I�ve got a blues in my head. It�s pounding me, moving me, pacing me. There�s a chord progression I haven�t heard before with lyrics and guitar licks that I can barely imagine let alone play. Licks that only Stevie Ray could play and probably is from his grave. I can only wish that I had a guitar with me so I could, at least, give this sound some form so I could remember it. If I could only write it down but I can�t and I know that in a day the song and the feel will be gone.

As I power my way up the sidewalk, I go past record stores blaring distorted rap and hip hop into the street to attract customers but they�re stealing my notes � pushing them into the crevices of my cortex. I walk past those cheesy sex shops with corseted mannequins in the window and they�re pumping out sleazy stripper tunes through brass plated speakers onto the street. They�re stealing my sound, my blues.

Bye the time I reach my hotel I�m blending Queen Latifah with B.B. King and Charlie Pride and my blues is lost. My blues is lost.

Yesterday this street was a wonder. Today it�s a paradise for thieves.

Arc