How Soon Is Now?


I notice what I don’t see. One daughter’s karate, no fathers. Another daughter’s school event, few fathers. My oldest daughter’s cheerleading competition with hundreds of parents in attendance, and you can count the fathers on one hand.

I’m not better than anyone. I am there. Where are the others? Don’t they know that’s how strippers are made?

The children know when you aren’t involved. The girls forget nothing. Work is important but nothing exceeds your kids’ happiness.

“It’s just one thing”.

That’s the lie some tell to feel satisfied as a parent. How Soon is Now? Now is when they need you.

*****blogger’s note****

This is my response to velvet’s 100 word challenge The One word prompt is SATISFIED.

Today’s song is one of my favorites. It’s a way to interpret the post. Laziness, lack of attentiveness, avoidance, it’s all an excuse. The Smiths once asked How Soon Is Now? to explain their feelings about politics, relationships and life. I use it to ask about fatherhood.

Here’s one of the greatest guitar riffs of all time….

The Sun, The Moon and The Stars


Last time with Helene Troy:

On the train, Helene looked in her backpack and found a notepad and a broken pencil with just enough lead to write a few sentences. A melody wandered through her head. She clumsily sounded it out, “num nuh do dah oh, wah bah dum dah.” It wasn’t working. She and Sadie could strum out the melody on acoustic guitars at Mickey’s Bar & Grill later, Helene thought.  She scribbled lyrics.

It’s my dream not yours, you can’t hate something that cures, the disease that wakes me at midnight, burning up from white hot light, that leaves me with scars. I’m not asking for much. I just want the sun, the moon, and stars.”

Helene put the jagged pencil to her forehead. She watched strands of brown hair fall over her hand. She moved the pencil behind her left ear and grinned coyly. The train stopped and she got off a few blocks from Mickey’s. Helene sat on a dusty silver bench next to a trash can. She wrote again.

“failure means doing nothing at all. It’s ridiculous to say music is my call. But I live to play, I can’t deny. Maybe I shouldn’t do something that makes me cry. I’m sick of the struggle. I’m sick of the bars. I’m not asking for much. I just want the sun, the moon, and the stars.”

Helene dialed Mickey’s.

“Hey, I’m going to work through my first break. I’m coming in a few minutes late. I have to do something really major. Bye.”

Helene walked up to the street and down 37th about two blocks. She excitedly opened the door to Ajax Tattoo & Piercing.

“I want the sun, the moon and the stars in black and white on my left wrist. I want to see it when I play guitar.”

*****blogger’s note****

This is a new story episode of The Ballad of Helene Troy. The rest of the story, so far, can be found here: This episode is my response to my friends at

Red Writing Hood – Tattoos

This week we asked you to write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – in which a tattoo figures prominently. We wanted you to explore the many facets of tattoos: why someone would get them, what the meaning was, what the tattoo says about them. Word limit was 300.

Today’s song is mood music for what Helene was going through. I’m not an Augustana fan. They’re ok. I liked Stars and Boulevards when it came out about five or six years ago. It sort of fits here. Plus, I haven’t herad it in a while. Weird how you think of songs, sometimes? Here’s Augustana’s Stars and Boulevards.

Just A Girl


Last time with Helene Troy: New Episode:

In the webbed pocket of her little black backpack, the duct taped repaired cell phone vibrated. Annoyed and emotional, Helene carelessly grabbed for the phone. She noticed the number and gasped, fumbling the phone out of her hands. It flew down the stoop, settling between a steel girder near the turnstiles. Helene panicked. She saw the phone open as it found it’s place. Ramona Gallery was on the other end. Helene dove to the ground, pushing her chest against the cold concrete.


Helene called helplessly into the dark crevice as she reached her hand through trash and dirt to pick it up.

“Hey dear, yeah, it’s me. Are you working? You sound really far away?

The hard, cold ground chilled her entire body. Yet, beads of sweat formed over her brows as she desperately tried to reach the phone.

“Uh, yeah, I mean, no, well, I’m on my way. I’m in the train station and it’s hard to hear. Can I call you in a few minutes?”

Helene stopped trying to grab the phone and moved her arms to her side so she could manuever the left side of her head closer to the phone. She looked like a seal sliding to catch a fish. Ramona continued.

