The Ramblings of a Somewhat Unstable Mind

Posts tagged ‘Bukisa’

Life As a Who Song: A Writer’s Tale

Love Reign O’er Me.


“Only love, can make it rain. The way the beach, is kissed by the sea. Only love, can make it rain. Like the sweat of lovers, lying in the field. Love, reign o’er me.”


Some say it’s a writer’s job to suffer. To taste the ultimate highs and the ultimate lows before putting pen to paper. Or finger to laptop (no, not lap top, laptop! The song’s about love, not lust – that’s “Teenage Daydream”). A writer needs to taste the hollows of emptiness, the sorrows of loss and the temptations of temptation. Bullshit!

No, writers are of two stripes; those who are born with the talent to strings words in a row, so that others hang upon each and every forthcoming…

(and now, a message from our sponsor)

… word, and those who learn their craft through hard work and aspiration. (Yes, yes, perspiration too, don’t get pushy! I’m the one writing here…).

Writers write for song, movie, TV, magazines, newspapers. And, yes, blogs and even the odd article mill here and there. Some say that only the successful write what they want, because only the successful can afford to do so.

I write.

I write because I enjoy it. I write because I can. Well, some of you may argue that point. And, yes, I would fight for your right to be wrong.

But, let’s take a look at life through some Who songs, to see how life differs from now and when hippies ran naked through the streets, singing “Kumbaya, my Lord, kumbaya”.


Baba O’Reilly


“Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.”


Online websites that pay writers to submit content were doing very good business, and writers were making money just a couple of years ago. Writing sites like Helium, Yahoo! (used to be Creative Content) and Bukisa would pay writers a premium, upfront payment for every piece of work that they submitted. The good thing was that they were popular and they were making money. The problem was that they were popular and they were making money. See how that works? Something becomes popular, it sells (think Google, MySpace, Facebook). Something sells, someone needs to make a whack o’ cash, the second cousin of the whack a’ mole.

Websites get sold.

Shareholders ask, “Why?”

Writers make money writing articles online for websites. Writers earn less. Writers get mad. Writers leave, go write blogs. Forget about things like structure. Concentrate on getting point out. Authors digress. This one excels. Writers find blogs, start to earn money again. Hobbyists join websites. hobbyists make money writing articles online for websites. Hobbyists write crap. Shareholders get mad. Writers start to make more money. Is anyone in charge listening?

Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.


We Won’t Be Fooled Again.


“We’ll be fighting in the streets. With out children at our feet. And the morals that they worship will be gone.”


Morality in the 1960’s was basically making sure you had clean underwear in the glove box. Well, you sure weren’t wearing them. Just got in the way. Japan bombs Pearl Harbor. We went to war to fight the big bad commies who just wanted to control the world. Russia eyes Cuba for missile bases, just to get closer to us (that’s us as in US). Nobody was home. Cuban cigars can’t be bought in the USA (bay of pigs). A bunch of rather frugal peoples got slaughtered. We went to war. There was this little genius (no, really!) who had syphilis (happens) and a little mustache. Turns out he had a little problem with the people some blame for killing the son of their God. He put them into fenced-in camps (no, not summer camps) and experimented. Turns out he was bat-shit crazy, but oh, how the people loved him. North Korea didn’t get the message. Neither did Iran.

We won’t be fooled again. Promise.


“Why should I care? Why should I care?

Girls of fifteen, Sexually knowing.
The ushers are sniffing, Eau-de-cologning.
The seats are seductive, Celibate sitting.
Pretty girls digging, Prettier women.

Magically bored, On a quiet street corner.
Free frustration, In our minds and our toes
Quiet stormwater, M-m-my generation.
Uppers and downers, Either way blood flows.

Inside, outside, leave me alone. Inside, outside, Nowhere is home.

Inside, outside, where have I been? Ought of my brain, on the 5:15.”

For the last 5 years, Charlie Sheen (yes, that Charlie Sheen, drinker of tiger blood, lover of twins) was the highest paid actor in all of television. Even the CBC if you can believe that! Heck, he made more money than CBC did over the past 5 years. Charlie does a lot of drugs (Jim Morrison quantities). Charlie goes bat shit crazy. Sorry, Charlie, only the best Tuna for Fox! Mennn. At 5:15pm on December 22, 2012, the Mayans predicted that he would finally become sober from the binge he was at in 1998. Charlie then realizes what he did, how much money he threw out the window. He could’a bought some accessory children, just like Brangelina do. But, no, he preferred to live outside of his brain, whether on the train, on a plane, or driving his supercharged Ferrari.

This year, look for a sad funeral, with Tuna salad sandwiches to follow.


My Generation


“I’m not trying to cause some big sensation. I’m just talking about my generation.”


This is what I am doing. Now. You’re actually reading what I wrote. I typed fast, though, so if you happen to be a slow reader, call me, I’ll slow down. in case you missed it, I;m writing about my generation. Actually, almost all of my blogs do likewise.


The Kids Are Alright.


“I don’t mind, other guys dancing with my girl. That’s fine, I know them all pretty well.”


One big difference in social issues, aside from turning on, tuning in and dropping out was that in the 1960’s, when The Who, David Bowie, Queen and The Grateful Dead  were redefining acid rock, pretty young things were experimenting with their sexuality as much as they were with drugs, music and, thanks to geniuses (literally) like Jim Morrison, poetry.

When people shared, they really shared. Personal protection used to be a can of mace and a switchblade. Pretty young things carried copies of Jack Kerouac’s “On the road”. Testosterone toughies were singing along to Surf City… “Two girls for every boy”. Dreams of Shannon Tweed danced in their heads.


Who Are You?


“I woke up in a Soho doorway, a policeman knew my name. He said “You can go sleep at home tonight, if you can get up and walk away.””.


Okay. There were a few problems during the 60’s and 70’s. It wasn’t perfect. Close, though. Sex was rampant, pot was rampant, music was phenomenal. Now, the bad things. Too much time spent partying meant that a great portion of the working force now had the IQ of an Australian ding-bat. The term “natal alcohol syndrome” was coined. The best rock and roll minds of all time died. Think Elvis, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Buddy Holly and the rest of the cast of the Day the Music Died.

Yet still, when I hear Roger Daltry ask me “Who the fuc# (that # is actually a k) are you?” I still respond…

“A fan. A die-hard hippie, but, mostly, a fan.”

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