Here are just a few samples of some of the poems I've written over
the years, and just a couple samplings from the hundreds of song
lyrics I've written. Someday I hope to compile them all in a publishable
book form, but for now these will provide a nice overview. If and
when there is a book, you'll hear about it first right here; so
check back often.
The laundry mat is a horrible place for poetry to overcome you.
With Lite FM sticking to your eardrums like the tack that binds
the lint to their screens, or the soapy film between your fingers,
you watch the thirty-some dryers in a row, portholes on a peculiar
ship. The brand name emblazoned in chrome above each window which
looks off into rolling seas of fabric patches reads Family
Pride; and for those who are forgetting how to read
theres a picture of that happy family locked forever together
in hand-held, metallurgical bliss, a generic testimony, raised,
brail-like, begging you to run your fingers over them and feel the
space between the shapes, the right-angle drop off to the miniature
trenches and terrible corners where you could easily break a nail,
or snag the pantyhose. Watch that picture. Dad, the tallest. Mom,
with skirt. Child one, half-size male. Child two, slightly more
diminished, skirt also. They could each have their own wash room
door, but not today. Today they are family, perfectly
grouped under a tipped over, slightly bent out L signifying
the placatory protection of a roof. And you scan all thirty-some
dryers again just to make sure they all say the exact same thing
Family Pride-- like any of those perfect
families exist anymore, or ever had. Good thing theyre frozen
in chrome to remind us, to sparkle, to tinkle like ice in a stiff
drink. Cant remember the last time a family like that
was in the laundry mat, you think as you notice the porthole
also reflects. And you toss another silver disc into a woven sea
of tears and wish on Family Pride as you watch your
clothes toss around in someone elses world while you stand
naked in yours.
D.B. Imig (1994)
Heres another poem I wrote in college as an
assignment. Its a very particular form, called what I forget,
but youre supposed to be able to read it in the order its
written, as well as, first line/ last line, second line/next to
last line, and so on. Or maybe its from the center line out,
I dont remember. It works each way, though. Maybe thats
why my teacher gave me an A and suggested I get it published.
Of course, I never did. Didnt seem long enough, or hard enough.
But, back then I was too naive and afraid to realize that the mere
act of creating something was nothing compared to that of getting
it noticed; a lesson Im continually relearning.
Your picture speaks
I will still
After all is said and done
Softly like rain
In my loneliness.
D.B. Imig (1982)
Everyone Thinks Theyre Somebody
During my I think Im Buddy Holly reincarnated
phase, I had some publicity photos done by photographer Jon Elder,
of Jamestown, NY. His studio walls are covered in portraits: wanna-be
models, musicians, actors, actresses, real estate and insurance
agents, wedding shots, etc. etc. Looking around, it hit me what
it was that fueled his business: vanities such as mine. Who did
I think I was? The Amish and some African tribes wont let
themselves be photographed; they think youre stealing away
a piece of them. But our modern society, just as Jons business,
runs on the well-greased treads of squirming and squirting egos
offering themselves up for consumption. Roll on
Everyone Thinks Theyre Somebody
(Everyone Thinks Theres Somebody)
Wake up to a new day, fortunes yet to be made
So much work to be done, yet the fun has only begun,
Cause everyone thinks theyre somebody.
Everyone thinks theres somebody
Hopped a ride on a train, dont feel safe on no plane.
Busses and trains might delay, but tall buildings dont get
in their way.
Now everyone thinks theyre somebody.
Everyone thinks theres somebody.
What makes the world go around, the sparkle on the drum or its sound?
In a forest of fallen trees youre forced to step to the beat
on your knees.
Cause everyone thinks theyre somebody.
Everyone thinks theres somebody.
On the day when my light goes out, I hope I save the strength to
Pay this fools life no mind; dont even speak of
me as you find,
Cause everyone thinks theyre somebody.
Everyone thinks theres somebody.
