Inkstains and Pennycandy

I'll give you three Deane Bolands for a Kinks album

2005-07-15T23:08:00.000-07:00

Did I ever tell you the Kinks f*cking rock!? Because they f*ckin do.

I met 'er in a cave in east Kenya,
then I hopped on a plane and gave it to ya...
Ebola... Oh-oh-oh ebola... la la la eboooollllaaa

No seriously. I've been listening to them and the Shins the past week, it gives me a rest from my own music, which I have been working on as fiendishly as a humpback with a speech impediment. Yeah I know that metaphor doesn't quite work, but fuck me if it isn't funny. The winds of change are a'blowin over my little house out here in Benicia- my landlord's selling, and that means we have these realtors over here checking out our place oh, say, maybe once every other hour. I woke up the other day with roughly forty people in my house. They were all meticulously groomed and made up with ties and business suits, I was topless in my pajamas. It could've been a cool party if everyone brought a bottle. And liked each other. And weren't there for money. But hey, I digress- in that situation I did the thing that required the least effort. I just grabbed my phone and walked outside. Ten minutes later they were all gone, leaving a pile of business cards on the kitchen table in their wake. Funny- the Prudential business cards all look eerily the same except for a little picture of the realtor on the front. We have like sixty of these little cards, spread across the table. Enough to trade. "I'll give ya three Deane Bolands for a Marianne Moody" "No man, my Marianne's not going for anything but a Paul Belasco..." "Well, FUCK! You lowballing bastard!" etc... So anyway, the "estate sale" we have going on is a little weird.
As for where I'm going. I don't really know, which is actually at this point, still a novelty for me. That should wear off soon, replaced by the cold reality of having to find a place to live in the Bay. But in the meantime, I'm enjoying it- party like it's 1999!*

*Ed note- Brendan has, unfortunately, been savagely influenced by pop culture. His strong mind has been clouded by Simpsons quotes, bad jokes, and Bumblebee tuna jingles. For those of you who do not understand the above reference to the Prince song, please replace the aformentioned date with some year far more applicable. Say, 2006.

<™>

Fresh Posty Goodness

2005-06-22T14:06:00.000-07:00

In an effort to stem the tide of lame chicks I've ended up sleeping with recently, I am making an oath for a month of sobriety... er, celibacy. What are lame chicks, you ask? Well, like guys, females also have many different ways of paving over some of the bumps on the dirt road, nay, highway- to sexual pleasure. Meaning they bullshit just as much as guys do to get a guy they want in the sack. But there is a cruel aftermath to this: a certain Brendan wakes up the next morning, checks his machine, finds two messages from the girl from the night before... but... theres... something... strange... about them.
C'mon now people, we've been here before, listen to Brendan preach it!
She sounds as if she's been at Starbucks with a grande intravenous drip going since long before I got up. The hurried voice, the nervous psuedoseductive laugh thing, the way she says call meee with too much "ee"... all of a sudden I'm seriously worried I misjudged her, and that I might've accidently fucked someone with a vacuum tube for a brain. Bzzzt. I feel hungover, and the hair of the dog that bit me sounds more and more unappealing as a cure, despite the arguments my dick tries to make. Now, all of this could be chalked up to post-coital jitters, nervousness, tests to see if she made a clean capture with the vaginal net, but regardless, when I call back, the girl who likes :adult swim:, radiohead and bad movies isn't there, and has instead been replaced with some nervous chick on guard duty.
The truth is, the girl I met the night before never existed, and as I talk to her double and try at least for the consolation prize of an okay conversation about :adult swim: and indie rock and various other bits of pleasurable ramblings, I realize that doesn't exist and I've been HAD! She is really just pretending to be interesting in an effort to make me interested in HER. I manage to end the conversation before it gets to the awkward, "so when do we meet up (i.e. fuck) again?" I hang up the phone and take a shower. Masturbation is just so much easier than this. Celibacy here I come.

Girls, if you are one of these types and wonder why guys stop talking to you after sex, please don't blame the guys right away. Instead, ask yourself these questions: "Did my behavior towards (insert guy here) change after I had sex with him?" or how about "Am I really as interesting as I pretend I am?" Because if the answer is no, then stop pretending and do whatever it is that makes you happy instead of what you think makes other people happy with you. Believe me, people will eventually find out about your discrepancies. People certainly have found mine, but that helps you learn, and it shows me the people who stay with me. Sex should be a really good thing but people attach way too much bullshit to it, which is like taking a really good plot and turning it into a shitty movie because someone tried to add too much of what they thought people wanted. I'm letting all you girls onto these secrets, by the way, because when I'm off of this celibacy kick next month, I'm gonna to be horny.
-™-

Update

2005-05-17T01:07:00.000-07:00

Update time. This blog is still quite functional. I am writing a story for y'all called the Same Old Song and Dance so keep posted and you'll have a chance to enjoy my structured writings and ramblings as opposed to my random bits of thoughtmeats.

>™

If I'm melodramatic... well, then that's friggin fantastic!

2005-04-26T17:46:00.000-07:00

Sorrow and Jubillation. All of my favorite music comes from very deep rooted sorrow. Sorrow of generations of oppression, and within that music lies so much beauty and hope. It gives me such a good feeling about life to realize the more you try to suppress beauty, the more ways it finds to seep through. It's all pretty amazing.

