But! But, I’ve been playing with music a little bit — not so much during the writing but before it to get pumped up and “in the mood” and then at punctuated points during the actual process.

Which makes me want to ask you people:

Do you listen to music when you write?

What do you listen to?

A deeper, more granular question would be:

Given that different music is valuable to different writing moods or to writing different scenes, what do you like to write when working on certain types of scenes? Say, when you’re writing action? Or drama? Or sex? Or ACTION DRAMA SEX? (That will be the name of my memoir, by the way. Look for it in the year 2034. Provided we all survive the Hyperborean Sharkpocalypse of 2032.)

So.

You.

Music.

Writing.

What’s the score?

Pun not intended until now.

But music is a part of our lives, right? Maybe? Kinda? Sorta?

Curiously, it’s less a part of my life than it used to be — music is one of those many things that fractured, like cracks in a kicked mirror, and now our music culture is no longer as homogenized as it was before. On the one hand, that’s a great thing, right? Lots of micro-audiences. Lots of niches. A wider variety of music. On the other hand, it also means we don’t have quite as many musical touchstones. In the 80s and 90s, popular songs were popular songs — we all had cultural connection because we knew “Like A Virgin,” or Duran Duran, or Public Enemy, or (insert group, song, musical style here).

We had those few avenues of musical discovery, a real monoculture of music — radio, MTV, and that’s it.

Troubling, but it also felt like a time where music was more a part of our lives. For better or for worse, we were connected by it. The value of that might be dubious — I mean, a lot of the country is connected by watching “Two And A Half Men,” and more power to them, but it’s not exactly like that’s a critical cultural bulwark. Popular media is both a blessing and a curse. It unites us, but it also dominates, shouldering out other — possibly greater — options.

But in the 90s especially, it felt to me like music was going through equal parts “downward slide” and “powerful rebirth.” Felt like the field was so wide — hey! Wu-Tang! Nirvana! Portishead! Die Warzau! Fishbone! Poe! Pearl Jam! Lords of Acid! They Might Be Giants! Nine Inch Nails! Sarah McLachlan! That’s just a tiny sampling of the shit I listened to. The field was obviously way more diverse than that.

Punk. Pop. Country. Ambient. Whatever.

These days, I don’t the same sense of potency, of rebirth, of diversity. It might just be me. The way I listen to music has changed. I listen to music predominantly in the car. Sometimes on the iPhone when I’m walking. Don’t listen to much music when I’m working on the computer, because when I’m on the PC I’m probably writing, and unlike most writers I cannot have music in the background — especially when that music has lyrics. It doesn’t inform my work as much as I want, and instead it simply distracts. I find it much harder to put together cogent, powerful sentences when music is competing for my attention. I can’t just let music be in the background when I write: it muscles forward, tries to get to the front of the line.

(It also feels like I’m not hearing great lyrics like I used to: part of me says, “It’s because great lyrics are harder to find,” but a less cynical part reminds me that it’s probably due to how I listen to music nowadays. An example: Will “The Distant Hindmarches” Hindmarch convinced me to try The Decemberists. And I love ‘em. Such great storytelling. But I don’t listen to them that often. In the car, I want “driving music,” not The Crane Wife. But if I don’t listen to them in the car, they don’t get much play, then.)

Now, I may have a minor change in the way I listen to music: I have a new audio receiver for the downstairs at the new house, and we don’t have neighbors smashed against us. I can play music and not fear neighborly retribution. I got an iPhone dock for the receiver and can pop on Pandora or whatever, see where it takes me. So that might help — it might offer me a more robust axis of music and music discovery.

Anyway. Rambling, complete.

Questions, begin.

a) What are you listening to these days? Here’s a quick glimpse of what I’ve got going these days:

The Like.

Band of Skulls.

Kim Lenz and the Jaguars.

b) How do you discover new music? Believe it or not, I don’t discover most of my new music through services like Pandora or Last.FM — I go music blogs and blog aggregators. I use elbo.ws, and I also find great advice from people like Gareth-Michael Skarka, whose Friday Music was always a great route toward music discovery (especially since he seems to dig the same type of music I do).

c) Got any favorite bands? Albums? Styles? Eras? Anything? I’m talking music you keep coming back to again and again. Your own personal fundamentals. Some of my “critical hits” definitely include Poe, Concrete Blonde, Portishead, Nine Inch Nails, They Might Be Giants. Groups that, should they produce anything at all, I’ll buy it sight unseen (or, erm, sound unheard?).

d) Writer-types and artist-faces: do you listen to music while creating? Before? After? How does music inspire? What kind of music inspires?

