yo... mine had bubkiss except for this:
Dating Violence
Part III
the supreme metal council declares:
Dog Malfunction
Morning Wake Up Rocket
Panda Suprise
Wake Up Rocket ...diggit
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Death by Poetry
Many of the writers I admire have really hit me when they write about the one thing we will all know but have never experienced first hand. Death. (yeah, I know. pretty cheery...)
Robert Stone from Damascus Gate:
'Such a dirty, fearsome place. Then she was swinging free and breath was all she cared about, all, it seemed she had ever cared about, the air of that filthy-smelling place, but there was none to be had. So with her breath all the thoughts of her devotion were expunged while the angry men stood watching her in the beam of their light and she wondered if she would ever ever die and then a deeper darkness, in its mercy, came.'
Yeah..., that passage got to me. I read it three times.
This next passage by Cormac McCarthy describes not the death of a character but the looming, heavy nature of things that have been and will be, all weighted with the inevitability of death. From The Road:
'He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it running from dark to dark. Then a distant low rumble. Not thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without cognate and so without description. Something imponderable shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salt drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay smoldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack. At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.'
yeah... heavy...
Robert Stone from Damascus Gate:
'Such a dirty, fearsome place. Then she was swinging free and breath was all she cared about, all, it seemed she had ever cared about, the air of that filthy-smelling place, but there was none to be had. So with her breath all the thoughts of her devotion were expunged while the angry men stood watching her in the beam of their light and she wondered if she would ever ever die and then a deeper darkness, in its mercy, came.'
Yeah..., that passage got to me. I read it three times.
This next passage by Cormac McCarthy describes not the death of a character but the looming, heavy nature of things that have been and will be, all weighted with the inevitability of death. From The Road:
'He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it running from dark to dark. Then a distant low rumble. Not thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without cognate and so without description. Something imponderable shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salt drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay smoldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack. At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.'
yeah... heavy...
the deception
If you seek the truth, do not lie to yourself, otherwise, do not expect cooperation.
History cannot be depended on for the truth.
In seeking the truth, you have declared war on culture; rest assured, our culture inventories superior munitions.
The truth is a lonely reward, not unlike heaven.
History cannot be depended on for the truth.
In seeking the truth, you have declared war on culture; rest assured, our culture inventories superior munitions.
The truth is a lonely reward, not unlike heaven.
My last combo Abbey/Stone Book Review: 1 Stinker and 1 Triumph
Bad news first: Good News by Edward Abbey is an uninspired, steaming pile of shit devoid of humor or common sense. I am thoroughly disappointed with this book. Abbey is my favorite author for three reasons: 1) his gift for painting natural beauty using language. 2) his politic of the anarchist as an individual. 3) his rapid-fire humor and sentiment. None of which make an appearance in this book. Granted, this is a genre stretch for Abbey, a futuristic novel, vaguely sci-fi.
One of the saddest aspects of this read is Abbey's attempt to resurrect Jack Burns from his obvious death at the end of The Brave Cowboy. Incidentally this isn't the only time Burns has miraculously appeared in other mediocre Abbey works. Jack Burns also makes a cameo appearance in Abbey's Monkey Wrench Gang sequel Hayduke Lives! itself a disappointment. Abbey even attempts to grace Burns, now an old man, with an unending ability to avoid death. I see the reason behind this endowment but it just doesn't fit. Abbey seems unwilling to let his past lessons of sacrifice and hope-in-futility stand, resulting in an unbelievable resolution by the end of the novel. The other characters in this book fall short of being anything more than expendable, paper-thin personalities in a setting where they could have been grand symbols of America. All but one: the Chief. The Chief, the newly risen despot who is determined to march his conscripted army across the west to the capital, is the only fully fleshed out character. It's as if Abbey wrote the meeting between the Chief and his old university rival Rodack then hurried the rest of the novel into place around it. This exchange, or non-exchange thanks to Rodack's refusal to engage his tormentor, is the books only bright spot. As a result of Rodack's silence, the Chief falls into an argument with himself during which he nearly outwits himself with his own logic.
The political features of Good News are way too heavy-handed. I found myself wanting the idiotic soldiers to murder Rodack and his band of rebels if for no other reason than to shut down the gaseous melodrama.
Another huge disappointment for me is Abbey's lack of a strong female character. Dixie Dalton, outland barmaid, is first girlfriend to Sergeant Brock, ruthless hunter and torturer in service to the Chief, then lover of Burns' companion Sam, a Hopi shaman. Dixie has the potential to be a great character to read and root for but Abbey never quite feels her out as every asshole in the book feels her up.
Good News is bad news in the strictest definition. The dialogue is dead. The humor is flat. The scenes are incomplete. The action is predictable. It would've made a great movie but it's a terrible book.
Now the real good news: Outerbridge Reach by Robert Stone is a perfect novel. I can't find one wrong step, one sideways error. The entire saga is pitch-perfect. Stone proves his mastery once and for all with this leap of superb writing. Set in the early 90s, Owen Browne is a salesman for a high-end yacht brokerage, Hylan Marine. Browne is married to the successful, alcoholic Anne Browne and father to an unapproachable teenage daughter, Maggie. Set against a daily deteriorating national economy, the Brownes face pressures ranging from unrealized dreams, Anne's addiction, their daughter's increasing isolation, and the fact that the owner of Owen's employing company, billionaire playboy Matty Hylan, has suspiciously vanished and, unbeknownst to the Brownes, has taken a huge chunk of Hylan Corp's liquid assets with him. In his absence Hylan has also abandoned his highly publicized entry in a yachting race, a solo circumnavigation of the globe.
Anne Browne has tolerated Owen's periodic spells of despondency, wondering for years if their life together--marriage at a young age, his leaving the Navy too soon, his confinement in an unrewarding job--is not the reason for his moods. When Browne discovers Hylan's disappearance, he volunteers himself to the executives at Hylan Corp as a replacement in the race. A deep feeling of unspent greatness compels Browne to make this one last attempt at fulfillment. Even though both Anne and Owen know that fundamentally he isn't experienced enough behind the helm to safely make the cruise, neither will really discuss it to the extent that the truth is acknowledged and the notion abandoned. The Hylan execs simply see him as a good-looking distraction to their present downturn in publicity.
During all of this, Ron Strickland, talented, seedy filmmaker hired by Matty Hylan to document the race prior to his vanishing, is primed to unearth all the dysfunctions of the Browne family and the reasons behind Hylan Corps gamble to allow Owen to sail. Why expose them? Why harvest their sadness? Because Ron Strickland is good at it. The best, in fact. He feeds off the pain and dark secrets displayed in his films. His stutter, his ever present stammer, gives most people the impression that he might be slightly stupid or dense. This opens them up. They say things and portray things they normally wouldn't. Eventually, in Owen's absence, Strickland seduces Anne, destroying all she thought she was, tearing down her life and exposing it to her as well as, to his own dismay, falling in love with her.
On the ocean in the heat of the race (which he is winning until a storm reveals the secret inadequacies of his boat, one last parting gift from Matty Hylan) Owen finds himself in uncharted waters at the bottom of the planet, lying to world through relayed shortwave radio messages, facing his madness alone, a melancholic hallucinatory madness that leads to an ambiguously positive ending. 'In one step, Browne thought, I'll make myself an honest man.' The title 'Outerbridge Reach' comes from a piece of New York Harbor real estate owned by Anne's family, a desolate place in the bay where worn out boats from different eras of seagoing sit and rot under constant erosion from the brutal seasons, a metaphor not lost in the final mix.
