LP III: Dark Alleys

LIZARD PEOPLE: Live Show #3

Memory Lanes -- Minneapolis, MN
July 31, 2009

SETLIST:
1. Pomp and Consequences
2. Snozberry Beret
3. The Know
4. St. Anthony
5. Double D-Day
6. Long Snake Moan (PJ Harvey cover)
7. Ginger Grapevine
8. Cubesong


Playing music in a busy bowling alley doesn't make much for crowd interaction. In fact, I felt like I was somewhat rehearsing. I felt comfortable and calm, but this wasn't a good thing. You want to be all fired up and fretting, shaking, sweating. Didn't hinder the show too much, but it wasn't our best show all around.

While drumming easy riffs or in lag times, I would find myself staring and following bowling ball trajectories as they careened down their consecutive alleys. Sometimes I would nod at the people who made strikes, with a quick salute with my sticks.

It's a strange venue. I don't know if I quite like it. I like the aspect of playing a rock show (since it's always fun) and then doing a smorgasbord of drinking and bowling (bands play for a buck, get two free drink tickets, and are given $100 upfront for playing the night. Good deal, to say the least).

It's just . . . not the best for artistic statements, let's just say. Otherwise it's a good place to play if you're content with being background noise for the evening, wanting to earn $30 while hanging out with close friends. I can't complain.

Claw Like Things -- "Monster Comes Alive"

The Coma Child Incident

I'm a fucking jerk when it comes to kids. More precisely, I terrorize them if they don't do what they're supposed to do.

One of my ongoing "-isms" at the school is to threaten to call a doctor if the kids are crying due to minor scrapes, blisters, little bumps to the noggin'. I usually keep a cell phone in my pocket while at work to check the time periodically, take a few snapshots of something cute, etc.

Today, I actually called the doctor on a kid.

2:30 is wake-up time. I turn on classic rock radio, turn it up (today we rocked out to Led Zeppelin's "What Is and What Should Never Be". One child, no taller than my knee, was playing drums while I air guitared), and put the cots away before reading a story and giving the kids a snack. One kid wouldn't wake up when he was supposed to today. He was breathing. He's just stubborn as all hell, as bad as a teenager.

I shook him with all the kids watching. "WAKE UP!!!" No avail. I threatened: "OH NO, HE'S IN A COMA!! HE'S NOT WAKING UP!! CALL THE DOCTOR!!!"

I took out my phone . . . and thought. What if I called Shannon . . .

I turned on the speaker. I called Shannon. She answered timidly, sitting in a cubicle, no doubt, at her job.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this the doctor? *Quieter* ShannonthisisPeteryou'readoctorplayalongdowhatisay."

Shannon: "Dude, I'm at work."

Me: "*Quieter* It'sokayjustplayalong. *Louder* Oh, this is the doctor! What's your name?"

Shannon: "Sam."

Me: "Who?"

Shannon: "Sam. Dr. Sam."

Me: "Oh, Sam. How are you? Yes, I have a patient, his name is -----. Is his name in your registry?"

Shannon: "Yes, yes it is. He's on record."

Me: "Good! Good! Well, I'm checking to see if he has a history of sleeping too long. As in falling into comas. I think he might be in one."

Shannon: "Hmmm . . . I might need to see him."

Me: "You will? Oh man. Alright, well, should we give him a shot of something. Adrenaline, maybe? We've got that lying around."

Shannon: "Yeah, I'd give him the shot. I'll be there in thirty minutes."

(The kid's eyes burst open)

Me: "Oh! Wait, he just woke up. I think he's okay!"

Shannon: "I'd give him the shot anyway."

(The kid jumped out of bed shouting "NOOOOOO!!!")

Me: "Alright, thank you Doctor."

Shannon: "No problem. I'll see you soon."


After this exchange, all the kids shouted "Can you call the doctor on me, too, Peter?!" The coma child was embarrassed and started fake punching me.

Thank you Shannon for playing along. You just scored a jackpot amount of points in my AWESOME book.

Led Zeppelin -- "What Is and What Should Never Be"

Give Peas a Chance

I assume you've read "The Princess and the Pea", or one of the story's adaptations. If you haven't, I'll refresh you:

A prince laments about how he can't find a REAL princess. They're all too beautiful, too fat, too skinny, have too many pets, etc. One day, a princess shows up at the doorstep of the court, seeking shelter from the rain (first off -- a princess in the rain? She doesn't travel by carriage or with coverage? Maybe she was also lamenting, wrought with emotion, opting to walk, dwelling upon her princess thoughts, like princesses are apt to do). The queen takes the opportunity to test this wet beauty. She places twenty of the most comfy mattresses in all the land on top of one single pea. She places the princess on this towering inferno of slumber. The next night, the king and queen, over the newspaper and english muffins, ask her how she slept. The princess complains that she could hardly sleep a wink due to an uncomfortable lump pressing against her back all night. The family smiles, content that because she is so sensitive, sensitive enough to feel a pea through twenty mattresses, she will be the rightful bride for the prince.

