At the end of work today, I was manning the toddlers in our library. A little one year old was fascinated by my flannel shirt, mainly because of the snapping buttons. He would say "Can I button?" He would try, unsuccessfully.
The thing that made me laugh, though, was when he looked at my hairy chest after pulling my buttons apart. He stopped, scrunched up his nose, and said "You're messy."
Then, apparently appalled, he left to go play with some blocks.
Last night I admitted to a fellow standing next to me at a pee trough full of ice that you can melt into works of art that I had stage fright whenever I peed next to people. The guy looked at me and said "I used to be the same way. But a friend of mine once said 'You just take as long as you have to, amigo'."
I started laughing. "That doesn't mean anything, man."
One hand holding his weiner, the other hand going to my shoulder, he said "Just take as long as you have to."
I said "It might take a little longer with you doing that."
We shared a laugh, he finished up, walked out the door. Immediately, I started lettin' 'er rip. As I sculpted my ice sculpture I had a horrible thought.
He didn't wash his hands, which meant that the shit from previous bathroom sessions was most likely on his hands, which was most likely now on my shoulder.
You ever get advice that you never asked for in the first place? And then actually get sick because of it in the end?
June 2007: I get an idea for an intro song for Citizens Banned while peeing after listening to The Mars Volta's "Amputechture" for the first time. I record it in a month's time. It's called "Typosgraphy".
November 2007: Feeling the Banned break apart, I opt to bring "Typosgraphy" over to the Patch realm. Spending a day by myself at Fort Snelling, I come up with a number of different ideas relating to "Sound. Of. Static."
Winter 2008: Researching the culture of rock and roll. My thesis: rock is the center of pop culture. It embraces the art of lethargy with a ton of enthusiasm for change, difference, and energy. Nothing ever changes, though, because in the end people either don't have the stamina to make change, or they didn't really care for change in the first place. Art as a mass commoddity is lazy. After reading and taking notes through some 3000 pages, I finally gain enough insight into other people's theses on the topic to feel confident enough to embark on my own thoughts, ready to step on some toes.
March 2008: While writing "The Architect", the main focus for "Sound. Of. Static.", I feel overwhelmed with a need to do the record right. I feel like embarking on something else, something a little more DIY in the meantime. Finishing up "S.O.S.", I book myself a stay at Motel 6 at the end of April.
April/May 2008: "I Source" EP is written within a week's time, three of the four songs having been written in one night at Motel 6. The songs I tend to attribute to this stay are "Solitaire" and "Trachomanic". I was nervous, was high off of too much caffeine, the heat was raging, I looked a mess.
Summer 2008: Record "Trachomanic" with Schuyler producing. The project is excruciating and frustrating. A three minute song becomes a three month long nightmare of trial and error. I think that the rest of "I Source" might be a little tough to complete in a timely fashion, so I figure on making a sample platter of some of the more easy to record songs in my collection.
Fall 2008: Spending a lot of time by myself on walks and hikes, I start getting ideas to make a second EP to coincide with "I Source" called "Hue". Many visits to coffee shops are had, and an old riff from early college is recycled for a sprawling mid-tempo piece explaining a turning point in the storyline for the two EP's, "In Hopes to Mend". This song is the quintessential Northeast Minneapolis piece, as many walks around the area were had while formulating both the writing and recording of it. I'll always think of warehouses and train yards when I hear this song. Another EP, "Karmath", is also written during a fit of laziness with writing "Hue". Chasing the muse, "LCD", a mid-tempo for "Karmath", is recorded in November and December.
Winter 2009: Knowing the final tracklisting for the sample platter, I embark on revamping the old "Typosgraphy" file. It's more nightmarish than the "Trachomanic" recording process, for some reason. "In Hopes to Mend" is also recorded with much more ease and relaxation due to a complicated process of recording dealing with Multi-Files (hard to explain), but it made it easier in the long run.
Spring 2009: The last two songs, "In Hopes to Mend" and "Switch", will be finished. The working title for the platter is "Schematics". It will be a culmination of two years' worth of pondering, brainstorming, overthinking, writing, and recording.
This weekend: "In Hopes to Mend" will be finished. One step closer.
I looked up, saw the color of the moon, and was sure.
So I called.
It's one of those milestone moments where you're just there, or at least you should be. I tried to think about the future, she thought about it too but didn't want to. I tried to think about my past, I don't think she cared for it.
She asked me once "How are you supposed to live in the moment?"
I didn't know until now.
I needed to see her. That moment. Just to talk to her. I had the itch.
So I gave into the moment.
I started talking about her future.
She didn't want to.
She wanted to talk about nothing in particular. Tell jokes, enjoy each other's company. Fresh air. That moment.
So, I stopped wondering about what to do with the situation of "us". I just lived it.
Just smiled.
After next weekend, I doubt I'll really see her much. The times will be far and few . . . but they'll exist. I'll smile, enjoy those moments, look forward to the next far off moment without too much coherent thought. Just a feeling.
Way back in December 2007, Citizens Banned had its official last show. It was at the Hexagon Bar's 12/12 event. 12 bands playing 12 minute sets. Drummer Dave had quit, so we devised a way to play "acoustic" versions of some of the songs, then go into a medley of instrumental sections with me on drums and vocals.
I was personally devising my Patch scheme at the time. I was writing "Sound. Of. Static." songs, thinking about the overall direction of Patch, how proggy everything was going to be, how straight forward other songs would be to balance the weird experimental nature of everything else.
Being in the studio for so long, I long(ed) to take Patch onstage. If I see a live band kind of sporting the same exploits as Patch I get really envious and a million ideas start flowing into my brain. One of those bands is Minneapolis' Buildings.
All of the CB guys went home, I was by myself at the bar watching the rest of the bands play. When "Buildings" came up I was floored. They sport a punk/grunge/prog style made by ADD sufferers. Sections fly by, but it's tight as hell.
If I'm ever stumped for ideas while writing, I visit Building's Myspace page and listen to their streaming playlist. Lately, I've been visiting their page a lot while writing the first stream of songs for Patch's summer/fall outings.
The guys are all extremely nice, they're full of ideas. I hope they break out of the local scene . . . if Patch breaks, they'll definitely be some of the first people I'll be contacting to share a tour bill with, that is, if they haven't broken up. They threatened imminent kabash in the coming year, and they have "Farewell Show" media posted online. Here's hoping the ADD-ness brings them out of retirement if that is so . . .
A new kid started yesterday. It happens that his name is Peter. Even though we only share a name, I feel a little bit of a connection with him. I don't know why.
