Library Full of Tears

(Even)(More)Wisdom?

2009-09-21T18:12:00.001-04:00

Good advice is like a slap in the face...especially when it results in one.

Henry Butler @ Joe's Pub (Caveat Emptor)

2009-08-10T21:17:00.002-04:00

Note: Before you begin, we here at the Tears strongly suggest spending a minute or two at the Wild Koba's Music Box. It does more to set the scene and preface the below then we will ever manage. And a special "thanks for putting me on the spot" to the management over there at the WK's Music Box.

Shortly past 9:30, with the assistance of an unnamed lass, Henry Butler made his way up the short flight of stairs and took the stage at Joe's Pub. The appreciative audience washed over him as he familiarized himself with those beacons, piano and microphone, of his otherwise permanent midnight. He wore a faux(?) gray alligator/lizard skin coat and sunglasses with the garish gold adornments so common amongst a certain set these days. He greeted us briefly...a few chord flourishes and he was off.
He pulsed,
he pounded,
he swooped,
he bounded,
he beep'd,
he bop'd,
he hiddie'd,
he ho'd.
His voice, at first only lending vocal mutterings to the instrumental pieces, began to thunder and shriek.
Then there were the captured moments, both polished and atavistic, played in time to the rumble of the lurching subterranean mechanism of public transport and ire.
The audience was his.
Hands clapped.
Heads bopped.
Lovers embraced.
Each and ever person was transported by whatever mechanism and to whatever place that...

Hey you!
You, with your store bought cosmopolitan!
Yes, you!
You, with your simple form and inviting curves that do little to combat your tepid ambivalence and dismissive mien!
You!
You, with your sweet sixteen rhinoplasty and methodical tangle of hip accessories!
Yes, you!
You, with your mother's severe chin and father's lack of rhythm!
Oh...now don't get me wrong my little wonderful.
No reason to furrow that brow.
I get it, this just ain't your thing.
Nah, your thing is the slice of cake you had the tempestuous waitress bring over, candle ablaze, in the middle of Mr. Butler's stupefying set.
Nah, your thing is inquiring as to the quality of the overpriced charlatan masquerading as an entree as the man takes to the ivory with the passion you never receive from your cold lovers on these warm summer nights.
Nah, your thing is that half eaten salad that you couldn't even shove around your plate in time to the fistfuls of dynamite that set that rancid dewdrop hanging low and sallow betwixt your legs aquiver.
I get it.
This ain't your thing!
Your thing is to be oblivious to the point of rudeness (a trait no doubt picked up from your obsequious parents) as you scroll through the latest obsessions made readily available via your electronic tether.
Your thing is, no doubt, to excuse your behavior by means of Mr. Butler's visual impairment.
That's alright baby.
I got my bag and you got your's.
So what if I want to stuff you in it and throw you in the East River.

Now some of you might think that this sounds awfully cruel. That acting ambivalent and even slightly disruptive to a performer (and the overall performance) is nothing new. It isn't. Without fail there is that persistent percentage of the audience, regardless of genre or locale, that puts themselves first. You know the type. The "I am not familiar with this song as it did not receive radio airplay so I am going to act loud and boorish as I polish off my umpteenth flat and overpriced brew and send shout outs to all my bros and hos in attendance" type.
So then, why did this ingénue with her candlelight emboldened looks deserve such treatment?
Perhaps it was the misfortunate happenstance that had her in my direct line of sight, acting as an obstruction between the stage, the man and I.
Perhaps it is because Mr. Butler is blind and cannot take note of these rude strumpets sitting within spitting distance.
Perhaps it was the complete disregard for the virtuosic flourishes that Mr. Butler seems to pull out of the ether...the notes stampeding, but never trampling one another.

Its that last one that has led me to the following conclusions:

1) Joe's Pub is a disgrace! I can no longer stomach these policy(d) venues of required consumption. These places, so set on the "business of art", have lost their way. There comes a point when you damn the policy and you give over to the musician. The cacophony of flatware set against imitation porcelain did Mr. Butler little favors early on in his set. True, Mr. Butler may have done some of his best work in places less polished then this (the sticky floors and greasy hips of strutting waitresses too thick for their outfits and thin on this month's rent keeping time). However, he has reached a point in his musicianship that he deserves the hushed reverential and even slightly snobbish silence that accompanies a recital. It should be man, instrument, and audience. Not man, instrument, and overpriced undercooked penne.

2) I am loathe to say this, so close to the source, the ecstatic wound still throbbing, but this may well have been the finest performance I have ever seen or heard. Through his entire set Mr. Butler had me vacillating between a tight lipped smirk of wonderment and the countless mutterings of that most blunt and effusive green eyed compliment, "Fuck you."

Seeing as Mr. Butler has taken up residence in Brooklyn he will no doubt make good on his threat to "(R)ock this thing!"
So, I implore you...nay...genuflect at the altar of your good grace...those few who are loyal to this place...seek out Henry Butler as often as you can...you won't regret it...and try the Caesar salad.

Kako! (Ode to the Wild Koba)

2009-08-03T20:07:00.004-04:00

We here at the Tears have put our summer sabbatical on hold (no fears all you frenzied denizens, we are presently exploring other artistic endeavours and a collaboration or two that may yield greater exposure for this intrepid flotilla of schemes and stillborn dreams) to pay tribute to the patron saint of mongrels...the Wild Koba.

Most of you are no doubt familiar with his exploits as they pertain to this little corner of the ethereal binary world. To date, his back story has been well documented by countless tabloids...filled with scandalous images, both real and augmented. His picture has graced milk cartons and post office walls. His name alone, spoken in the right place at the wrong time, can open many a door that otherwise would remain sealed. He is often heard, but not seen...a sign of things to come and a sign that it is too late.

So, in honor of the anniversary of his siring we here at Tears wish to repay the tribute he so kindly bestowed upon us nearly two years ago (sheesh) by presenting a selection of appropriate tunes...a selective soundtrack if you will, into the man, the myth, the lesion.

(Note: A special note of thanks to the Captain for his invaluable input and appropriate selections)

from the Captain:

- the beatles, "piggies" (the beatles (aka: the white album), 1968)
this works on a couple levels
1)there's of course the gourmand like lust for all things porcine which are braised, battered and bbq-ed
2)then there is the murk that resides just below the surface....that malevolence...that slant of the grin
(Caveat: the above link leads to cartoon violence and a Charles Manson entree)

- elvis costello, "radio, radio" (this year's model, 1978)
it would have behooved both the Captain and I to have listened to this track on the radio as we strained to hear the chords from our distant perch in the ruins of the baths located near the saratoga performing arts center. alas, the closing discordance of '(what's so funny 'bout) peace, love, and understanding?' would be the only portion of the set we could claim to have been on the grounds for. you are still not forgiven for this...anticipate traffic next time!

from the Tears (aka "a."):

- ernie k. doe, "here comes the girls" (ernie k. doe(janus), 1970)
with no disrespect to monogamy and lovely significant others, this song is as anthemic as they come. each morning it is easy to fathom that he dresses to that NOLA cadence and throws back the deadbolt to the that final "oh water...i don't need...no lemonade!", greeting the world to the fading pleading repetition of "girls!"

- major maker, "in the middle of the night" (2009?) - link is to myspace page
this speaks to the malevolence (that lurks) mentioned in the Captains' picks. don't let this upbeat number fool ya. if this sucker gets picked up by a commercial or movie we may have another "every breath you take" on our hands. although, i can't see many couples using this one for their first dance as husband and wife.

- cher, "half-breed" (half breed, 1973)
(comment withheld)

Advice for the Everyday

2009-07-10T17:50:00.000-04:00

When you got it...you got it.
If you ain't got it...don't worry about it.

The Lost Tapes

2009-06-03T01:10:00.000-04:00

Everyone seems hopeful.
It is a collective hope, shared by dubious medical professionals and career laymen alike.
Our latest attempt at recovery, from the most recent airborne threat, here in the______ Mountains seems to be taking. So much so that the nuns have given me access to "the machine", as Sister Margarete refers to it. The connection is in doubt as the snow capped peaks, which ring the valley and keep the billowing nimbus at bay, are responsible for varied anomalies...those of a technological and biological nature.
So, I am forced to be brief.

The nuns have been kind.
First came the leeches and two days to bleed.
Then came the blankets and the ecclesiastical advances.
Sister Margarete insists that this is the treatment everyone receives here at______.
I trust her smile, but little else.

From the widow's peak of the main house, where we spend most afternoons, I can see Sister Margarete exiting the smokehouse. Her habit, bejewelled and sequined, shimmers wild sapphire in the afternoon sun. She hoists the cured carrion that is to be our supper into her crude poplar wheelbarrow. She claimed, one night over a cup of bland milk soaked tea as her adorned habit blinked pale indolence, that the smoking process releases the meats curative powers.

There are seven of us now.
There were nine.
Gemma Galgani (we have all been given the names of saints to protect our anonymity...even amongst ourselves) was finally consumed by her consumption last Thursday.
Her lips were cocaine blue.
Lawrence of Brindisi left a day later via airship (the only means of access to the valley) fully cured and ready to once again claim his lofty perch amongst the glitterati and propeller jet set.
The limp should work to his advantage as it is of a heroic sort.

The Three Bells are tolling.
It is almost time to take to the waters.
The stream, with its northwest bend, tastes of alkaline and is the color of magnesium. Legend has it that it is the fifth river of Eden. One can follow it to its end where it slips beneath the mountains like a hand between silk and skin.

It is time to go.
So without further ado, as a means to keep up the appearance of keeping up appearances, I bring you a transcript from the master reels of the ill conceived and daftly brewed Library Full of Tears Radio Hour. Recorded under the direct supervision of legally qualified and trained personnel, the tapes suggest an enthusiasm that the public did not share. Although, rumor has it that a band of Somali pirates have been using the thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds of the program that made it to air as motivation at the onset of every mission. (They say it has something to do with the timbre of my voice, a creature of local myth, and the similarities therein.)
The transcript is warts and all as my time with "the machine" will not provide for a proper edit. Until next time...

"...he's more clean shaven then she is.
(humming - flat and sparse)
Let me know when we are rolling Jimmy.
What's that?...oh...well we can just edit that out in post.
(clears throat)

Closing Homily, take one
(dead air - four seconds)
The mind is never more creative then when set upon anothers destruction
And the longer you live the greater the influence of inconvenience
Not even incandescence's mellow entreat or spring's slippery retreat can stoke a muses diminishing flicker

'You're gonna sing with her, but he's gonna fuck her.'
She spoke of brevity and misguided levity
'Take me now as I shed the last vestiges of youth!'
You...
(tape cut)
...ward the end. What do you think Jimmy? Put more emphasis on "reptilian whore" next go round? Alright...let's pick up after the fourth stanza. Ready, Jimmy?

You devalue my worth?
Well, I spit on your wisdom and poison your vine
But I ain't no fool for beggin' for what you're sitting on
And knees ain't just for beggin'

I am surprised by your...
(off mic chatter)
What's that?
(off mic chatter)
No man, that's over in Studio B.
(off mic chatter)
No worries.
Are we still rolling Jimmy?
(cough)
OK.
I'll pick it up from the interruption.

I am surprised by your suppression and attempts to claim my mind
Your breeze betraying your subterranean ambitions
Its just that you don't do me like you used to
So, get your tongue out my mouth cause I'm kissin' you goodbye!
(dead air - ten seconds)

I think once or twice more and we should have this Jimmy.
Hmm?
What's that?
(dead air - six seconds)
Brian?
Really?
(dead air - two seconds)
Oh, I'm so sorry Brian.
(dead air - seven seconds)
Then who the hell is Jim...? "
(end tape)

(In)Appropriate

2009-04-14T05:08:00.000-04:00

People

2009-03-16T01:17:00.000-04:00

"There are two types of people.
Those who don't do what they want to do, so they write down in a diary about what they haven't done.
And those who are too busy to write about it because they are out doing it." - Benjamin Dingle

Takin' The Pulse

2009-02-23T21:47:00.000-05:00

the streets are poison
the office is bitter
the cookies are tainted
the masks are slipping

(beat)

your high heels
your detriment
your birth mark
your stain
your sense of humor
your stunted desperation

(beat)

county fair in the sun
shooting for amusement
two bits a shot
win a push cart for your sweetheart

(beat)

sepsis of the mind's eye
suicidal thoughts, gray in their infancy
the disease of celebrity
the wedge of death

(beat)

the stencil of snow's brief marriage to branch

(beat)

cut the flame and pocket the difference
perform your deformity
on dirty hands and scrapped knees
ruined finery and that depressed consumer rag

(beat)

go get the shovels
its time to take over the world

BOOOOO!!! (JESUS BOOS YOU!!!)

2009-01-21T22:12:00.003-05:00

And now for some freshly brewed froth:

"The President of the United States. The honorable George Walker..."
"Booo!!!!"
(Insert audio of Steam hit song here)

We here at the Tears were encouraged by the boisterous and full throated disapproval that met our former commander-in-chief at yesterday's swearing in ceremony. (It was only second to the Peter Sellers cameo.) It never reached the deafening cacophony that our ears yearned for, but it sure set a tone.
And as we stuffed ourselves full of our Ramen noodle and Spam medley (purchased in bulk and on sale with reverse coupons which lay the burden on any and all progeny) we thrust and stammer out our own form of disapproval.

It wasn't until one of our interns (damn nepotism) switched over to MSNBC that things began to take a turn.

Chris Matthews, who's abundance of saliva leads one to wonder how he doesn't drown on his own bile let alone his malformed asinine opines, admonished those in attendance. That's right gang...Mr. Matthews a well-mannered ill-prepared cadaver of American political punditry called us out on our bad form.

Regardless of reason...
1) It took away from Mrs. Obama's introduction?
2) "We" should be above that?

Regardless of reason, we have formed a well constructed and succinct response to Mr. Matthews criticism of people who have no ability to respond to him directly. The following press release is being circulated to all news outlets that matter.

___________________________________________________
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Contact:
Antoine Rimbaud
Library Full Of Tears
2809 Magnolia Drive
Cooley, NY

Library Full of Tears Offers Response to Chris Matthews Critique of President Obama's Inauguration Attendees

Cooley, N.Y. -- January 21, 2009 -- BOOOOOO!!!!!

For more information (or the purchase of additional "O"s or "!"s): CLICK
_______________________________________________

How's that?
Was this the proper forum?
It must be.
What other forum could there be?
Certainly not a public one that involved the citizenry on an individual level.
That same citizenry who has had to suffer through the miasma and smegma of eight years of stillborn policies.
(The best of which, homunculus preserved in fluid, will be crossing the nation on a tour of great towns and small cities.)
The citizenry who had no recourse other then to grin and bear it as "amok" became the new black.
The citizenry who has watched their future wither like a grape on the vine of their time.
The citizenry...
The citizenry...us...we the goddamn people...who in our capacity as equals have the god (or dog depending on the advancement of personal dyslexia) given right to express ourselves in this ever evolving sloppy experiment that is democracy.
The ground beneath our feet is our soap box.
And we stand tall upon it.
Just as your viewer challenged show is yours Mr. Matthews we all seek an outlet.
And when the mob disaproves, the mob BOOS!!!
We don't have fancy desks...no pulsing harbingering graphics...no assistants bent on puffing and powdering the sallow away.
No, Mr. Matthews we sit on buses and brave the hordes.
We shake free the shackles of complacency and the status quo.
And just as we hopefully usher in a new age of whatever it turns out to be, we have every right (and duty) to bid the old age adieu.
When given one last opportunity (and perhaps only opportunity) to convey our sentiments as to an elected official holding a public office we went for the simplest and most sincere form of disapproval.

BOOOO!!!!!
-and-
BOOOO!!!!!
-again.

What would you have us do?
Smile and wave like eunuchs in waiting.
No!
One would be safe to presume that given the opportunity to form a more complete opinion with a guarantee of on-air time that eloquence and sure footed verbal grandeur would be employed. Point by point analysis of the macro and the micro would highlight the low lights as Robert's Rules of Order were read by a topless woman on a half-shell.
But unfortunately it seems that you've got that market cornered.
So, keep up the good work...all of you pundits.
Keep telling us what we're seeing.
Keep telling us what we're hearing.
And keep telling us what we should be thinking.
Keep paraphrasing what we just heard and presenting it for consumption with no more then four polysyllabic words on the bottom portion of the screen.
Keep telling us the weather in Phoenix as we sit by the warm glow of your twenty four hour news cycle, viewing the world from the suspect perch of window sills and peep holes.
And as long as you do their will be the "BOO!".
That resounding castigation, repudiation and catcall echoing through time...damning your verbal dandy-ism spoken with its eliding tongue.
There is only the truth...one truth...our truth...and it speaks.
Can you feel it?
Can you see it?
Can you smell it?
Can you hear it?

We are beasts and we roar!
BOOOOO!!!!!

(More) Wisdom?

2009-01-14T18:11:00.000-05:00

Never trust anyone who makes their own pants...you never know where they put the pockets.

Travel Advisory

2008-12-31T17:42:00.002-05:00

Just in time for the (post)holidays we here at the Tears are very excited to bring some timely and useful insight into the world of travel. Our resident travel expert, Buford Sumner, is here to provide his long overdue inaugural column regarding the wide world of travel. Due to clashes on the continent Buford has been underground for an indeterminate length of time. The puckered star burst of a scar on his left shoulder blade is his only keepsake from years of bartering, bribery and thievery...All in the name of survival, or so he claims. So, without further ado, we are pleased to bring you and officially welcome to the Tears family, Buford Sumner:

Happy travails fellow travelers!
The world of travel sure has changed during my lifetime. Investigations have been launched and positions eliminated, but still I endure. As we all must do...and do.

Each of us has, in our own time and way, come to grips with the current illusory state of airport security. Security is here to stay...and it don't look like its going to get any less intrusive. And until we deal with the reality of the scenario as opposed to allowing ourselves to be coddled by the warm encouraging hand and cold probe of those looking out for our "best" interests things are only going to get worse. So let's start small...

So, you've just completed your security run.
You've submitted to the x-rays.
You've shrugged off the pat down.
You've smiled trough the inspection.
You've grimaced through the injection.
You've feared the detection.
You've rousingly cheered the rejection.
You've gathered up your possessions (wallet, change, keys, belt, shoes, carry on, jacket, cell phone, jewelry, and the carefully packaged three ounce bottles of your various medicated goos that have been separated and collated according to the appropriate regulations and highest standards of import/export)...

You've gathered up your possessions and are left to wander amongst a diaspora of decamped gypsies in a refugee state. Plastic chairs slick with overhead ultraviolets, few and far between, offer cold comfort. You struggle and contort, placing socks on hands and belts in shoes. Buttons are employed, zippers protest and laces refuse to hold true to one another (a very basic and necessary element of laces). And this is to say nothing of the deplorable treatment those of a certain age receive. Those who are left to rely on altruism and advanced hydraulics when physical ability falters.
"They" have soured the marmalade in seeking out the mischief.
We have been so busy slapping ourselves on the back that we neglect those things trampled underfoot.

Billions have been spent in order to educate, eradicate and properly train.
Billions have been wasted in order to educate, eradicate and properly train.
And all we get are four plastic chairs and gruff declarations of persuasion meant to mooooo(!)ve us along at a faster pace. Have consumer aeronautics sunk so low that expectations inline with numerous international treaties is too much to ask. We are bordering on pay for play self-incarceration. Once those cabin doors are sealed...you belong to them (but that is for another time).

Finally...you've got your belt wrapped around your head and are getting used to walking on your hands when in passing you utter a solitary syllable in protest and they bring out the woman with the forceps (her thighs greased and mammalian). She leads you away with bright talk of upgrades and lemonades. There is to be no lemonade. She brings you to a windowless room with vertical blinds hung purely for effect.
They are waiting for you.
They set upon you with pen and poison ink.
They begin to ask you strange questions:
"Who was your second grade teacher?
"Were you allergic to breast milk?
"Do you note the phases of the moon?"

And they keep at you until they come to the query of import. And you let slip...

"What do you know of Edith Shikedanz?"
"I only know of her communiques. They are seasonal, timely and efficient. But I have never met the woman."
"No one has."
"Oh! To behold Edith Shikedanz. I hear to look upon her is to gaze upon God's muse. I have written an ode to her.
'Ode to Edith Shikedanz: A Musical Tragedy in Five Parts (with Four Part Harmonies)'
It starts off with an upbeat number.
'Do you want to shake and dance. No I just want my Shikedanz...' "

Thank you, Buford.