I have some reservations for this story, namely on the subject of "sense making": who in their right mind would want to marry someone who feels a fucking pea through twenty mattresses? If she's that sensitive, I'm sure she'll complain all the time. "The wind has grit in the air, it hurts my face!", "The sun beams are too hot!", "Your prick, while small, feels like sandpaper amongst my womb walls!"

How is this story showing children the merit of true love? It doesn't. It makes people want high-maintenance pea brains . . . come to think of it, this does explain the intriguing monsters down on First Ave. in downtown Minneapolis on the weekends. The high-strung princesses are out in full force in that locale with many a drooling popped collared chivalrian following close behind.

I'm never going to read that story to children again.

Metric -- "Monster Hospital"

Fate Took the Wheel, Laughing

Sign of the impending changes afoot: I was somewhat thrust into the precarious position of telling my boss my supposed plans for the fall, namely that I didn't plan on working at Miniapple past August 27th, the end of the true '08-'09 school year.

I've been wanting to put in that notice for a long time, as a catalyst to find a new job. But to play it safe, I thought I should find a job first and then state my plans to the higher ups. Funny how it worked out.

So, add to the plate: frantic job search.

Blonde Redhead -- "Harmony"

Aching For Your Moans

We've set up shop in the living room yet again. Ready to raise hell this Friday at Memory Lanes. And here's my new baby in it's full glory rather than stacked amongst junk in what should be our practice space:

PJ Harvey -- "Long Snake Moan"

Three Timing

As I formulate the material for the first incarnation of Patch Live, I've been dabbling into my current love life and the thoughts sparked from that realm, two records (The Mars Volta's "Octahedron" and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Is Is"), and Bukowski. Here's one doozie of a hint at what the subject matter for the first round of songs will be like:

"FREEDOM
by Charles Bukowski

he drank wine all night the night of the
28th. and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and loved
the way she told him things that seemed true
but were not, and he knew the color of each
of her dresses
and her shoes--he knew the stock and curve of
each heel
as well as the leg shaped by it.

and she was out again when he came home, and
she'd come back with the special stink again,
and she did
she came in at 3 a.m. in the morning
filthy like a dung-eating swine
and
he took out the butcher knife
and she screamed
backing into the roominghouse wall
still pretty somehow
in spite of love's reek
and he finished the glass of wine.

that yellow dress
his favorite
and she screamed again.

and he took up the knife
and unhooked his belt
and tore away the cloth before her
and cut off his balls.

and carried them in his hands
like apricots
and flushed them down the
toilet bowl
and she kept screaming
as the room became red

GOD O GOD!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

and he sat there holding 3 towels
between his legs
not caring now whether she left or
stayed
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.

and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
another wine."

The Mars Volta -- "Copernicus"

Severed Blue Balls

There's something notable about a woman who insists on watching a movie consisting of a scene in which a girl cuts off the genitalia of a pedophile. Most people would think "God, she's fucked up!" Or "She must be a feminist!"

Me, I think she's right up my alley . . .



Goldfrapp -- "Train"

Within Your Blackouts

One of the conversation topics I found myself in the middle of tonight happened to be on seizures. I've only dealt with my now deceased dog's seizures. It's extremely unsettling, thinking "Well, I know they'll be okay. Right? But, they don't seem to be doing alright. Oh crap, what do I do?"

My good friend Sam described his own seizure experiences, having had a few himself. If I can remember correctly: he was at a party. He was 20 years old. He felt somewhat dehydrated and dizzy, and thought he had said "Guys, I'm just going to lie down for a sec". Apparently, he woke up a bit later to a circle of concerned faces. They were saying "Are you okay?" Sam said, "Yeah, I told you I was just going to lie down for a sec." They replied, "No, you didn't say anything. You just fell over and started shaking."

I found a YouTube video depicting a woman in a full epileptic seizure, with a man, while supporting her, describing the whole thing. I've dabbled in the topic of seizures with my art, but I've never seen them in this light. I'm intrigued.



Sonic Youth -- "Expressway to Your Skull"

One Down . . .