This book is a poem. It is pure art in language as only Robert Stone can produce. Lyrics such as: 'The color of her eyes was nearly Viking blue, but with a Celtic shadow,' are too many to count, almost rivaling Cormac McCarthy in stylistic beauty. And he does it effortlessly page after page after page. This is Robert Stone's finest work, surpassing Damascus Gate and Dog Soldiers by Olympian leaps.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
ROKY ERIKSON: TEXAS’ UNKNOWN ROCK N ROLL MESSIAH
yo... i had heard of and listened to some Roky Erikson before my time in Fort Worth but Fraf was shocked that I was not a Roky Erikson fan.
now it's my turn to spread the gospel
now it's my turn to spread the gospel
the Bend part ii
Cruising along at the blistering park speed limit of 45 mph is a refreshing change from the inordinate 80 mph limits south of Midland/Odessa. The air is quick with creosote. Clean. Organic. Approximately 5 miles south of the ranger station, east of the road, I clearly see a titanic crack in the distant mountain shelf. As if produced by the edge of Jimi Hendrix’s legendary hand, Dog Canyon dramatically divides the Dead Horse Mountains from the Santiago Mountains. Santiago to the north, Dead Horse to the south. This bold feature is merely a clue to the scale of the natural beauty to come.
Far ahead, through 20 miles of gangly ocotillo and silver lechuguilla stalks, the mighty Chisos Mountains bestir in the morning blue, yet frozen in their ancient volcanic attempt to escape the blond landscape around them. Escape to where? I wonder. The entire Chisos range resides in the park. Each peak is unique and shares few characteristics with his siblings aside from color and texture. These hills and peaks will be my home for the next two weeks.
Panther Junction, technically an HQ and visitor center, is a larger station than Persimmon Gap. There’s a bookstore, a post office, a gas station and a restricted cluster of residential structures, housing for park employees. I make a quick lap through the parking lot. Tourists flutter and stumble about the place like a flock of idiotic birds, a somewhat repulsive gathering of elastic waist bands and White Diamonds. Driving farther south, I search for my escape from the immaculate paint and paving of Highway 385. My escape is called Glenn Springs Road, the beginning of many miles of rough backcountry roads cutting through the heart of the wilderness.
My destination is a primitive campsite called Rice Tank, named for the adjacent earthen water catch built by the Rice family roughly ninety years ago to feed cattle. The road is one lane with periodic shoots of grating curling away in short limbs, convenient for yielding to other 4x4 behemoths. When two vehicles meet, rumbling in opposite directions, a strange telepathic communication ensues, usually culminating in a squeezing yield by the larger of the two machines. These roads are barely maintained by the park service, gravel pooling in the lower ruts, dangerous terraced slabs of unearthed rock, craters. I would hope the lack of maintenance is to discourage traffic but I suspect laziness.
I’ve never seen the Chisos from the east but once I bring my Ford Ranger in a cloud of gravelly dust to the peak of a hill just south of Nugent Mountain (the Nuge!) their primordial splendor is enough to make me crunch to a halt, mouth gaping in awe. The peaks are crowned with fleshy, red crumbling rock not unlike cubes and slabs of raw pork. I see the square jawed faces of a thousand antediluvian robots in as many stripes of stone. The foothills are heavily blond, splattered with greens of every shade and variant. There is another color. It’s not gray. It’s black. A black that knows its place, fully aware of its power and plays when the time is right. Gray lives in the land I abandoned to come here. The High Plains. Gray broods there like a troll.
The Bend part i
10 miles north of Odessa/Midland: This land stinks of foul seepage. Mantis shaped oil pumps pepper the flat landscape doing what mantises do: they sit and they wait for a reason to move. Frozen in black silence. I give myself a giggle as the terrain reminds me of landscape intensive video games: yellow grass, yellow grass, white tank-blue tank-white tank, yellow grass, telephone poll, yellow grass, white tank-blue tank-white tank... repeat as needed...
Midland/Odessa is a lost Dallas suburb that has strayed beyond the point of no return. It's as if Dallas, in some fit of fleeting disgust drove to the country and shoved this unwanted household pet from the open door of a creeping sedan. And so, after whining and howling with loneliness, Midland/Odessa ("Home of President and Laura Bush!") finally composed itself and commenced to sprawling: 35 mph freeways, excruciating numbers of numbered loops, groves of trees that don't belong and will never will, black exhaust of hundreds of thousands of trucks, Arby's, Cheddar's, Applebee's, McDonalds, TGIFridays, Arby's, Cheddar's, Applebee's, McDonalds, TGIFridays … repeat as needed…
Monahans: Lovely little town. Lovely little truck-stop sign "WE HAVE EPHEDRINE." Another sign that catches my attention "STUDIES SHOW THAT PEOPLE WITH FAITH LIVE LONGER." Ahhh, the balance of the world is eternal. In all of the choices we make, the universe is always there to set the scales flush. Yes, you gain a bit from faith. I gain from other things, say marijuana, for example. And I lose a thing too… don't remember what it is… I had it right on the tip of my tongue…oh well. Back to balance. Yes, those who have an abundance of faith seem to gain a few years but they certainly run the risk of being assholes for the duration.
After Monahans, through Grandfalls and Fort Stockton the landscape goes to twisting and morphing. Here rise the first of many desert mountains to come. Long stretches of high mesa shimmer in the sliding sun. Gazing southwest, I can see for probably 50 miles across the valley between Wolf Camp Hills and the Sugar Loaf and Spencer Mountains. I can just barely catch a glimpse of Cathedral Mountain far to the west, over a spine of rocky peaks. The spirit of this land swells. Lands do have spirits, more so than people. I've yet to meet a person who conveys other world sentiments as well as landscape. Once past Marathon (pronounced locally with a lazy "thun" instead of the Greek "thon") the land troughs visibly on a massive scale. Everything rolls downhill. Here downhill is Mexico, channeled through the super-sized national park to the south.
I reach the empty Persimmon Gap Ranger Station at approximately 6:15. The sun is drowsy. I sleep in a picnic area under a bent NO CAMPING sign. That night I dream that the National Park Service requires a vehicle title for entrance. Nightmare.
Pre-dawn greets me, groggy and stretching in the bed of my truck, with a salmon glow over the Klippe Peak to the east, its silhouette laced with a penumbra of fire. I percolate coffee on a single-burner propane stove given to me by my friend Cadillac Fraf before his accident. I think of him and his family for a moment, somewhat guilty that I'm here and they are there in that unfortunate situation. "Wake up, Fraf," I say as the first solid ray of galactic light beams across the fading indigo of dawn.
Twenty dollars for the vehicle permit, good for seven days, and ten dollars for the backcountry camping permit, good for up fourteen days, all sold to me by a softly featured female ranger named Alice. Alice is married, the evidence on her finger, but her eyes shine in defiance. Sorry, Alice, the last thing I need first thing this morning is you and whatever shape, size and temperament of your husband, asleep and no doubt hungover in the trailer out back.
