bullshitliesand whatnot

6.18 - 20.'09

2009-06-22T03:30:00.005-04:00

These last few days have been like a dream. Everything is upside down, inside out.
The water can dilemma. Wanted one. A particular one. Plain metal. Raindrop spout. That's it. Looked for four days. Saw every type of water can. Plastic Plastic Plastic. Painted. Lots of happy colors. Flowers, too. Bleccch! Finally found what I wanted. Cost? $57 and change.. Felt stupid while buying, but it's what I wanted. Feng shui is everything. Everything included is a work of art. Period. Wrote Wrote Wrote.
Stuffed the poblanos w. dirty rice and baked.
Couldn't handle the cost of the water bucket. Took it back. Bought a coconut ice cream bar. Found a gut bucket for 1/3. Took the rest saved and ought a black leather ottoman from a woman who could barely speak english. Snappin'.
Ate two of the stuffed poblanos and soooo good. So dang good!
Had a dream. Future. I met my dad in First Baptist Chuch in Ruston , La. Told him so. He couldn't accept it. Looked for Brother Jimmy. I felt totally calm.
Weird nocturnal gigs to be. Slipped it. Buzzed out, noshed on taquitos, jammed stupid.
Had several moments with Bela that represented true love. We snuggled, and the sounds she made, her physical movements in response, all signified incredible an incredible love shared. A pure love. I am so blessed.
.Basta. -dony

6.17.'09

2009-06-18T19:51:00.004-04:00

I gotta find a plain metal water bucket. After ingesting my green stuff, I went to The Great Outdoors. No such luck. However, I did find a cool piece of yard folk art, a very distinctive metal pig with wings. He's chipped up metal black and rusty. Also found a beautiful set of chimes, thin glass, the most beautiful greens, yellows and whites. Got them both on the back porch where they keep me company all the livelong day!. Feng shui is where it's at. Worked on a short story most of the day. Had a great conversation with Jon Sanchez, one of the most gifted guitarists I've ever worked with. Like me, he's big on uniqueness. Either make a statement, or get the fuck off the stage! Glad to know I'm not totally crazy; keyword: totally. Went and saw Charlie Faye, heard some of the new recording I did with Will Sexton. She's a groovy gal, such a sense of style, said she liked my new hirsuteness, sez she likes scruffy men. Well all right then! There's hope for me yet in this Sam Peckinpah phase I've undertaken. She then told me she had a dream the night before where I was recording with Charlie Sexton, well all right then again! Cooked up some turkey augmented dirty rice to stuff into some poblano peppers. Chopped up some fresh green onions, tossed them in the pot, too. Had a long conversation with a once dead negro, another incredibly talented, mofo, Frank Blair. We talked shit and reminisced about our days on the road. I laughed until I hurt. Little bite size pieces of Butterfinger are dangerous to keep around the house in bulk. Just one more little piece before I go to bed... -dony

6.16.09

2009-06-17T15:31:00.003-04:00

Days are turning into nights as the quiet and the cool of evenings in Austin are eminently preferable. Bela's frustrated, but father knows best. Got back on a health regimen involving ingesting all sorts of green powders. By mid afternoon my body was humming. The least I can do for a body who's seen its fair share of rock and roll over the years. Tomato plants are growing growing growing. Can't wait to begin harvesting the Better Boys. Met an age old friend, Craloix, at the best Cajun food restaurant in town, Evangeline Cafe, where he treated me to a splendiferous, belated, b'day dinner. We noshed on Oysters Contraband for a starter and I had my normal, chicken and sausage gumbo. Incredible dark roux. And couldn't resist the praline stuffed pistolette, either! A girl was waiting on us who looked like a real Cajun. Short. Dark. Swarthy. Mysterious. When I asked her where she was from she replied, "Nepal." Not the answer I was expecting. You've herd the expression before, "a person's eyes are glittering." In my entire life I've never witnessed such a phenomenon, until today, that is. This woman's eyes literally were glittering. And when she smiled her nose wrinkled. How cute. Did my usual, napped from 8pm until 11pm, then got on with my "day". Worked all night on a new short story that took an unexpected turn (don't they always?!). Took a break to go to HEB and stock up on some fruits and vegetables. Love grocery shopping after 2am. No one is in there. Perfect. Finished the story around half 4. Celebrated with a few glasses of vino rosa, then watched Family Guy on Hulu. Dig their unique brand of sick and twisted. Two things I'll always remember about Bela. when I return to the truck, she's always delighted to see me, especially if I stop short and say, "there's a big black dog in the back of that truck." and when I reach in through the window to scratch her chest, she sits up and grabs my arm with her paw. Uber cute! And I love when she sleeps on her side she will cross her back legs. Such style, such personality she has! Hit the sack with a vengeance before daylight. Done. -dony

6.15.'09

2009-06-16T17:59:00.002-04:00

My Mom's b'day. We got to chat for a spell. Me and my mother have always had a very open dialogue. We talk about everything, no subject taboo. I cherish our relationship. My little Blossom. Picked up my vittles from The Soup Peddler. Mac 'n cheese was on it. The brisket was also very good, but the stuffed baked potato salad was knockout!! Hopped onstage with Jodi Adair, the coiled spring in a woman's body. Total frustration with a player who kept taking the safe route, and despite pulling out all the stops to allow him to be free, he simply proved unable. She, however, beguiles me, looking as if she could eat me alive, and I could think of much worse deaths. Next stop was my set with Billy Harvey, OC hisself. I'm always totally transported to another time another place when making music with Billy. Creating with him gives life a more distinct purpose. Astral traveling. Next went over to the Gallery and made some exotic rumps move with David Garza. Much mirth and merriment with the two Jackies! Tina R. stops me dead in my tracks. Hellified woman indeed. Earthy. Soulful. There isn't enough vino rosa in the world.

6.14.09

2009-06-15T15:24:00.002-04:00

A freon infused central air unit rocks in 100 degree plus heat! Mrs. Johnson's Donuts are to die for. Go around 9 in the evening when they are pulling fresh glazed ones hot off the line. I'm writing writing writing writing. Back into the second novel, started a new short. Tibetan singing bowls are floating in the air. Stay inside! Beat the heat!! -dony

6.13.'09

2009-06-14T03:08:00.003-04:00

Once again, me and the pillows have a lovefest. Farmers Market and I get a passle of fave raves, spanikopita, tamaleo, bela snack. cucumbers. Nap. Hit a glorious stride making music with Jackie Bristow and Jon Sanchez. Magic fills the air... I am so blessed. A Cuban sandwich. Don Rickles makes me fuckin' laugh. Hard. African music is a link and my mind dances. Cucumbers in water, vinegar, sea salt, peppers, and onions, is to die for! Vino Rosa, and I feel good, like I knew... like I knew... -dony

6.11.'09

2009-06-13T17:01:00.002-04:00

I'm rounding a new chapter in this whizbang existence, and something is telling me to get my house in order to be able to scale new mountains with very little drag. So, instead of parties and all the raucousness that goes along with these these types of soirees, I've chosen a different tack. On my birthday, and the day after, I washed clothes, folded, hung them. I went through everything I owned, threw stuff out that wasn't in alignment with this new chapter, organized everything to be ready for anything that comes my way. I hugged my dog. A lot! The silence was indeed, delicious. I watered my tomato plants. I cooked a delicious stew of ground turkey, brussel sprouts, corn, onions, mushrooms jalapeno peppers, Vietnamese chili sauce all fresh, made a spinach puree, a pot of basmati, threw it all into a bowl, cajun style. YUM! Also while buying some new ink for my printer, decided to buy myself a b'day present, and went to squeezing pillows. Found the right ones, ironically, ones made for folks who sleep on their stomachs, and for the past two nights I've had the most splendiferous of dreams and the pillows (added to my gaggle of goose downs) have supported me in a way I've never felt. Nirvana, as dreams and sleep become as important as waking these days. Had freon added to the central air unit, and man, my nipples are hard, even in the 100 degree heat that boils outside the house. I busted out the second novel, gearing up for a new onslaught. Something looms, something this way comes.... and I am ready. -dony

Sun. March 16th, '09

2009-03-16T17:24:00.002-04:00

Lent my friend, Alex Gonzalez, pieces of my kit for his production today. Always glad to give my friends a helping hand.
Zapped over to the Convention Center to pick up the SXSW press pass for the Film Fest. Found an easy parking space, was in and out of there in 15 minutes. Now we’re talking...
Snagged the Mad Mexican off the street, had Eggs Benedict at The Woodland’s brunch, brought Bela a piece of sausage and cheese grits. Love the Benedict here! No hollandaise from a can, either!!
Mad Mex signs up for Travis Heights living. Problems may have just been solved. Took him on an errand, dropped him off back at the Convention Center.
Line too long at Amy’s ice Cream, Ben and Jerry’s is closed (for good at this locale) so I hit the well known Naus Enfield Drug Store for the first time and hit them up for a thick chocolate shake. They deliver!
Ride with Mary Lyn, Randy Weeks, and Rick Poss to a gig at The Mucky Duck in Houston. Racuous crowd, lotsa rain, but great service all the way around. Radio station has a spunky, fat-bottomed gal (yay!) there to take care of us, showing us to our well-stocked hospitality room. Scarfed down some of their indescribably good Shepherd’s Pie (the real deal neal) served by yet another friendly, leggy lass assigned to us.
Threw down on stage, despite a blinding yellow light and no monitors to speak of. Asses be movin’!
Great conversation all the way home. Ate a Payday.
Bela and I were both thrilled to see one another. We both snored. Happy contented snores.

Sat. March 15th, '09

2009-03-16T17:22:00.000-04:00

Hopped over to Boo’s to put the finishing touches to “Belony Canampra: A Trilogy in Arf Minor”, my and Bela's opera. We did a bit more work than I’d planned, but all mix notes that’d been stuck in my head for some time got done. Sounds otherworldly. Amazing that me and my dog would collaborate on a song! Hard to believe...
Managed to scoot by Enchiladas Y Mas, where an infamous family recipe for tex-mex enchiladas holds court. Place was seriously bustling. I got lucky, seated almost immediately, and yeah, the Comida Regular was slammin’!
Went over to Billy Harvey’s crib and listened to Duckee’s new recordings on his boom box. Boy did a masterful job. Tracks sound great, lotsa personality in a subdued framework. Art, plain and simple. Happy to have taken part in these sessions. Came home, listened to it on headphones. Even better.

Friday March 14th, '09

2009-03-16T17:19:00.000-04:00

I sat in Darwin Smith’s home studio, the walls oyster shell blue, the windowsill egg shell cream, and outside were some green bushes with fiery red leaves covering the top of the hedge. The effect was lving in a painting.
By phone I spoke with a friend I’m madly in love with. She’s enroute from New Orleans to Austin for the SXSW film festival and I’m thrilled, Our conversation is so easy, so natural. I love hearing her voice, her thought patterns. She is divine.
I had a vermicelli bowl from Hai Ky for lunch. My mouth was sparkling from the basil, cilantro, cucumber, mint, fresh lettuce, grilled chicken and egg rolls, drizzled in hot chiles and Sriracha. I could live on this dish. I’m energized!
Performed with The Scruffy Chillens at Hole in the Wall. Always big fat grooves. No artifice. Just great songs and players listening to one another.
Dropping my drums at Boos he gave me a bite of some potato gnocci slathered in a garlic cream sauce he’d cooked. Damn good!!
I listened to a friend, Michael O’Neill's recording. He and I cut the basic tracks by ourselves a few months back at Willie Nelson’s place, Pedernales Studios, and so glad we did as our work perfectly described how the songs should feel and sound, and the end results were imminently satisfying.
In homage to my depression era mom, I snackd on mayo on wheat saltines w. chunks of maple ham. Baked potato and vino rosa, too. Yum!

A New Day

2009-03-16T17:13:00.003-04:00

Now that I'm linking this blog to my website, www.donywynn.com. I'm changing tack. For more regular type blogging, check out Dony Wynn on Facebook. Here I'm only going to tell the beautiful things I encounter each day that move me, inspire me, a stop and smell the roses kinda deal... Yeah, like that. -wdw2

It’s Dark Outside

2008-06-09T01:43:00.001-04:00

If an unthinkable fall from grace occurs after a lifetime of belief and faith, this document will be the last thing I will ever write.
As of now, my fate inconceivably hangs in the balance. I’ve circled the wagons. I’ve dispatched the carrier pigeons. Smoke signals for days on end. Log drums continue to take a beating.
Not even a passing acknowledgment from the peanut gallery, nor a sign from above.
Nothing.
Has it all come to this? This nothing? This prickly blanket what smells of irrelevancy and so what?
Funny thing is... I’m pleased now when I catch a glimpse of the person staring at me from the mirror, a long time in the making. Yet it’s all I can do to open my doors to greet the horror of what lies in wait; a world inside-out, upside-down, bursting with lock jawed indifference, craven choice, hang dog confusion, a land of no cheer. This is not my home.
The ebb and flow of my currents never once failed me. But today the water is dead still. No wind. No birds. No clouds. No sky. Just silence. A pine box of nothing.
And I wait. I wait for the lurching waltz to return; staggering down gilded alleyways, a lusty, beautiful woman on my arm, where I belong.
Yet, when I think this existence can’t suffer another injustice, I’m brought to my knees again and again by bare-knuckled brutality. No love. No caring. No understanding. No eleventh round magic in sight. And I wonder...
Has it all come down to this? This nothing? This shadow of self, a shadow that never moves or runs away, to flee the sun’s shine that invariably devoured it?
It’s dark outside. Where is the light? When will it be time to come out and play, play as if you will live forever and make a difference? Will the dawn dare show its face ever again?
A piano keeps playing those sad, mournful notes, notes that echo time imortal and give no hope, no transcendence, only predictability, conformity, a color I don’t even recognize.
Amidst the howling, bestial wail I listen carefully for the rhumba, where I will not hesitate to take my beautiful woman by the hand and dance until we are so far away, we are but a wisp, a blink of an eye.
So much to give, I am here. I am ready. I am nothing if not love. Surely the rhumba will return, surely...
Yet here I sit, drowning in nothingness, my existence a rotting corpse spinning aimlessly in brackish backwaters of a diseased river.
This is not my beautiful world.

My Take On Modern Communication Devices

2008-04-15T15:01:00.003-04:00

E-mails are a fantastic means of expediting information. You have a specific question, needing details, relaying specific plans or communicating an idea? E-mail is perfect. I send MANY per day, relating to both business and personal issues, but only when dealing in specifics. What I hate are letters that state, "What's Up?" or "How are you doing?" Why do I hate these? Because , to truthfully and honestly answer those questions takes a letter of novella length. In the past I have done so, and answered these inane, banal questions, and poured my heart and soul into the letter. Takes hours. What have I gotten back almost 100% of the time? Bupkiss. Not a fucking word. So when I get these mails that ask me these banal questions, I choose not to answer, or, I do the very best thing which is to call that person so we can hear each other's voices, hear the emotion in what we have to relay to one another, and that is a PERSONAL contact that is eminently more satisfying and productive. Letters contain very little in the way of emotion, unless you spend HOURS writing them (I AM a writer, a blessing/curse). Talking directly to a person puts you in direct emotional contact. In my mind, an easy choice. Which is why when people send me these e-mails, wanting me to write something witty or clever to entertain them, inform them of my state of mind, WHAT'S UP with my life, I choose to call instead, preferring real emotion and contact, maximizing your time. What does confuse me, however, is someone who has a phone but seemingly never uses it. Plus I'm all the time writing voluminous e-mails or writing stories which has me writing many many hours a day ( my time is valuable to me, and I only have so much left in this life), so I prefer a phone in some cases, is why I pay my bill every month so I can have a device whereupon I can actually SPEAK to someone. I love e-mails, they have their place in this world (most don't have a clue what to do with them and have e-mail addresses but never use the fucking things, so why do they have them? I ask myself, over and over and over and over and over and over again...) and when I receive a letter that demands a specific reply, I dutifully write a letter back, almost immediately, 100% of the time, unlike most EVERYONE else. But when there is a need to have an emotional and quantitive substantial contact, there isn't any device that can replace a phone, the exception being in the same longitude and latitude so you can touch someone, look into their eyes. yadayadayadayada. Get my drift? You call me on the phone? I answer it, unless I'm in a meeting or busy in a recording studio, where I will usually have my phone off which you can tell because it will immediately go to voice mail. But when I I turn it back on, I check my voice mail and if someone has called, I return that call IMMEDIATELY. Is why I have a cell phone, so people can reach me when they want to talk. I don't check Caller ID to see who's calling so I can decide whether to talk to them or not. I hear the phone ringing, I answer it. That is why we have all these communication devices so that we can stay in constant communication, THEIR PURPOSE! But, I see it as yet another toy in people's lives so they can continue avoiding more and more anything to qualifies as being a HUMAN BEING. What should they do? Get rid of both phone and e-mail so we who do use them don't waste our fucking time and energy. I hope this letter, which took me about 30 minutes to write, explains where I stand on COMMUNICATION.
Hugs and kisses,
-dony

Poised

2008-03-31T13:41:00.000-04:00

Unbelievably, or so he thought, here it was again, the end of his rope.
Very little sustenance.
Some water.
Truck falling apart.
Body falling apart.
Apartment gone condo. Begone!
No work.
No income. No outgo.
Here he was ...again.

He took stock, and counted. Pooled the last of it.
Not much.
What was important?
A need to communicate.
A letter of hope.
An onion.
He knew what was important...

All said and done, there he stood.
Alone.
Nothing.
Just hope. And faith. An onion for
a better day.
A better day on
the rise.

He knew
what was
important.
Keep your wits.
Enjoy
the
ride.

A Siegel Woman

2008-03-31T13:31:00.001-04:00

I’m smitten.
Totally
smitten.
And all I’ve seen thus far is a pair
of dark, furtive eyes in a
black and white photogaph. I’ve heard
much more. Much much more. But make no mistake, for of this I am certain... I am totally, and absolutely... smitten.
I walk the Earth...
smick smack,
smick smack,
smick smack,
smick smack ...
while she
throws rocks with purpose. She plucks, she
gouges,
she rends and tears. She pummels and wails, caterwauls, bashes, bangs and parries string and wood,
a
willing
participant.
This Siegel woman is an
animal, a vital torreador, a
tempest.
A whirling
dervish.

Thank you, thank you,
oh Siegel woman.
I hear and I lose my breath.
Because of you.
This.

It’s Raining, and No One is Snoring

2007-11-01T05:53:00.000-04:00

Buckets of rain fell on my head. I didn’t avoid it. Hardly. I walked slow, slower still, so that beads of water dripped from my chin, my shoulders more soaked by the step. Why do people try to escape rain? They run. They stay inside. They buy raincoats. Galoshes. Umbrellas. As if there were something dangerous, something dirty, something unholy about getting wet...
Droplets from the sky are just water. In fact, we are mainly comprised of water.
Water cleanses. Water purifies. Water is God’s gift.
Why are humans festooned in all their regalia so afraid of rain?
I walked slower. Raindrops formed a crown on my head, the mist a halo.
The world around me is a blur. A tragic blur of not understanding. Forgetting. Oblivious.
I turned my face to the sky.

A Simmering Rage

2007-10-22T21:07:00.000-04:00

This series of letters was in response to an artist who sent out a group letter to all her “friends” on the MySpace site. In this letter she was waking up to the fact that our government, our leaders, are up to some pretty scandalous shit that doesn’t bode well for the common man. Hardly. And she was feeling desperate to rabble rouse and awaken everyone to action by creating a website that featured artists and their works, specifically works that reflected their thoughts on today’s darkness which envelopes us all. The futility of her request, even though noble at its heart, opened up something in me that I’d been wanting to say for some time, having come to some cold hard conclusions already. There is a new awareness taking hold, I feel it, I’m acting on it, I just don’t know how long it will be before all those who are feeling and reacting to this new awareness are able to galvanize their thoughts and feelings into a powerful, earthchanging message. And I guess in some way, these set of tomes is my first pitch in the game... wdw2

From: Knuckle Yummy
Date: Oct 22, 2007 10:25 AM

I wish it was a simple as sending out a tome and expecting people to react, unfortunately it is not that simple. I've taken a real hard look at what is happening, and then I took some steps to correct the imbalance. The steps I took were pretty drastic and, dare I say, most won't take those steps which is the root of the problem. Gosh, this may get long winded here, so bear with me... I had a very successful career, 30 years worth, but when working with the last "big" band I woke up and realized I was a slave. Had a great house. Several vehicles. Bills were more than paid. Luxurious lifestlye. You name it, I had it. But I realized that because of the monetary upkeep of such a lifestyle, I was a slave to capitalism. I wasn't free. I was a slave to debt and income. What did I do? Quit. The whole shebang. Pulled myself out of the system by selling everything I had, paying off all debt, then I moved to a friend's ranchouse in Texas (basically oversaw his facility, like a foreman in exchange for free rent) where I wrote a novel, took a vow of poverty so I could see what is REALLY IMPORTANT in the big scheme of things. Pretty scary time, but I weaned myself from modern society and all that entails. I am now, only slightly, involved in the day to day, but going about living in a totally new way. My needs are few. My acquisitions meager. I am somewhat, free But people will never get mad enough at what is happening, and what will only get worse, because they are a slave to capitalism, their lifestyles, and no one is willing to sacrifice any of that to elicit change, radical change that is needed. Maybe in ten years time when the pressure becomes too much, people will revolt, but until their lifestyles are completely compromised, there will be no change. And politicians aren't any help either, casue they're in the same boat as everyone else, plus they got the inside track .. and money. Power corrupts, and absolute power absolutely corrupts. Big business and money rules our planet, and they have us by the short and curlies because for a very long time now they've been conditioning us to think we need all this stuff. Hell, look at advertising. YOU NEED THIS STUFF they're telling you, and people are stepping in line, totally believing the bill of goods they're selling. Will people stop driving cars and ride bicycles instead? Laughable here in the USA. Violent overthrow will be the only means of change, but frankly, Americans just aren't gonna do it until critical mass, unfortunately. Look at the world around us, look at all the misfortune, chaos, death, starvation, injustice.... it is EVERYWHERE, and the money guys are gonna ride this one out cause they control EVERYTHING. People need to wake up, but they won't, unfortunately until it will be SO BAD that turnaround may not be possible. I don't want to sound negative, cause I am the biggest optimist alive, but I'm also a realist and I clearly see what's happening and I know what needs to happen, which is why I took the steps I did. Unfortunately, I don't see a mass consciousness awareness taking place with the masses until things get worse. I do hold out hope that a given few will help lead the way to a new world awareness. Where are those people? Look at Bill Gates and what he and his wife are trying to do, look at Bono and what he's trying to do, but shit, they're trying to help those who have NOTHING, and there is a greater need, but time and events just haven't kicked into another gear.... yet. It will, but it is going to take time and much awareness and a grip on the realities of what we face. We can figure this out, but it is going to be a long term protracted war on self to be able to fight the powers that be. Gosh, this is only a fraction of what I feel, as I've been on this for over a decade. I don't know of anything more to say at present, only that I'm hopeful, and personally, though still dependent on the system in some ways, I'm happy, happier than I've been my whole life. You know whom I admire, and who I think has it right. Look at the Amish, the Shakers, and others like them. They live in communities and they work as a community, all self sufficient, for the most part. They build their own houses from products they get from their land. They grow their own food. They get energy from the wind, sun, and running water. They ride horses, so no gas, insurance, parking tickets, and all the other things that comprise owning a vehicle. They live in tune with Earth, nature, and they give to nature, and nature gives back to them. Again, this is the tip of the iceberg with the way I think. One last thing, I feel the Earth is a living being, and what does a living being do when it is threatened by a disease, or a parasite, it gets rid of it. Look around, the earth is trying to rid itself of the biggest pest and threat, mankind. We are the plague. And by wiping a large portion of us out, may bring about the balance that is needed. And that may be the answer, too. I could talk for days on this, sorry to have unleashed, so to speak. Desptie what I've written, again, I'm a very happy, optimistic person. I see light. -dony wynn

Oct 22, 2007 4:03 PM
****, I hope that my lengthy letter to you wasn't too much of a downer. I sometimes forget that I've kinda steeled myself through various means for all the oppressive shit that is in the air today, and I guess that is because, as I mentioned, I'm entirley hopeful that eventually everything is going to be okay. There is going to have to be a certain amount of evolution on our part to realize just what we're dealing with here and to make the corrections each individual will have to make on their own dime, in their own time. I do my bit, one on one. Who knows, I may have a larger calling one day, and if so, I will accept my responsibilities, but for now, I do all an individual can. I create my own ripples, in other words. On an entirely different note, am totally knocked out by your art, but don't want to get into that on this forum, preferring to do so in the form of a "comment". We've only been up for little over a week or so now, and I'm trying to personally reach out and touch each with whom we've made some sort of contact. A lot of work, but necessary right now, methinks. And I certainly will get around to you in the next day or so. Hang tough. -dony wynn

Oct 22, 2007 6:12 PM
You seem to have awakened something in me that has me thinking more than normal about our situation, and my thoughts are now on the arts. Yet another good thing, if one could call it that, about times of darkness and oppression, is that the arts THRIVE! We who are in tune feel these negative awful waves washing over us and it is a natural reaction to render forth our energies and your feelings in whatever medium we work, be it painting, poetry, music, etc. I know for a fact that Knuckle Yummy was born out of serious anger at all that is around us. I've never played the blues in my life! But I felt compelled to jump into this genre' with a vengeance as it is the way I'm using music to speak my voice. There was also another reason, too, as I'd been building a business for five years and when we filed for a patent on the biz model, we found out the fellow in charge, ex corporate guy from IBM, was actually trying to steal the patent for himself!!!! Mindblowing, but rather than lash out in anger, I rechanneled it by immersing myself back into a creative zone, and Knuckle Yummy is the result. So, on the "about me", when I mention being born from anger, I wasn't kidding. And I've gotten grief about being a white man playing the black man's music. My retort? We're all slaves, and all that I've been through, and all that we're presently going through, we're all slaves to some degree. So, I'm using my art, my voice to make a statement. And as I mentioned, I also do it on a personal one on one basis, too. We've all got to do our part. I'm sorry for filling your box, but again, it was as if a scab was ripped of by the letter you sent, and I do have my opinions so I let loose. You can post any of my letters if you like, by the way. That is another thing I do, write, and we can only hope that people still take words seriously, rather than putting faith in a video game. -dony wynn

Nitpicky

2007-10-07T00:32:00.000-04:00

I’d just woken up when I looked out my bedroom window and saw it was snowing. And not just a little. Oh no. A lot. Heavy, even. Nothing to get excited about -snow is okay and all- but the thermometer on the balcony read a scorching one-hundred seven degrees, normal for these parts this time of year. Not so, the snow. So even though hard to believe, there it was, bigger than Dallas, snowing like hell in the middle of August in Texas.
I reached over and grabbed the ashtray from the nightstand. I found the roach and lit it, took a coupla hits. My stomach rumbled, the body’s way of demanding fuel of any sort and admittedly, mine was in serious need.
The fridge was empty, except for an unopened jar of Cheez Whiz.
I popped the top and dug in my thumb and pulled out a cheesy plumb.
As I stood in the middle of the kitchen and chowed down, still transfixed by the falling flakes outside my front window, I watched the snowstorm turn into a sideways blizzard while the sun shone bright, at the height of its midday arc as it was; a perplexing, unnerving scene, way beyond the devil beating his wife thing. Cheez Whiz sticking to the roof of my mouth wasn’t helping matters, either.
After having, for the most part, concluded my gourmet breakfast, I surveyed the street below and saw pods of people huddled there, all in bathing suits, sculpting, what appeared to be, snowmen, while the younger ones were having snowball fights and such. Everyone had a happy, devil may care attitude. I didn’t. This shit had me a bit geezed, but what the fuck could I do about it?
I retrieved last night’s joint and had a coupla more tokes. Bruised it. Kept my place on couch, watching nature’s freak show.
Sun still shining bright, the snow continued to fall. And despite the heat, was accumulating in sizable drifts. Traffic eventually slowed to a halt. People abandoned their cars, running everywhichaway. I scratched my balls, my tongue systematically removing the last bits of plastered Cheez Whiz from the roof of my mouth.
It wasn’t long, maybe a couple of hours or so, but by then the snow had almost covered all the surrounding houses. That quick! From my second story window all I could see were rooftops and chimneys. Cars were buried alive.
And then, as magically as it’d begun, the snow stopped. Cold.
I rolled another and waited.
Over the course of the next thirty minutes or so I watched the thermometer climb until it reached one-hundred fifteen degrees. Not normal for this time of year, any time of year, really. But after today, what the fuck was normal anymore?
The snow began to melt. Quickly. As if someone had opened a dam, the melting snow turned the street below into a small river, then in no time at all the river overran its banks and became an angry lake. Eventually the houses and cars were, again, swallowed whole by the rising tide. Out of nowhere the occasional rogue boat would appear, filled with freaked out people rowing their families, their pets, and a few precious belongings to God knows where. And they were the lucky ones. Others, humans and animals alike, were swimming aimlessly in the current, looking none too pleased with their odyssey. And there were others, too, lots of them, simply floating by.
I finished the joint.
Next I knew water was seeping under my door. I opened my front windows, knocked off the screen, and waited. Soon I, too, would be swimming my way to God knows where. There weren’t any other options.
I sealed the baggie of pot and stuffed it in my back pants pocket, then I took off my shoes and rolled up both pants legs.
Right before I jumped in I saw something that was almost impossible for my mind to accept... I watched the sun drop from the sky. Completely. In just a few seconds. It was there one moment, then it lurched at a queer angle, disappearing below the horizon with a huge-ass, horrifying roar, absolutely gone the next.
Our world plunged into utter darkness. Pitch black. Indescribably black. Almost immediately I was chilled to the bone. All I could hear were terrified screams looking for help, or demanding reasons why. The water that covered my apartment’s floors began to snap and crackle, freezing over. I leapt up on the couch.
Soon enough, and I mean frighteningly quick, the screams from outside stopped altogether.
All grew quiet, the darkness a black hole from which there wasn’t escape.
What could I do? What could anyone do?
Despite being able to barely comprehend all this, quite literally the end of the world in an afternoon, there was something oddly soothing about all this, like going back to the womb or something; so I lay down on my couch, pulled a blanket over me, and scratched my nuts. Life's simple pleasures, indeed.
Come to think of it, that Cheez Whiz wasn’t all that bad, either.

One Half of a Conversation

2007-10-07T00:16:00.001-04:00

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“...”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?”

Fauntleroy and June

2007-10-06T23:56:00.000-04:00

The day was hot. American flags rippled in front of all the brick houses on the block. Except his.
Man was sitting in his lounge chair on the front porch. There wasn’t a sound in the air. No people anywhere to be seen. No cars. No sirens. Just hot. A hot day.
Man sat there. Saying nothing, Doing nothing,. Thinking nothing. Man took a swig of his beer.
Man heard the sound. The sound of thumps. A series of quick thumps. Low thumps. Like the ground was coming alive.
Thumps got louder.
Man looked down the street.
Thumps got even louder.
Man took another swig.
Two ostriches, running side by side, tore down the middle of the street in front of the house and disappeared down the other end of the lane... the thumps getting softer... and softer... and softer.
Flies got to buzzing. Man halfheartedly swatted them away.
Man sat there, then looked up and down the block. Didn’t see anyone, anywhere.
Man leaned back, reached in his top pocket for the prescription bottle. Man opened the bottle and doled one out. Threw it back and chased it with a swig of beer.
Man thought to himself, “Things are looking up.”

