Kenny Hogan's Blog - The Deep Fog Monologues

Have We Lowered Our Standards?

2010-12-15T06:27:00.000-08:00

I think The Roomba is a cool invention, but I don't want to hear it sing.
These days I seem to be surrounded by robot music. I turn on the TV or the radio to hear auto-tuned vocals and artificial instruments, manufactured music, rife with imitation inspiration.

I'm saturated by soulless soul music, refurbished rock, and counterfeit country. It's amazing to me that most people aren't bothered by it. In fact, they don't even seem to notice it. It's as if they hear with their eyes. If the pop star looks good and fits the image they prefer, well, that's good enough. Never mind that the guy can't sing or play, or write his own songs. Can he dance? Does he look good? They'll buy that CD.
I recall the lyrics of Tom Petty from his song "Joe:"

"Bring me a girl

they're always the best

you put 'em on stage

and you have 'em undress

some angel whore

who can learn a guitar lick

hey, that's what I call music"

Right on Tom! Exactly! ...except that you left out the part where instead of learning that guitar lick, they just lip synch and do the choreography someone taught them. - but who cares?
I DO! I think music is important. It matters. The music of an era tells the story of that era. It matters.
Music and all art exists for a REASON, and the reason isn't just money.
Bands once formed in a natural way. Kids on street corners, or in their parent's cellars and garages got together and made the music that they believed in. I used to go into a music store and see a dozen kids trying out guitars and drums. Not anymore.
Kids had guitar heroes, favorite drummers, keyboard players, bass players, etc...
Those days are gone. I don't blame the kids though.
In a world where most schools think their music classes are unimportant, how can you blame the kids?

In a world where radio has been segmented into segregated playlists, how can you blame the kids?
They simply aren't exposed to a wide variety of music. American Idol will not fill the creative void.
I learned more from disc jockeys than I did from any other source. But disc jockeys who play what they want to play, are a thing of the past. How can a kid learn about great music? Not from a D Jay, not anymore.
I'll quote Tom Petty one more time:

"As we celebrate mediocrity
all the boys upstairs want to see
How much you'll pay for what you used to get for free
And there goes the last DJ
Who plays what he wants to play
And says what he wants to say
Hey, hey, hey
And there goes your freedom of choice
There goes the last human voice
And there goes the last DJ"

Well said, Tom.
If a person eats only swill, then the only judgment he can make is what kind of swill he likes.
So music is beginning to suck, and as it continues, we lower our standards.
A kid can only make judgments based on the tiny universe he or she hears.
So I guess it's up to us to teach our kids about good music, because the schools don't care, and the D Jays are extinct.
BUT...
There are still great songwriters, singers and musicians out there.
You have to dig a little deeper to find them, but they are out there and you can tune it in, if you try.
Keep your standards up! Listen to good music.
Seek it out, play it loud and show it to other people.
Support your local musicians and songwriters. They're still out there fighting the good fight.
Rock on...

A Short Anectdote...

2010-01-21T06:57:00.000-08:00

I was sitting there in a nice little restaurant the other day, having lunch with a friend, and there was a table of six teenage girls sitting across the room from us.

They were laughing and giggling and I started to wonder if they were looking at ME.

That's when I realized that I was wearing my Bunghole Liquors T Shirt.

Bunghole Liquors, Salem, Mass.

When You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going

2010-01-04T12:45:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this so I remember.
I'm also writing this to motivate myself, and to explain what happened.

I was scheduled to have rotator cuff surgery on my shoulder on Dec 16th. I needed it for sure, because I couldn't work or play guitar without pain.

Two weeks before the surgery I thought I had the flu. I see now that it wasn't the flu. It was something far more dangerous.
I stayed in bed with vicious headaches and nausea and all I could do was sleep. I was having trouble breathing. I felt lousy.

When it was time for the shoulder surgery, I didn't tell the doctor what was going on.
I had waited 3 months for this surgery and I needed to get back to work and to begin playing and recording again without any setbacks.
I wanted that surgery dammit!

This was supposed to be a simple arthroscopic day surgery.
It wasn't.
The surgery itself went OK.
After the surgery they had trouble bringing me back around. My vital stats were very bad.

They kept me in the hospital for a couple of days, then they let me go home, feeling awful, and all doped up on strong pain meds.
I hadn't done any Christmas shopping, and my good friend Frank offered to drive me where I wanted to go after a quick follow-up visit to my pulmonary doctor.
The doctor took a quick EKG test, looked at the results, shook his head and said, "Amazing. I can't believe you are still functioning."

My blood oxygen was 72 and my heart rate was racing into the 120's. He sent me straight back into Winchester hospital.
No Christmas shopping for me. Frank drove me there. He was my ambulance driver and my taxi guy on the same day.
That hospital stay is just a blur to me. I couldn't tell you a thing about it.

They let me out just in time for Christmas Eve, feeling terrible physically and emotionally for ruining Christmas.
My wife made me a nice dinner. I had a few glasses of wine, and then, stupidly a couple of drinks. I knew I shouldn't, but it was Christmas Eve, and I was feeling so low, very melancholy. A blue Christmas, for sure.

The next morning I had trouble getting up. I had trouble breathing, and my heart kept racing.
While opening presents, I just keeled over.
My wife sent me back to bed, and luckily, she came upstairs to check on me.
I was incoherent. She took my pulse, my breathing was shallow, and she couldn't wake me.

The next thing I remember, I was being carried down the stairs by four EMT's.
Red lights were flashing and my neighbors were standing on their steps gawking at me as they put me into the ambulance and whisked me away.

I remember coming in and out of consciousness in the intensive care ward. I was suffocating, sucking air, with my heart pounding so loud it sounded like a freight train in my head. They put an oxygen mask (which didn't fit) over my nose and mouth, but I couldn't breathe. I threw up into the mask and began thrashing around as they held me down. I was choking to death and scared out of my mind.
I actually felt a seperation between my self and my body.
I don't know how to explain that to you, but I felt myself rising, as if discarding my sick body.
They ripped the mask off. I gasped for air. Everyone was telling me to keep breathing, and not to give up, and I remember telling my wife, "I'm dying!" in between gasps.
But another part of me was struggling to keep breathing, and after a long time they got my breathing back under control.
That was the longest night ever. I never slept. I only went in and out of consciousness.
I didn't want to sleep. I was afraid I'd never wake up.
The sun came up, and the hospital came back to life, from a spooky quiet place to a bustling beehive of activity.
Don't get sick on Christmas night folks. You won't find many people on staff.
The rest of this stay was a blur to me. I was pretty much out of it, mentally. I don't even know how many days I stayed.
Then they let me out.
I didn't do well when I got home.
Getting to sleep was hard, I had to pack my shoulder in ice, and I couldn't get comfortable.It throbbed but they wouldn't allow me to take any sleeping medication for fear of screwing up my breathing and heart rates.
I had to tough it out.
I kept waking up suffocating, gasping for air, with my heart racing, dizzy and faint, very weak, not having a wonderful Christmas time. And let's not forget the shoulder. It's a painful operation, but they wouldn't allow me to take any pain medication, because it slows down the breathing.

Worst of all, though I needed sleep, I was afraid to sleep, and every time I drifted off I woke up gasping for air, desperately sucking for wind, with my heart doing a drum solo.
That happened so many times I just couldn't stand it any more, and conacted the pulmonary doctor again.
He had told me to see a doctor who specializes in my problem (bi-lateral diaphragm paralysis) at Tufts Medical Center, in Boston.
So, there I was, on New Year's Eve...in another emergency room, being admitted to the hospital for the 4th time in 16 days.
I spent another 3 days there. They were long lonely days, but thanks to my family and my friends, I got through it.
I learned a few things:
My wife really does love me, and she's part angel.
My son is a fine young man who helped out around the house and shoveled a lot of snow without me. I think he's gonna turn out just fine.
My best friends really are my best friends.
Lot's of people care about me.
I need to show them I care about them more often.
I need to take better care of myself.
We all need each other.
Being grateful helps you enjoy life much more.
There's a lot of people who have it a lot worse off than we do.
Also:
Most nurses have bad breath. (They seem to wash down garlic with coffee a lot)
All hospital food tastes like toast.
Fat guys should never wear robes that tie in the back.

I'm home now, beginning a new phase in my life, beginning to recover.
This is going to be a long road ahead and it's going to take lot's of small steps to get there, but I'm gonna get there.
I'll make a comeback. Just watch me.

I'll never forget the Christmas season of 2009, even though I'll always want to.
It was an unfolding nightmare of sickness, pain, punctured by the most terrifying moments of my life.
Not much of a holiday.
Several times I was in fear of dying. And it all began with what should have been a simple operation.

Be carefull out there. Take care of each other. Take care of yourselves!
Tell the people you love that you love them.
Let's make this a happier, healthier year!

Kenny Hogan
January 4th, 2010

Peter From Frammish

2009-08-24T09:44:00.000-07:00

So I'm asleep and I'm dreamin', and in my dream my phone is ringin', and I answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Ken Hogan?"
"Yes."
"It's Peter, from Frammish."
"Who?"
"Peter, from Frammish."
I said, "From where?"
And he says FRAMMISH!" and he sounded annoyed.

Sometimes in dreams you just know something.
I knew that he was calling to offer me a job. Frammish was some kind of company, I guess...
So, in a delighted tone, I said, "OH! Peter! From FRAMMISH!"

...and then my wife's alarm clock went off...BEEP!BEEP! BEEP! ...and I woke up.
She says, "What were you saying?"
I said, "I was talking to Peter from Frammish."
She said "Who? What are you talking about?"
I said "Peter, from Frammish. He was offering me a job."
"I'm Peter, from Frammish."
She said "Stop saying that!" and she got up.
She was fishing around in her drawer for some socks or something, and I just had to say it again...
"It's Peter, from Frammish."
And she turned around and said "SHUT UP!
ENOUGH with this Peter, from Frammish!"
And she walked out and slammed the door, and left.

...And I found myself laying in bed confused.
I didn't get the job. My wife was mad at me, and there was no way I could get back to sleep.
All because of that asshole Peter, from Frammish.

The Razor Blade Story

2009-08-09T11:30:00.000-07:00

So yesterday morning I woke up a little crispy with a medical need for coffee.

Blurry eyed, I drove to Stop & Shop. I bought some of those razor blades from the future that are so expensive and important they require a special bullet-proof tamper-resistant unbreakable plastic case which also has a wireless radio alarm built into it.

I'm not making this up!

I guess people must steal these blades a lot for them to go to such extremes, but it seems a bit ridiculous to me.
I mean, it's a pack of razor blades, not the Hope Diamond. But it's in this special museum display box.

Anyways, I go up to the Dunking Donuts inside Stop and shop and I order 3 giant iced coffees and 3 bagels.

I needed this coffee very badly because we drank like the wind the night before.

The lady behind the counter was from some miserable country and could not speak English, but I was able to communicate, that I wanted the 3 bagels and 3 giant iced coffees using a series of elaborate hand signals, slow motion pronunciations and a bit of rumba dancing.

I also inquired about purchasing the million dollar space age razor blades there at the Dunkin Donuts vestibule.
She made some noise like a lama choking on a golf ball and took my money.

My head was throbbing like a carnival ride as I tried to juggle the bag and the coffees on the way back to my van.

I got home somehow without spilling anything. (A miracle)

Now I opened the bag to discover that she only gave me one bagel, not three. I clearly told her by pointing with three fingers and doing the Watusi, that I wanted 3 bagels, but alas, there was only one bagel in the bag.

I gave the bagel to my son and began inhaling the gigantic coffee.

Then I noticed that the futuristic interplanetary razor blades were still in their bullet-proof radio protected viewing shrine. Juanita had failed to remove the anti-theft see-through safe these razor blades came in.

So I grabbed a large flat-headed screw driver and attempted to pry the case open.

It was not possible.

It could not be done.

God knows, I tried, but It could not be done.

I started chopping at it like OJ Simpson and I almost cut my fingers off. I needed those fingers too.

How else was I gonna make signals the next time I needed coffee?

Finally I gave up. This wasn't helping my throbbing head at all.

I would not be shaving on this day.

I considered going back to Stop & Shop, but my wife told me they were closed for renovations.

I decided to keep the blades in their impenetrable bio-dome as a piece of art for my home.

Then my brother came over.

I showed him the beautiful blades from Mars in their fabulous viewing case.

He said he could get it to open.

"Put it in a vice and hit it with a ball peen hammer," he said, "Maybe try a hack saw."

Then he said, "Give it me me. I'll JUMP ON IT!"

So he took it outside on the patio, and began jumping on the tiny museum case.

He's a big dude and he was jumping up and down on it like Wrestle mania, but it wouldn't break!

"This God-damned thing won't break," he yelled, and he was all out of breath and sweating from jumping on it like a gorilla.

"Gimme a brick! Gimme a boulder! I'll get the God-damned thing open!"

So he grabbed a big rock from the garden and started slammin' it and grunting like a cave man.

He was mad now. "What's this made out of? Kryptonite?"

Finally after about ten or twelve good whacks it broke open, and the blades fell out and there was this weird radio device inside!

Somewhere miles away alarms were probably going off. Flashing lights at the Gillette factory, the blade police were jumping on their motorcycles...I don't know...but no razor cops showed up, so I guess he must have shattered the homing device.

That's the end of the story. I gotta go shave now.

Steely Dan Plays Gaucho - Wang Center, Boston, July 24, 2009

2009-07-25T10:10:00.000-07:00

In 1980 Steely Dan's Walter Becker and Donald Fagen used 42 studio musicians and 11 different engineers to record the album "Gaucho. It took them a full year, even though the album has only seven songs on it.
They are known for their obsessive perfectionism.

Last night I saw them play this entire album in sequence from beginning to end.
I was astounded!

In a word, the entire show was Impressive.

The sound was perfect. I've never heard a better live mix. Crystal clear vocals and all instruments perfectly balanced. It was good and loud, like a rock concert should be, but never painfully loud like some shows
I've seen.
The lighting was mood inspiring and well synched to the music. At times the lighting was dramatic and beautiful.
As for the band:
Every musician on that stage was impressive as hell, but none more than Kieth Carlock on drums.
Kieth, who was voted #2 in Modern Drummer's reader's poll, is a true monster drummer.
Visually exciting to witness, this guy has the chops and the good taste to know how to use them.

Jon Herington shined last night in the intimidating role of lead guitar.
Playing guitar for Steely Dan is no easy job. This is complex music and it takes skill. Jon replicated the solos of the great Larry Carlton and others capturing the tones they achieved perfectly.

Walter Becker played a blue Stratocaster mostly in the out of phase position, clean and bluesy with some tasty jazz licks and the rhythms were spot on. He also sang Daddy Don't Live In That New York City No More, later in the evening. I didn't expect that one, and it was a pleasant surprise.

Donald Fagen was of course the star of the show, a truly gifted songwriter and keyboard player, he gave it everything he had.
Now I admit that he did flub up a few lyrics here and there, but it was amazing to me that anyone could record an album and remember all the words to it 30 years later, especially when you consider that they have never played that album in it's entirety until last night. So he gets a free pass.

The female singers were fantastic, especially during Babylon Sisters, and Hey Nineteen.
The entire crowd sang along to,"The Cuervo Gold, the fine columbian," and the mention of "sweet things from Boston, so young and willing."

I felt a true chill during the song Third World Man. This song was surprisingly powerful played live. The horns were extremely powerful, and the drumming kicked ass. It was visually stunning with the lights so perfectly matched to the music.

