The Guillotine In America: A Non-Existent History

Degree Granting Institutions Will Often Require a Defense of One's Work - This is the Second Part of Mine: A Few Treatises Explaining Why I am Correct and You are Not

2012-01-18T18:04:00.001-06:00

The most important aspect of my writing is its being written. As a poet, I feel my words float, aloud, away into obscurity. The details of syllables, breath, and rhythm are packed into those words. My writing does not often concern itself with words, but ideas. That's why I write about werewolves and rednecks and death rays - because they're damn interesting to think about. Words will often get in the way of the ideas they are trying to convey or evoke, and I have seen this cognitive obstruction

I believe allowing the idle spirit of reality into the realm of fiction, and more specifically the short story, is vital to the continuance of the art-form. They are, after all, short stories. My mind is fed up with playing the tedious game of beginning, middle, and end. (Perhaps I am a textbook case of the so-called Generation Y; perhaps my grade school counselor was right and my IQ is just too high for standardized testing - I don't have an easy answer to forgive my proclivities, but I do find it easy, very easy, to gravitate toward stimulating art.) Broken down on a microscopic level yes, every action has a beginning, middle, and an end. But

There were no happy endings for Humpty Dumpty, or Tony Soprano; or Jesus Christ, for that matter.

there is always an impetus, a rogue element in the equation that sticks out and elects itself speaker of the house. And when that element is finished saying what it has to say, it sits down and everyone else takes a good long while to think about what was said.

I am not limited in my writing to context, content, or character. My mind is on the idea contained therein. The stories I have to tell are not one's everyday market fare; my dishes are always unique, my ingredients often conflicting. As a matter of fact, if I were inclined to put a label on my writing, I would call it a stew. And like any good stew, I believe my stories require infrequent visits governed over long periods of...stewing, really.

Kicking an idea around for so long it starts to call you 'Daddy' is my idea of fun. When the reader is able to conjure a new notion or emotion upon each new visit; when I can hear an audience reflect on my writing as "fresh" upon each read, I can consider myself a success. That's a sign of true endearment and I will willingly confess that my personal artistic objective is to be liked, accepted (for all the bananas in Madagascar)--understood.

Do I believe in spontaneity?

Yes, it exists. Concepts of spontaneity being another subject altogether, I do not believe one's writing should need to follow any sort of linear construct, or apparently coherent construct, in order for a story to be told and the reader to be affected. Alighieri's Divine Comedy is just as much a novel to the public conscience as Moby Dick; and the Bible, though another can of worms altogether, is most definitely a sacred text, but acts, more or less, as a most linear and cohesive narrative (Beginning-->Middle-->End). So what if there are a few different versions of the same story somewhere in the middle (and the beginning, and everywhere else), the message of the piece cannot be disputed - or can it? Perhaps the Qur'an is the world's most successful piece of literature...

I am clinically depressed, and anxious (mostly anxious), and therefor identify closely (and regularly) with misanthropic characters and ideals.

My heroes are as follows, but are in no particular order (all are necessary for my development into an adult, my brain finally reaching maturity this year (2012) at twenty-six):

Lawrence Talbot, the Wolf-Man; Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame; Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael (Raphael being the best), the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; the Incredible Hulk (not Bruce Banner); Wolverine; Batman (because he lived two lives, and he was the Dark Knight, after all); the titular star of the film Predator (1987); Superman (but not because he stood for truth, justice, and the American way; because he lived two lives...and he was, like, invincible and shit); Erik, the Phantom of the Opera; King Kong; Godzilla (King Kong is better, being that he is a more unique character, one that think and feel and take Fay Wray's clothes off); Dr. Henry Jekyll, as well as his vicious doppelganger, Mr. Edward Hyde.

These characters are more human than human, living through their emotions for us on paper so we too may live them through our imaginations. There is no such thing as a one-dimensional character - even robots have motivation. Through HAL 9000's homicidal tendencies we came to understand that an artificial intelligence is just as subject to arrogance and ignorance as flesh and blood. Because Arthur C. Clarke says so.

Degree Granting Institutions Will Often Require a Defense of One's Work - This is the First Part of Mine: Songs of Understanding from Me to You

2012-01-17T21:30:00.012-06:00

Canto 9,345

I believe in the blues. And the world should too.

The blues is a type of artistry that touches upon an aspect of the human spirit which no other medium, genre, or composition can – the joy of equitable suffering. There are certain Catholics in the urban jungles of Central America that celebrate the passion of Christ by nailing themselves to crosses, and they believe they deserve every blow the hammer delivers. The madcap balladeers of the blues, on the other hand, reject the sacrifice of Christianity but retain the suffering, which is dealt with in a very personal, objective manner. In other words, I believe James Brown said it best when he sang, “I don’t want nobody to give me nothing/Open up the door, I’ll get it myself.”

This puts a lot of twentieth century writing into perspective for me, this mentality of the blues. Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, (1952) according to the author, is a blues novel; the collected works of Flannery O’Connor could comfortably stand next to any of Charley Patton’s selected laments. My God is it American to feel empowered by one's suffering. The virus of life is contagious already, and the effects are often ubiquitous; but the white man's burden has mutated over the years into a neurosis that is as color-blind as it is ridiculous. Taken at face value, and presently assessed, the results would be inconclusive. Thank you.

Canto 9,346

I look for stories.

I am the great white hunter – a story hunter. I am not your typical sportsman, no. I do not set my focus on big game; trophies are far from my prerogative. Vanity needs no indulgence, my work is selfless.

I pick my prey as any hunter would: characteristics of weight, pelt, behavior, vitality – these are all taken into account.

I moved to Minnesota in the summer of 2009 from central Illinois with the intention of doing two things - kicking ass and chewing bubblegum...and I'm all out of bubblegum.

I am an only male child.

I am asthmatic.

I am broken.

I have spent twenty-five years trying to understand.

I did not grow up with Bible stories, I grew up with pop culture. Metaphors work best for me - interest me most, at least. Understanding, comprehension, communication. Every aspect of a stimuli is to be scrutinized. Effigy.

Ignorance is the enemy and it must be combated with extreme prejudice.

Canto 9,347

What I love most about writing is the act of creation; the excitement of a burgeoning idea; playing with it, analyzing it, reshaping it, turning it inside and out until I understand it well enough to convey my idea to an audience. The blithe spirit of art is my passion; the constructive work of revision is my onus.

Where do all these lone males figures in my writing come from?

Well let's see...could it be that I always make myself the hero? I don't think so. I believe I simply feel more comfortable in my own skin; the individual.

Boys are becoming men?
No. Boys are learning what it means to be a man, but their instructions are coming from everywhere: parents, world, friends. I try to illustrate the worst mistake one can make, which is ignoring/disregarding the only valid available instruction: oneself.

("And it must follow, as the night the day")*

I believe the author is always right. I am an audience that wants to hear a story. There is no drive-up window to order my story; I rely on the author for that story and have full confidence in that author's authority. It is, after all, make believe.

Canto 9,348

I am smarter than you.

Canto 9,349

I love myself.

Words and their meanings are not mutual. Thus, my enjoyment. Everyone should take personal delight in the exercise of language; because communication is not what makes us human, but how we communicate. The more methods, avenues, or mediums of communication one possesses the happier they are. And that's what it really about - being happy.

I am self-conscious.

I don't like over-analyzing myself. It makes me nervous. Explanations always get in the way objective meaning making. I am afraid of digging too deep and finding nothing at all, no voice, no heartbeat - nothing.

Canto 3,450

Lucien Carr, that homicidal muse of the Beats with the right intellect but the wrong ideas, famously proclaimed that "art eludes conventional morality." I believe he was correct in this assertion - the artist is just a person, a vessel in which their art exists until it eventually escapes onto the page and into the world.

I am searching for new ways to tell the same stories. I have no interest in 'boy meets girl.' How about 'boy meets girl under a pier in the Bahamas while two other guys wearing bear costumes penetrate her from behind'? The obscene and the absurd - my pillars of wisdom. Within the grey is where all the pieces of understanding fall into place; I believe true understanding takes place in the dark or the light.

("Strip your psyche to the bare bones of spantaneous process, and you give yourself one chance in a thousand to make the Pass.")+

What interests me are affective curiosities. I want people to be moved by werewolves, pedophiles, mad scientists, and murderers; to learn a life lesson from the devil himself; or, best of all, to learn something about themselves. I want my audience to allow the story to envelop them, to color their understanding. Perhaps this puts too much weight on the shoulders of my characters, forcing them into an Atlas position to hold up the endless nothing that is the plot. Perhaps. But my concern is the message therein, not the package it's wrapped in.

I am not as funny as I think.

*Hamlet Act 1, Scene 3, 79, William Shakespeare

+ William S. Burroughs

Sermon

2011-12-21T11:09:00.000-06:00

Why am I always a few years behind when it comes to discovering bands that wrote a whole new rule book? The Stooges and MC5 came thirty-five years too late when I was sixteen; Black Flag twenty when I was twenty; and Sleep ten when I was twenty-three. Oxbow isn't broken up, though, so I suppose there's still hope.

1. Tragic Carpet Ride - Polvo
2. T.V. Eye - The Stooges
3. When I Hear My Name - The White Stripes
4. Tusken Child - Flooring
5. Scythian Skulls - Gay Witch Abortion
6. Run Paint Run Run - Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band
7. Combination Lack - Fugazi
8. See No Evil - Television
9. When My Baby Comes - Grinderman
10. Easy Greasy - Goatsnake
11. Skin Horse - The Melvins
12. Mouth Breather - The Jesus Lizard
13. No Pussy Blues - Grinderman
14. You Need Satan More Than He Needs You - Future of the Left
15. Damaged Goods - Gang of Four
16. Mudride - Mudhoney

Loving Music in the Modern World

2011-12-21T11:02:00.001-06:00

I need to remember to find a box to put all of my concert t-shirts in for storage's sake. All that shit lying around on the bedroom floor is really getting to be a hassle, and the t-shirts just take up space.

I'm thinking of starting up a heavy metal project in the Twine Cities area. Bringing my friends in my band along for the ride would be great; meeting new faces and sounds would work as well. I very much need to be playing music all the time. Perhaps one project is not enough. Making music with my band is great, rewarding, and very exciting, but there are other musical needs I have that need to be fulfilled. I can stretch myself pretty thin. I think I can do it. Need to talk to the boys about the possibilities.

1. Boris - The Melvins
2. Saturn's Children - Electric Wizard
3. Restless - 40 Watt Sun
4. Void - Craft
5. What Love Remains - Goatsnake
6. A Bureaucratic Desire for Revenge, Pt. 1 - Earth
7. A Bureaucratic Desire for Revenge, Pt. 2 - Earth

Cerebal Palsy and the Conquest of Merial-Squamisha Galazy 5.312

2011-12-03T23:05:00.000-06:00

The girlfriend is spending time with her friend Kate from Chicago. Kate is pretty good looking. When I say good looking, I mean hot. Kate is engaged to a cat from the South side of Chicago. She is also from the South side. Dude isn't that bestest in the worlds. But when I say that, I mean it in the Violent Femmes way. But that's neither here nor there.

(But it really is.)

Any who.

Thesis is done. Anyone wanting a taste of that gold dime-bag can get to me. I'm actually thinking about self-publishing a collection or five dozen. And getting some knuckle tattoos - not sure what I want, really. But hey, I got into a bar tonight with some knuck stamps and got to thinking.

This is what the feeling is like, really--when you are so happy, but have that urge inside that cannot be...anyway.

How Do You Like Them Apples? Lou Reed and Metallica Make a Record Album

2011-11-03T03:16:00.008-05:00

"Lululu - I've got some apples
Lululu - You've got some, too
Lululu - Let's get together
I know what we can do, Lulu"

Imagine Jonathan Swift writing a libretto for Wagner. Take in to consideration the substantial elapse of space and time, genre, language, and cultural climate

Finished?

What a piece of shit, right? Like, at times I know it sounds like it’s working; but then I steal myself and think, ‘Wow—what a piece of shit!’

First of all, what the hell, right? Why would Swift ever want to buddy up with Herr Wagner? Well, if Lou Reed and Metallica can make an album together, why the fuck couldn’t Gulliver find himself scaling up Mount Doom with the rest of the bunch, a pulse of bassoons and double-basses keeping his heels digging into the dirt? Reed’s latest gift to our ears is a collaboration with heavy-hitting sell-up-down-in-and-outs Metallica called Lulu (2011). It's based on a few German plays, and Lou has taken the time to compose his own lyrics around the idea of these plays. The subject is a distraught and abused dancer.

And that's all the context you get. Let's hit it!

Disc One

When did Lars Ulrich become a stoned sixteen year-old? Because that’s what I hear throughout Lulu – the baked-crispy meanderings of an unfocused slacker. Also, understanding how a band records colorizes one’s opinion of that music. It is too easy to the knowledgeable ear to catch the punched-in drum rolls during “Pumping Blood,” but the last few minutes (7 and some change to be precise) are almost worth Ulrich’s amateur thrashings through minutes 3 – 5. Hetfield and Hammett’s guitars make the soundscape a little more interesting through “Blood” and the subsequent “Mistress Dread.” If only the whole album were up to the standards of this track, hoo boy. The Met boys bring the mojo hardcore and achieve the effect Reed was going for the entire time, I imagine. And that organ underneath doesn’t hurt, either. If only the power of Tallica’s rock could shut Lou up for two seconds, “Mistress Dread” would shine as evidence of time well spent together in the studio. Sounding much like Boris and Acid Mothers Temple coming together, I believe “Mistress Dread” would sing if it were not for Lou Reed braying throughout like a cantankerous resident of an artisan’s old-folk’s home.

And “Iced Honey”? First and foremost, the title alone is a dead giveaway that we are in for a hard time. And when Hetfield comes in underneath Reed like some weird sort of half-second cro-mag delay? Pew.

“Cheat on Me,” holds potential as well. Some may ask, ‘When did Metallica become an art band?’ The answer is they didn’t. Not by a long shot. Sitting down with the boys at first, I bet Reed was adamant about improvisation. When he kept getting the same thing—the underlying melody of sustained feedback, pinched harmonics, and pulsing organ—he figured, ‘What the hell,’ and put a meter to his lyrics that made sense. Without a steady structure and a keenly squared away sense of objective, Metallica are about as useful as your older brother’s super-tight (meaning ‘playing all together,’ not the Urban Dictionary definition of the word) heavy-metal wedding band. They seem uncomfortable with the freedom Reed’s ragged vision gave them. Again, there is potential here. If only Reed had given his old protégée James Osterberg, Jr. a call to shape the lyrics up. Iggy Pop may not have the same aesthetic sensibilities as his uncle Lou, but Jim’s mastery of brevity could have served Reed immeasurably on his latest project. ‘Lou,’ Pop would say, ‘let the music do the talking instead.’ Potential. It seems that’s the lesson of Lulu – ‘you can be anything you want to be as long as you believe.’ What an American album, eh?

Disc Two

That’s right. Two discs worth. Buckle up, sports fans.

Okay. “Frustration” makes sense for Ulrich’s playing. And I bet he never lets anyone forget that, either. For a few dozen seconds, Lou Reed and Lars Ulrich solo together on the same riff—ineptitude. “I don’t have the strength I once had,” Reed…sings (?) on “Frustration,” and he’s right. Maybe he hoped Tallica would be a shot of aural Viagra? “Frustration is my lexicon of hate”: he even quotes the stammered delivery of Bowie’s “Changes.” Coincidence? I think not.

“Spermless like a girl, you’re more man than I”: what sort of chauvinistic crap is this? And here’s Metallica back with the answer—the most manly chauvinistic crap you could hope to imagine. Whatever ineptitude Reed has been working our through lyrics, Metallica work through with their patented brand of chug-chug pace setting. Perhaps the best track on the album for shear focus alone.

“Dragon” could also stand on its own two legs if it had to. Although when Reed says, “You don’t actually care,” I’m not too sure if he’s speaking to a character. Perhaps he is speaking as a character? “I understand, you think you’re above it,” he says later on. Wow. Lou Reed is speaking to Lou Reed via a character of his own creation. “Oh, you think you’re so special” – stop it, Lou; what else are the rest of us supposed to do?

Again, with a title like “Junior Dad,” I’ve already got my foot in the door. And after the first few minutes of composition coloring, it’s also clear that the heavy-metal wedding band is back. A paint-by-numbers melody pokes its head out around two and a-half minutes only to lead right into a ‘and-three-and-four’ pronouncement of distorted guitars and open-cymbal drums. I may be up at three in the morning already, but I’m ready to go to bed; and there’s still eleven minutes left.

So maybe the melody is easy on the ears. I’m at least getting this thing written, aren’t I? This is good tasking music, which I’m sure is not the effect Lou and the Metallicats were hoping for.

All in all, if I were a teacher and Lulu were a student's assignment, I would grade it a C - based on that student's previous work. Please take this as a sign for a return to form. You can do so much better.

Frankenstein Saves the World

2011-10-31T09:32:00.010-05:00

On a whim I searched "Halloween" and, inevitably, came by my favorite franchise's home website. Michael Myers is doing a lot of good these days, it seems. Whether or not the sCare Foundation is just a wholesome face to attach to projects in order to get attention, I don't know; but their mission statement seems honorable enough.

For those of you who don't have the patience to even consider fiction, here's something a little more your liking to sink your teeth into. Regardless of your technological proclivities, if you have an extra minute, or an extra dollar bill or two, let the youth of America know you care about their movie-going experience.

Happy Halloween everyone!

The Return of the Daughter of the Son of Tyranosaurus Rex

2011-10-30T17:47:00.010-05:00

There is a monster somewhere...

And when the monster makes itself seen, not just lurking behind planes of shadow and mystery, the audience is less likely to be afraid.

So it should never come as surprise when something like this happens.

For some reason I am reminded of the ancient samurai tradition of hara-kiri, the act of seppuku, or ritual suicide. If the knight were to fail his task, or border on the cusp of capture, it was his honorable duty to end his own life before facing defeat.

Now, the Tea Party has acted more like an alarmed boyfriend by pulling out at the very last second; but at least they have straightened their crooked backs in resounding defiance of Bachmann's association. Let's hope we the United States won't have to suffer the effects of a Bachmann/Tea Party 'Oops Baby.'

And that, as Richard Nixon would say, is that.

Juror, Feline Asphyxiator, Garbage Man

2011-10-29T10:00:00.003-05:00

I seem to have taken a mental dump. All of the stress of Grandma, the wedding, my band, school, and work seem to have shit themselves into the dream world because there haven't been any more wanderings through dilapidated group houses; no getting lost on Escher-esque freeways of dread to god-knows-where; no inbred boondocks bumpkins waiting at the side of the dirt road for my car to break down. Only my friends making other people feel less than worthless.

Life is good...

Morticians Assistant, Public Defender, Soda Jock

2011-10-19T09:27:00.008-05:00

My dreams are really getting on my nerves.

As an adult, I feel I have found that perfect middle ground of focus and fear - allow me to explain.

From what I can deduce, most folks keep their everyday lives rolling by-way of a combination of focus and fear. To make things easier, we can refer to "focus" as professional and "fear" as human.

OK.

Now, the struggle of the salaried adult is to find a balance between being professional in the work place while not forfeiting the most casual of human instincts and reactions.

Empathy is usually the first to go. Hunter S. Thompson once mused that there was "safety in speed." This I'm not sure of. Blazing through one's day can often lead to overseen tragedies along the way. If eleven o'clock rolls around and you are scheduled for a fifteen minute break, you are probably going to take advantage. But consider this: you return to the work place from your fifteen minutes of bliss to discover a co-worker in your area at the break of madness from over-work; you left for you break as soon as responsibility decided to make a call.

Alright. Do you feel bad about this? Or do you say, "Meh--shit happens?"

What I do is admit that there's nothing that can be done; so put your foot in the dirt and kick off with some steam-powered wrecking spirit! I'm as far from hung up as a teenage girl's cell phone. And I can understand, and respect, others' inclination to be square. But those folks are swimming circles in the human end of the pool. They really need to understand that "adult swim" means 'Go nuts. The whole of the pool is at your disposal...because you're an adult human being with advanced higher brain function. Enjoy it.'

On the other hand, to ignore the trespass of selfishness altogether is far too professional. Once the company has you betraying your own self-preservation for the good of the company, you might as well keep your twelve o'clock open every day for feeding; because they'll tie you up to a post with a bag of oats the first chance they get.

But having the good enough grace to remained focused in the abasing work place while maintaining your humanity - that takes skill, I guess. Because I haven't come across too many people that can do it (myself excluded - not to be a pretentious shit, but I'm sort of my own standard of excellence. Call it narcissism, but I prefer to think of myself as a text-book case of "Only Child Syndrome"), and I'll be goddamned if Ronald Reagan and Saddam Hussein are the only cats that go down in the books as being superlative multi-taskers.

More to come later...

El Día que Murió La Música

2011-10-11T15:21:00.003-05:00

When Carlos Mencia isn't enough to embarrass the growing Hispanic population within the United States, the corporate advertisers retreat to their caverned research facilities, pet their wheezing Persian cats and wait for the newest, most efficient method of exploitation.

NPR informs us they have found that method:

http://www.npr.org/2011/10/11/141152273/the-subtleties-of-marketing-beer-to-latinos

And for those of you who think I'm paranoid, the Home Depot officially has a "Hispanic Initiative Office" that someone is the president of. More on that later.

Happy 519th White People's Day!

2011-10-10T21:53:00.005-05:00

Hey, ya'll. If you're between the ages of six and fourteen, you know that Christopher Columbus (or, as his parents knew him, Christy) discovered America on October 10, 1492. If you're between the ages of sixteen and five-hundred & nineteen, you know that Christy Columbus fell upon the Bahamas archipelago of what he named San Salvador. And there was much slaughtering of native peoples. The end.

For a more dignified presentation of the West's salacious conquest of the Americas, I present very-smart-person Noam Chomsky's thoughts on the matter:

http://www.chomsky.info/interviews/198910--.htm

By the way, if you find yourself to be of the florescent maroon demographic of the above-featured graph, CONGRATULATIONS! TODAY IS YOUR DAY! There isn't any other day like it, so go ahead and celebrated! USA! USA! USA!

Theraflu Is Too Easily Bought and Consumed in This Modern Consumerist Age

2011-10-09T22:15:00.002-05:00

Despair.
Steep in the mother's paw, Cal mortified the crowd by playing the fugue backwards instead of with his instrument. Here is what is was:

Three things -
1.) Lower calcium erupted from inside all the craters.
2.) Never out of reach when falling backwards, there were.
3.) The death of Bill Fagerbakke.

Later there would be songs.

Doritos In Christ

2011-10-05T21:32:00.002-05:00

Try parent, catch blogspot.com.

I recently had to explain to a gentleman why he could not solder copper fittings onto a flexible gas line. Again--try parent, catch blogspot.com.

Nominal Means On the Inside

2011-10-05T21:14:00.002-05:00

The only thing that one passage in the Bible about Jesus feeding masses with fish and loaves means is that mother fucker could multiply. Which would make sense, considering that most people within Jesus's class only possessed a sixth grade level of education, by today's standards.

'Children should just get jobs,' I think is what Disney is really trying to say. Or at least, that's what the guy at Home Depot tells me.

Titles of Christian Praise Songs Amended with Marijuana References

2011-08-31T09:23:00.004-05:00

1. "Awesome Bong"

2. "Our Gonga Saves"

3. "Let the Water Pipes Ring"

4. "You Gave Your Stash Away"

5. "Everlasting Gonga"

6. "You Raise Me Up" (No change necessary.)

7. "The More I Smoke You"

8. "Set A Fire" (No change necessary.)