Or, make nests out of it, perhaps.

A butt plug nest. That’s the future.

Anyway. Right! This here 2009 ain’t gone yet, and so I’ve got a few more things to throw at your faces. Ready? Chin up. Here goes.

Move It To The Music

I dunno that it was a great year for music, but I guess it wasn’t a bad one. It had a few notable standouts, which I list here for the sake of completeness.

The new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album, It’s Blitz, could also be named, “the tits,” because dangit if it ain’t. Great album. Actually one of my favorite albums of many years past. Far, far better than their last effort (which was okay, but nothing ejaculatory). I’ll admit that I sometimes miss the hard, frenetic, fuzzy psycho-fuck edge that the band put forth in something like Fever to Tell, but truth is, the new album shows a maturity in both lyricism and musical ability. The album’s got earworms.

Eminem’s Relapse is similarly a more mature work — though, “mature” for Eminem still involves, y’know, mentions of various serial crimes. But he’s clearly focusing inwards with this one. I haven’t picked up the additional tracks of Refill, yet, but may soon.

Jonathan Coulton’s Best. Concert. Ever. continues to be in constant car rotation. A great live set. Brought new life to old classics, and some classics I’d missed or ignored.

Lily Allen’s It’s Not Me, It’s You was a solid B+, but wasn’t quite up to par with her first effort? Not as universally catchy. Again, she’s matured — but sometimes, that’s just not what you want in your music.

Butterfly Boucher’s Scary Fragile? Good. Again, maybe not as good as her opening effort. Sophomore slump and all that.

MC Chris: Part Six, Part One. IG-88′s ’57 Chevy. Yes. Profane white-boy rap (also present in Lonely Island’s Incredibad).

For further hilarity, might I recommend a listen to Patton Oswalt’s My Weakness Is Strong?

Really, though, what I like about this time of the year is that I can check all the cool music aggregators (elbo.ws for the win), which then gives me access to a shit-ton of Best Of 2009 lists, and from there I start buying albums. Amazon in particular has a pretty hot deal going where, if you buy an album over $7.99, you get one of their maaaany awesome $5.00 albums fo free. I am now the proud owner of The Decemberist’s Crane Wife, a new Louis CK comedy album, and a handful of other rockin’ good stuff.

That reinforces how little I know about current music anymore, though. But it at least allows me to play “catch up.”

That means I’m taking suggestions, by the way. Got music for me? Share in comments.

(Man, as I’m putting in links for the music, I found something called Lala –? Which lets you listen you the album directly? Check the links above for examples. That’s pretty nice.)

iPhone, You Phone, We All Phone

I’ve already regaled you with tales of iPhone apps for writers and iPhone apps at the game table –

Now, my favorite iPhone games of the year? Buckle up, butternuts.

Dude, Spider: The Secret of Bryce Manor is once again one of those little unexpected games. You are a spider. You fling the spider and make webs, and then you catch bugs to eat. Simple, right? Except, you’re doing so in this decrepit old manorhouse, and you start putting together a little puzzle regarding the story of this place. Very cool. Maybe not as holy shit as Portal, but slick nevertheless.

Peggle — oh, sweet Molly McGoggins, I have probably lost as many hours to this game as I have to Modern Warfare 2. It’s like pinball on crack.

Well, actually, pinball on crack looks more like Monster Pinball. There’s something delicious exciting about pinball, by the way. It’s a game you can never win. And yet you keep playing. Crazy.

What else? Well, Pocket God isn’t really a game…? Okay. These little natives run out on an island. And you can manipulate them, the island, and the weather to mess with them. Sharks? Bird poop? Storms? Spiders? Fish? Spears? Dinosaur? All of the above, and more. They keep releasing free updates that give you new ways to torment your islanders. Weird, and not a lot of longevity, but a hoot-and-a-half.

Out of non-game experiences, I’m currently effing around with TrueHDR (almost-HDR pics with the iPhone; not bad!), Sushipedia (is just what it sounds like; it’s free!), and Layar Reality Browser (augmented reality; not as actually useful as you’d like, but has a very endearing “cool factor” that shows future promise if not present potential).

(Oh! And my wife loves this game, Rolando 2: Quest for the Golden Orchid, which looks crazy fun. I love when she plays it, because it has music from Mr. Scruff.)

