24/7.
Anytime, anywhere.
You don’t have to be inside a venerable edifice to speak to the Creator.
It doesn’t even have to be Sunday.
I talk to God all the time. I thank him for things, I offer prayers to those in need, and I am constantly asking for forgiveness. My use of His name in vain seemed like an almost Pavlovian response when I was growing up, but it is a very rare occurrence that I curse at all anymore.
It is not easy to piss me off; besides, my glass is empty, bereft of any hope for my Fighting Irish football team. A sore spot that even the Domestic Despot is smart enough to avoid.
Even though I am an old buzzard, nothing seems to anger me.
This pisses Karen off for some reason.
I had fun at the open mic I played at tonight at Heather’s Café in Springboro. I debuted a few new songs (for me). I did Tom Petty’s American Girl and Elton John’s Your Song. I met a lady named Melody who was very cool and she was having a good time. I think I will play both songs again to fine tune them at tonight’s open mic at the Lucky Star Brewery in Miamisburg. It is a great venue and the people are the best buena gente.
I only knew one guy in high school who was a practicing Christian. I would play guitar with him at lunchtime in high school. The only song he knew was Norman Greenbaum’s Spirit in the Sky and the passion he displayed when singing this song was visible and a little scary.
I actually played guitar at a folk mass in South Gate, California and our band played at the Church Spring Festival.
You want to talk about stupid.
The name of our band was Hot Twat.
The priest never said one word to us and there had to be a hundred people in the
gymnasium where we were playing. On one of our drummer’s bass drums was
“Hot” and on the other one…
I actually only thought about it when someone mentioned that our opening song, the Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil might be considered a little inappropriate at a Church function.
Again, not a word spoken about the drums.
When the realization finally hit me, you know I contacted the Big Man upstairs.
Our little band actually got to play at a glitzy Hollywood party one time. I have relatives, one is an accomplished actress, and her husband a director. Their huge house in the Hollywood Hills included a regulation-sized half-court for basketball where they had a stage set up with lighting and the works.
We rocked the house for three hours and my cousin paid us each 300 bucks. It might as well be 3000 bucks to high school students in 1971, but the truth is we would have paid them because, for some reason, us high school boys were suddenly in high demand at the party.
That is a blog for another time.
Stay well.
P.S. I already told God about the party.
Mark's Playhouse 