"She got the soup. I got the salad.
Lord, we got some dinner time."

THANK YOU, BUFORD!
That was completely useless.
Until next time...

Wisdom?

2008-12-17T19:36:00.000-05:00

Only a smart man can act stupid.

Somewhere in the Middle

2008-12-10T22:41:00.000-05:00

Part ______ Scene ______

Scene:
East of Hip
A street corner symphony, accompanied by a traitor wind - F sharp minor
Evening - when the yoke of sobriety is first tested

Zeus: There have been the misconceptions.
Jesus: I blame the flouncy robes. (Looks to his left.) Where is the Vile One?
Zeus: Working on his crab canon. (He works his hands counter cyclically.) Its a devotional.
Jesus: How's it going? (Looks to his right.)
Zeus: He's stuck at the beginning - (He stops both hands. Examining each, he sets about some measurement) and at the end.
Jesus: Oh. So, somewhere in the middle.
(A woman passes - sanguine eyes, saintly nose, sinister lips...rows of feathers and plumes of hair. They leer with deitous braggadocio. She pulls her charms close.)
Zeus: (with an accusatory tone and crooked finger) That one...she is wasting her talents on the sick.
Jesus: A thankless sacrifice. (Said with a smirk) Do you know her?
Zeus: (pitching a forked tongue) You do not know that kind of woman...You regret them.
(She stops, settles an imperfection and rounds the corner.)
Zeus: I've still got my lightning bolt! (He calls after her, thrusting his Gibson flying V into the air)
Jesus: (calling after her in solidarity) As Paul said, 'One man's ceiling is another man's floor!"
Zeus: (turning back to face him) The apostle?
Jesus: No, the Simon. (boastfully and matter of factly he continues) We've earned some respect for our art.
Zeus: Standing in a toilet on one leg does not constitute walking on water.
Jesus: (with pride) She was in awe.
Zeus: (exasperated) She was using it at the time.
(A passerby approaches - jivin' and boppin', fingers a poppin')
Passerby: Excuse me, Jesus?
Jesus: (beatifically)Yes.
Passerby: Can you tell me how to get to Ave. B?
Jesus: One block over.
Passerby: Bless you. (Turns and goes.)
Jesus: Right back at ya!
Zeus: (sheepish and stung) How come they never ask me for directions?
Jesus: Because they have rid themselves of your stain long ago... (Bending over, bracing the wall, a cherry in bloom born of a reflective spark. He continues; waving his arms suggestive of this or that.) along with your chalice of abominations, cloud of detriment and self medication.
Zeus: (all venom) And you were bested by a whore's regrets!
Jesus: (pointing to his heart) This is the true ghetto.
Zeus: And everything is everything. (Bringing the tips of his thumb and index finger together) Now pass the joint.

Vote Early & Vote Often!

2008-11-04T23:55:00.004-05:00

Earlier today we here at the Tears received an inquiry (not a request...we don't do requests) from a long time reader, first time inquisitor.
(")Would anything be coming regarding the day itself or the men involved?(")
Typically Election Day is when all Tears staffers are given the opportunity to vote and all fact checking, dramatizations and proctorial exams are put on hold.
However, this year, in the most important election of most of our lifetimes, no staffer was provided respite. First came the eighteen hour shifts. Then the rolling black outs. No rest for the weary here. Numerous factitious projects of an immediate nature kept the hamsters in their wheels and committed to the cause. (The ad hoc committee is still determining the inexactitudes of "cause", but our lawyers seem hopeful. Also, the microwave should not be trusted.)
And now....now that the national issue is no longer in doubt....now that the state issue is no longer in doubt (having been declared within two minutes of the closing of the polls) we hear at the Tears are able to announce, without delay or parry, that...

Unless you live in one of a handful of states with a specific demographic of a marginal sort, your vote doesn't really count.

We're living proof.
Our contrarian beliefs...
Our bold faced negligence...
Our wild eyed misfit-ism bore no repercussions.

In other words, we didn't hit up the electoral college kegger.
No five dollar cover was paid.
No stale beer was sucked from tapped kegs in the corner of the basement.
No roofies were employed.
None of the ugly chicks got lucky...and none of their friends were given rides home.
We didn't vote...and unless several million votes are nullified it just doesn't matter.

So, in summation...

Congratulations to the man(now get to work), but the system is still fucked.

West Coast Swing: Archie Shepp @ Herbst Theatre, San Francisco - 10/23

2008-11-03T17:54:00.001-05:00

Archie Shepp: soprano, tenor sax
Tom McClung: piano
Ronnie Burrage: drums
Avery Sharpe: bass

"Your vagina is split asymmetrically between east and west."
Its just a matter of fact.
Or at least that is how Mr. Shepp presented the scenario near the end of his first set.
His spoken word interlude(s) dripped with aggressive phrases painting a stark and beautiful relief.
But, for all we know he could have been speaking to the sound engineer.
Throughout the entire first set Mr. Shepp muttered and glared.
"We just want to be able to hear each other, not drown in one another."
Being within spitting distance of the man made these moments all the more entertaining as Mr. Shepp's face contorted with purple rage.
Yet, none of those facial machinations matched the man as he ran his fingers up the goose neck and set about the mouthpiece.
His jaundiced eyes searched the ether hovering off stage left. His eyelids spoke a silent language of intermittent despair, commotion, grief, tremor, sensation, rage and flickering diminishment.

This is a quartet of vast potential.
Through his own admission, and perhaps a bit apologetically, Mr. Shepp explained the lack of time the quartet has had together.
Mr. Burrage and Mr. Sharpe had only recently joined up after spending time in an outfit with some guy named McCoy Tyner.

Well, if there is such a thing as successful failure then this was it.
Once the tumblers fall into place this band is going to unlock a trove of vast musical color...and just maybe declare "We rape! We pillage!" the official band motto.

All evening long Mr. Shepp and his mates ranged from free jazz to R&B flecked tunes to near all out blues (as was the case with the fine "Trippin"). His voice is an imperfect atavistic instrument...a bellowing gurgle of deep roots and muddy waters.

Of special note were Mr. Burrage's hyper kinetics. He plays inside the collective sound, pulsing and thrusting, taking to the drums like John Bonham with the "right" kind of schooling. He is an absolute monster. He is so fierce that he snapped the bass drum by the second number and was able to provide a hambone interlude that involved parts of the body that never make those sounds when I slap them. His interplay with Mr. McClung was like listening to bricks mortared by feathers. Quite simply, Ronnie Burrage is the finest drummer I have ever seen.

Sure it was a heated sloppy mess at times...sounding like the things that are best left done in alleyways under damp lights, but that's the only way to get there from here...so enjoy the ride.

West Coast Swing: Dave Brubeck Quartet @ Davies Symphony Hall, San Francisco - 10/22

2008-10-29T17:40:00.001-04:00

At 87, attending a Dave Brubeck concert is more a "catch him while you can" event then anything else. Or at least those were the expectations going in. And while every one of those years were borne out in his voice and gait, he readily dismissed any notion that his fingers had forgotten their place. Fanciful devices and romantic swagger could be employed, but this was simply:

WOW!

The quartet:
Mr. Brubeck - piano
Bobby Militello - alto sax, flute
Michael Moore - bass
Randy Jones - drums

Mr. Brubeck set about the piano with fingers of bawdy melancholy, adding classical elements to color bopish jazz styling.
Mr. Moore and Mr. Jones swung like great apes on grand chandeliers (on what turned out to be borrowed bass & drums...their own instruments having turned up missing). Mr. Jones' solo on "Take Five" was worth the price of admission alone.
Mr. Militello, whose red face could be seen from my vantage point in the upper tier, was a beast all night. His tone was just that...his and his alone.

After every couple compositions Mr. Brubeck gingerly stood and took to the microphone to regale the crowd with random thoughts and a possible tall tale or two (go ahead prove him wrong):

in wondering how it was, all those years ago, that Paul Desmond (his long time collaborator and alto-sax player) was able to arrive moments before a gig and find parking nearby Mr. Desmond provided, "You see that? Where it says S.F.P.D. Only? It stands for Saved For Paul Desmond."
Mr. Brubeck is responsible for starting the Monterey Jazz Festival
something about the NOLA Jazz Fest...
a foot of mud...
planks of wood...
a 6PM curfew...
a conga line led by the Wild Tchoupitoula Indians...
and "that" New Orleans beat employed to get people to leave in an orderly fashion

Noting that it was the night of the first game of the World Series Mr. Brubeck modestly exclaimed that he thought no one would show up. After the audience laughs at and off this notion the Quartet breaks out the finest...THE FINEST...version of that old Tin Pan Alley classic "Take Me Out to The Ball Game".
First the flute takes the vocal line...wistful Americana floating through space. Then the sax is employed...all churn and swing...providing emotional heft to the final:
One
Two
Three, strikes your out.
At the old ball game!

And just like baseball, the game may be old, but Dave Brubeck is forever young at heart.

West Coast Swing: Melvin Seals & JGB @ Veterans Hall, Santa Cruz - 10/18

2008-10-27T22:23:00.001-04:00

Note: Thanks in no small part to haphazard happenstance and fortuna's sweet kindness, a multiplicity of sonic confluences were afforded over the course of the past week. As such we here at the Tears are going to shift gears and present a series of live reviews and perhaps a humorous anecdote or two. So, without further ado...

The increasing number of street people and the gentle hint of sweetly soured air suggested I was heading in the right direction.
"Hey man! Can I have a quarter?"
"I don't have a quarter, but you can have this dollar coin."
"Oh man! Thanks! God bless you!"
"Sure," with a hint of sarcasm.
"There is a god," he calls after me, "Whether or not you believe it."
Over my shoulder: "Hey, I'll take all the help I can get."
"You are blessed! You are truly a blessed person!"

The Santa Cruz County Veterans Memorial Hall is a quaint little building done up in that familiar Spanish style that you can find in so many California towns. It is the perfect place to hold a small concert that doubles as a political event. Oh, didn't I mention it was a Barack Obama related event. This was not just a concert but, a register and get out the vote drive that included an awkward and less then stirring speech by local congressman, Sam Farr:

"Fired Up!?"Ready to go!?"

No!
On both accounts.
To steal a little from Rodney Dangerfield:
These Obama people are really committed. To what, I have no idea.

Regardless of what side you are on, when it comes to chanting and fist pumping you can count me out. I've seen too many CinemaScope news reels to not know better.

However, they do score points for their choice of concessions:

pizza
-and-
brownies
-and-
coconuts

Coconuts?
Yes, coconuts.
One of the highlights of the evening was watching the pleasant hippie chick wield a domestic machete in attempts to set free the sweet nectar within. Her smile never faded as she took measured swipes...her tongue darting after any back splash.

After listening to a less then stirring opening act that attempted to stretch out without ever leaving the confines and comfort of a basic chord progression, Melvin Seals took the small stage to the appreciative applause of the laid back crowd.

Melvin (for those of you who don't know) is best known for his association and collaboration with Jerry Garcia for nearly two decades (on and off again) as part of the Jerry Garcia Band. The JGB was known for covering such R&B classics as "How Sweet It Is", "I Second That Emotion", "The Way You Do the Things You Do", etc. They applied the musical exploration ethos to R&B/soul and applied an R&B/soul ethos to some rock standards.

Naming the band the JGB, Melvin is able to pay tribute to and draw on the reputation the namesake affords. And just in case anyone had any doubts Melvin made sure to find himself a Jerry acolyte in voice and instrumental tone. While I have nothing against the sweet tenor of man and instrument it does not come off as well as the efforts of John Kadlecik of Dark Star Orchestra (who as it turns out played with Melvin on occasion). Stu Allen (the Jerry in question) seemed a bit caught up in the trappings of playing a role as opposed to expressing himself freely. This in no way suggests a lack of technical proficiency, just one of true identity.

Melvin, on the other hand, is a personality unto himself and one nasty ass Hammond B-3 player. (If woman was an instrument she would have to be a Hammond.) He is a big man who tries to squeeze his entire frame into a single note. He sneaks up on it...pouncing...wrenching it and wringing it dry. He keeps things tidy with his soulful bouncy style. This is music meant to keep you moving and for the most part does. The requisite "twirlers" made certain of this.

However, this evening did not belong to the music, but the light show. This was the finest light show I have ever experienced and was handled by perhaps the originators of liquid projection. They certainly looked the part. Employing the original technique (oil emulsions on overhead projector) the duel projectors were able to create a hand made aesthetic that quivered and bent with the music. Reacting to the soundscapes, the projections made for an organic ambiance and kept my attention for far longer then it should have. There is something to be said for the human element.

But even they seemed to have an agenda. Noting my curiosity as to all the lighting fix-ins the more hard scrabble projectionist (with broken gait) shouted something to me about a petition. I told him that I wasn't from here. He told me I could be from anywhere. I apologized and told him that I was from nowhere and had to return there shortly.

All in all, not a bad way to start a sojourn.

The Past Is A Future Present

2008-10-15T17:42:00.005-04:00

Hi there.
Nice to be with you again.
We here at the Tears have been taking a little break in order to sure up our position in these uncertain times:
bullying short terms
-and-
bearing long arms

And as our dumb and dimmest set about Rikki-Tikki-Tavi with hatchet and awl, we set off, three sheets to the wind, with the gloaming of the American Century at our back and the Coast of Low Living on the horizon.

Then the compass got into the rum,
the oranges went bad,
and we had to burn the charts in order to stay warm.
Shackleton keeps murmuring about a thaw as the crew (half of them mad with drink, the other half drunk with power) murmur devotions to the Great Albatross.

Then on the fifth day...a ship!
Golden sails and smiles:
"Mumalankhula chingelesi?"
"Sindimalankhula chinyanja."

They took us without further comment.
Our lips were bound and our credit employed.

Five more days at sea and then an overland journey:
fleeting industry spied out of the weathered seem of a patchwork hood
Coke signs done up in the native tongue
border crossings in the middle of the night
smoke filled laughter
Monkey Bay
Funji Palameno's Roadside Attraction: Featuring Marmalade & Mischief

The brave one's escaped by way of a coward's death while the remainder...

(redacted text)

...and that's how I ended up here, updating the status pages of the awkward and inept on social networking sites for a nominal fee.

They've been properly compensated for the fire damage, the reconstruction goes forward and the prosthetics are on order.

Best to head north before things go south again.

So You Say You Wanna...What?

2008-10-01T18:41:00.003-04:00

WAKE UP!

THERE'S BEEN A SLAUGHTER HERE!

"There comes a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can’t take part, you can’t even passively take part; and you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon all the apparatus, and you’ve got to make it stop, And you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, the people who own it, that unless ______ the machine will be prevented from working at all."
- Mario Savio (1964)

Tsumaranai Mono

2008-09-22T21:47:00.000-04:00

a bottle of bourbon on Orchard street
to take the ache of awake away

your totems of my faith
mason jars of lamplight and Sunday gloom
all fingers and tongue
play to quick with the arteries

the flack catchers
the hip cackle of their diminishing cackle
"Its only stalking if you're there when they wake up."

disambiguation of a dollar-y demise
and the imperialism of a moppet's creation
the burden of heritage:
corrupt earth and weak crops

the flack catchers
ooh-ah-oh!
"He can't see the forest for his trees."

your resurrection from the satanic life of Adam
a stigma unto the selfless life

I Can Smell It!: The Wild Koba Takes the Parkside Lounge (A Review)

2008-08-22T17:27:00.005-04:00

The murky distant flashes were retreating across the river.
It was ten minutes until eight.
I was twenty minutes late.
The promise of eight distinct transgender acts and the kind words of a well worn bustier nearly undid my preternatural commitment to commitments.
Taking little notice of the billowing multi-colored cursive set in chalk on a sandwich board marquee we made for the back room and all the obfuscation to come.
We found the WK hunched over his Kurzweil, grunting pleasantries and cursing some unseen foe.
We let him be.

"Can I have five dollars?"
I set about collecting the take with yeomen like zeal.
The Captain...he was to be the muscle.
"Why should I give you five dollars?"
"Its for the band."
"For him?" pointing at the thing, now all perspiration and jangled nerves.
"Hey, you're not on the list, so you've gotta pay."
"There's a list!?" said with bemused shock.
"Yes there is," I said, waving the highlighted and crudely laminated abbreviated thing. "I'm not even on the list. So, unless you're a Franciscan monk you need to pony up five bucks. Otherwise Olive Oyl's younger brother over there is gonna bring the pain."
I pointed toward the Captain who was burning the eyes out of pictures of kittens with the cherry of his cigarette.
"Here's six."

My pride:
a successful first pass
recognition of those on the list
-and-
overflowing fistfuls of cash jutting out at every angle

My pride was short lived as I found my way to the stool by the door only to realize that the crowd had doubled in size and I had not been keeping count.
Wild eyed and fearful of the repercussions I set about collecting as much money from as many people as possible (phony charities and the promise of helping sick children providing the necessary altruistic lubricant where necessary).
This was not a job for me.
I was still short approximately...

From the stage: the chimes of Love (a misleading andante)

The show had begun.
No time for the take now.
"Its a free concert from now on man!"
Only a few could hear the announcement as the near capacity room focused all their attention at the dervish and his septet.
(It was only through the grace of incredibly brisk merchandise sales that I was able to float the difference without the man ever catching on...until now.)

"...We are the Wild Koba! I am the Wild Koba!"
The sound builds and the room is cast in a glorious spiral of aural counterpoint and aggression.

First: the material vexes...hints of jazz and mental deficiencies
Then: it withers in bloom...pop sensibility hidden beneath heady chords and percussive flourishes

notes of a specific nature:

sweetgrass: a solitary figure and his eighty-eight keys...the only time it was simply the Wild Koba the man(?) and not Wild Koba the band...and the only song that didn't seem to connect. Whether it was the spacial constraints of the stage or some personal vexation (or both), the WK spent the entire song in muted profile. The lack of interaction between the man and the audience left the song in a bit of nether region...a place of musical ambivalence where no deficiencies are present, but no lasting memory is created.
great gig in the sky: it is believed by some...an ancient tenet understood, but never spoken...that in order to put on a successful stage show one requires the service of a caterwauler. The WK appears to understand this, but in his own special way. Breaking with tradition and gender roles the WK transformed one of the most recognizable vocal tracks in the rock n' roll pantheon. Greg Madama's voice, initially challenged by the always muddy sound of the room, was more then capable of capturing the universal element of the song...and capturing the audience's attention with a heartfelt reading of the sweet adagio comprising the second half of the tune...I would have liked to have been right up in front for this one.

Then the WK says:
"We're now going to serve up that delicious song you just heard with something that's absolutely going to scare the shit out of half of you here, but that's OK. That's what we're all about."

sanity test: not only the best composition (this ain't no song) of the evening, but one of the best new pieces I've heard all year...its like stumbling into a broom closet only to find Frank Zappa, Cecil Taylor and the bedrock of a near defunct funk powerhouse double fisting whiskey and disinfectant sours. This piece is maddening and startling...a lethal, but necessary combination. It comes to a crashing halt and implores: "I hope you're still my friend."
My sources have indicated that buried somewhere in here there is a direct quote from Igor Stravinsky's "The Rite of Spring".
Have a listen...really.
little miss lover: the second cover song of the evening...the second well covered song of the evening. Having slipped off the albatross of personal artistic expression the WK seemed to revel in the Jimi tune and its sweet relief. Combining elements of the original arrangement and adding (purposeful or not) elements of a soul rave up the WK used the number to spotlight and introduce the members of the band. And rather then think of something original we here at the Tears are going to do the same:

Joe Scatassa: glad to know he's got the trombone to fall back on should his electrifying fret work continue to go under appreciated

Robert Johnston: takes to the upright bass with all the aggression that working in a parochial environment celebrating their sesquicentennial anniversary would cause...he especially captured the Captain's attention and appreciation...although he loses points for taping up his fingers and trying to use public displays of blood and puss as an appropriate excuse

Jason Isaac:
Little Girl (in the crowd):Daddy why does that man hit the drums like you hit mommy?
Daddy: Because they don't appreciate all that he has sacrificed for them.
Little Girl: Oh...
Daddy: And that bitch still doesn't know the difference between medium and well done after twenty two years of marriage.
Little Girl: Huh?
Daddy: I swear it was an open fist and it was only that once.

