HAPPY HOLIDAYS! For those who share my belief, Merry Christmas. I know it's been over a week since the last blog. I've been laying low. Between the nasty bug (I guess it wasn't food poisoning afterall since those around me have fallen victim to the same) and the holidays, I've just been resting, relaxing, and not doing much. Rest is good for the body, mind, and soul. Just before the winter break, things had been pretty heavy. A rest was well over due. I won't be officially blog-back until January 4th. It seems my nephew decided to get married in the heart of America in the heart of winter. (It was actually planned for over a year, I'm just bustin' his chops incase he's reading.) Oh, love is a strange mindset, isn't it? So, until my return from Kansas (yes, you read correctly, Kansas), I wish everyone a safe and happy New Year. I'm looking forward to 2006. I'm rested and ready to give it hell. I hope all of you share the same feeling. "It's your life, go live it", Paul Westerberg sang. I'm takin' mine on the road, baby, to see what might come of all this. Keep singin' my song, hope you do the same. Don't fight what's in ya, let it all hang out. Talk with you soon. Take care. Later, Butch

It was violent. My weekend began with a wickedness I haven't experienced in a long long time. Food poisoning. It was bad, I mean real bad. It felt like I had a demon inside me, a demon wrapped in bile who wanted out, continuously. Of course, Beelzebub showed up at the convienent hour of 4 AM. So, besides the torment of hurling like a tequilla filled frat boy, I was very very tired. I wanted to crawl up and die. Seriously, I'm a wimp. I was like, "Jesus, please take me now! I'll hang with Warren Zevon, Elvis, and my grandfathers. Please, I can't take the pain"... and it is painful, isn't it. Puking is your body at it's last straw. It's saying to you, "that's it, jackass, I ain't puttin' up with this bullshit any longer." In my case, it didn't want to deal with a bad piece of palomilla steak (at least that's what I think it was). I'm much better now, thank you. Gatorade and ibuprofen helped me to rest, and in turn I think the rest helped me to move along that wonderful road called recovery (I even played my gig that night though I know it wasn't one of my best shows). I'm still pacing myself. I can't blame palomilla steak in general, just that one piece. I'll never turn on my Cuban heritage. Afterall, we're taking over and I want to be on the winning side. (OK Jim, I know I wasn't born Irish. It's a show biz thing.) Proof of my allegence to the island of my ancestors: I ate an empanada last night and I must say it settled in my tummy just fine, gov'na. Bring on the ropa veja, plantanos madurro, arroz con frijolles negros... feliz navidad. Take care. Later, Butch

It was violent. My weekend began with a wickedness I haven't experienced in a long long time. Food poisoning. It was bad, I mean real bad. It felt like I had a demon inside me, a demon wrapped in bile who wanted out, continuously. Of course, Beelzebub showed up at the convienent hour of 4 AM. So, besides the torment of hurling like a tequilla filled frat boy, I was very very tired. I wanted to crawl up and die. Seriously, I'm a wimp. I was like, "Jesus, please take me now! I'll hang with Warren Zevon, Elvis, and my grandfathers. Please, I can't take the pain"... and it is painful, isn't it. Puking is your body at it's last straw. It's saying to you, "that's it, jackass, I ain't puttin' up with this bullshit any longer." In my case, it didn't want to deal with a bad piece of palomilla steak (at least that's what I think it was). I'm much better now, thank you. Gatorade and ibuprofen helped me to rest, and in turn I think the rest helped me to move along that wonderful road called recovery (I even played my gig that night though I know it wasn't one of my best shows). I'm still pacing myself. I can't blame palomilla steak in general, just that one piece. I'll never turn on my Cuban heritage. Afterall, we're taking over and I want to be on the winning side. (OK Jim, I know I wasn't born Irish. It's a show biz thing.) Proof of my allegence to the island of my ancestors: I ate an empanada last night and I must say it settled in my tummy just fine, gov'na. Bring on the ropa veja, plantanos madurro, arroz con frijolles negros... feliz navidad. Take care. Later, Butch

