THE VEGGIE TALES CAUSE THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE:

This a blog I wrote on Livejournal 5 years ago tomorrow. Thought it might deserve a fresh viewing...

 
I cannot wait for this week to end...it's the last week before winter break, so, of course, it's an eternity...

Today was the last day of SafeBase (the afterschool program) until mid January. In one of the classes that I help with, the teacher decided we should just have a movie/popcorn party. Hunky Dory, except for one thing...she chose the movie... Now, she's a very sweet lady (she even brought me chocolate for Xmess), BUT she's also a Christian. Hence, the movie...A VEGGIETALES CHRISTMAS...are you familiar with these creepy little fuckers?? They are animated CHRISTIAN vegetable kid's movies. Ignoring the religious thing for a moment, they are hideously ugly...like not even remotely cutesy kiddie snugglebums...they are fucking bugeyed, limbless vegetables with faces...it's like watching quad amputees hop around a winter wonderland. The carrots look like vienna sausages and I won't even start on the cucumbers...there was one BLATANTLY racist vegetable on there...He was hispanic, and of course, worked for the bad guy. I couldn't even guess what the fuck kind of veggie he was supposed to be, but with his totally stereotypical accent (I WEEEL HEP YOU MEESTA), I am surprised that he wasn't a head of lettuce (I guess they figured he wouldn't be able to pick himself).

The whole theme of this animated abortion was that the veggie kids, or what the fuck ever they are called, had forgotten the true meaning of Christmas, due to the bad toy factory owner's advertisements on television encouraging materialism. A renegade toy wakes up in the factory and figures that there HAS to be more to Christmas than whining for more toys, so he ventures out to discover the meaning of it all. This goodie two shoes toy was so fucking irritating that I kept praying for the bratty kid from TOY STORY to come along and shove a M80 up his ass... Of course he discovers it from some wise old brocoli or something and he, with his new salad fixing friends, feel the need to spread the word (of course, we know how Christians LOVE to gossip). Off they are to spread the story of baby Jesus...who unfortunately never surfaced, as I was dying to see what he would be portrayed as...I was tossing back and forth between a brussell sprout and an eggplant with a breadstick crucifix and an onion halo...

Anyway, it was all warm and sweet and holy and all that shit, I suppose. I just spent the whole half an hour scanning the room for something to impale myself on. Elementary school chair legs NEVER looked so promising...Oh yeah, and kid feet stink to high heaven...like old cheese and moldy ass...just because we are watching a movie doesn't make it your living room children...


So, there is your warm hearted holiday story...now fuck off and get me a beer...

Happy birthday...

It's my 37th birthday. I spent the day with my family, which was wonderful. I'm lucky to have them in my life. I spent the weekend with Kendra and I'm not sure what I would have done without her here. She headed home about 30 minutes ago. Her David needs her and I can't be selfish. I'm sitting here in the silence. I don't care how pathetic or emo this makes me, but I just want to know why I can't stop hurting. I don't know that I have ever felt this alone and sad. I SO don't want to be "that guy", but my heart is absolutely fucking broken. I try so hard to soldier on. I job hunt, I am getting things going for school, and I go about my days, I try so hard not to show it to you...but it is hard. I hate that I'm not as strong as you...I hate that I'm not as controlled as you...I hate that I feel so intense and loud...Time is making things harder. I have never loved like this before and that it is out of my life is excruciating. I know the reasons. I know people have to be healed and whole before our paths converge again...I can rationalize all of this. I get it...What I can't get is how much this fucking hurts. As fucking Lifetime movie cliche as this hole in my life is. This sick to my stomach, ache that I feel for most of the hours that I'm not lucky enough to be asleep.I don't want to be this way. I am going on with life. I am functioning. I'm not wallowing...but I'm also not healed. I'm not ready for this to be life. For six fucking years I have seen a path of up and down and sideways and laughing and hurt and lust and tenderness...I saw titanium on my finger and a Cure song in my head. Life may go on. Things may change. I'm not sure where that path is headed now. Now, I'm not sure what I see...I just know what I feel...

The Livejournal logo still makes my heart ache...

It is interesting to me, thinking this evening, that I spent the last 4 years, feeling more loved than I ever have in my adult life, and yet, the last two weeks feeling more lonely and isolated than I think I could possibly feel...

December...

I'll finally try to sleep...the alcohol thinning of my blood, a last gasp attempt at being numb...the moving furniture and the stink of cheap beer, the shallow laugh track and remote controlled fingers, all a feeble distraction from what has led up to this...the defining moment...the time I knew I should dread, but still convinced myself was tolerable. Do you know that I put them on to drown out the silence? Do you somehow feel it? The suede banshees attempting to cure me of the lies I spent the whole night telling myself...there is something in that silence that I don't want to hear. Something that I pray that you hear too...something in that last beating picture of you that I cling to, as I stare at the ceiling, and pretend to understand.

A drowning man takes down those nearest.