(more to come… I hate editing…)
Midland/Odessa is a lost Dallas suburb that has strayed beyond the point of no return. It's as if Dallas, in some fit of fleeting disgust drove to the country and shoved this unwanted household pet from the open door of a creeping sedan. And so, after whining and howling with loneliness, Midland/Odessa ("Home of President and Laura Bush!") finally composed itself and commenced to sprawling: 35 mph freeways, excruciating numbers of numbered loops, groves of trees that don't belong and will never will, black exhaust of hundreds of thousands of trucks, Arby's, Cheddar's, Applebee's, McDonalds, TGIFridays, Arby's, Cheddar's, Applebee's, McDonalds, TGIFridays … repeat as needed…
Monahans: Lovely little town. Lovely little truck-stop sign "WE HAVE EPHEDRINE." Another sign that catches my attention "STUDIES SHOW THAT PEOPLE WITH FAITH LIVE LONGER." Ahhh, the balance of the world is eternal. In all of the choices we make, the universe is always there to set the scales flush. Yes, you gain a bit from faith. I gain from other things, say marijuana, for example. And I lose a thing too… don't remember what it is… I had it right on the tip of my tongue…oh well. Back to balance. Yes, those who have an abundance of faith seem to gain a few years but they certainly run the risk of being assholes for the duration.
After Monahans, through Grandfalls and Fort Stockton the landscape goes to twisting and morphing. Here rise the first of many desert mountains to come. Long stretches of high mesa shimmer in the sliding sun. Gazing southwest, I can see for probably 50 miles across the valley between Wolf Camp Hills and the Sugar Loaf and Spencer Mountains. I can just barely catch a glimpse of Cathedral Mountain far to the west, over a spine of rocky peaks. The spirit of this land swells. Lands do have spirits, more so than people. I've yet to meet a person who conveys other world sentiments as well as landscape. Once past Marathon (pronounced locally with a lazy "thun" instead of the Greek "thon") the land troughs visibly on a massive scale. Everything rolls downhill. Here downhill is Mexico, channeled through the super-sized national park to the south.
I reach the empty Persimmon Gap Ranger Station at approximately 6:15. The sun is drowsy. I sleep in a picnic area under a bent NO CAMPING sign. That night I dream that the National Park Service requires a vehicle title for entrance. Nightmare.
Pre-dawn greets me, groggy and stretching in the bed of my truck, with a salmon glow over the Klippe Peak to the east, its silhouette laced with a penumbra of fire. I percolate coffee on a single-burner propane stove given to me by my friend Cadillac Fraf before his accident. I think of him and his family for a moment, somewhat guilty that I'm here and they are there in that unfortunate situation. "Wake up, Fraf," I say as the first solid ray of galactic light beams across the fading indigo of dawn.
Twenty dollars for the vehicle permit, good for seven days, and ten dollars for the backcountry camping permit, good for up fourteen days, all sold to me by a softly featured female ranger named Alice. Alice is married, the evidence on her finger, but her eyes shine in defiance. Sorry, Alice, the last thing I need first thing this morning is you and whatever shape, size and temperament of your husband, asleep and no doubt hungover in the trailer out back.
(more to come… I hate editing…)
last time. i promise.
"Language is the process that lashes experience to intellect."
-Robert Stone in Prime Green
-Robert Stone in Prime Green
...don't tell me. i fully aware...
..that i'm kind of addicted to Robert Stone:
"The color of her eyes was nearly Viking blue, but with a Celtic shadow." - from Outerbridge Reach
holy shit this guy....
"The color of her eyes was nearly Viking blue, but with a Celtic shadow." - from Outerbridge Reach
holy shit this guy....
3 books, 2 authors
Again with some books…
I have a habit of reading many books by certain authors back to back. I did not expect unknown territory when I decided to re-read Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey nor did I expect to be surprised by his early novel the Brave Cowboy. Also not expecting anything new, just a familiar voice telling a solid story, I read Robert Stone's late '90s novel Damascus Gate. Both Abbey (my favorite all-around author) and Stone (my favorite living author) have left me in awe. These are three stunning reads.
Perhaps youth clouded my first pouring through Desert Solitaire. It is hard to say. I do remember Abbey's virtuosic ability to describe the natural world. In fact his radiant descriptions of desert mountains, fauna, skies, and wildlife sent me in a frantic search for more of his writing. I certainly recall how I delighted in his cantankerous hatred for man's encroachment upon the wild. Admittedly, many of his cultural references were beyond my realm of intellectual knowledge but you can be guaranteed that I researched and absorbed even the most obscure. I suspect since I am now older, worldlier, closer to Abbey's intellectual level this memoir delivered a heavier impact on this second reading almost fifteen years after my first. This book isn't merely the ultimate in nature writing--light years beyond much of Thoreau's work--it forever changed the genre. When published in 1968, Desert Solitaire contemporaries were dipped in caramelized flowery, ethereal, hippy-dippy language about babbling brooks and glittering stars. Abbey shattered this style like a dried piece of juniper with his foul mouth, anarchic tirades and penchant for subversive ideology. When one reaches the end of Solitaire, conflicting emotions linger. Anger at our nation's rapacious appetite for a god-like, and still irredeemable power over Nature; elation over the fact that anyone can still wander into the wild and discover god as Abbey found him. Absent. Absent in the face of an unending, beautiful, indifferent universe. I am going to Big Bend National Park after my Mambo's gig to find my own absence of gods, men, women, machines, and societal bullshit. Praise be to you, Ed Abbey.
What else could follow a classic Edward Abbey memoir of life in the desert but an Edward Abbey novel about the stupidity of modern culture and its effects on those who will sacrifice all for freedom, the Brave Cowboy. Again, believe me when I say I picked up the Brave Cowboy mainly out of safety. I know Abbey. A familiar voice. I admit I have not read all of Abbey's writings (close but not yet all) and I am aware most critics and fans consider Desert Solitaire his best work and I am fully aware Abbey felt Black Sun his personal best and I, until reading Cowboy, an earlier novel written 12 years before the release of Solitaire, could not put any of his writings above A Fool's Progress, his last novel. But ladies and gentlemen this book is astounding. The Brave Cowboy is a simple escape/chase plot wrapped around a screaming endorsement of anarchy as less of a political ideal than a personal reality. Jack Burns is a young, lanky transient cowboy who refuses to travel on anything but a horse. Burns discovers that his best friend, one Paul Bondi, has been arrested for refusing to register for Selective Service. This is 1956, folks. A decade before crowds of unbathed counterculturalists waved flaming draft cards in the streets. Abbey had a knack for seeing and speaking out against issues long before his peers. There's your plot but most of the beauty in this book lies in Abbey's immaculate dialogue and staging, however one lone aspect of this novel stands out like a strobe for me. Optimism. In most of his writing, Edward Abbey rarely exudes any sustained optimism. Abbey's bitterness is considered by many critics to be a crutch. But up until the very end of this story--and I do mean the very end--he fills Jack Burns with the unending conviction that if one simply sticks to his principles, all will be right with the world, good may not triumph over evil but balance will be held. A Fools Progress and the Brave Cowboy are now tied for first place in my best-of-Abbey-list. This novel should be required reading for all adults between the ages of 18 and 25 as for anyone who is sick of the state of our modernized, mechanized, paved and Rustoleum lathered world.
