Recapitalization

White snow. Pure white snow, untainted with the dirt, grime, and muck of the March thaw, has covered the landscape the entire month. For most of the month, the temperature has been a frigid subzero “hell has frozen over” fiasco. Nights have been spent cooped up inside, with the mind hoping, wishing, dreaming.

It has been a month of “more of the same”. No girlfriend, just minor, even G rated dabblings. Sadly, my main lead in that venture fell through. It wasn’t even that much of a lead, to tell the truth. New experiences amounted to minor bar jaunts, some conversations here and there. A sledding excursion that will be had today seems to be the most “different” out of anything, since I’m trying to make it more of a guerilla tactical team spying out hills in the middle of parks saying “Stop! Hill!” and we go and risk our lives in the middle of nowhere. The day job has not changed. Work with the children was already repetitive and draining. We had a bitchin’ party to celebrate an important new president. The inauguration was a pretty big deal to me, as well.

But if there was ever a constant event, it was Patch dreaming. I have put it through my thick headed skull that the “.01” demos need to be done before I get a band together. I’ve basically put March 1st down as the “Out of the Room” phase of Patch, whether or not the demos are finished.

The plan as of January 31, 2009 (subject to obscene amounts of change and revelation): The first order of business will be to contact Greg, my all-around electronic gizmo bandmate and collaborator. I will arrange all of the pieces I have composed and put them into the perspective of transferring everything to a live setting. Greg is the first piece of that puzzle, since whatever he can’t do instrument-wise onstage will rest on four other people. He will be pressing the sampler buttons, the click track supplied to the drummer, playing effected instruments. We will record all of the “pre-recorded” material before anyone else joins us in a practice space.

Once we have everything set on a certain number of songs, Greg and I will work on drumming/playback. This is to see if the rhythm section is up to par. Rhythm is the primary component for Patch. A lot of the songs lack melodic intonation in favor of noise, energy, and rhythm. I’ll be supplying the drums as Greg works his magic behind the consoles.

After we get the bugs worked out, a bassist will be called on to join in on the fiasco. This completes the rhythm focus. Once that is figured out, I’ll be calling out for a real drummer to come in and learn everything that needs learning. Last but not least will be the lead guitarist.

There are tentative members on standby. I’m hoping for Louie as a bassist, the guitarist from The Engagement, Matt, to be the lead guitarist, and a man named Mike to be the drummer. Yesterday, I came to the realization that Louie might be a little too busy with his day job and his work with The Engagement come March when I call on him to work with me and Greg. But my fingers are crossed . . .

Schuyler, my studio mastermind, will be summoned once the demos are done on the home front. Five songs. All of the Acid Pro files will be transferred to Sonar, where they will be saved onto a portable hard drive and transported over to Schuyler’s humble abode to be properly mixed. Once that is finished, the files will be mastered at the University of Minnesota’s Electronic Music Studio (which, coincidentally, was where the current song on the Patch Myspace page was written and recorded for a class final project. The song that that old project has culminated into, “Switch”, will be mastered there, a sort of homecoming and proper ending to the preliminary audio recording turmoil that has lasted for some two plus years).

When we’ll be comfortable with booking shows is up in the open. My goal is to have Patch playing around town by early summer ’09. The catch is that I’m not looking to just be playing traditional live venues. Patch lends itself to a significant amount of theatricality, dealing with sinister subjects, locations, characters. The first round of songs deal with a very close knit, intimate cast of situations, ranging from losing close friends, to dealing with the notion of “selling out”, losing one’s honor in terms of art. The images abound in my head take place in dark, cold, dirty basements, house parties surrounded by windows caked in mud, red lights, strobes, black and white explosions. Guerilla performances, stripped down open mics that turn into full out ambushes against the calm acoustic atmospheres wine sippers are so accustomed to. The music, the live show, the locations, everything in Patch lends itself to a nice amount of creativity.

When I’m asked: “What does Patch sound like?” I usually say “It’s the lovechild of Beck, Nine Inch Nails, The Mars Volta, Tom Waits, and Radiohead.” People usually say “That’s a good combo.” I mainly say this because I don’t want to be put into the genre of Industrial Goth Rock. If I had to make up a genre combo for Patch I’d say it was Grunge Electronica. If the only place I’m playing is Ground Zero (gothic nightclub in Minneapolis) I’m not doing something right.

Patch is my response to the boring string of Indie Rock I’ve grown so accustomed to while listening to most of the frequencies on MP3 blogs, 89.3 The Current in the Twin Cities, Top 10 lists of every magazine/column/blog that’s worth a damn. There’s not a lot of variety in the mainstream. Top 40 isn’t the mainstream anymore. It’s Top Indie, and it’s a pretty limited musical soundscape nowadays. We’re thrust into a realm with Fleet Foxes on one end, which is a folk pop vibe, MGMT in the middle, a dirty electronica dance rock blend, and The Black Keys/The Kills at the other end, a bar band blues/punk thing. Where’s the catharsis? The rabid energy? There’s the punk underground movement, but that’s a campy enterprise. What happens when you place the best elements of the Indie Craze (folk, dance, bluesy grunge, punk) together into one overall sound?

I’m not saying that that will make for the best band in the world (logically taking the best elements would make for an obscene amount of “Bestness”). It’ll probably be mud to most. But those are my favorite elements of Indie Rock. And I think Indie Rock needs a couple of louder colors to be added into its melting pot in order to hold my attention. Take those elements and add 500 decibels to each.

If certain people agree, those will be the fans of Patch.

The Kills – “Sour Cherry” (Add 500 decibels to this song and you'll get an idea for what the overall “Karmath” EP vibe is)

Water Under the Bridge

At work today:

I put too much detergent in the washing machine, making for a foam party in the laundry area.

I banged my head on the corner of a wall while brushing flour off of my hands into a garbage can. I think I bled.

Due to taking a long time cleaning up the suds in the washer, I was told that I was away from my classroom for too long. Double whammy of wrongdoing.

After putting Cheerios into a cereal bowl, I shook the bowl to make the pileage settle. Upon doing so, I spilled half of my Cheerios on the nasty, kid piss covered floor.

The kids love to be shaked while emitting a steady "ahhhhh" with their voices. This makes for a Jibber-Jabber sound, like a dog toy being shaked. The kids love it. I was told that one of the children has lung problems, and that I maybe shouldn't do that to him. Well, it's only fair if I stop doing it completely with everyone.

Despite these small occurences, I figured the day went pretty smoothly, considering.

Now, critical thinking over the fickleness of Acid Pro 5 and recording mishaps.

I love my life.

Cloud Cult -- "It's Gay"

Lesson #101,083

I almost had a frustration breakdown last night. Seriously, I hate recording. I hate recording when I have to have it up to a certain standard. If it's a measely demo made for the ears of band members only, that's a completely different story. It's basically doodling around.

But a demo made for the public? Don't come near me, I might bark at you for no reason.

"Typosgraphy" was abandoned last night. The program kept crashing. I thought "To hell with this!" Instead I wrote "Fair Trade", a summary of the I Source/Hue EP's. Taylor poked his head in after I had written the song in full (that's a rare event, writing a song upon the first sitting -- come to think of it, "Typosgraphy" was like that, too) and was recording tracks to make the overall soundscape, asking if I wanted to watch "Aliens". I told him "In a little bit" and explained the fiasco of the night. He said "Do you have any word documents open? Outlook Express or anything?" I looked at my task bar: 11 word documents were open plus Outlook Express. I told him the answer, he rolled his eyes and said "Oh my god! That's your problem!" I closed down those programs, re-opened "Typosgraphy" -- it worked beautifully.

There's always something. Another law of Karmath: most of life's lessons are learned the hard way.

Health -- "Crimewave"

Fondue Fascists

There is a child in my class. He has a very timid nature about him. He didn't come to school yesterday because he was crying too much, saying he didn't want to go to school, so he didn't have to go. This kid doesn't have any preschool buddies. Just his sister.

He roams the classroom as slow as a sloth. He is extremely careful whenever he picks objects up. If he breaks something, even something trivial, like ripping a piece of paper on the drawing shelf, he freaks out and cries. Scared as can be. He scrapes his fingers on anything, he cries. Gets hit by a flailing hand by some careless kid he freaks out.

My coworker and I get really irritated by this sort of behavior. He doesn't misbehave, yet we're irritated and get angry with him, just by pure human nature. Makes me think.

