Rock musician's encounter with entities

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Rock musician's encounter with entities

Postby seemslikeadream » Fri Aug 16, 2019 11:45 am

Recreating a great old RI thread

lots of broken links to really great pics

as best I can in my spare time

Image ... =29&t=5464

It's easy to dismiss such stories as drug-fueled delusions, but I find the wealth of similar entity reports compelling. I found this one while flipping through Esquire magazine in my doctor's office.<br><br><!--EZCODE AUTOLINK START--><a href=""></a><!--EZCODE AUTOLINK END--> <p></p><i></i>

Scott Weiland: 'This Is My Life, a Cautionary Tale. Maybe Somebody Can Learn from It.'
"I guess the reason we're here is I feel like there's been only one side of my story told. People know rock stars only on the surface, people know celebrities only on the surface, and people know me only on the surface: I'm the junkie rock star handcuffed in the backseat of a cop car..."

As told to: Mike SagerDec 4, 2015

Trevor Ray Hart

In 2005, Scott Weiland sat down with Esquire Writer-at-Large Mike Sager for perhaps the most revealing interview of his life. On Thursday night, Weiland was found dead on his tour bus. Here, reprinted in full, is the original story from 10 years ago, "The Devil Gives You the First Time for Free."


Over the last decade, Scott Weiland established himself as the quintessential junkie rock star. Now thirty-seven, he has to his credit several platinum albums, five drug arrests, a six-month jail stint, and uncountable attempts at rehab. Think Kurt Cobain without the shotgun.

In 1987, he formed the group that became Stone Temple Pilots, or STP. (The acronym originally stood for Shirley Temple's, er, private part.) One of the biggest acts of the mid-nineties, STP followed the lead of bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam to the top of the charts with its hard, lyric-driven rock. Fabulously rich, monumentally fucked-up, Weiland crossed over to mainstream consciousness in 1996, when the members of his band—his closest friends—held a press conference on the eve of a national tour to out their buddy as an incorrigible heroin addict, "unable to rehearse or appear."

The tour was canceled. A predictable spiral ensued, culminating in an epic shitstorm of arrests, overdoses, domestic disharmony, prison, and parole violations. Following another heroin and cocaine bust in 2003, he was ordered to six months of rehab.

As of this writing, however, Weiland says he's back. He's on a world tour with his new group, Velvet Revolver. He has more than four hundred days of sobriety behind him. He is living happily again with his two young children and his wife, Mary. Touted, somewhat negatively, as a supergroup, Velvet Revolver (featuring former Guns N' Roses members Slash, Duff McKagan, and Matt Sorum) has received critical acclaim and sold millions of albums worldwide, earning three Grammy nominations.

Recently, Weiland approached Esquire about telling his story. "I needed to get it out," he said. I met with him in Los Angeles in late December.

-Mike Sager

Travor Ray Hart

My parents were from the Bay Area. My dad was a surfer and a rock 'n' roll guy—you know, hot rods and slicked-back hair; he drove a '58 Impala. Later he fell in love with the Stones and the Beatles and became more of a longhair. I remember going out to visit him every summer. The first thing I'd do was raid his weed stash. My mom was the cheerleader in the poodle skirt. She was a lifeguard; they surfed Santa Cruz together. They were intensely in love and got married at a young age. I don't want to open up their whole can of worms, but certain things happened. I was born in '67; the whole sixties thing was really going strong. I think my dad was a bit of a flake back then. He wanted to have a good time, you know, tune in and turn on, whatever they used to say back then. My mom was just not down with it. They ended up getting a divorce. It crushed me. I was three years old.

My stepfather was the complete opposite of my dad. He was a corporate guy at TRW. He'd played football at Notre Dame and then got his master's degree at USC in aeronautical engineering. His favorite group was the Kingston Trio. If I were to sum up my stepfather in one word, the word would be responsible. That word was always coming out of his mouth: "You have to be responsible, Scott." "Scott, you have to be responsible." Responsible, responsible, responsible. And he was responsible. I think that's what attracted my mom to him in the first place.

We lived in southern California until my stepfather got a promotion, then we moved to Ohio. I was four and a half. It really broke my heart because I was pulled away from my dad. After that, I used to fly out and spend the summers with him. I remember how I used to feel as the plane was getting closer and closer to the gate. You know, I'd look through that window, trying to see my dad, because at that time anyone could come up to the gate and pick you up. Sometimes I could see him. He'd be right up against the glass. And I'd just come running through the passageway, you know, and he'd be waiting there with this big smile on his face...and he would get down on his knees and just grab hold of me.

But then I would have to leave. The drive to the airport was was wasn't good. I remember I'd have to say goodbye and get on the plane. I'd get the window seat and just look out that window, and he would just stand there at the gate, and we'd just look at each other. When I would get back to Cleveland, I would be a wreck for a couple of weeks. For nine years of my life, that's how it went: anticipation and separation. Those were my summers.

From an early age, I had a preoccupation with catching a buzz. I remember the summer right after my eighth-grade year. We lived in northeastern Ohio, in this very preppy town, Chagrin Falls. There was this family that lived across the woods. I was friends with the kids; they were a little bit older than me, high school age. Their parents worked late, and we would play quarters, the drinking game. When no one was home at their house, I would sneak in and fill up a big tumbler full of liquor. I'd put in a little bit of vodka, a little bit of gin, a little bit of Black Velvet—a little bit of this and a little bit of that. And then I'd just go off into the woods and sit up against an old oak tree and chug it down.

Then I'd load up my BB gun and go shooting birds, which was always quite fun until you actually hit one and were consumed with guilt.

We moved back to California, to Huntington Beach, in Orange County. It was right after the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High had come out. And I remember thinking to myself, This new school is identical to the movie! There were parties every weekend. I guess the parents' overall philosophy was, you might as well do it here, where we can supervise you. You could ride your bike from kegger to kegger.

My drinking kind of escalated. At the beginning of my freshman year, we'd get fucked up on Friday and Saturday, and then we'd make it all the way till the next Friday before doing it again. But as time went on, it became a fixation. An obsession. All you could think about the whole week was getting to Friday again so you could party. That was all I ever thought about. That, you know, and sex.

Trevor Ray Hart

My first experiences with cocaine were just was, like, sexual. It was unbelievable. I didn't think that there could be anything that good.

I'd formed my first band when I was a sophomore. I'd just turned sixteen. There was this cat who used to hang around, watch us rehearse, this really nerdy guy. He was a lop, you know, but he was nice. He ended up becoming a coke dealer.