“Can’t do it, Leney. I’m playing in Long Island tonight and tomorrow, but I’ll be back in the city for your show Friday at the Drunk Rhino. I only want to see my girl, though. I’m too old for drunk dudes and shitty cover acts. I know that’s bitchy, but I’ve earned my old lady crotchiness.”

Helene laughed. She was thankful for duct tape and a good phone speaker.

“Oh my God Ramona, you’re not old. I don’t want to hang around drunk guys and shit bands either. I can’t wait to see you. Afterward, you want to go to The White Room across the street and drink some beers?”

Her head was wedged almost inside the area between the girder and the stairs. Ramona answered.

“Honey, I’ll call you. That sounds a hell of awesome maybe. Get a new phone. This is the 21st century. Well someone told me it was. Go catch your train. Bye Leney.

Helene reached into of her little black backpack and took out a white t-shirt. She balled it up and used it to fish out the phone. Then, t-shirt smudged with black filth, she wiped the side of her face and her phone.

“I can’t believe Ramona fucking Gallery is going to see me play!” She shouted. Helene got onthe train and sat next to a black and white poster of the New York skyline. It looked like the glamorous city she daydreamed about growing up in Pennsylvania. In the moment,Helene Troy couldn’t stop smiling.

*****blogger’s note****

This is a new story episode of the novella I’m writing about a female rock musician named Helene Troy. The rest of the story so far is here: 

This is also my answer to my Indie Ink Challenge of  “black and white” from LiLu: and I challenged the superhero Supermaren – eith “blue skies and palomino ponies”

I’m also guest posting over at vie’s place. My 7 yr old got a great review from first grade today. She’s a writer like dad. I wrote about that.:

Today’s song is one of the few Gwen Stefani things I associate with. This was 16 yrsago when she was still that spunky ska chick from Anaheim who wore pants and sports bra and jumped around a lot. I imagine this song playing a lot around the women I live with as they go about their lives not needing a dude for anything except me, of course. This song just ran through my head as I wrote Helene’s next scene. Here’s No Doubt and pre Hollaback Girl Gwen with Just A Girl.

“Girls Are The Bunk”


I was going to show you a new Helene Troy story episode themed “black and white” after my prompt. I literally dotted the eyes and crossed the t’s in my notebook and tracked down the song. As I closed my computer I saw this commerical during a break in the Cardinals blow out win over the Brewers NLCS baseball playoff game:

So Dr. Pepper has a new diet cola, “10”, that has ten calories. They’ve decided that only men should drink this product. I’m fascinated by this advertising strategy. This is how I imagine the braintrust came up with this idea.

I’m a man. I realize I live with 4 women, write constantly about it, have a majority of blog readers who are women, and I know more about bras and femine hygiene products than most dudes. But, thank goodness I finally have my own drink!

I’ve been a Dr. Pepper fan since I was a kid. Like Forest Gump, I once drank about 15  Dr. Peppers’ and then had to pee.

So, dudes who read this blog raise your right hand.

Let’s pledge to not let any women drink our Dr. Pepper 10s because “girls are the bunk”.

ps……..Dr. Pepper 10 tastes like crap.

The late great Bill Hicks said best about advertising and marketing:

******blogger’s note****

Helene Troy story episode for Indie Ink prompt later today, pinky swear…..

Today’s song, or at least the one for this post is from Joe Jackson. It’s ironic, like this post. Here’s I’m The Man:

Instant Karma


I need to make an apology.

This past weekend, John Lennon would’ve been 71 years ago. He was killed by a horribly disturbed man with a gun in December, 1980. I didn’t appreciate Lennon like he deserved. I grew up in suburban Atlanta, Georgia. The conventional wisdom of my region at the time was John Lennon was a henpecked husband, has been artist, annoying commie hippie who was vastly overrated. The more I think about it, and the more time educates, the same things could be said about me. Well, I’m not a has been anything. I’m more of a wannabe or never was. Lennon’s attitude of everyone just getting along seemed trite and impossible.

A lot of bloggers use their sites to make themselves look good or inflict damage on others. When 30 days of Shameslessness came about a couple of months ago, I saw “talk about some crap that was done to you” and rubbed my hands together like a silent movie villain. The truth is, I don’t care about the crap that was done to me. Those people have to look in the mirror, hope there’s a reflection, and figure out a way to live with their guilt.