Some things I get, others escape me. The Big Mac I get. The club sandwich style construction, the lettuce, the special sauce; cool, very nice. I get it. Elvis' "Blue Christmas", fine, I get it. The emotion, the longing, the blueness of it all; I get it. A 6-4-3 double play, beautiful. The grace, the speed, the flow, the shear ballet, I get it. Recently, I've had the displeasure of being introduced to a place I just don't get. My realtor hooked me up with a $200 gift certificate to Robb and Stucky, a high brow furniture store. I thanked her for the kind gesture. She said it was a house warming gift. Fine, I get it. Very nice of her. Two hundred dollars is two hundred dollars. Not a fortune but a nice sum of cash, a day's pay for average folks. I soon realized upon walking in this place that my choices were limited, I mean extremely limited. My $200 ain't gonna cut it, it's getting it's ass kicked, like a one legged man in an ass kicking contest: ain't no way I'm winning in this joint. We got plastic orange ugly ass chairs going for $97! I don't get it. Lamps for $800, a $10,000 bed. For $10,000, the bed better come with a young, sexy, alive Marilyn Monroe (and even then, over priced). So I order a piece (I had to add to my gift certificate), they don't call to let me know it's in, they don't answer the phone when I call to check up on my order, and when I show up and they say it is in, they tell me to wait outside by the dock door for a guy who is in a meeting! Rob (Me) and Shitty ought to be the name of that place. I don't get it. Have over priced stuff and an attitude and you're considered high brow. Whatever. Ok, enough. It's Christmas time. Thanks for letting me vent. Think I'll have a Big Mac and listen to Elvis for lunch. That I get. Now if it was only baseball season... take care. Later, Butch

Last night I went to the guitar store with my 11 year old son. He's got himself a Fender Mexican Jazz bass he got from his uncle. He wanted a method book for beginner bass. Pretty cool, my boy doing the music thing. I hope he does the band thing as he gets older. Even if it doesn't go any further than high school, it's a neat experience, one I'd like him to experience. When you're in a band, your relationships are unique. Sometimes they're friendships, other times working relationships, but always there is some sort of bond made. You're all out there balancing on that wire, trying not to fall. You pull for each other because you realize if one of you "falls", everybody comes off as shit. It's a great lesson in learning to work with others. I hope my boy keeps up with his bass guitar. Maybe one day I can fend off the police when the neighbors bitch about the high schoolers in the garage. After all these years, redemption: it's my house and I say yes to bad garage rock in my garage, so "f" off! My only request to them will be that they've got to cover a Westerberg tune, an old Replacements garage masterpiece. One of these days...take care. Later, Butch

Baseball and rock and roll. If you know me, you know that's where I think it's at. I could go to a ball game and play my guitar EVERY day. I really could. So today I want to discuss the New York Yankees (of which I am not a fan) and super groups. I heard yesterday the Yankees are trying to sign Nomar (former Red Sox, and most recently, Cubs, shortstop, for you non baseball readers)and turn him from a shortstop to a first baseman. If the deal goes through, the Yanks will have 3 guys (Garciaparra, Jeter, and A-Rod) who just 3 seasons ago were considered to be the best 3 shortstops in the game. They'd have all 3 but 2 would be playing out of position. Remember Asia? Emerson, Lake, and Palmer meshed with Yes. "The Heat of the Moment". That was their one hit. Remember The Honeydrippers? Robert Plant's super group. How 'bout The Traveling Wilburys? This was a super group only I could dream up: Petty, Dylan, Orbison, Harrison, and ELO's Jeff Lynne. If Bruce had been involved I'd have named them the best thing ever (and that includes sliced bread). BUT, besides the one hit, or the one good album (in The Wilburys' case), they don't amount to much. Too many indian chiefs, too many chefs, too many indian chefs...? You need role players, you need The Heartbreakers, you need The E Street Band, you need Scott Brosious at 3rd, or Kevin Millar at 1st. You need a team, or a band, not a collection. You heard it here first: the Yankees won't win The World Series. A ball TEAM wins the Series, not an All-Star team. Too many indian chefs! You need braves and scouts. You need balance... and pitching. Tom Petty playing bass is like Nomar at first. Sure he can do it, but Derek Lee is a real first baseman, Geddy Lee is a real bass player, as is Will Lee, and Carlos Lee has played first on occasion, but Tommy Lee is a drummer, Robert E. Lee a general, Tommy Lee Jones an actor and college roommate of Al Gore's, and David Lee Roth a New York City paramedic (seroiusly, check it out). What does all that mean (besides that I was able to name people with the name Lee)? I don't know, all I know is that the FEW times I had to fill in on bass to help out a buddy's band in need, I was crap! Take care. Later, Butch

Tuesday the 13th. Friday the 16th later this week. Nobody's freaking out. The combo has been split. We've been conditioned to "consider" Friday the 13th. We've been conditioned to waste our precious time on all kinds of nonsense. Is it that we need stupid illogical B.S. to help us cope with all the real bad stuff life throws our way? Does the stupid stuff that really adds up to nothing help take the edge off of the real pain life will bring by preoccupying us with "considerations" of things too powerful to control? When we "get by" unscathed on yet another Friday the 13th, do we feel we've cheated fate, the same fate that has screwed us and caused us pain in other aspects of our lives? Hmm, I guess that's psychology. What do the stars tell us? Can they actually help guide us? I go with Jim Morrison's thoughts on all this when he said, "I think it's all a bunch of bullshit, myself." Yep, me too Lizard King. We control our own destiny. Our choices and attitude affect our lives much more than Scorpio in a bad moon risin'. If that's your bag, though, go for it. To each his own, as Silvia always says (that's my mom), just don't expect me to freak and throw salt over my shoulder, spit 16 times, walk backwards, and worship at the House of Hogwarts if a black cat crosses my path. I'll just put on the breaks, let the kitty live, and be on my way... to buy lotto tickets. Just kidding. I don't do that either. Work too hard to earn money. Not a gambler. Kenny Rogers, yes. Pete Rose, yes. Butch Ryan, no. Take care. Later, Butch