When they finished the entire album from start to finish, there was a stunning response from the crowd. I knew I'd seen something very special.
I would have been very satisfied with just that but the night had just begun.

They launched into so many great memorable songs, I can't remember all of them, but I can give you a list of the high points:

Highlights Of The Setlist:

My Old School - Amazing! Horns were killer in this song, and he mentioned Berkeley School Of Music.
Parker's Band- Who would have expected this one? And who would have expected the girls to sing it instead of Fagen?
Peg- Flawless. Sounded just like a record on a phonograph.
Reelin' In The Years - The original version, not the jazz version. Great harmony guitar work.
Don't Take Me Alive- Ouch!
Deacon Blues- My favorite Steely Dan song put a lump in my throat because it brings back memories.
Home At Last - Horns again rose to the occasion, and that shuffle groove from the drums, so nice!

they ended the night with "Dirty Water."
Of course the Boston fans ate that one up and sang along.

Not only was this amazing band able to deliver the goods by replicating their former records, they also improvised brilliantly. I loved it!

One funny tid-bit: In a restaurant, before the show, the waiter asked if we were going to see Steely Dan. We said "yes."
He told us "He's great. I never realized how many great songs he sang."

Kenny Hogan's Blog - The Deep Fog Monologues: Synchronicity On Rollercoaster Road

2009-07-20T09:45:00.000-07:00

Kenny Hogan's Blog - The Deep Fog Monologues: Synchronicity On Rollercoaster Road

Synchronicity On Rollercoaster Road

2009-07-20T08:27:00.000-07:00

I was taking a Sunday drive up on old Route 1 yesterday with my family.

We were headed towards the ocean to Plum Island on a beautiful summer day.

It occurred to me that I was on the part of the road my father used to call "Rollercoaster Road."

So I put the song "Frank's Imperial," on and drove up to Plum island listening to it.

I explained to them that this is where my dad used to take us in his 67 Chrysler Imperial on Sundays.

We drove up and down the steep hills listening to these lyrics:

and I'm in the back seat, just 12 years old,

a Sunday drive, on Rollercoaster Road,

flyin' high, in Frank's blue jet,

he's got his arm out the window, holdin' a cigarette,

his car has style, his car has class,

whitewall tires, tinted glass,

it rides so smooth, strong and fast,

Frank just smiles, and steps on the gas...

...and for a minute there, I felt like Frank himself, driving the family in his big blue jet.

My mind drifted back through those fond memories of my childhood, and I found myself wiping a secret tear from my eye.

When we got to our destination - Plum Island, my cell phone rang.

My friend Carl was calling to tell me that NPR's Car Talk radio show had just played "Frank's Imperial," on the radio!

Of course I was thrilled to hear that.

Then it hit me.

They were playing the song on the radio at the exact same time we were on Rollercoaster Road listening to the same song!

What are the odds in that happening?

Was my father somehow communicating to me, sending me a message?

Do you believe in synchronicity?

I do.

Here is the definition of Synchronicity:

The term synchronicity is coined by Carl Jung to express a concept that belongs to him. It is about a causal connection of two or more psycho-physic phenomena.

Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events which are causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner.

In order to count as synchronicity, the events should be unlikely to occur together by chance.

The concept does not question, or compete with, the notion of causality. Instead, it maintains that just as events may be grouped by cause, they may also be grouped by their meaning.

It does not escape my attention that I was called on the phone by a guy named CARL either.

You can download the song Frank's Imperial by clicking here.

Walmart Women

2009-07-15T10:07:00.000-07:00

So, the other day I went to Walmart.

I'm not proud of it.

Walmart shoppers are an entirely different subspecies of human beings. I don't want to be one of them.

You'll see lot's of sloping foreheads and chinless jaws, and they have fewer teeth than most homo sapiens.

They walk slower and do not possess the intelligence to get out of the way. They just stand there dazed and drooling, blocking the aisle, squatting behind their shopping carts. Perhaps they're thinking about bones and antlers.

I go there to buy socks and underwear.
Socks and underwear are cheap at Walmart because most Wal-Mart shoppers still wear loin-cloths.

On this particular day I broke through a geriatric roadblock, entered through the doors which are on the wrong side and waved off the slack-jawed decrepit "Greeter."

They always prop up a dead guy at the front of the store.
Why? I don't know.

Who wants to be greeted by a dead guy? Not me.

Who's idea was this? Getting some 100 year old man to stagger toward you with a shopping cart...is this good for business?

I made it to the center aisle.
Towels were on sale for $3 each!

Squatting directly in front of this display were two Wal-Women.

One of them was tall and skinny with bleach-blond weeds coming out of her head. She wore a skirt so short you could see what she had for breakfast.

She was yelling into her cell-phone while eating Nacho Cheese Doritos from an opened bag.

Her stubby scantily clad friend stood next her, squinting and text messaging while blocking the other side of the aisle like Teddy Bruschi.

She was a chubby girl who didn't mind exposing her large beach-ball breasts.

Now don't get me wrong. I usually love big boobs, but these were not the kind of boobs you wanna see.
They looked like they might pop. You might get splattered with something.

Some boobs...you just wanna say, "Put those things away, you're makin' me sick!"

I was trying to get to the $3 towels to check out the quality, but these two stunning beauties were blocking the way texting and squawking and chomping Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a giant unpaid-for bag.

Blondie finishes her phone call with a flourish of loud swears, and puts her phone away.

Suddenly she looks at her hands and says, "Jesus Christ! Look at my hands! They're all ORANGE from these freakin' Doritos!"

She walks over to the $3 white towels and wipes her hands on them!

I couldn't believe it.

Then, with a gap-toothed grimace she turns to me and says, "Don't tell anybody."

I promised her that I wouldn't, and ran away.

I think I peed a little, and I had bad dreams that night.

Summer Checklist

2009-07-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

The summer of 2009 is like no other summer I've seen.
We've all been waiting all summer for summer to come. It's true.

The rain has been like a bad rash that just won't clear up. Here it is, July, and I haven't done half the things I would have done if it were a normal summer.

BUT!
I have a summer checklist.
Certain things have to get done. AND THEY WILL!
There are specific places that I must go and certain foods I need to have, and there are events that are summer rituals for me.

The summer just isn't complete unless these things get done.
I think that everyone would have a better summer if they made a checklist of their own.
So read mine and come up with your own, and I hope you have a great summer!

Destinations:

Gloucester area beaches: Rockport, Good Harbor, Long Beach
Salisbury, Hampton, especially the boardwalk
York Beach, Maine, My favorite of all
Canobie Lake Park, brings out the kid in me, and they have fireworks on Saturday night
Castle Island, Central Maine, fishing for pike on a beautiful natural lake
The Pemigewassett River, Bristol, NH, best smallmouth bass fishing around, and so nice
Burlington Vermont, Even the long ride up there is enjoyable, and it's so nice up there
Boston's Freedom Trail, Sometimes we take it for granted, and it's really cool

Events:

Fireworks - Anywhere, but especially Gloucester and Canobie lake
Backyard Barbecues- ask me, I'm there
Outdoor concerts at Heritage Park in Lowell, you can't beat that venue or the price
Outdoor Concerts anywhere but Great Woods, or whatever they're calling it this week
Campfires on the beach, a river or any other place, nothing better than sitting by a fire
Hiking in the woods, alone or with friends, it's fun and it doesn't cost a penny
A good thunderstorm on my back porch, or on the lake at Castle Island
Whale Watch - Gloucester has a great one
A boat ride of any kind. Just to be on the water is great
Cocktails on a patio or deck on a nice summer day
Walking in York Village watching them make the taffy etc...
Fishing- just about anywhere, but especially NH and Maine
Summer Reading - on the back porch, or the beach, or a cottage, or by a pool...

FOOD & BEVERAGES:

Cookout food of all kinds, chicken, ribs, steak tips, sausages, cheeseburgers, hotdogs
Corn On The Cob from some road-side stand
Lobster
Lobster Roll- preferably from that little fish store in York Village
Fried Clams - From the Clam Box in Ipswich, or Woodman's
Any and all junk food on the boardwalk at Hampton Beach
Shooting the piano player in the ass at the arcade on Hampton Beach
A Lime Rickey on a hot day
A Raspberry Lime Rickey on a very hot day
Salt Water Taffy & Chocolate Turtles form York Village
Blueberry Pie with ice cream
Blueberry Pancakes
Blueberry Bread
Blueberry this
Blueberry that
Watermelon
Italian Ice
Popsicles
Frappes
Watermelon Italian Ice
Planked Salmon
Richie's Slush
Macaroni Salad
Potato Salad
Chicken Salad
Fresh Tomatoes from the garden
Coffee Coolatas
Home Made Iced Tea or Sun Tea
Margaritas
Pina Coladas
Ice Cold Beer from the bottom of a cooler filled with ice water

I think that just about covers it.
Did I leave anything out?
Please leave me a comment, if you think of anything.

Have a great summer!

On Purpose

2009-06-30T07:57:00.000-07:00

This week I'll turn 54.
SHIT!
That ain't good,
but I guess I'm still here and that's a good thing.
Lot's of people aren't.
I feel okay, I'm writing songs and making up stories, creating stuff,

"practicing my purpose," as they say.

That's what my purpose seems to be. (among others)

Who's to say what your purpose is?

YOU.

That's who.

No one else is qualified.

Ask yourself this question;

"What am I here for?"

If the answer is, "I don't know," keep asking the question.

But don't look for someone else to answer it.

The Dead Parakeet

2009-06-29T08:57:00.000-07:00

I remember we had a parakeet when I was a kid.
His name was Pete.
Pete The Parakeet.

He talked a little, and flew around the house all the time.
He'd land on your shoulder, sometimes without any warning, and scare the hell out of ya.
He'd fly into mirrors and windows and knock himself silly quite often.

One day we found him dead on the kitchen table next to a bowl of sugar.
There was sugar all over the place.
Looked like he sugared himself to death.

So we dug a grave and buried poor Pete out back.

...Many years later, at Thanksgiving, one of my brothers told us the truth;

He said he came home on his lunch break, and went into the bathroom with the Herald, to take a dump...

"The friggin' bird flew in, and tried to land on me, and I sez Get the hell outta here! ...and I swatted the bastard with Herald and killed him.

Then I threw him onto the kitchen table and sprinkled the sugar all over him to make it look like an accident,
...and then I went back to work.

I hated that friggin' bird!"

True story.

The Famous Camper Story

2009-06-21T14:27:00.000-07:00

In honor of Father's Day I'm re-posting this old story:
When I was sixteen, my father bought a camper...
Not just any camper, - a super deluxe motor-home.
An immense road ship and loaded with features.
It had a full kitchen, a nice stereo system. It slept six, and it had a bathroom.
You could even take a shower if you wanted to.
My father beamed with pride as he showed it off to the neighbors, coloring his sentences with flourishing adjectives that would make a salesman blush, as he gave extended tours to friends.

The camper was the pride of the neighborhood that first week we had it.
Dad's plan was to retire soon, and take his wife and his two youngest kids on a three month tour of the USA. ...but first, he decided that we would spend a long weekend up at Sebego Lake to test it out.
The four of us spent three days in it, cooking and washing dishes, eating and using the bathroom, getting dirty and using the shower.

It had a 35 gallon holding tank.

We awoke on the third morning and gradually, we detected a very unpleasant odor.
"Jesus! See a doctor, will ya?" My father huffed, blaming my mother,my brother, or possibly me for the gastric outrage. "

Which one of you just died? God! Open a window!"
We protested and explained that it wasn't us. We certainly did smell it though!

He went to the bathroom door and opened it. Suddenly the entire camper smelled like Big foot's ass!
An overpowering sickening sour cloud of stench bombarded the air, the smell of ten nursing homes.
"The waste tank is full. It has to be emptied." my father announced, holding his nose.
The smell was so overpowering that we were forced to evacuate as we gasped for air.

Outside the camper ,the four of us discussed what to do. We were new at this camper business, and we had no idea how to empty the friggin' waste tank.

There was a hose that went from the camper into the ground. We needed to find out how to open the tank to release the sewage. We had no clue how to do it.

"Look around for a lever or something!" my father barked to my older brother.
"Find me the manual to this thing," We each took a deep breath and went back into the rolling porta-potty to find the manual.
Mom checked the glove compartment in the stinky cab and I went deep into methane hell to open the windows and look for the manual there. My dad scratched his bald head, looking high and low for the lever or button that would release the sewage.

There were other motor homes near us arranged in neat little rows . A very nice gentleman appeared from the camper next to ours, saw us all wandering around looking for something and offered to help.

The two men shook hands and introduced themselves. I think his name was Ted.

His motor home was even bigger than ours, so he had to know what he was doing.
They walked around the camper looking for buttons and levers, discussing the problem. It smelled like sh*t all around the area. Ted suggested that maybe because it was new, there might be some sort of factory seal keeping the tank from emptying.
He unclamped the hose from the bottom of the camper.
He examined the outlet pipe carefully.
He layed on his back with a screwdriver in his hand and looked up into the pipe.

...Meanwhile, on the other side of the camper, my father announced, "Wait a minute! I think I found it!"

There was a low rumble, a loud gurgle, followed by an erupting splash.

An explosion of filth gushed from the pipe like a firehose directly into poor Ted's face.
He rolled to escape as a flood of toxic waste. Three days of voided leavings, toilet paper, Lincoln logs, and ripe whiz juice, thirty five gallons of indescribably disgusting nastiness washed over his body.
He was almost swept away by it.
He scrambled to his feet, soaked in pee and made a sound halfway between a moan and a retch and then ran to the lake and dove in.
He splashed around washing himself for a while, then put his hands on his knees and hurled.

My brother and I couldn't believe how this could happen. We simply turned to rubber with laughter.
My father, seeing what he had done to poor Ted, was in shock, horrified at the disaster he had caused.

He alternated between apologizing to Ted in a crying voice, "I'm so sorry! Oh my God! I'm sorry!" to barking at my brother and I, "Shut up! God-Dammit! This isn't funny!"
...But it was!

I went into the camper to hide, and roll on the floor with my brother, laughing hysterically with tears running down our faces, but trying not to be loud about it, so Dad wouldn't kill us.

In the front of the cab was my Mother. Head in her hands ducking down. For a second, I thought she was crying, but I saw her shoulders rocking.
She was trying so hard not to laugh, but she was falling apart, laughing her ass off, slapping her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks, helplessly convulsing in laughter.

The three of us were inside the camper flopping around like fish, gasping for air, while my poor father, riddled with guilt was pleading with Ted to please forgive him.

Later that night the two men sat by the campfire drinking Crown Royal, My father continuously apologizing for what he's done to poor Ted.

My father said, "Ted in my life I've given a lot of shit to people, but I never gave anyone the amount of shit I gave you tonight!"Ted laughed like hell.

He really was good at taking shit from people.

2009-06-18T17:26:00.000-07:00

Stoneham native releases new album By Ben Swasey/Correspondent Stoneham

- For Kenny Hogan, the memories linger vividly: rides down Route 1, listening to the AM radio; his father, a tireless worker, devotedly polishing fenders; the 17-foot beast of an automobile, a 1967 Chrysler Imperial. “That car was his pride and joy,” said Hogan. And so it is fitting that Hogan, a lifelong musician, pays homage to his father after completing his own multi-year labor of love, a solo album named “Frank’s Imperial.”

“After 30 years of playing in cover bands, it occurred to me that I had nothing really to show for it,” said Hogan, “so I wanted to sit down and record on my own.” For the Stoneham resident of nearly two decades, “on his own” is an understatement. Everything on the album is Hogan’s doing – the writing, singing, instrumentation, engineering and recording.

