It was a complete obsession that led to a breakdown.

Then therapy.

Then this blog.

The book is the single greatest achievement of my life, and whether anyone recognizes that achievement or not is largely irrelevant to me. That said, I do kind of hope people will read it. . . .

I know the odds are stacked against me.

That’s okay.

You can check it out on Amazon.

Or, you can read an extended free sample here.

Also, I should mention that I’ve resolved the drinking problem I mention in the book’s description.

Below is that description—

It’s the Book with a Soundtrack!

After losing his day job as an editor, songwriter Robert Horton accepts a minimum-wage security position at a rural hospital. There, he faces off with volatile psych patients and occasionally questions his own sanity. He also meets and befriends Amelia, the beautiful and nomadic nurse who inspires him to travel, write new music, and exacerbates his alcoholism.

Horton later embarks on three cross-country road trips, traversing the Oregon Coast, seventeen other states, and New Orleans. On his “Bipolar Express” tour of the American Southwest, he visits five national parks in six days, navigates a flash flood, and often daydreams about Amelia.

Despite its heavy title, Love Songs and Suicide features hilarious anecdotes in nearly every chapter. Horton reports on his observations as a security guard, detailing his interactions with a motley crew of meth heads and certifiable lunatics. He recounts vomiting on the actress Sigourney Weaver’s mother. Other stories involve a deaf ex-professional breakdancer from the Philippines, “The Worst Wingman Ever,” and a double-dog dare at the Grand Canyon.

Told with the kind of honesty that will make readers cringe in both horror and delight, Horton delivers poignant reflections on depression, anxiety, and grief. The book is also a heartfelt love letter, dedicated to heroic healthcare workers everywhere. It contains four parts.

1. Hangovers Upon Hangovers
2. The Security Section
3. Travels, Tribulations, and a Plague
4. Hang Gliding Naked in the Himalayas

You’re welcome to come along for the ride. And unless you’re on a plane or out in public, pants are optional. Access to the book’s soundtrack is included with your purchase (details inside).

 * * *

And once more, for those interested, the Amazon link.

And here is the extended free sample.

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Love Songs and Suicide – The Book with a Soundtrack appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 7. I Need a Wife or a Chef

With the smell of marijuana lingering overhead, I eavesdropped on a conversation between two women walking behind me.

“I’ve smoked weed in public before,” one said.

“Me too,” the other replied.

“I haven’t,” I said to myself.

And as their slurred voices trailed off, I wished I’d done a little more living. I wished I had more stories and adventures in my backlog.

Kingfish offered low-price liquor and appetizers until seven o’clock. At the entrance I noticed a short Asian gal, smiling and holding an armful of menus. For reasons I can’t logically explain, she terrified me. My social anxiety—a disorder I’ve suffered from since the age of twelve—still has the capacity to control my behavior; the disorder often manifests at random and absurd moments when no real threat exists.

The bar wrapped around the corner onto the next block. I stopped to regain my composure. Peering through a window, I noted Kingfish had a comfortable but casual atmosphere, featuring an elegant liquor display, brick walls, and soft lighting.

I reversed course. The 22-year-old woman who’d intimidated me moments earlier was an amiable host. She promptly mentioned it was happy hour for another forty-five minutes and showed me to the bar, where a young female bartender took my order. Although the half-price beer was an enticing option, I decided to try something different, something that would hopefully offset, to some degree, my lack of style and sophistication.

“The Sazerac,” I said, pronouncing the drink name slowly. “Is that how you say it?”

“Yes, it is,” the bartender said.

“Just like it sounds. I’ll try that one.” The Sazerac is a signature New Orleans cocktail containing rye whiskey (or cognac), Herbsaint, and bitters.

I sipped on my classy red drink, with its decorative lemon peel floating at the surface, and reviewed Kingfish’s menu. As a clueless bachelor, I had little to no interest in fine dining. If the bartender had shoved a salty and preservative-dense Hungry Man meal in front of me, I would have been perfectly satisfied.

A friend of mine scrutinized my poor diet once. Then he issued this stern warning to me: “That shit’s going to catch up with you someday.”

I peeled open my favorite frozen dinner of all time, the Stouffer’s Lasagna with Meat and Sauce, and agreed with him. “You’re right,” I said. “I need a wife or a chef.”

No wonder I’ve been single for most of my adult life.

Over the preceding week, I’d tried a few classic New Orleans dishes, including the Jambalaya, a rice, veggie, and meat entrée, but I hadn’t exactly taken a comprehensive culinary tour of the city. On this evening I wasn’t in the mood for any sweet or spicy or slow-cooked dishes. Rather, I was in the mood for something . . . cheap.

“I’ll start with the gumbo,” I told the bartender.

In the kitchen, they kept the happy-hour favorite ready, hot, and available on-demand. I devoured my hearty bowl within a matter of minutes. It was the first meal I’d eaten that day. I was still hungry and ready for more budget-friendly cuisine, so I ordered another round of gumbo, plus a second cocktail.

When my food arrived, the attractive black woman sitting next to me commented, “First time ordering gumbo?”

She wore a revealing black dress and spoke with a neutralized Louisiana accent.

“Yeah,” I responded, shocked that she’d acknowledged my existence. “Does that surprise you?”

She shook her head kindly but unconvincingly. “You should try it with hot sauce.”

“I’m not into hot stuff.” After I silently scolded myself for that half-witted remark, I continued, “But I’ll give it a try.” I removed the Tabasco Sauce from the condiment tray in front of me.

“Just a couple drops, then stir.”

I followed her instructions. “It’s good. Thanks for the tip.”

I should have bought her a drink. But then my inner voice interrupted our conversation and delivered this monologue: She’s like twenty-seven or twenty-eight, I said to myself. That’s almost too young. I don’t even have a fucking job. Why would she be interested? Attractive black women only date confident, rich, or ripped white guys like Robert DeNiro and Jason Momoa. Is Jason Momoa part black? Is anybody watching us or judging me right now? It almost certainly won’t go anywhere. I’m leaving in two days. Maybe that’s enough time though. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I look like a slob. Why didn’t I dress better for this? I really should save my money. . . .

