Weeping Statues, Elvis Sightings

Every Day Someone Gets a Sign

So I'm dogsitting for some friends who are out of the country.

And the dogs and I are walking around the neighborhood... and we see this:

Yeah, that's Elvis. (Click on the photo for a larger version -- with hips carefully hidden because this is a family-friendly blog.)

Or at least a wooden statue of Elvis.

On a balcony on a house in a residential area of Los Angeles.

How I wish I could've been a fly on the wall for that conversation.

"Honey, I've got a really fun idea. I'm going to buy (or carve) a full-size wooden statue of Elvis. And we'll put it on the balcony so people will get freaked out when they walk past. And we'll laugh so hard. Except for the 99% of the time when we're not around. And then we'll just laugh more on the inside."





PS: No dogs or people were struck by lightning in the writing or posting of this blog.

Supreme Court Song

I wasn't going to post this, but at the last second (by a 5-4 vote), I decided I would.

Get Well Soon from SteveForbert.com on Vimeo.

Three Things

...And Made Arrangements...

There were three things he kept with him.

Three things he loved.

Three things he'd never be seen without.

And he loved them. All three.

Two sincerely. One ironically.

He kept a Time magazine from the week he was born. Said it was the world back then.

It wasn't the world. It wasn't even a great map of the world. But it revealed many things. Not so much in the articles. But the word choices. The stodgy page design. And the absurdly out-of-their-time advertisements.

He kept a pack of matches. From a bar that long since closed. Where he met the first girl who tore his heart still beating from his chest and stomped on it with four-inch heels. Wouldn't let anyone touch the matches. Would never strike one.

The bar was called "That Place Around the Corner." Only it wasn't. It was on the end of a cul-de-sac. And out in front of the bar (and on the book of matches) was a large statue of an English Bulldog. Although it was not an English Pub.

And he kept a photo. Of the house where he was born.

It was wrinkled. And black and white.

And looked exactly like a million other houses.

But he kept these things. All three.

And he had them with him. When he died.

Because.

Because.

When people said "you can't take it with you," he never quite believed it.

And he loved them. All three.

Two with sincerity.

Go Here, Read This, Listen to That

I'm under the weather this weekend and drowning in work...

But here are a few things that have sparked my musical interests:

Apparently, the Paul McCartney song "Jet" was written about a dog. Or a horse. Or it's just nonsense. Or it's about David Bowie.

Any Major Dude with Half a Heart covers Carole King's Tapestry -- meaning the cover and cover versions of the tracks. Check it out here.

Andrew Sandoval and the For the Love of Harry blog share some cool unreleased Nilsson tracks.

Catch you tomorrow...

No One Knows Where they Came From

Duncan Was His Name...

I thought Summer Solstice was always on June 21.

Apparently that's not true. It varies from year to year from June 20 to June 22.

Another mystery lost in the fog of time and space.

Happy (belated) Summer Solstice.

It's all downhill and losing light from here...

Hard to Be A Nice Guy All the Time

You Got a Lot of Nerve

She walked in from the cold.

Dripping snow. Ice covering her hat.

Flung it off, shook out her long hair.

Scanned the room, trying to see who was there.

Who was waiting for her.

Who would be her next victim.

No one looked up. No one wanted to see.

She quickly catalogued her activities from the past week.

Drunken encounters. Casual pain inflicted on anyone unfortunate enough to be in the blast zone.

Lying. Theft. Bigotry of various stripes.




Then she stamped her feet. Took a deep breath. Put back on her hat.

And walked out. Muttering to herself "but I'm a good person."

When the door swung shut behind her, the mood lightened. The crowd relaxed.

Delight rushed in to fill the space she'd just occupied.

And she went off to spread her chaos and carefree destruction somewhere else.

You Say It's Your Birthday

Sir Paul McCartney turns 70 today.



I'm just gonna let that idea sink in for a while...