©2003, D.B. Imig
This song is titled after the main thematic character in Joseph Heller's novel "Catch-22", a book that used to be required reading in high school in my days, (that would be the '70s.) Nowadays our high schools are viewed as hoi polloi military academies by the governmental bodies that control them, and any book that exposed the insanity of war would not be "acceptable." Our enemy is, and has always been, the state.
Whence I left earth bound for the sky in McWatt's B-17;
Milo says it's a milk run but I know nothing is routine,
Except for the fear that fills my guts like poison mustard gas,
Except for the fear that we'll all die, take flak right up the ass.
And I'm so cold. I'm so cold. I'm so cold. Just like Snowden.
Crusaders continue killing, church bells ring inane refrains:
They say that man is wicked, man is weak, and all men die in vain.
They say that life is futile, love is filth, an efficacious man is just a joke.
And if you believe what they all say, then there is just no hope.
And I'm so cold. I'm so cold. I'm so cold. Just like Snowden.
I'm so cold. I'm so cold. I'm so cold. Just like Snowden...
©1988, D.B. Imig
It's All Easy Stuff When You're
Mama's gonna go away today,
This time gone a long time.
Lot's of chores for those who choose to stay,
Some are hers, but most are mine.
For I will live to work another day;
Won't I always rise and shine?
Bill me now, I've got eternity to pay;
There's no end to means I'll find.
It's all easy stuff when you're a God.
It's all easy stuff when you're a God.
Jack the taxes, losses up every year,
There's more and more that will not work.
Still mighty minds are mostly of good cheer,
For all will earn their just desserts.
Now you can bend me but I will not break;
You call a coup, but who will fall?
I can not lose 'cause there's nothing at stake.
I'm double-blinded, seen it all.
Rod and John left empty drinks in my hand,
Two songs cut short without a rhyme.
Kissed the sky and found the promised land;
Now every day I take my time.
Hear how those drums of hollow dreams still play,
Don't all those dreams rest in my sight?
See that tomorrow's yet another day,
To seize what's left and set it right.
© 2005, Danny Imig
Dedicated to my friends J.C. and Rod Welling. Two fine drummers,
finer men; always missed, never forgotten.
October 7th, 1960
April 5, 2004
May 10th 1971
June 14th, 2004
February 2, 2001
I will always remember, always, my dad standing at the end of
the alley, at the top of the hill, like the giant elm tree that
seemed then to hold up our house on the top of that hill. I had
just turned seven in the winter of '66-'67, walking home in a snowstorm
that Chicagoans still refer to as "The Big One". We lived
on the far edge of a far, far, almost-suburban farm town, our house
a long mile or more from the school; and I had trudged towards home
through a hip-deep and growing blowing snow that had transformed
the landscape into a strange and scary howling wasteland of submerged
perils, to finally stand at the base of the hill, the end of the
long block where my house could usually be seen from, holding up
the far end of that hill like a firm hinge, or so I hoped, for now
the swirling snow let show no such connection. The once familiar
tree line that fenced one side of the alley I had to ascend appeared
buried, and loomed like a topple-prone wall of whipped-up whiteness.
Another day ago, it seemed, I had left the warm winter confines
of my school. With a mountain of snow forecast, most kids had gotten
rides home, or took the busses home, or had shorter walks home;
but my parents both worked, and as I made my way home, the familiar
haunts slowly disappeared into the drifts, dissolving into a grey-white
wash-out., as did the sidewalks, the curbs, the corners to turn
to get home. My normal relaxed hour-long walk home had become a
prolonged harrowing heart-pounder, and it wasn't over yet. Falling
upon some unknown neighbor's front door, phoning mom at work, the
long fidget I'd face waiting for the ride-- all forms of a failure
I'd have to explain. I felt water on my face, and melting flakes.