I swear, on some nights my subconscious mind is the worst wingman ever, there to distract and disorient me at every turn.

She rotated her barstool away from me and toward her friend. I was disappointed in myself but also relieved. At least I could say goodnight to my obnoxious wingman.

Moments later a middle-aged gentleman wearing a vintage Seattle Mariners cap strolled through the front door and took a seat next to me. I welcomed the influx of testosterone.

“I’m from Washington,” I said. “And a long-suffering Mariners fan.”

“Me too,” the man said. “What are the odds?”

He introduced himself as Andrew and ordered an old-fashioned. After no more than five minutes of introductory chatter, we established a bond and became friends—at least for the night. Andrew was an executive at the Aspen Foundation, a non-profit organization that endeavors, per its website, to address the world’s biggest and most complex problems. He was in town to oversee a community development project.

When he inquired about the reason for my visit, I told him the full story. He interjected with questions and anecdotes of his own as I described our journey and the events that preceded it.

“Have you ever seen the movie Chef?” Andrew asked.

I hadn’t. He said our story reminded him of the film, which chronicles a father’s cross-country road trip with his son.

Recently I saw the movie. There were parallels between the fictional chef’s trip and ours. They stopped in New Orleans and so did we. One of the chef’s specialties was brisket, and we ate brisket at a barbecue joint in San Antonio.

There were stark differences too. The chef, played by Jon Favreau, was an accomplished professional who’d previously worked at a prestigious Los Angeles restaurant. I was a flunky security guard for the worst security company in the state of Washington, if not the entire country. He was a hardcore, to-the-bone foodie. As I said earlier, I’m a guy who’d be content eating frozen dinners forever. And you recall the title of this chapter, right?

But Andrew was ultimately correct. The fundamental themes of both stories were the same—family, the pursuit of happiness, and redemption.

The bartender asked me if I wanted another drink. “Sure,” I said, intoxicated. “I think I’ll try an IPA this time.”

“That one’s on me,” Andrew said.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” I objected.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you.”

On television—just a few weeks prior to Kobe Bryant’s premature and tragic death in a helicopter crash—LeBron James and the Los Angeles Lakers faced off against Brad Stevens’s Boston Celtics. With roots in both New England and the Puget Sound area, Andrew supported Seattle’s Mariners and Seahawks but remained a fervent Celtics fan. I don’t follow the NBA, but I knew enough about the league to maintain a basketball discussion without sounding like an idiot. Good thing, too.

The customer sitting next to Andrew was Scott Cacciola, a sports columnist for The New York Times. He and Andrew debated Boston’s playoff prospects and reviewed some other noteworthy happenings around the league. I made one respectable contribution to the conversation, referencing Seattle’s dear departed Supersonics. Scott was in town to cover the NBA debut of Zion Williamson, the number-one pick of the 2019 draft and newest addition to the New Orleans Pelicans. He’d appear in his first game the following night.

In the third quarter, Andrew announced he’d be leaving soon to catch a show at The Spotted Cat on Frenchmen Street. He described the venue as “the place in New Orleans to see jazz tonight.” Dominic Grillo, a white but not “too white” saxophonist, would be the featured performer.

Andrew encouraged us both to attend the concert. Scott politely declined, saying he had research to do back at his hotel. I have a limited tolerance for fun and people. And by now, I was fast approaching my max socialization threshold for the year. I passed as well.

Before he paid his tab, Andrew handed his card to both Scott and me. We didn’t need Scott’s card. “I’ll find ya online,” I said. And then the three of us went our separate ways, forever most likely, into the arms of the brisk and wide-open New Orleans night.

I’d posted a social media update earlier that day. On my bus ride back to the RV park, I received a message from Cassie, a nurse and one of my former co-workers. “I’m glad you are having such a wonderful journey,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m shitfaced on a shuttle after another day of heavy drinking in the French Quarter and in the midst of a midlife crisis, but it’s all good.”

“Why are you having a midlife crisis?”

“I’m 35 with no career, no wife, no kids, no career, and no prospects.” I said career twice, probably because I was drunk—or maybe it was a Freudian slip of sorts.

“I’m 29 and have two kids with two deadbeats. It could always be worse.” She added an “lol” at the end of her message.

We hit a pothole. As I favored my injured shoulder and moaned quietly, I realized I’d been living my life under a flawed supposition, commonly held by drunks and depressives, that my pain was special or unique somehow.

I didn’t text Cassie back until around midnight, after making a stop at the RV park’s bar. “Yeah, I don’t know who has it worse,” I said. “But you deserve better and at least you have cool kids! Hopefully I can sleep this off. Talk to you later.”

* * *

In March of 2020, at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, I wrote a thirteen-thousand-word blog post chronicling my Big Easy benders and experience. For this book I condensed that blog post down to seven thousand words.

Up next, in part two, I’ll introduce you to heroic medical professionals, a motley crew of meth heads and certifiable lunatics, and other characters who changed the trajectory of my life and travels. My search, for the purposes of this book, began in New Orleans and continued all through the plague era. But my story begins in Washington State.

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post I Need a Wife or a Chef – New Orleans Travelogue Part 7 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 6. American Spirit

A dozen horse carriages formed a queue in front of Jackson Square, one of the most famous landmarks in New Orleans.

I walked past a bald and disheveled coachman (horse-carriage driver). He had as much zeal for his profession as your average sewer cleaner or vice principal. I assumed he was, at minimum, a registered sex offender in the second degree. Right or wrong, I decided at that moment that if I had children, I would not take them on any carriage rides, ever.

The iconic statue of Andrew Jackson riding his bronze horse, sculpted by Clark Mills in 1856, adorns the center of Jackson Square. It’s surrounded by immaculately maintained greenery, a walking path, and quaint park benches.

