Seeking Soliloquy as once again told by is.

Toy Box Serenade

Look at that little kid, he’s way too happy.  So much so that I’ve just about forgotten what that felt like, you know, being me and all, but then again, that was a time that if you were lucky enough, you might get a couple of toys to put in the toy box.  Little did you expect to have a lot of other baggage tossed in there as well.  It makes for a heavy box.  We threw a lot of toys and stuff into our little box.  Call it a serenade, or a lot of racket, it’s built up like an Erector Set.

Whatever Happened to Talbert Clayton on Gilbert Drive

Back in 1987, my buddy Pete, whom is basically responsible for me attempting to be a guitar player, decided at the encouragement of his wife Joanna that we should enter in Down Beat’s 2nd Annual Music Fest in Orlando freaking Florida.  I’m not sure if I forgive him yet for the guitar business, or our trip.  It turned out that the Music Fest was a competition, mostly with college and high school music programs. We couldn’t believe we were even accepted to play at the thing.  But, we were young, idealistic, inspired, you know…stupid.  So I says to Pete, I says: “Pete!” I says: “The only way we’re going to make an impression at this thing is to come in first, or come in last!”  Well, we opted for the latter.  The judges thought we sounded like Tangerine Dream.  Actually, that was probably a complement, and they didn’t even realize it.  One cool thing was we got to meet Wolfgang Muthspiel, Peter Hebert, and Alex Deutsch, all very fine players.  They won their category of the competition, deservedly so.  I lent my Les Paul to Wolfgang when he busted a string, and upon giving back my guitar, I asked it if it had learned anything.  The darn thing didn’t want to come home.  I’m currently seeing a new guitar.

Anyway, that was the reason for going to Florida, as well as dropping in to see my folks.  Don’t all parents end up in freaking Florida?  At the time, I was working in a bank in New York.  Upon losing the competition, which is bizarre conceptually to think any one art form is better than another, my father says to me: “Son, don’t you think it’s time you started getting on in the bank!”  Well, Pete had to run for cover as I unleashed a string of fucking expletives that are probably still circling around Cape Canaveral.  He meant well, in his overtly practical way, and in his much older age, seems to understand the disease called music his son is so afflicted with.

So, on the way to this whole cluster fuck, we stopped midway or so to Orlando, in the middle of the night with all of our toys for noise.  Seems you can’t sound like Tangerine freaking Dream without carting a toy box full of freaking toys!  We pulled into some motel, and wanted to take in some sort of southern culture, be it food, or drink, but everything was closed, dry as dirt.  We may as well have been in a motel on Route 22 in freaking New Jersey ‘cause there’s no way to tell the difference.  I was thinking: “What here in this room is going to tell me we were somewhere else?”  The TV was playing the same crap it always played, so I looked in the phone book, and there staring right back at me was Talbert Clayton on Gilbert Drive.  I says to Pete I says: “Pete!” I says: “ Now that cat’s a southerner, if I ain’t some damn Yankee who lost his way past the Mason Dixon Line!”  Sure ‘nuff, but we didn’t call him on the account that would have been rude, and when you’re in the south, you don’t be rude, especially if you’re a couple of damn Yankees who lost their way past the Mason Dixon Line.

The Chilton Street Caper

This whole endeavor called Monkeyworks was started by that freaking little kid on Chilton Street in Elizabeth, New Jersey.  Seeking a direction, one still needs a magnifying glass to find out where the trail of this trash novel caper is headed, and how anyone can manage to get from there to here.  Fortunately, the boys, through great detective work, can lead Smit in the right direction, unless of course we need to turn left.

Eleven O’clock and Still Way Too Happy

Well, it’s past my bedtime.  Count to eleven and I’m out, maybe even without counting.  Of course one can’t appreciate being out without, at one time or another, being in.  In the land of Monkeyworks, both sides at least make us as happy as happy can get..