First goodbye:
NAME: LOUIS MCCOY
ASPIRATION: Techie in the governmental campaign world. Moving to Washington DC in order to team with superior "JD" and to be fully immersed in the politics of the US. Blending his two favorite topics: computers and politics. He is a textbook example of "Chasing the Dream" and making it a reality. A true inspiration for me.
BEST MEMORY: Not so much one particular time, but a particular series of events with one motif. 1) Citizens Banned -- Louie was the most gung-ho about going crazy onstage. I felt the music through him, which prompted me to feel the music even more. He made playing live that much more worth it. 2) His klutziness -- this guy falls down more times, in more ways, than anybody I know. He tries to pass it off as purposeful misstepping, but this attempt at brushing off clumsiness only makes the falling that much more funny. One particular time he mas mimicking the movements of a schticky singer of the Le Cirque Rouge Burlesque Troupe, walking in such a way as to almost mimic a drunk Frankenstein monster. He proceeded to do this imitation on slippery ice, and ended up falling in such a cartoonish way, blending his shock with his ongoing imitation, that I think I pee'd my pants a little from laughing so hard. His true colors were shown during these times -- a heart of gold, and a soul full of laughter.

I'll miss you, my friend.

Faith No More -- "Midlife Crisis"

The Brotherhood of Salsa

A band started from a band.

The Brotherhood of Salsa.

A group of three became four. A group of four became seven. Became an uncountable amount of close friends.

The Brotherhood began in 2001, formed by three college roommates: Adri, Taylor, and Louie. They lived in the same dormitory at the University of Minnesota, flaunting debauchery every which way. They even formed a version of Taylor's dream band, Citizens Banned, playing odd shows here and there.

I met Adri back in 2003, just starting college, and trying to dip my toes as much as possible into the U's theater department. He and I had the pleasure of performing The Laramie Project together in 2005, where we formed a friendship. He also let me in on some trade secrets: "My band is looking for a singer if you're interested."

Cue my entrance into the small band of brothers in late fall 2005. Together, we tried mercilessly to become a force to reckoned with in the music scene within the Twin Cities. Needless to say, the band fell apart, but our friendship outlasted the downfall of the Banned.



The moniker "Salsa" is derived from one fateful afternoon drive in 2005, where Adri thought it appropriate to yell "SALSA!!!" at an unsuspecting passerby whilst driving to a Banned practice. This became somewhat of a movement and symbol, prompting us take on the name Brotherhood of Salsa, even going so far as to create a sort of game, rules and all, for the Salsa Slaughterfest: Cars vs. Bikes vs. Pedestrians. It was the most fitting name for us, seeing as though Citizens Banned was more its own entity rather than an open armed group ready to welcome new members into its ranks.

The Banned moved in together summer 2007, Louie having bought a house in Northeast Minneapolis. It was originally intended to be a creative space, a space for the Banned to flesh out practices, write new material, record, etc. As previously stated, the Banned broke up. But there were other projects, of course.

Kristen and Marta joined in on the fun fall 2007, girlfriends for some of us lads, turning into more of a sisterhood to complement our brotherhood. Nicole was appropriated officially during this time as well, and so was our drummer Dave for a certain amount of time. With that, we set about having a number of projects and festivities using the house as a central HQ. For the next two years, we were a force to be reckoned with indeed. I was content in knowing that I had successfully gained the friendship and comradery of great people, soul mates, and true brothers/sisters.

Nicole had moved away in 2008. Now it is Louie's turn. He is moving to Washington DC. Tonight we celebrate the end of the true core bind that held the Brotherhood together, having one of the original brothers let go into the ether of future prospect.

I raise a glass to you, my Brothers. May our Brotherhood continue on evermore, despite the distance in between, as we each disembark to our various destinies . . .

Citizens Banned -- "A Place for my Sanity"

Face Plugs

I have an unfortunate mole placed on the middle of my lower lip region. It happens to cause me a great amount of grief whenever I shave. If it is somehow cut by a blade, it will squirt out an ungodly amount of blood that no number of Kleenexes or pieces of toilet paper can squelch. And it always seems to be cut whenever I have no time to lose.

I've only cut it a small handfull of times, knowing just how to scrape by, but when I do . . . it looks like I cut an artery. If I had time whenever I did it I would definitely use the blood to my advantage in some cruel joke. That's how bad it looks.

At the Drive-In -- "One Armed Scissor"

Third Quarter Happenings

Immediately upon getting out of bed this morning, I looked at my calendar. I tried putting my music endeavors in the realms of the months. There are some very pressing elements for the rest of the summer/early fall.

1) Lizard People will be playing a small number of shows. In between, I will be playing producer for the demos we've recently started on. My window to the world will again be this for a good month and a half:
I have a feeling it will fare harder than the "Schematics" sessions in spots. The raw files are all over the place, reminiscent of the Citizens Banned EP recordings. I have to start the first song tonight.