Work should be like a smooth poop

2005-04-24T16:35:00.000-07:00

God, I love being lazy- planning my day to start in the afternoon. I turned off the snooze like five times this morning just to show the alarm clock its place. This my day off. I went out to breakfast with Iz at one, and we tracked down the only place in the east bay that serves lox and bagels and had some. I swear eating fish for breakfast makes you smarter for the entire day. I can actually think today, and after a week of burning the candle at both ends, that's quite impressive to me. Those norwegians know a thing or two. This is my three day weekend, I lucked out with scheduling at work, and I am floating on a cloud, (60% marijuana smoke) reading, recording some music, and listening to Bjork. Tommorrow I have wine tasting in Napa on the agenda, which cracks me up a bit because I have no money. But I do have a tailored blazer on a hanger in the closet, and a cute girl will be on my arm... Society, sometimes, is only about appearances.
Had a talk with Bella about work. We both currently hate our jobs (surprise, surprise!) If you are reading this today at work, Iz, my heart goes out to you. Rawk out with your... I mean, Shunt it with your... Rawk North Carolina with your... Shit, nevermind. Why do male body parts rhyme better than female body parts? You girls need to take charge. Put some diversity into the lexicon of dirty words. Besides all of the words for vagina- pussy, cunt, meaty curtains of meat, whatever, have all been designed by men. What up with that? Take some verbal-vaginal responsibility!
Now, the Iz and I both agreed that we should find jobs which aren't the daily equivalent of a long painful bowel movement. She wants to be, among other things, a writer. I, a musician. A nice, smooth poop. Nothing complex. No compromises.

So I am to write a letter to my boss today on behalf of my fellow employees. This should be interesting. If it turns out funny, I'll post it.

A little unabashed honesty from a man with a fig leaf.

2005-04-12T22:05:00.000-07:00

Just so you know, this post is simply to put some text in front of the nudity. I've got a bottle of Smoking Loon Cabernet riding shotgun on the table next to me, so there is a good chance that as I get more drunk and the thoughts pour out, there will be a few solid paragraphs between the pagetop and Thoughtmeats, a la carte.
Just
So
You
Know.
I just checked my site traffic... I am beginning to realize, like a forgotten B-Movie Starlet, that removing one's clothes gets you seen. Maybe not read, but seen. My mind is already making machinations over how I can use this newfound publicity to make the next step towards world domination...

that's right. Utter Dominion. Treating people like Peeps™. Join before it's too late. Buy Buy Buy. Spend Spend Spend. Save Save Save.
The level of Loon(™) has dropped significantly. This is rather entertaining. I think I'll drink this entire bottle while writing this post. I've always been a big supporter of hedonism. Besides, each superfluous idealet that I write gets the nudity farther from the top of the page, and meanwhile(!!) I can get drunk. More.
"Do you drink by yourself?"
"Well... well... yes... but I am communicating- somewhat- with the magical people on the other side of the screen... who, um, came to see me naked..."
Sedation updation- Bottle is at about half.
You and me, Smoking Loon. We were made for each other. You were made to be drunk and I was born to drink you. Why try and be what we're not?
My inner cosmonaut is excited. I'm going to see SoundTribe Sector Nine (STS9) this weekend, got the tix today. Last time I saw them they kicked ass, even though afterwards I found myself and Lukezy, both too stoned and coming down off of the energy of the concert, realizing half and hour too late that BART doesn't like to run after midnight. This time I'm driving, g'dammit, as public transportation needs to be more convienient. As in, paying more attention to the needs of the public. I'd like to live in a country where public transportation goes all night, work doesn't start til noon, and people stay up all night drinking Smoking Loon and conversing outlandish shit until the sedative effects of alcohol kick in. Maybe Germany is the place for me. What do you think Iz? How are their tolerances towards psychotropics and tryptamines? Which leads me back to STS9- they are basically an entire hallucinogenic experience- they improvise like mad, in a a really cohesive way, have both a drummer and a percussionist, two painters who make a painting by the end of the show, use the resonances of crystals on top of bass speakers to create vibrations you can feel as well as hear, and, well... Hunter Brown (guitarist, could you guess?) kicks ass, and I always want to hear what he's up to.

***

Because I am a man of science, an update is in order: 1/3 left and counting. This is the best date I've ever been on. I'm not bitter. I'm not bitter... =) By the way, this guy is fucking amazing. He took all my sketching ideas and made them waaaaaaaaay more badass. It is a good thing I'm not trying to make it as an artist or else I would have to kill him. Nothing personal. Damn, I am pretty fucking drunk, I feel like Hemingway, although I can't write like him. I need another twenty years and about twenty-five extra pounds of solid bitterness for that. I only have about five pounds of bitterness, centered in my midsection, and that's only because of the usual shit, past relationships, moments of indecision, yep, the usual bag of tricks. Wooo. Human Condition. Anyone want to be my muse? Here are my positive traits: I am kind and talented, relatively intelligent, funny, respectful, honest and awake. There are probably others but if they work ok, I usually don't pay attention. Negative traits: I can be self-absorbed, insecure, and have a hard time keeping a single train of thought running. I also am really good at saying the wrong thing during an argument and usually regret it afterwards as my defenses come up quicker than I'd like them to. So there you go. A little unabashed honesty from a man with a fig leaf.The Loon (™) is nearly gone now, but my brain is smiling just right. The end of this post is nearing, which means that nudity is on it's way in. It took the red-eye and will end up on your doorstep
right
about...
now.

So I...

2005-04-11T16:35:00.000-07:00

Went camping recently.

Drunk + Waterfall + Fig Tree =

I call this piece "Hiding Behind a Substantial Body of Work."

Staaaar Waaars...

2005-04-10T22:36:00.000-07:00

Staaar Waaaars... nothing but StarWars... if they were to BarWars, I know our Star Wars would staaaaaay.

As long as it's not Episode One anyway. Spent today sleeping, missing meals, drinking coffee, nursing a tequila hangover, and playing music. I helped my friend Celestial (not her real name, of course) track some tunes at a recording studio. She did eight songs in three hours, overdubs and all. Music just flies out of her like breath, and I had a fan friggintastic time being a part of that. All of the songs are parodies about Star Wars. Like Who Will Save Your Soul became Who Will Slay Darth Maul, and Zombie by the Cranberries became Ben Is Dead! They turned out really good, and I have a CD, so I might be able to upload a track for y'all to hear once I get the thumbs up from C. It will be well worth it. This all happened at Bill Bentley's recording studio in Concord, and seeing the power of having your own recording studio- one of my personal dreams- just pounded home how I need to find a way to accomplish that goal. I want to do it in three years... then I could record and help other people record, and get my record label off the ground, and make all those albums I have floating around in my subconscious, and spend every friggin moment of the day thinking about music. After 11 years of thinking about music, I think my personal brain stereo has become officially hardwired in the on position, and at this point I have no choice, as I made myself into a highly evolved though inflexible organism. And to think, I wanted to program computers once upon a time. And write. Hah! The music virus took care of that. Replicate replicate replicate it says with each lyric and strum of Elliot Smith, each note of Robert Randolph, each falsetto quiver of Jeff Buckley, the sliding greasy obbligatos of Howling Wolf, and the appogiaturas of all those beautiful Beethoven sonatas. Repicate replicate replicate. Replicate creation. Thus my soul does what it was told long ago. Thus I am happy.

