John Watt
Banned
No... no... maybe if it was like you said sometimes, it would be nice. But I get followed all the time.
My online use is even monitored by Hells Angels.
If I got it together to visit George Gruhn in Nashville, picking up on his invitation, I'd try to visit you.
Whew! I got my name-dropping out of the way early today. American name dropping, that is.
For all your posting, Elias Graves, I really don't have a sense of where you're at on guitar.
Not that either of us should be easily understood. I got a story.
I fell asleep after supper last night and woke up around eleven, so I went for a walk.
As I was going past The Rex Hotel, three young guys and three girls were grouped on the sidewalk,
looking like skaterbois and punk kitties, and one guy said to me "Looking good". I didn't think he knew me,
but I said "I'm not sure where you're coming from, but when I was playing in bands in the eighties I was offered a gig as a male stripper".
He said "cool, can I have a hug?" I thought to myself, "sure, as soon as I do your friends will beat me", but I said sure.
Sure enough, he came up to me and gave me a hug, saying "you're not hugging me back",
so I said "okay, I'll even hug your backpack". They all seemed happy about this, and we waved goodbye.
Down the block, a bicycle builder I know rode by and came back, talking about moving and catching up to me,
describing an altercation with a girlfriend, saying I should go visit her and get her off his back. I said I was going to play pool.
He's got a metal plate in his skull from being knocked down on the sidewalk by an ex-Olympic boxer who's in jail on other charges,
so he wanted to avoid any physical confrontation.
Going to a bar that doesn't have any real night business, where I get the clicker for the big screen and play pool, buying a can of pop,
some woman walked in, looking like a lost streetwalker from a street that doesn't exist here,
and the next thing you know she's rubbing up against me, putting my arms around her and my toque on her head.
She started dancing, asking the bartender if I'm cool, and he just gave me a look and said to her, "oh yeah".
After a while she noticed she wasn't catching any heat back from me and gave up, but I bought her a shot.
She showed me lot, and I didn't want her sense of self to be diminished, at least by me.
I didn't sleep when I got back to my apartment. I listened with my new c.d. player, gave up on the radio for Jimi,
and was outside downtown with my guitar before the sun came up.
I got a few requests, caught some Smarties, a pop, and turned down breakfast. I turned in the bank card I found on the sidewalk,
and played outside the bank for a while. A huge, and I'm six feet, very dark man with only one arm came up to me, looking at me,
and asked if I knew any Michael Jackson. I yelped real high, oohed a little, and said I'm sorry, but I turn the radio off when he comes on,
and he laughed. Then he asked if I knew any gospel, we got talking, and I shook his only hand.
There. So who cares about a story you can follow? I do it all for style, all for style, and I'm not going out of style, out of style, stylin', stylin'....
out of sight, out of sight, playing and singing a new song I wrote, until I get it right.
My online use is even monitored by Hells Angels.
If I got it together to visit George Gruhn in Nashville, picking up on his invitation, I'd try to visit you.
Whew! I got my name-dropping out of the way early today. American name dropping, that is.
For all your posting, Elias Graves, I really don't have a sense of where you're at on guitar.
Not that either of us should be easily understood. I got a story.
I fell asleep after supper last night and woke up around eleven, so I went for a walk.
As I was going past The Rex Hotel, three young guys and three girls were grouped on the sidewalk,
looking like skaterbois and punk kitties, and one guy said to me "Looking good". I didn't think he knew me,
but I said "I'm not sure where you're coming from, but when I was playing in bands in the eighties I was offered a gig as a male stripper".
He said "cool, can I have a hug?" I thought to myself, "sure, as soon as I do your friends will beat me", but I said sure.
Sure enough, he came up to me and gave me a hug, saying "you're not hugging me back",
so I said "okay, I'll even hug your backpack". They all seemed happy about this, and we waved goodbye.
Down the block, a bicycle builder I know rode by and came back, talking about moving and catching up to me,
describing an altercation with a girlfriend, saying I should go visit her and get her off his back. I said I was going to play pool.
He's got a metal plate in his skull from being knocked down on the sidewalk by an ex-Olympic boxer who's in jail on other charges,
so he wanted to avoid any physical confrontation.
Going to a bar that doesn't have any real night business, where I get the clicker for the big screen and play pool, buying a can of pop,
some woman walked in, looking like a lost streetwalker from a street that doesn't exist here,
and the next thing you know she's rubbing up against me, putting my arms around her and my toque on her head.
She started dancing, asking the bartender if I'm cool, and he just gave me a look and said to her, "oh yeah".
After a while she noticed she wasn't catching any heat back from me and gave up, but I bought her a shot.
She showed me lot, and I didn't want her sense of self to be diminished, at least by me.
I didn't sleep when I got back to my apartment. I listened with my new c.d. player, gave up on the radio for Jimi,
and was outside downtown with my guitar before the sun came up.
I got a few requests, caught some Smarties, a pop, and turned down breakfast. I turned in the bank card I found on the sidewalk,
and played outside the bank for a while. A huge, and I'm six feet, very dark man with only one arm came up to me, looking at me,
and asked if I knew any Michael Jackson. I yelped real high, oohed a little, and said I'm sorry, but I turn the radio off when he comes on,
and he laughed. Then he asked if I knew any gospel, we got talking, and I shook his only hand.
There. So who cares about a story you can follow? I do it all for style, all for style, and I'm not going out of style, out of style, stylin', stylin'....
out of sight, out of sight, playing and singing a new song I wrote, until I get it right.
Last edited:
). I about shit myself, but not quite.