For the song, “Heaven,” he recorded and layered all 19 vocal parts. The instruments include Hogan’s first, the guitar, and his latest, the ukulele, among others. “That was the toughest part, when I hit a wall, and a part wouldn’t come, and I’d have to say, ‘what would a drummer do here?’” said Hogan.

And although the individualistic album took 3 1/2 years to complete, its creator speaks absorbingly of the process and the freedom, after so long with bandmates, to have complete ownership of a song. “Things just kind of pop into your head,” said Hogan, “and your job is to get it out of your head and into the real world. Some people do crosswords of Sudoku, but for me, putting a song together is a puzzle.”
The beginning
The musical pieces began for Hogan when he was 10 and his older brother was given a guitar, spurring jealously. He then describes how his entire Medford neighborhood was inspired by the Beatles iconic performance on the “Ed Sullivan Show.” Soon after, his friends formed bands, securing barbecue gigs and school dance performances.

Until his mid-30s, Hogan was a full-time musician, traveling, often on an old school bus, through the East Coast and Canada, playing most nights, Tuesdays through Sundays. He has played in bands covering the musical spectrum of the times, from rock, disco and soul to 80s high energy and 90s unplugged.

Now off the road, Hogan made it his New Year’s resolution at the start of 2006 to create a song a month and to record an album. “Well, that year lasted three and a half years,” said Hogan. “It just didn’t happen that fast.”

Consciously, “Frank’s Imperial” is varied in terms of musical styles, paying homage additionally to his breadth of performances and his early days of AM radio, when genres weren’t separated so distinctly and there was only one Top-40 countdown. The songs themselves also originated from varied sources.

According to Hogan, the album’s final track, “Startin’ All Over Again,” is 35 years old. Another, titled “Real Good Day,” comes from Hogan’s cancer-stricken brother offering a dose of perspective. And although Hogan bemoans a music scene that he believes has “really changed” in terms of energy and attention towards performers, he is considering ways in which his jack-of-all-trades album can be converted live.

In the meantime, however, Hogan is expanding into yet another genre, and trying his hand at recording a novelty album. But at least now, the musician, far removed from the AM radio in the Imperial, has his first solo album in the books. “It took a long time,” said Hogan, simply.

For information, visit www.kennyhogan.com. “Frank’s Imperial” is available on iTunes, CD Baby, Amazon.com and at Book Oasis in Stoneham.

My Influences

2009-06-18T13:18:00.000-07:00

Ask me about my influences

I was recently asked in a couple of interviews who my influences are.
I didn't know what the hell to say. I wasn't used to that.

I made up a bunch of stuff to say in case someone asks me that again:

"So Ken, Who are your influences?"

Well I'll tell ya...
When I was 10 years old, I saw The Beatles on Ed Sullivan.
Ed didn't seem to mind, so I closed the door and let the five of them go at it.

Before you know it, I was watching all those Elvis movies,and acting just like Elvis. I remember getting all pissed off at the beach, because nobody else would sing along or do the choreography . That made me want to die on the toilet, just like him.

(I have come close several times)

Davey Jones, of The Monkees made me consider becoming a homosexual, but that didn't work out for me, because I couldn't stop thinking of Annette Funicello.

Soon I began watching Wild Kingdom and learned to imitate a rhino by farting in a short pipe. Soon I bought a harmonica. Still, I was not allowed in the school band!

I saw Myron Sherman on Lawrence Welk, but I promised not to tell.

That lead to a horrible accident involving getting naked and playing an accordion, where I almost became Jewish.
To this day when I hear the song "Squeezebox" I cross my legs involuntarily.

My high pitched screams caused me to discover my stunning falsetto and that finally catapulted me toward the fame, success, and filthy wealth I have yet to achieve in the scum-filled shitholes and booze-pits where I've wasted my valuable youth.

Being totally ignored by staggering drunks who look like Mannix, watching them soil themselves as they gape up at the keno machine, being underpaid and lugging heavy gear over snowbanks has inspired me to someday become greatest songwriter in the nursing home.

And don't ask me again.

Max

2009-06-17T06:53:00.001-07:00

Max was our band mascot (Guinea Pig) who traveled extensively with the band.
He spent most of his sweet short life in guitar cases.

He died in the tragic "Radiator Incident," in Schenectady, New York.

He crawled up inside the heater in our hotel room, and refused to come out.
I suppose that living in a guitar case and being with musicians on the road all the time might make you want to hide too.

After his death (inside the radiator) he smelled up the room so badly that we had to move to a new room.
The next band to come through was "The Lords."

I later joined The Lords, who told me what they heard about my previous band,

"We heard you was all crazy. The maids told us. We heard about you cookin' a pig in your room."

They actually believed that we roasted a pig in our room.
That's what the maids told them. (explaining the smell)
I had to convince them that we didn't.
They hired me!

S(p)itting In With The Band

2009-06-17T06:50:00.000-07:00

S(p)itting In With The Band

A while back I let a guy sit in.
I never met him before, but I could tell by the way he talked that he's been around, and he was respectful when he asked if he could get up on one of our breaks and play my acoustic.
So I told him he could do two songs, and he did, and he was good too.
I got to enjoy the guy's playing and see what my guitar and PA sounded like out in the crowd. So after being convinced that he didn't suck, I let him play out the rest of my break. Why not?

He was a big fat hairy guy and he began sweating like a pig as he played.

When break was over I thanked him, he thanked me, and then he handed me my guitar.

It felt like he'd sprayed Pam on the friggin thing!
It was all buttery and greasy on the fret-board and sticky on the pick guard like he'd just pleasured a mule or something.
So I took a huck-towel and wiped it off.

Luckily, I keep several huck-towels around on stage.

What's a huck towel? I'll explain...

I go to the auto parts store and buy a big pack of those towels you wash your car with. They're perfect for when you're singing and you have to huck one up.
I've seen BB King do this for years. He's always hawking and hucking between and even during songs into these towels.
He may be the King of the blues, but he's also the Headmaster Of Hucking.
He's great at pretending he's just wiping up sweat with them, but one time at Lowell Auditorium I saw him cough up a lizard or something. Then he looked at it, and it moved and it called him Papa.

Anyways... I wiped the sticky excretions off my $2000 Gibson and went back to work.
THEN in the middle of the first song my lips brushed up against the foam windscreen on my microphone... And I felt something gooey!

I pulled my head back and looked.
The bastard had spewed up a clam! Right there on my microphone! EEeewww!
It looked like a cross between some sort of chowder or lab specimen from a sick ostrich or something you'd expect to see sliding down the inside of an aquarium.

I knew that I must have got some of that slime on my lip, and it made my stomach curdle and my skin shrink.
I forgot where I was in the song, flubbed up the chords, I forgot the lyrics, and spazzed out.
I retched, and then I ripped the foam wind screen off of the mike and threw it on the floor.
I had to resist the urge to stamp on it like a cockroach.

Grabbing my trusty huck-towel, I gave my mouth a good scrubbing and sucked down an entire scotch and soda with one gulp to kill any bugs. I had to finish the set worrying about where that fat bastard's mouth had been.
It was horrifying!
It was almost like I had been making out with the guy!!!
God knows what kind of hoof and mouth disease he might have given me!
Maybe he was married to Sasquatch.

During the next break I took the wind screen into the men's room and washed it in hot water and some of that squeezy soap for about five minutes.

When I got back that hairy sweaty spooge-mouthed hippo asked if he could sit in again.

I told him there was a booking agent in the room checking us out, "Sorry."
I didn't need any more of his Jurassic lung-butter.

So, if you're a musician, remember to be careful who you let sit in, and bring a spare microphone and some Lysol to every gig.

Oh Say Can You See?

2009-06-16T06:54:00.000-07:00

Last summer I jumped off a boat in the middle of Sebago lake with my glasses on.

(That's what they say, anyways)

I swore that I had taken them off before the plunge.
I suspect that there was a vast conspiracy by those who wanted to drive the boat.

Either way, I had an old pair of glasses in the glove compartment and wore them for exactly a year, even though they were the wrong prescription.

Two days ago I said to myself, "Self? You're about to turn fifty years old and you have the vision of Mister Magoo. Go get your eyes checked."
So I did.
Randomly I made an appointment with an eye doctor.

The eye doctor's name was Dr. Siriboonsirsermsook, O.D.
I liked the name because reading it was actually sort of an eye test in itself.
I figured with a name like Siriboonsirsermsook it had to be good. I went for the eye test.

She turned out to be a really exotic looking woman too. Not too hard on the eyes, if ya know what I mean... I was expecting some smelly old guy for some reason.
She said I needed Tri-focals.
TRI-FOCALS!?!? Me?
I didn't even think I was in need of BI-focals, let alone TRI-focals, but if the exotic Doctor Siriboonsirsermsook said so, then who the hell was I to argue?
So I picked out the frames and an hour later they put them on my aging head.

When I tilted my head downward and looked out the top of the lenses I could see the pimple on the ass of an eagle high in the clouds.
If I looked through the center I could see the cleavage of Doctor Siriboonsirsermsook vividly.
She was obviously a very good doctor.

Looking through the bottoms of these amazing Tri-focals would finally allow me to tie trout flies that did not look like snots with wings.
I paid them the price of a ticket to see The Rolling Stones at Fenway Park, and I left the exotic optometrist with a smile.

Suddenly the ground was way tooo close!My depth perception was completely screwed up!
Driving home was a real challenge.
Everything was all blurry and uncomfortable and I had to concentrate and squint just to get home.

To take my mind off it, I studied the amazing patterns of Eagle's ass-pimples high above me.
I got home and promptly stubbed my toe on the steps. Someone had moved them closer than they used to be.

I tried to put the key in the door and missed so many times it looked lke I was fencing.

I changed my shirt because I had spilled some food on myself when I missed my mouth.

When I put my arm into the new shirt, I scared the shit out of myself by sticking my hand directly into the ceiling fan!
BRRDDDD DITTT DDDITTTT DDDDITT!!!"OUCH!" and I had to run my sore fingers under cold water for a while.

Now take into consideration that my right arm is already in a friggin' cast, now I've "La Machined" the first three fingers on my left hand, and I'm praying to God, "Please God! Not THIS hand too!" I was okay though, just a bruise on my index finger.

My wife comes home and I show her my new glasses. We decide to go out to dinner, because I'm afraid to cook. We drive down the street, by the bank.
She says, "Wait a minute, I want to go to that ATM machine.

I stop, put the car in reverse, BOOOOM! Right into a pole!
Scared the shit out of everyone.
I tried to explain that the pole seemed much farther away.

I couldn't help noticing a hawk high above us with a startling case of impetigo on his rectum.
There's a nice dent in my new van.
She starts singing the theme song to Mister Magoo, and my son sings along.
"ROAD HOG!" he says.

The next day I called Dr. Siriboonsirsermsook, O.D.
"This is Missa Magloo. I want to return the Alice In Wonderland glasses. Time for ziss one to come home."

They gave me a hard time, but I finally got some regular glasses, and everything is okay now.
In fact I'm looking out the window right now.
You should see the size of the zits on bunghole of this osprey.

I can see them. And I'm over fifty years old!

A Simple Songwriting Exercise

2009-06-14T10:44:00.000-07:00

Lot's of people tell me that they could never write a song.
Some tell me that they can do the music, but they struggle with the lyrics.

Try this.

Think about it for one minute. What is this song about?

Next, pen in hand, write down these words:

I see...

I feel...

I sense...

I smell...

I taste...

I hear...

I remember...

Now finish the sentences and you're on your way. Of course if you're writing from someone elses perspective change it to "He or She sees etc...

It's a simple and effective way to convey a picture from your mind to others.
How you set it to rhyme and rhythm is your next challenge, but this is a good place to start.
Try it.

Good luck!

The Skunk Epic. A True Story. Chapter One

2009-06-12T09:21:00.000-07:00

Chapter One: Skunk Attack!

One night in February of the year 2002, My wife, my son and I came home from food shopping, opened our front door and smelled a skunk. This was no ordinary skunk smell. It was like an invisible punch in the nose. It was a skunk attack. We were overpowered by this toxic odor. We gagged on skunk funk as we brought the groceries into the house from the car, astonished by the fact that the smell of the skunk was actually stronger INSIDE our house than it was outside.
The stench was so powerful that we could actually taste it. It was hard to breathe when were inside. The air was poisoned, and the house was unlivable. We choked as we opened all the windows and fled to my mother in law's house to wait for the smell to subside.
Later that night, we went home. It still stunk something awful. I could not get over the fact that it smelled much worse INSIDE the house than it did outside. Was the skunk IN the house? It sure smelled like it!
Something had to be done! We couldn't live in there. I called my friend Gunther who gave me the phone number of an exterminator he had used. His name was "Bob The Skunk Guy."
I called him. He answered the phone like this: "Hello, Bob, the skunk guy!" I explained our predicament. Bob said, "I'll be right over. It will cost you a hundred bucks. If the skunk is in the house I'll find him and get him out of there for ya"
At that point I would have gladly paid him a thousand.
Bob The Skunk Guy showed up less than an hour later, by now it was about 11:00 at night.
Bob The Skunk Guy was big. Bob The Skunk Guy had a big flashlight and wore a big flannel shirt. Bob The Skunk Guy may have had a few big cocktails earlier that same evening.
Never the less, Bob The Skunk Guy was there, walking around my house at 11:00 with his big flashlight stumbling through the shrubs, looking under and around everything searching high and low for our stinking terrorist enemy. A PROFESSIONAL RODENT ELIMINATOR doing what he does best. My hero!
By midnight however he had not accomplished his mission and it still smelled like Bigfoot's ass in my home. Even Bob The Skunk Guy had to admit, the smell was stronger inside the house than it was outside ""Bob," I said, "I really think this skunk is in here, not out there."
"It's possible, but it's very unlikely," Bob said, sounding a bit like a professor. He explained that skunks aren't good climbers and they can't jump, so he probably couldn't have made it up the stairs.
Bob The Skunk Guy went down cellar with his big flashlight. He tore the place apart but found nothing. Then he asked us if we had any flour.We gave him a bag of flour. He produced a can of sardines from his pocket.(wierd) He placed the opened can of sardines in the center of the cellar, and then he sprinkled the white flour all over the floor around it. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked.
"If that skunk is down here he's gonna go for those sardines," Bob explained, "Skunks love sardines, and we'll be able to see his footprints in the flour, then we'll be able to see where he's hiding."

"Ingenious!" I said, and we went upstairs. The man had techniques, and proceedures! He was clearly a skunk catching expert. Even though I was still choking and gagging I felt a bit more at ease.

"I think it smells more upstairs than it does down cellar," Bob announced. I had to agree. Who was I to argue with the trained nose of a professional rodent eliminator? He paced from room to room sniffing. We followed him, doing the same. It was getting close to 1:00 AM. My little boy was upstairs in bed with the covers over his head.
Bob stopped in front of the closet in the front hall, sniffing with his nose in the air. He shined his big flashlight into the closet. Suddenly he seemed very alert.
"Open the front door, and leave it wide open!" He ordered. "We need to take all the clothes out of this closet so I can get in there!" he explained sternly.
It was the voice a sergeant would use before ordering his men to take Porkchop Hill.
We removed every coat, shirt and sweater from the closet and threw them on the dining room table, like good soldiers.
He shined his big rodent seeking flashlight beam into the deepest recesses of the cluttered closet. "Holy shit! I think I see him!" he announced. "Where?" I asked peering over his shoulder, but not really wanting to get too close.
"Look right there behind those brown boots! Can you see that bristle of black hair sticking up? I think that's him." There behind my old winter boots I could clearly see black fur. That bastard!
Bob put on a pair of big brown gloves.
"Stand back!" he ordered. We did. Way back. My wife retreated into the kitchen. "What are you gonna do?" I asked the brave skunk hunter.

