Oh feline, how we adore thee! In ancient Egypt, the cat was worshipped. I've been thinking this still holds true today (except in Chinesse restaurants). Mascots abound. We've got tigers, lions, panthers, cougars, jaguars, thundercats (whatever the hell that is), wildcats, ice cats (?), etc., etc. Even in Oz, it was 2 out of 3 (LIONS and TIGERS and bears, oh my). It's crazy. Even KISS had a cat! Peter Criss was el gato hombre. Cats everywhere. Every boy, every man is in search of the woman's nether region, also named after feline. It goes on and on and on and on. Cats, baby, cats. What does this all mean? Who knows, who cares! It's Friday, the weekend is here, I don't have to shave for 2 days. That's what it means. Have a good one... you crazy cats. Take care. Later, Butch

"I'm Mike Jones, I'm Mike Jones" (I'm Butch Ryan, I'm Butch Ryan). First of all, how in the hell can that be song lyrics? Number two, and it becomes a hit? Falls into the "what the..." catagory for me. I guess some artists' lyrics will be forgiven just because of the artist (or genre). I've always thought to myself that if I walked into a rehearsal and told the band, "here are the chords", and then they asked for the lyrics and I said, "oh, I'm just gonna sing dee-do-do-do, dee-da-da-da" or "uh-uh-uh, uh-uh-uh-uh-uh", that I would be: A.) mocked and ridiculed, B.) beat about the head and neck with a glass bottle, C.) made to walk the plank (your basic "mutiny"), D.) told I suck. Lyrics. Lyyyyyrics. Lyricsssss. Damn. Not always an easy thing. I need to work on me lyrics. Don't want to get A,B,C, or D, do I? I'm sure I'll get by. I know when they need work, I know when they're right on. Degree in English from the University of South Florida, ya know (GO BULLS). Still, how would I ever know "dee-do-do-do, dee-da-da-da" could be a huge hit? Guess you gotta go with your gut, and to hell with everything else. Take care. Later, Butch

Will it ever rain again in Tampa, Florida? Why is it we either get a hurricane or dry ass weather? Is it due to the ozone layer (whatever that is, I never really paid attention in Science class. Not my bag)? And don't get me started on gas prices! Don't worry. I am NOT a grumpy old man (though I know it sounds like that). Today is just one of those days where I'd rather be somewhere else. I didn't shave, am wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and no socks. I really really really really want to slum it today, be a bum. But that's not my reality this morning. Oh well, this too shall pass. I'm not tired, just bored. Rain could break up the monotony. Why? Who knows. Maybe 'cause I'm a few cards short of a deck, not wearing socks, needing a shave. Summer, please come rescue me... TODAY!!! Take care. Later, Butch

I was ten years old and playing pee wee football. The coach, in my memory, was about thirty-something. We had a huge game coming up. In order to get the defense ready for this super fast kid we were playing on Saturday, the coach assumed the fast kid's position at quarterback. We ran down the adult coach all week preparing for the big game. And then on Friday it happened. It started out innocently enough. The coach ran a few plays at quarterback. He felt we weren't getting to the fast kid fast enough. He urged us to do so. As the next play unfolded, we crushed the coach as he ran a sweep. As we, a host of ten year old boys, unpiled, we noticed the coach's shirt had been pulled up, his shorts a little down. And there it was... the coach was wearing a pair of silky lacy pink underware. I remember thinking they reminded me of my mom's. WHAT THE ...? Look, I got no problem with some dude wanting to wear panties. I free ball. To each his own. But getting kids to tackle you while you're wearing women's underware? I don't know about that one, dude. Whatever. Take care. Later, Butch

Today I've got the Mob, the Syndicate, you know, Murder Inc., on the brain. Besides watching a little baseball in the afternoon yesterday (Cubs won:), D Rays lost:(, oh, well), I couched it with AMC's Godfather Marathon. Hours upon hours of the Corleone family. My brother and I played a little soccer in the am, and even though I felt good with the workout (and that I knocked 2 in), my body felt like Carlo's did after Sonny beat him on the streets of some Brooklyn neighborhood like a red headed step child (with reason, of course, eventhough Sonny was a hot head). Yep, I feel like I'm ready to "sleep with the fishes". I will say though, I'd rather have physical pain than mental anguish. Especially on a Monday (less than 5 weeks till Summer vacation. Yes!). When Michael gave Fredo the kiss of death for breaking his heart, who was really in more pain? I thought it was a mistake all along to send Fredo to Vegas to work for Moe Green at the Tropicana. But hey, that's only my opinion. Wouldn't want to upset anybody, you know what I mean? Take care. Later, Butch