I don't feel incredibly special being a musician, it just happened to be the first thing that came my way that went straight to my blood. I think the real purpose of all of this art, all the stories and things that entrance us is simply this: to show us that humans can do amazing things.
As we get older and develop more proverbial baggage, see more peoples go in and out of our life like faces at a train station, develop more catholic-style guilt at the state of the world and our contributions to it, I think it supremely important that something creates a rebirth of all of that wonder and awe that we feel when we actually feel. It's funny- people think it odd I'm not spiritually affiliated, but that feeling I just spoke of takes care of all of that. In that sense, it seems like my spirituality is fulfilled by myself and other people, the people that make the music I love, the people that I know, the people that simply are living art. Those people are my Gods, and they touch me and give me life. My soul doesn't have to commute all the way to the afterlife to reach them, they are all around. Maybe inspiration and religion should be combined more throughly. It would certainly take the divinity out of the sky and put it back in the people around us. I like that idea.
Damn, I haven't said anything sarcastic in like, a few sentences. Where did I leave off? Oh yes... Staaaaaaar Waaaaaaaaars... nothing but Staaaaaaaar Waaaaaaaaaaars...

So...

2005-04-01T00:09:00.000-08:00

So have you ever plugged in and then realized you ain't gettin no signal cuz you left the wah-wah plugged all night, and it doesn't matter how cool your chords are cuz, dammit! that was your last battery!

Phelgmtastico!

2005-03-31T23:33:00.000-08:00

Ahh, a long day/night, and at the end of it I find myself in front of this pixilated screen. Maybe I should date you, screen. Yeah, I know it's a little strange, a little sick, but then again what isn't these days? Strange winds are a-blowin' tonight, and I'm not even a grizzled sailor or one of those newagey folk who claim to have supernatural powers, but I can feel 'em. Hung out with the S and the Kuana tonight, ended up watching a movie we thought would be somewhat mindless only to find it was thoroughly depressing, involving suicide, infidelities, and those weird moral compromises people make in those moments of desperation. I know the world isn't always a *sunny place*, age and wisdom are not always a package deal, and the strange, beautiful, and universal terror of being alive isn't always a good thing, but I don't necessarily like being browbeaten with that perspective for two solid hours... I can get my usual quota of pessimistic truth by myself.

It's been four days without a cigarette now, and my lungs are revolting. Yes, I mean that in both senses of the word, for now that I've finished poisoning myself so blatantly, my lungs have regained the strength to start a mutiny. Phelgmtastico! Eh, it's all for the best though- although I love Tom Waits, I haven't been looking forward to eventually singing just like him.

It's been a busy few weeks, and My God, it feels good to write again.

For Your Entertainment...

2005-03-24T02:01:00.000-08:00

I just found a Religious Cock-Measuring Contest. This guy does tons of cartoons, all in this Sunday-School Propagandist style, and his viewpoint is completely, inexonerably, one hundred percent dead-on. (If you have a lobotomy.) Straight-from-the-lips-o'-da-Almighty Hisself- Praise the Lord!

Can you feel the zeal in his eyes? The fervor is so thick I could cut it with a scimitar. (1d8)
Anyway, just wanted to leave you with some entertainment 'fore I go. I used to find these little religious Mad Magazines in the booths of the Media Center in college. Now I've found them again, much to my brain's chagrin, and read far too many... I can feel my intellect seeping out of my head like a leaking coffee machine.

I could use a little variety in my sobriety.

2005-03-24T00:49:00.000-08:00

It has been a few moon-phases since my last post, and much has occured. I have been Have-Guitar-and-Will-Travel Man ™ for the past month, with many doors opening up along the way. One of the best experiences was at a party a few weeks ago, when a group of us descended like the Four Horsemen and fucking jammed until we bled. Melodies were ripped out of enebriated vocal cords, strings were broken and minds were blown up- nice. We rocked 'em till they was sweaty, and in return, we got much love and free drinks. I played for like twenty minutes and it was an experience to see people stop midsentence and turn, until at least thirty pairs of eyes and ears were fixed and straining for each... each... note... as it fell. Intense. Music is such a refined, complex, emotional thing, yet at the same time, so primal- simple, and sexual. I'm a sucker for paradoxes. Performing is like making love, or at least making fuck, to every member of the audience, and the thing your shooting for is to find a chink in their armor and hit a soft spot, swollen and knottily connected to their innards, and make it fucking vibrate. Intense. Well, it's looking like we'll be getting more *gasp* paying gigs in the upcoming months, and that makes me a happy tortured-artist clam. Yo estoy muy contento.

