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Darkness Calls - and it's Long Distance Collect, Too! [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]

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(no subject) [May. 13th, 2017|01:53 am]
Well, I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Well, your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew ya
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
You know, I used to live alone before I knew ya
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe there is a god above
If there is, its name is Love
And Leonard says,"You don't really know the lyrics, do ya?"
Well, maybe I don't know the words
But I know the pain and I know the chords
And for all those I've lost I whisper, "Hallelujah"

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
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Hey! It's Spam! [Feb. 20th, 2017|09:24 pm]
[Current Music |SRC - Won't Go Quietly]

Jesus. When was the last time I spammed my Journal? Am I resurrecting this thing?

Maybe. It's not like anyone reads these, anymore; it's not like I haven't alienated what few friends I've had, over the years, with my bull headed insistance on this current fight.

I owe all of you - anyone that bothers to check into these old pages and see if I'm still alive - an apology. Most especially J, Patty and Jim. And Rin, of course, despite his being past able to hear it.

But, then, if I include the dead I need give apologies to, I'll be here long enough to start crying.

So. Check out oldghosthouse.livejournal.com for more, if you wish.

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But then again... [Feb. 20th, 2017|09:12 pm]
[Current Music |Aerosmith - Milk Cow Blues]

But then again - I'm still fuckin' Magic.

Lay your wagers and not against me, should you wish to win.
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(no subject) [Feb. 20th, 2017|09:08 pm]
[Current Music |Pink Floyd - Wish you were here]

It's nights like this that are both best and worst.

My head doesn't ring - much - tonight. My hearing isn't too bad, memories come clean with little jumbling; words are good.

I put on Milk Cow Blues and consider; I'm only 52, soon to be 53, a little overweight but still pretty damn durable.

And I still get looks, y'know?

It wouldn't be too tough to get the proper gear, call up Jae and provoke him into starting something. Getting back on stage would be...

You pay for the life you lead, sooner or later.
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(no subject) [Dec. 22nd, 2014|05:21 pm]
[Current Mood |hopefulhopeful]

If it weren't for sex, drugs & rock n' roll, I'd have long since moved into a quaint, split-level cave somewhere far from any hairless apes - as long as there was a good public library nearby.

So. Time enough to take a breath, yes?

Posting here, these days, more for myself than anything - going to shut off the automatic cross post to LJ, I think. It feels... messy. Like opening something that's long finished, again and again.

Odd having short hair. Even after half a decade of it. I look like George Clooney now. Or his rough-and-tumble brother. Heh.

Recovered pretty well from a host of issues, most of which came from pushing myself a bit harder than I should have - just took a week off to sleep, sleep, rest and sleep.

Now it's time to return to the war; considerate of it to wait for me, I think.

The Estate should close mid-January. Should have a housewarming (ye gods, I own a house?? Where's Batman?) sometime before Summer Solstice. If you're reading this, you're invited.

Getting married next fall. Getting slow, I am; not getting any less lascivious, however - I've always said, "sharing is caring. And pretty hot with the right people."

Let's see, what else? Will be firing up FetLife someday before too long - need the practice, I've let my anti-social tendencies really dig me a pit, here.

That considered, the Scooby-Dooesque Mystery house is now sealed from the elements; I need to repair the main floor support, do flooring, etcetera ad robustum, but looks like we'll pull this off.

It'll be a place that any or all of our far-flung friends can find a moment's peace, some space to recoup, or a shoulder to lean on. Thinking of calling it 'Haven House' - not original, of course, but I do have Scott's permission. And I think it might be a rare thing, to have coastal-style household in the central midwest.

Anyway, looking for a place to park some images so I can post them. Expect to see stuff soon.

Be well.
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(no subject) [Dec. 1st, 2014|09:17 am]
So. Onward and upwards: have I even slowed down enough to give a snapshot (there's a dated reference) overview here? I'm thinking I haven't.

Probably be a good idea, if only for reference.

2014 rang in with the the death of my Mom - I'd been her support ('caregiver' is too strong for such an ornery lady) for the last couple of years and it hit hard. Orphan now. Miss her much.