Web Shiznit

I won’t regale you with the awesome blogs that sit just to the right of this here text block — because, hey, there they are. Go there. Click amongst them. Frolic upon them and within them. Let your priapism strain against the denim.

But, other web sites? Those, I can tell you about.

My wife found Super Punch just yesterday, and I can imagine it will be fodder for my tumblelog well into the future. Because it is awesome. Just go and see it.

The Oatmeal doesn’t get nearly enough direct love — I see it linked a lot, but I don’t see a lot of people say, “Geez, that there Oatmeal, well, it’s the Town Crier in Giggletown.” Ten Words You Need To Stop Misspelling? How To Ride A Pony? Things Bears Love? All good. And so much more.

I didn’t just discover John Scalzi as a human being, but I did this year discover the badassery that is his blog. Hence — his blog! Go. Clean typography. Great advice. Awesome stories. Fascinating commentary.

If you’re a screenwriter and you’re not loving another John — John August — I’d ask what’s wrong with your diseased tick-filled brain? (I am saddened that he isn’t one of the creative advisors over at the Sundance Screenwriters’ Lab this year — not that we don’t have great choices, but he’s there just about every year, I thought.)

Design sites made it into my rotation, what with my burgeoning Photoshop and WordPress interests: Smashing Magazine, Speckyboy, and Abduzeedo.

If you’re into new media and the future of publishing — Guy LeCharles Gonzalez gotcher back over at loudpoet.

Webcomics love? Then I demand you go and catch up on Clockworks, by Shawn Gaston.

Ich Bin Foodie

As I noted earlier, to my own shame, I have officially become a goddamn “foodie.” And, as noted, I went ahead and tried the Fresh Table Experiment, which worked out pretty well.

So, it’s been a good year for food. Farmer’s markets, ahoy. Found great restaurants around these parts — Bolete chief amongst them. I’ve eaten some new stuff this year, too — sweetbreads, eel, various other critters from the sea, grass-fed beef, and the many fantastic ice cream flavors at Owowcow.

I ate some kind of disgusting fruit in Hawaii that had the mouthfeel (and potentially the taste) of a peeled testicle.

You want food blogs, well, I can gently nudge you in the direction of frequent Bourdain cohort, Ruhlman.

If you live in and around the Lehigh Valley and want to lament the lack of ethnic restaurants, you’ll find that you’re wrong about that. The Beyond Scrapple blog takes you on an, erm, international local journey.

And, if you seek creative ways of putting together recipes or conceiving of ingredients — Cookthink is all yours. You can thank me later. … No, wait, thank me now. Preferably with comments. And money. And paeans sung to my lineage. And fruits. And chocolate. And hookers.

Looking Forward

Resolutions come tomorrow, ye impatient fackers. Come back then, and you’ll see my resolution — and yours. That’s right. I’ll be giving you your resolution for the year. And you’ll thank me for it.

It’s by some dude named Sam Gilbey. He does great work, and I found his site randomly; bop on over, check out his work.

Really, though, we need to talk up some Flight of the Conchords.

I’m not super-late on the Conchords bandwagon, having come into their Kiwi Folk Hip-Hop around the time of their HBO comedy special (a couple-few years before they actually had the series on the same network) — that being said, I know they had a fairly zealous following before that, a cult audience that boosted them. Never forsake a cult audience, is what I’m saying. Well. Okay, no, what I’m actually saying is — why the hell aren’t you digging the Conchords? Is something wrong with you? Did you get a brain parasite from eating too much cat poop? Did a camping hatchet separate your corpus collosum? Are you not a human, but a robot from the distant future?

See, I’m a huge musical comedy fan. When it’s good, it’s great. Give me some Weird Al, Tenacious D, Jonathan Coulton, MC Chris, whatever, I’m good to go. The comedy is good, but the music is good, too.

What compels me to be a fan of the Conchords?

Shit, I dunno.

Maybe it’s because their comedy personas aren’t actually far off from their actual personas.

Could be that their comedy is far reaching — they’ll sweep in low for the dick joke, but they’ll also play with verbal banter, awkward pauses, relationship drama.

Is it that they cover the musical bases? Hip-hop, reggae, folk, 80′s synth, dance, and the like?

I’m not sure I even want to examine it. Some things are simply worth having and experiencing without worrying too much about the whys of the whole deal.

