Well, Fiddle My Privies!

Hello, my cock-eyed cobras. I started writing my death-folk, pseudo-Americana acoustic set (or whatever the hell it is) yesterday and it’s going surprisingly well. I nearly finished one song and gathered a few verses to another. This weekend I will pick up a set of harmonicas, which will have me boarded up in a room for a while as I figure out how to play the damn things. I’m just excited to hang my junk over a different ledge for a while.

Apparently I have something foul lurking in my subconscious- the two new songs both feature murder as the major plot twist. In one, entitled “Mary Come Up”, the character is waiting in a field for the piggies to round him up after finding the hacked corpse of his lover in an old motel room. The hounds are tearing through the brush, hot on his trail, but there’s an overwhelming sense of resignation throughout the song. The other song features a man who is confronted by a hussy who insists her little boy belongs to him. He analyzes the problem and does the only logical thing- shoot them both through the head. Yes, the little wide-eyed boy as well. He even brags about it. Tasty stuff, that.

Before you wander down the “post hoc ergo propter hoc” path of assumption, I’ll have you know that I’m not killing women in my songs as a way of illuminating some deep resentment. I have another song that highlights the many benefits of breathing, blood filled, stitched up, wholesome, meat-on-the-bone, LIVING women. Fuck.

Fickle Mistress

Now that Corey has left the Jacobins, I’ve been thinking about many things, and I have a confession to make: I hate playing rock and roll. There, I said it. My laundry is on the line. This may come as a surprise to nearly everyone except Corey, who has listened to me complain about the transparency of rock for the last year or so. I’m a master of hyperbole, as anyone who knows me will contend, which is to say I make exaggerations to drive a point home. I get a huge kick out of it. So when I say I “hate” playing rock and roll, it really implies that I’m more or less just a little bored. However, I do hate everything that comes with being in a band. The lugging of equipment to and from shows, the five rehearsals a week, the long sound checks, the meet and greet before and after the show, the sweating, cocks-out, lights low, amps up, no vocals, string breaking pandemonium…the dick sound guys, the asshole owners, the retards in the other bands… Kids who play rock music are epically unaware of the world around them, which makes for the most gut wrenching, apoplectic, hemorrhoid-inducing backstage conversations known to man. Then they get on stage and take a cosmological crap that affects the karma of every person in the audience for at least a week, and leaves us haunted by the jagged memories of the pinna-tearing auricle lambasting.

Rock is notorious for its simple-minded, Australopithecine lyrics, which is somewhat understandable. The music tends to precede the lyrics when writing a rock song and it’s easy to get locked into playing the verses for four measures before moving to the chorus (for example), because you set these parameters with the band as a way to come together and understand where the turnaround will be. It’s nearly impossible to convince someone that the verse should be longer to accompany more words after playing it one way for weeks. This leaves the lyricist a small window through which to cram a message. This is why rock lyrics can be so redundant. This I detest, sans hyperbole. I’m a writer first and a musician later. I need lyrics that go beyond just one level of thought.

In light of this, I intend to write a more folk-based album where the lyrics come first and the acoustic guitar steps back to act more as a podium for the message. I explained this to my brother and he nearly shit. He’s not a fan of the idea, and I’m sure many people will share his sentiment. I’m pulling the reverse-Dylan, going from electric to acoustic. The band will surely go on, if we ever find a new drummer, but I’ll let it take its time. So the next time you see me, bring a different set of ears. So stay tuned, as I’m sure I’ll write a new piece in a week or two entitled, “Why I love rock and roll.”

Five 'O' Rings of Death

Every four years the world sends its finest athlete-foot-infected closet homosexuals to whichever country plays host to the Olympics, to participate in the grandest form of masturbatory hyperbole known to modern man. And every four years we find out who our own “ambassadors” are days before the games commence, thus beginning the half-assed analysis by our seemingly palsied, but otherwise capable, broadcasters. Watching Tony Kornheiser and Mike Wilbon discuss archery is like watching my nephew try to choke down grilled asparagus.