I must get home on my own. Gritting my teeth and sucking in one
more breath of the chill, I forced another boot into the snow, thrust
a thigh against a drift, and trudged ahead; and again, and again,
and again, my head down, concentrating on my footing. Halfway up
the alley I stopped to catch my breath, and glanced up to mark my
progress. I wasn't halfway at all, and I had just reached the real
foot of the hill. It must have been then that I became aware I was
openly crying, a shameful flush of fear and frustration that, being
alone, I didn't care to fight; or perhaps, it was the second time
I looked up and caught a glimpse of my dad up there at the top of
the hill, a red flannel coat open and flapping; and if I could have
seen his face at that distance through my tears, I know he was watching
me, smiling. I pushed on ahead so he'd not see me flailing upon
the snow, clear crackles around my eyes, and hoped he was coming
to get me. Then he was there in front of me like he had dropped
down on a string, and as I looked up once more the final few feet
between us closed, and his grip latched under my arms to catch me
up and I rose to sit on his shoulders; I probably was still crying
as he carried me up that hill, because he was laughing saying "It's
O.K.; It's O.K."
It was too deep dad
"It's O.K. son; we're almost home now."
There was no more school for days; we built snow forts we could
stand up in that lasted for weeks; and the snowman that my dad,
uncle, and a neighbor erected, took all three to lift the head in
place, finished its melting maybe April or May.
I live in Pennsylvania now, my dad in California, says he doesn't
miss the snow, but I think he might. As I write this Punxsutawney
Phil has just seen his shadow and divined six more weeks of winter,
and I say, "Six?, Is that the best you can do you, bucktoothed,
lame-ass, dandering varmint? Send me eight, ten, hell twenty."
Here in Warren, PA the weather radar warns with green a great wall
of white wetness on the way; and I stand in my drive, shovel in
hand, peer at the graying clouds overhead, and curse towards the
sky: "Bring it on, bury me you bastards, you limp-wristed,
impotent glory-less gods of gusts and barometric tedium. I will
always remember, always, my dad."
©2001, D.B. Imig
PRESS RELEASE: "Danny Sleeze Gets First Strat"
For immediate release, December 2001. (Warren, PA)
Daniel Imig, 607 Conewango Ave., here with Doug Wood of Germaine and Pappalardo Music, 706 Conewango Ave., purchasing his first Fender Stratocaster guitar, a new American-made, natural finish, maple neck model, on Saturday, December 8, 2001, the twenty-first anniversary of the death of John Lennon. Imig has formulated an intricate and interesting theory on being Buddy Holly reincarnated, based on dates, time-lines, names, personal similarities, and geography-- combined with numerology and psychic experience; the most notable facet of his theory being his birthday, November 4, 1959, which he notes is exactly nine months and one day after the plane crash in Clearlake, IA that took the lives of Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens. Holly was one of the first to make the Stratocaster famous.
"I have been on a quest for the 'perfect' Strat for over ten years," says Imig. "It's taken me from Chicago to St. Louis, to Little Rock, to Buffalo, and all points in between. The minute I started playing this one, I knew I wanted it." However, the guitar had been promised to a woman who was Christmas shopping for her husband, and was agonizing over a choice between two different color Stratocasters. "Luckily she picked the other one," says Imig. The business day of December 7, 2001 concluded before Imig and Wood could finalize the transaction. "I had been thinking about this guitar all night, and the next morning when I went to buy it, I noticed the whole 'number' thing was happening again. I was twenty-one when Lennon was killed, and here it was that twenty-first anniversary, and now I, at forty-two, being Buddy Holly reincarnated, of course, was buying my first Strat. It just kind of worked out. When Lennon died it confirmed what I had always, up until then, just felt: 'avoid fame'." Lennon was also widely influenced by Buddy Holly, even going so far as to claim he (Lennon) was Buddy Holly reincarnated, according to author Ellis Amburn in his 1995 biography of Buddy Holly.