So it was to be my first "real" date although "she" didn't know that. I was sixteen. It was a double date. A guitar playin' buddy of mine set it up. He wanted to hook up with her friend, and her friend agreed but only if "she" (who was a friend of the guitar guy) went along. "She" had seen me before and said she'd go on the double date if the guitar player got me to go along. Complicated? Not really, just teen bullshit. "We" took the back seat. Conversation went well. I was a Petty and Doors fan, "she" loved Styx. No, she hadn't read "No One Here Gets Out Alive", I suggested immediate consumption. I played on the varsity soccer team (there was no JV), midfield, jersey number 2. She was a swimmer. "We" were getting comfortable. I thought a lip lock was on the horizon. Our eyes were sort of meeting, I guess, although mine roamed. As The Cars let "the good times roll", the front seat couple decided to take a stroll. We were parked somewhere in a dark spot. Mickey's Malt Liquor on our lips, the moon being our only light. As she spoke of her swim team adventures, I wasn't really paying attention. I was losing myself in thought of the possibilities that lay beheath her sweater. It was December, and cold out. To make the appearance of interest in more than just her desired swimmer's frame, I threw out the line, "so what's your event? You know, your specialty on the team?" She paused, smiled, and said, "breast stroke". I froze. My Hispanic loins tightend. Was "she" being serious? Was "she" trying to tell me something? Was "she" giving me the ok sign? I didn't know. Complete silence. It seemed to last forever. "We" just sat there. Then the front seat couple appeared. The moment (and chance) was lost. The rest of the evening was uneventful. Breast stroke. Damn. My mind was preoccupied with "what if's". I never really dated her again. Breast stroke. Damn, it still bugs me just a little bit. I don't know why. Ok, I do...breast stroke. Ouch! Take care. Later, Butch

Yesterday was one of those hectic days. Not a horrible day, but at times overwhelming. One of those days that had too much in the planner. One of those days where you wish it was a 30 hour day, not 24. Not enough time for anything. The kind of day that makes you stop, catch your breath, sigh, and then move on 'cause there's too much to get done. That being said, sorry the blog was pushed aside. I realize that the reason time seems to fly by so quickly the older we get is that we're so busy the older we get. Then, one day, we're old, retired, and bored. I guess that's why I'm trying to get in as much as I can while I can. Have you rock and roll fans stopped to think that Jim Morrison would have turned 62 yesterday? Sixty two, in leather, Mr. Mojo Risin' would be getting ready for his Social Security check. And don't say 62's young 'cause that only shows you're old. And John Lennon has been gone 25 years. 25 years! Where the hell did those years go? Stop, take a deep breath, and order another Crown Royal. No time to ponder that life is quickly moving on, that the clock keeps ticking and ticking and ticking. Throw back the Crown and enjoy today for today. Take care. Later, Butch

Last night I watched a bootleg DVD of a Springsteen concert back in October of '04, just before the election. He said he was happy to be in the Sunshine State, the "scene of the crime" he said, through a tongue and cheek political laugh. Even for a bootleg, the performance captured on tape was unbelievable. The guy is so focused, so confident, so sure of his place on that stage. I know I've always been a huge fan, but I'm not the only one. There will never be another Bruce Springsteen. And remember I'm a bigger Petty fan (it's those Florida ties that bind me to TP). Petty is the man, for sure, but there's something about The Boss. And he is the boss. Not really much flash, it's all meat and potatoes with Springsteen. A guy, a guitar (maybe a harmonica), a band, and a song that needs to be sung. That's where it's at, that's the true essence of rock and roll. And that comes out loud and clear. Even if you're not a fan of his music, check out a live video and you'll see what I mean. When something is honest, it's pure. In that purity there is validity, and isn't validity that which makes something "something"? If you got something to say, say it with truth. The truth shall set you free. Yeah, we've all heard that before. Be true. Be true in everything you do. I know that's easier said than done. I know life puts us in certain situations sometimes. But in your heart, deep down where it matters, be true. Most importantly, as I said yesterday, be true to yourself. See things for what they are and go from there. Enough of Dr. Butch for today. I promise something lite and stupid (though not really funny) is on the horizon. Be patient. The clouds of self evaluation are lifting. I can feel it. Take care. Later, Butch