9. "Wonderful Merciful Sativa"

10. "Hallelujah, You're Stoned"

11. "Lead Me to the Cannabis"

12. "Trading My Shake"

13. "You Are Holy (Pinchy of Peace)"

14. "Smoke Smoke Smoke"

15. "Majestic" (No change necessary.)

Gobbledy Gook, Part One

2011-07-30T12:39:00.002-05:00

For those who haven't had a chance to sunbath out from under your rock, one-woman dynamo Merrill Garbus is back with another helping of her pedal-pushing extravaganza tUnE-yArDs. The album, WHO KILL, is ten tracks of pop bliss filtered through Captain Beefheart's cerebellum. Most would dismiss her utilization of loop-pedals as mere smoke and mirrors; but here, where there's smoke, there's fire. Unlike contemporaries, Garbus makes the technology work for her, not vice versa. She even has a friend join her in the studio, bassist Nate Brenner, to capture the jumpy moxy of her live performances. And do they ever pull it off.

Check out this live performance of the song "Doorstep" (currently my favorite song from the album), recorded at KEXP's studio. Words, music - everything is in tip-top shape here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbWqhITwgL0

American: The Bill Hicks Story

2011-07-29T19:27:00.002-05:00

"Is that a village of children and kids? Where's the napalm?!"

"We have a lot invested in this ride - shut him up! Look at my furrows of worry!"

Whilst Musing Away one Summer Day...

2011-07-23T18:51:00.005-05:00

Perhaps Lady Ga Ga is some sort of conceptual messiah. I know people don’t want to admit that, and I think I’ve got the answer as to why: Lady Ga Ga used—nay, exploited technology to get where she is today. She rode trends and packaged herself. But who else did that right along with Ga Ga? Who else propped up their career on technology and media buzz, riding them in tandem all the way to the hearts of audiences, not to mention the bank? Lilly Allen is the answer.
Those who would damn Lady Ga Ga as a fad are heaping promises upon Allen’s self-made career. Being god-daughter to Mick Jones of the Clash…excuse me, Carbon Silicon doesn’t hurt either, but the girl is an example of the brave new frontier the internet has opened up for artists from every walk of life.
Lady Ga Ga is apparently a classically trained pianist, which lends more credibility to her compositional skills – every cut of hers really is hers. Here is a point that comes up a lot in response to such musicality – ‘Who gives a shit if the girl can play, her songwriting skills still suck.’ This point I can agree with. I think it’s awesome that Ga Ga is pushing the envelopes and introducing more concepts to the stark pallet modern music has become (which is in itself a tragedy – why the hell would we need someone to make us uncomfortable in the 21st century? We’ve already had John Cage, Iggy Pop, G.G. Allin, and Salvador Dali – what else could we ask for? But I’m getting off track…), but her songs just aren’t any good.
She, like the rogue’s gallery of lady musicians that have come before her in the last ten or twelve years, doesn’t lack the means to create evocative pop songs; she simply lacks the talent. Alicia Keys, Norah Jones, Michelle Branch, Regina Spectra – these gals suffer from the same affliction as Ga Ga: they are accomplished musician with no real talent for composition. I would rather see Lady Ga Ga perform a fugue or something—perhaps some light Mozart or Brahms—while suspended from a burning piano covered in racist graffiti than suffer the confusion of a lackluster attempt at being edgy within the realm of rock-and-roll. That would really blow some minds. If she gave us a new look at classical, baroque or romantic music then she would really begin kicking ass.
I would recommend a similar strategy for the after mentioned lady artists as well. Ms. Alicia Keys – stop making boring adult R&B albums and start rummaging through some old Odetta and Big Mama Thornton records; pick some of your favorites and release them as free downloads with the sponsorship of the Library of Congress. The results will be very interesting, mark my words.
Michelle Branch isn’t doing herself any favors and should stop while she’s ahead—perhaps she could marry a football player or a doctor. Just as long as she stops; because if I have to hear another car-full of sorority girls sing that goddamned song…thank you.
Norah Jones, you have some potential. Your strategy should parallel Linda Ronstadt’s. Get someone on your pay-roll who will dig up old jazz and blues songs, maybe some contemporary folk songs for good measure, and record them “your own way”. Two or three albums of this and you may finally find that elusive muse, Ms. Jones.
No doubt the fame and money are keeping these ladies’ eyes focused on their present method, but sooner or later an artist wants to be recognized as an artist, not just an aural sugar factory. Come on sisters – give yourself a little more credit. In the words of Richard Nixon, “There’s hope for everyone.”

Jerry Springer Eats a Baby

2011-07-20T20:38:00.002-05:00

Jerry Springer has done many things.

Amongst them:
being born in a subway station during a blitzkrieg in 1944 London
dance and sang his way through the Cambridge Theatre's production of Chicago as Billy Flynn in 2009
considered running for Senate in 2003, but decided against it because of negative association with his infamous talk show
serving as political campaign adviser to Robert F. Kennedy

A slight digression: Knowing that Springer gave pointers to Bobby Kennedy is good enough these days for his to secure a seat in the Senate. We need Jerry Springer looking out for us, man. Just sayin'...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VeyN8HnHWs

Rykygnyzyr Influences Arranged in the form of a Playlist for the Most Recent Model of iPod

2011-05-12T12:55:00.001-05:00

So I am in a band. Tentatively, we are going with Rykygnyzyr (pronounced 'Recognizer'). We are guitar, bass, drums, keyboards, reel-to-reel, and saxophones. So we had an idea to make mix CDs to give to one another in order to gain a better understanding of our respective thoughts for the band. These are mine:

1. T.V. Eye - The Stooges
2. Digital Handshake - Marc Ribot's Ceramic Dog
3. Hallogallo - Neu!
4. Red - Mission of Burma
5. All the Colors of the Dark - Grails
6. Dead Dog on Asphalt - Adrian Belew
7. Moses? I Ain't - Mogwai
8. We Carry On - Portishead
9. Judas Goat - Killing Joke
10. Something Dirty - Faust
11. Happy Bunny Goes Fluff-Fluff Along - The Jesus Lizard
12. Big Church - Sunn O)))

So that's my line-up. Melodic diversions from a heavy fucking wall of kick-your-ass. Word to your mother.

We Did It

2011-05-05T14:03:00.002-05:00

The Great Satan is dead!

Long live the Great Satan!

2011-03-07T15:20:00.001-06:00

Republicans think they are being martyred, and not over ideologies or even politics, but because of personal issues. This is not true. The G.O.P. keeps saying, 'We just want to help. What's wrong with that?' What's wrong with is that it isn't true, either.

The 'Republican' officials within our Legislative branch of government are very much like a dumb-ass boyfriend who has been asked (guilted) to help with the arrangement of an engagement - a dinner party, birthday, something.
The girlfriend and her mother (or father, but usually mother--ladies are often exculsive partners in crime) out a lot of faith in the dumb-ass boyfriend to fulfill his duty to the best of his ability. And he does. Because he is a dumb-ass, he does everything wrong.
This is when the girlfriend and her mother (definitely mother) berate the boyfriend for being a dumb-ass. His natural response is denial:
'What the hell are you harrassing me for, I helped didn't I?'

Congress is being a dumb-ass boyfriend. We should call one of our ex-boyfriends to put a scare into them. Not a past Congress - someone more along the lines of the Mafia, the Cartel, or even those in hiding in the middle east whom we funded through the 1980s. Congress needs to understand that they should be lucky to have such a trusting girl on their arm. We are fragile though, and someone needs to remind Congress how one should treat fragile things, else they are broken. Perhaps we should start by making Congress little more fragile, maybe then they would understand.
But alas, there would still be no justice. Once Congress knows what it feels like to be a battered ex-lover they will pour their time and money into obliterating spousal abuse all together. There would be a federal fund for it, Planned Parenthood would resume, and there would be peace and prosperity throughout the land. But how did this all start in the first place?

Congress, like a celebrity, does not care about a problem unless it fucks them in the ass. After they have suffered internal bleeding or H.I.V. do they see this problem as a personal challenge. And after they have 'beaten' this challenge they are labeled 'hero,' or 'humanitarian.'

All I'm saying is Congress should act like the Americans they are instead of the capitalists they want to be. That's all...

Many Dreams from Many Nights After Many Different Meals: Part Fifteen

2010-12-21T10:21:00.010-06:00

Fortune Saves an Early Rise to the Brave

I am following Klaus Kinski around the world. I am some sort of private investigator or undercover government agent--Fox Mulder was in there somewhere, I can only assume the American government is involved somehow. Klaus has a name: Paul Dab. Again, my assumptions have to do a lot of reasoning - this is a false name. Klaus Kinski would never knowingly assume a false name so drab, no pun intended.

I forgot to mention what Klaus Kinski is doing: he is a trusted foot man for a Satanic cult with aspirations of hostile takeover. Apparently, Paul Dab is a successful rancher/scientist/charity worker. The cult is using his life's work as a front so he may track down and retrieve artifacts and information that are particularly evil - these are avenues through which the cult hopes to resurrect the Great Satan and his hordes of dark angels. Paul Dab's goat (yes, specifically goats) compounds are all over Europe, South America, Africa, the United States of America, and Southeast Asia--even Antarctica. I remember snow, and we sure as hell weren't in Russia.

My adventure begins in middle Europe. It will end here as well, but we'll have to do some traveling before we find ourselves back where we started.

I am several meters behind Paul Dab as we navigate through a busy cobblestone street. The town is very old, having retained much of the original Gothic architecture of its origins. Store fronts are quiet compared to the traffic in the streets. There are no cars, only pedestrians. One could easily mistake their surroundings for Epcot's World Showcase: costumed locals are speaking enthusiastically with tourists, who stick out like sore thumbs. I am guessing we are somewhere in Germany. This would mean that we are in Paul Dab's hometown.

I will follow Paul Dab into an enormous, ornate wooden cathedral. This particular cathedral does not have a defined axis, nor does it follow the common cruciform; it is round, mostly ambulatory with awkward aspes protruding into the sky. The facade of the building is also unconventional. There are recognizable saints here and there, but I notice quite a few figures I do not recognize. Animal heads and appendages are numerous, and every other hand seems to be displaying the mano cornuto--the "universal" sign of Satanism. Curious.

Because I am on his turf, I must stay hidden, but, again, because of his home advantage my step is forced to stay quite accelerated. Dab knows this old church inside and out and makes short work of the ground level. Discretion becomes more difficult when I follow him onto the looping staircase leading up into the steeple/bell tower. I eventually have to cease my pursuit. As we ascend into the upper reaches, doorways to conveniently hide in become less and less convenient. I do know for a fact that Dab traveled all the way up into the bell tower, but what he brought back with him and where he got it I am unaware. Perhaps there is a small satanic alter hidden somewhere in the old bell tower housing some sacred artifact. I don't know. I follow him down and back into the street when his business is satisfied.

The next place I find myself is over a chasm somewhere in South America crossing a long rope bridge. Rain forest is all around, below, above - I am engulfed in rain forest. It is quite beautiful.

The rope bridge leads to a building that can best be described as a structural hybrid between the Temple of Doom and a five star Las Vegas hotel. Themed establishments are money makers and even the Incas seem to have jumped on this gravy train. Passing through the tall front entrance will find you in an open courtyard. There are stone planters full of tropical plants and flowers lining the perimeter of the space. Glass fronts bear evidence of dining areas, gift shops, and resort activities. But Dab ignores the luxuries around him and advances through the courtyard. I follow him.

It isn't hospitality that Dab has come here for but something within the conservatory at the far end of the building. Sliding glass doors open and I enter a cramped area full of plants and flowers from all walks of life. The inside of the conservatory is very rustic. Stone planters run through the room in intricate grids; ancient woven planters hang from the high glass ceiling like canoes. Everything is over-sized.

I almost lose track of Dab in the confined space. He retreats to one of the farthest corners and digs discreetly for a moment. No one brings this into question; everyone else in the room is poking around in the dirt as well - this is the free-dig conservatory for guests, not the official Incan conservatory. I keep an eye on Dab as he finishes up his work. After a few moments, he pockets something small and makes his retreat. I follow him.

For some reason, my dream is interrupted by a medium shot of Fox Mulder standing next to his broken down car on the side of the highway somewhere in the desert. It is night time. A vehicle approaches from around the bend. The car slows and the window rolls down. It is Dana Scully.
"Do you need help, Fox," she asks.
"No, Scully. We're supposed to be undercover," replies Mulder.
"Alright," says Scully. She looks dejected for a moment. The window rolls back up.

Another interruption, this time we are seeing a public service announcement from Paul Dab, Ltd. Dab is shown smiling awkwardly at emaciated children, showing them goats and what not. The voice over is indiscernible. It very well may be Dab himself speaking. (Kinski never had a handle on empathetic speaking. An example: "Once, I took a taxi. I hate those limousines. They stink and their drivers have been driving dead people to the cemetery.") The commercial is over quickly.

I am following Dab through some sort of Buddhist garden in Southeast Asia somewhere. Buddhas tower over us, covered in vines and decay. Again, the scenery is quite beautiful. I forget what Dab retrieves here, but he catches a glimpse of me as he ascends the stairs to a temple. I pass off my presence well enough, I think. I meet his eyes casually and then turn my attention upwards toward a facade on the temple. He is not suspicious. I am an excellent spy.

Whether or not Dab has acquired all of the artifacts he needs I do not know, but I find myself back in the German town moving hurriedly up the same cobblestone street from before. This time I am accompanied by two other gentlemen, my peers in espionage. We are ready to take Paul Dab into custody.
As we take the street running east past the wooden Satan cathedral, I see Dab ahead of us. We are in hot pursuit. He ducks into a doorway to the left. When my cohorts and I catch up I can see the front of the building is made like a Greek fishing town. You know, the smooth white buildings, the oval windows...architecture like that.
We quickly make our way up the narrow stairway. It ends at an ancient wooden door. This. Is. It. Drawing our firearms, we approach the door single file. I am in the middle, a strong arm in front of and behind me. The suit in front kicks in the door. The room is very small, book shelves line either wall. It is a very dark, very scary place, even despite the window facing south. Dab is kneeling in front of a large wooden desk busily arranging something.
"Drop the contraband and put your hands on your head!" the man up front orders.
He is obviously trying to construct some sort of satanic device with which he hopes to fulfill his duties to the Great Beast.
"Dab," I say, "the jig is up. Just come quietly."
Dab spins his head around, his face frightfully contorted, and...well, he doesn't quite scream as much as he howls. It is otherworldly, full of malice and darkness. The man up front advances upon him. From out of nowhere Dab reveals a saber. He gives a mighty swing and chops off my partners forearm. It sprays blood profusely and he screams. I react by shooting Dab in the head.

Crisis averted.

Even Constitutions Get the Blues

2010-11-02T17:09:00.001-05:00

I may have acted unfairly the other day towards Christine O'Donnell. I gave her way too much credit.

Head on over to Wikipedia (yes, Wikipedia - I don't care, it's the best resource I have right now) and check her out. Did you know she studies at Oxford? Not under their curricullum, but literally at Oxford? I don't think she's got any place in politicing ya'll.

So, sorry for my generalities about housewives. Tipper Gore, however, would have still been proud.

Beware, Criminal

2010-10-27T22:34:00.004-05:00

If anyone reads this and is voting in the midterm elections, do NOT vote for Christine O'Donnell. Then again, anyone who could vote for her would have to live in Delaware.

Gary and Kay (those are my girlfriend's aunt and uncle) live in Maine, so they're not in that demographic. But anyway, anyone who I know that lives in Delaware would already understand that voting for a housewife with television time is not a good decision.

Because that's all Christine O'Donnell is.

She is correct: she isn't a witch. She was probably on some PTA staff, and all the other parents thought she was just the bee's knees and wouldn't she like to run for local office.

But no...local office? Why not national office you gang of small-sighted gaywads? I'M GONNA BE A SENATOR MUTHA FUCKAS!

This is who this woman is, I believe. Christina O'Donnell is just a house wife with important friends being fed a steady diet of rhetoric by career politicians. This diet has given her strength because it is full of empty words, not unlike calories. O'Donnell is being fattened up for the slaughter, in a matter of speaking.
She will enjoy herself, oh yes. She will enjoy herself. But once she is drunk on all of the media attention, as well as the circumstantial sway she has and will acquire because of this attention, O'Donnell will be lead out into the harsh light of reality. Everything will appear to be normal - a campaign convention here, a private dinner there. But the scene will change on her in quite a New York minute.
If the road to November 2 has been a saunter through a Temple Grandin corral, then we need to consider the debates as full-on Brecht. The Tea Party (or the Republicans, or G.O.P. or whoever the hell is leaving these morsels of goodness for O'Donnell to follow) is laying a path to the air gun at the end of the line.

In short: Christine O'Donnell is being set up. But I can't bring myself to feel sorry for her, because she is a greed-head and a nincompoop. I will breathe easier when she is back to her old schedule: acting as stenographer at PTA meetings and being occasionally reminded in the grocery store that she resembles Sarah Palin.

And that, as Richard Nixon would say, is that.

Read for the Better of Mankind

2010-10-11T13:43:00.002-05:00

The last two issues of Time magazine have been on the mark, one-hundred percent through. Even their obituaries have been awesome, in a sense.

If you find yourself with the opportunity to purchase either of these issues, I recommend it highly. You may gain a better understanding of the issues here in America at present. Or you may disregard it as liberal garbage...if you see the world with such polarized lenses. Otherwise, you may appreciate the analytical information provided by such a revered practitioner of English letters.

Thank you.

A Farewell to Arms

2010-06-23T00:15:00.003-05:00

They've finally driven me to it. I haven't had to do this in a long, long time. But goddammit, they've left me no other option.

Are you ready?

I'm showing teeth now, mother fucker. So you better be ready.

Here it comes:

There is a short film of a particular nature that's been floating around the You Tubes that has me steaming mad. This short film's subject is one that has been near and dear to me for most of my life - a pedigree, if you will. As an adult, I never thought I would see such a blatant disrespect for something so iconoclastic. But there it was: Mortal Kombat.

At first, of course, I was ecstatic: 'A new Mortal Kombat movie? For realsies?' But my anticipation soon turned to sour grapes. As the short film unfolded I soon realized that this "Mortal Kombat" was trying to bring my favorite childhood fantasy into the real world.
The extra-dimensional mutant savage Baraka has been explained away as a homocidal plastic surgeon...who just happens to know a few deadly martial arts.
Shang Tsung (the evil wizard and master of the Mortal Kombat tournament) is an arms dealer, and his personal body-guard Reptile (who is also an extra-dimensional being, only scalier) happens to have a rare skin disease and a taste for human flesh. Like fucking Killer Croc from Batman.

I know. I was stupified, too.

Johnny Cage is Johnny Cage. And he dies like the bitch that he always was in the game.
(Except for the ball-breaker (BL+LP). One should never forget the ball-breaker (BL+LP).)

Jax is the captain of the local police department; Sonya Blade is a federal agent sent in on special assignment.

That isn't so bad actually. That makes sense.

But why?

BECAUSE THAT'S WHO THEY WERE IN THE GAMES, TOO!

SHIT!

But anyway.

My heart was in my throat toward the end because this well-produced raping of my childhood had yet to touch on my favoritest of favorites: the spectral ninja-assasin Scorpion.

Decked out in yellow with a temper to match Hell, Scorpion has been one of the totems of my life. (This is aboslutely true, as a matter of fact. He is backed up in the fictional category by the Wolf-Man, Frankenstein's monster, Dracula, the Incredible Hulk, Wolverine, Jesus Christ, Mickey O'Neil, the Frog Prince, Huey Freeman, Homer Simpson, the Tick, Batman, the Predator, Raul Duke, Tarzan, and Mr. Hyde.) My inherent interest in the character was predestined, I believe. In 1992, me being seven years old and already being so full of such ghoulish pretenses growing up on old horror movies, a ghost ninja who breathes fire as a means of killing your ass was mana from heaven. Mortal Kombat's ground-breaking graphics made the package extra sweet - it was like you were directing real people!

This may seem over-wrought, but I'm serious when I say I was worried someone new would butcher something I've invested so much of my time and emotions in.
(Author's Note: For those who need clarification on this matter, need I remind everyone that I broke into uncontrollable tears for a solid ten minutes after seeing the 2010 version of The Wolf-Man?)

When the short film comes to its conclusion, my man Scorpion is finally addressed.
Good news: he happened to be wearing yellow through the whole clip.
Good news: his spear attack is still in-tact and playing fairly well in the "real world".
Good news: he and Sub-Zero (yes - Sub-Zero is here, too) still have a blood-fued.
Good news: he's still dead.

Who would of thought that the powers-that-be would sink so low as to deter my distaste for something so loathesome by hitting a money-shot on the sole factor of my interest?! This made me even more upset, and here I am now.

Co-creator of Mortal Kombat franchise Ed Boon once said in an interview that people play Mortal Kombat in order to escape from reality: "Our motto will, and is always: reality is boring." That's verbatum, as you can probably tell.

Money needs to be made. Movies need to be made to make that money. Dreams need to die so that movies can be made in order to make money.

I understand this.

But what I can't understand is why someone had to pick on something I care about so much that I would actually have to unleash my inner geek in order to vindicate my thoughts, allowing myself to finally consider the matter closed!!!!!

And that, as Richard Nixon would say, is that.

Tissues for A Camel without Any Sense of Irony

2010-06-18T10:08:00.004-05:00

Christy will have been gone five days now. I don't quite pine for her, but I do miss her. I don't pine for her yet. When the cats start acting up severely I will pine for her.
Not entirely true - I miss her, not her control over the cats. She is the love of my life. I shouldn't have eaten that popcorn.

Speaking as such, I saw the newly cut and remastered version of Metropolis Wednesday night. I've seen it before, but this updated version is pretty qick-ass.
(Author's Note: Please excuse the substitution of the letter q in k's place in the previous spelling of 'kick-ass'. This was a typographical anomaly and shall not be repeated. Ever.)

Towards the end of the picture the additional 44 minutes of deleted footage started to be noticeable. The added time, that is. I can see how the story is affected by the missing slides. Josaphat is now a pivotal character, not just a side-kick. And Fredersen's magical defeat of Rotwang, the inventor, and subsequent escape from his lair are wrapped up nicely too.
Really great movie with a lot to say. I could have done without the final "The mediator between the head and hands must be the heart" slide, but a great movie nonetheless.
(Author's Note: The aforementioned slide was in all capital letters. I'm not trying to be picky here; I'm just saying somebody here needs to check their preachy meter.

Metropolis, I'm looking at you.

Don't you bat those dreamy (but also a little scary) eyes at me! I know your game, you sexy bitch. You're a tease, aren't you? Metropolis - I bet you line up socially conscious movie-goers around the world with those eyes--the same eyes that snared me--just to beat them into submission with your socialist propaganda:

'Making a profit it wrong - boo-hoo.'
'A machine can't give you a hug or kiss.'

But what those sad-sacks don't recognize here is your over-looked tolerance, Metropolis. Years ahead of your time, you featured an openly gay character in a major supporting role. Fritz Rasp's brave performance as the Thin Man surely inspired countless souls after him: Harvey Milk, Rob Halford, John Wayne (for his eponymous role in the 1934 MGM barrel of laughs, co-starring Myrna Loy).)

(Author's Note: Most, if not all of the previous text is predicated upon the reader's apparent knowledge, and mastery there-of, of classic cinema. Without any foreknowledge of the works of John Ford, Fritz Lang, or W.S. Van Dyke, any implied humor will be lost.
Also, upon double-checking, John Wayne did not star in The Thin Man in 1934 with Myrna Loy, but The Quiet Man in 1952 with Maureen O'Hara. Which would explain why his punk ass didn't speak up and say something earlier. Shit.
Making me look stupid and shit...shit.)

Batman versus Predator 2: Copyright Infringement Worth Testing

2010-06-17T22:17:00.004-05:00

Pink Floyd will do nothing for you (i.e. intellectually, emotionally, sexually) if you have been smoking old indica weed. Out of a wooden pipe, the resin saturates the bowl and you get a sort of double high. This is a bad thing.

