Author: David Jacobi

I am a writer, photographer and artist. This blog will be a running commentary on country living, gardening, cooking, history, people, folklore, writing, reading, art, flora and fauna, photography, music, movies, traveling and whatever else I might be pondering off the back porch.

Wild West End

Stepping out to Angelucci’s
For my coffee beans
Checking out the movies and the magazines
Waitress she watches me
Crossing from the Barocco Bar
I get a pickup for my steel guitar
I saw you walking out Shaftesbury Avenue
Excuse me for talking, I wanna marry you
This is the seventh heaven street to me
Don’t you seem so proud
You’re just another angel
In the crowd, and I’m-

Walking in the wild west end
Walking in the wild west end
Walking with your wild best friend

Now my conductress on the number 19
She was a honey (she was a honey)
Pink toenails and hands all dirty with the money
Greasy, greasy, greasy hair, easy smile
She made me feel 19 for a while
I went down to Chinatown
In the backroom it’s a man’s world, all the money go down
Duck inside the doorway, duck to eat
Just ain’t no way
You and me, we can’t beat

Walking in the wild west end
Walking in the wild west end
Walking with your wild best friend

Darling, a gogo dancing girl
Yes, I saw her
The DJ he say, “Here’s Mandy for ya”, ha
I feel alright, saying now, do that stuff
She’s dancing high, I move on by
The close-ups can get rough, when you’re

Walking in the wild west end
Walking, walking, walking in the wild west end
Walking with your wild best friend

Walking, walking in the-

Big Softy


Between trying some fishing spots over the Memorial Day weekend we stopped at a grocery store for some items. While approaching the front of the store Shelly and I paused to look at the flowers on sale. I noticed a man with a shaved head, covered with colorful tats, maybe aged late 30’s to early 40’s bending over and touching a flower while talking to it. Like most of us who encounter crazy people in public I warily tried to ignore him, but his persistence with the flower finally intrigued me enough that I began to watch what he was doing and moved closer. He was holding a tissue to the flower, and on it was a caterpillar he was coaxing to crawl from the tissue to the flower. I was now next to him, watching the progress, and commenting about how hairy and colorful the bug was. He said he found it on the floor of the bathroom in the store. I said maybe it fell off of someone in there and he agreed. The caterpillar finally made it to the flower and I called him a big old softy and said I would have saved it too. He smiled at me and turned and walked away, triumphant with his mission.

Into the Mystic

Foghorn

The lyrics are about a spiritual quest, typical of Morrison’s work. “Bass thrums like a boat in motion, and the song comes back to water as a means of magical transformation. At the very end Van sings: too late to stop now, suggesting that the song also describes an act of love.” (Wikipedia)

We were born before the wind
Also, younger than the sun
‘Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic

Hark now, hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic

Yeah, when that fog horn blows
I will be coming home
Yeah, when that fog horn blows
I wanna hear it
I don’t have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float
Into the mystic

When that fog horn blows
You know I will be coming home
Yeah, when that fog horn whistle blows
I gotta hear it
I don’t have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float
Into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now