So Ace got kicked off American Idol. First of all, who cares? The only Ace ever worth mentioning is Mr. Frehley, lead guitarist (back in the good ol'days) for KISS. American Idol is CRAP. It's a popularity contest. This Ace (and Bo, and Clay, etc., etc.) are NOT rock and roll, not even close. American Idol is a TV show, nothing more. I'm tired of the ignorance that surrounds the "music" industry. The Beatles would not have been on American Idol. Vanilla Ice would have. Get the picture? My final rant on this shite: (and I quote The Jam, who, by the way, would NOT have been on American Idol), "The public wants what the public gets, but I don't get what society wants. I'm goin' underground." Amen. I, too, am going underground. To hell with Kelly Clarkson. Have a great weekend. Sorry Ace. Take care. Later, Butch

On this date 36 years ago, The Beatles released "Let It Be", and then proceeded to let it happen: McCartney announced the band was finished, breaking up. Fans around the globe found it hard to accept. Reality finally kicked in in early December of 1980 when a madman shot and killed John Lennon. Until then, hope sprang eternal. SNL even had an ongoing joke of offering the band the small union wage given to all bands who play the show, in the hopes that they would actually reunite. After Lennon's death a few new unreleased songs came out. Again fans dreamed. Sure, it wouldn't be the same but hey, three is better than none. Then a few years ago, George Harrison passed away after a battle with cancer. With him went the last glimpse of hope. And now, 36 years later, the news still reminds us. I guess the point is you can never go back. Be happy with the memories but move on. Don't ruin the memory and the present by constantly yearning for what's gone. Build something new and seek joy and comfort in that. Make new memories. Take care. Later, Butch

Some time around the turn of the century (sounds so dramatic, doesn't it?), I was playing a gig in a little town called Clermont, in Central Florida. There was a gypsy/hippie looking chick sending Crown Royal shots up to the stage. Very nice, the shots, that is. As I got off the stage, she walked towards me. I smiled and introduced myself while extending a hand. She grabbed my hand tightly and said, "I'm Honeylove", and refused to let go. "I'm a witch", she said, "and I'm getting a vibe from your hand." Well how about that! "You guys are good. Things look good in your future." Well thanks, Honeylove, I thought to myself! Who knew? You meet all kinds when most of your days are spent in bars and clubs. This was the same joint where I once met a guy named Lobo, who, among other things, told me he was friends with LL Cool J and his nickname was "Cali", hence the song, "I'm Goin' Back to Cali". Did that mean they had a Brokeback thing going? Then he tried to sell me napalm. Like I said, you meet all kinds. Take care. Later, Butch

Two reasons why even though it's not June 21st I know Summer is here in Florida: #1- I'm driving around at 6:45 am with the convertible top down and in no way is it cold. Now I will say that once June hits it won't be as comfortable as it is now. It will be muggy and sticky at 7 am, but for now it's really nice in the am, driving around, wind in my hair. #2- I've got baseball on the brain. I'm going to bed checking West Coast scores, waking up and checking West Coast finals. (Maddox and the Cubbies beat L.A. 4-1 last night!) Yep, that's my Summer time ritual. Been doing that since high school. And it's gotten so bad that last night and early early this morning I kept going over my all time Hall of Fame starting 8 versus Jim Rome. In the dream, I kept telling Romie I was shocked he didn't have Joe D. in his outfield. We never got around to pitching 'cause the alarm went off. Yes, Summer is here for the Butcher... and it feels great. Take care. Later, Butch