Imig is probably best known by Chicago area, 80s era, punk rockers, as "Danny Sleeze" guitarist and vocalist in the cutting-edge, underground punk-metal band CERTAIN DEATH. By his own admission he has, over the years, scuttled all musical projects that looked like they might actually gain popular success. "I've always felt that fame was right there within easy reach, waiting for the taking. But in the whole scheme of things, why bother? Who needs the burden?" Imig likes to quote his favorite author, Ayn Rand, whose character, Henry Dorn, in one of her early short stories, "The Simplest Thing in the World" struggles with writing the great "popular" book within him. Dorn gives up, concludes popular success to be pointless, and in the process notes "small people are safe", also the title of one of Imig's songs.
For more information read Imig's February 2001 press release accompanying his CD release of 50s style original music "Your Long Lost Buddy". (Also found in Articles.)
Danny Imig: Your Long Lost Buddy.
CD liner notes and infamous "Press Release"
Author's post note, current: 2004.
This is undoubtedly one of the most narcissistic, self-absorbed things I've ever written. After I included this press release in the liner notes of my, then cassette only release, "Long Lost Buddy," © 2001, my friends quit talking to me. Then, I thought it was because they thought I'd finally gone "over the edge;" but now I realize after reading this, they were probably just sick of hearing about me, and couldn't believe anybody could write something so egocentric. As I learn more about the "ever-unfolding fabric of one's life, time and space, (the real subject matter in this press release), I've learned the need to curb much of that ego, to sit back and watch and listen. I can dismiss the hubris in the article you're about to read using only the excuses of (1) exuberance in a new-found discovery; and (2) that of my knowing no other way to approach the subject other than introspectively. I have read a couple books on reincarnation, and the "evidence" seems dubious at best, and the years of research you could put into the subject seem daunting. I would rather just play music. Lately when I'm in the process of working on songs, I've taken to using a universal working title for any of my CDs while they're in their demo-demo mode: "Sick of Me." (Rhymed with © 2003 when I started using it.) Anyway, if/when you finish reading this, you might be too.
PRESS RELEASE, FEBRUARY 2001. Danny Imig: Buddy Holly reincarnated?
It has taken me more than a year to write this press release, and I have a degree in journalism. It's not that my writing skills are rusty, though they are, or my motivation lacking, which could be; but rather it's just that I am never in a hurry. In writing this press release I feel as if I could be lighting an ominous fuse, treading on an ice shelf, or worse, about to board a small aircraft in bad weather. You see, in the last two years I have come to believe I am Buddy Holly reincarnated.
Two things killed Buddy Holly: being famous, and being in a hurry. (According to people who knew Buddy Holly, like Waylon Jennings, he was always in a hurry.) I have tinkered with fame all my life, but never found it important enough to pursue with the zeal that already-famous people know it takes. Health, longevity, and the pursuit of art interest me. The passion to create and perform music drives me. Walks in the woods with my wife connect me. Fame and fortune feel antithetical in comparison. "Success" is highly overrated. Truth and freedom are my guiding principles. But enough of my philosophy' let's start with the facts.
I was born November 4, 1959, exactly nine months and one day after the plane crash outside of Mason City, IA claimed the lives of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, J.P. Richardson (the Big Bopper), and their pilot. That crash was on a Tuesday. I was born on a Wednesday. I was conceived and raised in an old, cement block, slate-tile roof, two-story house which stands on a hill in the northwest corner of the town of Beecher, IL, approximately 300 miles to the east-southeast of Mason City, IA, the direction the winter storm of February 3, 1959 was blowing. The house was one of the first in the area, and is rich with history, being built by a Civil War colonel, who would fire off a cannon each morning into the corn fields across the street. As a young boy I remember many times being awakened in the night by the rattling of old windows during gusts of cold northwest winds howling across those corn fields.