The world is so full of PC vernacular. Don't offend these people, watch your words, treat others fairly. I've never subscribed to the Politically Correct School of Thought, mainly because I thought it was complete bullshit. All my life. This has made for a ton of awkward moments in my life. A lot of angry rebuttals from others. It's cool to be PC.

The Columbine shooters from way back when. Everyone says "We should've have listened to them, given them more attention." Guess what? If you were in their peers' shoes, you would've treated them the EXACT same as everyone else did. It's human nature to be irritated with the awkward, the weak, the other.

In Child Psychology, you read about the nature of boy and girl groups, how certain people flock together, who stays independent, etc. It's not rocket science. We are programmed as children to flock toward people who can teach us about ourselves. Boys hang out with boys holding similar interests, girls the same (when people are older, they tend to hang out in the same ethnic groups rather than diverse groups. No wonder Americans are always fighting with each other. There is a theory that people are born with the inclination to stick with the same herd in terms of race, and around 7 years old one can harness their social bigotry or overcome their innate racism and bigotry, but even so, you always have a little bit of the pre-programmed racism/bigotry of the "other" in you. Nothing to be ashamed of. You're human. Just acknowledge it, work with it. The only melting pot in our culture is Fondue.). If someone appears weak, the genetic program shuts out that person, opting to seek out others who can provide the child social sustenance. The timid temperament is avoided, meaning children don't so much make fun of others at the preschool age, but you can tell they avoid their company.

And we as adults tend to avoid the timid children as well. They are challenging to help out, especially when they don't show any effort to change themselves.

The crazies of the world are part of the mathematical equation of human nature. They may have had shitty parents and a terrible environment to grow up in, but even the trained "politically correct equal opportunity" teachers have difficulty getting past the timid nature of their students.

It's a sad fact. And those PC spouters are most likely guilty of that fault as well. It's hard to figure it all out, and most people, even the ones with the biggest hearts, don't have enough stamina to see their beliefs through to the end.

This fact pisses me off more than most. I am a self-proclaimed liberal, and I feel that most of my liberal bretheren are full of shit most of the time. They speak "equal" words, but don't listen to "difference", even when it comes from their own crowd, class, race, sex. Any opinions that are different than theirs or from mainstream PC logic are immediately discarded as mean or unsubstantiated.

Most of these people are afraid of acknowledging their humanity. I'm actually afraid of offending some of the readers, even though I feel I haven't really said anything new or off kilter. It's hard to talk about difference.

It seems that people are trying to eradicate difference. I can't talk about different cultures or races without feeling like I'm stepping on people's toes, and not so much the toes of cultures and races different than my own, but more my OWN race's/culture's toes.

Are we all so scared of humanity? Who we are? Who "they" are? People seem pretty set on who they "themselves" are. They use the in-crowd PC logic to seem like they care about others, jumping on flagged words and phrasings and streams of thought.

They're just Training Wheel Fascists.

A.A. Bondy -- "Vice Rag"

To Woo or Not to Woo

I have found my future wife. No, I'm not kidding.


She is the frontwoman for The Asteroids Galaxy Tour.

My first impression ("Around the Bend"):


Second impression (Behind the scenes in New York City, my heart melted for her at the 1:57 mark):


So far, every song I've heard from them is downright jamtastic, and they will most likely show up on all of my future dance mixes from here on out.

www.theasteroidsgalaxytour.com
www.myspace.com/theasteroidsgalaxytour

Beck -- "Think I'm In Love"

Checkpoint

If I die in this level, I'll start again on January 26.

A day for reflection. I took off work for a probable oncoming cold. Is there a time when you can stop it from actually starting? When you feel slight fatigue and that little tickle in your throat, if you drink a ton of water and pop Vitamin C could you potentially drown the fuckers out before they start giving you symptoms? Or is it too late by the time that you start noticing that your body doesn't feel like its normal upitty self?

I also want to just lay in my bed and think. Think about '09 so far, think about my goals again. I've been slightly behind (of course, did you think that when the calendar changed you would miraculously be cured of lethargy?), and haven't been taking care of myself like I need to.

Some goals to help the big goals:

--No internet browsing (save for writing in this blog) until 10:00pm on weekdays.
--Have a cowboy night (night where I go out by my lonesome and meet random strangers) every two weeks
--Don't be tempted into being sucked into movies that the rest of the household want to see each night or afternoon. Your work won't get done, and you've seen those movies at least five times before. Have a "One Movie a Week" quota with them.
--Call up family and old friends every two weeks
--Plan at least two social events each week for people to join you on

My brain's straining and stretching for more. I think that's a good list to start from.

Goldfrapp -- "Happiness"

Dying Draught

The draught is over. I'm going back onstage sooner than I had planned.

Lizard People: Turf Club February 24th.

Being hyped up on caffeine while practicing the drums with Taylor has made for some of the more productive/creative times this year. I'll come up with a ton of different ideas for his songs. Certain sections, drum riffs, guitar riffs. He usually has to calm me down and say "No, this isn't epic rock. This is simple." Instead of feeling disappointed at having ideas turned down, I file them in the recycling pile for Patch. Shit, half of the songs for Patch came from failed ideas in Citizens Banned that no one liked. What does that say for Patch?

It's all garbage, I suppose. But consumable garbage, like dumpster diving at the Hostess plant.

Sleeping in the Aviary -- "Gas Mask Blues"

Shoe Fly

We held a party last night for Obama's inauguration, and I'm holding my head in my inebriation.

This was the biggest party the household has ever had. For some reason, people were saying it was going to be pretty low key. If that was the case, I didn't see it in my part of the house. The dance floor was packed, the decorations were extreme, and the moment Bjork's "Declare Independence" came on, everyone grabbed a lifesize Bush cardboard cutout off of a table and started beating him with their shoes, their bare feet, stabbing him in the eyes with an American flag. He was beheaded and walked on the rest of the night. His body and defiled head were covered in snowy mud goop.

You deserved it. We deserved to do it. How's Texas?



Bjork -- "Declare Independence"

Transform This

Just saw the worst movie. Absolute worst movie.

Last night the household watched "Transformers". Now, I can honestly say I wasn't a fan of the cartoon growing up. I used to rent VHS tapes with "Transformers" episodes on them from Blockbuster Video, but I could never successfully sit through a full episode. I opted for "The REAL Ghostbusters" instead.

Taylor got the Michael Bay epic from Netflix. We sat down knowing full on that it was going to be a cheesy popcorn film.

It was terrible. It was the only movie I've seen where I've felt the need to walk out without seeing the ending. The number one pet peeve I have with anything media-wise is when the creators place the location and time in a well-defined setting using pop culture references to do so. Case in point: in "Transformers" the protagonist wears a Strokes T-Shirt throughout the film. The robots speak in terrible ebonics dialect. Characters use current shitty pop stars and movies in analogies ("Hey 50 Cent, you wanna see my piece?", "Haven't you ever seen 'The 40 Year Old Virgin'?"). These films and movies are not relevant time pieces. Quentin Tarantino refers to movies and music all the time, but what he refers to has to deal with the topic at hand, such as a car chase movie during a car chase. He pays homage to TIMELESS classics. "The 40 Year Old Virgin" is neither TIMELESS or CLASSIC. Even if it would be in the future, it's still too early to reference it. It's poor taste. Well, for me, at least.

Also, product placement was fucking everywhere in this movie. It was so blatantly obvious. Huge Burger King backgrounds, Panasonic chips that would decide the fate of the universe, the robots wake up from their everyday machine state (cars, trucks, boom boxes) because the main character starts bidding a sacred map that Morticon or whatever the fuck the antagonist's name is on eBay. You kidding me?! The driving force of the story is held together in the realms of EBAY?!??! Terrible.

Product placement is inevitable, I know this. But do it tastefully, subtlety is the key. Do not talk about the products. Do not reference the products. Just USE the products as a meaningless prop. Make up the product name if you are actually going to need it in the story, like Tarantino does with Big Kahuna Burger, Red Apple cigarettes, Hattori Hanzo swords.

If you are a reviewer/critic who actually liked this movie, you will be shunned forever by me. Your reviews will be blocked when I peruse MetaCritic or Rotten Tomatoes.