Songwriting, for me, is a very personal thing. I never try to write a song. The songs just show up unannounced. When I least expect it, an idea will start formulating in my brain. It might be a theme, a drum part, a guitar riff, a melody, etc. If it starts to really continue to bug me, I know I'm on the verge of receiving a song. Last month I was in London. It was my last day of the trip. No gigs, a Sunday. My manager suggested we take a subway trip down to Camdentown, a bohemic area of the city. Something started to click. As we walked to the Underground station, it kept bugging me. We waited in line to buy tickets. I started humming a melody in my mind. Lyrics came from everywhere. As we got on the train, I had the first verse and the chorus. Needless to say, I was not a good conversational partner on the ride down. I was deep in thought. By the time we reached Camdentown, all I was missing was the middle 8. We went to a pub to get lunch. I asked her for paper and a pen. She went to the bathroom. I was done by the time she got back. Later that day, once I got back to my room at the hotel and pulled out my acoustic guitar, I found the chords behind the melody I'd been humming non stop thru Camdentown, lunch, the grocery store (had to bring back crisps and confectionaries to Tampa), the train ride back, and the walk to the hotel. It was all there. Hadn't existed that morning at 11, but was worn and memorized by 3. It's weird. Sometimes it's a pain if it "shows up" at 11:30 pm on a Wednesday, just as you're going to bed after a long day, but in the end, it's very rewarding. Sometimes you think it coming but you're left with shite after an hour. That sucks 'cause you thought you had something. The fish that got away. But I can't complain. When it does work itself out (like in London), it's way cool. Take care. Later, Butch

Happy Birthday David Letterman! The gapped toothed Indiana weatherman turned L.A. stand up turned late night TV host became an American icon to my generation, and influenced the "shtick" that is the live Butch Ryan show more than anyone else. That's right B.B., Dave is the one to blame. The idea that if the punchline doesn't get a laugh you just keep repeating it till they're laughing at you, is all pure Letterman, and in my opinion, pure genius ("I had to bend it like Beckham! Jokes, I tell them!"). Thank you David Letterman for giving me the "oump" of the "not fearing what you say on stage as long as you're personable, they'll come around and like you" attitude I arm myself with every time I go on, and happiest of happy birthday's. Screw Leno, he never even came close to you. You, Dave, are late night king. I salute you. There will never be another David Letterman. In a word, you are THE MAN (El Hombre for those currently marching... El Hombre... El Hombre! Jokes, I tell them.) Take care. Later, Butch

Today I'm doing nothing but thinking about baseball. I'm going to the D Rays game tonight. They're giving out these replica cheap retro square shaped Buddy Holly glasses that the Rays manager Joe Maddon wears. I'm gonna sit there looking goofy and talk baseball with my boy while eating a hot dog (that's what I'm talkin' 'bout). I will lose myself in everything that is "taking in a game", and leave the world behind for a few hours. I've decided to start early and not dwell on too much "adult" stuff today. I recommend this to all. It's good for the soul. Even though I'm not really playing hooky, it makes me feel like I sorta am, and that's a good thing. Try it, you'll like it, I promise. It's not being irresponsible, it's just being good to yourself. All work and no play makes Johnny a bastard to deal with. Let Johnny play every so often. It does wonders. Go Rays! Take care. Later, Butch

BIG ED & THE TWINS. THE Jeff Wood, drummer man, introduced Big Ed and the twins to me when we first started rehersals for the UK back in January. We were going over the song "None of the Above". Woody smiled and said, "I know what this song needs!", and before I knew what happened, Big Ed and the twins had stolen my heart. It put the song right where it should be; cracked the whip and put'em in line. Big Ed is a big silver metal shaker. It's about 6 inches long with quite a bit of girth. The twins are 2 black egg shaped shakers that have been glued side by side underneath and to the back side of Big Ed (gettin' a picture yet?). Woody grabs Big Ed by the shaft and really works his wrist to the rhythm of the music... it's a beautiful thing! Use your imagination. Bid Ed and the twins are everything you could ever hope for in percusion. Take care. Later, Butch

Early this morning I heard an old Foreigner song. It brought back memories of my high school years. By that time the baseball possibility had become realistic. Although I was an excellent fielder, my arm was suspect, I wasn't that fast a runner, and I was an average hitter with little power. I was a 1.5 tool player. I took up the guitar and the soccer ball instead. My brother and I, along with another Cuban American friend of ours had a little 3 man soc/hoc team that ruled the neighborhood. We played soccer on the tennis courts of the area. We used to play some other guys who were white. Great 3 on 3 matches! It was Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (us) versus Foreigner (them). It was "Refugee" vs. "Dirty White Boy". We had a blast. Oh, that tune this morning took me back. Take care. Later, Butch