One time, he came by rehearsal with a briefcase. It was very eighties, very Miami Vice. He opened it up, and he had these neat little half-ounce packages. And this stuff, my God—it was not that nasty, gasoline-tasting, cat-piss-smelling shit that they have nowadays. It was this fuckin' shale, you know? It was that mother-of-pearl stuff they used to have in the old days. It was so hard, you had to slice it real thin with a razor blade, like little slices of garlic. They don't even make that shit anymore. Maybe you can get it down in Colombia, but not here.

The guy cut us out a couple lines each, like, six inches long and about an eighth of an inch wide. I had two of them. And that was all we needed. We were high for five hours. And there was no grinding teeth. There was no big comedown. I think the devil gives you the first time for free.

The summer after my sophomore year, my band was playing clubs regularly. We were putting on two nights a week at a club in Newport Beach, then driving up to Hollywood on the weekends, playing Madame Wong's West, Cathay de Grande, lots of underground clubs. We would do coke if we could get it. Everybody I knew, all their money went for alcohol and blow. My car was pulling into the driveway at 4:00 in the morning. I was sleeping till noon. I wasn't really gettin' along so good with my folks at the time, though I don't attribute that to getting high. I attribute that to the fact that I was trying to break out from the mold that my parents had set for me, just really wanting to be making some decisions for myself. I was just experiencing what life had to offer me.

Eventually, my parents caught on to the fact that my lifestyle didn't jibe with that of the average 16-year-old. At the beginning of my junior year, my parents went into my room and started raiding my drawers. They ended up finding a bag of weed and a couple empty little quarter bindles of blow and a mirror and a razor blade. They sent cops to pick me up at school. They took me to rehab.

I got out just in time for New Year's Eve.

I was never much of a weed smoker. I thought too much on weed; it made my mind way too overactive. There's no solace for me in pot.

There was always an intrigue for me when it came to heroin. Most of my musical and artistic heroes were connected to dope. Everyone from William Burroughs to Keith Richards and Gram Parsons to Bird, all the jazz greats—if you listen to the fluidity of that music, you can hear heroin in that music. There was something about it that I was definitely drawn to. I wondered why this substance had so much powerful appeal, had such a power to affect music and art and lives in such a way that seemed to be so beautiful but also so dark and destructive at the same time. Those two elements, the beauty and the darkness, are what created that seduction for me. It's what attracted me. Because those forces have always coexisted within me. I call it the Great Dichotomy.

When you start doing dope, there's a honeymoon period. At the time I started, when I was about twenty-four, I was with the woman who would become my first wife, Jannina. Heroin was definitely something that was on our radar. After I tried it for the first time—in New York, at the Royalton Hotel, the last stop of a tour STP coheadlined with the Butthole Surfers—we were excited about doing it together. It turned out her brother, Tony, was into it, too.

We started making trips to downtown L.A. to score. At that point I had this Toyota Landcruiser—the first significant purchase of my success. The whole thing was very ceremonial, like a ritual, like a religious event. The copping. The smoking. The need. I started referring to it as my medicine.

The four of us would just hang out—myself, Jannina, Tony, and his chick at the time. We were just smoking it, you know, chasing the dragon. It was all pretty innocent. We'd drive downtown, grab a few bags, smoke...and then we'd just kind of lie around and have that sort of dope sex where you can fuck for eight hours. They call it a dope stick. You stay up forever but you have a hard time, you know, finishing. It's, like, tantric.

As time progressed, I was finding that there seemed to be a certain ceiling to the high when you were smoking heroin. And smoking is inefficient. Any junkie will tell you that: A lot of the dope goes to waste.

But not knowing anyone who fixed, I had to wait for my opportunity. It came on Thanksgiving 1993. We went over to Jannina's parents' house. Tony lived in a room in the garage. After dinner, he's like, "I got a couple rigs. You wanna fix?" So naturally I was like, "Sure." He tied me off and shot me up. And then he said, "Now you got your wings."

I remember just lying back on his mattress, and there was something barely on his TV, which was right by his bed but had bad reception, just static and snow. Complete warmth went all the way through my body. I was consumed. It's like what they talk about in Buddhism, that feeling of reaching enlightenment. Like in Siddhartha , when they say there's that feeling of a golden light. It's near the end of the book. After going through all those different journeys, Siddhartha finds what he's been looking for all along. There's that moment when he's sitting there, and there's this feeling of warmth, a golden light that just goes through his entire body. I can't remember exactly how they describe it, but there's this feeling in Buddhism where they say there's a golden glow that goes from your fingers all the way through every appendage and into the pit of your stomach. And that's what it felt like to me, slamming dope for the first time. Like I'd reached enlightenment. Like a drop of water rejoining the ocean. I was home.

All my life, I had never felt right in my own skin. I always felt that wherever I went...I don't know, I always felt very uncomfortable. Like I didn't belong. Like I could never belong. Like every room I walked into was an unwelcome room.

After doing dope for the first time, I knew that no matter what happened, from that day forward, I could be okay in every situation. Heroin made me feel safe. It was like the womb. I felt completely sure of myself. It took away all the fears. It did that socially; it distanced me from other people, made me feel less vulnerable. And it did that for me musically, allowing me to sort of go for it, you know, to dare to succeed. And it gave me a certain amount of objectivity, though what ends up happening with opiates is you get to a point where you get too much objectivity. It becomes all objectivity. You don't have any more connection to the heart, to the body, to anything real. You kind of cease to exist. All that exists is the need.

Once I started shooting, I realized I'd made a career decision; you can't hold on anymore to regular life. It's like your life becomes a friend dangling over the edge of a building. You're trying to hold on, but the hand is slipping from your grasp, just slipping and slipping, and you just know that you're going to lose that person. And that person is your former self.

At one point, over the Christmas holidays, I ended up slamming some coke. We were at this other couple's house, and the way it was put to me was: "You wanna experience something that you're not gonna believe?"

So we booted up, you know, we slammed—a solution of coke and water. And he was like, "Look right at that painting." And I remember the rush hit like a freight train. And out of this painting came this beautiful angel. It was just an average painting, you know, a cheesy picture of a flower basket, I think it was, or maybe a ship at sea. But out of this picture came this beautiful angel. And I'm looking at it and I'm like,

And then, like, ten seconds later, the angel transformed into a beast. I was mesmerized. I couldn't believe it. I wasn't sure if what I was seeing was a hallucination or something real. I couldn't be sure. But I'll tell you one thing: I wanted to see more. To me, the greatest question of all mankind is: Is there life beyond this mortal coil? And I felt that I had unequivocally found the answer to that question. The answer was yes.

