I f**ked Tammy Wynette

September 16, 2009 22:31

Despite sleeping in and a two hour nap, today was a long day. I’ve kind of gotten out of that morning inclination to press some buttons and make this mental ride go.
The shame and horror I should feel if I wasn’t such a procrastinating son of a bitch.
In the end it’s a series of post adolescent distractions that make most men my age buy mid life crisis motorcycles with too much billet in the hopes of recapturing the freedom of youth days long gone by. I’m just not that guy, no matter how hard I want to be.
I spent most of the day in a voracious reading haze, but still carry the stinking Luddite guilt that it doesn’t count because it was on the internet. The electronic playpen for adult delinquents like myself where we can get lost down the rabbit hole of our low brow navel gazing kingdoms of virtual geekdom. I confess I enjoy it way too much like all the other things I’ve abused in my life. Moderation is for pussies! So sayeth the cream puff that is tickling your eyes with these little black and white dots.
I nodded in smirky pride when my out loud question of “how would you change this light in this fucked up fixture if you had too?” was rewarded with my wife’s deadpan, “Get a Coolie* to do it.” It was condescending and dead on simultaneous in way that made me love the fact that my wife was on this expat Chinese Tilt-A-Whirl with me.
The Gal is a class A trooper and I don’t really give a flying fuck if people think I indulge her too much. She’s my Girl and I love her. I’ve had friends in the past question my relationship with her and the way I treat her by what the perceive as spoiling her, I can just about guarantee they sign their walking papers on my loyalty when they cross that line. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t spoil her enough. You know the woman has to be GD Saint to put up with my crazy ass. I respect that.
I often think people are jealous of what we got. I sometimes don’t see that at first as I try to treat people with the same courtesy and kindness I expect. So in someway I’m still taken a little back when their treachery comes to light. I’m not so much naive but generous. A good loving woman like the one I got will do that to a man. She can fill you up with confidence, courage, and kindness in ways you never knew existed. So you are damn right I’m protective of what we got and down right offended when anyone dares to detract from that.
I know all to well what it’s like to live without love and it’s a frozen layer of hell I never want revisit again in my life. The quiet steel desperation of loneliness that finally is replaced with the heart removing gut wrenching blankness of defeated agony that you have no one in your life and no one to blame but yourself. I get that. I’ve been there so done that. You become a hungry ghost among the living and feebly try to feed off the scraps of others happiness. Yet no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t grasp it and hold on to it anymore than you could sun shine in the palm of your hand. Only a lucky few ever get past this and dare to be human again.
My loving wife rescued me from that blackness and I live to repay her for that. So as you can see I pretty much let her have her way, she deserves that for saving me from myself. How we have grown as a couple, friends, lovers, and adults keeps us trucking. So I know I am lucky and I appreciate that.
Please don’t get me wrong, I also know I am not perfect and know for a fact I’ve taken my relationship for granted. I am human after all by most counts and even worse a man on top of that. Yet, despite all the foolish little things I’ve done to let my wife down by raising my voice or saying one thing and doing another or spending too much time on things outside of the bubble that is our awesome love affair, she’s all Tammy Wynette stand by your man.
So again, how can I not reciprocate such a bond? I’m crazy, but no fool when it comes to my marriage.
I am unwilling to make the multiple mistakes my father made in his quest to find himself in the arms of six different wives and countless women in-between. In the end I could only feel sorry for him and I think silently we both hated that about ourselves.
Shit. I’m starting to see a little double here. I better sign off for the night, even though I have yet fail to mention the Sun City Girls, Sonic Rendezvous, Bin Lang, Cupping Massages, Plasmatic blow jobs, and other sordid two fisted tales of my Laowai Life. Don’t despair, I’ll be back tomorrow same bat channel same bat time…whenever the fuck that is you cretin. (That’s me!)
Just a side note: please make sure to expand some of these targets in ways that will make some sort of interesting sense to the poor hapless fuckers that dare to read such narcissistic drivel otherwise less you enjoy people watching you take a shit in public. Which isn’t too bad, it’s the getting up to wipe with that unique ritualized system that I perform that I keep secret. I’m not a freak; I just have a big ass and like to keep it clean at the expense of a lot of toilet paper.