I honestly don’t care how typically gay it may make me sound, but Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? is, without a doubt, one of the most brilliantly written and acted films that I have ever seen. I am always in utter awe of how hideously funny, yet emotionally eviscerating the dialogue is. It’s hilarious to me that every time I watch this classic film starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, I approach it with the apprehension and emotional preparedness one usually reserves for some ridiculously violent European horror film. Watching the downward spiral of an evening spent with two people that love each other enough to absolutely fucking despise each other has always left me feeling stunned, squirming, and emotionally drained. To this day, I have never seen a film that manages to balance hilarious cocktail party quotes/insults with some of the most brutal commentary on human behavior, insecurity, and dysfunction that I have ever witnessed. I am very certain that this was the wrong film for me to watch tonight, of all nights, but I was drawn to , nonetheless….

why do my eyes constantly go to what is missing?

Much less emotional today. We finally talked again this morning and things aren't quite as grim as they seemed. He's viewing this more as a separation than a break up, and foresees us getting back together in the near future as long as some things change on both ends. There are things that need to be worked on. We've both kind of lost ourselves this last year. I completely lost focus after being laid off and kind of gave up. I'm now actively job hunting again and I've applied to start school in January. Despite being heartsick about this separation, I also feel good about actually attempting to put myself back on track. We both think that with some work on ourselves, that we'll be back to us in no time. We'll see. I'm trying to stay optimistic and focused. It's still incredibly tough and I'm heart broken. I'd give anything for him to change his mind and decide we can do this together, but I also am starting to understand and see that this isn't final and in the long run may absolutely work out for the better...keep your fingers crossed.

Becoming something that you don't want to be...

I'm trying to deal...and I'm not doing a very good job of it...something I, in all honesty, was silly enough to never imagine happening did. I am, apparently, now single...This morning Michael told me that he was leaving me. I spent the whole day, I'm sad to admit, bawling my eyes out in complete agony. We talked tonight when he got home and he says that he loves me and that it isn't our relationship, but that he is miserable and not himself and he needs some time alone to get back to being who he is. He swears that we'll be back together at some point. I'm not so sure. I have no doubt that he loves me, but I think that once he gets some time away, with no one to answer to, he'll want to stay that way. We sat there tonight, talking, me crying my guts out...he had such a look of pain in his eyes that I can't help but get that he's heartbroken about this. I just don't see how our obvious love for each other, the piles of shit we've gone through to be together, and our history don't equal figuring out a way to make this work. Maybe it's my parents' marriage of 39 years and seeing all the shit they have dealt with and gone through, that makes me ridiculous enough to think that love and the desire to be together is enough...All I know is that, at the risk of sounding like some fucking Lifetime movie, I now know what it feels like for a heart to break. I've been in long term relationships before, including one that lasted 8 years. The break ups were tough and sad, but there was this odd sense of relief or knowing that the break up made sense in those. There is no sense to me in this one. I don't care how pathetic it may make me sound, this break up makes NO sense to me and I am a fucking stupid mess over it. All I want is to put my big arms around him, my hand on his hairy belly, my lips on the back of his neck and for him to say "I can't do this...you're my lil bubba...let's figure out a way to work through everything...I love you too much to let this go..."

Unfortunately...that's not going to happen anytime soon...

we're inviting you anyways ...

I'm not sure how well I can put all of this into words. A lot of people think I'm crazy or immature because of my deep, borderline obsessiveness with the music that I love. From the thousands of cds I own, to the hundreds of bands that I have seen in concert, my words, my writing, my home, and frequently my mind are all a testament to a deep seeded love that goes back to my very early youth. My mother jokes that this is all her fault for placing headphones on her pregnant belly.

While my taste has continually evolved over the course of almost 37 years, I have never turned my back on anything I love. Whether it is trendy to love, utter cheese, or something random and obscure, I've never quite grasped the concept of "guilty pleasures". If I love something, I love it, whether it's Kurt Weill, Motley Crue, David Bowie, Boy George, Minor Threat, or Pink.

Although I'm always stumbling onto music that I fall in love with, it's extremely rare to come across an artist that truly gets to the core. That "goose bumps, tears in the eyes, shit eating grin" moment of joy I get when a song or musician kicks me in the gut. I was familiar with The Cure from their videos on 120 Minutes in the late 80's. If you were a little adventurous and weird, they were the go to band during that time. However, it wasn't until I heard DISINTEGRATION that I was absolutely overtaken by an album. It was such a profound moment for me and one that still stands to this day. After 21 years, 2 cassettes, 2 cds, vinyl, reissues, etc, it is still an album that I get lost in. I've seen them 3 times and it's always been such a moment for me. My fiance actually proposed to me during their show the last time I saw them.

I was completely certain that no other band or artist could affect me in that way, to that degree. Sure, the music of The Smiths, Joy Division, Tom Waits, Nina Simone, etc all have a special kind of hold and magic on me, but nothing quite touched that feeling that The Cure gave me.