Greg Madama: see "great gig in the sky"

Mark Teofilo: tucked in the corner he made himself known via a sweet tapestry of percussion...his reputation rightfully preceding him..wonder if he knew he had one?

Umesh Goswami: is a dirty filthy slinger of sludge...who knew?

Arija Weddle: looking like she could have been the feature of a Robert Palmer video (in the good way) she classed up the stage with not only her smart choice of wardrobe, but a complimentary voice that was able to handle the odd rhythm and structure of the material

the complete setlist:
Love
Trial Piece
Sweet Peter's Eden
Written Off
Sweetgrass
Great Gig in the Sky
Sanity Test
In From the Cold
Hoarhound
Little Miss Lover

Note: Songs lacking comment are a result of my weak brain and narrow mind. In no way should it suggest lacking on the part of the Wild Koba's specialisms.

And to borrow this quote once again:
"But I think everyone should have a little philosophy, Thomas said. It helps, a little. It helps. It is good. It is about as half as good as music."
- Donald Barthelme said that

"And it was good!"
- I said that

Hurry! Hurry! Scurry!: The Wild Koba Takes the Parkside Lounge

2008-08-14T17:17:00.002-04:00

Herald!
Hark!
-&-
Hear!
Now is the time to quake & fear!

Are you:
naturalized?
certified?
homogenized?
compartmentalized?
rectified?
gentrified?
mortified?
transmogrified?
bathed, shaved and ready to misbehave?

Well then, you're in luck.

Who: The Wild Koba
Who!?: The Wild Koba
What: A world premier of fractured rhythm, shattered tempo and "sheer ass-kickery"
Where: Parkside Lounge
When: Friday (today), 8/15 @ 8PM

Don't know who the Wild Koba is?
No worries.
Neither do we.
No one really does.
He claims to be backed by the full faith and credit of "a" government.
And here at the Tears that is all we need.

Long for hire and short on immunities, the Wild Koba has finally decided to put his money where we believe his mouth to be.
He has gathered a fine collective of musicians, not the least bit concerned with their reputations', to aid in his grand endeavourer of scope and sonic exploration.

Let's meet the players:

Big John Wayne - xylophone
Eric Clapton - ukulele
Wild Man of Borneo - bongos
Incredible Shrinking Man - euphonium
Count Basie Orchestra - triangle
Adolph Hitler - vibes
Lord Snooty and his pals - tap-dancing
-and-
Val Doonican - as himself*

Come behold the human tragedy!
Watch him self-combust on stage!
Recoil in horror at the prideful shame!
Shake your ass!
Scratch your head!
And cry yourself to sleep!

Out will come this girl dressed in a scarf and a sneeze.
She's gonna do a little dance that'll make you weak in the knees.
She'll dance just like her back ain't got no bone.
While the band plays a tune they call the...?**

Suggestions for a safe and good time:

his eyes, menace in their slant, should be avoided at all costs
a poncho
the Eucharist

Limited edition t-shirts meant to commemorate this event have been commissioned and will be available for purchase.
Supplies are limited.
None of the proceeds will be going to charity.

And remember: One man's profanity is another man's charm.

*The Intro & the Outro - The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band
** bastardization of Sharon - David Bromberg

On Third, Off Second (A True Story)

2008-08-11T17:34:00.002-04:00

"Sir?"
An elderly woman.
"Sir!?"
Her words, weighted with the afternoon's middling heat, collide with one other forming an unintelligable amalgam of measured syllables.
"Can you get me a cab on Second Ave."
"Absolutely," I say full of civic pride.
"And would you carry my bag?"
"Sure."
"I'm handicapped."
"Don't you worry. I'll take care of it."

Her bag:
black
plastic
garbage
>20lbs
rumpled clothing
open purse
loose cigarettes
weathered banana

Am I aiding an escaped incontinent?
"Now give me your arm to hold," she instructs, "I'm handicapped."
"Right," I say extending my arm.
Clamping down on my forearm she leaves doubt as to whether she will return it in the same condition she found it.
"I was taking a shower at Mary's," she says taking her first step.
Two feet to the right one foot forward.
"Everyone needs a place to shower," I respond.

Her right arm:
lunging at wrought iron gates
seeking guidance to keep her vertical
swinging caterwaul of rusting protest
red nail polish set against rust flecked bars

I wearily eye the street corner and our languorous pace.
"Cocksucker with a beard."
"What's that!?"
"Cocksucker with a..."
I have a beard.
Did she just call me a cocksucker?
Let me get this straight, I help you out and you curse at me!?
I begin to think of the banana...the thrusting and plunging I could do with it...her wrenching carcass and the...
"Cocksucker with a gray beard."
Oh, you're talking about someone else.
No need to prepare my 'I was only trying to scare her' speech for the cops.
"Well we've all got our specialties," I propose.
"I took a shower at Mary's"
"Who doesn't love a shower."

The corner:
a distant oasis
lamppost cloaked in fliers
teetering souring summer effluence
no household garbage
no business garbage
$100 fine

"I got a hair cut and coloring."
"Right"
"He didn't like it."
"It looks very nice."
"He left me."
I offer no response.
"Fuckin' bastard with the gray beard."
I nod, beginning to drag her a bit as her legs buckle and protest.
"He's wearing an orange shirt," she continues, not letting the torpidity of her gait derail her mental cadence.
"I want to go to Grand Central Terminal."
"No problem."
"I want to go home to Connecticut."
"Its very nice there."
"I have a handicap."
"That's O.K. We're all a little handicapped."
"An infection," she says stressing the second syllable, pointing at her right leg.
"I came to get my hair cut and dyed today."
"And it looks great."
"Cocksucker..."

Second Avenue:
a finishing line
a starting point
sprawling crawl
yellow polka dots,
bearing extinguished torches

"You just lean here on this lamppost and I'll see about a cab."
I push her forward.
Her dead weight does the rest
She swings from the lamppost like a disjointed Gene Kelley.
"There aren't many places to take a shower in New York City."
"Well there are the baths," I offer, eyeing the heavy creeping volume on the avenue.
"sputtering muddle...Mary's."

Mary:
the sweetness
the sweetness that is offered before,
and taken advantage of in the gloaming
her chamber of dual action irrigation
hot
cold
handicap accessible

"Yes yes, Mary."
I turn my back to her.
"I need a car cab," from behind, "Not a station wagon cab."
"Of course."
"A car cab because I have a handicap."
Three "non-car" cabs pass and she reminds me each time of her need.
"I have an infection."

I ponder leaving her:
her grip is firm
the lamppost holds true
there is enough in the overflowing garbage to last her through night fall
i've done my part
more then my part
its time for someone else to pick up the slack
but what of my karma?
if karma is a wheel, uneven and fractured, then surely my time will come
my skull taken to by an overhead object?
best to stay
best to finish the job

I hoist an accusatory finger at the cabbie making for the parked conveyance at the corner .
"Are you on duty!?" I query, wild eyed and thrusting.
"Come, come," he says gesturing with his coffee cup hand as if offering up the pleasure of his concubines.
"O.K. honey bunch, we've got a cab!" I say grabbing her bag.
"Here's my arm. Let's go!"
"Is it a car cab?"
"Yes, its a car cab."
"I have an infection," she says.
She turns her back to the open door.
I toss her bag onto the seat behind her.
"I have an infection in my leg," she says rubbing her right leg.
"Yes yes, infection. Very bad."
I speak in a sparing staccato
"I rubbed Johnson & Johnson on it."
"Right."
Who is this Johnson & Johnson she speaks of?
"I took a shower at Mary's."

Enough with this Mary!
Where is Mary!?
Why isn't Mary here!?
Are you Mary!?
Is Mary a code word that your aide would understand!?
Did you see her in your grilled cheese!?
What is it you want from me!?

"Well you take care now," I say.
"She go alone?" the cabbie asks.
"Yes sir."
"Where to?"
"Grand Central..."
"Woops..."
I look back.
I look back and down.
She is hanging precariously from the edge of the bench seat.
She continues her slow slide to the curb.
She looks up at me.
A helpless opaque stare.
I sigh and move in.
Her loose flesh pulls as I link my arms behind her back and under her arms.
Within inches I finally take in the booze that clings to her lips, taking shelter in her swollen eliding tongue.
Hoist.
Grunt.
Hoist.
Her dead weight begrudgingly complies.
One last thrust.
Airborne for the briefest of moments she lands with a whimper and nestles, cooing subtly, next to her sack of valuables.
"Can I have a doll..." she says as I close the door on her.
"Is she OK?" asks the cabbie.
"Yes" I say to the cabbie.
"She's just got an infection"

Truck Side Fortune Cookie (Or Advice For The Everyday)

2008-07-29T08:44:00.002-04:00

CAUTION: WATCH FOR OVERHEAD OBJECTS

Down In The Concrete Swamp

2008-07-17T08:11:00.001-04:00

lookin' to keep your cool and quench your thirst?

Shorty Long says: "Today we ain't playing nuthin' but funk, if you don't feel funky, take a drink of this."

nine out of ten witch doctors agree

Ingredients include:
big bbq gorilla ribs
a dish of cow fingers that have been skin-ified
rich ripe orangutan lips
smothered hippopotamus knee caps
one box of dingle berries
sixteen furburgers
one ton of uterus
forty-five cervix
seven fallopian tubes
a dozen of ovaries
one pound of herpes
sixteen cases of AIDS

All that damn stuff is just fine.
Henry drinks it all the time.
That's why Henry is dyin'.
Because of that funky Alligator Wine!!!:

Screamin Jay Hawkins - Berlin, Halloween 1994

Itinerary

2008-07-07T21:08:00.009-04:00

Tel Aviv
Hey!
Madrid
Not sure if you left yet,
Berlin
but have a great trip.
Papeete
Think of me just once,
Burkina Faso
and I promise to do the same.

Poseidonis
And when you get back...

A favorite from: Sonic Youth - Battery Park (7/4)

(C)dkobayashi wildkoba.com

Shaman (Red)
-or-
Exorcising the Demon
-or-
Kim Gordon is an Ikette
-or quite simply-
Rock 'n Roll

Taken Away From Last Night

2008-06-26T08:07:00.000-04:00

Car trunk trumps head...every time.

7 Words(Phrases) They Shouldn't Say on Television

2008-06-23T20:35:00.000-04:00

Misremembered
Infotainment
Real Feel
Transman
God Bless America
Yum-O!
Cunt

"Those are the ones that'll infect your soul, curve your spine, and keep the country from winning the war." -George Carlin

The Fall

2008-06-12T01:14:00.000-04:00

the skyline's hazy yawn
murky opaque flashes
goldenrod
electric
the fugal horn
your solitary scent
you vex
all sass and sanctimony
then vindicate
slapping my knee in the throws of misguided glee
auroral saturation
alizarin landscapes
the anachronisms of a child's imagination
their cartel of discriminations
i've gotten into a lot of bad habits with some good people

"I have known fear and the terrors of solitude. I have known those fair-weather friends we call tranquilizers and drugs. I have known the prison of depression and the confinement of hospital. But one day, I was able to come through all of that, dazzled yet sober." Yves Saint Laurent - upon his retirement in 2002

I'll drink to that!

Step 9 (Or: Night Calls From Phoenix House)

2008-05-28T19:07:00.000-04:00

"I'm sorry I was mad with you...also with mommy too.
But somebody was going to break up the relationship".
male background voice: I seek no quarter from your vexing charms.
"But know that I know it will be alright and that you will be alright."
female background voice: (garbled)...the melanomas of lust!
"I always want to talk to you, but I always get this answering machine with this man's voice on it"
male background voice: Or the melancholy of the folded bloom, puckered and spent.
"Its just that I can get crazy and go crazy sometimes. I care for you very much."
female background voice: Just because she smells like fish it doesn't make her a Pisces.
"Accept my apology..."
male background voice: The price of meat has just gone up and your old lady has just gone down!
"Accept my apology and bye...Happy Memorial Day."

Ring Them Belles You Heathens

2008-05-07T21:52:00.000-04:00

Mouths agape
Monocles undone
Mint juleps set on seer sucker greys
Gaudy blooms, overwrought, withered atop cumbersome head dresses

It had happened again.
Within moments, as the softly rolling tear of finality licked the forehead, fleeing her diminishing eye, the echoing ramshackle of outrage came around the clubhouse turn.
(Be warned the magniloquence begins now)
AND DOWN THE STRETCH THEY COME!
Its ASPCA followed by HSUS.
HSUS makes a move towards the rail and begins to dig in.
But wait!
Here comes PETA!
Switching hands now with the whip, taking to the beast once more as it lies by the side of the road, tongue unfurled, in the midst of a flies salute.
The swine is in fine form and the issue no longer in doubt.
Won't somebody think of the animals!
Inquiry!!!

PETA made quick work of our old Kentucky home's sunny skied carnage by calling for an end to racetrack betting.
Seems this too shall pass as the fickle nature of the public shifts towards a new cataclysmic dynamic that will shatter our perceptions of right and just and tolerable suffering...so let us leave that bickering to the appropriate parties.
Instead, we are going to play another game.
It comes complete with hubris, wax wings and tapered candle (matches sold separately).
Come along and give it a whirl.
Satisfaction and failure guaranteed.
Your move first.
Six.
Let's see.
One...two...three...four...five...Great, my turn!

PETA = People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals
Easy enough and quite catchy.
They've got nearly two million members worldwide and a website with cute animals that sucks you in to the plight of animals who "suffer the most intensely for the longest periods of time: on factory farms, in laboratories, in the clothing trade, and in the entertainment industry."*
Sounds like they do quite a bit.
"We also work on a variety of other issues, including the cruel killing of beavers, birds and other 'pests,' and the abuse of backyard dogs."*
Good for you...wait a minute.
What's this about "the cruel killing of beavers"?
Non cruel methods are acceptable?
What exactly would those be?
Swinging them by their tail at the trunk of a birch tree instead of an oak?
Let's let that one slide.
Maybe it was just sloppy copy editing on their part.
Take a look at some of their key victories:
2008: CDW Ends Ad Campaign Featuring Chimpanzees^
2007: AC Reynolds High School Revises 'Kiss a Pig' Contest^
2006: Caribbean Nation Switches to Kindest Known Method for Euthanizing Unwanted Animals^
2005: Minnesota Cat Torturer Barred for Life From Owning Animals^
Wait, "(k)indest method for euthanizing"?
Hey, they're trying and that means something when faced with such a Sisyphean task.
Afterall, PETA takes an uncompromising stand on animal rights.
"PETA has always been known for uncompromising views on animal rights, and now you have the opportunity to find out more."**
So if you're a feral cat, caged bird, chained dog, declawed cat, zoo-ed animal, 'outdoor' cat, a pit bull even considering reproducing, a predator reintroducing itself, an Eagleton-ed dog or a fish that has been caught and released then PETA is the place for you.
That's right, if you're cute PETA's got your back.
Got a claw where a tail should be or an extra nose opposed to two eyes then your plum out of luck.
Yes, yes, we love all animals and care for each equally, but come on we all know that puppies sell and isn't this what its all about, the big pitch.
Oh look at the one with the kitty.
Fetch me my check book!
Just need to verify one more thing.
"How much of my money will go directly toward helping animals, as opposed to going towards administrative and other non program costs?"
"PETA is a leader among nonprofits with regard to efficient use of funds. PETA undergoes an independent financial audit each year. In fiscal year 2006, more than 82 percent of our funding went directly to programs to help animals. PETA's fundraising costs are far below the 'maximum acceptable' for the Better Business Bureau."#
That's 82 cents out of every dollar going towards the puppies.
That's 82 dollars out of a hundred towards discovering why the caged bird sings.
That's 820 dollars out of one thousand going towards helping the ephalumps break free of the tyrannical shackles of Barnum & Bailey's dungeon of barbarises.
Or is it?
There's a sucker born every minute, isn't there P.T.
PETA, like all good charities, is incorporated as a non-profit corporation and organized so as to fall within the scope of Internal Revenue code section 501(c)3^^.
As such they are required to file Form 990 (Return of Organization Exempt From Income Tax).
Here's a copy now.***
For the tax year beginning on 8/1/05 and ending on 7/31/06 PETA received direct and indirect public support in the amount of $29,668,567.
So based on the 82% funding model (82% of all donations going towards animal related programs) that leaves (with double checking the abacus)$5,340,342 for various administrative costs.
Certainly that is to be expected.
A large organization such as PETA with a global base requires quite a bit to make certain things swing true.
That's why they have:
$27,583 going towards pension plan contributions
$93,053 going towards accounting fees
$100,470 going towards the compensation of officers, directors, etc.
$147,261 towards equipment rental and maintenance
$527,795 going towards supplies
$626,199 going towards telephone
$980,430 going towards travel
$1,097,571 going towards media & press support
$1,297,468 going towards printing and publications
$1,828,545 going towards legal fees
$3,751,849 going towards postage and shipping
$5,578,438 going down the drain...err, rather that's going towards consultants
$5,751,806 going towards other salaries and wages
&
$5,329,955 going towards other specific line item expenses (grants, payroll taxes, depreciation, general operating expenses, etc.) for a total of: $27,138,423.
You give nearly $30 million and they'll spend more then $27 million of it without once mentioning the word animal, care, puppy, kitten, ephalump, panda, etc.
That leaves 8.52%, not 82%.
If PETA is a "leader among nonprofits with regard to efficient use" then giving ain't what it used to be...or ever was.
How can they even claim to...what's that?
"Your public support of horse racing - and specifically betting on Eight Belles - makes you culpable in her destruction."%
On the contrary Miss Newkirk, your payment of state taxes while a sheriff's deputy in the great state of Maryland helped foster horse racing and its facilities, including Pimlico, which hosts the second jewel of the triple crown.
"The purpose of this audit was to assess the propriety of the licensees’ expenditures funded by the State of Maryland and to determine the licensees’ compliance with applicable State laws, rules, and regulations."##
This makes you culpable in the destruction of Eight Belles as well.
Quit putting lipstick on your specious pig!

Somethin tells me
Its all happening at the zoo.

The monkeys stand for honesty,
Giraffes are insincere,
And the elephants are kindly but
Theyre dumb.
Orangutans are skeptical
Of changes in their cages,
And the zookeeper is very fond of rum.

Zebras are reactionaries,
Antelopes are missionaries,
Pigeons plot in secrecy,
And hamsters turn on frequently.
What a gas! you gotta come and see
At the zoo!

* http://www.peta.org/about/index.asp
^ Taken from http://www.peta.org/about/victories.asp - more victories are available for review. However, PETA singles out the ones listed above, so we here at the Tears figured we would do the same.
** http://www.peta.org/campaigns/ar-uncomprimisingstands.asp
^^ 26 USCA 501(c)3
*** http://www.guidestar.org/
# http://www.peta.org/jnew/faq.asp
% Excerpt from letter sent by Ingrid E. Newkirk (cofounder and president of PETA) to Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton
## Maryland Thoroughbred and Harness Race Tracks Audit Report p.5, Feb. 2006

Taken Away From Last Night

2008-05-05T17:32:00.000-04:00

If you poke it, it will poke you back.

10% of My Beard, 20% of My Money & All of My Dignity

2008-04-21T23:57:00.000-04:00

Panic is the greatest of all passions.
Where's Victor?
The neon graveyard.
One man gathers what another man spills.
Excuse me?
Would you like a card sir?
Let's see...showing thirteen...
Just because I don't advertise don't mean I ain't in business.
Dealer with an exposed eight...subtract the...from the...
Of what use is the future?
Leaving...which means...
For whom?
But not if...and only if...
For anyone?
HIT ME!!
Twenty-three, bust.
I'll fix you.
One man gathers what another man spills.
Excuse me?
Would you like a drink sir?
Which one of these has the most booze?
They are perceiving the perceptions.
Your bet sir?
Cinched at the waist.
Stick.
Bow legged by the stain of predatory sentiment.
Twenty to your nineteen.
One man gathers what another man spills.
Excuse me?
Coke?...Chronic?...Ya-Ya?...Gin & heroin?
Bent over backwards in their hurricane breeze.
Changing two hundred!
I'd love five minutes alone with her tambourine hand.
Insurance?
Clever rouse madame.
Blackjack!
One man gathers what another man spills.
Excuse me?
Put it on the room.
It looks like Mexico from underneath.
She was dark, so the rum must have been.
Double down!
Here's the tails honey, come back for the heads.
Nineteen to your eighteen.
One man gathers what another man spills.
Excuse me?