My parents were married on Valentine's Day 1958 and were trying to conceive from then on. My mother had a miscarriage in December 1958, and the doctor advised her to wait a "couple months" before trying again. My mother remembers being eager to get things going again, and remembers "probably not waiting quite that long". My dad was an Elvis and Johnny Cash fan, but he sure did look like Buddy Holly (I've seen the pictures) and he would turn 22 the same month that Buddy Holly, 22, would die. My mother and father dabbled in music, my mother playing an accordion, and my father bits of guitar. They would both admit to having limited musical talent, but they enjoyed music; and I remember our house always ringing with either the sounds of the radio, or the, then brand-new "stereo". I toyed with dad's old Harmony guitar at the age of 8, but didn't really start playing until I turned 14 and bought my first electric guitar.
I took to playing the guitar immediately and naturally. I was in my first band within six months of picking up the guitar and advanced rapidly, on my own and without lessons. I started writing songs almost immediately as well. Some of my early songs although crude and unskilled, bear an eerie similarity to a "Buddy Holly" style. I am now a guitar "guru" of sorts, and a prolific songwriter/composer. I write and play all styles of music from flamenco to classical to jazz to rock to reggae to metal, punk, ska, even country and bluegrass. Since I've become aware that I'm Buddy Holly reincarnated, I've become interested in a "retro" sound which you'll hear on my current demo release "Danny Imig: Your Long Lost Buddy." The above is not bravado or bragging, but simple fact, and I have many friends and acquaintances who can attest to my talents. They can also tell you that I'm usually humble about them, although in trying to state this case for me being Buddy Holly reincarnated, I've had to try to communicate with words the scope of a talent best judged with your own ears. Simply put, my musical traits and talents are exactly what would be expected of a Buddy Holly reincarnation--a love of the guitar, and a relentless pursuit for technical mastery, and a insatiable quest for new sounds and the truly original in music.
Buddy Holly was uncompromising in his pursuit of musical originality, a trait I likewise have, but he was also concerned with remaining "popular." That popularity cost him his life. I have thusly a loathing for anything "popular," a disdain for the trendy, and a true aversion to anything "normal," especially where the creative arts are concerned. My friends will tell you I have always been like that. Because I move perpetually from one project or sound to the next, my friends have always accused me of having a "fear of success." They don't know how right they are. (My favorite Beatle always was, of course, John Lennon; more on this later.) (Post note: See December 2001 Press Release: "Danny Sleeze get's first Strat.") But let us move on.
Buddy Holly's real name was Charles Hardin Holley, notice he dropped the "e" from his family name, and also note he used just "Charles Hardin" at first, as his composer name. (Check the recordings.) "Buddy" was a nickname he picked up in his early youth. His initials thusly, whether using Charles Hardin or Charles Holley, are C.H. Notice that mine are D.I. My full initials are D.B.I. If Buddy Holly's middle name had started with an "a" (initials thusly C.A.H.) the progression would be frighteningly obvious. But let's look at that name "Hardin." First off, the "H" is almost silent. Say Charles Hardin Holly fast and you'll notice it drops out right away, leaving you with "Arden." The similarity in the names is also striking. Danny Imig: two "n"s and a "y", two "i"s in the last name. Buddy Holly: two "d"s and a "y", two "l"s in the last name. When I write I frequently use my first two initials like one of my favorite authors, J.D. Salinger, thus: D.B. Imig. Note the inversion-like nature of the initials "D.B." and the name "Buddy." Also Buddy Holly trimmed his last name from six letters to five; mine has four. When I was just 20 (1980) and in college playing in a ska/reggae band, the drummer in that band gave me the alias "Danny Sleeze", spelled purposely with two "e"s instead of the normal "ea". Again notice the similarities. That name would stick with me for the next ten years, during the time when I was most prominent around the Chicago area in a band I fronted called CERTAIN DEATH. If you consider Buddy Holly's revamped spelling of the Holley name without an "e" an "alias", it's interesting to note that the "H" in Holly occurs 8 letters into the alphabet, while the "S" in Sleeze occurs 8 letters into the alphabet counting backwards. More on names and numbers later.