Jay Weissberg at Variety: fuck you for your 90% awesome review. You will be shunned.
Kirk Honeycutt at The Hollywood Reporter: fuck you for your 90%. You will be shunned.
Luke Y. Thompson at LA Weekly: 85% fuck you.
Claudia Puig at USA Today: "Perfectly embodies the concept of a summer blockbuster with its simple good-guys-vs.-bad-guys plot, cheeky humor, and flawless special effects"? If this was sarcasm, you'd be loved. But it wasn't, you literalist retard. You are shunned.

On the other side of the coin: New York Times, Onion, Time, Los Angeles Times, Chicago Reader -- your reviewers hated the movie. You will be honored with a toast of my popcorn filled hand. And if I ever meet you, you will be embraced with a knowing brotherly eye and nod -- we know. We know.

The following clip is basically all that this movie amounts to. One big commercial for corporations and 80's nostalgia. This is a sign of what most people are delving into with their pop culture swims. Even when you want a break from thinking, this could make you take a permanent break from ever having a seminal thought again.



Michael Bay is the Antichrist.


Kaiser Chiefs -- "Never Miss a Beat"

No Longer Striding

One for the Patch gag reel: using your head voice makes for sudden side effects . . .

I had just written a new vocal melody for “Typosgraphy”. This was the first take of me trying to do it in a continuous loop, I wasn’t used to the breath control yet . . . a behind the scenes look into “Super Stone Faced Serious” Patch.

"TyPOOsgraphy"


Donovan -- "The Hurdy Gurdy Man"

Brigade of Mascots

It might be because I haven't eaten anything all day due to a late start this morning before I went to work, but I want to address some heroes. This might pertain to yesterday's inauguration, I suppose. But it more has to do with a conversation I had with Adri, Taylor, and Marta before I went to bed last night.

We had just finished watching "It's a Wonderful Life". Perfect movie for the occasion, I think. This isn't a Christmas movie. This is a movie for those seminal days of reflection. We reflected afterward. We reflected on our childhood heroes: the Cereal Brigade.

Our favorite cereals were all different. I honestly think that most of the shitty cereals also have shitty mascots. Smacks? That stupid frog? Golden Crisp with it's extremely lacklusting teddy bear?

Marta said Smacks made her think of eating vaginas when she was little. I will never be able to have Smacks now without thinking about the prospect that I will be eating a crapload of pink tacos at the same time.

Tony the Tiger, cool, but sorta lame. Yeah, he's like a personal trainer, but he doesn't have a life. Frosted Flakes are cool during the first couple of bowls after obtaining a box, but after awhile the effect is lost. They turn out to be slightly above Corn Flakes.

Cookie Crisp is a huge letdown, we agreed. Two dumb robbers are flaunted, a bumbling idiot and his trusty pooch. They steal your heart and break it once you realize that what could be little cookies resembling Famous Amos minis turn out to be sub-par Cocoa Puffs or Kix. Fuck you Cookie Crisp.

Cocoa Puffs are fitting. They have been listed as the most unhealthy cereal on the market, and the deranged Cukoo bird is telling in that regard. You know what you're in store for. You must be cukoo if you think Cocoa Puffs will provide you sustenance until lunchtime.

Tucan Sam and Fruit Loops. Promising venture . . . but again, like Tony, in the end you get bored of it. The trusty alternative is Apple Jacks, which is basically the same idea without the variety of flavor. No mascot there. Apple Jacks tells it like it is. Cool upon the first couple of bites, then you may get bored of it. It's humble in it's honesty.

Cheerios: no mascot, just a huge fucking bowl of Cheerios on the front, sometimes in the shape of a heart, saying "We're healthy!" Cool when you get older. Multi-grain Cheerios . . . also awesome! Honey Nut Cheerios . . . awesome! Frosted Cheerios? Too far!! You hit the mark, the limit, with the Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, now you're getting cocky. Fruit? Fucking disgusting! That's like the 9th season of The X-Files, you should've ended it with Season 7!! Quit while you're ahead!! Stick with the classics!!

Frosted Wheat now has this sarcastic little shredded wheat dude. I like him. Not too flashy. Makes me like Frosted Wheat more. They always made fun of Shredded Wheat, saying how boring it was, even though the same company, Post, made it. That takes balls. Because Post knows that old people (and people on the anti-yeast diet) eat Shredded Wheat aplenty, so they don't need to market to them. Kids will grow up and still want Frosted Wheat, realize it's somewhat unhealthy, and go for the healthier alternative.

What else? Oh . . . fucking Corn Pops! The commericials never sported mascots, but they had the Jaws theme (which is friggin' scary when you're little), and thieves who were always thwarted by the rightful owner and their proclamation "Gotta have my pops!" Memorable, and a memorable, odd cereal.

Lucky Charms? That leprechaun can bring you forbidden treats -- to a kid he's a fucking drug dealer! Lucky Charms are always the first box to go in those Kellogg variety packs you get when you're camping or looking for a little different feel in the morning routine. Next are Frosted Flakes, then Corn Pops. Next Raisin Bran (which is cool for the raisins -- the sun was cool, but it wasn't a hero, you know what you're getting there). Next Corn Flakes (a rooster? Alright, I guess I'll try it). Last: Total. Which is totally lame . . . fuck Total. Oh yeah, and fuck Wheaties, too.

Trix? I empathized with that silly rabbit. I think he was the bringer of childhood empathy and altruism. You felt bad for him, and you wanted to break the teeth of every child who showed the rabbit the error of his ways. "They're for kids, you goof!" It teaches you that your peers are the architects for fascism, that being set in your ways leads to corruption. Narrow minds. Those kids were conservative assholes while the rabbit was the fledging liberal. For that, Trix is 100% awesome, for bringing me tasty fruit puffs and political foundation.

Captain Crunch? You know, I always assimilated him into the Captain Kangaroo schema of my brain. Sesame Street was always watched, followed sometimes by Mr. Rogers, but Captain Kangaroo never quite grabbed my attention. I'm sure he was pretty cool, but I never had the urge to go crazy with him. As I grew older I had Crunch Berries, which gives you cancer. So pile that on, they never quite made a dent in my life.

Cinnamon Toast Crunch? Wow. No pretension there. Just a happy chef who was happy to supply you tasty squares of sugar. God. Those go down like pudding. French Toast Crunch? Was that the cereal that came in little shapes of toast? Cause there was something out there, maybe it's Waffle Crisp, that was really weird and left powder on the roof of your mouth until you actually had to scrape it off with the edge of your finger. Interesting, but not worth the manual labor afterward.

Kix? Eh . . . there was something hidden in them. A secret taste. The commercials touched on that a little. "Kid tested, mother approved." A feast for the tongue, since you could never quite get why Kix were so good. Berry Kix? Holy fucking shit! I loved Berry Kix, but the boxes were always puny and too expensive. I hold a special place in my heart for Berry Kixs, like expensive red wine.

Now drum roll . . . Rice Krispies. Snap, Crackle, and Pop. Three elvish, magical chefs who hid inside your cereal. That was cool. Coolest fucking cereal. My parents actually made me believe that clones of these three chefs made the sounds heard whenever you poured milk on the rice flakes. Now, by itself, Rice Krispies are okay. They just sounded cool, a little novelty act for the morning to boost your brain waves. But when I was in Norway in second grade, my cousins showed me how to dowse the Rice Krispies with sugar. Oh . . . my . . . GOD!!! Nothing beats that. Beats the shit out of the processed sugar all over Frosted Flakes . . . but it doesn't quite match the awesomeness of Rice Krispie Treats cereal.

If you're a hopeful significant other, and you give me a box of Rice Krispie Treats cereal, I will ask your hand in marriage right then and there. I don't think they make this anymore. I would actually look forward to eating Rice Krispie Treats cereal the night before, knowing that the morning would be extra special because of what was on my pantry shelf. The winner of the childhood cereal wars goes to Rice Krispie Treats.

But sadly, due to my self-substaining lower income, I have been reduced to those shitty Malt-O-Meal bags that Adri says resembles dog food. I longingly look at the plethora of cardboard boxes loudly wailing "Buuuuuuyyyyy usssssss" in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. I'm sorry, my old friends, I can't buy you.

But I have found a replacement: honey granola and yogurt. The treat for adults. The new Rice Krispie Treats. God bless you, organic food store!!!