Lukezy hallucinated. Yep, that's right. I think it knocked him on his soul-ass, a little shakabuku to the head. I'm proud of him, though, no paniking or thoughts of perma-insanity. He took his lesson from Salvia Divinorum like a good cosmonaut and is learning much. The timing on this is important, for tomorrow morning we are heading away with the Pikey Dansk from New York to have four days of camping and revelry in the woods. I can't wait. Perhaps the some of the damp cowpatties will grace us with some revelation. If not, we made a stop at BevMo! and pooled our resources. We are now the proud, if temporary, owners of let me see... 24... 48... 72... +12... yes, 84, eighty-four bottles of beer. My liver and urinary tracts are dutifully preparing themselves.
***
In complete and utter disregard of my previous post, my mind and body have found somebody cool they both like. That is all. When you give up on something, it tends to knock on your window at 2 am on a Saturday morning and expect entertainment.
And there was much rejoicing.
™

The Top's Going Back Up Again- In Isolation there's at Least Some Zen

2005-03-12T16:54:00.000-08:00

Threw a party last night. It was fun. I like cooking. Made cheeseburgers and Irish potatoes with shallots. Yum. Then party was broken up, moved to Walnut Creek and continued. Had a good conversation with someone. The night ended in a somewhat unorthodox way. Perhaps I'll elaborate, but that's not what I wanted to write about, anyway- I'd rather get some shit off my chest. A few weeks ago, I figured I'd let the guard back down again, stop partaking in junk-food sex, sating stupid animal needs, and try to jump back in the strange dance of the mating ritual. Big fuckin' mistake, that. It's fucked with me so many times, and yet I still go back, mothlike, to find myself zapped by the same damn flame in a different context. I've heard insanity described as continuing to do the same thing, over and over again, expecting different results. Well, no more insanity. No longer am I going to pursue, wonder, or care about anything involving whatever passes for mating, courting, or love these days. My one remaining prospect, let it crumble like a cigarette left in the ashtray. Stick a fork in me... This whole courting ritual is so absurd, so counterintuitive and unnatural, it interests me no longer. I'm sick of recieving glances from girls and wondering what they mean, kissing girls and wondering what that means, fucking girls and wondering if and where I stand. What a waste of useful energy. The antenna is going down. I'm getting my car washed. Relationships are a continuing compromise where due to unmet expectations on either side everyone remains unhappy. Sure, you could "not set expectations" not waste energy on whatifs, but fuck that- that diatribe's a quickfix solution to a problem that is far more deep rooted, and is far easier said than done. I think the rifts between the sexes are growing wider, the concept of agape, eros, and romance becoming watered down terms that have faded from public conception like a phone number in the wash. I'd rather not sup from the filthy table- cannabalising others for personal sustinence. I'd rather starve, thank you. The antenna is coming down, the top coming up. Maybe the boiling water will sterlize it all, make it all come out, disintegrate all of the numbers in my pockets and burn me clean. My nerves have been taut and raw, yearning for numbness. I'll fight them no more.

Led Zeppelin Rocks...

2005-03-09T20:51:00.000-08:00

Video code provided by MusicVideoCodes.com

F*ck yeah!

2005-03-09T00:19:00.000-08:00

Listening to: The MeAt PuPpeTs
AND
Meself!

Exhibit A) I just put a few extra daubs of paint on the band site. We now have mp3's for your listening pleasure. Give us your love and support... for, though we'd do it either way, it's just that now YOU CAN LISTEN TO OUR MUSIC ANYWHERE. Oops, eh... ahem. yes. right-o. not that you would think that I was barmy or anything... eh heh. It's just that this is so f*cking cool I can't... can't... stop... dancing... if only you could see me now... okokokokokok ok... okay. Breathe.

*- Adding asterisks seems to make the words obscene again. Let me explain: shitfuck. Or... Sh*t-F*ck. Eh, maybe it's just me. You could also string them in with a little surprise at the end: f*ck-f*ck-f*ckity-f*ck-f*ck SHIT! Ahh. I feel twelve years old again.

Exhibit B (For Bowling) Damn, it's been a fun week. I have been drinking lots of cheap beer and playing pool and bowling. (Brendan- now with 20% more manliness. Scratch-scratch-snort. Make that 21%.) It's been great. I haven't really gone bowling since I turned of-drinking-age, and I have to say alcohol really does help the sport. I think it has something to do with the lack of full-on-motor-control, the swagger up to the lane, followed by the primal grunt as you toss the heavy rock towards a distant object. Normally after bowling for hours I wake up the next day a bit sore. No so this morning. Hungover, yes, but my muscles had no problem, being all loose-like the night before. Thank you Mr. Yeast Excrement for your contribution to my bowling excellence. I actually broke a hundred. That's like, one third perfection. I can settle for that... today.

Also in recent news- Jam Party on March 18th in Albany. Who's coming, who's coming with me, man?
Here is the link to our website again: Skald at Myspace.com
Three instances of self-promotion is enough isn't it?

This Thursday is my Friday

2005-03-03T19:39:00.000-08:00

Ahh, time to relax. Roll a preg'nnt cigarette from the good folks at Top, light a stick of Nag Champa and kick back with the keyboard. I think the weather is right for some Hendrix bootlegs and a smattering of Radiohead. The power of choice is a beautiful thing. I work a simple job involving Italian food and smiling on occasion, and somehow it magically allows sustinence for this chunk of meat, and even pays for this shelter from the rain.

Back in the saloon my tears mix and mildew with my drink,
I can't really tell my feet from the sawdust on the floor,
But as far as I know, they may even try to wrap me up in cellophane and try and sell me
Brothers help me, and dont worry about lookin at the storm
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah...
-Hendrix

On a plain and can't complain. This Sunday (or Saturday to the rest of the world) an animation showcase with Bill Plympton and Don Hertzfeldt cartoons is coming to Berkley, and I am like, so there. I had the pleasure of viewing Hertzfeldt's short, "Rejected" a few years back at Spike and Mike's, and I have been a fan ever since. Despite it's underground status, "Rejected" has been seen by a number of people (thank you filesharing programmers), and like any good piece of media, the lines from it have made their way into the verbal lexicon of all of my friends. I only have to say "Ma spoon is too big!" and someone will inevitably come back with "I am a BaNaNa!" It is good to be around people who speaka my language. So who's coming with me?