Indica is, by its nature, a debilitating substance. The type of people who smoke and then try to justify listening to shitting music smoke indica: Sublime, 311, Dave Matthews Band, Insane Clown Posse, Phish, O.A.R., Pink Floyd - yes, Pink Floyd.
Every time I have to wince at the anticipation of being sloshed (I don't know of another verb used to connote the experience of being lazily hit with a ringed-out wool sock) with praise of Darkside of the Moon by the same sort of clown who read Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas because he (typically I deal with he's - I've noticed females either lack the capacity for abstract thought, or they simply mature at a quicker pace than males and are therefore unfettered by slothful urges persisting into infinity unless nominally policed into whim (SCIENCE!)) thought the drug use was "cool". The convoluted experience of smoking pot and listening to atmospheric music has become a hipster pot-hole, a douche-chill of the highest order. There are taboos, but there are also obvious mainstays of the stoner musical library.

First off, no: Pink Floyd, Grateful Dead, Traffic, Cream, Phish, Rush, Genesis, Jethro Tull, Blue Oyster Cult, E.L.P. (Emerson, Lake & Palmer), or any other...Cactus; no Cactus, either. Prog rock from the sixties and seventies is out. Unless you want some faux-bespectacled waif in his girlfriend's corduroy pants looking at you sideways as he tips his scally cap to one side, the one he got at Target for $14.95, while you ogle a Moving Pictures t-shirt at Everyday People, you better stick with metal: Black Sabbath, Kyuss, Melvins, Sleep, Monster Magnet, Boris, Mastodon, Uriah Heep, Acid Mothers Temple, Electric Wizard, Black Cobra, Weedeater, Bison B.C.
New jams, old jams - it doesn't matter just as long as there are jams to be kicked out. Dre, Snoop, Ghost Face, Q-Tip, Method & Red, DOOM, and Cypress Hill will put an equally fierce fight for those of you who feel the back beat as well as the down beat.
(Author's Note: Upon reflection, fuck what the faux-bespectacled waif in his girlfriend's corduroy pants looking at you sideways as he tips his scally cap to one side, the one he got at Target for $14.95, while you ogle a Moving Pictures t-shirt at Everyday People thinks. Listen to and enjoy what you want. SCIENCE!)

Then again, wouldn't one's time be better spent pursuing other avenues than cynicism? Because that is exactly sent me on this rant berating those scrawny, contrived bitches in the first place - cynicism. My generation--or at least those within four years of me (two ahead; two behind)--is a a bevy of cynicism. Irony is our alma mater, and we are faithful to institutions that have shown us neither comfort nor malice.

Ah-ha! I believe I've found the magic bullet.

Caddy Shack, Richard Lewis, and post-punk are all integral parts of an irony-enriched diet. We strive for products of this diet the same way we gravitate toward MacDonald's, or Mt. Dew (notice I abbreviated a proper noun of shear convenience; I have already proved my point), or Facebook. Consumed in stride, these apparent empty intellectual calories become alkaline, cause one to "coast" through life without the risk of harm or failure; nor the joy of achievement and success.
In a nutshell: nobody gets hurt. The cynic remains cynical and the catalyst of this lazy person's frustration remains blissfully ignorant of their casual offense. This is text book laziness. The Christian's have a name for this - well, actually...one of their writers invented a name and accompanying offense, along with six others in tow, around one thousand years ago: sloth.

When we get out of line, we trust our greatest minds to pout us right again. Infection lead to penicillin; war lead to the atomic bomb. The warm creamy center that we have vainly and arbitrarily implanted in ourselves is always brought back from standby, screaming to life, whenever tragedy or affluence run wild. We call it a "soul", and its amendments "morals". Every person, secular or non, is expected to come pre-programmed with a data base of 'yes' and 'no' answers.
While each of us is a player on this stage of a world, we are also--all of us--the audience. We expect those 'yes' and 'no' answers to be ready for consumption. When our appetites cannot be satisfied, we fall victim to another inherent weakness: fear.

When we become afraid of a 'yes' or 'no' drought we give our own 'yes' and 'no' right over to an institution that assures us they have the indubitable 'yes's and 'no's.
In a nutshell: when we can't get out own together, we go crying to a religion, or political party, or monarchy to set things straight (sometimes all in the same package). Three examples I will present, each a picture of man's sad state of mind:
1.) Religion: Monk Evagrius Ponticus (yes--"pontificate" comes from his surname) made up eight "evil thoughts" in the fourth century while translating Greek documents. He was the Dan Brown of his time.
In 590, Pope Gregory I revised these eight "evil thoughts", folding two into one. And thanks to Dante Aligheri's woefully misinterpreted Divine Comedy we have the Seven Deadly Sins: Doc Grumpy, Sleepy, Bashful, Happy, and Dopey.
When we couldn't get ourselves to behave, we asked the man in the big hat to talk to Jesus and impose whatever jumps out of his mouth onto a page (the pope's mouth). Why? Because we're very, very lazy.
(Author's Note: An interesting counter-argument would be citing the 1927 film Metropolis. The worker's are not lazy, but oppressed. Still, they cannot contend with responsibility. They jump to violent conclusions, and, at one point, leave their own children to drown in the city they're so bent on destroying in protest of their treatment. Is mankind stuck with stupid either way? Perhaps.)

I know I promised three examples, but we'll all have to wait for the other two to come to me. Sorry.

But in the mean-time:

The Voice - Bobby McFerrin

Searching for A Former Clarity - Against Me!

Blakroc - Blakroc

San Patricio - The Chieftans Ft. Ry Cooder

God of Malfunction - The Contrast

Hex: Or Printing in the Infernal Method - Earth

Carboniferous - Zu

Has Been - William Shatner

Uh-Oh: The Year Bull-Shit Was Discovered

2010-06-15T23:09:00.001-05:00

What is the past and why does it matter?

Seriously, now. I'm having a major fucking problem with this.

Help me out.

Heavy Metal Jazz

2010-06-15T19:40:00.002-05:00

So my girlfriend is out of the state, along with nearly every one of my Minneapolis friends; my evening is dictated by cooking and listening to music.

And drinking.

But not too heavily.

Anyway - I've perfected my age-old recipe. This dish currently does not have a name. There's nothing too startling about it to necessitate some sort of fancy moniker. I have nothing to prove to Emeril Lagasse. Besides, the poor man has enough to worry about down in New Orleans. Hell, I could probably sell him the recipe and make some money.

Uh-oh: now I'm thinking like the TEA Party. Or something.

Anyway, the recipe is as follows:

2 cup(s) of long grain rice (rinsed)
3/4 cup(s) water
1 can of chicken broth
1 can of tomato sauce
1 can of corn (drained)
1 can of green chilies
1 packet of chili seasoning (severity of spice is subject to taste - I prefer 'hot')
1/2 tomato (diced)
1/2 yellow onion (diced...Side Note: I used two green onions for the mix tonight. Common sense points toward a yellow onion, however. Discrepancy is the name of the game, people.)

In a big fucking skillet (this is important since the mix makes a whole lot of finished product; capacity of said skillet I couldn't tell you; just make sure it's fucking big), add: rice, water, chicken broth, tomato sauce, corn, green chilies, and chili seasoning. Mix all of these ingredient together well, keeping the stove between medium and medium-high heat. Once ambient heat is felt, increase the temperature to high and bring the whole concoction to a boil.

Once we've come to boiling, cover the skillet and reduce the heat to simmering. Check back and stir every few minutes as the rice will be prone to stick to the bottom of the pan.

Upon your second visit to Easy-Mass-Quantity-Dish-Which-Happens-to-Be-Simmering, add the diced tomato and onion. Stir everything together and let simmer for another five minutes, checking back periodically to stir.

Upon reduction of sauce, the dish is ready to serve! I highly advise serving spoonfuls over corn tortillas; perhaps making chimichangas (sort of) would be another way to serve Easy-Mass-Quantity-Dish-Which-Happens-to-Be-Done-Simmering.

Side Note: Protein is recommended but not essential. Slicing up and cooking a chicken breast beforehand, then adding the rest of the ingredients once the chicken is fully cooked is the 'classic' way to enjoy this dish. Tofu can be used as well.

For tonight, I'm enjoying some La Preferida Mexican Homestyle Beans (Zesty!) over the top of Easy-Mass-Quantity-Dish-Which-Happens-to-Be-Delicious. Again, this is all subject to taste.

What isn't so subject to taste, however, is good music. Here are a few albums to chew on:

You Lost Me At Hello -
Jitterbug - Bushman's Revenge

The Bride Screamed Murder - The Melvins

Lights Out Zoltar - Gemma Ray

History From Below - Delta Spirit

Mind Made Up - A Certain Ratio

Brothers - The Black Keys

Ethnic Expressions - Roy Brooks and the Artistic Truth

Revolutions per Minute - Reflections Eternal

The ArchAndroid - Janelle Monae

Putting Up with Irritating Foreign Relatives (Psst - You're A Racist)

2010-05-27T18:14:00.005-05:00

And this is when Adam runs out of bull-shit.

Listening to Fear's Paradise Studios demos, nursing multiple Home Depot-inflicted sunburns, figuring out a way to skip out of work on Monday so I can have fun like a regular person, finishing my friend's fake census - I've come to a conclusion: today is just beginning.

I have a real hard time with no enjoying myself. My psyche can't take it. Perhaps I'm so neurotic I literally can't stand not having my way (I am sitting down right now, by the way). "I Don't Care About You" would be testament of that. No - I am not self-important, nor am I self-obsessed. Maybe I actually some sort of mental thing that makes me sad & angry by the smallest sort of thing that inhibits what I want to do...

I know, I know...that sounds an awful lot like 'selfish'. Clean cut, right? Not really. I get my ass kicked at a job I dislike; I can't really bring myself to improve myself physically; all I want to do is listen to music and write and smoke pot. Am I suffering from depression?

I am offering anyone who reads this a few data discs full of goodies if they can diagnose my condition. These are not false truths: I am serious.

Symptoms: mood swings, scared & angry feelings without legitimate precedent, lack of energy, difficulty sleeping, inability to recall dreams, consuming regular (and large) quantities of depressants (nothing illegal, mind you--just pot and booze).

Anyway, now that Lee Ving has said "Fuck a nun" I feel that I'm finished. Thanks everybody.

"Yellow Submarine" - The Beatles
"L.M.L.Y.P" - Ween
"He Never Raced on Sunday" - Otis Taylor
"Hatredy" - Dethklok
"(Sometimes) I Have to Concentrate" - Mclusky
"Cliche Guevara" - Against Me!
"We Are Alone" - Buckethead, ft. Serj Tankian
"Back to Africa" - The Dictators
"It's Gonna Be (I Told You So" - Drive By Truckers
"Women" - The Plimsouls
"Lies and Alibis" - Lovage
"Three Thousand" - These New Puritans
"Mescal Rite 1" - Tomahawk
"Circumstances" - The Magic Band
"We Ask You To Ride" - Wooden Shjips
"Beneath Eternal Oceans of Sand" - Nile
"Holes" - Scratch Acid
"Decrystallizing Reason" - Emperor

Expect the Unlikely - There Is No Such Thing As Unexpected

2010-05-13T16:38:00.002-05:00

Morphine
+
Melvins
+
Marc Ribot
+
Stooges
-
Heroin
=
White Cosby.

You're welcome.

Just Another Day in the Shit: A U.S. Marine's Favorite Recipes

2010-04-24T12:52:00.003-05:00

If there's nothing really to be said today, why I am here? You may ask this of yourself, or of me. But I don't have an answer. Well, I suppose I do; but the answer I have is not going to be satisfactory to you in the least.

No, you're really going to be irritated if I relinquish the answer to why I am here today. So I'll just skip that part of the process so neither of us have to waste any sweat. Really, it isn't that important.

Okay, here it is: I really like the title I came up with.

There - I said it. And now I will go back to drinking.

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Meals: Part Fourteen

2010-02-23T22:13:00.005-06:00

A History of Beautiful Women
I am in the school park behind my house in Decatur, Illinois. Oak Grove Park is a sand area and a merry-go-round and a swing set--a single swing set. And there is a slide. I forgot about the slide.

I am standing in this park and I am watching the parking lot. In the parking lot stands Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and actor/director/writer/producer/author/playwright Bruce Campbell. They are fighting vampires. And I don't mean vampires in the contemporary sense; these are bat-looking, flying, mean motherfuckers with manes. And they have big, big teeth. I forgot about the teeth.

Bruce Campbell has a torch and a kindo at his defense, a combination that he wields with none too much grace. He is outfitted in a black Hawaiian shirt with complimenting green and yellow flowers and black slacks. He is also wearing loafers, a watch, a wedding ring and glasses. Apparently he didn't figure he would be fighting vampires with Hunter S. Thompson today.

The good doctor has at his disposal the following amenities: a cross bow, a personal midget servant dressed in a white suit with red bow tie, a ready supply of wooden stakes ammunition, a hurricane (the drink, not the tropical storm). With his bucket hat, sunglasses, and cigarette held in place with ivory holder the manliest of men Dr. Thompson is swearing and fighting triumphantly.

"You filthy animals!" he screams as he misses a kill shot. The corpses of those that have fallen litter the gravel parking lot. It is a good day for the good doctor. Bruce Campbell is trying his best to hide under the cement tables in the park pavilion. Today is not the best day this 'jack-of-all-trades' has seen. Patrick Stewart is King Arthur and he is fending off the undead with his shield, hacking and stabbing valiantly. England's true king has seen worse than these wretches. I forgot to mention King Arthur. King Arthur was there the whole time.

While Thompson shoots at vampires, he leaves his drink resting on his midget servant's head. It remains balanced, never a drop being spilled. With each victory, the doctor takes a mighty swig of the rum drink. It is a bottomless vessel.

King Arthur tires of this wanton fighting, however, and turns his attention to Thompson's midget servant. Arthur sheathes Excalibur and picks up the pint-sized patron, holding him out in front of himself as if the midget were a freshly soiled baby. From my house, I can see that Arthur is leaving the mele and walking toward my house. I lose track of him when he descends the crest of the hill. I forgot to mention that I have been watching this from my window since I Thompson started yelling, and also that there is a pair of large hills at the base of the park.

When Arthur reappears, he is already in my back yard some how. The midget is vacant from his possession but he still has the hurricane. He stands on one side of the fence and I am on the other side. He is in my back yard, for some reason, and I am in the field behind the park. Holding the chalice of rum drink out in front of him as an offering, King Arthur asks, "Do you wish to know the secrets of the universe?"

It doesn't take me a second to answer, "Sure. But I also want your hurricane."

He relinquishes the hurricane and I take a long, slow drink. The mix has too much pineapple for my taste with far too little rum. And that's when the singing began.

The clouds went technicolor and opened up to a rainbow sky. Everywhere there were voices singing the verse from Genesis that starts "And the wind blew through the Garden of Eden". I have only read the Bible once in its entirety and I don't remember that passage at all. It doesn't matter though, because I am experiencing the most beautiful thing I will ever experience in my entire life. The sound becomes light. The light becomes color. The color becomes joy. I see the face of God. Excalibur is mine, and all is right with the world.

And then I wake up. I've got to pee. I am lying on the opposite end of my bed than when I fell asleep. And I hadn't done any drugs to promote such a psychotic change of place. What a waste of a religious experience.

The History of America, Today: Episode Four - The Rise of Itus the Destroyer

2010-01-29T16:10:00.007-06:00

After reading a bit of a recent Time magazine, I found an article about Sarah Palin. I was so struck by the attention given to such a cartoonish personality (even if it was only two pages) that I began taking notes. I'm thinking this may be a multiple-part series of diatribes; I've started at the "fourth" installment because my notes are more extensive on a certain blip of information later on in the article.

I'll set it up for you:
During a Jan. 12 appearance on the Today show, [McCain] was asked by Matt Lauer if it was true that his campaign had done only a cursory background check of Palin before selecting her as his running mate. McCain disavowed responsibility for the process used to scrutinize her with a terse "I wouldn't know." When pressed, he added, "I wouldn't know what the sources are or not." Brushing aside questions about the events surrounding the 2008 election he insisted he is proud of everyone who worked on his campaign and is focused on the pressing issues of the present. - Time, 43

I am the farthest thing from 'knowledgeable citizen' that there can be - I'll admit that outright. But I am very tired of the media, no matter what their bias may be, painting John McCain so broadly. Maybe he didn't really do as much as we expected of him: he lied to enemies of the state about his rank and heritage (to save his life and the lives of those around him) and his daddy got him into more than a few sweet spots in his life (...that's actually 100% true), but don't be negligent in broadcasting such damning opinions of the man. There's a law about that and it's called Slander.

To understand why the media--and I am loathe to use that ignorant identifier but I'm not clever enough to discover something else off the top of my head--picks on John McCain, to truly understand it, you must first understand John McCain. Now I've only been aware of him for about twelve years. I have Lewis Black to thank for that, as a matter of fact. What I have come to understand about John McCain is that he is a politician of the antebellum order, a retro-old school style of politicking: follow the leader until it's too late; give the people what they ask for, not exactly what they want or need; cover your ass with the same tenacity you utilized on the campaign trail, because if you admit to nothing there can only exist speculation instead of damning facts (modern 'politics' thrives on this sort of side-stepping); and finally never let your feet stop moving. Pundits on both sides of the two party spectrum are giving McCain guff for not addressing the missteps and lost intelligence of his bid for president. The reason he's not retreading old waters is because he doesn't need to.
Media networks are not looking for information but gossip. The past is not news, but history - that's why it is called the past. Loudon Wainwright III once said that the good old days are "good because they're gone." McCain understands this--his problem is enunciating all of the logic and truly good advice he has imprisoned in his head. After umpteenth months working for the G.O.P. the parts of his frontal and temporal lobes which are most active in truth telling have lost a lot of game time. Like any muscle, the less you use it the weaker it gets. Such is the case for John McCain. Instead of coming down from his cross, rehabilitating with a year or so of local poverty relief and finally get his hat back into the national arena around the end of this year (monsoon and tsunami season), he has allowed his Gold's Gym devolve into a White Castle.
McCain's advantage (perhaps his only advantage) is his understanding that no one really wins in the blame game. Pointing fingers is as American as barely legal titties being displayed for all the world to see for profit. As tempered as McCain is, he knows throwing around accusations will yield no practical results. Right now, America is Rome and we want to see blood. Because McCain is not obliging to our mania, we chastise him for waffling on issues (insert issue here) and berate him openly for not pinning a target to some one's back.
Sealing a hole in a bucket stops a leak, not a wad of chewing gum. Sometimes the situation calls for a whole new bucket to take over. At this point in time, however, America only seems interested in using the same old worn, perforated bucket we've had since Nixon. Bonnie and Clyde got off easy compared to America's bucket. Before this metaphor gets too out of hand (i.e. who has to fill and carry the bucket .vs. who gets to use the water) I'd better get back on track...John McCain, right?
Yes - John McCain is an old senator who hasn't gotten the memo about modern politics. Modern politics are petty, deconstructive and afflicted with tunnel vision. This is all referential to America, mind you. France, Spain, Canada, Germany and Italy may have a few years of technology development to run through before catching up with us, but their governments are running circles around ours.
It goes without saying that we are still a young nation and still working through the throws of adolescence, but with almost four hundred years of history to look back on surely we can learn, and not observe, from our mistakes as well as our triumphs. Perhaps since America is so silly right now for creating lists of the best or worst things, may I present a few ideas in the rawest form. The following is a list of issues that the rest of the free world has us whipped on, and the ubiquitous solution is both attention and action:
marijuana, national health care, gay marriage (for some reason), fire arm violence, abortion (again, I'm not sure why this is an issue), drug and alcohol abuse, public schools, poverty relief, church and state (I know--pretty weird, huh?), election technology (as long as the machines aren't sent from the Middle East, we should be on Easy Street), the cult of celebrity, health and weight problems, local job markets, illegal immigration (if we try being affable like Spain we can get away with saying 'No, sorry - full up' too), climate control, medicinal break throughs, economic stability, and many other issues that I'm not smart enough to be aware of.
Where we're supposed to come up with the money to fund these necessities is another question and answer all together, but McCain should at least know what he's up against. If Sarah Palin were to run for the presidency in 2012 (and if the Mayans really did see this coming and Palin is the herald of the apocalypse, I'll be very upset), she would no doubt choose McCain to fill some sort of post. Hopefully he'll think twice and decline. But if he does take a job under President Palin he needs to come prepared; because there will be no help from either ruling party, and especially no help from the Search & Destroy White House*.

* Search & Destroy White House will from now on be my dialectal term for Sarah Palin's imaginary administration. Details as to the reasoning behind this distinction will come in time.

Many Dreams from Many Nights After Many Different Meals: Part Thirteen

2010-01-27T07:55:00.002-06:00

"Not even your precious Science can save you now!" Rowan Atkinson said, deciduously.

Somewhere in the back woods of a temperate forested area, I am being chased by druids with torches--probably. We have a very grand looking shot of a precipice, a very high ledge at the bottom of which is a not-so-raging river. I am running quickly trying to find a way out of whatever predicament I've gotten myself in, but the light from the torches gets closer and closer. I can't make out any voices but there are definitely sounds being made behind me. They sound like short bursts of some sort of lizard noise but with a hint of large mammal in the mix, as well. Whatever the case may be, I am being chased through ragged woods in the dark by a band of evil that wants me dead.

After a few moments, I come to a break in the trees. It is a turnabout at the end of a cul de sac. From the design and placement of the houses I can tell that the world is 1950s suburbia - where, I'm not entirely sure, but 1950s suburbia is a fact. All of the ranch houses are in a line on either side of the street; most are the same except for color, plus or minus a garage.
I clear three-quarters of the street in only a few moments and make for the last house on the corner just before the intersection of Wasted Potential Boulevard (the street I'm on now) and Play It Safe Until Retirement Avenue. Getting in the house is now problem - the door is unlocked. Vacant to the naked eye, I tour the house quickly and determine that I am indeed alone. All of the lights are turned off; the furniture has plastic on it; the toilet is aqua green; and the den is paneled with a dark oak faux-finish.
I make one more round through the house and discover a note on the refrigerator I hadn't noticed before. I can't read it (it's a dream). I conclude that there is no assistance whatsoever to be found in this American Splendor through-back, so I vacate the premises and take off down Play It Safe Until Retirement Avenue to seek real help.

"I'll leave you face down in Chinatown!"

2010-01-13T18:10:00.004-06:00

Girls Gone Wild has not done justice to lesbian tendencies. Do real lesbians flutter tongues and grope one another with giddy glee? Heavens no. Gay men tear it up, but gay women get down. Like P-Funk. There are no cameras around when real lesbians have intimate moments. If one were to video-tape such an event, the end result would look something like the Cramps videoed performance at Napa State Mental Hospital.

The key to lesbian sex is to become the "top". This is much easier said than done, however. To become a top (just like becoming night manager or president of the United States) you have to earn it. How does one earn the privilege of being "on top"? Pure, unbridled intimidation that must--MUST--come close to psychosis. In order to establish oneself as the dominant partner in a lesbian relationship, one must show their dominance, often in a violent nature.