2) Patch has been on a lull for the past month. This is due to slowly getting Greg acclamated, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like it was a little bit of a waste of time. I've recently wanted to make the first round of Patch Live be a three piece jaunt, first starting out with the basics of vocals, guitar, bass, drums. Greg and I have working a little on the electronics for other songs, and it was good to have us both working with "the future" elements of Patch, but we spent a little too much time on it. And now here I am wanting to strip down to a simple setup. In the end, I'm not complaining. I think the right time to start up Patch is in the fall, coinciding with Schuyler's return to the mixing/mastering reigns. I'd like to have the first show coincide with my birthday . . .

Lots to do. I'm clocking back in.

White Zombie -- "Super-charger Heaven"

Skins Anew

My newest musical purchase:
She doesn't look like much here, but she's brutal. We put the set up in the living room after assembling all the heads and doing some basic tuning: it sounds better than the last set and cost way less.

Lizard People and Patch can now commence con skins . . .

Jane's Addiction -- "Chip Away"

The Peace Equation

What if World Peace is a world at war?

Good needs bad in order to exist. Without bad there is no good. Only neutral equilibrium. Humanity, in order to learn, to fulfill the obligation of progress and accumulation of knowledge, needs adversity, only so as to scale the walls and come out victorious.

Friends exist only with enemies and neutral walk-bys (people you see but never meet). Without enemies the walk-bys would be the only aquaintances we'd keep.

Friends themselves need conflict in order to stay friends. They need to pull through tough times together in order to reassess "Can we still be friends?" Tests. School is a battle, work is a battle, war is a battle.

War might be pushing it, but we still need battles. A world truly without battles is a world not worth living in. It would be pointless.

A world at peace is a world at odds.

The (International) Noise Conspiracy -- "Born Into A Mess"

"?" Begets "!"

The elements of "what ifs".

What if the Middle East's treatment of women is better overall than the West's treatment?

What if our criticisms of the American government contribute to more negative energy than positive?

What if art was the cause of war because it was too perplexing and stifled discussion, making it as bad if not worse than the concept of weapons of mass destruction?

What if I was too uncomfortable to ask these questions? What if I could just discuss without an ounce of debate from the listening party? Would I even care to ask these questions?

What if you found any of the first three questions here somewhat offensive? Why?

Could you put yourself in the shoes of an enemy and come out completely untouched and untainted with your enemy's viewpoints? Would you change? Or are you frightened that you will change, prompting you to be determined in resistance toward ever getting close to your enemy, protecting your fickle viewpoints on life?

I think the answer to most wedge issues stem from the last paragraph. Just as the fear of heights stems from the notion that it's not the height itself, it's that people are afraid they will jump. Emotion, when it comes to discourse, prevents change and growth.

In most cases, when it comes to asking questions, I feel like we're too afraid TO jump off of a cliff.

Power of 2 -- "Squareknot"

Murmurs Through the Wall

She wears it on her skin, just like I asked. But I'm not allowed to taste it.

Just my luck.










Scott Weiland -- "Where's the Man?"

Home Stretching

"Suede is a funny thing. It's rough, but soft. It's strong, but quiet. It doesn't wrinkle and it doesn't crack. And it doesn't stand up so much in the crowd of the leather. You don't notice it at first but once you do you can't take your eyes off it. And you wonder how the hell you could overlook it in the first place!"
---Johnny Suede

There's something to this. It's simple, not the most beautiful allegory ever, but it stands out. It can probably be attributed to anything your heart desires for attribution. In my case, I watched "Johnny Suede" with Taylor, Greg, and Shannon right after Taylor got back from his travels in Europe. Greg and I caught him while he was walking from the light rail station to the house, and we convinced him to get drinks with us. I started thinking about the fact that we were all entering the home stretch of Taylor's time with us in Minneapolis. Soon, he'll be heading off to Seattle.

That allegory will forever be the allegory of friendship. An allegory about Taylor.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -- "Where Do We Go Now But Nowhere"

Subtle Ventricle Beats

An age old wish from the hopeless romantic library:

We want returned interest. Interest where we can feel the rewards of our efforts. I am not a selfish man. I am pretty adament in my persual of love. But it comes and goes, the returned glances. Granted, I find myself in precarious, somewhat novel situations regarding my love life, but I'm tired of trying.

I feel like I put a lot of effort into making people feel comfortable. Making people interested. Making people feel liked. I put too much effort into this endeavor, I think. But I feel that if I did any less, I'd be dropped.

I'm tired of my love life, because I know I'll never do any less for anyone. It takes a lot of stamina. It also makes me emotional.

