Fucking Largo.
What a dead place for a songwriter to live.
Blue-hair central.
The social environment of a one horse town.
What the hell am I doing here?!

Yeah, yeah, family. Yeah, yeah.

Music scene???
Nope.
Well, unless you include 'Margaritaville' covers,
Blues jams and those God-awful hardcore death metal bands with their devil hand signs and screaming front men.
Cool, man.
Yeah, okay.., I do give it up for their musicianship and effort.
They're out there so I should shut the hell up.

That being said, I do gotta give it up for my friend Randy ("Doc").
Doc is out everyday playing the blues and trying to make a living off it in this downtrodden economy ~
Respect.
I don't seem to have the cojones to try that,
And it's beginning to kill me.
Maybe I just need to throw myself into that fire.

I'm a musician, man,
A songwriter.
I need to play.
I need to sing.
I need to write and record and play that shit.
What would Keith Richards say?
Sitting in front of this computer all day everyday,
Barely ever playing my six string,
Almost never singing.
Keith would tele bitch-slap me and kick me in the ass -
"Get the fuck out there, you cunt!"
That's what I need.
That's what I need.

It's my death here in Largo,
Unless I fix it.
Either I climb outta here or I conquer it,
Continuing on this lethargic path is burning out my fire.
I've lost my mojo, baby.

"Largo" in music tempo means slow.
The only slower tempo is called "grave".
Ain't that just fitting.

Where to go?
Outta Largo.
Outta Largo and back to the snow?
Stay here in Largo and get in the show?
Damnit, man...,
I don't know.