"I'm gonna grab him by the tail and throw him out the front door," he said, "So stay the hell outta the way."
"What if he bites ya?" I whined, biting my fingernails.
"That's what the gloves are for." Brave Bob growled, with a steely wink.

What balls he had!!! I had to admire him. Here was a guy who was willing to grab a nasty stinking wild animal by the tail for a hundred bucks!
He was like Marlon Perkins from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom... only drunker. God, I admired him! How brave can a man be?
"Here goes!" Bob announced, taking a deep breath of polluted air.

Bob The Skunk Guy charged into that closet with balls like angry John Wayne! He lunged as I cowered, watching from the dining room.
For a second or two all I could see was his big ass, sticking out of the closet.
There was a lot of bumping around going on, and some grunting, and a loud thump, and some muffled swearing. Some shoes flew by me. This was getting exciting!
He swore and jumped backwards out of the closet and spun around like James Brown, holding in his big brown glove, the hood to my wife's black Eskimo style snorkel jacket.
The hood with the black fur trim.

"Sorry," he said with an embarassed smile, "False alarm." His words hung in the scented air.

I went down stairs to check on the sardines, trying not to breathe.

...Continued in Chapter 2...

The Skunk Epic. Chapter 2. The War Begins...

2009-06-12T08:54:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER TWO- THE WAR BEGINS

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the days following our skunk attack we suffered. We couldn't eat in the house, and spent a fortune in sub shops. The smell pervaded everything. We lost lots of sleep, and when we did sleep we'd often awaken to a new skunk attack. Where was it coming from? I was convinced that the skunk was in the cellar, but there were no footprints in the flour around the sardines! Every time the furnace kicked in it blew the stink into the air some more. Each day we were glad to go to work early, and Mini-Me seemed eager to go to school and escape the stench. We dreaded coming home, knowing that nightfall would probably bring a new stink attack. I went on the internet looking for help, and learned as much as I could about skunks.I even went bto the library to find books about skunks.
One of the articles I read suggested spreading large amounts of Cayenne pepper around the foundation of the house.
The article said that hot pepper powder spinkled all over your yard would work. Supposedly it burns their paws.
I suppose when they lick their paws, they need a cold beer, and not having a cold beer makes them run all the way to the liquor store,where they might be run over by cars or even drink themselves to death.
I went to BJ's wholesale club and bought several large containers of hot cayenne pepper, but when I tried to spread it aound the lawn, the wind blew it into my face. The hot pepper got in my eyes and blinded me, like being maced. I spent the rest of that afternoon washing my eyes out.

I called The Fish and Game Department who informed me that it is against the law to kill the striped weasels. I was definietly willing to take the risk. I called Animal Control in Stoned ham and a very lethargic uninterested voice gave me suggestions, but this highly unmotivated public servant said that he could not help me.
In desperation I went to Wal Mart and bought a gun. It was an air canister powered pellet gun with a laser scope and it shot 22 caliber pellets. It cost me sixty bucks.

I bought a big flashlight too, just like the one Bob The Skunk Guy had.

Bob The Skunk Guy came out two more times, at a cost of two hundred more dollars, and set traps with sardines in them all over the place. We caught the neighbor's cat the first night. I could hear it out there screaming at three in the morning, and I had to go out in the freezing rain and let it go.
The next morning I did some target practice with my deadly air pistol. It scared me, but I needed to know if it was powerful enough to kill a skunk. It wouldn't make sense to shoot it just to get it all pissed off. It might just limp all over the place spraying everything.
I put a pizza box up next to my camper to see how powerful the gun was. I shot the pizza box, pretending it was a flat square cardboard skunk. It went right though both sides of the pizza box, no problem. I was impressed!
Later I discovered that I had a flat tire on my camper. I guess I shot a hole in the God-damed tire during pizza practice. I put the gun away for a while, and waited for night to fall.

It was just around midnight when the next attack came. I was sitting in my big chair sipping on a large beer when I smelled it. I jumped to my feet grabbed the giant yellow flashlight, (just like Bob's) and went to the second floor window and shined the giant beam of light down into my nieghbor's yard...and there he was!
He was big for a skunk, larger than a cat, with big wide white stripe going down his back. Pure evil was waddling beneath me. I stumbled into the closet and returned to the window with my pizza gun. Where did he go? The bastard! I opened the window and shined the light down and spotted him again. There he was, that terrorist bastard, waddling through the yard. I took drunken aim and fired! Ping! Ping! Ping! "Take that you bastard!" Ping! Ping! Then I realised that I was missing the skunk but hitting the side of my neighbors house quite well. The polecat waddled around behind the house towards the barn and I continued firing, proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that I could indeed hit the broad side of a barn. I don't think I hit the skunk though and he moved into the darkness unscathed.
Disgusted with my marksmanship, I went back to my big chair and had another large beer, to think things over. I read my skunk book and pondered the problem well into the night. I began drinking Guinness and discovered that it gave me enough gas to cover up the smell of the skunk.
I considered a new plan: capitol punishment in the form of a new 50 gallon barrel, filled with 49 gallons of water, and a gallon of anti-freeze. Capture and execution by drowning would be preferable to pellet gun firing squads. It could also prevent me from getting arrested for carrying and discharging an illegal weapon in a residential area. Terrorism was causing the defense budjet to grow exponentially as the war lingered on.
The next morning I went out and spread more hot pepper aound the house being careful not to mace myself in the process. We made it through that day without incident.

Thursday morning,we were attacked by terrorist skunks again.

I got up about 5:30, no smell at all. I was beginning to think that the work I did yesterday had paid off.

I concocted a repellant solution that I downloaded off the internet. I sprayed my entire lawn with this mixture of castor oil lemon pledge and water. I also neutralized the smell in the cellar using white vinegar... and again, the rags with ammonia were placed all over the place. We have candles going upstairs most of the time, and I use this citrus spray in the vents.

NOTHING WORKS.

When today's assault occurred, I went to the second floor window and watched.

It wasn't long before I saw the assailant, a small black skunk, much smaller and blacker than the one I saw 2 nights ago. He was being chased by a fluffy multi-colored cat. The cat chased him into the culvert, or gully, or drainage area, or whatever you call it, under Lincoln Street extension.

Even though I was only half dressed, I ran for the "peace maker" my extremely dangerous 8 shot air pistol, with laser scope. I threw on my winter coat, gun in hand, I paused by the mirror...From behind the glass in the mirror, I saw Clint Eastwood sneering back at me

"What are you lookin' at? Huh, PUNK! ...SKUNK PUNK! "

.

Concealing the weapon in my coat pocket I headed out the door, determined to "make my day".

The cat ran away when he saw me coming. They can sense danger.

It was quiet...

...too quiet.

In my head, I heard the soundtrack form "The Good The Bad & The Ugly".

But then someone must have turned the station or something, and I started hearing "OOH THAT SMELL" by Lynrd Skynyrd.

To block that out I started singing "My Rival" by Steely Dan

Gripping the concealed handle of my plastic instrument of death, I sang into the sewer pipe under the gully, "My rival! Show me my rival!"

"Come on out and show yourself! Come out with your paws up! Make it easy on yourself, and you won't get hurt. I'll getcha five to ten in a relocation program up the Medford woods.

In six months time you could be swimming up Spot Pond.

It doesn't have to end like this!

What's it gonna be punk?"

The skunk, paralyzed with terror, was either frozen in fear far beneath the Stoneham sewer system, or else he might have escaped through a secret hidden terrorist escape hatch.

They're very well trained, these terrorist skunks.

Either way he didn't come out, I was freezing my nuts off because I had just taken a shower, and "Walkabout Willie" my deranged drunken neighbor was now looking at me, hearing me singing Steely Dan to a sewer pipe. Why, he may even think of ME as HIS drunken and deranged neighbor!

...and it wouldn't be good for Dirty Harry to be late for work.

So I went home unloaded and hid my dangerous bb pistol high in the closet, because let's face it; any heater that can blow a hole in a pizza box could do some serious damage if I leave it lying around. I put the trigger guard on it, and went to work.

He who sniffs and runs away, lives to fight another day.

"Peppe' Le Pew must die!" I vowed.

My friends were full of suggestions. "You need to shoot the cat, and maybe the skunk will stop spraying" one said.

"When you do kill the skunk you should either have it stuffed or make a nice hat out of it," another suggested. "You could be like Daniel Boone!"

I set the "Have A Heart" trap each night and waited. Each morning I got up and checked. One morning I saw something in the trap and went out there, only to discover that it wasn't a skunk in the trap. It was a possum. Jesus are those things ugly! Have you ever seen one up close? They are truly disgusting! He snarled at me and everything! A rat with an Elvis sneer. I opened the cage and set his ugly ass free. Anything that ugly deserved to live.
Besides he kinda scared me a little.

...To Be Continued in Chapter Three... "The Capture"

STAY TUNED TO THIS BLOG!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Skunk Epic. A True Story. Chapter 3

2009-06-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER THREE - THE CAPTURE:

I slept well last night. I got up this morning, very early, and looked out the window. Something was moving in the trap... not a possum this time!
I had captured my enemy! The terrorist had been confined! A black skunk witha big fluffy white tail was munching on the sardines in the trap.
It would be his last meal.

I ran upstairs and put on some old clothes, and prepared myself for the execution. I went down cellar and turned on the water to the hose outside.
The hose had been previously run, into a large blue plastic bucket, in my driveway, two steps away from the trap.
I then got an old blanket and went outside. Holding the blanket up as a shield, I slowly walked towards my dangerous prisoner. I threw the blanket over the trap, picked up the trap, and carefully placed it in the bucket of water. Then I got the hell out of there.

By now, Katie was up, and we both looked out the window at the bucket.
That's when the smell came.
I took a shower. I threw my old clothes down cellar.

At 6:30 am, Peppe the skunk was officially pronounced dead. I rushed to work, a little late but victorious.

I left Peppe' floating, motionless in his watery death chamber.
I considered a short memorial service to be held in the afternoon, VERY SHORT, due to the smell.
Peppe's body would be double bagged and dispersed to a secret locationn used for terrorists.
This was a victory in the battle against odiforous terrorism for Wright Street, but I knew that the war was not over.
Constant vigilance is needed, for all of us to breathe freely.

...To Be Continued....in chapter 4, "The Aftermath."

See Chapter 4 in the Blog Menu on the left.

The Skunk Epic. A True Story. Chapter 4

2009-06-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER FOUR - THE AFTERMATH

Work was over. On the long ride down the highway, I had time to
ponder just what I had done.
Making a stone of my heart, I told myself that it was necessary. I
had to protect my family. Peppe had to die.

I tried to submerge my guilty feelings, but they kept swimming
frantically, scratching at the stainless steel bars of my conscience,
forever trapped in the have-a heart cage of my mind.
I told myself that it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now, not the
essence of the tiny life I had extinguished, or the guilt that kept
bubbling up to the surface of my consciousness like the last gasps
of a desperate weasel.

Nothing mattered except for one thought;
"Finish the job". I had to dispose of the body.

I drove forward, each ticking second bringing me closer to the watery death chamber I had created.

My murderous inhuman heart skipped a beat as I pulled into the driveway, and the smell of death filled the cold winter air.

I would have to work quickly, carefully, efficiently, but most importantly;

secretly.

What if the neighbors were watching?

Luckily it was barrel day.
If I did this thing right, no one would notice.

I chose 3 large heavy-duty contactor type trash bags, and I
approached the blue plastic tub which had now become the briny casket of my odoriferous dead enemy.

I lifted the lid, and looked
down in horror at what I had done.

Long bristly black and white tail hairs stuck out of the bars.

A green oozing slime floated on the surface of the scummy water, and pieces of the sardines I had used for bait were floating inside the
cage.

Had he regurgitated them, as he struggled for life?
... I didn't
want to think about it.

The smell was powerful and obnoxious, an insult to the senses.

I began to breathe from my mouth, but that only caused me to taste it.

I had to tip the blue bucket and dump the water to get the cage
out without getting my hands wet.

I groaned under the weight of it as I lifted, and the stinking brine splashed out onto the driveway.
I had to step back, as the tide of
liquid filth spread towards my shoes.
The smell increased dramatically as the wind spread it through the neighborhood.

The tub was near empty, and I could see the face of my victim.

It's eyes were rolled back in it's rat-like head. It's fanged teeth were bared in a final frozen grimace.
The claws of the animal were
extended infront of it's face, and I could tell that it had died trying to scratch it's way out of it's watery grave.

I lifted the cage out of the water and placed it on the driveway.

Then I looked around.

Across the street, my nosy neighbor, the loudmouthed
schoolteacher with the half retarded husband, was staring at me.

Her pug-like nose sniffing the air, no doubt.
I waved to her and
began pretending to put out the trash barrels.
I dragged one to the curb and waved again.

She did not wave back, she merely tilted her bulldog face toward the ground in recognition, and went into
her house.

I knew she was looking out the window now.

I crouched down next to the flat tire of my camper, where she could not see me, and I placed one of the bags over the mouth of the cage and opened the door of the trap.

It slipped, and the spring door snapped down on my cold fingers.

I didn't yell out loud,
because I didn't want to attract her attention.

The last thing in the
world I needed now was her half-retarded husband coming over to talk to me!

I lifted the cage and tried to slide the waterlogged lifeless carcass of the striped weasel into the plastic bag.

Somehow he got stuck in
the opening, and would not fall into the bag.
I had to reach in and
tug on the soggy tail of the rodent to free him from the trap.

I gagged and suppressed the bile rising in my throat.

With a liquid thud, the animal was now in the bag.It was heavier than I thought it
would be.

In order to tie a knot, I spun the bag quickly, and drops of
skunk-water spattered my sleeves, and the front of my coat.
I triple bagged him as fast as I could, and tied three knots on each bag.

Then I stuffed the corpse into a black trash barrel and dragged it to the curb.

Next, I had to dispose of the evidence.
The soaking wet blanket I
had used to commit the murder.
I triple bagged it and stuffed in
into another barrel, placing a pizza box on top of it to make it look natural.

It was the same pizza box I had blown a hole through while
testing my skunk gun, and giving my camper that flat tire.

All the evidence was in the barrels now, where it would wait overnight
for the trashmen to come.

I turned on the hose and washed down my driveway, which reeked
of death, skunk piss, and sardine juice.

I had to wash it down 3
times. with ammonia, lemon pledge, and white vinegar.

I also washed the blue death bucket and the cage meticulously.

Satisfied with my work, I went back to my normal daily routine, bearing the tremendous weight of my guilt, as I will for the rest of
my days.

The end.

-Kenny Hogan 2002

A good barbecue recipe!

2009-06-11T12:31:00.000-07:00

Try this!
It's easy and it's GOOD.

Brick Chicken [click here]

The Ultimate Audio Visual Powerpoint Presentation

2009-06-10T04:30:00.000-07:00

Kenny Hogan Powerpoint 1 Kenny Hogan Powerpoint 1 Kennium2

Publish at Scribd or explore others:

Please feel free to leave your comments below...

The Allosaurus

2009-06-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

When I was a little boy, I had a best friend.
He lived across the street.His name was Kevin . I called him "Kevie."