Some quick notes, though –

I love both full release albums, but sometimes, you get better versions of their songs by digging up bootlegs or previous live versions. Some of their NPR recordings from Fresh Air are, in my mind, better than when the versions are fully produced. Don’t get me wrong, some of their songs deserve robust production — Business Time, Too Many Dicks On The Dancefloor, and the like. But others, you want to hear their improvisation, their pregnant pauses, their charming awkwardness. I feel like their personalities come out more in those lesser-known versions.

Also, the TV show is great. First season is better than the second in my mind, but only by like, a tuft of hair. Of course, the shame of it is, the second season ends with them going back to New Zealand (er, spoiler alert? does that matter on an HBO comedy show?), which is apparently not unlike what really happened. Famous for not giving many interviews, apparently the reality is that they’re tired of the show, and so they went back to the big NZ and will not commit to a third season (despite big ratings and a strong following). This is equal parts “sad” and “awesome.” Sad because, fuck it, I want more. Awesome because, even in this their personalities come to the fore — they really are awkward and strange and given over the foibles of musicians and the madness of comedians. A potent emu-kick combo.

Anyway. Yeah. Flight of the Conchords. Diggit.

Grooveshark tracks, below. (Sorry, had to put them in separate little widgets. One widget wasn’t loading the tracks right.)

Also in case you missed it, I am a big fan of her new “band,” Beautiful Small Machines.

They have a song out, now, with accompaniment by Duran Duran’s Simon LeBon.

I listen to this song, and I think….

Promethean: The Created.

I just do. I can’t help it.

Here’s the MP3.

The lyrics are, I think:

I was built from the cold of men

With the hands of Marquis de Sade, a cruel facade

If I could somehow spend another day with you

I’d pluck out the eyes of God

I would live in the time of owls

In the days when the world was green, my love machine

Though I bear no mark of war upon me now

Oh the things I’ve seen

Keep me far away from all the noise

I just caught the last boat out of Hell.

I don’t know the joys of simple joys

I’m not feeling well

But I’ll sit real still

If you don’t tell.

There’s a place for us, my dear.

Where the daughters of Orion sing.

Where a man can live without the cloud of fear

Choking everything.

(chorus)

There’s a heartbeat in the wire

There’s a soul caught in the meat

The veins, the feet

We all expire

(chorus)

…

Anyway, that just screams to me, “Promethean.”

Which makes me want to go play that like, right now.

He’s not. Actually, many of his best songs are equal parts funny and sad and sweet and strange, and a large majority of this troubadour’s ditties are actually full-bore story songs. Tales from start to finish.

And so, I give you, “Space Doggity.”

You can read about the song by clicking that link, but if you don’t — just know that it’s about the first dog in space. Laika — the dog — gets blasted up in a rocket by the Russians. They said she made it a week. She didn’t. She made it a handful of hours, and then died.

This Bowie-riff song picks up from that point and — well, the lyrics tell the variation.

(Blah blah blah, I don’t own the song or the lyrics and blah blah blah. And you can listen to the song from the Grooveshark plug-in at the bottom of the post. Please to enjoy, and don’t hesitate to support the JoCo by buying his shiznit.)

…

The cage is very small

A tiny silver ball

That makes you a hero

The moment you step inside

The world is watching you

What you’re about to do

Will live on forever

Even though you’ll be dead

And gone

Buckle up

We’re about to turn the engines on.

…

Hello from Sputnik 2

I am receiving you

Thanks for the dog food

I’m somewhere above you now

Guess what Malashenkov?

I took the collar off

I’m holding my own leash

And walking myself outside

This door

I don’t think

I want to be a good dog anymore.

…

Now I’m floating free

And the moon’s with me

And it’s bright enough

To light the dark

…

And it’s so high up here

And the stars so clear

Are they close enough?

Will they hear me bark from here?

…

Moscow to Sputnik 2

I think we’re losing you

Your life signs are fading

We can’t really say that we’re

Surprised

It’s a shame

There is always something that gets compromised

…

Now I’m floating free

And the moon’s with me

And it’s bright enough

To light the dark

…

And it’s so high up here

And the stars so clear

Are they close enough?

Will they hear me bark from here?

Fellow pimp Billy Lyons reached for his pretty hat and snatched it off of Stagger Lee’s head. So, Stagger Lee shot Billy in the gut, and Billy died.

Since that murder in 1895, the Stagger Lee legend (sometimes called Stackolee, Stackalee, Stackerlee, etc.) has been retold in a number of songs by a number of prominent artists: Fabulous Thunderbirds, Elton John, Huey Lewis and the News, James Brown, The Clash, and The Grateful Dead. Over 30 different recorded songs about this murder. All of these put different spins on the murder: maybe Billy was shot over dice. Or because he cheated at cards. Some take out the murder. Some put in sex.