I was in the car with my 8 year old at the end last week, either Thursday or Friday, and John Lennon’s Instant Karma came on an oldie radio station. She kept flipping the stations, almost stayed on a Katy Perry abomination, and instead, she went back to Lennon. She didn’t say anything, she just listened. I wondered if she remembered I played Lennon’s music when she was a baby and sang his songs, along with the other Beatles’ when she was a baby. During her first three years of existence, I dealt with a crumbling marriage and horrors after leaving it. Last year, at this time, I went through another bad experience and leaned on The Beatles and Lennon’s solo stuff.

John Lennon wasn’t supposed to die. He was happy when he was gunned down. He had repaired his marriage to Yoko. He was a good father after being a bad one for many years. His Double Fantasy album was getting critically acclaim. He was only 40 years old, basically the same age I am now. John, if you read blogs from Heaven, I want to say, I’m sorry for waiting 30 years to really honor you and your amazing art.

Yesterday, I wondered, if something happened to me would I be okay with what I’ve done and how I’ve done it. For the first time in my 41 years, I can honestly say yes. Can you?

****blogger’s note****

Because of a new, awesome, writing assignment for I am slightly behind on new Helene Troy and Indie Ink. I’m combining the two and you will see it tomorrow morning, pinky swear. Here is my new post for viehebdomadaires:


Today’s song is John Lennon being poignant, sarcastic, and straight. Here’s Instant Karma.



After a two month absence, the story returns. Last time on Crazy Robot Stories:

“He”ll come for us. “

When Lucas Bonner spoke, he was colder than the November North Dakota wind.

“Caleb, Breann, Bruce, and I; Connor Bulas owns us. Bruce wants to go home. I told his family I would deliver him, dead or alive. So, we need to drive now.”

I looked at Breann and Gavin, who had been outside surveying the compound for over two hours. Gavin pointed at a large silo in the middle of the land, about 300 yards away.

“There’s security everywhere but that silo. It’s a drive thru type. If we can make it there, close the doors, we can buy a few minutes head start to the highway.”

Breann grabbed my hand. Her small fingers were like icicles. She leaned into my left ear. Her soft, white skin made me jumo because of it’s startling coldness.

“I think we should split up. Put you and I with Gavin and stick Lucas and Bruce with Ava. Gavin all business and Ava might rethink making you her robot lover for life after spending time with those two freaks.”

Ava stared at Breann’s lips as she whispered to me. Gavin put everyone’s belongings into the back of his gray Ford Expedition. Ava stepped toward me and motioned me to join her inside the SUV. She acted like Ava always did and took over the moment.

“We have no time to talk. Everyone get in Gavin’s car and let’s get to that grainhouse silo. Once we get there and get those doors closed we’ll rethink the plan.”

Breann and Ava glared at each other. I was getting sick of their rivalry. Gavin and Lucas were making the most sense. I climbed into the front with Gavin. The other four piled, uncomfortably, in the back seat. As Gavin started the car, several men armed with stun guns and radio head seats ran from the building. Gavin pushed the gas pedal down Ava leaned into the front seat.

“Caleb, Gavin and I have a contact in Minot. They won’t send for us. We have to go to them. If we can make it to the Air Force base by dark, we can get all four of you medical attention. That will gain  get leverage on Doctors Anson Cluber and Connor Bulas.” 

