Tag Archives: Blue Moon KentuckyC2077^^+++++$

May 11, 2025 · 1:37 pm

00460602

She was already on her 3rd coffee and 4th Blue Moon single of the day. From her solo period of course. She doesn’t like the Cracks, her old group, nearly as much, prefix them with US, UK or any other country — doesn’t matter. But her solo period, especially after the suicide/murder attempt (another reader’s choice): primo. Pure punk while also somehow remaining pure pop, unholy yet uncannily successful marriage of the two. She takes another sip while she listens to another tasty lick from the guitar of none other than Cary E., soon to be known as Car E. and then just CARE w/ all caps, logical terminus reached on the name transmutation process. Formerly of Sunamai of course, helping out Blue Moon on this particular track called “No More Big Leagues,” a minor hit that kicks off her first solo album “Louisville Cardinals” — playing on the fact that the state of Kentucky contains no actual big league baseball team unlike neighboring Ohio with its Cincinnati Reds and Cleveland Indians and likewise neighbor Missouri with its own double team pairing of St. Louis Cardinals and Kansas City Royals. But believe me, don’t let the name fool you, she imagines saying to her brother Ted, more fond of the Cracks (a Crackhead of course): the album is definitely big leagues, and she then imagines herself laughing at his irritation to this statement of fact. “Johnny Rose Bench” is also a pretty well known love ballad from side two. And of course there’s “Elvis Esley.” Or Isley — no one really knows which except Blue Moon herself and she’s not saying.

The old timey dial telephone rings beside her. Probably station manager Marty, she reasons, calling to complain that I’m playing too much Kentucky and to cool it with the Blue Moon. She decides then and there to play the entirety of the the “Louisville Cardinals” album, just not lift the needle off the spinning vinyl record after the first track is done. And maybe play all the rest of her solo work — in order — after that. Take the phone off the hook and just *do* it. She calculates how quickly Marty could get here from Chilbo for the canning.

Can of Worms, yes, she thinks while track 1 ends and track 2 (“St. Louie Blues”) begins. Just like in New York.

(to be continued)

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May 4, 2025 · 7:03 pm

00460506

“Investigating a murder, ma’am. Blue Moon Kentucky. Know anything? A-bout it?”

“My Son!” she cried upon seeing him beam in on a ray of light. “Come back to me.”

“No ma’am. Not your Son. Or your Sun for that matter if that’s what you meant. Despite the beam and ray thing going on here beneath me.” But then he thought again. Clue!

Barry De Boy wakes up, immediately googles “Elvis Esley”. Or was it Isley?

(to be continued)

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April 13, 2025 · 5:00 am

00460315

Wheeler first heard the term Blue Balls while on the toilet reading about it in a conveniently placed local history mag. Being an excellent writer because of all those professor papers, Charlene “The Punk” Brown had no problem getting an article published — with permission from her sometimes lover and owner of the actual (tape) object Emily New Moon of course. As it turns out, the name originates from the Blue Balls Hotel, built more than two hundred years ago and which stood on the southwestern corner of town, right where the ice cream vendor Newt and she were eating at just several days back. Make that several weeks back as I’m checking. The builder, John Wallace — by chance the father of Builder Bob often noisily working on those pipes just outside Emily’s video store to her irritation — hung a blue ball out front, calling it “The Sign of the Blue Ball”. Locals soon began calling the town Blue Ball after the inn, which soon turned into Blue Balls as another ball was added to the first when no one was looking or paying attention.

But wait there’s more. The town’s name has a suggestive second meaning according to the 2nd paragraph of that article, identical to the slang term “blue balls,” which refers to, according to Charlene’s text, “the sexual condition of temporary testicular and prostate fluid congestion due to prolonged and unsatisfied sexual excitement.” After an initial leak by Marg “The Town” Gossiper, word spread quickly. A town meeting was speedily organized, a new name demanded. “Well, if not Blue Balls, then what!?” George “The Grill” Foreman called from in back of the rowdy, crowded room on the second floor of what soon became the town hall building, prompting mumblings of “What are we going to call this burg?” all around. No one could come up with a replacement name. And thus they settled on The Burg for lack of creativity or any other option. “Call it what it is,” finished Tom “The Surface” Smith. Oh, and then they all went over and burned down John Wallace’s Blue Balls hotel along with its offensive sign to seal the deal.

