The Passover Otter

Here then, children, is the story of Sheckie, the Passover Otter. *

Sheckie the otter was a happy fellow, but he had no need for his Jewish heritage. He spent all his time swimming, eating fish, and doing elaborate cross-stitch patterns for art supply stores. His parents, especially his mother Ethel, implored him to give all this time to the Torah and remember Elijah, but Sheckie was like "Screw that noise, I totally want some oysters."

So one day, he was out searching for some sweet, sweet otter wine (the finest of the fine, that sweet otter wine), when he stumbled into a fur trap. Crying, he was brought into the furriers' van, wherein he was forced to inhale much cigar smoke and listen to a lot of Fog Hat. The one furrier's name, it would happen, was Elijah! For he was the self-same prophet who has a place set for him at every seder. Him and Moses had reincarnated to get some of that fat fur trade cash. Elijah spoke otter-ese, so he understood Sheckie's pleas for freedom. And he felt pity, as he knew most otters were Hindu, so he knew how hard it already was for the young one's family.

Thusly, he set Sheckie free. But first, he made him promise to respect and honor his Jewish heritage. Sheckie agreed, but his paws were crossed behind his back, and Elijah saw this with his x-ray vision, and smote Sheckie right quick. "Disobedient otter," the prophet said, his voice louder than seven thunders, "because of your insolence, you shall be in servitude to the Lord your God for many millenia!" And he cursed Sheckie to deliver presents to all the Jewish children all throughout the world every year on Passover. Though, to be honest, the presents are sort of crap, as he is still a lazy and shiftless otter.

Though, every so often, when the moon is right, and the Fog Hat is heard on the high wind, Sheckie will deliver some sweet, sweet otter wine. And there is much rejoicing and honoring of Elijah.

Hooray for God!

* This may or may not be entirely made up. Also, any facts or names therein may or may not be entirely inaccurate and based on my 5th grade knowledge of Passover.

In Which The Beginnings Of Things Are Discussed

The first line in a novel is what grabs you. A good one will immediately say to you "HEY, pay attention, fucker!" Or something. Maybe without the expletive. As a writer myself, I find the first line is often the hardest part to come up with (right up there with the last line.) So I can naturally appreciate a good opening line as well as anyone.

I've been re-reading Hunter S. Thompson's books recently (as I am wont to do often), and the opening line of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas strikes me as one of the best and most concise opening lines in recent memory. Right up there with Moby Dick's "Call me 'Ishmael'" and A Christmas Carol's "Marley was dead to begin with." Here, I will show you:

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold."

That one line tells you everything you need to know about the story's set-up. It is, of course, elaborated upon in short order, but from that one sentence you get:

1. The character(s) are traveling, as they are unsure of their exact location.
2. Near Las Vegas, as Barstow is a town in the surrounding area.
3. Obviously some sort of miscreants or vagabond-esque characters.

Now, this is borne out by what follows, but immediately, you are hooked into the story.

Hunter Thompson looked on writing as a form of music, often referring to his words as "lyrics" and making reference to the rhythm he needs to put his words to. He would often have visitors to his house read passages from his books, both published and unfinished, out loud, in order to hear the cadence and rhythm inherent in the sentences. It starts with the first line. Everything needs a beginning.

What are some of your favorite opening lines? I might add a couple more of mine later, but for now, leave yours in a comment.

The Cost of Boredom (or, How I learned to stop worrying and love the Bomb)

I am having a very boring evening. (I KNOW, I know. A very exciting topic for a blog post, but trust me, I'm going somewhere with this.) My plans all fell through, no new ones presented themselves, and my various friends were busy or indisposed. "So what?" I thought. "I have plenty here to keep me occupied. I have books, I have movies, I have television. I am set. I am mighty in my entertainment options."

And, oddly enough, I was wrong.

I am an entertainment junkie. I freely admit this, in fact, I proclaim it as a boon, most times. A culture's entertainment says a lot about the culture itself, and I revel in analyzing the hell out of everything I take in. As I've grown older (and maybe [but probably not] wiser), my intake has grown more and more refined. I see less movies than I used to, and watch much less television. Much of this is due to the aforementioned refining, some due to lowering standards in entertainment presentation (but that's another entry I think. . .) The point is, I have a lot of experience in media. I have cable, I have dvds of both films and television series, I have a couple video game systems (all older ones though, nothing newer than the N64), I have music, I have books and comics and magazines, hell, I have my guitar. And yet, tonight, when I had time aplenty to use/abuse any of these things, nothing was satisfying my ennui. And this bothers me.

This bothers me not because of what it implies about my habits or my psyche, but because it struck home to me how much I actually have spent on these various entertainment strategies. I have dropped sums of cash on dvds, books, instruments, etc., and yet none of these could fill my void (so to speak.) The current American culture of leisure demands that we be pacified at all times by the opiates we choose, and MY DRUGS WERE EXPENSIVE BUT DIDN'T WORK. The money spent on these things could have been used on more utilitarian things (with the exception of the guitar, since that is used in my "line of work"), but I decided to put it towards pacifying my inner nerd. And what do I have to show for it? An overdeveloped analytical streak, a large education in pop culture, and really, very little else. So, that's a little sobering.

The main thing that occurs to me is how much I depend on inter-personal relationships now. In years past, I was very much a solitary person. I had friends, lovers, all sorts of acquaintances, but I was perfectly happy being alone and doing things by myself. And I do still on occasion enjoy it, as I use that time to write. (I apparently never actually FINISH anything I start writing, but I do start them!) But I spend much more time with my friends and significant other, just. . . being, I suppose. And to tell you the truth, I think I'm happier that way. An interesting self-discovery, I think.

Anyway, thanks for the indulgence. Hopefully, I'll have something involving cartoons or film up here soon.

And now for something completely different. . .

Number one: the Larch. The. Larch.

Composite.

Text pours over the screen, capitals and lowercases and ones and zeroes and other alphanumerics. I relax my arms and sit back in my chair. I'd been writing for hours, sitting in the dark of this room alone, lit only by the glow of my computer's monitor. But it's done now, finally. The opus. What will put me on the great virtual map of the world's stage, literary-wise at least. I rub my shoulders and stare at the ceiling. There is a crack there. It's new, or newer, anyway. I haven't looked up there in quite some time, so for all I know it could be months old at this point. It looks new though.

"So now what?" I thought. "The book is done. It is finished. El finito. Done. A complete work. And no one cares yet. But OH they will. Oh, how they will. They will gaze in awe at my vast intellect and carve statues in my honor and give me awards and money and the women, OH the women. Screw Karen, I don't need her now, this is my ticket out of this cell she put me in and when I get out. . ." I had to stop myself there, I was getting carried away. "All in due time," I tell myself, "you need a publisher still." Which was true. I didn't have a publisher. But I will! And it will be glorious.