For a while, there was a lot of positivity to it. But I started doing way too much cocaine. There was a period when I was shooting so much cocaine that I think I broke into another dimension. I opened a door, but I let some things in that were malevolent and aggressive. Sometimes it was just like a sort of dark almost presence. Sometimes I could see it a bit more. And the weird thing was, my dogs were totally aware of it. They would be aware of it even before I was aware of it, usually two to three seconds before I would sense it coming. And my dogs, depending, would act in different ways. Either they would come to me and, like, try to make me feel comforted, sometimes almost molesting me, you know, trying to lick it off me or something. Or sometimes, if they felt threatened or felt that I was being threatened, they would bark or growl. Or sometimes, if it was something monstrous, they would just split. Or sometimes they would whimper. One of them was an English cocker spaniel. She would always just split the scene like immediately. But my big dog, a really big male golden retriever, he was a strong-willed dog. He liked to bark and protect me. But sometimes, even he was terrified. Like a couple of times, there was this thing that was huge. I couldn't really tell the shape of it, but it was almost to the ceiling. It would pound on the wood floors as it would move forward.

I guess it lasted for a couple of months. I became so terrified that I didn't want to experience it anymore. Sometimes I still wonder if it was all hallucinations or something more.

When I started doing heroin, I felt almost immediately like I had become part of something bigger than myself, that I'd entered into a new social realm. There was a period of time when I liked to go to downtown L.A. and hang out in the parks. I'd end up on these weeklong adventures. Sometimes I'd get a suite in an expensive hotel. Other times I'd get a fifteen-dollar room right across from the park. I'd meet crackheads and hypes. I'd be in the room with a couple of brothers and everybody would be, like, jiving, you know, you'd all be gettin' down, and then all of a sudden you'd notice they'd be sort of talking among themselves, almost like they were talking in tongues, you know, 'cause I couldn't understand them, and they'd be kind of looking at one another and whispering, and you'd get that sort of feeling when your hairs stand up on the back of your neck. You'd be thinking to yourself, This is sort of going south here. It's time to bail this scene. And I'd stand up, like, "All right, guys, I'm outta here. I'll see you later." And they'd be like, "No, man, it's cool! Come back here. Where you going?" And I'd be like, "Hey, I'm outta here."

My first arrest? That would have to be nineteen ninety...[1995]. I'm so bad with dates. I never really had any perception of time when I was on dope. That was part of the problem. That was really part of the problem. I'd go out to buy a pack of cigarettes and end up missing for three days.

There was this one spot where we liked to cop rock—because by this time I was trying to keep away from slamming coke as much as possible—on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, near some of these shady hotels where the hookers used to congregate. Wherever you have hookers and pimps, you have crack dealers. We would go to this one room, and there were always dealers and chicks in there, or sometimes these prostitutes would just call the dealers for us; they were actually pretty cool.

This one night, no one was around. I went and knocked on the door, and no one was in the room. I went back to my car, which I'd been careful to park down the street, you know; you never want to drive right into the spot where you're going to cop. And I got into the car. And before I even could decide what to do next, the cops just kind of swooped down on me. They came from nowhere...a bunch of them.

I didn't think that I had any dope in my car. That's the mistake a lot of dope fiends make. You get sloppy and you get lazy. The cops asked me if I had anything on me, and I said, "Nope." And I really thought I was telling the truth. But then they checked my car and I did. It was inside the ashtray. I swear I didn't know it was there. That's the thing about being a dope fiend with money. You don't count your crumbs; you leave it littered all over the place. You can be rich enough to really fuck yourself up.

I got taken to the sheriff's station and booked. The next morning, my wife came and bailed me out. The thing is, I woke up dope sick. So when I got into the car, I was like, "I need to go get well. I need you to take me over to my dealer in Silver Lake." And she's like, "No fuckin' way! What are you talking about? You were just busted!" And I'm like, "I don't have a choice. I'm sick." And she's like, "I'm not taking you. I'm taking you home." And I'm like, "Lookit, we'll deal with the situation later. But first, I just gotta get well. I can't think right now. I need to fix myself. And then we'll take care of what needs to get taken care of."

And you know, even though she'd done a bit of dope herself, it's easy for some people to get self-righteous in situations like that. She was driving me in this candy-apple-red convertible Mustang that I had gotten her. We were arguing. We'd just started moving at a green light. So I said fuck it. I just popped out of the car, jumped out without opening the door.

I walked down the sidewalk and hopped on a bus. I think I was in Rosemead. I didn't have a choice. Heroin addiction takes away options and choices; it leaves you with nothing but one mandatory decision: to get well. To get unsick. That, basically, becomes your life. That's the definition of reality bites. And I'd just been bitten big time. I went directly to my dealer. Then I hopped a taxi to the Chateau Marmont.

They gave me a room next to Courtney Love. We shot drugs the whole time. Most of the time she just walked around in panties. There was never anything that went on between us. When you were getting high, you know, there were never any sexual overtones; at least that wasn't the most important thing. Dope was the most important thing. But gettin' high with her was sort of like watching a reality show unfold. It was very entertaining. I was trying to stay as loaded as I could just so I could avoid reality. I think we both stayed there a month. It definitely had its rock 'n' roll moments.

I meet Mary in 1991, when she was sixteen and a young model in L.A. and I was twenty-three and had yet to sign my first record deal. There was something between us that can't be described. It's that kind of love that people chase forever and never find. We continued this for years, with me promising to leave my wife. I should have earlier, but I couldn't man up. By this time, I was already pretty deep into another relationship—heroin.

I remember one night at a party we were there late and a friend who had been clean for a while had some dope. Well, I hadn't shot up in front of Mary before, but that night I did and I remember her wanting to do it. She wasn't afraid. She felt if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And we were off!

For about six months we went on a legendary run of speedballs [heroin and cocaine]. She was new to it, but I had never seen anyone escalate to that level in such a short time. She was my match. My equal. The run took us coast to coast several times. Jet-setting, going to parties with her friends in the fashion business in New York, and the movie-star bullshit in L.A. But what goes up must come down. After a while, it was only us who thought we were looking good and doing well. We couldn't make appointments. Our friends started questioning our every move or they walked away. We started questioning ourselves. And to be honest, it was all right for me to despise me, but I couldn't stand seeing Mary do that to herself. So we went to rehab.

I went through, like, a million different detoxes. I don't know how many times. I lost count. Every time we would go on tour, I would kick. Every time. I'd check into the place for a week to get cleaned up, a private hospital or facility. They'd give you pills and shit—a supervised detox, not a blood transfusion; that's something else. This was a method of rapid detox developed by the Israelis, I think. Rapid, rapid detox. It leaves you feeling like a Mack truck hit you. Beaten, bloodied, and boiled. Sickened, drained, unable to feel—it was a feeling like you can't imagine being able to feel any emotions ever again. No sadness, no excitement, no highs, no lows. Nothing. You're wondering when you'll be able to feel comfort again, physical comfort even. That's why it's so difficult to kick. Your pleasure receptors are so fried that your brain has no ability to feel any pleasure on its own. You're so depressed. It makes you want to get high.