Wait! More. Left in the ashes of the catastrophe was a fireproof safe holding the most valuable of John’s valuables (he had many). And in that safe amongst diamonds and rubies and gold bars and gold bonds and the like was found the actual reason for the establishment’s appellation, a sex tape to be short, starring a young, novice actress in the field soon to become a much much bigger name in another. “And the name of that young actress,” Charlene finished part 01 of her promised 2 part article, “is none other than, get ready! (to be continued)”

*Fascinating* read, *friend*, Wheeler sarcastically and playfully thought about the cliffhanger while putting down the mag beside the toilet and finishing her business here. Now to get over to town hall and see what she’s facing in her 1st day of managing this here crazy town… *burg*!

But the subject would not go away, hmph. An envelope labeled “Paradise Found?” with a map of a certain Pennsylvania county all marked up inside laid atop the mail heaped up on her desk that morning, big pile courtesy of outgoing and not-giving-a-damn-on-her-last-day Electra. Sent by Charlene of all people. “Come see me,” indicated a handwritten note also within, along with the address of her records store down in Downtown (this was Uptown). Like Wheeler didn’t know that bit of information already, ha. And so on what she planned to be at least a 2 hr. 1st day lunch break that’s exactly what she did.

Blue Ball here on the map and not yet Blue Balls, you’ll notice. That might be a key — we’ll see.

(to be continued)

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April 6, 2025 · 7:11 am

00460308

“Well. Here we are.” And then he went in.

I’m scared, Bimbo thinks, hesitant to do the same and remaining outside. Do I really want to know how this works? Will I look at Fink Humann in a different way after this, a different light? Maybe it’s best–”

“Are you coming or are you not?” Stanley poking his head back out of the store’s door.

Cooommming, she thought. That’s the problem. That’s not what her type does, she’s found out. Nor his.

—–

But for Blue Moon Kentucky, seen here searching in vain for anything else besides that one solo album a bit earlier in the day as record store owner Charlene the Punk looks on smugly: no problem as it turns out.

And that’s when the whole scene climaxed. At the video store. Special viewing room as the static on the TV turned into something else, something Bimbo had never seen. And never wanted to see again.

(to be continued)

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April 4, 2025 · 4:57 am

00460306

There she f-ing is in the flesh ha, thinks Emily New Moon at her counter beside the static filled TV. She likes to have it on with the sound turned at least low just to help drown out the city noise outside. Sometimes it’s bad out there, sometimes not so much. But she likes to keep it on anyway, just in case.

She rehearses her lines as Blue Moon mills around, trying to seem interested in the other tapes. But she only wants the one, she knew. 49 of 50 she has already. And she’s tracked down the 50th and last to this town, this store most likely, since it’s the only video rental one in this population place merely known as The Burg. Here: Downtown, its seedier side. Up there where it’s quieter most of the time: Uptown, where Emily *wished* she worked. But L.A. won the job at the ice cream vendor over her because she’d presented some papers at some national art conference or another, didn’t matter. *She’s* written things too. Just not published or presented stuff. Blue Moon milling about over there trying to seem distracted will know one day too, she thinks while continuing to observe and mentally rehearse. “‘Blue *Balls* Kentucky’, hmm — interesting — let me see,” and she’ll pretend to type the name into her database, pretend to look at results, pretend that the tape isn’t on the list. Blue Moon’s one and only porno, 50 copies extant. She has 49. But dammit if Emily *New* Moon is going to let her have 50. The blue fades to black right here in this town, this store. She’ll reach a dead end and it’ll nag at her the rest of her short lived days, Emily thinks with some satisfaction. Because she knows it’s worth a gold mine. And she, as it turned out, has cornered the market, ha ha ha. He he. Ho.

Here she comes. Steel yourself, Emily! You’ll be as famous as her soon, maybe even bigger than her — no need to be daunted. New Moon rising.

“I-I’d like to inquire about a tape,” she begins rather timidly. Like she doesn’t belong there. And she doesn’t, thinks Emily. Neither of us.

“Name?” she say as matter-of-factly as possible given the moment.