In the early 2000's, I heard stories about this "weird" band from Boston who were taking Weimer Republic ideas of art and performance and melding it with a do it yourself, we're all a part of it, punk spirit. Being a huge fan of the free spirited, sexually liberated, art vs. camp spirit of cabaret, as well as just a big dorky goth/punk goof, it was something I knew I had to check out. While "Coin Operated Boy" was a creepy/cute little ditty, I put it aside and would break them out from time to time. It took the release of their second studio album, YES, VIRGINIA, for me to really take stock of what they were doing. I began to actually listen. Underneath this truly original melding of influences were two amazing musicians writing some of the most heart wrenchingly clever songs that I had ever heard. Beyond giving Kurt Weill a postmodern spin, these songs spoke to the outcast, weirdo fuck ups. The were love songs for the disenfranchised that while dark, and sometimes very angry, had a non sentimental glimmer of hope. Things may be shit, love is often nothing more than a rapidly drying wet spot on an old mattress, and the world may not fucking understand, but there are other fuck ups who know. There is music, and art, and books, and film, and those brief, often rare moments in life that make being a freak the most beautiful thing in the world.

Last night, that moment lasted two and a half hours. Although, I had seen them a few years ago, last night's performance was like nothing else. After a 4 hour drive from Kansas City to St. Louis, 5 to the car, we were all amped up and excited, but a bit worn out from the drive. From the moment they walked on stage until the final fade of their encore, this was truly one of "those" moments. It's rare to see a band so tight and on, while still being casual enough to carry on conversations with the audience, take requests, and joke around. Their shows are less like "concerts" and more like an amazing night with friends. At the risk of sounding like hippie bullshit, the sense of community and oneness in the crowd and with Amanda and Brian is unlike anything that I have ever experienced at the hundreds of concerts and shows that I have been to. From dark ballads to anthems, from intense walls of sound to playful covers, there was no moment that I wasn't completely involved. In a night full of friends, jokes, incredible music, and emotion, there was one, however, that truly outshines them all. The opening strains of "Sing" gives me goosebumps just sitting in my living room. Coming full circle from their opening cover of T. Rex's similiar in spirit "Cosmic Dancer", hearing a theater full of people singing their guts out to "Sing" and its lyrics about the transcendent power of music, singing regardless of whether anyone thinks you can, and that losing yourself in something that you love, no matter how shitty the world is around you, was, for lack of a non sentimental word, absolutely fucking magic. I stood there, goosebumps, tears in my eyes as one of those "motherfuckers" singing my guts out, today, as well as someday.


Last night I felt like a kid again. Ignoring things like the 4 hour drive back home, my unemployment, money, my weight, being cool enough, that I can't marry the man I love, my frustrations. Losing myself completely and totally in a moment. Losing myself in the music that I love. This may not be profound, or deep. It may even come across silly to a lot of people. I don't care. This is my love letter and my thank you note to my amazing fiance, Michael, my best friend Kendra, and my new friends Cynder and Sam for being there with me, as well as to Amanda and Brian for continuing to stir up that passion and joy inside of me. I am turning 37 next month, but last night, I was 16 years old and full of hope, love, and optimism. Thank you...

SING:

there is this thing that's like touching except you don't touch
back in the day it just went without saying at all
all the world's history gradually dying of shock
there is this thing that's like talking except you don't talk
you sing
you sing

sing for the bartender sing for the janitor sing
sing for the cameras sing for the animals sing
sing for the children shooting the children sing
sing for the teachers who told you that you couldn't sing
just sing

there is this thing keeping everyone's lungs and lips locked
it is called fear and it's seeing a great renaissance
after the show you can not sing wherever you want
but for now let's just pretend we're all gonna get bombed
so sing

sing 'cause it's obvious sing for the astronauts sing
sing for the president sing for the terrorists sing
sing for the soccer team sing for the janjaweed sing
sing for the kid with the phone who refuses to sing
just sing

life is no cabaret
we don't care what you say
we're inviting you anyways
you motherfuckers you'll sing someday...

Human Centipede...The real shit sucking was that this waste of time got made...

Yet again, why I should not listen to hype. The only thing shocking about this was that I actually sat through it all and that people actually thought this was shocking. What an idiotic waste of time. The premise may have been disturbing, but the actual film wasn't. The doctor was a sad Udo Kier wannabe, the film plodded along until the premise came to fruition as the creative writing project of some antisocial 15 year old in study hall. The whole poo in mouth thing was just asinine and done for shock value. Trust me, while it is SO not my thing, I have seen FAR worse in some underground German fetish films. Why is it that I'm constantly disappointed and annoyed by films that I'm told are so disturbing and intense? This was just fucking stupid...

I was actually lucky enough to see this in the theater when it was a part of the Boy’s Life 2 filmfest. I sat in the theater in Royal Oak, Michigan in tears because it was the most dead on portrayal of being an outcast, queer kid that I had ever seen. I love that he didn't realize that a damned thing was wrong with him or how he felt until he was made to. That is what is wrong with this world. There isn't anything wrong...we're just told that there is supposed to be...

It was wonderful to see it win the Oscar, spur The Trevor Project, and 16 years later, still be an amazing force in the gay community. We just watched it again, and it still manages to make me laugh out loud, smile, and cry like a baby. However, I hope someday, we won’t need the Trevor Project anymore because queer youth will realize how amazing and wonderful that they are, regardless of the small minded ignorant bigots in this world.

