A.G.E's Joint

Monday morning and it was a good day for living in L.A.    The smog was only a minor irritant. Why people had a need for oxygen , I’ll never know.   I’ve always found that a slight buzz, especially fueled by Scotch, was the better way to go.   It certainly made dealing with my clientele easier.   Cahuenga Boulevard never seems to change.   The long climb up towards the pass always unnerved me.   Passing the Hollywood Bowl always brought back memories of my brother.   The top is down with the wind blowing through what passes for my hair.     I guess it was alright, though.   It was only my second time out with the Packard Caribbean since Mr. O’Malley gave it to me as a thank you gift.   Such a smooth ride, unlike the ride I was getting ready to go on. The name is Valiant.   Eddie Valiant.   I work private investigations, mostly for the outcasts in Hollywood.   There is a rumor I’m a Toon.   I can see that.   I’ve had a lot of dealings with Toons over the years.   One kill

I'm kind of a numbers geek.  One of the fun things about having my blog on a real site instead of Facebook or MySpace, is I have better metrics on where my viewers come from.  I can see trends and see who my audience is. Lately, one of my posts The Date , has had a lot of traffic.  It is a good story and I am proud of it.  But I started getting comments that had no relation to the story.  And the comments always come with a link.  I wasn't born yesterday.  And with a little checking, it appears my "fans" are in Slovenia.  Sorry, script kiddies, you come of like this. Needless to say, the comments end up in the Spam can. I think you need to find another target. 

A beautiful day In a quiet glen The corner of a cemetery Where I have tagged along The mourners gather At the hole To bid good bye Another too young. In retrospect they shouldn't Have sped up the road To meet their time. And the pole Yet their time came To leave the others behind To wonder if that would Be their fate in time. Another young man gone Another lesson learned To be forgotten again By the next generation.

The road runs along it's path Ending at the car park Runners ramble along the ruins Of the old paper mill. Slapping sounds of spawn Working their way along the bank Fluid flowing to carry them To the fisherman wading there. Squirrel stares down at me Sitting on my bench Taking in the promenade Of humanity healing their souls. 

Hey, Heidy and Howdy! It’s a bright, beautiful morning here on WOFT, Old Fart’s Radio.   I’m Harry Handy, your randy dandy radio host.   Have you had your Metamucil today?   Here, we spin songs so old; they really should be science experiments.   Moldy, goldy and straight from the bottom of the remainder bin at the record store, just like my audience.   Somebody asked me if I knew Ben Gay.   Knew him?   I watched him being born. Yeah, that was scraping the bottom of the barrel.      We welcome a new affiliate here to our ancient tunes network, the ladies of the Group Blogging Experience.   And are they experienced!   I understand we have a couple actual Woodstock veterans in the group.   That was a long time and many substances ago.   They have run the gamut of friends, others, children and grandchildren.   In honor of those folks, I have some special tunes planned. Like this one. The ladies indicated they were working with the word “Bottom” this