Or would you rather be. . .

. . . a giraffe?

(from mentalfloss.com)
"The male giraffe determines a female's fertility by tasting her urine. If it passes the taste test, the courtship continues."

Or would you rather be a mule?
A mule is an animal with long, funny ears
He kicks up at anything he hears
His back is brawny and his brain is weak
He's just plain stupid with a stubborn streak
And, by the way, if you hate to go to school
You may grow up to be a mule

Or would you like to swing on a star?
Carry moonbeams home in a jar?
And be better off than you are?
Or would you rather be a pig?

A pig is an animal with dirt on his face
His shoes are a terrible disgrace
He's got no manners when he eats his food
He's fat and lazy and extremely rude
But if you don't care a feather or a fig
You may grow up to be a pig

Or would you rather be a fish?
A fish won't do anything but swim in a brook
He can't write his name or read a book
To fool all the people is his only thought
Though he's slippery, he still gets caught
But then if that sort of life is what you wish
You may grow up to be a fish

And all the monkeys aren't in a zoo
Every day you meet quite a few
So you see, it's all up to you
You can be better than you are

You could be swingin' on a star

[by Johnny Burke and Jimmy Van Heusen,
controlled by Music Sales Group
and the Bourne company]

Read more: http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Is_the_song_Swinging_on_a_Star_copyright_free#ixzz1ad7tQi5c





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Everybody wants to be a star. . .

. . . ain't it the truth? Well, maybe not exactly.

I would not summarize my situation as such. I've certainly met my share of guitar-playing-vocalizing-pour-my-hear-out-singer-songwriters in my time. Many times hearing them makes me want to, like them, sing my own vocal compositions while accompanying myself on guitar. But then I stop myself. Of the GPVPMHOSSs I've encountered, many were actually very good; others- not so. Then of course, viewing things objectively, of just about all of them I can say some good things, meaning only that all of them have talents of one sort or another. But to be a really great singer/songwriter, many things have to gel to make them a 'star'. Many truly great S/Ss have not or will not become stars due to mere bad luck.

I have concluded awhile back that while I find my writing to be particularly strong, lyrically and musically, I lack the vocal delivery skills necessary to be a real, badass S/S. But I do have great confidence in my skills as a writer and instrumental music performer, and producer - may I say without sounding excessively egoistic. So therefore, I feel this is the artist I must market.

And now, as I am no youngster, I know without a doubt, that I must make my music to the point that some may call music my obsession. But obsession or not, music is the one thing in life that brings me such pleasure, not only in the act of producing sounds themselves, but communicating something of myself to others in these sounds.

'Success' is relative, to be sure. In one way, I have achieved a certain 'success' already in that I know well who I am musically and what I must do. In this fact I take great comfort and find much satisfaction. Irrespective of adulation, notoriety or monetary reward, I can and will continue to do this until I can do it no more.





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The Black Coffee's Aroma. . .

. . . hangs thick like a cloud every morning. He sorts through paisleys and patterns and stripes on the door as he lifts up a vain little finger to stifle the blood from a close shave in the battle of life. The jet-set crowd's returning from an all night bout of drinking while he's all-consumed by grand delusions also known as wishful thinking.

His star quality seems to escape everyone who would be in position to help him. Still he goes off each day in anticipation of all of the thrill and the joy that one feels when he's making interment arrangements. He's misunderstood. A book, a song, a TV sitcom part you'd miss for blinking or a winning lotto ticket in his hand is only wishful thinking.

Oh it's nobody's fault but his own. So few offers come over the phone. But he still perseveres; faces up to his fears that can cloud the intentions and bring on the tears.

Still his spirits get lower each day that this program's protracted. Moment by moment it takes all he's he has to go on. But he just grits his teeth, charges in, slings the arrows back into the face of outrageous misguided confusion. And even though he'll never die a pauper or a rich king he's just not content to waste his time on anything but wishful thinking.

Oh the groceries and the bills aren't paid by talking or by drinking. So he just resumes his grind lacklusterly and does his wishful thinking.



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