The Innocents

2007-08-06T03:03:00.000-04:00

Something was out of whack. That something turned out to be a much larger issue than I could imagine, but this was the beginning, the day was young.
When walking the sidewalk of a major thoroughfare with my faithful, four-legged companion, I heard teeny, nervous “cheeps” coming from the bushes, and overhead two adult birds were hopping limb from limb, loudly chirping words of warning. I kept walking and with every step taken the picture became more clear, and I wasn’t up for the reality of it, not for a second.
With each step I flushed the budding scenario, eradicating it from memory best I could.
After I’d thrown out all the junk mail that fills my box these days and precious little else, I encountered two lithsome young gals who wasted no time chatting me up. The day was rife with possibilities.
“I can tell you like animals”, the tall skinny blonde said as she stroked my companion, who wasted precious little time putting her butt on the girl.
“Yes, this much is true”, I said.
“Well there’s a poor little bird out front who’s fallen from the nest”, she said, still stroking my girl’s rump, “or got injured some kind of way. What can we do?” she said, her face creased with worry, apparently disturbed by what she’d seen.
There I was, getting sucked right back into the situation I just flushed of which I harbored nothing but dread. However, I knew this to be a short conversation, having once been told by my grandmother -after trying to help a little bird who was hurt in her back yard, picking it up, holding it up to the squawking parents- that from that point on the parents would never again accept this little bird as my human touch had tainted its animal existence. As proof I saw the chick dead on the ground several days later, ants systematically dismantling it, and from that day on I never forgot my grandmother’s words of wisdom. I told the girl as much. Well, not the whole story, didn’t think the gals were up for the ant part.
She went on and on how horrible it was and how she wished she could do something.
I felt her helplessness, but I left her with the parting words, “Nature will take its course”, albeit an easy out, still, truism in its basic form.
As I continued my walk the plight of the poor little bird really started to get to me, what I’d thus far done my best to avoid, but seemingly couldn’t shake. And it hit me then, would I care so much if it was a human stuck in some horrible predicament like that? The answer was, of course, yes, that is, unless the human had some hand in his or her predicament, then my opinion would change entirely. Since I began taking in breaths of air on this spinning orb I’ve always felt a certain kinship with “the innocents”, those who are subject to the world in which man has created and continues to appropriate and subjugate at his whim and will. Overall, not a pretty picture. Oh no.
When my walk reached the little bird it was now in the grass median on the other side of the sidewalk, still crying for help, looking as alone and scared as anything or anyone I’ve ever seen. My heart melted. Of course, the adults overheard kept up their concerned warnings. I felt nothing but sorrow, futility, because even if I could manage to get the little bird into a blanket, the nest and the adults and brothers and sisters were way too far up in the tree for me to be of any help.
I turned away from this sad, sad event and returned to the relative safety of my domicile, even though the wound of this situation continued to fester.
Several hours later I embarked to do an errand in town and as I was about to get into my truck, I, again, heard the frantic pleas of the little bird. I walked around the corner and there it was, looking lonelier and more frightened than ever. So utterly alone and vulnerable
I couldn’t take it anymore, and went back inside and called an emergency vet.
The woman who answered wasn’t of much help, feeling as frustrated as I was by the situation and, all too well, understanding the realities. She said I could bring the young chick into them and they could treat it for any injuries, but barring that, there wasn’t much to do except to try and get it into a box and place it under the tree. I knew the baby chick would freak if I tried to get it into a box, and the adults would be dive-bombing me all the while. Not practical or doable. Too much stress on everyone, and for what?
I walked out front again. There it was, alone, far far far from its home, its family, and it continued to cry for help. I don’t know why, but I approached the little bird and it started to flail its way towards the busy street so I stopped.
I turned around and jumped in my truck, watching this poor little bird wobbling precariously on the curb as I passed. Driving away, I said a prayer for the little bird, truly hoping something miraculous would happen.
Along my way I met a man in the middle of a busy intersection carrying a sign that stated he needed money to get his dog out of the pound. I pulled up to the light as it turned red.
The gaunt, sunburnt man initiated a conversation with me when he noticed my four-legged companion there in the cab by my side.
His story was of a bad, rogue cop -his words- who’d called animal control after asking the gentleman if his dog was registered -even though on a leash, he emphasized- and further the man said he was shocked when, at that moment, he noticed his dog didn’t have on the collar, even though the man said he had one. He then told me that since this was the dog’s third such infraction, the bill was a lot more now, almost ninety dollars, and here he was, only four dollars short.
Blood rushed to my face. I felt immediate contempt for this guy. Allowing his innocent to be taken like that, and more than once?! ...Poor stewardship was his choice, see? That is, if his story was even true. I was disgusted, revolted to the nth degree by this, so-called, human being, shitbag by any other name. His momma should have her ass beat.
Innocents cannot and will not lie. Ever. One more time, mankind sunk even lower in my estimation, another notch down after this galling encounter.
All the way home I thought of this little bird. The heart-wrenching sadness I felt at the sight of this innocent little creature, hurt, frightened, and so very very alone in his predicament was more than I could bear. My heart hurt, my existence turbulent, absolutely convexed...
I turned into my driveway, talking on my cell to a good friend about my life intersecting this lost bird. As I parked I noticed I didn’t see nor hear the bird anymore. In a second I grew terribly excited and told my friend as much, eagerly accepting some miracle had indeed taken place.
Then I noticed... “it”... this strange, muddy speck in the middle of the road. I approached “it”, a growing dread with each step... and there it was, the carcass of the little bird. Dead. Killed. Run over by a vehicle in a road that cares naught for an innocent creature who may wander into it.
Over and over, I remember saying to my friend, “Oh no... Oh no... Oh no...”
I hung up and stood in the road, alone... as alone as that frightened little bird who until its bitter end cried and cried for help, but ultimately our world wasn’t very forgiving. And this little scared bird was now dead, and my world would never be the same. Ever. When in close proximity, death, of any kind, always exacts a toll
Later that night I found solace, priviledged as I was to watch a most glorious film on PBS called “Winged Migration”, where the value and the majesty of birds and a world they exist but which we never see became all too apparent during my viewing. Call the timing ironic, call it what you will, but besides the portent this days events held -and were continuing- this film was beyond anything I’d ever seeen. A whole new appreciation for birds and their world. Godsmacked was I.
As the story circled the globe, making you intmately privvy to the migration of this startling array of creatures, following age old instincts, there was a long, slow shot of a boat in the Amazon, and by the looks of it, obviously a poachers boat. There were several types of monkeys. and macaws in various primitive cages, being taken to God knows where. The monkeys were visibly shattered, their world of freedom and family and community forever changed. They hid their heads in the comfort of their stomachs, covering their faces with their tails and their hands, unable to even witness the horror of what their world had become. The birds were filled with ubridled fear, frantically biting their wooden cages, trying desperately to escape. Despite the unrivaled majesty of this film, and because of the well timed, vicious reality this scene imparted, this levity, this heartbreaking levity, my heart sank once again.
Again, I felt so ashamed, so alone, so very alone in a world literally bursting with a species in which I feel less and less in common each passing day...
The innocents deserve better.
We had a good, long shot at getting it right, to exercise proper stewardship over our surroundings, but as far as I can tell we’ve grossly abused that priviliedge almost from day one. We were given the most beautiful, sanctimonious, awe inspiring gift, and we raped it and continue to rape it, without any sweeping cultural nod toward responsibility or even culpability.
For now, continually subjected to the everyday horrors at human hands, I feel there isn’t anough war, disease, pestilence, starvation, murder, genocide, or cataclysm to satisfy me. Craven, our middle name. Bewildering annihilation and wanton disregard, our hallmark. My allegiance is to innocents, the meek who exist to bring beauty and meaning to our hollow lives, as well as the earth, our host.
I’ve more faith now than ever that God leads me where I need to be, but my faith in the human race declines each day I stand above ground. What resides in a man’s heart who chooses cruelty, destruction and malevolence? What resides in mine? A collision course between the two lies in wait on my horizon, and I know not the outcome, but I continue to walk toward it, emboldened, ready.
My kingdom come, thy will be done.

Under Penalty of Death

2007-07-25T00:17:00.000-04:00

I swear and attest, under penalty of death, of this I know.
My dog absolutely loves Tom Ka Khai soup and Camembert cheese. Of this I know. No doubt on this score.
And I am the lucky man who is able to give her these worldly treats.
May the world keep spinnin’.
Bring on the Camembert! Bring on the Tom Ka Khai!.
Water for everyone! We gotta look good!!

She's Gone

2007-07-22T17:28:00.000-04:00

If you have never held your loved one close, her head in your arms, kissing her face, telling her how much you love her as her last breaths get slower and slower, your tears never ending as she exhales her last breath, then you will never know the true meaning of loss.
I now know loss in the most specific sense of the term.
Not from merely missing as in memory, here today, gone tomorrow, nary a step missed, life goes on! But by holding them close as they leave not only the confines of this earth, but of your love, too.
Even though I gave her the dignity she deserved in her last day, being there with her as she left, just as she came into my lap for the first time, telling me in her own inimitable way she belonged with me, my tears just won’t stop.
I have lost. I have gained. And for this, I suffer, lesson be damned.

Taking Inventory

2006-12-04T04:26:00.000-05:00

This isn’t going to be pretty.
I left all of it behind; wealth, glory, health, sex, status, freedom, and comfort, all, because even with those achievements and blessings I thought enriching my life, ones many never experience in a lifetime, I grew deliriously unhappy with my lot. Unbearably so. Even with all that appeared to be the proverbial pot at the end of the rainbow, I couldn’t exist in that suit of clothes one day longer. I was nothing short of hog-tied miserable. So I didn’t take it. Not one more day. I chucked it all away, all of it, and I walked.
Here I am today...
I’ve not had a paycheck in over 6 years.
I’ve been without a job for 7 years.
I’ve never gone totally without, but if life is a high tech light show, I’m in the dark.
I used to perform for 25,000 people a night. When opportunity arises I now see little clusters of smiling faces -and that’s a good night.
I almost died during this process and my near death continues to take its toll.
I’m now a diabetic because.
I’m quite literally losing parts of my feet, my instrument, due to injury after bewildering injury.
Genitalia has a mind of its own. Poor guy.
Life as I’ve always known it is over, now I must exercise cautious discipline for just a smidgen of the qualities of life I used to take for granted.
I’ve not had a girlfriend in years, no one there to give me comfort, solace, support, or love during this rebuilding process, this trial, this tribulation.
I’ve not seem any of my blood kin in over four years, and my musical family is scattered to points all over the globe, cut loose and set adrift by a recent passing of one of the most important people in my life, and theirs, too; his flame snuffed and gone while we continue to wander the Earth trying to get a grip on just what it is he’s passed on to us.
I am now officially old (even by my standards), and considered ancient by my peers. The young ones don’t know nor do they care who I am, what I’ve accomplished, or continue to accomplish.
For many years I regularly traversed the entire globe. I haven’t traveled beyond the state line in 4 years.
I live in an efficiency apartment with two dogs. One is crippled and I’m unable to properly address her health concerns which reduces me to abject nothingness, an overwhelming, helpless guilt constantly lashing me, rending chunks of my flesh with each murderous stroke.
Some bills must go unpaid and I agonize. I’m still a fugitive, unable to afford insurance for a driver’s license. Life’s emergencies stack up, unpaid. Every bill for basic life necessities takes an exhausting amount of energy and effort just to pay. Forget casual spending money, money for any thing else really, and I do mean ANYTHING. Horrific.
I lose a piece of myself each day, consumed as I am by this soul crushing duress of a seemingly never ending struggle.
Joy is a distant friend. Laughter is fading. I’m threadbare and dented.
I have been reduced to this.
But, and this is where I differ... far from lost and hopeless, I am well on my way. I don’t know where, and that is okay. A little beat up, worse for the wear and tear, yeah, but I am wiser, well on my way. This I know.
And I am happy about that.
Despite all these hideous, problematic hells, I am happy.
Verily, I am happy.
Almost happiest.

I wouldn’t change an iota of this road less traveled. Not one iota.
A very courageous woman, Bernadette Devlin, said, “To gain that worth having, it may be necessary to lose everything else.”
I made my decision without having read her insightful words, only finding them during this sojourn, and since undertaking this journey further into the unknown I’ve found her words to be a beacon for me in the darkest of storms, and there have been many. Smelling the coming blooms, sensing the light ahead, I’m reassured her words speak the truth. This I know. So I am happy. Despite. And laughter will return, laughter that will have all new meaning in the glory of morning’s dawn; a dawn that is now cresting my horizon.
Almost happiest. Almost. But for now, I continue to hunker down and keep me wits best I can, what is left, that is, after a thorough cleaving away, what’s left repurposed and refocused for what lay around the corner.
This is where I am.
Not the prettiest of pictures, but one glorious in design, and getting more aerodynamic and enchantingly mysterious by the day.
Far from done I am here. I am. Here. I. Am. Far. From done. I. Am.

Almost Empty

2006-12-03T17:55:00.000-05:00

I am financially poor. For too long. This experiment, this vow of poverty I chose provided some of the most extraordinary lessons of my life, but for now, years later, the strain of poverty is sapping my essence, wearing me down, wanting to rob me of my spirit, silencing laughter and choking joy, and I am concerned.
How poor, you ask? This is how poor... this is how ridiculous.
I cannot afford flea medication for my dog. She has fleas. I know it. I watch her scratch all day long. Not to the point of causing psychological or physiological harm, but admittedly she’s got a few fleas.
One evening, quite unknowingly, I devised a plan to help her plight best I could given my numbing, nefarious, ever encroaching lot in life.
Lying next to her, momentarily retreating from my woes, I draped my arms across her, inadvertently attracting the fleas to some new, warm blood. And they came. Oh yes they did.
Alone there in the dark I would eventually feel the telltale prickling of the hairs on my arms then I would sit up, quickly turn on the light, and there it would be, tangled and negotiating its new host. In turn I’d snatch it firmly between thumb and forefinger, leap up from the bed, then scurry to the toilet and flush the pesky bugger to the hinterlands! This process went on for several hours, becoming a game. A necessary game in some sad, twisted way, too, once I realized I was providing her relief in the only way I could afford! I don’t remember how many I vanquished, but a goodly number. That evening color me a scurrying, flushing fool, achieving satisfaction on a most tragic, pitiful scale, but satisfaction nonetheless. Despite my current state I was able to -at the least- bring relief to my faithful companion in the only way I could, giving of my time, my efforts, my body, doing so with a love of her with all my heart.
It is my wish without hope that someone would do the same for me, extend unconditional love, provide me a feeling of temporary calm and relief, if only for a moment, just a simple tender heartfelt moment, relief from the pressure of this road less travelled whilst I continue to hoe my row ...and make no mistake about it, continue I will, relief or not.
On this occasion I’m reminded of the words of Jean Paul Satre’ which ascribe you must recognize your aloneness in this world, depend on nothing or no one and you’re one step ahead; bleak words, bleak words I don’t or can’t totally subscribe. But at the heart of that statement, I will admit, he’s right, because without you and you alone taking charge of your actions, your destiny, one can be assured not a soul on Earth will lift a finger. Not one. But one will and does, and he is currently present and involved, though not of this Earth, and it is exactly that one in whom I trust.
As tired as I’ve become, I shan’t give up... Hope remains, so does faith, a belief in myself, and for now those are all I have in the world. In that, I am rich, the poorest rich man I have ever known; the bank’s walls bulge with my brand of currency.
My dog isn’t scratching anymore, but yet again, despite my bulging walls, I’m short on rent. And I’m not fucking laughing.

That Garza Boy

2006-12-03T17:52:00.000-05:00

As one casts a longer shadow on this spinning orb you find yourself ready and waiting, even anticipating the most innate moment of stillness in each passing day, a stillness in which you feel blessed to occupy that space in time, to be alive, truly alive, cognizant and humbled, appreciating the gift as it enraptures your conscious, a tear shed should you be so finely tuned. Tonight, after a day fraught with gnawing angst, where I’d given up hope for a day imbued with purpose, meaning, or beauty, that moment unexpectedly arrived on my doorstep, and I was moved.
Frustrated this day, merely existing in the howl of nothing, I chose to rise and explore with a recklessness, forcing myself to emerge snarling from a pit of stagnation and nebulous non. Eventually snaking down a rabbit hole I found sublimity, a sublimity that returned the grandeur of life and the living of it, a sublimity that was a song. “For Keeps” -honestly written and elegantly performed by my friend David Garza- unveiled a fragility that spoke to me ...and I wept. A vulnerable tale, the unvarnished sentiment struck a chord in the emptiness of my emotional drought, saturating a pale drabness with rivulets of scarlet majesty.
For he and his efforts I’m eminently thankful the gift of hope, for infusing blood with purpose, reminding me the gentleness of our spirits, our capacity to love and cherish should we so choose; human qualities that are in short supply as our struggles intensify, human qualities that are, however, the very air I must breathe.
Here again was that Garza boy, touching me as he’s done since the day we met. Thank God for he and those like him similarly blessed, yet transfixed. Where would we be without their particular struggle? Perish the reality.
Tonight, after a hollow day, a day without color or beauty, I was shaken to my bones by a man’s reaction to his muse, not an easy feat in this the day of confounding exigency and top water.
And then, still basking in the glow, as if receiving a kiss from a most beguiling stranger, a train’s horn mournfully beckoned in the distance and my world was born anew.
The struggle continues... and it is good.

Shit in the Bed

2006-05-17T04:35:00.000-04:00

My momma told me today how proud she was that I, her son, had procured a bank account.
Now to many that statement may not sound strange at all. Matter of fact, on the face of it that statement is rather encouraging, a positive affirmation of personal outreach and growth. A human being a human being. A mother’s love. Way it should be.
But what say you when I let you in on the fact that the son in question is turning 50 years old in a matter of days?
Alas, the story she becomes more interesting, yes?
To say that I’ve ...uh, chosen a different path, walked to a different drummer, might not be too far from the mark. As a matter of fact, I took it a step further and became the drummer.
All throughout my life I’ve not harbored a problem calling a spade a spade. If it was shit, I screamed to the heavens its ungodly scent for all to hear. And the older I got the more I seemed to smell. So much so, I began to incrementally disengage myself from the system, as it stood.
This distrust began -I recall all too clearly- when dealing with a new and faceless all powerful, all reaching bank group that’d taken over my small, friendly, hometown bank. At once, overnight, as if someone had thrown a switch, the friendliness disappeared and was replaced by a condescending falcity. A sneering dip shit arrogance. This place fare you well reeked, I tell you!
Mysterious charges began to appear on each statement. Charges were sometimes levied but not communicated until the next statement. Overseas banks whose checks I received from time to time were suddenly “held” for a week at a time, all without my knowledge as I continued to write on these pieces of paper to grant me access to goods needed for maintainment of a lifestyle. And from time to time I would receive these ominously thin letters from the bank marked “Confidential”. These were not so subtle reminders that I was now horribly overdrawn with a $25 check charge for each bounced check, which further overdrew my account, and if the account was not satisfied within X amount of days my life would be rendered into a flaming pile of rotting flesh, screaming at the top of my lungs all the way to death’s door for any sort of mercy killing, yadayadayadayadayada.
One day, not sure which, but I simply had enough, withdrew all my money on the spot, and departed a fugitive from the banking system for the next 14 years.
It isn’t a path I’d recommend for ANYONE. Certainly not for the faint of heart or for anyone who gives even a smidgen of a rats ass about what someone may or may not think of you at any given moment in time. Oh no.
The explanations alone that had to be made so this simple servant could get hard cold cash when work was done was alone far too much for any humanus walkus erectus to bear.
And I now see how hard it is to be a Mexican and illegal. You will pay. And pay. And pay. And pay.
Just today -the brutal reminder of how savage and brain sucking this lifestyle can be- I took a check to a check cashing place that I also hold a debit card with, one that charges me to accept my money, then charges me every time I use the card, too. Lotsa charges. Everywhere. But manageable.
But anyway, I digress, I take this check to get cashed and the woman informs me that the charge for cashing this check is several hundred dollars.
Egads! Too high a price, even for a fugitive from the banking system.
I found myself at a crossroads.
Looking back on it being on the lam, living under the radar all those years felt good. I was making my statement. I found very creative ways to remain liquid and buoyant. The experience taught me a lot. Taught me to budget. Taught me the value of money.
But today, here I was, at the crossroads.
I placed calls to a coupla friends whom I thought could wash and rinse the check through their account. No problem.
But when I called, these people were busy.
So I pondered.
Is this God giving me a lesson again? But of course, I quickly and correctly deduced, a challenge to rise to the occasion, simplify my existence to properly make entrance through this new gateway to the promised land, a quest in which I currently find myself.
So, I gathered up my stuff and headed for home.
Whilst seated at my computer I opened Dashboard then I punched in a name of a smaller local bank into my nationwide yellow page widget. I got the number of one close by. I dialed the number. The fellow who answered was real friendly, told me their location was a mere two blocks from my home. I asked if his building was the old Victorian house on the corner. He said yes. I jumped in my pick-up and proceeded pell mell to this house in question.
There was a parking space right next to the front door. Good sign. Easy access to my abode, too. Very good. Imagine my surprise when I walked to the front door and saw this was indeed, NOT the bank I thought it to be. Not the one I’d called at all, but a larger, well known, megahumping California based competitor, instead. Fellow who answered that phone must’ve been confused as to just what constituted Victorian, I guess.
I almost turned tail, repulsed by why I thought laid in wait for me, to once again impale myself on the staff of capitalism at its worst. But something intrigued me about this old house, and I figured -again correctly, might I add- that maybe I’ve been lead here, given the unusual circumstances. Yeah, some of us still believe in that magic that constitutes life and the living of it.
So I proceeded inside and got right down to it.
A very pleasant gentleman named Rene handled my business with a cheerful professionalism, nothing like the condescending snarly bullshit I’d experienced my last trip to the bank.
Within minutes, not only did I have a bank account, one customized to fit my needs -no statement, no checks, online banking and debit card, no charges or changes whatsoever, no e-mail for updates and new offers- but I also got half in cash until my debit card arrives. Helluva deal. Ay caramba! What hath God wrought?!
Fourteen years ago I took leave after one too many days in a bed filled with shit. It was nice, albeit 14 years later, to find that someone came and cleaned the shit, leaving soft, exquisite linens in its place.
Maybe there is hope for this world after all.
I know this, I will continue to do my seventeen cents worth. I presume you will do the same, yes?
Yes, truly only a love a mother can give... a love that’s held me in good stead for all of these fifty magical years whilst fiercely clinging to this spinning chunk of carbon, struttin’ my stuff exactly as I’ve chosen ...and been lead. Natch.
I got one thing to say... Yeefuckinghaw!

Let There Be Music

2006-04-19T05:06:00.000-04:00

Without music my life would be an empty shell. Music has been the virtual soundtrack for my life. Music has provoked thought. Given me pause. Taken me way from the drab, dull, mean ol’ world. Filled my heart with gut wrenching emotion. Made me smile. Laugh. Gives me hope for a better tomorrow while pointing a finger at what ails us, shining a light where light is needed. Music has been my psychiatrist, my mistress, my mentor, all rolled into one. Music continues to inspire me, challenge me, awaken in me the slumbering beast who has an endless appetite for everything this world entails. And just this morning, the beast was awakened by some music that has, once again, made my heart sing, transporting me to another world where I feel quite at home. I belong. And for this discovery, I’m eminently grateful.
I’ve got this Mac computer. It has a program called “Dashboard”. On this dashboard -a desktop apparition which appears with a click of your mouse- you are able to import “widgets”, small pieces of software that do the most outrageous things.
On my dashboard I have a variety of items. I have a working lava lamp (it changes colors while it bubbles and oscillates), local time, current weather complete with graphics for atmospheric conditions, be it rain or shine, a grass skirted hula girl who goes into action with a touch of my cursor, a thesaurus, an online yellow pages directory (incredibly handy in this day and age of stiff charges for directory assistance), a genies lamp that spouts wisdom with a simple click, a fart emitting whoopee cushion which gives me far more delight than I care to share with you, the current moon phase, a chameleon who snarls at me when I scratch his tummy, and then, only last night did I discover the widget to end all widgets. It is called “Radio by Wu”. A most outstanding James Bond like device, one whose time had come in my quest to be further seduced by this thing called music.
This “widget” allows you to import different web radio stations that you can engage with a simple choice. In any moment I can be in New Delhi, Helsinki, Buenos Aires, Morocco, Sao Paolo, Madrid, London, San Francisco, you name it, I can go there and immediately immerse in the culture. And all from this seat at my desk in Austin, Texas. Glory be! But last night I discovered the station of all stations -for my personal tastes, that is, but hey, who counts here?!
The station I’ve discovered has reawakened a portion of my youth where I left the innocence of childhood behind and dove in head hands and feet into the most fantastical world of mystery and wonder; New Orleans, Louisiana, one of the premiere cities on the face of the earth.
This station is WWOZ, broadcast from the Farmers Market section of the French Quarter. How apropos.
In this station I’ve been taken on a ride which makes my whole being glow. Again, that heart singing thing. This station plays some of the most enchanting music, a lesser known and under appreciated music in this hurry up day and age, music that stirs something deep within my soul.
Last night the deejay was playing the most sublime jazz, all cuts I’d never heard before but were so elegant, so full of majesty and integrity I found myself swooning like a young man falling in love with his first gal all over again.
The musical choices were so pleasing I fell asleep with the collage of tunes my background accompaniment for a night filled with exotic dreams.
This morning I awakened to a Tom Waits track I’d never heard, followed by some obscure Coltrane, Duke Ellington, a most exquisite Billie Holliday track, the ever adventurous John Vidocovich with Astral Project, then Norah Jones subtly singing the piss out of “Wild Horses”. To awake with a smile on your face, feeling totally invigorated, is the only way to greet a day. This morning, I awoke happier than I can recall, and this coming from one of the most upbeat people on Planet Earth!
I sit here tonight, writing this paen, continuing to be transported by this station that has made my dreams reality, my past my present. Just now, Louie Prima, Fats Domino, Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald, Peggy Lee, Nat King Cole, all in a row... I mean, DAMN!
And then there is the wonderful patois that is the New Orleans vernacular, a vernacular of which every WWOZ deejay was in unique possession. This morning the deejay had some live guests in studio, some members of Wynton Marsalis’ big band, in town to help revitalize a city still in shock over the recent disaster by bringing the gift of music. The musicians and the deejays were exchanging some lively banter, just plain having fun! A relaxed, slightly mischievous, very colorful exchange Most comforting hearing this language that formed me in my youth, transporting me back to a time when the world was young and sweet, when new worlds and vistas were emerging. My home. My people.
And then there is this music, this music which makes life worth living. This incredible music that catalogues America, echoing the moods, the emotions of the day, the gris gris in full bloom.
Thank God for this music. Thank God for these beautiful individuals who struggled all their lives to make this glorious music. My brethren. My people. My heart. My soul.
And to think I have this widget to thank for opening yet another chapter in my life. Will wonders never cease?
Thanks to this widget, and especially WWOZ in New Orleans, I am alive today. I am truly alive.
Now and forever more, Let There Be Music!! And thank you again, God, for one of the most magical cities on earth, New Orleans, Louisiana.
What a lucky man am I.

Taken from Whence

2006-04-11T17:09:00.000-04:00

You know the shit's getting grim when you start rationing the last dollop of sea salt you have in the world.
However I’m not worried in the slightest. I have faith. Everything’s going to be okay. As it should be. And this episode will be yet another memory, one to add to the many and counting.
What an amazing thing, this experience we call life. The winds keep blowing, the world keeps spinning.
I guess it’s not too hard to tell I’m one happy white man today. Just got to figure out how long to make this salt last, is all.

Springtime for Hitler

2006-04-11T04:43:00.000-04:00

I sit here today with about twenty-seven cents to my name. I got a quarter tank of gas. A few groceries. Not a job on the books for at least another couple of months. Yet I sit here today with nary a ripple in my fabric, not a bone rattled. And there’s damn good reason, too...
I am living a dream come to life, you see? One many years in the making. Right in front of my very eyes, in my beating heart, in every step I take, in every friend I make, my dreams are becoming my reality. It’s springtime again.
I allowed myself to be swept downstream, surrendering all, continually tossed and pummeled by an indifferent white water current. Much of what I endured I wouldn’t wish upon another living creature. And when truly committed to the process I was unexpectedly and unceremoniously kissed by a foul-breathed demon. But I survived that, too, if nothing else only to see what was possible. A better, stronger man am I for having survived, made to understand all too clearly my purpose, while layer by layer by deliciously agonizing layer of useless, bloodless skin was carved away. Scars from this epic stand off are mine. Ones I wear proudly on this field of battle, especially on this day, a day when I can literally smell victory.
As a result potentially many lives will be touched, many prayers shall be answered; sunshine to a cloudy day; water for the thirsting, food for the hungry, nourishment which balms a troubled soul. And hope. Above all, there will exist hope and faith in a better day.
And to think ...I was chosen.
Long time comin’; worth every drop of fevered sweat, every silent, soul crushing moment when I stood beneath a blood moon, patiently waiting for answers, the only one alive on the face of the earth.
It's springtime again. Flowers are blooming. Birds are chirping. Dogs are barking. Breezes are blowing. The air is fresh. The sky is blue. ‘Tis the moment to shine. And shine is just what I’m gonna do, goose-stepping into town while the devil in the calico dress weeps openly at her dismal failure.

In The Evening

2006-04-07T04:13:00.000-04:00

It was just me and the world. No one else. And there it was, blocking the night sky. Its unheralded majesty unparalleled, towering over me, dwarfing me, yet it might as well be a million miles away; the power, the glory, spread before me like a sumptuous banquet of light.
The thunderhead moved silently to the east. I stood impassively in the field, a voyeur impervious to the terror it certainly wreaked upon the ground beneath it, a terra cowering and trembling under its mighty breath, groaning under the onslaught.
Not a sound. Only triumphant explosions of brilliance cascading throughout the belly of this beast.
I stood safe. Protected. This vision a gift, reminding me how close we stand to constant peril. Choice, the all important stake you drive into the ground with a vengeance.
It’s a new day rising. I’ve chosen to walk it like I talk it, be it instead of think it, and for now I reap the bounty, privy to all that’s beautiful as well as dangerous. The mystery less with each passing day.
I can hear the beating of wings, feel the soft touch of hands reassuring me, guiding my every step.
I walk on gilded splinters.

Jump Down Smilin’

2006-04-06T03:35:00.001-04:00

For a long, long spell the wind howled in my face. That was okay. I asked for it. It was certainly given.
Today a breeze lifts me. The magic has returned. This swell building to a curl, headed for redemption’s shore.
Of all I been through, and survived, and lived to tell about, this strikes me as good.
Um-hum.
Work to do. Work to do....Got work to do and love to give.
Breakin’ them bones on the anvil of Levi.

Passing the Time

2006-04-03T16:55:00.000-04:00

Per my usual I was reading my fourth newspaper of the morning when I ran across a photo of Sarah Silverman. Something in her smile hit me, aroused me, made me really horny. I can’t say for certain that she does anything for me, in that sense. As a comedian I dig her stuff. Call it earthy. So does her brain make me horny, or is is that smile, that smile that makes her look like some cute little furry creature that you just gotta have?
I got a lot of shit to think about today, don’t I?