We shared playpens, learned to walk and talk together, run, ride bikes, climb trees, and play with plastic army men and plastic dinosaurs in the tall grass being my mother's house.

We loved playing dinosaurs the best.

We liked the Tyrannosaurus and the Allosaurus the best of all.
Kevie loved the Allosaurus.

The Tyrannosaurus was green. The Allosaurus was gray, almost silver.
Their names were engraved on their tails.
We spent many happy hours pretending that our green plastic army men were attacking the dinosaurs.
The dinosaurs usually won. Those poor army men never stood a chance against our monsters.
Rifles could not stop the fury of Kevie's Allosaurus! Even a tank was no match for my T-Rex!

Kevie and I grew up and got to old for plastic dinosaurs, and life took us in different directions.

Many years passed.

One day when I was in my mid thirties, I stopped by my mother's house to cut the lawn.
I went out back in the tall grass, swinging a sickle because the tall grass was too much for a lawn mower to cut.

One swing of the sickle caused me to golf something gray into the air.
In a split second I knew what it was; the Allosaurus!

I ran over and scooped it up in my hand. I was thrilled to go from 35 years old back to seven just by holding the plastic dinosaur in my hand.

My first thought was of Kevie, who I really hadn't seen in many many years.

I walked over to his mother's house and knocked on the big oak door. His sister answered the door, but she didn't recognize me right away.

"Is Kevie here by any chance?" I asked.

"Kevin?" she said, "and who should I tell him is here?"

"Kenny"

He came around the corner with a big grin. "Kenny!!! Oh my god! Good to see ya! How are ya?" We hugged.

"Never mind how I am", I said in a false angry voice, "Stop leavin' you're stuff over in my mother's back yard!"

He looked at me, confused for a second. Then I held the little gray dinosaur out in front of him. He looked at it, then at me, and as I handed it to him, a huge smile lit up on his face.

"The Allosaurus!" he yelled, and we laughed until we had tears in our eyes.

Years went by...and I got a call. They told me Kevie had died.

I went to the wake by myself.

Getting out of the car I bumped into my old friend Johnny from the old neighborhood.

I hadn't seen him in many years.

We looked at each other and we burst into tears.

We hugged each other.

Neither one of us could speak. We just hung onto each other and let it out.

After the wake I drove home crying so hard that I missed my exit and drove for 15 minutes in the wrong direction before I figured it out.

I didn't expect that it would hit me so hard.

It's hard to explain the bonds of friendship. They go much deeper than you know.

We drift away from each other with time.

But the bonds are strong between two kids,
...and a plastic dinosaur.

How To Go To The Beach

2009-06-07T08:59:00.000-07:00

The beach can be as boring as a Yanni concert UNLESS you do it right.

A few years ago I was happily unemployed, and I became a "Going To The Beach Expert."

I got one of those wheelie things you put all the crap on. A good move.

You can hang your lawn chairs and a ton of other beach crap on these wheelie things...
...oh, did I mention the CHAIRS?

Never buy those cheap-ass, Legs-Fall- Asleep, Arse-Busts-Through-The-Webbing Chairs.
You'll be as miserable as a constipated bungee jumper. You don't want that.

What you want is a Strathwood multi-position steel suspension anti-gravity recliner.

http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41ZqdCLH6zL._SL500_AA280_.jpg

I've found this to be the best "Lay There And Fall Asleep Chair" in the world.

Next, you need a beach umbrella. I have 2.
Gotta have the ones that screw into the sand. No mallets.
Who wants to bang something on the beach?
Get your mind out of the gutter!

Next, you MUST HAVE a soft zippered cooler with side thingees for your sunglasses, and sunscreen.

Cool beverages are a must and good thermal drinking vessel is imperative.

here's what I use: The 52 oz foam insulated Bubba Keg Mug.
http://www.amazon.com/Bubba-Keg-04281-52oz-Blue/dp/B000JO90YO/ref=pd_bxgy_k_img_b

Now the Black and Blue 52oz Bubbas also include an extremely handy bottle opener built-in to the handle of your Bubba!
What will they think of next???
A bottle opener built into a mug! It makes you proud to be an American, I tell ya!

Music is extremely important at the beach!
You gotta block out those screaming brats.
You gotta have your iPod. I have many beach playlists on my iPod.

AND ONE OF THESE:

THIS IS THE GREATEST SMALL PORTABLE SPEAKER SYSTEM FOR THE BEACH, PERIOD.

I've tried out many small speakers at the beach, but this one has balls, and the batteries last all day.

The JBL "On Tour" lightweight, high performance portable sound system.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B000BQ57BU/km-20/ref=nosim

So you got yer cocktails, your music, your sunglasses, maybe a good book, some snacks.
You get your head in an enhanced version of reality, and this elongates time and makes the snacks taste better and the music sound nicer, and really, what the hell else could you want?

THAT'S how you go to the beach.

That's all you need, (besides a ukulele)
I prefer a Fluke Ukulele to all others.

http://www.fleamarketmusic.com/store/Scripts/prodList.asp?idCategory=5

And one more thing. (speaking of music)
Don't be so cheap!
You can spend 99 cents to download this song. You need some new beach music, don't you?

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0029BYCKC/ref=dm_dp_trk4?ie=UTF8&qid=1242591531&sr=102-2

Then you can take me to the beach with ya.

And sometimes I do bring a baseball bat along to keep Greenpeace from rolling me back into the ocean.

Songs That Get Stuck In Your Head

2009-06-06T08:21:00.000-07:00

Did you ever get a song stuck in your head?

A song that you hate?

A song that would make you risk breaking your finger when you poke it at the radio to change the station?

It happened to me the one night, in the worst way.

I was in a hotel room in Houston Texas.

It was ten something when I went to bed with a full tank of Guinness.

I had to be up at 3 am to get picked up by the shuttle so I could fly home.

I was so worried that I'd over-sleep, that I couldn't really sleep at all.

The clock on the bedstand had these big red digital numbers.

I would sleep for 15 minutes, look at the clock, sleep for a few more minutes, then look at the clock again.

Somewhere in there... the song, "MY EYES ADORED YOU," by Frankie Vallie, popped into my booze riddled, sleep-deprived head.

12:47

"MY EYES ADORED YOU... THOUGH I NEVER LAID A HAND ON YOU..."

1:10

"LIKE A MILLION MILES AWAY FROM ME, YOU COULDN'T SEE HOW I ADORED YOU."

JESUS! I HATE THAT FRIGGIN SONG!!!!"

1:28 "LIKE A MILLION MILES AWAY FROM ME..."

ARGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

I got up and took a leak.

While returning my rented beer, or "un-drinking," as I call it, I realize that I'm humming... "CARRIED YOUR BOOKS FROM SCHOOL..."
(how do I know all the words to a song I can't stand?)

I get back to bed, sleep for a little while, and I'm friggin' DREAMING THE FUGGING SONG!

YOU WERE 16, I WAS SIX..." or whatever the fuggin words are....

I HATE that song!

But it wouldn't leave me alone!

Somewhere around 2 AM I began praying to God, "DEAR GOD! PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP!!!"

I fell back to sleep, and woke up at 2:18.

Clear as a bell in my head, I could hear Frankie Vallie go into "SWEARING TO GOD."

I felt like killing somebody. I never did get back to sleep.

I got into the shuttle and the driver had the radio on. He was listening some oldies station, and I made him turn it off.

I truly belive that if a Frankie Vallie song came on, I might have killed him.

If You're Over 50...This One's For You

2009-06-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

How did this happen to me?
I used to be cool!
Getting old wasn't supposed to happen to ME!!!
I used to run like the wind.
Now I grunt and fart when I tie my shoes.

I tell people to slow down.
I tell kids to stay out of my yard.I've actually kept the ball!

It's hard to admit that I'm not young any more, that I'm slower and rounder, and lazier too.
I have a remote control for my friggin air conditioner!
Jesus, how lazy do you have to be to say, "It's too friggin' hot for me. I don't wanna walk all the way across this room, ...Where's my AC remote?"

I actually keep THREE TV remotes in my living room, because I'm too lazy to look for them when they get lost.

When I was a kid every house had one TV, one phone, one stereo, and that was it.
No remote.
Back then, I was the remote.
My father used ME as the remote control.
He'd say,"What the hell is this show? Mod Squad? KENNY! Turn on channel 7, Gunsmoke is on!"

We had an antenna on the roof with motor on it, and we thought that was cool.
There was a big dial on top of the TV, and you had to turn the dial to get the antenna to go around.
It made a noise like this: "Gadderrzh-ditt!... Gadderrzh-ditt!... Gadderrzh-ditt!"
...And you had to stand there and wait.
If a plane flew over the house, it would screw up the whole picture.
My 45 records and my albums were my prized possessions.
Now I love my i-pod instead. But I miss the album covers! Don't you?
Why can't they sell Cd's inside full sized album covers?

My generation used to smoke grass and take acid.
Now we mow the grass and take antacids.

I've pretty much given up playing gigs in bars.
I found myself wanting to go to bed after the 2nd set. once I had to delay the set because my ibuprofen fell behind my amp.

I wonder how many gigs I've done in my life... More than a thousand?
Maybe. Probably.
The Rolling Stones are way older than me and they're still rockin'.
I wonder if Keith Richards grunts and farts when he ties his shoes?
"Excuse me Mick I have to tie my shoe.." ffffFFFRRRAAAMMPPP!, (Grunting with an English accent)

Do you think Keith or Mick use Viagra?Why not? They've tried every other drug.
But they probably crush it up and snort it.

I once ran an eighteen mile road race.
Now when the pizza guy comes to the door, I make my kid answer it.

Half a century has gone by. How did this happen to me?
I used to have so much energy. Now if I walk down to the sub shop I need a nap.
The other day I drove for three exits before realizing that I left my directional on.
That's a bad sign, isn't it?
I know who Petula Clarke IS! That's how old I am.
Wait a minute, I gotta tie my shoe... bbbBRRAAAMPHFF!!! (grunt) excuse me!

I've been wondering...Is it okay for me to still look at girls, or am I just a perverted old man now?They don't look back any more anyways.

If I go to the beach Greenpeace tries to roll me back into the ocean.
I can never relax because I have to dodge the harpoons.
I can see Japanese fishing trawlers in the distance, waiting.

At least I still have hair.
Most of my friends have to put sun-block on their heads.
Think of the money I've saved on sun-blocking my head!

And at least I'm alive. Some of my friends aren't.

Mentally I don't feel any different.I'm still just as mental and different as I used to be.
My birthday is coming up on the fourth of July.
I hope the candles on the cake don't set off the smoke alarms.

Maybe I should buy loafers.

Block your nose. I gotta tie my shoe.

Making My Own Album (and what I learned from it)

2009-06-04T13:28:00.000-07:00

Making My Own Solo Album – And What I Learned From It

One day I woke up to find that I was 50 years old. OUCH!!!
How could this happen to ME???

I looked in the rear view mirror of my life, (objects in this mirror are larger than they appear)
and saw that I had spent over 30 years playing music (mostly to drunk people) in various bands in
countless places.
Most of those places are gone now.
I asked myself, “So what do you have to show for all those years?”
I answered myself, “Not so much.”

So, in 2006, I made some New Year’s Resolutions:

(1.) I would stop doing live gigs. (Nobody seemed to notice anyways)

(2.) I would take a year to record my own album.
I promised myself that I’d record one song per month, until I got 12 songs, equaling one CD.

Sounds good, right?

That “one year,” lasted for over three years.

Next...

I converted a spare bedroom, into my “studio.”
Luckily, I have a very understanding and supportive wife.
She said that as long as the ironing board could stay in there, it was cool with her.

I was on a very low, almost non-existent budget.
I had no band, nor did I want to go through the aggravation of building one. (had enough of that)
I decided that I would sing and play all the parts myself.
Recording almost all of the tracks alone was harder than I ever could have imagined.
There were many obstacles.
For one thing, I wasn’t very good at playing all the instruments myself. That didn’t stop me from
trying though.

Gear

I used one eight track hard disc recorder, (a used Zoom 1044MRS)
A Variax 700 – The most useful home recording instrument in the world.
Two Fender Telecasters
A Gibson Jumbo acoustic
A Fender Resonator (slide guitar)
A Fender Jazz Bass
A Fluke Ukulele
A Bestler Mandolin
Lee Oscar Harmonicas
Kawai K2 Synthesizer
Pod XT Live Effects pedal
Rat distortion pedal
Rob Keeler’s “brown box” overdrive pedal
Three Zoom drum machines
Various Microphones
1 rug with Elvis Presley's face on it

I didn’t use any guitar amplifiers at all. I used a few effects pedals and plugged directly into the
board.

I did not use pro-tools software, or any other computer programs.
There was no pitch correction on the vocals, no compressors or equalizers, no samplers, or midi
sequencing, no fancy technological tricks.

Obstacles

There never seemed to be enough time. Scheduling recording time, even in my own house, was
difficult.
So where will you find the time you need to record?
It's simple. Give up watching TV. TV sucks anyways, so why not do something more productive?

The noise in my neighborhood was a real obstacle too. It seemed that every time I plugged a
microphone in, there was a barking dog, screaming kids, lawnmowers, chainsaws, motorcycles,
trucks, jets, screeching blue jays, telephones, doorbells, helicopters, and sirens.
All of the above made guest appearances on my recordings.

There were lots of overdubs, lots of bouncing tracks, lots of erasing, lot’s of giving up and starting
all over again.
Lot’s of lonely decisions were made.
Lot’s of things got kicked. Lot’s of things got thrown at walls.
Pacing and swearing were regular events. Cats were yelled at.
I had no band to argue with, nobody steering my song into unknown directions.
I did enough of that all by myself.
I had to depend on myself, and I often doubted myself.
I was free to record in any style I wanted to try, and I tried quite a few.

Lessons learned:

I learned that some days are creative days and some days just aren’t.
I learned that writing and recording are two different things.
I found out that just because you wrote it, doesnt mean its good, but if it IS good you will feel it.
It’s important to tune into your feelings and trust them. Open up, and remain open.

If you leap, a net will appear.
Some songs want to be born. Let them tell you what they want to be.

Perfection is not only impossible, it’s undesirable. Real music has warts.
Music is NOT JUST MATH. The feeling is much more important than the math.
Trust your feelings. Always play what feels best.

I learned to go into my studio wearing different hats on different days.
I would be an engineer one day, a producer the next, a studio musician or singer the day after that.
Wiring things and troubleshooting destroy the creative mood.
I learned that happy people make better music.

I learned that ear fatigue is a nasty enemy, and you will lose whenever you fight it.

I learned that playing and listening at low volumes prevents ear fatigue.
If a song sounds good when it’s loud, it should sound good when turned down too.
You shouldn’t have to turn it up to feel it.
I learned never to track and mix on the same day.

I learned to quit when I was ahead, and happy.
I learned to walk away and give it a rest when I got stuck.
I learned that some answers need time before they reveal themselves, but they usually reveal
themselves.
I learned that recording should never be a race.
I also learned that perseverance and failure cannot coexist.
Determination is a strong slow powerful thing.

It's your song.
Only you know if you're doing the very best you can.
If you are doing the very best you can, don't take shit from anybody!

As I went along I noticed that I was developing methods.
Soon I found that I had a style of recording which came about on its own.
During your best take- the phone will ring, the dog will bark, the furnace will kick in, you will burp,
fart, etc... SAVE YOUR WORK OFTEN.