I just want some ounce of equilibrium by the receiving end, is all. To find that one who can prove to me that they're just as crazy about me as I am of them. I don't have to infer it. It's there, on the skin, plain as day.

But I guess love hides. Just like Karmath, it always hides until it bites you.

Or I don't get it at all.

I hate this game.

Iggy Pop and the Stooges -- "Nightclubbing"

Orphans

A child was bought from a foreign country.

He was loved once, but had since fallen into a molasses trap of isolation and neglect. So, a fortunate man with a respectable roll of money came along and swept him off his hungry feet and took him to a home.

Here he was to have thrived on upbringing. Constant attention would have made the child meet his potential. But alas, this wasn't so. The man who had bought him had no time for him, and often failed to check in on what he was doing day in day out.

One of the dwellers at the household saw potential underneath the child's skin, and tried everyday to show the child the potential he could strive for. For a long time the child and friend developed a bond, going out in public, having a grand old time. The dweller had developed a sort of love for the child.

Then one day, without notice, the dweller came into the house, where he saw the child being sold to another purchaser because the original owner felt it had been neglected for so long. Without being around, the owner felt it wasn't reaching its full potential. The dweller could only watch as the child left with another owner. He was sure it would reach its potential. He prayed.

Now the dweller has to go out and find his own fucking drumset on Craig's List, downing money he forgot to save away for such an occasion as this.

Woven Hand -- "Glass Eye"

Trepidas Masckurum

MEDICAL DICTIONARY

189.09.39 -- TREPIDAS MASCKURUM

A fairly common disorder regarding trepidation, i.e. fear and nervousness, masking a certain individual's internal psyche. One's view can be completely overtaken with a veil of nervousness prevailing.

Bubbling underneath, the sufferer holds positivity. Obscene amounts of it, in fact. Alcohol is the main detractor for the trepidation mask, virtually disolving in upon contact, leaving only utter bliss. Within 24 hours, the mask will have taken over yet again.

*I wish my made up medical dictionary would find a cure other than alcohol to get rid of this incessant mask. Because I have a whole lot of happy within, waiting underneath the nervous bouncers.*

Edith Piaf -- "La Vie En Rose"

A Somewhat Religious Conversion

I hate The Hold Steady.

A statement I've been fond of saying since I've known them. I cannot feel an ounce of empathy for anything they're saying, singing, playing, what have you. It's not that I'm against them. It's just . . . not me. So, I s'pose "hate" is a strong word, but you get what I'm talking about.

Tonight I saw them live by accident (sort of) at the Basilica Block Party and I've got to say . . . I've been converted (again, sort of).

Fresh from basking in the sun and watching Tapes n' Tapes play a great set and putting beer into a post-three mile walk dehydrated body, I was slightly buzzing. The sunset was beautiful, I was with great company, I ate a gyro and "blooming onion", and the weather was perfect. We thought, "Well, either we go to the Counting Crows at the Clusterfuck Stage down the street, or we go to The Hold Steady at a less crowded stage." We opted for the latter . . . and found an oasis of happiness.

The Sun Stage was positioned on the front steps of the Basilica, putting the audience on a beautiful hillside lawn, making vantage points of the stage very clear and unobstructed. Everyone was happy, drunk, dancing.

I always pictured the Steady to be pompous New York hipster pricks, shoegazing their way through ripoff songs splicing Elvis Costello and the Greatful Dead. I was surprised to see frontman Craig Finn prancing around the stage like a weak little happy schoolboy, shaking, sweaty, and never standing still. He was so humble. And happy (a recurring theme?). He seemed genuinely pleased by the crowd, stopping in mid-sentence during a speech to take it all in, which only made the entire crowd more empathetic with the band.

I found empathy at the Basilica. Not religion. But true empathetic happiness. I couldn't stop smiling. I still wouldn't buy The Hold Steady's records, but I was happy to have seen them in person. I can dig them now.

The Hold Steady -- "Constructive Summer"

NO PARKING WITHIN TEN FEET OF (MY) FIRE HYDRANT

I met a man named Cadillac tonight.

Andrew "Cadillac" Kolstad.

He was with Tommahawk Tassles in full getup. Mopped hair, cigarettes in hand, hard liquor in full flow.

A band of friends, who all happen to be artists, is interesting in regard to the fact that when out in public we must refer to eachother by their stage names. If you say their real name you get a flinched eye from the owner of the name, like a glitch in the Matrix has occurred.

I haven't flaunted Kean in a long time in person (I guess that's my name on the blog, but you get what I mean). When I first met some of the people within my circle they knew me as Kean. They know Mr. Stevenson as Mr. Park. Amanda is Ms. Tassles, Katinka Inga and Gisette is Kristen. These alter egos are kind of amusing.