An example just to establish a better plain to stand on: two women unclothed one another and are in the first few moments of lesbian love-making. Neither woman is on top; neither woman is on the bottom. The two ladies are both lying on their sides facing one another; each has one hand around the neck of the other while they kiss deeply, and the other hand in the other's crotch, carefully building the respective clitoris into a frenzy of passion.
Just before the first wave of pre-orgasm pleasure wash over them, the woman with the shaved head and spider tattoo on her neck says to the smaller, blond-haired woman in her embrace, "You're gonna' be my bowling bowl, baby, and I'm gonna' roll your pussy in for a strike."
Before the smaller, blond-haired woman can say, 'What?', or, 'I don't think so,' the bald, spider tagged woman throws her leg over the new power bottom and grabs her crotch like a bowling bowl - middle and ring fingers securely inside the vagina, thumb knuckle deep in the ass-hole.
"Now I've got you, bitch," says Spider Woman (as we'll call her from now on). "I want you to ride this, because I'm gonna' make your pussy cum so hard."
Kim (as we'll call the smaller, blond-haired woman) has no choice now. She did nothing to resist Spider Woman's advances the last two weeks. From the first slap on the ass to this newest development, Kim is now inevitably the bitch and Spider Woman is the butch.

Not all cases are like Kim and Spider Woman (the previous consummation not withstanding, their names are more phonetic sense when arranged in this particular order), this much I know. But I also know, for a fact, that no lesbians ever party, alone or with each other, like to waste-of-daddy's-money girls who are video-taped for the Girls Gone Wild collections. That, as Richard Nixon would say, is bull-shit.

"You wake up the next morning with your dick glued to your leg--you don't know why!"

2010-01-13T10:04:00.005-06:00

I have noticed a manufactured geniality pervading my environment these days. Last Monday, Christy and I went to IKEA, which is--as you all may know--the initial bastion of this perverse idiom - a sort of hive of consumerism. Around 1957, the Swiss grew bored with curing cancer and cloning their entire population (a cirriculum they will keep from us for fifty years, after America has destroyed the rest of the world) and decided to turn their Arian gaze toward America. There are displays of whole living areas to give you a wet-dream in the real of things you can never have - at least all at once. You may not be able to put that couch, rug, shelving unit(s), entertainment equipment and lighting arrangements into your hovel; but you sure as hell can bring guests' attention to your $180.57 bamboo lamp stand from some North African country. And where ever did you get such a unique and glorious piece? Mother fucking IKEA.

This IKEA has become an institution, not unlike the armed forces or the Catholic church. A false sense of livelihood has been raised by an interior decorative company--AN INTERIOR DECORATING COMPANY--and Americans are gobbling it up like free crack on Thursday morning (always check with your local dealer for time and locations changes in accordance with Free Crack Thursday Mornings). Do the American people understand that there is a dogma being impressed upon them, and that it is based not upon faith or the hereafter, but simple aesthetic? Hell, no. We want it and we want it bad.
What the fuck happened to my country?

The carnal snarl of these companies is hidden behind a right neighborly facade. We can do it and they can help; we shouldn't leave home without them; like a good neighbor, they are there for us. Each one is an even heavier blow from the Mjollnir of advertising - they keep coming back to us, and they are always more devastating the next time around. Why couldn't commercials be informative instead of evocative? Why does everyone need to be visually, aurally and sexually stimulated just to buy a can of spray-paint? The answer is simple: because we're too fucking smart to be satisfied with simple information; it doesn't stimulate us enough. We are smart enough to do anything we set our minds to and we're too stupid to realize it.
What the fuck happened to my country?

The Gospel According to Saint Matthew, Really

2010-01-09T22:38:00.001-06:00

"...and so I said, 'Hey everybody - I thought it was a book!'"

The Hurambe Salute Gets You Farther Along in the KFC Pick-Up Line, but Then Again It Would Get You Farther In Any Pick-Up Line

2009-12-23T17:22:00.004-06:00

What is Christmas all about?Blah-blah, gay sex. Blah-blah, congress. That's what Christmas is all about.

'Tis the season' seems to be an excuse to do good things for one another one week out of the 52.365 that make up the average year. It sort of pisses me off. Santa was more than likely attacked by an Arab. And he held up the little girl on his lap to absorb the first hail of bullets, too. Beware the False Santa! He speaks in half-truths and boorish grunts.

Anyway, watch "A Huey Freeman Christmas" whenever you can. Make the police siren stop.

Many Dreams from Many Nights After Many Different Meals: Part Twelve

2009-12-20T20:20:00.003-06:00

Beating Audrey Hepburn at Skeet Shooting
Christy and I are on a very sad excuse for a beach. Whether or not it is on a lake or beach, I can't tell. The sand is very dark and there are jagged rocks lining the brink of the shore. It is dusk and there are very few people left. It is, after all, a very sad excuse for a beach.
For one reason or another, I leave to get something from the car. There is a pavilion at the top of the beach (the beach is sloped down like a very gradual hill) and I have to walk through it to get to the parking lot, also small and very sad. The tables are littered with paper products and the fire-place is still smoldering (there is a fire place in the wall closest to me).
As I exit the pavilion, I am no longer at the beach nor am I outdoors. As I exit the pavilion, I am in a school library of some sort. It is two stories, but not very expansive otherwise, and dimly lit. Everything seems to be some hue of yellow or brown.
I pass by the circulation desk and notice that I am not alone in my company. There is a small, older Japanese man at my side. I am escorting him around. I do not speak Japanese. He does not speak English. This seems like something that would happen to me.
The small Japanese man and I wander around for a while. He will speak to me time and again in Japanese and I, time and again, will nod politely, sometimes even giving an empty-headed thumbs up. Despite our obvious language barrier, we coexist.
Eventually, the Japanese man (the small one) grows tired with the selection of books in the main library and heads down a discreet hallway in a nook far from officious eyes. The hallway is narrow and I don't feel right traveling down our latest avenue, but as I am the small Japanese man's escort, I must.
The narrow hallway leads to a door. As I am the escort, I open the door and step through first. When the door closes behind me I am in a large room set up very much like my friend Cody's old bedroom ( if you are not familiar with Cody's old bedroom, I apologize - there is no helping it), but one of the four walls is done up in bright red brick. The ceiling has to be at least twelve feet high - at least fifteen feet high. These are some high ceilings. Now I am alone in a large room with a bright red brick wall and high ceilings. The small Japanese man is gone. Was he the Keymaker from The Matrix?
All of a sudden, the large room with the high ceilings and the one, bright red brick wall comes to life. It takes me a second (literally) to understand that this is now the obstacle room in the Technodrome from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. There are an assortment of machines upon me outfitted with blades and turbines, the next deadlier than the last. I imagine I am out of luck but am saved at the last minute by Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo.
After they defeat the machines, they turn their aggression toward me. Right before I am hit in the face by a sai, I wake up feeling put out. Why did my Ninja Turtles want to kill me? Am I some prophet of doom? Am I inherently evil? Are, or were, they under some evil spell?
I don't think about this for too long because I am on my way to the bathroom to remember exactly what happened in my dream. Number twos.

Many Dreams from Many Nights After Many Different Meals: Part Eleven

2009-12-20T20:09:00.003-06:00

Drum the Drum of Eternal Medicine
I challenge Pat McSherry from the Home Depot, a rather interesting yet unsettling fellow in his late forties, to a rock 'n roll performance contest thinking there is at least one thing I am better at than him, besides writing. It turns out he knows how to play Black Flag songs, reinventing them as rock-a-billy riffs for measure. He is dressed like Johnny Chastain.
He has the process down to a T. When something becomes a science, you don't have to feel anything, you simply go through the motions and perform them to the best of your ability. He even has a little fan-base of middle-aged men.
Pat has a black and grey semi-hollow-body Gretsch and a Fender tube amp. He is quite great in his performance - ready for Leno. I have an actoustic guitar with a floating pick-up (which I can't get to work) and a Peavy acoustic amp, which I'm not sure even exist. Regardless, he is much better prepared than I am. Billy Joe Armstrong is the judge. He is looking more 'American Idiot' than usual. Seriously coufed and eye-linered. Cunt.
In the end, Par is the winner. Afterward he signs autographs. Because that's what musicians do.

The Pill Does Not Protect Against Sexually Transmitted Diseases

2009-12-17T13:10:00.003-06:00

If you ever want to tell someone you love them, there is no better way than to give them the gift of Joe Strummer. And maybe a tequila.

That is all.

Polygraphs Are No Good Without A Soul or Opposable Appendages

2009-12-13T20:24:00.002-06:00

So the cates always have to gobble everything up.

I haven't had much to eat today.

Work went by all right.

Harry Potter again this evening. I think Christy is trying to work through all of them over winter break. I bought her the six disc set of all the movies for her birthday, which is the 23rd. So, yeah.

Chop up a bit of corn-bread. Cheerio!

I wonder if the entire country of England gets a dime every time someone buys a box of Cheerios. That's how their economy is better than ours. Also they haven't been sinking trillions of dollars into an unnecessary war thousands of miles away from the home turf. That may have something to do with it as well.

Tiger Woods may want to kill himself. Good.

This lady just turned into a lady. She was a cat before the fact.

Why the fuck would they be wearing those stupid witch hats? If they are supposed to be legitimate magic professors...just saying.

BBQ chicken time!

Saturday Afternoon Live

2009-12-12T12:39:00.004-06:00

Christy went to the police station today. Her friend, Sarah Durfy, is a police-woman (but not like the indie song-writer chick, Sarah is a legitimate police-woman) and is giving a tour to Christy, another friend named Sarah (Covhan), and another friend named Pauline. I couldn't go because I feel being in a police station is the same thing as roaming around a coffin for a little while. Can't do it - nope.

Listening to the new Alice In Chains album right now, Black Gives Way to Blue. I'm on the track "Your Decision" and am not enjoying it at all. There's a real corny post-chorus that's all "WAWAWAWA lighters in the air shit". Really bad. But the next track has my attention. Heavy. Harmony guitar on top. Footsteps creak the floor. The shadows give away. Someone outside the door won't let them in. Hmmm...From Jerry Cantrell's mind to your ears. Stealing pieces of the mind before you know it's gone. I suppose it sounds like Alice In Chains in the 21st century. I guess I wished it would be a little more close to the groud, like Dirt or Sap. I don't believe Jerry couldn't have come up with something better than this. Maybe he used up all of his talent on the first five albums. That's too bad. Even their "last" song on the Unplugged show, "The Killer Is Me", was pretty fucking great. Hmmm...The song titles are terrible, which sort of foreshadows the material under it: "Your Decision", "A Looking In View", "When the Sun Rose Again". And a song called "Take Her Out" is followed by a track called "Private Hell". I am hoping that isn't a sweety song followed by a ballsy rocker. Because that would be stupid. Hmmm...Jerry can't keep his songs long and orchestrated if they suck. That isn't fair. Hmmm...The significant harmonies are there on "When the Sun Rose Again", and so far it isn't such a suck. Cheesy sort of guitar solo in an otherwise acoustically orchestrated track. Boo. "Acid Bubble" isn't so bad quite yet. It's 6:56 long however. Ooo - switcharoo. Stupid lyrics. If there weren't any lyrics on this part it would be pretty fucking cool. Just a few bars of nasty fucking riffing would have been kick-ass. But nooooo. Here it's back again. Along with the stupid fucking lyrics. Tsk-tsk. Anyway...

Adam Johnson's Self-Help Manual

2009-12-08T04:52:00.002-06:00

I am so hot that I've taken my shirt off and am drinking ice water. With just enough booze in me to give the world a delicate swoon, and just enough adrenaline (or whatever) in my blood to keep my brain from quieting down, I'm stuck here at 4:54 in the morning instead of in my bed with the woman I love. Oh, well. Whatever. Wherever you go, Iron Maiden's going to get you.

I'm not sure what to write about, but my mind won't let me sleep. I was tired when I went down about three hours and twenty minutes ago, but a series of events transpired and I haven't found that magic boat of fairy farts again. They occurred as follows:
1. I hear a noise that I conclude is the cats being meddlesome. I get up to investigate. Once I have deduced that whatever they have done cannot be detected at this moment, I retreat, defeated, back to bed.
2. I hear another noise less than two minutes after the last. Again, I deduce that the cats are, again, being meddlesome, so I rise, again, to investigate. After turning on many lights and even donning my glasses so I may see better, I discover no evidence of fowl play. This time, it would seem that the noise came from elsewhere--one of our overly-active neighbors, perhaps. Nonetheless, never one to be bested by a creature of lesser intelligence than myself, I put lengths of duct tape on the kitchen counter, face down so that the adhesive side is exposed. Cats hate to step on anything sticky (the cats have had a bad habit of jumping onto the kitchen counter as of late, a tendency that both Christy and I can agree is a "no-no"). After policing the area one more time, I go back to bed, vindicated but no less aggitated.
3. It comes to my attention that the blister on my thumb hurts a lot more than it did three minutes previous (approximately 2:15).
4. I become aware of the fact that I have not bathed in four days.
5. Again and again, I replay the first ten seconds of every Iron Maiden song I can think of to myself for what seems like an eternity.
6. I recognize that I am sweating and my anxiety is only increased. I am over-heating and need to exhaust myself before I die, a greasy, paranoid wreck.
7. I lay on top of the covers.
8. My thumb continues to hurt.
9. My anxiety gives birth to a seed of frustration which I must of swallowed, because in about eighty seconds I'm going to have to poop again for the third time since I became totally concious at 11:57 the previous afternoon.
10. I have to poop again for the third time since I became totally concious at 11:57 the previous afternoon.
11. While I'm sitting on the toilet, I casually glance at an article by Joel Stein, a columnist for Time magazine. In his article for this week, he is humoring the thought of who his new-born son's guardian would be if he and his wife were to suddenly pass away. I am more concerned with whether or not my ass-hole is bleeding (again) to appreciate the whole-hearted whimsy being dictated to me by Mr. Stein.
12. I consider taking a shower.
13. I ignore this consideration.
14. Finished with my bathroom duties (no pun intended), I decide that the best way to get rid of this wunderlust is to wear it down.
15. I remove my shirt, pour a tall cup of cold water for myself, and jump on the internets to dispell my burdensome thoughts into infinity.

Why am experiencing another of what I have come to call my "radiator moments"? My first semester of classes at Hamline University is ending this week. Last night I went out for a drink with two class-mates from my Master in Fine Arts Core Class to chat and become more acquainted. Louis and Brendan are two very smart, very hip guys whom I hope to grow more acquainted and share some more thoughts of geekery and hipster philosophy. But with school over with for a while, how will I keep myself busy? This is a worry that becomes almost an obsession at times. It effects my nervous system as well as my digestive system; the state of my guts often resembles the state of my mind. So when Frank Black/Black Francis/Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson V asks, "Where is my mind?" my answer would be: "In my gut, making its way, and in none-too-solid-a-state, out my ass."

I'm thinking these moments of nervosa will come and go with frequency. I have more than enough to occupy my time. The pieces of writing I have finished for the classes this semester could use a little more revising and then they are ready to be sent off to various journals, where they will no doubt be rejected again and again. No worries. That's the way the cookie crumbles, so to speak (although any subjugation of confections would no doubt send me back to the toilet, this time on my knees). I have to get myself into the collected conscious of the journal world. According to popular opinion (also known as the Bible), man declared his existence to the world with a roar. That is necessary for me, as well. I've been sitting on ideas and stories and poems for far too long. If I get rejection after rejection, oh well. Whatever. I'll deduce what needs fixing, wait three months, fix it, and send it right back. There are literally hundreds of publications out there - at least one will be in need of my particular brand of propaganda.

So, here I am, still over-heated but a little less worrisome. I think I will have that shower pretty soon. Otherwise, I'll do some more writing, or revising, or whatever, until I feel the time is right to get myself clean. I bet that's exactly what I need. Once I have a shower, I'll feel much better. I may even fall asleep. But, anyway, I'll put down a frequently listened to list of music and hope that today goes as well as yesterday:
Athlantis - Eyvind Kang ft. Mike Patton
Powerslave - Iron Maiden
Glitter & Doom, Live - Tom Waits
Lick My Decals Off, Baby - Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band
Ratitude - Weezer
Alone: The Home Recordings of Rivers Cuomo - River Cuomo
Crack the Skye - Mastodon
Them Crooked Vultures - Them Crooked Vultures
Fighting - Thin Lizzy
Here's Where the Strings Come In - Superchunk
God Hates Us All - Slayer
Top Priority - Rory Gallagher
Wrong - NomeansNo
The Obliterati- Mission of Burma
At the Mountains of Madness - John Zorn ft. Marc Ribot
Only By the Night - Kings of Leon
Niandra LaDes and Usually Just a T-Shirt - John Frusciante
Global A Go-Go - Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros
Goat - The Jesus Lizard
The Audacity of Hype - Jello Biafra & the Guantanamo School of Medicine
We Belong to the Staggering Evening - The Ike Reilly Assassination
Tonight - Franz Ferdinand
Embryonic - The Flaming Lips
The Man Who Sold the World - David Bowie
Consonant - Consonant
Sgt. Disco - The Circus Devils
Blakroc - Blackroc

Okay. I'm bored with this.

Before Class, I Give You These Things for Your Pleasure

2009-09-10T13:57:00.003-05:00

I belive there is a Boredoms album happening independently of the band's members outside my window. West Lake Street in Minneapolis, Minnesota is a pallet of esoteric noise. I hear a theremin, ride cymbals, low fidelity bass and a banjo. I know what you may be thinking, and no, I am not stoned. That was last night. But I digress.

A fellow associate at the Home Depot last explained to me why there is inflation in America today. He was right about every point except his hyperbolic stink on Socialism. Socialism as the West sees it, along with its cousin Communism, is evil - this is true. It is very hard to realize an idea as good as Socialism in the real world. On paper, as any college student with half a brain and an over-developed sense of righteousness will tell you, Socialism is a great idea. But the margin for error is too large: humanity. Again, I digress.

Through American eyes, Socialism is an institution where the government controls everything about a person's life. They tell you where to shop, where to go to school, where you can go to get yourself healed and what to think. Socialism is pretty much an monarchy. In theory this is definitely not the case. Socialism is supposed to be a Utopian principle to take care of all the people all the time. But it is against the United States constitution. The Declaration of Independence even sets itself against Socialism. In its body of grievances against the English crown, it establishes that any institution which suffers a person's life, property or freedom is one to be fought. According to popular American thought, Socialism is such an institution. Why we haven't recognized this fire under our ass in the past and thrown out Grant, Wilson, Hoover, Nixon, and W. Bush is beyond me. Comfort is the foundation of the modern American way of life, and we have sacrificed our rights for it. Amazing.

Any way, here's a link to a pretty thing: http://www.examiner.com/x-7389-Pittsburgh-Horror-Movie-Examiner~y2009m9d9-Plan-9-From-Outer-Space-remake-teaser-trailer

And another: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VKn_RbCAAek

So if you haven't gotten the new Weezer, Dinosaur Jr, Mos Def, or Eels albums yet, do so. That is all.

Many Dreams from Many Nights After Many Different Meals: Part Ten

2009-08-16T22:25:00.006-05:00

"What A Quaint Sort of Place to Meet the Mayor," Said Soderberg So Delicately
Myself, Forrest Gump, Wolverine, and someone else whom I can't recall are about to storm an ancient pyramid. On the other side of a white picket fence is a presapice. Inside the presapice is the base of the pyramid, glowing in the aura of menacing lava. All around the tapers of the pyramid are native warriors.

Myself, Forrest Gump, Wolverine, and the other person whom I can't recall are about to get a surprise. Forrest is leading us.

And that's all I have to say about that...

Roger Rabbit Goes to Town

2009-08-14T14:30:00.002-05:00

The days here are just getting hotter, which is not a good sign. A summer that ends in sweltering nausea can only mean a very moist winter. Maybe it won't be too cold, but there will be a hell of a lot of snow.

I've made a resolution, and this time I mean it: alcohol is a treat, not a necessity. Not that I'm a drunk or anything, but I think it's been a few months since I haven't had at least a beer every day. After this bottle of wine I bought the other day, liquor will not be a staple in this household any longer. If it comes to pass that there are a few extra dollar bills on the week's paycheck, then perhaps a few cold ones are in order, or even a bottle of good booze. I can't afford to wantonly spend money any longer. Cutting down is a necessity.

Animation is hot again, thanks to Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, but they picked the wrong test audience. Teenage couples couldn't give a shit about cartoon noir. They only want to screw. Give Bob Hoskins to another audience. They will appreciate him.

What could an English vacuum like you possibly want with a glass of bourbon like me? I'll only blow your top; they don't sell replacement parts like yours in the States. There are Chinese boxers out there who are begging to be lead around; go out and knock them dead before they knock you first. Don't take my word for it, and don't listen to that fucking cab - do what you want! But mark my words, trouble is the only thing you'll find if you follow this path. Weasels catch up quickly. And steer clear of any Whites. Their legs are long and their feet are dangerous. The common hatchet was designed after their hands, so don't stand too close to any trees, either. You'll be able to see the sun shining off of their heads from at least three miles away, so take care not to find yourself under any patches of clouds. Now go: the wall is down, the acetone is at your ankles and the world is at your feet. Go into the happy sunrise and find yourself a good life, one with more colors. Say good-bye to that flat matte yawn you frequented before, and greet this wheel with open arms. Keep your feet moving, though. The merry-go-round may have broke down, but them crooked vultures are very much alive.

Yams before dinner
What a joy it is for Klaus
Thank you kangaroo

Many Dreams from Many Night after Many Different Meals: Part Nine

2009-07-14T22:38:00.005-05:00

Hanging Like Jazz
I am at a foot-ball game in Argenta, Illinois. Home Coming is an exceptionally big deal in this town. Every year I show up to offer my support; I could give a shit about sports, but my father, his best friend, and my best friend all went through the school system here. This year is no different, except almost everything is different. There is a house where the cafeteria should be, a large New England-style house with a wooden fire escape. Also, there is no foot-ball field, just a large rectangular base-ball field. A long fence surrounds the base/foot-ball field.

I am making my way to meet my family and friends when I notice someone new attending the game. The Incredible Hulk is sitting a few rows back at the thirty yard line. For some reason, I feel that I have to be snappish with him.

As I walk by, I make an off-handed comment in his general direction. I forget exactly what I said, but it got his attention. His ears perk up, his head swivels, and I can see the realization cross his face. I maintain my pace. He looks this way and that trying to identify who slighted him. Stupidly, I maintain eye contact. The Incredible Hulk catches my gaze. He is upset. Throwing down his pop-corn, he storms through the first three rows of people and charges after me. In a panic, I dart off toward the cafeteria.

Upon realizing that the cafeteria is now a New England-style house, I am forced immediately to recalculate my strategy. Instead of retreating into the cafeteria, which was at one time a verified bomb shelter, I duck through the first door I come by. It appears to be a servants' entrance, perhaps a mud room; there is a narrow stairway in front of me, nonetheless, so I ascend with haste. As I round the top corner I hear the entrance explode below me. The Hulk is following me in a rage. He doesn't quite ascend the stairs as he does crush the hallway in his destructive attempt to travel upwards. I sprint loudly through a ball-room, my steps falling heavily against the polished wood floor. This is a very nice house, indeed. There is a chandelier above. It narrowly misses me when it comes crashing to the ground: the Hulk is on the same floor now, and the shock waves are causing the room to shake violently. Otherwise, the old place is holding up rather well given the circumstances. They certainly don't make them like they used to.

For some reason, I think sliding into the fireplace at the far end of the room is a good idea. Again bereft of any other constructive thought, I proceed to climb up the chimney. If I can make it to the roof...well, I don't really know what I can do fifty feet off the ground, but it certainly beats the hell out of getting the hell beaten out of me.

Perhaps out of confusion, the Hulk does not take immediate chase. A tumbling of loose soot changes that circumstance. As I pull myself up and out of the chimney, an angry roar fills the air and my pursuer is on my trail again.

The roof holds up very well when the Hulk bursts through the chimney. My terrain is tiered, so I shuffle down the slopes the best I can, making myself as inconspicuous as I can. Window ledges and weather veins (there are an abundance of weather veins), nooks and crannies, gutters and rooks are all suitable hiding places. If it weren't for the fact the I was being chased by the most powerful being on Earth, I would have stood a decent chance of waiting this excursion out. But the Hulk isn't fooling around. He is punching ledges clear of the house, stomping holes in the ceiling, and swatting weather veins into infinity.