My favorite is the Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds version, seen below in lyrics, and heard through Grooveshark. It amps up the violence. Cranks in some profanity. Throws a weird man-rape vibe. And it changes the era, putting the murder in the 1930s.

Usual caveats apply. I don’t own this, blah-dee-blah, foofaraw, hoobitijibbits, snargh.

…

It was back in ’32 when times were hard

He had a Colt .45 and a deck of cards

Stagger Lee

…

He wore rat-drawn shoes and an old stetson hat

Had a ’28 Ford, had payments on that

Stagger Lee

…

His woman threw him out in the ice and snow

And told him, “Never ever come back no more.”

Stagger Lee

…

So he walked through the rain and he walked through the mud

Till he came to a place called The Bucket Of Blood

Stagger Lee

…

He said “Mr Motherfucker, you know who I am?”

The barkeeper said, “No, and I don’t give a good goddamn,”

To Stagger Lee

…

He said, “Well bartender, it’s a-plain to see

I’m the bad motherfucker called Stagger Lee–

“Mr. Stagger Lee!”

…

Barkeep said, “Yeah, I’ve heard your name down the way

And I kick motherfucking asses like you every day,

Mr Stagger Lee.”

…

Well those were the last words that the barkeep said

‘Cause Stag put four holes in his motherfucking head

…

Just then in came a broad called Nellie Brown

Known to make more money than any bitch in town

…

She struts across the bar, hitching up her skirt

Over to Stagger Lee, she a-startin’ to flirt

With Stagger Lee

…

She saw the barkeep, said, “Oh God, he can’t be dead!”

Stag said, “Well, just count the holes in the motherfucker’s head!”

…

She said, “You ain’t look like you scored in quite a time.

Why not come to my pad? It won’t cost you a dime,

Mr. Stagger Lee.”

…

“But there’s something that I have to say before you begin

You’ll have to be gone before my man Billy Dilly comes in,

Mr. Stagger Lee.”

…

“I’ll stay here till Billy Dilly comes in, till time comes to pass

And furthermore I’ll fuck Billy Dilly in his motherfucking ass,”

Said Stagger Lee

…

“I’m a bad motherfucker, don’t you know

And I’ll crawl over fifty good pussies just to get one fat boy’s asshole,”

Said Stagger Lee

…

Just then Billy Dilly rolls in and he says, “You must be

That mad motherfucker called Stagger Lee.”

“I’m Stagger Lee.”

…

“Yeah, I’m Stagger Lee and you better get down on your knees

And suck my dick, because If you don’t you’re gonna be dead,”

Said Stagger Lee

…

A-well, Billy Dilly dropped down and slobbered on his head

And Stag filled him full of lead

Oh yeah.

It’s very pretty.

They’ve put a lot of work into making it authentic.

It sounds great.

…

Goddamn, I kind of feel like I got ripped off, though.

Okay, I’m a sucker for Rock Band and its ilk. I owned the first, and I now own its sequel, and I invested an unmerciful crap-ton of hours into those games. I drum the shit out of that shit. I buy stupid rock t-shirts for my rock mutants. And yes, I even buy DLC, because I am a whore like that.

I mean, I’m still playing Rock Band 2.

Beatles: Rock Band, we finished it tonight. On our second sit-down with the game. It’s over. It’s just… it’s over. Yeah, we can go back and play it again, but…

Well, okay, let’s take a look at this bit by bit.

First, Rock Band 2 features 80+ songs, and you can use all the first iteration Rock Band tracks with a minimal fee.

Second, Rock Band 2 has the ability to tweak your dude or dudette. Pink hair. Fishnets. 3D glasses. Afro puffs. Day-glo drum kit. Whatever.

Third, Rock Band 2 gives you a bit of versatility in the tracks. Not a lot, but hey — drum fills!

Now, this latest iteration, Beatles: Rock Band has… ummm. None of this?

Okay, it has three-part harmonies. Not that we’ll use it here in Der Wendighaus, great, fine, cool.

But, no drum fills. No design mini-games — I can’t even create my own super-cool Sgt. Pepper-style jacket for one of the pre-existing Beatles. I mean, give me that, at least. Oh, and the game is woefully easy. I played the drums on hard, and I don’t think I got below 90% one time. Most I was in the 97-99% range. Doesn’t have the same challenge put forth by the other Rock Band products.

