nothing should crunch when you eat chicken

I say to my father.

"Well, it did," he replies to me, in a voice slightly more tinted with southern Indiana drawl than usual.

We are eating hot wings together, and he is reading a book. Unusual, yes, for both of us; but it works today, this Friday, this good Friday. I don't go into work for a couple of hours yet, but we've already been over there. I took pops to go see my new job digs, and he liked it- enough to buy 50 bucks worth of crap- some book on finance and a season of the Waltons on DVD. My brother's gonna kill me. We were trying to wean dad off of so many boxed sets of TV series. Ah well. Bubz works hard, he should be able to come home and watch as much John Boy as he wants.

So it's bar food for lunch today; cheap bar food. My dad gets these 10 pound bags of chicken wings for like 2 cents or something ridiculous. And they taste like restaurants. Actual, small restaurants.


I played guitar last night for almost an hour, and my left fingertips prove tender even as I type these loving words lovingly. I realized, with a small amount of shock, that I think I'm pretty good. Even after all this time. And I think I could probably write some more damn good songs, without much incident, if I had a mind to. You put enough good stuff in, something good's gotta come out. Theoretically, at least. Oftentimes, practice disproves this theory.

Which brings me to my last point in the sermon, dear congregants. I have very little, you see- I am broke, and living with my parents, and have no magnum opus of any kind to show for all my long years of whatever I've been doing, and whatever potential I may or may not have had along the way. But I do use words, and hopefully use them in a way that they thank me for the experience when we're done. So don't steal my thunder, friends. If I have a certain way of saying things, or writing things, or expressing myself, let it remain the inimitable Liza. This is all I got. I'm not gonna be a superstar of any kind, but I can be me, which is fairly unlike other things. And not like police are going to come and czech you out to make sure you're obeying the law of the land, which is my land, which is your land, from California, to the western waters. Which is basically the same place. But respect me here, people. And I write this on purpose in this blog and not my Myspace one, because I know probably nobody will read it. Leave me my comforts. Leave me a moment to think that I might be good at wordsmithing.

Just leave me.