I am desperate. I am crouching down in a nook between a raised window and one side of the roof when I make a drastic decision: I am going to jump. The ledge is only about three yards ahead of me, but it seems like a mile. With a burst of speed, I break out for my only means of escape. It is moments until the Hulk is upon me. As I leap off the house, he leaps too. He catches me in mid-air, my flight now rendered a vain attempt.

Upon his landing, he makes another mighty leap, sailing over the base/foot-ball field. We land in a field of wheat, for some reason. He holds me in front of himself, snarling fiercely. I take this opportunity to make my case before I am extinguished.

"Come on," I tell him, "you can't take things so personally." His face melts into curiosity. I have his attention. I continue: "I was only kidding with you. You can take a joke, right?"

The Incredible Hulk takes a moment to ponder this question. Once he is resolved, we both laugh mightily at this misunderstanding. He is still holding me above the ground. The field of wheat is serene as it sways in the breeze.

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Meals: Part Eight

2009-07-14T11:25:00.007-05:00

Corporal Awning Membership
I am in a New England town, or something. There is an ominous feeling in the streets. A warehouse, long and shoddily kept, looms on the horizon. It is an industrial town. Whatever spirit that lived here died a long time ago. It becomes apparent to me that this warehouse is my destination. I am walking on the white street. The sidewalks are black. The sky is about to hemorrhage.

Inside I am met by a person I do not know who looks a lot like Mayo. He is not Mayo. Sitting on a large blue plastic barrel is a girl I tried numerous times in the past to get in bed. She looks like she has been expecting me. Mayo-But-Not-Mayo looks at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her expecting to notice him. She does not notice him looking at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her expecting her to notice him. I notice this; I notice this immediately.

"I'll clone myself if you won't love me," she tells me. Mayo-But-Not-Mayo looks at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her like he was been expecting her to notice him. She does not notice him looking at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her like he has been expecting her to notice him. This is all very French.

"I don't love you," I say very matter-of-factly. "I love Christy." My subconscious flexes. My conscious mind even thinks, 'Too puppy-dogs and lollipops.' It is, however, the truth. "I only wanted to fuck you," I continue.

"That's not all," says Mayo-But-Not-Mayo. "You always told me differently." He is full of romance: romance and bull-shit. Maybe he is Morrisey.

Footsteps sound behind me. Out of the shadows steps one of the after-mentioned clones. She has already made good on her threat. She must have understood what my answer would be and taken preemptive action. Which lead me immediately to think, 'What would have happened if the case had been different?'

If I had returned her sentiments, what then? What would have been done with the clone? Maybe it would have been given to Mayo-But-Not-Mayo/Morrisey. Could he have wanted the clone to notice him looking at it/her like he wanted it/her to notice him looking at it/her? Probably not. He's just so goddamned French like that.

Maybe it would would have been kept up for a while and then eventually euthanized like an orphaned puppy nobody wanted. Perhaps it would have been sold into slavery as a sex toy. Maybe a shag store would have accepted it as a retail itme of the highest order: a twenty-three-year-old white girl with a pronounced bosom that will never age - what a delicious concept!

That is not the case, however, because it/she speaks:
"You can't ignore us all."

"I've ignored entire families before," I say, "including my own. I think I can ignore two of the same girl."

"Not two," Girl Prime says from her barell, "three."

Another clone comes out of the shadows of stage right. It/she is wearing the Marilyn Manson shirt I always admired on Girl Prime.

"Three of you?" I ask Girl Prime.

"Three of us," responds Clone One.

The door opens behind me and yet another clone enters the warehouse from the street. It/she is in a white t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts. She is soaking wet because the sky has finally loosed its bowels upon the New England town, or something. Am I in a sexy Stephen King story?

With three adversaries bent on swaying my affections and a disgruntled figure-head pulling the strings, I come to an understanding: they all have to die. But I pace myself.

I stay very still, waiting for them to make the first move. Being clones, they act ubiquitously. All three descend lazily upon me, no doubt full of perverse intentions, wanting to rub this and suck that. I slowly make for my weapons. Now, I act quickly in a deadly succession:

1.) I retreive a pistol and shoot Mayo-But-Not-Mayo/Morrisey dead. He is no longer French.
2.) I turn the gun on Girl Prime and shoot her off of the barell. I aimed for her right shoulder so as not to fatally wound her. I will turn my attention elsewhere and return to her in the near future.
3.) I discard the pistol; two shots were all I needed.
4.) Clone Two is closest to my right, within striking distance. From my shoe, I have pulled a five inch blade. Having concealed it while I fired upon my first two targets , Clone Two does not see it coming when I swing it across its/her throat. Its/Her jugular is opened and it/she is on the ground bleeding out.
5.) I discard the blade.
6.) I turn quickly to meet Clone Three, catching it/her with a full-barelled kick to the chest. It/She passes smoothly through the air, then passes back through the door quite clumsily, and very hard. It/She will also come later.
7.)My actions all take place within three to five seconds, so Clone One has only had a moment to realize the gravity of the situation. It/She turns to escape but is too pokey in its/her retreat. I grab it/her by the back of the neck and put my foot in its/her calf, bringing it/her to its/her knees. With a thrust of my shoulder, I throw its/her face forward into the concrete floor.
I turn it/her over and stradle it/her. I proceed to strangle the life out of this crime against nature. It/She gasps and kicks. Clone Two and Clone One expire at the same time, drained of the bastardly life which fueled their existence.
8.) I stand and spit on the shell beneath me. Perhaps this is a bit too excessive.
9.) I turn my attention to Girl Prime. She is lying in a heap next to the large blue plastic barell, shivering.
"I need you to see something," I tell her and take her by the leg. I drag her across the floor toward the door. The rain starts to let up against the windows of the warehouse. I push the door open and it swings wide, steadily closing itself, steady enough to crack Girl Prime in the head. That was my intention. Clone Three is unconscious on the sidewalk, which is still black. The street is still white.
10.) I drop Girl Prime's leg and pick up Clone Three underneath its/her arms. It/she is still wet. I drag it/her from the black sidewalk into the white street. Girl Prime stays on the black sidewalk.
"Watch carefully," I tell Girl Prime. I crouch over Clone Three and raise its/her head with my left hand. Again and again, I punch it/her in the face. The rain falls very lightly, misty almost. It pools vaguely with Clone Three's blood, looking very much like oil and water on the white street. My arm finally fatigues but my work is finished, many times over in fact.

The street lights flicker on as a soupy fog rolls through the town. It saturates the white street very quickly and blankets the shell underneath me. In an instant, it/she no longer exists.

I stride back to Girl Prime. She is lying on her belly, perched on her elbows, legs bowed in the air like a bubbly teenager. Her shoulder is bleeding profusely but she has a euphoric smile on her face. She is glad to see me.

I step over her and sit down on her back-side. I fold my arms and think. There is silence. Then, she speaks:
"Hey, you."

I carefully take hold of the top left corner of her head with my right hand and the bottom right corner of her chin with my left hand. My bicep quivers along with the pulse in her forehead. I breathe in. With a flex, I break her neck. Her face and open palms fall flat and drab onto the black sidewalk.

For a moment, I sit and think: Am I the vindicated sub-conscious, only now being able to leave behind old feelings through wanton violence? Is this world that harbors my sadistic desires a metaphorical creation made from studies of Cormac McCarthy and Flannery O'Connor? The Irish and the Scottish share a common enemy in England.

The scope of perspectives within the dream was evidence enough of my awareness. Sometimes I saw everything in the third person; other times I was Wolfensteining it.

I awake with an urgent desire to use the bathroom - number twos.

More Fun in the New World

2009-06-26T13:47:00.002-05:00

* Dinosaur Jr.: November 15
* Sonic Youth: July 28
* X: June 23 (check)

Alright, that's the schedule so far. It is subject to change.

Saw X and they were awesome. John Doe is one sweaty young man. I was put in charge of managing the fan and I blew it. He walked over and adjusted it after two songs. I really dropped the ball. He did frequent our edge of the stage quite a lot, however. I've always listened to his bass parts on the records, but watching him play is another trip altogether. There's a secret to his style that's very interesting: he's reaaallly good. Thirds and fifths; chords; slide work out of no where - truly a class act. And really sweaty.

Billy Zoom didn't even break a sweat. He was engaged, as usual, in scanning the audience and locking eyes whenever he could. For a Christian, he can be one creepy mother fucker. Since I was in front of Doe the whole time, I couldn't keep track of Billy's playing as much as I would have liked, but needless to say it was flawless. He can eye-rape the crowd while pulling licks out of his axe with ease; he doesn't even have to concenrate on his playing. Talk about another class act: Zoom took pictures of the audience (as is his usual practice after a gig), shook hands, and signed autographs all over the place. I shook his hand. He smelled like my uncle Rick. Class act.

Exene, bless her heart, is still out there giving it the old mopey try. When she was twenty-five, it was alluring and sexy; now she just looks a little confused: 'Where am I? Who are all these people? Is that my ex-boyfriend? Look, a microphone - I think I'll try to sing.'
She can still extract those shrill harmonies to Doe's smooth-as-whiskey baritone, though. "I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts" was done well. "Under the Big Black Sun", too.

D.J. Bonebreak was reliable, as always. Yep...

So Michael Jackson died yesterday. Yep. I had a one-sided conversation with Yamasua at work about the trials and tribulations of humanity. He spoke and spoke, and I deafly acquieced. When he gets going about fate, and happiness, and materialism, and etc. etc. he is definitely on a roll. Our first conversation involved amnesty and the state of his country, Liberia. Now every time we meet in the break-room, he conjures up a mess of introspective philosophy. He's a great guy, but sometimes Michael Jackson dies because 75% of his face isn't real. True, the money didn't help either, nor did his crippling narcicism or eccentric behavior; but I think it had a lot to do with his fake face. Where there is no blood, there is no life. One cannot survive in plastic. But anyway...

2009-06-22T19:59:00.002-05:00

My girlfriend's cat scratches at the inside walls of his litter box instead of burying the shit he's just taken, and becomes very frustrated when all of his work is for not. She says it is his instinct to bury, he's just not smart enough to realize he's doing is wrong. Amusing at first, but this scenario becomes tiring after a while. The 'scratch-scratch-scratch' on the side of the wall is almost like the equivalent of the old "Stop hitting yourself" bully move; or, even more apt, when Oklahoma citizens vote: they are proving to you that there is nothing you can do about their stupidity. You cannot prevent it. You cannot amend it. So there.

I hope X play "Blue Spark".

Not much of anything but work. Minneapolis is the kind of town where you can look all you want, but if you don't even have $20.00, you're on the outside looking in. I am in walking distance of three killer record stores, all sorts of great restaurants, and the Bryant-Lake Bowl. Can I go to any of those places whenever I please? No. Damn.

I love Christy.

Put a roast in that kitchen, my good man. There will be no expense spared in this crockery of damnation. Where ever the turtle falls, that is where we will dig our new country. Lap it up - this is your destiny! There will be a spicket in every window and a goose in every closet. Forty acres is cod-swallup: they were measuring by the King's standard. Poor bastards where still under rule and they didn't even know it.
"Ha, ha!" cried the king. "I have perfectly even feet!"
The families of the heroes couldn't get over this for many years. They tried in the 70s, but were too afraid of the newer, better system.
"Make mayonaisse instead of molasses,"said the old black mammy. "Up the pole with ya!"
One foot in front of the other, she scaled the nearest telephone pole.
"Who's want pizza?" she cried. She looked down upon her subjects. "I do!"

I Painted My Bathroom Today So I Could Use It Correctly

2009-06-13T16:43:00.003-05:00

Put the posies in the pot outside the partial portholes in Peter's purple pachyderm.

Tell it to San Juan, who gives a damn.

Quick - someone poop in my hat.

That's not...oh, yes it is.

Because that's where directions come from.

Who's got the koo-koo?

Remember that boss? The one with the skin?

Where did north go?

Intel never did get that thing it wanted.

I want my name to be Spaghetti.

Think about that while you're falling down.

You aren't allowed to sing while you poop.

Things Involving Taiwan I've Thought About in the Last Three Days

2009-06-07T21:43:00.002-05:00

David Caradine

French Is For Iggy Pop/Iggy Pop Is For French

2009-06-02T08:59:00.002-05:00

There are no thoughts in a medical center. Minds are made up already and there is no new information. A diagnosis is not news. Everything is brought in. Nothing leaves.

I spent a sunny day in West Health Urgent Care Center. The gentleman in front of me in line had the same birthday as the receptionist. The receptionist had the same birthday as me. The gentleman in front of me in line had the same middle name as my first name. He works at a Subway and apparently cut himself while working at the Subway. The manager's name is Melissa Dahl. Hopefully, Subway will take care of his injury. But probably not.

I chose not to sit with all the other patients waiting to be seen. There were too many of them. I understood that I was last in line, but having to stare at all of them the whole time would have made the duration of my wait go by muuuuuuuuch too slowly.

Luckily, there was a front desk around the corner where the whole front area allowed for endless entertainment. One case was especially amusing. I hope it wasn't anything too critical, but a young girl, probably high-school as she was speaking of "graduating on Thursday", would not stop sniffling and squirming. The pain was just too much, I guess. It seemed that MacDonald's, which her father eventually provided, did some sort of trick. She would grasp her sides, hunch over, and sniffle in mild agony. She also talked on the phone, spoke jovially to an out-patient she knew, and walked around. It musn't have been too serious, but God bless melodramatic teenagers.

During my time there, I had only sixty cents. No Starbucks, no Dr. Pepper, nothing. They did have mini-Ice Mountain waters for free, but even I felt really cheap drinking more than one. I should have ate before setting out. Express care may be cheaper than the emergency room, but you could wind up dying while you wait. *

Another amusing instance: a woman came in the front and wanted a wheel-chair. The receptionist nabbed one for her and told her to stand still while while she came around from behind. The old woman kept turning. The receptionist asked her to stand still so she could come around from behind with the wheel-chair.
"What?" asked the old woman.
"I want to come around from behind," said the receptionist.
"I'm sorry," said the old woman as she kept turning around, "I don't understand."

There is no loss of attractive ladies in Minnesota, only smart people in over-sized sunglasses.

Excellent bathrooms at West Health. The hand dryer in the men's room was from a future where over-compensation holds sway because man and accelerated air is inefficient. The Xcelerator hand dryer could knock out a three-year-old.

"There's that bag," said the receptionist as she looked out the front window at an approaching woman, apparently returning from lunch.

*As I was being lead to the x-ray, I discovered a granola bar in my lowest right pocket.

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Meals: Part Seven

2009-05-21T08:01:00.002-05:00

Tennessee Walking Horses
I am in the Violent Femmes.

Guns and Gays: Issues of Our Times That Are More Important Than the Economy

2009-05-11T15:09:00.002-05:00

I've been reading Decatur's local publication The Herald & Review over the last hour or so while I've been ripping CDs. A story ran front page about a mental patient in Minnesota (St. Paul, to be precise) who is combating ECT. He has a history of savage bi-polarism and is fighting for his rights now that he says he is "remisced". ECT stands for electrico-convulsive therapy.

Basically, the crazy is being shocked out him. But after forty or so sessions, the gentleman (who is prone to violence, spasms, and fecal bombardment) considers the treatments to be unneccesary. He knows that his illness is a problem, but feels that electro-convulsive therapy is not the answer any longer. At first, he was treated a few times a week; now he's zapped once a month. He thinks this is still too much. He isn't a doctor, but he knows what's best. People have gathered at the state capitol to protest in the patient's favor. They aren't doctors, but they know what's best. The spirit of the 1960s is long dead, these schmucks just don't know it. Posuers are all over, and they're just as hilariously oblivious as the kids shopping at Hot Topic. America sure is great: even empty-headed blow-hards can express their ideas. Compassion is a wonderful thing, no?

The Herald & Review also ran a story concerning extra-curricular activities in schools and their effects on students lives. My old drama and music teachers were interviews, Mark Waller and Jim Culbertson. Both of them are retired, but still plug away at their respective posts at Douglas MacArthur High School. Waller can't let the drama program go under like so much Leonardo DiCaprio characters, and Culbertson doesn't trust any one else to lead his beloved Jazz Band. They made a record for Christ's sake; I own it.

As cynical as I sound, I am quite proud of them...I haven't anything else to say about this.

There was an editorial about gay marriage, as well. The fellow was a propponent of same-sex marriage. I agreed with what he had to say. Obama shouldn't be such a pussy on such an insignificant issue. Just say, 'Gays can be legally married - NEXT!' and be done with it, yeah? It really isn't that hard. Fuck the Conservatives. Fuck FOX News. If they don't like the fags getting married, let them do something about it. Let them revolt. It's as American as apple-pie. And butt sex.

I could not access gunssavelives.com through Panera Bread's web-browser. I wonder why? Neither can I access the Ku Klux Klan home-page. I suppose that's a good thing. The Anti-Defamation League website is accessable, though. Goddammned Jews.

Decaffienated coffee isn't so bad. I've just had to search twelve years to find a blend I can tolerate. Panera's is a bit of alright.

Ronald Reagan was full of one-liners, then he was full of Alzheimer's Disease.

This is an actual transcirption from Conservapedia.com: "After Richard Nixon's resignation in 1974, the weak Gerald Ford became president, and Reagan challenged him in the 1976 Republican Party primaries." I'm glad such a prevalent bi-partisan voice is out there spreading the word. But maybe, just maybe, Ford wasn't weak. What if was just a foot-ball player who was lucky enough to fail upwards into the White House? What about that?

No - he was weak after all? Okay. I'll accept that.

Speaking of CDs, I just may be a converted fan of Against Me!. I checked out their Searching For a Former Clarity and New Wave albums from the library and they borth kick a whole lot of ass. New Wave comes with a DVD as well, and amongst the playlist is "Bastards of Young". I'm going to enjoy the hell out of watching that performance...I hope.

Against Me! is better than Rise Against. They are the best at being "against" something. The vocalist guy shouts instead of "roars". The guitars are better. The arrangements make more sense. The songs are better. They don't sound like they're trying to be political. As a matter of fact, there's a song on Searching... about the futility of protest songs. It's called "White People For Peace". Good stuff, maynard.

Yesterday, I heard a musak version of "Gangster's Paradise" by Coolio over the sound system. Now they're playing "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers. The main melody is played by a flute. Elevators and yuppy coffee-shops should be mandated to play Iron Maiden, or Captain Beefheart, or Naplam Death, or Ministry, or Black Flag, or Captain and Taneil: really bad music, or really bizarre music. Not really ordinary music. Shit.

Titles of Ben Affleck Movies That Suck Even Though He Doesn't

2009-05-09T17:54:00.002-05:00

So there's Gone, Baby, Gone.
I think that's it, honestly. All of the other titles of movies he's in that suck, he also sucks it up: Reindeer Games, Gigli, (That One Where He Tries to Fight A Bunch of Chinese Cooks in China Town as A Joke), Pearl Harbor, Daredevil. I could keep going and going. Why am I going and going? I moved out of Normal today and am at the Panera in Decatur. I really don't like this town. Lite-jazz and green grass and American flags can't change that.

I've nothing to do at moment. I could go home and watch Season Two of The Tick or those Peter Gabriel videos I also checked out from the library. I need to work on thinking ahead when it comes to my written diction. It's almost like improvisation. Being two steps ahead of the fingers and making it up as you go along, but understanding the rules so well that it just flows out organically. Writing about writing is like wearing leather and riding a motorcycle when you're fifty-three. You think it's pretty rad at the time, but everyone around you is yelling 'Stop it!' Plus, if you're tall and kind of stupid looking, no one will be taking your side on the matter. If you were to also wear a leather hat backwards, you've pounded the last nail in your coffin. You fucked up.
That's a true story.

Don't sit behind me.

From English for the Second Time from Japanese and the Back Section

2009-04-24T08:37:00.003-05:00

English: Adam can't believe there aren't any more bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches to ease his sadness.
Japanese: As for Adam, it is not possible to believe that already it is not the bacon, the lettuce or the tomato sandwich which satisfies that grief.

English: That house is made of treated pine.
Japanese: That house has consisted of the pine which has been handled.

English: The smiley faces talk when they should listen.
Japanese: The smiley surface should be heard, when, you speak.

English: If I don't go camping, I may die.
Japanese: If I camping it does not go, I die.

English: Turkey hunting is best in the spring time.
Japanese: The turkish search is best to spring time.

English: Polar bears are the most vicious killers in the animal kingdom.
Japanese: To be white the [ma] is the most immoral killer of the animality.

English: Yellow cake makes for the best insulation.
Japanese: Making [ierokeki] for insulating material the best type.

English: Germans make the best chocolate bars. Swiss makes the best clocks.
Japanese: German makes the best chocolate bar. Thw swiss person makes the best clock.

English: I do push ups to keep myself strong.
Japanese: I force by my and do push rise beacuse it maintains.

English: When the parade begins, step back so you do not get run over by the police.
Japanese: When the parade starts, the step back section therefore as for you it cannot by the police being moved.

English: Please, don't smoke. Babies don't need that around.
Japanese: The smoke and others you do not have to do. The baby does not need that.

English: My wireless network is better than yours.
Japanese: Me radio network you is better.

English: I took a poop on that Mexican.
Japanese: I took Mexico that poop.

English: My book has pictures.
Japanese: In my book, there is an image with those.

English: Werewolves makes poor history teachers.
Japanese: The wold human makes poor historical teacher.

English: My girlfriend has two cats.
Japanese: There are two cats in my girl friend.

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Meals: Part Six

2009-04-15T21:32:00.002-05:00

This Sort of Man Eats Grass
Jeff Crews, from afternoon receiving at the Home Depot, turns out to be a washed-up rap star from the 1980s. Everyone is invited to his come-back show at a little theater, not unlike the box at Illinois State University. During the show, Jeff climbs into the audience as we all seem to know the melody and beat to his 'hit' single. Everyone is having a good time, everyone except Charles - the Department Supervisor of Plumbing & Paint. He is visibly ill to the point of being pail...or pale. After he is rushed out by EMTs, no one is sure what to do. Brandon from garden thusly begins handing out Girl Scouts cookies, predominantly Caramel Delights. As she accepts her order, a blonde girl in the audience says, "Well, this is ironic."

Later, Kathy from day-time receiving installs a curtain over the family bathroom doorway up front. This is the capstone of some lesbian victory. A fat, gothed-up girl goes in to have a shit, presumably. Tool starts playing from within the bathroom. From the eastern end of the building, a very tall man in a scientist's coat throws something down the aisle. He watches for a moment, then writes on his clipboard. I think it is John Cleese.
After a moment, he pulls something else from his inside pocket and throws that down the aisle. Again, he writes the result on his clip-board. Confused, I starts down the aisle toward him but am stopped when two bouncy balls pass over my head. I look back to John Cleese and see him writing on the clip-board again. All around, there are bouncy balls. No one is being struck. They are colliding with walls, shelves, and the floor but nothing is being knocked over. All around, there are bouncy balls.

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Meals: Part Five

2009-04-14T14:00:00.002-05:00

These Problems, Now, Are Yours
I am working at the Home Depot, and there is some sort of "casual day" taking place. Employees may dress as they see fit, choose to wear their aprons or not, and eat and drink at their leisure. A good deal of the lights are out so as to keep the atmosphere homey. Even the customers joing the fun, best exampled by a small gathering in the appliance show-room area. There is not a manager to be seen. Everyone is enjoying themself.

Apparently, I have ordered a pizza, because a pizza is delivered unto my person and I pay for it with cash from my wallet. Since I and no one else have put forth the effort, I seperate myself from the party and eat a good deal of the pizza alone. When I am full, I head for the refrigerator we have been using to house pop and things - we have been using a refrigerator to house pop and things.