You want to kick. But in a sense, kicking to me was always just kind of a way to prepare your body to be able to experience that first fix again. I mean, there are always those noble intentions in the beginning, but ultimately that's all it ever was...back then, at least. Back then it was, like, too little too late, you know, a little half-assed pass at getting clean, always at the request of others, at the request of family members, the manager, whoever. At some point it just becomes, you know, how to get them off your back. Because I never wanted to quit. Never. I saw narcotics as something I needed in order to function. I believed at the time that I was born with a chemical deficiency. Which I was. I was totally correct. But at the time, I believed I was born with this particular chemical deficiency that only opiates could fulfill. My basic thought was: How the hell can all you people want to keep me away from the one particular medicine that could keep me from blowing my head off?

I have this dark place. It's a place of loneliness. It's a place of complete shame and self-hatred, where I deserve to feel all alone because I'm the one who has caused me to feel the pain that I feel, the loneliness and the sorrow that I feel. And I feel like I deserve to feel that way.

I know where it comes from. It comes from my parents divorcing, you know, abandonment and all that. And it also comes from a lot of guilt and shame. And I guess feeling that you caused that feeling yourself becomes its own self-perpetuating thing; it takes on a life of its own.

The first tour I ever did strung out was to support my solo album in 1998. It was misery. Absolute misery. I tried to take a stash. But you can never have enough dope on the road. There were times when I had it FedExed. A couple of times I had to fly my dealer out to meet me. But most of the time I just got in a taxi, you know, and went out looking.

Copping in a strange city—partly it's an adventure, but mostly it's just, I don't know, very expensive, very problematic, nerve-racking. You're a walking target. You get in a cab and you go look for the hookers and the freaks, or you ask the driver, you know, "Where's the bad part of the city?" and they'd take you. The worst places were, like, Chicago—Cabrini Green. Miami. Atlanta. New Orleans. You're going into an unfamiliar ghetto. You're really, really white.

Probably the worst place was Washington, D.C. That's where I had my worst situation happen. I'd bought on one corner, on one side of the street, and this guy on the other side of the street starts screaming at me, like, "Get your skinny ass over here, white boy, and buy from me." So I went over there, and I gave him money, and he pulled out a gun and stuck it in my chest. The barrel was hard. Really hard. And it was like, This guy is really gonna shoot me! It was fucked-up. He had these yellow, bloodshot eyes. And he fucking took my money and then he says, "Get the fuck out of here, white boy. Run!"

Dude, I fucking ran. And then some guy tripped me and I went down on the ground. Really hard, like, splat. Like a side of beef. I skinned my knees hard on the concrete. I was all fucked-up.

After a probation violation in '99, I was sentenced to a year in a county-jail recovery center in East L.A. I did five months. It was very depressing, very lonely.

I was in over Christmas. It was rough. I got a few guys together. One of them was a hardcore Nazi gang member with white-power swastikas all over his body. And two of them were Crips, you know, black guys from the gang; one of them had killed probably six people in his life. I got these guys together and formed a quartet. I had always sung in choirs. Even when it was something to be laughed at or made fun of, you know, in school. And I was always the kid who was picked at the Christmas concert to sing the solo, you know, while the other kids snickered in the front few rows.

So I taught these guys a bunch of Christmas carols with harmonies and everything. We sang to the eighty inmates who were in our dorm and to the sheriff's deputies and to our counselors. There was something special going on there—an ability for people to break past the normal barriers and closed-mindedness that they had grown up with. It was cool to show the fuckin' sheriff's deputies that we had something good in us, you know what I mean? It sort of shocked them to see us singing so sweet and in harmony. It was a great sort of passive-aggressive way to say fuck you.

Mary and I officially got engaged from jail. She visited me every weekend. We wrote letters to each other every day, and it allowed us to find a whole new level of intimacy that might not have existed. She was now clean as well, and we planned to start a family.

After I was released, we got married. The first year of sobriety out of jail was great. Our life was great, but I always had a problem feeling like an outsider in "the program." Our son was born November 19, 2000. On the day after, I relapsed on prescription pain pills I'd gotten following dental surgery. The next three years were very rocky, with high highs and low lows. My daughter, Lucy, was born July 20, 2002, but Mary filed for divorce in September. It was all of this that got me where I am today. The prospect of losing my wife and my children changed everything.

Having children showed me a whole different kind of love that I had never known. It was something that had always been missing. Complete love. I would die for them. But I could not get clean for them. First, I would have to know loneliness. Emptiness. Solitude. Complete desperation and disgust with who I had become and who I wasn't—a father, a husband. Myself.

Reality came screaming back because I started asking for it. And God helped a little in the form of a black-and-white police car [Weiland's arrest in May 2003 for heroin and cocaine possession and again in October for DUI]. I dropped the scum I was bottom-feeding with, decided to join a band with guys whose new lives I admired (they used to be losers, too), and I decided to man up. It was the hardest thing I ever did. Easy to stop killing myself, but trying to find who I am in order to find my wife and kids again, well, that was like walking through a maze blindfolded; every time I felt I was getting close to them, I would suddenly get hit in the gut with a bat.

It took a year. My family is the most beautiful thing in my life beyond anything else, even music. But it took loving them before I could love myself.

The great thing about kids is the immediate gratification. As soon as I get home from touring, my wife and kids become my life. There is nothing sweeter. I get up with my kids every morning. I get them breakfast right away, and then I step outside to have my coffee and my cigarettes, 'cause I really am not good at talking to anybody until I've had a cup of coffee and a couple of cigarettes. But as soon as I've had my coffee and cigarettes, I'm like, All right! Let's go! What do you wanna do today, kids?

Right now, for the first time in my life, I'm finally happy. I don't think anymore about getting high. I've struggled with it for so long. I've gone through kicking so many times, I've been on and off—it's just played out, you know?

I'm finished avoiding myself.

This story originally appeared in the April 2005 issue. ... interview/

Rigorous Intuition » Wed Apr 27, 2005 9:41 pm
That's fascinating, thanks. In a biography of Mick Jagger I read years ago, there was an interesting passage - which, unfortunately, I only vaguely recall - about how spooky Kenneth Anger could be. "Dabbling" was one thing, but seeing Anger seemingly literally to vanish was something else.