I get up out of the chair, which seems a little rusty in the wheel area. It doesn't roll quite as smoothly as it should have. Whatever. I'll fix it in the morning. A little oil and I'll be fine. It'll be fine. OH, I almost forgot to back my work up. That could be a disaster, right? A power outage, a hard drive crash, and all my hard work would be eliminated in a swoop of electrical surges and broken glass. Because I would probably throw the monitor out the window. Anyway. . .


There's a crack in the ceiling.

I've been staring at it for hours. It stands out against the white of the paint, a thin black fissure in the otherwise featureless area. It's about 3 inches long, and winding and crooked, as a crack looks in cartoons and art renderings. I stare at it. I keep thinking if I let my eyes wander away, it will get bigger. I imagine it growing larger and larger, becoming gaping, a yawning mouth in the ceiling, reaching forth to swallow me off the bed and take me to. . . elsewhere, I guess. No place in particular. Limbo, perhaps. I imagine myself being lifted, like in a bad alien abduction movie, like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters, and pulled into the abyss. The crack grows larger, swallows the room, the entire building, the rest of New Brunswick, the whole of New Jersey, and still it grows. Impatient, it takes it all, and feeds its ever growing area of effect. Like a black hole, once the event horizon is crossed there is no return. Still it grows. Insatiable, unsettled, implacable distance inside it, pitch black, no measure of time or space or reason available. In pitch black, there is no benchmarks, so whether it's been 5 feet or 5 thousand years, I can't tell. Solitude is absolute in the void, and still it grows. The United States is now a chasm. The oceans are spilling over like in old maps, the world is turning flat. I close my eyes.

There's still a crack in the ceiling. It's still only 3 inches long.


. . .I have to blink a lot, readjust my vision for some reason. I think my mind wandered away from me for a while. I'm still sitting in my chair in my office. My legs are sore, and it's still dark. I still haven't saved my work. I roll towards the screen, but the wheels aren't moving at all now. Hmm. Odd.

Something is wrong, but I can't place it. Every time I try to move my chair, or just get out of it now, I can't seem to move. There's a force holding me down, whether it's an outer or inner one I can't quite figure yet. But in any event, it's moved beyond irritating and into worrying. I mean, yeah, it's only been a minute that I've been like this, but a minute is an hour in a lifetime is a second. Time is relative, and right now I'm relating to nothing. I need to save my book. I need my book saved. I need. . .


As I cross the bridge into the next state, a fissure glares out into the dark waters of the river below, a dividing line between blue sky and black hole. No sense of gravity exists, and as such it is not a true singularity, but I feel drawn to it anyway, if only in eye line. There's a restless atavism within it, a relentless march towards devolutionary oblivion, inexorable and irresistible. I can see it stalking along the edge, hunger and greed nakedly visible in it's many eyes, full of malice and future-tense violence and dead piling up on the base tarmac and promises of an end to all the terror and marches in lockstep to the beat of 30 years gone by. Incoming traffic passes, headlights blinding and pulling me away from the unceasing pull of the beast.

I am bound to this path by chords, tied tight and structured as to bring out the inherent pressure in living and breathing through the corralling of sunken eyes and broken treaties. Everything is illuminated, the light shining on the ugly as well as the beautiful, and the returning shadows swallow all as well, boring into the bored and bound alike. The creeping authority of silence grows, and the subsequent miles pass in a blank state of emotional withdrawal, every signpost and marker declaring an intention of invasion. "We are coming," they seem to shout in unison, "and we will not submit."

Strange neuronic flashes in my cortex establish themes and memes and lend context to every detail in the environment. Here: an unlit match, struck and immediately extinguished. Here: a duck crossing. Here: a 4 way stop sign intersection. Here: a dead end. How does it all add up? What is the pattern? It's crying out to be heard, practically screaming, a high pitched keening banshee that declares internal distress to all who care to put ear to ground and LISTEN. Spiraling in a golden shape, and sparking back to divert my gaze from the sky's separation and back to where I'm going and what I'm coming from and what the relation of one to the other is.

The sky has an edge. And it is sharp.


. . .and the door is locked. I can tell. I can't see anything coming out from under it no light no air I am trapped here the air is closing in on me I am being worn out I am being worn out I am being worn down I am being worn UP I'M UP. Oh thank god. It was just me. I'm more tired than I thought. I blink sleepily and walk to the keyboard, which is darkened by the fact that the monitor has entered sleep mode. I hit the space bar to wake the screen, and nothing happens. I move the mouse, and again, nothing. I'm awake now, my eyes wide and hairs on end. I hit the power button on the monitor, and again nothing happens.WHAT IS HAPPENING. I can't think this happens, I can't. No. It's just a monitor error. It has to be. I hit CTRL and S on the keyboard, and cross mental fingers that this works, that I am not fucked, that everything is savvy and everyone is safe and everything is sane and nothing, there's nothing to look forward to, it's all gone all gone my work is gone she's gone why did this happen now why did she have to turn off and erase it all when did this happen why can't I finish things easily why can't I can't I can't I. . .


We'd gone through three radio station area changes, and somehow, the same noise kept showing up. All mindless beats, and computer noises, and false promises of sex and professions of love. I can't think about any of that right now. It's still too close, too up front. It hung in the atmosphere between us, like the smoke from her cigarette, which still sat, smoldering, in her left hand. She smokes like a soldier, holding the filter between her thumb and index finger, bringing it up to her lips every few seconds for a quick drag, then leaving it hovering in the air, her palm up and pointing the lit end towards her chest, as if it's a knife poised at her chest.

I don't smoke.

At the first rest stop across the border, I'd asked her where we were going. "South," was the only answer she gave. I pressed her for more, but only got slight grins and silence. I'd thought about pushing the issue, about being a real hardass, but before action could be taken, I'd found her arms locked behind me and her lips had pressed against mine in a furious rush that staggers me still, now, sitting in the car, who knows how much later. God, she'd moved fast. It was as if she was afraid that if she didn't, the world would spin on its axis and pull us both away from each other to opposite corners of the globe. I found my center of gravity in her kiss.