Bad bad bad bad bad bad dream last night. The kind of dream that makes you feel really really happy once you wake up, realize it's a dream, and turn the pillow over to the cool side to continue your slumber. We were on some sort of tour somewhere, far from home. A good crowd had gathered as we were getting the gear out of the van. I was feeling good. I told Chris I could get the last monitor on my own. It slipped from my hand and fell on top of my Gibson acoustic guitar (which was in a soft case, which is bullshit 'cause I always keep it in a hard case 'cause it's my baaaby). Snap. I heard it go snap. Through the bs soft case I could see a clean break at the neck. I tried not to freak. I pulled it out in two pieces. The guys couldn't believe it. I yelled for Karen, our manager. What the hell am I gonna do now? Karen!!! Then I woke up. Upon realizing it was all just a horrible dream, I felt that sick feeling leave my stomach, and I then turned the pillow over to the cool side and continued my sleep. Best of all, I didn't go back to that dream. I found myself somewhere else. Somethin' 'bout cafeterria food...? Take care. Later, Butch

Baseball is back! There's a lot of good rock and roll baseball songs out there. John Fogerty's "Center Field", Springsteen's "Glory Days", and Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" all pay homage. Fogerty's is all baseball as metaphor ("Put me in Coach, I'm ready to play today"), Springsteen's just has the opener baseball reference ("I had a friend who was a big baseball player back in high school"), and Billy Joel makes 5 baseball references (sorry NFL fans): Joe Dimaggio, Roy Campanella, Brooklyn Dodgers, Mickey Mantle, and California baseball. I guess his upbringing was surrounded by baseball. A lot of New Yorkers his age were. The city had 3 teams at one time (Yankees, Dodgers, Giants) before the move to California in the late 50's. As big a fan as I am, I don't have any baseball references. Hmmm, something to work on. It just has to fit though. Best not to force anything or else it'll sound forced. I did mention the Cubs on the Christmas CD ("The List"), but I can't say that really counts, at least not for me. I'll wait and see if the muses have something "baseball" to offer, otherwise I'll keep waiting till they do. Maybe if the Cubbies finally win it all ... ? Take care. Later, Butch

Well, the time change and the jet lag has finally caught up with me in a big way. Either that or I'm about to get really sick 'cause I feel run down, runded down, flat out wiped out, etc., etc., etc. Granted, after the 12 day UK stay, I just did the weekend on the space coast, so it's been crazy hours and being transported, it seems, 24-7. Diner food will eventually catch up with you. Hats off to my manager, Karen, who's been on the same time warp and not complained a bit (she's been energized by her blog fans!), and to the band for hangin' in there. The rest of this month, and probably the next, will bring a little respite... BUT then we gotta get back to it, work the monkey, let the music be heard. Today, though, leisurely sleep rather than required rest would be fantastic. Of course, I say this as we stare down a double header on Saturday. Doing some charity work very early in the AM, then go home and rest a bit, followed by an evening gig, so go figure? Sunday will find me seeking required rest rather than leisurely sleep again. Same old same old. Take care. Later, Butch

Beach towns, are they all sleazy? Must all boardwalks have members of "The Pirates of the Caribean" club hanging out? Why do such apparent forms of low life gather near the coastline? Questions, questions, questions. Yesterday I found myself in Daytona Beach killing time for a radio show. As I walked around the boardwalk I thought about the beautiful Asbury Park, New Jersey, home of THE BOSS, Mr. Bruce Springsteen. The place is hurtin', and I mean real bad (that's bad meaning bad not bad meaning good, brother). Daytona's right there with it. Sure, Daytona's got a nice Hilton, but both boardwalks are awful, and Jersey's got Bruce, so I figure Bruce and The Hilton cancel each other out. Final tally... two holes. But it's so romantic! Yeah, right. Tatooed women with barefoot children eating cotton candy (the tatted up women, I mean) ain't romantic. It's depressing. And the word dirty doesn't hold enough fever to do these places justice. Sorry to those folks who call these pits home, I mean no ill will. I'm just reporting what I see, throwing in tons of opinions, filling up blog space. I hope you understand. Take care. Later, Butch