Seventhsonjr » Wed Apr 27, 2005 9:48 pm
Where's Carlos Castaneda when you need him?


seemslikeadream » Wed Apr 27, 2005 10:28 pm
It’s the same kind of story
That seems to come down from long ago
Two friends having coffee together
When something flies by their window
It might be out on that lawn
Which is wide, at least half of a playing field
Because there’s no explaining what your imagination
Can make you see and feel
Seems like a dream
(they) got me hypnotized
Now it’s not a meaningless question
To ask if they’ve been and gone
I remember a talk about north
Carolina and a strange, strange pond<br>You see the sides were like glass
In the thick of a forest without a road<br>And if any man’s ever made that land
Then I think it would’ve showed
Seems like a dream
(they) got me hypnotized
They say there’s a place down in mexico
Where a man can fly over mountains and hills And he don’t need an airplane or some kind of engine And he never will Now you know it’s a meaningless question To ask if those stories are right
cause what matters most if the feeling You get when you’re hypnotized Seems like a dream (they) got me hypnotized
Bob Welch


Greatest Fleetwood Mac Song Ever!
Postby DBtv » Wed Apr 27, 2005 10:58 pm
I started my weekly college rock radio show with that tune in '74.


Re: Greatest Fleetwood Mac Song Ever!
Postby seemslikeadream » Wed Apr 27, 2005 11:25 pm
Had you heard anything about Hypnotized being about a UFO and such?



Re: Greatest Fleetwood Mac Song Ever!
Postby Rigorous Intuition » Thu Apr 28, 2005 10:14 am
Seems like a dream
(they) got me hypnotized

All this time, seems, and I never made the connection!
But - embarrassing admission - I don't think I even know the song.


don't know the song???
Postby whatevevr » Thu Apr 28, 2005 11:15 am
Ooh,ooh.... you must be young :wink
Aah, to be young again


Re: don't know the song???
Postby Rigorous Intuition » Thu Apr 28, 2005 12:07 pm

Ooh,ooh.... you must be young"
Wish it were so. Just wasn't a Fleetwood Mac fan. I think at the time that album was released, I was still listening to
And I'm not proud to admit I still am.


re: there’s no explaining ...
Postby han shan » Thu Apr 28, 2005 12:30 pm
Now it’s not a meaningless question
To ask if they’ve been and gone
I remember a talk about north
Carolina and a strange, strange pond
You see the sides were like glass
In the thick of a forest without a road
And if any man’s ever made that land
Then I think it would’ve showed
Seems like a dream
(they) got me hypnotized
gotta be one of the coolest songs ever penned; think
Quicksilver Messenger Service did a version as well...
There's no mistaking the reference to UFOs;heard a story that may well be apocryphral that Welsh wrote the
song after a UFO experience...
As for Rock& Roll & the unexplained, Keith Richards did a
tiny interview w/ Rolling Stone oh, maybe 10-15 years ago, wherein
he briefly alludes to his marriage
w/extra-normal powers/entities
, as an explanation for his guitar skills,
Robert Johnson.when pressed by the interviewer
he refused to elaborate. Hendrix used to allude to similar things.
btw, seemslikeadream, the picture is grand.


Their Satanic Majesties
Postby Pants Elk » Thu Apr 28, 2005 1:04 pm
Is this where the Rolling Stones devil-sympathising thread starts? Because it promises to go on forever.
All I know is, back in the day, there was some music you just couldn't trip out to, because it was ugly, because it called up demons. The Stones - whoah - you just didn't go there. Think Altamont. They conjured that up, in a ritual invocation started much earlier.
"Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith
And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate
Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game
I stuck around at St. Petersburg
When I saw it was a-time for a change
Killed the czar and his ministers
Anastasia screamed in vain
I rode a tank
Held a general's rank
When the blitzkrieg raged
And the bodies stank
Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah
Ah, what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, ah yeah
(whoo whoo, whoo whoo)
I watched with glee
While your kings and queens (whoo whoo)
Fought for ten decades (whoo whoo)
For the gods they made (whoo whoo)
I shouted out, (whoo whoo)
"Who killed the Kennedys?" (whoo whoo)
When after all (whoo whoo)
It was you and me (whoo whoo)
Let me please introduce myself (whoo whoo)
I'm a man of wealth and taste (whoo whoo)
And I laid traps for troubadours (whoo whoo)
Who get killed before they reached Bombay (whoo whoo, whoo whoo)Pleased to meet you (whoo whoo)
Hope you guessed my name, (whoo whoo) oh yeah (whoo whoo)
But what's puzzling you (whoo whoo)
Is the nature of my game(whoo whoo), oh yeah, get down, baby (whoo whoo)
Pleased to meet you (whoo whoo)
Hope you guessed my name, (whoo whoo) oh yeah (whoo whoo)
But what's confusing you (whoo whoo)
Is just the nature of my game (whoo whoo) um yeah (whoo whoo)
Just as every cop is a criminal (whoo whoo)
And all the sinners saints (whoo whoo)
As heads is tails (whoo whoo)
Just call me Lucifer (whoo whoo)
'Cause I'm in need of some restraint (whoo whoo)
So if you meet me (whoo whoo)
Have some courtesy (whoo whoo)
Have some sympathy, (whoo whoo) and some taste (whoo whoo)
Use all your well-learned politesse (whoo whoo)
Or I'll lay your(whoo whoo) soul to waste,(whoo whoo), um yeah (whoo whoo)
Pleased to meet you (whoo whoo)
Hope you guessed my name, (whoo whoo) um yeah (whoo, whoo)
But what's puzzling you (whoo whoo)
Is the nature of my game, (whoo whoo) um mean it, (whoo whoo) get down
(whoo whoo) (whoo whoo)
(whoo whoo) (whoo whoo)
Woo, who (whoo whoo)
Oh yeah, get on down (whoo whoo)
Oh yeah (whoo whoo)
(whoo whoo, whoo whoo)
(whoo whoo, whoo whoo)........
Oh yeah! (whoo, whoo)
Tell me baby,(whoo whoo) what's my name(whoo whoo)
Tell me honey,(whoo whoo) can ya guess my name (whoo whoo)
Tell me baby, (whoo whoo) what's my name (whoo whoo)
I tell you one time, (whoo whoo) you're to blame (whoo whoo)
"As heads is tails?"
And all those WHOO WHOOs


Re: Their Satanic Majesties
Postby Rigorous Intuition » Thu Apr 28, 2005 1:23 pm
I don't know how much "Sympathy for the Devil" was influenced by the Process Church of the Final Judgement, but it could be its virtual hymn:

The Process Church: Sympathy for the Devil
Also, Jagger composed the soundtrack - though he's properly credited with "sound," because he's just noodling on a moog synthesizer - for Anger's
Invocation of My Demon Brother
, which was cobbled together from Anger's original footage of
Lucifer Rising
(Interestingly, there's another Manson connection, through Bobby Beausoleil.) Anton LeVey appears in red devil costume and horns.
I appreciate some of Anger's work, but I watched Invocation
last month for the first time, and found it a very discomforting experience. Which was the point.