It is one of my biggest goals in life, and why I am such a loud mouth queer...to make those outcast, gay or straight, male or female, tranny or bi, realize that there is not a damned thing wrong with them. It won't always be easy. It may be hell. The people in your life may turn their backs on you. However, there are people out there that will love you. People who will and do appreciate all the things that make you think that you are weird, or wrong, or that make the small minded idiots take their own ignorance and insecurities out on you. It takes balls to be a fairy. It may not always be an easy life, but as someone who grew up in small town Kansas, competing in rodeo, a 4H member, and a big burly punk guy who has been out for half of his life, I didn't always have it easy, but I tucked in and realized that being different and queer was a wonderful thing. It was part of what made me who I was and who I am. It's something that I love about myself and I wouldn't change it for anything. Despite how tough it can be at times, I wouldn't give up being gay even if it was an option. I promise that there is a better world out there. Just keep fighting...

6 AM KNOWS MY SECRETS...

It is 6 AM...I am still pretty much wide awake, have been up for 22 hours, and I am sitting here reading the Huffington Post and National Geographic, playing Fugazi, and listening to my mister and Ella snore...I am a happy, insomniac geek...just hope I don't waste our day off together finally falling asleep...


I wish I could use this time to actually, truly write...or work on the podcast that I keep talking about, as I should have used my last few months of unemployment.

I have such aspirations and goals...ones that I TRULY mean and intend on, at the very least, working on. It just never seems to completely surface. Instead, I sit in front of my computer looking for music, fucking around on Facebook, reading a book, or turned around, watching Netflix Instant Watch...things that I truly enjoy, but not a damned thing that leads to actually accomplishing the goals that I really do want to do...It, sadly, seems to take some fucked formula of lack of sleep times almost too much alcohol to get me to actually pound something out on my keyboard that is more than 3 sentences.

My goals for the ridiculously rapidly approaching new year: Maybe actually doing the things that I say I intend to do throughout the year and sort of do...37 is around the corner and while I'm not unhappy, I'm nowhere near where I should, but seem to hold myself back from, finally be...Maybe this time...

I took my dad to get his first tattoo today. For a lot of people, that may sound odd, or trashy, or just wrong. My family are rural. We own livestock, rodeo, ride horses, and my dad is a cowboy. However, we are far from white trash. My parents raised us to be respectful, polite, open minded, and cultured. We were encouraged to read, love music and art, and explore the world around us. I'm very lucky in that way. My parents may not have always approved of me or my choices, but they supported me in the ones that were fundamentally me, while helping me through the decisions I made that were self destructive.

My father and I were never close while I was growing up. As an adult, we've come to respect and understand each other. Though we come from different worlds and mindsets, we somehow still seem to get and respect each other. He's supported my weird hair colors, piercings, tattoos, and being queer. While I may not have taken the path he'd have liked me to, he's respected me being me.

So, for him to want his first tattoo at the age of 59 and wanting me to find the place to have it done, and wanting me to take him, meant a lot to me. To spend a day with him...just us, was wonderful. The fact that he spent that afternoon in, what is kind of my world, is an experience that I won't forget. While it may sound trivial to some, today was a pretty amazing day and meant more to me than anyone will probably ever know...

SURVIVAL OF THE DEAD...MY ASS

I have to start with stating that I love Romero, and I'm a huge zombie fan, however...as the credits rolled on this, I was left wondering when he started working for the SyFy channel. The acting, writing, sad attempts at humor, and CGI were so poor that this literally reminded me of some crappy SyFy original playing on a Saturday afternoon. There is absolutely no tension, or scares, and the gore is ridiculously weak. I have, honestly, seen better effects in video games. The plot lines felt recycled from his previous output, some crappy PG-13 teen horror films, and a number of newer zombie flicks. Pacing bordered on painful and I can't count home many times I caught myself looking at the time display on my dvd player. I didn't like Diary of the Dead (say the name fast and it sums it up) and this was even weaker...What happened, Uncle George??

Stick it in yer ear...

A few bands that I've been hardcore on lately:

The Distortions: Like the mellower, dreamy side of Jesus and Mary Chain and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

The Violets: Angular, post punk with a female vocalist. Kind of like early Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs if they covered Siouxsie and the Banshees early stuff.

The Domino State: Melodic, moody post punk. Like Coldplay with a lot more balls or The Glam.

More to follow...

This is our new little guy. My husband went to game at an employee's apartment last week and the neighbor across the hall had moved out, leaving a momma cat and her litter of kittens. This employee had taken them all in, even with the two cats he already had, because he couldn't stand the thought of them not being taken care of. I get that having a pet can be a responsibility. I also totally get that having a litter of kittens around is work. What I don't understand is leaving a mother cat to starve herself nearly to the brink of death feeding her litter because you can't be bothered to deal with it. Craigslist, a no kill shelter, even facebook, but just leaving them to fend for themselves is fucking sick. I don't get people's apathetic attitude toward animals. I know not everyone is an animal person. Not everyone SHOULD have a pet...but just own up to that. Don't get a dog or a cat, decide it's too much work and leave it in an alley. Then again, some people are this way with their babies, so why should a fucking kitten be any different to them. I've always agreed with the saying that you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat an animal...This kid took in a starving mother cat and a half dozen kittens even though he already had two cats and he was breaking the rules of his lease. He refuses to dump them at a shelter. I've never met this guy, but he's already pretty fucking aces in my book. The fact that, thanks to him, we now have a new love in our life is just a big plus...

