My Inner Poobah!

As I walk along the path of life, I pick some things up and drop some things off.  If I only picked things up, soon my pockets and arms would be full of crap.  Already there's too much stuff, too many things, but that is another discussion; I speak here of intangibles.
     The Gulf Rim Cafe songwriters' showcase that I picked up in June, I recently left by the side of the road.  I did my final show there last Saturday, happy to share the stage with Leah and Rupert (Thank you!) and just as happy to end off at a little past ten, as the place was empty.
     So many friends says, "When are you playing? I want to come and see you!"  On show night, there is one or two familiar faces, one for sure because my wife has to show up, I expect it.
     Last Sunday, I played at the Carrboro Music Festival.  12 or so stages, entertainers most of the day, people walking around with guitar cases on a hot day, eating food they wouldn't ordinarily be eating, catching their fav artists, or missing them.  I was reminded of the Newport Folk Festival in days of Yore.  I like the feel of music festivals.
     But a funny thing happened.  At the Newport Folk Festival, my guitar was broken and my money stolen, landing me home broke and late for the job I lost as a result.  I arrived just before I had to play at the Carrboro festival, because I had a gig.  So running on time, in danger of being late, I grabbed my guitar and sought the quickest way to the stage.  After playing, catching Rupert Wates and Stacey, eating at the Armadillo Grill and walking back to the truck, I discovered that I had not only left my Explorer Sport unlocked, but had left the driver's side door wide open.  My amp, mic stand, mic and cords, my wallet with all the money I had in the world ($14) were all inside the truck and all were intact.  Apparently, you can still leave your door open in North Carolina.
      For my own set, I sang funny songs, songs to evoke a smile, laugh, guffaugh or hysterical fit (hopefully).  I have decided that topical songs with a sense of humor, or just songs with a sense of humor, are my calling.  I don't write deep and meaningful love songs, songs of conscience or longing.  I am no John Prine, Elton John or Jimmy Web.  I'm certainly not Jacques Brel, Stephen Sondheim or David Pomeranz.  But then, they aren't me either.  Would Jack, Steve or Dave write "When Turkey's Mate, They Think of Swans?"  Would John, Elton or Jim write "She Lives a Tank Away?"  Doubtful.
     My latest is called, "I'm Moving to Wall Street" and is topical and doomed to be obsolete within a few weeks.  I'll be lucky to get it sung at an open mic or two before it is old news.  Like "The Country Needs a Little Spare Change" as soon as the political climate changes, the song will be as current as last Sunday's paper.
     But that's the way the ol' cookie crumbles.  The 50 or so songs I wrote for the Religious Freedom Crusade in the mid-80s did their job, but are now lost to the ages, not even found at garage sales or flea markets.  I am an artist in search of my inner poobah these days, and my inner poobah seems to be reflected in songs with a message that make you smile.  Hopefully you will remember them for a minute and smile.  Hopefully, you will think for a minute about the message and consider that there could be another viewpoint.  And then, like dust in the wind, it will be gone, replaced by whatever other fluff enters your field of vision or range of hearing.
     This is the stuff of life.