A Mullet Birthday Cake

September 15, 2009 09:45

I wake to the sign of slow steady rain on the aluminum security cages that house my windows, reminiscent of an old honky-tonk piano that for a moment I think I’m waking up in my childhood above The Hondo Bar circa 1976. It’s only the ear needle piercing scooter alarm from Chinese Satan’s own personal stable that matter of factly puts me back here in Canton.

Technically I am forty two years old today, despite trying to convince my Baby Doll that because I was born on the other side of the International Date Line that it’s actually tomorrow. “Don’t start with that nonsense!” she love taps me with THE look from those big amazing blue green gems she calls eyes. I humbly submit in the hopes of keeping peace in order to get a piece.

Actor, dancer, movie bad ass, and mullet champion Patrick Swayze has died today. Everything I learned about being a bouncer was from watching his movie Road House twenty seven times. A small part of me hopes that this is another internet rumor. As the tribal drums of social networks managed to kill the poor bastard off once before. Fame is a cruel mistress who can turn your fans into your premature pall bears with a flick of a switch these days. The man deserved better than that while fighting pancreatic cancer. By the power of his feather hair he appeared over the summer to remind folks, “I ain’t dead yet, bitches!”

In some ways it’s fitting for my birthday. It’s a gentle hot syringe reminder that though I might be out of the country and my mind in some cases, I too am very much alive despite that I have out lived many of my archetype heroes and enemies.

How I have hung long heavy flag on the holy alter of the number 42. It oddly stems from the quizzical inside joke of the late great Douglas Adams and his Hitch Hiker Guide to the Galaxy, as being the answer to life and everything.

If my ego and self delusion was any bigger I would need a hat the size of Texas. To engage the world from a center of the universe perspective has allowed me to survive unspeakable cruelties and heart breaks only to leave me broke and dancing alone to the beat of my own busted drum. It’s only by wrestling with that beast with in me and temporarily subduing it long enough to let true love in that I know there is more out there then my own little head trip about the significance of my own meaning, that 42 is indeed not the answer to life and everything.

In my early twenties I expected to die by the time I was 25. Imagine my same surprise and dull horror that when I made it to my 25th birthday. This of course didn’t stop me from trying harder to go out John Belushi style, young with a beautiful corpse and a wasted life legacy that would have been merely a blip on the emotional radar of people who claim to have known me.

Ten years of virtual sobriety and fat clean living have brought me to this cross road in my life and like most introspective space cowboys I’m trying to process it in a way that will hopefully keep me around a bit longer.

Patrick Swayze died at 57. I hereby declare that my next life target. Crom, you will grant me another fifteen years. I will have to earn it I know. I will have to take better care of this fat ass body I’ve managed to customize into a tired, bloated, achey, stretch marked, tub of lard. I must return to warrior weight and health less I be worthy of these next 15 years. Forces beyond my control have carried me this far, all I ask is that we take it a little further down the road to the year 2025.

For this is my birthday present to myself, Roy Batty ala Rudger Howard ala Phillip K. Dick ala Blade Runner ne’, “I want more life fucker!”

This is a delightful tropical storm that I’ve allowed to roll though all the open windows. It is significant of the time post 9/11 America eight years ago that a storm rang in my birthday as well, with a few in-between.

For a moment that ego beast climbs on top of my skull and laughs maniacally, “ME! It’s mine, all for me!” I can only smirk and swat his primal ass down my back side as the sun pokes through the gray and reminds us both that this is not about US, but about something much bigger. What the fuck that is I couldn’t tell you, nor should I.

My life is a work in progress, like most of my thoughts and deeds. Just on more step around the Sun.