Past Jackson Square, in front of the imposing St. Louis Cathedral, artists and sculptors peddled their works with varying degrees of enthusiasm while a raunchy comedy troupe simultaneously performed an improvised show before a growing audience. The troupe looked like a younger version of the Hamilton cast, wearing urban attire in lieu of wigs and waistcoats.

One of their jokes featured this punchline: “I’m not gay . . . anymore.”

I continued my trek, neither amused nor offended, and meandered onward toward Bourbon Street.

Although it’s a bustling business district, the French Quarter has the feel of a residential neighborhood. More specifically, it feels like a residential neighborhood in an especially enlightened socialist country, where everyone’s either a drunkard or artist or both and nobody needs to work. Even the French- and Spanish-inspired colonial buildings have a communal vibe, with no clear exterior boundaries between many of the businesses. Each bar seemingly bleeds into the next one.

On my solo Bourbon Street shuffle that night, musicians and street performers vied for my attention. First, two sketchy buskers in ragged clothes smoked cigarettes and sang familiar tunes as tourists, including me, passed their corner quickly and avoided eye contact with them. Beneath a crowded balcony, mime-like characters posed as street workers and showcased their robotic dance formations, moving to the beat of the community’s youthful percussion section, who played intricate drum parts with their hands on upside-down buckets. A human Drew Brees statue also made an appearance, and then a little later, I watched a gangly young clown perform a card trick. People traveled freely between watering holes and restaurants, sipping on their beers and cocktails.

Music poured onto the street and reverberated through the Quarter. Coldly, I evaluated a young female singer with a pleasant but flimsy voice performing a syrupy Adele song (as they all are). I thought, from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon, I could hear something like this anywhere in America on any given night. I kept walking.

The next act who auditioned for my patronage, a middle-aged quartet, nailed their rendition of “Little Piece of My Heart” by Janis Joplin, precisely executing each of the song’s forlorn verses and rollicking choruses. But cover bands lack courage. I wanted to hear something unique, inspired, and bold.

At The House of The Rising Sun, a bar I’d already passed once, a three-piece band played a funky and jazzy song I’d never heard before. That was a point in their favor. The singer-guitarist lacked technical prowess with both his voice and instrument, but he had character and spirit, the only two non-negotiable job requirements for frontmen (and frontwomen).

I’ve always been a sucker for songs that swing, and I appreciated the way their hipster drummer extended his downbeats. When the black trumpeter emerged from his post behind the drum kit and launched into a solo, I promptly entered the bar and ordered a drink.

Inside, near the stage, a voluptuous middle-aged woman with short black hair “twerked” on her male companion. She wore an extra-tight cabaret outfit. The woman’s enormous breasts and backside enveloped her partner’s pint-sized body like a total eclipse. I couldn’t help but stare for a moment. Good for them, I thought. And by the way, twerking was invented in New Orleans. I’ll present more insightful historical and cultural commentary in my next travel section, none of which will involve twerking.

I enjoyed the band’s set, despite not knowing any of their songs. Just after I put three bucks in their tip bucket, the trumpeter stepped out for another extended solo; this time he walked through the room seeking donations. He hadn’t seen me make my contribution, so I pretended to use my phone for something urgent when he passed my bar stool—not once, but twice.

The band announced they’d be taking a break after the trumpeter finished his solo. I polished off my second beer and plotted out my next solitary adventure.

As I exited the House of the Rising Sun, I saw the band again outside. The singer opened a fresh pack of Blue American Spirit cigarettes, my old brand, and handed out smokes to his comrades.

At that moment I was transported to another place and time. I recalled my ill-fated stint in Nashville when I, like the three men in front of me, was a young musician and smoker, attempting to succeed against impossible odds. My not-so-wild nights on the Nashville bar scene, solo with social anxiety, usually ended at the John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge, which connects downtown with the football stadium across the river.

It was the winter of 2006. I wore a ridiculous ensemble more often than not: a black cowboy hat, navy sport jacket, and khakis. Back then I only chain-smoked when I was near water—not after sex because there wasn’t much sex or after any other occasion.

To cap my nights, I’d savor two cigarettes while gazing back and forth between the Cumberland River beneath me and Nashville’s illuminated skyline. I was certain I’d conquer Music City someday and had nothing but time, with no concerns about male pattern baldness, retirement, or lung cancer.

In front of the House of the Rising Sun, it occurred to me that I hadn’t lived all that much in the thirteen years since I’d left Nashville. So I still had nothing but time; and that was a comforting thought. I had my whole life and many happy hours ahead of me.

Speaking of happy hours, if I wanted more discounted booze and a five-dollar bowl of gumbo, I had to act fast.

Next → Chapter 7: I Need a Wife or a Chef

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post American Spirit – New Orleans Travelogue Part 6 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

I completed the rough demo for “I Can’t Make You Stay,” a song I wrote shortly after learning of her terminal diagnosis (recording below). It’s about death as much as it is about love, to me anyway, and it’s perhaps my best work to date. 

In no more than three minutes, I plucked the song’s chorus out of the ether with practically no revisions needed. Definitely the coolest moment I’ve had as a songwriter. 

Finally, a little later on an Independence Day run, I encountered a terrified, lost dog wandering the streets amidst the fireworks and chaos. No one in that immediate area wanted to help her so the task fell on me. I improvised…

Using my $9.99 earbuds as a leash, I walked her home — a mile-plus trek — and quickly located her owner via the Nextdoor app. 

July 5: My grandma died, around 0900. I was sad and undoubtedly shed some tears, but I knew the prognosis and I was prepared. 

She led a remarkable life and enjoyed 84 complete years, along with five tolerable years in a nursing home after her stroke, which she devoted almost entirely to her family and church. 

As I said in my eulogy a few weeks later, she was the most selfless and overall the best person I ever knew. Brief, upbeat excerpt attached. 

July 6th: Midnight. In grief and running on no sleep, I worked the graveyard security shift at a rural hospital in Northern Washington State — an ill-advised maneuver on my part, perhaps.  