She rubbed her long, slender fingers against my face, feeling for fever and affection. I pulled away. Ava shook her head and rolled her eyes.  
A siren went off above the auditorium we were in previously. Several men armed with stun guns and radio head seats ran from the building. Gavin jumped in the driver’s seat. Ava went to the passenger side. Lucas and Bruce stoically sat next to each other on the left side of the back seat.  Suddenly a shot went off around the car. Ava screamed. Gavin drove erratically and yelled.
“Holy shit, they shot at us.”
I didn;t see guns and as I put the window down, I heard the flat tires on the rear of the car. We had hit rumble strips or something and blown two of the four.
“Keep driving Gavin! You have enough tread to make the silo.”
I didn’t really know that but two black SUVs were now driving toward us. Lucas and Bruce were silent. Breann looked scared but smiled. As we made the door of the silo, I turned around and pointed at Lucas and Bruce.
“There’s four of us, not two!Help Breann and I get through this! We’ll take care of the Lena and Clare, but for Chrissakes, you’re still part human! You can care for more than each other!”
Lucas didn’t respond right away. Breann looked at me and mouthed “I love you.” I smiled and repeated it to her. Ava grit her teeth and looked away.
Gavin screeched the tires on the car and slid within feet of the grain elevator. Bruce opened the right rear door. H he and Lucas got out. Lucas methodically walked over to an electrical panel. He punched the metal casing and ripped the door away as if it were tinfoil. Lucas touched a red button and pulled a yellow wire. A sliding door moved from right to left and shut with crushing force. The security guard vehicles stopped. I fell from the car as my foot became caught in the door. Pellets that felt as hard as bullets indented my skin and I cried out on pain. Bruce helped me up.
“Are you hurt?”
I didn’t answer because of the pain and the shock of hearing Bruce deep, monotone voice. Breann stood next to me and spoke to Lucas.
“What are these? They’re like hard seeds?”
Lucas pulled the back of the car up with his left hand. He motioned for Bruce to do the same on the other side of the car. Lucas stared at me.
“Can you change one of the damaged tires, Caleb? We should be able to travel a few miles that way.”
I jumped underneath the back of the car. Breann helped me retrieve the jack and the spare tire. Ava emerged and looked at Lucas accusingly.
“You know what those seeds are don’t you, Lucas Bonner? It’s what makes the fusion cells inside the hearts, right?”
Lucas motioned everyone but Breann and I into the elevator, and they rose a floor. After a few minutes, different seeds, some energized and warm, dropped on the ground near Breann’s feet and my head. Then Ava shouted.
“Oh my God!
Ava and Gavin ran to the edge of the railing.
“No wonder the doctors were so mysterious about how to implant your hearts. It’s a new energy source and it’s amazing!
*****blogger’s note****
After a two month break, the Robots story is back! You can find it in full, so far here:
Today’s song is one I’ve wanted to play for a while. Our Lady Peace made some good records over the past 15 years. This is a terrific song and it fits the story. Here’s Starseed…play it loud.

Thunder Kiss 65


The chafing noise of tape to skin is awkward but I like the tiny pokes of pain. The restroom’s sour stench of urine, lysol, and anti-bacterial soap brings on nausea.  My hands are taped. The trainer shakes his head. I feel the nerves pulsate in my fingers as I clench my fists and punch. The swooshing sounds of my arms through the air is like an alarm. I’m ready. The queasiness subsides as the laces of the glove tighten around my wrists.  I feel like a warrior, weaponed for battle.

My heart races. I hear the thumping in my chest, measured but deep. The mouths of people around me move but I can’t hear them over the thunder kissing my body.  I calm, slightly, and walk slowly. The buzz of failing flourescents overhead is eerie.

Standing at the door, my mind chaoses. Voices sounding like cackling demons torment my head. Some scream doubt. Others preach violence. I breathe with conviction. The brain torment vanishes. The squeak of my boots to the linoleum floor is startling. My adrenaline increases as I kick open the heavy metal door with my left leg. The shout of a crowd lifts me as I enter.

*****blogger’s note******

Good writing plants the reader’s feet into your story.

Good writing is also concise.

So when you’re trying to decide where to spend your words – where to use the most imagery and details and senses – I say setting is where it’s at.

What do you see? What does the air feel like? Smell like? What are you stepping on? Who else is there with your character or you? Time? Weather?

In 200 words.

Today’s song was tough to choose. Do I go thunda from down unda, Thunderstruck AC/DC or something folky like The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel? I went hard freak rock. Here’s Thunder Kiss 65 by White Zombie. Slay your day.

Stereo Hearts/My Teenager’s Good & It’s All My Fault


I have been waiting three years for a disaster. My daughter, Tay, is  5’1″, barely over 100 pounds, with long blonde hair, and sparkling blue eyes of wonder. One minute she’s quiet, the next she’s embullient. Without warning she can strike. She’s fifteen years old.

I’m still waiting.

“What’s on your mind, baby.” My wife asked.

“Our daughter isn’t rebellious. She’s too good to be true. Where’s the crazy hairstyle, the out of control attitude, the unacceptable friends, the piercing we can’t believe?” I bemoaned.

“Are you really hoping Tay misbehaves? Be thankful she’s sooo good!” My wife told me.