Great music plays over the speakers quickly followed by bad. Now this I have to accept as my doing, for I’m the deaf and dumb DJ that loaded those songs into the system. I laugh a little at the nostalgia factor and reminded why these pieces of schmutz are on my system. Songs are the file folders to my addled memory and for the length of having to chew on this pop bubble gum hit from the early 80’s I am transported to that time when this song ruled the airwaves. When this puberty infused Disc Jockey had 50,000 watts of power at his naïve finger tips and drew heat from the general manager and programming director for playing these “teeny bopper shit records on the radio!” Unknown to them I was used to having adults yell at me, so I soldiered on and played the things that the other kids like me wanted to hear. To think back to that magical time and kid myself that those radio signals are still traveling through the eternal confines of space and time, “gives me chills that are multiplying…”

Don’t Take That!

From September 11, 2009

A wake to a new day with a baby brass knuckle punch in the lower lumbar that reminds me that I’m still a fat bastard. I was dreaming about finding a place to live in Mount Shasta with the two most powerful Scorpios in my life, my deceased father and my loving wife. I twist the subconscious fuzz out of its Freudian knot to plug in some coordinates of understanding.

I paste in that Sky’s (Saxon of The Seeds) passing is still on my mind and that when I first met him he has been hanging out in the Mount Shasta area. The sideways equivalent in my mind about elegant dead weirdoes always leads me back to my Father, who what he lacked in elegance made up in weirdness but was just as much of an outsider as Sky was, except he didn’t have a few obscure hit songs.

For my wife, she has been omnipresent on my mind since the day she captured my heart. Although as of late we have taken to sleeping separately due to excessive busted chainsaw snoring and thunder clap farting on my part. I suspect we are adjusting to our returning roles here in China and long for the peace and tranquility that a place like the idea of Mount Shasta could be. Which is all fine and dandy but when I astutely half lucid dream that it gets colder than a well diggers ass in the winter time we are all transported out of my dream back to this so called reality. (Well, at least my wife and I. Dad and Sky remain in the confines of my mind and running free in that eternal ether that it seems to be piped into.)

I pop a couple of blue pills in fatal acceptance that I am getting older, but follow them with some much needed vitamins to stay young. The irony is not lost on me as I decide to rage on long into the day. If that doesn’t help I put on the kettle boiler just in case as my other drug of choice, Devil Caffeine awaits me in the freezer locked away in some of Idi Amin’s own Ugandan coffee beans. The morning ritual is made all the sweeter by pushing the black go juice in a repossessed French Press, which we purposely kept from one of the many foreign shit birds we tried to help over the last few years.

My wife finishes her yoga. Bless her for keeping that torch burning. I sneak little lustful peaks at the woman I love and know that she is mine all mine!

I bang about the world’s smallest kitchen like the Good Year Blimp in a parking garage. Physical comedy ensues as I perform cooking fetes of contortionist proportions that only a half waked grumpy fat man can do early in the morning which really is about as graceful and quiet as a hungry bear with a cow bell finding the pick-a-nick basket in the back of a opened motor home at yellow stone.

Ah shit! The power just flumped. Twice since we have returned to the flat this week has the power kicked off on the auxiliary plug ins. This just brought the whole morning party crashing, as Madonna and her Abba sample was axed quicker midbeat than if Simon Cowell was at the helm. A pause for the cause as I sort this out and get things back up to speed in the name of Scotty from Star Trek, and I don’t mean the Simon Pegg version (although he did a kick ass job in Generations).

Well it thusly appears the power wasn’t the only thing that needed a little repair. The wiring in my brain needed a little over haul as I returned to become pretty frustrated at all the friggin piles of nonsensical scraps of paper, receipts, business cards, and other various two dimensional pieces of flotsam and jetsam that has become the on running joke between my wife and I of, “Don’t take that!”. Thank the Great Electron that my darling little wifey picked up on my gripey vibes and gave me a thorough mental cobweb dusting with a massage and a little Charlie Rich’s “When We Get Behind Closed Doors” to the machine gun guitar sounds of the sublime Screaming Blue Messiahs. No man should be so damn lucky, but I am!