I haven't touched on all the childhood favorites (Count Chocula, Booberry, Reeses Puffs, Oreo-O's, Fruity Pebbles, Honey Comb) mainly because they were far and few in my upbringing, and they were a tasty candy breakfast when I was in middle school. You don't get the lasting effect of positive memories if you were eaten post-fifth grade. You don't hold the same value. All of those were eaten later on in my life. Good, but not as special in a teenage mouth.

Here's to you, Brigade of Mascots! I raise my spoon to thee . . .



Hercules and Love Affair -- "Hercules Theme"

Open Arms

Welcome, friend.


Sufjan Stevens -- "Chicago"

Billboard Words

Pivotal times call for pivotal thinking.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Barack Hussein Obama.

It's led to this. It's not a question of being proud to be an American. That is one of the worst things you can possibly say.

Karma. The combined forces of all of our will, the world's will, has led to tomorrow's events. Bush, the stuttering buffoon that he is, was good for us. In order to know how to overcome, one must be thrust into the depths of humility and self-reckoning. We sat on our asses, we WANTED to get Bush elected. I don't care if he wasn't "officially" elected, no, we WANTED him elected. By our inaction for those pivotal years, 2000 and 2004, we opted to challenge ourselves. We opted to make the world hate us.

The world hates us so that we can face our own failures, what we hate about ourselves, to overcome our obstacles and do what we know we need to get done.

We overcame the prejudice. We overcame the small minded propaganda. We overcame the thinking of the middle school playground wave of thought. If more than one person chooses that LEFT is the word of the day on those playgrounds, you can bet your ass no one is going RIGHT, despite the fact that it's a legitimate direction as any.

We put a black person in the oval office.

You look back on the last eight years, are you going to see the glass as half full, half empty, or just a glass with water? You choose the latter of the three, Bush was good for the country in the end. It made us so fed up with OUR inaction that it was only right that a man with such poise and courage as Barack would step up to the plate. He knew it was time.

God bless America? No. The forces that be, our will, blesses the world, which in turn blesses America by pure logic. The forces made Obama President.

I've been thinking today. At the school, we talked about Martin Luther King, we talked about that bullshit word "freedom". We talked about equality.

We talked the same to the kids as we talk to adults. "We have values, we have freedom, we have liberty, we are equal, we have peace, we have love."

No we don't have those things. No we aren't those things.

Those are nice words to tell children that it's going to be safe. Everything's alright. People are so afraid to face the truth of their nature, what will be, that they blind themselves with these bullshit words. The words they were taught as children, by liberals, by conservatives, by independents, by man girl friend foe gay straight killer lover human being.

Look into those words.

They have no meaning. They are comfort words. Like soft hands on your shoulders as you cry.

What are some real words? Death, life. Black, white. Power, corruption, altruism. Neighbor. Volunteer.

Teach those words to your children instead of vague terms. Love your child, help your child, say "Love" but show love. Say "Peace" but show peace. Those words only work if you practice what you preach. They are 50% bullshit.

The other bullshit words: value. Say "Value" but show value? What does that mean? Say "Freedom" but show freedom? Show "Equality"? How?

You can't. So stop saying those 100% bullshit words.

The only real peace on earth is local. It's how you act toward your neighbor. It's shutting off your thoughts, your stubborness, to feel ultimate compassion toward another.

World peace? Never going to happen. Unless you can give up, much like the "Fight Club" school of thought, let chaos rule. With no order, everything is the same. Everything's equal. No one rules another, violence is happiness.

Have you ever seen a toddler classroom? It is one of the most violent realms on earth. Violence is not learned, it is innate, and when you grow older you can choose to suppress it or use it based on what your parents and society has taught you.

Toddlers will kill each other if a teacher is not there to stand guard. Trust me. Violence is the basal element of communication. It is gesturing. It is using your body to communicate, just like pointing. Only because of the emotions involved, the pointing becomes more direct.



Know that you are an animal. Know that you harbor violence. Know that you are by nature a bigot. Know that you are a selfish, surviving mortal being.

And then know that you also have a gift. A gift for acquiring knowledge, that you can change. You will never get rid of your darkness, but you can use it in other ways. The only peace on earth is admitting your faults.

That will never happen to 100% of the population at the same time. So have self peace, and let the rest of the world work it out for themselves.

Obama will not bring world peace, but he gives me peace. Knowing Bush is out tomorrow gives me peace. Knowing that the last eight years might have been the best cause for Obama, for a slave race, to overcome the obstacle and be the equal: that brings me peace. If it doesn't bring you peace, so be it.

Your violence, your unrest at Obama, at anything I agree with, won't squelch my peace. If your violence gives you peace after you've killed me, I won't care, I'll have eternal peace or my peace will continue into the next life, according to most of you people willing to make violence over the reason of my peace. Just know this: your violence will cause you unrest, most likely. But you'll figure it out in the end.

That brings me peace, or I'm at least trying to let it bring me peace.

"Don't let the door hit ya on the way out!"















Saul Williams -- "Black History Month"

St. Peter vs. St. Peter

The judge, St. Peter, presiding above. Glaring down on my soul.

He speaks to me everyday. At the most inopportune times.

He is my conscience. The one I aspire to be. Not St. Peter of Christian lore, but Streetsmarts Petey.

No amount of "shit visions" can take away the amount of awkwardness I feel in places where I feel out of place and feel hundreds of eyes fixated on my differences. That's St. Peter's contribution to my brain, fighting with the other St. Peter, Stubborn Peter.

I went to The Loop club on Washington Avenue last night. I'm wearing girl pants, tight sweaters, my hair is long and covering one eye. I don't look like the corporate rubber stamper (as Louie likes to call the type), the man wearing jeans bought at Abercrombie, American Eagle, Urban Outfitters. I don't know my drinks, how to flirt, how to look a girl in the eye and throw pheromones into their senses.

I turn out as a cute little puppy. Girls flock to me to touch my hair, to ask my age, to say "You're cute." I guess I can't complain, but they're saying these things not so much as lustful desire, but with sheer amusement. "Awwww, look at him." It could be worse.

I'm a little dancing organ grinder monkey who likes Michael Jackson songs. I'll hold my own, and I'm okay with that sort of attention. I'm certainly not looking for one night stands, pelvic thrusting strangers. If they happen to happen, then I let it happen.

My gripe isn't with anyone else. It's my self-consciousness. I'm different. Not in that "We're all different" kind of way. No. I'm D-I-F-F-E-R-E-N-T. You could pick me out of the entire crowd at The Loop, and I'm not exaggerating. That's a reputable thing to say, I suppose, especially when my difference can be seen in a positive light.

But when you just want to blend in for a night, places like The Loop are hard to handle. Again, it turned out okay, I met some new people who I'd like to meet up with in the future, but I was getting a little sick of the comments strangers were giving me pertaining to the "cuteness". I felt left out while being let into the loop.

Will I go back? Hell yes! But I'm faced with getting rid of the self-conscious Stubborn Peter this year. He has not gone away. Put that down in the goal book for 2009.

Stubborn Peter must die.

50 Cent -- "In Da Club"

Judging Tassles and the Lizard People

If there was ever a drive for one thing, one solitary activity for me to thrive off of, it's performing live. And it may happen sooner than I had planned.

Last night the household went to get some awesome Mexican cuisine and Margaritas. We then traversed to the gothic splendour of Ground Zero to see a burlesque show starring some of our close friends. The venue was freezing, though. It was as cold inside as it was outside, and this affected the show and crowd. Things were mighty awkward. The MC fell onstage, singers forgot their lines, routines were just blah at times.

I've become so infuriated at some of the lackluster lameness that I've grown so accustomed to with these amateur burlesque shows. There is so much dead air between acts, MC's don't know the setlist, dancers at times don't seem to care about giving it their all. They're just happy to be involved with one of their passions.

Burlesque is a funny thing, I've found. It's a personal endeavor. Women (and men, I suppose) embrace their bodies, their power. You put your own individual touch to your routines, to take something out of the overall burlesque entity and add in your spice. So when some Joe Schmoe comes in saying "These dances are lame" it can almost be taken as a smack to an individual's personality. That's why I feel I'm even balancing on a fragile edge with this blog.