Today in our day care portion, he came up to me and asked "When is my mom coming?" with tears in his eyes. You have to expect this from the new kids. I got down on my knees and said "She's probably on her way to pick you up right now, Pete. You see that clock over there?" I pointed to a microwave which sports digital time. "When those numbers turn to 6:00, the school is closed. She'll be in here before then, so you'll only have, at most, about two hours to wait."
He said "When the clock is 6:00?"
For a second I thought he could tell time. I forgot how I figured out that he was like any other three/four year old, though.
He asked "Can I watch it?"
I said "Sure."
He proceeded to sit cross-legged on the hard wood floor and watch the microwave. I could have turned on the microwave, paused it, and left a consistent display on there and he wouldn't have cared. This instrument obviously brought him comfort in the prospect that his mom was coming to get him.
He sat in front of the thing for an hour.
I finally called him over "Pete, man, I'm getting worried about you. Why don't you come over to the carpet where I can see you?"
He started to cry. "Nooooo! I can't see the clock from there!"
"I need you over here, bud. I can't see you from where I am."
He cried, and I had to do the 1-2-3 count, much to his disapproval. He would've just sat there otherwise until we went downstairs to play in the jungle gym.
He started playing a little with the other children, loosening up, to my relief.
The reason this got to me was because it reminded me of myself at his age. I used to do the same thing, wait in front of the window, just watching the cars go by, itching to see my mom coming up to the front door of whatever child care center I was presently in. I cried, I thought she would die on her travels without me, leaving me alone. Her mom died when she was young, so I took it as a sign that my own mother was going to die when I was young, as well.
I got a weird out-of-body experience out of finally knowing what my care givers probably thought during these events. Thoughts of "C'mon, kid, just play a little with the other guys," or "Wuss", or "I don't care, he needs to be by me, no matter what he says or does."
This kid will be an analyzer, a possible worry-wart, have a sense of humor, but he'll have emotional thoughts cloud his judgement most of the time.
In other words, I think this little Peter will turn out a lot like me. And I'm now the thoughts of the people who dealt with me as I grew up. It's kind of a strange experience.
It is instinctual to pick one's nose. Every kid does it. They dig so hard into their noses I'm almost afraid they'll drag out part of their frontal lobe along with their hard balls of mucas. And every kid eats it, without fail. Hell, some kids pick their nose all the time, I'm pretty sure the reason most of them don't eat their lunches is because they are full off of their boogers.
We're taught not to pick our noses. But do any of us REALLY stop? I've asked a little bit. People say "No, I don't pick my nose, I use a Kleenex." Fuck off. C'mon, if your nose is stuffed, you're in the car, no one's around, you happened to have forgotten your pack of portable Kleenex . . . your index finger or thumb is going up there to clean it out. You don't eat it. That's too far. You flick it. Out the window, onto the floor, into a napkin.
Raise your hand if you don't pick your nose? You're all a bunch of fucking liars.
These last couple of weekends have presented me with revelation. The kind of revelation that makes you stop in your tracks and say "Whoa. I -- I'm one of them!" "Them" pertains to a group of people or a fraction of society that you wish you wouldn't belong to. But most of the time if you find you do in fact belong to the group you're wishing to avoid being a member of . . . you don't really care, save for saying a "One of them!" statement and then getting on with your breaking personal promises lifestyle.
I have a cellphone. It's a piece of crap compared to the small CIA control stations everyone else is touting in the outside world. Touch the screen on those babies and you can nuke a small, defenseless country. It's an application -- look it up . . . or something.
I get by just fine with my piece of crap cellphone. Seriously, it can't even take pictures, let alone even receive pictures that people send me. A text message is sent to me from my own number. This is where I go "Did . . . did I seriously send a text message to myself? Did I blackout? What happened?" It usually ends in disappointment. It's my Verizon service saying "HEY! You've got a FLIX pix. Go to www.vzwpix.com to receive your photos!!" I'm not registered with the Verizon group. It sort of slips my mind. I'm under a family plan so I figure my mom takes care of all of that hullaballoo. I don't even know what my passwords are for the phone. I can't register even if I tried. So, basically, no pictures are getting in or out on my phone (hint hint friends o' mine currently on the east coast -- I CAN'T SEE YOUR PHOTOS AND EVERY TIME YOU SEND ME ONE IT REMINDS ME HOW UTTERLY POOR AND WEAK I AM COMPARED TO YOUR AWESOME PIXEL CREATING MACHINES!!!!).
My phone does the simple functions, the basics, if you will, for mobile normalcy in a non-normal world: it calls, it receives calls, it texts (poorly, people can write texts in mere seconds, I spend about as much time trying to write a stupid one liner "Can't come, gotta work" message as a three year old spends trying to write a letter to Congress on a typewriter), it receives texts. I can't even figure out how to record an outgoing voice mail message on the phone, I've checked numerous times. Maybe I haven't rigorously sought out how, I s'pose, but yeah. It should be easier than that. That's why you get the Verizon lady instead of my scrumptious vocal chords if you can't reach me.
I've had better phones, including a camera phone. That one was stuck in "Car Kit" mode or something, which is like the blue screen of death for cell phones, apparently. I needed a phone, I picked up the cheapest piece of crap at the store because my contract on the first phone wasn't up yet. One more month. They planned that. A remote destructor blew my phone into "Car Kit" mode so I could give more money to Verizon like a schmuck. "Can you hear me now?" "BOOOOOOMMMM!!!!" "Good."
So, seeing my dad's Iphone, roommate's Google map functions . . . it's not so much that I'm jealous, it's more like I'm taking advantage of their machines whenever they're around. For instance, Louie used to have a Sprint phone that allowed him Google map access. If lost, you can pinpoint your current location in order to find a way out of the veritable black hole you've found yourself in and plan an evac to the path you originally decided to embark upon. Last week, Louie and I were trying to find Schlotzsky's Deli (the finest sandwich I've ever eaten is their Original). We thought we went too far, so I said "Wait, do you have your phone on you? We can check out where it is exactly."
Louie retorted and said "I don't have that phone anymore."
"You don't -- you don't have the phone anymore? Well . . . what are we going to do?"
That's when I had the revelation: I was reliant on technology I never thought I would need or care for. I actually longed for a touchpad based phone. No, not longed, NEEDED.
Just to finish the story out, Louie and I resorted to the next best thing: we stopped at the nearby Southdale Mall and went to the Apple store to use a laptop and check what we could've checked on a stupid awesome phone with sales people trying to spread their Apple disease all over us in the process. All so we could get a fucking sandwich. We found it eventually . . . but it was closed. Sad ending, I know. You can't win 'em all. This is my life, folks.