For every song I began, there were two or three that I gave up on.
For every song I finished, there were two or three songs I just didn’t like.
I think that if you like everything you write, you might not be seeing things clearly.

Over Three Years Later…

I ended up with over 35 songs recorded on that small machine, in fact I maxed it out. (Disc Full!)
When the machine was out of memory I took that as a sign to quit.
I stopped, and picked the 14 songs I would use for my album.

Some songs took a week or two to finish, some took as long as four months, and several never got
finished at all.

After three years of hard work, it’s done.
Now that it’s done, I’m proud of the hard work I did, but I can clearly see the mistakes I made.
It’s no masterpiece. That’s OK. I know that I tried as hard as I could.

At times it was a lot of fun, and at times it was exasperating, but I’m glad I did it.
People may like it or dislike it, there’s nothing I can do about that either way.
It’s their decision, not mine.

I made my resolutions and I kept them. (even if it took 3 times longer than I thought it would)
I did it. No one can take that away from me.

Fool that I am, I'll do it all over again.
Round and round we go...

Scrabble - Another Crazy Band Story

2009-06-04T12:55:00.000-07:00

One time down in Springfield back in the early eighties, we were staying at this big old run down hotel.

Outside the hotel was a big sign which faced the highway.
Thousands of people read this sign every day.

It had removable letters, BIG REMOVABLE LETTERS.

The sign said

ALL YOU CAN EAT BREAKFAST HERE!

(in big removable letters)

After a gig one night, my drummer said, "Ooh! I got an idea!

Let me stand on your shoulders!"

So I did.

He got up on my shoulders and took all the letters off the sign.

Then he spread the letters out on the hood of a car and played scrabble with them.

He got back on my shoulders and put the letters back up.

Here;s what we read the next morning and for three more days before they finally changed it:

HEY BALLFACE!

South Carolina Emergency Room

2009-06-04T12:38:00.000-07:00

Fate leads me into some funny circumstances.

These things can only happen to me.

I was not hurt or sick, but without going into the reason why, I found myself in South Carolina on Saturday night, waiting for a cab, in front of the emergency room of hospital.

I was pissed off because I didn't want to be there, waiting for that cab, which was late.

I was there a long time.

The people who came in and out of the emergency room though... they were very interesting.

I saw people bleeding, and people who got carried in unconscious.

I saw babies crying, and drunk people staggering around yelling. I saw an old woman in a wheel chair who didn't know where she was.

But the most astonishing and funniest thing was a conversation I heard.

Three kids about 16 years old with heavy heavy southern accents. One kid was big and fat, about 16 years old, wearing a straw fishing hat with the ends poking out all over the place like huck Finn. The next kid -skinny as a rail with a straw cowboy hat and feathers on it, and this little kid who must have been about 10. He looked pretty normal.

Here's the conversation;

Fat Kid: "Oooooh is she gonna be mad atchyooo!"

Cowboy kid: "Why the hell should she be mad at me? I didn't tell him to eat it!"

Normal kid: "I cain't believe he didn't spit it out!"

Fat Kid: "Well he's the crazy ass who ate it!"

Cowboy kid: "It ain't mah fault! I didn't make him eat it!"

Fat kid: "She is gonna be so pissed atchyoo!"

Normal kid: "I really thought he was gonna spit it out... cain't believe he ate it!"

The cab came. I got in.

I have no idea what the hell that was all about.

A Message From Throbbing Weasel Records

2009-06-04T12:31:00.000-07:00

Hi Ken,

My name is Johnny Marriott. I am a Director of A&R for Throbbing Weasel Records. A very independent record label, entertainment public relations and marketing company. We are so independent that nobody knows who the hell we are.

Today while searching for bands and solo artists in Star market, (which is what BIG A&R guys do all day long) I came across your music online. I listened to your music, and I got a boner. The song that caught my attention was “Eating Uncooked Chicken”. That WAS you, wasn't it?
The guitar work tightened my pants from the inside, and the vocal work made me go to the park and watch young boys. The voices work very well together, like mustard and whipped cream. I even peed a little.

It is important for you to know that each band I send this to, has been remembered by hand by me before they are contacted. I just don’t have time to write every one of you a personal message. I am just too important for that.

We are currently working on a Campaign called "Say No To Nose Picking." We are creating a series of publicity campaigns called "PICKERS AGAINST PICKING”. In the next calendar year, Throbbing Weasel Records will be producing large marketing and exposure projects in over 40 cities across the United States, and the musicians that are involved with this project will be getting loads.

(of publicity from me)

Yours Truly, and panting like a fat girl with a Thighmaster,

Johnny Marriott

Throbbing Weasel Records

Praying

2009-06-04T06:56:00.000-07:00

Praying is like broadcasting,
and hoping someone is listening.

Today's broadcast:
"Dear God: Thanks for my heartbeat."
(each and every one)

And when that eventually stops,
I'd like to be with you,
and any other listeners I may have.

-------------------------------------------------------------

[Click here and go to heaven]

MAMA! MAMA!!!

2009-06-03T16:34:00.000-07:00

Is this a Gookaroon from the planet Eris, or just two stiffs on a camping trip with a flashlight?

The Best Day Of My Life

2009-06-03T13:02:00.000-07:00

The day my son was born was the best of all my days.

I have never felt better in my life.
I remember being so nervous and worried, so anxious,
waiting for the big day.
Then when I saw him come into the world,
so tiny, so perfect,
It was the most amazing thing I have ever witnessed.
Nothing else could even come close.
I was so proud of my wife and so happy for her too.
I saw that baby for the first time,
and everything just changed.
Talk about love at first sight!
I remember feeling so happy that I was floating.
I called all my brothers and a few friends,
and just beamed over the phone to them,
even though it was in the wee hours of the morning,
I remember my Father-in-law in the waiting room, congratulating me and laughing at how goofy I was acting, telling me to calm down.

As I floated down the corridor to go home,
I walked by this little room they have set up as a chapel.
I got a few steps beyond the door, stopped dead in my tracks, turned around and walked back in.

I knelt down and thanked God.
Never so happy or grateful in my life.

As I drove home with tears streaming down my face,
it started snowing.
I slowed down, and drove home very carefully,
reminding myself that I was someone's dad now,
and smiling at the thought of it.

This song is dedicated to my boy... [click here to listen]

Hubbub At The Top Of The Hub

2009-06-03T07:39:00.000-07:00

The scene:

Top Of the Hub lounge, 52nd floor of the Prudential Building, in Boston.
Elegant surroundings, posh ambiance. Well dressed, well-to-do, well-bred clientele. The lights of Boston twinkle. The keys of the grand piano tinkle. The elevator door opens. Four shabby dolts stumble in.

Two of the stooges, a Marx brother and John Candy in dungarees.
Frank, The Emperor Bolo who resembles Chico Marx, is walking like a lobster man who's still on the boat. Reeking of Bacardi 151, he spits his way through asking the waitress for something no one can understand.
It's his bachelor party. They've been at it for a while.

They look for a table, find one, but it only has 3 seats, so they rip one away from a nearby table of romantic yuppies, and flop down near the nicely dressed Jazz trio. One of them farts. Ninja style. Horrified patrons mutter behind champagne glasses. It smells like old crayfish.

A terse unattractive displeased waitress arrives, and does them a great favor by asking them if they will be having cocktails this evening.

The Emperor orders the Green Manalishi Gasolini Martini with olives and extra roasted peppers, and the waitress exhales like a bull.

The others order aged turpentine and mimeograph solution in special glasses. Each drink costs as much as a pair of pants.

They watch the band tinkle, and the lights twinkle. Their conversation is peppered with loud swears and grunts like you'd hear in a locker room.

Morons by candle light.
Balls are scratched.
Staring is going on.

The band sounds good. The four dolts drool at the band like drugged walruses watching a card trick.

Suddenly Bolo decides to make a statement! With slurred enthusiasm he spews forth;

"Ya see that drummer? I know that fuggin' guy! That's Bob G!!! I studied with that guy for years! Heesh a great drummer! BARP! What a great fargin' guy!

He had an ashtray... and everything! That fuggen guy! I wonder if he still remembers me?"

The set ends. The band goes on break. The bitter waitress, a soul-less grimacing yeast infection in an undertaker's suit, suffers through another order. Bolo gargles at attempted joke at her though a mouthful of olives, and he hands her the empty glass.

No one knows what the hell he said. The waitress looks at him like he's a hellgrammite on her pillow. They don't use jokes on the Planet Of The Undertakers.

She scribbles "I hate you,"in her leather bound notebook and stomps away terribly constipated.

The jazz drummer, on break now, slides past the table of dolts. A nerve ending crackles in Bolo's brain, and he lurches up suddenly, belting both knees against the table, sending the martini glasses scuttling and wobbling, and for a second it's like the four dolts are spinning pie plates on the Ed Sullivan Show.
Mimeograph solution and turpentine sloshes onto the table, coming dangerously close to staining their filthy dungarees.

Bolo leaps sideways, shooting his rolling chair against a romantic couple. He stumbles forward like Frankenstein toward his former drum teacher.

"Bob!"

The drummer turns, looks, confused.

"Hey! BOB!" The Emperor lunges at him with an open hand.

"Mumembah me? Ya know who I am?" swaying, as the lobster boat takes a big wave.

The jazz drummer nervously extends his hand, politely, unsure.

"You mumembah me. Doncha? I ushed ta shtudy with you for fifteen fuggen' years!

You had the ashtray ... and everything."

Uncomfortable smile, polite confused head shaking. A shrug.

"YA, YA , YA! COURSE YOU KNOW ME! YOUR BOB G ! BARP! Yer a friggin' great fargin' drummer man, no shit. Member me? Bolo? Mumember? Your Bobby G. Right?"

"No. Actually I'm not. Heh-heh... I know Bob G. He's a great drummer, and I'm flattered that you, ah, would think I WAS him, but I'm not him. I'm Bob Cervix."

"Get the f**k outta here! You gotta be shitting me! You're not Bob G? I shtuddied with you for fifteen yearsh?"

"No I'm Bob Cervix. I do know Bob G though. He's a great guy. Great drummer too."

"Oh shit! I thought you were Bob G. Barp! ya look jush like him! I ushed to take lessons from him, with the ashtray, and the ...but you're Bob Cervix instead, huh?"

"Yeah. Bob cervix."

"Oh no, that sucks!... wanna sit down with us anyways?"

A Song About My Father

2009-06-03T05:50:00.000-07:00

Frank's Imperial - By Ken Hogan

A white shirt, a bow tie,

I still see him in my mind's eye,

behind the wheel, that's my old man,

drivin' his 67' Crowne Coupe sedan,

and all his life,

he worked so hard,

to raise his family, and buy that car...

Frank's Imperial- comin' through in a deep blue dream

Frank's Imperial- the finest car you ever seen

Frank's Imperial- hands on the wheel, head in the sky

Frank's Imperial, cruisin' on up... glidin' on by...

And I remember the time he bought a Cadillac,

three days later yeah, he brought it back,

said it just didn't have, that same feel,

as his Imperial automobile,

shoulda seen him smile, as he drove it on home,

his pride was shinin' just like all that chrome,

Chorus:

Frank's Imperial- comin' through in a big blue dream

Frank's Imperial- the finest car you ever seen

Frank's Imperial- hands on the wheel, head in the sky

Frank's Imperial, cruising on up... glidin' on by...

...and I'm in the back seat, just 12 years old,

a Sunday drive, rollercoaster road,

flyin high, in Frank's blue jet,

he's got his arm out the window, holdin' a cigarette,

his car has style, his car has class,

whitewall tires, tinted glass,

it rides so smooth, strong and fast,

Frank just smiles, and steps on the gas...

so now the man and his car are gone,

I remember, I carry on,

I miss the man and his car for sure,

they just don't make 'em like that anymore,

and all his life,

he worked so hard,

he loved his family, and he loved his car...

and I don't know much, about hell or heaven

but I hope he's up there right now

drivin that big blue 67'

Frank's Imperial- comin' through in a deep blue dream

Frank's Imperial- the finest car you ever seen

Frank's Imperial- hands on the wheel, head in the sky

Frank's Imperial, cruisin' on up... glidin' on by...

glidin' on by...

[CLICK HERE TO LISTEN]

Let's Go To Memphis!

2009-06-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

A brief slide show my good friend Iggy put together, with images of our recent pilgrimage to Memphis, in search of the roots of Rock & Roll, The Blues, and Southern cuisine.
This features my song "Lets Go."

CLICK RIGHT HERE AND GO TO MEMPHIS WITH US!

AV Guy Rant (from 2002) Foot Odor & A Weird Day, (Parts 1 & 2)

2009-06-02T05:57:00.000-07:00

Today weird stuff just kept happening.
I went to work and these people from some miserable country had taken over the hotel... In the ballroom...
It's this religious cult with some name so friggin' long and hard to pronounce that you get hernia trying to say it.
They were having this wacko-cult slurpie burpin', chant and bang fest in the grand ballroom.

All they rented from me were 6 easels to put giant pictures of some ugly rat faced hag on.
She ( The divine Rat-face Hag) was walkin' around getting adored all over the place, and all these hippies and vacant faced zombies were following her around throwing flowers and moaning, and banging tabla drums and finger cymbals while howling her name.
People were stumbling around dazed like they had all been huffing tilex, with long white robes on, and you could smell burning punks and bad B.O.

I retreated into my office to nurse a slight hangover, to have a cup of coffee and watch Maury Povitch sending bed wetters to bootcamp on TV.

When I stepped out, I tripped and almost did a header- Someone had piled about twenty pairs of shoes in front of my office door while I was in there watching the bed wetters do pushups.

It turns out that if you wanna be in this cult, you have to remove your shoes and leave them at the door before you stumble inside the ballroom to howl at Mother Rat-Face.
So now there's 1200 people in there bellowing like drilled sheep, and 2400 hippie sandals by the door, (give or take an amputee)

I have to pee my coffee out, so I go into the men's room. I stand at the urinal and this bald headed old cretin moves right up next to me and says in a seven-eleven accent, "Would you please help me untie the knot in my robe, sir?"

I'm right in the middle of makin' Godzilla cry, but Ghandi's slip-knot needs attention. So I finish the prance & dance part, and start helpin " Grasshopper" untangle his robe, but the knot is too tight, and I can't seem to loosen it, and while I'm struggling to undo his friggin "Mandress" I realize that if anyone walks in from the hotel, anyone that knows me, they could get the wrong impression and think I'm pullin' a "George Michael" here. A rest area robe-probe.
As I try to untie the belt of this robe I get a whiff of this cretin.
Woof!
Gunga Din here stinks! BAD!
So I just stop, and tell stinky-twinkie "I'm sorry,I can't get it." ...And I left him there still fighting the knot.
Screw him. Smelly wierdo! Buy some friggin' pants! ...or a knife.

So I get outta there, go hide in the office again, so I kick twenty more pair of stinky shoes away
from my office door, wondering,"if I call him, will doctor Scholls make house calls?"

I decided I'd had enough Ratface worship and bathroom encounters with Robe-probing Ravi Shankar look-alikes, so I decided to go home and take a shower in Desinex.

Part (2)

I picked up my kid and brought him to his karate school for a lesson
at 4 o'clock, and well, it isn't really Karate, it's Martial arts called Chung Moo Doe, which to me sounds like some Chinese guy who can't decide about hiring a cow as a prostitute.

Again I find myself in a place where all I can smell is foot odor.

I'm gonna get athlete's f*ckin' NOSE soon, I swear! I considered chopping up a Tic-Tac and snorting it.