Goes Far, Flies Near, To The Stars Aways From Here Pt. 2

2006-04-01T20:13:00.000-05:00

The Dobie and another series of short reels were in my crosshairs next morning. I threw caution to the wind and didn’t check the website to see just exactly what it was they would be showing, which made what I eventually witnessed that much more interesting. As it turns out, all these were experimental films dealing with sight and sound. There was the boy who found an angel in his pocket, filmed in 1.5D, only one side of the 3D glasses were used to view it, there were multi screens of constantly changing images of post W.W.II Berlin while a computer generated voice with a German accent recited some very odd repetitive poetry, there was a long drum solo filmed in one take where the sound constantly morphed and roman candles exploded and sparks flew everywhere building to the drummer’s grand finale’, there was a woman very methodically eating hot dogs slathered in mustard and pieces of cake, olives two at a time, while she gesticulated for reasons only known to her, there were three women dressed in flowing satin dancing in odd choreographed movements, juxtaposed with old people dancing at a wedding, there were women seated on commodes in a punk rock bathroom doing god knows what, there were clips taken from train towers in Vancouver and as you went up the elevator the scenery changed from one location to another without ever stopping in either descent, or ascent, there were three women in three separate screens simultaneously all playing varying parts of either victim or knife wielder based on Hitchcock’s Psycho, there was landscapes that kept changing with the inclement weather and changes in season, there were two of flickering, hazy images that I don’t have a clue what was what, and then there was “spam letter + google image search = entertainment”, my favorite of the lot, a hilarious farce based on the ubiquitous Nigerian scam letters that circulate like mad over the Internet. In the film a computerized voice reads the letter and each word has a Google image attached to it, so the letter is both being read and told in pictures. All I can say is, lots of coffee and herb went down on this one, but well worth the effort.
The Q&A that followed kept in the surrealistic tone as no one from the audience had any questions, especially me. The filmmakers engaged one another in a mutual love fest though, frothing and wheezing over how great the other was concerning items of the others films which bore no relevance to anything that I know as reality.
I left the theater feeling as if I’d ingested some acid. Entertained, but what was all that about, and like a thermos, how does it know?!
I then tooled back over to the Alamo on South. Lamar where I was witness to a film that moved me to my core, as much as “Cowboy del Amour” did last year. What I saw was “51 Birch Street”, a movie based upon a family who don’t really know exactly what is happening under their very noses, living the Ozzie and Harriet dream. Not until the mother dies, whereupon the filmmaker finds his mother’s journals and diaries, does all come clear. The family then learns the truth, and it isn’t what they thought or imagined.
What prompted this was the filmmakers attempt to make a short film so his daughter would know her grandparents better, conducting many interviews on film, getting them to tell how they met and such. But, in the middle of filming, the mother dies, he finds the journals, and the real story emerges, and the filming takes on a much different purpose. To complicate matters, only three weeks after the mother’s death, the father travels to South Florida and returns with a new woman, his secretary from over 25 years ago.
The film is so well done I really don’t want to tell you anymore about it, as I highly, make that HIGHLY recommend that everyone see it. It will be showing on HBO in January of 2007, from what I gathered. As a matter of fact, this film should be required viewing for anyone whose parents are getting to get up there in years. This film will help you deal with those feelings that come with age and loss and change.
“51 Birch Street” is one of the most beautiful movies I’ve ever seen. And the people involved were all so honest. A total joy to watch. I cried more than I’ve ever cried in any movie ever. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears of redemption and understanding all too well. The editing, and the music, all were superbly done, too. In a word, fantastico!
The Q&A afterwards was equally emotionally charged, as there before me stood the father and his new bride, and the son, the filmmaker. And just like in the film, these people were incredibly forthright and honest, wonderful, wonderful human beings. And the greatest part was I got to meet the father afterwards where we had a most insightful, generous exchange.
SXSW is tits up, folks!
I had plans to try and catch some more moves later during the week, but knowing how much I’d be playing during the music festival I deduced that would be all but an impossibility, not to mention, after seeing such a glorious film I decided to end the film portion of SXSW on a high note. So I did.
Later that evening I had a rehearsal with a Los Angeles based singer songwriter, Kelly Dalton. A humorous side note, Kelly’s mother was a session singer in the 60’s and one of her credentials of note was she was one of the singers on the Brady Bunch theme. Ah, life is a carnival... A cool addition to his presentation was a talented multi-instrumentalist from the Flying Burrito Bros., John Beland, who added a most luxurious voice to the affair. A groovy shindig, all in all.
After that rehearsal I went directly into another one with Emile and our new super band. All I got to say is keep your eyes and ears peeled for anytime Emile Millar plays in town. Come on out, you’ll be glad you did.
Last year’s SXSW music portion was for me like wrestling with a 20 ft. pissed off alligator. The gigs were grueling, parking worse, and load ins were agonizing. So I began this years with varying degrees of trepidation. Imagine my surprise when I venture to the first gig and I find a parking place to unload my gear right next to the stage! What hath God wrought? thought I! Little did I know but that singular occurrence was a foreshadowing of the next few days to come. A wild, glorious, and freewheeling few days it was to be, jam packed with a kaleidoscope of experiences that would greatly expand my horizons while adding luster to the fabric which constitutes my life.
The gig with Kelly and Emile at Opal Divine’s was get down fun! Everybody onstage had their ears wide open and the musical interplay was what you live for as a musician.
After a fat Opal’s burger, I came back home more tired than I could ever remember, so I hopped in the bed and said good-bye to the world until tomorrow.
First gig of the day was at Lucy’s Boatyard where I performed with Patricia Vonne for her Scottish label, Measured Records. The site they’d chosen for this showcase was exquisite. A gorgeous day on the lake surrounded by the gently rolling mountains was inspiring to the nth. Sat at the bar and noshed on some crawfish egg rolls and listened to two sexy young sisters whose voices blended terrifically. Great harmonies. Next up was Patricia and all I can say is we body slammed the set. Again, big ears, lots of energy, just what you want from a performance.
Ended the evening by appearing at Spill with the creme de la creme of Austin singer/songwriters featuring Johnny Goudie, Billy Harvey, and Kacy Crowley on the bill. I performed a rather spunky, spirited set with Billy. Each of the performers gave their all, threw down until they were empty vessels. Big time fun and lots of hosanna heys afterward. What an amazing night of music this was!
I then hitched a ride with my buddy, Alex Gonzales, over to the Fox and Hound where we lay witness to what I think is the best new band in America, “The Brazilian Girls”. They didn’t disappoint and got to hang with them afterwards as I’d met them when they played SXSW the year before. Cool folk. Period. Exchanged some numbers with them and made plans to meet up the next day.
Caught a cab home as Alex had left before they finished and only when exiting the cab did I realize my mistake. My keys were in my drum case which was in Alex’ truck! YIKES! I called his cell but he was fast asleep, long gone. I then began to ponder exactly where I’d sleep as I was locked out of my house. The flower beds began to look very inviting. Right when I was about to give up a guy walked into his apartment and the lights inside were all on. What did I have to lose? I knocked on his door and asked if there was an emergency number to call to be let in in situations such as this, or did he have a ladder? He didn’t have either, but he did have a drunk friend that he said could climb like a monkey.
Luckily my girls, Lily and Bela, were hanging out on the balcony, the back door to the apartment wide open. After I gave them the command to chill we hoisted brother man up by his standing on our upraised palms and the drunk monkey scampered up and into my apartment.
I can’t tell you how happy I was to get into my own bed! Joy to the world!!
Next day was a doozy. Yes, Alex brought my keys by and we had a good laugh on that one.
After a quick meet-up at Factory People with Jesse and Aaron, the rhythm section of The Brazilian Girls, I made my way to my first gig of the evening with Billy Harvey at Threadgills. Lots of cool folks, faces who make me smile, were in attendance. The chicken fried steak was mighty fine. The gig was spot on, too. We ended the set with Billy playing a stylephone, a musical toy that Billy played with a fevered abandon. Afterwards all those people who make me smile gathered ‘round and the feeling of community struck me then. What a great town we live in!
Next I ventured over to The Copa where a fantastic night of music was ahead. Michael Ramos and Charanga Cakewalk began the evening. Really soothing vibe. Patricia Vonne was up next, and despite some monitor problems, we turned up the heat a notch or two and really got some butts moving. David Garza followed and was his usual genius self. Lots of love was in the room with many of my friends from the Latin music community in attendance.
The night was far from done though. I stumbled over to Eternal on 6th St. where I caught the last couple of songs by The Brazilian Girls. They were in mighty form and Sabina, the ever soulful and outrageous singer, was wearing one of her trademark outfits from Saturn, a multi-pronged furry contraption that looked like big hairy tumors had glommed themselves onto her in a very obscene way. Gotta love that gal! The hour was late and after some jawing between establishment and Jesse, the bas player, right in the middle of the next song the club cut the power. Unfazed everyone flocked backstage where the bouncers got a little carried away and began physically tossing people out. To me this was the perfect ending to the night; total out and out chaos!!!! I visited with Jesse and Aaron and Sabina on the sidewalk for a few minutes, but I left them with their adoring throng, having had my fill for one night.
I was waiting on a pedi cab when right next to me two guys who were talking suddenly erupted into a balls out fist fight. And both of them had several friends and then they all starting duking it out, too! Utter pandemonium! I stood in the vortex with fists and bodies flying all around me, within mere inches of me, writhing forms piling out into the street, crashing over cars, and there I stood untouched. Girls were screaming and the gang fight continued for about another thirty seconds and then, almost like they all heard a silent command, they all stopped and took off running. ...Man, that’s what I call entertainment! Right about then a pedi cab appeared as if by divine providence and he took me to Caesar Chavez where he said I could get one of the few cabs left at this time of night. I hailed a cab almost immediately. The gods were smiling upon me!
Got home and felt a hankering for a cookie and some chocolate milk, so I waked across the street to the local 7-Eleven. When I was exiting the store a man appeared out of the dark and walked straight up to me. It was unnerving in that it was really late, around 4 PM, and there wasn’t a soul in sight, but here comes this guy right at me. As it turns out, a very pleasant chap. He introduces himself, says he caught the set at Threadgills earlier, and proceeded to tell me that after talking to my drumming friend, Rafael Gayol, about me, he knew I would have the answers. And by some stroke of divine intervention he is walking aimlessly, deep in thought, then he spies me across the street! How weird is that?! He then hits me with some really heavy questions about what he should do with his life, being a drummer approaching his later years and all. I live for situations such as this. I took him back into the store where I bought he and I another cookie, then we walked outside and sat on the corner and got into the meat of the matter. After I’d given him as much advice as I could, we shook hands and he departed, disappearing like an apparition. Crazy wild wacky wonderful, all rolled into one.
I returned home, drank my chocolate milk, crawled into bed with Bela and slept the sleep of the gratified and thankful.
Woke up and got to cranking as I had an early afternoon gig with Emile at Treasure Isle. All I can say is this; rock and roll isn’t pretty in the daylight; the worst haircuts, the worst clothes, the worst skin conditions I can ever remember seeing. Go ugly week for sure. And to my amusement, I got the feeling this day of the living dread thought they looked real cool. Oh well, just don’t come out when the sun is up, spare us all!
Despite the horror show outside our set went well. This band really has something. The crowd was small but enthusiastic, a group of lesbian girls who seemed to dig what we were doing.
Got home, took a nap, and then got ready for phase two of the day.
Barbara Holden, a most incredible, dynamic woman whom I’m privileged to have met, accompanied me to Big Red Sun where we noshed on some scrumptious pot stickers and truffles, juked and jived to the energetic strains of Ian MacLagen, then the K-Tel Hit Machine got some butts moving under the moonlit sky. Again, a great sense of community, lots of hugs and laughter, and a sense of belonging. Big Red Sun rocks, too!
We then ventured over to 6th street where at Eternal we caught a haunting Lisa Germano on solo piano. This woman writes some really gorgeous, compelling songs. A real artist. Not for the average listener, but she sends me. Got to meet her afterward as we know a lot of the same folks so I was afforded the opportunity to tell her just how much I dug her. And I did.
Barbara and I left then without knowing just where we’d end up next. Just in the flow you know... Whilst traipsing down 6th a friend of mine from San Antonio, a French expatriate named Delphine, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed me by the arm and drug us into a club to hear someone she thought I should. Lanky was his name and admittedly he had some incredible melodic content, and furthermore, we are now looking to do some work together. Oh yeah.
After bidding Barbara adieu I arrived home feeling no pain whatsoever, and as I was walking through the security doors to my building I hear an incredile melody being sung. And better yet, I’m intimately familiar with this melody! And I own this melody!! Who could this be?! So I hightailed it next door only to find Sarah Bettens and Eric Grossman from K’s Choice, one of my favorite bands, holding court. I hadn’t any idea they were in town, much less right next door! Had a very pleasant visit with the both of them. I think Sarah writes the best melodies in rock.
Ingested some more vino rosa, feeling all warm and squishy after such a majestic day and evening. Bliss, I tell you, total and absolute bliss...
Next day, the final day, is one where most have already gone, the party winding down to a dull roar. I did nothing. Laid about and took it real easy, trying to absorb all that had swirled about my life for the past week. An amazing journey, to be sure.
But, feeling a bit peckish as night fell, I ventured over to Freddy’s on S. First where I met Emile for a bite to eat, and without even sitting down was asked by Will Sexton to sit in with a vicious slide guitarist. Hell yeah! I played a funky old snare with a stick in my left hand and an upended bass drum with a mallet in my right, a kit of Will’s design. Soon enough I was rootin’ like a root hog on some scary ass hillbilly song. Got the blood pumpin’! Afterward I sat down with Emile and ordered a burger and some onion rings. This next group to perform really got me, The Horseshoe Ramblin’ Orchestra, some of the finest broken down for real country music I’ve heard in quite some time. Real unadorned and done with integrity. Very refreshing and the perfect capper to such a wild week.
After their set was done and my burger laid to waste, only two onion rings left which had Lily’s and Bela’s name on them, I was leaving Freddy’s when I heard an unmistakable accent. Lo and behold there sat my very good friend whom I don’t get to see near enough of, Torquil Creevy, who’s worked with Sting’s publishing division for many years. We had a great chat, always good to see my friends from all over the world, and again, was struck with just how great a community we live in. What a special, magical place.
I returned home to black butts waggin’ and a howling wind. I gave them their rings, opened the blinds, and saw a spectacular light show on the horizon that appeared to be rapidly approaching. Next thing I know there are tornado warnings everywhere and a most hellatious storm overtakes Austin. The power and the fury was simply divine.
When dawn broke it was like waking up to a world that had just come into being; a brand new, sparkling, shiny place. The storms washed away all the dirt and grime, the crowds had since returned from whence they came. A quite calm permeated the air.
A poetic ending to a poetic week.
...And the colored girls sing, “God bless America! God love Austin! Hellzapoppin’! Thank you SXSW! Thine the glory! Amen!”
Now if I can just rest up as next year ain’t that far away...

Goes Far, Flies Near, To The Stars Away From Here Pt. 1

2006-04-01T20:06:00.000-05:00

South by Southwest is a miraculous event, bringing together a multitude of characters and works that enriches the individuals taking part in ways that go well beyond the festival’s intentions, and this year’s participation by moi validated this fact in areas I’m still grappling to comprehend. An existential magic carpet ride for sure, one I’ll not soon forget.
Over the course of the past year or so time constraints within my lifestyle have precluded me from being able to commit to long term investments in flights of fancy, be it a novel, for instance, a full length feature film, crappy music another. I simply don’t have the time nor the constitution to be able to fully commit to such endeavors with my work load being what it is, compounded by the dearth of fully realized works which clog the marketplace these days which leave me entirely wanting; my bar raised fairly high on that note and as of this writing, accepting no substitutes. One thing for certain, time isn’t for the wasting. Notable exceptions to my present reality are short story collections and the occasional short film, indie music, too, for the most part. Those are eagerly digested, especially when done right. Call me a casualty of the new millennium where motivation and aspiration take precedence on all fronts -as in got too much to do and not near enough time!- but I get my licks in where I can, when I can. Like I said, when done right these independent works can be uber satisfying, stimulating, thought provoking, just as much or moreso than their more substantial big brothers aspire, and those are the ones I seek when escape into other worlds is an absolute must.
And escape during South by Southwest is exactly what you get, however it’s not just a must, but a necessity, as anything less than total immersion would be ignorant to the nth, a failure to grasp a most wonderful opportunity as here it all is, the best and brightest from all points on the globe, on your front doorstep, in your backyard, ready to entertain, introduce you to worlds heretofore unavailable and unknown. Try and match this extravaganza with any other remotely like it on this spinning carbon based orb! Fageddaboutit!
Even though extremely well organized and executed, oddly enough, each year’s experience bears little resemblance to the year’s past, each festival taking on a life wholly its own, whisking you downstream on the currents of a river which has broken its banks and is forging a new course... that is, if you let it.
Little did I know just what was in store for me this year. Not a clue. But knowing the first step in an adventure is to relinquish control, I closed my eyes and leapt from the edge of the cliff... deep into the maw of the beast that has come to be known as simply, SXSW.
What best to get my feet wet and set the ripples in motion than by angling over to The Alamo on South Lamar to catch a series of short reels? So I did just that. Hopped in my truck and within minutes I was at the theater with only seconds to spare.
The reason I’d picked this particular group of shorts was because of one film entitled, “Bump Tick Scratch”. The premise sounded really intriguing, especially considering my background. An underground NYC drummer had found a way to mutilate old vinyl in very unusual ways, either cutting out chunks of the record, or scratching them at different angles with a razor blade, for instance, to create new beats and new music from the music that is already recorded on the vinyl. In truth, the premise read much better than the actual screening. It wasn’t as up to snuff, for example, as the revolutionary, bewildering, gob smacked type of creativity I remember from the early 80’s at Arena, a club I frequented in Lower Manhattan where the beats and rhythms of hip hop, scratching, and breakdancing had their beginnings right in front of my face. What I ultimately partook in this inaugural day of SXSW was an okedoke film on a so-so, ho-hum subject; a bit of a let down musically as what the drummer created just wasn’t that hip nor interesting, unlike what I’d witnessed at Arena in that bygone era. I’m fortunate the trailer for the film on the SXSW website initially grabbed my attention though because all the films that followed were nothing short of get down righteous. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, then came the Q&A... more on that later.
Next up was an odd little ditty called, “Heavy Soul”, a real 50ish piece, where a young, pure, teenage girl is lured into a world of twisted morals and decay by her attraction to a very charismatic, but disturbed popular boy at school whose world is filled with beatniks, sideburns, cigarettes, beer, and drinking blood! Soon enough our heroine falls prey and her life is reduced to a shadow of her former self. Very stylized, a light hearted romp nonetheless that was nothing short of deranged fun.
We continued with “Fourteen”. This film didn’t have any dialogue at all. A very pretty young girl is obviously waking up to a celebration of sorts, her sisters wrapping presents, her mother baking a cake. But for some reason, the mother doesn’t look entirely happy, her jaw set, a frown masking her face, a foreboding of sorts. We see this beautiful girl blossoming in front of us as she rises from her slumber, and she is so tender, a gentle, unsullied spirit. We only find out in the very last frame that it appears she is a member of some strange religious cult, and on this, her birthday, she’s required to marry a much older man, her father, we presume.
“Prom Date”, a documentary, was a total hoot. A very sexy young woman from Manhattan enlists the help of an event planner to help her find the right prom date. He decides that she must put an ad on Craigslist and she does just that. What follows is rather creepy, made to suffer through a long line of cretins who answered her ad and after scrutiny made the cut... hate to see the ones who didn’t make the cut! Made me feel sorry for women all over again, especially those who want and feel the need to date “us”. Eventually she abandons her plan as none of these guys come close to her prom date ideal, whereupon the events planner sets her up with one of his friends, a goof ball, and strangely enough they have a great date and by movie’s end they’re planning on seeing each other again as evidenced by her royal flush blush when asked if she will see him in the future. Not sure what her parents thought about that, but I have a pretty good idea.
“Man Up”, another documentary, was stark. Bone chilling stark. The movie was a series of interviews with father and son, shot separately then edited together. The father is ex Special Forces, West Point graduate, a tough as nails no nonsense character who feels it his responsibility to train his son for his inevitable future in service to his country. He puts the boy in some rather odd circumstances, made to live in the backyard when he’s only 8 years old for two weeks with nothing but a few cans of tuna, a can opener, and a fork. Nothing else! No tent. No bed. No nothing! When he’s 12 he is sent to live in Russia with a family he doesn’t know, and he speaks no Russian at all. He lived with the family for a year. The boy’s side of the story is not as positive as his fathers. He isn’t happy with what he’s made to endure. However, the boy excels at everything he does; 3.9 GPA, championship wrestler who wins or places every tournament he enters. So where do your feelings lie? Really hard core flick, but one that brought out a variety of emotions from all seated there and really connected with me.
“Longtime Listener” was a tragic, yet hilarious piece about a man who still lives at home with his mother and fancies himself an intellectual, living vicariously through responding to talk radio by phone. This interaction constitutes his entire existence. He speaks with a Barbara Walter's lisp and concludes every oratory with a, very proud of himself, “Pewiod.” He gets fired from his job at an electronics store where no one, especially the manager, can stomach his smarmy schtick. So what does he do? Retires to his basement bedroom where he turns on the radio and is somebody again. Pewiod.
“Hiro” was masterfully shot, an captivating story line, too, where a Japanese man who collects beetles arrives in NYC to purchase a very rare beetle and when in a bar afterwards he encounters a young Japanese girl on the run from some ominous looking goons intent upon her capture. What follows is a really funny yet touching romp, where their lives intertwine and the bizarre becomes normal. And in it, they find feelings for the other, as well as something about themselves, and the state of the insane world in which they reside.
Then came the Q&A, one of my most anticipated and well liked features of SXSW. Everyone had genuinely interesting stories to tell about the horrors of making independent film. The guy who shot “Man Up” was peppered with questions which brought the ambivalence the audience members felt after watching his film to the surface, and the director, like me, was on neither side, but somewhere in the middle where we saw the benefits and the downsides of both the father and the son’s thinking, feeling, and being. The man who directed “Prom Date” told every burgeoning film maker in attendance to be careful of enlisting people to film who are media savvy as this girl’s parents obviously were. He seemed rather peeved about the circumstance as before he could release the film the parents had approval of the final cut. Had to laugh. And then, the actor who played the fellow who lives through talk radio in “Longtime Listener’, got the mic and was still in character, lisp and all. A surreal moment. Or maybe that was just the way this cat really was. All I could think was, “How cool is that?!”
Unless I was on mushrooms and at Disneyland, something about standing in lines is very degrading, very humiliating to me. So imagine my quandary at this year’s SXSW where ridiculously long lines were de rigeur.
I was due to meet a friend later that afternoon at the Convention Center. She’d flown in from Denver, Colorado the night before as she makes an annual trek every year to attend SXSW. By the time I found a parking space -a very long walk for a guy with a broken foot- the line for “Fired” was stupid. I made it there only a couple of minutes before they began to admit the badge line and only got to wave at her from afar as she entered the theater. I waited, and waited, and waited, and finally the line disappeared inside. I walked up, showed the staff my pass, and in I went, got a great seat, sat down, the lights went dim, and away we went.
The movie had a great twist for a documentary where this woman, an actress who appeared on the TNT show, “Dinner and a Movie”, was fired by Woody Allen himself when she was up for his Broadway play. The experience obviously got under her skirt and we are taken with her to friend’s houses where they commiserate on her plight, then she has an epiphany and sees the possibility of a great movie and a stage play in the making based upon other’s experiences who’ve also been fired. And all the above does indeed happen via interviews on the street, visiting with many of her peers who’ve suffered the same fate -albeit not by Woody Allen- interspersed with snippets from the eventual play itself whose clips were a riot. Even though well done there was something that just didn’t ultimately click with me on this one, but had some very sublime moments of mirth, nonetheless.
I met my friend, Al Inman, outside after the flick. We bonded immediately, having known each other for some time, righteous person she is, a person I hold dear to my heart. I accompanied she and her friend, Kim Baum, from Los Angeles, on a brisk walk to The Paramount where they wanted to catch “The Cassidy Kids”. I, myself, wasn’t interested but the incredibly long line gave us much time to get caught up as best we could. We talked until we reached the entrance where once again we waved good-bye as she disappeared inside the hallowed temple which is The Paramount.
I then ran into the effervescent shutter bug, Todd Wolfson and his groovy gal pal, Mickey, Charlie Sexton, and J.J. Johnston, too, on the sidewalk, outside The Paramount, after a screening of “Before the Music Dies”. We shared a bubbly, animated conversation and agreed to meet later at the Austin Music Hall where the musicians who’d taken part in the film, some of whom were right here on the sidewalk, had a concert planned.
I then hustled over to The Saxon where my friend Stephen Bruton was performing and the place was abuzz with rumors of an imminent Kris Kristofferson guest appearance. He very well may have, as Stephen is part of the band on the new Don Was produced record, “This Old Road”, but I wouldn’t know it as after soaking up some of Stephen's gris gris, downing a glass or two of vino rosa, I lit out instead for The Austin Music Hall to see what all the buzz was about.
The audience there was a well diversified bunch, kinda like the U.N., or some such. Drinks were flowing like soda, and somehow, given the expectancy of the evenings headliner, Erica Badyu, combined with the boozy state of the audience, the more intimate jazz stylings of Ephraim Owens and Brannen Temple were rather lost in the cavernous hall. Nothing against them as they are firmly in the game, just wrong night, wrong venue.
I grew listless, needing something more pedestrian whereupon I headed back to The Saxon where the vino rosa continued to conduct its magic.
To cap the night, my newfound friend, Emile Millar -a music producer from Los Angeles whom I’d worked with at Music Lane Studios on East 5th on an Amy Raasch album in November of ‘05, who’d only recently relocated to Austin- offered to treat me to a fine Mexican meal at LaFeria, a joint right down the street. Funny thing -and a Laurel and Hardy moment it was- after a sumptuous repaste of tacos el pastor and cheese enchiladas we discovered his credit card was maxed out and neither one of us had enough money so we had to sign an IOU to the restaurant! No harm, no foul. All part of the thrill of the ride.
We walked back to The Saxon where I offered Emile a ride home but he vanished like a thief in the night on the arms of some babe so I hooked it, dropping by La Mexicana along the way to get a tres leches cake to go.
When I arrived home, after a few stolen bites of tres leches, I never felt my head hit the pillow, me and the dogs soon snoring in fractured harmony, no doubt.
I woke up next morning feeling a trifle worse for the wear and tear (not as young and full of gusto as I used to be), and when I perused the film selection I couldn’t find anything I wanted to see in the afternoon, and the afternoon was all I had given my evening was booked for a rehearsal with Emile for his SXSW musical debut. The films I thought might prove me wrong had staggering lines, learned only after I made a few well placed phone calls, and truth was, I just wasn’t up for the drudgery. There were several films that looked inviting on the evening schedule, but our rehearsal took precedent where I proceeded to lose myself in some great new music with some hellified musicians, Emile on acoustic guitar and vocals, Will Sexton on bass guitar and vocals, and Tim Cullen on electric guitar and vocals, me on drums, natch. From the first few notes it was obvious there was a chemistry between us. So we proceeded to get down on it, like we meant it, and by the sound and feel of it, we did. And all the while big plops of rain fell, live oaks swaying to and fro in a blustery, southerly wind.

The Bitter Pill

2006-03-27T01:16:00.000-05:00

I am a product of our modern environment. But I’m also imbued with some scattershot wisdom at having survived on this planet longer than some. As our numbers grow, and with global corporations not so slowly shaping our lives, and especially our creative lives, some disturbing items have made themselves apparent to me that I feel need voicing.
Nothing left to do except climb on top of my soapbox and go to ranting, so here goes...
Part of my growth in this new day, this new age of information saturation, has come with the realization that, as my father used to put it, there aren’t enough hours in the day; a statement I once found simply incredible as when in the gestation of youth days were without end, weekends a veritable eternity. But, as Dylan so succinctly put it many years ago, the times they are a changing, and I’ve certainly taken notice of how his ubiquitous axiom is now affecting me
With the immediacy of finding just about anything on the Internet has me reading four different newspapers every morning to keep informed on what degrees of lunacy humanity has recently sunk as I’m greatly concerned of the misdirection we seem to have fallen prey. Then I tackle the reading of a daily sackload of e-mail, of which I try to dutifully respond to any I feel worthy a response, and I’m not one for simple one word or one sentence responses, either -oh no! so be careful when writing to me, you might get more than you bargained for. And if you’re thinking of writing me a letter than includes a, “What’s up?”, only, if that’s the best you can do... DON”T, or prepare to face the wrath of. Then I have to make time to care for my two children, my two dogs, as it were, one of whom is now crippled. Apartment living doesn’t provide the most ideal of places from which they can live life to the fullest, so I find time to take them to the park, go swimming, ride in the truck with me, go with me to work when that’s possible. Caring for these two is time well spent, my relationship with them fulfilling like no other, so turnabout is fair play. I must also find time to prepare something to eat as I’m a single guy and I tend to cook better than most places in town, not to mention, with gasoline prices going through the roof courtesy of our force fed fossil fuel addiction I keep costs down as best I can by cooking my own meals, staying off the roads and out of my truck as much as possible. Then there’s cleaning house and washing clothes, too, a thankless job that is never done. Somewhere I find time to devote to writing, get in my prerequisite number of pages per day. I’m also a dedicated musician and music producer so there are always gigs and rehearsals, studio time, too, which eat up massive chunks of time. I’ve also been building a business for the better part of three years which requires constant involvement, many hours a day spent. Then there is the basic, niggling upkeep for technological shit that keeps breaking down, errands that need tending to, which has you summarily dashing all over town in a frenzy to keep everything functioning just to keep up with the daily onslaught.
Simply put, NO rest for the driven!
And I’ve seen what procrastination will do to a person, eventually rendering them incapable of moving forward with any parts of their lives as the mountain of unfinished tasks resides on their doorstep, a mountain which appears to be immovable and impassable. To those I say, how do you move a mountain? One stone at a time. Conquering each problem as it occurs requires meeting it head-on with diligence and fortitude as there is more shit right around the corner which will require even more of your time and trouble. Better to deal with it as it occurs, methinks, get it out of the way, greet the next batch with bloodied knuckles, a sense of accomplishment, and a bring it the fuck on!.
All this activity leaves very little time for the gadabout, the social butterfly. I just don’t have the time anymore. And as a driven entity, I cannot, in good conscience, waste any parts of any day. Now bear in mind, an hour or two spent underneath a shade tree watching clouds go by isn’t necessarily a waste of time. Clearing the calendar to make the time to flush the mind in such a pursuit is a rarefied delicacy, and I find the commune with nature to be one of the most important aspects of my modern life, so I make time when I can. Routinely though, I wake up and leap on the back of the day, digging in my spurs just to stay on top of all the items that constitute my life. And it ain’t easy...
The absolute singular galling experience which has plagued my life for the last couple of years is when you finally do bite the bullet and take time off for a little escapist entertainment, and in turn you get broadsided by a “The End” flashing across the big screen which makes your blood start to boil, an inner mounting rage building to a crescendo you didn’t get from the movie, all over the fact that two whole hours of your life were just wasted due to a movie without a reasonable, viable story line, and even more ridiculous, a non ending which got tacked on just to mercifully end the damn thing! Two whole hours are now gone which you can never replace, or get back!
I mean, how much trouble does it take to simply tell a good story with a decent ending? As far as Hollywood goes it seems to be a huge problem, a disease which seems to get worse rather than better. But hey, you’ll get all the whizbang effects; incredible computer gimmickry, fantastic stunts, explosions, weaponry, outrageous costumes, otherworldly make-up, gore galore, and titillation to the nth degree. They spend millions of dollars, years in the making, and all this time, energy, manpower, and money seems to be spent on nothing but the movie’s accouterment. What is Hollywood forgetting? Bill Clinton said it best about our country’s state of affairs, “It’s the economy, stupid!” I’ve said for years, watching the music industry sell themselves down dumbass river, “It’s the song, stupid!” Well, to Hollywood, wondering why attendance is down, wondering why people are finding solace in alternate brands of entertainment, it is this, “It’s the story, stupid!”
Folks, I know firsthand all the pitfalls and difficulties there are to making a movie, and it really is a miracle any of them get made at all considering. So, since you go to all that trouble to make the movie, have a writer, of which there are some great ones available if you take the time to find them, provide the script with a good ending... AT THE FUCKING LEAST! If not, go straight to the video section of Wal Mart and spare us the indignity, the humiliation, the ponderous wailing and gnashing of teeth all the while screaming for your blood!
There is also another... ahem... growing problem of which I harbor strong feelings. And when I say “growing”, I mean just that, in that there are just too many untalented people who are polluting the creative pool these days which directly leads to the problem of which I just mentioned. Easy access to money and technology, combined with people who are desperate for something, be it fame, fortune, who knows, are bringing the entertainment bar down to a level that is unacceptable. The entertainment industry is polluted beyond belief with a plethora of mediocre talent, and that is being diplomatic about it. And with the bandwidth getting smaller by the day to get anyone’s attention in this media saturated environment, we are simply clogged up with a whole bunch of so-so horseshit that prevents the real talents from reaching a wider acceptance, if anything at all.
In this corporate dominated day and age you only have one shot to make it happen. One record flop, you’re done. One movie that gets ignored on opening weekend, next! Which is why indie records and indie films are experiencing such a strong surge in popularity. The public is screaming for something meaningful and tangible that they can devour, absorb, and feel a part of to take their minds off the banality of their debt driven existence, and the corporations aren’t providing it. You don’t believe me? Check the dwindling numbers. Check the mountain of mediocrity we’re force fed.
In this super glut we’re now experiencing, how do you find the real true talent? Almost impossible. I mean, do you have the weeks, the months it would take to go through the millions of offerings on i-Tunes to find that new band that has the shit, what it takes to be an important musical entity? I rather doubt it. And like I mentioned, who has the money, much less the time, to see the super glut of movies which now regularly clog the cinematic landscape to find that movie which makes a difference?
Just recently, Morrisey was in town (not one of my favorites, matter of fact, hate his music, but did love his honesty, his bravery), speaking on one of the SXSW music panels, and he, too, said what I felt for some time now, something that needs to be screamed from the mountaintops. He said, and I’m paraphrasing him, “There needs to be a lot fewer... uh... musicians”. And I think he’s given them more credit than they deserve, as most of them aren’t musicians at all, just parasitical copycats who don’t have an original bone in their body.
I’ll take it a step further and say to all the hack musicians and the hack filmmakers, unless you got the gift, unless you have something unique and original to say, go find something else you can be good at and be of service to mankind through any other means possible! We have more than enough twits who are seemingly content to plagiarize all the brave souls who risked all they had to make a new and important voice. So I say to them... Clear the air! Clear the playing field! Create some room so true talent can find its way to the public’s ears, eyes, mind, soul, heart, and imaginations!
As a drummer, there was a period in the early 80’s when a man named Roger Linn invented a drum machine. I remember hundreds and thousands of so-called drummers in a complete state of panic, worried they’d lose their gigs. And you know what? They did! But I was happy, because it was like a purifying genocide of a bunch of cats who shouldn’t have ever picked up the sticks anyway, and it did clear the air somewhat for those who did have talent to be noticed once they were distinguished from the claustrophobic sea of utter mundanity.
And I feel this creative genocide should apply in all the other arts, too.
There isn’t supposed to be hundreds of copycat Princes’, or Peter Gabriels’, or Trent Reznors’, or Bjorks’, or Tom Waits’, or Miles Davis’, or Jimi Hendrix’ or Akiro Kurosawas’, or Werner Herzogs’, or Joel and Ethan Coens’, or Mike Nichols’, or Frederico Fellinis’, or Stanley Kubricks’, or Hunter S. Thompsons’, or Raymond Carvers’, or William Burroughs’, or Charles Bukowskis’, or Henry Millers’, or Gabriel Garcia Marquez’, or Lenny Bruces’, or Richard Pryors’, or Sam Kinnisons’, or Robin Williams’, or Whoopi Godlbergs’, or Salvador Dalis’, or Vincent Van Goghs’, or Picassos’, or Andy Warhols’... you know what I’m driving at. Once someone has made that sort of bold and original statement, let them occupy that space, let their brave originality inspire you, but be courageous enough to create your own original voice courtesy of the inspiration you received from their visionary talents. It’s the way it’s always been. But that is the problem that plagues the arts today, something becomes popular because of its singular vision and there will emerge a thousand copycats who do nothing but muddy the water for everyone else, and the corporations will champion them as the next new thing because they don’t know what is original and what’s not, beholden to nothing but the bottom line as they are, and then the public buys into the lie but wonders why they are not satisfied; a vicious cycle that grows more onerous by the day...
Having existed in the creative field all my life, I can honestly say that yes, it does take time to find your voice, but do so behind the scenes, and be your harshest critic as you do. And trust me, you know early on if you have it or not, if you are compelled or not, and if you are, strive on with diligence, find your way, but if not, you should be doing something that really contributes to the betterment of mankind, and lord knows, we need all the help there we can get.
Anything less? Get the fuck outta the way. Stop half-assing, wasting my time and others. Harsh, I know, but that’s just the way I feel.
Call my ass the creative field’s Drano, the little solution that could.
Ungowa!
And I mean it.