I've seen a lot of burlesque in my day. I was going to even start a troupe for a year, the Doppelganger Dandies, which was themed primarily on a darker, more raunchy, more disturbing and dada-esque form of freak show burlesque. It wasn't campy magicians, striped tights, lay on a bed of nails freak show (not that there's anything wrong with those shows). This was pop water balloons full of blood, dildo clowns, Dominatrix soldier routines (I had choreographed a vast dance routine featuring Marilyn Manson's "Para-noir" with one of these), huge group swing dances featuring almost slam dancing partiers, questionable transexual teases. It generated a bit of interest through the University of Minnesota's theatre department when I was planning on putting it on. Unfortunately though, higher-ups decided to shut it down (to my advantage, it turned out) due to time constraints and so that I could properly do some more research on the subject and gain more insight to the frailties and personal nature of burlesque dancing and Body Art in order to make the show more vital and successful. Knowing what I know now, I would still put on something akin to the Dandies idea, but everything would be justified and not for the sake of just grossing an audience out. It would be empowering and gratifying for both performers and audience members by taking the boundaries of burlesque and pushing them to almost untouchable realms, dealing with risque fetishes (that most people have) of all sorts.

I'm not getting anything out of the Minneapolis shows anymore. There are some awesome dancers (Tomahawk Tassles, Musette, Katinka, Cherry Poppins), but the shows they usually find themselves in lack overall "GRANDNESS" to me. It makes me want to start the "Dandies" up again, to show people that someone can put on a show with that "GRANDNESS", the organization, the rehearsing. Show the awesome power burlesque can have over an audience and it's performers. It really just made my want to perform ever greater.

So, coincidentally, and on another realm of performance, Taylor wanted to start up his "Lizard People" band this weekend with me playing drums. We could conceivably go live within a couple of weeks if we wanted. The high is starting to come back. Creativity is pouring through my head.

The junkie shivers are subsiding, and I'm closer to getting my fix . . .

Marilyn Manson -- "Para-noir"

Guided by Thorns

Note to self and others falling under a similar category: if you’re using online dating services, don’t ask your newfound friends to meet up in any way within the first week of initial correspondence. In all of my experience, those people never wrote back if I had asked innocently “Hey, let’s meet up this weekend for a drink.”

Innocence: a synonym for inexperience.

Horse Feathers -- "Curs in the Weeds"

Fair Trade

He was all I never wanted
I was all he ever needed

?

*Could be fun. More pileage on the plate. No pressure, though.*


The Raconteurs -- "Consoler of the Lonely"

Coalescence

Last night a promising thing happened. Patch seemed to breathe for the first time in heads other than my own. I wanted to scope out a drummer for the live band, and I passively asked Louie, who I'm planning to be the bassist, and Greg, who I'm planning to be the keyboardist/rhythm guitarist, to join me in going to see this drummer play in another band at the Uptown Bar. Greg brought our good friend Carl and someone I've never met before, Allison, surprising me when he showed up at our front door with not only his presence but others'.

It was a strange yet inviting night. Other people were bringing up my dream. It's a big deal to me. Everyone had a fun time, lots of laughs and good spirits. The cherry on top was when Carl remarked "I'm not musicially inclined, but if you need me to do anything in this band I'd do it in a heartbeat. You've got something really interesting going on."

It was the first night I couldn't get to sleep this year due to happy excitement. It's comforting to feel that something you've toiled over for so long might actually catch on and work.

It's starting . . .

The Mars Volta -- "Viscera Eyes"

Pictures Within Pictures

It always works like this: you do a full afternoon's work searching for potential jobs to apply for. You search online. Nothing grabs your attention after so many hours' worth of mindless searching. Until you see a tip: "Top 5 Ways to Find a Job". In that list, there also happens to be the things you SHOULDN'T do to find a job.

One of those no no's is to search for jobs online. There is only a 4.2% success rate with doing so. Whelp, there went my day.

Beck -- "Soul Suckin' Jerk"

Negative Narcissism

Looking back on the last week and a half of this blog, I remember that there was one solitary thought that connected each and every entry. It was a thought that happened as I sat down to type, with that long sigh "Allllrighty, what shall we type about today?" Every day has to pertain to a certain event, a trite occurrence turned into the biggest news of the world (case in point: a sauna visit where nothing happened except I got dizzy from dehydration, drank some water, sat in the sauna some more, it felt better, had a shower, ate some leftovers, watched two movies that I've seen countless amounts of times before. What's better? Writing about that or that my host accidently burned himself to a crisp and had his dog eat him because he had been deprived of his carnivorous jerky instinct all his life). Every day I avoided one topic in favor for another. That one topic happened to be my music.

Yesterday and today: NOTHING happened except music. I'm left with no choice.

Music is on the brain 24/7. If I had an illness it would be my slight obsession with my career aspirations. It's funny that I haven't actually hit the streets, the towns, the college circuit yet despite my 24/7 inner programming. Actually, that isn't that funny. It's sad to me. That happens to be my biggest shortcoming. A certain fear for putting my laziness aside and obsessing with recording.

It has to deal with the avoidance of critical thinking. Shit goes wrong every which way with Patch. Almost to the point where it's not fun anymore. No, scratch that, PATCH ISN'T FUN 90% OF THE FUCKING TIME BECAUSE OF RECORDING!!!! God, what I would give to have a little bit of luck come my way in terms of this little room o' mine. This little recording studio.

Like I said, I have an obsession with music. This makes me have high standards for recording my demos. Things need to sound super crisp and right on the money. That's where the lack of fun permeates into the mix of everything. Yesterday I really delved into a song called "Typosgraphy" (in fact, I'm putting off recording guitar tracks in it so that I can keep up with my daily quota for this '09 journal), re-recording a highly difficult solo at the beginning of the song. This took an hour and a half of both cutting and pasting good takes, EQing the sound, adding effects. I moved onto an electric guitar groove which took a half hour to record right with three different layers of guitar splayed on top of each other. I got the EQing right in 15 minutes . . . then I made the mistake of turning on an effect without first stopping the playback in the editing software. BOOM!!! Crash!!! Everything I had done in the last hour was wiped out because the file is a zipped file from a previous computer and it's a certain file type and yaddah yaddah yaddah IT ISN'T FUN!!!!

Is it fun to write songs? Sometimes. From scratch? Sometimes. From half written songs? Sometimes.

Is it fun to perform my songs? THAT is a resounding YES!!! I'm a performer. That is what I went to school for. I've deprived myself of the ONE thing I get off on. Well, technically the TWO things I get off on. 1) Performance and 2) Relationships. Why? Because I'm a performer who goes apeshit on preparation and rehearsal. It pays off in the end, yes, but in the midst of rehearsal I can't stand rehearsal. I need to write my stories, need to record my stories, show them to others, make them practice those stories to the lowest standard possible . . . and then I'll be happy. I guarantee it. I can say that with 100% certainty. Once Patch is live I'll be the happiest clam this side of the tide pool.

Right now? I'm irritable, short, grumpy. I think only about that failed effect, the deletion from too much information being stored on an effects chain for a guitar riff, the lack of a good solo, the lack of a good soundscape. FAILURE looms. Brings me glooms.

Will it be worth it? I don't know yet.

Anyway . . . what's the point of this post? To bring you up to speed on the event that has happened every day of 2009 so far. And that event is my constant desire to make Patch work and breathe in order to get a little closer to becoming a public entity. I've pushed back the date for band auditions, for sending my songs around the internets for too long. If there was one goal for 2009, it would be to take Patch live.

I don't like to talk about the behind the scenes aspects of my music. I find it to be full of jargon, boring, the same ol' same ol'. I feel that you have no connotation to what is going on behind my closed door, you will lose interest. So, I force myself to give short bursts of knowledge pertaining to Patch. I made this song, it's about this, hope you like it.

Now, videos? Behind the scenes videos? That's something of interest. There isn't any jargon there. Your eyes like to guess at what's going on. I'll try to do some video projects if there is anything worth picking up. It would be mostly me sitting in a chair strumming a guitar or playing one note on a keyboard to make a sound effect for environment's sake. But in those rare times where I'm about to strangle the microphone stand because I'm screaming my guts out . . . there's something worth watching there, I suppose. We'll see.

If I sound negative it's probably because I just watched George Carlin stand-up routines with my dinner and his sudden outbursts are bumping around in my head. I tend to take on the mannerisms of those I've recently spent time with, I've found.

The Vines -- "Spaceship"

King Jester

The end of the first full week of '09 was celebrated with a blast to the past: a Michael Jackson dorkasm.