The reason I don't really care to have an awesome phone is because I thought I didn't like using it. I avoided calls, usually. I would just silence the ringing and wait to call back until I was ready to talk.
That was then, this is now.
After being cooped up in my room trying to forge together my musical dreams that scream "FAILURE!" ever more as the days pile up, I long for communication. Now, whenever the phone rings, I jump with joy. CONTACT WITH AN OUTSIDE CONSULTANT!!!
So, now I want to talk more, now I want applications to nuke innocent people, now I want GPS systems on my phone. Oh, and pictures, too.
A cowboy night is a night where you go out of your door, not really set on a destination, but travel by your lonesome to a various locale. The primary reason for doing this is to meet new people, become enveloped within different groups, live life a little.
Last night I said goodbye to my director at the Vegas Lounge, a dive bar featuring karaoke just down the block from my house. I was recording Patch, so I got there a little late. The group pretty much left right away, leaving me to drink my drink by myself with some random people I had never met before.
I had a blast.
I sang "Twentieth Century Boy" by T-Rex, no one knew the song apparently, yet some of the women I met came up and were go-go dancers and were singing backup even though they didn't know the song. We did backup to other people's karaoke jaunts. I was told that I looked like a young Mick Jagger by one of these people to many handshakes and "Well, thanks, I guess," on my part.
Some random lady came up to me, pretty sloshed, and said "You see that guy? He's hot."
I replied "Yeah, he's cute."
"You need to see if he's single. Can you talk to him for me?"
I had to get into her psyche, find out who she was, what she wanted . . . I fell into a deeper connection with a stranger than what I was normally affixed to.
I went on by saying "If you had the nerve to talk to me you have the nerve to talk to that guy. You're asking a complete stranger to be a matchmaker for you. We've just developed a relationship within the space of five minutes, moreso than you'll probably develop with that other guy in the entire night."
She then gave me a hug, a peck on the cheek, and said "Can you talk to him for me?"
Jesus . . .
I was thinking in the shower, "Where would be my ideal hangout? I know people have their watering holes, places they go to without a posse. They know the staff personally, the locale fits their personality. Where's my place?"
I would want to pick a place that would be most optimal to meet people just like myself, of course. Too Much Love is too general, the crowd too mixed. Where are the people who are on the verge of vegetarianism but haven't gathered enough stamina to cut meat out from their diet? Where are the artists who love art but feel there's way too much pretension throughout the entire complex of public art forums? Where are the people who are super hyper and positive about life but can settle down and have a depressing conversation about the economy and pop culture sludge?
I thought my ideal posse would be formed out of fast food restaurants. My household now still visits Taco Bell, Wendy's, Arby's, McDonald's on occasion. We don't go every week, and we sometimes go without visiting a fast food joint for months at a time. But we find ourselves at a location from time to time.
These new people would be eating by themselves. They would be eating with slight guilt, ashamed of the meat in front of them. Yet they haven't found the stamina to cut it. They are healthy, meaning they don't come to these locales often. But there's something pertaining to vice surrounding these places. They're little treats for lazy nights or quick stops in between errands.
There should be a Taco Tuesday Ladies Drink Free at Taco Bell every month. Free soda. The people who would frequent this probably wouldn't be unhealthy. They would probably make an event out of it because they are healthy, they're going to have a treat. It would be the ideal locale for me right now. Happy events, vices, and guilt.
Going to classes pertaining to a positive way of life, such as Yoga and meditation, is another place for the ideal person. People are trying to find out about themselves, they're tapped into their brains, their bodies, their souls. Maybe I should start taking up meditation at the center down the street in April.
But for nights out -- where? The place where I'd find the clone of me . . . Artsy bars, I s'pose. Rock venues. A lot of douchy people flock to those places, though . . . where would the ideal crowd be?
Happy places tend to be book stores, bakeries, restaurants. It's hard to just meet the ideal crowd at those places.
Where?
Debates. Lecture debates sponsored by the University. Or movie fests, where you talk to people afterward about the preceeding events.
Lectures and events relating to a discussion of some sort.
Hmmm . . . I'll look into this . . .
Creedence Clearwater Revival -- "Run Through the Jungle"
Yesterday, the Miniapple staff sat down to have a monthly meeting. We had cake, Canada Dry Ginger Ale, talked about the mandatory issues dealing with our daily jobs.
One thing got me, though. One thing raised issue with me.
Child care is overseen by an entity we like to call "Licensing". These are the law makers, the enforcers of standard and upkeep within child care centers and what have you. If something doesn't comply with Licensing you're fucked. If there's a nail uprooted in a floorboard, Licensing marks it, says "You have a month to get this fixed or else you're on our shit list." If you're on a Licensing Shit List it's almost equivalent to being a child predator within a residential neighborhood -- your face and name are posted everywhere in directories and communities saying that you are present and that people should take caution when around your presence.
Or at least that's what Licensing likes to make us think.
Miniapple is due for a Licensing visit this spring. They come unannounced. "They" happens to be one person who visits the school. But they are tough, they know their shit, they know they are the big dog in the house. Frankly, we're all terrified of the Licensing Lady.
Two years ago the Licensing Lady dropped by for a day. Right when she arrived the place went nuts. The director literally ran through the halls announcing in a frenzy "Licensing is here! Get ready!" Dirty spray bottles are quickly cleaned out, coffee cups, whether empty or full, are thrown out and covered with a paper towel in order to hide it, etc. It sucks.
So, here's my tiff: I was under the impression that as long as we had a sealable coffee container we would be safe. You're not supposed to have plastic containers from coffee shops lying around. Apparently not even sealable coffee containers are allowed.
Coffee is my only vice while at the school. I have nothing else in terms of personal affects. I'm 100% kids all the time, but I need little ten second snippets just to get a little sip in at the teacher's counter to refresh and then go back to the kids. It's the only thing I have for Peter time.
And now Licensing is going to take that away from me.
Fuck this job, man. Fuck kids. I have nothing. I just want a little bit of fucking coffee that's not even hot by the time I arrive at the school. You're telling me that a bowl of soup that the kids bring up for us to warm up at lunch time is safer than a sealable cup full of room temperature coffee? They could spill the soup all over their laps (and they usually do spill)! My cup of coffee -- again at ROOM TEMPERATURE!!! -- is on top of the microwave, a good five feet above the highest reachable height for outstretched five year old hands.