During a shift I’ll never forget, the staff sparred over how to manage unruly guests, I smoked my first two cigarettes in as many years, and the frosty 22-year-old receptionist told me I was “too compassionate” to be an effective security guard. 

I remember spending a good chunk of the night hiding in the hospital’s boiler room, staring up into rafters and feeling like I was underwater. 

Also, the hospital’s house supervisor unknowingly quoted the title of my newest song. 

Speaking to a disgruntled, unstable patient who’d sustained a drunken injury on the Fourth of July, he tried to assuage her many concerns as she threatened to leave (again) and sought treatment simultaneously (again). 

“I can’t make you stay,” he told her flatly, attempting to conceal his frustration. 

Unbelievably, that was the first time I’d ever heard anyone utter the phrase. 

Fate? Happenstance? A message from beyond? None of the above? Who the hell knows. 

Three years later I still miss my grandma. And I tell the full story behind it in my book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. 

You can check out “I Can’t Make You Stay” below.

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Grand Finale: Three Unforgettable Days in July (a Story and a Song) appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

A Productive Week

I wrote “Because You Love Me” and “Mesmerized Again,” another song from the Love Songs and Suicide soundtrack, within the span of about 5 days. It was perhaps my most prolific burst of songwriting ever. I worked on them both simultaneously and didn’t find extensive editing to be necessary with either song.

The Inspirations

1. Lady Gaga gets a partial credit for the inspiration.

Ooo, La, La, it’s Ga Ga!

I remember really digging her song “Million Reasons.” To me, it was a song more about death than love, but I do have an affinity for all things macabre so my interpretation could be misguided.

2. My Grandma

At 81-years-old, she was still in remarkable shape in the above pic and had just ascended a gauntlet of outdoor staircases, starting from the Stadium, to see the UW campus. She’s the reason I applied for college in the first place, and undoubtedly the only reason I attended my graduation…

Yeah, pretty random inspirations!

My grandma, of all people, whose presence is felt throughout many of my songs in one way or another (more on that later, perhaps), also played a pivotal role in this song’s creation.

I’ll talk about grandma first, then Gaga…

2012 Stroke

My grandma had a massive stroke in 2012 which eventually landed her in a nursing home. In the immediate aftermath, my dad and I drove 1,000+ miles to see her, knowing there was a chance she’d perish while we were en route.

When we arrived, she was fighting for her life in a hospital, having just had a stent put in her brain via emergency surgery which some members of my family opposed for various reasons.

We entered the room. With an array of tubes and monitoring equipment beeping near her beside, my cousins and aunts surrounded her.

“Here comes Bobby,” they told her; Bobby was my early-childhood name that only a few people on this planet are still allowed to call me. God I hate it….

Before I caught a glimpse of her, she said, “Let me see him.”

I reluctantly waded through crowd, not knowing what to expect. Then, with her voice weakened and slightly slurred from the medications and anesthesia, she said, “He needs a…”

She’d always looked vibrant and young relative to her age, but at that moment, for the first time, she looked emaciated and like the elderly woman she was. She repeated, “Oh, needs a…”

Then finally, she blurted it out, “He needs a haircut.”

And everyone laughed. What an icebreaker!

I had longish hair through most of my 20s — never as long as this! My grandma hated it. To appease her, I would typically get it cut, or at least trimmed, prior to my visits.

The next thing she told me, which I’ll never forget because it’s one of the nicer and more poignant statements anyone’s ever made to me was, “You’re so special and you don’t even know it.”

She repeated while starting to tear up, “You don’t even know it.”

I don’t believe it’s true, but then again, I’m something of an existentialist and I don’t really believe anyone’s special. Dust in the wind, my friends, dust in the wind.

Perhaps I need a more uplifting worldview. That is one of only a handful of memes I’ve ever posted on facebook, for the benefit of my 39 friends, and counting! It received one, very lonely like…

I digress.

My grandma’s one of the few people who believed in me in this life. She died a few months before I completed this song, and I thought I’d include the line, “You don’t know just how special you are” as an acknowledgment to her. It’s not a momentous line or moment necessarily, but as I said, her presence is felt throughout the song. I’m sorry she never got to see me succeed, or be particularly happy, or give her the great grandchild she’d always wanted.

Aroused By Gaga (But Not in that Way)

Prior to writing “Because You Love Me,” I’d just listened to Gaga’s song, “Million Reasons,” a tune that features perhaps the most commonly used chord progression of the last 100 years, the 1-6-4-5 progression (in the key of G, that’s G-em-C-D).  It’s been used a million times. And even if you know nothing about music, chances are you know what a G chord is, right? Good.

This 1-6-4-5 sequence is sometimes regarded as the “doo wop” chord progression, due to its ubiquity in the 50s. Some of the most popular songs of the last century use this progression, including “I Will Always Love You,” “Every Breath You Take,” “Stand by Me,” and my favorite song of all-time, “Unchained Melody,” to name a few.

So yeah, I’d never written a song that employs that chord cycle, and I just decided after hearing “Million Reasons” that I needed to take that progression for a spin. Perhaps genius would strike and I’d write an undeniable, million-dollar hit song!

No such thing happened, but the end result was respectable nevertheless.

Not Enough Great Duets

I’ve always wanted to write a quality duet — that was my other motivation at the start.

Let’s face it: There simply aren’t enough great songs for love-drunk and just-plain-drunk couples to butcher on karaoke nights! Sure, there’s “Shallow,”  another Gaga song, and “I Got You, Babe,” and “Endless Love,” and all those cheesy Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers numbers. But what the fuck else is there? Not much!

I came up with the line “I’ve always been hard on myself” and the rest of the song followed pretty quickly. I was in a receptive mood and didn’t feel like too much editing was necessary once the initial “flow” was complete. I could be wrong in my assessment. It’s my least favorite of all I paid 3 grand to have produced professionally, by a considerable margin. But it’s mine, and I stand by the words and music.