It was the kind that you remember, and compare all others to for the rest of your life. If I knew a suitable descriptive for it, I would use it, but for once words are failing me. It was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of my lungs, and she was working to revive me singlehandedly. Her lips were the event horizon, and I was irresistably drawn in. Worlds began and ended, entire civilizations evolved and became extinct, and Ragnarok was brought to bear on all the old gods in creation. What followed, in the darkened spaces we went to, really was almost an after-thought, after that kiss. There was a sense of urgency there, which I can't really account for. It wasn't love, it wasn't even lust, it was beyond that. It was beyond us. . .

Beyond Karen.

Afterward, in the returning rush of sense and reason and balance, there was a moment when she looked into my eyes and I could see myself reflected back at me. The first time I had seen anything clearly in those deep orbs. I couldn't look, it was too disturbing, to see myself so naked and open in front of another. It was only a brief moment, but when I looked again, there was something else in her eyes. I can't be sure what, was it . . . fear? No. Loathing? No. It was . . . a sadness of sorts. Indistinct, but there nonetheless.


. . .am I? Am I here? I'm where? Questions are echoing in my head, but none have reached the stage of audibility yet. I cannot speak, my mouth is filled with mud and spit and bile and dust and dust and dust and oh god where am I. I'm in my office. Yes. Of course. I sit up from the floor and shake my head, the dust falling in slow flakes like snowflakes and I'm cold. It's cold out, and the breeze isn't helping. I should shut the window, yeah. I should protect myself from whatever is coming in, the air and wind and moisture and everything. I turn towards the window, but I don't see it, it's gone. The window is gone. It's been boarded up, I've been boarded. I'm trapped here oh god oh god oh jesus oh shit I'm cold it's cold where is this wind coming from I grab my arms tight to my sides to stay warm but it's not helping. I am trapped. Except the. . . door. YES. The door, it should still be open and leaveable. That means I can be leaveable, I can leave I can go go let's go get out oh god where is the light it's so dark and cold and I'm alone and yes the door, find the door, find the. . .


I can see the headlights in the reflection of the rainsoaked window. It's 3am again, as you would expect, time moving on its tragic march and all, and you could say that I'm unexpectedly thinking of another place and time, but really, its not unexpected at all. The mind does wander, mine especially, and while it wonders and wanders, I tend to lose focus on where I am and what I should be/am doing.

Where was I?

The fog rolled in yesterday, further obscuring the view through the streaked glass. I have no heat, so the defroster does little to nothing to help sight improve. The car is not old, but it's seen better days, no question. Its the best I can do at the moment, as I am without employment or a source of income steady enough to afford a newer one. I grip the wheel tight, but with gloves on a firm purchase is impossible. I always forget, is it turn into the spin or away?

Anyway.

Last night, I made a call to someone I shouldn't have, and said things I knew better than to say. On one hand, a good thing, because I didn't have to say them, but I needed to, which is the point here. I think. I'm not sure. I'm a little woozy from blood loss. I admit, I've been drinking a little. A lot. Whatever. My phone rang a few minutes ago, and the cracked LCD folds up like the jackknifed truck that I passed on the highway in the summer. It was warmer then, and it didn't matter that my car doesn't have heat. I almost crashed then, almost lost it.

Last call, this is last call.

Sorry, I lost my head again. The rain and the lights have made me dizzy, and I lost control, flipped the curb, and hit the wall. Simulcast in technicolor wishes and harmonic dreams, I tune my instrument and go off on a tangent. Ever wonder what would happen if you imagined your own death, while having an epiphany to prevent it?

No. This is insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Engine failing, and the power is slowly stopping to the brake lights. My seatbelt holds still, glass shards stuck to my hair and blood dripping into my eyesight. I see the boots of the patrolman in the rearview, and he's walking on the sky.

Are these words from the future? Or am I just upside down?


. . .and then I can get out of here and everything will be fine and the light is on? Why did the light come on? It's. . . Karen! "Karen, thank god!" She just stands there, silhouetted in the now open door frame, the light from the window (the window?) behind me casting criss-crossed shapes onto her form. She's been crying. I can tell. But she's not coming in the room. "Karen, I'm sorry, I was wrong, everything has been my fault and-" She's ignoring me. She's not reacting, no movement, not even a timid step. Her eyes are red, and I don't know whether it's because of what I did, or what I just said. There's a voice somewhere downstairs and behind her, and she turns slightly to answer, "No, I'll- I'll be fine. I just wanted to see it for myself. I just- I just keep expecting him to walk in and- and- " And she gets cut off by a flood of tears. I want to hold her, I want to tell her I'm all right, that everything will be fine, that everything is fine. But I can't. I can't even move. She can't see me. I'm not even there. And she's already gone.

Buy the Ticket; Take the Ride

I've been in a bit of a Hunter S. Thompson mood lately. Re-reading a couple of his books, watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas on dvd. I was given The Kitchen Diaries, a sort-of memoir/series of stories about Hunter told by two of his close friends, and that's most likely what kicked this off. He's one of my favorite writers, and was one of my few living heroes (until he offed himself, of course. Then he wasn't living. [for completion's sake, the others are Grant Morrison, Eddie Izzard, and David Foster Wallace.])

Anyway, I've been writing, though nothing's finished. As such, I have little to post, though I feel I should say SOMEthing. Thusly, here is an excerpt from HST's book Kingdom of Fear, published in 2003. It was his last completed book (other than a collection of his essays from espn.com called Hey Rube), and this brief selection from it encompasses a lot of what I love about his writing: his wonderful sense of rhythm, the beauty of his word usage, the elegance of his phrasing, his eye for a musical phrase. RIP HST.

"

Whoops! How about a break, people? How about some Music? Yes. Music is where it's at, so consider this:

I am a confused Musician who got sidetracked into this goddamn Word business for so long that I never got back into music --except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing --so I type.

These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some night it will make me feel like a god. Veni, Vidi, Vici. . . . That is when the fun starts. . . . Yes, Kenneth, this is the frequency. This is where the snow leopards live; "Genius, all over the world, stands hand in hand, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round. . . ."

Herman Melville said that, and I have found it to be true, but I didn't really know what it felt like until I started feeling those shocks myself, which always gave me a rush. . . .

So perhaps we can look at some of my work (or all of it, on some days) as genetically governed by my frustrated musical failures, which led to an overweening sublimation of my essentially musical instincts that surely haunt me just as clearly as they dominate my lyrics.