I give up. This might sound like it's a trite, "who cares" deal, but seriously I have NOTHING, I give everything up for the kids if I'm clocked in. I'm clocked in for 8 hours. In that span of time I can't even eat a sandwich without being asked "Can you open this? Can you help me clean this up?" I get a 30 minute break around 1:30. Usually, I take a nap in a really uncomfortable wicker couch that's too small for my legs to be on fully without going through a hole in the backside of it.
I come home in need of my autonomy. And I'm usually pretty tired at the end of the day. Of course there are the Patch demos to finish up. It's hard to just sit, stare, be by myself.
I forget who I am half the time. I've lost touch with my body, my personal needs save for food and sleep. People wonder why I'm irritable half the time.
Another reason for a quick evac from Miniapple. I think I'll start looking for new jobs next week.
I'd like to preface this entry with a disclaimer: this entry's about sex. Heed the "Content Warning" sign if you're a parent of a small child I may or may not teach day in day out. These are my thoughts, I don't bring them to work. Plus, if you're a family member that's over 30 it's just weird for you to continue reading. Also, this isn't derived from any current activity or person that I'm involved with physically. This is just general musing on the topic of sex and the battle over communication and coherent answers.
My roommates and I had a talk about sex. We do this on occasion. About what we like, what we don't like. I'd assume women talk about this stuff, too, in their way. Maybe the same way. I don't know. Maybe they don't talk at all.
Is it just me, or are guys pretty much the same when it comes to sex? Every single guy I've talked to has agreed with me 100% about our likes and dislikes, or they're at least leading me on in making me think they think like I do. The difference lies in how much initiative they take in carrying out their desires in the bedroom. Some are shy, some are really aggressive. My roommates are on the aggressive side along with me, so maybe I feel every guy is the same because my only frame of reference is my roommates and their girlfriends.
The topic of discussion today started with me saying "You know, if you ask a girl what their fetish is they'll look at you as if they don't know what you're talking about. Me, I'll flat out say 'I'm into this and this and this and this.' Tangible, discernible objects and concepts. Girls are into abstract emotions and feelings, usually."
Is this true? Guys are into clothes fetishes, food fetishes, gothic fetishes, peeing, clowns. Things you can easily define. Women? Dominance or commitment. Passion. Well, yeah, those things are great, but they're not really definable. I'm committed when I make love, yes, but . . . that's your fetish? You like it rough in the sack, but that's not a fetish. That's just your style.
Maybe fetish is a style. Maybe I haven't met a woman who has "fetish" in their style schema. Maybe it's me who is a little out there with all my fetish wondering.
This led us to talk about the fact that we would love a girl to define everything she wanted in the sexual session that was about to proceed shortly thereafter. If asked, of course. I'd love to have a bulletpointed script "Start tousling my hair, kiss my elbows, caress my breasts, cup my vagina, then lick my clit until I scream bloody murder."
I could do a script like that if asked. For those special times when someone says "What do you want?"
"Well, I, ahem, prepared a list for an occasion such as this, since you asked."
In all my years, and of all the girls to whom I've asked that question, they've always said "I don't know. Um . . . maybe . . . kiss me, then just . . . maybe finger me, then go in me." I could have guessed that.
No one knows what they want. They just want you to read them, their body language, and then guess-timate. If you make them squirm with delight, gold star for you! You guessed correctly!!! If you make them squirm in discomfort, you win some you lose some.
Sex is communication. Laugh at the body farts your skin makes when you hump the fuck out of each other. Stop and say "Hey, alright, go a little to the right . . . oh, right there!"
Nope. It's a guessing game for us guys.
Now, I'm not putting all of the blame on you women. I'm me. I'm only speaking through my experience. Maybe I'm not good at communicating, maybe this is a weird way to deal with my sexual frustrations or whatnot. But I do feel like 9 times out of ten, the ladies I've dealt with didn't know what they wanted. "What Women Want"? They're asking themselves that same question. Guys? I feel like they know TOO MUCH of what they want, to the smallest detail.
In my case, I'm almost a little afraid to speak of my desires.
Am I ashamed of them because they may be derived from somewhat demeaning porn related media? Guys like their porn. Is this one reason for the surety of desire in men? Is it because we fantasize more in a sexual, physical context rather than the emotional bondage I was taught that women tend to fantasize in?
"Just being with you makes me happy."
"Yeah, but what do you WANT?! Being with you makes me happy, too, but what's gonna make you scream with pleasure for the next ten minutes?! My finger?"
"No."
"My tongue?"
"Not tonight."
"Well, what then?"
"Just you."
"FUCK!!"
WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!?!?! THAT'S ALL I'M ASKING!!!!!! GIVE ME A STRAIGHT ANSWER!!!!
I was sitting up on the third floor of the school today on my 30 minute break. I took a small but much needed nap. I woke up on my own without my phone's alarm going off, and lay there thinking.
It had been a rough day so far. I was in one of the worst moods I think I've ever visibly been in while at Miniapple. I kept thinking about quitting. About my plan to finish up the Patch demos first and then find a new job. About maybe striking that plan and finding a job first while finishing up the demos.
The answers are there but my brain's been in a funk for two years where it's hard to sift and plan out cohesive bulletpoint plans.
This frustration usually causes me to dwell on somewhat violent subjects. Self-destructive or just plain old weird thoughts. Today, I realized that tons of airplanes fly over the school on their take-off patterns from the nearby Minneapolis airport. The sound is deafening, but being that it's a constant sound, you stop paying attention to the airplanes and their engines hundreds of feet above.
I watched them fly through the trees, thinking "What if I saw them dropping bombs on the city? This would be the perfect spot to watch from." It's true. The third floor looks on downtown Minneapolis from Dinkytown, which is a very good view indeed. You could watch an entire downtown massacre from the school if there ever happened to be one.
If I saw a plane coming my way dropping bomb after bomb in its path, knowing it would be dropping a bomb either across the street or on the actual school itself, would I have enough time to run downstairs and find cover from the falling debris, or would I be paralyzed with fear, giving my body to the explosive device?
And the last chilling thought I had before I went downstairs and started laughing with children: I wonder what a nuclear bomb would sound like if one was detonated in the center of downtown Minneapolis. Would I be burned along with downtown from my position? What does a shockwave travelling in my direction sound like?
At that, my alarm went off, and I hopped down to the second floor to deal with a kid who had been punching another kid in the nap room who was trying to sleep but was woken by this other child's incessant need to test others' pain thresholds and blame the kid's crying on nightmares.
Dealing with that stupid situation, another bomb vision popped into my mind's eye.