Okay. I've spewed my love for Ed Abbey nearly to a fault. Time to do the same for Robert Stone. After reading the monster that is Damascus Gate, admiration for Stone comes easily. During the course of this book, Stone, whose talent for shedding brutal light on modern civilization has made him one of America's most critically acclaimed authors, tackles the entire city of Jerusalem, nearly every conceivable religion, the subtleties of Middle-Eastern race relations, the role of journalism in a place where the truth is as relative as favorite colors, national loyalty, terrorism, love, sex, faith and the search for it. There's actually more but I'm sure you've grown bored with that list. The sheer audacity and sweeping plot of Damascus Gate are enough the send most readers reeling, groping for the latest installment of Where's Waldo for cerebral relief. Yet if you've ever read Robert Stone, you know that he can handle the load and make it a surprisingly brisk ride. Stone's Jerusalem is a web of character after character, each tethered tenuously to an ever growing plot to blow-up the Temple on the Mount. Christopher Lucas is a journalist who, depending on present company, waffles back and forth between his patchwork catholic and Jewish heritage all the while wrestling with his complete lack of faith. When he falls in love with Sonia, a mulatto whose over abundance of faith drags her into a boiling intrigue of secret police and burgeoning cults, Lucas confronts his lack of faith silhouetted against a Holy City overpopulated with fanatics, soldiers, and thousands of people bent on rioting in the streets. Stone's language is a dream of poetry and prose. No living writer has his ability to make death so beautiful, blood so tasty, love so heartbreaking, or the chase so fast and vivid. The volume of Stone's research for this book is unfathomable. His grasp of the region and the people and the emotions sprung from within that crucible is tactile. You can smell the burning tires, feel the grit of desert sand and taste the salt of tears both joyful and sad. In Damascus Gate's final moments, Stone reveals that true faith belongs to those who want to believe not those--like me and Stone--who have outsmarted themselves with their search for a truth that in the end requires, you guessed it, faith. Faith in their own ability to find that truth.
I have a habit of reading many books by certain authors back to back. I did not expect unknown territory when I decided to re-read Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey nor did I expect to be surprised by his early novel the Brave Cowboy. Also not expecting anything new, just a familiar voice telling a solid story, I read Robert Stone's late '90s novel Damascus Gate. Both Abbey (my favorite all-around author) and Stone (my favorite living author) have left me in awe. These are three stunning reads.
Perhaps youth clouded my first pouring through Desert Solitaire. It is hard to say. I do remember Abbey's virtuosic ability to describe the natural world. In fact his radiant descriptions of desert mountains, fauna, skies, and wildlife sent me in a frantic search for more of his writing. I certainly recall how I delighted in his cantankerous hatred for man's encroachment upon the wild. Admittedly, many of his cultural references were beyond my realm of intellectual knowledge but you can be guaranteed that I researched and absorbed even the most obscure. I suspect since I am now older, worldlier, closer to Abbey's intellectual level this memoir delivered a heavier impact on this second reading almost fifteen years after my first. This book isn't merely the ultimate in nature writing--light years beyond much of Thoreau's work--it forever changed the genre. When published in 1968, Desert Solitaire contemporaries were dipped in caramelized flowery, ethereal, hippy-dippy language about babbling brooks and glittering stars. Abbey shattered this style like a dried piece of juniper with his foul mouth, anarchic tirades and penchant for subversive ideology. When one reaches the end of Solitaire, conflicting emotions linger. Anger at our nation's rapacious appetite for a god-like, and still irredeemable power over Nature; elation over the fact that anyone can still wander into the wild and discover god as Abbey found him. Absent. Absent in the face of an unending, beautiful, indifferent universe. I am going to Big Bend National Park after my Mambo's gig to find my own absence of gods, men, women, machines, and societal bullshit. Praise be to you, Ed Abbey.
What else could follow a classic Edward Abbey memoir of life in the desert but an Edward Abbey novel about the stupidity of modern culture and its effects on those who will sacrifice all for freedom, the Brave Cowboy. Again, believe me when I say I picked up the Brave Cowboy mainly out of safety. I know Abbey. A familiar voice. I admit I have not read all of Abbey's writings (close but not yet all) and I am aware most critics and fans consider Desert Solitaire his best work and I am fully aware Abbey felt Black Sun his personal best and I, until reading Cowboy, an earlier novel written 12 years before the release of Solitaire, could not put any of his writings above A Fool's Progress, his last novel. But ladies and gentlemen this book is astounding. The Brave Cowboy is a simple escape/chase plot wrapped around a screaming endorsement of anarchy as less of a political ideal than a personal reality. Jack Burns is a young, lanky transient cowboy who refuses to travel on anything but a horse. Burns discovers that his best friend, one Paul Bondi, has been arrested for refusing to register for Selective Service. This is 1956, folks. A decade before crowds of unbathed counterculturalists waved flaming draft cards in the streets. Abbey had a knack for seeing and speaking out against issues long before his peers. There's your plot but most of the beauty in this book lies in Abbey's immaculate dialogue and staging, however one lone aspect of this novel stands out like a strobe for me. Optimism. In most of his writing, Edward Abbey rarely exudes any sustained optimism. Abbey's bitterness is considered by many critics to be a crutch. But up until the very end of this story--and I do mean the very end--he fills Jack Burns with the unending conviction that if one simply sticks to his principles, all will be right with the world, good may not triumph over evil but balance will be held. A Fools Progress and the Brave Cowboy are now tied for first place in my best-of-Abbey-list. This novel should be required reading for all adults between the ages of 18 and 25 as for anyone who is sick of the state of our modernized, mechanized, paved and Rustoleum lathered world.
Okay. I've spewed my love for Ed Abbey nearly to a fault. Time to do the same for Robert Stone. After reading the monster that is Damascus Gate, admiration for Stone comes easily. During the course of this book, Stone, whose talent for shedding brutal light on modern civilization has made him one of America's most critically acclaimed authors, tackles the entire city of Jerusalem, nearly every conceivable religion, the subtleties of Middle-Eastern race relations, the role of journalism in a place where the truth is as relative as favorite colors, national loyalty, terrorism, love, sex, faith and the search for it. There's actually more but I'm sure you've grown bored with that list. The sheer audacity and sweeping plot of Damascus Gate are enough the send most readers reeling, groping for the latest installment of Where's Waldo for cerebral relief. Yet if you've ever read Robert Stone, you know that he can handle the load and make it a surprisingly brisk ride. Stone's Jerusalem is a web of character after character, each tethered tenuously to an ever growing plot to blow-up the Temple on the Mount. Christopher Lucas is a journalist who, depending on present company, waffles back and forth between his patchwork catholic and Jewish heritage all the while wrestling with his complete lack of faith. When he falls in love with Sonia, a mulatto whose over abundance of faith drags her into a boiling intrigue of secret police and burgeoning cults, Lucas confronts his lack of faith silhouetted against a Holy City overpopulated with fanatics, soldiers, and thousands of people bent on rioting in the streets. Stone's language is a dream of poetry and prose. No living writer has his ability to make death so beautiful, blood so tasty, love so heartbreaking, or the chase so fast and vivid. The volume of Stone's research for this book is unfathomable. His grasp of the region and the people and the emotions sprung from within that crucible is tactile. You can smell the burning tires, feel the grit of desert sand and taste the salt of tears both joyful and sad. In Damascus Gate's final moments, Stone reveals that true faith belongs to those who want to believe not those--like me and Stone--who have outsmarted themselves with their search for a truth that in the end requires, you guessed it, faith. Faith in their own ability to find that truth.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
the Weekend and my 40
a little bored today, so this may ramble...