The instructor is teaching the kids 2 things today;
(1) how to kick someone in the balls, and (2) how to keep someone from kicking you in the
balls.
I'm sitting in the waiting room with more smelly shoes, all this foot odor is makin' me goofy.
I secretly fantasize about kicking various people in the balls.

Meanwhile, This blouzah "Aunt Vicki" is in there with two bratty kids about 2 and 3 years old. The 3 year old, Salvi, is having speech problems, the 2 year old is having problems with the speed of light.
He's bouncin' off the walls like ricochet rabbit.
Speech impediment Salvi is playing trucks. But he calls them F*cks.
He rolls a small white one under the bench where I am sitting, he then goes under my legs and under the bench trying to get it.
Vicki sees this. "Salvi! whaddayou doin'?" she cackles hideously.
"I'm gettin' dat F*CK, aunt Vickie"
"No it's TR*CK Salvi boy," she snaps.
"F*ck," he sings.
"No no no! TRUCK! TRUCK!
T-R-U-C-K
and what kind of TRUCK is it?" She asks sweetly.
"A ICE CREAM F*CK!" says Salvi.

Zippy, the accelerated 2 year old, wings a red iron vehicle dangerously close to Swearing Salvi's head. It lands and becomes visible in the foot fungus cultivation area.
The two brats lock into mortal combat to gain control of the red toy.
"Fire Fu*ck!" I want dat Fire F*ck!

Vicki to the rescue..."Salvi you let Zippy have it!"
" I want a FIRE F*CK! He can take a DUMP F*CK!"
"What about this white one?" Vicki says.
"No! No I don't want a ICE CREAM F*CK!
I WANT MY FIRE F*CK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I stood up and walked outside, waiting in the rain for my kid to come out and kick me in the balls.

WEIRD DAY, huh?

CAVEMAN!

2009-06-01T14:36:00.000-07:00

This is the story about the caveman.

As many of you know, I am ancient, I've been in seventeen thousand bands for over a million years, and I never exaggerate.

Experience has taught me that most musicians are idiots, but certainly no band I was ever in was more idiotic as the binge drinking Blue Fox Band.

In 1976 (yes, 1976) we were on the road playing at a place called Joe's Convention Lounge, on the American side of Niagara Falls. This was the Bi-Centennial year, so the aforementioned "Joe" painted everything in his Convention Lounge Red White and Blue to attract the American tourists who never showed up anyways.

Above the club was a slummy five room band house, complete with a roach infested kitchen, holes in the walls, and beds that made you feel like a hot dog in a moldy bun. We made communal meals usually involving Ragu and some sort of pasta. This way we had more money for beer and other idiot inducing substances.
After each night of playing, all nine of us went on a mission to entice females up the stairs to our swinging slum for some passionate road boinking. We were extremely particular about this selection.
In order to party with The Blue Fox Band, these girls MUST have arms and legs.

Since hardly anyone ever showed up to Joe's pathetic patriotic looking lounge, we began to consider girls with missing limbs and maybe sheep, but still we had no luck at all. The gig ended, and up the stairs we went to re-heat some Ragu ravioli and get blotto, 500 miles from home.
One night, Sitting around the kitchen table, the air filled with blue smoke, we began a fresh edition of "Burp-Olympics."
"Burp-Olympics" was an on-going beer drinking and belching competition involving nine guys, a thousand beers, and a small cassette recorder.
The idea was to suck down an entire beer as fast as possible, hit play and record on the cassette recorder, and then spork it back up as loudly as possible.

The burps would then be rated by "the judges" by their loudness, length, and originality. (I still have the tapes)
Somewhere around sunrise, I decided that because I was the leader of the band, I would set a good example and be the first one to go to bed.

I needed to go to the bathroom. Bolo had been in there for a long time, making ape-like noises and disgusting fart sounds. This was normal.
I knocked on the door. More gorilla sounds came from inside the bathroom.
When the door opened, I realized why Bolo had been in there so long.

He had been transforming into a cave man.

Wearing nothing but a shredded towel as a loin cloth, he had painted his face with some sort of war-paint, and frizzed his enormous afro straight out in all directions.

He also carried a baseball bat. (his club)
"ME CAVEMAN!" he yelled, and he proceeded to sit back down at the kitchen table to resume drinking.
I told him I was going to bed, and the soundman "Flathead," began interviewing the caveman, using the cassette recorder.

I staggered out of the bathroom towards my hotdog-bun bed. This did not meet with the caveman's approval.

"CAVEMAN SAY NO BED! CAVEMAN SAY STAY UP. DRINK! he slammed the bat against the table and everyone laughed.
I told him to cut the shit, and went to bed.
The door flew open, and the caveman entered my bedroom armed with a big pot of ravioli and a spatula, which had been on the stove. "CAVEMAN SAY NO BED!" he grunted.
Then he began using the spatula to catapult the ravioli at me as I tried to sleep.
I pulled the covers over my head and swore, as the caveman pelted me with more pasta. It's pretty hard to sleep while you're being pelted with ravioli.

The next thing I knew, there were other bandmates in the room, laughing, kicking the bed, telling me to get up and drink, all of this being tape recorded of course.

Someone took a plunger from the bathroom and fooped it onto the ceiling above my head.
My temper boiled over, and I jumped out of bed in my underwear, grabbed the plunger, and began killing people with it. They retreated back into the kitchen as I chased them swinging the plunger.

The caveman found this to be tremendously funny, so I focused my wrath on him.
He ran down the stairs, out the front door and onto the streets and sidewalks of Niagara Falls Boulevard, and I followed him, me in my underwear, wildly swinging the plunger, and the caveman in his shredded towel loincloth and warpaint, the rest of the band, hanging out the windows screaming with laughter.
The sun was coming up now, and people on their way to work couldn't believe what they were seeing ...me... (in my underwear) chasing the caveman around a car, when suddenly I heard the whoop of a siren.
"SHIT! THE COPS!" the caveman yelled, and I forgot about being mad and we both ran back into the slum.

The cops began pounding on the door. The band began hiding illegal things, and Bolo and I struggled to get into our clothes and clean up.

The cops kept pounding and we had to let them in.
They came in, looked around. Sniffed the air.
They were not happy with us.
One of them said something to the effect of this: "I don't know what the f*ck you guys think you were doing out there, but If I have to come back here again, you're all going to jail."

Then they asked whose van was parked on the sidewalk. It was mine. They gave me a ticket for parking on the sidewalk and left.
I still have the ticket in my scrap-book
(note the time)
I never did pay it.

Childhood

2009-06-01T12:44:00.000-07:00

My earliest memory comes from when I was about three years old. I remember being in a playpen in my parent's bedroom. My mother was screaming and crying.

They had put me in there in my playpen, and I got my hands on my Mom's red lipstick. I rubbed it all over my face and hands and sucked on it.

I also got my hands on my mother's perfume, and drank the whole bottle of purfume and passed out.

My Mom came in to check on me and saw me out cold, all that red drooling out of my mouth and she thought I was bleeding internally. She tried to wake me, but I was out like a light. She called the doctor, who was a close friend of our family, and he came right over.

He explained that the perfume was mostly alcohol, not poisonous, and that I hadn't drank enought to worry about. "Let him sleep it off," he said. "he might have a hangover, but he'll be fine."

Three years old and I was already drunk!

My mother used to sing around the house. She sang while she cooked. She sang while she hung clothes on the line. She sang in a subconcious way. It was a habit. To me it was like having the radio on. Always the same top ten songs too.

She'd bake you a batch of toll house cookies and sing to you witha beautiful voice at the same time.

What would I give to hear that voice again?

...with a cold glass of milk and some hot toll house cookies?

Anything!

The Stupidest Bastard On Earth- (a gig story) [2005]

2009-06-01T10:32:00.000-07:00

I am the stupidest bastard on earth.

Tonight I got ready for my gig, with the usual rituals, except I could not find my watch.
When I play I depend on my old Velcro watch.It's cheap. I've had it for about ten years. It keeps perfect time.
It's comfortable. I wear it backwards on the inside of my wrist, and when I get to the last chorus of a song, I always look to see where I am time-wise,in the set, already trying to think of what song to play next. Thirty years of conditioning has done this to me.

Only tonight after my ritual shower etc... I could not find my trusty cheap Velcro piece of shit watch. So I went and grabbed a nice old expensive watch out of my drawer and slapped it on my wrist. I never wear it, cause it does an epilady hair tearing thing to my arm every time I wear it.

It looks nice, but the metal Twist-O-Flex watchband feels like an expensive hamster is chewing your wrist.

Solo gig. First set, I went an hour and ten minutes, and took a break. Had a drink, played another set. took a break, looked at my watch, man, this night was FLYING!

Did another set, things went well, lots of requests, somebody sent a drink up, sang happy birthday to a big ugly broad who looked like Julia Child, looked at my watch, played two more songs, said good night.
Some guy asked for one more. I played one more. Started right into tearing the shit down. Packing the guitars etc... while the programmed music played. Shut down the PA, my sore arm was killing me and I started putting stuff on my rolling cart.

The waitress comes up. "Are you done?" Yes I was. "It's only 11:30!" I look at my expensive watch, the one I never wear. It says 12:40. Then it finally hits me. I am the stupidest bastard on earth.

Stupidest bastard on earth!
The watch is an hour ahead.

What are ya gonna do? Set all back up again and play another set? I go up to the manager.
Me...The stupidest bastard on earth. I show him my watch. I apologize.
He calls me a stupid bastard and laughs. (luckily)
I ask him, "Am I the stupidest bastard on earth?" He nods, with a big smile on his face. "Relax Kenny. If I was mad, I'd tell ya. See ya next week, you stupid bastard!"

I went home, an hour early, my wife was surprised.

I made a good stiff drink, took off my expensive watch, and wrote this. I looked at my arm.

There's no hair where the expensive hamster chewed it off.

West Coast Trip 2006

2009-06-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

I just got back from another trip last night. This time it was Anaheim California for a week

Texas before that, and I'm going back again to Texas in a few weeks. Also scheduled is Chicago, Florida, South Carolina, New York...

You can keep the west coast. It's hot, it smells and nobody speaks friggin' English. It sounds like they're gargling when they talk.

Everything costs an arm and a leg.
They all carry around these giant wallets full of arms and legs.
The cash registers are huge and bloody.

I ate at Starbucks all the time.

"I'll have a Grande Chai Latte, with soy milk, and a roast beef on focaccia bread." I'd say

Then some runty little bastard would gargle at me:

""GargleGargleGargle Dat wull be two legs GargleGargle und vun armGargleGargle and a peenkie sir GargleGargleGargleGargle"

I almost missed my flight back, but I met one of the actors from LOST in LAX Airport. I don't know his name but he's that Iranian looking mid eastern guy on the show. Good looking guy. Probably a little lite in the loafers though, judging by the leather he was wearing.

I was standing in line sweating my ass off, hoping I wouldn't miss the flight, which was boarding while I waited in this unbelievably L O N G security line,

Meanwhile, to my left there was another much shorter line. Mr.Moviestar turns to me and complains (with some kind of British poofy accent), "They are herding us like cattle."

I sez, "Yah, tell me about it! I hope I don't miss my flight. I'm late. Are they gonna make us take off our shoes?"

He says, "Of course! They treat us like cattle!"

Then he decides to complain to one of the security people.

"Why can't we go into THAT line? It is much shorter! This does not make sense."

The security runt shrugged with a bored look and said "GargleGargleGargleGargle!"

"Don't expect any kind of logic out of him!" I said (removing my sneakers)

"Like cattle!" he says, "It makes no sense!"

Then some broad from the line next to us lets out a howl "OH MY GOD! IT'S YOU!!! The Guy from LOST! ARE YOU FROM LOST?"

Poof-boy says "Yes." nervously. Suddenly I recognize him too. He's the terrorist guy from lost. Suddenly he's not just a greasy looking poofter who hates cattle.

The broad runs up and reaches across the ribbon divider thing, and hugs the little terrorist movie star, and the next thing you know he's signing autographs for people.

Then I get to security.

Some guy gargles something about my laptop, and GargleGargle "Do I have any GargleGargleGargleGargle or gels, or anything that would stick him as he fished through my back pack?"

"No."

I walk through the metal detector.
It goes off.
Some big ugly bastard pulls me aside:

"GargleGargle?"

"What?"

"Remove a you belt GargleGargleGargleGargle cell-phone, GargleGargle!"

I take my belt off throw it on the conveyor belt with my phone and walk through.

Suddenly everyone is gargling all around me, I'm trying to collect my shit and put my laptop back in the bag, and put my shoes on at the same time, and I'm dropping shit and stumbling around and my pants are falling down, and I'm late, and the movie star is waving goodbye and the guys with the ties are gargling at me to hurry up, and I'm sweating and looking at my watch which I put back on upside down, and I look at my ticket and it says gate C 23. So I go up to some asshole with a white shirt on.

"Where's gate C23?"

"WAAAYYY over there! (pointing) Then take a right and go upstairs by the Gargle!"

I have no f*cking idea what the last part was but I start running like a water buffalo in that direction.

The I hear them announce "Last call for flight 222 to Phoenix Now Boarding! All passengers MUST GargleGargle at this time!"

I'm running and puffing and sweating with the pack on my back and my pant's falling down, because I never had time to put my belt back on. I shit you not, it was about a quarter of a mile. I thought I was gonna have a friggin' heart attack and drop dead right there, but I made it!

I was the last guy to board the plane, and everyone was glaring at me. I must have smelled farging fragrant too after that run. They announced that they would not be serving any drinks because of the horrible turbulence that was expected and we had to remain seated.
I dry swallowed two valiums, and when the plane landed I didn't give shit about it any more.

HOOKED! A fishing story.

2009-06-01T08:28:00.000-07:00

I used to live on a lake up in New Hampshire. One day in late May, my good friend, The Emperor Bolo came up from Mass for a visit. We got a cooler full of beer and set out in the rowboat for some fishing on the northern end of the lake.

Now The Emperor Bolo was no fisherman, so I was trying to teach him how to cast. We were using floating Rapala lures, basically wooden minnows with three sets of treble hooks on them.
We were fishing between lily pads, getting snagged, getting unsnagged, drinking a lot of beer in the hot sun. We took our shirts off because we were roasting.

He cast, there was a snapping noise, and suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my back, right between the shoulder blades. Seeing no lure at the end of his line he said, Where the hell did my lure go?"

"You assh*le!" I yelled, "IT'S IN MY BACK!" I then launched into a string of obscenities that could be heard echoing through the hills, and I told him to pull it out of my back.
"I don't know if I can," he said, examining it more closely, "It's really in there! Man, I got ya with all three hooks."

I said, "Well, get it really OUT of there!"

So he yanked and twisted the hooks around until I couldn't hack the pain any more, and I told him to stop.
I called him every conceivable name I ever heard and we both started laughing like hell.

"I don't know," he said between laughs, "Maybe you should go to a doctor."
I said, "You can't take a hook out of a damned fish, let alone me. Let's find some real fishermen who can help us. If I had a mirror, maybe I could take it out myself."

We were laughing again when I noticed he had some of those mirrored sunglasses on!
I made him position his face close to my back and angle his head so I could see the lure in my back. I tried to contort myself and pull the hooks out and I must have looked stupider than hell because he was crackin' up all over the place.
"Really man, I'm sorry, " he said, "I don't mean to laugh, but I can't help it!" I tried to row back to my cottage, but the pain was too much. The hooks were right in the muscles needed to row.
Numb-nuts tried rowing but kept popping the oars out of the oar-locks and laughing. Meanwhile I was bleeding like a stuck pig, and attracting flies.
We spotted some grubby looking dudes in a bass boat, and they must have heard me swearing, because they came over and offered to help. The guy reached into his fishing box and pulled out a pair of pliers that were orange from rust. "Boy, he really gotcha good. Maybe I can snip off the ends!"

