Writers Block

Title: Writers Block at 90 Pesos Per Glass (Mazatlán Cantina Blues) Sittin' in the El Presido bar back in 1989 waiting for the "muse" to appear... [Intro] I’ve written some pretty decent stuff in this place… At least… that’s what I tell myself. Tonight though… I’m sittin’ here… starin’ at a blank yellow pad… Three glasses of wine in… And absolutely nothin’… worth sayin’. Feels like Hemingway oughta be sittin’ down there at the end… Starin’ into his glass… Actually writin’ somethin’. At ninety pesos a glass… That makes this… a very expensive silence. (light guitar groove begins) [Verse] Old brick walls and a polished bar curve, Ceilin’ fans hummin’, barely do their work, Jorge’s pourin’ like he’s done for years, Same soft nod, same “otra más, señor?” Yellow pad just starin’ back at me, Like it knows I got nothin’ to say, Pen in hand like a man with a plan… That quietly slipped away. [Pre-Chorus] Hemingway’s ghost just shakin’ his head… Like, “Kid… you should’ve stayed home instead…” [Chorus] Writers block at ninety pesos per glass, Buyin’ inspiration that just won’t last, Thought I’d find a story in this old cantina light— But all I found was me… and another Tuesday night. Writers block and a slow-pour groove, Tryin’ to think but nothin’s movin’, If genius comes from wine, well I’ve done my part— But tonight it ain’t showin’ up… in my head or my heart. [Verse 2] Two old gringos under that ficus tree, Pacífico dreams and faded dignity, One got a ponytail, one got a tan, Looks like they gave up havin’ a plan. Aloha shirt and a life worn thin, Baseball caps sittin’ on an empty chair, No diamonds, no danger, no secret story to steal… Just two weathered guys breathin’ warm Mazatlán air. [Pre-Chorus] I keep lookin’ around like words are hidin’ somewhere… But even Hemingway ain’t helpin’ from over there… [Chorus — Lift] Writers block at ninety pesos per glass, Watchin’ the minutes and the money pass, Thought maybe tonight I’d finally break through— But the only thing breakin’… is my point of view. Writers block and a barroom haze, Tryin’ to write my way through better days, If the muse is real she’s runnin’ late— Or she’s drinkin’ with Hemingway… down at the end of the slate. Traitor [Bridge] Late one night, a year ago, at Costa de Oro… Talkin’ philosophy with a bottle of beer, Woke up next mornin’ with notes in my pockets— Words I don’t recall… but somehow appear. Now maybe those neurons… band together in fear… When the wine glass death squads get near… [Break] Yeah… that used to work. Hemingway probably never had this problem. …or maybe he just hid it better. [Verse 3] Could be that muse slides in, azul-verde eyes, Orders a Chardonnay, cool and precise, Says “women don’t sweat… we glow in this heat,” While that glass drips slow… down onto her seat. We’d talk just enough to blur the line… Between clever thoughts and borrowed time, But she ain’t showin’… and that’s the truth— So I’m left here… with this barroom spoof. [Final Chorus] Writers block at ninety pesos per glass, Turns out inspiration ain’t somethin’ you can mass, You can sit in the perfect place, with the perfect view— And still have nothin’… comin’ through. Writers block and a quiet bar, Hemingway’s ghost ain’t gettin’ me far, Not every night’s a story worth tellin’ out loud— Sometimes you just sit… and watch the crowd [Outro] Four glasses in… Three hundred sixty pesos… Hemingway’s still sittin’ there… Not sayin’ a word. …guess it’s just me tonight.