-- November 19th, 2000

"

burst and bloom

I rarely write in here anymore without a specific agenda to it, be it movie review/analysis, short fiction, and what-have-you. But I have nothing on my mind (in a grand operatic sense, anyway), and the piece I'm working on about The Fountain is as yet unfinished. And I feel like, since I've reopened this avenue for my written discoursing (SIDEBAR: FUCK Writerscafe.org. TWO YEARS of my fiction and poetic writing GONE bc of a database fuck-up, a lot of the poems which I hadn't saved elsewhere, and I'm just supposed to shrug, say "Oh well," and gloss over it? FUCK YOU. SIDEBAR OVER), I should write something in here, if not on a regular schedule, at least somewhat regularly. (more on this in a bit) Hence, this random scattershot of whatever crosses my transom. Also, there will be random pictures. And pie.*


Not to say, with all that, that I have NO idea what I'm doing. I have some things I'd like to talk about, but most are either very vague statements, or things I'm saving for the future when I can write more in-depth and look like I'm using some segment of intellect about it. Which is what causes the long breaks in-between posts of consequence. The former name of the blog was "Hooray for the Madness! We are better by Design!"**, but that was not entirely true, as the "design", if it could be said to have any, was pointed more towards sparsity of information and occasional thoughts of "Huh, I haven't written anything in a while. Oh well." The current name of "We Laugh at Catastrophe. (we're random but we like it that way)" is much more appropriate, I feel, for both the frequency and the varying subjects of the posts. If there were other writers, I would probably feel better about this, but y'know, it's hard enough motivating myself to do anything other than read long books about piracy and currency or graphic novels about superspies and tits.


So yeah, here's a post about nothing. Well, not literally nothing, not in the nihilistic sense. Or in the Seinfeldian sense of purposefully without purpose. But whatever. I'm sitting here, at 1 or so in the morning on a Wednesday. The television is on behind me, prattling on and on about the current elections (or primaries, as it were), about which I am currently caring less and less each day, as I find most of the people running reprehensible, annoying, or just plain insane. Ok, I like one candidate, but being the eternal cynic, feel there's no chance in hell he'll win in the long run. BUT WAIT, that is a sentence (or two) about something. Have I already defeated my self-described purpose in writing this? No, because THIS IS Sparta MY BLOG AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.


UGH, I think of things I want to put in here all day, and now when the moment comes my mind is gazing wanfully out of its tower waiting for a prince to ride up on a horse and rescue it. I think I've fulfilled my purpose in doing this anyway. AND NOW, to BUSINESS: I plan on enacting a very loose sort of schedule here. Wednesday will now henceforth be COMICS I AM BUYING THIS WEEK DAY, wherein I will mention the paltry few titles I will be picking up at my local comic/graphic novel conveyor. Friday will be VIDEO DAY, wherein I will post a video, either one I was personally involved with, or not, and maybe with a bit of commentary about it. We'll see how this works out, if I can keep my own schedule or if I will be damned to flounder at even this small task. Tune in tomorrow, Rocketeers!

* There is no pie.

** Actually, the ORIGINAL name was "Bigger Than Jesus", but the less said of that, the better.

Quoting the Cube*

I am currently in the process of writing 2 blog entries of film review and analysis (on Cloverfield and The Fountain, respectively), and a short story about ghosts and writing, and 2 different songs, and still attempting to piece together a story in my head about dealing with the death of a loved one and robots (I AM AMBITIOUS AND FULL OF BEES!), thus you, my wonderful reader[s], are receiving the following list of quotes that I A) like quite a bit, and B) tend to apply to my own personal world-view. And you know very well that all that I say and do is right.**

So anyway, more substantial content coming in the near future, but for now... courage! And interesting epigraph-worthy material...


"What is Grand is necessarily obscure to Weak men. That which can be made Explicit to the Idiot is not worth my care."
:: William Blake

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."
:: Philip K. Dick

"Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.
(There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.)"
:: Seneca

"The real secret of magic is that the world is made of words, and that if you know the words that the world is made of you can make of it whatever you wish."
:: Terence McKenna

"See, now! Our sentence is up "
:: Grant Morrison

"When you start worrying about whether someone likes you, or whether you're going to get what you want, or whether you'll ever become the person you want to be, just remember: we're all doomed."
:: Warren Ellis

"I know I can write my way out of this."
:: Blake Schwarzenbach

"A tradition is a past that distorts the present."
:: Albert Camus

""In the beginning the universe was created. This made a lot of people angry and has widely been considered as a bad move."
:: Douglas Adams

"Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content.
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy."
:: William Shakespeare

"Knowing and being are mutually exclusive."
:: Nietzsche

"Appearance blinds, whereas words reveal."
:: Oscar Wilde

"To perpetuate one's name, one must carve it on a heavy stone and sink to the bottom of the sea; depths last longer than heights."
:: Herman Melville

"The world's a fucking brilliant place to live in."
:: Douglas Coupland

"It is not certain that our time has lacked gods; many have been proposed, usually stupid or cowardly ones."
:: Albert Camus

"To define is to limit."
:: Oscar Wilde

"Buy the ticket; Take the ride."
:: Hunter S. Thompson


Plan on seeing more like these at some point in the future. I like collecting interesting quotes.


* Kind of like Gleaming the Cube, but less skateboarding and more literature. Still involves lots of yelling of the word "RADICAL!"

** This statement might be insanely untrue.

Truth is, there is None. (a short essay)

The only real truth is that there are none. Or rather, that there are many, and none of them are true. It's all in the perception, and no matter the protestations and complaints of the coterie, truth is entirely subjective and not something to be bandied about extravagantly without regard for the hypocrisy its use implies. Placing the phrase "This is truth" before or after a statement does not automatically validate the preceding or following, and wanfully crying "I only speak the truth" is almost a guarantee that one does not.

Actually, one's views on "truth" wholly depend on one's views of "real", as it were. Since the question of what exactly is real vesus unreal is one that is as yet unanswered (and likely to remain so for quite some time), this path is best left untrod for now. Though, perhaps a quick jaunt is in order: "Reality" depends on perception, and perception varies from one mind to another, often from day to day, hour to hour, within the same mind. Example: the idea of what is a "sad" event (an abstract feeling, at best) to one may, in fact, be considered the opposite to another. If two minds cannot agree on the reality of a statement/action, then how can it be determined to be real? And if its reality is questioned, would not its truth be then brought under suspicion? Thusly, (if this logic is sound), reality and truth are wholly dependent on the subject, and there can be no one reality/truth. And so it goes on, every statement can be proven both real and unreal, both true and false, occasionally both states existing concurrently. Often, abstract concepts are ascribed as real or true, but their very abstraction defies the labels; describe the color "blue", the feeling "happy", in a way that someone who has never experienced it would be able to understand. There lies the wall between abstraction and truth.