First off, My July 3 show at the GLC was the funnest gig I've had in a long, long time. To the group of rather conservative young ladies who refused to be rattled by my undergarment remark: TOUCHE! very well played. (I won't repeat their volley here, I'm not one for salt on my own wounds.) To Sgt. Foos: the best door-nazi this side of the Canadian. To Serena: thanx for being a bitch... no really.... To the dude who couldn't remember his girlfriend's name: we'll miss you, bro. And lastly to the poor girl who left on a stretcher: get well soon; we already miss yer exquisite singing voice. We even toyed with the notion of doing an annual thing, "Skitz O'Fuel's USA Up Yer Ass, 'Skitz loves America so much he celebrates July 3rd, bitches!'" My personal favorite, can't remember who said it, "Skitz O'Fuel's July 3rd Championship." Whatever happens, the 3rd certainly happened this year.
McDracula is known by several names: the Time Travelling Ninja, Brando Marlin, Perduedon't. His momma calls him Brandon Perdue. He and his wife and daughter (soon to be plural) are family to me. He was the last drummer for THICK and the only drummer I've really collaborated with on a regular basis since. Brando is the weirdest dude I know who can still function adequately in society. He should be a in a nuthouse, it's true, but he's pretty light on his feet... Brando makes irreverent, if not straight up vulgar music and short films... and he looks snazzy behind a drum kit.
Chris Whitley died in 2005. He was the single greatest influence on my musical life. That really sums it up. I can point to different bands and people throughout history but Whitely had something that cracked a weld in my heart and I've been happily bleeding ever since.
Gram Parsons Yeah, Buddy and the Big Bopper, Janis and Jimi, Cliff (Burton) and Kurt all went to soon, I agree. But if there was ever a death that was so heartbreaking in its incalculable effects on the future of American music it was the death of Gram Parsons. Emmy Lou said, "He was the only star in my sky."
Lonesome Goat are the swingin'est bunch of fuckers on the Texas Plains. Goat is what became of the Humans, a trippy-hippy jam band who were another local inspiration for me and to just nearly every musician in this town, comprised of THE best musicians, namely Rick Fawcett on pedal steel and Gary Wayne Thomason (of the late Groobies). Dave Regal is arguably one of the catchiest songwriters in ALL of North and West Texas. They're also a personal fav of X Country matriarch Jesse Scott.
AMP Recording Studio is the bedrock of all my musical efforts. Run by Drew Holder (Luke Holder's older brother), AMP has released albums from every genre and style of music from Gooder Graw to Tungsten 74 to Rodney Brannigan to Infliction and everything in between. It became birthplace of "asshole jazz" after the Sunday Night Midnight sessions. AMP is the recording icon of the High Plains thanks to Drew's laid back style, letting the artist relax and be at home in an environment where, usually, relaxation is hard to achieve. The true scope of AMP and Drew's influence on this region's musical culture will probly never be fully known.
Golden Light Cafe & Cantina It's been the site all things Skitz. I have played, fought, drank, died, been resurrected, loved, hated, banned from, snuck into and cried in the Golden Light. It's an institution.
Bo Salling & the Brakes Are All Gone Band . No lie, not just cuz they're good friends of mine (on and off), not just cuz they're from my hometown: this is pound-for-pound the best live band I have ever seen, period. When these fuckers are ON... they will make a Baptist preacher throw chairs in a saloon... no shit... I've seen it. And one of my proudest recording credits is my slide work on their song "Cocaine Jane." And Bo kills with his "gospel mama" vocals on the end of my song, "Light the Fuse."
that's Angela's new baby, Jack Bebb, who conveniently looks just like his dad, the legendary Spike Bebb. Anglea owns the GLC. She's a good friend, was a good roommate, is the World's Strongest Midget, and she's married to the best songwriter in town. She's a champ...
Cadillac Fraf!
Emily Herring is a writer of perfect songs... i mean it. Perfection on every track. Her voice, for lack of an appropriate cliche.., is unique. I am a gargantuan fan. She needs to get her ass to Whiskyrilla!
the Schraags are Yellow City-Shitrock at it's finest. Based on the whiskey induced ramblings of resident rawk-bass master, Cliff Schraag. Cliff always has a positive message for the kids...
Cameron McGill is a poet who sings. Met him on his little trek through the Whiskyrilla and immediately heard deep meaning every note, in every word. McGill is a true wordsmith-songwriter. The phrase "...phantom limb on yer family tree..." is enuff, in my opinion, to make this guy's words important....
Tungsten74 space rock of the royal flavor. These 3 super weirdos from Brooklyn, NY have recorded all their albums at AMP, made AP magazine, performed live soundtracks for touring theatrical plays, and probly inflicted some major hearing damage on unsuspecting teens during at least four cross country tours. On a hiatus for a short while now, Tungsten74 idle in the cold of space waiting for the right moment to strike from the edge of the cosmos... sry... i get a little carried away...
Bryan Wilson is one of those dudes who can play anything, and I do mean anything, on the guitar and make it look easy, and I do mean look easy. I am fortunate to have his pickin on my Joe Henry cover, "Topless Shoeshine." We worked in the same office together for a while and learned how to make fun of it all.
Sarah is Bryan's lovely English wife who is an old school computer talent, saved my digital ass more than once. She and Bryan are on the computers as much as me so naturally they stand prominent on my list.
Queens of the Stone Age. I was a huge Kyuss fan. Still a fan of all those guys, Brandt Bjork, Scott Reeder and Josh Homme, who rules the Queens with an iron fist full of sex, booze and weirdness...
Burns! Anybody have a really good drinkin buddy who can switch out the radiator on yer truck in under 10 mins? Well, I do. He's also one of the PBM boys.
Mick Feely is a founding memeber of THICK, had his own school of philosophy buried deep in an abandoned mercury mine near Teralingua, TX, is a constant target of universal moral disdain, and is also an all around good dude. He and his wife "Mamasita" have been my friends for as long as anyone. These days Mick pretty much sticks to male exotic dancing and raising various deadly reptiles.
ZZ Top no explanation needed...
Fu Manchu is another remnant of Kyuss (Bjork and Reeder have spent time in this band) with Scott Hill at the helm. Big influence on THICK. It's goodtime music but certainly heavy. If you gotta call it sumthin, call it surfer metal.
Supersuckers. When it comes to Satan, drugs, whiskey, dirty women, rock-n-roll, and a generally romantic treatment of petty crime, there are none higher than the Supersuckers. When Bon Scott died, rock lost something; when the Supersuckers formed, we got it right back and it--whatever it is--was pissed of and ready to party.
Joan Jett and the Blackhearts no explanation needed....
Mike Watt is a legend and he should be recognized as such. Thank you, Iggy & the Stooges for giving Watt the audiences he's earned!
Moses Moran is a phenomenal musician, mostly gut-strung, weird shaped guitars. He was a versatile member of the Sunday Night Midnight crew. If he's in town, you can probly catch him playing with somebody and blowing the peeps away.
Oxes suck coxes!
Holly. I'm a sucker for a pretty lady with a cup of coffee.
AJ Swope. I've always dug AJ's voice. Known him since the THICK days. He's also a local celebrity for other reasons but I don't own a TV so I'm not sure I know the reasons...
Dirty Jerrzy is my "ya-should've-at-least-tried." The cool chick. Wish her the best.
Branden, owner of the coolest landmark in town. An old friend, sold me my resonator and my Marshall. And made sure I got my Gary Fisher back when I needed it. Can pick on a six-string and tell ya who can't. He's also one of the PBM boys.