Solitary

2006-01-17T22:48:00.002-05:00

The day of the maverick, the unique individual, the colorful rogue, is all but gone. Corporations are flexing their muscles as never before and the crushing aftereffects of their misdeeds are not so slowly wiping out all individuality. Ultimately our society will suffer on the whole, and it is happening without any fuss, cries of indignation, riots, nor blood in the streets as ones who grow up in this day and age don’t know the difference, conditioned to adhere to a lifestyle which frowns upon individuality, and they blindly accept all that’s foistered on them by this grinding capitalistic machine as simply the status quo. Step in line, pay up and shut up, and begin goose-stepping, please! And ones who strive to march to a different drummer are barely able to exist in a society that champions the corporation, as the corporations make it damn near impossible to even exist with the cost of everything necessary for quality of life reaching critical mass. How can one take risks when the risks could render him homeless, without proper food or medical care? Without incomes generated by cashing in and giving in to these faceless, soulless behemoths one simply cannot exist. “1984”, by George Orwell had it right, it was just twenty years too early.
I live in a town that thankfully does champion originality to a degree. And in this town I was able to watch two different movies, a rare concert film last night, and a BBC documentary tonight that showcased two incredibly unique and gifted and rare and important individuals that, dare I say, could possibly not even make a ripple in today's over saturated, media dominated, totalitarian, corporate existence.
The first was a concert by James Brown and the Fabulous Flames, shot in Boston the day after Martin Luther King was gunned down. The man was in top form and was singularly mesmerizing, on fire. It was a total joy to watch James and his legendary band leave the audience stupefied and energized beyond belief. We in this present day audience felt the same.
The second was a documentary on Don Van Vliet, or as some know him, Captain Beefheart. This man walked it like he talked it, and took his art forms to the extreme to make statements that no one else dared, and again, we were the richer for it. The documentary ended with some very insightful observations on the callousness of people and their effects upon not only society and nature, but especially the fragile individual who lives his life by art and love and giving alone.
Those days of enriching and championing the creative spirits are long gone.
People are killing the individual spirit by promoting and supporting mediocrity, buying into the copycat, sound alike, filch and pap that’s currently being rammed down their throats, turning their rabid, zealous mania of sports figures into something akin to the worship of the gladiators of Rome, and we know where they ended up, eh? And forget politics, that is an area that is too dark for me even to comment.
I am greatly saddened. And more than just saddened, I too grew up in this bygone era and I do know the difference. In this present day I struggle mightily to make my voice heard; some weeks a struggle just to stay alive, to afford another piece of bread, a roof over my head not guaranteed. I am drowning in a sea of dullness, the machine doing its best to pull me into the system, a system that would surely crush my spirit.
But my soul is a candle, and no amounts of darkness will ever snuff my flame. So I continue, and others like me will continue, for this world would be a mighty dim place without those whose candles burn bright, not only for themselves, but for everyone else who’s lucky enough to stand and bask in their light

And Then There Was Her

2006-01-12T00:10:00.000-05:00

My last relationship left enough scars on me, in me, to last for sixteen lifetimes. God had a good laugh on me with that one. After all, she was everything I thought I wanted. That was part of the problem. She was what I wanted, not what I needed. But there she was, looking like a Penthouse Pet; sexy, beautiful, and fucked me every inch of everywhere. Dick was happy, but Dony got his ass kicked... repeatedly, and with intent and malice.
Thankfully, I finally managed to put Mr. Dick back in his place and rid myself of tar baby, but not before my body was riddled with stitches and staples and gaping wounds. Still, I managed to crawl away, a smidgen of wit, brain waves, and hutzpah intact.
Then she walked in.
I’m not sure what to make of it yet. Can it be? Could it be? The one?
From the moment I met her, interviewing her for a magazine article I was commissioned to write, I was intrigued. Intrigued by not only her beauty, but by her grace, her effortless skills, her calm, her peace. Oh yeah, did I mention she was a knockout, too?
We kept talking days after the interview was over. She would call me when I least expected it. She invited me over for Christmas day. She asked to accompany me on New Year’s Eve. I mean, she really seemed to want to spend time with me. I was intimidated. I’m still intimidated. Why? Because this woman is real. A force to be reckoned with.
I recall the beginning of New Year’s Eve. Downtown was a mess. Cops were closing streets left and right making it almost impossible for me to make the two sound checks I needed to make. The stress levels I was experiencing were higher than pleasurable. The old “could this be a fucking nightmare New Year’s Eve again” loomed large. Too close for comfort.
She and I had made plans to possibly have a bite to eat after the sound checks and before the performances, but everywhere I turned was nothing but chaos and half assed horseshit.
I sat on stage at the second sound check, way past the time we’d planned to meet, much less call, and I felt like shit not having a second in which to stop and give her a call to let her at least know what’s what. Not cool. In anyone’s book.
As I sat there, feeling like a complete shit, I felt something. Something like a breath of fresh air. I turned and there she was, looking like a million dollars. She’s taken the initiative to come down and meet me when she hadn’t heard from me. Oh yeah, did I mention she’s smart? Really fucking smart?!
i won’t bore you with the details, but from that second on when she entered the room all stress left my body and everything that happened afterwards was nothing short of a cool breeze type evening. Nothing but pure rhythm and groove. Made me pick up my game a notch or two, feeling I had a partner who was worth any amounts of effort I could put into it. Both shows were fantastic, as good a time as I’ve ever experienced beating the piss out of a drum kit with some really incredible musicians playing great tunes. Why? She was there.
We didn’t get into a hurry, had pedi-cabs take us where we needed to go, and had nothing but a low key, easy going, no pressure blast.
Since, life has continued this magical rhythm.
Should I be so lucky? Is it that time in my life to have that great one?
I don’t know. And furthermore, I’m not letting the weight of “what if” put undue pressure on us. We just hang. And groove. And get to know one another. Nothing else.
A concept, eh?
Can this white man be so lucky?
Time will tell. Meanwhile, I’m riding this wave for all it’s worth. And from here, the shoreline looks like the most perfect beach this white man has ever seen.
‘Bout time.
Bitchin’.

Branded

2005-12-25T03:30:00.000-05:00

Today there is a void that grows larger with each day passed. And I am hungry. And he is gone. And all that clung to him as a moth to flame is spread across the four corners and beyond. And I am alone.
He left too soon.
And I miss him.
And the void leaves me hoping. Hoping that I can continue to carry the torch he bore, the torch he bravely accepted and passed to me upon his departure.
Now my teacher is gone.
And I miss him.
I am alone. The weight of responsibility more than I knew could possibly be. But I’ve steadily applied, and I strive. I pursue the excellence of his brand.
Here I stand. Naked. And no one in this world is gonna help me any more.
I understand this.
And that’s okay.
I walk on, unable to accept anything less than what I was challenged to be.
Problem is, that fucker didn’t leave me any instructions.

I Go To Crying

2005-12-25T03:21:00.000-05:00

I cry and I cry. I can’t stem the tide. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m alone. The shit is raining down hard. And at the slightest provocation, I’m liable to well up and bust out. A blubbering mess, every nerve ending exposed, I am a pin cushion and every possible emotion I feel, the proverbial needle.
I hear a beautiful voice, I go to sniffling. I see and act of tenderness, an act of kindness, I sob. A touching story, some piece well done, a tear caresses my cheek. Memories of Christmases past? I lose it. Memories, period, and I go to boo hooing.
And I cry from joy. I cry from sadness. I cry and cry and cry and cry and cry. And I continue at the slightest provocation. Every minute. Every day in the week leading up to Christmas.
This late in life I’m beginning to fear this holiday, as until I find what it is I’m searching, I’m going to continue walking a very deserted road. And this sadness, this emotion that roils beneath my surface this time of year takes me closer to the sadistic realities of the choices I’ve made in my life and I’m left to suffer the consequences, cuts that run deep, years in the making.
That feeling usually doesn’t last terribly long as I when I look back I wouldn’t have done it any differently, but I certainly picked a road rarely traveled for this particular part of my journey, and when this time of year rolls around, I’m left to stew in my juices. Ones of my choosing.
My heart hurts. To the point I wonder if it will ever be able to beat with the same authority as times past.
And this soon, too, passes.
But yet, I’ve no one. And I’m alone.
Well, that’s a lie right there. Actual fact, close by, farting and snoring to their heart’s content, there lay Bela and Lily, two noble and understanding beasts who would give their lives for me without a second’s thought, and whose love for me is unwavering, and for that I’m eminently grateful.
I take stock. I’ve recently lived through the horrors of Hurricane Katrina, and I see these poor people who didn’t have much to begin with reduced to husks, nowhere to go, nothing to give, hopeless and helpless, and there’s is a plight.
I see people who have no homes to call their own, no jobs, no family, no friends, no loved ones, no pets even, and the colored lights only serve to darken their faces.
My situation isn’t near as dire. But I hurt. My hurt is real. I can’t avoid it, even though I try.
So I sit down and type, trying to make sense of it, and I fail miserably.
And I cry.

Women

2005-09-13T02:50:00.000-05:00

I am blessed. I am cursed.
I love women. Many of them are crazy. I seem to attract those. They seek me out. And I suffer. I get broadsided. I never see it coming. I continually wrestle with this contradiction that plagues but it steadily kicks my ass. More than I care to admit.
At times like this, after a day jam packed with irrational, estrogen fueled horseshit that I could’ve done without, I just want to disappear and be left alone. All I want is peace. And silence. Put some immediate distance between myself and the raging madness.
But I love women and I soon find myself craving a woman’s soft embrace, desiring a partner to face the world and all the inexplicable, unpredictable sadness and horrors life contains.
And there I go. Only a matter of time before I open my heart, then the facade drops, and once again I’m emotionally flensed.
I feel empty. Tired. Bewildered. Confused. But still, I long for their touch, their support, their understanding.
You see?
I am blessed. I am cursed.
And I can’t find my way home.
Balls.

Come Home To Roost

2005-09-09T00:32:00.000-05:00

Case in point, this newest disaster, Hurricane Katrina, which devastated Southeast Louisiana and Gulf Coast Mississippi, existed to teach us three major lessons. It is our inherent duty to find and react to the positive threads that are proverbial needles in the haystack in this quagmire of futility, this maelstrom born from the domino effect of misdeeds and blind, willful ignorance.
One, we aren’t paying enough attention to the poor, or any basic human needs at levels we should, seemingly content upon allowing the gulf between rich and poor to become an unbridgeable divide. And the bloated, rotting bodies floating willy nilly in the brackish waters of greater New Orleans are there as reminders, yet tomorrow, we will -more than likely- forget them and their sacrifices when the need arises for the living to continue to splurge and frolic as if tomorrow will never dawn; these poor people’s suffering and lives snuffed far too soon quickly fading into a far distant, all but forgotten memory; business as usual the prevailing order of the day, the poor be damned, and worse, forgotten, ignored. A mortal sin staring us square in the eye.
Two, we aren’t doing nearly enough what we should for our vastly deteriorating environment. So many elements which we’ve overlooked or underfunded or ignored for years and years and years are now coming back to haunt us, and as we’ve seen, can render a city as precious as New Orleans uninhabitable. Unthinkable! And the storms and tsunamis which are the emodiment of mother nature’s fury are going to get worse before they get better due to our pug ugly negligence. These elements, corporate greed and waste, have gone unchecked for far too long due to the lining of politicians pockets and the fallout has finally come home to roost. That rueful, unbelievable day of continual, ever evolving, ecological apocalypse is upon us, lurking on our front doorstep like a vicious thug waiting to reap unchecked mayhem and destruction at its whim.
And three, and the root of the problem, is our government and the shallow, elected officials we’ve allowed to have a party at our expense for way too long. In reality, the only ones they care about are themselves and big donor corporations, even though they will cry on cue in front of a camera and stomp their feet indignantly when the need arises to persuade us otherwise. Pimps and carny hustlers are what our politicians have become, and we’ve allowed them to continue to rape us and our world with a big Garth Brooks smile on their faces. Keep up the good work with our tax dollars you sonsabitches! I pray your day of reckoning will come...
Jingoistic patriotism be damned! Hellfire! Just like 911, by the grace of God, we’re being given a reason to wake the fuck up!
Will we?
I seriously doubt it.
We, the human race, are ultimately a doomed species because of our inability to have a prolonged voice that will make a difference for what’s important and right. We’re too hooked on our worldly lifestyles and all the upkeep that entails. But it was a helluva idea while it lasted! Too bad we’ve pissed it all away.
Humans in the adult phase are, for the most part, horrible, despicable creatures. Notable exceptions are all but an extinct species, more farther and fewer between, day by day by motherfucking day. Greed is winning. The smiling, lying, stealing, chiseling shits are winning hands down.
Today is a sad, tremendously sad, exasperating, chickenshit, motherfucking day. And I weep and wail and gnash my teeth, yet no one will listen. No one seems to care in the long run. Our inability to see beyond ourselves at the core of what’s wrong. “It’s someone else’s problem, not mine. Too bad for them. I have empathy, but tomorrow? Fuck it, let’s party!”
So very fucking shortsighted...
Mother Theresa and Ghandi had it right, and even the morass of ‘fuck it’ was too much for even them.
Where does this leave us, people? Where does this fucking leave us?!
For being -according to the learned and the educated and the scholarly- the most highly evolved and highly intelligent species that’s ever lived upon this Earth, we are the dumbest, screwhead motherfuckers I’ve ever witnessed and been made to stomach.
Woe is be. Woe is me. Woe is us.
Jesus...
God help us all.
We’ve lost the plot and are tumbling head over heels into a madness from which there may not be a return.
Yet I care. So I speak in my teeny tiny little voice. And I hope for a better day, despite the odds.
We are doomed... unless we arise from our slumber.
Anything is possible.
Lend me your ear. Give me your tired, your poor. We can make a difference.
Let’s.
For fuck’s sake!
Let not those people die in vain. That is our duty. That is our obligation to those who sacrificed all to teach us a better way.
Otherwise, we are doomed, and that concept alone far too fatalistic for me to acknowledge, nor you to accept.
Arise. Awaken. The time is now, tomorrow a distant wish that isn’t promised.

Progress is for Shit

2005-08-13T17:26:00.000-05:00

It hit me today. I can no longer play phone pranks. Amongst other things...
We now live in a very modern age indeed, where people want to know just who’s calling them before they pick up the phone. Caller I.D., it’s called. Is everyone suddenly paranoid? Or the old better safe than sorry adage? Or worse, evasive, fickle, and snidely?
Either way, my shit has been rendered null and void.
There was a day when calculating my next victim was a merry affair. Figuring out the voice. The scenario. Timing. Being able to think on my feet, gauging their reactions, only to up the ante if I could, gleefully relishing the shock and terror in their voice. Only people I knew, of course, and all meant in the spirit of play, naturally; my gullible mother got the worst of it, good sport that she is.
Just today, in fact, I wanted to wrangle with a friend of mine’s girlfriend.
I’d given a lot of thought to the character, usually an old, very cranky, somewhat liquid brave, cantankerous beyond believability son of a buck. Today wasn’t any different.
I laid out my plan of attack and hit the numbers.
After a series of rings I heard her hello then without prelude I launched into my nasally, whiny spiel, “Hello dearie, my name is Jim Smiley over at Sensible Pawn Shop, and I got an outstanding ticket for some stuff a fellow gave me by the name of Rooster MacLeod” (his real name is Boo).
Well no sooner had I thrown the bait into the water when I heard her chuckle softly, and I knew I was found out before I had a chance to properly sink the hook, execute my dastardly plan.
So, instead, we had a normal conversation.
How droll. No fault of hers, ultimately. It was what it was. Still, how droll.
I miss the days of mystery and wonder. The days where a little was left to chance and imagination and the law of the land was lax. Everyone still retained a reasonable amount of humor, a freewheeling spirit, and we were given chances to exercise it without risk of personal attack, a rude brush with the law, ensuing lawyer’s fees, or public humiliation in the media.
Not anymore. Those days long gone.
Fuck, all we got now is progress.
Elvis has left the building.
And the colored girls sing...

A Swagger and a Matter of Fact

2005-08-10T21:24:00.001-05:00

There was this girl This oriental girl. A waitress.
It’s not like she was obvious and all, but the more I watched, the more intrigued I became with her super human efficiency. And done so without drama, without much in the way of effort to my well trained eye. With a dancer’s grace she worked the room with what bordered on military precision, possessing an almost telepathic sixth sense knowing exactly what you were thinking right when you were about to say it. And better yet, while I watched and took notes on this utterly feline performance, she worked me. Like she meant it. And she did, I soon found out.
A most personable mug, she had me from the, “Welcome!”, quickly followed by an impish smile, never once jotting down a bit of my order, only nodding with Germanic rigidity when I aired my wants. And when finished, she spun on her heel and whoosh! away she went, flashing a beautiful set of pearlies over her crisp, white, uniformed shoulder as she strode away with an Olympian’s purpose. A woman on a mission. Without doubt. Without any parts of second guessing. In the zone.
I felt in good hands.
The egg rolls were a notch above most. My palette critical, yet satisfied.
As I continued to nosh she worked the room like a machine, always in constant movement, a pick up of a plate here, a swipe of a napkin there, another order here, pick up tip there, turn and barely miss another waiter scurrying to a table with a platter of steaming dishes here, nod her head and welcome another couple entering there, and striding back to the kitchen, never once stopping, a ballet of pure motion
Shortly she set down a bowl of soup in front of me, turned and left. I looked down and noticed there wasn’t a spoon. As I was about to say, “Uh, miss, could you bring me a spoon, please?”, without turning or stopping, she kept walking away, holding her index finger in the air to punctuate her statement, and said, “Need a spoon, yeah?”
I erupted in an ear to ear.
Next I looked up, there she stood, holding a napkin like a gameshow display model, “Yes, or No?”, her head cocked to the side, awaiting my reply in all earnestness.
I accepted the napkin then she flitted off with her dancer’s skill, a study in grace and focused certainty.
For the rest of the meal I didn’t want for anything. Nor did anyone else in the room, I noticed.
Her personable nature contrasting her exacting efficiency made the meal a total joy, a resounding success, not to mention the groceries were top notch. That aspect certainly didn’t hurt. Still, to see someone so "in" to their job, performing at the top of her game, doing her level best to make this experience the absolute best I could ever expect, earned my respect, made me appreciate her commitment to the job, the task at hand, as well as giving credit to the person I knew her to be when “offstage”. So many times in life, no matter where you are in whatever business you find yourself, you meet drab, uninspired people who certainly don’t want to be there much less have to deal with YOU. You know the kind. This woman was so refreshing. She and ones like her make this life infinitely more beautiful, more aromatic, more inspiring.
As I paid my bill, tummy full and happy, she came over, grabbed my hand with hers, and with her other pointed towards my truck and the awaiting dog sat inside the cab.
“Is that your dog?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am, sure is.” I replied.
“He must be saying bring me some Chinese food!” Then she squeezed my hand, giggled, and strode away, out of my life forever.

I didn’t share the food with the hairy four-legged one.
But I share this woman with you.
She made my day.

Take note. Do yourself and everyone else a favor. Love what you do. Or go do something else.
Makes the world go ‘round rather nicely, a little smoother than before. And in this day and age, we need all the help we can get.

Agog

2005-08-07T16:14:00.000-05:00

Music, a most cruel mistress as well as the reason for living, life’s blood, in other words. A dangerous dichotomy, and one that you’re not able to rid yourself. A terminal disease that will also make you feel like you’re free falling from the highest of highs, only to miss the ground, instead pulling up at the last second and flying parallel to the terra at a speed not yet calculated. Nothing like it. Anywhere. Anytime.
From the very first strains of music I ever heard, I’ve been the cobra to the piper. Rejecting the notion of being a mere spectator, I’ve been driven beyond reason my entire adult life to express myself fully in the artform.
I have.
And I continue to suffer for my art, my craft, and the suffering is delicious as well as heartbreaking.
With a dash of confusion thrown into the stew I watch others around me less motivated, less talented, blessed or cursed with the trappings of success -you take your pick- and I wonder... but mysteries in this life are far too numerable to fathom, and what energy you possess needs to be used for accelerating your pace, championing your virtues, your talents, the ones you truly believe in. Within your skin there’s much to be concerned, so leave others to theirs.
Far from failing, however, I eventually realized my childhood dreams. My years in the spotlight were a virtual fireworks display, vibrating with the pulse of the universe, lassoing the energy of a supernova as I did. And I lived it. To the hilt. For many, many years. Only much later, when suffocating under a blanket of lost passion and a gnawing, powerful disgust of less than motivated people surrounding me did I come to a crossroads. And at that moment, when faced with the reality of my current status, I made an unnerving decision to leave it all behind.
And I did.
The artform is that pure to me, and if I cannot make it or exist in it for the reasons that motivate me, then I’d rather not. The high levels of respect for the origins of your output share no equal, so accept none lesser.
Retiring to a plot of land in the middle of nowhere, I shut the world and all that entails out completely. But I continued to listen. And I thought. I reflected and I reacted. And I learned, And I grew. And I strengthened. And my focus sharpened. And I was happy... or so I thought.
The cruel mistress just wouldn’t let me be. Despite my self imposed exile from the world and everything I knew and loved, she kept knocking at my door, demanding entrance, pleading with me in the softest and most alluring of voices to come take refuge in her arms and caresses.
Cleansed of all that had corrupted my fiber, I couldn’t resist... once again.
Only now am I surfacing from a specific musical journey I’m overseeing which pulled me under, and I gleefully succumbed to its demands, gloriously so.
Once again I disconnected from the world to plunge into the deep azure waters of creativity and I drowned, over and over and over... Abstention from the day to day has never been more divine, and the results reflect it.
Today, however, I’m alone. Work has taken leave. Yesterday I was vibrant and alive beyond measure. I was necessary, vital, every nerve ending on fire, hard wired into the gamma. Yet, today, the circuits temporarily shut off, I am empty. I’m worthless. And, like a drug addict, I need a fix. Bad. I’m dying here while the cruel mistress cackles at the top of her lungs, proclaiming sanctimonious victory while observing my withering demise and flailing, boiling discomfort.
Then the phone rings. A friend from the west coast calls to tell me of the swelling of his heart, as well as the parameters of his horizons, realizing the power and the glory of music we made together several months prior, awed at the reaction to it, explaining how his innermost, spiritual beliefs were rejuvenated because of our time spent together making his music come alive. “Will never be the same. Can see now.” His humbleness sang hallelujah to my vision and the willingness to give it freely, share it as if it wasn’t mine in the first place. And it wasn’t! A call directed my way by angels who understand all too well. A timely, heartfelt thankfulness that bore no price tag. Reinforcing the beliefs in my abilities and the need to press forward. At all costs...
See?
Right when I needed it the most, a balm, a salve, if you will, arrives to heal my weakened heart; a small light illuminating the dark for this woebegone man-child. The circle very much broken, but not in pieces, and very much alive and necessary.
You see? A most cruel mistress.
A most glorious interlude.
A tango I hope is without end...
Strike up the fuckin’ band! Get down like you mean it! With conviction! With purpose!
There isn’t any looking back. Second guessing is for fools and lost souls.
I’m not either.
And I’m far from done.
I’m almost happy.
Thine the glory.
Mine the satisfaction. Mine the burden. Mine.
All mine.
You blood-sucking bitch.

You Don’t Have A Clue

2005-08-05T11:26:00.000-05:00

All I want to do is live, be free. To my potential.
Yet people want to weight me down, cast their problems, their hang-ups, their aspersions on me. They decorate me with their worst like a Christmas tree. Ultimately, they want to take me from the game, unbeknownst to them.
My spirit cannot stand it, yet it refuses to be sullied.
They don’t know, as I do my utmost to deflect their damaging emotions, I struggle to keep silent, walking away rather than engaging them, ultimately to achieve some sort of sanity, but also to keep from reacting to their negativity thereby absorbing some of it; a harmony, a balance, of sorts.
But at what price, my silence, my humility, the challenge of keeping the ego in check?
High.
But I will not succumb, and I dig deep in my pockets to pay my fare.
I am able to see where it is from which they dwell from a place on high. And so, therefore, even though rankled, I remain impervious. And, even though I have the change, I refuse to buy a ticket for a ride on their emotional roller-coaster.
But, still, my soul cries when injured.
I am silent, but the burden crushes.
I continue to carry the weight, despite the analgesic doctrine.
But why? I ask... why don’t people look in the mirror to see, at the core, what they inflict upon those closest, and adjust accordingly. A bit of clarity and discretion might serve them well.
The unanswerable question in full bloom.
I will not give in.
I will not pander.
I will not continue to take abuse without a fair accounting.
I am a dog, backed into a corner, my teeth bared, and I’m way past give a shit.
My feelings, too, do count.
You will know this.
And you will respect me.
I know this.
I am this.
And I always will be.
Despite words from those I don’t respect. Whom mean not a flip. I still care. More than others.
And that is why.
I am.
Watch...
me.
Or...
don’t.
I will still...despite, and my gains will look effortless.
I have the scars to prove it.

Laughing My Ass Off

2005-05-28T12:46:00.000-05:00

I almost died yesterday. The cause of death which would’ve been listed on my death certificate? Death by laughter. That’s right, yesterday I almost died laughing! And during the event, knowing I was quickly passing from this life, I decided that leaving the world in such a fashion wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, even though I’d ideally envisioned coming and going whilst in the the throes of passion, or something akin. But hey, sometimes you don’t get to choose your way out and there I was, on the floor of the movie theater, unable to get my breath, the episode on the screen continuing to get even more ridiculous and hilarious which made my situation all the worse, finally crumpling to the floor of the theater, my vision turning black as night, my body devoid of life giving air, quite literally laughing my ass off and outta here, “poof”! there he goes. What a scene...
The film in question was called, “Kung-Fu Hustle”, a movie I knew little about, but from what I’d seen in televised previews and heard from others who’d already seen it was enough to personally escort my curiosity to the next level of fighting ball busting traffic and plunking down good hard earned money on the chance I’d dig it; tough sell, am I. And since this was the first day I’d had to myself in weeks, and in serious need of a guffaw or three, me and a buddy made plans to catch an afternoon matinee to see what would stick.
We followed through on those plans.
Within a minute or two into the first scene -a Chinese policeman getting a first class ass whipping by a cowboy hat wearing, oriental gang boss who talked some serious ten foot tall, down to the bone, bonafide, shake rattle and roll horseshit- I knew I was in for a different kind of cinema experience. Little did I know...
All I can say is, this is the funniest movie I’ve ever seen in my life. Brilliantly conceived and directed by Stephen Chow. Best casting I’ve ever seen in a film since Fellini in his heyday. And Stephen holds the proud title of being the first director in several decades, since the passing of the infamous Chuck Jones and his team of writers and animators, the team responsible for many of the Warner Cartoons: Bugs Bunny, Sylvester the Cat, Porky Pig, Foghorn Leghorn, Speedy Gonzalez, Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner among his many creations, to accurately and with much aplomb, capture the sidesplitting, slapstick style that many earlier teams made famous; The Three Stooges and Laurel and Hardy immediately springing to mind. No small feat! And it was these short slapstick movies from this bygone era upon which I was raised. Seeing someone getting their nose hairs jerked out, or blown up, or getting their ass kicked and waylaid without dire ramification and horrific reality is just plain out and out funny to me. Politically correct I am not. Never will be courtesy of these characters who gave me the gift of laughter throughout my youth, who still give me a chance to chuckle and howl when on occasion I happen to stumble across an obscure screening of their legendary exploits.
And this movie, “King-Fu Hustle”, finally captured the lost art of slapstick after many had tried and failed miserably over the years. So much so it damn near cost me my life! And I remember, as the world disappeared in a flashbulb, inky blackness, I lay dying a happy man.
Laughter is something in short supply these days. Not much to laugh about when you look at the surface, and God forbid you go under the surface. We live in some mean spirited times, folks. And it doesn’t look to get any better anytime soon. The goons and the loonies have firmly grasped the reins and it is a party at anyone and everyone’s expense, unfortunately.
So, for such a movie to come about, especially one so politically incorrect, and from a Chinaman, no less! was just what the doctor ordered for this kid.
Yeah, as I crumpled to the theater’s floor, time did indeed slow down and I came to the conclusion, riddled with startling clarity as I was as the uncontrollable laughter continued, that if I did die this way, dying laughing, it was all right, not so damn bad in the big scheme of things. And given this life lived, mighty apropos. One could do far worse in this current day and age. Death is far too cheap and easy. Laughter, a priceless commodity. A chance to kiss God’s face. Go down swingin’.
But, somehow catching my breath, my life eventually spared, I was able to catch the rest of the film; an hour and a half well spent with plenty more belly laughs. And because of this unique cinematic experience I especially want to thank those responsible for bringing this film, “Kung-Fu Hustle”, to its fruition; an homage to much of what we’ve lost, to what inspired us back when our country was blooming and thriving.
Inspiration. Something I need and crave.
Laughter, life’s blood.
Hellified combo for a simple afternoon matinee.
Because of my near death I’ve been bathed anew. I am born a child again; courtesy of a movie that let me escape the surly bonds of earth, if only for a little while. Escape that was necessary, to refresh myself for the battles that lay around the corner. Ones I choose to meet head-on, and emerge victorious, should I be so lucky.
Bring it on! saith I.
And if I’m ever fortunate enough to chance upon the opportunity to experience that sort of unbridled laughter again, laughter that may indeed take me from this world, color me all too ready. Considering the myriad of dagnasty, out and out lousy alternatives, what a way to go, eh?
If one should be so lucky...

Testify!

2005-05-08T03:09:00.001-05:00

What happened to this once great country of ours? Who’s in charge? And why? It appears we are back in the age of The Inquisition, and we all know how those days turned out. Yep, the extremist religious wack jobs are takin’ another stab at world domination, and they’ve been summarily duped by some folks on high who are having the party of the fucking century... at our expense, unfortunately. And everyone is so smiley happy. So shiny gay. That is, for now. The stooges are all smiles while they strut their stuff and wield their power like a schoolyard bully, but wait until the shit goes down, and trust me, it will.
Let’s take a look at a few sterling examples of The Inquisition in full tilt boogie, shall we?
Once upon a time there was this song that the Four Freshmen made famous in the early sixties. A cutesy, sing along, juvenile mish mash of a song called, “Louie Louie”. A song that would later be immortalized in the film, “The Blues Brothers” where it became a cult, fraternal classic, literally overnight. Well, apparently, there are some in this new era of religious uptightness who deem the song lewd, crude, and socially irresponsible, to the point where in Benton Harbor, Michigan, school superintendent, Paula Downing, decided the local high school band could not perform the song “Louie Louie” in their Blossom Festival Parade because of what she deemed, “raunchy lyrics”. Even though the band wouldn’t be singing the song, only playing the music, she still refused to bend. It was amusing to note that in the 60’s the FBI were called in to investigate the purported, “raunchy” lyrics, and after testing the recording for over two years they deduced that the lyrics were unintelligible at any speed. Yeah, gotta watch out, that song is surely corrupting our youth and will lead to a moral decline that will certainly turn the whole city of Benton Harbor into fornicators and non-tithers. I’d love to look into Paula Downing’s closet.
And then there’s this...
Apparently it was announced yesterday, very quietly might I add, that our government, who in its all knowing, all encompassing wisdom, launched this attack on Iraq to liberate those poor folks -of course!- and in the process we’ve tortured and killed countless thousands over the course of two years -never did find those damned weapons of mass destruction!- has been unable to account for some chump change, our tax dollars at work, that were spent to help rehabilitate them over there. How much did they misplace, you ask? Only a hundred million dollars, give or take a cent or two. Yep, you read that right. One Hundred Million Fucking Dollars!! Lost. Government officials say there was much logistical equipment purchased with the money. Trouble is, they can’t find any of it. They also used it to seed several different philanthropic measures. Trouble is, they can’t account for it. Where has this money gone? They’re just not sure. If you or I had a job and misappropriated one hundred dollars, something tells me we’d be looking for another fucking job. But these forward thinking liberators, doing God’s handiwork, just happened to lose one hundred million of our tax dollars. Oops! Can you say Haliburton?
And just when you think it couldn’t get any more twisted, it was noted in the news today that members of Pastor Chan Chandler’s flock at the East Waynesville Baptist Church in North Carolina were told that if they didn’t support Bush and voted for Kerry, they either had to resign their membership at the church or publicly repent. Immediately. As a result, many of his parishioners picked up and left, unable to abide by his edict. The good Reverend Chandler stands solidly by his demand, guided by the hand of God, no doubt. Now public officials are getting involved to see if the firebrand pastor has broken any laws and as a result, will lose the church’s tax exempt status. If I was attending his church I think I’d be looking to become a Buddhist monk, never to utter another word to any parts of humanity for the rest of my natural born life.
What a great country we live in. At least it was. And to think, I’m a devout follower of God, yet I have much truck with the short sightedness of many of the religious folk who are pushing their beliefs onto others who don’t necessarily believe as they, and as a result of their political pressure and misguidance, are bringing about a most derisive negative shitstorm the likes of which they think they’re impervious; God’s chosen. Oh yea of invincibility, doth yea forget of the humbleness before God which is necessary in finding the path to righteousness?
I believe in educating folks to look at the possibilities of many of God’s works and design, but to force them down people’s throats via politics and law, of which the two are not compatible, is ultimately gonna backfire and set religion back a hundred years or more.
It’s always the same. Anytime man interjects himself into the dogmatic mix it immediately becomes stained and corrupted. Just like what we saw with The Inquisition. Now is no different.
I sit and watch this dog and pony show and I’m far from amused. Saddened, maybe. Madder than a pissed on monkey? Definitely.
God help us all.
And for fuck’s sake, don’t hum “Louie Louie” while walking down Benton Harbor streets. You’ll surely be strung up by an angry mob and burned at the stake on the spot, no judge, no jury.
I know now what Marvin Gaye meant when he sang the words, “Make me wanna hollah...”
The face of dumbass and hysteria has never been pretty.