Jesus, I am getting tired of these new noisepop bands that think recording your vocals on a Fisher Price tape recorder while your girlfriend beats on a guitar with a wooden spoon makes you the next Jesus and Mary Chain...

Yes, I'm talking to you Vivian Girls and Best Coast...

MANIFEST DESTINY RIFLE...

GO INSIDE ME...BE MY WAR BOY...MY AMPHETAMINE HERO...MY DRUNKEN SOLDIER...BAPTISM CONTINGENT ON BLOOD ALCOHOL LEVEL...I’LL FEEL WHOLE ONLY WHEN I’M MADE TO FEEL LIKE NOTHING...LIKE GLAZED EMPTY EYES IN A CHOPPED WHITE STRIPED MIRROR...THE CUM DRIES ON THE DRIVE HOME WHILE I READ THE CHURCH SIGN”HE WHO KNEELS MOST LIVES BEST”...AND FOR ONCE I AGREE...CUZ THE ONLY TIME THAT I FEEL ALIVE OR WHOLE OR LIKE ANYTHING IS RIGHT WITH THIS WORLD IS WHEN I’M TAKING SOMETHING IN...ON MY KNEES FOR THE RIGHT SONG...THE RIGHT BOTTLE...OR THE RIGHT COCK....CUZ MUSIC IS MY CHURCH...BUT COCK IS THE COMMUNION AND BOOZE IS THE OXYGEN...AL ONCE SAID “I ONLY KILL TO KNOW I AM ALIVE”, BUT I ONLY SWALLOW TO KNOW I’M BREATHING...RURAL BOY WITH MANIFEST DESTINY RIFLE...NO BUCK ON MY WALL..THE ONLY THING THAT I KILL IS BRAIN CELLS AND DREAMS...ANOINTED IN GOOD BOURBON AND CHEAP BEER, I PLAY OFF ADDICTION BECAUSE IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO...OR AT LEAST, THE ACCEPTABLE THING TO DO...I LIE HERE BLEEDING, A VICTIM OF MY OWN CIRCUMSTANCE...THE DRYING HARDNESS ON MY STOMACH AND FACE, THE LIQUOR STORE CHARGE ON MY CREDIT CARD, THE BITING OF MY TONGUE....THE ONLY EVIDENCE I HAVE THAT TONIGHT EXISTED...INSOMNIA MAKES ME FEEL WHOLE...DESPITE ANY EVIDENCE TO THE CONTRARY...THIS RANDOMNESS MAKE SENSE TO ME, IF NOT TO YOU...

He puts my face in the mirror. The looks reflected back at me full of lust and desperation, hope and angst. The same look that says...”Your dreams will never come true...” When you live your life as a dreamer, reality has a way of seeping in like wrinkles on an aging face. It’s something you never think about, even as 3 AM broadcasts it’s endless playback. Then one day, you are brushing your teeth, and it bares it’s ugly fangs. And like a kick in the groin, it tells you that your youthful cynicism and disdain weren’t just carefully cultivated sexiness...they were preparation.

reflection

I watch him there..his dark fairlight eyes aglow in the dark. Glimmer from the silver parts in his flesh momentarily blind me. He looks so evil in the dimness, yet somehow so innocent, the way that those lost boys always do. Puppy smiles and devil grins. Whiskey and candy cigarettes, vaseline winks and sugarcoated fist fucks....he’s the one your momma warns you about, but the one you take home to dad. You are never sure if he’s more focused on you, the song on the radio, or the bottle in his hand, and you like it that way.

Would I truly have lived up to the potential that others see in me, or have I only flashed the parts that glint bits of greatness but hold nothing beyond amusement and lack of substance?

Am I really the sincere, honest, good man that I sometimes am told, or is it much more than a misintepretation of my nature, sensitivity, and response?

Is there a depth that truly lies deeper than what is perceived, or a veneer that's polished by years of wanting to be a bit more than I know that I am?

When does truth surface...in the punk rock tender or the redneck scholar...or is any bit of it some scripted reality put forth to throw interest off the smell of the down deep?

One hundred proof truths and oxygen honesty...the clash that is the sincere...

fumes that reach for something more than i am willing to converse...but choke on what i might actually mean...

a complexity so shallow...

the glare of the white lights from the red within...


the gutter scarred heart flayed on my sleeve, the first honesty i could let myself show...

for the contradicting angel on my lap...in hopes that this IS...

me...i...we...us...survivalism beyond the decay...

a wink at hope beyond the ruin that are the things I wonder about myself...

rough trade saint...