Dryin' Out In The Desert

2008-04-08T01:09:00.000-04:00

Taking the cure.
In the meantime:
Emmylou doing Gram Parsons

Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics

2008-04-04T20:43:00.000-04:00

Its Autism Awareness Month!
Yea!!!
What's that?
Oh, its not a celebration.
Oh, its a serious thing you say.
All over the news you say?
Well how bad is it?
An epidemic!?
"Although autism will be diagnosed in more than 25,000 U.S. children this year, more than new pediatric cases of AIDS, diabetes and cancer combined, scientists and doctors still know very little about the neurological disorder."
25,000 sure sounds like a lot.
Well, what's the prevalence?
"CDC’s Autism and Developmental Disabilities Monitoring Network released data in 2007 that found about 1 in 150 8-year-old children in multiple areas of the United States had an ASD."
1 in 150, that sounds terrible.
That's 0.67% with rounding.
Its an epidemic!
Its an epidemic?
"autism epidemic" + Google = 61,900 hits (this does not take into account the Boolean variations and proximity searching)
Certainly people think its an epidemic...and some don't.
Maybe they made a mistake.
Let's take a look at the raw data.
"Six ADDM sites evaluated the prevalence of ASDs for children who were eight years old in 2000 (born in 1992). An additional eight sites determined ASD prevalence for children who were eight in 2002 (born in 1994)."
Births in 1992: 4,065,000*
Births in 1994: 3,953,000 *
So that's 1 over 150 equals x over 4,065,000...150x equals 4,065,000...divide both sides by 150 and you get x equals 27,100 (and 26,353 respectively for the 1994 data).
And that comes out to be 0.67%.
Hmm...
I know let's take a look at the word epidemic.

epidemic - of a disease: Prevalent among a people or a community at a special time, and produced by some special causes not generally present in the affected locality**

Let's simplify things and agree that the word "prevalent" in the above definition means widespread or commonly occurring. (Spare me another round with magnifying glass and ensuing dizziness hunched over the microscopic text of the OED.)
Can less then one percent ever really be presented as "widespread or commonly occurring"?
How about an alternative definition?
"4. a rapid spread or increase in the occurrence of something: an epidemic of riots"^
Now we're getting somewhere.
Alright.
So in 2000 they diagnosed 27,100 eight year olds and in 2002 26,353.
Come the end of this calendar year it is expected that the rate of diagnosis will exceed 25,000 thus illustrating a sharp increase in the rate of...
Wait a tick.
2000: 27,100
2002: 26,353
2008 25,000+
Epidemic?
Lifetime struggle...absolutely.
A harsh reality facing many families...certainly.
An epidemic...nope.
Hyperbole and the misappropriation of words by the info-tain-ists...now that's an epidemic.

*Statistical Abstract of the United States: 2007 (27th ed.) - p.63 (table 76)
**The Compact Oxofrd English Dictionary (2d ed.) - p.524
^Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)

An Inside Thing (Drips & Drabs)

2008-04-03T20:38:00.000-04:00

it was when The Heavy faltered...
it was as I navigated the soundproofing, swinging and contorting, mindful of the cactus on the sill...
it was when the plastic wear could not live up to its promises...
it was listening to the twenty-nine dimensions of personality...
it was the sputtering muttering curses...
it was when three men took to a single bathroom with six mugs and thirteen paranoid desires...
it was George Crumb on overhead speakers at one thirty a.m....
it was the ongoing quest for The Women...
it was when serious accomplishment took shelter in the bosom of red faced shame...
it was as the confounding pieces melded into the epic whole...
that I was proud to be a part of this number!

*revelatory explanations will be furnished at the appropriate time in the appropriate place to all the inappropriate people...that means you...and you...and especially YOU!

Paranoia Strikes Deep

2008-03-20T20:34:00.000-04:00

i suspect i have little to report from my fact finding mission colon i suspect the region period i suspect the kudzu that litters the cracks of my mind period i suspect your eyes and your lips separately comma but not in concert period i suspect you are right from your side and i from mine period i suspect it is not the putting together comma but the taking apart period i suspect my brother is stealing the cotton off the end of q-tips period i suspect he is building a grand tampon to soak up the human effluence dot dot dot the bloody vaginal mucus of the world period i suspect they will demand some sort of royalty if he is successful period i suspect they will even if he fails period i suspect i have made the worst investment of my life period i suspect i will never be prouder period i suspect those who cobble period i suspect the makeup caked tumors period i suspect promotion period i suspect karens boyfriend john period i suspect your defiance period i suspect your baseless achievements period i suspect 3,992 won't be enough period i suspect that one looks jewish period i suspect that ones a coon period i suspect someone let all this riff raff into the room period i suspect theres one smoking a joint period i suspect that ones got spots period i suspect if they had their way they would have all of them shot period i suspect this is not what they had in mind period i suspect period

Eunice Waymon Goddam!

2008-02-21T13:53:00.000-05:00

Eunice Waymon would have been 75 today!
Eunice Waymon?
Who?
Nina Simone would have been 75 today.
Dr. Nina Simone.
The High Priestess of Soul
The Queen of African Rooted Classical Music
Nina Simone, who combined "Bachian counterpoint, the improvisational approach of jazz and the modulations of the blues"
Here she is doing "Four Women" and much much more (My name is PEACHES!!!)

Part 1: Harlem Music Festival - a.k.a. The Black Woodstock - Central Park, 1969 (What a lineup!)
Pts. 2, 3, 4 & 5 of Ms. Simone's performance

And covers of "Just Like a Woman" and an appropriately gospel flecked "I Shall Be Released"

A Quick One

2008-02-16T23:53:00.000-05:00

They say your drummer he's crazy as a loon
Last night they found him baying at the moon
-A Song For All Seasons
Jefferson Airplane

As man battled machine outside of fallen industry; latches and handles failing him; and the Germans got one more over on a Jew; the sweet seeping heat of Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings; all hyperkinetics and spunk; in a wine dark theater; delivered the goods and then spanked them till tears.

a sonic exorcism of unrequitted love
of over bearing love
of sweet tender mercy love
of walkaway love
of black and blue love

"But I think everyone should have a little philosophy, Thomas said. It helps, a little. It helps. It is good. It is about as half as good as music."
- The Dead Father
Donald Barthelme

BEEFSTEAK!!!!

2008-02-07T21:46:00.000-05:00

A gluttonous and ravenous throng assembled along the red carpet.
Some paused to take their pictures with the ceramic cow; the patron saint of the evening.
Ludicrous limousines and various coaches dropped off swaggering cock sure pan-generational turks ready to get their meat on.
I was one them.
$177 fee, $30 of which went to a worthy children's charity, for an all out evening of bacchanalian imbibing and over indulgence.
Here's your paper hat.
Here's your cloth apron.
Here's your beer mug.
You'll be seated at Table 1.
"BEEFSTEAK!!!! TABLE 1!!!!"
At the table:
Hats are donned
Aprons are tied
Mugs are filled...
Mugs are refilled...
Mugs are refilled...
Mugs are refilled...
For approximately an hour with no stop and no quarter.
A heated clamor envelopes the room, but as of yet the only yelling:
"BEEFSTEAK!!!!! TABLE 1!!!!!!"
The restaurant when viewed from the balcony reminds me of a riverboat swaying with the individual altered equilibriums of an eager crowd enticed by the search for their limits of things accomplished by misguided conscience.
Mugs are refilled.
Off in the distance a muted jazz quartet accepts its fate and plows through the din with a nod and knowing wink that their time will come.
A hunk of New York State sharp cheddar is placed on the table with a rather large knife.
(Make note of the knife, as it is the first and last utensil employed and seen. Sharp rebukes and taunting greeted anyone making such a faux pas as to request them.)
Mugs are refilled.
A small basket of bread comes.
We take in the unseasonable night air.
Toasts are made and recognition given to those at our table and to the chef by the entire restaurant.
Celery, carrots and radishes arrive.
To my left; she draws breasts on her apron making careful note of the aureole.
Mugs are refilled.
The men's room is crowded and the long lines entice with the promise of urine slick floors and an uneven gait.
I take to my apron :
Mugs are refilled.
The fumes from the marker mix with the Brooklyn Brewery's Pre-Prohibition Lager.
Queasiness.
"BEEFSTEAK!!!! TABLE 1!!!!"
Two bowls of crab meat slathered in Russian dressing are brought.
Mugs are refilled.
"God Bless America" is taken up by the crowd and acts to sour my mood.
Oxymoronic shrimp arrive in overflowing fashion as bowls of cocktail sauce cascade down upon them.
It begins to get a little messy.
Words begin to slur as hands reach for anything made of cloth to set them free of the delicious afterward.
A group takes to the microphone and leads the quartet through an ear wrenching caterwaul of "On A Mardi Gras Day".
We take in the night air once more.
Mugs are refilled.
Slyders are waiting.
A pickle and a piece of toast are all that is needed.
Mugs are refilled.
Bouts of clapping echo around the room.
Its purpose, unknown.
Squinting and panting I am filled with the anticipation of more to come.
"BEEFSTEAK!!!! TABLE 1!!!!"
Grilled lamb chops that do not disappoint harkens the arrival of the entree and the serious business at hand.
Leering becomes the international sign for more as the taut girls in their cowboy hats and flirtatious eyes work their pitchers though the small spaces, hinting at cruel seduction as they graze the arm and tighten the fist.
Mugs are refilled.
"What the hell is that?"
"Lamb kidney wrapped in bacon."
The muskiness and ultimate unpleasantness of the meat nearly does me in on my second tasting.
The bacon is unable to mask the insidious odor that clings to the meat like a baby's hand to that of their mother's bosom.
Mugs are refilled.
I fight the good fight and keep it all down.
"Bring on the meat!!!"
"BEEFSTEAK!!!! TABLE 1!!!!"
Yes, bring on the meat.
The meat slathered in butter and blood gravy.
The meat that has caused me to keep my senses (at least when it came to the food) and not over consume too soon.
The meat that utterly disappointed and can be classified as one of the worst cooking/seasoning/selection of cuts I have been a part of.
The meat that was raw at one point and overcooked at others.
The meat that had little taste even when doused with gravy and dare I say the homemade catsup made for the evening.
Oh, the lamentation of not having socked away ten more of those slyders hits home with a deafening thud.
Something to keep in mind for next time and those considering it for the first time.
Mugs are refilled.
Breath captured...no time for that.
A bottle of Maker's Mark is placed on the table.
Special glasses complete with faux red wax drippings are given out to my delightful dismay.
Cookies and brownies and ice cream profiteroles.
Sipping the burning concoction...
"Beefsteak!!!! Table 1!!!!"
The table takes up song.:
Mellow Yellow -> Piggies -> The Weight
Mugs are left empty.
Next year...
Even with the disappointments?
Yes, next year.

Three Things I Thought I Saw On The Train

2008-01-29T20:05:00.000-05:00

a cyclopes; asleep; head back; mouth agape; ragged razor sharp teeth; all sneering snarling snoring; quivering tremolo; loose shingles on a battered roof
a vietnamese soldier interrogating a lotus blossom and her obvious yet unspecified relationship to me
my death
you

Come Home America

2008-01-17T09:08:00.000-05:00

"It is time for all people of conscience to call upon America to come back home."

"I come to this magnificent house of worship tonight because my conscience leaves me no other choice.
I join with you in this meeting because I am in deepest agreement with the aims and work of the organization which has brought us together: Clergy and Laymen Concerned about ______.
The recent statement of your executive committee are the sentiments of my own heart and I found myself in full accord when I read its opening lines:
'A time comes when silence is betrayal.'
That time has come for us in relation to ______.
The truth of these words is beyond doubt but the mission to which they call us is a most difficult one.
Even when pressed by the demands of inner truth, men do not easily assume the task of opposing their government's policy, especially in time of war.
Nor does the human spirit move without great difficulty against all the apathy of conformist thought within one's own bosom and in the surrounding world.
Moreover when the issues at hand seem as perplexed as they often do in the case of this dreadful conflict we are always on the verge of being mesmerized by uncertainty; but we must move on.
Some of us who have already begun to break the silence of the night have found that the calling to speak is often a vocation of agony, but we must speak.
We must speak with all the humility that is appropriate to our limited vision, but we must speak."

- Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence
Rev. Martin Luther King
4 April 1967
at a meeting of Clergy and Laity Concerned
at Riverside Church in New York City

Gonzo Tourism & Fog Crazed Gulls Pt.V

2008-01-15T20:28:00.000-05:00

We couldn't go out anymore.
The majority of the city had shunned us.
My companion's back had swelled considerably from the previous night's fall.
Then there were the gulls.
The fog had enveloped the city and finally driven them mad.
They flew head long into wood chippers.
They laid down in traffic and sang a warbling tune as they awaited their random rubberized fate.
At about nine thirty they had taken control of the hotel.
"They're just trying to throw us off. We mustn't let them get the best of us. Otherwise all will be lost before we've had a chance to begin," my companion mumbled while rolling over on her side, wincing in pain.
Just how she clung to that balcony that long was only slightly lessened by my curiosity as to how she got up there in the first place.
She takes note of the open night stand...the open bible...my sheepish grin...the two crumpled pages sticking out of me ears.
"You fool!" she screamed.
"What have you done!?
What pages are those!?"
She grabbed the bible and cringed in horror.
"Revelations!
"How could you?
"Now you've done it.
"How are we going to be prepared for the doom that awaits us all on New Year's Eve.
"Things are already falling into place!" she yelled, sweeping her arm towards the window as another gull landed with a thud.
"I've already taken the proper steps," I said wadding the pages up and shoving them in as far as I could to muffle the sounds of screeching and flapping.
"Fuck your vodka and barbiturates!"
"Amida Buddhism.
"All it takes is a single sincere invocation of the Buddha of the western paradise and you are set for the after life."
"I can't put stock in such petty foolish religious utopian ideas.
"Where are my beads and crucifix? There might yet be time for the two of us?"
"I think my ears are burning."
"We will need all the spiritual concentration possible," my companion exclaimed switching on the light.
"Come on, I must take some form of action," she said straining and moaning as she got up. "The time has come and we must prepare. Strip down to your boxers."
"What are we preparing for? And you know quite well I don't wear underwear."
"You must be baptized before the seventh seal is broken. There is no time to run a bath. Quickly, writhe around in the wet spot on the carpet."
I did as she said.
Sanity had long passed from her eyes and any contrary beliefs would be seen as the work of the anti-Christ.
Punishment would no doubt be swift and severe.
Better not take chances.
I had hid the sewing kit fearing she would try to sew her eyes open to stay ever vigilant.
But this was unexpected.
"En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo."
"Can I get up now?"
"Stay still, I must pray for you."
"But this could lead to a yeast infection."
"Creo en Dios, Padre todopoderoso, creador del Cielo y de la Tierra. Creo en Jesucristo su único Hijo, Nuestro Señor,"
"The carpet is dyeing my face blue. What if..."
Her eyes rolled back and she began swaying.
"... que fue concebido por obra y garcia del Espíritu Santo; nació de Santa María Virgen; padeció bajo el poder de Poncio Pilato; fue crucificado, muerto y sepultado..."
I quietly got up, wet down a towel and began scrubbing my half blue face.
"...descendio a los infernos..."
I crept towards the window, "I don't see any gulls, maybe they've gone into that cyclical lull that Hitchcock taught us about."
"...al tercer día resucitó de entre los muertos..."
Her feet had left the floor!
"...subió a los cielos y está a la diestra de Dios Padre; desde allí ha de venir a juzgar a los vivos y a los muertos..."
Blood in all the right places. Could it be...?"
"...Creo en el Espíritu Santo, en la Santa Iglesia Católica, la comumión de los Santos en el perdon de los pecados la resurrección de los muertos y la vida eterna."
"Amen!" I screamed not understanding a word she said.
She began lowering herself to the ground as a bird shattered the window.
I sealed myself in the coat closet and the contents of the mini-bar as gulls poured in through the open space.
I heard my companion make for the door, her footsteps receding in flight.

Epilogue
more could be said...more had been done...but perhaps now is not the time to visit these calamities...one day, perhaps when the sun shines it shine the rest of this can be told...a new year's eve that will live on forever in our minds…the cruel abduction of my companion by barbary pirates…her long days at sea as the concubine of raoul, a cruel captain, but compassionate lover…six months of indentured servitude at a french plantation buried deep within the jungles of siam…my brief fling with fame as the man who could…but "they" found me soon after…punishment…a year a month and a day as an elvis impersonator in nagasaki…and then a tearful reunion on the shores of ipanema while the world came to a glorious end around us…
Or something like that…

Gonzo Tourism & Fog Crazed Gulls Pt. IV

2008-01-09T20:37:00.000-05:00

The fog was thickening.
The gulls frenzied flapping stirred up cyclonic wisps.
The residents laughed it off as more of the same, but if you listened carefully you could hear the fear.
The fog was rolling in from the east.
The fog was coming from Oakland.
The fog does not come from Oakland.
The fog does not cling to wool.
The fog does not smell of faded industry and broken dreams.
The fog does not lift skirts and box ears.
The fog does not take hold of swing sets and kitchenettes.
The fog does not pass fake prescriptions at pharmacies.
The fog does not demand equal pay for equal time.
The fog does not bring on sudden pregnancies of a hysterical nature.
"This is not our fog."
"Where is our fog?"
"Should we ask it for papers?"
"Our fog always carries its papers."

And here we sit, next to this callous woman who swore that Jim would not do that to Mary who had no right to involve him in her lustful tryst.
Then she said: "Oh, I thought this was the red kind. I like the red kind because you can't eat white foods after Labor Day.
"Do you speak English?
"El de color rojo," she says, producing a sullied threadbare tampon and thrusting it at her waiter.
He spits in her hair and mutters something about soiled cloth diapers as he takes the soup back to the kitchen.
"That family is French," my companion says pointing with her soup spoon, oblivious to all else. "I can't understand why people get so offended when they take those naked family portraits."
She tastes her soup and reaches for the salt.
"At least they do things together," she continues.
"What?!"
"The only thing we did as a family was bury someone."
"What is this about taking naked family pictures. Can you do this at Wal-Mart?"
"During one summer we had funerals every single weekend. They soon replaced family dinners. A picnic basket, a couple bottles of wine and Uncle Manuel's foot stone as the table."
"I wonder if they come in wallet size? I'm going to ask him."
"Those hour long games of hide and seek in the mausoleums."
"You Vichy pig!"
"We never did find Jorge though."
"Look a German!"
"Jorge," she says in a far away voice, raising her glass to the heavens.
I rub the last of their rolls under my arms and return to my soup.

Gonzo Tourism & Fog Crazed Gulls Pt III

2008-01-03T01:29:00.000-05:00

The screeching gulls...
The barking seals...
The screaming children.
"Let's go already! I have important business to attend to on the island!" I roar.
"Control yourself!" my companion whispers seriously.
"I'm sorry," she says to the single mother now clutching her supple child in fright, "he just gets very excited at the prospect of visiting the place he escaped from so many years ago."
I lick my lips taking special note of the birth mark on the plump pigtailed child's upper lip.
"Looks like a cherry,"all teeth and avarice.
Shrieking and running, in one fluid motion, she and child offer themselves to the churning confines of the bay and begin doggy paddling towards safety.
If only the seals hadn't gotten to them first.

We board the boat to Alcatraz.
I concentrate with all my might not to let the traitor sea get the worst of me.
"I am very glad that society is finally willing to accept the fact that most male behavior is driven by an insatiable homoerotic urge," my companion shrieks over the roaring engines.
"Quiet, there are families."
"I will not be silenced! For far too long this society has refused to admit how homoerotic thought, albeit manifested from a 'heterosexual' mind, has pervaded Hollywood and our correctional facilities.
A gull circles weakly overhead.
"This defunct prison represents years of freed sexual expression that may have hurt some, but pleased many more. The sexual energy beams forth casting a glowing aura over anyone who comes near. The walls ooze it and the sheets smell of it."
Everyone was staring.
"Do you see how that father and son are standing? The patriarch behind his offspring pointing off into the distance; homoerotic.
The gull cries out a warbled and defeated tune.
"The way that boulder overlays the smaller one; homoerotic. Free your minds and bodies," she beseeches while rising onto a bench, "we must rejoice in our sexual expression and realize that male aggression manifests itself for one reason and one reason only. There is no proper avenue for them to express their true sexual desires..."
The crowd begins to threaten and close in around her.
The gull dives into the wake of the engines, soiled feathers and a small slick of blood.
I slink away as she calls out my name and raises a fist in defiance.

