Musing: The Song Remains The Same for the My Little Pony Tillerman.

Masters of the Universe, My Little Pony, Jem, and RockLords.  I wasn't quite ready for ninja-action Katie, and then there was Bill on Bold and the Beautiful, and the other dude, the poacher.  It causes a silence to mention poaching too, when dealing with My Little Pony.  Have Bookends, Will Travel.  Trying not to pinch their little arms off, but its fun, kind of half-holding the breath and moving their little appendages.  Precious moments, you know, a boy at play, a boy in his Big Boy pants, trying to behave like one.

I had noted something of Ronna McDaniel's GOP, and I don't really vote in that; think its kind of Texas Chainsaw Massacre instead of McNeil-Lehrer, yer know.

Gordon Lightfoot kicked the bucket yesterday, and this after I heard Carefree Highway over this past weekend on Classic AT40 rebroadcasts.  I got it stuck in my head, and I was going along, kind of a faster tempo than Arlo Guthrie, and with more of a Boz Scaggs vibe than anything else, and Cat Stevens, too, was on that AT40.  Reminds that I've got to buy Tea For The Tillerman, the seminal Cat Stevens album.

Its all part of a slight diversion into songerwriter-singers of the 1970s, like Dave Loggins, and I'm after his album too.

I had a Eudora Welty on my hand from a booger trying to slap my nachos out of my hand, and I had queso, too, in the little side-cup, and the f*cker kept slapping until there it was, a livid little mark across the top of my hand, kept slapping, even after the moment was gone and any surprise had long since been eulogized.  Heck, the surprise was rotting in purgatory, and me just looking, like I was a cigar store indian or something, half in surprise, and not even brainworked any indignation yet.  I was thinking of a JJ Dillon thing, pulling my change from my pocket, that in my fist, and punching him in the forehead, just a kind of acknowledgement, you know, a kind of, not compensation, but a way of, in the vulgar, waving one's hand back in greeting, how they understood things.

My Little Pony had a magnificent butterfly stencil brand on its thigh, like a porn star of the rodeo world.  And a nice little dyed mane.  I've always held that John Wayne was not the great Gay Cowboy, but Gene Autry, mostly on the feeling of mistrust of his motive, that he just bursts out in song during ordinary social stuff, even Christmas songs and stuff, and I just roundly do not trust that guy.  If I were in Uganda, or even Florida, I could ban him from the library, or even use state medical offices to cure him of his proclivities and inclinations.  So Gene Autry is like the Bud Light of the stable, but without much care for his own appearance.

It reminded me of The Song Remains The Same, where Jimmy Page was wearing like a magician get-up, and what's fine and proper, showman stuff for a whacked-out classic rocker, might not be so much in line with what executives select for the wardrobe of the matinee star.  In fact, magician outfit Jimmy Page and ninja-action Katie would be kind of cool, kind of nice synthesis of effect, a kind of Frederico Fellini and his muse, and his violin bow, feathering, like strands of her hair.