Speaking of badass things in the near future, next Saturday Gabby-La-La and Les Claypool are playing at 21 Galaxies in S.F. and I wouldn't miss that for even an extra-large Hanes whitie T and a biggitie-bag of chili-cheese Fritos. If I had a biggitie bag of something else, however, I might just forget what day it was. Now to get LoMo and her quasi-mystical follower of Attilla to join us... oh yes the boozing and halfintelligent erophilosophicality will abound. Wow! I just put three links in one paragraph! I am bristling with interactivity today!

I think all things of major interest have been spoken of, so those of you still reading can safely bow out now. Unlike the people who carefully compose their "journal entries" I like using this thing like a journal, so time to write on. It feels so good when rent comes around and you actually have the money to pay and moneys left over to do with what you choose. While responsible people actually save their money, I, on occasion, like to think of the leftovers as free game. People are so concerned with money in this society, and while I understand that money is pretty damn important when you don't have enough, I have met people who still woe losing a twenty dollar bill for months afterward. Wierd. That seems like too much of an attachment to material object. You might as well mourn about all the semen or ova that has been *gasp* lost in sex or menstruation that could've been converted to children. Yet we count and recount money all the time at the store, at jobs. We are told that every cent counts... because it could be converted to Why, Yet More Stuff™!. Ack. I need to find someone with the same sense as me and m-m-Mate. Cabin in the woods, baby, cabin in the woods... we probably would have trouble with home loans, but at least we could sit back in our cabin and laugh at car commercials. Speaking of mates and all that shtuff, I have had sex on the tip of my mind for friggin' days now. My loins are pulling me back into the Grand Hat Dance, though my brain still gives a peery eye to the whole concept of entangling myself in another person's DramaLand. Still the loins pull, though, and I am no monk, no Dalai Lama- I have no way to combat this drive to, well... FUCK. Nope, can't fight that. He speaks succinctly, but has a point. Shit this keyboard ain't gonna help me so time to change the subject. Other than that, the road to being a professional musicmaker is going well- I'm going to be doing scoring for two movies- one of them one of those succulent, evil black comedy/horror movies that seem to sprout like mildew from the white tiles of mainstream cinema. The plot, from what I've seen, though I haven't got the script yet, kicks ass. Full of accidental-murder-creates-ever-spiraling-psychosis type stuff. I am so down to do a soundtrack for a movie like that- use feedback, fuzz and static, moldy theater organ music from an old 45 breaking down, and really fuckedup blues guitar. Mmmmm, mmm, good.

The second movie synopsis will have to come later. The loins are ionically polarizing to some distant positron-filled warm place. I must doff the keyboard and head for the source...

Neoteny and the Pixies

2005-02-27T21:03:00.000-08:00

Time: Surprisingly Early
Vibe: Dirt-influenced Nostalga
Listening to: Rufus Wainwright

The smell of cooking dirt is wafts into my room as I type, making its way over guitars, rain soaked jeans, stale beer and my skinned knees to come knocking at my memory's back door. My nostrils interpret the dirtscent strangely, somehow thawing out a memory of me of making a tree fort with my friends. That was fourteen years ago, nearly two meaty thirds of my little life, and fortunately not much has changed- Tom Robbins calls it neoteny- "remaining young." I feel like I've done well for myself- my knees are still scraped, my nails either too short or too long, and I still have the healthy disrespect for authority I developed all those years ago... I've gotten bitter and converted those motions and emotions back to something beautiful, like tannins in red wine. As a kid I ran around the house and sometimes into things... I still do that. I used to draw dragons eating people, or else knights slaying dragons, now I do the same but I call them "tattoo ideas," I still play video games, although now other things have muscled their way into the number one spot Nintendo once occupied.... I still sleep in on Saturdays and read in bed for hours, until the afternoon has fully ripened. I've traded my plastic superheroes for plastic guitar picks... I still write stories... I've got my imagination, and still relish the fact that It can raise a few eyebrows when spoken aloud...

Now all I need is some gum and a tattered Spiderman when the all Bazooka Joe comix run out... what ever happened to Bazooka Joe?

In other news, Lukezy just adopted Kuana's pet tarantula, Rosie, and we are cooking the dirt in the kitchen for her. To make her feel welcome. To remind her of home. Tarantulas don't need Ikea, but they do need fresh, sterile dirt to dig their tunnels, and we are more than happy to oblige. When we first saw her scuttle our of her burrow at Kuana's with surprising speed and devour a hapless cricket, it was love. The life and death colorblind stimulus response struggle of insects beats TV any day. Why watch Reality TV?

I've found a friend on the internet I haven't talked to in years- I'm sending her an email to say hi, and it has been so damn long it's unbelievable. But from what I saw on her online journal (is everyone keeping these today?) she is keeping busy and following her heart, and as Calvin once put it, "the inscrutable exhorations" of her soul.
It is inspiring to meet people from earlier down the road, especially people who really rocked, and find out that they are still going for it. And those of us that are "going for it," and I count myself as one of them, need as much inspiration as possible. Inspiration is the fire that keeps the wrought-iron poker jabbing us along our path red-hot. My 'poker' is more of a flaming torch, really... yep. A torch, sometimes wielded by an angry villager, but more often by a beautiful Lady-of-the-Lake, constantly threatening to catch my hair on fire if I don't continue. Pretty good motivation, no? My last LotL took things a bit too far, but I am still travelling, always travelling, gypsy guitar by m'side. ;P Okay, I'm done. Too long at this screen fatigues my human eyes... now if I could just get an old Remington typewriter, a few tons of carbon paper and a biplane, I'd be set....

Dodo-da-doodo...Dodoo-da-DO-doo...

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Sorrowsturbation

2005-02-25T18:29:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'll admit it- this blog thing is fun. Nevermind that I write in full view of the world, and nevermind that no one comes to visit my site- I'll dance to myself- it makes me happy. My brain has been bouncing around inside my head again- the thoughtmeats are swollen. I've been trying to figure out my place in this existence, which is like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. Fuckin' Futile. I think I am in for one of those Long Dark Teatimes of the Soul tonight, as Douglas Adams would say (if he wasn't currently employed as fertilizer)

I've been in a blargh mood for most of today, and I want to escape mi casa and head to Berkeley for some live music, and do what I should be doing, but I'm not sure if I can manage it. I am lacking in those wonderful friends who can stop in, impromptu, and do horrible damage to my foul mood. In this mode I feel like I can't socialize-my eyes are microscoping everything, zooming in too close, and I'm viewing pustules, grease, swollen hair follicles screaming, pores yawning open and closed, and veins... pulsating next to temples... feeding the brain. Glugglugglug. OooOoo spooky! Then I shake my head, to squish the neurosiseses between my brain and skull. Then I usually say, "Hello."

