Hott Lixx: The Last Post, Part Two

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SunsetWell, here it is, my final column for Steve's Word. I gotta tell 'ya, it's been a real trip. Almost as good as a cold Busch Light on a bright Denver spring day, without the subsequent headache, weinerpains, and waves of filthy regret. And that's somethin'.

I've shared some of the experiences I've had in my not-short life, some of my favorite follies 'n sexual exploits, the good times and the arthritis-induced bad times, and heck, even thrown in a couple of pieces of my extensive fiction oeuvre so you can see that we Rock 'n Rollers have a little more goin' on upstairs than you'd think. Mission accomplished.

Yep. But even though Hott Lixx is coming to its logical end, that doesn't mean I'm fallin' off the map. I have quite a few projects in the ol' pipeline. Rheumatoid arthritis and cable bills be damned, I'm a Renaissance man, and this winter is shaping up to be my own personal Sack of Rome. In Denver. 

See, I've been recording again. My knuckles are a little sore, from the hand-arthritis 'n that, but I've been picking up my ol' Esquire Strat and gettin' back to my major-key straddlin', power-chord-poundin' ways. And I've been writing lyrics, too! The other day, I was sitting on the can with my ever-present tiny golf pencil and Travelodge notepad, writing down my shopping list, as "Electric Avenue," by the underrated and urbane songsmith Mr. Eddy Grant played, over and over, in my head. All of a sudden, inspiration struck. Now, I'm not a superstitious man, but the holy combination of two bowls of grits, four Skor bars, seven slices of Hormel bologna, and a can of Sparks seemed to have willed that trip to the WC and given me the caloric energy required to scribble out this stanza, which sent me off on a songwriting frenzy:

Sexual Desire, too hot for TV
Gonna take off m'pants
'N think about you!
You kick-start
My diesel pecker machine

With that, I had turned a new page. One stanza turned into a whole song, which turned into a 17-minute song cycle, an epic deconstructing the viccissitudes of a world gone awry, hard luck, aging, and an empty bottle of prescription dick cream that can, ostensibly, never be refilled.

It was powerful. And it was inspirational. You see, Hott Lixx has given me, in many ways, a new lease on life as well as a new pick up line. Tellin' the ladies down at the Gapin' Crevasse that I'm a well-published author and blogger indicates to them that, yeah, this guy's all right. 'N I'd be lyin' if I said that it hadn't paid off on my futon. 'Cos it has.

If there's anything I hope you, all the loyal Ranch Hands in the land, have extracted from my column, it's that even though Rock 'n Roll don't always pay the bills or pay even part of the bills, Rock 'n Roll 'n Federal Welfare Benefits often combine to create a soul-soothing elixir, which can, with the right amount of self-reflection, teach an ol' dog like me some new tricks.

That's why I started playin' the axe in the first place, and that's why I'm excited about my future. Heck, I might even call this new project Hidden Valley Man Ranch 3!

Cool AxeI'm a man. A man with dreams and a size 43 waist. Sometimes I feel a little dead inside, and it's at those times that I pull up my sweatpants, take one more bite of Hot Pocket (I ain't falling for that Lean Pocket shit again!), drag myself from futon to couch, plug my Esquire Strat into my Esquire amp, and let the good times rollick. A hot lick in D minor to assuage the guilt of a night spent in a den of ill repute on East Colfax getting carnal with a woman whose name I can't remember but the souvenirs of whose prior amorous exploits potentially lie dormant within the veins of my man-quipment? It works every time. Perhaps a little "Hot For Teacher" tap intro to salve the demons that lurk within? Tends to do the job!

Point of the matter is, music is the Gatorade that can quench the promotional tiny sponge of the soul, turning depression to de-FRESH-ion, and giving a middle-aged, paunchy man the fuel to turn his keg belly into the gas tank for a sex machine. It's that powerful.

That's why I live the dream. Hidden Valley Man Ranch 2 will never sell a million records. We won't sell 10,000 records or even 1,000 records, but goddammit, we are a Denver metro area rock 'n roll band with guts. And balls. And, I'll tell you, with guts and balls and $15 in your pocket, you can bed a woman of the night, drink a Schlitz, and dance all night down on East Colfax. And you know what? Sometimes that's enough to get me through this labyrinthine journey we call livin' in the Denver metro area.

 

 

Marcus “Jojo” Timmins is the lead guitarist of the Denver Metro Area metal band Hidden Valley Man Ranch 2, formerly known as Hidden Valley Man Ranch. “The Ranch” is available for birthday parties, cocktail parties, bat mitzvah’s, and high school dances.

3 Comments

  • 1

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  • 2

    Este puesto es muy emocional y estoy muy triste ver al Sr. Timmins licencia. Yo seguirá su progreso de mi pequeño taburete aquí en Mexico, donde, sin duda, sentarse y llorar y jugar con mi mismo un poco en los años venideros.

    Felicidades, señor Timmins. Deje que su amor siga palo picazón con cariño para siempre.

    Con amor y tequila latidos,

    Su fan, Jorge.

  • 3

    Great job Jojo! Your blog gave me hope, and made me realize that my problems ain't shit compared to yours. You're an inspiration! Long live the Ranch!!!

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