Wailing and Gnashing

2005-04-23T04:03:00.000-05:00

Crompositiveness,
I have a most unusual tug on my sensibilities. Is it the approaching full moon? Dunno, but something has me scratching and clawing at the upside down world in which we live. Like I alluded to in the Hunter piece, did the bullshit and scurrilousness become too great for even he? I mean, we who seek truth and righteousness are in the lowest common denominator at present. My country is befouled. And all the people who purport to stand for good and for God are the very ones who are shoving all this insanity down everyone's throats. They are bastards of the worst form. And I despise their lies and hypocrisy.
My dad is a preacher. And I must admit that my folks are now busier than they've ever been, and seemingly for the betterment of mankind. They both are tireless in their devotion to helping the poor, the elderly, the weak, the infirmed, and hey, I applaud them for their efforts. But politically? We are on the opposite edge of the wedge and it's made communication almost impossible. As a matter of fact, we've made a pact to never discuss politics again.
I tried to point out that it is one thing to educate someone on a way of life in the realms of faith and belief. Quite another to dictate to all others how to believe and live.
I guess it is that pressure that I'm feeling that makes me have these outbursts. Not being a political animal these last few years have had a profound effect on my psyche. It is quite unbelievable the lies and skullduggery which is so pervasive and continues to gather strength here in this nation.
We're losing everything and selling everything down the river that is near and dear to me, and I feel helpless.
I guess I stick to my game plan which is to follow my due course and make a shitload of money over the next 10 to 15 years, whereupon I will leave this place and return to the home of my origins. Or at least, that is what I was told by a most in tune psychic many years ago. She said this would happen, and even though not a blueprint for my life, it does seem to eerily follow a designated pattern.
Where will I go? She said it would be Aussie land or Thailand, or something akin. Strange in that when visiting both I felt truly at home and was taken kicking and screaming when it was time to depart.
I have an anger boiling. And it won't subside.
So I write.
Sorry to have taken such a serious tack.... but I feel it, and I'm moved to write, as empty an effort as it is. Without this release I would surely self immolate while walking down the street.
Fucking Hunter is gone, and recently I've read some very troubling shit on his front, all sorts of snuff films and the like.
Too much darkness, and I am imbued with light. What to do.... what to do................
Sorry for the look at my underbelly, but I'm sure you will have an objective opinion that will prove to be a weight on the scale, one much needed, my friend.
Funny. Ha-Ha. Snicker. Giggle. Mirth. Merriment. Guffaw. A losing ground by the day artform. I want responsibility and accountability. I need truth. I need righteousness. I need someone to look up to who I can trust, who is doing the right things for all the right reasons. I need release. Meanwhile, I endeavor to do exactly that in my everyday. I hope it will have the ripple effect.
I'm counting on it. God's grace moves through me. I want to share. To give. To help wherever I can. It is my calling. And I must fight this darkness with every ounce of my strength. The old David and Goliath thing all over again.
I got a rock in my hand. And I'm lookin' for the next cocksucker with whom I will strike with a vengeance.
-wdw2

Standoff

2005-04-20T23:58:00.000-05:00

There it was. Right in front of me. What should have been fur flying, agonizing primal screams and war cries, spittle flung and frothing, a gnashing of teeth, the crunch of breaking bones, arcs and waves of blood, feathers floating in the air awash with salmon sunset; certain mayhem and violent death was instead replaced by silent curiosity, passive restraint, salient intrigue, and above all, mutual respect.
I watched two natural enemies, two female Rottweilers and a husband and wife swan duo replete with a squadron of ducklings splashing and quacking in their wake, juxtaposed muzzle to beak mere feet from the other in the shallows of the Colorado River. No squawks or charges, no barks or lunges, just staring at the other. Peaceful. Quiet. Respectful. And then, once satisfied or bored, or a queer mixture of the two, both turned from the other and went back to their respective worlds, oblivious within seconds of the encounter, more than likely. Much to do... so much to do. Food to find. Balls to fetch. Their lives simplified and uncomplicated.
Now, if it would have been two rival human species, there would have been massive carnage and most certain idiotic, chaotic, flesh rending, eye gouging death. ‘Cause that’s all we know. That’s all we’ve been conditioned to respond to for thousands upon thousands of years.
How come the animals and nature get it right, but we have our heads jammed so far up our rectums there isn’t any way out, only permanent shit stains around our feeble and getting more extinct by the day necks? And we’re supposed to be the smart ones?!
Humans.... I shit them. Well fuck, they shit themselves really.
I wanna walk with the animals, talk with the animals, grunt and squeak and squawk with the animals...

The Intrinsic Riddle of White

2005-04-05T05:19:00.000-05:00

Even though this might be construed as shouting at the obvious, I choose to whisper, as I’m a not so proud member of the race in question... plus I find the subject terribly confusing as well as embarrassing beyond comfortability. I know it’s been said before, ad nauseum, but seriously folks, white people, for the most part, can’t dance... The race -there are rare exceptions- is inexplicably devoid of natural rhythm, or so it would seem. That point was never clearer after witnessing what I did in a coffeehouse a few nights ago. I was stupefied.
I am first and foremost a maker of shaking asses and dancing feet. I beat on things. With purpose. With conviction. In my mind I’ve been a rhythmatist, a communicator of sorts, in past lives, too. Ingrained and obvious, one could say. And over the years of providing rhythmic nuance I‘ve noticed that white folks just physically don’t get the big bad beat that pummels their psyche and tickles their innards. They respond to it in very odd ways. They flail. They hop. They twitch and huckabuck. All out of time. And because I’m caucasian, I’ve struggled to find the humor when the phenomenon occurs. In short, I manage a giggle or six, albeit nervously. And when faced with the aberration when performing I’m generally forced to close my eyes ‘cause I can’t stand to see these people gyrating out of time. Bottom line? Fucks with my groove. Turns my world inside out, upside down. Entirely alien even.
I’ve oft wondered... is it diet? Peoples blessed with natural rhythm do seem to eat differently than we. Or is it a long forgotten drum and fife cadence buried deep in the micro-walls of our DNA that led our ancestors into war from the peaks of The Caucus Mountains in Eastern Europe, where they emerged en masse to conquer and lord over the duskier of skin and the morally corrupt and spiritually wayward... all according to their unshakeable, hardcore beliefs and religious precepts, of course... some things don’t necessarily change over the course of history, do they? Which brings me to this... I choose the latter, as nothing could make them so seriously rhythmically nil without reasons based in fact. The key being the necessity of reaching far into our historical background, our inherent DNA, where this probable cause could be quantumly delineated. Genetics are a bitch. Argument is rendered moot in most cases. But still, and because, I’m embarrassed. After all, I’m a white man without a way out. In a world fairly bubbling and seething with soul and rhythm I’m stuck. In some luck of the draw I was ceremoniously culled from the herd and whacked upside the head with a rhythm stick from a very early age, and luckily, my groove only got better as my bones and mind expanded. I, however, am one of those rare exceptions, I’ve found.
The other night I attended a most mind-expanding musical experience. “Hairy Apes BMX” is a musical aggregation whose original tunes really spread far and wide with imagination, incorporating elements of funk, free form jazz, poetry and hip-hop, whose performance was attended -for the most part- and oddly enough- only by a room jammed full of pseudo white folk. I choose this word pseudo because of the shock of the experience that enveloped me. Where once I was ignorant, this particular evening I discovered for the first time the evolutionary scale from 60’s hippie into the present day working model. Changes were noticeable. The hippie’s once long, flowing locks have been replaced by dreads. His tie-dyed shirts have been replaced by hemp clothing. And free love? Well, bugger that, these poor souls grew up in the age of AIDS. The drugs are different too, as their drug of choice seems to be coffee in massive doses. I’ve heard these new models called ‘trustafarians” by other members of our estranged pigmentation, which tickled the living shit out of me. It’s been explained by, what I would deem, “regular” white folk, that they view these aberrations of white with a tinge of morbid curiosity liberally spiced with open revulsion. It was further explained to me the term “trustafarian” stems from a hypothesis drawn up by these very same law abiding, tax paying, gun toting, homophobic, Republican voting whites that these renegade white folk have managed to adopt the rastafarian exterior coupled with the underlying, seemingly incongruous fact that they are, for the most part, trust fund babies. I don’t know this to be true, but it was good for a snuck and snort and certainly plausible in this suffocating age of power crazed hard liners wanting to turn back the clocks. I mean, these fringe dwellers must be reliant on some form of cash, otherwise they’d be forced to seek out and commiserate with only their own clan given our societies unflinching bias and hatred of all things foreign to their own social strata. However, no matter the method, survive they have and flower power remains alive and the air did reek of patchouli and random incense burners were on full tilt, these the only hints of any thread of hippie continuum that I could relate, and for that, I accepted. I was too young to have been a hippie in the day, even though I affected some of their garmentry, flashed the peace sign from time to time, but I was close enough in age to grasp an understanding of them and their ideology. I love a free thinker, one who resists the status quo. Regardless of outward appearances, or methodology, I judge not. And one should never make the mistake of labeling me a tunnel vision conformist. If you only knew! But, in the midst of this highly entertaining as well as educational left of center celebration, the inevitable “it” happened...
“Hairy Apes BMX” specialized in very improvisational, extended jam songs. Certainly not the ever prevalent, quaint and specific, three minute pop ditties. And they were good at what they did. Very good. All the members exhibited various high levels of proficiency as well as having the ability to not think, only listening and responding. Makes for a good gumbo. And while the band jammed on, bringing each other as well as the crowd on their own inward/outward journey, the crowd of “trustafarians” swayed and spun manic, letting the music spirit them away on some intangible journey of the mind, their bodies reacting to the melodious assault, not dancing in any specific mode, or form, just free movement. Reminded me of the way in which “Deadheads” embrace the musical sermon of their deities. And for a while, all went well, like a cobra and its charmer, the music and the people in some indistinguishable harmony of body and sound. Then, without warning, the band shifted into a most interesting gear, a time signature most suited to the more pure jazz form; 7/8 time.
At once, every “trustafarian” in the room, on the dance floor, stopped dead in their tracks, unable to rhythmically understand or translate this strange unconventional beat. They were quite simply hoodooed. Their arms fell limp. Their feet stopped shuffling. Even their heads stopped bobbing. they could only listen with uncomprehending ears, thousand mile stares, unable to find the center of the beat and what it meant to their body... that is, all but one black man... the only black man in the building -besides the bass player- as far as I could tell. His body, after a few minor adjustments, naturally went with the flow and found the center of the groove and the drop dime turnaround every seven beats. He kept dancing happily while around him stood a motionless crowd of “trustafarian” mannequins.
Needless to say the vision brought back a host of memories from my musical past when white folk would similarly get flummoxed when I would push time’s envelope into realms unknown to them. And I burst out laughing. Couldn’t help myself.
But, about 35 bars later, “Hairy Apes BMX” switched gears again into the more conventional 4/4 time, the one which led the Aryan nations of yore into battle, I’d be willing to bet. As if on cue, the “trustafarians” went to swirling and swaying, whirling dervishes, bouncing gypsies, the beat marshaling the many intransigent bodies as only it can.
It hit me then all the thoughts I’ve conveyed here.
And then another thought hit me, one that really opened up an interesting avenue, one I’d never ever given a second thought.
As much as I’ve made people dance all my life, providing the big bopping beat for them, I cannot dance at all. I hear the music. I feel the music. But it doesn’t make my toes wiggle, nor my ass to shake. Music doesn’t hold that magical talisman for me.
My curse. White man’s ultimate curse, one would guess. One I’ve learned to live with.
I walked over to the counter and ordered a cold glass of milk and a custard filled eclair, a delicious combination. I sat and slowly nibbled away, watching the barefooted, dreadlocked throng dancing with abandon. After all, despite their rhythmic limitations, a beautiful sight indeed.

Dony Wynn Risks Life and Limb For His Paiste’s

2005-03-22T19:02:00.000-05:00

From: Paiste America Inc.

Dony Wynn recently experienced a rather interesting chain of events during the South by Southwest festival in Austin, Texas, his present whereabouts. On the morning of March 17th, Dony walked out to his pick-up only to find it had been broken into and a special set of his Paiste cymbals were stolen.
Dony tells us, "I had my 22" Signature Thin China in my truck along with an 18" Signature Fast Crash, a 12" Sound Formula Flanger Bell, and a set of 13" Traditional Hi-Hats, all which were covered in a Mexican blanket. The first thing I did was contact the police whereupon I filled out a report for the theft, then immediately called Andrew at Paiste and asked him to ship me a replacement set as these were especially put together for Patricia Vonne’s music which is anything but ordinary (www.patriciavonne.com). Well, Andrew gave me a bit of unfortunate news, informing me they no longer make a 22" Signature China. So, given I needed these cymbals and pronto, we instead made a decision for him to send me a smaller size Signature China along with the other cymbals that made up the set so I could begin my tour.
"The news about the 22" China no longer being available damn near killed me as I love that cymbal beyond belief. So not wanting to be the hapless victim I decided to take some aggressive steps in getting my beloved cymbals back, back where they belonged. I wasted no time and jumped on my computer and created a flyer listing what was stolen and included my name and phone. I then drove to a number of local pawnshops in the area, introduced myself to the employees and told them what happened to my cymbals. I beseeched them to ring me if my cymbals "mysteriously" showed up, letting them know in no uncertain terms that I’d really like to meet this person up close and personal like, nudge nudge, wink wink.
Later that afternoon, as I was walking out the door to perform with Billy Harvey (www.billyharveymusic.com), the man whose music has brought me out of my semi-retirement, the phone rang and it was one of the pawnshops letting me know that two guys had just tried to sell my cymbals to them for a mere twenty bucks!!! Once the employees asked the thieves a question or two, asking for and getting a Xerox copy of his ID, the thieves smelled something was up and high tailed it out of there. I hurried out the door and drove like a man possessed to the pawnshop where the employees gleefully gave me the info they’d collected, giving me a pretty good description of the thieves, too, mentioning my cymbals were wrapped in a blanket, the same blanket that covered them in my truck!!!!! One of the men pointed me in the direction they were heading, on foot as they were, so I hopped back in my truck and started driving around the area, desperately looking for the perps.
"This particular street in question is very lively with outdoor markets, taco stands, a bunch of itinerant foot traffic and such. But I was determined.
"Right at this one busy intersection, when the light turned green and I was proceeding through it, I stole a quick glance to my right and from behind the building on the corner I spied a small rounded portion of my blanket sticking out. I’d found my man!
"I drove around the block and parked in the alleyway. I couldn’t get out of my truck fast enough and as I cleared the alley, lo and behold here come the two thieves carrying my cymbals still wrapped in my Mexican blanket.
"Utilizing a form of going "invisible" while walking in a crowd, something I picked up from William Burroughs, the notorious beat writer, I was able to walk towards them without attracting attention to myself; the thieves oblivious, clowning, laughing out loud at their good fortune.
"Eventually, after timing my steps, the three of us intersected on the sidewalk and without a word spoken I reached up and savagely grabbed the collar of the one who held my cymbals. The element of surprise worked; one man stumbling backward, falling flat on his behind, while the other’s eyes popped out his head, realizing much to his chagrin that he was in a death grip by a very wide shouldered, pony-tailed man, wearing a sarong, no less! His world would never be the same, I’m sure.
"Before the man could get a grip on what was happening, in a very even voice I told him, "Those are my cymbals. Give them to me… NOW."
"The thief tried to get "street" on me, all bug-eyed and squealing about how he’d found the cymbals beside a dumpster and again, not wanting to listen to any parts of "his story", I didn’t mince words. Remaining in my clutches, and still in the even, calculating voice, I told the man very matter of factly, "Drop the cymbals now or I will hurt you." I meant every word.
"The man grew strangely silent, realizing, as he looked into my eyes that I was someone who didn’t lay claim to any parts of give a shit, so he dropped the cymbals and I let him go free. The two tore off without another word spoken. I figure all of us were equally happy at that point, however for entirely different reasons each.
"I can’t tell you how good it felt to pick my babies off the concrete, wrapping them up in my blanket and taking them back to my truck.
"When I got back to my abode I called Andrew immediately and told him the good news, relishing the sight of my cymbals laid out on my bed as we spoke, back where they belonged.
"The next evening I performed the first gig on my tour with Patricia which spans over the course of the next few months. My babies were a bit scuffed up from the experience, but they’ve never sounded better, responding to my loving touch and caress.
"Moral of the story? Don’t even think about taking my Paiste’s. There will be hell to pay. … And I mean it…
"Flog the terror! Bring on the bang-shang-a -lang! Giddy-up, lil’ doggies, giddy-up!"

Drowning

2005-03-07T04:37:00.000-05:00

I’m confused.
For years there’s been a most dire and prevalent drought that’s permeated the Southwestern United States. A dead serious one. Water is rationed. The venerable and austere Lake Powell shrinks to unbelievable depths, dying before our very eyes. The scientists are gouging their eyes out and committing random acts of hari kari. And cost of living soars into the stratosphere from the general lack thereof.
Now, here in the year two-naught-naught-five, there’s more rain, and subsequently, water, than the Southwest can handle. Mudslides, floods, and damage beyond comprehension deluge their everyday. They are neck deep. Only days before the monsoons dug in their heels, that part of the world desperately needed moisture. The greater Southwest of the United States of America is drowning in the shit now, yet they whine and whinge.
Is it me? Or does it appeal to the common sense in us all that it would be in their best interest to find a way to capture nature’s attempt at balance?
I watched the news this evening and one of their reports revealed an elementary school in Southern California which exhibited more than a little bit of common sense whereby they’ve developed a system of underground cisterns, a method for collecting the rain, storing it for future purpose to utilize what nature provides free of charge, or in their case, hasn’t provided... until now, that is... Net result, grass, trees, potable water, where once there was none, bringing all that nature provides into fruition and harmony, reducing the financial hemorrhage to a nominal, bearable expense on several key levels due to the infusion of a balanced eco system with humanus walkus erectus and all their precious demands and needs. The shade from the trees negating the staggering electric bills served by Enron, for one. Simple, eh?
So why the outright frivolous nescience? Blind bull loon ignorance of what’s right in front of their sunburnt noses and collagened lips?!
I tire of conventional thought processes. Color my ass weary and then some of a race that will raise ten shades of holy Hades about a patch of rare flowers their highway department made extinct in a manner of twenty minutes, but when it comes to finding a way to capture water, a product of which their very lives depend, they’d rather wonder if Michael Jackson did or didn’t!
It’s time to wake up, folks, and put into play what even an elementary student now knows.
What does it fucking take?!
God gives you what you need, but you must first remove your head from rectum and take affirmative action. ...Lord, we humanses know better! Or so we should.
Now.
Not tomorrow.
Now.
Egads, dude... the horror... the horror... and the shuffling, skidmark dumbass that knows no bounds.
Botox that!

The Lion That Roared

2005-02-28T21:29:00.000-05:00

“Our lives as we lead them are passed on to others, whether in physical or mental forms, tingeing all future lives together. This should be enough for one who lives for truth and service to his fellow passengers on the way.” -Luther Burbank

The unexpected death of the good Dr. Hunter S. Thompson hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, laid me to waste; his decision to remove himself from our national register a rude, vicious slap upside my head, the one you don’t see coming.
A foggy, early morning revelation appeared like the four horsemen trumpeting, "Game Over!", and the announcement, not to mention the deed itself, came bearing the gift of more ragged emotion than I normally would’ve expected. Upon hearing the televised news while under cloak of degenerate behavior -reaming and screaming like a rabid weasel in the darkest of night before dawn- and over the course of the next gloom infested twenty-four hours, I was reduced to a sniveling pile of snot and tears. And this over a man I’d never met! But yet, I did meet the esteemed Dr. Thompson through his words. And it was his words that made all the difference.
Hunter’s jagged point of view, at first, a jolt of primal adrenaline that I didn’t get from anyone else whom I tried to read, who suffered under the pretense of being a writer, who collectively bored me beyond somnambulism. This man’s blood boiled and mine bubbled along with his as I read his furious prose, the holes in the damn breaking loose, the landscape on the other side soon to be forever rendered asunder.
While connecting with Hunter, reading, “The Great Shark Hunt” -the first book I’d ever purchased- his use of language made me literally laugh out loud at the sheer audaciousness of his uniquely twisted view -another first- but the more I absorbed his jabbering bulldog screed the more the importance of what he said sunk in; a big-time plus that his atypical delivery made his snarling, unwavering truth both informative as well as entertaining, something I missed in all the other literature I was subjected to during my internship of force fed dogma. And I listened. Rapturously. I hadn’t any choice under the spell of his rampant will. Subscribing to a whole new delivery, his words leapt from the page and demanded mine and other’s attention, pummeling us with fresh, unvarnished discovery, an Oz-like veil finally lifted for all who cared delve. From that moment of turning page after page of “The Great Shark Hunt”, I ventured out to the edge of that cliff with Hunter and fully immersed in the loony, two-bit, low rent shuffle of American ideals gone awry of which he was not loathe to challenge; both delighted and enlightened at his yammering and wailing at the vile circus that threatens to drain our will, pointing a finger and howling loud enough for the world to hear the injustices that plague our society. God love him for it! ...I know I did. Overnight, in the course of ingesting his violent collision of prose and reality I became a devotee’, gleefully devouring his words, his concepts, as he let his soul ratchet to a high pitched whine, duly exposing all that was wrong with the American dream. Unabashed, with sidearm purpose and epiphinal conviction, Hunter spoke loud and clear, teeth bared and arms flailing. No quarter given. No quarter asked. He was unrepentant. And I loved him more every day, each page turned.
The afternoon following his fatal pull of the trigger, my pervasive melancholy grew sullied with a boiling, indignant anger as I watched a bevy of stiff shirts -who simply weren’t worthy to swill his bodily excretions, hunched up and swollen with self importance as they were, gloating in their parasitical five seconds of fame by virtue of grasping his coattails while preening on every cable news program available- waxing, mincing, spewing their tepid consensus on the man; most noticeably staking a shallow, unknowing, condescending view of his lifestyle, and more alarmingly, his excesses. As if their highbrow sniffling view of him somehow denigrated his body of work! And I seethed. A wanton venom and an incredulous ire taking root, I watched the talking heads wallow in the politically correct mire, wishing I could eat the spleen of every jackleg I viewed, knowing in my heart of hearts that Hunter would’ve wanted me to pick up the gauntlet and rattle their complacent, empty cages in his honor, just for starters. Not that he gave a good hard fuck, as in the big scheme of things literary he didn’t, but in death, how dare they?!?! What did they hope to prove?! Hunter had taken the road less traveled and walked it like he talked it, lived it to his very last breath, and no one could ever take that away from him. Yet his limp wristed contemporaries openly questioned his legacy, his importance in the literary world! ...Drivel by any other name. Unimportant, pompous drivel to be sure. But hey, they were true to their tick like existence, and for them, I felt no pity, nor sorrow. Only disdain. Rancor. And a reason to throw this carefully executed solar plexus shot of which they’re deserving. I gnaw on their rancid bones and dare them to tell me, or anyone else, different. Fuck those cowards! Double clutch fuck them! How empty their existence.
Over the course of the next few days I’m sure the stiff shirts, and others like them, were most surprised by the international outpouring of kudos, as many who understood and respected his body of work defended his eccentricities by shining a light where it was needed, on the words and what they stood for, taking great pains to explain that without folks who dare, like Hunter, we’d live in a much different society, one that might not necessarily be the bastion of freedom it purports to be, and in turn bringing color to ones whose lives are only a murky shade of gray. And there were also others who pointed out that due to circumstances beyond his control, an environment that doesn’t necessarily champion freedom of speech, his glory days were, more or less, behind him. And his paranoia may have just ramped up to septic levels with all the skullduggery that exists in our society in this the new century; the media awash in outright lies; truth a forgotten and unnecessary staple. To be stripped of the ability to stand on the mountain, shout with an addled voice of truth and be taken seriously, as was his intent, has to extract a certain amount of sanity, and in the end, Hunter’s voice was reduced to scatological reports on the sports world laced with the occasional barb lobbed at the political iniquity which threatens to rob this country of our greatness. The pain must have been much to bear. Since reading the various reports from insiders, family members, and meaningful squires of the journalistic community, I’ve managed to piece together a psychological profile of the man, and on all above counts, I can rationalize and sympathize to a degree.
But I have a nagging problem with Hunter checking out as he did, and to be fair and balanced here, especially in the hail of afterglow, I must stand on my soapbox and get my licks in where I can. There is an underlying message that hasn’t been touched upon in the media, and my voice, even though shouting into the abyss, has validity, too.
Only under the most dire of circumstances do I condone suicide. Euthanasia, quite another animal. Not ever having suffered a terminal and incurable illness so serious I wanted to end my loss of quality of life, I cannot pass judgment on their choices. However, I can certainly understand it.
But when you have vitality flowing through your bones, despite what aches and pains you may have inherited, I cannot, regardless of excuse, condone suicide. The act is the most arrogant form of selfishness that exists in this realm. Unacceptable on any level.
I believe this life we’re given isn’t necessarily ours to take. We have a mission and a responsibility to it. We are but filters designed to help others along their way, too, sharing and giving all that flows through us; our existence a shining example of the divinity that is our destiny, should we be brave enough to accept the burden.
Who knows what Hunter would’ve have written before his untimely recuse from humanity? Would his words have made someone a better person? Helped someone along the way to look at a situation differently? Made them laugh? Made them cry? Made them think? What could he have said to his wife? His son? His grandchild? If he’d chosen to stick around would he have given any of his immediate family a cherished memory, a thought to ponder, a love that grows and soothes and strengthens? With every breath you take and thought you make there is the possibility of changing the course of someone’s life for the better. In an instant. And that is the divinity that shapes our ends. To think you have the right to quit when you want is the ultimate in arrogance. And for this, I can’t justify Hunter’s ends to his means. I think he wasted a precious part of himself, a preciousness that was a gift, and not his to squander. His was a full scale, full bore mission. He was chosen to serve the common good, common decency, even though there are many who would be quick to leap upon this proclamation as utter dribble. But I say to you who haven’t been to that mountain and walked with the kings, there are those with whom a dangle over the edge of the wedge, dipping their toes and creating ripples in the waters of insanity and destruction, produces moments of great clarity and wisdom. I know. I bear witness.
So, on that count, Hunter let me down, you down, and ultimately, himself.
However, it is not mine to cast final judgment on a man’s exit strategy. That job belongs to another. But I have my thoughts on it, and I’m not one to shrink in the heat of battle. On the contrary.
Words. Hunter gave us much to chew on. And his works will gain in appreciation the more we as a society stumble like wounded beasts into a hell on earth of lies and hypocrisy. His words will scald the minds of ones born unto a new generation. His works are venerable. His legacy will have the final say. Ones like him are far and few between. I am proud and consider myself lucky to have existed in his lifetime.
The fucker is gone though. And damn him for it, as I will never again read his insights, his tortured vision which gave me hope and belly laughs while he mercilessly railed at the gloom and doom, the hellish condition. I will never again break into a grin as I’m wrestled to the ground and roughed up by his new page.
Bastard.
But I have his words. They’re mine to keep. And until it’s my time to check out, that’s all that counts anymore. And due to those carefully constructed words, words that were his burden, his gift, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s fire will never die, his legacy intact.
Let’s raise a glass.
Selah.

Goo Goo Ga Ga - Carnavale, Austin Style

2005-02-08T07:17:00.000-05:00

Now, first things first... I gotta give big props to a religion that says, "For the next few days, culminating at midnight on Fat Tuesday, you have our blessing to go hog fucking, bark at the moon wild! Verily I say unto you, get naked! Dance! Shimmy! Shake! Hunch! Grind! Drink! Eat! Drink more! And more! Let all dangle over the thin edge of the moral wedge!! Un nomini patri." I mean, how bad can a religion be which once a year allows its followers to come totally unhinged and debauch in the streets for all the world to see, and be completely forgiven, blessed with total absolution come Wednesday? Well, that’s another story altogether -I don’t dare open that alter boy can- but still, they at least allow their followers to release a whole bunch of pent up steam while enduring the rest of the year under the frocked papal thumb of guilt. Knowing how hard line many religions are, I say big time props go to the clerical powers that be who benevolently sponsor this holiday.
An age-old wisdom must’ve prevailed at the core of Carnavale’s origins. I can hear it now, the church elders agreeing, "Awww... shit... for once, let those poor bastards have cake... and pie, too!"
And from what I’ve seen in the past, having survived a few Mardis Gras’ myself, watched scads of newsreels over the years of Carnavale exploding in the streets of the mother country, Brazil, it would appear that parishioners and seculars alike rather look forward to this once a year occasion to allow their true ids to surface. With unchecked abandon they unscrew that tightly wound lid of their inflamed emotions and carnal desires and for a few days it’s Pandora’s box all over again -flying monkeys, caterwauling pigs, rum running dogs- but that’s the fun of it! And no one gives a good hot damn! I say, God bless ‘em! Les bon ton rouliers!! Repent when the dust settles and the ash is ceremoniously smudged on your forehead. Until then, dive in head hands and feet and get you some! Wallow all up in it! Root hog, root!
Throughout the year, the Austin experience is filled with celebrations of all type which ultimately make life here eminently more enriching and gratifying. But to allow this type of raucous celebration to take place within city limits, many many miles away from the polytheistic epicenter, shows just how too cool for school this town really is. During the course of the evening I suffered more than one sustained giggle watching slightly uncomfortable, pistol packin’ police officers trying their best to turn a blind yet bemused eye as exposed tetas and bombeezy booties throbbed and bobbed to the bewildering beat right under their very noses; and on more than one occasion, enduring arms slung around their uniformed waists, their epauletted shoulders, the party goers draped blissfully around their torsos while a barrage of flashbulbs shattered the intimacy to capture the surreal moment for posterity’s sake. Any other time of the year and these people would be arrested on the spot, don’t pass "Go", don’t get two hundred dollars neither! So, big props to the city of Austin for allowing its faithful denizens to unleash as is their want on this very special holiday. Viva libertad!
Realizing what I was about to get into, I took a page out of my "been there done that" book and snagged a cab to the Palmer Center to join in the festivities. In hindsight, intelligent move.
When I got out of my cab, the first thing I noticed was the tremendous rumble which emanated from the big upturned soup bowl that is The Palmer Center. The walls were heaving. The ground was quaking.
I was met outside the auditorium, on the sidewalk that rings the perimeter, by my trustworthy benefactor, Russ, editor of Austin Daze, where he’d been patiently awaiting my arrival, loyal chap that he is. After brief salutations and hosanna heys we strolled toward the vortex of activity while tired, scantily clad revelers filtered past us; decorated, festooned in every possible manner of outlandish mask, bead, bauble, sequin and feather, their candles temporarily spent, desperately seeking fresh air, needing a momentary break from the combustion manifesting inside.
As the doors swung open I was immediately seduced by a pounding incessant jungle rhythm which didn’t leave a single square inch of my body untouched; my feet twitching in time, my butt cheeks squeezing hard enough to crack a pecan, toes gnarled, knees waggling, arms pumping, tongue lolling, nostrils flaring, cross-eyed and soon-to-be painless, my body’s response to the tribal beats which assaulted my every sensory perception. There wasn’t any escape, nor did I want any! Bombarded and bamboozled says it best... The next thing I noticed -after almost suffering a potentially embarrassing pratfall- was a very slick concrete floor slathered in precious bodily secretions mixed with various spilled libations, creating a murky swamp on the coliseum floor, a virtual breeding ground for new microbial growth as well as fancy foot action. And the thought hit me then that for once, tonight, on this floor, white people could actually become a shadow of James Brown if only for a second, and they too, could be doin’ their thang like a sex machine! That in itself was glorious and sublime. When it comes to dancin’ white folks need all the help they can get. But I digress... Russ and I entered the inner sanctum of the arena and were pummeled by a blinding, pulsating light show that illuminated a writhing, hip shaking, groin rubbing spectacle the likes of which would’ve made Calligula salivate, but made me break out in an immediate ear to ear instead. My ass got real pointy-like. Russ didn’t look entirely unhappy either. Without another word said, we proceeded to disappear into the maw of the beast, swallowed whole, slaves to the rhythm; my flesh burning, my soul howling, my libido soon to be ratcheted up several notches.
Russ was determined to reach the front of the stage and midway there he and I got cut off by a cadre of hard core revelers who were oblivious to the world outside these circular walls, zoned instead on the feast before them, a laser-like focus on the sweaty mounds of flesh that swirled and bounced around them; pagans, wiccans, whirling dervishes, all bound by a communal trance on this ordained full moon.
For the next few hours I was tossed and swept away in a Felliniesque blizzard, led by voyeuristic instinct and various conga lines which I wasted no time in tagging along, giving me the opportunity to ogle even more captivating, enticing bodies of every size and dimension as the line snaked through the crowd that packed the coliseum floor; gobs of exposed flesh wiggling and shaking, barely garbed in the most inventive, beguiling costumes I’ve ever seen -Halloween paling in comparison- while a thunderous, bludgeoning, samba rhythm never relented, only serving to make every pelvic region under the dome gyrate to its every polyrhythmic nuance; a whirligig of sight and sound. In the immortal words of David Letterman, I was "hypmotized", baptized in the overflow.
And the hallucinogenic party raged on and on and on and on and on ... the squadron of drummers never tiring, bringing the gumbo of frenetic dancers to a boil.
Thankfully, your reporter, righteously lubed to a soft glow, and deservedly so, was still cognizant and willing when in the wee hours the barrage of samba drums grew silent and the overhead lights turned wicked night into sober dawn, the party thrumming to a buzzing, charitable close. And then -one can only imagine- even more mirth, merriment, and sexual acrobatics were on the agenda of many of the departing throng. After that irresistible buffet, how could it not?!
King Momo, who only minutes after being given the key to the Brazilian city which officially signaled the beginning of this year’s Carnavale, knowing that the masses of unbridled flesh were straining to unleash their power and glory, uttered a blazing, verbose oratory, ordering his quivering minions -who could barely contain their anticipation- to, "Have fun. Use condoms." And then all hell broke loose.
An aside here, so bear with me, but methinks a rather distinct possibility exists whereby many children are, more than likely, conceived during Carnavale, and if not conceived, then a helluva lot of practice to prepare for that day should it come. And as we all know, practice do make perfect.
Ah, the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh... pardon me, dear reader, I was momentarily back on the coliseum floor... time to reel in the technicolor snapshots from the evening which are forever mine, permanently etched in my libidinous memory.
As much as we might protest, eventually, every good thing does come to an end and end it does on Ash Wednesday when all Carnavale celebrants are expected to humbly, and with contrition, put their genitalia back under wraps, let the body cool down, the mind left to chill to a dull roar after the careening sensory overload. You can cross yourself more than once and say as many Hail Mary’s and light as many candles as you are able or need to, but don’t worry, fear not, you’ll be forgiven. What a concept, eh?! Ain’t it grand?! And should the cold turkey that follows be less than optimum, just remember, Carnavale is only a year away, a mere finger snap in the big tally of cosmic consciousness. Your body, your mind should be well recharged and more than ready when that day arrives, and barring an Earth ending cataclysm, it will. Then, as the next King gives the legions of eager participants the high sign, you can, once again, get your groove and your freak back on. Loosen up! Limber up! Bring on the samba! Hava nagela! Krishna krishna! Ungowa!!
But hell, don’t wait until the pontiffs give you their blessing. Like King Momo said, "Have fun". Every day should be a Carnavale of sorts.
One thing though... use condoms.
King Momo has spoken.
Y tan va.

