I'm sitting here listening to Les Baxter. I close my eyes and feel transported to an alien-space jungle with dancing green women, blue mojitos, purple oceans roaring, warmed by the dual suns in sky and my rocket ship still cooling down from the flight.
Still working on my next song for the Los Feliz EP, the music is done. It's the lyrics that are left. AS ALWAYS. Damn lyrics. They are the last to show. I'm doing a little research on "Cholitas"...since my song is called "Cholita", this pinche huero better learn all he can. *laughing*
The trees are swaying a little and all the leaves are like fingers and hands waving hello. "Hello Trees! What's shakin'? What's bakin'?....Hopefully not you! Ha!" Wisely the Trees aren't talking. They know what happens if they talk. It's the hatchet, ax and saw for them. Unless you're in the H.R. Pufnstuff television show, then they'll try to take your golden flute from you. "Watch out Jimmy!!!!"
Yes...I was a child raised on 70's television and old movies. Like having my brain soaked in absinthe too long, I am scarred but proud to show it off. "See? Here on my left knee is my scar from arthroscopic surgery, my right hand a knife wound and a glass cut, my chest...a cigarette burn....and deep in my grey matter are thousands of movies and T.V. shows swimming and feeding on my synapses. I'm very proud of those ones."
Gone are the days of having to get up and flip sides of my records...except for those rare rainy Sundays when I spread out my pillows on the floor and have a vinyl marathon. My iPod keeps the music flowing...my mouth is humming...my foot is tapping, and my mind is turned to channel 13 watching "Attack of the Mushroom People"....
Yes. I'm sober. It's all Les Baxter's fault.