His partner just stared at me like a moron at a magic show. I didn't like the idea of some gooney hick ripping up my back with a pair of rusty pliers, so I asked them to tow us back to shore.
When we finally got there, we took pictures of Bolo's big catch. (shown above)
Bolo drove me to the Lakes Region Hospital, warning me all the way not to sit back and get blood on his seats.
The nurses at the emergency room cracked up when they saw this green minnow hanging off of my back.

The doctor walks in, looks at it and asks, "Catch anything?"
He gave me a tetanus shot and pushed all three hooks through and cut off the ends.
Then he gave me my lure back. I held it up to Bolo and said, "Do you know where I should stuff this?"

So that's the fishing story for today. I have a lot more.

Practical Jokes In bands

2009-05-31T21:12:00.000-07:00

In 1980 I played in a rock band called The Night People.

We bought another bus and went out to Connecticut a lot for some reason.

These guys were heavily into practical jokes.

One night while I was passed out, they took my shoes and socks off and painted my feet black with liquid shoe polish.

I woke up with a "Please Kill Me," hangover, jumped into the shower, looked down at my black feet and let a screech outta me.

I thought I had a disease.

It took me hours of scrubbing to get the black off my feet, and I began planning my revenge.I hopped in the bus and went to the store.

I bought 6 tubes of super glue and 3 packages of hot dogs.

I waited for my bandmates to borrow the bus to go out for more beer. Then while they were gone, I went to work.

I cut the hot dogs into inch long pieces, and carefully placed a piece of a hot dog into every pocket of every piece of clothing they owned.

Then I began super gluing everything they owned to whatever surface it was resting on.

I superglued their shoes to the floor, their matches to their cigarettes,the lid to their coolers shut.

I glued their deodorant to the table. Etc Etc...

After the big "Get Even," I thought it was over.

It wasn't.

They got water balloons and greeted me with a total bombardment when I came into my room.

I borrowed a key to their room from the front desk. The wall switch turned on the wall plug, where the lamp plugged in. I knew that.

So I set up a flash bomb with a massive dose of flash powder, and waited. the band often used flash bombs in our act.

When they came home they flicked the switch and got knocked on their asses by the explosion, which set all the alarms off in the hotel.

The management was not happy with us.

Then they saw the damage that the water balloons had done, and they threw us out.

We got a new hotel.

The next day, While they were all asleep I changed all their watches and clocks 4 hours ahead.

Then I woke them up and told them they were late for the gig.

They all started taking showers and ironing as fast as they could to get ready for the gig.

When It was just about time to leave, I pretended to be pissed at them for being late, and took off in the bus without them.

I went to the pet store and bought two gerbils and a habit trail.

I brought the gerbils into the hotel room and told them that I'd decided not to go to the gig. That I would stay in my room with my gerbils.

They thought I'd lost my F*cking mind.

I let it all go on till gig time, and they looked very worried and confused, and then I told them what I had done with the clocks.

We all laughed our asses off for a while, and they promised never to screw around with me again.

The next day they filled my shoes with cool whip.

Doctor Wonderful

2009-05-31T20:57:00.000-07:00

"Doctor Wonderful's office"
"Yes this is Kenny. My arm is..."
"Would like to see Dr. Wonderful?
"Yes as soon as possible."
"A week from next Tuesday? Would that be good?"
"Well I was hoping I could see him sooner...My arm, it's killing me!"
"Ho ho ho! See him sooner! That's very funny! You shouldn't make me laugh so hard especially right after lunch like this."
"At Lunch? Is that where you were? I've been trying to call you for about two hours and nobody answers."
"Who cares? So, a week from next Tuesday, okay then?"
"What time?"
"Is 4 p.m. okay?"
"Anything earlier?"

"Well, we don't answer the phones until 10, and then we go to lunch at around 11, and we don't answer the phone again, until we get back around 1:00.

Then doctor takes turns doing us, one by one, and he should be able to see you about four o'clock. He has one other patient at 4:30, then it's cocktails, dinner, and golf."
"But my arm... It's hanging off. It's killing me."
"Are you calling just to get drugs?"
"No, I'm just..."
"See you a week from next Tuesday 4 p.m! Have a nice day!"

"Send in the next whining peasant."

"Hello Dr. Wonderful."
"Why hello Ken. What's the problem?"
" It's my arm. It's been hanging off for a week now. It's killing me"
"Ken, if it were really killing you you'd be dead by now, so let's not overreact okay? The important thing is, you are here, and that I can't be bothered. I just don't give a shit, okay? I'm very tired from doing all of the nurses one by one. Stop wasting my time. What I want to do, is to send you to another doctor. His name is Dr. Important. He's a specialist with hanging arms and so forth. He's building a new pool in his backyard, and he could use a little extra money. You'll have to make the appointment yourself, then call us when you get the appointment, and beg my impudent unfriendly staff for a referral. Okay? Meanwhile take care of that hanging arm. Don't forget the copayment, on your way out. Thanks for coming down today. Have you seen my new Mercedes? Whoa, it's five past four! I have another patient to rush through before cocktails and dinner and golf. Let me know how you make out some day. See you later!"

"Hello, I'm here to see Dr. Important."

"Oh yes, you were referred to us by Dr. Wonderful' s office. Apparently you whined to them a week and a half ago. Take a seat with the other whining peasant's, wait for two hours or so, and even though your arm is hanging off, please fill out our seven-page questionnaire. Dr. important we'll see you when he's damn good and ready. Until then, try reading a Time magazine from the Reagan era while listening to the horribly boring classical music, on our Boze magic wave radio."

"Hello Ken, I'm Dr. Important. Geewhiz! That's one sore looking arm you got hanging off there. What can I do for you today?"
"Well you see Doc, it's my right arm. It's hanging off and it's been killing me for a month."
"I see, and how long has this been killing you?"
"About a month, I just told you."
"What did you say? I'm sorry I wasn't listening. I was thinking about that new pool in my backyard."
"I said my right arm has been hanging off and killing me for a month."
"Well Ken let's not over exaggerate! If it was killing you for two weeks, like you say, you'd be dead by now. Let me look at it. Hmmmm... it does appear to be hanging off. I'll bet that sore isn't it? This is your right arm, isn't it? And look at that bulge on it! I wonder what that is?"
"My friends call it Righty Bulger."

"Let's see, does it hurt when I twist it like this?"

"AAHHHH!!! YES!"

"How about when I press on it like this?"

"OOOHHH!!! Jesus!"

"Not just relax. Now I'm going to tug on your arm, and just before you pass out, I want you to tell me on a scale of one to 10, how much pain you're in. Okay?"

"YEOWCH! JESUS CHRIST!!! Oh SHIT!!!"

"Now Ken that didn't hurt. You're probably just here for some drugs, right?

"No!"

"You're a musician aren't you? I know you're the type. Put some ice on it. NEXT!"

The Turkey

2009-05-31T20:47:00.000-07:00

This morning I went to Dunkin Donuts at the Redstone shopping center.
There's a turkey there.
It's the second time I've seen him.
He hangs around in the parking lot.
He stands in the doorway of the eyeglass shop.
People feed him muffins and flick smokes at him. A Friggin' TURKEY! He eats the muffins. He ignores the smokes though.

The seagulls steal his muffins and he just stands there shitting on the sidewalk.

He's big too. He could probably kick a seagull's ass, but there's too many of them. I wish he would pick up one of those cigarettes just and stand there with it dangling out of his mouth, and tell the gulls to screw.

"That's my muffin! Get the f*ck outta here!"

But he just stands there shitting, with the cigarettes burning nearby.

Normal. ?

2009-05-31T20:41:00.000-07:00

I know the feeling of the brain that wont shut off... especially late at night.
I envy people who can just decide to sleep, and then do it.
I keep a pad of paper by the bed and often write in complete darkness.
The next morning, when I read it, I'm either disappointed, elated, or confused by what I've written, or else I can't read it at all.
I have notebooks full of that stuff.
I have always kept a small recorder near me in case I get an idea. I have drawers full of tapes that I'll never listen to.
In a closet upstairs, I have boxes of note books I've scribbled in.
Most of it is pure shit, but every now and then i know I have something.
Someday, when I kick off, somebody will go through all that crap, and they'll confirm the fact that I'm out there where the buses don't run.
That's okay with me.
I'm very glad to be a musician and a songwriter. I couldn't be normal if I tried.
To me it would be an insult to be called normal.

Lot's of people are normal.
I'm a musician.
That's all I ever wanted to be.

I like that better than being normal,

and I have no choice anyways

The Tubes At Patriot Place May 30th, 2009

2009-05-31T10:55:00.000-07:00

For Christmas my wife Katie bought us tickets to see The Tubes, one of my favorite bands from the 70's & 80''s.
Now I had seen these guys back in the 80's when they were HUGE, and the production was amazing. It was one of the funniest, most entertaining and musically satisfying shows I had ever seen. I remember people leaving that show, saying "WOW!"
Back in those days The Tubes had about 15 people on stage, elaborate theatrical sets and props, voluptuous dancing girls, and they kicked ass.

I was wondering if they could still knock me out like that now that so many years have passed.

The answer is YES.

Fee Waybill is the funniest most entertaining front man ever.

From the very beginning of the set, from the first note of the first song, I knew this was gonna be good.

Any fears that The Tubes might have lost it because of their age were bashed away by drummer Prairie Prince, who is truly one of the world's great rock drummers.
He plays with the precision and the skill of a fusion drummer, but he has the power of an angry caveman. His feet are as fast as his hands, and his hands are as fast as pistons. His fills never get in the way and he's got more chops than Bruce Lee.

Fee enters stage right, in a ripped up shabby three piece suit, a bad tie, completely disheveled, a large glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He satggers onto the stage and immediately goes into a huge coughing fit, gagging and swaying, with smoke billowing out of his nostrils. He recovers. He stomps the smoke out on the stage, grabs the mike and starts singing.

He sounds amazing!
He rips those clothes off and underneath them he's got blue jeans and a T shirt. He throws his shabby suit into the crowd. they eat it up. This is fun!
He shakes his hair out and he's a rocker now. the band is kickin ass and he's all over the place.

A bit later they go into 'What Do You Want From Life."

What a great song.

The band brings it down a bit, and he goes into the crowd interviewing people, asking them what they want from life.

A woman replies, "Sex."
Fee points out her husband. He says, "With THIS GUY? I don't think so. Kinda looks gay to me!

Another woman says "Peace." He says "Well, keep wishin' sister cause you're never gonna F***in' get it."

He goes on like this from table to table. I'm laughing so hard my face hurts.
My wife is howling.

In between songs he talks about the previous gig they did in Shirley Mass, says he met a lesbian on a horse, walked over to say hello. "The horse farted, and the lesbian punched me in the mouth."
I can't remember every joke he did, but he was spontaneous as hell, a truly twisted man. I love him. He kills me.
...and that guitar player! Roger Steen? Jeeeeeezus! Can that guy play!
And the guy has great tone as well.

Yes they're older, and the production has been scaled down, but if you get a chance to see these guys you WILL get your money's worth. I promise you that. You will be entertained.

During the song "I don't Wanna Wait Anymore," Fee showed us he can really sing. This guy has power, and who is a better performer than Fee?

After the show, after all the laughs, and two solid hours of high energy music, the guys had a little "meet & greet," session and signed tee shirts etc...
They really took the time to talk to me. I was impressed with that. No airs, just regular guys who seemed to care about their fans.

I asked Prairie Prince, "Are you guys writing and recording any new stuff?"
He rolled his eyes and said talk to HIM. He pointed at Fee. I shook his hand and asked him the same question.
He said "No. Nobody gives a shit."
I went nuts.
"Whattayou mean, nobody gives a shit? We LOVE you!"
He said, "Yeah, you and ten other guys. Nobody cares about us anymore. they're just not interested."
God, I hated hearing that!
I went over to the guitarist and we talked about guitar effects and stuff. He's a really nice guy, and then I asked him about recording, and he too said that nobody would buy a Tubes record these days. fee heard him, and chimed in again, and I told him, "Man! With aband like this it's a damned SIN not to record it. fee, you are one of the best songwriters in rock music. Don't give it up! Write more songs, dammit! We still need you, now more than ever. You make us laugh. People need to laugh. They need clever songs like the ones you write. We're sick of hearing about the economy and the wars, and who needs another whining singer talking about his deep feelings? We wanna laugh and forget all that shit."

He seemed to genuinely appreciate what I was saying. He said, "I am writing songs for a solo album." the guitar player said he was too. I said "Good. Don't ever give up."

I thanked them, and because I was holding up the line, I said goodbye and walked away, carrying my autographed tee shirts, like some ancient version of a teenaged kid.

On the way home I felt glad to have met those guys. Maybe my pep talk might have helped them, who knows? They seemed like such nice guys.
But I also felt a bit sad.
It's such a shame, this lousy music business, the way it beats people up.
I don't care what they said, people do care. I do. I love those songs. I love that band.

See them while you can folks.
They don't make 'em like that any more.

Talk to ya later.

-----------------------------------

And This Just In...from the Lowell Sun:

Rock band hit by theft in Shirley
By Robert Mills, Sun Staff
Updated: 05/31/2009 06:42:49 AM EDT

SHIRLEY -- The Tubes left their concert at The Bull Run Restaurant Friday night missing a few articles of clothing and more than a few dollars in cash.

The veteran rockers, who scored their first hit in 1975 with "White Punks on Dope," were on stage at the Great Road restaurant when someone apparently stole one band member's jacket and another band member's pants.

They told police there was $750 in cash in the jacket and $150 in the pants.

Police were called to the restaurant about 11:20 p.m., but no one had seen much.

It appears the items and cash were stolen between 8:30 and 10:45 p.m. while the band was playing, police said.

Anyone with information is asked to call Shirley police at (978) 425-2644.

The Shirley concert was part of a tour of the United States and Europe. The band was scheduled to head to England this week.

Who the hell is Kenny Hogan?

2009-05-31T09:23:00.000-07:00

Support independent local music!

It took me 3 years to make this album.
Please take a few minutes to listen to it.

Like Zu-Zu's petals, every time you click on my CD, an angel gets it's wings.

Why The Hell Should I Start A Blog?

2009-05-31T08:54:00.000-07:00

I have a lot to say. That's why.

I'm always posting on various websites, including my own...
and let's face it: I'm kind of an eccentric nut-bag, so why not start a blog?

I just got into this Facebook thing with some apprehensions.
I thought it was for stalkers, creeps, and guys who couldn't get a date from a calendar, but it seems like it's a good way to network and stay in touch with that kid with the glass eye you went to school with.

I'm a happily married guy, and I didn't want to start getting e-mails from some broad named Gloria who couldn't get the tide to take her out.
But it seems like this is gonna be fun.
I'll be honest: I want to sell some CDs too.
I took 3 years to make an album, (or a beer coaster) depending on how you look at it. I figure nobody can buy it if they don't know it exists.

I have some music, if you want it. CLICK HERE

I'll be honest. I have no idea what I'm doing. This is all new to me, this blogging crap, but it's a chance to spew out the extra mind bubbles, and maybe make people laugh, or tell you about some stuff I know.

This is my 1st blog.

It begins today!

What ever it is- IT BEGINS TODAY!