Own Personal Uncle Jessie

February 22, 2013

Written by: Jason Ribadeneyra

“Own Personal Uncle Jessie”


Fair enough. I should be listening to the “sound like Black Keys” single that sits perched like the raven in my “inbox” snickering like Dudley the Hound and causing me pendulum like mood swings concerning my self proclaimed “dedication” to whatever it is I’m concerned about and/or dedicated to. Confusion is a goddamn son of a bitch! Let me think. I figure I’m concerned about some stuff. I have to be. Ummm let’s see, the middle east, TMZ, Tipper Gore… white slavery. Fuck me. Oh well, no excuses. I should’ve listened to my drug dealer before she died of aids. I should’ve listened to the bands and written the reviews that, after all, I’m want to do. Shit, heavy is the head.

Music reviews feel slutty, irrelevant and downright cheap considering I’ve been listening to “Touch of Grey” by The Dead on repeat for the last week and a half, borderlining on obsession. I’d feel like a charlatan if I fed the monkey right now. There’s always tomorrow for that noise. Have I said that before? Probably not. Right now is my supposed focus. Little Johnny needs this therapeutic rhythm of  keys typing with no direction home and no pretense. I can’t afford another breakdown. Not now.  There’s too much on the line and plus, I haven’t been sleeping again and my nerves are rubbed raw and on the edge of short circuit.

Questions! Why!? Why do I wake at 5:13 every morning and sense Uncle Jessie’s cold un-blinking stare from the closet in my new room? Get it together! I’m just over tired. Shift sleeping positions. Cover yr head with a pillow. Ignore the nightmare in the closet. Just another ugly refugee from Full House, and with my track record it’s probably D.J. Tanner or better yet Kimmy Gibbler. Learn to enjoy these freak outs. Be grateful for the visit. Yes, go to sleep. In the morning there will hopefully be a gift, left in jest at the foot of yr bed. A cassette of Gen. MacArthur’s final speech or, fingers crossed, the signed manuscript to Ace Frehley’s un-authorized auto-biography.

Enough of that. Forget it. I take it all back, every word. I won’t complain about night terrors as long as I’m getting up early and feeling like a happy person, a normal god fearing, card carrying American just looking for an affordable gym membership.  No worries, no problems. No sir! I havn’t been drinking. Not me. Must be the mouthwash. I am after all, oral hygiene obsessed.

This is a music blog right? What a loaded question. In any case I reserved the corner booth for us at 99’s and I’m hedging my bets fate will do my homework for me. Yr beauty inside a bacon cheddar potato skin, joy within fish chowder. Okay, I’ll stop now. I’ll get back to concert fabrications and noise masturbations when the time seems appropriate. Until then I’ll be out there stalking the promise. A natural company man. Sick, sorry and just fucked enough to laugh about it.



Gimme Shelter

Jasen Ribadenera


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