Gonzo Tourism & Fog Crazed Gulls: Pt.II

2007-12-31T20:16:00.000-05:00

I slept deeply and without dream.
"You see, I told you things were falling into place," my companion said nervously fingering her rosary beads as the morning news unfolded.
An unmanned plane had taken off at Two Rocks , flew thirty five miles northeast, and crash landed in an unpopulated area.
"The day of reckoning will soon be upon us," she continued.
"Mmmph," I groaned.
"I couldn't sleep last night. At first I prayed for my soul," stroking the beads still with a vacant stare, "then I decided yours was worth saving as well.
"I also managed to build a manger using the rubber duckies from the bathroom.
"The small one is baby Jesus.
"I'm ready for your return!" she exclaimed as the littlest duck went, "Quack".
"I was up so early," she continued "that I spent the pre-dawn hours plotting and testing my latest theory"
Adjusting herself into a serious position she went on, "Now as you know it is illegal to bring any flora or fauna into my country."
"Why is my bed all wet!?"
"Oh...one of the balloons burst.
"Now, my plan is to smuggle a few seedlings from various Napa vineyards into my country..."
"It hurts when I sit!"
"Did you know the average male anus can hold three and one third slightly inflated balloons...you sleep very soundly."
"You shoved balloons up my ass!?"
"Yes, but it was all in the name of science. The most difficult thing was finding an all night party supply store that sold both balloons and lubricant."
"Science!? Science!? What kind of quasi-scientific reasoning is behind this!?"
"Science? Who said anything about science?"
"You did!"
"Stop trying to twist my words. I am trying to save my country's teetering economy and all you are concerned with is the irreparable damage done to one of your orifices. Show some compassion! I think the pressure may have finally gotten to you.
"Why don't you take a nice hot shower and think about how your sacrifice has benefited an entire race of people," she said as she took to converting the ficus in the corner.
Maybe she was right.
It was a thankless expression of good will that might divine a positive afterlife.
But that still didn't aid the throbbing violation and creeping soreness.

Gonzo Tourism & Fog Crazed Gulls

2007-12-28T20:46:00.000-05:00

Note: In honor (or memoriam) of the six year anniversary of one of our earlier endeavors here at the Tears we bring you an abridged and altered version (a little rouge to color the cheeks and set the contrast to the warts) of some nascent scribblings. It is with shameful pride that we bring you (in multiple parts) "Gonzo Tourism and Fog Crazed Gulls":

Interlude (or Why Bother?)
Written during a bout of delirium on December 27th on the second floor of City Lights Bookstore.

I'm gazing out the window onto the fire escape.
The fire escape that Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Jack Kerouac used to hurl verbal projectiles from at the unsuspecting below.
The fire escape where they lounged bare chested, smoking tea and verbally jousting one another in a heady stream of conscious.
Allen would turn to Jack and ask about his mother on the lesser coast and when he planned on returning to her matriarchal bosom...
Alright, maybe they never discussed those things and maybe they never got together on that fire escape.
But one thing is apparent, their ghosts are everywhere.
The floors creak with now aged Beat wisdom.
The stairs scream and strain for the equality that so many gathered here to discuss.
Most, who have a sense of something, speak in hushed tones for fear of disturbing the mystical harmonics.
But, where is my inspiration?
Surely there is enough in and of this place to help my pen find its place amongst the exuberance and insight. Some synaptic event should transform mere surface scrapping into deep poetic thought.
Nothing.
Nothing more than the vacant words of a hopeless hack sitting in the corner over-looking Jack Kerouac Alley with its flickering street lamp.
There is a couple.
She, on a stool.
He, kneeling beside her.
They are rapt by an unnamed poet that moves She to tears and He to embrace.
Written for one reason and interpreted for one hundred more, it devastates and uplifts.
"Ignore all this shit!
"None of it's any fuckin' good!
"All of them mother fuckers are dead!
"I know what I'm talking about!" screeched the scraggly looking fool, thrusting books off of a table as he headed down the stairs muttering.
But, was he a fool?
He just might be right.
Too many of these poets and authors, geniuses and fools, are long dead or never even existed.
At best, most are names thrown out by eccentric professors bent on the esoteric.
Is it better to have never existed?
An author who doesn't exist is merely one whose work is never read.
And that is what I will be.
Sure the glimmer of hope exists.
But most likely, this grand self-effacing journey will end in disaster.
Maybe it is time to give up or end up like that fellow, cursing those who have had their pages bound, wondering what exactly was wrong with his own.
Were his words really any different?
I fear I might be headed down that road.
"What's all the screaming about?" I ask my flush companion seeking me out frantically.
"It's time to go." she says turning and running back down the stairs.
And then I remember why I write...
Who else would tell this story.

Northern & Alameda: The Scene of the...(cont'd.)

2007-12-24T14:50:00.000-05:00

Word of the day: totaled

Northern & Alameda: The Scene of the...

2007-12-22T02:14:00.000-05:00

As the car spun to the left and both air bags deployed I said aloud to either the angel or demon behind my eyes:
"I've just been in a serious car accident."
Dead pan and in perfect syncopation.
No laugh track followed...no way to record for posterity...no way to prove it was ever said.
Faced with billowing smoke and a sudden and extreme urgency to flee the wreckage I make for the door handle.
Flinging myself to the pavement...coughs and a wheeze.
Mind the shock!
Head...check.
Neck...check.
Legs...working.
Hands...shaking.
"Are you alright?" in disbelief from the passing cars.
"I never touched your sister! You fascist!"
Brain...misfiring.
I tap on his window..."Are you alright?"
No answer.
Holding his head in shame?
Inside my head I scream, "Yo! Mother fucker! Yeah you, the one who just railed into my car at a screaming velocity!"
Heart...pumping.
Knee...gonna be an issue in the morning.
"Do you want us to call the police?" from a passing couple.
"That would certainly be great. I'm just gonna have a little sit down on the sidewalk there."
Palm...bruising and tight.
Hair...singed off on the top of both wrists.
My attorney arrives shortly and begins billing immediately.
Thank god for small miracles that come in big packages.
Fluids streak down the pavement working their way through and around the collective shrapnel.
Chest...begins to ache.
"Its a goddamn shift change." my attorney offered as we waited for the flashing lights.
He handed me a bill for $50.
"New letterhead?"
"We went with serifs this time. Helps guide the eye."
"Very nice."
The horn, my horn, blaring uncontrollable since impact, finally cuts out.
The apologetic insurance lass asks me what the skies are doing.
I tell her the ceiling is unlimited and the moon is waxing with its culmination to come on Sunday.
She asks me my sign.
"One way." I reply.
Here come the flashing lights.
"Can I call you back, the police are here?"
"Yes, but not at this number."
The axle is busted.
The front wheel on the passenger side is involved in a permanent right turn.
"Are you alright?" from the female officer who's protective vest heightens a supple and suggestive form.
"Seem to be, but I think I was struck by a mute."
"What's that?"
"I said, here are my necessary papers."
The hood is biased and folded.
The horn starts up again, adding an intermittent dull pulsing.
Great, I think, my car is Emo.
Passing cars slow and eyes set at the theater of misfortune unfolding before them.
"Tow trucks are on their way" from the officer as she works a fresh piece of gum.
She keeps speaking.
I envy the gum.
"...and a $10 money order for a copy of the accident report."
His wife arrives and parks in a bus stop.
They were made for each other.
"Don't I have a claim for immediate retribution in this situation?" I ask my attorney. "He was clearly in the wrong or at least the vast majority of it."
"Yes, I believe you can claim the woman for fifteen minutes of fun in the bramble. If you are unable to physically perform a surrogate can take your place" he says unzipping his fly and waxing his eyebrows with his saliva.
He hands me a bill for $75.
"What's this item at the bottom?"
The horn gives out once more.
"Amoxicillin. She's gonna need that and I can't lay that burden on her."
A tow truck pulls up.
"Are you alright?"
Surprisingly yes, and yes once more.
He hooks the smoldering wreck.
"Call this number tomorrow and give them this number...and this number...and this number followed by a reverse sequential of this alphanumeric composition which reveals the location of a golden city buried deep within the jungle. Have a good night."
"I will."
But it will pale in comparison to the new morning that may have never been.

Picturebook Storytime: Suicide For X-Mas

2007-12-17T23:34:00.000-05:00

(Note: Links are to images)

Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
and off and off we will fly!
Now dash away!
Dash away!
Dash away all!

But where oh where is Rudolph?
Poor lamentable Rudolph.
Rudolph who is needed on this foggy night.
Rudolph with his nose so bright.
There he is(!), hanging from the rafters his nose aglow in suicidal bliss.
The chandeliers and christmas tree of pills and razor blades cast warm shadows on his dimensionally challenged frame.

Then, out of the murk and mire, before a gathering warmed by the holiday spirits being served in the lobby, as the chilly wind brought some dignity to the streets of DUMBO, an apparition (John Belushi in white face?) an archfiend and their Uncle Screwtape (b.k.a. The Tiger Lillies) took the stage for a little Suicide for Christmas.

"I want to be a legend, so its suicide for me."

A cabaret of the damned unfolded. There were hangings, throats slit, murders on mist filled streets and babies kicked down stairs. The more imaginative the undoing of a song's protagonist the better. A dildo was taken to a piano and a baby doll's head worked the percussion as a svengali's tune warbled from a saw.

Then came the suicide.
First he found the pills.
Then he found the noose.
Then came the second thoughts.
And in the silence, as Adrian H. contemplated, the palpable and dramatic build-up that had consumed the crowd all evening reached a crescendo as I slipped on the mask and:
"DO IT!!!"
Spinning on his battered heels Martyn casts a scowl through the glare of the spotlight and:
"He's gonna fuckin do it!"
And he does!

"Pills" rain down on the drum kit.
Pharmaceutical patter on a bay window in hell.
His motionless body covered in a sheet.
He is left on the stage to perform for the maggots taking root.
Only to be resurrected in time for the encore.

More images can be found here.

A fun little interview:

Revisited: A Brief Conversation

2007-12-13T14:56:00.000-05:00

In honor of the latest Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame inductees and the Captain's renewed rage and froth (and the communique expressing such) we take a walk down memory lane:

It's a grey day and the pine trees are drippin'
In a grey mist and I feel like I'm trippin'
On a grey world my reality's slipping
Lost in a fog on such a grey day

I: Well, you should rant about it on my blog.
Anonymous: What?
I: About the stupidity with the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. You write it and I'll transpose it without any changes.
Anonymous: What good will it do?
I: It gives you the chance to come up with a pseudo-cool pseudo-name.
Anonymous: Anonymous.
I: That's fine. It doesn't matter what...
Anonymous: Space Captain!
I: OK, Space Captain. So do it.
Space Captain: It's still pointless. I didn't care about everyone else bitching about the selection process for the Baseball Hall of Fame (read: but they sure care about who was juicing), so no one is going to care about this. But come on! How can you allow Van Halen (read: Madonna or John Cougar Mellancamp) in, but still exclude Rush. There are numerous bands they influenced (note: Metallica, The Smashing Pumpkins, Iron Maiden, Living Colour, Primus, Dream Theater, etc.) and they have maintained longevity. The whole thing is just a joke and I can't believe...What are you doing? You don't need to tape record this!
I: Fine. I'll just memorize it.
Space Captain: You can try. But you know what I'm saying about Van Halen(read: Madonna or John Cougar Mellancamp).
I: (nodding with approval)
Space Captain: No! That's not gonna work. You're not gonna pull that shrink crap by staying silent in order to draw me out. Then you'll use this all against me for your personal gain.
I: Shrinks don't stay silent. They encourage and ask open ended questions in a passive aggressive tone in order to make you at ease with that which you feel ill at ease with. And I agree with you about Van Halen (read: Madonna or John Cougar Mellancamp). Barring Eddie Van Halen's exceptional proficiency I couldn't care less about them.
Space Captain: That's fine. So the Hall can induct Eddie Van Halen. But does he have to bring along all of his loser friends (read: Esther the phony pony and her red string of spiritual resolve...get your cancer water here! only $90 a case!) (or read: the kid sitting in class behind Bruce Springsteen trying to lift answers from his test).
I: Don't forget family.
Space Captain: I'm still not doing it.
I: OK.

A Captain's selection:

Non Sequitur

2007-12-12T21:24:00.000-05:00

my underpants are slick with urine...urine that branded the concrete moats of the fallow manors in the lording hills...and so...

And for Ike. He may have been a bastard in the worst way in his personal life, but sure glad he was a bastard in the best way on stage:

Where do you get one of those outfits and where do you find a woman to wear(!) it?

Can't Turn You Loose Edition

2007-12-12T00:57:00.000-05:00

Note: This space had been reserved for a very impassioned not-sure-what concerning the proliferation of pedi-cabs in the city (a menace not faced since the coming of the Irish). However, upon learning of a serious oversight, the deluge of those unchecked conveying menaces will be placed on hold so that we may bring you the following:

"Poor Otis dead and gone,
left me here to sing his song.
Pretty little girl with the red dress on,
Poor Otis dead and gone."
Runnin' Blue - (The Soft Parade)
The Doors

Yesterday marked the 40th anniversary of Otis Redding's death. You can read about his death and that of his manager's and four of the six members of the Bar-Kays here.

This will be about the music.

This was supposed to be an anthem for men who didn't get their due propers form their lady friends. Guess that ship has sailed. Its,
"A song that a girl took away from me.
A good friend of mine.
This girl she just took this song, but I'm gonna do it anyway."

"Can you do that one more time?
Do it just one more time.
Do it just one more time!"

Look for a luded up Mama Cass at about 3:20 and then again praying for something with Michelle Phillips at 5:05:

Revisiting A Holiday Tradition: Operation Lucky Bag (a.k.a. Operation What the F*%k)

2007-12-06T00:39:00.000-05:00

Next time you find yourself bopping along to the subterranean rhythms of the subway...
Next time you place your foot on the edge of the platform and crane your neck in hopes of catching the encroaching headlight of a northbound train...
Next time you stop and wonder just what it is you have stepped in...
Next time you wonder if it is ever too early for the wafting aromas of sweat and urine...
Next time you find a misplaced wallet with the intention of returning it to its owner you will be ARRESTED!.
Criminal intentions be damned!
Its time to take it to those smug bastards who think they have it all together...
Those smug bastards who think they have a leg up...
Those smug bastards who get up at the crack of dawn and shuffle to their daily shuttle in order to earn enough to live.
Who do we think we are!?
Well my friends the fix is in and they will remove the cause but not the symptom. (Eh?)
Tis' the season for Operation Lucky Bag.
In an effort to...I'm not sure what...the narcos have been leaving wallets, purses and shopping bags on subway platforms to lure unsuspecting good samaritans into the dark and seedy underbelly of megalopolis crime.
The officers, lying in wait...
I wonder where?...the garbage cans...under the benches...carefully folded behind the displays containing the system maps.
The officers, lying in wait for your moment of munificence...lying in wait as you reach out with an altruistic hand...lying in wait as...
THEY STRIKE!
replete in bunker gear
repelling down slack black ropes hanging from the moldy leaking ceiling
flashing badges
thrusting itchy trigger fingers at your slack jawed visage
all sirens and barking dogs
they perhaps charge you with grand larceny
(haven't figured out how you can use a subjective modifier to describe a crime. I can think of many other things I would consider "grand" before I came to PICKING UP A WALLET LEFT UNATTENDED ON A SUBWAY PLATFORM IN THE MIDDLE OF NEW YORK FUCKIN' CITY DURING THE BUSIEST TIME OF THE YEAR!!!).
But they're just trying to keep us safe from pick pockets and petty criminals by reminding us that the face of the enemy is very often the one staring back at us in the mirror.

Word of the Day:
entrapment: a law-enforcement officer's or government agent's inducement of a person to commit a crime, by means of fraud or undue persuasion, in an attempt to later bring a criminal prosecution against the person. (Black's Law Dictionary 8th Ed.)

Peace on Earth and Good Will Towards Man!...just keep it out of the subways.

- scott joplin, "the entertainer (a rag time two step)" (1902)
most famously applied in "the sting"

- steve miller band, "take the money and run" (fly like an eagle, 1976)
from the much maligned steve miller band - sometimes deservedly so (what's up with abracadabra...terrible) - earlier stuff was far superior, but this one has one of the all time great clap along parts.

- warren zevon, "lawyers guns & money" (excitable boy, 1978)
miss this bastard immensely. david letterman asked warren on his final appearance on the late show (after learning he had mesothelioma) what advice he would give to people facing a looming death. his response: "enjoy every sandwich".

- scotty, "draw your brakes" (the harder they come, 1973)
off of the most excellent soundtrack of the jmmy cliff film. a.k.a "stop that train" and "cool breeze. vanilla ice even covered this one. wonder if its any good.

Rise Up With Fists!

2007-12-04T01:18:00.000-05:00

He sat atop a modest throne.
One of his own making.
There, near the upper right hand corner, you see it, where the jagged edge meets the split pine of the back, a blood stain shaped like Madagascar.
His blood.
His own making.
A crown of frayed guitar strings inlaid with his baby teeth and bejeweled by his most accomplished callouses rests underneath the throne...taking swipes at any exposed ankles it can sink its teeth into.
It yearned for the whole gam, but took what it could get.
It was modest.
He was modest.
And then they came, Zeus to his Cronus, and flayed him with a long sword and short strokes. They claimed his children who had been devoured properly and within the limits of the law.
Even his good credit rating, which the TV had promised would protect him from all those who would set out against him, failed.
Mongers of a most unpleasant sort, they have run afoul of their responsibilities and have begun claiming the innocents...the golden rods...the virulent servants to their impotent master.
And as the battle, entanglements in the ether, commence we are left with the silence and the cold comfort of:
"relax and enjoy the music- there's plenty of it out there."
Relax(!), how can we relax when "there's plenty of it out there"?
Any of us who have truly committed ourselves to the unchecked brier that is music seek guidance.
Even the most well versed, their trodden path setting the scene, seek the signposts (illuminated by tea lights in hurricane lamps) hidden amongst the bramble, its poisonous leaves and tender petiole.
And now we are forced to go it alone with nothing but a wickless candle and oiled matches.
The result is in doubt.
This is a call to arms!
And there is no place for half-hearted romantics here only full blown recalcitrants.
We must set about the canvas with a heavy handed stroke and a palette of haughty disdain, weeping sentiment, grandiose statements and a commitment to a just end
(I just can't do Thursdays or any of the ides).
We are in need of an old fashioned movement-a sonata to a good man-to band us together in the hopes of eliciting change.
A change...if successful will result in no change at all...but a slight refrain to the way things were...the good old days...like the whole New Coke thing.

And the only reason I'm setting this out is cause you may know somebody in a similar situation, or you may be in a similar situation, and if your in a situation like that there's only one thing you can do and that's take up the slack. Place your indulgences aside and set about the sincerest form of flattery, and imitate. You know, if one person, just one person does it they'll think he's really sick and they won't take him seriously. And if two people, two people (I'm looking at you Reaper) do it, in harmony, they may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them seriously. And three people do it, three, can you imagine, three people dedicate their blogging to the Wild Koba, they may think it's an organization. And can you, can you imagine fifty people a day, I said fifty people a day blogging in the name of the Wild Koba. And friends they may think it's a movement. And that's what it is, the Wild Koba's Music Box Anti-Massacre Movement, and all you got to do is sing it the next time it comes around on the guitar...or put aside the abstractions, for better or worse (better for you, worse for me?) and come at you fevered and frequent...getting down with my bad self and the ever evolving soundtrack of my life.*

And remember, the best way to keep clean and stay healthy is to Av(o)idHosting!

One way or another this darkness got to give!
*(With special thanks to Arlo.)

Floating Down Broadway

2007-11-22T15:03:00.000-05:00

Ahhh...Thanksgiving the one day of the year people wear more masks then on Halloween.
Today is a day to reflect on the refracted.
Let's see whats on TV...the parade...or...the 25 worst celebrities to be trapped in an elevator with during a fashion emergency...the parade it is.