Now let's move on to something less factual, but nonetheless important. You'll have to take my word on this, but I had what I've come to view as a "psychic" experience when I was about 8 or 9 years old. Behind the house where I grew up, mentioned earlier, there is an embankment that faces towards the west. I remember playing around in the back yard by myself one winter in about two feet of snow making snow angels and the like. While lying upon that embankment in the snow and at a bit of an angle to the north, an incredible sensation of warmth, calm, and peace overtook me; probably the greatest moment of prolonged contentment I've ever experienced in life. I always did very well in school. Studies always came easy to me. I would go on to graduate 8th grade head of the class, with an I.Q. of 147 (according to a friend whose mother was a teacher in the school I went to), and in the top 99.9 percentile of all kids in the country. Of course, between grade school and high school I discovered wine, women, and song, or rather, beer, babes, and (rock) bands, and was thus lucky to graduate high school barely scraping the top quarter of my class. (Don't mean to be bragging here, again, but this advanced mental capacity becomes more important as this argument proceeds, in the sense that one is supposed to "learn" something from their successive past lives.) So school was never a troublesome issue for me. Back to the snow-bank and the ultimate moment of tranquility. It seemed I had no worries whatsoever. I realized then at 8 years old that my whole life lay ahead for me and that I could make it an incredibly easy and simple life. I also felt the inevitability of death, and realized then and there that life was nothing to be hurried through. And so, at 41 years of age I'm still not in a hurry. I want this life to be long and healthy. The "happiness" that most people seem to worry about, I have always been able to fashion for myself under most circumstances. Notice that this "psychic" event took place in the snow and cold, facing northwest, and within a stone's throw of the corn fields. Buddy Holly died in a cold, hard, frozen corn field, fighting a northwest gale, and going a hundred-some miles an hour.
When I was 12 years old in the early part of 1972, I first heard "American Pie" by Don McLean while at my first school dance where I also met my first "girlfriend" named, oddly enough, Peggy. The song fascinated and moved me even though I had no idea what the lyrics were about. Some say the cryptic lyrics mean nothing, but everyone agrees the song starts off as a tribute to Buddy Holly and "the day the music died." Over the years the song's ominous allusions and melancholy tone have continued to haunt me. Somewhere in those lyrics lurk the story of my life. "When the jester sings..."
My life has been filled with strange coincidences involving names, the alphabet, and numbers. When I was in my mid 20s I had my astrological chart "read" by an associate then of the wife's who was experienced in such things. This chart was created using my birthday and time of birth, 10:09 A.M. My wife and I were wondering then if the pursuit of music as a career would be successful for me. The chart revealed that (#1) "I was an old soul and had led many past lives, and (#2) that "I would be successful, but that it would take many years". Hmm? I'm hoping those "many years" are soon to pass. (Post note: I'm starting to view "musical success" as an oxymoron; and doesn't that all still fit?) Just recently I went to a party where there was a psychic from Lilydale (a psychic community in New York state, just to the north of here, Warren, PA.) who dealt in past-life "visualizations." In my most recent past life she saw it ending in me "sliced-up" and "cut to ribbons" with a sword or so she thought, although she couldn't identify the weapon. But plane crashes make for messy corpses too. Check author Ellis Amburn's biography of Buddy Holly, page 259, for a graphic description of the coroner's report. I won't go into it here, but it matches the psychic's description.
I could go into many other things that lend credence to my theory on being Buddy Holly reincarnated. My life unfolds like a pre-made tapestry being unrolled, but I can only recognize the connections when I glance back at them. When I first watched the VH1 special "The Day the Music Died," I was overtaken by an incredible sinking feeling of "should'a, would'a, could'a, and a strange sense of deja vous when they flashed on pictures of the crash scene. This was well before I had concocted this present theory on being Buddy reincarnated. Why should I feel déjà vu when I wasn't there? Why should I feel regret for actions which were taken before I was born? I can still only watch that show alone, as the whole thing just affects me too much. How can one describe their own depths of passion for life? How do you compare such things? People tell me I wear my heart on my sleeve. I know they're right. I know of no other way to go through life. I do not hide from any part of myself. And I have never cared whether or not anyone else noticed.