And that’s the story behind, “Because You Love Me.” The song is below.

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post “Because You Love Me” – How My Grandma and Lady Gaga Inspired the Sentimental Duet! appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

“I do take pride in my grammar!” Claire responded.

We’d been going back and forth for a few days on the app. After conservations about my book, her “empire-building” business selling athletic wear, and our favorite weekend activities, I asked Claire on a date. I knew she enjoyed beach bars and lived about a half hour away from me, in St. Augustine, FL, the nation’s oldest city. “Pick your favorite beach bar,” I told her. “And the drinks are on me.”

“Sounds good!” Claire said, and we agreed to meet at the Salty Dog in St. Augustine that Friday night.

I texted her upon my arrival. She’d already eaten dinner at the bar/restaurant with her parents. I met her mom briefly, who was a tiny and well-dressed lady in her 80s.

“Your mom is very cute,” I said to Claire, once we took our seats.

Claire laughed and agreed.

She was in her early 40s and actually looked better in person than she did in her profile pictures, which impressed me because many singles on the dating apps transform like a werewolf under the light of the full moon when you see them in real life—and that’s one reason I felt comfortable having the lady from Bangladesh touch up my profile pictures.

Even though I’m usually pretty oblivious when it comes to fashion (I once wore a ten-dollar T-shirt to a funeral), I couldn’t help but notice Claire’s ensemble, which featured designer jeans and a modest white top. With a slim and toned body, her sun-kissed neck and wrists were decorated with a dazzling array of pricey jewels,

It was a cool evening by Florida standards, with a temperature around 60 degrees.

There were only two seats available at the outdoor portion of the bar, one of which was positioned in front of a massive and grotesque cement pillar.

I sat in front of the pillar, with no view of the bar or ocean or anything, really. Just the pillar. I kind of felt like I was in prison, a place I’ve never been (such an accomplishment…).

When the bartender finally noticed me, I ordered a pale ale of some kind. I had to shout my order to her because she was practically deaf. Claire ordered a second glass of wine sometime later.

Inside, at the bar’s main stage, a scruffy gentleman in ratty clothing with a tobacco-tinged voice played a solo show with his weathered acoustic guitar in the background.

Claire and I talked about work, life, recreation, and then talked about work some more.

It wasn’t exactly a riveting conversation, but it was enjoyable at times and not awkward.

We had several laughs about my seat, with its view of the massive pillar, and then we discussed music for a while.

“I’ve actually been talking with some people about starting a band,” I told her. I’d placed a Craigslist ad a few weeks earlier seeking bandmates.

“That’s interesting,” Claire said. “What type of music would you play?”

“I tend to prefer rock music, but I’ve also written country and pop and folk songs. Probably a mix of everything.”

“I love country music. I used to hate it, but now it’s all I listen to.”

“I like some country—mostly the older stuff. Are you from around here?”

“No, I’m from New York?”

“The city or elsewhere?”

“Long Island.”

“Long Island as in the Hamptons, out of curiosity?

Claire nodded. There are few more privileged places in the world than the Hamptons, home to celebrities like Jay Z and Beyonce, Jerry Seinfeld, Alec Baldwin, Gwyneth Paltrow, and many others.

At one point during our first round, I recall seeing Claire gaze disapprovingly at my black tennis shoes, which was understandable in a way (I hadn’t upgraded my wardrobe yet and wasn’t sufficiently dressed for the occasion).

A couple then sat down beside us at the bar. Claire spent the next three to four minutes chatting with the woman about jewelry and fashion. Meanwhile, I sipped on my pale ale and stared at the massive pillar in front of me…

When Claire shifted back toward me, she promptly asked, “Do you want to get out of here? I’m thinking we should go downtown. There will be more stuff happening there.”

“Sure, that sounds good to me,” I said, lying. I was expecting our date would be a basic meet and greet, but if Claire wanted to spend more time with me, I was happy to oblige her, even though I knew that we probably wouldn’t spend more than one evening together.

It would be an experiment in exposure therapy for me.

Claire not surprisingly engaged with more people as we exited the bar, spending at least five minutes with some random old dude whom she claimed was a friend.

I sat in the waiting area, which was crowded by now, and pretended to use my phone for important tasks.

Her parents—retirees, obviously—had given her a lift to the restaurant, so I’d be escorting Claire into town.

In the car I had something I wanted to show her.

“You said you were into country music. Do you wanna hear a country song I wrote?”

“What? Why aren’t we driving?” Claire asked, buckling her seatbelt.

“I just thought you might like to hear a song. My phone is old and quiet, so you won’t be able to hear it well if we’re driving or at a noisy bar.”

“Maybe later. I wanna see if make it in town in time to hear music.”

“Okay,” I said, putting my phone away while thinking, I just offered to play music for you…original music.

It was a bustling Friday night in downtown St. Augustine, the city of lights. After offering me parallel parking advice, Claire had several more of what one of my personal heroes, Larry David, would call “stop and chats.” A stop and chat is a small-talk session with an acquaintance or stranger.

Larry despises “stop and chats.” So do I.

“You’re maybe the most extroverted person I’ve ever met,” I said to Claire.

“I am really extroverted,” she agreed. “I can’t help it.”

At that moment I knew, for certain, that we were not compatible. As an extreme introvert and a “highly sensitive person,” social interactions drain me like nothing else, and there was no way I could match Claire’s energy level or tolerate her constant need to be surrounded by strangers for more than a few hours at a time.

But I had time to waste on this night, and I knew the end result of my exposure therapy experiment with Claire would be useful to me in the future, both for reference and for my own personal development.

Over the next few hours, we barhopped, engaged in more “stop and chats,” listened to mediocre cover bands, talked a little with each other, talked a lot with people in our surrounding areas, participated in a singalong, and became progressively less interested in each other.

On our way to bar number three, Claire contemplated buying a hat for the evening (one evening, specifically) because she was cold.