Adri and I watched his "Live in Bucharest" DVD, a stop on his "Dangerous" tour. God, this guy is an anomaly. He was the biggest pop star in the world, almost to the point of actually being bigger than Jesus to some, and then he becomes one of the most shunned figures in the public eye. He's still loved, but only retrospectively.

We all break out his classics around the time of fall. "Thriller" is heard in bars, dance clubs, radio stations for the two weeks surrounding Halloween to an almost unbearable degree (I can't stand that song anymore). But then I tend to hear a lot of his older songs around that time as well. Almost all of the time the songs are either from "Thriller" or "Off the Wall". Nevermind "Bad", "Dangerous", or (shudder) "Invincible".

Okay, maybe "The Way You Make Me Feel" is heard, which is from "Bad". But my point is everyone still goes apeshit for this guy. With good reason! He's just so fucking epic. The reason the actual MAN is seen as complete fodder, I think, is that he showed the world that epic martyrs CAN fail. Throughout the 90's, we saw a yearly descension. Epic to awesome, awesome to cool, cool to good, good to alright, alright to eh, eh to holy crap. Because of the child mongering? Because of his bankruptcy? Because of the obvious and non-creative messages throughout his later CD's (I empathize with "Heal the World" and that "Lost Children" song, but in terms of artistic crass? Thhppppp!!!!)?

If Whacko Jacko came back on the scene with something like "Epic but Mortal", we'd eat that up. The music he put out all of his life merits our forgiveness, and I think most people would forgive him for his 90's and 2000's failures. If he keeps it cool, about love, about relationships, about dancing the night away, and not about hokey save the children and the world and have peace on earth bullshit -- he could reclaim the throne for King of Pop. This guy actually left his live stage shows by flying a real jetpack rocket contraption over the crowd and behind the stage. That is the definition of EPIC. And no one can be as EPIC as he was at those moments (no, not even Freddie Mercury).

We're ready to forgive. There are no more megastars in pop. We want the real King of Pop to return. Apparently, the current King of Pop has his dick in a box, for Christ's sake!



Q-Tip -- "Move"

Tricky Tiki

The exploitation of the Tiki culture has taken its toll. The gods are angry, and directing their revenge on me, for some reason.

Last night I went to a local bar near my house, Psycho Suzi's, with Taylor and Marta. It's a Tiki themed establishment, the decor is straw huts, torches, and Tiki statues. The drinks come in extremely ambitious mugs (coconuts, pineapples, certain Tiki statues). That's pretty much the extent of the theming for this place.

I ordered a Blue Moon and some tater tots. I was tired due to eating poorly throughout the entire work week. I find that when I'm tired I hallucinate a little. It usually comes in the form of sound. Falling asleep in my college classes, I would hear bells ringing from the next building over. I hear car alarms. I hear windows crashing. Cars screeching to a halt. Loud, high register sounds. Last night, something else permeated the hallucinatory sounds I've grown accustomed to.

It was coming from the kitchen. It was a real noise, a shaking of metal and plastic. I turned in the direction it was coming from, and the view was obstructed by Taylor's head. The sound had stopped by the time I moved my head to see past his hair, and I saw a lone, angry, three foot Tiki statue.

I immediately thought of the Rainforest Cafe chain, what with all of their animatronics. Gorillas will randomly beat their chests, elephants sound their toots, monkeys scream. I thought that the statue was on a random timer and had shaken its mouth frantically behind Taylor.

I remarked "Whoa! The statue just moved!"

Taylor said, "Hmm? No it didn't."

I said, "Yes it did! I heard something shaking. What just happened?"

Taylor: "That came from the kitchen, man."

I saw the kitchen behind the Tiki statue. I looked back at the Tiki statue, and it stood there mocking me. I was in a party of seven, four of the people I didn't know. People were looking at me funny. I turned back to my tater tots, examining them for bits of LSD fragments.

Jesus.

Then I started to have a fit of hiccups. Normally I wouldn't have thought much about this, but I haven't had the hiccups since fucking grade school! I've always been able to squelch hiccups once the first one explodes out of me. I couldn't squelch them last night. I didn't know what to do.

I only looked at the Tiki statue again. It looked at me more mockingly than before.

I remarked to Taylor, "Dude, this is weird. I have the hiccups right now, and I haven't had them since like sixth grade!"

Taylor said nonchalantly, "That's strange, man. Sixth grade? Hmmm . . . can I have a tater tot?"

I didn't notice him stealing my food. Something was afoot.

I grew silent. Watching everyone talking and laughing with pizza stuffed glee. I, on the other hand, kept looking at that stupid statue. It seemed to grow bigger with each sound permeating from the kitchen. I could have sworn that I heard a sound not unlike the growling of Kevin's demon furnace in "Home Alone" echoing in my skull, when Taylor broke me out of it and said "Should we get the check?"

I took one last look at the statue, turned back to the table, got the check all figured out, left the bar. I went straight to bed.

I didn't want any more reality blurrage for the rest of the night.

Aphex Twin -- "Come to Daddy"

Field of Dreams

Yesterday, Marta, Kristen, and I had a talk about how to find self-confidence in one's self. This is a broad topic, even a cliched topic, but I'm thinking back on how I found self-confidence in myself. What's my secret?

Throughout my years I've been terribly awkward. I've developed a slight studder while in public settings, my mind goes haywire whenever I'm by myself in a restaurant or bar (or god forbid on a dance floor!). Whenever I feel scared or downright less than everyone around me I travel to a happy place not unlike Happy Gilmore's . . .

I've developed a recurring thought process for whenever I'm a little frightened. I don't know when I developed it, but I think I created it while I was fighting some personal demons with my ex-girlfriend. I had thought up a world in which everything that COULD happen WOULD happen. If I thought she was going to cheat on me, she probably would in reality. If I asked about past flames and what they had done sexually, I thought that in some way she had cheated on me. It was a terrible complex for both me and her, and I had to get out of it, kill it, drown it.

Moving into another related, but slightly disgusting and personal limelight, I also have a problem with going to the bathroom in public places. Not so much urination, but more on the feces side of things. If I'm thrust into a situation where I absolutely MUST go the bathroom in a public restroom, I have to go through the same self-confidence thought process as I do for most of my scary moments. In fact, I developed my self-confidence inner monologue while on the toilet . . .

I'm in a corn field. Very similar to the one in "Forrest Gump" when Jenny and Forest are trying to "Fly far, far far away" as birds from Jenny's abusive father. Only it's dusk. The corn field is most likely derived from the act of pushing crap out of the cornhole. I know, it's gross, but shut up, it works. I'm being interviewed by Katie Couric in director's chairs in a small clearing in the field. The view pans up and above as if on a crane (much like the "Forrest Gump" crane shot), and I'm better. The vision stops there.

I know the interpretation. The things that happen in the short but sweet vision are not abstract dream symbols. Every component has a coherent meaning for me and my life.

The corn: I'm in the middle of a pile of life's shit. But I can make something out of it. Farm it into corn.
The setting sun: It's peaceful, even in the midst of this corn transformation.
Katie Couric: My goal is to become a figure in the public eye. All of the shit I'm dealt with has culminated into this product of accomplishment.
The aspect of a field of shit: it's hilarious, and I'm not so scared after smiling at the thought of being in a field of poo whilst being interviewed by a journalist.

It's a ridiculous daydream, but it actually caused me to lose all of my insecurities with my ex. The following year was one of the best I can remember. No worries, we just took things as they came. Whenever I get stage fright, I go back to the corn field. When a boss tests me, making me feel small and insignificant, the corn field comes up and I'm better again, even with their hurtful teachings bouncing in my head. It doesn't work all the time, and I have not even come close to fleshing out all of the demons I've hoped to beat, smother, and plunder, but it has made my life a hell of a lot easier.

Same shit, different day? That's fine, because I'm learning how to laugh at all of it. Day in, day out.

Patch -- "When Cold Was Warmth"

Don't Ask, I'll Tell

My coworker and I were talking today while manning our kids in the activity climber gym about Scientology. A big part of me expects this to be a joke put on by some sort of Moose Head Lodge VFW set in Hollywood. If you're a big celebrity you can join in on the fun, screwing with the public to show how organized religions start. If not, I wonder if the way we think about Scientology today is the same as how people thought Christianity to be 2000 years ago.

When I ask people this they usually respond right away with "No. I don't think so. I think they're different."