Let me let you in on the “Don’t take that!” joke. We were in Vegas a few years back. As we walked down the Strip a small army of pint size Central American illegals in dirty ass baby shit yellow polyester polo shirts handed out stacks of prostitution propaganda which amounted to glossy nude photos like hooker baseball cards. We chuckled what the fuckly at the shear volume of this exploitive bull shit that was drifting in and out of their tiny little brown fists into giddy unsuspecting tourists looking for the fable .99 cent steak and lobster coupons to the forgotten cast aside stacks which clogged the gutters.

We looked up to see Ma and Pa Midwest crossing the street as poor old grand dad reached over at the fistful of porn that was pushed at him, needless to say we peed a little in laughter when Grandma pulled him over like a rag doll and yelled at him, “Don’t take that!” and the legend of the short hand that is the way my wife joke around with each other was born.

Backing up just a little bit, I couldn’t help but run through my mind all that was involved in this little American immorality tale of prostitutes, escorts, pimps, pushers, photographers, printers, people smugglers, and the poor loveless fuckers that keep the whole vile rat wheel turning. It has a resounding ring of all too American to it that keeps me kicking at the pricks who hypocritically punish sex workers and not the political police machine that obviously profits from such physical misery of poor people just trying to get by, staying high or show me where on the doll did daddy touch you? Nothing worse than seeing such beauty, innocence, and weakness cajoled, corralled, controlled, and corporately sanction by the powers that be looking up at you with dead eyes from a photo that would make Larry Flint blush handed to you by the same expressionless fucked at birth Have Not* (poor people with no chance of advancement, ergo the Haves and the Have Nots) who has know clue the whole game is rigged.

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was so right when he found the long agonizing death of the American Dream in Las Vegas. I simply say, “Don’t take that!”

Out with the Old…

Rather to fart up anymore of the blogosphere, we’re making a few changes around here.  I wanted a name more suited to what I’m trying to laydown on this groove.

Anybody who has had the pleasure/displeasure of some fine Cantonese Cuisine knows all to well the eating ritual here in The Pearl River Delta involves the aptly titled choice on my part and consider my vitriolic nature for all things considered…under supportive approval of my wife…viola a new name long time coming these few years in The Middle Kingdom.

How About Another Shot?

September 9, 2009 02:30 hrs
Living in China is a constant series of adjustments. Like a drunken hire wire balancing act on too much cold medicine, where the psychic horror and exhilaration rush and wane in extremes so varied that even the most burned out or optimistic soul are taxed to the point of the same self recognition of what they are really made of that comes from the holiest of baptisms by fire. Welcome to being electrified and roasted alive by culture shock.

There is very little you can really do to prepare yourself for this life altering experience. When you are slow launched in that over powered aluminum tube with stale peanut free non allergenic snacks as it lumbers over the curvature of the planet for ten plus hours at an altitude so high that the Twilight Zone Simpson’s Gremlin has had his evil wing eating balls frozen stiff by the international dateline, you slowly accept your fate that Toto we indeed are no longer Kansas and there ain’t no coming back.

Listen I’m not talking about a little vacation time. This isn’t about that two week Chinese sojourn with your great Aunt Helen to fulfill her so called exotic last wishes to see the Great Wall and eat Peking Duck while rum fucking over a few sheckles to a few dirty moon eyed orphans the locals parade out for tourists to make themselves feel better about a life less lived.

This is about leaving everything behind and I really mean everything! The take your job and shove it, sell and or give away all your precious stuff kind of leaving. The kind of point of no return leaving that is bungee jumping without that giant rubber band strapped to your thrill seeking ass. I’m talking about a kind of Quantum leap that would have kept Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell permanently on the air so that this pop culture reference that bares the name of the TV show they were on would be as fresh as
________ (insert hip current reference here, please)

Upon landing in your new country you are instantly awaken from a dead cold sleep with the pounding head shaking knowledge that you are still very much in free fall. It’s the kind of dull tingly permeating sensation that must make new born babies stutter shake their limbs to a jolt of self actualization of “Oh shit I’m here!”

