Wherein I conduct a psyop on the topic of psyops in which I fantasize about the whole world being magically unable to speak for a week, then come to the real time realization that I ended up like my uncle Harold whose only friends were voices coming out of his ham radio.

Weird microphone moments.

Awkward TMI.

No refunds.

Wherein I not so subtly try to influence you into influencing the influencers through good hearted, supportive nudgery, while I demonstrate my impeccably high double standards.

Paradoxes galore with bonus oxymorons.

I am, indeed a moron.

No refunds.

Wherein I wonder if “living each day like it’s your last” is a good idea, preach about learning to enjoy failure, & get snubbed by my favorite pigeon.

Then I share a one take live recording of song I wrote this morning about New Year’s Day called “Same Old Me”

The middle B key buzzes.

I’m no Whitney Houston.

No overdubs.

No refunds.

==========

Same Old Me

2025 merkley

I

It’s New Year’s Day,

IM7

or so you say,

I7

the world feels just the same

IV

as yesterday.

bVI6

I’m too old for revolution,

vi7

I ain’t sold on evolution,

bVII7

there will be no resolution

V7

to change my ways.

ii7 iv

I’m the same old me

V7

as yesterday.

New Year’s Day,

go on & play

your silly little game

as years slip away.

I ain’t selling you solutions,

or buying new delusions,

there will be no resolution

to change my ways.

ii7 V7

I’m the same old me

vi7 VI7

as yesterday

ii7 bII7

the same old me

I vi7

on New Year’s Day.

ii7 V7

I’m the same old me

bVI bVII I

on New Year’s Day.

===============

Wherein I rant about the phrase “none of your problems are because someone else is a billionaire”

Special shout outs to wussy pigeons & squirrels who think hawks are their problem.

Nobody is forcing you to listen to these.

No refunds.

Wherein I babble on about Americanism & why it feels weird to be patriotic about America when most Americans I know are totally unamerican & some foreign cab drivers are among the most American people I’ve met.

Don’t expect to agree with me.

Guaranteed to annoy most of you.

No refunds.

Wherein I do my best impersonation of the bravest of warriors by posting my real address online, you know, like the white pages, then ramble on like a shell shocked vet about the freedom Gen X had to ride bikes through the flaming hell of a high trust society.

Of course they have to be “white” pages.

Shut your face.

No refunds.

Wherein I clumsily try to make a case for AI art tools ultimately steering art into a more “human” direction.

Some sloppy analogies & contradictions thrown in at no extra charge.

Whatever.

No refunds.

Wherein I not so loudly wonder about the heated immigration debate, weigh the merits of merit and suggest that the morality quotient might be sorely missing from the whole thing.

Lots of pauses, slilence and saying “you know” too much.

I don’t know when to shut up.

No refunds.

Wherein I blither & blather about the immorality of outsourcing murder while extolling the controversial possible virtue of actively making society a better place by taking matters into your own hands, you know, like the cops & military men do every day, to much acclaim.

Lots of line walking.

Tangents & repetitive whatevers.

No refunds.

Wherein I pontificate about Christmas in a family with 17 siblings, countless divorces, dead adulterating parents, & COVID criminal nurse sisters who will likely never ask for forgiveness & I will therefore never likely pretend to give it.

There is plenty of petty and not so petty shit talk.

More tangents than usual.

This ain’t even the half of it.

It ain’t pretty.

No refunds.

Merry Christmas.