Around 3:30 this afternoon I was sitting with the kids outside, basking in the awesome 60 degree weather, at the picnic table. I had my right hand on the table, and I moved it ever so slightly (forgot why) and a woodchippy stick thing went perfectly up between my middle finger's nail and skin directly underneath.
I screamed bloody murder. The kids started laughing. I tend to scream a lot, I guess, in fun. I looked at my hand: a fucking stick was lodged underneath my entire fucking nail!! I couldn't get it out without tweezers, and having children come first always you can't just drop whatever you're doing and take some personal time for yourself. I ran into the school, my finger throbbing like no other. I looked for tweezers, found them on the first floor.
I tried digging it out but it was too far in. I had to find nail clippers. I found them in the toddler room with emergency cards, almost crying in pain around little one year olds. I cut my nail past the normal cutting mark. I was seriously ripping off my nail and clipping it down enough to reach the stick.
I then started digging again with the tweezers. The tweezers were too big and dull. No sharp point. GAH!!!
I then gave the tweezers back to its owner. She said "Let me get it out."
I gave in after a little protest, and she started actually breaking more skin, spitting blood out of the tip. I think she actually pushed it in more, deeper under the nail.
I went upstairs, knowing my new director was a first aid trainer. She looked, winced, said "Can you clean Children's House 3?" I yelped "Yes."
I cleaned for a half hour in slight agony. My finger kept bumping into the brooms and vaccuums. I showed the finger to the director again and she said "Let me get it out."
I grabbed the tweezers again. She looked and said "This is gonna hurt." I had to prepare. She went down to the finger, and juuuuuust as the pain was about to thrust into my nervous system, she stopped and said "It's too big. These tweezers won't do it. I'll go home and get my own."
I waited for another half hour with kids wanting to see the damage, accidently bumping into it. The director came with pointy tweezers in hand. I said "Let me do it first."
It was almost like taking a broken bone out of my finger. I lodged the tweezers deep into the tip of my finger and pulled hard. It moved only a little with each pull, that's how deep it was lodged in there. After four good pulls it was out, spitting blood out in a bubble. The kids cheered. I wiped away little tears of pain that had gathered in the corners of my eyes.
That was by far the worst fucking splinter I've ever had in my life. Not the biggest deal . . . but it fucking hurt!!!
Friday night I was browsing the internets. I gave up on recording. I was slightly depressed. Super tired. I find a link on Facebook to a group related to my old place of work: JK Lee's Black Belt Academy. This was the precursor to the child care portion of my life, and quite honestly, JK Lee's was the main catalyst in molding me into who I am today.
I started Tae Kwon Do in 4th grade. My dad was trying to find a way to squelch my nervous, worry-wart nature. He had taken me to Psychologists, Kung Fu movie stars (this was great, thinking back on it -- ask me about it sometime), any place he could to try and help me. He found JK Lee's through some friends at his old job, the Milwaukee Journal, if I'm not mistaken.
JK Lee's is owned and operated by the Lee family. Jae Kyu Lee is the grandmaster and reigning hand in the business. His son, Chan Lee, was the guy fresh out of business school ready to take over the business from Master Lee, who was planning to step out due to retirement. Chan might possibly be the most influential and powerful person I've ever met.
From age 10, he was the main pusher, the main guy behind my faults, my aspirations, my successes. This is the guy that you rest on to make you popular in high school. He knows the art of martial arts, but he also knows the art of social life.
When I was 14 he came up to me when I was assisting a teacher in our child leadership program at the time, called the K.I.C.K. Team (Kids Inspiring Confidence in other Kids). He said "Pete, man, do you wanna be flipping burgers when you're able to work, or do you want to be an instructor here?" I was an "under-the-table" instructor from then on, working illegally but loving it, until of course I was of proper age to actually file paperwork, which was a couple of months later.
From age 14 until age 18 I was one of the instructors on staff at the JK Lee chain, which I think is now the biggest martial arts chain in the midwest. A small team of teens and I went to work teaching all ages, but primarily we taught children. We swapped schools a lot of the time, so we were all pretty close.
Chan was the boss. He was the guy that pushed us in the Instructors Class, the guy you had to answer to if students didn't want to come to the school anymore because they felt the class was either too easy or too hard (in my experience, I was yelled at more for having classes be too hard. A Marine once said my class was more difficult than boot camp.). This is also the guy who you had to prove yourself to day in day out with your own physical and mental strength. If you didn't have what it took to be an instructor, BOOM your ass was grass, no more paycheck, "Come and see me in a couple weeks and we'll see if you can get your job back."
This guy was insane. Sanely insane, I should say, meaning he had his wits, but he was intense -- he knew what he was doing.
He orchestrated local news to cover our school on occasion, made charities, worked with flight attendants after 9/11 in self-defense, worked with police enforcement, this guy had it in with everybody.
Cut to one day I'm closing up shop. It's about 9:30. I'm tired, sore. Chan comes up out of nowhere and says "Hey, Pete, you wanna see a movie?" Kind of nervous I say "Yeah, sure. What are we seeing?"
"How about 'Tomb Raider'?"
I didn't really care to see that movie, but he apparently wanted to. I agreed.
He said "Cool. We'll just have to wait for Chris to drop off my car."
He had always driven an SUV and a Nissan everyman's car to work every day. I said "I thought your car was outside in the parking lot."
"No," he said. "My other car."
Chris, his sister, who also ran a school in the chain, drove up in an awesome red sports car, revving the engine. I said "What's this?!"
Chan looked back with a huge shit eating grin: "Ain't she sweet? You like it right?" He said it in that "I'm testing you" tone, "Either you like it or you're walking there".
Driving to the theater, he kept asking me about school, about my friends, if I had gotten laid yet, what drugs I was smoking. I lied and said "I tried things a few times. I don't do them anymore."
The entire time he knew the truth. He had gotten a call from my parents who were worried that I had been hanging out with the wrong crowd. My grades were lower (B's instead of A's), my attitude was more snippy, and they could have sworn I was smoking pot. I was. A little. Drinking? A little. Who doesn't?
So Chan, in his wisdom, he didn't chastise me. He gave me the talk my dad should have given me after the movie was over. He dropped me off at my house and we talked until 12:30 in the morning standing out in my mom's driveway. He said "I'm not gonna lie, Karen called me and told me some things."
I said "Oh shit."
He smiled and said "Don't worry about it. Just check in with me with any sort of problem you might have, alright Pete?" He then told me about girls, cars, friends, music, the whole she-bang.
He was a party animal in school, and still liked to party. But he knew how to control himself, when to keep it all "zipped up". This guy knew what he wanted and how to get it without stepping on toes.