Bill Hicks, gone now, was a genius in his time, got his start in Lubbock, TX and at the time he was one of the few guys willing to cross those lines you weren't supposed to cross. A smart, smart man which is still hard to come by in stand-up comedy.
it's just me... we all know who she is. It's been a strange ride but yeah, we're friends.
Korte is great showman, great player. I've had many a fun moment on stage with Korte in HOJP, Ghost of the Golden Light and the few guest appearances I made with the Kickin' Wookies. Like the time when I forgot to park my truck after loading into Burberry's and we played a whole set before we realized, "those aren't street sweeper lights... those are my hazards!" I had left my truck in the middle of a downtown parking lane for an hour... with the door open.... Or the time I answered my phone on stage, and the poor lady who called a wrong number got an earful of whiskey-drunk Skitz on stage, over the PA.... those were the days...
the 806 is the best coffee and the best atmosphere in town.
Claire Cunningham has a voice. A monster set of pipes. The kind of voice that once you hear it, you can't forget it; you'll always recognize it. And her song, "Don't Remember Me" is one of my over-all favorites on MySpace. Haunting progression and perfectly placed lyrics kept me coming back to listen over and over again. Some of you might recognize it from my acoustic set and maybe the few times I've done it with Electroids, but I've never done it as well as Claire.
Megster is a snappy dresser, always has a laugh, deep thinker deluxe... and I think she might be crazy... in a good way...
Josh Paulson. One of the best acoustic players in the region, Josh is gifted with a beautiful barrel-chested steam engine of a voice... then has the audacity to sing nuthin but lofty tunes about girls... diggit
Bulldog interviewed me on the ol' interwebs for his radio show. Bulldog is just one one of those folks you meet for whatever reason and you wind-up keeping in touch at various times. Good man. Big supporter of my music.
Kandi. I know, i know... not my type, you say. But there's sumthin bout this wild (feral is more like it) model/dancer/singer from Dallas... She's a cutie and she's fearless... that's honestly what it is: she's fearless.
First off, My July 3 show at the GLC was the funnest gig I've had in a long, long time. To the group of rather conservative young ladies who refused to be rattled by my undergarment remark: TOUCHE! very well played. (I won't repeat their volley here, I'm not one for salt on my own wounds.) To Sgt. Foos: the best door-nazi this side of the Canadian. To Serena: thanx for being a bitch... no really.... To the dude who couldn't remember his girlfriend's name: we'll miss you, bro. And lastly to the poor girl who left on a stretcher: get well soon; we already miss yer exquisite singing voice. We even toyed with the notion of doing an annual thing, "Skitz O'Fuel's USA Up Yer Ass, 'Skitz loves America so much he celebrates July 3rd, bitches!'" My personal favorite, can't remember who said it, "Skitz O'Fuel's July 3rd Championship." Whatever happens, the 3rd certainly happened this year.
Thank You,
Ladies and Gentiles
Bo's 4th of July Picinic. The low turnout not withstanding, the music was fantastic. Dynamite Lazerbeam rules as always. It was really great to hear 'Goat swing on stage again. Macon fuckin Greyson... dudes always give a hundred and ten. [Harley is THE best live player in Texas right now... period]. Hope my after set party favors didn't make the drive back to town impossible... And Dale Watson. What the hell can you say about Dale Watson except the ol' boy is a master of his style and a true presence on stage. I remember going to see Waylon Jennings when I was in high school, the presence the dude had, his grasp of the moment and interaction with a crowd. Dale Watson and his gunslinger coat and his coin festooned Telecaster and his silver pompadour and that syrupy baritone have all that. As Buddy from MG put it, "This is my country music." Dale Watson gave us that gift on the 4th of July.
That was the weekend. Now, during my GLC show someone brought up MySpace and who's in their top list and a lengthy ultimately meaningless conversation ensued, however it sparked me to es'plain my top list... (told you i was bored...)
no explanation needed...
Luke Holder is a good friend, damn good songwriter. Been a fan of his since his days in a punk band called Brothers Grim. I 've played on all of his albums since then and I feel privileged to have done so. I've done two projects with Luke 1) Silver Merge: a pure studio project many years ago. 2) HOJP, or HO'-jap, a purely live acoustic group. You can also address him as Blacky Tobbacky under certain circumstances,
McDracula is known by several names: the Time Travelling Ninja, Brando Marlin, Perduedon't. His momma calls him Brandon Perdue. He and his wife and daughter (soon to be plural) are family to me. He was the last drummer for THICK and the only drummer I've really collaborated with on a regular basis since. Brando is the weirdest dude I know who can still function adequately in society. He should be a in a nuthouse, it's true, but he's pretty light on his feet... Brando makes irreverent, if not straight up vulgar music and short films... and he looks snazzy behind a drum kit.Chris Whitley died in 2005. He was the single greatest influence on my musical life. That really sums it up. I can point to different bands and people throughout history but Whitely had something that cracked a weld in my heart and I've been happily bleeding ever since.Gram Parsons Yeah, Buddy and the Big Bopper, Janis and Jimi, Cliff (Burton) and Kurt all went to soon, I agree. But if there was ever a death that was so heartbreaking in its incalculable effects on the future of American music it was the death of Gram Parsons. Emmy Lou said, "He was the only star in my sky."Lonesome Goat are the swingin'est bunch of fuckers on the Texas Plains. Goat is what became of the Humans, a trippy-hippy jam band who were another local inspiration for me and to just nearly every musician in this town, comprised of THE best musicians, namely Rick Fawcett on pedal steel and Gary Wayne Thomason (of the late Groobies). Dave Regal is arguably one of the catchiest songwriters in ALL of North and West Texas. They're also a personal fav of X Country matriarch Jesse Scott.AMP Recording Studio is the bedrock of all my musical efforts. Run by Drew Holder (Luke Holder's older brother), AMP has released albums from every genre and style of music from Gooder Graw to Tungsten 74 to Rodney Brannigan to Infliction and everything in between. It became birthplace of "asshole jazz" after the Sunday Night Midnight sessions. AMP is the recording icon of the High Plains thanks to Drew's laid back style, letting the artist relax and be at home in an environment where, usually, relaxation is hard to achieve. The true scope of AMP and Drew's influence on this region's musical culture will probly never be fully known. Golden Light Cafe & Cantina It's been the site all things Skitz. I have played, fought, drank, died, been resurrected, loved, hated, banned from, snuck into and cried in the Golden Light. It's an institution. Bo Salling & the Brakes Are All Gone Band . No lie, not just cuz they're good friends of mine (on and off), not just cuz they're from my hometown: this is pound-for-pound the best live band I have ever seen, period. When these fuckers are ON... they will make a Baptist preacher throw chairs in a saloon... no shit... I've seen it. And one of my proudest recording credits is my slide work on their song "Cocaine Jane." And Bo kills with his "gospel mama" vocals on the end of my song, "Light the Fuse."that's Angela's new baby, Jack Bebb, who conveniently looks just like his dad, the legendary Spike Bebb. Anglea owns the GLC. She's a good friend, was a good roommate, is the World's Strongest Midget, and she's married to the best songwriter in town. She's a champ... Cadillac Fraf! Emily Herring is a writer of perfect songs... i mean it. Perfection on every track. Her voice, for lack of an appropriate cliche.., is unique. I am a gargantuan fan. She needs to get her ass to Whiskyrilla! the Schraags are Yellow City-Shitrock at it's finest. Based on the whiskey induced ramblings of resident rawk-bass master, Cliff