To play characters off of your own self while out in public. I think it's interesting to think about this coming off of seeing "Bruno" just before going out to the bar where we met Mr. Cadillac and Ms. Tassles. People playing dress up, trying to put their foot in the door of expression and territory.

Dogs piss, we shout from soap boxes. Shouting equals changing your name, what clothes you wear (or what you don't wear, as my group can attest to), what you sing, what you bang on, what you write. Artists are the most visible "hydrant pissers" in society.

Yes, artistes, I've just equated all of what we put our heart and soul into day in day out to urine. It feels good to be released, but once you're done with it you flush it away, ready to be consumed by the sewage treatment pipeline cleaners/critics. Once it's filtered into the masses for so long it's spread thin, turned pure again and new, ready to be consumed by a new artist in the form of a new statement. Cycle recycled.

We are one in the same, dogs and artists. The only difference is we don't sniff each other's assholes. We kiss them instead.

The Velvet Underground -- "Head Held High"

House of Wax

I had a strange thought yesterday. I heard Kristen and Louie talking around the house, but I couldn't see them. I searched around and around but couldn't for the life of me find them. I saw the sprinkler going outside, meaning someone must have been out there watering the grass. I then saw Kristen's dress blowing in the wind, looking almost like nobody was inside of it.

What if I had made up all of my closest friends within my psyche? I had actually bought the Monroe House, and every friend holed up within it was a different side of my emotions, ambition, and failure. I've been talking to myself for the past two years, in a house all by myself. I mimic the nuances of each persona, having each take over my body. They all have the same way of talking, so you'd never know I was switching personalities.

Kristen: my sex appeal. Indulging in feeling good, wearing clothes without a care for the consequences, she's the skin of my being, an epidermis that attracts others to look at me. People feed off of me, but they're really feeding of my Kristen multiple personality.

Louie: ambition and logic. Confidence and drive, he is the one who both gives me my day job and strives for the dream of Patch. He was also the one I destroyed onstage night after night in Citizens Banned -- symbolically, isn't that like me trampling all over sanity? People thought I was nuts afterward. Raping my frontal lobe.

Adri: my emotional core. He is also my conscience, assessing my goals, whether or not I should bail on situations. He also holds my wit and humor. When I'm at social gatherings, I'm Adri. If I've disappeared for a long time, no phone calls, you think I've committed suicide or hopped a train to some far off land, you'll know that it's because Adri took hold of my brain a little too long.

Taylor: all of my artistic crass and ambition through the way of creation is through Taylor. My nice side. My approachable side. The only reason I get girls is because of Taylor's persona within me.

Marta: She is my polish sausage link, my Id. My lusts and catharses come from her. Please her and you've made me your slave. She is the gatekeeper to having me approve of you being around my person (or persons).

After I ran through this lineup, I forgot what it was I was supposed to do, and settled on looking at my beard in the mirror for five minutes. Weird morning.

Wesley Willis -- "Suck My Dog's Dick"

Common Cures

A cure for midsummer jitters, feeling the great youth I hold fade away, I revisited a place only reserved for youthful curiosity and novelty. A place that, at first glance, does not bleed any sense of the new.

The Metrodome. A Twins game.

Seeing cookie-cutter pinstripers and navy chic, indulging in the lowest common denominator for alcohol consumption (Miller/Bud), and screaming that, yes, I'm trying to rock you (but can the players feel my rock? I'd assume they'd throw me out of the dome for doing so.), I felt young. I was with friends from my youth, talking about youth.

Who knew a cure for depression was a healthy dose of hot dog, Genuine Draft, and the Wave?



Scissor Sisters -- "Return to Oz"

Empty Fields

6:00pm and I'm left hungry, tired, and lusting for something new.

7:00pm I find myself at my secret sanctuary, a prarie amidst the urban chaos of freeway traffic. My favorite spot in 2008. I was left unimpressed. I didn't care.

I want something more out of life. Live shows? Going out more? Classes in one field or another? Something.

That prairie has now been tainted with lethargic amusement. Don't go to your favorite spots while hungry, apparently.

Antonio Carlos Jobim -- "Vivo Sonhando"

Chicken and Morals

Upon embarking on your journey, you will be asked a series of questions. A normal lunch deemed originally for pleasant conversation and catchup with one's parents will turn into a polite interrogation of your morals regarding your dreams. 24 years leading into 25 is a good time to asess the damage done and the damage you will throw upon the masses.

Some of these questions will include such inquiry as: "Why would you want to contribute so many uncomfortable feelings into a world already wrought with uncomfort?"