Culture shock is as real as a case of the shingles. You go through the same five stages of any loss. The denial, the anger, the bargaining, the *****, and the acceptance, with the final stage a work in progress as you realize that what you’ve lost is not your country, friends, family, or loved ones but yourself.

Where ever you go you are still you. Technically yes, I’m the same misfit here as I was back in the states. I get that. Yet now that I am in the breech of a life altering experience I know that the event horizon has me on the verge of becoming something that I won’t recognize when I look up from the bathroom sink in the morning.

It’s on par with having to eventually accept the fact that I am a functional illiterate in this Chinese society as I can barely read or write, much less speak so might as well add mute, deaf, and dumb to that grocery list. These the simple joys of being an immigrant, with Saint Sarcasm as my patron saint of maintaining some semblance of sanity and self respect with my new found dumb fuckery as a baby Laowai* in China.

It’s no wonder some of the locals laugh wildly when they see that the circus is in town when in fact it’s just me and the thing I have become.

Manuscript Excerpt: Put Your Testicles On The Table

I’m under the gun to finish the follow up to “My Chinese Heart” for my publisher…I’d appreciate a test spin to see if I’m on target for the “foreign market” as they hope to launch this one back home sometime next year.

September 7, 2009 07:35 hrs
We enter the bus to meets and greets, smiles, and sleepy eyed stares that are quintessential Chinese. This South East Asian look is a mix of doe eyed optimism and the same uncertainty that a fish must feel gasping foreign air before it’s clubbed to death. The early morning cocktail of mutual admiration that the Laowai (old outsider ergo whitey) have returned to the tune of Thin Lizzy’s The Boys are Back in Town is shattered by the high pitch shrill of some Mao era roof top air conditioner fucked thing, as the lumbering green beast we’re on is punched started by our chunky driver who just dove in the seat like a nicotine filled mule skinner on amphetamines that causes me to curse with envy.

We continue to wince under the grating noise, as if a gasoline soaked bag of newborn puppies and broken bottles are being beaten above our heads for a crime we did not commit. This is the kind of busted industrial machine noise which would coheres a tear stained confession out of the toughest one eyed outlaw biker. The assault on our aural senses seems to unphaze the locals, who dutifully act as if this is their lot in life. Now I understand that fish look as they know all too well what is in store for this nails on a chalk board ride to work.

We scramble for our various media devices, jamming them ear worm deep into our rattled pale skulls in hopes of having enough volume to circumvent what surely must be a left over cold war psychic warfare conspiracy to keep us overpaid honkies and hired guns in line. I cue up some Cambodian Rock ala Dengue Fever which wails at the perfect pitch to cancel out any above said sonic torture devices. “Take that you Pillocks!”

For thirty some odd clock minutes I drift between realties and dimensions of the modern urbanized horror of boom town Pearl River Delta where in the short two months I was absent whole blocks of shopping arcades have sprung from the earth like giant shitty non edible mushrooms covered in the ubiquitous green construction hide of polyurethane mesh and bamboo pole scaffolding.

This bleak image dances in time to the music in a juxtaposition of my own personal internalized far out soundtrack. The mind flittering away to fantasy land of days long gone by of beautiful and lush tropical greens and cool off shore breezes, as this fat man is lounging under a beach pulapa sipping glacier cold beer between long pulls of Bun Lo (betle nut), and Yunnan Gold, all the while being massaged by cinnamon skinned island beauties under the loving and approving watchful eye of my beautiful blonde wife.

