I watched Whiplash again and it’s so fucking good. It’s really one of the best movies I’ve ever seen. That last scene, man. You gotta see it if you haven’t. As a musician, that shit was empowering as shit. And J.K. Simmons sparkles.

What else, what else…

I’ve got some shows coming up.

I’ve also been reading a whole hell of a lot and it feels good to do so.

Whatever.

I’ll cut this short here, because all I really wanted was a couple paragraphs to tide you – myself – over until the next time when I’ll write about Big Star. Otherwise, this is pure, unadulterated nonsense.

I’m out.

Regards,

Michael