ALL HE WANTED TO DO WAS DRINK CHEAP BEER AND EXPENSIVE BOURBON...LISTENING TO BITTER MUSIC AND RELIVE PAST IMAGINED SICK GLORIES...THE VOICES OF OLD ACQUAINTANCES ECHOING LIKE THE SOUND OF A LOCAL BAND FIGHTING TO BE HEARD THROUGH THE METAL OF DRUNKEN PISS STAINED BATHROOM STALL DOORS...HE RELUCTANTLY UNDERSTOOD WHY THE PARTY ALWAYS HAS TO END, BUT STILL FOUGHT THE DAWN AND THE GOODBYES OF MATURE-ADULT-LIFE WITH EVERY WHITE NOSED, FERMENTED BREATH. SINGING CAR CRASH LULLABYES AND OVERDOSE LOVE SONGS, HE'S THE ROUGH TRADE SAINT THAT MAKES EVERY CLICHE SEEM SOMEHOW AMUSING AND DANGEROUS AND SO FUCKING SEXY. HE FINDS ALL THE WRONG THINGS EXCITING, YET HOLDS THE PERFECT THINGS DEAR, AND MAKES YOU FIND THE BEAUTY IN BOTH. THE ONLY QUESTION HE EVER DARES TO PONDER IS WHO NEEDS GOD WHEN YOU HAVE YOURSELF?

the algebra of need...

A spit shined veneer of perfect abandon. A fine way of saying...”I just fucking give up”. Cuz giving up or going on are pretty much the same in that book. When your lifeline comes on tap and your pride comes in...well just cums...it’s a history lesson in the algebra of need or want, or what the fuck ever keeps the gun out of your mouth. They say that women attempt to off themselves more than men, but men are more successful. Does that mean that males take it that seriously, or it’s another macho bullshit thing to prove? WWJWD? What would John Wayne do? Cuz it’s all about that pseudo frontier shit that some closet case coward, scared shitless of himself designed to cover his tracks. What’s worse....A cock in the mouth....or a gun in the mouth. I think we all know the answer to that one.

another old one...musings on a past life/relationship


Maybe it is fucked up....I sit here drinking my 14th beer listening to the Pixies and trying to ignore my boyfriend, naked and masturbating on the bed.... Every asthmatic grunt driving me further into denial....should I feel sad that I’d rather drink than fuck my lover? Is it a sign of how in love I am with my liquor or a sign of how little I am with him? Yes, I love his cock and I love him..but I don’t think that I’m really in love with either....and maybe I haven’t been....in a long....long...time...Routine is heroin to the confused, and sadly I may be nodding off on what I have become accustomed to. I pray for him to cum, so that I can feel free to go on with what I actually want to do and can quit pretending to be oblivious...I know he knows and I feel like a bastard, but at the same time, all I am denying him is a fucking blow job. He has denied me my self. He claims to love me and be attracted to me for what I really am, but all he seems to really give a shit about is himself and his own interests. “Oh wow, baby, you started writing again finally? That is great, but have I shown you my latest piece? Did I tell you how fucked up work was today? Did I tell you about this debate I got into in class? Have I told you that I rarely fucking understand much of what you say, talk about, think about, or care about???? And more importantly, I don’t give a shit?” Yeah, so maybe he doesn’t say that last part, but he may as well scream it, when he cuts me off in mid sentence about defeating my writers block or my latest mix cd to discuss, or even better, to soapbox about the trivialities of his day for the 245th time. I just nod and retreat into my mind, my music, my liquor...cuz the pills aren’t working any more....and I’m not sure that they ever did....he might stop and tell me that MAYBE I drink too much...and I think it isn’t enough...he might talk about how fucking hot the guy was that supposedly wanted down my pants that actually seemed interested in ME....cuz trivializing it makes it more acceptable...cuz I might be cool to talk to...hang out with...drink with....but mostly I give great head and I’m a great lay...and if one has to “pretend” to listen to Joy Division, or read Steinbeck, or love Asian film, it’s well worth it for that look on my face as the cum flies...

The stories are always better at night. Exaggerated with whisky and Camel Filters, Cure songs and Special K, the age old tale of boys that chase boys and the girls that love them. It gets easier with age, they tell me....but what if the worst time of my life really is the best time of my life? Maybe the lies I told myself to make me like myself are the reasons that I don’t. Hmm...well pretentious pondering and empty bottle self analysis isn’t pretty and rarely gets on with the show, but angst...angst is always sexy. The fresh scar underneath the scab...that’s what this story is. The brutally lovely night stories...

