Rock Accountant

Month: November, 2019

The Twitter Poet of Avon

When the Poet of Avon, Mr. William Shakespeare, awoke this very morning, he stumbled headfirst into brevity. Twitter.
In doing so, he doomed all other English playwrights, a mostly sterile ladle of plagiarizing snakes, to drone on while in morbid awe of him for all eternity.
The notion of premièring himself on this afternoon, as the writer of fewest words, flung him into malicious merriment. “I am now and forever will be a port-wine reduction sauce of succinctness.
“My genius is the tabernacle of the truncated,” he gloated,” I will leave the breadth of things to the freshmen.”
“Verily,” he bragged, (too loudly, for his mother, now overhears him while hiding behind his bedroom door), “and forever, my works will be posted with nails onto trees in twenty-six words and less and will be known to the audience as “tweets”.
Hearing this vow, his mother, the severely verbalized Mary Arden Shakespeare dismays.
Mary was a woman who could trace her long-windedness as linearly as an erection, back to the most crucial exercise of unnecessary human print, “The Doomsday Book.” She feared her son was maneuvering into a near-criminal puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness.
She slumped, legs splayed into bunches of skirts, muttering miserably to herself, (wholly in Old English, to her credit), “I will not allow him an eternity of pithiness of verse.”
But Bill speeds by her determined to stop his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere.
“Romeo and Juliet” was already rewriting itself in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as a stick of sassafras chewing gum.
“Romeo has the scheme, parents will be sorry; R. fucks everything up, big mess, J. is an idiot The End,” was all it needed to be.
Shakespeare sprints to Stratford’s Speaker’s Corner to announce the new course for England’s scholarly conversation.
“Forever on,” Bill bellows to a gathering crowd of the muddy, toothless, and lice-infested, “My tragedies and comedies will come to you now nailed on trees. To be read as “Twits.”
“Be it known that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the prison of twenty-six letterings or less. And all will carry a dollop of gruel for authenticity. Henceforth to be understood as my “gruel tag.”
“My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page.”
William Shakespeare.

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Relax to Earth


Every unsure man
drifts backward from honor.
Ending only when his
once bright,
proud colors,
drably become earth.

How things used to be

Memory slowly erodes and shames real life. I think this is for a reason, but I can’t come up with one. It might just be that we like it that way. How else could we get our kids to roll their eyes when we tell them about how it used to be?

Even mirrors bow to them.

I think memories must wait impatiently in lines
to be called up.
Until the last.
After all, we dream to the very end.
And things can get crowded.
There must is a special place
for the dreams of young girls though,
for even mirrors bow to them.

One chance to hear a song

Once upon a time, the likelihood of hearing a piece of music twice in your lifetime was slim unless you were wealthy. There was no such thing as recordings.

Rock’s Greatest Manager

Bill Curbishley, on the right, is the manager of The Who. If he had chosen to, he could have managed The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and Lynyrd Skynyrd as well. He quietly changed the live music touring business, but what he enjoyed most was robbing deli’s with me on off days.

My Career

To me, my career consisted of moving each day from one bunch of people to another. The populations of these audiences ranged from 2,000 to 150,000 individuals. In each instance, almost all of them wished they were me. That never helped.

Taylor Swift and Pete Townshend

Taylor Swift savages boyfriends who cross her. There is a hazard to getting close to such a girl.

In vague comparison, if you fucked over Pete Townshend, it was time to renew your passport and run.

I listened to his music long before I knew him. When I was in college, I wouldn’t have been able to name the band individually then. It just wasn’t something I was concerned with, and I don’t think this was at all uncommon. They were simply The Who. The hardest band to remember their names were Lynard Skynyrd. I had to practice so much I got blocks.

“Can I have a word?” Townshend says to me by the hotel phone around midday.

Like some rare birds, it was uncommon to sight him until late afternoon at sound checks. It was not constitutionally a settling experience to talk to him one on one before then. For me, at first, it was a reasonable cause for dread. He made me uneasy. It took years to work that shit out. 

Bill, Jackie, and I were having a laugh in a hotel room working out a logo/poster for the upcoming Canadian leg of a Who tour when his call came.

Canada is big and mostly settled by moose. So far, we had a drawing of a giant green frog with a chunk of Canadian​ bacon in its​ mouth, hopping from city to city where we would play. The amphibian was wearing a Royal Canadian Mounted Police uniform. He had a beaver under each arm. The bacon was my touch because I grew up eating it. 

But that phone call dampened me, so I headed down to his room.

He did not look well. He had his tea.

” Did you give me money last night?” he said without really looking up. I got the feeling that if I lied, he would be pleased.” 

Yes,” I said.

“How much?” He gutturally​ groaned when I told him.

“Fuck,” was all he said

“Who was here?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter. I must have passed out.” He seemed to sigh.

“Want me to put Jim on it,” I said.

“No, it’s gone, thanks.”

And I left.

The Photograph

How can a photograph be art when it is confined by randomness? A song comes out of nothing. Painting is as much the hand on the brush as it is anything original or permanent. Movies manipulate atmospheres and the medium simultaneously.A camera’s image becomes art only when interpreted in the aftermath. Are photographers more critics than artists?Could it be that there are no artists at all, only reviewers?

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