"I don't see why 'I'll fucking bleed you' would make people empathize with your message. Why should I care? It's vulgar and that's all it is to me."

"It seems like it's more self-indulgence than trying to help people figure things out. What are you doing this for?"

"At the gates of Heaven, when asked 'What was your purpose in life?' what would you say?"

Etc., etc., etc.

Needless I say, I wasn't prepared for the interrogation of valid questions, but I held my own. I think I passed the test just barely. I think I just nudged a solid C grade because I have a feeling my dad isn't so much a fan of Patch as I thought he would be. I wasn't expecting him to cry "GENIUS!", but I didn't expect such a negative response. It's good, though. It's a good reality check. A good filter for the future.

It was a test before giving the recordings off to the masses this week. The Blogosphere will be receiving little e-mails this weekend . . .

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour -- "The Sun Ain't Shining No More"

Ghosts of the Glen

"Pete, man, I'm not gonna lie, I've got my knife in my hand right now."

The thrill lept up. The mention of a knife added to the trepidation of the night. We were standing on the pathway of a dark nature reserve walk, at the mouth of a woods spelling certain foreboding creep factor excitement. This was a place of fear, of hope, of my youth. If there was ever a location that could be the physical manifestation of my darker self, Hawthorn Glen would be the place.

I jumped up in glee. "Dude, seriously, it's fun, it's fun! Let's try it, if you get too scared we'll turn back. I promise."

"No, Pete, man, no. I . . . I don't feel good about this one. Sorry. Sorry, I can't do it."

I gave up. Mainly because he was right. I wanted to walk the dark trails at 2:00am, the trails I used to traverse at the same time of night while in high school. This park was the most interesting destination my group of friends could decide on going to each night while indulging in underage drinking, theft, drug deals, pot smoking, sex, and talks of the future. This was the most interesting summer of my formative years. All summed up in the trails of Hawthorn Glen.

Anybody can tell you that there is a strange vibe to that place. It's a park nestled in the middle of a horseshoe shaped hill covered in dark trees. An eerie coolness blankets the field, complete with slight fog, an effect of the glen. Located in Miller Valley, an unofficial landmark connecting Milwaukee to its suburban sister Wauwatosa, it reeks of conflict. Suburban dwellers mixing with inner city youth. More importantly, child ignorance mixing with adult revelation. This is the place I visit when I'm in personal turmoil, the place I go to when trying to scale obstacles.

It was the secret I kept while I was a Tae Kwon Do instructor and avid student. Parents and masters be damned, if only they knew where I was every night. I met some of the strangest people in 2001, people who lived right outside the perimeter of this park. Drunken fathers who pissed on their car tires with one hand and shook your own with their free hand when they met you for the first time out on their front yards. People who pointed at you and yelled "NIGGER!" to get their pit bull to start running at you teeth bared before yelling "STOP!" just as the dog came within inches of ripping off the flesh on your arms. Girls who thought of rape and sexual coercion as the normal way to have sex, reaping the benefits of their sexual purgatory in the form of small children held in the crooks of their arms.

This was also the year I visited South Korea with my Tae Kwon Do school. The most grandiose trip I've ever taken, complete with buddhist temple residencies, training with the Tae Kwon Do Olympic team, seeing the headquarters for Tae Kwon Do, and visiting time and again the indoor theme park in Lotte World (with father/son, peer debauchery, and first date scenarios involved). Still, the exploits surrounding Hawthorn Glen are the reason that summer was one of the more seminal summers of my life.

Last night I visited the park again with one of the companions I had while travelling to Korea. He considered Korea, that particular visit, to be the best moment of his life. It ranks second with me, because the park was better. And now he was holding a knife in his pocket, obviously picking up on the power of the Glen.

That was the summer my boss, Chan, started showing signs that he would forever be my main idol. When I became one of the lead teachers of the chain, at age 16, teaching marines, children, young and old alike. The year I had my first girlfriend. The year I started taking drugs. The year I fell into politics. Developed opinions on religion. Came out of a grade funk and went back to being a straight A and B student.

Implanted within me, come the time of 9/11, I felt the beginnings of the demons I would carry with me until this day. The ones that make you into an adult. The ones I still can't seem to flesh out. The ones that inspire the music, the art, me.

They all came from Hawthorn Glen.

"You doing okay?" I asked him as we were a block away.

He shook. "Yeah. Holy shit, that place was weird."

Happy July 4th, indeed.

*Excuse the MP3 choice for today. It was a seminal track for the time period of '01 for me and my crew, and might be Mr. Durst's only good song. That, and Weiland's vocals are pretty strikingly beautiful*
Limp Bizkit (Feat. Scott Weiland) -- "Hold On"

Sulphur Sighs

A fireworks display costs up to $70,000 to produce, at times.