Schraag. Cliff always has a positive message for the kids... Cameron McGill is a poet who sings. Met him on his little trek through the Whiskyrilla and immediately heard deep meaning every note, in every word. McGill is a true wordsmith-songwriter. The phrase "...phantom limb on yer family tree..." is enuff, in my opinion, to make this guy's words important.... Tungsten74 space rock of the royal flavor. These 3 super weirdos from Brooklyn, NY have recorded all their albums at AMP, made AP magazine, performed live soundtracks for touring theatrical plays, and probly inflicted some major hearing damage on unsuspecting teens during at least four cross country tours. On a hiatus for a short while now, Tungsten74 idle in the cold of space waiting for the right moment to strike from the edge of the cosmos... sry... i get a little carried away... Bryan Wilson is one of those dudes who can play anything, and I do mean anything, on the guitar and make it look easy, and I do mean look easy. I am fortunate to have his pickin on my Joe Henry cover, "Topless Shoeshine." We worked in the same office together for a while and learned how to make fun of it all. Sarah is Bryan's lovely English wife who is an old school computer talent, saved my digital ass more than once. She and Bryan are on the computers as much as me so naturally they stand prominent on my list. Queens of the Stone Age. I was a huge Kyuss fan. Still a fan of all those guys, Brandt Bjork, Scott Reeder and Josh Homme, who rules the Queens with an iron fist full of sex, booze and weirdness... Burns! Anybody have a really good drinkin buddy who can switch out the radiator on yer truck in under 10 mins? Well, I do. He's also one of the PBM boys. Mick Feely is a founding memeber of THICK, had his own school of philosophy buried deep in an abandoned mercury mine near Teralingua, TX, is a constant target of universal moral disdain, and is also an all around good dude. He and his wife "Mamasita" have been my friends for as long as anyone. These days Mick pretty much sticks to male exotic dancing and raising various deadly reptiles. ZZ Top no explanation needed... Fu Manchu is another remnant of Kyuss (Bjork and Reeder have spent time in this band) with Scott Hill at the helm. Big influence on THICK. It's goodtime music but certainly heavy. If you gotta call it sumthin, call it surfer metal. Supersuckers. When it comes to Satan, drugs, whiskey, dirty women, rock-n-roll, and a generally romantic treatment of petty crime, there are none higher than the Supersuckers. When Bon Scott died, rock lost something; when the Supersuckers formed, we got it right back and it--whatever it is--was pissed of and ready to party. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts no explanation needed.... Mike Watt is a legend and he should be recognized as such. Thank you, Iggy & the Stooges for giving Watt the audiences he's earned! Moses Moran is a phenomenal musician, mostly gut-strung, weird shaped guitars. He was a versatile member of the Sunday Night Midnight crew. If he's in town, you can probly catch him playing with somebody and blowing the peeps away. Oxes suck coxes! Holly. I'm a sucker for a pretty lady with a cup of coffee. AJ Swope. I've always dug AJ's voice. Known him since the THICK days. He's also a local celebrity for other reasons but I don't own a TV so I'm not sure I know the reasons... Dirty Jerrzy is my "ya-should've-at-least-tried." The cool chick. Wish her the best. Branden, owner of the coolest landmark in town. An old friend, sold me my resonator and my Marshall. And made sure I got my Gary Fisher back when I needed it. Can pick on a six-string and tell ya who can't. He's also one of the PBM boys. Bill Hicks, gone now, was a genius in his time, got his start in Lubbock, TX and at the time he was one of the few guys willing to cross those lines you weren't supposed to cross. A smart, smart man which is still hard to come by in stand-up comedy. it's just me... we all know who she is. It's been a strange ride but yeah, we're friends. Korte is great showman, great player. I've had many a fun moment on stage with Korte in HOJP, Ghost of the Golden Light and the few guest appearances I made with the Kickin' Wookies. Like the time when I forgot to park my truck after loading into Burberry's and we played a whole set before we realized, "those aren't street sweeper lights... those are my hazards!" I had left my truck in the middle of a downtown parking lane for an hour... with the door open.... Or the time I answered my phone on stage, and the poor lady who called a wrong number got an earful of whiskey-drunk Skitz on stage, over the PA.... those were the days... the 806 is the best coffee and the best atmosphere in town. Claire Cunningham has a voice. A monster set of pipes. The kind of voice that once you hear it, you can't forget it; you'll always recognize it. And her song, "Don't Remember Me" is one of my over-all favorites on MySpace. Haunting progression and perfectly placed lyrics kept me coming back to listen over and over again. Some of you might recognize it from my acoustic set and maybe the few times I've done it with Electroids, but I've never done it as well as Claire. Megster is a snappy dresser, always has a laugh, deep thinker deluxe... and I think she might be crazy... in a good way... Josh Paulson. One of the best acoustic players in the region, Josh is gifted with a beautiful barrel-chested steam engine of a voice... then has the audacity to sing nuthin but lofty tunes about girls... diggit Bulldog interviewed me on the ol' interwebs for his radio show. Bulldog is just one one of those folks you meet for whatever reason and you wind-up keeping in touch at various times. Good man. Big supporter of my music. Kandi. I know, i know... not my type, you say. But there's sumthin bout this wild (feral is more like it) model/dancer/singer from Dallas... She's a cutie and she's fearless... that's honestly what it is: she's fearless.
http://wacca.tv/a/artist_159576
gotta love the japs. that's literally the only significant link for my old band left on the mighty interwebs
(i don't count download.com. bloodsuckers)
gotta love the japs. that's literally the only significant link for my old band left on the mighty interwebs
(i don't count download.com. bloodsuckers)
I'm Not 26 Years-Old, Anymore
My bicycles have always loved me. Even when I've neglected them. Even after years of neglect. My Cannondale was precious to me until some heartless bastard stole her. My Giant still holds a special place in my heart even though she disappeared without a trace. My carbon-fiber Gary Fisher has always been loyal and true. Even after I traded her for an equally loyal Marshall amp, she returned to me a while back--thank you, Branden--without any vindictive repercussions. But she must've read one of those tuff-luv books or had a heart-to-heart with my ex-wife or sumthing because she's getting a little bossy.
In my twenties (goddamn that's hard to say, much less type) I lived on my bike. And I don't mean that in a weekend warrior context. One day when I was twenty-two or twenty-three I sold both of my cars and clicked my feet into the pedals and that's the way things stayed for a long time. I could outrun and out last nearly any schmuck on the streets or in the canyon, in hellish heat or three feet of snow, with a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. And for a vast majority of those years, I smoked my tobacco, my beautiful, tasty, aromatic tobacco. It never mattered how much or when I smoked, I could still mount those two wheels and become a clod-hopping lightning bolt.
Here lately, my Fisher and I have rekindled our love affair. At least two hours a day for about two and a half weeks now. But she insists on punishing me. Why? Why must you be a bitch, Fisher? The only conclusion I can render is the smoking. She's telling me that I'm not twenty-six years-old, anymore. Like I don't know that? But have I accepted it? I make jokes all the time about being an old man. I enjoy it. But this is different. This is age being shoved in my face like I'm Dick Butkus facing his last year in the league. But my legs are fine. My knees are strong as ever. I can still lift her over any obstacle at any speed. But the distance… the fuckin distance… the endurance is lacking… and the only thing it can be is the smoke.