Are they? I'm a firm believer in the teachings of Christ. I do believe he was a real person, a teacher. A guru. I think we have a lot to learn by his teachings. But I don't subscribe to the Christian doctrine as told by the church.

I feel that church bashing is trite and overdone on blogs and throughout pop culture, so I don't want to get too too into it here. I definitely have my reservations about it, and from time to time I'll voice my opinions once in a while. But I've been doing it for so long, and I feel that writing my anti-organized religious rants in prose is about as useless as trying to convert a devout conservative Republican into a liberal Democrat in one sitting. It's a 99.9% losing streak for making the opposite side listen. And here's my reasoning:

What makes me any better than the other side of the argument? Who cares? If it makes you happy, so be it.

When you're threatened, or have a group going to battle against another klan, then we can start getting into arguments. But this, again, is middle school logic. It's a no brainer.

But ask yourself the question: could Scientology be the "2000 Years Later" equivalent to Christianity? Islam? Buddhism? Scientology sounds ridiculous and outright stupid to most of us, what with aliens dropping souls into volcanoes and whatnot. 2000 years ago, did walking on water sound ridiculous? Water into wine? Raising the dead?

I'm not taking sides with this question. I'm actually trying to imagine both sides of the coin. Could Scientology have some credibility (Hubbard didn't do a good job of putting a good face on his religion after stealing umpteen amounts of money from his own church way back when, though. Kinda makes you wonder what his motivation was for starting the craze.)? Is it too novel for us to comprehend? Was the brain behind Christianity also a thief to some degree of his own church? I happen to believe in some of the "miracles" pertaining to the lore of Jesus, Lazareth, Swami's the world over, so Christianity has some cred in that regard, for me. Scientology has some whacked out miracles as well. Is Coldplay really THAT bad of a band, or am I being swept up in the mainstream hate brigade (I happen to like "Parachutes" and "A Rush of Blood to the Head")?

This is what my brain goes through when some of those BIG debates come to fruition. The devil's advocate never fails to show up.

At the same time, I think that credit or not, the Hollywood infatuation with Scientology is getting a little scary. Watching the notorious Today Show interview between Matt Lauer and Tom Cruise during his "War of the Worlds" press tour makes me wonder how brainwashed some of these celebrities are. It's a confusing topic. It's interesting, but it freaks me out at the same time.


In all honesty, if someone asked me "Do you believe in Scientology? How about Christianity?" I'd say flat out "No". But that doesn't mean that I don't believe in the ideals that they preach and strive toward. Yet, at the same time, I also believe in some of the Third Reich's ideals, Communist ideals, Socialist ideals, Democratic ideals.

The ultimate answer: if something's organized, it's most likely plagued with corruption. Disorganized? No problem!

This is why my room is a complete disaster and mess. When people say I should clean it, I use the body of this blog entry in my retort. They usually go away with a "Sorry I mentioned it" look on their smug faces.

Assholes.

Coldplay -- "Violet Hill"

A Call to Arms

TRANSCRIPTION OF CONGRESSIONAL SUBCOMMITTEE ON DOMESTIC UNREST MEETING 1/7/2009

PRESENT: PETER KEAN (KENYON) (PRESENTEE)
JARVIS CONCORD (JUDGE PRESIDING)
MARY WOLWORTH (JUDGE PRESIDING)
HARRY Y. OTTOMAN (JUDGE PRESIDING)
JACOB UNVIOLGH (TRANSCRIPTOR)

TOPIC: FIRST INITIAL BRIEFINGS ON 1/6/09 TERRORIST ACT "ANNOY-A-TRON"

12:08:32PM
CONCORD: Right. I hope everyone is well. Mary, hello. Harry.

OTTOMAN: Mr. Concord.

WOLWORTH: Mr. Concord.

CONCORD: Has there been any success with the Bubble Gum Trap Prevention Act? Harry, I know you were the most adament about formulating that together for a shot on the Congressional floor.

OTTOMAN: Yes, Mr. Concord. My team and I have drawn up a preliminary bullet point list. This is, of course, still in its formative stage, an outline. I expect a full prose report by the end of the week.

CONCORD: Can't wait to see it. I'd like to see Pelosi on her soapbox for this issue within the month.

WOLWORTH: I can't agree more.

CONCORD: Okay. Moving on, I see that Mr. Kean has decided to join us today regarding a certain toy called the "Annoy-A-Tron". I haven't heard about this kind of weapon, Mr. Kean. Speaking with Mary and Harry here beforehand, we've not heard about this. Is it a pressing issue? It obviously warrants your personal appearance with us. We'd like to hear about this.

KEAN: Yes. Well, as you know, I've dealt with the authorities on this already. They were pretty shocked once I told them. I contacted Alfred Thompson with the Antiprank Board and he told me to get in touch with your committee. They said that it was a pretty important issue not to push past Congress. They'd like to see this thing put to rest once and for all.

WOLWORTH: Could you describe this device, Mr. Kean?

KEAN: Yes. It's about the size of a remote for car keys. About the length of my thumb, about an inch in width. It looks like a small computer switchboard. It's only purpose is to emit a loud, ear-piercing, shrillish beep. Set on a minute-by-minute timer, it sounds it's weaponry every five to three to ten minutes, depending on its built-in random number generator deciding on time increments. Hidden in a proper hiding spot, it causes a supposed victim to slowly go mad, thinking that one of its beeps is their defective computer, a broken circuit in a wall, a faulty amplifier. There have been hundreds of people on record who have admitted to their insanity being caused by the Annoy-A-Tron.

CONCORD: Have you been checked by a medical physician for any probable insanity symptoms?

KEAN: Yes. I was diagnosed with a minor form of insanity. I had ripped apart my room looking for this device, my hair was in shambles, and I was cursing up and down, screaming "Where is it?! What the hell is that sound?! Where is it coming from?!" Fortunately, I recovered in a few hours, although I hardly had enough money to pay the medical bills due to this incident.

OTTOMAN: And you know of people who have actually stayed insane because of this small device?

KEAN: Yes sir, like I said, hundreds of people are on record as being clinically insane due to that toy.

(SLIGHT MURMER BY THE JUDGING PANEL)

CONCORD: Mr. Kean, how long were you subjected to this torture?

KEAN: The first day it was for a full 24 hours. The second day lasted a good five hours. It could have been more had I not found it magnetically attached to my metal DVD holder.

WOLWORTH: What did you do after you found it?

KEAN: Well, I was temporarily insane, and I began to ask my household questions. "What is this? Whose is this? Who put this in my room?"

OTTOMAN: Do you know who planted the device, Mr. Kean?

KEAN: Yes. His name is Louis McCoy.

(JUDGING PANEL GASPS)

WOLWORTH: Louie McCoy? The secretary and one of the main minds behind the DFL in SD-59 of Minnesota?

KEAN: Yes ma'am, that's the man.

OTTOMAN: Are you sure it was him? How do you know?

KEAN: I called him in a fit of rage. He laughed diabolically and confessed. He said 'It is yours to use now, Peter'.

CONCORD: Did you use it on anyone?

KEAN: Me? Well . . . I may have placed it in his room behind a picture frame. Like I said, I wasn't myself at the time. I overreacted.

CONCORD: No no, you didn't overreact. That was a normal response, given the situation. Does Louie now repossess the Annoy-A-Tron?

KEAN: Unfortunately yes.

WOLWORTH: Do you think he has planted it in anyone else's personal space? Say another roommate?

KEAN: I don't know. All I know is that he has it again. I contacted the authorities an hour later.

OTTOMAN: You do know that you have basically breached Article 3.2 of the Retaliation Clause. You've opened up a full scale war with this fellow by re-planting the toy in his own room.

KEAN: I understand that sir. And having reviewed my actions, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to silence his prankish hands once and for all.

WOLWORTH: Jarvis, if I may ask, could you recap with us Section B-12 of the Prank War Clause? I think we should all have a fresh mind on the subject before we discuss the future of our actions pushing the bill against Louie McCoy and granting full immunity for Peter Kean here.

CONCORD: Gladly, Mary. B-12 states that the preliminary victim of a prank higher than a Class 5 Crisis Ceiling can retaliate with full immunity up to a Class 9 Crisis level. Class 1 is private humiliation dealing with oral joking with no other parties in attendance. Class 5 is relative insanity caused by inanimate objects. Class 9 deals with the Cluster Fuck, having the victim completely confused and out of sorts, almost showing signs of amnesia, due to the prank. I think Mr. Kean has suffered a Class 5 Prank and, if he chooses to do so, can retaliate with a Cluster Fuck prank.