INVOCATION OF MY DEMON BROTHER The most daemonic of Anger's films, as well as the most fast moving. The style of Anger really comes through during this film. Invocation is composed of the remaining footage of what was projected to be Lucifer Rising filmed in San Francisco in 1966 - 1968. After lead actor Bobby Beausoleil had a falling out with Anger the primary footage was stolen from the filmmaker's home, which inspired Kenneth to take out an obituary in the Village Voice in 1968. He later moved to London and met up with Mick Jagger. Kenneth by this time began editing two other versions of what was to be Lucifer Rising, although by the final edit it had taken on a different form which led to the incarnation of "Invocation of my Demon Brother", a wonderful collage of sonic terror and subversion and fast paced ritual ambiance which found the union of the circle and the swastika, a swirling power source of solar energy. To quote Tony Rayns: "Invocation of my Demon Brother is a fast moving, very concentrated collage of Magick elements, in effect like the last thirty seconds of Scorpio extended to ten minutes. Anger calls it 'my most out-front-film'. A satyr pipes (an equivalent to the three knocks at the start of the Aquarium Arcanum which Anger used as a prologue to Pleasure Dome, but has now dropped) and the wand bearer wakes to begin the ritual: a Midnight Mass where the powers of Darkness gather to 'shadow forth' Lucifer. Kenneth Anger himself as the Magus, his face black and gold, great flowing robe, bathed in red light, dances with passionate energy around the Swirling Spiral Force, the solar swastika. The Powers: the Acolyte, the Brother and Sister of the Rainbow, his Satanic Majesty, assist and participate. Joke: a hurried procession down the stairs , but a scorpion stings in the tail: "ZAP Your pregnant, that's witchcraft". Pause: the Magus with a copy of Crowley's novel Moonchild. Renewed force, flame, and a cremation. The Magus dances, is triumphant, exults, the solar swastika in one hand, flaming script in the other. And Lucifer Breaks through..." The complexity and detailed work of Anger really presents itself in this short film. Invocation was made on A,B and C film rolls, and the C roll is one image made into a loop, the soldiers jumping from the helicopter. The music of the film is cutting, ugly and nerve wracking, composed by Mick Jagger on a Moog Synthesizer. Anger referred to it as 'an attack on the sensorium'.


Postby hanshan » Thu Apr 28, 2005 1:29 pm
The Stones, touring America in 1969, hired members of the Hell's Angels to provide security during a free concert at Altamont Speedway six miles outside of San Francisco, and paid them in beer. About 300,000 fans showed up, and as some rushed the four-foot-high stage, they were brutalized by the Angels with weighted pool cues. An 18-year-old man, waving a gun, was stabbed to death by an Angel, and we see the murder replayed, in slow motion, in Gimme Shelter. (Two other concertgoers died in a hit-and-run, and another drowned in a puddle.) As the horror plays itself out, the cameras home in on the nighttime masses of freaked stoners as if it were the Island of Dr. Moreau. ... say&page=2 ... ucker.html
One Plus One
All the above depict
The Stones
as showmen/ dilettantes. In no respect did they take
responsiblity. Draw your own conclusions...


Postby seemslikeadream » Thu Apr 28, 2005 3:06 pm

"We had gone to San Francisco to get the Dead, because they had come and got us real bad. We had this roadie who wasn't too good at carrying equipment, so we turned him into a cook - and every night all of the people living on the ranch, the group and the roadies and the friends and the girls, we'd all gather together to eat. We I lived in six different buildings spread around the ranch, but every evening we'd come together to dine and then smoke ourselves silly until we passed out! Well, the Dead knew we did this, and they figured that the best time to catch us off guard was in our after-dinner relaxation. You see, I'd had this big argument with Jerry Garcia; we spent hours arguing the relative merits of cowboys and Indians ... it was at a Musicians Union meeting, in fact. For a laugh, a lot of us had decided to attend a Union meeting and these old straights who ran the Union almost collapsed; they'd never seen such a bunch of longhaired musicians before ... and there were so many of us; people from the Airplane, the Charlatans, the Dead, Quicksilver, the Mystery Trend, the Great Society, Big Brother ... it was just a whole gang of us, and these guys weren't ready for us at all - it was a really funny evening. <br><br>"Anyway, Garcia was saying things like 'Cowboys are lame, Indians are much hipper, nobody loves cowboys anymore but Indians are groovy because they're into flowers and stuff ... you guys are nowhere'. He was saying it all in fun, but he was giving me a hard time, so I said 'Yeah? Well our band says that the Grateful Dead eats shit'. We got into this slanging match until all these straight musician guys were cowering in the corners ... we were really digging it, but we made out that our tempers were fraying and we started to get really hot under the collar, shouting and stuff. When 1 got home that night, I told the other guys that we ought to go and get the Dead for saying that cowboys aren't as cool as Indians, and they said 'yeah, let's get em', but then we got stoned and forgot all about it. <br><br>"A couple of nights later, we'd just finished eating and we were all swacked out as usual, when suddenly there's all this whooping and hollering ... the dogs were barking like crazy, my wolf was howling, and we didn't know what was going on. Then suddenly the door bursts open and the entire Grateful Dead family crash in on us, whooping and shouting, all in feathers and warpaint, all high on acid, all crazy. Well, they got us real bad; they were all over us before we even realised what was happening - brandishing tomahawks and firing arrows into the walls ... you never saw anything I Ike it in your life. <br><br>"Needless to say, our egos were well and truly crushed and ground into the dirt because the Dead were all going around saying that our band eats shit Dino was with us at the time and being part Indian, he took it rather more personally than was intended - but anyway, we made up our minds that the Dead were not going to be allowed to get away with it ... no chance. <br><br>"Two weeks later, the Dead were due to play the Fillmore, sharing the bill with the Airplane, and that's where we reckoned we'd get them. The plan was for us to wear all our cowboy gear, masks and guns and take over the stage during their set ... we knew it wouldn't be difficult because the Dead were always out of their heads in those days. For those two weeks we rehearsed solidly, harder than we ever had before, until we'd perfected a 15 minute version of 'Kaw Liga was a Wooden Indian', which we intended to play at the Fillmore to humiliate them. Then we went out and bought cap guns, because we wanted to make a bit of noise as well as brandishing real guns ... we were going to frighten the piss out of them; wait till they'd finished their first song and strike, knowing they'd be too spaced out to resist.
"We called Bill Graham, explained what we were going to do, and he said it was cool and promised not to tell a soul, and we let Gleason in on it too ... but that was it - no-one else would know who these masked men were! We were going to grab them and handcuff them to their speaker cabinets, because they had got these huge things that Owsley had got for them, with big handles ... can you imagine how dramatic it was going to be??? Garcia and his gang being handcuffed and chained at gunpoint and watching us play 'Kaw Liga' on their instruments! Then they'd know that cowboys were cooler than Indians after all! <br><br>"Everything was taken care of ... everything except the X factor. <br><br>"The Fillmore was in a predominantly Black, ghetto area of San Francisco, and earlier that day some young kid had broken a jeweller's window, grabbed something and run - and this cop arrived on the scene, pulled his .357 Magnum and yelled 'halt or I fire' ... well, he fired and hit this kid right in the back of his head. The velocity of the bullet just about took his head off, and the whole neighbour hood went nuts about it ... the tension of the entire area just tightened up to breaking point. And we arrived a few hours later, knowing nothing of what had happened ... maybe you can imagine the effect of half a dozen freaks suddenly appearing outside the Fillmore with masks and guns.
"The cops were on us before we'd moved ten feet. Our protestations were useless, of course; they didn't want to know it was a joke - they were in no mood for joking. We tried to explain that we were going into the Fillmore to play, and that this was our stage gear, but they wouldn't believe that we were anything less than hippie revolutionaries bent on capitalising on the indignation of the Black population. As soon as we realised that it was no use, we tried to disperse but they got Jim Murray and David Freiberg and threw them in the tank with all these Blacks who were feeling real hostile towards any whites because they'd heard about the shooting of the kid. Everything was explained in the end, but David and Jim weren't released for 3 days - and we never got the Dead after all ... in fact, we eventually did, but I'm not going to talk about that".
'Pride of Man'
The meek shall cause your tower to fall, make of you a pyre of flame,
Oh you who dwell on many waters, rich in treasures, wide in fame.
you bow unto your God of gold, your pride of might shall be a shame,
For only God can lead His people back unto the Earth again.
Oh God, Pride of Man, broken in the dust again.
A Holy mountain be restored, and mercy on that people, that people