That's what he taught me.
Discipline in all walks of life, not just the do-jong.
This guy wasn't just a teacher, he was a friend. My boss, my master, my friend.
After finding him on Facebook the other night I was thrust back into some of the old trepidation I had, the fear, the careful tiptoeing my body felt itself folding into everytime I was with him. The awe. I messaged him briefly, ashamed at what I wrote. It wasn't as good as it could have been.
I then found a link to an episode of "Made" that he starred in. "Made" is a show on MTV, apparently, dealing with lazy kids looking to be "made" into someone who's worth a damn. Kind of a stupid show, but it made me smile whenever I saw Chan being Chan. That was him right there, adding TV star to his list of successes.
It scared me into thinking "Jesus, if he asked me how my life was right now I know he'd be disappointed. I've got to get my ass in gear with everything."
It's good having him back in my brain, pushing and yelling "PICK IT UP, PETE!!! C'MON!!!!!"
With the first swig of morning coffee comes a plethora of thought processes . . . all adding up to zilch in terms of subject matter and coherent bondage.
The thaw is starting. Our backyard has a large river flowing from the back door to our parked cars due to the raised temperatures. I'm actually looking forward to going out to the bank today to deposit my most recent paycheck.
On my Yahoo homepage, I saw a link to a 14 year old conservative commentator named Jonathan Krohn, who wrote a book called "Define Conservatism". Nevermind the fact that he has a different political affiliation than myself, but this adds to my discomfort. The kid's 14 fucking years old and already he's as annoying as a 50 year old politician!!! Add in the novelty of it all, add in the ignorance he has for being only 14, add to it the fact that his voice is now in the middle of a vast political movement that recently had America take a combined shit all over it -- this guy really irritates me. He is the poster child for the failed Conservative movement. It is all personified in him.
Another week of "In Hope" work. It will be constant work work work, no break, in order to meet my deadline of Tax Day for the raw demos. I hope it's fun. I'm delving into the louder aspects of the song, full of guttural screams and chaos. That's always hard to do in my little studio. In preparation, I've been singing to my random favorite tunes from favorite artists, screaming my little head off. Warming up. Expanding the throat. Otherwise I'll blow it on the first take and won't be able to work on vocals for a day at a time. The next day I'll blow it again, same story. Snowball effect of failage.
Half the house is empty due to Spring Break. Last year everyone went to Florida, taking my camera with them. They returned with awesome footage that made me jealous to no end. This year they went to the east coast, Rhode Island, and New York City, also with my camera. Next week will bring jealousy once again, I surmise, when they return.
The riverboat trip is a go, most likely. I think we've figured out monetary situations. Late May, early June.
Not much else to report. March has shown signs of promise, coinciding with the thaw, for the upcoming events of 2009. Things are starting to ramp up in intensity and work. Changes are afoot.
A full day of recording today . . . time to get creative.
During playtime at work (lately I've been having a lot of anecdotes about work, I'm realizing) I sat down to set out domino rallies with a box full of little plastic man pieces. If there's one thing I'm positively sure you cannot do with children around, it would be setting up dominoes. You can only set up five before some kid from across the room throws a towel at your little row to knock them down, or another kid comes out of nowhere to knock it down with their finger. They can't help it. It's like zombies and brains. It's in their nature.
I love setting up rallies, I love any experience dealing with one thing causing another thing to react to it. I'm obsessed with Rube Goldberg machines. So, when I get an idea at the school to make a ramp out of a chair which causes a plastic man to fly into another row of plastic man dominoes, I work diligently to make it work. Add children into the mix . . . my eyes were seeing red. The little fuckers kept knocking down my courses, banging into the ramps.
I think I'm going to steal the plastic men for a night to make awesome rallies at home . . . without children.
*EDIT* -- After poking around on YouTube I may have just found the most awesome Domino YouTube channel ever!!! I think there's a game show in Europe showcasing teams who create genius pieces of art using falling dominoes: http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=mundo70&view=videos.
At work, as we were setting out the coloring supplies, we were trying to decide what to have the kids color. I mentioned, "Let's have them draw their interpretation of hope and despair." My colleague and myself started joking that most people would draw a half black half white canvas. I thought that someone out there must have already painted that idea and received thousands of dollars for it.
Then I thought of the next Great American Art Piece: "Hope and this Pear". I hope no one's taken that idea. It would be half and half, just like "Despair", one side would be white, the other would have a picture of a pear.
Today marked the official first day that Patch went into a live setting. Granted, not much happened save for me giving files to Greg to learn from and to manipulate, but it's a step. We're thinking by Tax Day we'll have the "0x01" songs ready on his standpoint, coinciding with my being finished with the actual raw songs for "0x01". After that things should get interesting . . .
Last night I sat down and started a Patch session. After ten minutes my eyes drooped. After five more minutes my head bobbed. Five minutes after that I stole away to bed. It was about 10pm.
These sleeps are the most needed, but they are the ones I fuck up the most.
The sleeps that are sudden, almost unbearable to ignore, are dangerous. Mainly because I become too lazy to even turn off the fucking lights. Music is playing on pre-made playlists (which aren't conducive to sleeping, they're pretty loud). And the clothes I wear in these slumbers aren't PJ's, they're tight jeans and sweaters. Not comfy cloths to lounge in.
Also, voices always linger outside my door around 11 or 12. I don't get it. If it's the weekend or Monday (random day that without fail has 11 clock voices outside my door) loud voices permeate through my little barrier of a door. These wake me up.
Last night is a good example of the "Sudden" sleeps:
--Drowse at 10. Fall asleep immediately listening to music. --12:00 I'll wake up to voices. Last night Marta knocked on my door after my eyes opened a little. She came in and showed me the covers she needs to wear over her eyes for her recent lasic surgery, which to my nasty sleep gooed contacts looked like a spider had webbed her eyelids shut. She also showed me a nasty bruise on her thigh. She said she wanted me to see these things, thinking I'd appreciate it. I did, actually. I went back to sleep with a smile on my face, forgiving the intrusion. --2:30 ALWAYS wake up at this time with the "Sudden"'s. My brain tells me to take my contacts out, brush my teeth, turn off the lights, put comfy clothes on, go pee. This always wakes me up a little too much and I can't get back to sleep. An hour will go by until I fall asleep. Lots of interesting thought processes go on during this time. I had a schpeel in my head about my new friend Khurrem sticking a gun in my face asking for bubble gum. That's all I was good for. Bubble gum. She also wanted my purse. I told her "What purse?" She then dropped her purse into the SUV I was driving (never in my life will I own an SUV) and demanded I give it back, cocking the hammer back. I laughed, breaking out into reality, turned on some music. The wrong music. Dillinger Escape Plan. Didn't know too much about them, so I figured I would lay down and fall asleep to new sounds. They're hard core metal, not something to be falling asleep to at 3:30 in the goddamn morning. Immediately after the album was done, I fell asleep. --7:15 My circadian rhythm wakes me up. It's Saturday. I'm god awfully tired still, not feeling rested at all. I go back to sleep. --9:00 Weird final dreams break me out into reality. I feel more tired than ever. Figure I'll be taking naps all day long just to feel sane.