In My Eyes, Pt. 2

2005-01-21T15:57:00.000-05:00

One thing I’ve noticed during a good many years spent traveling this spinning chunk of carbon is that the human race is scornfully wasteful, most notably Americans.
I, even though prone to piggishness from time to time, have always found it difficult parting with an inanimate object in which I can foresee a future use, or a past that’s been shared. I mean, why waste the time and energy -much less the money- to find and procure a replacement when you already possess it? I’ve obviously engendered some offbeat personality trait from my mother who, for instance, saved every single rubber band she ever came across! And let me say in the here and now that we, as a family, nor anyone else within shouting distance who needed one, were ever without a rubber band, darn near any size, any color. Something to be said for that. My mother’s sense of practicality and frugality evidently rubbed off on me in some odd way, maybe not for the reasons she chose as she was a product of the Depression, but just as important as her thriftiness was my own burgeoning ecological sensibilities.
The earliest signs that I’d inherited something from mom’s gene pool became evident when I was just a tyke on field trips with my kindergarten class where we were required to bring a brown bag lunch from home. Midway through the day, having explored a fire station, or Holsum bakery, or Noah’s potato chip factory, and having eaten the lunch that was packed with loving care by my mother, I couldn’t find it within myself to throw the bag away, not wanting it to be lost so far away from home, knowing it would be happy and safe and secure and infinitely more loved with me. I mean, a tree gave it’s life for this bag so it deserved a Viking funeral at the least!
I’d bring back the bag to my mom whereupon she would dutifully fold it and put it on top of the bulging stack in the pantry. The irrational love I extended to those brown paper sacks would eventually pay off in a day when they would be needed again, giving them additional life and purpose, and that thought thrilled me to no end. I had that kind of respect, peculiar as it is, even as a kid. This idea might be viewed as silly by most, I know, but I still feel this way about brown paper bags. That much hasn’t changed, nor will it.
These days, if I get a tear in some clothing? I have it darned. If a sheet rips? I get it repaired. I have a personal relationship with these items because we’ve shared this life; a veritable collage of sentimental memories when you get right down to it and I have no problem admitting that inexplicably I’m emotionally attached. I mean, look at the lifeline of a product’s origins; humble beginnings as a raw material produced by nature -a miracle in itself- and then take into consideration the myriad of lives who were involved not only in harvesting and making the item, but in finding its way to you, too. The entire process from start to finish is rather staggering. Makes you appreciate the relationship even more. So why would I want to casually toss these articles in the trash, reduce their meaning? I give them as many lives as a cat ‘cause the stitches they carry are essentially badges of honor and they and I wear each other proudly.
And in its own way, Planet Earth will thank you. Harmony is communicable.
I sleep real good at night. My head buried in my stitched pillowcase. The one that shelters and supports all my dreams, endures snores of wicked dimension.

Shit To Hell

2005-01-18T21:13:00.000-05:00

I forget which movie it was, but in it, the actor, Jack Nicholson, screamed at some plebeian who’d obviously torqued his shit, “You want the truth?! You can’t handle the truth!!”
Not knowing exactly why, those phrases uttered by old Jackie boy stuck with me for some time afterward as one thing we have in incredibly short supply these days is truth, and his words, even though scripted, ring very true, particularly in this day and age where lies and skullduggery are commonplace, and the more you spout truth the more misguided miscreants will get in your face, openly deriding your agenda. All swole up with noxious fear and methane distrust they’ll howl and yammer and point their crooked, wicked fingers whereupon you’re summarily judged and labeled a swill sucking pariah. And for what? For telling the truth!!
Lies keep spreading like a nasty rash and the scurrilous, loutish, scandalous behavior exhibited by the esteemed humanus walkus erectus has stained the consciousness of our culture beyond any reasonable comprehension of life as it should be. Worldwide, lies are bought and sold; very acceptable currency these days, A veritable morass of deception has trucked us into this upside-down hell on earth from which I’m having trouble finding my way toward a new dawn. But far from flinching, I’m coming out swinging as the fight is definitely on.
Just yesterday, in fact, speaking the truth caused a truckload of yak dung to be dumped on my doorstep. And I don’t necessarily cotton to yak feces, but even more so, the type person who ordered the caca to be deposited in the first place! That’s the crux. People are the problem here. And there’s a whole bunch of these shits procreating like rabid weasels; more than I care to stomach. Yesterday, despite every possible way I could find in my quest of giving, sharing, exercising patience and understanding, I got crossways with a manipulative, controlling, deceptive, hardcore shit, a person who’d worn the facade of good and truth and righteousness like a badge of honor -I guess when it was convenient for him to say what he wanted me to hear, as it certainly wasn’t part of the real him I later found out- the diseased facade he’d paraded around eventually slinking onto the cold stone floor after a downright miserable fuckin’ day at the dog races; this shit coming unhinged after I’d bent over backwards to help him in every way possible. But in his sickness, his zero currency of trust, geezed to the tits on fear, rigidly and purposely self-destructive, he effectively tore down everything good he’d built up... just to show me he could and would, by God!
Even though we’d spent an entire day in the studio getting absolutely zero accomplished -and all because of choices he made, incredibly numnutted choices, might I add- I was made to be the bad guy because I’d scheduled a business dinner 8 hours after the supposed start of the session. I was on time, had a great kit tuned and ready for the music at hand. I’ve done this before. Let’s look at these facts, shall we? We had five three minute songs to record, and we’d rehearsed them for four weeks... and 7 and 1/2 hours later we hadn’t recorded one solitary fucking note... and he’d wasted hundreds of dollars... and I didn’t get paid a fucking cent for my time.... but I was the bad guy... I reasonably scheduled a business meeting to help my life, a life after this sham of a session which should have been finished by 5 at the least if anything resembling a competent professional would’ve been on the fucking gig!! And the crooked, wicked finger pointed at me and the beefed up shit went to yowling...
Did he look at the facts? No.
Did he look in the mirror? No.
Did he look at the incompetent engineer? No.
Was he ever true to himself? Hell no.
Do I ever get any eye to eye truth? Fucking hellfuckin’ no.
And after all that I’d tried to prepare for him, all I tried to do to make the situation as best it could be given many years of experience and acumen, he chose to toss it all in the trash, never once believing I was telling the truth, even though I’d proven myself throughout the entire process of pre-production and over long talks with him to explain, not only myself, but the process as well, wanting to help him, help his music in every way I could, hell! join up for the ride if all went well!!
He made a series of jaw dropping decisions cause he couldn’t handle the truth. Fear is a bitch. Ignorance and pride, another.
And Jackie boy was right. People just can’t handle the truth at all anymore. I mean, the minute we open our mouth it’s all a hornet’s nest of lies, right? So why believe anything? Why bother fucking with the truth in the first place?! Spend that currency!!
Me? I’m gonna continue to tell the truth. Stands tall. Gives me peace of mind. And one day, maybe it’ll make a difference, however negligible, however grand, matters not. I choose to die satisfied and content, like a conquering hero returning home.
Meanwhile, the fight is on.
Put up your dukes, swizzle stick.

Man Child

2005-01-16T05:02:00.000-05:00

Since the clanging of the New Year’s bell, 2K5, I’ve been adrift, sucked into a whirlpool, caught in a rip tide, trying desperately to find the shoreline so I can breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve seen glimpses of shore, but only when the fog lifts, however brief. So I’ve yet to be able to breathe this much sought after sigh of relief and I’m dizzy; I’m waylaid and quivering and I can’t figure out why. But feel it I do. Like a crushing weight that hangs by a thin, minuscule thread directly over my head, the paranoia of omnipresent doom and gloom is pervasive, waiting at the all too ready to pulverize you into tiny, bloody bits should you let your guard down for even a nanosecond. Thus far I’ve managed to keep cataclysm and apocalypse at bay, but not without a fusillade of pug ugly skirmishes which have all left their mark. I’m plumb beat up. I’m floating in raw sewage. And, for the life of me, I can’t get a handle on my predicament. Confusion bewilders me. The reasons for this blind, lurching stagger are unfathomable, unquenchable, insatiable, unanswerable even.
It’s not as if life has decided to deal me a rough hand, not by any stretch, especially when compared to my self imposed exile of which I’m emerging still, or the condition in which many in the world find themselves while brute thuggery and natural calamities take their toll. When I take an objective look at the situation I’ve managed to find outlets for my talents, I’ve laid foundation, I do the work which is asked, I’ve gained momentum, I’m undeterred and dogged. But, in my mind, in this beginning of this new year, the struggle is winning this round hands down and I’m stumbling in circles, unable to see where I’m headed, unable to see the light at the end of the tunnel that I desperately need and saw only weeks before.
Not without glory and victory, stolen moments of calm and solace, peace, I’ve been wowed and amazed by squealing fireballs, gunpowder smoke and waterfalls of shimmering sparks, spates of adrenal freedom and a savage, brain scraping sonic assault, drunk men walking four abreast, arm over shoulder, singing at the top of their whiskey voices for no one and everyone to hear, graveyard tango and big hunky, strappin' wacko, angels in treetops, prayers answered, sweet, buttery vindication, hilltops scaled, kind words given, kind words accepted, ebullient smiles levied, stars in my nighttime sky... yet subjected to the nagging feeling the security, the bliss and sanctity, will evaporate at any moment and there isn’t any lichen covered bottom in which to land; a terrifying freefall of which there isn’t an end; my future.
I can’t feel it, yet it touches me.
I can’t smell it, but I reek.
I can’t see it, yet it sees through me.
It’s there. A penetrating lonely that squeezes me, violates me, takes my breath away, knows me all too well.
My faith put to the test as never before.
I’m eat up as worry does its best to infiltrate my strata and poison my every fiber; a war of the ids, a violent collision of spirit and soul, a fight to the finish with forces that look to weaken me, take me down screaming and kicking.
Punch drunk, black and blue, I continue, like an ant driven by its natural intent I continue even though completely in the dark of what is my true purpose. Do I even have a purpose? This is my dilemma. Where does all this lead? When is a plateau reached? When does one round the corner? When do the gears mesh and glide? When do your feet pull from the muck and you run free, barefoot through the grass like a child?
I dare not doubt, but my teeth are rattling and my brain is mush and when I’m least ready the harpies keep divebombing... and they’re drawing blood. I run, I walk, I sit quietly and think, then I don’t, yet nothing changes.
This is the illusion
Making progress each and everyday, on any scale, is my sole objective. And it was while making progress today, on a day which could’ve been serviced by apathy and surrender, I stumbled upon a secret... and I was humbly reminded who’s in control here,
There were two sounds today which opened my eyes, my heart, my very existence laid bare, and they were both emotions of and from an innocent, a child.
While turning a corner in a market, I heard the bubbling laughter of a child held to his mother’s chest, the intoxicating happiness in the sound stripping all my woes away in an instant. Be gone! and they were. I stood naked.
Turning yet another corner, I heard the mournful wail of a child separated from his mother, and the anguish and sadness in the cry washed me away in a flood of melancholy. Again, I stood naked.
And in that moment, I stopped, silent, bookended by these two outbursts of divinity, and my world was wiped clean. I stood naked. Enlightened.
The startling beauty which was the sweeping impact of those opposing emotions gave me clarity, insight into what was important in the grand scope of what truly constitutes our living, our happiness, our joy. How bad can it be? How good? Simply, it is up to you.
I saw then. Clearly.
Standing there, adjusting to this newfound levity, all of the pettiness that was my confusion became meaningless decoration, only serving to obstruct the simplicity of this implacable grandeur we call life and the living of it. I walked away, naked, drowning in joy and appreciation, realizing I was well on my way, my lot only growing exponentially, more enriched by each passing day, a veritable field ripe with a waving throng of blooming, dew laden, pastel tulips, sunshine on my shoulders. ...I let go and took flight in the breezes which lifted me up far and away... I let go...
I am a man.
I am a child.
I was reminded. I was instructed. I was given knowledge. And by nothing more than a cheerful laugh, a wounded howl from the purity of a child.
A gift. God’s gift.
I turned it over. I let go. I reside by the still waters.
The simplicity. This dance. Again. Again. And again. Forever more.

Get A Grip

2004-12-30T13:49:00.000-05:00

I will make a statement here that may rile some, but in the arena of common sense let’s assume for the course of this discourse that I’m right, or, at least, somewhere in the ballpark. ...How can anyone with a logical, rational mind not look at the way this planet is designed in conjunction with all the creatures who inhabit it, looking carefully at the magnificent design that each of us possesses and how they relate and depend on the other, and think that there isn’t a supreme intelligence who’s formed all of this wonder? I can’t imagine anyone who has a speck of intelligence who would dare think otherwise! So, I will make my stand and state that being this Earth was created by God, as we were, and with that thought in mind, is it too far out to think that this planet is too, a living being and has an intelligence, a consciousness, so therefore, an agenda of sorts?
With all the ill will we’ve forced upon it has the Earth finally had enough and is now systematically striking back through the only means at its disposal? Take a look around, something’s up, that’s for sure...
An abstract thought, but a plausible theory which has a certain amount of validity in my mind. Man, wildlife, and the Earth were built to rely on the other, and for some time now, man has completely disregarded his end of the deal, intent upon raping this planet at his will.
This theory more than implies a certain amount of expanding one's mind to grasp that such a thing could be possible, but I routinely scale beneath the surface of scientific data and have no problem giving the theory credence. We are here for each other, man relying upon nature, and versa visa. So why is it so impossible to grasp that nature might indeed exercise a will as we have?
Simply, and bluntly put, take a look around... man is full of shit and is reaping his own reward in ghastly, horrific ways. Deservedly so, way I look at it.
We’ve been given some pretty heavy lessons in the last few years that should've awakened us, made us realize what’s really important in our co-existence in this world, but sadly, man is more than a little full of himself, acting like the drunk who thinks the party will never stop, the world his personal toilet, and just like always, when he sobers up as the crisis hits, and it does, mankind looks to God for answers, then conveniently casts him aside once the life cycle returns to its normal pace. And it is through this immutable interaction that the lessons issue forth, yet we still refuse to see the forest for what it is.
We've lost our way and think ourselves impervious. Man is so shallow. So smug... Despite all of the amazing accomplishments of mankind, we’ve regressed in so many ways, disappearing up our own assholes, and we’re stirring up a shit storm that’s gonna take us all by surprise, and by then, it will be too late.
Bling Bling that.

Bah Humbug

2004-12-29T22:45:00.000-05:00

It’s all I can do to stomach Christmas. And every year, my disgust grows exponentially. Not my favorite time of year, to be sure. The crass commercialism that has overtaken this holiday we call Christmas nauseates me to no end as I watch people fighting over articles on sale, ratcheting up their personal debt to all new highs, raising their stress to stroke levels, and for what? Some pathetic need to buy someone’s love with exorbitant gifts that mean nothing in the long run?
We as a peoples are truly a lost cause. We’ve lost the plot. We’ve become slaves and don’t even know it.
What’s happened to love? Family? Friends? Kindness? Empathy? Compassion? What’s happened to contrition? Redemption? Absolution? Things that cost nothing, just time?
There is much more in interpersonal relationships and the long term gifts that can be exchanged in reaching out to love and understand one another, appreciate the other for what they are and what they represent, and what you can get by giving them your attention, a hug, a kind word. What finer gift is there anywhere on Earth? Just ask the countless thousands who lost loved ones in the recent tsunami disaster in the Indian Ocean. They’ve lost loved ones that they will never be able to hug or see or talk to ever again. What about the ones who lost loved ones in 911? They, too, will never be able to tell their lost loved ones how much they meant, how much they cared. Forever. A long time. Do all the gifts they ever exchanged mean diddly in the big scheme of things? What would they give to have that person back? Would they treat them differently, if so?
We still don’t get the messages we’re being given to wake the fuck up and realize what’s really important in this world and fuck all the rest! I grow weary...
But, by God, we’d better lavish ridiculous amounts of money and purchase -by any means possible- shiny new toys and gadgets for one another rather than having a conversation and really listening and really discussing what all we can do to make not only our lives, but anyone we come in contact with to have a better understanding of why we’re here in this big cosmic experiment called life! It really is that simple, And so much more important than a shiny wrapped bauble; a giving soul, a listening, understanding ear, a hug, an embrace, all which costs not a dime, only time.
This year I received some of the finest gifts a man could ever ask for, and none of which cost anything, only time and consideration from friends, some of whom I barely know.
The first gift came from a newfound friend, someone whom I’d not said two words to in high school, but someone whom I re-met at a recent high school reunion, the spark of which proved to be fruitful. I’d written a piece for a magazine for which I contribute a bi-monthly article, a piece I’d received many compliments as it really shone a light on several ills that face the human condition. I was truly shocked when the piece was rejected for being politically incorrect. I mean shocked! I’d written to my friend, slightly despondent, and was more than willing to just walk away not wanting to censor myself or my thoughts, and I told her as much. She wrote back several days later, pointing out the obvious problems with the rejection, all of which I knew and understood, but she then wrote, “I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but I hate to see you burn that bridge”... a sentence that gave me pause, a sentence that kept reverberating through my consciousness until a chord was struck and I eventually reached down deep and wrote a most profound story, a story which I wouldn’t have attempted without my newfound friend’s unknowing prod. And there it was... this gift, this wonderful gift from someone I barely know, but a gift that made me a better person, a better writer, and the story I wrote might indeed touch people in a way in which they’ve never pondered, too. And I was able to thank her for this precious gift, this gift which cost nothing, just time.
The second I received came from an old friend with whom I’m working on a most unique business. We’ve been working on this project for a year and a half now and the association has proved to be beneficial on several levels, all for the good, both internally and externally. And it was during this holiday season he and I met to have a face to face as we’d both been busy on separate entities for some time, not having the time for personal visits. I thought this would be just a “hello” and a quick conversation, but short shrift isn’t what I got. My friend pointed out our surprise meeting some years back, when we’d reconnected after a thirteen year vacancy in our long standing friendship, realizing at the time that we both represented the ying to the others yang, seeing there was strength in our alliance and a potential for making something really incredible, then the work began. He pointed out our initial meeting and also pointed out that here we were several years later and in that time, we’d accomplished what we’d set out to do, no easy feat as this project is way outside the box. And his unveiling this nugget warmed my heart like nothing I’ve had for many years. What was his gift? Friendship. Caring. Understanding. Celebration of several years of many wonderful gifts exchanged which have made both of us better people in the grand scope of things. And he presented it to me in a true gesture of friendship and happiness. The greatest gift. What did it cost him? Nothing. Just time.
So, a great Christmas season was had by me by virtue of these two gifts, and there were others too, small acts of kindness that just warmed my heart beyond belief. Could it have been any better? Yeah. I could’ve had someone to share it with. But I know by building character through these two exchanges will make me that much more worthy when I meet that special someone.
Time. Such a precious commodity. How we spend it, another.
The gift I have for you? Take time to listen to friends, family, loved ones. Really listen. Really care. And then, in turn, mean what you say. Give where you can. Be there. Really be there. Better the human condition. The ripples will continue to fan out and touch many more than you can believe. What will it cost you? Nothing. Just time.
My gift to you.
And what did it cost me? Nothing. Just time...

Goldie

2004-12-22T02:22:00.000-05:00

Our troubled history is there to teach us, especially if we’re committed enough to reach out, and with conviction, grasp the bigger picture in hopes of advancing mankind.
I was fortunate enough to have been vicariously raised through the tender care and mercy of several women of color, as my Mom and Dad both had to work to make ends meet in a day and age that seems almost impossible to have ever existed, and over time I’ve come to appreciate the tireless efforts of these women, who, despite what racial incongruity existed in the day, gave their all to make sure that we -and others like us- received the best of care, a love supreme.
Goldie was one of these women, and one of the sweetest people of any color I’ve ever had the privilege to have shared this experience we call life. A loving spirit that knew no bounds, Goldie was selfless and gave her all to make sure that we kids were well fed and taken care of while Mom and Dad were out in the world making a living. Goldie’s spaghetti alone was to die for! And the hugs and laughter we shared bore no price tag. I loved Goldie, plain and simple. And despite the passing of time, the love I feel for her has never diminished, only grown, if anything, knowing now as I do the wall her back was against.
One day, I forget the reason why, but riding in the back seat with my sister -my Mom driving Goldie home to be with her family- me and sis got into an argument and in the heat of battle my sister’s infamous temper cut loose and she unleashed the “N” word.
Afterwards, there was a prolonged silence in the car, and I will never forget the look on Goldie’s face when she finally turned and faced us, the both of us stunned and in shock over the unexpected outburst. The look of profound hurt that masked Goldie’s face haunted us for years and years thereafter. Me and my sister and my Mom have never forgotten that day, and we’ve touched upon the moment in embarrassed tones since.
Goldie didn’t deserve the ugliness she received that day.
But Goldie was a most serene woman, filled with an all encompassing capacity for goodness. Even after that horrific day, she continued to be there for us as if the incident had never happened. Goldie loved us unconditionally with every beating ounce of her heart.
No matter the color her skin, no matter her lot in life, Goldie was love incarnate. There exists an adage which states that true love is color blind, and I can personally vouch that statement to be true. The cherished memory of Goldie has forever burned deep into the very roots of my soul.
God had a special place for Goldie in the next domain when she left us, and for that, I’m happy. She deserved that and more, much much more.
Times have changed, but have we embraced all that can be? The past is gone, nothing we do will ever change it, but we can do something about the present. Love, tolerance, compassion and understanding can truly change everything that stands in the way of racial equality and respect. In the immortal words of John Lennon, “All we need is love”. And one can only imagine the depths of what Martin Luther King truly meant when he bravely uttered the immortal words, “I have a dream”.
The tools are in our hands. Isn’t it time to sweep in front of your own doorstep, try a little harder to mend this bridge that divides? With wounds this deep, the work is never done. However, with love guiding your way, anything and everything can change for the better in a single, solitary moment of clarity and acceptance. Just like Goldie showed us, even in the dark days of overwhelming oppression and dogged, blasphemous ignorance, love can and will triumph.
Goldie’s humble legacy is blazing bright enough for all of us to learn, to grow, to share, and to give freely, like she would’ve wanted, like she exhibited, day after day after day after day after day. The quiet dignity she possessed should be a beacon for us all.
Today is a new day. All things are possible. With God’s grace helping to cleanse our souls, we shall truly overcome. And what a great day that will be!
Take that first step. Encourage your fellow man to to join the crusade. What power we have to be able to at any moment, realign our minds, change our course, and because of our actions, the world becomes a better place by the sunshine brought forth to cast into nothingness the shadows that were once there.

Pickle-A Love Note to Someone

2004-12-13T04:39:00.000-05:00

I have willfully and unknowingly shaped myself into something of an anomaly. I don’t fit into any one particular social strata. I'm a walking talking dichotomy. And for this I’m alone.
I’ve pushed myself so far in so many directions, dangling as far over the edge as I’m able, I truly don’t think there is any one woman who can fully appreciate, much less understand me. And for this I’m alone.
Too much emphasis is placed on first impressions in this day and age, so much so that many miss golden opportunities, ones that don’t come in traditional, visually acceptable packages. For instance, I’ve been told I look fierce, but underneath I’m eminently peaceful. I wear sarongs, but only for sartorial flair, as I truly only have love for women, despite what the public at large may believe when they see me dressed thus. I harbor no desire for material possessions, nor the lavish spending of money to acquire them, yet I fully appreciate fine craftsmanship, and will spend what I have when I have it to be able to enrich my life, or others, uncork some pressurized pent up steam when needed, too. I routinely take wild externalized risks which give me a sense of expression and purpose in an all too square and conservative world. And for this, I am alone.
My choice in the arts is completely contrary to the type person with whom I relate. I am insatiably curious of darkness. Yet I seek and demand light. I am both shadow and sunshine, the duality of nature in full bloom. And for this, I’m alone.
My spirituality goes well beyond any boundaries of organized religions. I seek and find truth, faith, and wisdom from a myriad of beliefs, both historically recognized and not. I am an island in this respect, and because of it, I am alone.
I am a confusing mix, even to me. But I don’t necessarily choose these pathways, I am only curious and gravitate to things that uniquely appeal to my id, a bit here, a bit there, oddities that somehow fit together in this cosmic collage of my own design. Woefully, mankind blindly follows trends, stays cloistered in like minded packs with very little flexibility, much less understanding. Everything about me is because of stretching the norm to the point of breaking, not to make a statement for the sake of making one, only to live my life as I see it, as I choose, choices that make my heart beat loudly and give me the feeling that not only am I living life full bore, but the more I challenge myself the more I’m liable to discover which gives me the courage and the strength to dive off of cliff after cliff after cliff after cliff after cliff. always growing wings when I need them, new landscapes and vistas over each new horizon. This peculiar lifestyle scares most everyone I chance to meet. And for these choices, I am alone.
Is this how I envisioned my life? Hardly. But the farther down the less traveled path I journey the less people I meet along the way; the higher the altitude, the thinner the air. My back is turned to the audience and I’m leading my own band. And forget walking to my own drummer, I am the drummer. And for this, I’m alone.
I stand firmly on my own two feet, confident, assured, entirely comfortable in my own skin. But, I am flesh and blood. I have a heart full to bursting. I need love. I need tenderness. I need compassion. I need support. I need understanding. I need a sweet caress. I need.... I need... I need... you.
Only a pittance for what you’ll get in return...

Caught Between Heaven and Hell

2004-12-12T15:39:00.001-05:00

As my sensibilities become more acute, I’m more aware of how sounds can affect you in any given situation. Living in the country, completely devoid of any man made sound, I found myself to be more in touch with my thoughts, internally in tune with myself and the world around me. Peace. Calm. Is it any wonder in the cities people become disenfranchised with themselves, given over to the hustle and bustle that thrives there, progress by any other name? A dangerous proposition for the mental health of the city dwellers, even though most would initially poo poo the idea caught up in the daily grind they’ve become accustomed to; sociological addicts, like rats on speed in a lab experiment. More and more I find sound waves are a force to be reckoned with, and can make the difference between sanity and insanity, calmness and befuddlement, clarity and confusion.
Never was that more clear than the day before when a trip to my local grocery store gave me a glimpse into the divide between heaven and hell, and the effect was most startling.
Stepping from my truck and walking towards the store, I was met by a topiary of bird songs. Everyday at sunset, thousands of birds gather around this store, parking themselves on anything possible. The power lines are full. The trees are full. And their songs are ubiquitous and soothing, melodious and comforting. As I walked to the front doors the gentle melodies washed over me and life took on new meaning. Heaven on earth. Bliss.
As soon as I walked through the doors to the supermarket I was met by eternal hell. The chinging of the cash registers, voices distorted on the public address system, all manner of ringers on way too many cell phones, just an assault on the senses, and none too pleasing either. No matter where I walked there was incessant noise, all geared toward enlightening us, keeping us in touch, directing us. Blather Blather Blather Blather Blather!
It was all I could do to get what I came for and leave as quickly as possible before I lost my mind!
The first thing I hear when I depart the store is the mellifluous tones of the birds warbling their songs. Ahhhhh, bliss again.....
Next thing I know a car pulls beside me and I hear the entire vehicle shake and rattle with a booming, crushing bass note, then I hear a voice in the soundtrack shouting for all the parking lot to hear, “Shake that ass, bitch! Dip it low, dip it low dip it low dip it low!”
There isn’t any escape.
Give me space. Give me quiet. Give me nothing.
I’ll leave the madness to the rest of you; progress by any other name... Dip it low.

Discombobulated

2004-12-10T22:54:00.000-05:00

A voice from over my shoulder said, “You need to mist. The mist makes it come alive.”
I turned and there was a woman standing next to me, a woman who I didn’t know, smiling and pointing at the Christmas wreath I held.
“If you want it to stay green and healthy, mist it” she said again.
Only later while lounging by the lake did this woman’s seemingly innocuous words have their unintended effect. After allowing my thoughts to flow for several minutes, tuning into the rustle of the wind through the dry, fragile, multi-colored leaves, my dogs panting and slobbering, the nursery rhyme calliope of a street vendor enchanting youngsters and oldsters alike to come and purchase his ice cream, did my random thoughts coalesce.
Mist it to keep it healthy, eh? Then consider me the gardener holding the world’s most powerful mister -words- doing my best to spray the world at large, trying to make it healthy in any way possible.
We are in a war. A war with evil. A war rife with violence that is off the scale. The bad news is, evil is winning.
Never in my life have I ever felt such negative vibrations distorting our natural harmony. There are rampant, marauding square waves driving the human race into a murderous froth. What unnerves me the most is we currently have a leader who is espousing this vitriol, stirring up the dredges of the worst that mankind offers, and all in the name of God, using fear as a means to keep yon sheep in line, and the lost and befuddled are responding with even greater negative energy, gnashing their teeth and lashing out at the foreigners, the homosexuals, the killers of babies, while they kill untold number of innocents overseas, frying death row subjects like their Sunday barbecue, ignoring the genocide in Sudan, the killing rage in Chechneya; the negative waves driving a citizen to kill a musician onstage, hell, even sports icons are now attacking their fans! and there are countless other heinous atrocities spurred by the onslaught of this negative tsunami, just pick up a newspaper and prepare to hang your head in shame. In the middle of this massacre, has anyone ever taken the time to reflect on one of our most high on high commandments? Last I looked, there exists a dictum from God that plainly states, “Thou shalt not kill”. And to add a bit of spice to that, “Violence begets violence”. Period. No misunderstanding or misconstruing those words, eh?
Meanwhile we, the human race, pursues this madness whole hog, full tilt, shaking fists at any who might disagree, spitting vile hate and flexing barbaric domination over ones who dare to think differently.
Realize this recent election was a battle. Not the war. And that is the one thing that we who seek evolvement and brotherhood must never forget. This evil is too big now to stand toe to toe and duke it out. We’d be forced to resort to their methodology, which we know only begets more of the same. No, we must chip away, fight every little battle we can to the teeth, and as their foundation crumbles, and it will. we can finally push to win this war with tolerance and love, and isn’t that what’s important? To win the war?
Heed these words and reflect: “The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up.” - Paul Valery
This war can be won. Scars will run deep. Blood will be spilt. Lives will be lost. But in the end, victory will be claimed without another shot fired, the enemy of peace and freedom splintered to ruin, defeated for the most part by his own vain ruthlessness.
For those who know and seek, the orders are simple; persevere.

Magic

2004-12-01T13:22:00.000-05:00

Magic. Not Houdini. Not even Copperfield. Much less Ricky Jay. No, I’m talking about that undefinable dip into the shimmering cosmos, sticking in your thumb and pulling out the unexpected life-changing plumb.
I grew up in a day when magic was due course. Happenstance meetings with those with whom you commiserated and understood and admired took place with due diligence and chance. Trips around the world occurred because of word of mouth and dalliance. And because, women flocked to your doorstep and the phone rang incessantly with good news, golden opportunities. If you dared, life backed you up. Greatness was there for those who dared. And the more you dangled over the edge, the more likely you were to strike pay dirt and swim to all new depths.
Today is another story altogether.
Today we champion mediocrity. Today we rely on “knowledge”. Today we exhibit brute force and wallow in lies. Today we respect the bottom line. Today we accrue too much useless information and act like we're enlightened. Today we're all thinking too much and consider ourselves impervious, omnipotent, arrogantly dismissing such a willy nilly, hobgoblin notion as real life magic. Today man has flippantly traded all encompassing wonder for stoic reason. We've lost the plot.
I miss the days of magic. And wonder.
I’ve not given up. Never will. And one day... one day when least expected, magic will once again show up on my doorstep and demand to be recognized. On that day, I will french kiss her. I will bowl her over with unrestrained ardor. I will continue to maul her like a long lost lover until she rests her head on my shoulder and weeps.
Magic. Only for the few. And we who know it, who live it and breathe it, are challenged to be stewards of the holy manna. Otherwise, what’s the point? I, for one, ain’t gonna give in 'til she shows her face again. Life is for the living. And I gotta handful and ain’t gonna let go for shit... cracker motherfuckers.... and when I reappear, imbued and re-illuminated, you folks are gonna gape and shit. You will know me by the beatific look on my face, a clarity and focus that you can't even fathom, much less understand.

Bobaloo and me

2004-11-14T13:40:00.000-05:00

Besides my parents, Robert Palmer was, and is, the singular most important person in my life... so far. Our partnership, our friendship wasn’t just about music, even though musical discovery was our modus operandi, the success of which became my ticket ‘round the world. Together we instigated a ruckus that will never be silenced.
His role as teacher to my student opened doors to literary prowess, gastronomic delights, fine wines, delightful spirits, thought provoking celluloid, sartorial splendor, art of all media, arresting photography; all the while embracing obscure cultures and discovering artisans of every polka dot and stripe from sea to shining sea; a sherpa who taught me to live well, righteously, dangerously, giving me the freedom to willfully fling myself into the void and become a true citizen of this planet. ...One could say the boy put some spit and shine on this rube. ...Yeah. ...Like that.
Every mark I make in the creative domain of this life -which is just now rounding into a new chapter- there is a piece of him in it. In everything I do, Robert’s always there, up my ass, goading me, prodding me to dig deep and deliver, be the very best I can be in whatever I so choose.
My friend. Gone.
Me, here, to pick up the pieces, carry the torch.
My burden. His gift.