As soon as I close the refrigerator door, a lady customer opens it back up. I politely step back and excuse myself, thinking she may be retreiving a drink or something. This is not the case: she takes my pizza.
"Thanks again," she says, and turns and walks off.
Herb, the Kitcken and Bath Department Supervisor, is standing amongst the other party-goers. He witnesses the theft.
"Did you see that?" I ask him.
"Well?" he asked me. I give an implying look. "Go get it," he says.

I take chase to this pizza thief, rounding the bend of the light-bulb aisly only to find her gone. Understanding what must be done, I put on my gloves and mask and take flight.

We Cannot Laugh Together
I am bicycling down a residential street. Terrain-wise, it seems to be an amalgamation of Bloomington & Argenta, Illinois. There are pedestrians walking on either sidewalk, away from something, or so it seems - traffic is not heavy, but hurried. Behind the line of houses to my left is a fenced off area, the bottom of a long hill leading up to a school. This is important, but I have yet to discover why.

As I come to the end of a block, I notice a cul de sac seperates the 1700s and 1800s of the north/south street I am traveling up. Standing in the cul de sac is a gang of youths. And not just a group, but a literal gang: they are tough, they deal drugs, they kill people. None of them are older than seventeen. Other pedestrians breeze by the cul de sac without acknowledging the gang. They are nervous. I peddle by and give them all a look over. Finding the apparent leader's eyes, I give a nod a keep on going. He nods back. I'm cool with the gang. The twelve-year-old on his arm whispers something into his ear.
"Hey-yo!" he shouts at me.
I plant my foot and turn back around. "What's up?" I ask.
"You and me are going for a ride," he informs me. "Tweety," he says to another fellow against the fence, "you coming, too."

Now we are in a MacDonald's. Tweety and the gang-leader are ordering at the counter while I stand by idley.
"What you want?" asks the leader. I eye the menu. "But don't make it too much," he instructs me. "I only got eight bucks, and Tweety and me already spend six."

This doesn't give me much to work with, but I order two hamburgers and a small french fry. The leader eyes me carefully and pulls his shirt up to reveal his gun. "Don't worry," I tell him. "Hamburgers are only sixty cents a pop, and a small fry is eighty cents." It is 1987.

The food comes on a tray to the counter, and the gang-leader inspects the receipt. He is not pleased. "Motha fucka!" he gripes. "You said you was ordering cheap!"
"Let me see the receipt," I tell him. He hands it over.
I look over the receipt and read him off everything that was purchased, explaining the abbreviated orders.
"'Chsbrg' is 'cheeseburger'," I tell him. "And both of you got two, which brings that to four dollars. And 'LgFry' is 'large fry', which is two dollars and fifty cents." He counts the items on the tray as I explain. "So already, that's five-fifty. 'ShkChc' is 'chocolate shake', which is another dollar-fifty, and 'RegDrnk' is 'regular drink' - another dollar-twenty: you two spent eight dollars and twenty cents." He looks up slowly, scowling an 'I'm-about-to-shoot-your-smart-white-ass' look. "Now my order was only two dollars," I continue. "'Brg' is 'hamburger', and there are two of those at one-twenty. And a 'SmlFry' is a 'small fry', which was eighty cents." Tweety approaches the counter to retreive the tray, but the gang-leader smacks him across the face, sending him to the ground.

Now I am in my apartment. I notice that there is a video projector in the far corner, and a pull-down screen against the northern wall. There is also a chrome, bejeweled stool next to the door. Joseph comes out of his bedroom and gathers his school things.
"When did you get that projector?" I ask him. "And the stool - is that new?"
"Duh," he says, and exits. It is 1987.

More Haikus About My Day, Today

2009-04-02T22:06:00.003-05:00

Cats get infections.
My girlfriend tells me this.
Sex is important

Garden was busy.
Everybody was calling.
Katie is a bitch.

Pabst Blue Ribbon rocks.
I have had four this evening.
Beer makes me drunk - JAMES!

My girlfriend stinks:
this is a slanderous lie.
She smells like flowers.

I can be a dolt.
I answer questions fairly.
Call what Spider-Man?

Happy Gilmore rocks.
Who cares if it isn't smart?
It's better than you.

I've the perfect cock.
Backwards is the best way, too.
To great dicks - Hooray!

Led Zeppelin's great.
Heavy metal gets the girls.
Morrisey's a girl.

Zeppelin aren't gay.
They love pussy so fuckin' much.
Really, it's quite scary.

Haikus Regarding My Day

2009-03-31T22:11:00.002-05:00

Stephen Lynch is great.
Three Balloons was a great laugh.
He sure loves titties.

My legs feel better.
I will run tomorrow night.
Start slow - good game plan.

I Didn't Go to Work Today Because My Legs Hurt So Goddamn Bad

2009-03-29T18:29:00.004-05:00

'THE proof is in the pudding' is an old saying I've never really thought about. No one does. If I was told that there was someone who spends their time engrossed in thought about the meaning of the aftermentioned adage, I would call said conversationalist a liar. Some things are as simple as that.

But really. Doesn't it make you want to laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laughlaughlaughlaugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh.

It's almost music the way fingers type out words on a keyboard. If one establishes a rhythm, there is no telling where they may find themselves.

Do piano players make good typists? Or vice versa? The stenographers in those court-room scenes in movies must be master pianists. When they leave their day job, they must mosy down to the local jazz club and blow people's minds. Maybe that's what made Thelonius Monk such a sevant: he honed his talent behind a type-writer. There must be hundreds of white-collar criminals and murderers who lust for Monk's blood.

totally totally totally totally totally totally

'Totally', followed by a space, makes a wonderful hip-hop beat. Where's MF Doom when you need him?

Are people less passionate about things today? If you love dogs, you write about dogs. If you love music, you write about music. It seems that there is a lack of writing these days. Or perhaps I'm only operating within my own little bubble. The internet is endless, not unlike space. And within that endlessness lies writing about everything; literally everything. Publication these days is over-rated, in my opinion. Fuck the printed word, the internet is where it's at. It's alot harder to read and does not have the convenience of portability like a book or magazine does, but the internet has no boundaries. I don't have to pay an agency to whore me to publishing houses on my own blog-site. I could post an entire novel and get away with it. Hurray for technology.

I'm going to Hamline University to write. Also, to live with my girlfriend. Mostly though, I just want to get the hell out of Illinois. I need a change of scenary.

I will download the new Chris Cornell album and listen to it for pleasure. I will find nothing of substance within the 'music'. I will listen to it for pleasure; I will laugh out of amusement.

Aluminum Foil Won't Solve Your Problems

2009-03-22T00:41:00.002-05:00

"Ant-Man Bee" - Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band

The Number of the Beast - Iron Maiden

Blood Money - Tom Waits

The Director's Cut - Fantomas

3-Way Tie (For Last) - The Minutemen

Superunknown - Soundgarden

Kick Out the Jams - the MC5

Rubber Legs - The Stooges

Album of the Year - Faith No More

Werewolves and Lollipops - Patton Oswalt

Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! - Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

A Matter of Life and Death - Iron Maiden

Shrunken Heads - Ian Hunter

Rant - Ian Hunter

"Too Drunk To Fuck" - Nouvelle Vague

"Right As Rain" - Adele

The Ways I'm Going Blind - A Toothless Life

In God We Trust, Inc. - Dead Kennedys

Frankenchrist - Dead Kennedys

The Bootlicker - the Melvins

Straight Outta' Compton - N.W.A.

Disco Volante - Mr. Bungle

The Blasters - The Blasters

"I Like You Better When You're Naked" - Ida Maria

Many Dreams from Many Nights After Many Different Meals: Part Four

2009-03-15T20:30:00.003-05:00

This Side of the Taint
I am in my room at my parents' house. Everything is as it was before. I am at my present age. It is sunny and the room is bright. It is clearly summer-time.
My girl-friend and I are making time on the bed. My girl-friend is Bjork.
In the summer-time, when the feeling is fine, I fuck Bjork from behind.

Marty McFly Goes to College
I cross a crickety, rickety wooden bridge in a go-cart to get to this high-school. It is the past. I am at my present age. It is my mission to give these high-school friends a good last year, a scenario not unlike Back to the Future.
There is a school whore who does business in a janitor's closet. Not a typical school whore, but a student who's extracurricular activity is prostitution.
Besides her not wanting to sleep with the nerd of the bunch, I don't remember much of this dream. I was a big-shot.

McMurphy's Indian's Cousin's Former Room-mate's Worst Nightmare
I escape from an institution of some sorts and am floating down a river on an inner-tube. There are corpses and inner-tubes littering the shore along the way. Apparently, this has been going on for a while. I ride the current and head back to the institution. They will pay for this.

I Am A Loathsome Jew, and Other Children's Stories

2009-03-09T23:34:00.003-05:00

"Angel" - Massive Attack

Paul's Boutique - The Beastie Boys

(a) Senile Animal - The Melvins

Volta - Bjork

Eskimo - The Residents

Fight to Win - Femi Kuti

How You Sell Soul to A Soulless People Who Sold Their Soul? - Public Enemy

Drunken Lullabies - Flogging Molly

ONoffON - Mission of Burma

Ill Communication - The Beastie Boys

New Amerykah, Volume 1 - Erykah Badhu

Nude In Boots - The Melvins

Let It Be - The Replacements

Shrunken Heads - Ian Hunter

Rythms of Rapture: Sacred Music of Haitian Vodou - Various Artists

Album of the Year - Faith No More

Furniture - Fugazi

The Rough Guide to the Music of Egypt - Various Artists

Tomahawk - Tomahawk

Funhouse - The Stooges

Passion: Music for the Last Temptation of Christ - Peter Gabriel

Lateralus - Tool

Age of Miracles - Chuck Prophet

Year of the Crow - State Radio

Dear Science - TV on the Radio

Modern Guilt - Beck

The Evens - The Evens

Second Hand Daylight - Magazine

Has Been - William Shatner

Real Animal - Alejandro Escovedo

Tracer Bullet - Tracer Bullet

Icky Flix: Original Soundtrack - The Residents

White Pepper - Ween

Peace and Love - The Pogues

Dark Was the Night - Various Artists

The '59 Sound - The Gaslight Anthem

War Child presents Heroes - Various Artists

200 Million Thousand - The Black Lips

The Airing of Grievances - Titus Andronicus

Down III: Over the Under - Down

The Known Universe - The Ass Ponys

"Desolation Row" - My Chemical Romance

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Meals: Part Three

2009-03-07T15:08:00.004-06:00

Flannery O'Connor in Hell

I am on a small farm. There are plowed cornfields all around, so the entire landscape is within my view. A small, two-story farmhouse stands behind me in the middle of the property. In front of me, there is a small tool-shed.
From behind the tool-shed, an old man I can best describe as looking like Richard Attenborough comes trotting along with a seed spreader. He is dressed very nicely, not like a farmer at all. I can tell he doesn't notice I am there. There is a garden to one side of the tool-shed, and he seems to be heading for that. His head is nodding along with a song within his head. He is content.

When he comes to the garden, he notices me. My presence upsets him very much. So much so, that he shouts out-loud in anger and briskly stomps back to the tool-shed. I stand still in confusion. When he comes around the bend this time, he has a pitch-fork in his hand. He screams a scream of rage, flailing the pitch-fork above his head like a Tuskan Raider. I make no hesitation about turning and fleeing for the farmhouse before he has a chance to advance upon my person with his weapon. Since I don't hear him following me, I turn back around to see what he's doing. He is still standing there screaming, the pitch-fork above his head.

I open the door to the farm-house and step inside a breeze-way. To the left is a door to the house, and straight ahead are the basement stairs. It comes ot my immediate attention that I am in my aunt and uncle's old house outside of Boody, Illinois. I am made very comfortable by this realization, so I casually open the door to the kitchen. The manic old farmer is waiting for me. He thrusts the pitch-fork at me with a calm, but loud declaration of:
"This is for you."
"Thank you," I say. I wake up immediately so as to not suffer through impalement by pitch-fork.

I fall back to sleep and have this same dream two more times, verbatum.

Pat Smear's Pap Smear
I and three associates of mine are all dressed in black suits. We all have on black and red striped ties and black sunglasses. We are not the Blues Brothers. This is apparent. From the top floor of the Children's Museum, we make our way to an elevator. One of my associates is carrying a briefcase. I am carrying a grenade launcher. A security guard stops us before we can get to the elevator and asks about my grenade launcher.
"It's a wet-saw," I tell him. He wants me to demonstrate. "In-doors?" I ask. He tells me I have a point, and let's us board the elevator.
On the elevator, we start to discuss our mission. We are headed up to the thirteenth floor. I wonder out loud why we left the top floor if we're just going back. One of my associates starts to birate me bitterly, but is stopped short by being drug through the floor. An elderly man in a brown business suit has broken through the bottom of the elevator and grabbed him by the legs. He screams bloody murder and begs us for help. Terrified, the rest of us plant ourselves against the walls so as to not be subject to any other roving elevator stock-brokers. Our companion is gone forever, so we converge again in the middle of the elevator to discuss our mission. When we arrive at the thirteenth floor, I wake up.
Again, I fall back to sleep and have this same dream two more times. Each time through however, the number of stock-brokers increases. In the second dream, there are two, which naturally drag away two of my associates. In the third dream, there are three. They come from the ceiling as well this time, and I am left all alone. I never get to where I'm going, wherever that may be, with my grenade launcher. Nor do I use my weapon on the carnivorous elevator stock-brokers. That would just be stupid.

February 6, 2009

2009-03-06T23:29:00.002-06:00

I was searching the internets for information on the heiman, since I've never been too familiar with its actual function or identity,and I found this. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do:

ON MONSTERS THAT HAVE COME FORTH FROM WOMEN'S WOMBS
It is true that men, upon occasion, generate wild beasts within their bodies. Count Percival of Dingleberry assures me that he ejected through his rod, after a battle with the gripes, a live animal, not unlike a centipede in form but scab-red in color and smelling of fresh butter, which animal, after a great deal of lashing, leapt from the chamber pot and slithered under the bed, whereupon the Count's cat, a fat old one-eyed mouser with shredded ears, devoured the worm and fell instantly dead.

As Monsieur Joubert writes (in his book On the Innate Sinfullness of Man, His Corruption in the Wombe from Whenceforthe he Comes between Urinne and Feces, a Squalling Beaste Bearing in his Tissewes the Mortall Tainte of Eve), although men have been known to discharge animal creatures from their rods, ears, mouths, noses, eyes, and bungholes, such productions are no match for the infinite corruption and monstrous fertility of the womb, that sink of the body, that sewer of the microcosm wherein all filth clots, that animal who becomes spiteful if thwarted and often rises up to smother the heart, that lecherous beast who rushes down to suck up the seed of poor bewitched Man. Spurred on by the excitement of coitus, Man thrashes in a pit, loses himself in a filthy and treacherous labyrinth full of who-knows-what manner of slime-mired Minotaurs, pokes a cesspool with his noble rod, spits from his scepter a spirituous seed into the gross and clammy seed of Woman to ignite life, casts his sacred fire into cold humors oozed forth from her inferior and shriveled stones, for she hath not the natural heat sufficient to inspirit life. Nay, her vagina is like unto the eye of the mole that hath all the proper parts but no heat sufficient for the faculty of sight, so that her rod remains inverted, hidden, shrouded in darkness, and doth not thrust itself forth into the Light of God as doth Man's Aspiring Member which erects itself toward Heaven. Because of the corruption of certain excrements that molder in the wombs of women, as oft occurs in the bowels and other chambers of the body, women have been known to expel from their wombs (sometimes with normal fetuses, other times as sole issue), insects, worms, oysters, frogs, toads, snakes, lizards, newts, horn-owls, monsters, harpies, & C., which false births our learned men call moles or wild beasts. Even virgins, who turn green pining for a husband, and who retain seed in their bodies until it becomes venomous and emits a stinksome vapor, can produce such vermin of the womb without the inspiritous substance of the Masculine seed.

As the learned Parey scornfully writes, the ignorant among us claim that such births derive from the spawn of water serpents who happen to spurt their seed into the pool some unfortunate draws for a bath, and that in the heat of such a bath the woman's open pores suck in this reptile seed. The ignorant know not, however, that this is impossible, unaware that a woman cannot conceive save when, in the excitement of coitus, her lickerish womb opens up and sucks in the seed it so desireth.

But I, like Theseus, have momentarily put down my thread, have risked losing my way in that treacherous and beslimed labyrinth into which men befuddle themselves in pleasures so bewitching that they would sell their souls to the Devil rather than withdraw their pizzles from that frog-pit which breeds monsters no less hideous than Minotaurs.

Due to the putrefaction of female seed, the corruptive forces of unnatural foods, the monstrous desires of wombs so greedy they must cast forth creatures with or without the sublime seed of Man, all manner of beasts may spring from the rank and darkling slimes of the womb.

Monsieur Bourgeois, a learned French physician and distant cousin of mine, delivered the monstrous birth of a tripe-monger's wife well past age of child-bearing: a bladder-dugged hag with oysters for eyes and a black tongue, a scab-pated witch in a greasy kerchief whose ankles hung over her shoes. The local midwife, diagnosing an apostema, called in my cousin the surgeon. And the hag, insisting that she felt a child quick within her, begged Bourgeois to feel how the wee jester cut a caper in her belly. Not a drop of sap left in her, but this rancid old tripe-wife, this scrap of maggoty bacon, this roasted pig's ear must spread her legs for the gentleman my cousin and scream like a sow in farrow. She showed him her privates, he gasped from the stench, and out popped a fat hairless cat, horned like the devil and mustachioed like a rake. Round and round the bed the creature scampered, whistling and crying, pattering and skittering, until it climbed up the bedpost and thereupon began licking the slime from its skin. My cousin caught it in a hempen sack, and as it died shortly thereafter, he anatomized the beast and found a litter of bee-sized kittens in its belly.

No need to thank me, because there's more.

Lost Causes in Greeting Cards

2009-02-25T22:28:00.002-06:00

Congratulations, shithead - you're a dad!

Our prayers are with you in your time of loss (too bad your grandmother was Jewish).

Content birthday.

Happy Arbor Day!

Save the rainforest, fuck the orphans.

Just because...I forgot your wedding.

If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a noise? Of course it does, dip-shit. Maybe you should rethink this graduation thing. Idiot.

You're having a baby! Planned Parenthood was closed?

Be my Valentine, or don't - I could really give a shit.

A wise man once said, "Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." That was Benjamin Franklin, and he was an over-weight alcoholic with the clap six times over. He also introduced democracy to the United States. And the clap. Happy Veteran's Day.

Don't dress like a politician this Halloween, only pricks do that. Don't be a prick.

Jesus died for you sins. So this Easter, sleep in and skip church. Just for good measure, kill someone.

Does anyone remember what Thanksgiving is really about? No? Wait...football? Yeah, that sounds right.

Good luck, and don't fail too badly.

Happy first birthday for a little girl. Remember: three piercings are better than one, and date a black guy.

It's our anniversary: Why are we still married?

Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not after me. Merry Christmas.

This day was once a metaphor concerning Saint Patrick's riddance of sin from Ireland. Skip the DUI by giving the policeman a blowjob.

Another year, another bullet in the gun. One more year...

From a loving mother and father: April Fool's! You're adopted.

Saving Private Ryan was awesome. There should be a national holiday commemorating the memory of all those who died in war. If I sold that idea, I'd be a millionare. Gee - the ideas I have...

Happy Fourth of July! Now get to bed at a reasonable hour. You've got work tomorrow.

It's New Year's Day! But you wouldn't know that since you're Chinese.

What's so good about it? He was nailed to a fucking cross.

Faust got schitzered. Wait until you read the whole agreement. Happy Groundhog's Day.

Eat your own eyes in Hell, you miserable cunt.

Get better soon, or don't. Your paid time off is really making life easier. As a matter of fact, just die. Two bathrooms just aren't enough.

From your aunt and uncle on your eigth birthday! Make sure to watch the tape we gave you with both of your parents. Please take a picture of their reactions and mail it to us. Especially your father. I want to see his shameful face.

Curtain-tail that enthusiasm, mister - it's a girl.

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Meals: Part Two

2009-02-25T21:49:00.005-06:00

The Modern Yo-Yo
I am a patriot. It is night-time and I am on a beach. My secret mission is to stay on this beach and observe: the land, the surf, the sky, anything and everything. A submarine breaks without turning its clearance lights on about ten yards from shore. Physically, this would be impossible, but my thoughts are not concerned with that. The enemy has breached our barriers and I must report this to my superiors. While making my concealed retreat, I am discovered by two enemy reckon spies. They are clad in better armor than I, and armed, so I put up no struggle. I am taken aboard the submarine and ordered about roughly in a language I cannot understand. Everyone is wearing a terrain mask so far, so I cannot even wager a guess as to who's hostage I am. I am taken into a small room and tied to a chair. There is another man in the room as well, also tied to a chair but badly beaten.
"Sir," he says respectfully through blackened eyes.
I am a lieutenant, or something. Before I can answer, a few of our captors enter the room brandishing four-foot switches. One of them immediately smacks my compatriot across the face, shouting something at me as if he were contesting it was my fault. I get a better look at the enemy now and deduce that I am fighting fascists. They are Korean, or Chinese, or something. They are thin and smell like cigarettes. As they grow increasingly fed up with beating my comrade, our hosts raise their voices from shouts to bellows. Another voice comes roaring out of the hallway, one not as shrill as the two in the room but in the same language nonetheless. Through the door comes their superior, assistant Home Depot manager Branden Koonce. He is upset about something they've been shouting about, pointing at me and scolding them in Korean, or Chinese, or something. After he himself whips my cohort across the face with a switch, Branden pulls up a chair to me and speaks in English. He is sitting with the rear of the chair facing me. He commences 'rapping':
"Listen, dude," he says, "you really need to cooperate with us. All we're trying to do is help you out. The government doesn't want to, but we do. So be a help and gives us what we want."
I don't know what it is they want. I don't know where I was stationed in the first place, or even what branch of the government/military I work for. I laugh in his face.

This Painting of Bemusement
I park at the furthest end of a large, gravel parking lot. There is no scenary--no trees, no clouds, nothing. I get out of my car and start walking the quarter mile to the Home Depot. Someone tackles me from behind and I go head first into the loose pavement. My attacker pulls my head back and slices my throat. I don't feel any pain, but I feel myself open up.

Does the Pope Shit In the Woods?
I am onstage at Lollapalooza playing guitar with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The set has been going well so far, but my mind goes blank when I become conscious of my surroundings. Like Samuel Beckett, I am a clean slate in an alien situation. Chad Smith calls for "Give It Away" but I don't know how to play it. No one is upset except Anthony Kiedis, who storms off stage. I see Henry Rollins watching from stage left. I scamper over to him, as I notice he is trying to get my attention. He says this:
"Fuck him," gesturing to Kiedis as he performs a wanking moition, "tear it up."

Many Dreams from Many Nights after Many Different Types of Meals: Part One

2009-02-23T15:54:00.006-06:00

Beyond Thunder Dome
Alligator Man is the champion and he must be defeated. Down the ramp of his semi-truck palace, he is fought. Is this life and death, or just a show? The pyrotechnics would prove the latter, as would the cocktail waitresses. Then again, Rome wasn't built in a day. Their arena is a Wal-Mart airport.
A chorus of deralects sing "Bastards of Youn" atop giant eliptical bicycle equipment. They only know the chorus. It's karaoke night in paradise again.

Victor Hugo's Bidet
In the Court of Miracles, I deliver a symposium on the sewer system of post-revolutionary France. After my lecture, I accompany a young lady to the casino floor. The Court of Miracles is located on the upper-most floor of a Las Vegas building. I don't remember anything after that.