We entered a gift shop.

“I’ll literally only wear this once,” Claire said, as she tried on a purple beanie with a button on top. “Should I buy it”?

“That’s up to you,” I responded.

And I actually enjoyed stopping at that little gift stop with Claire—my favorite stop of the night by far. I presented several of the most tacky items I could find to her, including a pair of sunglasses with neon green rims and an oversized, brightly patterned scarf that looked like it was made from the leftovers of a 70s couch, and suggested she purchase them.

And I made her laugh once or twice.

Basically everything I did with Claire on this date—the conversations with strangers, the singing in public, the bar hopping, and all the rest—was outside of my two-inch-wide comfort zone. And that’s why this evening of exposure therapy was beneficial to me.

The more often we step outside of our comfort zones, the more we can transcend our self-imposed limitations and discover new strengths within ourselves.

The next day, I texted Claire and told her I enjoyed the quiet moments of our date—the gift shop, in particular—and sent her a link to my song. She never listened to it, ha (I can track view counts via YouTube). But she thanked me and said she had a good time. There would be no second date.

Despite being a country music fan, Claire didn’t want to hear my song, “Cuttin’ the Backwoods Down.” But it’s featured below if you feel like checking it out.

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

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The post My Date with an Extrovert from the Hamptons – An Evening of Exposure Therapy appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 5. Memories (the Morning After)

After our cruise, I don’t remember what bars we visited or what I drank that evening. All I know is that I drank far too much once again.

The next morning my dad started opening cabinets, slamming them shut, obsessively wiping down one surface after another, vacuuming, and generally making me want to kill myself and take him with me around nine o’clock, a little later than usual.

I’m a nocturnal insomniac by nature. He’s an early riser. Since it’s impractical to travel cross-country by night, we adopted a modified version of my father’s schedule, with the wake-up time delayed by an hour or two.

As I embarked on my sixth hangover in the Big Easy, I slipped through a wormhole somehow and then landed on a damned and fiery river. The devil stood by on the shore while thousands upon thousands of charred and mutilated bodies moved through the river’s swift and bone-crushing current. Beneath the sky of red and above the hopeless screams, I sat comfortably aboard the Steamboat Natchez as its sole passenger. The too-white jazz band—my entertainment for eternity—played “Oh When the Saints go Marching in” on an endless loop. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the ship offered nothing but plain mayo on its menu.

After a while I returned to New Orleans from the netherworld, unscathed. Then I rose to my feet, begrudgingly brewed the coffee, and mourned a mass murder. So many perfectly lovely and innocent brain cells had been destroyed—by me, their creator and killer!

Once the coffee took effect and quelled my homicidal urges, I read a few chapters of The Giver, the classic young-adult novel by Lois Lowry. All my middle-school teachers had tragically omitted the title from their reading lists. The book was free, courtesy of the Snohomish County Public Library System and Hoopla, an e-book provider.

In brief, The Giver is a dystopian novel about an insulated community, lacking color, culture, and terrain. A mysterious committee governs everything from the weather to each individual’s occupation. The society has one designated historian, known as the Receiver of Memory.

There’s a scene in The Giver where the title character, who deals exclusively with classified materials and works in isolation, describes the most depleting responsibility of his job. Speaking to his trainee, the future Receiver of Memory, The Giver says, “The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”1

I stopped reading and bookmarked the page.

Hungover in New Orleans, I realized I’d been hoarding most of my best stories and recollections, including a story I’d started writing the previous year that recounted the sad and surprising origin of “I Can’t Make You Stay,” a song I wrote while working at the hospital. Perhaps it’s time I share some of my memories, I thought.

I forced myself into action later that afternoon, despite my aching head and body and diminished brain capacity. At four o’clock I caught our RV park’s courtesy bus and headed back to the French Quarter, solo this time, and then set out for Woldenberg Park on the Mississippi River, a place I’d already visited once.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to large bodies of water, oceans especially, but also lakes and rivers with certain intangible characteristics. I’m a nonbeliever. And unlike seemingly every twenty- and thirty-something woman who’s ever done a downward dog, downloaded a meditation app, or read an Elizabeth Gilbert book, I don’t even consider myself “spiritual,” whatever that means. Still, when I gaze upon a dazzling blue sea or larger-than-life river such as the Mississippi or Columbia, I feel, if nothing else, a benevolent force at work.

My dour mood lightened as I observed the whirlwind of activity along the waterfront. There were tourists on phones, babies in strollers, runners on steroids, lovers, drunkards, and transients too. The Crescent City Connection Bridge, one of man’s many responses to the Mississippi, hovered over the water with tenacity and elegance in the distance.

Homely, unwieldy barges traversed the river from the north and the south, all in the name of commerce—a dated, rudimentary form of commerce. In this era of Elon Musk and artificial intelligence and the side-hustle economy, it was refreshing and beautiful to watch those anonymous crews steer their unsightly ships toward distant ports and more prosperous tomorrows.

At the Monument of the Immigrants, which depicts a young family arriving in America from an unspecified foreign land, I reflected on the polarized state of politics in our country.

The crowd dispersed as sundown approached. And that’s when a familiar face emerged from the shadows. “Hey, I know where you got your shoes,” the man said. He sounded weary, like a car salesman introducing himself to a client after ten long hours in the lot.

“We met two days ago,” I reminded him. “You shined my dad’s shoes.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Mine are fine, but thanks anyway.”

“Okay, man.”

“I was impressed. It’s a good gimmick.”

“That’s it,” he said confidently. Then he walked away with his head swiveling, scanning the area for potential customers.

I stood in front of the entrance to Woldenberg Park, savoring my final moments with Ol’ Man River, my new friend. Fittingly, the guy who knew the location of my shoes photobombed my last picture of the day.