As religions do, the belief in reincarnation takes many forms. Some people claim to have memories from past lives, birth marks from carried-over wounds. I think perhaps reincarnation is more like the puff of smoke left after a candle blows out, or the ember remaining on the wick-- a spark for the next time. Various beliefs on reincarnation can be incorporated into most existing theological theories quite easily, just as the theory of evolution has been incorporated into most. Some cultures view reincarnation as the theological base. Scientists are finding that matter and energy are one, and that, ultimately, all that's left is a kind of fabric that connects all things through time; and that everything in the universe can be defined through math and numbers.
Keeping that "fabric" in mind, and also the nine months and one day between Buddy's death and my birth, as well as the similarities in our names, let's move on and put this argument to bed. Consider the full names again: Charles Hardin Holley, Daniel Bryan Imig. Buddy's full name has three "h"s; mine has three "i"s. Each name has two "a"s. Buddy dropped the "e" from his last name giving it then one "e", same as mine. My parents went out of their way to spell "Bryan" with a "y" not an "i", thusly giving my name the three "i"s to follow Buddy's three "h"s, and insuring my name would have one "y" in it, same as Buddy's full real name. Buddy Holly was born September 7, 1936; my only brother was born September 17; my father February 27; my only uncle February 26. "Sevens" and "ones" keep popping up, and remember the numbers 7 and 11 (or two ones) have mathematical (as well as mystical) significance. Notice the order of the birthdays from Buddy's to my brother's to my dad's-- 7, 17, 27. The difference between my dad's and uncle's-- 1. The difference between Buddy's and my brother's-- 10, or a digit of "1". Notice that Buddy died on the 3rd of February; I was born on the 4rth of November. Then notice Buddy's death: 2/3/59, a difference of "1" between the 2 and 3. Notice my birthday 11/4/59, with a difference of "7" between the 11 and 4. And just to prove this "fabric" knows no sexual bias, consider this: My wife's birthday is 2/19, the difference between the two digits being 17, or a "1" and a "7", and my mother's birthday is 12/5, the sum being 17. One grandmother's birthday is 12/29, difference 17. The other's is September 1st, note the series of birthday dates above. I have no other immediate family to write into this plot; all are included, and the puzzle came together quite easily. The fabric unfolds. I've always thought November 1959 was a kind of ominous month to be born in, or maybe just special. 11/59 is the last minute before midnight. Remember the "Doomsday Clock" during the 80s, or the Blondie song: "It's 11:59 and I want to stay alive." So do I; from my earliest days on, I have never taken life for granted.
This quest of mine into reincarnation began from the most basic of questions: "Why am I who I am?" Do circumstances and experiences simply create who we are, or is there something deeper?-- an inner driving source? All I know is life is short-- Feel everything, fear little, and as Vic Savage, keyboardist of one of my favorite bands in one of my favorite movies, This is Spinal Tap, says: "Have a good time, ALL the time." Hope you found this self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing jaunt of mine interesting. Hope you enjoy my music. Concerning the "Long Lost Buddy" release, remember I wrote the song "Iddy Bitty Pretty Titties" when I was 17, the title and lyrics making that pretty obvious, right?; and the song "Can't Take My Guns Away" in 1981. The true sound-alike Buddy Holly song, "What Am I Going to Do Without You?" came to me recently in a blast of creativity while I was out working; I didn't even have a musical instrument around to help me compose; I just did it "a cappela" in my head, then got home quick and sang it into a tape recorder, and figured out the corresponding chords later. Let us ponder the nature of the muse. Write, call, or E-mail anytime for a free catalog or just to converse. Thanks for listening.
Your Long Lost Buddy,