A Pot To Piss In

2004-11-10T22:18:00.000-05:00

Like a recovering addict, I’m struggling today with my very existence. Stronger than I’ve ever been after due diligence, the very cognizance of this subtle addiction, however, caught me quite off guard. You see, up until now, me and my good friend had been damn fine company for the other. In each other we found solace, room for growth, as well as introspection. But today, an intractable wall has been met.
Years ago I took a personal vow of poverty. Having lived for many years and dabbling in every excess I could, living my life to the hilt, the time came for me to cleanse my system of the wretched excesses which had made me a slave to their every want and need. And there were many...
Selling everything I had and removing the yoke of debt which had kept me the financial slave was very easy. Liberating even. Moving to the middle of nowhere to squat on a friend of mine’s sprawling ranch gave me time to cleanse myself of most all that civilization had foistered upon me, leaving the imprint of Western society far behind. I was alone and unencumbered. Me and nature. And slowly, over time, as if tempering a sword, I was made stronger by my ability to realize what was important in this world, what my needs were versus mere wants, my body and my mind strengthened, gaining knowledge with every passing day from the solitude and surrounding nature. From time to time I would have a chuckle recalling all that had cluttered my life heretofore, wondering if perchance I’d chosen the wrong tack. But like a recovering addict who knows this course of action to be life affirming, I persevered to rid myself of what had once kept me a prisoner; a prisoner due to a lifestyle that hadn’t an ounce of importance in the big scheme of things. Diddly squat, really.
The test of my resolve required that I take a vow of poverty. No job. No paycheck. Nada. Without a stack of monthly bills, only requiring nourishment, the lack of money wasn’t a problem, my simple needs always met. Whenever I had to budget a couple of dollars, I grew excited and invigorated at the power of meager needs. Going out in public and not wanting to rearrange my viewpoint or splash money around like a fool, empowered me. And slowly, assuredly, I grew stronger with more clarity and focus than I’d ever felt before.
A short time ago, after three years of complete and utter solitude, below the radar of poverty, I moved to the city to put into play several business options whose doors opened to me, the universe working its magic. I figured I must be ready for the tasks at hand, and now the time to move into this next chapter.
Over the course of the next year, remaining true to my vow of poverty, I’ve managed to get closer to my goals every day, staying due course. Seed that has been planted during this odyssey is only now breaking ground with new growth. I can literally smell the next chapter.
But unexpectedly, the worm, she did turn... and the time of change is upon me.
My friend, poverty, taught me much, but like a drug that’s run its course, the buzz is no longer there. And instead of teaching me, shaping me, the poverty is now a ponderous weight that keeps me from flying. Like a drug, who is now master and who slave?
The time to break from the crushing grip of poverty is now. I have learned. I’ve been tempered. The time has come to wield the sword and live a life deserving.
Ungowa!

Shipwrecked

2004-11-10T16:56:00.000-05:00

I’ve sat back and watched the most unbelievable scenarios unfold post our presidential election. The ones who voted Republican seem to think their victory gives them free rein to chastise, condescend, and laugh in the face of any who voted differently. This is our president’s version of uniting our country, eh? Go ugly week, you ask me.
I am sick to my stomach over the tension I feel from all this imbroglio. I can only guess this is how our Civil War got started. On this side, rage, frustration, and on the other side, a smug superiority coupled with over the top vindication; all at direct odds with one another.
Luckily for me, I’ve only been witness to these clashes. An observer, one could say. But, unfortunately for me, all that swirls about came to a head last night and took a steaming shit on my doorstep.
I’d called my mother and father earlier in the day as I’d not heard from them in some time. Politics aside, I’ve not had very many quarrels with my parents. They’ve always been cooler than school, and we’ve always managed to work through any differences we’ve shared. But during this election it was obvious that we were on two different sides of the fence. We had some lively conversations over our differences, but we always managed to put a big grin on it. Until last night, that is...
I picked up the ringing phone only to be greeted by uproarious laughter. I wanted to be in on the joke too so I asked, “Gosh, what’s so funny, ma? Let me in on it, I want to laugh that good too.”
When she could finally compose herself, she said, “Well, I guess it looks like your people lost the election in a big way, huh son?” Then she doubled over in laughter again.
Her laughter hit me like a Tyson overhand right. She was laughing at me, the loser.
Our conversation never got any better unfortunately, doing my best to let her know that contrary to her rather narrow confines of beliefs, mine were scattered all over the place, neither Republican or Democrat, but my own view of policy based upon, what I consider, the right things for both humanity and the world in which we dwell. Well, I might as well have been talking to a rock because not only did she barely listen, she couldn’t help telling me how wrong and basically stupid I was. When I told her that I read many things from many sides from all over the world on a daily basis to become well informed, she then chided, “Son, do you believe everything you read? And that Internet thing is so liberal, they’ve got you believing everything they print and say.”
I was floored as my mother has never been on the Internet, thinking it is some foul beast waiting to eat everyone’s brain away. but now she was an in house expert.
So, I tried to balance the conversation and said, “Well, Mom, I will say this, the Republicans had an incredibly organized campaign and they won based on that organization. Karl Rove, as much as I dislike him, did a helluva job.”
“Who’s Karl Rove?” she asked.
I was dumbfounded.
Here was my mother preaching to me what a doofus I was for reading and searching for truth, when all she did was cast aspersion over things she knows diddly about.
The conversation never got any better, the condescension only getting worse and finally tiring of verbally flogging her son, my Mom, the Christian, tried to end the conversation, laughing all the while, “Well, we love you son, despite what you think.”
My only reply was “Nice talking with you”, then I hung up the phone without a good-bye.
If I disliked the man before, now I hated him, and hate isn’t a word to be tossed around lightly. But because of George Bush and his staff and their calculated brainwash of most of America, especially the religious right, we now have a divide in our country that I’ve not felt since the rancor over the Vietnam War.
In short, I don’t know when I will speak to my parents again, if ever.
For now, enjoy the victory folks!
Meanwhile I wait for the bottom to drop out, because I know it will. You cannot keep fucking people over and lying and mangling and distorting without it finally catching up with you, and Dubya will have his day of reckoning, I’m sorry to say.
I used to be proud to be an American. Now my head hangs in shame and brother is pitted against brother, while George gloats and says, “I earned my capital, and by God, I’m gonna spend it.”
I’ll leave you with this...
“When I despair...I remember that all through history, the way of truth and love has always won. There have been murderers and tyrants, and for a time they can seem invincible. But in the end they always fall. Think of it ... always.” - Gandhi

Present Reality-A Letter to a Friend

2004-11-06T01:47:00.000-05:00

Bob-e,
Was watching the Bill Maher show on HBO this evening and the picture's never been more clear. He has special guests who come on an in-house screen from time to time and he conducts interviews via this fashion. Well, this evening he had a Senator Simpson from Wyoming, I believe, and what I saw tonight and what I witnessed the other night at Larry's has given me a clear picture of the shape of things to come.
As soon as Bill asked his first question -which was tinged with a bit of comedic sarcasm- he was viciously attacked by the senator and it never got any better. It got personal and real quick, the Senator repeatedly ignoring the questions and not really "hearing" what Bill was asking, instead chiding and attacking Bill and others like him for their views. Flagrantly cursing and attacking with severe condescension were the gist of the senator's replies. Reminded me of your "conversation" with Tom the other night at Larry's.
These people (see how I'm talking, it is an "us" vs. "them" mentality-fucking hate it) feel they have won some sort of victory that gives them free rein to attack anyone who thinks differently. There isn't any understanding of any sort. We are either on their side and agree with them or we are the enemy. Whose words are those? Dubya's of course, and he's stained the consciousness of our country beyond belief with them. Dialogue is gone for now, and we'd better get used to it. Our founding fathers must be turning in their graves!
What does this mean? We certainly don't give up, but we'd better be ready to challenge them on a level they understand, which unfortunately, reverts us back to Cro Magnon. Quick on our feet, in other words. Survival of the fittest.
These next few years are going to be the most challenging of our lives. We'd better get some thick skin and a laser like vision, plenty of patience, fortitude, and clarity. Otherwise, we'll go down in the flood.
-bd

The Last Splash

2004-11-05T14:05:00.000-05:00

After listening to two very good friends of mine descend into a winless, backbiting argument the other night during a spectacular dinner with other close friends, the precious balance and worth of true friendship has weighed heavily on my mind and heart in these dark days of a seeming pending apocalypse post the presidential election. And in doing so, a memory came to the fore.
I remembered the last note I performed with my late “singin’ his ass off” friend. As if it was yesterday. At that time we’d been embroiled offstage and on for the better part of 15 years, and the record we’d been feverishly working on came to a close, for my part at least, with the single tinkle of an eight inch cymbal. I distinctly remember a wave of emotions flooding me after the cymbal had decayed to silence. My friend pressed the talk back and said, “That’s a wrap”, and solemnity shrouded me, inexplicably feeling as if I’d played my very last note with him.
That night while at a Mexican restaurant in the land of wine, pasta, and artisans of the most high, that inescapable feeling overwhelmed me again, feeling like some great chapter in my life had come to a close, even though there wasn’t anything on the horizon to indicate such. But felt it I did, and midway through our festive repast I had to take leave from our table to let tears spill from the confines of my emotional cup.
Bizarre, really, on the face of it, as I said there wasn’t any indication that my feelings held portent. But now, looking back on it, that was indeed the very last time that me and my friend made recorded music together. That single, solitary cymbal splash was the final note of many we’d created over the years. From the world’s finest stages and studios scattered all over this globe, we’d made quite a rumble during our heyday, but on that day, our working chapter had come to a close.
And now he is gone. And I still feel him. I still miss him. And every musical mark I create in this world there is a piece of him in it.
I still remember the splash of that little cymbal as it decayed into nothingness. It was a beautiful sound.

Shanghai Slimmed

2004-11-05T04:27:00.000-05:00

This morning I awoke, sick and disgusted with what we’ve endured as of late courtesy of the presidential campaign. Before I could even get out of bed a more deeper profound disgust settled in when it dawned on me just what a horrible species we’ve become, seemingly doing our best to bring on extinction by every means necessary.
Humanus walkus erectus is truly the scourge of the earth. We, as a race, should be ashamed, repentant, but we’re far too arrogant and self absorbed to be concerned with the big picture, so we continue to malign and pollute and mangle and destroy -all under the name of manifest destiny- everything and anything that stands in the way of this maniacal greed run afoul.
Even last night I listened in horror as two really good friends of mine got crossways due to their differences in opinion of what our country stands for. Next thing I knew the words grew more personal, plumb rancorous and dagnasty, and then came the inevitable, “Come on outside so I can kick your ass!” ...Goodness gracious. Hava nagela. Holy bubba... Instead of relishing a lively debate amongst friends breaking bread, we’ve been reduced to screaming meemies over some ridiculous ass behavior that just recently got mandated. And our leader is gonna bring us together? ...Yeah.... this coming from the fucker who took an irrevocable bad left turn and refuses to admit mistakes, leading us deeper into madness, the ever growing rift more virulent by the day. Yeah, sure he’s gonna galvanize the world! Blow the fucking whole shebang to smithereens is more like it.
Not wanting to get into a purple funk over all this recent squabble and fuss, I tooled it over to my favorite outdoor tacqueria, needing some comfort in which I find in their pollo delights.
I sat at the picnic table and unwrapped my first taco. The first bite let me know I was at the right place, just what the doctor ordered. Before I could swallow the delicious mouthful of char grilled chicken smothered in onions, cilantro, and lettuce, swaddled in a corn tortilla, drizzled in a verde sauce, I noticed a group of sad looking birds standing in a semi circle, staring at me intently. Seeing that I’d taken notice of them, the birds gathered even closer... and then it hit me. As much as we’ve killed and maimed and fucked each other over with alarming regularity over the centuries, we’ve also fucked with mother nature too, doing our best to destroy the very thing that gives us life, and here stood yet another sad example! These birds, these vital creatures who’ve also existed on this planet for centuries, were now reduced to mere beggars, forgetting their very purpose and reason for living. Their very essence compromised by our endless wanton, mindless, corruption.
It was all I could do to finish my meal.
This world is in some sorry ass shape. Violence begets violence and we’ve now entered into a brand new religious war, and it ain’t gonna get any better anytime soon. When are we gonna learn? We’re probably not. We are on a collision course with extinction. As it probably should be.
The meek shall inherit the earth, and then, maybe then, the beautiful, harmonious ballet of nature will return. And maybe, just maybe, the offspring of these lost birds will emerge from the sad hollow existence we’ve forced upon them. Those poor birds who’ve forgotten who they are.
A dark cloud stole the sunshine.
You know it’s a bad day when even a righteous get down taco can’t take you away from the omnipresent skullduggery.
I continued to eat, bombarded by a corderie of sirens that shredded the peace and quiet, the squall of crack heads fistfighting on the corner, my food turning to sawdust. And the birds just stood there. Pitiful fucking things. Dead birds begging.

Baptism

2004-10-29T16:32:00.000-05:00

Normally I would’ve headed for the hills, but an insurmountable, unquestioning, magnetic curiosity kept me on the bank of the river as deep, ominous rolls of thunder peeled across the twilight sky. A charcoal blanket looked to smother the town, while the hiss of rain tickled the opposing shore. My expectation was as a child, unknowing, unsuspecting, and terrifyingly gleeful.
A giant hand of rain swam across the surface of the river, coming to scoop me and take me far away. I waited. Swollen with desire. Inflamed.
Soon enough the hand reached me and parted, rain to my left, rain to my right, and the air grew thick, sweet with lavender, a curtain of mist baptizing me anew. Crack of thunder and rain pelted the ground with renewed vigor and still, I stood immune to the storm. A thousand miles away. Cocooned.
Lingering long enough to feel the first fat plops of water tap me upon my shoulders, I was swallowed, instinctively stepping back into the mouth of an evergreen tree where it was quiet and still. The rain continued bathing the world, giving us a another chance, doing its best to right our worst, and I stood there, protected, my planet of women on either side, invigorated by the bluster, the magnificence, the audacity.
Too soon, the rain began to slacken, the clouds parting til the sun lit up the woods, electrifying the trees; diamonds and pearls dripping from the leaves; the blades of grass sparkling crystal. The rain continued to fall, the devil beating his wife, and it was then that I stepped out from the mouth and greeted the new day, refreshed for the journey ahead, rich beyond measure, and soon to be... wet.

Shattered

2004-10-29T11:45:00.000-05:00

I watched a man's heart break today. Right in front of my eyes this man's world shattered and I could feel his pain and anguish and my heart went to hurting right along with his. What made the situation all the more strange was I hardly knew the man, and then to make it more interesting, the man was foreign; Middle Eastern, it would appear.
He'd been living in the same building as I do, but more infrequently; two weeks here, two weeks there. When he was `in residence' he was never without a smile, a warm handshake, a kind word. Whenever in his presence you could feel that here stands a gentle man. Humbleness and humility tattooed his visage.
One night, walking through the foyer to my room, he emerged from around the corner, all smiles and an open palm. After we traded a few 'hello hi are yous' he asked, "My car is towed, is possible you take me somewhere in morning"?
I didn't waste a breath. "Sure", I said.
Next morning, against every core belief, every thought I hold dear -we are all God's children- I became nervous and suspect because of his nationality, and for this I grew ashamed, embarrassed.
At the appointed time there he was, all smiles, briefcase in hand. "Hello, my friend!" he said, shaking my hand with gusto. "Thank you so much for taking me this morning", his tongue thick with what sounded to me to be a Lebanese accent.
We departed.
As we exited the parking lot he gave me directions to the north end of town. I asked him what he did for a living. He replied, "I inventor", then he opened his briefcase and pulled out a picture of a most unusual looking car lift; a portable one that was decidedly different in design from any I'd ever seen."See how it gets tall so fast?" he said. "That's when it strongest. Unlike regular lift which is weak when tall. No other lift like this in world." He put all his papers back in the briefcase, then he shut it. "I know lots of things", he said..
"What are you going to do with it?" I asked.
"I try to get it back as big company in Houston steal idea from me. So I see lawyer today."
I was confused. "I thought you wanted to get your car?"
"No", he said, "car is brothers in Houston, so I can't get car. You are taking me to lawyer. Is okay? I will take cab back if long, but today should be about ten minute".
Needless to say, as much as I hated to admit it, I grew slightly suspicious.
During the drive he kept checking his reflection in the visor mirror, pulling his thinning hair down over his forehead. I felt like I was in a Hitchcock movie.
Eventually we pulled into the parking lot of two stark, black glass buildings. "Wait here", he said, crawling from my truck, "I go see. If long, I come back and tell you so you can go. Okay?"
Fear had taken roost in his eyes, anxiety distorting his body.
"Sure", I said.
The man was gone about thirty minutes. When he returned he wasn't the same person. All life had fled his body. His eyes vacant. His smile gone. He got into the truck and said, "That quick", then he never said another word all the way home. Obviously the meeting had not gone in his favor and the realization of his predicament was crushing him. He hurt. I, in turn, hurt for him.
We live in a world that is straining mankind's ability to love one another, especially one whose culture, customs, and beliefs are vastly different from our own. And according to the various media spins that we, as Americans, endure on a daily basis, the dark, swarthy man from a region of intolerance and seeming madness isn't to be trusted, or loved, only feared and hated.
Is this how God would want us to behave?
As if to answer my inner questions, right before turning into the parking lot of our temporary home, the man suddenly said, "You know, American people are wonderful. Very kind. Very friendly. I love this country. America is good. Just like you, my friend, helping me when I needed it most. You helped me. A Lebanese man. Like God would want".
That's how I want to be remembered.

Bring It The Fuck On - Inspired by Richard Pryor

2004-10-17T01:57:00.000-05:00

I have been at a disadvantage for some time now. Two years, in fact. Being that I’m mechanically disinclined didn’t help matters neither. You see, in a land where motherfuckers willfully encroach on your shit in a heartbeat, one thing you need is a motherfuckin’ horn. Not being able to lay into that son of a bitch to awaken some jackleg on the nod or the tear will fuck with your psyche. Has mine. But all that changed today. My personal mechanic, one spiffy young white woman named Laura brought her ass over here today and within about twenty seconds had my ass hooked up. And to think, for two years I risked life and limb only to be armed and ready for all comers within twenty motherfucking seconds. Shit.
Color my ass ready.
All you upwardly mobile cracker motherfuckers who are all eat up in your delusional self important conversations with others of your ilk on your nifty cell phones, drifting directly into my lane without a clue I’m already there? Be-fucking-ware! I will pound the center of that steering wheel and your fucking glass is gonna melt, leaving you with a permanent facial tick. You ornamental sons a bitches who don’t have a clue on any rule or law regarding driving safety, driving backwards and down the wrong side of a one way street wondering where the lotus blossoms are? I will make you regret ever having to step behind the wheel, making you wish an opium den was within scrambling distance. All you meskins who live on the motherfucking horn regardless of the emergency of the situation, playing that fucker like a timbale fill? Now you got some competition jack. I am here to fuck you up. Tito Puente’ that! And all you jungle bunnies? Shit, I don’t have to worry about y’all at all. There is so much smoke in your cars from all that herb you’re smokin’ you can’t see dick, and that’s okay because you’ve been at the same intersection for a week! Y’all ain’t encroachin' on shit. Go buy some more overpriced jewelry.
Like I said. I’m armed. I’m ready. I finally got me a motherfuckin’ horn. I got two years of pent up shit under my belt just ready to crawl out and maul your ass. I pray, I wish, I hope that any of y'all out there just give me the slightest twinge of a motherfuckin’ reason. You see, I’m drivin’ around like a baby with a big dick... layin' in wait for your ass.
Don’t fuck with billy.

My Friend, The Odd Couple

2004-10-15T23:28:00.000-05:00

I went to visit my friend, “The Odd Couple”, today. He greeted me with his usual rumpled, sardonic grin, which is his front, his defense mechanism for keeping the horseshit of the world at bay. He’s quite accomplished at it. When I stepped through his screen door, taking stock of the man’s normally spartan clean Felix homestead, I plainly saw that his alter ego, Oscar, had completely taken hold. His joint was bonafide. A mess. A work of art.
A hard drive that kept the mixes of the last artist he’d worked with lay in the middle of the den, on its back, unplugged, an island in the storm. His Christmas underwear lay in the hall. Hark the herald angels sing! A shirt and a pair of shorts were in the entrance to the studio. Reams of toilet paper lay on the floor.
When I pointed out to him the rock and rollness of the appearance of his pad, he laughed and opened the door to his bedroom. ....The sheets were torn from his mattress which sat deadpan on the floor. There were empty wine and beer bottles stood in various incongruous angles here and there amongst the remnants; clothes scattered about like a Hamas explosion.
Bottles and clothes strewn everywhere. Strategic even. A release I understood completely.
But yet, here stood a man to be reckoned with. A man with vision. Talent that is off the scale.
Could he be forgiven for the state of his abode?
Hell yes!
In fact, a standing ovation is in order! Long live Oscar! Give Felix some too! My friend. A good man. A talented man. The Odd Couple, on full display, living it. Like countless others only dream and wish, he is doing it. In cinematic living color. I love him. I love “The Odd Couple”.
He lives. He truly lives.

Time Has Arrived

2004-10-15T02:27:00.000-05:00

There are days where you feel that life deserves not another nanoliter of energy. And if you manage to drag your ass through those chalky shit days, you eventually encounter the days of opposite composition. A day when traffic ebbs and flows perfectly, when breezes pick up at just the right moment, when the temperature is sublime, invigorating you with anticipation of change. Meals are tasty, reasonably priced. Flowers are blooming. And women are all sexy. . ...Today was one of those days.
The cool breeze was refreshing. The tiny Mexican man appreciated my business, the sun glinting off the water soothed, the wet grass pleased, and doors continued opening with blazing alacrity. Trust. Trust. Open vistas. Unknown manna at work.
Get down rhythm is in motion. Throw it away. Step on it. Sniff it. Suck it. Nurture it. Blow on it and make a wish.
Time has arrived. Put it in your back pocket and bark at the moon.

A Blue Million Miles

2004-10-12T03:29:00.000-05:00

A sexy stranger pressed her young ass against my legs. She leaned into me. Her weight sweaty and heavy. Sexy. Her arm pushed on my shoulder. She ground her hips into my side. Her thick succulent body pressed against mine
She was laying into the man stood next to me. But she was so gone she was oblivious that there existed a mirror image. To my delight. Our shared pleasure. Removed.
I didn’t move for shit.
What was this woman? Besides drunk, an angel. A tipsy plus angel.
When the real thing hits, I will soar. A preview.
I didn’t say a word to her. And she didn’t know I was alive.
But I was.

Hoodooed

2004-10-12T03:10:00.000-05:00

The man is a vortex. He is encapsulated and protected from the chaos that swirls dangerously close. Perilously close. Dizzy from the onslaught of sight and sound he’s neither withered nor collapsed, but an island in the maelstrom. He’s patient. Sits slackjawed. Wanders aimlessly in maddening circles. He sleeps with one eye open. Food nor drink satisfies but a lethal hunger drives him. Libido on overdrive but without an outlet; a masturbating monkey on speed, he recounts and fantasizes days of yore. A yearning for more drives him to the toe-gripping brink. Stifled, unable to touch it, he knows it, he’s tasted it, therefore all progress depends upon the curious, unreasonable man, the man who wrestles with demons and gives not an inch, undeterred but bewildered, frothing, jabbering, stamping burdened feet for all to hear and take note, dust a perpetual cloud that mystifies and cloaks.
Due south north east and west, from every perimeter, all four dirt roads leading in every direction were flooded, rising with chocolate water and the two-story tin house sat on a grassy knoll offering safety and comfort. The man thankful. Composed. The hand-made bed was soft and inviting, sturdy, carved to a pitch, but the new clothes didn’t make the man, However, he felt relieved to be able to afford them, at the least, not to mention the fabrics were pleasing to the eye, soft to the touch, and even though the clothes fit perfectly he just didn’t feel the need in his heart to purchase them, remembering words of resolve, knowing in his heart that needs were meager, and procuring anything else just for the sake of being able seemed gluttonous, unnecessary, gaudy, tawdry. Stay focused, he told himself.
Freedom came with a suddenness, affording him opportunity to unleash anger and frustration, showing the world that despite his wrinkled ass dragging the hard packed earth he was far from done and he knew it ...so did others, even though they stood silent. The man growled and fingers contorted and sweat dripped from underneath fingernails. Hair grew angry but he was oblivious, the brown wool suit immaculately tailored, and yet he screeched, he wailed, crosseyed in the spotlight. All the while his audience grew nervous, uncomfortable, squirming in their seats, their fingers a ball of mating serpents, writhing and squeezing until bare knuckles cracked and meat caked joints creaked and moaned a sad song, loud enough for the girl buying popcorn at the concession stand to take notice where she began to cry uncontrollably, sobbing and drooling, wondering when wicked death would take her breath from her like a cat stealing milk, then pick her up by her armpits and shake her like a rag doll; shake her and shake her and shake her until every bone pulverized to green jelly, her once luscious skin torn paper.
The craggy, ancient man spilt his guts and tears flowed and smiles surrounding him exploded into light. He’d lived long. He’d lived hard. Benevolence guided his every move. A ragged, rawboned glory moved every muscle in his body, his mind a conduit to amazing grace. The invisible man who craved and desired was silent, but he partook. He absorbed. Inside he cried. He was joy.
The shy pained man disappeared before every eye in the house. His thoughts lingered and penetrated, yet he was gone. The old whiskered man grew confused but he learned. He adapted.
Then there was exquisite pasta and age old bread to decorate the house. Vivid magpie conversation and a cliff leapt from. Massive grins, peace and calm, drug under by a rip tide and deposited amongst the salmon and sea foam coral, flowing at light speed in the volcanic current. When was there dark, and how? How could it?
Screaming raging hate intervenes but the man stiff-arms it. A darkness one almost can’t comprehend, yet this red headed fool embraces it. The man cannot. So he doesn’t. He prays for her soul, but he knows it useless.
Palmetto trees and chicken skin puckered with raindrops. Exteriors belying interiors. Smoked meat and butcher paper that suspended the fragile weight and absorbed the juice. Gimme more. Gimme more. Gimme more flat land and thunderclouds. The sun poked its head through the clouds and the man’s skin bled. He was happy. He gorged. Freedom reigned once again. The man submersed, alive. The clouds beneath him, the stars his arms, his legs, his feet, his toes. A constellation oozed from his pores. Beyond. Well. As it should.
New voices entered the man’s sphere. He couldn’t believe his ears. Beats seduced him, sour mash seeped into his bloodstream, and melodies enraptured the air he breathed and lifted him higher, higher, higher. James Brown and his Fabulous Flames led the charge. Whiskey flowed like soda. A groove struck. Cackles and respect intertwined. A magic carpet ride. Shoulder blades and eyes that hung over her mouth. Love indominate.
A determined grace overrode. Faith at its peak.
How could a man not be invigorated by the input? Look at the big picture.
He did.

Zizz

2004-10-02T01:04:00.000-05:00

Even as darkness overtakes this world, I still find reasons to smile.
Here in the south there isn’t anything more pleasing to the ear than the screel of cicadas at dusk. Nothing. I lay in the grass and submerse in the sound that washes over me in undulating sonic waves; nature giving me hope, giving me peace and tranquility where mankind only looks to plow me under, spit me out, crushed underfoot as if I never existed in the first place, or worse, wasn’t needed.
Ah, the simple pleasures which nature provides. Ones that cost not a dime. Ones that most don’t take the time to recognize as the world spins faster causing their human counterparts to lose their precarious balance and fall headfirst, tumbling into a empty maw of blank nothingness.
Screel on, little bugs. Zizz to your heart’s content. Your simplicity moves me while man and all his accomplishments pale; our progress only digging our graves deeper and faster than we can comprehend, nor want to. We as a race don’t even take the time to ponder what is all around us, refusing to even acknowledge or take responsibility for our folly and all the while their sound grows dim, dampened by the roar of man’s progress.
Mankind is lost
Lie down on the earth and feel the vibration. Learn from it. Respect it. Leave the world of man behind as that journey is the key to truth and awareness, giving you insight into our real purpose whilst here. Embrace the gift we've been given before it’s too late. Grasp our responsibility to that which supports us.
Verily I say unto you... stop, look, and listen, or die missing the point.

Done To A Turn

2004-09-24T03:31:00.000-05:00

My dad took the time to teach me everything he knew about the drums.
In truth, looking back on it, after a lifetime of smackin’ ‘em like I meant it -and gettin’ away with it- receiving kudos for it, knowing it, livin’ it... he didn’t know shit, as in he didn’t know jack. Flams? Buddy Rich? Parade rolls? Parade rest? Oom pah pah? Oom pah pah? Rumpadiddle rumpadiddle? Fucking diddly in the big scheme... but that tall man gave me what he had, even when I questioned.
“Buddy Rich didn’t set up like that!” he said when walking down the hall, spying me strokin' 'em like a Monkee, Mickey Dolenz.
“But three years and sinkin' into it?!" saith I? I shrunk as he was a monument and I but a piss stain.
Save for anything his incalculating prod proved to be meat pie. His message carried the gift in which it was intended.
What else can you ask, might I?
What little he gave, tall man gave big. I took it, I swallowed it, I shit it, I walked it, and then I done talked it, and I ain’t about near ‘nuff done. Fuck no!
Watch it, pilgrims.
Tall man spake. Speak it nevermore. Listen then.

Some Kind of Monster - A Letter to a Friend

2004-09-24T01:02:00.000-05:00

R9,
I cannot get this film out of my mind. There have been specific works or acts that I've been privy to witness and absorb in my life, that for whatever reason, tended to light a most holy fire under my ass and gave me inspiration that I didn't expect. I must say that the Metallica movie I saw last night, 'Some Kind Of Monster", is beginning to shape up as one of those once in a lifetime divine inspirations. That film, at its core, is intended to reach many people who will understand the purpose, but that isn't what the filmmakers nor the band set out to do. Something pure and special eventually was imparted, in a most unusual wrapping. So to even pursue this adventure a most different cut of cloth is required to recognize the lessons contained therein.
There is much of the dynamic between two characters in this movie that you and I are sharing in our everyday. I saw two adults deal with some really heavy issues between them, and with some very challenging creative responsibilities (to whom? themselves...) and they managed and came out of it on the other side to only embrace something bigger than themselves or what they've created. Divine.
I can only say that I consider this movie absolutely a must see for you. I almost want to say that I demand you see it, but I won't. I think in your heart of hearts you want to see it, and you're really not sure why, but trust me, that purpose will unveil itself and you, like I, will find this film very remarkable for what it gives you, and us in particular, given what we are undertaking.
Please go see it, and sit back, and wait.... the answers will make themselves apparent, and you will leave the theater a different person than when you entered. This movie is that important. To all? Hardly... But to us, invaluable.
-wdw2

Life, where once there was none

2004-09-23T21:05:00.000-05:00

Walking through a field, I looked down at that spread of yellow faces who looked up at me in abject terror, silently pleading with me to not step on them, possibly rending them broken and dying with one step, their beauty and vitality crushed forever by one errant step.
Most folks wouldn’t even have looked and ground the yellow faces into the black mud, their lives tromped to nothing. But something sweet is growing in me, making me appreciate more and more the precious life that thrives and teems all around us, life that most of us ignore, or take for granted. Who am I? Who are we? Put it into perspective.
As a good citizen of planet earth I cannot take even the most innocent and innocuous of life for granted anymore. No matter how slight.
I carefully stepped through the flowers, leaving them be, if only to live for a week or so, but a week or so where their fragile lives will make all the difference, the earth a much more beautiful place.
And it was.
Yellow faces cheered my decision. I threw the tennis ball and my dog took off running. My nuts hung low.

Underdog

2004-09-19T23:06:00.000-05:00

My ass is taking a beating. I’ve taken uppercuts all weekend. Overhand rights. Haymakers. Jabs. Combinations. Body shots. Kidney punches. Heartstoppers. My eyes are raw liver. My smile in a thousand pieces, my teeth rolling across the carpet like a roll of the dice. My nose a flattened, bloody snot rag. My jaw hangs sickeningly across my neck. My ribs are purple and blue. My heart hurts. I can barely stand. My knees are weak. My brain spins. And the shots continue at a furious pace.
The flesh rips and hangs from the bone. I pry the bones from the meat, trying to keep all in place, and sinew tears and cartilage snaps and I’m dripping skin, gushing black blood.
I’m a mess.
I want to retire, retreat, disappear. I want to be left alone. I am sick and fucking tired of people in general. The whole fucking lot of ‘em. I require nothing but space, peace, solitude, understanding and a modicum of intelligence if I chance upon another member of humanus walkus erectus, but I’m having trouble finding any of the above, anything remotely resembling those requirements despite herculean efforts to the contrary.
I give. And I give. And I’ll keep on giving. I need love. All I want is love. Gimme gimme some lovin’... Patience is dwindling cause the hits they just keep on a-comin’. When am I gonna come out growling? Or better yet, when will I rise above this misguided reproach, this insipid negligence, these scurrilous attacks, and leave them behind like yesterday’s aberrant thoughts?
Workin’ on it.
More fight resides in this boy. This match is far from over. And I’m gettin’ mightily pissed. I’ll get a second wind. You’ll see it in my eyes. You’ll smell it on my breath. You’ll hear me comin’, a freight train raging out of control. You’ll feel it when I connect. I’m gonna kick the fucking door down and stomp on the terror. Stomp on it til it acknowledges me.
Beware the fury of the patient man.

