Skip to main content

She's Not There

The following musical interlude is brought to you by my mojo.



Well no one told me about it, the way I cried
Well no on told me about it, my brain was fried
But it's too late to say I'm sorry
How would you know, why should you care
I been trying to find my mojo
She's not there

Well let me tell you 'bout the way I rocked
The way I'd act and the puns that were there
My wit was soft and cool
My posts were clear and bright
But they're not there

Well no one told me about it, what could I do
Well no one told me about it, and the air's now blue
But it's too late to say I'm sorry
How would you know, do you really care
I'm still tryin' to find my mojo
She's not there

Well let me tell you 'bout the way I rocked
The way I'd act and the puns that were there
My wit was soft and cool
My posts were clear and bright
But they're not there

But it's too late to say I'm writing
How would you know, do you really care
I'm still tryin to find my mojo
She's not there

Well let me tell you 'bout the way I rocked
The way I'd act and the puns with flair
My wit was soft and cool
My posts were clear and bright
But they're not there


With apologies to the Zombies (Man, I'm friggin' old.) I've included the original song for your enjoyment. And, who knows, maybe my mojo will be there next week.


Comments

Indigo Roth said…
Ah, Dufus. Tough times, old son. I have a nasty suspicion your Mojo has eloped with my Chutzpah. We should sit down and have a beer and wait for them to get bored and come home.
Cheryl said…
This post and that label are brilliant. Indigo's comment put me over the edge and now I can't stop laughing. With you guys, not at you guys. (If your mojo finds my mojo, would you please send it to me? Feel free to send it COD airmail. It's been gone so long, it's going to take a while to get used to having it around again.)
nonamedufus said…
That could be dangerous, Indigo. My Mojo may never come back. Or if it did It might have one hell of a headache.
nonamedufus said…
Isn't that sign great?! Your mojo too? Where the hell do mojos go? Is there like a mojo hideout or something?
Well I lost my marbles. sigh....
Debra She Who Seeks said…
I think you should wander up and down the streets in your neighbourhood yelling "Mojo! Mojo! Where are you?" That might help.
Nora Blithe said…
My Mojo, who I refer to as That Bitchy Muse, sometimes gets PMS. Perhaps yours just needs a gallon of chocolate ice cream and an evening watching sad movies.
nonamedufus said…
Oh my deepest condolences, Katherine.
nonamedufus said…
You don't think the sign's enough then?
nonamedufus said…
No, I think mine needs to spend a Sunday afternoon watching football. Alas, the season doesn't start for several months.
Cheryl said…
Do you have ESPN Classic? They replay old games from most sports. Just think how much fun it would be to watch something from the 70s or 80s back when most sports were more about the team than the superstars.
Cheryl said…
I think they all go to a retirement community somewhere in Florida where they swim, sunbathe, and drink Mimosas all day long.
babs (beetle) said…
Oh, I love it! I bet your mojo is with mine, laying low somewhere, hoping never to be found.
nonamedufus said…
Oh, I hope I find it. If it's with yours I'll let you know.
Ziva said…
I freelance as a Muse occasionally, if you're interested... ;)
nonamedufus said…
That might be a-muse-ing, Ziva.
meleah rebeccah said…
My mojo must be with your mojo. I sure hope they're having fun without us!

Popular posts from this blog

Tales From The Supermarket

Bob and Brenda worked in the supermarket. They weren't check-out clerks. And they weren't stock-boys. Brenda sure wasn't. And they weren't employees who worked in the fish section or the deli. No. They were on the shelves.

They hadn't been on the shelves very long but in that short time they'd developed a considerably close friendship.

The chatted all day when the store was busy and at night when the store was closed. They talked about everything. The talked about what raw products they came from. The talked about their manufacturing processes. And they talked about the long routes in semi-trailers that brought them to this store.

Oddly enough the one thing they never made clear to one another was just what product each of them was.

One day when Brenda was commenting on their friendship she told Bob she was grateful for their amity. "Are you Tea?" said Bob, pekoe-ing her way. "I thought I was Tea". You're coffee!"

This week's Tw…

My Back Pages - November

I read five books last month bringing my year to date total to 61, well past the 50 I estimated at the beginning of the year. And I've yet to get through December.

The month started out with The Nix, the debut novel by Nathan Hill which has been receiving a lot off positive reviews. In it Hill flips back and fourth from the 1968 Chicago protests and 2011 in a desperate search for the truth behind why his mother abandoned him at an early age. In between Hill takes on politics, the media and addiction as well as other aspects of society. It's a well-spun tale and I quite enjoyed reading it.

Next up was the auto-biographical I Am Brian Wilson of Beach Boys fame. This was somewhat of a scattered affair but an interesting read nonetheless. Wilson - or his ghostwriter - however is no Hemingway.

Then it was on to one of my favourite authors, Ian Rankin and his latest tale of now retired Inspector John Rebus, Rather Be The Devil. I never tire of these stories and this is the 21st in …