Next → Chapter 6: American Spirit

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Memories (the Morning After) – New Orleans Travelogue Part 5 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

* * *

Chapter 4. Current Events

Back on the Steamboat Natchez, after we came about and began the downstream portion of our trip, my dad went upstairs to order a Bloody Mary. Nothing on earth—except for mayonnaise, which I firmly believe should be illegal—sounded worse to me at that moment than a Bloody Mary. We had prime seats, catching heat from the winter sun and partially shielded from the jarring winds. I held my dad’s spot.

When he returned, I looked at his cocktail in disgust and said, “I’d literally rather jump off this fucking ship than drink a Bloody Mary right now.”

“Sounds like you took it a little too far yesterday,” my dad said.

“And the day before. Those pineapple drinks just about ended me. Then I kept going.”

“It seemed like she put a lot of vodka in them.”

“Way too much.”

An old-style Mississippi cruise liner with hundreds of staterooms and a patriotic paint job passed us on the left. My dad examined the ship’s layout and construction, then uttered a refrain I’d heard countless times on our cross-country expedition.

“Don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made,” my dad said. “Danny, an old friend of mine from college, was the captain of a cruise ship similar to that one. I’m sure he’s retired by now and doing much better than I am these days. But then again, who isn’t doing better than me?”

In addition to being a former lawyer, my father has many other “former” titles on his resume: boat captain, first mate, business owner, mortgage broker, and ditch digger, to name a few. His decades of self-employment and tax avoidance tactics had limited his social security contributions and jeopardized his retirement.

After my father merged onto the highway of regrets, I promptly directed him to the nearest exit with a dash of humor. “At least you still look good,” I said. “Most people your age look like shit.”

My father sighed and then took a sip of his cocktail, unamused by my snarky and hollow comment.

I continued, “And there are plenty of less successful and less fortunate people than you in the world.”

“I know,” my father said. “And look at us now, on this trip. We’re seeing places that most people will never get to see.”

As a neutered clarinet solo impotently dripped onto the deck and polluted the surrounding airwaves, another gust of cold air penetrated my hungover body. I shivered and felt violated.

The weather reminded my father of Washington. He said he missed it. I missed some of my friends, and certainly Amelia, but not the state itself. Even though I lived there for well over two decades, Washington never felt like home to me.

Maybe I used the state as a scapegoat for my lack of success in other areas. Perhaps my parents’ divorce played a role. She chose California. Like every other California castoff in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, he moved to Washington. I was their only child and picked Washington too, but only because things got too crazy in California.

We sailed past downtown New Orleans and approached the Natchez’s home port.

“I think you’ll like Florida,” my dad said. He was still considering other retirement destinations, such as Texas and Arizona, but Florida was the clear frontrunner.

A couplet from the song “Santa Monica” played through my internal sound system, interrupting the clarinet solo. I’ve rewritten that couplet to avoid fees (music publishers are rapacious scoundrels). “Santa Monica” is a song about Everclear singer Art Alexakis’s heroin addiction. While looking upstream at nothing in particular, I quietly sang, “I just wanna feel the ocean breeze. And I swear someday I will beat my disease.”

“What?” my dad asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I hate winter. Florida sounds pretty good right about now.” I wasn’t sure what I intended to do once he got settled in a new place, but I looked forward to visiting the Sunshine State.

The jazz band’s leader thanked the audience before introducing their last song, or should I say, number. “I think everyone knows this one,” he announced.

“God, they better not,” I said. “It’s too obvious. They better not play ‘When the Saints go Marching in.’”

Seconds later those first four instantly recognizable notes rang out with no lyrical accompaniment needed. “Oh, when the saints . . .”

And sure, part of me wanted to launch their goddamn instruments one by one into the river. But upon further reflection, I realized I was the one with the problem. I knew I needed to be more tolerant of jazz bands I arbitrarily dubbed “too white,” of innocent patrons at all-you-can-eat buffets on cruise ships, and of people in general.

However, apologies to you, Mr. Twain. I know I borrowed a famous line of yours in chapter one, but you were wrong and a correction is in order. No matter how far I travel in this lifetime or the next one, I will always—yes, always—be prejudiced against mayonnaise.

Next → Chapter 5: Memories (the Morning After)

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Current Events – New Orleans Travelogue Part 4 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

“The Two of Deceit” was my first new song in at least five years, maybe more.

I originally composed the track in a major key. It featured bizarre references to missions and politicians. President Obama received a shout out in this line: “Maybe you can give me some hope and some change.”

I didn’t make extensive revisions to the verse lyrics, but I moved the song from a major key to a minor key and subsequently altered the melody. On a sleepless Friday night, with two long weekend shifts ahead of me, I rewrote the song’s chorus.

Don’t you look away

Give me a chance

I’m dazed, I’m confused,

and I just wanna dance

No, this ain’t my wedding

I don’t need a gown

But man

you know I love it

when you spin me around

One more time

Blow my mind

and get up on your feet

Let’s do

the two step of deceit

In those lyrics, you may have noticed my allusion to Dazed and Confused, the classic 1993 film that chronicles a group of sex-crazed teens on their last day of high school. There’s a great scene in the movie where a character named Mike, played by Adam Goldberg, comes to terms with being a misanthrope while cruising around town with his friends, Tony and Cynthia.

Mike’s original career goal was to become a civil rights attorney and help marginalized people. Then he takes a fateful trip to the post office, where he’s repulsed by what he sees: dudes in wife beaters, exposed butt cracks, and so on. As he waits in line to send his package, he realizes he despises people and therefore has no interest in helping them.

Tony and Cynthia ask Mike what he intends to do with his life, if he’s not going to be a lawyer.

Mike leans forward and then dramatically declares his ambition. “I wanna dance!” he exclaims.

The line “I’m dazed, I’m confused, and I just wanna dance” is my tribute to Mike, the misanthrope, my favorite character from the movie Dazed and Confused.

“The Two Step of Deceit” also contains a nod to the top-selling “Girl Power” group of the ‘90s.

We can forget

about the future

Oh, I wanna be . . .