Incontestable Rape
I'm standing stage right of a Fleetwood Mac gig, circa 1974. Mick Fleetwood, Lindsay Buckingham, and Christine McVie come out and start a groove. This I can enjoy. Stevie Nicks comes dancing out of stage left in a small, black and white striped dress. She approaches the mic. She is small and supple. She begins to sing. This cannot stand. I charge her at full force and tackle her to the ground. I must make her pay for this awful offense, the only way I know how. Flipping her over, I hold her head down and pull her little dress up over her ass. She isn't wearing panties, so I unzip and start to teach her a lesson. I sit the mircrophone next to my act of discipline and keep her head forward toward the monitor so she alone can hear her screaming. Her face buried into the stage, her cries falling to no one, I fuck Stevie Nicks for trespasses against decent rock and roll everywhere.

Prince's Harem Dance Party
I am at work at the Home Depot, helping a co-worker, Kerry, put away lights. We are casually chatting while doing so. Around the corner comes the electrical department head, Tator. He has a clipboard in his hands and he looks upset. My co-worker and I wonder aloud what could be bothering him.
"Ya'll sons-a-bitches didn't do your gad-damn In Focus yet!" he says. "Now we won't meet the monthly requirement!"
We both know good and well that we completed this online class at the first of the month. But before we have a chance to quiet Tator's mind, he storms off in a fluster. Discontent with this false accusation set upon us, Kerry and I follow him into aisle 43. We round the corner, not finding Tator, but a darkened, velvet curtain-lined hall leading to a small, dark wooden door. The door is against the right side of the hall. We understand what we must do in order to gain entry. Kerry produces a small brown paper bag from his apron and knocks on the door. It creaks open about a foot, and Prince sticks out his head.
"What'ch yall want?" he asks suspiciously.
Kerry hands him the brown paper bag and Prince inspects the contents. His eyes light up. The door slams shut, and we hear Prince devour the dark chocolate-covered raspberries like a koala bear. The door opens again, this time bidding us entrance. Kerry and I enter into Prince's chambers. The revolving love-seats are filled with beautiful women, the silk drapes flow miraculously, and the disco lights invite an evening of debauchery. "I Would Die 4 U" is playing.

A Cartoon Eskimo
My grandfather is leading a parade down a street in Springfield during an episode of The Simpsons. It is September. He is not amused.

February 19, 2009

2009-02-19T22:12:00.005-06:00

Had a good day at work. Christy will be here soon. But something is bugging me...

I know what it is:

A few days ago, one of the managers at the Home Depot brought in a few plates of confections for all to enjoy. He called them cookies, but they were more like tiny cakes, or maccaroons for that matter: coconut, chocolate chips, butterscotch morsals, pecans, and a crushed graham cracker crust held together by butter. They weren't exceptionally healthy, nor were they exceptionally out-of-this-world good. Don't get me wrong, they were good, just not holy-shit good.

Nonetheless, he was proud of his venture. He isn't exactly a domestic sort of male, and a success anywhere outside of his normal routine is news-worthy. He had not, however, shaken loose the limited tough-guy vocabulary he had been burdened with. One would assume an individual would trade in their subliterate lexicon for an apron, but not this guy. In response to praise for his sweet creations, he composed a dialogue that went as follows (and I quote):

"Like 'em?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Made 'em!"

"Really?!"

"Yep...I made those shits."

It was after dropping this retarded aural bomb that he described the baking process, revealing his secret recipe came out of a home magazine his wife subscribes to - his fancy Spanish wife...

What bothers me the most about this scenario is plain to see. The phrase "I made those shits" is both tragic and triumphant. It is a molestation of the English language, but it is piloted by an over-whelming sense of pride. When a child with Downs Syndrome makes a basket in gym class, they feel proud of themselves. When an ex-Marine (or, Marine - when you're a Marine, you're a Marine for life) bakes a few dozen sugary still-births, he feels the same sort of pride as the child with Downs Syndrome: 'Hurray - I did good.' I can't disect the lingual undertones of this declaration because that would be the same sort of cynicism that comes with mocking the retarded. It simply is not in good taste.

But godammit if that's stopped me before...

February 7, 2009

2009-02-09T19:15:00.003-06:00

What is a fun time? Talking about new, exciting turns in music is a good night. Starting fictitious street gangs is a good night. Smoking pot is a good night. Wait - allow me to reiterate. Smoking pot at home and listening to the Beastie Boys is a good night. There is no need to imbibe, that's jus the icing on the hip-hopilicious cake. "Intergalactic" can be enjoyed just a little bit more if the bud is running in your brain alongside Ad-Rock's fuzzed-out rhymes. What is a fun time? That is certainly a fun. Now, let's get a little stupid.

Add blind cynicism to the mix and a lacking sense of rebellion; mix in some whiskey, cigarettes, ad weed; and go to a chemical-free house party full of individualist automotons.We're rebelling by disregarding the hosts' wishes, right? That's facsism, right? No, you're just being an ass-hole. We're being different together, right? No, you just can't think for yourself. It's a pity, but it's an epidemic amongst young people: born without a unique creativity of their own, they are forced to conform to a group-think mentality in order to survive.

I would like to find the memo that stated all the cool kids should wear the same shirts, cut their hair the same way, wear the same shoes, and wear the same size pants, no matter what their weight or figure or gender. There seems to be a clause in the memo, as well: no bathing allowed. Go out of our way to live in a delapitated house with two other guys ad a girl. Is there lenolium in the kitchen? Great. Is is an antique building, built before any city codes were necessary? Even better. Remember, don't shower, don't bath - don't even comb your hair. Those who make themselves up like they just got out of bed after a shower are posuers. You're not, because you live the life. The money your parents send you goes toward the records everyone else is listening to and all the underground art you can get your hands on. You can afford nice things, but that's just not who you are. Poor is cool.

I hate to have to go on and on like this. Kids have a right to do whatever they like. I guess I'm just offended that I am a part of their demographic. I know what would cure them of their silly "fitting-in". Listen to Pulp, then do me and everyone else around who doens't give a shit about your copy/paste individuality a favor: shut your fucking mouth. Thanks a bunch, Gus.

February 3, 2009

2009-02-03T21:35:00.004-06:00

I thought I would spend some time on my list today, because a few of my choices may require some explanation. Those of you who know me know that I am multi-faceted, but wouldn't go so far as to peg me for Neil Diamond champion. Besides his star-making appearance in Saving Silverman (an over-looked turd of a gem of a flick), Neil Leslie Diamond was a main perveyor of heartless crap, second only in the music department to Barry Manilow & Kenny G & Michael Bolton, all tied in a trifecta of exemplary affluence.

After the turn of the century, Mr. Diamond must have taken a long, hard look at his life; and through his starlit eyes and cocaine-crusted ears, he saw a heard a legacy of failure. Approaching 70, Neil did the only thing a scared dinosaur would do - he looked around for a helping hand to grab onto, one that would pull him out of the schmaltz that kept his career suffocating like quick-sand.

Who was up to the task? Who could possibly resurrect the career of an aging musical icon? Beared, fawn-eyed, and slovenly, Rock Rubin emerged as the Jesus of American Pop. He played Lazarus with Johnny Cash and Nusrat Fateh Ali-Khan, made the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Slipknot respectable acts, and introduced the world to hip-hop. Rick Rubin has made a career of breathing new life into a dead horse, no matter how thirsty or badly beaten it may be. His secret is "just listening," he would say. What was the plan to make a honest man out of Neil Diamond, then? Rick Rubin listened, and made Neil Diamond listen to himself.

So, without further adeu - The List:

1. Neil Diamond's last two albums (12 Songs: Rick Rubin made Neil Diamond forget the last forty years of his career, pick up a pen and paper, sit down with a guitar, and write a fucking song. Without the star-wipes and bull-shit strings behind him, Mr. Diamond got scared. Apparently, he also got sad, almost excogitative. The result is an album of regrets and fears, happiness and approbation by a minstrel on his last leg, but at the top of his game.

The second track, "Hell Yeah", sums up the spirit of 12 Songs quite well: "He found the life that he was after...And made it fit/Hell yeah, he did!" With a little help along the way from Mike Campbell & Benmont Trench (both on loan from orthodox Rubinite Tom Petty) and Billy Preston (his last studio work before his death in 2006-from kidney disease, not his contact with Diamond), Mr. Diamond manages a near-flawless album of love songs.

The lyrics may occasionally suffer from cliches, but hey - it's Neil-fucking-Diamond we're talkig about here, not Leonard Cohen. And he still manages to work magic! The first seven tracks are one-after-the-other good. "Captain of A Shipwreck" and "I'm on to You" are stand-out tracks. Rubin's production coerces so much depth from Diamond's talent that it's easy to say this wouldn't be half as good if he had not been involved. And that's probably true.

All the tricks are here: that piano and it's accompany organ, which both brought Johnny Cash back from the grave them sent him to it eight years later, are back with a vengeance; and under the hand of Billy Preston, the songs seem more like AA meetings at a Southern Baptist church than a geezer with bad hair pulling his pud again. The guitars are bright, but unaffected, sounding organic instead of synthetic. And let's not forget the key ingredient: Neil Diamond's voice. Will Farrel was right in making fun of the smutty bravado that lies within Diamond's instrument, but on 12 Songs that smut is transformed into earnesty. We're not coming to America on a sparkling golden ship, mast fashioned out of candy, piloted by Captain Kangaroo. No. The ship has gone down, and its captain with it, and Diamond couldn't be prouder to be first mate.

12 Songs is a great album, an honest album and anyone would do themselves a favor to give it a listen. Diamond would reprise the formula once more for 2008's Home Before Dark. I've not listened to all of it just yet, but from what I've heard, if Diamond keeps this up, he just may earn some respect yet.)

2. Christy Campbell (sorry sweety, but you're still toward the top)

3. Marc Ribot's Ceramic Dog (Part Intellectuals: For those of you not in the know, Marc Ribot is the third most influential guitar player of the last thirty-five years. Ry Cooder is number two and Jeff Beck is number one, by the way. He's given Tom Waits a second career and played the blues with T-Bone Burnett. I honestly didn't know about him until I recognized his name in The Blues, a documentary produced by Martin Scorcese. In the first segment, Ribot is featured playing a ballistic arrangement of Blind Lemon Jefferson's "Black Snake Moan". Putting two and two together, I tracked down more information on Tom Wait's guitar player and found his vocabulary to be not only extensive, but wildly exciting. He's had avant-jazz projects with John Zorn, punk projects with Shrek, and even industrial projects with Foetus. Party Intellectuals is another run-around with his "first rock and roll band" from way back in the day (it is actually the only testament of the group's existence on tape).

The whole thing starts off aptly with a rocking reading of "Break On Through". If there's one way to impress people, or stymie yourself, at parties, it's lecturing about the Doors: 'Aren't you so learned, you've listened to "Waiting For the Sun".' The tempo drops from time to time, particularly toward the end, but when the band is jiving at full speed, there's little else out there today that can excite so well. "Digital Handshake" is probably the highlight of the whole album. An instrumental track built around the most holy of rock equations 'the riff', the music is a jackhammer pounding one's head in with equal doses of electronica and heavy metal. If Pete Townsend were thirty-five years younger and a fan of 23 Skidoo (and not a cermudgeon), "Digital Handshake" is probably something he would turn out. That being said, the track is classic Ribot. His style transists between classicist rock composer to bat-shit craziness without losing any momentum or the listener's attention.

Which isn't to say Party Intellectuals is too heady. There are some great pop songs here, too. "Todo el Mundo es Kitsch" is a sly ode to the summer vacation; "For Melena" is a great reflection on father-hood; and the title track busts a riff-heavy commentary on hipster guests who can't take a hint. The music is never not fun. Ribot even brings the funk with the bass bitch-slap that is "Pinch": "I've got to have it/So give it to me/(Fuego)/Yo necissito". This is definitely a party album, one which is to be listened to and then spun for everyone's enjoyment. As interesting as it is a kick in the ass.)

4. Hamburgers

5. Superfun Ya Ya Rocketship (Going tomorrow evening to see him again in Springfield, IL. 1320 South Eleventh Street. No doubt, he is going to be a riot. Hopefully the bands before him can build him up well instead of, 'Holy crap, when is this going to be over.')

6. Omar Rodriguez-Lopez (Old Money: Not much to say about this album except it's really damn good. Fans of the Mars Volta will not be disappointed, just slightly confused. *Hint: it's an instrumental album.*)

7. The price of gas (Hey, it's $1.77 in Normal, IL. Not too bad.)

8. Alejandro Escovedo (Real Animal: When I'm finished listening to this album, I'll give a better review. So far, so good.)

9. Kurt Vonnegut (Player Piano: Also, not finished with this venture. So far, so good.)

10. NyQuil (I've got a cold, so fuck off.)

I think I'll close out tonight with Bob Dylan. Blood on the Tracks sounds like a good idea. "Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts". Yeah.

February 2, 2009

2009-02-02T21:56:00.004-06:00

Mickey Rourke didn't perform in The Wrestler, he evoked the spirit of an archetype. The potential, the promise, the tragedy of the human condition is all there. I would go as far to say that it's a uniquely American spirit, but that would be hyperbolic. Everyone knows what it's like to be a fuck up. Right now, there's a father in Borneo who is cursing himself for missing his son's confirmation. It's a universal thing.

I must admit, I've not much to write about. I just got back from Minnesota visiting Christy. Well...four hours ago. Watched Shaun of the Dead and ate some chili. It was left over for a week or so, but I had it frozen, so it's okay. Mom made it. I have to say, it's better reheated than it is fresh. It thickens up. Speaking of which, we (Mom and Dad and me) are going to see Bruce Springsteen May 12. I was supposed to get on the internets this morning at 10:00 and get great seats. Instead, I let Christy take me out for breakfast at Panera; and after finishing my egg sandwich and coffee, I happened to look over my notebook of things to do. Seeing the instructions I dictated from mom, I thought - "Shit." By the time I got back to Christy's house, it was around 10:20, so now we're in section 308, row 14 - not the greatest seats. At least I got parking for us. But it's $20.00 parking, not $30.00 parking. And the tickets still cost $95.00 a pop. I screwed up, but at least I got the job done. There again: everyone knows what it's like to be a fuck up.

Now I've got the Replacements on. I listened to Springsteen's "The Wrestler", and it's just as good as the credits version. I could do without the flowery instrumental intro, but hey, the writing's still there. Nick Cave doesn't do much for me right now. No More Shall We Part is a very, very, very, very, very, very, very loooooooooooong album. "Love Letter" is a good, short song to put on if you're not feeling very spry. It's a nice little number. All Shook Down is where it seems to be at right now, though. Nice, mid-tempo songs about failure is just what I need right now. I'm sick. Christy gave me a sinus thing, but I don't hold it against her. It's not entirely her fault anyway. I tend to sleep on my back when I'm spending the night at her place. The cold in the basement drafts through the vent in the ceiling and...well, fuck. Oh well - she's sick too. So...there.

I've got some tea with me and I'm working on that while I let some Sudafed kick in. I only took one. I couldn't remember the prescribed dosage, so I thought I'd be on the safe time. So, sleepy-time tea is going to have to do the job.

For the first time, I think I will start a tradition. I will present a list of my favorite things each time I blog. The list will reflect my present interests and will also act as a recommendation, as well. So, for February 2, here's my list:

1. Christy Campbell (more than likely will be a recurring favorite)

2. Fugazi (especiall In on the Killtaker and Repeater+3 Songs)

3. The Evens (Ian MacKaye project with partner Amy Farina...both albums)

4. Poncho Villa (the restaurant on Nicollet Street in Minneapolis, not the bandito)

5. Saki

6. Zombies (Max Brooks's World War Z and Shaun of the Dead specifically)

7. The Wrestler (if you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and skip the remake of The Uninvited or Friday the 13th and catch this beautiful ode to the failure in us all: Rourke's Randy Ramm's short joy as a deli clerk is a highlight)

8. X-Men Origins: Wolverine trailer (I've came in my pants again just thinking about it...goddamn)

9. Real Animal (Alejandro Escovedo's latest album of Spanish punk rock: his rocking cover of "I Got A Right" is tits)

10. Rob Blagojevich (thanks for your eight years of service, sir. now shut the fuck up and go to jail like the petty little shit-stick you are)

"Grapefruit Moon" is signing us off tonight. So, that's all.

January 28, 2009

2009-01-28T22:00:00.002-06:00

The peanut planters are trying to get back at America for kicking Jimmy Carter out of the White House and letting Ronald Reagan in to destroy the middle class. As the past few months' salmonella scare have proven, the industry's scheme is now out in the open. When asked about their actions, Atlanta peanut farmer Michael Wheatfield said, "I ain't saying nothin'. But I will say this: them chickens have come to roost."

In 1980, president Jimmy Carter was upset by California governor and former movie star Ronald Reagan in an election race that sparred neck in neck until the final debate. After both parties' feelings were reconciled (the governor's crack about "George Washington Carter over here" being explained as a historical pun and not a derogatory remark about the president's former profession; and Carter's accusations of beastiality toward Reagan's former co-star Bonzo being dismissed as the "drunken jests of a very sad man"), Reagan clinched the vote with his historical down-play of Carter's health insruance policy: "There you go again." *
The charm of the former chair of the Screen Actor's Guilde was enough to beat out a wimp president during a hostage situation, whose policies were seen as mere pipe dreams instead of obtainable objectives, and whose southern lisp was responsible for 37% of American suicides from 1976 to 1979. In the end, the actor won; and he played his part of President of the United States very well. He had us all convinced. But this perpetual picture show stole our attention from the plot that was brewing in the darkened rooms of food-stuffs offices around the country: the peanuteers would have their revenge.

*A quick aside: Vice-President candidate Sarah Palin would famously try and fail to use President Reagan's famous one-liner in a televised debate with Joe Biden in 2008. Aftwerwards, here handlers sprayed her with a water bottle after locking her in her kennel without supper, repeatidly hissing, "No! No!"

Twenty eight years later, the conspiring minds of the Peanut Corporation of America are back with a vengeance. They tried dropping subtle hints over the years. One is hard-pressed to forget the over-looked but engaging television commercial during Super Bowl MXXXXLVIX: a child sits at an empty table looking sadly at an empty plate. The camera pulls out to reveal an empty kitchen, two sets of fallen legs visible from behind an island counter. A caption disolves into the the foreground: "Should have voted for Jimmy Carter." Upon opening weekend of the blockbuster film Titanic (1998), the PCA ran a puzzling adertisement immediately following the coming attraction previews, just before the actual movie: seven seconds of blank, black screen. Slowly, Mr. Peanut is revealed as a dim spot-light grows around his oblonged figure. He is holding a .22 caliber rifle, scowling and pointing a vicious finger at the camera. His image disappears and the words "Soon" trail across the screen slowly. No one seemed to pick up on it. In an interview for the Associated Press, PCA chairman Ron Gentry said of the controversial commercial, "I don't know what you mean. Planter's is another company all together, wholly independent of the PCA." He blithely gave a wink to the camera. "I suggest you take it up with them."

After the initial reports of salmonella poisoning, victims were flocked with requests for interviews. Victim Jerry Caiafa refused to talk to reporters inquiring about his recent out-of-court settlement with the PCA. "I ain't saying I did," he said, "and I ain't saying I didn't. I'm just saying I ain't got no reason to cooperate with them bastards. Hell - I'm allergic to peanuts, for Christ's sake!" Ciafa's checking account had swelled to $3 million dollars after he made the most public complaint about his affliction. His recent repulsion of all accusations or prejudice was a hot issue amongst pundits and broadcasters. "I didn't take no hand-outs from nobody," he told Larry King this last Tuesday, appearing in a suit made of solid gold. "All I got I got'st on my own account."

Ciafa's story is an interesting development in the case conspiracy theorists are calling "the greatest cover-up since the Kenndedy assassination." If the Peanut Corporation of America is really trying to poison a nation for posioning itself, why would it go to such great lenghts to quiet a voice attesting so loudly to its responsibility? Annalyst Ken Grossman of the National Research Facility at the Salt Lake College of Fine Arts and Sciences of Geothermal Research and Technologies told Newsweek that "it only makes sense." The New York Times received time with former president Jimmy Carter at his seasonal home in the Great Apes house of the Brooklyn Zoo to gain his thoughts on the manner. Senior correspondent Nikki Rambo asked former president Carter, "Yes or no, sir - is there a correlation between the recent salmonella outbreak and the PCA's famous 'We'll see you in hell' campaign of 1981?" Carter merely touched his finger to his nose without saying a word. After the cameras were off, he politely asked for a bloody mary, adding slyly, "Make it a bitch."

Is there a price on America's head? Did the Peanut Corporation of America put it there? Did Steven Prefontaine win all of his races because of peanut butter's duel factors of high calories and protein? Only time will tell. All the nation can do is wait and hope beyond hope. In these trying times, one cannot help but remember the last few words of Shakespeare's King Lear: "You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave" (4.7.45). Do we deserve this? Is America a stumbling buffoon who would simply do better to be put out of its misery? Could we possibly recover? Only time will tell.

January 13, 2009

2009-01-13T22:42:00.008-06:00

At least I think today is the 13th. Anyway...

Sad fucking news people - Ron Asheton, the primary guitarist and arguably the creative director behind the second best American rock and roll band ever, is dead of a heart attack at age 60. Born into eternity on January 7, Ron's death has robbed me of one of my greatest ambitions in life. When it was announced that the Stooges had reunited to play their first shows in thirty years, I was at the height of my adoration.

Two years previous, in 2004, at the age of 18, I discovered Funhouse at my local Best Buy. Based on the graphic art, and a serious recommendaton from the best American rock and roll band ever, I purchased the double disc reissue. I had, two years previous, at the age of 16 checked out The Stooges from my local library. I didn't like it. Now I had the same band's second album - what was I going to do? Listen to it once and return it? I decided to give it a go. I had made mistakes in the past: Limp Bizkit, Audioslave, Chevelle, Glass Jaw, the Grateful Dead, and the Cure. Who knows - I may even like it.

I listened to it once and I couldn't believe my ears. So, I listened to it again. And again. And again. By the end of the day, my life was changed. I called my girlfriend at the time to tell her the good news. She couldn't give a shit. Not disheartened in the least, I went back to Best Buy the next day and picked up the double disc reissue of The Stooges. I was apprehensive at first, since this was the same album I returned to the library after a day of frustration. As soon as I put it in my CD player, and Ron Asheton's wave of wah-wah Bo Diddley buzz-saw hit my ear drums, I was sold. Holy shit - it was just as good as Funhouse. The re-mix helped a lot, but the original power was still there. Thanks to the MC5, I had discovered my second favorite musical act.

I listend to those two albums back to back for a full week; until, that is, my bank account returned to prominence (18 doesn't exactly come with proficient funds). One week later, I went back to Best Buy and found Raw Power. My life was officially changed. I looked back on where I had been and said, "Fuck that." The Stooges gave me a gift in their primal, yet futurical presentation of music as life. The MC5 shined a flood light into my eyes, and Iggy and the boys honed it to a magnifying glass which burned everything that was in their range: progression by regression; creation by destruction. It wasn't my first taste of punk rock, but it was the most important.

As the linear notes of the reissued albums attest, the Stooges catalouge is important. Alice Cooper confesses that the Stooges were the only band he couldn't follow. Jack White claims Funhouse to be the best rock and roll album ever made. And I agree with him. Iggy Pop told an interviewer that during the Raw Power sessions, he would walk about London wearing his cheetah faced leather jacket, a cocktail of drugs and aggression festering within his brain. With no other conclusion to his problems, he figured that the best way to liberate himself from monotony and terror was to destroy everything: "I am the world's forgotten boy/The one who searches only to destory." He didn't have love in his heart, only a desire to incenerate everything that caused him grief.

