My blog vs. My space

Blog Gods, please forgive me.

I started a myspace account. I had to, I had no choice. I was looking for my old track buddies, and I could not search without an account.

I still love my blog though. My space is like the boardwalk down the shore...overly bright, way too gaudy, and you see a bunch of people you really don't want to see. It seems each and every sight has one too many flashes and pointless surveys.

My blog is mine. Its my own little place away from all those spiky haired Italians who flock to Bellmar on summer weekends. Its a refuge from Jessica Simpson and Brad Pitt and their little baby. Its a place that doesn't unexpectedly start playing annoying pop songs and remains a safe haven from all those who wish to whore themselves out to anyone who wishes to see. I try to remain modest and honest on my blog, but not so on MySpace. Here is my profile from myspace:

What do you want to know? I was born on a cattle ranch in Northwest New Mexico. My parents owned and operated their own "ranch and relax" where they would "Tom Sawyer" city folk into doing all the hard work. Seems stupid, I know. Those "urban cowboys" paid a lot of money to brand oxen and milk dairy cows. All the while my mother, who claimed to be one third Aztec, and my father, who was of Hessian decent, became very rich and very fat. August 24th, 1986 was the first day neither of my parents could fit through the front barn door. I remember this because my dad got stuck and when my mom tried to push him out the barn crumbled and killed both of them. Reluctantly I was sent to live with my uncle in Baltimore. He lived in the slums off the bay and referred to himself as the original ghetto superstar. The man had no furniture and spent most of his days telling me how we would be better off had the English defeated the Americans in the Revolutionary War. I couldn't stand it. At the age of 12 I ran away. I thought running away would be more difficult, like someone would notice or care. No one did, no one ever does. It was as easy as moving one foot in front of the other, then repeat. Repeat. Repeat until I ended up in Philadelphia. Little did I know I was following in the steps of my mental mentor Dr. Ben Franklin. I lived in a shelter on Arch Street, it is still there today. My room consisted of three triple bunk beds,one lamp, and nine older black men. Needless to say I slept on the floor for two straight years, the best two years of my life. It was at this time that one of my roommates, Arthur Brocklin was his name, taught me to play the Jew's Harp. At the age of 18, with little else to do, I declared my self a professional Jew's Harp player, joined a band, and toured the country. I became good, real good, and as my fame grew more and more blue grass bands had me stand in on their studio recordings. In 1999 I was honored to play my harp with the Kansas City Orchestra in their rendition of "A tribute to David Grismond; A true blue grass legend". It was a great moment in my life. Fearing a draft I migrated to Canada in 2005, only to recently return to the U.S. to peruse a degree in chiropractic. I am currently holding my breath until I feel it safe to breath again.

Sometimes it is fun to make up stories about yourself. Dylan was famous for it, to the point no one knew what was true and what was a fable.

Thank you blog for returning me to myself.