So what else can I do? I must succumb to her wishes. I will quit smoking, Fisher. I have to because as painful as it is to admit, I am not twenty-six years old. I may be in my head and in my hands, in my mind… but my lungs and my heart…? They may not be old but they're wounded. And little Fisher is telling me it's time to repair the damage I've done… And I think I'm ready. If I want to stay proud of my body and my shape and my once superhuman endurance then I had better listen to the old bitch and drop the smoke. I cringe when I think of letting go of my cigarettes, the continual Zen of rolling those little papers, the way I use cigarettes as subtle weapons in face-to-face conversation, and of course how fuckin sexy I look with one of those little bastards dangling from my lip. But Hell hath no fury and all that jazz… My Fisher is still a better woman than any I've ever had (and cleaner) and a better friend than the tobacco…
So a plan must be formulated and executed… if any of you jackholes have advice on the subject, I'd sure appreciate it…
In my twenties (goddamn that's hard to say, much less type) I lived on my bike. And I don't mean that in a weekend warrior context. One day when I was twenty-two or twenty-three I sold both of my cars and clicked my feet into the pedals and that's the way things stayed for a long time. I could outrun and out last nearly any schmuck on the streets or in the canyon, in hellish heat or three feet of snow, with a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. And for a vast majority of those years, I smoked my tobacco, my beautiful, tasty, aromatic tobacco. It never mattered how much or when I smoked, I could still mount those two wheels and become a clod-hopping lightning bolt.
Here lately, my Fisher and I have rekindled our love affair. At least two hours a day for about two and a half weeks now. But she insists on punishing me. Why? Why must you be a bitch, Fisher? The only conclusion I can render is the smoking. She's telling me that I'm not twenty-six years-old, anymore. Like I don't know that? But have I accepted it? I make jokes all the time about being an old man. I enjoy it. But this is different. This is age being shoved in my face like I'm Dick Butkus facing his last year in the league. But my legs are fine. My knees are strong as ever. I can still lift her over any obstacle at any speed. But the distance… the fuckin distance… the endurance is lacking… and the only thing it can be is the smoke.
So what else can I do? I must succumb to her wishes. I will quit smoking, Fisher. I have to because as painful as it is to admit, I am not twenty-six years old. I may be in my head and in my hands, in my mind… but my lungs and my heart…? They may not be old but they're wounded. And little Fisher is telling me it's time to repair the damage I've done… And I think I'm ready. If I want to stay proud of my body and my shape and my once superhuman endurance then I had better listen to the old bitch and drop the smoke. I cringe when I think of letting go of my cigarettes, the continual Zen of rolling those little papers, the way I use cigarettes as subtle weapons in face-to-face conversation, and of course how fuckin sexy I look with one of those little bastards dangling from my lip. But Hell hath no fury and all that jazz… My Fisher is still a better woman than any I've ever had (and cleaner) and a better friend than the tobacco…
So a plan must be formulated and executed… if any of you jackholes have advice on the subject, I'd sure appreciate it…
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
let me 'splain
Since I found out myspace deletes blogs after a certain number ... i'll be copying my blogs to blogger as well.
i'm sure you care so much...
i'm sure you care so much...
okay... i tried to be short and sweet about this but...
Someone commended me for my concise, succinct tribute George Carlin today. I simply blogged the list of 7 dirty words.
Now... we all know Carlin was so much more than that list. But to be honest, it was truly hard for me to function today. Carlin's death hit harder than I ever thought the death of any person whom I never met personally could hit me. Honestly, at the time, those 7 words were all I could write.
But I had to go and fuck it up. Here's a video in which Carlin hits it on all cylinders. This is not a comedy bit. This is not a rant. This is logic applied to philosophy as only he could do, as we should all aspire to do. Carlin was THE blue collar philosopher. Carlin is my Martin Luther King, my Jesus. Here's why:
Now... we all know Carlin was so much more than that list. But to be honest, it was truly hard for me to function today. Carlin's death hit harder than I ever thought the death of any person whom I never met personally could hit me. Honestly, at the time, those 7 words were all I could write.
But I had to go and fuck it up. Here's a video in which Carlin hits it on all cylinders. This is not a comedy bit. This is not a rant. This is logic applied to philosophy as only he could do, as we should all aspire to do. Carlin was THE blue collar philosopher. Carlin is my Martin Luther King, my Jesus. Here's why:
Too Kool for Kool-Aid
Okay... I'm either way out of touch or I'm the coolest kid on the block. Let me es'plain:
I spend alot of time on myspace and gmail. They're the best ways to communicate since the Mr. Bell wired up his telephone. Gmail is beautiful for IMs and altogether keeping track of folks. And best of all it's clean. Hardly any flashy ads jumping out at you: "buy this" "take this; it'll make it bigger."
Myspace is a completely different animal as you all know. For the most part I despise ads, which is surprising considering some of the work I've done... To tell you the truth it's surprising that it's taken me this long to realize what IS actually flashing at me from every spare corner of the screen when I visit this place. I guess I've gotten quite adept at blocking them out. But today... this spectacular piece of advertising caught my eye:
...
who... the... fuck... cares... ?
Do teenage girls still give three shits about Jennifer Aniston?
Do 20-somethings still oooo and awww at any and all former cast members of Friends?
I don't get it... And there's no telling what I've missed by blocking out these little digital fireworks... who knows how many Britney or Lindsey buttons I've failed to acknowledge.
So I'm giving myself a test (and sharing it with you)
It'll be kinda like a scavenger hunt of sorts:
Am I weird to care more about this couple,
than this couple?
Am I out of touch when I say this dude,
was 10x more of an athlete than this choad?
Am I crazy when I say this lady,
is way sexier than this plastic slut?
Am I just getting old when I say that this woman,
should be held in higher historical regard than this woman?
Am I stupid for thinking this crew,
is much more interesting to watch than this poo?
Am I a dolt for thinking this man,
is way more relevant than this douche?
Am I a tool for thinking this dude,
is funnier than this pud?
JEEZUZ! this pud is funnier than that pud!
I spend alot of time on myspace and gmail. They're the best ways to communicate since the Mr. Bell wired up his telephone. Gmail is beautiful for IMs and altogether keeping track of folks. And best of all it's clean. Hardly any flashy ads jumping out at you: "buy this" "take this; it'll make it bigger."
Myspace is a completely different animal as you all know. For the most part I despise ads, which is surprising considering some of the work I've done... To tell you the truth it's surprising that it's taken me this long to realize what IS actually flashing at me from every spare corner of the screen when I visit this place. I guess I've gotten quite adept at blocking them out. But today... this spectacular piece of advertising caught my eye:
...
who... the... fuck... cares... ?
Do teenage girls still give three shits about Jennifer Aniston?
Do 20-somethings still oooo and awww at any and all former cast members of Friends?
I don't get it... And there's no telling what I've missed by blocking out these little digital fireworks... who knows how many Britney or Lindsey buttons I've failed to acknowledge.
So I'm giving myself a test (and sharing it with you)
It'll be kinda like a scavenger hunt of sorts:
Am I weird to care more about this couple,
than this couple?
Am I out of touch when I say this dude,
was 10x more of an athlete than this choad?
Am I crazy when I say this lady,
is way sexier than this plastic slut?
Am I just getting old when I say that this woman,
should be held in higher historical regard than this woman?
Am I stupid for thinking this crew,
is much more interesting to watch than this poo?
Am I a dolt for thinking this man,
is way more relevant than this douche?
Am I a tool for thinking this dude,
is funnier than this pud?
JEEZUZ! this pud is funnier than that pud!
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