The Cherokee National Youth Choir comes to an uneven stop atop a giant cornucopia (sponsored by the Cotton industry) piloted by a Macy's employee whacked on benzedrine and float fumes. The cherubims, clutching cotton on the vine, ring the overflowing bounty as they sing along to Bartok's Piano Concerto No.1 coming from my speakers. The choirmaster signals them with a war cry...they produce tomahawks from unseen places within their billowing robes. A match is struck and within seconds the horn of Amalthea is ablaze. They circle the pyre, whooping and dancing. A few of the larger children, now replete in war paint, break away from the main group and filter into the crowd claiming scalps as they go. They throw it back to Matt who is feasting upon Meredith's hollow skull as Al double fists her withered breasts slathered in hot sauce.

And then comes Santy Klaus...SHOP!!!...marking the beginning of...SHOP!!!...the christmas...SHOP!!! SPEND MORE THAN YOU HAVE!!!...christmas season...so how about some good cheer from your friends here at the Tears:

School Daze

2007-11-20T00:41:00.000-05:00

"Billy would you like to lead us in the daily affirmation?"
"Any time now, a worldquake and a series of prophesied catastrophes will shockingly awaken the entire global population to a horrible, God-sent unparalleled nightmare.
"Shortly after this event, two more disasters in the form of two large meteorites will follow, causing more destruction than many hydrogen bombs. One will smash into the ocean, destroying a third of it, including the life therein. It will actually turn the water to blood and, of course, destroy all life and every ship within its realm. The second meteorite will barrel into and flatten a great part of an entire continent, polluting a third of the rivers and fountains, making them poisonous. Many men will die of these waters. Following this, an estimated two billion people, one-third of the earth's population, will be killed by fire, smoke, and lava-like brimstone."*
In unison: "Amen!"
"Thank you Billy. You can get off of Charley's knees now.
"Now, who can tell me the form of government we have in this country?
"Yes, new boy who gets beaten nightly by his parents for their failures."
"Mediocracy?"
"That's correct. Does anyone know what the ancients used to call this?
"How about, swarthy boy with blood under his fingernails and dirt behind his ears."
"Democracy?"
"I can't really understand you with that accent, but I am going to assume you got it correct, move on, and peer suspiciously at you out of the corner of my eye.
"Now who can tell me what the three necessary elements of any successful relationship are?
"Anyone...?
"Yes, you. The one who seeks shelter in his mother's bosom and keeps hidden from his father's midnight advances.
"Hmm? Yes, you can use the bathroom.
"How about you Betty-Sue?
"Yes you Betty-Sue, with your tight pig tails, far away eyes and come hither body."
"Acid, alcohol and sugar?"
"That's correct. Very good Betty-Sue. I'd like to see you in the coat closet during recess.
"Billy, our pre-recess invocation please."
"Prepare your heart for sorrows. The people of the world need to immediately prepare their minds, their spirits, their hearts, and their souls for these catastrophes, which will surely come to pass within this very generation."*
In unison: "Amen!"
"Stop your crying Betty-Sue.
"I slipped up and it spit up. It takes a real man to admit something like that.
"You've just completed the first step in a series of five steps which are necessary to receive salvation. Your second step is to deny yourself and take up the cross daily for the purpose of mortifying yourself, that is, for putting to death your own will, your soulful self, and the world within all of its lusts.*
"I said stop crying.
"Look at the time, recess is almost over and I haven't had a thing to eat...leave your lunch box and go clean yourself off."

*Excerpts from: (first name: rhymes with pony; last name: the place in Texas we should always remember) Christian Ministries World Newsletter Vol.06200

Another Face In The Crowd

2007-11-12T20:47:00.000-05:00

saw the face of a veteran lying on its back in the middle of the street. its crown started two thirds of the way down sixth avenue between 47th & 48th and its chin made its point halfway between 48th and 49th. it was smoking one of those orange steam vents out of the corner of its mouth-you know the one's that look like graduated cylinders. it blew gentle wisps of whimsy into the maddening current of unrest. the traffic lights, its cycled eyes, acted out its flashing joy cautioned by pain. the multi-colored sweat of traffic rolled down its face. the yellow beads threatened the return of fever as the past shrieked from their seizing brakes. scars, filled with the gravel and ruin of others, puckered and oozed as They rang the click and clack of high heeled oblivion in its belfry. the sun peeked in the east, throwing the day's first shadow, and it was gone. just another face in the crowd.

For The Captain

2007-11-06T08:13:00.000-05:00

May there always be room for you at the table...

Thank You - Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin

2007-11-05T20:34:00.000-05:00

"Oh, so you're a fellow traveler on the path to enlightenment."
"No, the path of least resistance."

Thank you:

to friends and family who celebrated alongside (when not step for step a mere couple paces behind) and provided the necessary mental and physical crutch
to Lou Reed for making the scene
to those that secured Ike Eisenhower's portrait to the wall of the National Art Club (making it capable of withstanding my absent minded brute force)
for the hugs from the pretty girl whose name is...?
to Phil Lesh for the wonderful if not perfectly executed All Hallows Eve themed performance
to the more then a dozen life sized Grateful Dead bears gyrating amidst a throng of costumed freaks
to the generous wine which lifted loose the latches that hold true the world
to my absent lover
to the Decembrists for cancelling
to David Bromberg for being available in a pinch and reminding the member of the audience shouting out requests: "You may know what you want to hear, but you don't know shit about putting a set list together."
to the girl who sings Summertime to the Mission Impossible theme song
for helping to fill in the many blanks

"Are you blind!?"
"As a matter of fact I am!"
"I was talking to your dog!"

Celebrating The Day & the Wonder That Is Me (A Video Tribute)

2007-10-31T08:20:00.000-04:00

The day: "And his hair was perfect!!!"

The wonder that is me:

Colors (I Can See the Music!)

2007-10-25T21:17:00.000-04:00

Yellow is the color of my true loves hair
(rich gold)
in the morning when we rise
(white) (rich gold)
in the morning when we rise
(white) (white) (rich gold)
Colours - Donovan

Anger! He smiles towering in shiny metallic purple armor
(rosy colored)(sparkling sapphire)(green)
Queen Jealousy envy waits behind him,
(yellow)(rosy colored)(sparkling sapphire)
her fiery green gown stares at the grassy ground.
(green)(yellow)(yellow)(rosy colored)
Bold as Love - Jimi Hendrix

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's color association chart for major keys:
C=white
D=yellow
E-flat=dark bluish-gray
E=sparkling sapphire
F=green
G=rich gold
A=rosy colored
B=none
Apologies to anyone with musical ability that takes issue with my rudimentary (perhaps misplaced) assignment of chords to the lyrics above. Corrections welcome and encouraged using Korsakov' chromatic legend.

The technical term for this is synesthesia: an involuntary cognitive phenomenon that produces a second sensory experience (typically the association of color with specific letters or numbers taking on personalities).

Seems I already had some idea this existed a couple of years ago:
Wax ran down the steep rise of his paunch, pausing to pool in his belly button, then continuing on its way like colorful tears of a cyclopes.
The drum track built to an unbelievable crescendo.
He smiled again.
"Neil Peart."
"Oh," I said matter-of-factly.
"And this?" I said pointing cautiously to his wax happy trail.
"Lost my contact lens case," he said plaintively. "My nipples are the perfect size for a re-casting. It is not so much the width, but rather the depth. Fortunately, I have been blessed with both."
"Did you have to shave for this?"
"Nope. I’m naturally hairless."
"Must be the Japanese half," I said over my shoulder.
"Persnickety," followed by a giggle.
Looking back, leaning against the window, "You’re beginning to crack."
"I’m like this all the time."
"No, you’re starting to crack," I said again, pointing to his wax apparatus.
"Oh shit!" he yelped shuffling towards the bathroom.
His instruments - a bass, two electric guitars, one acoustic guitar, a synthesizer, a Hammond B-3 and a tambourine with multi-colored ribbons attached to it - took up most of the wall space. The Hammond, the black sheep, jutted perpendicularly from his desk.
"That’s one!", triumphantly from the bathroom.
Resting on top of that stocky sweet churnin’ urn of burnin’ funk lay a dozen or so colored pencils. Beneath them, a partially completed score. Each line of the scale a different color. A deliberate prismatic progression. The patterns created were complex yet atavistic. The eye was drawn along the page by the promise of the spectral progression. I can’t read music, but I could hear this.
"Got the other!", sickly laughter.
In pencil at the top of the page, "Profano Trinidad".
Things always sound better in a foreign language.

Synesthesia was the focus of psychological study during the late 19th and early 20th century, but fell out of favor in the mid(better living through chemistry)-2oth century. Revived, the study, and a deeper understanding of it, has led to the development of new applications meant to aid those suffering from auditory ailments.

One example is the Music Animation Machine which according to its creator, "started with a hallucination that happened while I was listening to one of Bach's sonatas for unaccompanied violin..." and is applied to the psycho-acoustics of hearing.

A sample video (pretty colors!):
Liszt Feux Follets, S.139, R.2b, #5

Additional animated music here (no illicit substances required).

Casting the Ru(i)nes

2007-10-19T16:52:00.001-04:00

Advice from the virtual I-Ching:
"Your immoderate ambition makes you lose the meaning of reality.You isolate yourself in your world and such an attitude can only lead to a disastrous collapse."

Better cancel that bust of myself I just commissioned...hope I can get my deposit back.

Tell All the Truth

2007-10-16T21:38:00.000-04:00

Tell all the truth but tell it slant,
Success in circuit lies,
Too bright for our infirm delight
The truth's superb surprise;

As lightning to the children eased
With explanation kind,
The truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind.
- Emily Dickinson

The Honest Truth

2007-10-12T20:13:00.000-04:00

And you say:
"There you go again, putting petals on roses."
"I only did it that one time!
Sotto voice, "I was experimenting."
"Truth implies honesty. Your love affair with modifiers only leads to hip swaggering repetition."
"The truth is a chameleon not a constant. A great beast rising out of the meta."

A description of the beast:
From across the room, rooted at the seam where the wall meets the ceiling, sucking at the plaster, it ______ on ______ wings. Its ______, casting reflections and doubt in the burgeoning candlelight, is ______ at its tip. From ______ to ______ it stands ______ hands high. Harsh ______ the color of ______ rings its face, shielding its ______ from view. It lands on your ______. Its hot ______, smelling of ______, wears on you as its ______ dig into your ______. It ______ at the moonlight. A pied piper wearing a ______ of ______. You hold your breath. It leans in close. You try to speak. It strikes at your ______!

Isn't it terrifying...
Isn't it bewitching...
Isn't it homely...
Isn't it provocative...
Isn't it beau monde...
Isn't it enfant terrible...
Isn't it your loved ones...
Isn't it a book burning itself...
Isn't it hot chili peppers in the blistering sun...
Isn't it Tuesday?

Dr. Hector Lactidosa, whose research and reputation were undone in the most suspicious of manners, suggests that there are multiple truths. Each situation yields a variance that is quantifiable with the formula:

The result of which provides, what Dr. Lactidosa termed, a "palatable truth" (a truth acceptable to the specific individual). Furthering his mathematical assertions Dr. Lactidosa sought to hypothesize an epidemiological underpinning attributable to all aspects of the "truth". He was able to isolate four distinct stressors, in a highly underfunded and unconventional human study, that either contributed directly to or diminished the presence of the "truth".
He called them: aphrodite; dionysus; hera; pan

"The truth is not black or white. It dazzles us with its witty charms and certitude. Hold it up to the light...it refracts entirety and nothingness; casting a gray pall.
"The truth is a half-bred hybrid with bowed legs and furrowed brow.
"A mongrel...A mongrel bent on perverting the validity of life.
"Soon it will spread to matters of the heart and even swifter to those of the loins; demanding equal pay for equal time. It will usher in a gilded age of impurity. Imagine, millions of multi-coloreds running through the streets with starched white shirts and polka dot tongues trying to pass themselves off as productive members of society. We'll turn to the hoses and find them kinked. We'll fetch the dogs and find them muzzled.
"By then it will be too late and..."

For Immediate Release:

Canyon Sin Nombre, California -
It is with a heavy heart and trembling hands that I take pause in my day, as I take pause in my life, to set this out.
I have an addiction.
Addiction is not easy, but admitting it is doubly hard.
I have an addiction.

For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope. - Romans 15:4

I have begun an ongoing program of recovery and rehabilitation.
I have an addiction.
This is not an excuse, but an explanation.
Those words, spoken with a spiteful tongue, were not my own and do not reflect my true feelings. Rather they were brought upon by the sweet release of the resulting otherness. An otherness that I have used to palliate rather then remedy the problems in my life.

But since we belong to the day, let us be self-controlled, putting on faith and love as a breastplate, and the hope of salvation as a helmet. - 1 Thessalonians 5:8

It is my hope that through an open, albeit difficult, dialogue with those I have slighted I will be able to seek quarter in their forgiving light.
I have an addiction.
In order to help accept this fact I am pleased to announce the formation of a scholarship program that will help me attain spiritual absolution through monetary contribution.
I have an addiction.
Do not weep for me. This is not the end (except for the convivial braggart too many have come to know), but rather a beginning. A rebirth of body, mind and soul.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of the three is love. - 1 Corinthians 13:13

I have a problem.
I have an addiction.
That is the honest truth.

"Now you're just throwing roses at your own feet."

Gone Fishin'...Meet & Greet

2007-10-10T10:10:00.000-04:00

Am currently standing up to my waist in rushing water with the river bed digging into my bloodied and callused feet. The rope stretching from one shore to the other has gone slack and I haven't seen anyone for days. Progress has been slow. The worst is behind me (I hope). A damp collar is the only reminder of how close it all was to an end. Have taken to eating the bait. Luckily the water is pure. There is a tree on the western shore. Yesterday the leaves were green. Today they are golden tipped. Tomorrow they will fall...a prismatic bed awaiting me on the banks of this river. But until then...

Looking for something to do this Friday night. School got you down? Itching to take that Halloween costume out for a dry run? Looking for love? Looking for lust? Just plain looking? Well come on down to the Parkside Lounge and revel in the stank...the stunk...the funk!

Afroskull (a band previously mentioned here) will be hosting their 10th Anniversary concert and a memorable evening is guaranteed for all!

Gifts & Prizes Galore!
Free safety pins and condoms for the gents and free penicillin for the ladies.(Disclaimer: This is not an actual promise and in no way should be treated as such.)
Plus: A chance to meet your intrepid host who will be signing copies of himself. (Bring your own pen.)

For more info:

Baying at Monday's Moon (Or: Bjorking it at MSG)

2007-09-25T15:15:00.000-04:00

"Now I'm not a macho guy, but I'm pretty sure skipping is not the thing to do when you chase after them."
"I gave them a wink."
"Oh, a wink and a skip...I think that's how you make them pregnant."

"I didn't drink back then. It was before I discovered life."
"Be careful, studies have shown that too much life leads to death."

At M(iserly)S(ecurity)G(hetto):
Would say about one of the openers; the klaxons: "i guess singing castrati in an unintelligible garble while strumming the same chord over and over dressed like a monk doesn't make you good."
But it appears I already have.
(I feel just like the Rolling Stones when Gram Parsons and the Flying Burrito Brothers recorded Wild Horses before the Stones ever got around to it...maybe not.)

So instead, I'll say this about the klaxons: This is the perfect music to dress your penis up in drag to and beat it like it owes you money...their music providing the soundtrack to sexual repression.

"Boooooo!" I...was that masked man.

Couple notes:
1) Bjork prowled and bounded around the stage like an aboriginal Ikette in gold lamé maternity wear.
2) Antony is indeed the female incarnation of the great(!) Nina Simone (as someone (long forgotten) once said) and teased out a slow burn of a duet on Dull Flame of Desire.

For much more and much better see here.

3 Free At 7

2007-09-21T08:00:00.000-04:00

...scourge them with roses...
...open eyes inverted and distorted...
...the Lafayette Hotel mentioned in passing, has passed...

Through the high polish of the entry way to 7 World Trade Center those words, part of something much larger and more coherent, scroll across a large panel running the length of the front desk. To the left, that hole...that pit...this grave site. Beyond it, a torch lamp serpentine leading to a diminishing skyway...razing it to raise it.

Ollabelle, cranking out homespun americana (re)imagined by a post-apocalyptic dust bowl ragtime band, kick things off as young turks, sated by their latest pecuniary conquest, make for the underground.

The late afternoon sunshine, stuck in traffic on the Jersey Turnpike, fills the canyons with the fool's gold of an expiring summer.

The Holmes Brothers, the blue sky their steeple, are a spit wad amalgam of the O'Jays, Neville Brothers and a baptist choir...Jesus IS(!) on the mainline so tell him what you want...A PONY!

In the darkness, spotlights are thrown on what was and what is imagined to be.

Looking more like Mr. Rogers then Brinsley Schwarz Nick Lowe...then Rockpile Nick Lowe...then Nick Lowe Nick Lowe...his voice Graham Nash-ing at the edges...he, his lyrics and a guitar swoon and swale in concert with the sounds of the city...an uneasy accord that each test with a whisper and a shriek.

And then he said:

And: Cruel to Be Kind

Madlibin' the Obits

2007-09-17T15:56:00.000-04:00

Karma is a wheel...just wish it was a Matchbox instead of a wagon.

Mary Virginia Jackson was born May 27, 1974. She was 47.
The late Louis and Eva Kahantneta cherished Kristopher Kujawski, an independent person who worked as hard as he could at Dominican College of Blauvelt, N.Y.
Zacarial Jones was born on April 25, 1913 in San Marcial, New Mexico. The daughter of the late Abelino Torres, his mild and unassuming manner was predeceased by his doctor.
At the church, a Mass of Christian Burial.
In Holy Sepulchre Cemetery her mother; her brothers; his wife; four sisters and three grandchildren accepted his disease.
Visitation...memorial contributions...moody bible...cremation.
Now you can finally get some sleep.

A bereaved and belated(?) thank you to:
Virginia Forte
Marie Virginia Jackson
Sharonda Jones
Marcia Lynn Jones
Mildred Margaret Londis
Anne Loiacono
Vincent S. Kujawski
- Times Herald-Record 9/15/07

Mercy, Mercy, Mercy - Joe Zawinul (1932-2007)

2007-09-12T08:41:00.000-04:00

"You know sometimes we're not prepared for adversity when it happens. Sometimes we are caught short, we don't know exactly how to handle it when it comes up. Sometimes we don't know just what to do when adversity takes over. And I have advice for all of us. I got it from my pianist Joe Zawinul who wrote this tune. And it sounds like what you're supposed to say when you have that kind of problem. Its called Mercy, Mercy, Mercy." - Cannonball Adderley

The Buckinghams' (with lyrics):

Buddy Rich goes at it (Berlin 1970):

Pot-Pour-E (Oooh That Smell!...Can't You Smell That Smell!)

2007-09-11T16:47:00.000-04:00

"They're all gentlemen until a football game is on. Then all bets are off. At least I have the decency to look you in the chest when I talk to you."

And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outa Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

its been six years now...long enough for them to do psychological studies into the detrimental side effects of repeated visual exposure to the tragedy. So...let's loop the impact and explosion for 24 hours straight and supplicate at the altar of the bottom line and lap at the overflowing rancid milk that cascades down our slack jawed chins.

Saw it on the news
On the TV news in a black and white video
You know what blood looks like in a black and white video?
Shadows, Shadows! that's exactly what it looks like

I must stop being Ike to my fingernails' Tina...this is not an appropriate place for blood and mucus..."oh come on baby its just because I love...how about a nice new frock...or a wig...you love your wigs cause you got all your hair burnt in '62"

THAT MASKED MAN AGAIN!!!

Revenge of the Yawn?*

2007-09-04T22:17:00.000-04:00

Nearly choked three times today:
1) a breath mint
2) a cup of coffee
3) hot ash (and thermodynamics with a sense of humor)

Is my throat trying to get back at my lips for what they failed to provide you with last night?

The above (effectively or not) represents the high water mark of a lowly accomplishment. This marks number 35 in a limited, but still undetermined, numbered series appearing and unraveling before you on an irregular basis. While paltry to most, this (A)ccomplishment stands as a testament to my unfocused mental gait...a collection of things best left unsaid...superfluous nipples on a Michelangelo.