I’m rudely jolted back and fourth as this drunken runaway roller coaster bus charges and pushes aside the throngs of scooter filled high heel trash and brown leather skinned Coolies on 125 CC cracker jack box motorcycles puttering along the expressway in a death defying asphalt high wire act more akin to a school fish than the rules of the road. The lines, signs, and lights on the highway are merely for decorative purposes only. This is a game where only size matters, and baby next to the omni-present blue long distance haulers our hulking bus is the biggest Wang* (Chinese Surname) on the road!

We zip down the highway like a striped ass ape on fire, running to and fro to some vaguely distant end zone to win the game. I can only imagine that our driver is pushing pedal to the metal jonesing for that next cancer stick.

Local lady riders dolled up in their finest nuvorichyrich clown townery faux fashion rags jockey against the unwashed masses that provide the migrant blood and sweat all these new Kentucky Fried Chickens and counterfeit Ipod stores are being built on. Their ridiculously assorted choices of so called protective head ware runs the gambit of the nearly non existent barely legal ice cream served in a baseball helmet to oversized metallic flaked cosmonaut bowling balls of massive neck weight that would make my wife’s chiropractor cringe, as I humorously recall the first time I was shot out of a cannon.

I momentarily choked down the cynicism that festers in my old gangster punk soul and despite being reminded that I’m in this for another year, the real crux of all this is secretly knowing that I love it.

The not so jolly green giant bumble bees off the expressway into the Shishan Industrial Technological Park, up the mound they call a mountain in this here former rice paddy parts and lunges to a squeaky brake stop at the University gate. A uniformed nutless monkey activates the crash gate which is nothing more than a glorified electric slinky on steroids that seems to be all the rage here. We groan a collective sigh of Mondayitis as we make one final plunge forward to our final destination.

We are saluted by the guard as we cross over this academic DMZ with all the confidence in campus security that turns a blind eye to the fact that there is a hole in the fence next to the gate and guard shack big enough for a Panzer division to roll through.

The busload of seasick passengers rush out the exit as if a fire has engulfed the back and I mildly hope so as the hellish noise from above is still screaming for vengeance for white man scalps and schiza porn.

Eaters run to the canteen for their daily allotment of bugs and rice. We gave up playing Chinese tomaine roulette our first year here. There is only so much violent psychedelic diarrhea one kiss ass foreigner can take. With only one western style toilet up on the elevator-less fifth floor, a belly and bowels full of Laduzi* (literally chili belly) makes running with the bulls a walk in the park as the foreign teaching faculty places bets on how long the NFGs* (new fucking guy) can hold it or adapt to the infamous squatty potty versus learning the most embarrassing translation of Chocolate Rain.

I arrive at my office to find out that I have another three weeks off, but should have been at the general Commie meeting last week. Maywintee* (it’s okay) it was all in Chinese anyway.

This is all part of the show of expat teaching life in The Middle Kingdom. This my Monday morning commute to school. This is my China. This is my Nanhai. This is my Guangdong. This is oh so very Cantonese. This is my life.

From China with Love

Well, it’s only taken me 9 weeks to get a lucky peek over “The Great Fire Wall”, but aside from that…”Wo see won Zhong gor!” I LOVE CHINA. I know, all sorts of questions and ideas pop in your head…but I’ll be the first to testify that our ignorance of this great country is greater than what we really know. We have had a great time and the University has treated us like royalty. I’m totally spoiled. I feel like a real rock star. I have a 3 day work week of about 16 hours, a nice 3 bedroom 2 bath flat, private transportation, and all the Chinese food I can eat. Let’s face it…I died and went to China!  The campus station is coming along and the initial broadcasts have been successful.  It will only be a matter of time before the ol’ Pizzeria is up and running…I know…what a trip!