(to be continued)

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March 7, 2025 · 3:54 pm

00460108 (319)

That’ll be 4 bucks please,” said ramen shop attendant Jacwylin, extending her hand with the bill for the bills. She was also the manager of this small cyperpunk type shop, if it wasn’t Tammy (pause). No, I checked. Tammy isn’t projected to be in this here photo-novel, 46 in a series. So this remains Jacwylin. “You know,” she begins again, name settled on and free to dwell in the past now. “Blue Moon Kentucky sat on that very seat, ordered that very meal. Blue like you too.” She scrutinized the face more closely. “Nah,” she begged off. “You’re not her.”

“Of course I’m not her,” said the blue clad woman back. Still working for the Horns, the big bosses, although the boss boss Edward was the only one still around. Who was now also her boyfriend. Luckily for her, he doesn’t have a cleanliness obsession. He doesn’t mind a little dirty. “But,” she reconsidered, “that’s an interesting story, worth a follow up statement.” There. I just did it. Would she get the joke?

“Ha ha,” she started after a significant enough pause. “Hu hu hu, good one.” She got it. “But, *anyway*, Blue Moon… do you like her music? Do you prefer the Cracks or do you prefer her solo work? Some do.” She withheld the “like me,” part. Wanted to get the other’s opinion first.

“I’ve heard of ‘Keep on Shining.'”

“Yes yes. Good one.” Maybe a solo lover. Like herself. She’ll keep patient.

“And, let’s see, the one about suicide is certainly interesting. Can’t recall the name of that.”

Jacwylin couldn’t either in the moment. Oh yes, she thought. “Elvis Esley.” Or Isley — she couldn’t remember if the last name of the single started with an E or an I, our first mandela effect in this here post (pause). I checked to make sure and, yes, it is so. The name Tammy remains a mistake and not an alternate reality.

(to be continued)

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February 12, 2025 · 3:51 pm

00450704

Oops, he thinks while checking the photo-novel 45 clock behind Redd, its time quickly running out. See ya, my new muse. Gotta go meet Tobor down at the beach to end this thing, but not before leaving my door slightly ajar of course. This could be a deep one.

As it turns out, Greg’s Makers Way is not the only Maker in the area. There’s what appears to be this fashion magazine located in a small, out of the way radio station in nearby Seogwipo about 200 meters away, which DJ Carolin “Wind” Willows is just entering to begin her long long workday isolated from the rest of the world. Tough since she’s a sociopath, I mean, a social person. She rethinks her career choice every time she walks through that door. She also leaves it ajar? Could be.

Ahh, a little Blue Moon Kentucky from her independent label Sun Records will help first thing in the morning, she thinks. Little track called “Elvis Esley” penned by Scottyd Bill that helped put her back on the musical map after the breakup of the Cracks. Here goes!

Listening to the lyrics, Carolin can’t help but wonder again how such a depressing song ever made it to the top of the pop charts. Suicide! And more.

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December 22, 2024 · 5:46 am

00450308

I walked into the bar and a guy was headless right in front of me. With a big head on the screen beside him. Kind of freaked me out until I realized he was just slumped over on the counter, probably drunk out of his gourd, ha ha. Like I wanted to be. Where’s Cary, where’s Cary?

Ahh, there the ol’ son of a bitch is, waving me over. Don’t call him Cary don’t call him Cary, I recited as a mantra. He’s incognito tonight with the toned down clothes and fake beard and all. Wanted me to help him find Eden, he said. I’m buying, in that I’m in. He’s buying the drinks of course, being the semi-mega superstar rock singer he is now. As of the last album, he’s sold enough records to surpass Elvis Presley as the 67th best seller of all time. Of course he’ll never catch the likes of the Way Outs or Sunamai, which just happens to be his old band. But he’s doing pretty well for himself still. Dropped down from the hills tonight, as in North Oak where he has a kind of mansion or something. Never been up there personally. Never had a reason to mingle with the pseudo-super rich up there. No crime up there either, given all the military-style robots roaming all over the place. Nobody dares.