So as a way to pay tribute to myself and all its realizations let's take a walk down history lane:

"The Hall fills up slowly. Most people are still at the entrance to the bar, all the way back up the aisle. There you can see them milling in the corridor within the blue-white haze of smoke. Glassy eyed, furry tongued, sequined and bejeweled, the men with lacquered finger-nails, the women with choppy, carrot-orange hair. Ziggy is just moments away." (9/28/72...not exactly 35yrs, but close enough)

*thanks Richard for the title

Alcohol Poisoning Is Not An Excuse

2007-08-19T21:49:00.000-04:00

You told me that someone with a more impressive sounding name then mine said:
"What is good for the essence is bad for the personality and what is good for the personalty is bad for the essence."
Then what about those things that you do that are bad for both?

Skullf#%ked @ Ace of Clubs

2007-08-16T08:38:00.000-04:00

"And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth."

filth...
greasy steamy filth...
barbarous fierce and savage filth...
beautiful elegant shamanic filth!

For two hours last night the aural was penetrated, ravaged, and reborn.
A black sunrise set against a divided sky.
Children screamed, mothers wept, and they smiled all the while as the pyre rose in the distance.

On a stage, not large enough to hold a single ego, seven of them did battle with a lurking common enemy...nurturing it...coddling it...hoisting it with gentle hands and saluting it in the stiff breeze of their own making...then stepping on its neck...taking pleasure in its suffication...its blue faced terror bringing them a greater sense of delight...afterall this is Afroskull.

"What do you call that delighful aroma?"
"That is called 'the funk'."

Something is terribly wrong here. How can talentless strumpets/ingenues (who prowl the stage like paper tigers let alone sex kittens) sell out madison square garden while those with "it" are forced to toil in basement bars.

"Booooooo!"
That masked man again.
"Booooooo!"
"You already have a song named after you and you're booing it!?"
"Booooooo!"
"Do you want a second one?"
"Booooooo!"
"How about 'My Teacher is a Pedophile'?"

more smokestack lightning percussion
more blue eyed soul over black eyed keys
more kinetic bass...pulsing and atavistic.
more sweet turbulent upheaval wrung from the neck of a guitar
more frantic and fevered brass driven crucibles

Then during the encore (Frankenstein)...that masked man again...massaging the monitor at the front of the stage like a comfort woman...placing his hand on it...the sonic confluence shaking his body to the very core...then forcing it into is crotch...
"Sometimes you gotta hold them down."

Later that night (earlier this morning):
as the distant candlelight danced in time to "Echidna's Arf (Of You)" and smart percussion was played on the radiator, the challenge was made...the challenge was made and accepted.
look to the east...for it is coming...and they are our only hope...in the past they have battled...bloodied stalemates...they have kept us safe from its harm...but it is stronger now...more resolute...and we must do our part...it will take us all...
"I can smell it!"
It has come.
Afroskull v. The Wild Koba (Part III) - November 2007
Details soon?

Crowd(Farms)ed House...Sort Of

2007-08-10T14:19:00.000-04:00

He found a lump and thought he had eyebrow cancer
He booed Pete Yorn's banal play
He read a pamphlet: The Principles of Fundamentals and the Fundamentals of Principles
He applauded the corralling of the yelping strumpet
He lobed caustics at the slight and infirm, certain he could outrun them
He discovered there is no eyebrow cancer
He went to his first "true" rock & roll show

Program Note: During tonight's performance the role of He was played by I

And for the "anyone who has been to enough concerts could have told you that" file: Crowd Farms (the new alternative energy)
Does this mean that agoraphobics will have to live in the dark?

A Quick One With Monsieur Gainsbourg

2007-08-08T08:00:00.000-04:00

Did you hear that?...Good I thought it was just me.
Have taken to looping the last twenty seconds of "Je T'Aime Moi Non Plus" so that my neighbors don't think I spend all my days alone.

The video:

With his one time lover Brigitte Bardot:

Well, my telephone rang it would not stop,
It's President Kennedy callin' me up.
He said, "My friend, Bob, what do we need to make the country grow?"
I said, "My friend, John, Brigitte Bardot,
Anita Ekberg, Sophia Loren."
(Country will grow!)

And as a bonus Serge's jungle fever (and the beginning of the end for Whitney Houston?):

Sonic Youth's Blond(i)e Amibition?

2007-08-01T09:45:00.000-04:00

Yes, Sonic Youth was at McCarren Pool in Brooklyn this past weekend.
Yes, they played the entirety of Daydream Nation.
Yes, the Slits opened the show and were a joyous revelation that the punk ethos is still alive and well (video of Kill Them With Love from the show).
And yes, far too many people have already reviewed the show for any further attempt.
But just to summarize:
excellent show; extreme heat; multiple pass outs; not loud enough; too clean (they play their instruments so well that the distortion and feedback is played with a flat proficiency that chips away at the visceral rawness)
Of most interest was the last song in the first encore (if that is what we are calling it)
"What A Waste" off of Rather Ripped doesn't sound like anything until Thurston Moore breaks out a thinly veiled guitar riff suspiciously similar to Blondie's "Dreaming". Kim Gordon then adds lyrics similar in structure only furthering the argument.

Watch/Listen here:
What a Waste (riff at about 1:15 or so)
Dreaming (late seventies bliss)

Special thanks to our resident Blondie expert Jerica (no its not catching) Manosis...twenty minutes of serious discourse and off key singing paid off in the biggest way.

Street People

2007-07-26T22:00:00.000-04:00

What is with the increasing number of well healed ingenue beggars in the east village.
Am I alone in the contention that there has been some sort of shift in migratory patterns that would have flung this wayfaring things into our many dilapidated doorways.
And since when did being homeless come with a dental plan? Let alone the bleaching.
They have witty signs written in a whimsical hand.
"I really want ice cream. Give me some money please." (smiley face)
But where to deposit the money my clever little dirt eater?
Oh I see. Place it in your suspiciously dirty patterned name brand sneaker.
I can only imagine the horrors you have had to endure.
When your mother sits on her sun porch in some landed town buried deep in the heart of Connecticut does she weep for you?...Wonder where she went wrong?
Or does she chug her fourth high ball before noon while tapping the pool boy, who is neck deep into her frothy loins, on the head, requesting a change of pace for the afternoon. Something with some fruit juice perhaps.
"Misses needs her daily vities Jorge."
All those horrible cotillions where the inbred sociopaths would fondle one another with their quick hands and sloppy members.
I shiver at the thought.
Oooohhh it makes me want to wrap you in a burlap sack and throw you in the east river!
You want some ice cweeaaam.
Well head around the corner tell a whole bunch of people to have it their way and come back to me with some batter burns and I will buy you an entire ice cream cake. (Subject to blackouts and restrictions. Only valid with purchase of Fudgy the Whale or Cookiepuss)
Where do you get the ass!?
And I am pretty sure the "revolution" doesn't entail a waiver on the whole personal hygiene thing.
Its all fun and games until someone catches plague.

This rant brought to you by: substances

Mo(u)rning Edition

2007-07-17T15:31:00.000-04:00

The world did not mark his passing
Disenchanted elliptical infinity spins our top
A late worm with its early bird
Demure sunrise and its bawdy set
Vagabond rag played by stiletto heels
Fortunes told
Fortunes sold
Fortunes lost
Unkissed lovers never met
"Have you heard"...
"Did you see"...
"Can you believe"...
"Why me!?"
Youthful flippancy slaughtering the caressed joke of aged reverence
Make the 6:06
Chicken a la king served by a queen
Starry eyed knaves cavort amidst a distant fading tune of brainery accomplishments
Opportunity stoked by regrets in need of tomorrow's spark
Its 10 o'clock do your children know where you are?
The cow jumps over the moon
And you spoon with your fork
Falling into diminishing slumber
No, the world did not mark his passing
But his passing marks the world

Well he stormed with his feet
And he clapped with his hands
He summoned all of his joy when he laughed
It suffered all of his joy when he cried
And sometimes when he got into talking
Man he could rattle all day long
He was a good man and now he's gone

Well in war he was a tiger
When it was over like a dove
He summoned all of his strength in the climb
It suffered all of his strength in the fall
And sometimes when he got into fighting
Man he could fight with you all day long
He was a good man and now he's gone

He put his trust in a higher power
He held his power like a holy grail
He summoned all of his faith in the lifting
It suffered all of his faith in the fail
His heart was stronger than a heavy metal bullet
And that's why I dedicate this song
He was a good man and now he's gone

His heart was stronger than a heavy metal bullet
And that's why I dedicate this song
He was a good man and now he's gone
-M. Ward (Requiem)

Camel Red Filter In The Ashtray (A Four Show Review In As Many Parts)

2007-07-06T16:30:00.000-04:00

Mary Alice had an opinion on everything.
Born of banshees, raised by pentecostal Jews, Mary Alice had lived a charmed life.
Mary Alice took to things quickly.
Speaking in tongues before she could walk, peddling guilt at an eighth grade level while still in diapers, Mary Alice made her mother proud.
Mary Alice was named after the two stillborn children permanently enshrined in viscous...resting atop their suburban mantel in jewel encrusted crystal decanters.
Each morning Mary Alice and her mother would supplicate before them; ending their benedictions with a hard boiled egg topped with two drops of hot sauce.
"A bloody tear for each", her mother would say.
"It should have been me!" her mother cried one morning and fell forward dead.
Mary Alice smiled, stepped over her mother, picked up her egg and ate it.
Taking her namesakes from their embalmed tomb, cradling them, kissing each one, she ate their heads...in order to get at their essence.

Forty years later...
Mary Alice sits in front of me and won't shut the fuck up!
Her face...trying to flee itself...pendulous and loose...quivers in the slight breeze and shakes hands with you as she speaks.
Luckily a lightning bolt struck her dead and the olfactory of her charred remains only heightened the experience of seeing Levon Helm at summerstage.
Three months removed from his last city outing Levon continues to amaze with that patented blend of americana that he and his mates perfected oh so many years ago .
Timeless and mysterious it unfolds anew with each listen.
It lives with you and shows up in the oddest of places at just the right time.
His successful bout with lung cancer has left him energized.
He enjoys it all.
Each beat...
Each miscue...
Each hoot and holler form the audience...
Each second...
Umbrellas danced in the drizzling rain...a jazz funeral in time with a country fiddle...drops cascading from a rolling piano.

Hail stones beatin' on the roof
The bourbon is hundred proof
It's you and me and the telephone
Our destiny is quite well known
We don't need to sit and brag
All we gotta do is rag Mama rag Mama rag

between 5th & madison on 71st:
"This is the Upper East Side baby. These people don't walk the streets after dark."

to be continued...

The Battle of Surf & Stilwell

2007-07-05T11:47:00.000-04:00

"Does your hot dog have a face?" the sign asked.
"No!" I replied.
Of course not. As we all know the hot dog comes from an animal(s) with no face or perhaps no animal at all.
The vegans, four strong (if the number of signs they carried suggested an accurate count) took a most unpopular stance at the 92nd Annual Nathan's Famous hot dog eating contest. Far enough from the stage not to be noticed by the die hards, but close enough to block the view of the stragglers the crowd turned ugly early and often.
For over an hour before the festivities they held their signs in quiet defiance to the cat calls and menacing hoots coming from their rear.
As the MC rode towards the sky, music building to crescendo, voice testing the limits of its range, he announced the coming of competition in an incredible display of rousing oratory brilliance.
Should I be ashamed that it left a few goosebumps running up and down my arms?
Absolutely not.
Should I be ashamed of those who turned this glutenous display of abdominal fortitude into a patriotic event on par with the Miracle on Ice?
Absolutely!
Chanting "U.S.A.!" throughout, they somehow equated this silly competition as a measure of our global superiority...suggesting how unhinged things really are.
Pockets of resistance were few but vocal.
"Boooo! I hope you choke Joey! Boooo!...You suck Joey!...Hey Joey! Choke on your chestnuts!"
If only I knew who that masked man was.
Before I could get a good look he had fashioned a crude saddle to a zoftig gal and whipped her into exhaustion down Surf Ave. She was later found in a puddle of condiment wrappers muttering "cocku" softly into the freshly branded scar on the inside of her thigh.
But enough of that...back to the vegans.
As each "athlete" took the stage to pomp reminiscent of the gilded age of professional wrestling (Daniel Boone's direct decedent replete in animal
pelt) the crowd grew more restless with the cause-heads disrupting the already limited view.
Employing a deft pincer maneuver the first sign fell halfway through the introductions. It was passed back through the crowd like a holy relic...people tearing and pulling at it until it looked as if it had been taken to by an animal with a massive jaw and unchecked claws.
The remaining three redeployed and did their best to fend off the assault.
"Take the signs! Take the signs!" could be heard off to the left.
Violence seemed imminent.
I waited for the cops to make their move as a signal for me to make my own (leaving). But no such action was required. The crowd was going to sort this one out on their own.
And I smiled the whole time.
I'm not proud.
Raw meat flew as the last sign fell and the dissenters were chased to the water's edge where they sprouted gills and took to the waves and ultimately safety.
After the last tubular delight slid home (or was regurgitated) and the controversy was sorted out the crowd quickly scattered.
Left in the wake, trampled and scuffed, the signs encouraging comestible rights intoned the beginning of something grander rather then an end to a futile endeavour.
Poster board battleground scars...a new Lexington and Concord for a different revolution.

I can see the boats in the harbor (way across the harbor)
Lights shining out (lights shining out)
And a cool, cool night
And a cool, cool night across the harbor
I can hear the fireworks
I can hear the people, people shouting out
I can hear the people shouting out (up and down the line)
And it's almost Independence Day!

Plummet on the Summit

2007-06-26T11:56:00.001-04:00

He peered over his newspaper
Eyebrows blowing kisses
Mustache winking
He gets up and moves toward...

Waking up in a cold sweat I gather myself and pull back the flap to the tent. Sherpa is chanting softly as he stirs the pot. I can smell the bitter root from here. It has been our main source of sustenance for the entire trip. No matter what he tries it is always the same...sharpening the stomach, souring the mind.
I sit down next to him. He hands me a cracked bowl. My bowl. I take a bite and wince.
Today's special:_____ root with poached______ bark and a quick and vicious unnamed sauce...terrible to chew, impossible to swallow.
He points to the west. We can see the smoke from today's fires. Or maybe they are yesterday's. Hard to tell anymore.
One more day to the cloud line and then on to the summit he says. He has made this promise everyday for the last week.
I check the oxygen supply, holding my breath each time I do.
The atrophy is cold comfort.
We haven't seen anyone since the first night.
Sitting around the fire, couched in our indifference, passing whispered ventures of near catastrophe, one of them said:
"Destroying human life in the hopes of saving human life is not ethical -- and it is not the only option before us,"
The next morning they continued their decent. 3,563 ft and dropping.
We taste the first wisps of cloud by afternoon and realize we have been had. These are no clouds (more smoke). There is no summit (more flames). And this is no mountain (a candle with no wick, burning fast at its core).

I sailed a wild, wild sea
climbed up a tall, tall mountain
I met a old, old man
beneath a weeping willow tree
He said now if you got some questions
go and lay them at my feet
but my time here is brief
so you'll have to pick just three

...?
...?
...?

Safari? (Back at it!)

2007-06-14T08:31:00.000-04:00

traveled half way around the world chasing the thing...each time coming closer...each time letting it slip through my fingers...only to find it waiting for me at a bar in the flatiron district with a drink in its hand and a sneer on its face...once i figure out how to get out of this mosquito netting i'll put it down and up on my wall...another trophy to a failure

B-Laid-It Mutter's Day Wishes/My State of Mind (Lyrics Only Edition)

2007-05-16T22:41:00.000-04:00

Oh mommy
I ain't no commie
I'm just doing what I can to live the good all American Way
It says right there in the constitution
It's really a ok to have a revolution
When the leaders that you choose
Really don't fit the shoes

Some mothers son lies in a field
Someone has killed some mothers son today
Head blown up by some soldiers gun
While all the mothers stand and wait
Some mothers son aint coming home today
Some mothers son aint got no grave

Momma Momma, I fear you reared me wrong,
Momma Momma, I fear you reared me wrong,
'cause I lift up my head and I can't tell where I belong.
Momma Momma Momma Momma, something's terribly wrong.

Born a poor young country boy--Mother Nature's son
All day long I'm sitting singing songs for everyone.
Sit beside a mountain stream--see her waters rise
Listen to the pretty sound of music as she flies.
Find me in my field of grass--Mother Nature's son
Swaying daises sing a lazy song beneath the sun.

Each voice in my head has its own face.

Wisdom?

2007-05-11T16:17:00.000-04:00

live up to your reputation by living it down...its easier on the knees.

Soul Shout!

2007-05-03T00:56:00.000-04:00

no incantations or ruminations on things heard but not seen this go round
no grand eloquence employed to set the scene
no broken man; no ice cream cone; and no free licks offered on a rush hour train

this message will be transmitted uninterrupted and with only half of the self-titillating self-indulgent banter you have come to loathe

soul music, that sweet soul music (Yeah Yeah!) has blossomed in the garden of my auditory delights. a sweaty sweet fragrance that enchants and exhausts the late morning sunshine of my mind. planted long ago the seed struggled; shaded and coated by the sticky resin of rock and/or roll and its hybrid variants; duped and entwined by the far reaches of Motown...

Note to the reader: The management would like to point out that the ramblings of this vulgarian in no way reflect our views on Motown and the wonderful and expressive accomplishments those people have made.

Additional note to reader: Management would like to clarify that the term "those people" is not meant as any commentary on the limited success of a specific race or ethnicity. And by "limited" we of course mean...oh forget it!

nurtured by the broken hearted swagger of righteous betrayals...frantic and fevered brass driven crucibles...gleeful rebukes couched in hushed confessionals; I was hooked

"So! Come up the lab and see what's on the slab. I see you shiver with antici...pation."

Soul Alive! - Solomon Burke (1985)
Recorded in Washington D.C. in 1983 the King of Rock 'n Soul lays down one of the finest live recordings ever. Forget the incredible quality of the sound. Forget the absolute sonic perfection of Sol's crack band. Forget the audience who takes it one step further then those frenzied denizens captured on James Brown's Live at the Apollo - 1963. (One of whom deserves a credit in the liner notes for her brutally guttural impromptu stab at "I Can't Stop Loving You") It is all about the preachin'. Alternating between medley and sermon Sol crafts a show (both early and late on this double disc) that takes you to a place you may never want to leave. A place where anything is possible as long as you've got a heart full of soul. Even if the specifics pass you by the universal element sticks true and won't let go.
As Sol says: "There are 295lbs of me and you can have any five you want."
And he leaves much more than that on stage.

Look for the Ladies' of Soul edition somewhere down the line...a who's who and a who's that.

and now back to the same old crap:
i knew this girl who could suck the cocoa off a krispie!

Butting-Row-Man's and the Master of Space & Time!

2007-04-26T00:19:00.000-04:00

monolithic polyglot frantic and flagging: the end is near!
bluebirds and handouts
Joe Strummer, all bricks and mortar

children play in a chest of drawers left at the curb
all its magic spent, they move on
hanging a for rent sign on it as they go
description: 6 floor walk-up...adjustable balconies...urine samples on demand
a line forms around the corner
waving checks in greeting to their farewell

my grandmother said: its like my mother used to say; age is a disease

a smug filled room in a corner basement...the situation must be right?
over priced food and watered down booze...we're gonna get it on right tonight?

sanitized pit

"This is an Elvis song, is it not?" the straightest man from Amsterdam said
"I think so!" I yelled over the reverberation from the monitors two feet in front of us

rising in the brief shadowed distance, an apparition; sunglasses, hat and broken gait

disinterested and borderline catatonic

organic, an atavistic dirty boogie, dustbowl religion!
Leon Russell, Master of Space & Time!

so the media won't do this and the pentagon says it is against their policy...well I am a hexagon and I say:

Darkness, Darkness, Be My Pillow

2007-04-12T10:01:00.000-04:00

for the first time in over 80 years kurt vonnegut doesn't know its raining...god bless you mr rosewater!

Dreams, Schemes and In-Betweens

2007-04-12T00:07:00.000-04:00

"Ladies and gentlemen and those of you yet to make up your mind."

floating
quivering orbs
formless economy
a sect of sex offend-as
she said leaving off the er as if to indicate membership in a gang of latino street ruffians
CARNY SEX! she cried
betrayed by the light and done in by the darkness
nice monocle
it was my mother's,
started off as glasses that my sister and I both wanted when she died,
she got one lens, I the other and our father the bridge,
it fits him too tightly,
constricts his airflow and leaves red marks,
reminds him of her.