This leads, naturally, to the concept of "self-truth", or what one considers to be true to one's self, one's own nature. As this is an even more personal and singular version of the "real" fallacy, one can see where the breakdown of truth begins. If one cannot hold up his own thoughts/feelings as true/real, then the whole of existence is laid bare as suspect. This leads down the path to Nihilism and the statement of Aleister Crowley's "Nothing is true, everything is permitted." If such a belief were to become widespread, the consequences on human society would be to have, in Yeats' words, "mere anarchy . . . loosed upon the world." Society, and human culture as a whole, survives based on what can be termed a "mututally agreed upon delusion", a universal lie, if you will, that there are some truths held as unassailable. This does not mean they are exempt from the preceding argument, the argument is just ignored or not acknowledged. This is reflected in a line from (of all things) the television series Seinfeld. A show from the 1990's, Seinfeld purported to be "about Nothing", both in the literal and the philosophical sense, and it was as close to a nihilistic portrayal of modern life as was widely available at the time. The line, spoken by the character of George Costanza, is "It's not a lie if you believe it." A more concise way of saying that the truth depends on one's belief, and that once one ceases to believe in something, it ceases to be true. As before, perception equals reality equals truth.

The nature of truth is fickle, and the surface can scarce be scratched as to the definition and delineation of it as both abstract concept and concrete formation of logic/belief. The perpetuation of the mutually agreed upon delusion will keep it as such for the forseeable future, though one can certainly hope that someday people will realize the essential meaninglessness of declaring things true or false based on the whims and vagaries of society, mass culture, and their own peculiar brain chemistrys and predjudices. The continual reliance of politicians and their brethren on statements such as "I'm a straight shooter", "I do not lie", "I only deal in truths", or "Everything I say is true" only point out the shallowness of the speaker and the inherent fallacy of their arguments, not to mention the implied falseness of their statements. The only truth one can trust, it seems, is one's own. And even that can be a lie, truthfully.

Hail to the king, baby.

The ladder climb was always the hardest part. Hand over hand, not necessarily straight up, as the rope ladder would bend and sway under my weight, but the direction was most assuredly upward. Sure, it was difficult, but that was half the fun. Getting to the top was the challenge, and once I got there I could survey the entire scope of the playground. My playground.

Looking back, it wasn't what I would consider an inordinately large area. In fact, it was quite small in comparison to others I've since seen. But to me, it was enormous. I was only nine years old though. To me, the little three-street development I lived in was a large suburb unto itself. So of course the tiny neighborhood playground looked immense. I looked upon it as my castle, from which I could survey my (self-proclaimed) kingdom, and from where I would rule with an iron-clad, 3rd Grade fist.

Entering the gate of the fence that surrounded it, I could see the entirety of the playground area, for the most part. Far to the left is the tennis court, where some friends and I would occasionally hold home-run derbies, and where, later in my youth, we'd play roller hockey almost every day. Next to that, but mostly obscured by trees from the stated vantage point, is the basketball court, where during the summers of late grade school I'd spend hours practicing my jump-shot. These days, I'm not exactly the most physically active person around, so any skill or musculature I gained has long since faded away into memory.

The first thing I would always go for when I entered the playground proper was the tire swing. It was like my own personal merry-go-round. It was a big tire too; not a dinky car tire, one of those huge tires they use for monster trucks. I'd sit down and spin it so fast the rest of the world would become a blur, everything in my vision running together like a piece of spin art. When it eventually stopped spinning, as inertia took hold, I'd be so dizzy I couldn't even walk straight. I'd have to sit down next to the big tire and lean against one of the vertical support posts until the kaliedoscopic spinning of the world returned to normal.

There were two slides, each on different from the other in any number of ways. The first was traditional slide. You've seen the type: steel, a straight slope, with a horizontal bar extending across two vertical ones at the top. It wasn't a long slide, maybe six or seven feet. It was good for doing flips though, whereby I'd sort-of throw myself over the horizontal bar, flip over it, plant my feet on the slide itself, and run down the rest of the length. Sure, it was dangerous. In fact, I probably could've been seriously injured, maybe even broken my neck. But when you're that young, you feel as invincible as Superman. Like nothing can hurt you.

The other slide was the centerpiece of the playground. The rope ladder I mentioned earlier? It led up to the top of the slide. After I'd climbed it, there was a small landing, where I'd usually rest a bit. Attached to the end of the landing was a circular, metal, almost turret-like room. This is where I'd stand and survey my "kingdom." After a while, I'd get bored standing there, so I'd slide down the twisting yellow tube which was attached to the turret. There were portholes in the tube, so I could see flashes of the world outside while I was sliding down. Once I'd reached the bottom, there would be two obvious choices open to me: climb the ladder again, or go home. In one of my earliest displays of lateral thinking, I'd normally climb back up the slide. What can I say, I was a youthful iconoclast.

The playground was one of the most stable parts of my childhood. It seemed like any of the kids I was friends with would move away shortly after arriving. The playground, though, was a constant, unchanging. It was always there for me, no matter the season or the weather. As I grew older, I went there less and less, as my growing interest in feminine companionship and my burgeoning music talent held my attention more easily. But I've never forgotten the fun I had at the playground. My kingdom.

.valis.

When did everything become so detail-oriented? I find myself asking this more and more these days, rhetorically, of course. It would be daft to expect an answer to the question. Still, it hangs in the air, like a word balloon from a comic book, visible to only me but somehow sensed by everyone else. Like the thundercloud that follows cartoon characters. Its a curse of my introspective nature, I suppose. Some people question the details, and what they are, and what they represent; I question the need for them in the first place.

I've been biding my time, waiting for the right moment to... I don't know yet. My mind has started to feel as if its preparing for some momentous flash of insight, when I will suddenly understand everything; I'll know what's wrong with me, why the world is that way it is, why the planets are misaligned, what the hidden secret of pi is, the name of the gnostic god, how many licks does it take, the actuality of the universal constant... It will all be revealed. But... my practical side realizes this is a blind rationalization, and that more than likely I will spend my entire life waiting for a moment that will never come. Though I suppose that's life, such as it is. We swim in the spaces between content and context.


I don't pretend to understand the whims and whiles of my brain chemistry. Philip K. Dick said, "Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away." As a generally faithless person, this brings me some small comfort.

desolation is no destination.

I've had this idea percolating in my head, inspired by much self-rumination and an essay by David Foster Wallace, about how my life has thus far been defined by curved spaces and lines. I'm hoping I actually get off my ass and finish the thought rather than following through with my as-of-late tendency to start an interesting idea and then drop it when I see something shiney.