Smoke and Mirrors

2004-09-14T13:36:00.000-05:00

We have a commander-in-chief who is campaigning for re-election. Lately he appears to be selling himself based upon his ability to take charge, make a decision, and stick by that decision with unwavering conviction. He says he walks it like he talks it, and indeed he does.
With conviction, our president is responsible for taking a surplus left by the previous administration and ballooned the national debt to a figure that’s never been seen before in our nation’s history. And he’s far from done.
With conviction, our president has repeatedly lied to us and led us into a war that we never should’ve entered into, and the death toll continues to rise and the resistance to our efforts gains strength by the day.
With conviction, our president says we are attacking evil at its core, yet I notice attrocities that are off the scale in Chechneya, the Sudan, Iran, and North Korea, yet we don't lift a finger to intervene there.
With conviction, our president has taken away many of our liberties and freedoms, all under the guise and the lie of protecting us.
With conviction, our president lied to us and told us the economy was on the rebound. I hardly call staggering debt, spiraling gasoline prices, and unemployment that’s off the radar progress.
With conviction, our president lorded over a tax cut that only truly benefited the rich.
With conviction, our president hasn’t lifted a finger to remedy our health care problem, pandering to the drug companies and insurance companies at the common man’s expense, giving us political lip service instead.
With conviction, our president has willfully raped a score of ecological preservations all in the name of shameless corporate greed.
With conviction, our president has singlehandedly pissed off the entire world at large. We’ve lost any respect we’ve gained over the years and if anything we are feared; schoolyard bullies by any other name.
With conviction, our president has cranked up national fear and divisiveness to be able to hoodwink a hypnotized, scatterbrained public and put us at odds with our fellow man, all for his own gain.
So yeah, I believe him when he says he is a man with conviction. But the man stands on a stack of lies. And no, our country isn’t better off than it was. He inherited a country that was on a reasonable path, and since has obliterated any gains and peace we savored as a nation. Even after 911, our leader had a chance to do the right things, but he hasn’t, only servicing the well heeled chums who stand to gain from his miscalculated misadventures. In case you haven’t noticed, our country is ripped apart and idiots abound who believe this charlatan and what he stands for. I’ve never seen a more divided country, and he continues to brainwash us with how wonderful things are in Amerika under his so called “leadership”. A misnomer at best.
The man is a liar, plain and simple. Not to mention he is out and out stupid. He is also vengeful and duplicitous. And he uses religion as his bait, even though his actions represent a heathen in Christian clothes; the worst kind of person imaginable.
Dig beneath the surface folks. A vote for this man is a vote for all that is unconscionable and wrong with mankind. And if you believe this liar and the shoddy house of cards he’s built, you’ll get what you deserve.
Convict that.

It’s On

2004-09-14T05:31:00.000-05:00

The pursuit of excellence in any given field is a highly overrated journey, especially when viewed from the safety of afar. I can utter this with the utmost of authority having pushed myself to the edge in several creative adventures during the course of my lifetime, achieving a modicum of success in most, but not quite reaching the level of freedom I desire ...just yet. Toiling in obscurity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, romantic notions an intermittent caress. The icy grip of being alone, barren of the visceral support you can taste and smell exacts its toll as the closing credits roll by. A weariness without succor suffocates you.
When frustration became unbearable it didn’t matter how loud I gnashed my teeth and wailed to the heavens as no one would hear of my anguish, nor did anyone care, for all I could tell. Striving to find this voice I’d yet to understand -but one I knew intimately- came with a price tag most dear. And despite evidence to the contrary there isn’t a damn thing noble about poverty and its brother companion, starvation. Over the years, my resolve stretched to its limits, contorted and strafed under a crushing pressure, one thing remained consistent -and I’m unable to explain why. The idea of turning back forever eluded my thoughts and while I grappled with a legion of unseen forces who sought to divert due course, my scars only deepened and multiplied; and yet here I am still, the myriad of scars badges of honor, badges that carry dignity and reverence.
When I reach the next pinnacle I will be a man barely recognizable. Ultimately, whom will I have served? It isn’t fanfare or accolades I seek. No, I’m going clear, greeting satisfaction, extracting purpose. But mine is not the victory to savor. I’m giving it all away so others may see and fly; filtering, releasing that which wasn’t mine in its genesis. I gaze upon the heaving, pendulous sea of mediocrity and conformity and my bones grow rictus, my heart singing the body electric. Expectation soars, never once acknowledging doubt nor fear. The challenge I’ve accepted a mortal wound.
When fortune smiles upon me -and it will- these dog days of struggle will take on new meaning, the gift of distance and eroding time. I’m tortured and invisible while the world celebrates in a sea of confetti rage, bathing in champagne’s bubbles and reeking of exotic oils and citrus fragrances, oblivious to the very air I breathe.
I’m finally getting somewhere. I can feel it. And no one knows, and no one cares... just yet.
I’m goin’ down swingin’.

In My Eyes

2004-09-14T03:47:00.000-05:00

As a young tyke I took field trips with my school class where we were required to bring a brown bag lunch from home. Midway through the day, having explored a fire station, or a bakery, or a potato chip factory, and having eaten the lunch that was packed with loving care by my mother, I couldn’t find it within myself to throw the bag away, not wanting it to be lost so far away from home, knowing it would be happy and safe and secure and infinitely more loved with me.
I still feel that way. That much has not changed, nor will it.

My Haiku

2004-09-13T03:39:00.000-05:00

Sing along with me, “I want an Oriental girlfriend, I want an Oriental girlfriend, I want an Oriental girlfriend, yes-I- do.”
I’ve always been attracted to Oriental women. So mysterious. So warm and inviting. So cerebral. So earthy. Something in them strokes my medulla oblongata ever so gently.
I went to see a Japanese horror flick today, “Ju-On: The Grudge”. Very psychological. Very sonic. Very recommended. So, as a by-product of viewing this piece of Asian celluloid I got to gander some very sensuous Oriental women who attended the afternoon matinee along with me. And I craved. I simply craved one of their heads full of straight black hair to adorn my shoulder, their graceful hands in mine.
Patience is damned infernal. But entirely necessary. I will not hurry the process, nor will I be inattentive. I want an Oriental girlfriend.
I pour myself into each and every day. By night’s end, I’m an empty vessel. I’m open. I’m ready.
When I least expect it she will whisper in my ear and I will listen.
Speak to me.

Dirty Rotten Lying Sons A Bitches

2004-09-10T13:00:00.000-05:00

Courtesy of the current presidential race, one fact has risen from the depths to make itself apparent one more time, as if we needed to be clubbed over the head to wake from our slumber. The fact is, tell a lie enough times, over and over and over and over again, and soon enough it becomes truth. The spin predominates in this day and age; truth a vanishing ideal.
It’s hard for me to believe or withstand the barrage of lies that flies from the Republican camp these days. And to my utter horror and astonishment, I watch as all these glassy eyed followers eat this shit up as if it was filet mignon. Almost every fact and victory they champion is hollow and misleading, but they continue to spoon feed the gullible public how great things are... and soon enough the idiots that constitute Amerika actually believe what they’re being told.
Not exactly new news. I mean, look how long the Catholic Church and their pervasive lies held water.
I’m incredulous and shivering. All I believe in is suddenly called into question, and right here in my own backyard! My liberty, my freedom is at stake and I’m fighting a tidal wave of skullduggery and dumbass by evil cocksuckers who will stop at nothing to keep everyone under their omnipresent thumb, sucking us dry and leaving us to fend for ourselves while their party rages on.
The truth... a shrinking commodity.
Where does that leave us? Hell on earth.
Oh woe is me... oh woe is us.

Dr. Sardonicus on the Fucking Loose

2004-09-08T17:57:00.000-05:00

I’m not one to get into political discussions, as my views embrace a little bit from all of it; well rounded, well intentioned living, for one and for all, live and let live, one could say. The whole idea of parties and partisan anything is about as blind and ignorant as can believed, but then, we are talking about humanus walkus erectus, the most stupifying and flabbergasting species afoot. So, more times than not, when a conversation steers into the political domain I will wander off in search of a beautiful flower to look at, anything but the close-minded fraternal claptrap which I know will follow.
But something came out in the news yesterday that I just can’t let pass without comment. The statement was uttered by a man who I think is truly the most seriously dangerous man in power today... and no, it ain’t the Prez. Bush is just a fucking puppet in this deal. No, I’m talking about his Vice-Prez, “The Dick” Cheney.
“The Dick” is evil incarnate, leading this president and more importantly, our country to the edge of ruin, while he sardonically grins and seems to hate most everyone, lining his pockets from our blood and hysteria as fast as he can. Is it any wonder the guy has had multiple heart surgeries? In my mind, it’s a wonder he still has one.
“The Dick” is the man responsible for the war in Iraq, belonging to a not so secret severely right wing fraternal order (whose other members include Donald Rumsfeld, Larry Wolfowitz, and others in Bush’s cabinet) whose number one item on its world domination agenda is/was to get Saddham Hussein out of power. And why? To control the Middle East, and more importantly, the oil there. Mission accomplished.
“The Dick” is also behind the mammoth conglomerate, Haliburton, and their corporate abuses are legendary and we only know a fraction of the whole story there. Courtesy of this war in Iraq, they were the only company allowed to bid (odd that, eh?) and have made billions over the course of the conflict, and only now, are they being called onto the carpet for very questionable practices. Still, the large money is socked away, mission accomplished.
“The Dick’s” thinly veiled contempt for everyone and everything who stands in his path is also the stuff of legend, getting into a shouting match with a veteran senator who’d opposed him on various issues on the house floor, telling him in so many words, “to fuck himself”. Nice guy. Finally got to know what he really thought without the carefully crafted speech chockablock with partisan lies. He’s ramrodded over everyone underneath his aegis, and he obviously doesn’t give a good rat fuck who he mows under, he just smiles and watches his bank account grow, flexing his power and muscle for all it’s worth. Yet another mission accomplished.
“The Dick” has the balls to call his opponents liars, questioning their service to their country. This a man who sought and achieved five different deferments from having to serve our country in an honorable fashion. And the Republican followers eat the very shit the man spews forth. Gladly even. Mission accomplished.
And now this terror issue. Something we will have to live with the rest of our lives, only made worse by this administration's attack on a country, but more specifically, a religion, whose lunatic fringe will not stop until they taste American blood now and forever more. The dog backed into the corner finally came out growling, and I can’t say that I blame them.
And how do these jackals, our administration, keep the American public hoodwinked? Fear. How best to keep the public in line? Lie to them. Keep them embroiled in fear, and I must say, this administration is using the “fear” tactic moreso than anything I’ve witnessed in my lifetime. And by the reactions of our public, mission accomplished.
But it gets worse. To ratchet up the fear to a most unbelievable degree with a scandalous blatant lie, Cheney goes into a more murky and feeble place, telling the American public that a vote for Kerry will surely bring about another terrorist attack!!!! Fuck me... and to think, there are imbeciles out there who will believe this malarkey from this evil fuck. I GUARANTEE another terrorist attack if the present administration is re-elected! But to inject such a fear based edict onto the already “frightened beyond their wits” American public is more than I can take.
“The Dick” actually said it. And the American public wails and moans, awash in acid based fear because that evil fuck isn’t through raping the people and the world just yet. He actually has more left on his frightful agenda. And he doesn't care how much innocent blood is spilled, or how many poor people grow more destitute. He is above such notions.
“The Dick” doesn’t care about anything, except his pocketbook.
“The Dick” doesn’t like you or your family.
“The Dick” wants your vote, your support, while he lies and kills and rapes and robs the world blind.
“ The Dick” is a fucking menace.
Are we this stupid? I shudder to think.
Thailand or Australia is looking better and better everyday. especially if evil fuck white men continue to run the show here. History proves that these reckless assholes won’t stop til they fuck the whole shebang up. They’ve already done a helluva job of it, just ask the Native Americans. A vote for Bush/Cheney, is a vote to go back to the Medieval Inquisition. We’re almost there.
This shit ain’t funny, folks.
See this hogwash for what it is, and realize who's caused it. Take your head out of the sand, or your ass, and “see” the situation for what it really is, and you, too, will discover the right wing demagoguery is based upon lie after lie after lie after lie.
If not, bend over and don’t use lubrication. The fucking you’ll get won’t be pleasurable. They’ll get off, you won’t, and they won’t kiss you good-bye either.

Suck My Kiss

2004-09-04T16:17:00.000-05:00

My dreams in the music business have, for the most part, been entirely fulfilled. But in this new day and age the ability to make music on the level I require has become more and more difficult, needing as I do to stay way out in the fringe, dangling off the edge, as it were.
Music boils in my blood and I haven’t any choice in the matter, even trying on several occasions to leave it behind with little or no success. But those musical dreams of my youth haven’t been dashed in the slightest. Hardly. And on occasion I’m reminded of what it felt like in those halcyon days of discovery and wonder.
The other day, while taking a break from mixing a record I’d produced, I’d retired to the restroom to take care of some personal business. While taking my leave I noticed several boxfuls of ancient LP’s sitting in front of the toilet which brought back a host of memories. I thumbed through the stacks and each record had a specific memory attached to it, a bit like traveling through history. There was the Weather Report album, “Heavy Weather”, whose fusion of jazz and world music had opened my horizons, challenging me to a large degree. There was a New York Dolls record which had really raised the bar on raw garage band rock from the bowels of NYC, David Johansen and crew all "dolled up” which pretty much shocked the shit out of the entire world at that time. And then I ran across an album cover that brought back one of my most vivid memories of rock and roll at its grungiest. The cover pictured some guys looking like low-rent mercenaries standing alongside a tank with a naked woman in the middle, two strips of black gaffer tape covering her nipples sporting a monster mohawk which was a foot long and standing proud; The Plasmatics, an underground bowery punk band fronted by Wendy O. Williams; she a rather charismatic, unhinged, ex carny barker/porn star whose elliptical orbit intersected mine one night in Hollywood at the Whiskey A Go-Go and I was forever stained by the event.
I’d seen The Plasmatics in action on my very first trip to NYC, the rube that I was, as even then I was seeking out the unusual, the different, and when I spied the ad for their appearance at CBGB’s in The Village Voice I knew I had to be present and accounted for. The show fare you well blew my mind and I will never forget the tall, gangly guitarist who was deathly pale and sporting a baby blue mohawk, wearing a nurses outfit, playing a Flying V, bashing his head against his amp until it bled. Alleyway rock and roll seeped into my veins that night and poisoned me for life.
Living in Los Angeles a few years later, I was more than pleased to read in the Calendar section of the L.A. Times that The Plasmatics were appearing at The Whiskey A Go-Go. No brainer this, and for once in my life I showed up early to make sure I wouldn’t miss the spectacle to follow.
The sound was gorgeously unbearable and I was in a full on sweat by the time they’d finished the first song. Chaos reigned. I was alive. The joint was heavin’.
Midway through the show, I’d managed to clamber right up to the front of the stage. Wendy -damn near naked- held me spellbound with her sexual ferocity. During one song, while the guitarist was taking a solo, she reached behind his amp and picked up a double barreled shotgun and proceeded to blast these large flower pots filled with daisies that were perched uncomfortably on the tops of their mountain of amps. As she continued to blow the pots to smithereens, a piece of one terra cotta pot which suffered from Wendy O's wrath flew right at me and before I could duck it smacked me in my forehead and I went down for the count.
I don’t know how long I was out, but when I woke my face was covered in blood and I managed to stand up, doing my best to get my wits about me. I held onto the monitor in front of Wendy trying to maintain my balance. Wendy was in the zone, shouting a hoarse lyric, when she looked down on me and pounced, grabbing my arm, yanking me to within inches of her face, and with a professional’s technique thrust several fingers of mine into her mouth and began to fiercely suck them in imitation of a rather fantastic blow-job. Then, when she was sated, she threw my hand aside and spit globs all over the punters surrounding me. The bloodthirsty mob went ballistic... and I was forever changed... seriously affected.
I stroked the album cover, the memory washing over me, reminding me of the thrill of live music, the power of music, the power of sex, the danger and chaos which moved me, that made me explore music much further than I’d ever intended. And I was thankful.
I left the restroom and re-entered the control room invigorated.
Wendy O. Williams died several years ago, her voice quieted.
I’m far from done. And with a tip of my hat to the musical oddballs and freaks and loonies like her and others, I will continue to search for that elusive lost chord.
I will not be denied.

In Through the Out Door

2004-09-04T11:13:00.000-05:00

A few days ago every second of my every day required the utmost of my attention. My decision making process was in full tilt, and I was fully immersed in the music. Every fiber, every synapse, every cell and hair follicle, every emotion and feeling was screaming at full pitch. I was in motion. I was vibrating. I was vital.
Yesterday, the work completed, I became meaningless. I was without purpose. It was all I could do to makes sense of just what I would do next. Eat? Breathe? Read? Write? Shit? Eat again? I wandered. I searched. I felt so small. A microcosm in a heaving world of lunacy. I was lost and felt that life and my portion in it was so infinitely futile.
I woke this morning determined to enjoy the peace, the tranquility, for as long as it lasts, as this inertia soon, too, will pass.
Decompression is a bitch.
There will be a day when I will be called upon to truly live it. And I must say, I am ready.

Cheers

2004-09-03T20:07:00.000-05:00

I’ve been drunk before. More than once. Really drunk. Moreso than most. For years I made a habit of drinking. For the most part, I had a damn good time at it. But as much as I drank and caroused I never ever ever drank myself to a point to where there was violence or mischief that caused any harm to anyone anytime. Not once! So it is hard for me to believe or accept what happened in our great land yesterday.
In Georgia, two men were heading home after a night of recreational imbibing. The driver, John Hutcherson, made it. The passenger, Frankie Grohm, didn’t quite make it ...at least alive.
On the way home, Frankie was hanging outside the passenger side window, raising a little hell, feeling his oats, when John decided to veer unexpectedly off the road.
John made it home, got out of the car, walked in the house, into his bedroom, and promptly passed out.
Next morning it became obvious that his friend, Frankie, had not made it home ...at least alive.
Apparently when John swerved off the road he hit a telephone pole and clipped the guide wire which at the same time decapitated his passenger and friend.
Now get this... John drives home, his passenger still in the passenger seat, very much dead, very much without a head, and JOHN DOESN’T KNOW IT!
How drunk is that?! Humanity at its finest!
And then there’s the story of Katrina Ferguson, a young woman from Beamont, Texas. Apparently Katrina, very much pregnant, got shitfaced at a party at a friend’s house and went to the bathroom feeling mother nature's call, inadvertently giving birth to the child. Katrina, obviously in need of another drink, left the child in toilet, flushed the toilet, and went back to the party as if nothing had happened. "Let's party!!"
How drunk?! HOW DRUNK?!
In the meantime alcohol is legal. Pot isn’t.
Go figure.
Thornton Wilder said it best when he uttered these words, "Ninety-nine percent of the world is made up of fools and the rest of us are in danger of contagion."
Here here.

Homogenize the Vibe

2004-09-03T14:53:00.000-05:00

I am blessed.
I am cursed.
As of today, I am a sandbag with a tear in it and my sand is fast departing.
There is a young lady whom I was put in touch with to help her with her attempts at recording music. She’d made several stabs at the process with some folks who just didn’t get the plot, and through a very talented friend of mine was put in touch with me so that I might shed a light. Glad to do so, as even though music has been a cruel mistress at times, I’ve managed to make a very good living at it over the course of some thirty odd years and consider myself to be rather proficient at any number of musical tasks, not the least of which is helping someone to realize their potential by virtue of my capabilities as a producer, arranger, and mixer.
After many discussions with the young lady and her mother, too, I presented a modest budget and a time frame for two songs which was unilaterally accepted. The budget was minuscule. We were only looking to get two to be gentle on their pocketbook and their psyche given they’d already spent a lump sum of money and several months of time with others only to end up with kaka. By tackling only two, the bleeding would be held to a minimal if they weren’t happy with the results, but if they liked what they heard, then we could proceed and build from what we’d already started. A simple plan. A good plan.
After consideration on their part, the green light was illuminated and I proceeded to dive in, head, hands, and feet. Happily. Eagerly. A child in the throes of discovery.
I enjoyed the process. Immensely. Met some new folk. Was introduced to new recording methods. Had some giggles. The sounds that poured forth moved me to my core and made life worth living. I put on the dog. She was giddy. I danced with the stars and the moon.
Mixing was arduous. Pop songs are highly complex animals, even though they don’t sound so. Teeth grinding angst set in, knowing we were on a rigid time frame, leaping off the cliff as I was, and fear and doom tried to get the better of me from time to time but one thing I am is confident. We persevered, and even though a twenty hour day on the last day of mixing, we got ‘er done.
Happy. Tired.
Two days later, when I was to begin the next assignment, I had her drop into the studio to hear the mixes as she’d been unable to be there during the work due to starting college.
The stage was set.
I knew we were in trouble when she turned the sound down in the beginning of the first mix. Not completely, but enough to let you know that was the first objection in a list to come. My teeth turned to tin and my temples throbbed.
When the strains from the last mix dissipated into nothing, there were a few nervous titters from her, then she dove in... about what she didn’t like, never saying she liked any of it. The list wasn’t long... at all... but not one word was uttered to liking any of it. Any of it.
After the time and energy and expertise I put in this wasn’t exactly the response I wanted to hear. I didn’t need her to drop to her knees and demand to suck my dick... no... but some kudos where deserved woulda been okay. And there were plenty.
The sand is almost gone.
Knocked to my knees by an unknowing white girl.
I will continue, repacking my bag with new sand, more fortified than before, and one day the young white woman might get it, but it matters not as my time on that project is done and I leave it behind, unable nor wanting to change a thing. It is what it is. I am what I am. And today is a day for new things.

Mud And Meat

2004-08-25T02:01:00.000-05:00

The water’s been rolling down the side of the mountain, taking everything with it, and I’ve watched with intense scrutiny, pleased with what I see.
I’ve been filling holes with mulch and meat, salt and mud, my days on a course all their own; the world a wisp of vapor, talking heads muffled to silence, the strains gorging me with blood while I vibrated and conjured, allowing the voices to blend and synthesize, round edges grown smooth and distinct under my tutelage, soft clay in between my fingers. And invariably when I encountered a hole, I scrambled to fill it with mud, with meat, to keep the road smooth while I hustled into the shadows to find my way. I didn’t have a clue on where I was headed, but I didn’t let anyone know for fear of complete mutiny. Our ship stayed its course. I didn’t rattle. I allowed the manna to spirit me away and the mud and the meat shouldered my weight.
Talking heads were sipping coffee and chatting amiably. The Mississippi mudfarmer let if fly while the white woman plucked her harp, and the simplicity escaped most, but I was moved, appreciating as I did the attention to detail. They cared not a flip what I thought, they just did it. I drank some cold milk and I jiggled to the beat. Around me, talking heads acted like they were intelligent, but I knew they were faking it. I wanted to talk, but not a sound left my mouth and I felt teeny tiny, but Mississippi mudfarmer man only smiled more, understanding as he did my inability to function in the presence of greatness. Life is strange...
A lungful of sticky psychosis, a zoo of noise escaped from his fingers; from a lover’s howl to a deafening jet engine, jagged screels and excitable monkey chatter. The white woman sat on the couch in a pretzel, a look of abject terror masking her visage, both confused and troubled by the assault. I was moved to tears. Only later did she admit to being soothed by the savageness. By the look in her eyes at the end of the evening, she appeared liberated, sexually satisfied. Tribal beats swam in and out of the room, demanding our attention, rendering the fear of the unknown into a glop of foolishness and folly.
The mirror ball spun and turned the room into swimming slow motion. She adjusted her glasses and warbled and squeaked, her drummer doing his best to turn the movement sideways, upside down, while the crowd tapped their feet and bopped. She turned a gallon jug up and suckled the sweetness down her goose neck while the talking heads smacked their hands together in approval, gobbling like turkeys. The girl in the glasses -who strummed the guitar inside out- spoke her piece in a language all her own, and we were all the better for it. My hands were sore, my soul nourished
Potato chip bags littered the floor, candy wrappers scuttled from room to room. Guitars were dusted and in alignment, feng shui like a mushroom cloud spilling over the couch, over the woman sitting in the flowers, over the instruments perfectly placed in accord with the grand design. Little quiet white man was The Odd Couple, all wrapped up into one J C Penney package. Big muff Bootsy stomped like Godzilla, tearing the roof off the sucker. Wham bam backwoods stomp made the tourists all nervous like. Made my ass all pointy. Little quiet white man with the smelly feet shouted the world down. The talking heads ordered some tacos and beer and tittered nervously.
The girls with the black fur coats made themselves at home in the dark and the quiet. Lights were blinking, meters were fluctuating, and the white woman caressed the keys, letting her madness escape for a while into binary code. Another quiet white man conducted and captured the melodies. Hunched over and inflexible, she trusted her instincts and gave forth the effort needed and as she did so I watched her body relax, her composure at once fluid and endemic, knowing we were in her heart, giving her the years of experience we’d absorbed to let the flower blossom. She smiled. She giggled. She snarled. The hills were alive.
A chorus of holes filled with mud and meat littered the road behind me, glistening and bubbling, adjusting to the Texas heat.
My gals flexed their paws and spoke their mind. To a woman in another state who could understand them. The headless bodiless woman told me the girls are a Greek chorus, telling her of the uniqueness, their specialness, and how other talking heads knew, too. The gals told her of their fan club, of their fondness for the river, of their sadness over the short woman who’s gone, of the angels who watch over us, while they teach me about life, and I listen, and they know this. They’re delighted we travel as a trio, and are supplanted by understanding, by love, and nothing will stand in our way. The headless bodiless woman existed on another plane, and she met us in the clouds. We were a banana fudgesickle licked by a most exquisite woman who wielded a velvet tongue
I’ve diligently filled the holes with mulch and meat, salt and mud. I’ve not procrastinated, nor delayed. Hair is growing on the pulsating flesh. Blood oozes from the holes’ edges. I walk on. Music is the wind beneath my wings while meat drips from my soles onto the faces of onlookers; the talking heads who are too afraid to walk to the edge and look over into the abyss, only watching me from a safe distance, hoping I will plunge to my death so they can talk about me in the past tense. But I fly. Take that.
Tomorrow is another day. I want to take you higher.
Boomshakalakalaka Boomshakalakalaka.

The Bestest of the Best and The Worstest of the Worstester

2004-08-18T03:45:00.000-05:00

The Very Best

His reaction to what I’d conjured was the best compliment that I could ever ask for. Ever.
As I sat on the couch listening to the playback, a strange noise came from over my shoulder. When I turned there the singer/songwriter sat, boo hooing like a baby; big crocodile tears flowing down his face.
Told me all I needed to know.
The best.

The Absolute Worst

I’d made a decision a few days ago to never leave the den, the relative safety of the couch, as over the course of a few days we’d managed to keep all of Mercury at bay while we remained secluded and safe, joy filled even.
I made a terrible error in judgment. I ventured outside. Snarls of traffic. Horrific spaghetti knots. No exit. No turnaround. Miles and miles of hateful non.Turmoil. Waste. Filleted to the gills and left to rot.
The worst.

In Totem

All up in it. Neck deep. Within a short time span, I’d experienced both sides of today’s coin. The bestest of the best, and the worstest of the worstester.
I am a better man for it. I am a lucky man.

Tales from the Couch

2004-08-16T03:24:00.000-05:00

I am on the couch again. Some rather peculiar guttural utterances are creeping from under the door, tantalizing me. I’m delighted.
As I tap my foot and snack on some salted peanuts, I look out the window and watch three black birds in formation, on the hunt in the front yard. They are walking across the green grass, three abreast. Steadily. Assuredly. As they walk insects rise up from the jungle depths only to be plucked from mid-air by one of the three black birds. It’s feeding time. The three black birds are taking care of business.
Caterwauling, shaky jeebie snake charmers continue to whisk me away.
Life is as it should.
Black birds are hunting and eating. I have a mouthful of salted peanuts and I am open. I am seated on the couch, where life has taken on new meaning and purpose. I am jubilant. I am wimby womby. I am dizzy.
I will never be the same.
Hornets lift me up on the strength of their wings, at once their savior, as well as their villainous intruder.
I quiver in anticipation their sting.

Go Dog Go

2004-08-15T12:58:00.000-05:00

Outside the world writhes and trembles, groaning under its own weight. I keep the door shut. I sit on the end of the couch which is pushed up against the wall. I sit there. Comfortable. Happy. Content. Waves of music wash over me. Cleansing me. A shared energy shimmers and placates, bursting through the ground like new growth, intent upon finding its voice.
And I sit there. Quiet. Allowing it. Subject to it. Along for the ride.
When all was said and done, the carnage still attracting flies, she looked at me with those black eyes and said, “Well, that was impressive. Amazing. You even kept the beat.”
Amazing to her, yes. To me, perfunctory, banal, my soul diminished.
But I did it. And I fled, dodging blank-eyed, goggle-headed, misshapen lives stumbling about without any reason or purpose -the night of the stumbling dead- only thinking they are alive, but they are far from it.
Today I will walk in and shut the door. I will sit in the corner of the couch, the one pushed up against the wall. When I am ready I will lay down and gaze out the window, through the juxtaposition of glass panes, through the eclipse of the shutters at the roof line, and marvel at the way it’s angled against the agate sky, the phosphorescent lime leaves an appendage in perfect harmony, shivering in deserts’ breath. I will breathe. And again, music will wash over me. And I will be happy, while outside the world writhes and trembles and groans.
More and more everyday, I feel alien.
But today, it will be just me and the couch. And music will light my torch. And I will be happy.

I Have Been Released

2004-08-11T12:57:00.000-05:00

I truly felt as if I was going to die. I’ve never died before so the feelings couldn’t be adequately addressed, not really knowing the telltale signs of imminent death and all. My heart wasn’t racing. I was breathing normally. I wasn’t feeling any sharp or acute pains. Nothing that would indicate a passing from this life. But as I sat down to get down at a funky po-boy house, I could feel that something just wasn’t right, and death was surely on its way to keep me from enjoying the sumptuous repast that awaited me.
The first bite of the fried shrimp po-boy told me everything I needed to know. Even though far from its host origins, South Louisiana, here in Texas as I was, many miles from that palmetto filled border, that first bite let me know unequivocally that the chef was either taught by someone who’d grown up there, or he was the real thing, a dyed in the wool coon-ass. The potato salad that accompanied the meal was divine. And it is rather sacrilegious to not have a Barg’s Root Beer when diving into such fare, and much to the restaurants credit, that brand was available, and a cold one dripping with dew sat right in front of me.
Despite feeling as if I would keel over and depart this land at any second, needing to wash down a mouthful of home grown wonderfulness, I turned up my root beer and gulped like a thirsty goat.
As I sat there and listened to the tinkling of an old upright piano from the room around the corner, a most spectacular life changing event occurred.
Caught completely by surprise, unable to do anything about it, the most profound belch left me, and not in a hurry, either. A long sustained growl emerged from the depths of my guts and continued for what seemed like at least a minute or so. My eyes watered. My toes curled. All my nose hairs fell in a heap on the tiled floor
Luckily for me, the room was empty, leaving me without having to apologize to any who might be offended, as this burp was a sure-fire contest winner. And far from wanting to apologize for my expulsion, I wanted to stand up and cheer, for the nagging feeling of teetering on the brink of death was far removed. As a matter of fact, I felt sixteen again!
What noxious matter could have made me feel thus? Whatever the cause, a healthy slug of Barg’s Root Beer fixed me right up. I’d never felt better. Life was good again. I would live another day! Life and its many complexities, fixed with a simple solution: carbonation.
The rest of my meal didn’t stand a chance, screaming for mercy, even!
Having paid, I was drawn to the music like a rat enchanted by the pied piper. A legless black man tickled the ivories while I stood close by and slowly nibbled on a praline. That legless black man took me away from the world for a moment, traveling with those long gnarled fingers into worlds that beckoned, taking me with him; the ghosts of many who’d been entertained by this piano, ones who’d played this piano, long since gone, flew from the keys, around the room, dancing to the sweet music that echoed off the walls, through the ceiling, up into the sky to dance with God and all the angels on high; a joyous celebration.
A life worth living. Here on Earth.
Saved by a belch.

Drifting

2004-08-07T15:45:00.000-05:00

Struggle is no more. I’ve let go. I’ve accepted.
A cloud is my bed and frosted blossoms cradle my weary head, freeze my eyelids shut. Cicadas zizz in a throbbing, undulating rhythm and a waterfall of chilled air lulls me into a tundra of sparkling white nothingness. Drifting, drifting on the breeze that carries the rush and throng of the world; the dull, sustained roar of cars and trucks racing down asphalt, the songs of birds in flight, the splashing laughter of children, the hiss of summer, the slow waltz of the ages. I’m drifting, alone. Here. A million miles away. There. I’m drifting, drifting to where I want to be. Where I need to be. Jolie warblin’. Dogs woofin’. Clear. Alone. Gone. I'm drifting...

Twisting The Night Away

2004-08-07T04:31:00.000-05:00

Rhythm is everything.
The groove seduced me when I was barely old enough to recognize it, but seize upon me it did, courtesy of Earl Palmer and D. J. Fontana’s thick fatback, and the big beat seeped into my blood, my soul, eventually extending into every area of my existence, allowing -as I did- the rhythms to spirit me away, trusting the feeling that throbbed deep in my loins. And over time, being able to read the current, discerning the fabric of life -my confidence growing with each new beat encountered- was essential in my grasp of the knowing and unknowing; the key to negotiating the ever changing shoreline. And when in the midst of a perfect groove, giving way to the flow, sitting peacefully in the whitewater of the current, to be able to watch the pieces of the puzzle fall easily into place because of your timing gives way to a satisfaction of no equal; nothing more sublime on this Earth.
Patience. Without it, you don’t know when to escape into the next section or whether to refrain. And the choice to hold back or diving into the fray can be the difference between success or failure, lift or fall, your composition coming to full realization with the right choice. And the understanding of the ever changing rhythm, the acceptance of its complexities, feeling it reverberate in your bones, extolling your muscles, filling your heart and inspiring your soul, will naturally impart to you when to react and how. And the more you trust, the more intuitive the response.
Lately I’ve grown to trust and accept the retards life brings. Those confusing times when the groove tacits to a slow burn. While most would flail and thrash against such an easing of the torque, I’ve learned to wallow in it, to recapture my breath, to ready myself for the next frenzy. It’s during these often grandiose retards that you’re able to see where the composition’s heading, and you can prepare as the tempo speeds up, adjusting your step, timing your next moves, giving way, suspending thought.
Life isn’t difficult. Life is a tango. How better to be able to sustain the duel, tantalize your partner, than to embrace the fluidity and step and swing with confidence, ease, and grace? To have access to that primal force, you must persevere, you must practice, you must study and apply. To have not that pocket at your beck and call, your instantaneous command, is to walk blind in a driving snowstorm.
Rhythm provides the dance of life. Every step you take, every move you make will be made better if you feel the pulse. A heartbeat sets your course. The current is never ending, only awaiting your participation.
Like James Brown said, “Get on the good foot”. Dance to your own rhythm. Twist and shout with utter abandon. Shake that ass with all you got! The world is feeding you, holding out its hand to you, the best partner you could ever ask for.