Proud to a part of this number!

Be wary of kindness. My grandmother used to tell me that; anytime she gave me a gift.

For Don Imus:
Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.

And for you (even if you don't know who 'you' are):
If I fall short
If I don't make the grade
If you're expectations aren't met in me today
There's always tomorrow, or tomorrow night
Hang in there, baby
Sooner or later
I know I'll get it right

Took A Bad Batch...Something for the Spring

2007-03-28T23:49:00.000-04:00

Santa Claus sat next to me on the plane.
He had just made it to.
"It helps me get where I need to go a hell of a lot easier," he said as he nudged me awake and off his shoulder.
"Hmm," I mumbled, fumbling to dislodge my earphones.
"The get-up. It makes it easier to show up ten minutes before a flight. People just smile.
In fact, just last week, I was waiting for a bus at the Batavia Greyhound station..." he paused, the corners of his mouth lifting, "I spent a week there one afternoon."
He jabbed me in the ribs.
I rubbed my eyes and smiled sheepishly.
"Anyway," he continued "I’m just sitting there eating a bag of chips and this little girl comes over and sits on my lap. She tells me her name is Suzie Downey and that she lives at 107 Holmes Rd. Lockport, New York.
I couldn't give a crap.
And just as I am about to wipe my greasy hands down the front of her floral print dress..."
A brief pocket of turbulence interrupts him.
He smiles.
"...before I can ruin her fine dress she tells me that she would like a host of frilly pink doodads, at least one Barbie doll and a new mommy since her old one was dead."
He stopped and looked straight at me.
The edges of his appearance seemed to waver for the briefest of moments.
Must be the drugs.
"What did you say to her?" I offered in a weak voice.
"I told her that I wasn’t Santa Claus and that Santa Claus wasn’t real.
Then, get this, she tells me that she knows there is no Santa Claus.
Can you believe that!?"
I shake and nod my head while shrugging my shoulders hoping that one of them was the right response.
He eyes me queerly and faces forward.
"So I ask her, 'Why did you ask me for all that crap? And why would you ask me for a new mommy.' And this eerily calm little girl, Suzy Downey of Lockport, New York, looks me straight in the eye and says. ‘Because you took her.’"
I quickly turn my attention to the window...praying something was on the wing.
Were we too high for me to jump.?
"That’s a horrible thing to say to someone," I said, trying to ease his glower with a gentle stare of my own.
His hair...bushier now, unkempt...and his nose, once candy button perfection, now a hooked and aggressive proboscis...hands, once plump and stout, were now weathered and stained.
"That may be so, but it was true."
His clothes had changed!
I shit my pants!
Good thing I was wearing the air sickness bag as underwear.
Please tell me this was the drug.
Somehow the drug!
His red valour jumpsuit had been replaced by a black country-honk suit with burgundy pipping...a matching hat, more brim then anything else, rested in his lap.
I moved as far as I could to the window and refused to look at him.
"Its what I do." he said.
His voice, now the quality of a gravely road...far too many cigarettes and one too many songs.
I turned to face him just as the pencil thin mustache came in on his upper lip.
"I’m Death."
It was Bob Dylan.
"I knew it!" I exclaimed. "That’s what Tombstone Blues was all about."
"No you idiot. Bob Dylan isn’t death, he just looks it.
For gods sakes wasn’t one Vincent Price enough."
He had a point.
"I can take the appearance of whom or whatever I choose."
Slack jawed and nodding I managed,
"So you’re Death. And you fly coach?"
He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.
"Tech bubble burst for a lot of people. We’ve had to downsize," he said producing a volley of smoke rings.
"I don’t think you’re allowed to do that."
"No one will bother me."
There was a brief pause in the conversation.
I had to come to grips.
This was Death and he was willing to talk.
What do I ask him?
Anything.
Like what?
Just say something.
Speak Dummy!
"Are we going to crash?"
"No. However, I would avoid the couple in 19D & E. Those aren’t colds."
He waited on my next question.
The smoke rings had transformed into musical notes.
"Before you said ‘we’ve had to downsize’, who’s we?"
"My staff," he sneered, his nose taking flesh from my forearm.
"You couldn't possibly think that I can kill everyone by myself...flying coach no less.
I had heard you were a tad brighter then you’ve led me to believe so far."
I was momentarily saved by the flight attendant.
Bob got four bottles of whisky and didn’t pay a dime.
He just handed the flight attendant a note on a folded up napkin.
Her initial exasperation was quickly replaced by dark contemplation as she read...fake smile melting as she made for the back of the plane, locking herself into one of the restrooms.
She never did come back out.
Trying to act cool I asked him, "How big is your staff?"
"That is not what you want to ask me."
I took a moment.
"What is death like?"
"That is not what you want to ask me, but I will tell you anyway. It is simply...nothing."
"Wow. You’re good."
"Ask your question."
"How long am I going to live?"
"Shorter than you think if you don’t get that rash looked out. Its all fun and games until somebody loses a nut.
Ask your question!"
I starred down at my lap....head, that of a broken man’s...with all of my courage.
"Are you going to eat your peanuts?"
He handed them to me and smiled.

Such A Night!

2007-03-20T22:07:00.000-04:00

Three days on and still buzzing down the tracks. Can't help but break into an ear to ear whenever the thought of the evening comes careening through my mind without concern for the smiling drooling mess it leaves in its wake. Adjectives have been employed, but they can be like a drunken louse taking a siesta on the cobbled streets....nice to look at, but merely taking up space. Intentions...intentions...had a few. Wanted to lay this all out in a fashion that would do them all justice. Or if not true justice then what passes for it these days. Its just not working. Hyper kinetics getting in the way and synapses misfiring...Cognitives leaping to their deaths like lemmings at the water's edge. But have no fear we have an excellent review, we even have video. Just not here. HERE
Heard it said that its not good to live inside your own head. But if this is the soundtrack then I am truly home.

Untitled

2007-03-14T23:31:00.000-04:00

"How are Bob Dylan's lyrics relevant anymore. Yeah, sure in the sixties, but not anymore. Come on! What does 'I'm preachin' the word of god I'm puttin' out your eyes.' mean anyway?"

Sometime between my mystic conception and my most recent failure I chanced upon the above. Approximately half way through my diatribe against his statement, against him, against his mother (who I contended took part in some very lurid sex acts involving feathers, a candle, rock salt and a burlap sack...which ended up in the East River...did you know its not even a river its an estuary, maybe not...which I believe is the same thing as an actuary...without the abacus of course)
But then I stopped and said, "Self."
"Yes", I responded.
"Who the fuck are you talking to?"
No answer.
Much better.
I thought to myself that even though it appeared obvious to me that what Bob was trying to say is that religion can blind us from what the really important things are. That through pigeon-holing and segmentation they divide rather then unite. (In my mind it could mean little else) But who knows. Bob was always known for his cantankerous press conferences in the mid-sixties on just that subject.
(See one here)
So maybe I wasn't right. It could mean anything to anyone and who was I to impose.
But at least I could claim it as my "educated" opinion, which I have come to regard as opinions with little or no imagination.
That's probably why I don't read editorials. I already know what I think (I think) and so do you. But for the love of god (mine, yours, who's ever) just think!
So I guess what I really came here to say was...
"You don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows."

Say Wha?

2007-03-06T23:59:00.000-05:00

"Hey man! How are you?"
"I can't feel my face. Let's do this fuckin' thing."

sweet bacchanalian cacophony rising from the ashes of structure and three chord progression...swirling wide-eyed distention...a cough, a sneeze, a wheeze...all to please...a mercurial ship atop a blissful bombastic sea...rewarding misadventures meant to vex and vindicate the silent barker waiting in the wings...his face a clock...not applicable...Angolan communist propaganda...not applicable...outside, a harlequin moon...in on it the whole time

see explanation here or here

If It Bleats It Leads

2007-02-24T08:52:00.000-05:00

the wheels have come off...the axis askew...reason scant...bombshells consume our lives and control our thoughts...bombshells...blonde bombshells...let's have a cheer for those fine freaks...let's here it for Britney and for Anna!

Sgt. Clinton W. Ahlquist - Creede, Colorado - 23 yrs old

as their lives unravel ours come into focus...hope found in their lose...misery as comfort and joy.

Sgt. Pedro J. Colon - Cicero, Illinois - 25 yrs old

the money men...the yellow journalists...the muckraking bastards...eyes glazed...palms greased with their sweaty greed...integrity consumed by competition...where the last man standing was the first to fall.

Spc. Montrel S. Mcarn - Raeford, North Carolina - 21 yrs old

a maudlin judge...weeping broken family...weeping unsympathetic lovers...it was the drugs...decomposition...death the ultimate diet...happy 1/2 year birthday...what is it?...your dead mother...seven years to late to be Marilyn...talk about an itch.

Pfc. Brett A. Witteveen - Shelby, Michigan - 20 yrs old

finally...those marketing people must be working overtime...announcing the first production of the Harri Krishna theater troop...Mary Poppins!...what?...so what's the umbrella for...oh, never mind...its just the DTs.

Sgt. Matthew S. Apuan - Las Cruces, New Mexico - 27 yrs old

it was a good week!

Call it "Peace" or call it "Treason,
"Call it "Love" or call it "Reason,
"But I ain't marchin' any more.

Eye've Got Nuthin'

2007-02-19T16:05:00.000-05:00

"The reason I had kosher cookies last night was because one of my sex offenders...a rabbi, graduated. "

"If I could be music I'd be a minor chord."

"I had one patient who had Tourette's Syndrome that manifested itself in a very unique fashion. Whenever he would pass by anything shinny that cast a reflection he would stop and stare...nearly becoming catatonic. And if you called his name...say John...he would immediately snap to and whisper, 'Please don't tell my parents.' "

He entered...bent with his failures, wearing the pale moon...in his hand was a bottle of wine, in the other, a glass...he poured some of the wine from the bottle into the glass...and raised it to his lips...and just before he drank it, he said...SPILL THE WINE!

no, no, no

He entered...bent with his failures, wearing the pale moon...a leaking sullen flame...floating embers caressed by dark whispers.
"Do you have any big bills?"
"Excuse me."
"Big bills!" he repeated, angrily thrusting a Jewish bankroll in his face.
"No, sorry we don't."
With spitfire hate he muttered and shuffled back through the door onto the dirty boulevard.

Where even Laurel begs Hardy for vengeance please
The fat man is crying on his hands and his knees
Back in the peacetime he caught roses on the stage
Now he twists indecision takes bourbon for rage
Lead pellets peppering aluminum
Halcyon, laudanum and Opium (audio dload)
--Thin Blue Flame
Josh Ritter

Pig's Boogie

2007-02-12T20:05:00.000-05:00

"Which one do you want?"
"What's the difference?"
"This one is for really dry skin and this one isn't even mine."
"Who's is it?"
"Oh its mine, but I didn't buy it. (Name Omitted) gave it to me."
"The bus boy gave you hand lotion?"
"Yeah, but not really. We were at a bar after work. You know, the right kind of bar filled with the wrong kind of people."
"There are too many of those these days."
"Yes there are. Anyway, we were only there for a couple of minutes when (Name Omitted) comes rushing towards us herding us towards the door."
A telephone rings.
"We get to the next bar and (Name Omitted) starts buying drinks and handing out lotion."
"Did he ever explained?"
"Nope. He just smiled and said, "Keep your eyes on the ground and wear comfortable shoes.' "
"There's some sort of deep wisdom there...I'll take a squirt of that."

Have you seen the little piggies
Crawling in the dirt
And for all the little piggies
Life is getting worse
Always having dirt to play around in.

Have you seen the bigger piggies
In their starched white shirts
You will find the bigger piggies
Stirring up the dirt
Always have clean shirts to play around in.

it all started with the belief that a man eating beast (nian) from the mountains would creep into houses feasting on the sleeping innocents...their only hope loud noises and the color red...its Chinese New Year!...its the year of the PIG!

Someone criticized the Master of Cold Mountain:
"Your poems make no sense at all!"
"But from what I have read of the ancients,"
I said,
"They weren't ashamed to be poor and humble...
He laughed at my words and answered,
"How can you talk such foolishness?"
Then go on, my friend, as you are today.
Let money be your whole life for you!

Some famous pigs:

Don't forget that pigs need love too...and some of them know how to give it:

Ron (Pigpen) McKernan & the Grateful "Goddamn" Dead 8/22/68 Fillmore West S.F. : Turn on Your Lovelight (and leave it on!)...an earlier version, a little more sedate---its a download

"All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others."

Banter and the Bolshevik

2007-02-03T17:09:00.000-05:00

Lenin salutes the western sky...clouds...saturated and jaundiced from the pulse of the city rush towards him...frenzied greeting
a setting where the audience lives inside the symphony surrounded by an onslaught of films and visuals
12, 4, 9, 6, 11, 1, 10, 5, 7, 2, 3, 8...it was 7:35 (behind him)
an environmental symphony with visuals...a hi-brow rave
#1: "Where are you from?"
#2: "Croatia."
#1: "That's still a country?"
some aging film stock in which the nitrate had decayed
#1: And you work for the U.N.?
#2: Yes.
#3: Are you a call girl?
#1: No. I work in the germ/biological weapons lab.
otherworldly, almost psychedelic images
#1: You must be on some kind of list somewhere.
#3: Like at a club? Oohh let's go dancing after this!
the sound of a piano that hadn't been tuned in many, many years
#1: So you work with like e-coli, ebola and small pox?
#2: Yes.
#1: See I told you the two of you would have something in common.
#2: Oh you do similar work?
#3: No, I'm bulimic. Do you need a prescription to get e-coli or is sold over the counter? I could use a quick flush and I think my stomach acid is eating away at my gums.
a piano, completely wrecked and out of tune...fantastic sonority an orchestra that sounded like that piano
#1: Have you ever met Kofe Annan?
# 2: No.
re-tune the orchestra three flutes...one flute to tune to pitch, one flute to tune 1/8 of a tone higher, and one flute to tune 1/8 lower
#1: I bet he was a mean mistreater in the bedroom. Don't you think.? After having to deal with all those bloated ugly men all day. I bet he took his aggression out on his ladies.
#2: Who.
#1: Kofe of course.
#3: Who wants Starbucks?!
fuzzy sound...exaggerated version reels and reels of old-nitrate-distressed footage...vaporizing
#3: Huh! I love your shoes! Did you make them by hand in your village?
realize the live version of Decasia...complete with projections, film, lighting, and orchestra***

drug side effect of the week:
"psychic derangement's may appear when corticosteroids are used, ranging from euphoria, insomnia, mood swings, personalty changes, and severe depression, to frank psychotic manifestations."

Where's my medicine, my sweet medicine?

All of this time I thought I was fine

Until I woke up trying to crawl out of my skin

Tell me, where's my medicine?

- Medicine Blues

"Let me kiss away your DTs honey."

***excerpts from the handbill

Sub(liminal)terfuge

2007-01-27T09:19:00.000-05:00

Madame Seeker, Vice President Shaddy, members of Conguss, distinguished guests, and fellow citizens:

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs

But my favorite was the women. Her name was Annabelle. She called and left messages for Jesus.

The rite of custom brings us together at a defining hour -- when decisions are hard and courage is needed.

You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

She said that she received this telephone number in a vision...

We enter the year 2007 with large endeavors underway, and others that are ours to begin. In all of this, much is asked of us.

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy

We must have the will to face difficult challenges and determined enemies -- and the wisdom to face them together.

You play with my world
Like it's your little toy

A vision involving a truck stop restroom her husband's dead mother and a talking ficus with monkey arms.

Each of us is guided by our own convictions -- and to these we must stay faithful.

You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes

Yet we're all held to the same standards, and called to serve the same good purposes:

And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

She wove flowing beatific tapestries into her messages...believing this was Ma Bell's cup and string to the higher power.

To extend this nation's prosperity; to spend the people's money wisely to solve problems, not leave them to future generations to guard America against all evil;

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

Sometimes I would answer when she called. She would praise my name and speak in tongues.

...and to keep faith with those we have sent forth to defend us. (Applause) We're not the first to come here...

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher

...with a government divided and uncertainty in the air.

You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

She would ask my advice and I would tell her to make wagers for me at the racetrack.

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world

Like many before us, we can work through our differences, and achieve big things for the American people.

For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

Once she sent an envelope with cash and what I think was a part of her ear.

With the distance of time, we find ourselves debating the causes of conflict and the course we
have followed.

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned

I wear it as a necklace now.

Such debates are essential when a great democracy faces great questions.

But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

I miss her.

For too long our nation has been dependent on foreign oil.

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good

And this dependence leaves us more vulnerable to hostile regimes, and to terrorists

Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could

It's in our vital interest to diversify America's energy supply

I think you will find
When your death takes its toll

We must continue investing in new methods of producing ethanol

All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

In such courage and compassion, ladies and gentlemen, we see the spirit and character of America

And I hope that you dye
And your death'll come soon

This is a decent and honorable country -- and resilient, too.

I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon

We've been through a lot together.

And I'll watch while you're lowered

We've met challenges and faced dangers, and we know that more lie ahead.

Down to your deathbed

Yet we can go forward with confidence --

And I'll stand o'er your grave

because the State of our Union is strong, our cause in the world is right, and tonight that cause goes on.

'Til I'm sure that you're...

Gimme an F!...

2007-01-18T00:49:00.000-05:00

Gimme a U!
U!
Gimme a C!
C!
Gimme a K!
K!
What's that spell?!

What's that spell?!

What's that spell?!

feckless and puerile our leadership has chosen not the road less traveled...no!...but rather the bloodied and battered path of the unrealized failed doctrine of the past...if two roads do indeed diverge in a wood then we have turned on our heels and headed hastily back the way we have come...hope the birds haven't eaten all the bread crumbs.

Yeah, come on all of you, big strong men,
Uncle Sam needs your help again.
He's got himself in a terrible jam

last week a constapated?...consternated?...concentraded?...beaten man stood in a lie-berry...shedding light upon a darkened corner with a candle burning at both ends...romantic adjectives, swaggering adverbs, allusion and alliteration were hurled at us as a nightmarish brass band played a warbling defeated tune...shadows and doubt...and a single word...a single word with a new definition for this new era...a number...20,000

Come on fathers, don't hesitate,
Send 'em off before it's too late.
Be the first one on your block
To have your boy come home in a box.

and then came the crying...didn't Ed Muskie try that in 1972...wait who's Ed Muskie?...must have been the snow.

And it's five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates
ain't no time to wonder why, whoopee we're all gonna die

A Brief Conversation

2007-01-14T20:29:00.000-05:00

It's a grey day and the pine trees are drippin'
In a grey mist and I feel like I'm trippin'
On a grey world my reality's slipping
Lost in a fog on such a grey day

I: Well, you should rant about it on my blog.
Anonymous: What?
I: About the stupidity with the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. You write it and I'll transpose it without any changes.
Anonymous: What good will it do?
I: It gives you the chance to come up with a pseudo-cool pseudo-name.
Anonymous: Anonymous.
I: That's fine. It doesn't matter what...
Anonymous: Space Captain!
I: OK, Space Captain. So do it.
Space Captain: It's still pointless. I didn't care about everyone else bitching about the selection process for the Baseball Hall of Fame, so no one is going to care about this. But come on! How can you allow Van Halen in, but still exclude Rush. There are numerous bands they influenced (note: Metallica, The Smashing Pumpkins, Iron Maiden, Living Colour, Primus, Dream Theater, etc.) and they have maintained longevity. The whole thing is just a joke and I can't believe...What are you doing? You don't need to tape record this!
I: Fine. I'll just memorize it.
Space Captain: You can try. But you know what I'm saying about Van Halen.
I: (nodding with approval)
Space Captain: No! That's not gonna work. You're not gonna pull that shrink crap by staying silent in order to draw me out. Then you'll use this all against me for your personal gain.
I: Shrinks don't stay silent. They encourage and ask open ended questions in a passive aggressive tone in order to make you at ease with that which you feel ill at ease with. And I agree with you about Van Halen. Barring Eddie Van Halen's exceptional proficiency I couldn't care less about them.
Space Captain: That's fine. So the Hall can induct Eddie Van Halen. But does he have to bring along all of his loser friends.
I: Don't forget family.
Space Captain: I'm still not doing it.
I: OK.