I wanna be your lover

but not under the covers

right here, honey,

you and me

The “wannabe” line is a reference to the 1996 smash hit “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls. I pretended not to like it, but I was lying. I love everything about the song—the piano intro, the interplay between the singers, the infectious groove, and the cheap and cheesy, awesomely terrible music video.

It took me ten years to finish “The Two Step of Deceit.” Given the amount of time I spent on it, the song should be exponentially better than it is, both musically and lyrically. But the result is still respectable, I think. Track below.

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post The Two Step of Deceit appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 3. Heroes, Villains, and Lawyers

A tan and handsome young man sat down beside us at the bar. He introduced himself as Robert. We bonded over our shared name and chatted about the AFC Championship Game on TV.

“You don’t go by Rob?” I asked him.

“No, I don’t like it,” he said.

“I don’t mind it. I’d just never use it officially because it sounds too ‘snowboardery’—you know, like I’m someone who hits both the half-pipe and the hash pipe a little too hard.”

Robert laughed and agreed, saying he’d had many encounters with “Stoner Robs” in his life.

The Titans took an early lead over the Chiefs. After a discussion about Chiefs running back Derrick Henry, whom Robert described simply as “a beast,” we switched gears and moved into potentially contentious territory—politics.

Robert supported Andrew Yang for president, a semi-popular nominee at the time among tech-savvy and/or clueless-gamer millennials. If the choice were between Trump and Bernie Sanders, the leader in the crowded Democratic primary race, Robert said he’d vote for team MAGA, all day, every day.

“I’m from Columbia,” he explained. “I don’t think most people who support Bernie really understand what socialism is. I lived it, and I could never vote for him.” Robert was an articulate and charismatic speaker. My father and I wanted to know more about him.

Between sips of his Whiskey Sour, Robert provided us with an abbreviated version of his biography. His family moved from Medellín—the capital of Columbia—to Miami when he was a young child.

“My dad was the second-in-command under Pablo Escobar,” Robert said.

His claim was far-fetched yet specific, and I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of it. My father and I were familiar with Pablo Escobar, the most notorious drug lord and richest criminal of all time. When we followed up with additional questions, Robert never stumbled or became flustered in his responses. His story contained detailed plotlines, with no gaping holes in them.

“What brings you to New Orleans?” I asked.

“I’m a lawyer,” Robert said. “I represent poor and other disadvantaged people facing long prison sentences for nonviolent crimes.”

Okay, that’s a plausible and commendable motive, I thought, as my internal bullshit detector simultaneously flashed and rang at a near-deafening level.

“Where do you live now?” my dad asked.

“Huntington Beach, but I do a lot of traveling for work,” Robert said.

My dad graduated from Cal Western Law School in San Diego and practiced family law in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Both of us were suspicious of Robert by now.

Next, as if we were in the courtroom as founding members of Horton and Horton LLP, a family law firm dedicated to upholding truth and justice, we went into full interrogation mode. We wanted to know if “Robert” was real or a fictional character.

“Do you practice law in California too?” my dad asked.

Robert nodded.

“Wow, any other states?”

“Massachusetts and Louisiana.”

He’d told us earlier that he was only twenty-three. “How old were you when you passed the bar exam for the first time?” I asked.

“I was sixteen.”

Wow again, I thought. “And what school did you go to?”

“The University of Louisiana for my undergrad degree and Harvard for law school.”

My father and I looked at each other in a fleeting glance. Of course he went to Harvard. We reached our verdict swiftly with no deliberations needed—guilty. Robert was completely full of shit, and we had no further questions.

Before he left, Robert insisted on buying our next round. “You don’t have to do that,” we told him, but he overruled our objection. A few minutes later, Robert stood up, casually moved toward the bathroom, took a sharp left turn, and then plunged into the stream of bodies that flowed through Decanter Street in both directions.

The next time our bartender checked on us, she noticed Robert was MIA.

“Sorry,” I said. “We’ll pay for the two drinks he ordered.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, removing Robert’s coaster from the bar. “That doesn’t surprise me. I could tell he was full of shit.”

After Robert’s sudden departure, my father and I speculated on his motives. Was he a con man looking to scam us? Did he have a more sinister objective in mind? Or was he just a sad and lonely guy seeking attention? I guess we’ll never know.

I have scattered recollections of our evening, following the fruity cocktails and our encounter with Robert, the Harvard-educated attorney from Columbia. When we got back to the trailer, I must have walked the dogs, picked up their shit in bags, and probably bitched about the cold to myself and to God. My father and I also visited The Lighthouse, our RV park’s bar and grill, for several unnecessary night caps.

Sometime later I converted our dining room table into a bed. Just eight feet away, my intoxicated 69-year-old father snored in his master suite.

I fell asleep quickly but woke up within an hour or two, around 2:30 a.m. My dusty box fan blasted cold air and carcinogens into my face, and our heating system supplied as much warmth as a dying trash-can fire.

In my brief and booze-induced coma, I had twisted my injured shoulder somehow. Electric currents shot from one side of my skull to the other like lasers. I had limited control over my limbs. My brain felt like a bowl of flavorless oatmeal with maggots and thumbtacks on top. I stumbled for the ibuprofen, then toward the bathroom. I didn’t puke. Success!

No, far from it.

I made many bathroom trips after that, adjusted my bedding, turned up the heat, tilted the fan to a different angle, rolled around endlessly as if I were on fire, listened to music, ate two blueberry Nutri-Grain bars, thought about dying, my top ten preferred ways to die, and drank about a gallon of water because I’d consumed nothing but booze and coffee on the previous day.

While lying on my side and facing my filthy fan, I caught a few sharp and flickering winks of sleep just after dawn. Then a vision of hell flashed before me—the extra-pale jazz band played a special concert, just for me, for all eternity. Actually, the boat trip came later. I didn’t visualize hell until the next day, during my next hangover.

Next → Chapter 4: Current Events

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Heroes, Villains, and Lawyers – New Orleans Travelogue Part 3 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.