SHARPIE HYMNS

I ONLY BLEW HIM FOR THE STORY I COULD TELL LATER OVER EXTRA STRONG COCKTAILS AND COCAINE...I’M ON MY KNEES SUFFERING FOR MY ART...THE GLORY HOLE EDITOR IN SOME MIDWESTERN REST AREA EVALUATING MY TALENT. AND JUDGING ME...9.8 ON SKILL BUT 6.7 ON ENTHUSIASM.. SHOW US YOU LOVE IT..THEY ALL BELLOW....SO IT’S SOME MIDDLE AGED TRUCKER GRABBING THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD IN SOME FILTHY ABANDONED REST AREA. AT LEAST IT’S SOME KIND OF ATTENTION. AND WE BOTH KNOW THAT THE FILTHIER...THE TRASHIER...THE MORE DISPOSABLE THAT I AM TREATED....THE BETTER I SEEM TO FEEL. AT WORK, AT SCHOOL, IN LOVE, ALWAYS UNWORTHY...BUT SUBJECTED TO SOME LEVEL OF HUMILIATION AND SCORN, I FEEL WHOLE.. FINDING SALVATION THROUGH CUM STAINED DRILL HOLES IN SPRAY PAINTED STALL WALLS...SHARPIE HYMNS AND KEY SCRATCHED PRAYERS TELL MY FORTUNE ALONG THE SIDE OF ANOTHER PRAIRIE HIGHWAY. THIS IS MY EXISTENCE...

Someday, I will try to put into words how much Hedwig and the Angry Inch is not only my favorite film, but how it affected and changed my life...until then, all I can do is watch the movie, listen the soundtrack and continue to be in awe of how much it completely and utterly hits home with me...

Obviously an older writing, but as I'm planning a John Hughes film fest this week, I found it apropos.

So many people that I know were affected by the deaths of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. The death of John Hughes hit me harder than either of those. A lot of people may think it's silly to mourn the loss of someone that you've never met. I don't feel that you need to have met someone for them to have had a huge impact on your life. For all of us queer, weirdos, dorks, geeks, outcasts, etc, books, movies, and music are sometimes the only escape we have from the shitty, confusing world we're faced with. We can find reflections of ourselves, people we yearn to be like, or the message that it's alright for us to be just who we are. That it may not always be easy, but it's true and beautiful. That's what I got out the "brat pack" films of John Hughes. The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Pretty In Pink, Some Kind of Wonderful, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and Weird Science...they were such a massive part of my childhood and still hold an incredibly dear place in my heart. As a young, confused, weird queer kid in bumfuck Kansas, they were a beacon. They showed me that life wasn't always perfect or easy for the big city kids, the popular kids, or the beautiful kids, but that there was always hope. He may not have ever featured any gay teens, but his films still spoke to me as an outcast and someone that wanted to be loved and accepted, but on my own terms. People can be shit, you may not always get what or who you want, but that holding true to yourself is what matters the most. Amongst the nostalgia, the laughs, and the great movie quotes, that is why I mourn the loss of a man that I have never met...

A love letter to S.E. Hinton...

I always hesitate to label myself a writer. It typically sounds so pretentious, and to really be a writer, aren't you supposed to be published and make some kind of money at it? That's the popular theory anyway. Still, writers write and professional or not, it's something that I've always done.

From the time I was a kid scribbling out stories for creative writing day at school until my current blogging fixations, I've been asked by family, friends, etc what the hell makes me want to write. Why work so hard at something that doesn't come easily, rarely pays worth a damn, and that more than likely, no one is going to read? As ridiculous as it sounds, I've always been one for telling stories. I truly believe that it comes from my grandfather, Chuck. The whole "why use 10 words when you can use 100 and make it come to life" theory of getting your point across. He never failed to have a story for nearly every point he was trying to make. I tend to be a bit shy and awkward in social situations, so small talk is torture for me. Get me going on a story about something that I've witnessed, read, or experienced, however and you can't shut me up. I thank him for that.

I sat and watched THE OUTSIDERS film last night for the first time in years. The film has aged incredibly well and I actually think that I appreciate just how beautiful it is more as an adult. I started thinking about how S.E. Hinton's novel was a constant in my adolescence. I read it every chance that I had, checking it out from the library as often as they would allow me. Looking back, it was the first book I read that really had a massive impact on me. I'd been a voracious reader as a child, thanks to my mom, but THE OUTSIDERS was the first time I remember putting a book down after finishing it, and just sitting, because I was so overwhelmed. I grew up an upper middle class kid with both parents in a tiny rural town in East Central Kansas during the 70's and 80's. I was certainly never a poor greaser from the wrong side of the city, being raised by my older brothers in the late 60's. Still, the book spoke to me like none had before. It truly caught that sense of not fitting in. How tough being a teenager is, especially if you are at all different from the preconceived notion of what a teenage boy should be. Regardless of whether you're fighting in the streets or hiding your feelings for the boy in your class because no one will understand it, it's the things that you love in life that enable you to survive. Whether that's family, the people that you surround yourself with, or writing, music, books, etc.

Hinton's book showed me that writing could be raw and honest, simple and beautiful. What mattered wasn't fancy words, or sentence structure, it was the story you were telling and the characters you brought to life. This is my motto every time I sit down to write, whether I'm telling a story, or raving about some album that I've fallen in love with.

I know that it sometimes sounds trite and cliche to say that a book changed your life, but THE OUTSIDERS did for me. It's the first moment I can recall a book deeply affecting me. It's also what I credit my love for writing with. That epiphany when I realized how much I loved telling a story, almost as much as I loved hearing one. To this day, anytime I finish a book that really gets to me, I still need a few moments after putting it down. Going on 30 years and a few dozen readings, I still do it every time I finish THE OUTSIDERS.