I connceted with this sentiment in ways I can't rightfully explain. Whatever darkness lives in my soul, this music plays to it. The Stooges don't tempt my anger, they nurish it. The Stooges and Raw Power allow me to be irrate and disgruntled, because it's only human. Funhouse allows me to revel in life while still being able to sit back and examine it.

And let's not forget Ron Asheton's guitar. I can say, without any fear of sounding hyperbolic, that Ron Asheton's guitar on Funhouse is literally the best rock and roll guitar playing ever put to record. Hendrix and Richards and Beck and Clapton (especially Clapton - fuck Eric Clapton) and Page got nothing on Ron "Muther-Fuckin" Asheton. No one used the wah pedal as well as he did, and no one evoked the danger and joy of rock n' roll better than he did. When he wanted to cut you deep, he pulled out a scalpel ("Dirt", "Anne"). When he wanted to take off a limb, he was Jason Voorhes ("Down on the Street", "Dirt", "No Fun", "TV Eye"). When the Stooges got back together, Ron had apparently become even more profescient at his instrument, and his displays as such added even more cerebral layers to the band's aural attack. Quicker, more involved runs and passages in walk-throughs of old pieces made them brisstle with new life. His fret work-outs didn't seem contrived or showy. They were the displays of a more evolved artist. When a cave-man gains a larger vocabulary, he's still a cave-man.

Which brings me back to my main point: I wanted to see the Stooges more than anything (almost) in the world. Now, I won't be able to. Ron's death will no doubt cement their place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but what good will that do. It will just prove to be another clear cut case of favoritism. The Ramones weren't in until Joey died. Madonna's only in because she's wildly successful. Even when the Clash were nominated, Joe died a few days before the ceremony. It's almost poetic that the guitarist that time forgot not get to reap the fruits of his labors. If I can work magic and get a ticket to the publicly available induction ceremonies in Cleveland, I'll get to see Iggy, Scott, and Steve MacKay perform with Mike Watt and...who knows. Probablly Thurston Moore, or Jay Maskus, or...who knows? All that really matters is the Stooges are finally getting their just-desserts. The only down-fall is that too much dessert killed their guitarist. So here's to Ron Asheton - wherever you are.

1948-2009

December 25, 2008

2008-12-26T00:01:00.002-06:00

I have all sorts of conflicting feelings going on right now. It's Christmas. Whoopty-fucking-shit. I ma in Illinois and the love of my life is in Minnesota - not a very equally handed situation. I tried Roy Orbison, I tried Liz Phair, and I tried screwdrivers (the drink, not the tool). I've got the Religious Right in my ears and a good deal of alcohol in my belly. If there's a single feeling for being happy, sad, drunk, and proud at the same time, that's what I would describe myself as.

I'm happy that I'm in love. I'm sad that I'm not where I want to be. I'm sad because my friends are not where they want to be. I'm drunk because I've drank a lot of vodka and orange juice. I'm proud because my friends created one of the five best songs I've ever heard. I've been waiting fifteen minutes for this. One moment.

I still can't figure out the harmonies.

If you see Derek Porter or Mike Little (Johnny Chastain to the uninitiated), congratulate them on their achievement. "My Imaginary Friend" is a gospel rave-up concerning the nature of faith. As a song, it hits a home-run. There is a beautiful, instantly hummable melody throughout; make sure to pay extra attention to Porter's delivery of the line "as a stalagmite" (the narrator is on desolation row, lying on his bedroom floor deciding his future). The instrumentation is mixed well, each piece complementing the other with magnificent fluidity.

That's where the secrets of the song come to light. "My Imaginary Friend" has more layers than an onion. There's an old-time religion in the music which is sorely laking in today's soft-serve dispensation. Not too many people take the time to craft their work like the Religious Right does. I won't give the surprise away, but on multiple listens, subtleties become shining hallmarks.

Which brings me to my drunken point: "My Imaginary Friend" is a piece of art. It rounds every base of American songwriting. I can hear the Wilson brothers in those harmonies, as well as Simon and Garfunkel, as well as those shifty Brits Lennon and McCartney.

The subtleties I spoke of earlier are fucking orchestral. The motif is a dying ingredient, as the only example of a contemporary practitioner I can think of is Randy Newman. It is not essential to a memorable, or effective, song, but the motif makes the listening experience a whole lot more interesting. Porter and Little are playing with our understanding and expectations when they include this certain theme in their own composition. A melody can tell a story better than words some times.

Which is not a knock to the lyrics. They are fantastic: intelligent, alarming, effective, morose, and celebratory all at once. "My Imaginary Friend" tells a story that we all know, but does so with such originality that you'll swear you've never heard such a thing before. And when the ending comes around - watch the fuck out. Phil Spector would shit in his pants if he heard this. Every voice in the song, including ones we hadn't heard (think about that, granted you've listened to it), chimes in to give us a finale worthy of admiration. It gives me chills every time I hear it. Even when I'm not drunk (and that's a compliment I don't pay very idly).

So in a nutshell, I had a good holiday. I drank champagne, I ate artichoke dip (home-made, not that shit you get at AppleBees), I gave and received gifts, I played Wii, and I got laid. It was awesome. So here I am now, filling my new external hard-drive with music and drinking screwdrivers so I can wake up tomorrow...today at 6 o'clock and go to work at the Home Depot. Whoopty-fucking-shit. At least I'm taking steps toward my dreams. It's more I can say for some people.

December 18, 2008

2008-12-18T21:47:00.003-06:00

I haven't done this in a while. Going straight to the internets now. Or in the internets - kind of when you think about it.

I've been reading Foley Is Good: And the Real World Is Faker Than Wrestling by Mick Foley. When I tell people about this, they seem to magically shift airs into contempt and pity. A "pro wrestler" wrote a book? Right. And an actor became governor of a major state...sure, anything you say. I wonder why people still have this bull-shit prejudice against wrestling. It's just as much a storied performance as theater or film, there just happens to be a lot of physicality involved. And chairs. And ladders. And fire. And clowns.

When John Wayne punches a guy in that movie he was in, and the guy goes flying off his feet into the mud, no one thinks that's ridiculous. When Bruce Lee puts five grown men on the ground in less than three seconds, no one says, "You know it's fake, right?" Throw a little terminology in there, like 'DDT' or 'power-bomb' though, and shit turns into the circus. It's not fair! Ballerinas don't get harassed by the media when they perform Swan Lake. There is some serious sexual content in Swan Lake, let me tell you. Die Fledermaus is ripe with violence, but the PTC isn't kicking in the Strauss estate's door with complaints. And if you want to talk about athletics, there's no question--wrestlers are superb athletes. Not too many people can throw a 300 pound person a distance of more than six feet. Or twist around seven times in midair. Or move constantly, lift constantly, and breathe constantly for periods of five minutes or more. These guys and gals are on the same level with football players, gymnasts, and swimmers. Hell--it's fucking Cirque de Sole out there!

And just as there different styles of music, theater, and dance; there are different styles of wrestling. I can't list too many off the top of my head, but they all contribute differently to the story: lucha libre, shoot, hardcore, brawling, psychology, etc. A slam poet couldn't stand up to a battle rapper. An abstract painter would mop the floor with a kitchen designer. Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols would piss in his pants if he had to follow Yo-Yo Ma. Wrestling is a multi-faceted business. And it is a business, don't ever forget it. They are there to entertain, as well as fulfill their artistic whimsies. The lower the ratings get, the more brazen the programs become. A good rating does not have to come from a Hell In A Cell match, or a Bra and Panties match, however. Good story-telling can really pull an audience in. Just look at the 1997 angle (another name for story-line) between Shawn Michaels and Brett Hart. Good story-telling+good performance=good ratings. It's a legitimate business. Next.

What really makes wrestling such a silly, dumb, and dirty concept? I don't have an answer. And I honestly don't think anyone else does either. So from here on out, even if you go to a local show and it's the worst display of theater and athletics you've ever seen (or the worst display of humanity), don't knock wrestling. It is an art. Some are very good at it, and some are down-right awful. But they all try. Just as every actor tries (except most of them and pornstars), just as every viola player tries, and just as every long distance runner tries; wrestlers try too. Give them some credit.

They are telling stories, keeping alive a tradition that is as old as recorded history. The only difference between the folktales of Wendigo or Icarus is chairs. And ladders. And barbed-wire. And pyrotechnics. It's a spectacle. It's a movie come to life. It's Rome in its hay-day. Don't sweat wrestling just because it's outrageous, just enjoy the show. Who knows, you may even learn something.

November 25, 2008

2008-11-26T20:09:00.003-06:00

48 hours from now I'll be having a nap with my girlfriend after having stuffed myself with Thanksgiving. Or watching a movie with my parents, girlfriend, Sean and Nicole in tow.

HDTV -

Slow day so far. Hopefully food and a goal of organizing vacuum cleaners will give me the push I need until 9:00.

Michael Vick, or whatever, is facing a prison term for dog fighting. How stupid is that? He will serve time in a federal or state penatintery because of his behavior toward an animal. He didn't make children fight each other, but dogs. They don't pay taxes - so the fuck what. It's not a nice thing to do, but neither is dressing a dog up for Halloween. Those people aren't going to prison, so why should Vick?

November 24, 2008

2008-11-26T20:00:00.002-06:00

Tim and I kicked ass all over the place. We still remember that first song and worked out "Too Much Gin" to the inth degree today. We practice sparingly, and sometimes it takes us a little bit to get rolling, but once we click, we're cooking with gas.
Tim got pads for all of his drums and cymbals so we won't have to worry about Rocky from now on. My hands were a little too chilly today to really explore the music but we made some serious head-way. Work out the bare bones, get Tim comfortable within the tempo and structure, and then worry about my own ego.
Words and melody have yet to be composed for the first song, but "Too Much Gin" is in its constructive state. I think it will be all verses and no choruses. The main riff and chords will serve nicely as the main feature. Bring all the words back to that, not vice versa as is usually done.

So I lied.

November 22, 2008

2008-11-22T21:42:00.004-06:00

So I'm going to stop transcribing this to the internets.

Small writing ideas will go on other blogs; like flash fiction, chaos pieces, character sketches, and weirdo prose pieces. My idea is to compose "online albums" of sorts - the same idea as a recording artist would have with composing songs to follow one another on a record.

If I can keep finding pictures to correlate with the words, I could lay claim to creating a new style of literature. Maybe. Or I'm just trying to compensate for my lack of natural talent. Hey, Daft Punk have been getting away with it for a while.

The first album will be called One Normal Place. Look for updates within the month. If all goes according to plan, I'll "release" it proper in its entirety.
This will of course mean the previous posts will be taken down. Once the album is complete, it will be available for purchase (hopefully (if anyone cares, that is)).

Let's see what happens.

November 21, 2008

2008-11-21T23:24:00.004-06:00

Had lunch with Cody today.

Saw Quantum of Solace last night. It wasn't as bad as it was played up to be. The theme didn't fit it at all, but even that wasn't awful. I did agree with the Bourne criticism however. It seemed that the new director saw the Bourne...getting ahead.

It seemed that the director was told keep up the rugged, hard direction of Casino Royale. Keep Bond moving and never let him take a breath. So the newbie went out and rented all of the Bourne movies - rugged, hard, non-stop action these days means a close camera and the hero jumping from one building ledge to another. So that's what's David Craig's Bond was forced to endure. A tedious relay that cut too much to the quick. And whenever something cool happens, you won't see it until it's over.

Also, what in the hell is the Quantum of Solace? Is it some malevolent land-grabbing organization? Is it a bank for bad guys? Is it one of those 'world-running-fraternity' clubs? No idea. Also, it was too short. Or at least it seemed that way. I didn't get enough of Bond; I got too much of his blurred form and piercing, haunted blue eyes. He is a little tank. Hopefully, they move in the fun direction with the next few movies, but keep Craig on the wheel.

November 20, 2008

2008-11-21T23:14:00.007-06:00

Worked in Paint today and loved it. Kept busy the whole time. I showed up and hour late, but Branden sent me home an hour early. Took a nap when I got home. Needed it. I've been jerking off a lot lately. My libido missed Christy too I guess.

I love Fugazi. With a fucking passion. They make me happy to be alive.

November 19, 2008

2008-11-21T23:01:00.002-06:00

Okay, Bad Brains, I need nine manila envelopes. Three for Hamline, three for St. Cloud, one for U of M...make that two for U of M, and one more each for Hamline and St. Cloud:
Three for letters of recommendation, and one for creative work and essays (Hamline); three letters of recommendation, and another envelope for application requirements (St. Cloud); one envelope for all the letters and application requirements (U of M - Graduate School application is taken care of online). So that's more than nine - or nine on the dot. Transcripts need to be sent to each school. Best to do that after my GRE requireme...scores are in.

Speaking of the GRE, I should make sure to study for that some more. And call that Hamline guy. Tomorrow's today! We have Nosferatu!!

The agenda for today:
1. Bank - deposit check from Tim.
2. Office Depot - pick up manila envelopes (check Alamo II for better prices first).
3. Drop off envelopes to DeSantis, Kerr, and Cruz.
4. Pray for best results with Stevenson Hall.
5. Call Hamline fellow - Mike Hand, Assistant Director of Graduate Admissions, 651-523-2900.
6. Call SCU fellow - Glenn Davis, Associate Professor/Graduate Director for Department of English, 320-308-2196.

Addresses for universities (to be copied to envelopes) are:
Office of Graduate Admission
Hamline University, MS-A1710
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104-4284

121 Administrative Services
St. Cloud State University
720 Fourth Avenue South
St. Cloud, MN 56301-4498

- Later -

I dropped off all the stuff, so now I play the waiting game. I hope everything was done right. The queen of England sure is busy.

November 17, 2008

2008-11-21T22:52:00.002-06:00

HDTV -

I won the inFocus sweepstakes. $300.00 worth of Home Depot store credit. I have assembled what I would want (including a water cooler, filtered cooler jug, rag, headphones, and outlet adapters) but have chosen to give grandpa a chance to think of something he may need. I think that was a mistake, given that he can always find something to have. Oh well I'll take the responsible route before I take the self-indulgent route.

Perhaps Rob "rides your ass" Fred because you're a whiny, self-server. Ever think about that? Eh?

- Later -

It's 7:40 and I'm still here. I've got to e-mail Cruz, Kerr, and DeSantis asking them to write letter; one for U of M and another for Hamline; and I also need to give them the papers for St. Cloud. Find out their schedules so I can hopefully get to them Wednesday morning. So that means I need nine manila envelopes...or not. Math isn't my strong point. U of M will only require one, because all three letter are sent with the other materials. I think Hamline requires them separately, and St. Cloud must be sent separately as well.

So I need...seven envelopes - manila, that is. Three for Hamline, three for St. Cloud, and one for U of M, and they all want Sun Chips. Make sure to convey that the letters must be on ISU letterhead.

November 16, 2008

2008-11-21T22:48:00.002-06:00

I've finally gotten the date right. Break almost over.

Stewart is about as exciting a person as he is dynamic: nein.

November 14, 2008

2008-11-21T22:27:00.003-06:00

These dreams have got to stop. Either that, or my subconscious needs to grow a pair and concede that a dream is just that and not actual reality.

Last night I was in New Orleans and had some how gotten a little thing interested in me at a cross walk, or something. But I told her no dice because I have a girlfriend. But I felt guilty because I wanted to fuck her and she wanted to fuck me. These dreams have got to stop!!!

What happened to my old cerebral territory, when dream girls wouldn't give me the time of day, or turn into Gumby whenever I touched them (that only happened once, but it left an indelible mark on me)? Perhaps Christy was absolutely right: sex does change everything.

P.S. - Later in the dream, I had a return to form. When I tried to track down the busty crumpet who tried to make me earlier, I followed the directions she gave me to her apartment. Somehow I wound up at a little black girl's birthday art at some old Creole house. Nirvana was on the television with Jerry Cantrell playing a very pop-oriented song I didn't recognize, and the elven year old birthday girl was damn glad to see me.

Somewhere along there, I was seeing a White Stripes concert up close and celestial. Meg White played guitar on the first song, then went back to the throne. She took off her panties when she sat down and I got to see her pussy. So did all the other "guys" in the "crowd", it seemed. Hoots and hollers all around.

P.P.S. - I should have wrote "snatch" when writing about Meg White's vagina. It was better than a simple "pussy". Also, I'm not entirely comfortable with the word. Too unevolved for my taste.

- Later -

Tim and I had a very eventful afternoon. We got all the materials needed for the drum riser and built the thing (well, I built the thing and Tim helped, but I've no qualms with or about that) before 5:00. Rockey even helped us out. Better for him to help us with everything we need than to be pounding away for hours on end. When we were done, I returned his tools and had a listen with him. Tim was playing away, and the noise was still there, but I felt the vibrations were cut down. He said, "I'll refrain from comment." At least he understands we're done our best to be amicable. We'll practice whether he likes it or not, and I feel he understands that.

After our hard work, Tim treated me to most of a pitcher of Miller Lite at Killarny's. Tonight being happy hour, we both enjoyed a pile of hot wings. That's right folks, you heard it here first: Tim Farell ate meat. He justified it as experimenting, like one does at a young age, trying all different foods about to determine what it is they'll like for the rest of their life.

Anyway, Tim's friend from Jewel/Osco met us there at around 6:00. CJ is his name and he is a master yo-yoer. He also plays bass and has a paranoid fear of brass instruments. Who knows - within a week, Skinny Pete could be a three-piece rock and roll machine. We're heading toward the big time. Your town will be destroyed by a three-headed, omnivorous, swinging monster of rock and roll! People get ready!!!

November 12, 2008

2008-11-21T22:01:00.003-06:00

This math section is going to be cake. I just need to concentrate and remember.

- Much Later -

Deep in the shit now. Thompson, Wild Turkey, beer, and politics.

Saw Gonzo at the Normal tonight. Needed it. The good doctor was a coward for taking his life when he did, but what a fucking legacy he left. Is juju is always the best medicine for what ails me. I've heard about the edge as Thompson describes him. Those who it have been over it and tell us reserved few what it's exactly like. They know better than us what it's like to be alive; what it means to be a patriot; how it feels to be one with God; and what it takes to have the courage to face down life a speeding bullet and stop it in its tracks. Kerouac was right. Those are the people for me. A path more winding proves far more interesting than a short walk off a long pier.

November 11, 2008

2008-11-21T21:56:00.001-06:00

A lot of incentive these last few days. More progress on the Big Drum story and more progress toward grad school. The GRE is scheduled for December 9; Dad has agreed to help me with making a website for Christy; I canceled my YMCA membership; I've got a lot of studying to do; and I've still got time to do push ups and crunches. Life is good. If only I could figure out how to tie my theological message together with the exploits of Pystol William Ackermann.

November 9, 2008

2008-11-21T21:48:00.002-06:00

I stole this pen from the Howard Johnson's, the same Howard Johnson's Christy and I stayed in the second to last time we were in Madison. I also took two bars of soap, coffee, another pen, and the lock sign on the door, along with a marriage prayer we found in the room upon our arrival.

Apparently, there was a couple's workshop going on this weekend and we just happened to be smack-dab in the middle. Apparently, Jesus wants all married couples to be happy, but only be happy by praising Him and His most glorious invention: marriage. He invented a practice He Himself did not partake in, or so His books would lead us to believe. His which were written by His friends fifty to one-hundred and seventy-five years after His death. Anyway, we thought it was opposite hilarious.

It's all bull-shit. Bull-shit must be dealt with in oder to get to happiness. Happiness is music. Happiness is writing. Happiness is Christy. E pluribus unum - my way of interpretation.

November 7, 2008

2008-11-21T21:42:00.002-06:00

HDTV -

As they say in the movies - this shit just got real. Deadlines are at my doorstep and so is the malevolent GRE test. Also, need to get my insurance business in order. To find out if my doctor is in the Aetna Open Choice network, I need to go to www.aetna.com/docfind/custom/aahc. To find a network pharmacy, go to www.aetna...the same website.

Saw Joseph and Dennis. They're insulating Dennis' garage/work space. Oh, to be a second-hand student/laborer. Back to work.

November 6, 2008

2008-11-21T10:19:00.005-06:00

HDTV -

Lunch almost up. I am on Chapter (or should I say Part) 18 of Cat's Cradle. Since my paper to Hamline will be on Vonnegut', Thompson', Newman', and Python's influence on my writing, I thought I'd give it another chance. So far, I am charmed. Stopping and thinking about the language and construction is much more interesting. It is full of semi colons.

- Later -

My only break of the day. I am etitled to two, but I have actually been busy today. Like right now. I'll be back.

Some motha' fucka' stole my pen! It doesn't sploch like this one does. I bet you it was Jeff Crews. That dude's a dick a lot of the time. What a cunt. Anyway...

I've been keeping busy. Little projects have been my bread and butter. Follow up on customers' requests have been fruitful and I even spent most of the day tracking down a Built-In-Trim Kit for a fella's outdated microwave. This year's model ought to suit him just fine. A few more piddly things to get me through to six o'clock and I'll be a happy boy. Then it's back home to follow up on school business. I've got to e-mail Hamline University for financial information. Also, I need to look into the university of Minnesota and St. Cloud University.

Also, I need to get my chechbook straight, and give Net Flix a smackdown for charging me for something twice. Now is another pen. Not so bad, eh? better get back out there. 15 minutes up.

- Even Later -

I just finished listening to some Middle Eastern track that was about twleve minutes long. Repetition is the name of their game, and damn if i don't dig it. I love the pulsing, swirling nature of the music. It's prayer music and meant to inspire, to draw listeners in and allow them to let go of their earthyl inhibitions. Woo-hoo.

November 5, 2008

2008-11-21T10:11:00.004-06:00

So a funny thing happened on the way to the office today - Obama got elected president of the United States of America. I actually wept when he gave his acceptance speech. Oh man is it going to be an interesting four and one-half years.

It was awesome to listen to CSPAN afterward:

"I'm a democrat, but I voted for McCain. Obama is black and he has ties with the Muslim community. I mean - come on people!"

What the fuck does that mean? It's a bad time to be an idiot in America. Good.

I heard that Bush invited Obama to the White house, just to "get a feel for the job." Yeah right. Obama is under lock-down right now, and why would he want get a feel for the job? That's what his first one hundred days in office are for. Just because bush didn't know what the fuck he was doinf doesn't mean every other president won't.

November 4, 2008

2008-11-19T23:35:00.003-06:00

Let's make history.

- Later -

So I voted for Obama. Perhaps he's not the bestest choice on the ballot, but he's got the best chance of getting elected and affecting change. Talked with mom about it. She's convinced he's going to win, but only begrudgingly so, it seems. She's also convinced he's going to be taken out quite quickly. Kennedy got three years. Mom thinks Obama will get three days. I'm not worried. Long live the king. Oops.

Speaking of Kennedy, Christy had a few Obama speakers...I mean speakers*...goddammit - stickers that were dropped off by some local artists. One of them was eerily reminiscent of Kennedy's presidential portrait. I didn't particularly care for that one. Visually, it was the best, as the others were goofy and cartoonish, but the aura of the thing was morbid.

Speaking of Christy, I noticed that pretty girls don't elicit the same reaction from me as they once did. Instead of fucking the blond Russian in my mind like I would usually do (the one that Jeff got to wait on - the lucky little bastard), I was struck by a loneliness. Pretty girls make me miss my girlfriend.

- Even Later -

Mike is finally getting out of Decatur. Watkins is down tonight to take him to Chicago tomorrow morning. He has no means of returning as of yet. It's not a permanent move yet, but the wheel is finally turning. It's two years too late, but it's turning.

November 3, 2008

2008-11-19T23:32:00.002-06:00

Home alone right now and really digging it. Of course I wish Christy were here, but booze and AC/DC are adequate substitutes. I've found my beer of beers for drinking, drinking, drinking - Premium Grain Belt.

POPCORN!