The Chris Chandler Show

Hey Everybody.

It’s that time again. Today is the first day of the new year. I remember last year at this time, all of us celebrating the end of 2020. “A once in a lifetime bad year,” we all thought. Then the twenty first century became of drinking age. I found myself hanging out with drunken Sisyphus riding the rock down the hill like a rollercoaster, and just as the rollercoaster car was coming into the station, there was the cliff.

Falling off a cliff is only good when you are falling in love.

So, when you feel like you are simply falling instead of falling in love, remember there are many kinds of love in this world. All of them will catch you, if you let them.

Thank you to all of you who have helped to catch me. I could not land with out you.

This is why, I want to start this new year with a new poem for a new day and a new era in my life for those of you that have helped me through this difficult time.

From the theme song to “Smokey and the Bandit,”

I am reminded, Life is a long time to be gone and a short time to be here.

Here is your

M.U.S.E. .A.N.D. .W.H.I.R.L.E.D. .R.E.T.O.R.T.

January 1, 2022

Austin, TX

A New Route (For my dear friend, Irina)

I want you to know that

inside me is a road map of a universe,

(toll roads included.)

As dreams unfold before my windshield

and memories squeeze their way into the tiny portal that is my rear view.

The safety belt locks in place all that I have.

My gas tank if full of friendship and

my CB radio is tuned to her channel.

“Breaker 1-9, I love you, have you got your ears on? I love you.”

But, all that answered me was resounding static.

Brenda Lee is no longer coming on strong,

She is silent.

She sings “Sweet Nothing.”

Windshield wipers,

slapping time,

I am holding no one’s hand and mine,

And these worn wipers

will not wipe away the fog.

Head lights do not help.

Without them, darkness.

I need to pull over.

I am thankful for you, soft shoulder,

where I can rest until the fog lifts,

and I can venture forth.

Thank you soft shoulder.

I love you.

One typically avoids soft shoulders on the open freeway of life,

but not me. I know you.

You are always there when I need you.

I want you to know, I appreciate you.

There is strength in your softness.

Safety in your fragility.

You are stronger than headlamps and windshield wipers,

power windows and four wheel drives,

and the ceaseless static of Citizen’s Band.

I no longer shout, “breaker 1-9 I love you!“

There is no longer any point. She is gone,

and i have just broadcasting into the silent airwaves

upon an abandoned toll road.

But somehow here with you, soft shoulder,

you have managed to squelch the static of her absence

until all is soothed.

I love you soft shoulder,

May I wait here with you?

For a while. Maybe til midnight?

Midnight is a happy time to drive,

for midnight is where yesterday begins and the dreams that were nightmares can become memories.

Is it midnight yet?

Please tell me it is midnight for

I would rather have the memories of nightmares than the bad dreams themselves.

Or, maybe I can sit with you until sunrise.

For sunrise is when we can see

that yesterday has finally taken her rightful place in the rear view.

Sometimes, it takes

the morning sun to burn away the lingering fog.

Soft shoulder, may I sit with you til sunrise?

Please?

I can engage the emergency brake,

and tilt back the driver’s seat. Shall I unfasten the safety belt?

Maybe we will sleep, like we’ve always wanted to,

Sun visors down, holding back the day,

so that we may rest a moment longer.

When we wake,

it will be a new world, and a new year!

One that will require a new map,

with new dreams projected upon the windshield,

and I can reconnoiter a new road map of the universe

to find a new route

where there will always be

a soft shoulder beside me.

Broadcasting from the front seat of snake oil wagon on the soft shoulder of the information superhighway since the dawn of email.

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I have no shows on the books at present.

Paul Benoit and I are moving into the mixing part of the new album but the lingering pandemic has left us delaying plans to tour.

I am hoping to return to New Jersey in the next week or so to bring a storage bin back to Austin. Housed inside that storage bin is The Jim Alberti Theatre, and I long to resume my Live stream Shows. Yes, a new Season of “the Poem of The Week.” And “The Mighty Monthly Muse”

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If you haven’t yet and would like to help me keep it on the road, or at least in a tenable parking place until we can all gather safely again.

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