“V(al)!” he introduces himself over the music, a Way Out single from the 60s I believe, as in 2060s. He’s probably jealous they’re playing. He’s that kind. “Have a drink have a drink,” he said as I move in on him. “Already ordered one for you. A mulberry they call it. Don’t know why. Purple, I know, but really good. Something in the purple. Just drink up drink up.” Cary’d already knocked down a few it appeared, already getting sort of unusually fluid in his motion.

“Nice to see you again,” I said back, grasping the proffered beverage, indeed quite purple. Almost beyond belief, actually. “What was it? The UK Cracks?”

“Yeah, wanted to kill those chromatic bitches at the time. Now they’re okay they’re good. Made a single together I guess you’ve heard.”

“I heard, uh, one of them got killed, maybe two of them.”

“Nah, they’re okay they’re good. Just saw them day before yesterday’s yesterday over at Lester Bay. You know, down by the river. Near the ocean. You know — everybody knows. Lester’s Bay, right.” He drinks, takes a drag off his cigar. “Right,” he repeats, blowing out smoke away from me but on to a nearby guy at the counter, who moves away a bit from us. “Cigar?” he then says, holding his own up to me. I wave him off. Wanted to focus on drinking tonight. And work. “Suit yourself,” he says.

“Must’ve heard wrong, then,” I back down, trying to remember where I’d learned the news about the killing. Or killings. But now I can’t recall. Must have just made it up, pheh. Getting older, brain matter getting worn out I suppose. About time to retire from the merc business. I tell Cary some of this, who laughs.

“Listen, you do this last job for me you can buy that house next to mine that’s up for sale and we can be *neighbors*, ha ha.”

“So… what this time?” I was eager to get at it. The suspense was killing me. “Soo, obviously not the UK Cracks,” I said to fill in the gap while he kept drinking and smoking away, staring at me but not providing any answers.

“No, no UK Cracks,” he finally offers. “But a musician still.” He drinks, he smokes.

“Welll?”

“How much (drink)… do you know (smoke)… about Tin Lizzy?”

Turns out she was in the middle, which unfortunately, as the old saying indicates, is mostly just in the way. Cary proffered a way out.

(to be continued)

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November 6, 2024 · 7:25 am

00440515 (once more: the 7 and the 6)

Looking down from the damn dam rail into the still blood stained rocks below, I thought of changing Tennessee into Kentucky again and be done with it.

But then, raising my head and seeing the city-scape still beautiful in the sunset through the gorge in front of me, I turned away and started walking again, contemplating the red (technology) and the green (anatomy) and how to balance the two and not give up hope. Sanity don’t leave me yet!

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August 10, 2024 · 10:53 pm

00430616 (Silverhhand)

Just over here, V. Behind these Tiler shacks.

—–

“So this is how it is?”

“What did you expect? A tombstone? Flag and flowers?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.”

“You blew up Arastraville Tower. You killed a lot of people, Jonny. And where did it get you in the end? The corps and their suits for men are still in control.”

“I know I know.” He pauses. “I was a musician too besides being a terrorist,” he tried.

“One overrides the other?” I asked as a question. Because I was curious how Jonny was going to balance the two. History would view the music as largely about terrorism, not visa versa. Music should ultimately be uplifting, not constantly tearing down our lives, deconstructing them. Something like Blue Moon and her UK Cracks have merit just by that virtue alone. I told Jonny this.

“Are you saying I should have listened more to those bubblegum bitches?”

“Maybe. Cary listened. He liked them. Until… well, you know.”

Both thought of the death of Blue Moon and possibly Redd the Menace too.

“Maybe it should have been me at the bottom of that damn dam instead of Kentucky. Maybe history would have viewed me more in a positive light.”

“That’s static in that direction, Jonny. You’re not Blue Moon, you’re not bubblegum pop. You’re hard edged rock ‘n roll, always have been, always will. You can’t change who you are inside, the core.”

“Can’t you?” Exhale; another pause. “You know I thought about being an artist, V. A painter instead of an axer. Pretty good too. Won some awards as a child prodigy.”

I checked my watch, thought about the growing length of this section. “Yeah, really don’t have time to explore alternate realities right now, Jonny. The musician/terrorist polarity is complicated enough. Any last words? Over your grave, I mean.”

“Just carve the initials and let’s get out of here.”

“Done, and…

“Done.”

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