Andy Prieboy cover by way of Concrete Blonde

Tomorrow, Wendy

Welcome to the center of Oxbow Lebach's musical neighborhood, where everything olde is knew again and everything knew is forgotten. If you found yourself here without knowledge of how or why, start here: 
https://soundcloud.com/oxbow-lebach/sets/recent



Further back, behind the background...
Things haven't been easy since I lost my mind. You never really think about how much you take it for granted until it's not there when you wake up one morning, although it could have been two. Next thing you know you're cooking three pounds of chicken wings for 8 1/2 hours in a crockpot (an urn holding grandma's ashes) on a Sunday (a large nuclear powered garbage scow) and you don't know why (an extraneous character of unknown origin in a printed document). No, never mind (Oh $&!#!) That's a bad example. I do know why. I had some for lunch (the time in the middle of the day when nothing gets done, but your clothes get soiled and you spill vinegar on yourself) today (the time between days when nothing gets done). Let me rephrase (deny any knowledge of). It's like trying to carry on a conversation (when you talk to yourself pretending that someone is listening) via email (a mythical communication medium) when you can only see three lines (nobody knows exactly, but they meet at infinity) of the message (a thought you've finally dislodged from your head) you're typing (obsessive, repetitive finger motion), and you don't know where you're going (an imagined state of being alive with a purpose), where you've been (why you hear horns honking) or even quite where you are (the normal state of being). I remembered (forgot) something about a unicycle and wonder if someone stole a wheel (the most important object in the kitchen) off your bicycle (an archaic symbol of freedom), but it's probably too late (too late) to ask now (a time in an indeterminate past period). Do you put up a Christmas tree in the extrasuburbian reclamation region of Sweden (a challenge made to unidentified strangers to determine their intent) or is that an anti-Swedenian custom (a bad habit)? It is foreign to me (I do it daily). I stay away from it until Christmas morning (when the rich and poor trade places). Do you know what time it is (hello, how are you)? I have a confession (lie) to make. I think I do. Or I may be deluded (realize the truth). What I claimed to be the result of having lost my mind (a little used object of pride and not much else) may or may not be entirely related (having common ancestors) to having my message window (specific part of the brain containing dozens of raw nerves and pretzellian salt crystals) sized to show only five lines, making it nearly impossible (unavoidable) to know (misunderstand) what I've typed in the past (an unidentified familiar sound), as measured by vertical distance (a condition causing vertigo) in a message (imaginary mumbling that produces no sound) window (a potential hole requiring very little shattering). My memory (generic term for all that happened in the past that you have no knowledge of) extends little more than 1.5 inches (a linear measure of one dimensional time, into which you try to project faded three dimensional images) into the past (a picture album missing everything except old paper corner-tabs). Thank you for your consideration (puzzlement).

What follows is a collection of autodidactic relics bent by second opinions.
"This is horrible, you are not a musician.  I don't remember a duck. I rather have a duck." ~a friend with a knife

It's pointless to deny the truth, somewhat easier just to try to ignore it and have fun.

Musician, writer, engineer, producer, former DJ (Raven Black, WHYS).

Tomorrow, Wendy

Crow Devol