Drank a bottle of two-buck Chuck tonight and learned how to play Another Kind of Green. The verse is rather Hendrixy, I think. I’ve convinced myself that drugs are an essential ingredient for writing such incredible music. This is self-serving — I can’t write shit like that. Maybe I should shut up and smoke something.
Right now, if I could go back to being 8 years old, I’d mess with guitars instead of computers. Hell, a piano would do… Whatever. 750-something FICO scores are boring. I’d rather be broke and interesting.
Can I trade my curly-braces for a treble clef? Not anymore.
It’s not the perfect hand, but I don’t hit on nineteen.
Maybe I should shut up and smoke another kind of green?
I thought the same thing, actually. But it just hit me the other day, as I was looking at the lyrics, that it’s not a reference to *that* kind of green:
You’re not the perfect hand, but I don’t hit on nineteen.
And I don’t need another kind of green to know I’m on the right side, with you.
So, it’s a play on the “grass is greener” saying.