Here is a stack of links to photos posted over at FB…any one can peep…Thanks again, and I strongly advice you to dust off your passport, get a visa, and come and hang out. We’re in the Southern Province about 3 hours west of Hong Kong. Until, then I’ll try to leap over again soon and update much more coherently (it’s about 4 am and I’ve been listening to Marshall McLuhan and Robert Anton Wilson most of the night…aiyyaa!)

http://nwcc.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000504&l=a5b4f&id=167000186
http://nwcc.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000517&l=a8795&id=167000186
http://nwcc.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000518&l=874a3&id=167000186

Guangzhou: http://nwcc.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000520&l=c1c7b&id=167000186
NHSCNU http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000522&l=289a1&id=167000186

Foshan 113
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000524&l=0a434&id=167000186

Nanhai Plaza at night
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000525&l=bbaf9&id=167000186

Our Flat
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000526&l=ce660&id=167000186

Lost in the Supermarket
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000527&l=1ea49&id=167000186

Shamain Island
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000530&l=78d68&id=167000186

Pearl River Day
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000531&l=7771f&id=167000186

Riverside Garden Trip
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000532&l=252ca&id=167000186

Shangxiajiu Lu
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000536&l=aa4fd&id=167000186

Our first visitors
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2000537&l=aaf79&id=167000186

Bye Bye Radio Pizzeria

Rocco’s Radio Pizzeria Theme, The Wristrockets
Aloha from Hell, The Cramps
Best Reason to Leave You, Dash Rip Rock
Litany (Life Goes On), Guadalcanal Diary
Goodbye-Goodbye, Oingo Boingo
Blacktop Fever, Deadbolt
Where Have All the Good People Gone?, Sam Roberts
There She Goes (1988 Version), The La’s
Lone Highway, Deadbolt
If you Gotta go, Go now, Manfred Mann
Here and Gone, The Kartoons (Italy)

Kundalini Express, Love and Rockets
Time Has Gone, The Lords of Altamont
Hurry Let’s Go, The Phenomenauts
Going Going Gone, Richard Hell
Going Away Baby, Grains of Sand
S0..Goodbye, The Krinkles
Go Now, Moody Blues
See Mo Go, The Woggles
No Matter Where You Go, Shiner 22 (Denmark)
Let’s Go, The Voo Doo Healers (Greece)

Gone, The Cure
Going Underground, THe Jam
Gone Daddy Gone, Violent Femmes
Lost Highway, The Heartdrops
Higway 61 Revisted, Nob Dylan (Rev. N0Rb)
I Believe I can Fly, Me First and the Gimmie Gimmies
Go On You, Fun House Strippers
You’re Gonna Miss me, Radio Birdman
Road on Which I’m Leaving, The Secretions
Goodbye to You, Scandal
Bye Bye Badman, The Stone Roses
So it Goes, Nick Lowe
Are You Going On My Way
Goodbye to Love, The Carpenters
Glad To See You Go, The Ramones
Lost Highway, Hank Williams
Free to Go, Fun House Strippers

Smells Like Teen Spirit, Patti Smith
It’s a Sin to Go Away, We all Together
How Do You Say Goodbye (live), Violent Femmes
So Long Baby Goodbye, The Blasters
Don’t Forget to Close The Door, Outsyde Inn
Go Away, The Maggots
Let’s Go,The Ramones
Should I Stay or Should I Go, The Clash
Good & Gone, Screaming Blue Messiahs
Don’t Leave Me This Way, Martinn
Gone Away, M80’s
By the Grace of God, The Hellacopters
Leaving Alphaville, The High Dials
Leaving Here, Lil’ Ed & The Blue Imperials
Going his Away, The Pandoras
You’ve got a Habit of Leaving, Davy Jones
Rev it up and Go, Stray Cats
Another Long Goodbye, Lazy Cowgirls
I’m Going, Quantrail Riders
Wave You Goodbye, Deadline
Let’s Go Away, Travoltas
I’ll Fly Away, Allison Krauss
Goodnight Goodbye, Mark Mallman
Now I have to Go, The Maggots
Leave Before the Lights Come One, Artic Monkeys

Random Books from my personal library

http://www.librarything.com/catalog/Big_Rocco

A face for radio

HPIM0105

Originally uploaded by roccogalloway

Okay, learning how to do this whole flickr vs. blog thing. Try this one on for size. Ouch!