There are a number of things in the world that I see as unneccesarily extreme: $300+ purses, massive big popcorn movie budgets, bigger and badder weapons of mass destruction.

Add to the list: fireworks displays.

Is there nothing as symbollic as watching money blow up in your face with each rocket blast on July 4th? Turn your head and you see nearby cities' fireworks displays. Everywhere you look you see colorful explosions.

In a recession, I couldn't help but think of a policeman's salary exploding in my face bang after bang after bang. And all of the other city worker salaries blowing up in the nearby cities, and the opportunities destroyed with each display in each state of our country, and all the wasteful schemas our society holds onto because we can't discard of some nasty habits.

In between some of these bangs, I too emitted some "Oohs" and "Aahs". I remarked, "There goes another salary, up, up, blam!" One of my companions for the evening said "Yeah, but I love watching shit blow up." He was serious.

If that ain't an answer to the questions surmised by this stream of thought, I don't know what is.



Radiohead -- "Sit Down, Stand Up (Snakes and Ladders)"

Milwaukee's Best

A somewhat yearly pilgrimage takes place for all of us Milwaukee hometowners. One event pulls us back like a Mecca magnet. The week and a half long conference for all things Midwestern debauchery.

Summerfest.

It's the largest music festival in the world and you've never heard of it. There are a couple of reasons.

It's a beer fest for beer no one likes outside of Milwaukee (it's a Miller orgy, I happen to like Miller, myself, but that's probably because I was born and raised in Mil-town).

It's a music fest for has-been music stars. Milwaukee's music scene is about as novel as a new AC/DC album. It probably doesn't change much from what they've done since the 70's. You've got boring beer, Harley Davidson, and a gung-ho for nothin' but sports mentality coalescing into one location along Lake Michigan, you've got Classic Rockers mixing with Clear Channel Nu-Metal mixing with Country Rock Blahdom.

Occasionally, you'll get the rare Roots event, Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam, but they all play at the pristine Marcus Amphitheater, which costs extra. Otherwise you're left to the whims of the secondary artists at eleven or so other stages. Most of the big acts that play the Marcus are country stars and classic rock artists, though. Bon Jovi makes a stop every year. Kenny Chesney, KISS, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Tom Petty. There's nothing new going on here. This ain't Bonnaroo, Sasquatch, Coachella. Huge festivals, those are. Summerfest is even bigger. But you don't hear about it, do you? That's because NOBODY CARES.

Millions of people go to it (sometimes a million people per day go through the Summerfest gates), people from all over the world flock to it. But it's not talked about in the music world. The people who are content with the same ol' same ol' go to it. And that is EVERYONE. Yet NOBODY CARES. Do you see my point?

It's hard for me to go to Summerfest to see music. I go to drink and be with old friends. But I can only take so much. No matter the number of things to do in the Summerfest grounds, I'm bored to tears after hour three. It's all standing around, like a huge bar with your standard bar bands along an open shore. Seriously, that's all it is. An open aired dive bar that happens to have awesome specials. But in fact those specials happen to not be specials at all, but more expensive prices for cheaply made drinks set to music that makes you too comfortable to care.

It is what it is. That's all it is. And every year I seem to find myself traveling back there along the highway of forced nostalgia.

In other words, Milwaukee is my version of Hell.

AC/DC -- "Highway to Hell"

The Road to Freedom Pass

Tying up loose ends before I traversed the five hour journey into my hometown of Wauwatosa, WI, I met with her last night. Things turned out alright.

So right, in fact, that I kept meeting her again and again with each mile marker passing by . . . and my ears ringing from the loud thoughts.

(I wish I could've been a frequent flyer, if only to be your natural Morphine.)

Morphine -- "Buena"

Me and My Patchouli Stink

On the Half New Year, I stepped into a gingerly walk around the kitchen, cooking up my regular routine recipe for pre-work slavedom. Breakfast complete, lunch in preparation, I was faced with the first antagonist of the second half. It entailed preceding KARMATH 2009 entried events dealing with those notorious glittered booths, Bon Iver session pheromonic angles, and a lass I'm completely smitten with.

I've stepped into the volatile confines of a broken engagement.

All of the moves taken by each party have been legal.

Well, then why do I feel like Tim Robbins in "High Fidelity"? I feel so slimy, thanks to the words of an illegal bystander: "How do you think he'd feel, Peter? How do you think he'd feel?"



I would have opted for Scenario 3 today, honestly. Drop the air conditioner on my head, I'm inviting you to. Anything to not be Ian.

The Beta Band -- "Dry the Rain"