Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand Hold me closer tiny dancer Count the headlights on the highway Lay me down in sheets of linen you had a busy day today



Words from the Grand Funk i dunt care what people say, real men are suppose to smell of sweat and grease. and real men go back from work smelling of eau de sweat and not of sum cheap bottled flower-power.



we seem to think that we have everything measured down to the very last micro metre or litre or whatever metric conversion there is.and when u cant really pinpoint a certain amount u make up things like a dash of pepper or a pinch of salt. because numbers tie down reality. but when it comes down to existence how do u measure it? with what instruments?and what units? is it measured by how much u ate? the number of people u know? or by how much love u received or gave away?


i hate the fact that music these days seem to be a medium for looking cool. band or lead singer name droppings seem to be the norm. and it will always be the same names cropping up. the so called indie bands. where is the sense in calling it indie when it is so mainstream. it is no longer abt individualism, more like trying to fit in with the pseudo uber cool people. but non-conforming will always be another way of conforming i guess.