Wow, just as I was about to sink into a gothicy pit of sorrowsturbation, I got my wish. Isabella just called and we are off to the Starry Plough. A few flying whipkicks and a little dance'll get me juiced up, and I'm suddenly reminded of a moment earlier today: As I was travelling home, rather exhausted from my job and rueing the inevitable 5'0 clock Mongolian Clusterfuck that is the Bay Area, I turned on the radio and heard the thumpa-thumpa thump of an old drum kit driving some jumpswing. The entire thing sounded watery, like it was coming from an old can, and it was so pleasant and grooving after a day on the antfarm that I felt my soul shudder a bit and finally exhale...
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." it said, and so I quoth the Iz:

It is good to be young and insane.

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Pap's Blue Ribbon

2005-02-23T21:47:00.000-08:00

Chuck Palaniuk,
Chuck Palaniuk,
Chuck-Palaniuk's-Kidney-Stone,
Chuck Palaniuk's Kidney Stone
Necklaaaaaaaace!
Yeah...

The fam is watching Fight Club in the other room, and I'm in here typing as I have seen the movie so many times I no longer need visuals to follow it. Besides, it's been a long day- worked a double at the cafe- and the only thing that sounds good right now is writing. Writing... and... coffee. Pardon me a sec... must reup...

That space above (^) signifies the passage of time. Cool eh? O yes, I am full of such tricks. The past ten days or so have burned away like Bob Marley spliffs, and I am only now beginning to remember what happened.
I went out with my friend Mr. Greene and Steph last night to a bar in Walnut Creek. We ordered three pitchers of Pabst (king of the cheapass beers,) shot some pool, and sang karaoke. It always cracked me up that Pabst was called Pabst Blue Ribbon. In fact, the first time I heard of it, I interpreted it as Pap's Blue Ribbon. My imagination supplied me with an image of a jolly 250 pound man with teeth like a lazy haiku selling beer-by-the-bucket at the county fair. Pap's Blue Ribbon. The R on "Ribbon" would be backwards, of course. The image duly prepared me for the taste, which is, in an endearing sort of way, beer soda.

The beer soda gave me frothy courage for the karaoke, and I ended up singing She Talks To Angels with plenty of the necessary drunken swagger. Unfortunately, karaoke is to working musicians what Pabst is to Sierra Nevada, but sometimes being a singer-songwriter needs more cheap thrills, dammit. You spend a week (month, year) laboring on a song that becomes less and less clear the more you work on it, and, well... sometimes a Pabst pitcher and a drunken rendition of No Woman No Cry is exactly what you need to cleanse your palate. Hooorah. All told it was a good night, good crowd and I was with cool people. I got a suprisingly good sleep on Greene's couch, and worked a double shift today that would've worn my patience if not for the pages of Tom Robbins I devoured on my breaks. Once again, in words I found emancipation.

I'm going to go see the Lemon-Lime Lights tommorrow in Berkley. If anyone wants to come with, give me a call, ey? 'Night.

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Emancipation

2005-02-16T18:26:00.000-08:00

Flick, flick, flick-fwoosh.
Throw the shrimp on the barby,
Lungs well done, served with a side of crispy esophagi.
I've got the too-many-cigs-last-night brochitus brewing in the back of my throat,
the Cistine Chapel's made from the bones of the Earth and the Mona Lisa's on a dead tree so by my logic that entitles me to a little self-abuse.
Hello all- hope the cigarette's in hand and your mind is primed for a read, because some o' da cuff rambling sounds as delicious as a hunk of Ghirardeli right now. I just got thru with a whirlwind of visiting places and people, and now I'm home.
Home.
Feels.
Good.
So many doors have opened the last few days- I've met a group of artists, actors and roman candles out in the East Bay, and it looks like I'm finally going to get the chance to lay down some music for some indie films- an opportunity I've been looking for for awhile. Then today, after work I took the BART to SF to go see my pop, ma, little brother and sis who were all in the City for a jaunt to the Exploratorium. I talked to my little brother about Lord of the Rings and my sis about drawing horses, and felt like a kid again. All this shit about paychecks and rent can bore the most hyperactive inner child, and I've realized mine has been playing Gameboy for too long now, and needs to get outside awhile.
On the BART ride back I saw all the people sitting in their seats, looking soberly out the window or frantically trying to roam their eyes over the people of their car without making eye contact, and it just made me want to go apeshit and revert to monkey mode. With a quick calculation, I realized I could swing from the convieniently placed handrails, to the map on the wall, trying very hard not to touch the ground (it's lava.) and, after finding out all I needed to know about destinations, come swinging on back to my seat. Maybe throw in a little somersault at the end. The people who watched would clap, understanding my feat of superhuman will, and perhaps my primitive display would let out the repressions of the entire car, the lights would dim, and the car would evolve into a Bacchinanallian orgy of elbows, hands and feet. Alas. Although my desires were sincere, my superego has yet to go into remission, and instead, I simply sat in my seat like a good little drone.
I feel like I need to have a serious heart to brain with the hive mind that controls all the antlike behavior. At least ants, as they pass each other, touch antennae and exchange information, we humans just put up little walls and cones of silence. All of the stares-turned-glances, the accidental eye contact, the looks of sadness and hope, it just hurts me. I wish I knew what to do about it... wish I already knew... was taught from a young age, but... nope. I just have my intuition to rely on in those moments, which is that inner child again, and why is it he feels lobotomized when it comes to that kind of stuff?
My guts tell me a lot of other people struggle with this too. With all of the fucked up shit in the world, I just wish I could help out more, and somehow do it in a way that would be actually welcome. Maybe I'm trying too much to be a knight-in-shinin'-armor over here, too much of a Brother Theresa, and people should really just figure out their own shit- lord knows helping people who don't want to be helped has given me a nice dollup of pain the last few years- but I still think regardless I'm going to stick to my guns on this one. People need to be helped, communicated with, talked to, shown that they are recognized as valuable. I think all this over-population has let familiarity breed contempt, and that the resulting pile of angst needs to be shat out and flushed, so we can move on, and leave the old skin behind.