bad vibrations
Postby whatever » Thu Apr 28, 2005 3:41 pm
I am so loving this thread! Haven't heard anyone talk about QuickSilver Messenger Service in a very long time. And I never liked the Stones, now I can see why, or really the Doors either. They just didn't have the best vibrations for me. The mind can go to some pretty weird places,(especially w/ drugs) but mostly by people who are already weird to begin with.
"Ooh,ooh.... you must be young"
Wish it were so. Just wasn't a Fleetwood Mac fan. I think at the time that album was released, I was still listening to Aqualung. And I'm not proud to admit I still am.
Hard to beat Jethro Tull :)

re: Messengers ...
Postby hanshan » Thu Apr 28, 2005 4:49 pm


innocence lost
is probably
the most heartfelt
funny stories & the poster looks like
personal collections
QSM never seemed to capture in the
studio what they managed effortlessly live
(never saw'em; based on recordings)
Quicksilver is best known as local San Francisco competition for the Jefferson Airplane, and as the source for a future member of the Starship (bassist David Freiberg). Turns out they could play their instruments - guitarists John Cipollina and Gary Duncan sound like they had at least as much raw talent as their counterparts from the Airplane, Dead, and Holding Company; and drummer Greg Elmore was occasionally wild, but entertaining. Once British keyboard session whiz Nicky Hopkins signed up in 1970, they suddenly had an awful lot of virtuosos on hand. And even though the Airplane had them beat on both singing and bass playing, they always had just as much vocal and instrumental talent as the Dead.
One interesting fact about Quicksilver is that they went through some head-spinning stylistic changes during just their first three or four years of recording. They started out on a heavy blues guitar-oriented jamming trip; switched to a more experimental, Airplane-like groove when Nicky Hopkins joined them on Shady Grove; and later headed towards folk-pop with the addition of songwriter and old chum Dino Valenti, a.k.a. Chester A. Powers, Chet Powers, or Jesse Oris Farrow. Incidentally, Valenti (as "Powers") was often credited with writing "Hey Joe," the homicidal folk song that was covered in the mid-60's by everyone from the Leaves to the Byrds to Hendrix to Love; but the actual songwriter was a guy named Billy Roberts who was not just another Valenti synonym. Some (including the Airplane web site manager) say that Valenti ruined the band. I tend to think that's an extreme point of view, but he certainly took them in a radically different direction.
I won't babble on because a fan already …
people who are already weird to begin with....haha


Re: re: Messengers ...Found a great photo
Postby seemslikeadream » Sun May 01, 2005 1:30 am



Postby hanshan » Sun May 01, 2005 4:37 pm
yeah, very cool...
speaking of which, did you ever follow
any of Skip Spence's stuff ? Brilliant,
& almost wholly overlooked. Pity that. btw, great stuff on DU ( mercs)


Re: re:photo/gravure "I Fought The Law"
Postby seemslikeadream » Sun May 01, 2005 6:18 pm

I know Jerry Miller played guitar with Bobby Fuller Four, I don't think Don Stevenson did but DID I like that song. Too bad about Bobby, murdered? Yes Skip Spence!



Have you posted on DU? Are you talking about my precious mercenary threads in the Dogs of War? ... ic_id=9558


David Bowie and the occult
Postby Rigorous Intuition » Sun May 01, 2005 9:50 pm
Interesting, lengthy article
by Peter R. Koenig
The Laughing Gnostic: David Bowie and the Occult
What's David Bowie got to do with occultism and gnosticism?
Apart from being a sometime brilliant musician and dilettante artist, Bowie's religious perspective and compositional techniques mirror an eloquent fragmentary projection of society. "I'm actually very nineteenth century - a born Romantic" he uttered in 1995. His work resembles that of many European post-romantic novelists and thinkers, such as Hermann Hesse (the Steppenwolf), Gustav Gründgens (his most famous rôle: Mephistopheles in Goethe's Faust) or Aleister Crowley. Indeed, the Gesamtkunstwerk 'David Bowie' crystallises this splintered reality into cultural artifacts, and these in turn coagulate into new realities.
Bowie (born 1947 as David Robert Jones) is seen by some as a sort of 'Renaissance Man' whose professed 'universality' is an attempt to show the landmarks of evolution by reassembling the fragmentary pieces of our society; and in this, he resembles many occultists.
But unlike most occultists, Bowie has considerable wealth, critical acclaim, penetrating intelligence, and enduring good looks; he seems set to go on to even greater heights and achievements. What next, godhead? There is a Faustian/Mephistophelean element here. How else to explain the absolute zenith of this man's worldly trajectory? In fact, there are people who are convinced that his success wouldn't be possible without some kind of otherworldly assist.* I do not share this opinion. It is my conviction that Bowie's work has been seriously underestimated, and cannot be reduced to a series of single topics.
Nevertheless, it can't be ignored that Bowie has constructed his public persona from the various parts of the puzzle that are at the roots of modern occultism. He was summoning up some of these pieces at the tender age of 16 already.
So what has David Bowie got to do with occultism? He gave the answer himself in his 1971 song 'Quicksand':
I'm closer to the Golden Dawn
Immersed in Crowley's uniform of imagery
In the 1976 song 'Station to Station' he mentioned the occult key doors to other plans of reality when he described how to travel down the Cabalistic Tree of Life
from Kether to Malkuth <br>that is from Godhead to Earth.
On 25 November, 1995, he finally admitted that in 1976 "My overriding interest was in cabbala and Crowleyism. That whole dark and rather fearsome never-world of the wrong side of the brain. ... More recently, [1995] I've been interested in the Gnostics".
... lots more


