The Tuesday Night Singer

   


Some of you have come to listen to my songs that are the antithesis of the pop-culture norm...

*A blog written by a character who appears in the novel The Wayfarers: Revised Edition. Read the book in Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, or paperback, and you'll discover who the singer is.
     It's another Tuesday night at Robbo's Corner Cafe' in Fayetteville, and I'm wearing my black t-shirt with SIGN-UP screen-printed on the chest in white lettering. There's a panoply of pleasant aromas in the air; all relating to coffee, tea, and delectable desserts. I'm the singer, and I'm here to serenade you - and possibly annoy you - while you indulge in caffeinated beverages and sugary delights.
     Some of you have come to listen to my songs that are the antithesis of the pop-culture norm; songs that have earned me the apropos sobriquet of The Psychedelic Conservative. As you listen to me strum and sing, you hear the chord changes and melodies that are influenced by the Beatles, and that's the validation for the "psychedelic" part of the nickname. But, when your ear is bent toward the subject matter of my lyrics, you'll understand from where the "conservative" angle originates. I sing of God, family, personal responsibility, free enterprise, the Second Amendment, and limited government. It's a peculiar dichotomy indeed, and as previously stated, it may annoy or offend some of you. But, while I'd like to tow the line that all you need is love, I'm awake and aware enough to know that life in America is no magical mystery tour culminating in some strawberry fields. Some of you agree with what I sing, and have dropped crumpled dead presidents into the tip bucket by the door. Some of you like it so much that you've purchased a copy of my CD called Mission, or grabbed some download cards. Others have purchased a copy of the CD recorded by the alternative rock band I fronted before going solo, while a handful of you have taken advantage of the two-for deal. No matter your preference, the merchandise is available by the door, and I'd greatly appreciate your patronage!
     Tonight, a bitter, angry customer and her special friend complained to the pretty barista that I have to confess I'm enamored with. The customer didn't like my music and griped that it was too loud; whereby making conversation with her friend impossible. She stated that she wasn't ever coming back, and that she was going to complain to ownership about how "offensive" I am. The aforementioned barista suggested to me that to solve the problem, I should merely turn up the volume!
     My long-running gig as the Tuesday night musical entertainment at Robbo's may be drawing to a close.


Popular posts from this blog

Stille Nacht and Little Drummer Boy

Image
  We join Sarah as she makes her way through Fayetteville, New York: Modest ranch houses lined North Burdick Street across from the shopping center. Several of them stood in defiance of Reconstruction Solstice and were splendidly decorated with Christmas lights. The postage stamp front yards of the homes featured nativity scenes and Santa in a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer. A fifteen-foot-tall pine tree in one yard was strung with red and green lights and featured a lighted silver and gold star at the top that managed to stay attached during the gusts of wind. The owner of another house had been the sound tech for False Walrus on their final tour. On a flatbed trailer with a plywood backing and roof he had set up a sound system with two speaker columns, each comprised of a 15” woofer, a 12” mid-range, and a horn for high-end. From an amplifier and mixing console in the living room he pushed music out at 1,600 watts while the lights arrayed around the outside of the home blinked in sy
Read more

Sarah and the Crap Hole of a World

Image
She was affronted and a nerve was struck. The tuning fork of her anger hummed as she snapped a drag, inhaled deeply, and then argued “he wanted nothing to do with me until I got a letter from him just after he died! I wanted to be close to him, but he was always busy with False Walrus. He was a great dad when I was little, but once the band became his living his bass guitar was more important than me and mom, and that’s why she divorced him, you know?” Her eyes were narrowed as she took another drag, and her inhale was like a wet pan being set on a hot stove burner. “He abandoned us” she fumed before her quick, forceful exhale sounded as though she was blowing out a match. While a cloud of smoke hovered between them, she continued with “but I loved him and now I know that he loved me too and it’s too late! He’s home now and I’m stuck in this crap hole of a world trying to survive without him or mom while some evil nutjob who works for ALL is stalking me and blew my house up because he
Read more

Quick-Tempered, Moody, and Taste Like an Ashtray

Image
  To assure herself of her desirability outside of the superlatives of one man’s description, she uttered “I’m blond-haired, blue-eyed, and small-boned. I’m pretty, and I’m physically fit from being a runner. I’m smart and witty, and I’m very loving. I’ve been told that I’m sexy. I’m a good singer, too!” After snapping another drag, she continued her self-interview with “why can’t I find a good guy to love me? Well, I know of one and I’ve been dreaming about him for years, but I guess it’s too late now, being the End Times and all.” “It’s not the End Times, it’s the Reconstruction” came the answer through the speaker in a quad-copter drone that lowered to a spot five feet in front of her, causing her to stop on a dime in sudden, shocked surprise. Its digitized androgynous voice wasn’t finished, and critiqued “you can’t find a partner because you’re quick-tempered, moody, and taste like an ashtray. And you act like you’re menstrual every day of the month.” “Lord Jesus, please help me” S
Read more