Music as a whole lately has come to mean less to me as an outlet and more as an obligation. I don't know if this is because my songwriting is being dismissed more than before, or if its being subjugated, or whatever, but I'm not sure if I like the way it is moving forward. One project finding its feet again (and also losing its way a bit, but that's a personal opinion), one project on "hiatus" for some reason I'm not sure of, and another thats begun to circle in my head as a bigger possibility than before... not really what I'm looking for or what satisfies my sense of musical aesthetics.


Everything in pop culture, with the exception of the Colbert Report and Grant Morrison comics, has become boring to me. Hence lack of entries. Everything is cliche and uninteresting to me. I think I'm just being overwhelmed by the sameness of every day. But then again, I guess that's just how it goes at this point of my life. I'm too old to appreciate everything as new, but too young to really feel a genuine sense of nostalgia. Again, probably something for another post. Anyway, my thoughts on various things I've read/seen/heard should be forthcoming soon, probably after I spend my annual week at the shore. That'll recharge my batteries, I hope.

cats in the cradle and the silver spoon

This is going to seem odd, but I wrote this for my one psych class, and I thought it was too funny to just put aside and not share with you all. Witness my love for you, is it not abundant and joyous? AM I NOT MERCIFUL?
...
Anyway, this is supposed to be a letter to my 10 year old son explaining puberty, since I will be going away for 10 years and not be able to have any contact with him. Let it be known that when I'm a dad (which is a definite maybe for the future), I will be TEH @W3S0M3!!11!!1!one!!1!!

Dear Tyler,

I am sorry that I am not around to give you all this in person, but when you get the chance to study spidermonkeys in the jungles of the Amazon for 10 years, its not something you pass up. Anyway, you're 10 years old, so you're coming up on a time I'm sure you've heard whispered in the dark halls of your school: puberty. Its a chaotic time for a young man, full of questions and confusion and pimples, but don't worry! You'll get through it, because you're my son, so of course you are awesome.

You'll start to grow hair on your face, and you'll probably need to shave once a day just to keep it in line and show it who's boss. Also, you're voice will get deeper, but first you'll go through a period of voice cracking and bizarre vocal tics which will make you think you perhaps have been possessed by the devil. Don't worry, everyone has gone through this, even Jesus. You'll probably have a sudden growth spurt, and hopefully not be short like the majority of my side of the family your whole life. Eventually, you'll grow hair in places other than your face, but again, don't worry, its all good.

Most importantly, you'll notice that all the girls around you will suddenly grow breasts and become crazy. This is normal, and believe me, you'll get used to it. In fact, you'll love it. Mostly the breasts, not the crazy. Another part of this is two things which you should definitely be aware of beforehand: the two words "spontaneous" and "erection". They're embarassing, I know, but normal, and will not last forever, so just relax and ride the wave until you get adjusted. Finally, you'll want to get involved with the crazy women. Sexually.
Don't.
It leads to problems and more craziness and babies. But, if you do make with the sex, for God's sake, use a condom. I am not yet old enough to be (or have any desire to be) a grandfather.

So, my son, don't fret about anything. You're just growing up and becoming a man. A proud man, and, when I return, I'll look at you and say, "My son, you are indeed a man."

Love,
your father.

P.S. This is what part of the alphabet would look like without the letters "Q" and "R".

I rule, and you know it.

Three quick hits.

Three short opinions:

1. Crash was boring and undeserving of Best Picture. That is all I have to say about the Oscars.

2. PIERRE, S.D. - Gov. Mike Rounds signed legislation Monday that would ban most abortions in South Dakota, a law he acknowledged would be tied up in court for years while the state challenges the 1973 U.S. Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion. The bill would make it a crime for doctors to perform an abortion unless the procedure was necessary to save the woman's life. It would make no exception for cases of rape or incest. Planned Parenthood, which operates the state's only abortion clinic, in Sioux Falls, immediately pledged to challenge the measure. The challenge could either be in court or by petition signatures to refer the measure to a statewide ballot in which voters would be asked to repeal the abortion ban. "We fully intend to challenge this law," said Kate Looby, state director of Planned Parenthood. "It's just a question of how."

   Good luck with that. Roe v Wade is getting chipped away bit by bit, starting now. I'm moving to Canada at my earliest convenience, because once one freedom goes down, the rest fall that much easier...

3. Writer's Block does not exist. The only thing that blocks you from writing is yourself. I might expound upon this in the future (jeez, how many times have I said THAT in this blog?). But as it stands, if you feel like you don't have anything to write about, or can't think of anything to write, WRITE ANYWAY. Because it's when you stop writing, that you truly ARE blocked. Writing can only be accomplished by actually doing it. I've been writing constantly the past week; not all of it has been blog-(or even public-) worthy, but I've been doing it, so as not to let my hands become "cold", so to speak. JUST WRITE. The rest will take care of itself.
   

you are a constellation.

I realized tonight that I am horrible at keeping friends.

I make friends easily, as I'm an affable fellow who enjoys the company of intelligent people with worthwhile opinions, as well as those whom play music instruments, since I am rather proficient in three myself (guitar, bass, and my voice). But I have the damnedest time in keeping these relationships together, as I have the tendency to retreat into my own world, or get distracted by problems, or get torn between two different groups, and find that I am inadvertantly ignoring some and flat out pissing off others.

This is not intentional.

So, if anyone is reading this, and wonder why I didn't call, or didn't IM, or have had a hard time getting me to do something, its not because I don't want to. It's mostly because I don't want to upset anyone, so rather than shun one to the benefit of the other, I retreat from all.

I'm hoping my soon-to-be-purchased (in the next day or so) automobile helps alleviate this.

More on this eventually.
But probably not, because I'll be distracted by a shiny object and forget.

give me a reason to end this discussion

I am the deaf and dumb and blind boy, sitting alone in front of a flickering screen, digitalia and half-tones bringing nothing but regrets and responsibilities unfulfilled. But then again, who knows more than me about promise undone and worn down by neglect and self-abuse? No one, that's who. Lets throw out the bathwater and keep the baby this time, and burn the bush and the bird contained therein. I am waiting for something to go right this time, and extending my thoughts in your direction, hoping you will hear me as you sleep. I am restless and wanton, full of indifference and disarmaments, tired of waiting to be tired. Blending into the background noise, looking for patterns in the white sounds and distortion patterns, this echo is repeating (repeating repeating), "TRUST ME, I know what I'm doing." I miss the ability to rhyme and reason my way out of everything and the situation bears repeating (repeating repeating). Call me stranger, call me lover, call me friend, call me any time, call me whatever you want. Just call. Down and out in south jersey and willing myself to wake up when there's really nothing to keep me anchored here, I float above the horizon and drift towards the sunset that has disappeared in the grey overcast afternoon and iced over tree limbs. The road tonight is cold with ice, so good night, sweetheart, good night.