Most criminal of all, though, is the sheer lack of awesome Beatles songs. They have a bunch of their clunkier tracks. But, missing is a wide range of killer tracks: Yesterday, Hey Jude, Let It Be, Blackbird, Michelle, Eleanor Rigby, Penny Lane, Nowhere Man, Ob-La-Di Ob La-Da, and so on, and so forth. I totally grok that some of this can and should be made available for DLC. I know that in buying this game, I’m not going to get all the Beatles songs ever.

But Jeebus Chrizzist, the Beatles have 290+ songs in their catalogue. You can’t pick 80 out of that batch for me? Really? You’re telling me that 45′s all we get? Worse, these tracks won’t port over to Rock Band? I get why you don’t want the Fab Four performing, say, songs by Bikini Kill, but can’t I have my Rock Band rocktards playing Yellow Submarine? Just for poops and chuckles?

I dropped sixty bucks, and this is what enters my living room, this meager beast? The shame of it is, if I’d have put down forty — hell, maybe even fifty — I might not feel quite so dissatisfied. A full-price game, though…

Look at it this way. At present they’ve announced three albums for this sucker: Abbey Road, Rubber Soul, and Sgt. Pepper. Each track’ll be $1.99, or a full album for around $17.00.

So, if I want a still-incomplete catalog — meaning, I’ll still be missing some very big hits and sleeper classics — I gotta pay another $50-plus.

That’s rough trade. My sphincter puckers just thinking about it. Puckers all the way into a tight little asterisk, winced shut like one of Mister Magoo’s blind eyes.

Ehhh? I guess I’m just sad. Five hours later, the game’s done. We might get another couple hours of it. Might.

Doesn’t really feel worth it. The sucky part is, it’s a quality production. It just doesn’t go the distance.

I’m going to go back to playing Batman. Batman loves me.

Kenny Rogers, “The Gambler.”

No great commentary on the song — it speaks for itself, and it’s one of those songs (like “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson) that conjures car trips with my father when I was young.

I will comment, though — what the hell happened to Kenny Rogers?

Plastic surgery? Really, Kenny? You needed that? Did I miss something? Did I miss the memo that demands that aging country music stars maul their faces with plastic surgery? Dude. Sir. You’re not Joan Rivers. You’re not a supermodel. You’re an old dude with a white beard. You’re like, a sexier, thinner Santa Claus, granted, but that doesn’t mean you should go under the butcher’s knife. Except — too late. You did. And now you look really weird.

You gambled, Kenny Rogers. You should’ve known when to hold ‘em, and known when not to let someone… y’know, fold your face with a meat cleaver. Now people don’t just walk away from you. They run.

Sigh.

Anyway.

The Gambler. Lyrics and playable song below. I don’t own this. I don’t… ZZZzzZZZ…

…

On a warm summer’s evenin’,

On a train bound for nowhere,

I met up with the gambler;

We were both too tired to sleep.

So we took turns a starin’

Out the window at the darkness

‘Til boredom overtook us,

And he began to speak.

He said, “Son, I’ve made my life

Out of readin’ people’s faces,

And knowin’ what their cards were

By the way they held their eyes.

So if you don’t mind my sayin’,

I can see you’re out of aces.

For a taste of your whiskey

I’ll give you some advice.”

So I handed him my bottle

And he drank down my last swallow.

Then he bummed a cigarette

And asked me for a light.

And the night got deathly quiet,

And his face lost all expression.

Said, “If you’re gonna play the game, boy,

You gotta learn to play it right.”

You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em,

Know when to walk away and know when to run.

You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.

There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.

Every gambler knows

That the secret to survivin’

Is knowing what to throw away

And knowing what to keep.

‘Cause every hand’s a winner

And every hand’s a loser,

And the best that you can hope for

Is to die in your sleep.”

When he’d finished speakin’,

He turned back towards the window,

Crushed out his cigarette

And faded off to sleep.

And somewhere in the darkness,

The gambler, he broke even.

But in his final words

I found an ace that I could keep.

You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em,

Know when to walk away and know when to run.

You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.

There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.

Here’s today’s story song:

Be Your Own Pet, “Becky.”

Love the tune. Love the song. I hear this song, and I think of “Best Friends.”

Usual shiznit applies. I don’t own these lyrics, they’re copyright Somebody Else.

You can listen to the song at the bottom of the post.

…