As the holiday season covers us like a Maui wave, my thoughts turn to questions of why this time of year brings out certain emotions in us. Why do we make resolutions? OK, 'cause it's the New Year and a new beginning, but why does that give us hope that we'll actually change? I guess hope does spring eternal. Also, why do we sometimes get depressed? Sure we've lost loved ones throughout the passing years, but I think it's deeper than that. I think it's the realization of the loss of innocence we've all experienced. The holidays can take us back to a time when we had little responsibility (when's the last time you were bored on a Saturday afternnon?), and were cared for and nutured in loving arms. Although I certainly realize not everyone's childhood was possibly as golden as mine, I think we still desire that feeling of freshness, when everything we experienced was new. That time of pure innocence was magic. Money may try to buy it (the reason Disney World is so crowded by adults like me), and we do escape time to time, but deep down we know it is a time lost, one that will never be ours again. And damn, that is depressing. But I think in understanding why we feel a certain way, we can help ourselves to get by a little easier. (Am I sounding like Dr. Phil? I hope not. I don't like that guy, the way he talks down to people.) Anyway, know yourself, accept yourself, and finally, love yourself. It'll go a long way. Take care. Later, Butch

Well, the dust has settled somewhat, and here's the scoop: with Jay leaving the band at the end of the year (I explained his reasons in past blogs), I decided to evaluate what the music means to me, and where I'm at with it at this point in my life. After many many years of being in a band, I've decided to go solo. What's this mean? Well, I'm putting Groovy Cool to bed. Rob and Chris will continue to play with me (I'm very happy about that), and a replacement for Jay will be sought, but we will play under the name Butch Ryan only. This will allow me to play my original music in acoustic solo settings as well as with a full band, and avoid any confusion. All the old tunes will still be played (both electric and acoustic). My music is my music, and it will never change. I feel at this point I can accomplish more as a solo artist. The marketing and promotion of an artist is hard enough, even more so with a band. It's difficult to come to conclusions sometimes when you have four different opinions. As I've stated before, Jay will be missed. For those of you who come out to our shows, you'll miss him more as he's a very close friend. He and I will continue to keep in touch, just not in a working band. And that's it. Me, the Throck, the lovely Christopher, and a new guy, still doin' what we do. Here's to the future. Take care. Later, Butch

It's not an easy proposition, this life I've chosen and share with my bandmates. Constant roadtrips in the van, sleeping with the bass player in another hotel, being away from the family, having the day gig that becons you home which means you'll just have to head out again rather than stay out. But I do it because it's what I do, who I am. The music is in my head, it must be released, it must be played out all over the place. You got to do it justice. In the end, for me, it's the only way to feel satisfied. Everybody's got to do what they've got to do. For some, what I do is crazy. It's one thing, they might say, to be a twenty year old kid, free from responsibility, roaming the country (sometimes the world) playing music. It's another thing, they might say, to have a family, a teaching career, and quite a bit of age, and to still be roaming and playing. But then again, they don't hear in their heads what I hear in mine. They've never experienced the rush. And if they have, it just doesn't hit them the same. And that's ok. Everybody's got to do what they've got to do. Jay's burned out, ready to move on with life, enjoy the growth of his son, and forget the miles and miles in the van. I'm going to miss him, but I understand. He has to do what he feels in his heart. Like I said, it's not easy. Come Monday, this blog will reveal what lies ahead for me, the band, and my music. That's life, constant changes. Best not to fret, but try and understand and roll with the changes. I know I still hear the music in my head. I'm clear on what I must do, as is Jay. Hasta luego mi amigo. It was a blast. Take care. Later, Butch

"It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll." AC/DC's late great singer Bon Scott spewed out those words a long long time ago. He was right, but in more ways than he could ever have imagined. Besides the obvious, the paying of the dues, isn't this statement true for life in general? Isn't it true "that life's a journey, not a destination" (Aerosmith's Stephen Tyler), and within that journey we hope to come to certain realizations? Contentment is the final goal, the summit of our trek, that which makes us whole, that which makes us the best possibility of who we can be. Getting there is a tough road. Obsticles cross our path constantly. As Springsteen sang, "things'll hit you you don't even see comin'." Those are the things that sometimes break your heart. That bittersweet taste we sometimes find on our lips is the stuff life's made up of. The word harsh doesn't do it justice. We fight life as we try to come to these conclusions. It batters us, and leaves us cold, a lonely panic that seems godless and bleak. Ah, but hope springs eternal. The possibility of solving these mysteries keeps us on our path. Soon we begin to see light at the end of our tunnel. That light comes through time. If time doesn't heal all wounds, then in the very least, it helps us to see things clearer, and for what they really are. And in those truths we at last discover ourselves. Take care. Later, Butch