A little over three years ago I met a 12 year old Taylor aka Tay, her now 6 year old sister Carly aka “the Goose”, and their mom, my wife, Deana aka Bobina. Everyone told me that what the Tay thought of me would determine my relationship with her mom. They were right. Tay and I got a long brilliantly. We were friends. Then, I married Bobina in November 2008 and everything changed. Tay didn’t like me anymore. I became her dad.

I started fearing her teenage years and high school. Twenty six years ago I was 15. That’s a generation ago. When I was 15 my parents took away my Whitesnake Slide It In cassette, calling it “trash”. They were strict and authoritarian. We never talked about music or sports or sex. I lived in fear of them. That sparked rebellion. I drank some, I made a few bad grades, I dated some awful girls, and I acted out. Tay does none of this.

“Don’t you think Tay is kind of boring?” I asked my wife?

“No, I think she’s 15, not like you or me at that age, and she’s amazing.” Bobina responded.

Then I talked to my daughter and found out the real reason rebellion has been squashed in my home.

“You and mom act sorta young . You joke, you’re dorky and you’re all dumb and stuff. It’s hard for me to walk around mad or rebel. Things are cool.” Tay revealed.

You’re reading that right. Because her mom and I are so awesome, Tay has no choice but to be a good kid. That’s how I took it. Ok, maybe that’s presumptous and sarcastic.

My parents did a good job raising me. I became the first person to graduate college in my entire family. By 18 years old, I was living on my own, earning my way, and considered mature. What I didn’t get from my folks that Tay and her two sisters (we have a 7 year old named Lyla aka Bug) get is affection, heart to heart talks, and understanding. My mom and dad didn’t get me or give me  break. I didn’t begin talking to them about my life until 5 years ago, when I was well in my thirties and divorced. My father and I are friends now. I didn’t see that coming.

My wife and I do act young. We have tattoos. We listen to better music than my teenager. Most of all, we talk and love our girls with as little judgement as necessary. This seed planting is bearing fruit in the form of Tay, our level-headed 15 year old.

I’m not declaring mission accomplished. The disaster could happen tomorrow. Tay has a friend who is a boy. I doubt that will end well. It rarely does. Her classes have gotten harder in her sophomore year and thus her grades are slightly lower. She doing great at cheerleading but learning to handle a tough coach and the politics that surround her sport. Last night, her mom and I handled a delicate situation with the c0ach that could have been a major problem. I think Tay is teaching her mom and I how to grow up. There will be driving and the unexpected I’m not ready to face. But, I am satisfied that my differing style of parenting from my folks is working, for now. On a recent ride home from cheerleading practice I broke down and talked to Tay about what I was writing. Her answer blew me away

“Well, you know, I’m kind of happy most of the time. You and mom don’t make me mad that much. You listen to me. You let me talk. Even when I get grounded, it’s because I did something worth getting grounded. You don’t have better music than me. My music is the best because it’s good not shocking with bad words. I mean if you want me color my hair and my finger nails black and yell at you, I’ll do it, but whatever. I want some Doritos.”

Cue the Rage Against the Machine.

****blogger’s note****

This is a guest post I wrote for katie and cortney at in late July with some slight updates.

Riding in the car yesterday listening to today’s song and then reading Dawnie’s blog –  also highlighting the song, I decided to post this.

Today’s song is something I call the compromise. I’ve tried to find music Tay and I can agree on so we can listen to stuff in the car that doesn’t make me want to punch the dashboard. I like Maroon 5. They have 2 or 3 songs per album that are decent pop records. Adam Levine sings lead for this hip hop pop tune by Gym Class Heroes. It really bounces off the radio. Tay and I love to listen  and sing along. Here’s Gym Class Heroes and Adam Levine with Stereo Hearts.

Italian Radio


She doesn’t look like a murderer. That’s my prevailing thought. I worked the New York Post’s crime beat for 8 years. None of the killers I met dyed their brown roots blonde with precision. They didn’t wear a perfectly hemmed Versace pants suit with a lightly starched white shirt that hinted B cup cleavage.

The hotel room was cold. Allison Keen had a hot morning. I didn’t blame her for wanting to turn the air conditioning low. Her day started in prison, being transferred from a maximum security facility on the outskirts of Milan, Italy. She arrived to a courthouse amidst hundreds of cameras and journalists, with the likelihood she could spend the next 28 years of her life in prison on top of the two she’d served. 