WOLWORTH: I agree. Peter, would you consider retaliating against Louie? It's a major decision.

KEAN: Ms. Wolworth, I will do anything it takes to get back at that scum for what he put me through, and what he could potentially put others through.

OTTOMAN: Now, Peter, this isn't something to take lightly, not that you are, but I'm required by law to say that. You'll be going to war with him. Full out war.

KEAN: I understand that, Mr. Ottoman.

CONCORD: Okay. If I were in your situation, I would do the same. Okay, everyone? Mary, I'd like for you to draw up the bill on the Annoy-A-Tron. I think due to the severity of this prank, we should maybe cancel all other cases, including Mr. Ottoman's Bubble Gum Act, for the time being. I'd like to see this on the floor for voting by the end of next week. Is that possible?

WOLWORTH: If it needs to be done it will be done.

CONCORD: Good. Mr. Kean, I need a full disclosure of your intended actions regarding your retaliation a full 24 hours before you plan your defense. This will be for the subcommittee's eyes only. This will in no way see the light of day. The only after effect is that you will be granted immunity by Congress if the bill passes. If not, you never came to us, we never spoke. Is that understood?

KEAN: Yes, Mr. Concord. Can I ask: why wouldn't you punish me if the bill didn't pass against the Annoy-A-Tron and Louie?

CONCORD: Because scum like him shouldn't deserve to live on this good green Earth. He has chosen to defile the balance of human brotherhood, and I feel that your actions will bring back that balance. I believe he was a good man once, and that you can bring that good man back. We'll be in touch, Mr. Kean. God bless you and your mission. This meeting's adjourned.

KEAN: Thank you.

SUBMITTED FOR EVIDENCE -- EXHIBIT A -- ANNOY-A-TRON:

Pantera -- "War Nerve"

Pi

It's Tuesday, and I'm back at the daily grind. Day job and Patch.

While at the Montessori school this morning, I was making tea in the microwave next to the snack table in my classroom. One kid was sitting there wolfing down his breakfast eggs and jelly toast. While eating, he said "Peter, did you know you can eat toast with jelly on it?"

"Oh yeah, I do it all the time!"

With extreme jubilation, he dropped the fork and spit out bits of egg while he yelled, "ME TOO!!!"

I laughed, sifting my green tea packet, hoping for an ounce of caffeine to take effect within my zombie brain. My mind started to drift to the oil change that I would be needing to get later in the afternoon. I was thinking about my bank account, about the check I had given to Louie for rent, about how much I would have to pay for the oil change, when the same kid suddenly became sullen and serious.

"Peter, did you know that you can only count to a million?"

I started to laugh. "Really, is that the last number that you can count to?"

He nodded his head, jelly now resided on the sides of his mouth like the face of a sad hobo clown. "Yeah, that's the last number."

"Really? What about a million and one, a million and two, three, four, five, six? Infinity?"

He only shook his head. 1,000,000 was the last number. Everything past that was null and void. They were arbitrary.

I laughed and took a sip of my tea. The heat stimulated my stream of conciousness. I said aloud, "So, if you count a number higher than a million you're basically counting the numbers of God. They are too much for humans to comprehend and your head will explode if you speak those numbers."

The kid only swallowed down the last of his eggs, looked at me. "Your head will explode?" He took a look down at his empty dish. "Hey, I'm done, Peter!"

He got up to wash his dish and glass of milk with the look of innocent ignorance that only children can wear.


Nine Inch Nails -- "1,000,000"

Polish Sausages

Yesterday I subjected my body to torture. It could have been prevented, but I was tortured nontheless.

I was coaxed into a Hansel and Gretel fucking furnace.

"Come down to the country, Peter! Meet my Polish family, Peter! Relax a little, Peter! You'll feel great, Peter!"

I shudder to think about the last 24 hours . . .

. . . I woke up, took a little bit of the quiche that was left over from our video mix party, got dressed, and four of the household ventured down to Eden Prarie to try out Marta's father's new sauna. I made the mistake of not drinking enough water the morning prior, what with all the alcohol intake I had had in the past week. My pee was a darkish yellow. Not a good sign.

On top of that, Taylor made espresso. The heart started to race as we stripped down to our boxers and stepped outside into the subzero frigidity of Minnesota. We had to walk fifty feet basically naked.

Inside the sauna, we immediately felt relief. The temperature was at a nice 100 degrees, but was steadily climbing to 200. Marta warned us that the sauna could potentially reach dangerous levels if not contained properly. That had never happened . . . yet.

About the 150 mark, we started sweating buckets. About 170, my speech started to become worse than my drunkest rants. Breathing became difficult. I started moaning about a strawberry field I once saw in Alberta, with hundreds of bunnies prancing through the nearby meadows thirsting for strawberry juice.

Marta's father came in, said his hellos, and the rest of us went outside to take a quick break, leaving him by himself. My body was confused beyond all reason, as I felt great in the deadly temperature. Steam rose from our bodies in thick clouds. Marta's father was inside, listening to us talk. I'd like to think he was chuckling from our speech, as that happened to be the last blessed moment of his life.

After about 10 minutes, we heard a rustling inside the sauna. A steadily rising scream started to pierce the wooden boards of the hell chamber's walls. Then, to all of our horror, Marta's dad came bursting out of the door.

He was on fire.

Screaming and calling out to his Polish god, he ran around the backyard, his trusty dog trailing behind barking all the while. He jumped around and around. A thought came into my head at this moment, a warning from my biology classes years ago . . .

The rest of the group grabbed their towels and ran toward him, trailing smoke behind their backs. I started to move, but the dehydration had taken its toll on me. I had a terrible sense of vertigo, and I fell on the ground, trying to yell what had occured in my mind just before. All I could muster were quick pants and grunts.

The skin, when viciously burned, becomes steadily chaotic. The particles that make up our epidermis begin to shake violently. If they are cooled rapidly, they continue to go in the direction of their last tremor, basically falling apart.

This was what I was trying to tell Louie, Taylor, and Marta. They were going to melt him.

Louie took his towel and jumped on top of Marta's father. They both crashed into the snow. It was a cloud of fog and screams.

Marta started to shout "PAPA!! PAPA!!" Taylor vomited his espresso and quiche. Louie stood up, covered in what looked like beef jerky sludge.

It was the skin of Marta's father's back. It had fallen off of his body, and Louie was wearing it like a parka.

Marta's father was moaning in Polish. Everyone stood watching him, dazed and confused. I was still laying thirty feet back, literally and figuratively frozen. What happened next will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The dog came up, sniffed the charred muscle tissue of the poor man's back . . . and started to eat his exposed tissue. Ravaging and mad, he tore off his meat in sheets. At this point I said "Damn my lack of water!!" I lumbered up and ran stumbling over to the dog. I grabbed its tail and started to pull. It turned on me, dowsing my legs with the man's innards. I felt hot teeth sear into my arms. I let go, falling, unable to regain the strength due to the dehydration.

Just then I saw a large bat thwat down on top of the dog's head. A loud whimperish scream emitted from the canine's throat, and I saw the raging eyes of Marta's younger brother looking down at the horrible sight. He was in his skivvies as well, looking more like a primitive Neanderthal than a loving son.

The dog limped away. The boy dropped the bat and crawled over to his father. He didn't want to turn him over, for fear that he might spill the remaining guts of his dad all over the snow. He only asked "Papa, Papa, what should we do?"

Through the dying moans came a choked gargling, hardly distinguishable, but we were able to hear what he had to say.

"Don't . . . don't tell your mother I died like this. Tell her . . . tell her I died doing something honorable."

The boy cried "Papa, I know just what to say."

He choked: "You always were a good boy."

And then he died.

We stood there for ten minutes, silently weeping and stunned.

I turned to Marta's brother. I asked, "What are you going to tell your mother? How are you going to say he died?"

He looked at me like he had known me all my life. He looked at everyone else.

He turned his eyes on me and said slowly, "I'm going to tell her that he let us use his prized sauna. The sauna he built with his own hands. And he died knowing that he had brought joy not only to his own heart, but to friends' as well."

Thank you for letting us use the sauna, Mr. Haftek. We'll remember you always.


Bloodhound Gang -- "Fire Water Burn"