I want there to be an answer, even though I haven't asked the question. I've left it as an ellipse, and with apologies to Zach Braff, an ellipse is no way to leave things. I am tired of metaphors and synonyms and similes and rhyme schemes and pipe dreams and flailing in the dark for the right thing to say and writing in code and pregnant pauses and silence that says more than any words and broken phone connections and not saying what I mean and not meaning what I say and not meaning anything and not saying anything and. endings. Endings are hard. "I'm waiting for something to go wrong" but I'm afraid I was never right and I'm not going to say anything because I'm just barely breathing as it is and I'm afraid of everything. Everything being different. Everything being the same. "Goodbye", "Hello", its all the same anymore to me. Kiss me goodnite, then erase me from your memory. If you want. If you want me.

Ohwellwhatevernevermind. What was I saying? I'm lost in a quarterlifecrisis. Lost in the mail. Lost in the mall. I could be lost in you, but "you" is a concept that I am not sure exists anymore, if it ever did. Besides, "you" could be nothing but an imagination that ran away with itself over the hills and into westampton. "Are you out there, do you hear me?" Do I still hate me? No. I've become accustomed to myself and all my inequities, and I am comfortable with who I am. I'm just not sure that I can last long in this forward moving time frame of existence. "What is the 4th dimension?" is my query and allegory and metaphorical statement of consciousness. I said forever. It got shorter. Goddamn you Zach Braff and Charlie Kaufman for defining my existence. "Fuck you, and your shortness of breath." That one's dedicated to a dud bomb. I'd call you. But I don't think you would answer. And I'm not sure what I'd ask. Held my breath, just then. Call me on it. Please. Won't "you"?
Oh well.
Whatever.
Nevermind.

Really, everything is fine.
Back to pop culture ranting normality in 3 and 2 and...

Info-dump.

Last night, while I was falling asleep masturbating to softcore on cinemax* listening to a Dane Cook cd, an idea came to me about what to write about today: Everyone has random thoughts, right? Just the completely bizarre stuff that you tend to obsess a bit about, and then forget until later. I know I do. So what I'm going to do is compile a list of the topics you'd Google if you had access to my head and wanted to know what the fuck has been running through my mind this week (other than its normal program of fear and loathing). So here we go!

• Eddie Izzard Sexie double cd. While not as consistently funny as Glorious or Dressed to Kill, and not as gleefully blasphemous as Circle (Blas-phe-my!!! Blas-phe-you!! Blas-phe-everybody in the room!!), Eddie's newest release is still one of the funnier things you will ever listen to that's from a modern stand-up. Sample line from the beginning of the show: "I had breast envy! I didn't have penis envy. I had penis nonchalance."

• Infinite Crisis. Driving home the point to me that I know way too much about DC comics history (both Pre- and Post-Crisis [the original]), especially since I never read DC when I was younger, and hardly read any non-Morrison DC now. But, on the whole, an enjoyable mini-series that seems to be getting the "universe threatening crossover!!!111!!1!!" thing right. (Unlike House of M, which was teh suck.) Superboy-Prime going ape-shit was pretty cool, actually.
  

• Harvey Danger Little by Little... album. I posted about this very briefly before, just to get the word out about it, but the Danger boys released their newest album as a free download on their website. I'd suggest downloading it, because it's an excellent slice of indie-rock and well worth your time. I've been listening to it pretty constantly on my iPod, Motherboxxx, especially while at work.
  

• Grant Morrison is the fucking man. Well, duh. Seven Soldiers, All-Star Superman, added atop his already impressive resume of THINGS THAT I LOVE? I am a manwhore for him, in a way your tiny non-5D brains can't even comprehend.

• NEXTWAVE Did I hype this up enough? FUCK NO. It's even funnier than I thought it was going to be. Deal with it.

• Hunter S Thompson. Still in the throes of my HST obssesion. Currently re-reading Fear and Loathing in America: The Gonzo Letters vol 2, and let me tell you: I am still in thrall to this man's writing. Sweet Jesus. Did I just say that? Can they hear me?
  

• Sin City. I enjoyed the hell out of this movie, easily my favorite of last year, and while I generally watch the whole thing (I have the Extended Special Edition DVD), there's one section which I love far and away more than the rest:Clive Owen as Dwight is so amazingly bad-ass. I don't have a DVD drive in my computer, otherwise I'd get a screencap of my favorite shot in the movie (him jumping down the manhole, both guns blazing downwards).

• Driving. Not really pop-culture related or anything, but I'm finding it disturbing how I just zone out when driving to work or class. I literally have no memory of driving these places, unless something unusual happens to make me remember. I get to both places on time, with no accidents or mishaps, but it still weirds me out that I can unconsciously do something as complicated (and let's face it, dangerous) as operating an automobile and not have any memory of it.

• More Driving. Has anyone else ever thought about what it would be like to swerve into the oncoming traffic, just to see what it would be like....? No, just me? Ok.

• Insomnia. It leads me to make things like this:Christopher Walken is your new personal lord and savior. He's also running for president. Vote for him. Or don't. It's your choice. But he'll swallow your soul if you don't.
  

• Anthropic Principle. Doctrine of quantum physics that states that one explanation for why the universe has the properties we observe is that, were the properties different, it is likely that life would not form and therefore we would not be here to observe the changes. Discuss.

• Monty Python's Flying Circus. I need to get the DVDs of the episodes, since I am wearing out my VHS tapes through constant watching. My favorite sketch EVER from the show is The Penguin Atop the Television Set. It is pure bizarre genius.

• I am old. Well, older. And while I have adjusted to this, every so often I get reminded of it, and I curse time and its chronological momentum. Damn you, minutes/hours/years! Damn you all to hell!

Ok, that was fun. I'll have to do this again sometime.


*Actually, it was Showtime.

shiver awake.

Give me a reason to wake up tomorrow. Tell me that everything is fine, and that no matter the outcome of this hand-spun moment to moment diary of consciousness that we refer to as "living", that I'll be remembered after I've gone the way of the dodo.

I know what you're thinking: this is probably not what you want to hear or read or see or know, and I'm sorry for that, but I am nothing if not direct and uncensored on the interwebs. Madness and self-abuse are my specialties, I admit, and while I can sing more songs of disaffection and loneliness, the perfection of it eludes me still, so I shall continue on in the mad nervous rush to include every single phrase into the contents of everything else. "Holographic writing", I call it, wherein the sum is contained in every part.