Allison Keen doesn’t notice I’ve entered the room. She’s listening to an ipod. She moves her slender figure from side to side, grooving to a song she knows by heart. I’m invading her personal moment. I’m no better than the vulturous reporters at the courthouse. I look down and wait for her to say something.

“Oh, hey. Sorry, I got distracted. I’m getting back into music.”

You know when Allison Keen is smiling. It interrupts your thinking. It’s wide and toothy, like an ivory crescent moon. I place my notebook, camera bag, and cell phone on an aged mahogany desk. The accomodations at Milan International Hotel are much better than the prison Allison was housed and the cheap motel I was in. I volley the conversation.

“What are you listening to?”

Allison grins even wider. I gather she hasn’t been asked such a warm and intimate question as that in a while.

“Blue October. It’s their first album. My sister downloaded it for me last night. Right now, anything is better than Italian radio. You’re Brenda, right, from the New York Post?”

I smirk. Not because she gets my name wrong, but because talking about music shades the fact that she’s a convicted felon, waiting to have her appeal heard. I’m not the least bit nervous. Allison Keen just doesn’t seem like a murderer.

“My name is Breann Lucos. I’ve been talking to your parents, your sister, and your lawyers. They said it would be okay to interview you before the appeals hearing and hopefully, after.”

Allison took the earbuds out, walked to the mirror above the television and looked over her pale countenance. She’s ridiculously pretty. The kind that doesn’t just win prom queen but also ends up on a movie screen.

“Hey Breann. You look tired too. Did you fly in last night?”

She’s so awkward. I’m not insulted because I look like hell. I’m figuring out what Italian prosecutors saw in the stunning American girl from Portland studying abroad for a year. Allison doesn’t talk, she spits words. She doesn’t flow, she indulges. I didn’t have to like Allison, I just had to get a feel of her and put her facts into a story.

“Yeah I’m exhausted. I was chasing some stuff in states the last couple of weeks. “

Allison sits on the edge of the king sized bed and sighs.

“Maybe we should do this interview in bed, then?”

I don’t answer. I end whatever infatuation is there and think about my questions.

“Oh my God! I’m joking. I’m kind of shot out. This whole thing has been unbelievable. I’ll sit at this desk. You sit where ever you want.”

I open my cell phone, hit the record button, and begin scribbling some details about the room and Allison in my notebook.

“Tell me how you’ve handled the last two years in solitary confinement.”

Allison looks out the window. The November sun bounces off her white skin. Her smile disappears.

“Prison approved books, pants with no strings, a hour in the sun, these are a few of my favorite things.”

The awkwardness shifts to me and I close my notebook and turn off the phone recorder. Regardless of the news of her appeal later in the day, Allison Keen, convicted murderer, would live her life with regret.

“Allison, there’s a song called Italian Radio on that downloaded album. The last line is something like ” put out your hand to meet my new lady
she’s rock and roll and she’ll save me”. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you. But, you might want to think about what will save you. I’m going through something similar.  “

Allison Keen looks through me. It’s a hollow, dead stare. For the first time, she looks like she could be a murderer.

******blogger’s note****  -

This is my answer to @IndieInk ‘s writing challenge given to me by Stiv, “these are a few of my favorite things”.

Today, Amanda Knox, a Seattle student, was acquitted of murder charges in Florence, Italy. She served 4 years in jail. I believe she was innocent. Yet, some of her actions were very stupid. My piece is fiction. It’s told through the point of view of my Breann Lucos character from Crazy Robot Stories

Today’s song is the one mentioned in the piece, Blue October’s Italian Radio. The lyrics are very good.

The Death of You and Me


I write a lot. So, as a break for you and me; I’ll show you some pictures of my weekend.

My 15 year old daughter, Taylor aka Tay, attended her second homecoming dance. I may or may not have shed a tear or 37. She’s growing up so quickly. Moments like these make me realize how little time I left with her in the house as my daughter.

To get me over it a little, my wife and I went to Spirit Halloween, a costume shop near the Mall of Georgia. We are headed to a Halloween party in 3 weeks. I give you Hercules and Venus, The Goddess of Love. I know what you’re thinking, keep thinking it.

Today’s song is lyrically perfect and brand new. One of my favorite songwriters, Noel Gallagher, formerly of Oasis, has a new album coming out on the 17th. Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds is going to be terrific. I’ve heard 4 tracks. They’re all good. Here’s The Death of You and Me.