Chuck Palahniuk's Kidney Stone Necklace

2005-02-14T17:26:00.000-08:00

Ahhhhhhhhh.......
A stretch and a yawn, work's over, it's Singles Awareness Day, and I'm celebrating it properly- with a little self-love. Beck is crooning about Paper Tigers, string sections are making the cream in my coffee rise and fall, and the world seems palatable and well-spoken for a change. No, no clandestine onanism now, I'm riding lasting mind 'gasm of a vintage I haven't tasted in awhile. Beck fades, STS9 takes over and flows from the speakers, painting my eardrums with some splendorifus D&B... yep, life's good. My vices of wine, women and cigs have taken a break today, leaving me some breathing room, some time to plan the next move.

I talked with a girl today who met Chuck Palahniuk at a book signing in Berkley- he was reading from his newest book at the time, Guts. His reading was so intense in performance and graphic in the writing, a woman next to my friend actually fainted. How fantastic is that? Later, when Q&A time came up, he would root thru this big box of toys next to him and give the questioner a lil' something- stuffed aminal, bottle of vodka, consumer shit™ #21, you know- in return. My friend asked him a question, and as her reward she ended up getting a Mystery Prize- Mr. 'Niuk rooted thru the box, then patted himself down, pulled a slender box out of his coat pocket, and gave it to her. The box was hand-decorated by Chuck, along with his signature on the top. Inside, she found the ugliest beaded necklace she had ever seen, along with a note that said "Beauty is Power."
He told her that a few weeks ago, while he was, um, passing a kidney stone, he took a bunch of uppers and couldn't sit still. So, to divert himself, he busted out his beading skills from the Scouts and made... a... something. As soon as he had finished, pop! out goes the kidney stone. So now, my friend has Chuck Palanhiuk's Kidney Stone Necklace. Please say that aloud with me thrice...*

Chuck Palanhiuk's Kidney Stone Necklace...
Chuck Palanhiuk's Kidney Stone Necklace...
Chuck Palanhiuk's Kidney Stone Necklace!
Now how effing cool is that?

If I ever go to prison, I want that necklace... I have a feeling it will ward off the different gangs, the guards, and, of course... ha, you thought I was going to say kidney stones... (ed. note- unfunny. people will think you dim. please change.)
I will try and get a picture of it posted so it can be recorded for posterity... I'm not all about hero worship, yo... I just enjoy shitty beadwork....

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Thoughtmeats and the Longboard of Power

2005-02-09T17:27:00.000-08:00

So last night, after a pack of camels, forty-eight ounces of Sierra, and a generous hit off the steamroller, Kuana and I took the famous Longboard O' Power out to go bomb some hills. After riding on it for five minutes, I realized that I would have a fan-fuckin'-tabulous time cruising with it, or suffer an "untimely accident". Death isn't so bad as long as it's in a moment of glory, right? I would prefer Death By Sex(™) and though I've certainly come close with a few encounters, when the rubber meets the... well anyway, I doubt my partner would be down for it- people are so prudish these days... Anyway, the board, as it's name suggests, is more well-endowed than the pot-resinated-sticker-covered-squeaky-slab-of-board from of my youth, and thus skating it, as a lukewarm early 90's movie once put it, is like "driving a really big pinto."

We got to the Hill and prepared. We removed all excess clothing and pocket change, grunted, stomped around like cavemen to get the adrenaline flowing some more, and Kuana went down first.
"Damn that shit looked fun" my chemicals said. This spurred an argument:
"Shut the fuck up, ya junkie," snapped The Logical Side, "you're high! You're on too many chemicals, and only some of them from me! You wake up tomorrow with a steel plate, I'll be pissed. I've worked too fuckin' long..." Now, I resolved this argument the proper way... I patted my logical brain on his little fuzzy head, made like like I was going to comply, and then kicked him back down the basement stairs. I hopped on the board, put all my weight on my front foot, and let go. Kuana's one pointer was this: "When you're flying down the hill, you're going to feel like you are going to eat it. The only way you don't fall off is by concentrating all of your energy on not eating it." This made sense at the time, and as I was flying down the hill, ba-dump over the speed-bump at the bottom, up the hill of the next street, and back down again, I found I didn't think about this. I didn't think. Just looked. When I finally coasted to a stop, I felt like a Golden God who had just overthown Vahalla and made Odin clean my latrine. My pores were streaming, my breath was full, I laughed.
"You want to go again?" I heard him say.

We skated the hills for another hour or so, then changed location and went to this other hill that goes down about two blocks in Vallejo. I had conquered the Bunny Slope, the Hill, and now I was ready for the Expert Run. Kuana stood on the corner and watched for cars. I kicked off and went down, nearly flying off at the speed. My logical brain rapped on the basement door. We lit up a joint and offered him some. He accepted and mellowed out. Kuana went down twice and then I went to go again. After I got the "all clear" signal and started down, I watched in slow motion as my friend ran into the middle of the street to stop an oncoming car that tore around the corner at top speed. Oh fuck. Said I, and abandoned ship. I jumped off to the front and side and managed two loping strides before I realized I couldn't beat my momentum, so I "opted" to hit the asphalt instead. Got up to see Kuana retrieving the board from a bunch of bushes and I laughed. I looked over to the car and saw it was a bunch of old hippies, the woman hitting the steering wheel and laughing so hard her shoulders shook. They drove off and Kuana came over. I stopped laughing and looked down at my pants. Oh fuck. I was still wearing slacks, and I wish they had been jeans. They probably wished it too, as they were ripped for about five inches from my knees on down. My knees underneath didn't look too happy, either. I sat down. I wasn't too badly hurt, and we hung out and bombed the other hills again before heading back to the trailer. I promptly drank some of Slash's whiskey some smoke and felt good and alive. You have to give pain that. This morning I awoke. My Logical side had written a note in red and left it across my knees. I told him to fuck off, rolled over and hit the snooze...