My older sister balked at my handling the Estate; my younger sister, who is wise, proposed we be co-executors. Expensive attorney made it so.

Added another medication to the regimen: Synthroid.

Jenny agreed to marry me; nuptials are tentatively scheduled for October 24th. 2015.

Found a buyer for the old homestead on 18th. Will, of course, have to move - Expensive attorney had no faith in me as a realtor and was unprepared, starting months of delays.

Liquidated all my assets, emptied my bank accounts and added it to the couple of grand from Mom's life insurance and bought a house.

Probate court's appointed appraiser values house $30k less than it appraised in November 2013 - suspicious I am.

Note early warning signs. Discuss them with Doctor B. He advises my blood pressure is not only up in the normal range, which is odd for me, but actually high. My cholesterol isn't at all bad for a guy my age "with your diet", and I'm losing hair rapidly. I blame Synthroid - he blames stress.

I go off Synthroid for two weeks, check back. Am glad I didn't bet money against my doctor. Doc advises me to relax. I joke that I've forgotten how and he gets surprisingly serious - very out of character. "You need to learn, then."

Evict tenants at rental property for destroying yard and property. New tenants turn out worse.

Use Better Business Bureau to get company owning my new house to clear the title to me - they are surprised that I pulled a big gun so soon. Not messing around here.

Begin reconstruction and rehab of new property.

Have a mild transient (has characteristics of both ischemic and hemmorhagic) cerebrovascular accident - completely lose my sense of balance, so I relearn how to relax. Spend three days resting; take the opportunity, once I'm able to sit up, to rebuild my computer.

Probate court approves sale of Homestead property - begin negotiations with buyer.

Dodge in and out of roofing new property, due to weather.

... and that's about it.

I'm damn tired; still recovering stamina and strength, but have to get up on the rooftop today and finish it off.

Then interiors.

Actually, I think I've got some pictures here somewhere... I'll dig 'em up and post.
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Mild Ischemic Cerebrovascular Accident [Oct. 11th, 2014|04:54 pm]
[Current Mood |contemplativecontemplative]

Strange how the night moves, with Autumn closing in.

It's a race, at this point; on one hand, I had my first mini-stroke a few days ago. On the other, I bought a house not long ago.

Yeah. A freakin' house.

It's a Scooby-Doo mystery house, needs more ICU than TLC - I paid cash.

I'm about as broke as I've ever been.

So. I've got loved ones and a memory I want to leave behind; with luck, a good dose of it, I'll be able to finish up some writing and get it out there before I go.

Five years. That's all I ask. Two will do, if that's all I get. But five? Well, that would be nice.

Then again, I might hang in there for another twenty.

Anyway, I've recovered to some degree - my balance is still off, and it was mild enough not to need more than a few days bed rest, otherwise. And my balance may be just due to having a broken toe - that's another story, LOL.

Much like my house, I'm solid and functional on the outside; the interior is where the damage is.

Live fast, live for all you can, and build, build, build - 'cause you'll be gone before you know it, and there's nothing after this.

And Autumn? Autumn is upon me; my colors are changing, I slow and smile and remember more than I think ahead.

But yet, I still fight. More carefully, more craftilly, quiet and clever I twist the knife.

Update: Due to a few of you worrying excessively, I feel I should be clear: (A) I'm not dead yet, and (2) I'm mostly recovered, other than having to be careful when cornering or banking. It's much less severe than what Brett Michaels dealt with a few years ago - and, yeah, I do move more slowly and I'm greying, but Christ's Balls: I'm half a century old and have had a hell of a life.  That said, I'll probably outlive all of you.*

*Comment intended for persons born in 1921.

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Robin Williams [Aug. 12th, 2014|07:42 pm]
So. Some years ago, some like-minded friends and I slipped through the back gates, past the late-night kitchen staff and up the service elevator into the main floors of the Bel'age Hotel, right off the Sunset Strip.

Oh, by the way? Since Wyndham bought the place, they've tightened security up quite a bit - don't try it now, kids.

We took the stairs to the fifth or sixth floor (we were all much younger and in better shape, then), crossed over to the elevators and made for the roof.

