I Was a 12 Year Old Rock Star

I am about to file away all music, regardless of floormat(wait!!) format. The above character is Yngwie Malmsteen. If you like to pronounce names with a foreign accent, then say “Ingvay, Melmsteen”. The other referred to recording involves my very own personal song “Insomnia”. If you read my book, you’ll come to a fuller sense of terms in that regard. With Yngwie, as long as you’re into classical, even just a bit, especially if you like to close your eyes and wave your hand around, this is the guy for you. His mind blowing, and so very well strained notes, are nearly cosmic in content. He not only outdoes Hendrix, and Eddie Van Halen, he takes the entire experience to another level. He finally got a vocalist. The “Collection” does then, highlight the work of both. When a guy is going for a putt, and I drive by (without my hearing aids on), could he even keep going? I peeked over and the answer was no! He did have to pause. At least just he decided to, anyway. With MegaDeth, when chillin’s under 12 can hear “Into The Arena”, and then “Crush, Crush ’em, I sing loudly “ORANGE CRUSH,…CRUSH ‘EM. dOO, DOO, DOODOO. In the meantime, I had forgotten how much that I really, truly was into the whole music thing. I now have 4 mondo “bar-type” speakers in their original boxes. Along with those, and the 24 speaker surround-Sound system, I have three tuners. Those are used to tune in your radio station of choice. The company that is surprisingly based in Japan, specializes in super cheap equipment, that wouldn’t quite stand up to the highest quality playback, created for genuine, and sincere audiophiles. I actually slept very well last night, and will go out to mortar seal the initial brick work that was completed just yesterday. The big corner of it all is next. I will walk the trails later that may include a stray turkey, or so, and a few does added in on the side.

From The UnFinished Book of Even More partly written poems/song lyrics; How long until the petals drop, now so well fastened until they stop, we’re in the season’s flowing stream, and within the fading sunlight’s beam, a spark of virtue that we will feel, with tempered hearts so well sealed, so quickly across, that we hop, always feeling well and distinctly at the top, yet in failing while the balloons now pop, we’ll scramble, we’ll wrangle as though we’ll never stop.