The Olympics do provide, however, a plethora of meaningless tidbits for the media outlets to fling into our mouths like popped corn. Did you know that Michael Phelps consumes over 12,000 calories per day? Did you know that divers take a shower after every dive to keep their muscles warm? How about they shed some light on what the hell “Olympic equestrian grand prix dressage” entails? At first glance it sounds like the rapid ornamenting of mares. But let’s face it- it’s much more appealing to watch sailing and rowing than coverage of, let’s say, the Russian-Georgian conflict, right?

Then there’s the obvious, but always shocking reality lurking behind the scenes of such pageantry. The 2 million Chinese evicted and displaced, while their homes were destroyed and replaced by parks to beautify the Capital for a measly two week event. 40,000 of which were later imprisoned for organizing protests. But this is the most grandiose display of the beauty of mankind and tradition, so the games apparently must go on.

We’ve seen how Olympic events act as mere accoutrements to underlying political issues. Tommie Smith and John Carlos come to mind when, in October 1968, they displayed the infamous black power salute. And recently, a group of homely volleyball players took out their aggressions in the sand, their skimpy bikinis symbolic of their nationalistic pride, and after the dust settled Georgia had defeated the Russian aggressors. The Russian team refused to admit loss. Why are these floundering activities lent more meaning than they deserve? “The Putin Puppets destroyed my homeland, but I kicked their ass on the beach in three sets!” Oh, the perseverance of man, the will of the underdog! This has deeper meaning, right?!

The public reared its ugly head in disbelief, despite the commonality of such poor behavior. (For the record, I think good sportsmanship is bullshit for the most part, but that’s another issue. Sometimes it’s advantageous to hit a batter with a 90 mph fast ball. Crowd the plate now, you little bitch!) The Olympic Games have two purposes. One is to promote travel and tourism, the other is so jock countries have a public platform on which to act the bully and the baby. Don’t get me wrong, my sentiments aren’t as deep as I’m making them out to be. My blood isn’t boiling over the thought of the Olympics, but spare me the false importance of retards hurling discs. There’s nothing on the line. Nothing will come of this.

Drone

Beautiful.


Pentagon's Unmanned Spokesdrone Completes First Press Conference Mission

Greetings

Cue the doves, sound the trumpets, and fire the guns. I finally blogged myself. In the kitchen. With a rusty spoon. Coming from a perfectly stoic, emotionless upbringing, I’m not sure what I’ll do here. I presume nothing more than scribble, muse, quip, and moan, but don’t expect to find any sordid details of my sexual conquests or imbedded emotions. That’s what the novel is for. You’ll have to purchase that. I do, however, plan to lower my gloves on occasion- so that the foot has an unobstructed path to the mouth. In the words of Winton Churchill, “if you have an important point to make, don't try to be subtle or clever. Use a pile driver. Hit the point once. Then come back and hit it again. Then hit it a third time-a tremendous whack.” Keep reading.

Blarney

Humans will always attempt to transcend natural limitations. We make proclamations we cannot adhere to, promises we cannot keep. We resolve to be more aware of our surroundings, to never stub a toe again, to anticipate the punch, to see that bus barreling down the road… Eventually, after some hard living, we learn to fess up to many things. We fess up to not making enough money, we fess up to our inability to love each other wholly, we fess up to our clumsiness, our inaccuracies, our missteps, mistrials, misdemeanors… We fess up to our stench, our sweat, our yearning, our hunger, our weariness… We fess up to being human. That, my friend, is one hell of a thing.

From the Glass Podium

We are in an age that is unfamiliar. We have a president on the verge of becoming our nation’s first despot. His autocratic ideals have instigated a perpetual state of consternation among the subjects and citizens of this country, rendering our dissent sparse and dim. Our principles, as outlined in the constitution, are as moribund as this generation’s desire to revolt. The cloth of our flag dampens daily with our incredulity, ambivalence, and nonchalance in the face of a government that strives to become an ominous thing. It is with the weight of these actualities that our flag will become too burdensome for any coffin or pole to bear. When I ponder the future of this once-republic and the future of those nations we affect, it is with great despondency and immense importunity that I turn to you, my fellow man, to unite in the name of change. As the true employers, we must end this mutiny.