I took two today. Still haven't gotten around to the music session I wanted to have at 2:00 this afternoon.
The "Sudden"'s are dangerous. They'll rob you of weekend ambition. Be warned, people. Be warned.
Picture this: you're a lifeguard. Your job is to save and protect anyone from being harmed within a designated perimeter dealing with aqueous substances, most likely water (even though pools might technically be called "Chemical Concoction Holes"). On your daily routine, you're sitting in your high chair, sunglasses in place, bathing suit on, nose caked in sunscreen. Your eyes are buried within your binoculars.
All of a sudden you see someone drowning. You drop the binoculars, pick up your floaty thing, jump down from your throne. You run toward the water, ready to do anything to help this poor individual, when someone in a business suit steps in your way. They look completely out of place amidst the sea of swim wear abound in the current abode, and they stop you by grabbing your hand.
"Let him drown," they say.
You look at them in shock. "What?!"
"Let him drown."
You look closer. It's a young child. Three years old. A little three year old boy. He apparently slipped too far into the deep end and is now gulping liquid instead of air.
"But he can't swim. He's drowning!" you scream.
The figure points over to an individual standing next to him. It looks like a young adult woman.
"That is his mother. She'll save him if she wants to," the figure says.
"But, he's been struggling for at least a minute, he'll almost surely drown if this goes any longer! What's she waiting for!!"
"It's not your concern. If you save him or say anything in protest to her, she might put in a petition for you to lose your job."
At that, you realize that you can't really do much else except stand there and gawk . . .
---------------
Put that into the context of my classroom. A little boy can hardly speak. He's three. He tries desperately to communicate. He'll mimic what you say. "Don't push!" you tell him. He'll nod and repeat you, yet he'll probably push someone later in the afternoon anyway.
You ask him "Did you throw away your banana?" He'll say "Yesh." You ask him "Did you NOT throw away the banana?" He'll say "Yesh."
You tell him to spin in a circle. He'll look at you blankly.
I'm convinced this kid doesn't understand me at all save for dog commands. "NO!" "YES!" If more than one person is up in the reading loft he'll yell up "You haven been shown!" because when kids usually do something wrong in the classroom it's usually them taking out a work they haven't been shown. He doesn't say "Only one!" or something like that. He says one sentence. It is the overarching categorical explanation for classroom wrongdoing. You can tell he's trying to say something, but he doesn't know how to say it.
This kid's going to turn four this summer. He should be fucking talking. End of story.
We convinced his mom to take him to a speech therapist, a tutor, every Friday afternoon. I think he went once, maybe twice. He's been at our school every Friday afternoon otherwise. But we still thought he'd find progress with one on one help.
This afternoon his mom picked him up. I mentioned to her that his letter sounds were coming along splendidly. He said the entire alphabet yesterday, and the sounds that all of the letters produce. Next up is reading three letter words.
She says "Great! Yeah, he's starting to talk more at home, we're thinking about not going to the tutor anymore."
I stop. "Well, his reading is on par. He can make sounds when a letter is in front of him. His speaking is behind, though."
One of the rules in child care is you never state the faults a child might have with their parent. I broke the main rule of parent/teacher etiquette because I felt a vice grip slip on the chance of this kid actually being able to communicate. I grew sour.
"At home it's different, though." I can bet the entire amount I have in my checking account that that's bullshit. She has high hopes for her child, and any sort of speaking is normal for her. Including mimicry. He repeats things you say. He doesn't get the meaning. He mimics sounds pertaining to a small number of situations, such as the aforementioned "Haven been shown" and also "Peah, cajuh ge ma lonch ba, peeeeeeese?" Translated: "Can you get my lunch bag, please?" He says this at lunch time. Any other time he asks for help he just thrusts something in my face with a look of frustration and want. He wants to say something, but doesn't know how.
I say "Use your words." He says "Peah . . . hep, peeeeeeeeeese." I ask "Help you with what?" He'll look at me. I ask "With what?" I start pointing, which produces shakes of the head or nods. Body language.
This kid is in toddler land when it comes to language. I'm talking a year and three months old level. He can't speak. His mom wants to think he's normal. He's behind. His dad is bilingual and kind of quiet. His mom answers questions for him "You want to go outside, right?"
He needs a tutor, hands down. ANY fucking parent/teacher could tell you that. But parents see what they want to see. And some long haired twenty-something teacher won't tell her any different, unless I felt the need to breach the fine line of etiquette.
The kid's drowning in a sea of need, and the parents are the main helpers in this realm, not Montessori teachers. I maybe give one child about ten minutes of one on one interaction a day, if that. I have twenty other kids to deal with in a small amount of time.
They don't see his need. And I want to slap them in the face with a doozie of examples. Ask him questions without answers. Give him simple directions. He's not stubborn, he's not choosing not to talk. He wants to understand, this isn't a constant temperamental tantrum.
This is blind parenting. And I'm forced to sit back and watch him pass another one of his language sensitive periods without saying anything.
He's going to have a rough life. And it will be his parents' fault. Not his.
This morning as I traipsed into work, a student came up and showed me his Speed Racer toy cars. Now, he knew he wasn't supposed to have toy cars in the activity climber that we have at the school, so he was giving them to me to hold on to. After going upstairs to our classroom, I put them away and realized how much car paraphenalia kids deck their cubbies out with.
I don't get it. I've never been into cars. I don't care at all what kind of car I own, as long as it has a good sound system. I think it would be good to know the inner workings of cars so that you don't get had at the mechanics garage. But otherwise I find cars to be about the most boring topic on our good green earth.
I get the Pixar "Cars" fixation. That movie's pretty cool for little kids. But it came from the Pixar gurus' love of cars. Gadgets make nerds jizz a little in their pants, new music releases make fans gaga until they've listened to the songs about ten times. We all have our obsessions. I go nuts over roller coasters and amusement parks. And adults liking cars, that makes sense along with the gadget gizmo stuff.