A little-known amenity of the place was roof-top hot tubs; the five of us slipped out of leather, t-shirts and various bits of lingerie (worn as clubwear by most ladies and some gents, in that time and place), unabashedly nude: it was around 3 a.m., and we had the hot tubs, the roof and a most marvelous view all to ourselves.

Or so we thought.

I didn't realize who it was at all, not until I'd been speaking to him for a few minutes. 'Course, he wasn't as famous, then - or maybe he was, maybe it was just that thing of living in Tinseltown, where anything can happen and one gets jaded. At any rate, he was very quiet until it became obvious that we were glad to have him with us, we weren't really clear on his celebrity or much of anything else.

Shortish hair, sure, but he had it all over - jesus, the man was hairy. I don't envy whoever cleaned the tubs the next day, to be honest. Didn't even realize he, too, was naked until after we'd left, that's how hairy he was.

Most of it was a blur; I laughed until my face hurt. He, thankfully, laughed, too - there were, ah, high spirits all around.

We left right as the sun was pinkening the sky; I think I thanked him, but I can't remember. But I do remember him smiling.

In all the time since, I've never wondered why he'd be up there, on a slick roof with no guard rail, alone, at 3 am on a weekend - until yesterday.

Life's a funny ol' bitch, ain't it?

Best of, Robin - hope your journey was better than it seemed.
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(no subject) [Jul. 18th, 2014|02:23 pm]
...and Johnny Winter died, too.
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(no subject) [Jul. 15th, 2014|07:16 pm]
Still hacking away at revisions and things, when I have the chance:

Stevie Sweet hadn't been called that for at least twenty years; he'd been a glam drummer, back in the day, and there'd even been a point when he and the guys had done okay on the Sunset Strip - there'd been girls, drugs, sex, shows and even a little money.

Then Tommy had died; overdosed in his little apartment near Santa Monica, probably on purpose. He'd been HIV positive, with all the Hepatitus alphabet, too, and couldn't keep it together enough to do what he needed to stay alive. They'd looked for another guitarist, tried a few out, then Cliff and Kev disappeared; the cops didn't look very hard for them, and Stevie had a kid to raise, a landscaping business to run, a new wife to worry about...

In short, time moved on; Stevie Sweet faded into just the smallest pocket inside Steve Scherkowski, nearly forgotten except for one night of the year.


Every October 31st, Stevie Sweet returned to Hollywood, walked the streets he'd known and looked at the latest generation of wild young things; he hid, never quite coming to the surface of the man he was now, but he looked. And remembered.

He'd played an all-black Ludwig kit, with Paiste cymbals, one exactly like the set he found himself staring at through the plate glass front of one of the newer clubs. More than exactly; the kick drum was gouged in the same spot, the floor tom was the same mismatched Pearl he'd found in a pawn shop in Santa Monica...

It was his kit.

How, he didn't know; this club had been a Jaguar dealership back in the day - he'd never played here, ever. And he didn't remember what he'd done with his kit; lost it piece by piece, maybe, or left in a storage locker and never reclaimed.

Maybe, he thought, wandering through the doorway, the kid who owns it now will let me play a little.

The throne had to be readjusted a little lower; twenty years had brought forty pounds with them. He tried the kick; it felt right. A snap to the ride, a little sizzle then a roll...

A few seconds, nobody'd mind an old guy sitting in for a few seconds.

The trick that Stevie had used to remember all the songs was mnemonics; he remembered drum lines by words, phrases they sounded like. His favorite, and one of the favorite covers they did, was by the group that inspired his name, The Sweet: Ballroom Blitz.

How did that go?, Stevie wondered, Let's see. Kick and Thud and a Bucket of Blood, yeah, like THAT...

Two bars later, Cliff came in right on time, his voice a little more eerie, more reedy, than usual. "Ready, Steeevie?"

"Uh-huh," Stevie Sweet, no longer hidden away, breathed into his mic. He noticed the huge holes - shotgun, he supposed - in Cliff's chest, vaguely wondering if it would throw off his vocals.

It didn't.
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