This legalized prostitution smells of garlic

2005-02-03T17:22:00.000-08:00

Insert cigarette... light... inhale...
I awake from six hours of sleep to the gleeful braying of my alarm clock, put on my face with the shaver and off I go, hi ho hi ho, to my new job. Jaded and faded from this life of excess I lead, I could use some raiki or deep tissue massage from my roomate, but no, now that he is a bonified massage theRapist he doesn't give his hand jobs for free anymore. Alas.
Since I started working in Walnut Creek my car has been collecting parking tickets like an old lady collects stupid shit from the Home Shopping Network. It would be less irritating if I didn't notice the meter expiring just as the parking maid is writing her ticket. Blargh. I think I will save all of my bodily waste for one great day, buy a reinforced box, line it with their cute little pink ticket return envelopes and give them a customized donation their city's economy...
It's all good though, because today my Wine Bible came in. I had fun ordering it last week, acting like I knew what I was talking about to some nice lady who sells $175 dollar bottle openers.
No, really. $175 buys you a bottle opener. Sure, they're handmade from Stamina Wood (I'll let you draw your own conclusions) and come with a guarantee, but please. It amazes me that people still get duped by the absurd "If it costs more it must be better" philosophy, which makes the Machiavellian side of me want to sell wine openers to the store for $176 apiece to stir up indecision. Even Stamina Wood sellers have to make a buck, but the whole sales pitch she gave me was still a boot to the head reminding me of how ridiculous our culture can be; and with all the stupidity that oozes out of warning labels and cable TV sometimes I feel like checking myself in to an asylum just to find some people who are actually sane. No wait.... ok. Now I feel better.

The Wine Bible is a thousand pages about wine, where it is made, what goes good with what, and answers all those questions that are only pertinent to gay guys, the bourgeois, or starving waiters trying to get into fine dining. Hopefully, I'll be able to find myself a night job selling wine more expensive than me to the aforementioned bourgeois. At least then I'll be taking their money instead of making it for them, which'll be a change of pace.

Tomorrow will be more jolly, I think. I'm teaching guitar lessons out in Albany for the Morley, and hopefully working more on tracking the album at night... more about that later, for we are about to leave to watch Asia Argento in a new movie. Mm.... Molto Bella Italiana!

Tobaccy and Rootbeer Barrels- Fuel for the First Post

2005-02-02T16:55:00.000-08:00

Ah, blogging. The fine art of draining your main brain of its dross, funneling it through yer fingers, fermenting it with electronics, and finally, delivering your final package to the enduser. Nothing like coming home to a crapload of confusing conjectures meant to con the Confucious right out of your conciousness, eh? Well, enough of this literary masturbation. I'm sitting here shmokin', listening to Free, and eating root beer barrels Lukezy's aunt brought. Thank you to all three of you. Root beer barrels goood.

I also want to thank Isabella and my roomate, Lukezy for introducing me to the wonderful vice of blogging. It's cheaper than crack or religion and, so they say, far more cathartic. The cathartic part is yet to be seen, but as I've been quiet in penform for a few months, I think I'm gonna enjoy this. I got a few grittyly grit-tastically greasy real-life teeth-and-ass-clenching stories up my sleeve as well, so I think y'all (being the great unknown mice-wielding folk out there) will enjoy this too. For maximum effect, I recommend lighting a cigarette when reading here- I've noticed smoking when dealing with abstractions like words and difficult people is good for you, and besides, our shared death pact will bring us closer. Seriously.

So to fill you in a bit, I just got myself a job after a month of sweet, sweet unemployment. Even root beer barrels cannot match the sticky satisfaction of waking up at close to noon and realizing the only thing on the agenda is "do whatever the fuck you want." Unfortunately, I now have to yoke up and drag the line again, but I don't mind it much. Ya gots to work for that Green Oxygen (Look on the periodic table under $2) and my expansive college student bank account is getting about as impressive as a half-melted ice cube. I am working at an Italian cafe in Walnut Creek, serving espresso and eggplant parmesean to the masses. Tips are good. Someday I might actually be able to afford more than psychotropics, coffee and the "Potato and Top Ramen with Miscellanious In It" diet.

I discovered today that espresso is free for employees, which should be ideal for kicking my wandering mind and stuttering attention span into overdrive. YAY! Funny- as I strive for lucidity in my communications, part of me strangely wants to be incomprehensible. I really like tunes like Glass Onion and I am the Walrus, or Brautigan's Revenge of the Lawn writing. And ya can't forget about e.e. cummings. You gotta be cool not to Kapitalize your name. Lennon, e.e and others were onto something with the disintegration of the borders between the definitions of words. I think words sound so good melting together, don't you? "Ffffffffffffft... hng.... that's some good f*ckin vocab. You want a hit?" Speaking in tongues. Maybe I should go Pentecostal or get me one of them lobotomies I keep hearing about. Frontal lobes are overrated. It would be so cool if I could talk like a print factory exploding! Maybe one day, when I master my neurolinguistic pathways... one fine day when I can walk, jackbooted, yet bowlegged and drunk, thru the streets of tommorrow, rambling and gibbering shit that shorts people's grammar functions, monkeywrenches the english language, and annihilates any rational train of thought...

fucyone want another cup of coffee?k, an?

Some people might balk at mixing linguistics and philosophy with rambling, but this is my damn blog and I have to mark my territory. Consider it marked, yo.
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