re: sweepin' up the pieces
Postby hanshan » Tue Jun 21, 2005 10:58 am
SLaD guess this is as good as it gets
only lost, what, 11 pgs?
Watching every motion
In my foolish lover's game
On this endless ocean
Finally lovers know no shame
Turning and returning
To some secret place inside
Watching in slow motion
As you turn around and say
Take my breath away
Take my breath away
Watching I keep waiting
Still anticipating love
Never hesitating
To become the fated ones
Turning and returning
To some secret place to hide
Watching in slow motion
As you turn to me and say
Take my breath away

Through the hourglass I saw you
In time you slipped away
When the mirror crashed I called you
And turned to hear you say
If only for today
I am unafraid
Take my breath away
Take my breath away
Watching every motion
In this foolish lover's game
Haunted by the notion
Somewhere there's a love in flames
Turning and returning
To some secret place inside
Watching in slow motion
As you turn my way and say
Take my breath away

Take my breath away

Just one more mornin' I had to wake up with the blues
Pulled myself outta bed, yeah
Put on my walkin' shoes,
Went up on the mountain,
To see what I could see,
The whole world was fallin',
right down in front of me.
Cause I'm hung up on dreams I'll never see, yeah Baby.
Ahh help me baby, or this will surely be the end of me, yeah.
Pull myself together, put on a new face,
Climb down off the hilltop, baby,
Get back in the race.
Pull myself together, put on a new face,
Climb down off the hilltop, baby,
Get back in the race


Re: re: sweepin' up the pieces
Postby seemslikeadream » Tue Jun 21, 2005 11:31 am ... keefe8.jpg
Daylight again, following me to bed
I think about a hundred years ago, how my fathers bled
I think I see a valley, covered with bones in blue
All the brave soldiers that cannot get older been askin' after
Hear the past a callin', from Ar- -megeddon's side
When everyone's talkin' and noone is listenin', how can we
(Do we) find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you, lay your body down
Find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you, lay your body down
(Find the cost of freedom buried in the ground)

There is a young cowboy he lives on the range
His horse and his cattle are his only companions
He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons
Waiting for summer, his pastures to change
And as the moon rises he sits by his fire
Thinking about women and glasses of beer
And closing his eyes as the doggies retire
He sings out a song which is soft but it’s clear
As if maybe someone could hear
Goodnight you moonlight ladies
Rockabye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Won’t you let me go down in my dreams
And rockabye sweet baby James
Now the first of december was covered with snow
And so was the turnpike from stockbridge to boston
Lord, the berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting
With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go
There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singing works just fine for me


Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Ever since he was a little lad,
Loves the rodeo.
Bucking broncs, yeah, sipping wine,
You got to see him go,
And all the ten-gallon girls
Love to hear him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Oh, lonesome cowboy bill,
You still ride the rodeo.
Up ’round the colorado shore,
Down by the ohio.
Sometimes even new orleans,
Down by the mardi gras,
And all the ten-gallon girls
Love to hear him yodel ay-hee-ho!
He’s lonesome cowboy bill, he rides the rodeo.
Just a lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
You got to see him in the rodeo
When he’s ridin’, goin’ too darn fast.
You got to hear the people scream and shout
They call him,
Lonesome cowboy bill
He’s a
Lonesome cowboy bill
He goes...
Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
I said,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Oh he’s a lonesome cowboy bill, lonesome cowboy bill...
216 hrs or so but who's counting?


re: ten thousand more to go - sweet baby james
Postby hanshan » Tue Jun 21, 2005 1:08 pm



it seems consciousness is *****ed by unknown beings



re: Goodnight you moonlight ladies...
Postby hanshan » Tue Jun 21, 2005 1:14 pm,_james/james.taylor.jpg
that was supposed to read *****ed by unknown beings


<br><br><br><!--EZCODE FONT START--><span style="color:blue;font-family:georgia;font-size:xx-small;">....</span><!--EZCODE FONT END--><br><!--EZCODE IMAGE START--><img src="" style="border:0;"/><!--EZCODE IMAGE END--><br><!--EZCODE FONT START--><span style="color:blue;font-family:georgia;font-size:xx-small;">....</span><!--EZCODE FONT END--> <p></p><i></I>


Re: Goodnight you moonlight ladies..... waltzing
Postby seemslikeadream » Wed Jun 22, 2005 12:11 am ... heEcho.jpg
Waltzing in the Moonlight
I find you waltzing in the moonlight,
I find you waltzing and there's nobody around you,
Nothing to astound your unreal.
I see this happening before me,
I see this happen and your colors touch my empty eyes
Begin to shine with a glow.
Do you know how strange it seems
Lost behind a dream
The clock tick of my mind is winding you.
The sound you're making in the stillness,
The sound you're making as it fills my head with madness
Lost forever sounds of this dream.
I seem to feel as though I'm dreaming
I seem to feel you and your warm and loving splendor
Tomorrow I'll remember your name.
Do you know how strange it seems
Lost behind a dream
The clock tick of my mind is winding you.
¡Viva Campesino José y los Pescados!
I find you waltzing in the moonlight
I find you waltzing and there's nobody around you,
Nothing to astound your unreal.
I seem to feel as though I'm dreaming,
I seem to feel you and your warm and loving splendor,
Tomorrow I'll remember your name.
Do you know how strange it seems<br>Lost behind a dream
The clock tick of my mind is winding you.


missed you hanshan
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone.
It's not warm when she's away.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
and she's always gone too long
anytime she goes away.
Wonder this time where she's gone,
wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
and this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away.
And I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know
Hey, I ought to leave the young thing alone,
but ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
only darkness everyday.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
and this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.<br>Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.Anytime she goes away.
found in my yard last week
Mazars and Deutsche Bank could have ended this nightmare before it started.
They could still get him out of office.
But instead, they want mass death.
Don’t forget that.
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