Thank you, Mr Morrison, for introducing me to this world of prim and chaos and randomness. I am random anyway, so the concept of a random world is not that surprising to me, and this is how I think when I am alone. I know I've said that I'm fine, but I would want you to ask anyway, as I am fragile and prone to breaking down the tiniest detail and turning it into fodder for the late-night parade of parasitic wordplay. The cold air spreads from windows through curtains and breaks my concentration...

They just killed the people on the TV, I am shocked and amused and am waiting for something to go wrong again, as is my wont. Someday I'll fail to breathe, and what then? Will there be a soul who remembers my time in this shell, spreading my sigils and strands of memories, like quantum strings in 5th dimensional compressions. I know I've said that I don't care, but something in me does, I swear, and I'm not smiling but I am. I smile when I mean it. Give me a meaning, add contentment to these words and all the fallacies dissolve into meaninglessness and I will explode from effect preceding cause. My postcard has been backdated to last summer, and it says "Wish I was There". Rings around fingers, and I will never get it back, but I don't care. I have a reason, I've found reason in random and madness and chaos and rhythm and music, and honestly, who could ask for anything more?

I'm stuck in the middle, between what is and what might be

I do my best work creatively in the 3-4AM range, but I also end up weird and crazy because of it. This is the inherent conundrum in my artistic endeavors, and I think explains alot to my addled brain about why artists in general are tortured. They need something wrong with them in order to facilitate the existence of their work. Show me an artist who is not flawed, or broken in some way, or without faults, and I will show you a poseur.

I'm sorry, I forgot where I was going with this. I still can't sleep. And while I know I will regret this tomorrow when I attempt to awaken, I am still unable to force myself to sleep. And its not even as if I'm doing anything important. I am waiting for inspiration to hit me for my unfinished story, or for another one to begin. I am waiting for a lightning storm to knock out the power so I can sit in the complete silence that only comes in the abscence of humanity and all its trappings and bring clarity to my mistreated head. I am waiting for something to go right.

Still waiting.

Nope, didn't think so.

Still awake at the peak of exhaustion, nerves frazzled and raw from dealing with rampant stupidity on a daily basis and from answering questions that have no real answers, and full of piss and vinegar and extract of whiskey, I let all off the hook with one simple statement: "I'm ok." And truly, I am, nothing affects me nearly as much as it seems, but then again, when something truly DOES affect me, I don't let on. I keep it bottled up like nitroglycerine in the dark corner of my mind that doesn't allow light to escape, much less thought or feeling, until it expands and eventually explodes in bursts of creativity, or ambiguous rantings, or all-out stress anxiety attacks. I haven't had a full-on meltdown for awhile now, and I have been quite grateful for that. Work and play have not caused as much stress or anger, but lately its been increasing exponentially almost every day. Hypocrisy, shortsightedness, idiocy, rampant and blatant contempt: it's all been there, and more. All directed at yours truly, through no fault or deservingness of my own, only due to the fact that I happen to be the nearest target, and I make such a lovely target. Fire away boys, he can take it. Well, mister, I have two words for you: "Fuck" and "Off".

I'm hoping this wears off soon. I feel like I should be happier than I am, but I never seem to be. I am full of promises and regrets and indifference, but I want to at least feel something other than ennui and disappointment for once. "There's no consolation prize; there's no prize for consolation." Whatever. None of this makes any sense to me right now. I'm sure I'll delete this in the morning (afternoon; whenever I wake up). I just wish I knew what to do. I never do. Having direction would be nice for once, other than "vaguely downwards."

the opening salvo

So, here we go. First post in an "official" blog thats not myspace or livejournal. I'm pretty sure I'll still use them too, of course. I'll probably use myspace for songs and more "arty" writing, and LJ for boring day-to-day stuff. This will be for my long expository posts on things of a philosophical nature. I'll try to post as much as the muse allows. We'll see how it goes.

In any event, on with the show...


I'm not that guy.

On the way home the other night from a show, I was just driving along and thinking, as usual. And I've come to the conclusion that I'm not that guy. I don't have tattoos. I don't put on makeup. I don't wear girl jeans. I don't pander to people in order to be loved, then dump them as soon as their usefulness is done. So, basically, I'm not the typical musician in a rock band. At least the typical kind these days.

I know its the popular conception of rock musicians as degenerates who sleep with as many girls (preferably underaged) as possible, who dress provocatively in order to inspire lust in those viewing them, and who generally put out the image of "someone you wouldn't bring home to daddy." But I've never found myself attracted to this way of life. I started in music because I love playing it, and love having people listen to it. And to be honest, I'd be perfectly happy playing anonymously for the rest of my life, if it meant that people would hear it. Hide me behind a mask, a pseudonym, whatever. Just get my music out there.

And this is why modern music continues to baffle me, and modern relationships as well. (AHAH, you thought I was not going to cross that bridge again; well, you thought wrong.) Everything, more and more, seems to be based on image: the young hip indie rock band with the elegantly disheveled hair, practicing their looks of faint disinterest in the mirror, in preparation for their SPIN photoshoot. : the studio-technology-assisted pop songstress who doesn't have a whole lot of vocal range or talent, but boy, look at them titties, eh? : the goth punkers establishing themselves by how they dress rather than what they're playing. I'm not calling "sell-out" or anything (since I hate that term), and I don't want this to be taken as sour grapes, but it does confuse me, as a musician myself. I would like to be taken seriously, and have people hear me on a larger scale. But to do that, must I compromise my sense of moral propriety, and personal ideals? I don't think I can.

And this is connected to relationships how? I'm glad you asked.
I go by the same principles in life, as well as music. The reliance on pure physicality (while MUCH MUCH more obvious in love) is a similar thread through both. I'm not saying I never consider physical attractiveness as being a part of the equation, but thats EXACTly what it is: a PART. Not the whole thing, which a large portion of the population seems to disregard. "Yeah, shes a little dumb, but MAN, is she hot." "Sure, he's hit me, but only twice, and I know he'll never do it again. I love my muscle man."

I forgot where I was going with this originally, but I do remember my ultimate point: I'm not that guy. And I'm never going to be. I'm fine with that, and maybe someone can accept that. But this world seems to be going downhill faster every day (in many ways), and everything I do has a definite shelf-life on it anyway.

So, I will continue to do my music and whatnot, tattoo-less, in regular pants, and without makeup. And hopefully, with work and some luck, something will come of it. More than likely not, but I'm never not going to try.
I'm not the guy to not try.

(by the by, this is not a reference to anyone I know personally, more of a reflection of prevailing attitudes and trends in society. So no one be offended, k? K.)