But kids could care less about Iphones. They could care less about music. Roller coasters deal with going through the air at 60 miles per hour, kids would bend over backwards to do something dealing with air in the face and speed. No question.
BUT CARS?! How are kids, especially boys, supposedly thrown out of the womb ready to like machines with wheels? The only reason I liked Hot Wheels was because it gave me a purpose to make racing ramps and jumps and tracks. I had something to go through my creations (kind of the precursor to wanting to make music, I suppose). But just having Hot Wheels cars for the sake of having Hot Wheels cars?
I don't get this one. And I'm sick of hearing about the fucking movie, too, every day. I have it! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!!
Most likely due to a lack of sleep the week prior, and the fact that I consumed vast amounts of Tequila Saturday night, my immune system has weakened. I am now stricken with a cold.
Although, it's a weird cold. It came on so fast, out of nowhere. No coughing, no scratchy throat. Well, maybe. I thought it was mainly due to too much yelling at the Mustache party. But today I was so stuffed up. Wanted to record some high vocals today, too. Guess I'll have to take a rain check on that.
Tax Day is basically the ending deadline for the raw tracks. Otherwise I'll have to sit on the unmixed/unmastered tracks until the end of summer. Schuyler will be in Hawaii and Romania. This is good, since it gives me incentive to finish. I actually have a due date.
It shall be a busy couple of months in my room . . .
"Handle with Care: an Interview with Duane Killfer" by Issac Yong.
Meet Duane. Upon first glance, most passersby step into a detour to avoid any chance of an encounter with the handlebar mustache clad afro artist. Upon second glance, Duane is usually digging out the inside of the throats of said passersby with his desiac tongue. "It's just my way, better than saying hello, I think," he says, sitting in a plush chair in a hotel room above Minneapolis.
IB: How is it that you can frighten people upon first glance but then have a complete reversal in reaction to you? I mean, you've never met these people before. Yet you'll basically make out with them on the spot, five seconds after first seeing you.
DK: You know, I wonder about that myself.
IB: Care to elaborate?
DK: No.
IB: Is it a secret? Something that if all the men of the world knew you maybe wouldn't have it in with the ladies as much as you do right now? Stealing your thunder?
DK: My thunder's never stolen. It's embraced.
IB: How so?
DK: What have we been talking about?
IB: How you make out with women within five seconds of meeting them.
DK: Exactly.
IB: What does that have to do with thunder?
DK: You got any other questions to ask me?
IB: Are you going to answer them?
DK: Does a child fornicate in the woods?
IB: Uh . . . no?
DK: Yes.
IB: Huh?
DK: Spit it out, man.
IB: Jesus. Duane, how is that you're so famous? What do you do?
DK: What I do is life, man. I live it. It embraces me like one embraces thunder.
IB: Have you actually done a movie, been in photos --
DK: That's the past, duder. That's not the now.
IB: Oh . . . so you were in movies.
DK: No. I don't watch movies.
IB: No, were you IN them?
DK: . . . I don't watch movies.
IB: So, I gather no. You're more just a living legend around here. I mean everyone's heard of you.
DK: Wait till they meet me.
IB: I don't understand the attraction, Duane. I mean, you're irritated, you're rude, you're not great looking --
DK: Who the fuck are you, man? Are you me? Are you me?
IB: No, thank God.
DK: Then how do you know I'm not attractive? I rest my case.
IB: Okay. You know, you might be the first guy I've actually wanted to end an interview with early.
DK: That's how I roll, man.
IB: Ending interviews early?
DK: No, you said I was the first guy you actually wanted.
IB: . . . To end an interview with early. Duane, do you have selected hearing?
DK: What? I'm just kidding.
IB: Alright, we're done!
DK: Where you going?
Upon third glance, Duane is an asshole. --IY
Nine Inch Nails vs. The Beatles -- "Come Closer Together"
The Dutchess and the Duke -- "Reservoir Park"
Talking Heads -- "Psycho Killer"
March 2008: While writing "The Architect", the main focus for "Sound. Of. Static.", I feel overwhelmed with a need to do the record right. I feel like embarking on something else, something a little more DIY in the meantime. Finishing up "S.O.S.", I book myself a stay at Motel 6 at the end of April.
Fall 2008: Spending a lot of time by myself on walks and hikes, I start getting ideas to make a second EP to coincide with "I Source" called "Hue". Many visits to coffee shops are had, and an old riff from early college is recycled for a sprawling mid-tempo piece explaining a turning point in the storyline for the two EP's, "In Hopes to Mend". This song is the quintessential Northeast Minneapolis piece, as many walks around the area were had while formulating both the writing and recording of it. I'll always think of warehouses and train yards when I hear this song. Another EP, "Karmath", is also written during a fit of laziness with writing "Hue". Chasing the muse, "LCD", a mid-tempo for "Karmath", is recorded in November and December.
Aron Wright -- "To the Country"
All of the CB guys went home, I was by myself at the bar watching the rest of the bands play. When "Buildings" came up I was floored. They sport a punk/grunge/prog style made by ADD sufferers. Sections fly by, but it's tight as hell. 
Mogwai -- "Helps Both Ways"
S.T.U.N. -- "Boredom"
Pearl Jam -- "Blood"
you had to answer to if students didn't want to come to the school anymore because they felt the class was either too easy or too hard (in my experience, I was yelled at more for having classes be too hard. A Marine once said my class was more difficult than boot camp.). This is also the guy who you had to prove yourself to day in day out with your own physical and mental strength. If you didn't have what it took to be an instructor, BOOM your ass was grass, no more paycheck, "Come and see me in a couple weeks and we'll see if you can get your job back."
Yeah Yeah Yeahs -- "Art Star"
Today marked the official first day that Patch went into a live setting. Granted, not much happened save for me giving files to Greg to learn from and to manipulate, but it's a step. We're thinking by Tax Day we'll have the "0x01" songs ready on his standpoint, coinciding with my being finished with the actual raw songs for "0x01". After that things should get interesting . . . 
The Dillinger Escape Plan -- "Phone Home"
Patch -- "LCD"
otherwise I find cars to be about the most boring topic on our good green earth. 
It was the first time I actually considered it.
Tax Day is basically the ending deadline for the raw tracks. Otherwise I'll have to sit on the unmixed/unmastered tracks until the end of summer. Schuyler will be in Hawaii and Romania. This is good, since it gives me incentive to finish. I actually have a due date. 
Nine Inch Nails vs. The Beatles -- "Come Closer Together"
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