A few hours ago, I discovered that Sigmar Polke died last week. I remember living in Dallas and a friend taking me to the Institute of Art. We wandered for hours until coming around a corner. There, much to my shock and delight was a Polke exhibit. Floor to ceiling, 20 foot tall images of art and commentary. I spent another couple of hours in utter awe of the images in front of me…While, I, myself, have never been a visual artist, I have always found particular images to have a profound effect on me. From the simple and basic, to detailed and intricate. Polke managed to balance both. While there was so much going on in his work, from the combination of paint and photograpy, to the commentary and voice of his art, there was always an underlying simplicity to it that spoke to me.

I really need to start djing again...

BLADE RUNNER - I've seen things

Watching the Director’s Cut of Blade Runner and living in fear that it will be remade. When something is perfect and right the first time, why mess with it? Even after 28 years, the film still feels fresh and vital, and the visuals don’t look at all dated. A remake would only fuck up something that doesn’t need to be touched. I’m sure that it’s too cerebral, story driven, dark, and slow paced for most modern audiences, so the Michael Bay “cgi, blowing shit up” factor would rear it’s ugly, useless head…There are still moments in the film that force me to catch my breath. It’s the rare film that manages to make the bleak absolutely beautiful and took the thrill ride of science fiction back to it’s intelligent, thought provoking, profound roots.

Boyfriends Keep The Cats From Eating Your Face, Right?

There have always been jokes about how much I dislike people, how antisocial I am, or my ever increasing level of snarky grouchiness. The problem with this, however, is that it's becoming less amusing and more about an ever increasing level of social anxiety.

I spent nearly 6 years living in rural southeast Kansas, where my social life was rather limited. I became frighteningly self sufficient in the entertainment department. The internet, some beer, good music, and a bit of porn, and I could fool myself into thinking I had some semblance of a social life. Pathetic, huh?

Moving to Kansas City six months ago, I knew there would be a level of adjustment. The fact that I was still working 100 miles south of the city and was away most of the week made my weekend socializing that much more fun and interesting. Now that I have resigned from my job and I'm up here full time, I am faced with a hell of a lot of free time. MJ works 50-60 hours a week, so I'm frequently on my own again for entertainment. After spending a chunk of money and effort to move up here, I find myself passing my increasing idle time with...the internet, music, and booze. I get offers to do things somewhat frequently, but being a one income household, money has become a bit tight and I can't rationalize spending money to go out when it could be used to purchase groceries, gasoline, or cheaper, larger quantities of alcohol.

Well...that's the main reason/excuse. See, despite being a relatively fun, full of life guy, I still have to force myself to socialize. It doesn't come naturally to me as it does to MJ. Once I'm around people and relaxing, I can be the life of the party. Getting to that point, however, is a white knuckled, mule kicking, pain in the ass. The more time I spend alone, the more freaked out I get by social situations. Going to meet someone for a beer, or hanging out at someone's house is a terrifying prospect for me. I can't count how many potentially great social engagements I have missed out on because I couldn't face them without some kind of security blanket (ie: MJ).

On top of the complete wasting of social opportunities here in Kansas City, it's beginning to affect small, trivial things. I put off going to the grocery store. I get butterflies in my stomach when I have to interact with people, whether it's while shopping, running errands, or even going in somewhere to pick up a carry out order. It's even gotten to the point where some nights I hope MJ has gotten a ride home with a coworker, so that I don't have to leave the apartment.

I'm sure that I'm exaggerating things a little bit as I am prone to do. It's not as if I'm some scary shut in out of a Dean Koontz novel, swathed in a terry cloth robe, who will claw my eyes out if I have to deal with the cable guy. It is, however, something I think needs addressed. My hope is that it's a more a symptom of boredom and being a bit bummed about not having a job, combined with my natural shyness, and not some pathology rearing it's ugly head. I'm trying to withhold self prognosis until I find employment or enroll in school. I keep thinking that once I'm feeling more comfortable and sure of our situation, I'll be a wee bit less crazy.


DISCLAIMER: For those of you in KC. Please don't assume that if I can't do something with you that it's a result of this. It may just actually be that I'm flat broke...Fat boy's gotta eat...


Post Script: I just spent 20 minutes talking to our maintenance guy about dogs, the neighborhood, the complex, getting together with the other tenants for a bbq, and maybe going and grabbing beers sometime...so maybe MJ won't have to keep our pets from dining on my soft parts after all...

Pointless...

So, I have a ton of new music to write about, but sadly not much else. As much as music is my life, I wanted this blog to be a bit more personal. Instead, I'm lazy and bored with not a whole lot going on, which doesn't exactly make for exciting reading...as you can see here. Anyway, something will be posted soon, even if it's just my music obsessiveness/snobbery making yet another appearance.

I am listening to old Jawbreaker at the moment and it's making me want to be in my mid 20's, drinking (oh wait, I am doing that), and smoking a Camel filter...

Alcoholic Faith Mission - Closer to Dallas

dsa

Now, get me a beer...

A lot of things have changed in my life in the last month. I'm not going into details here, but I've been faced with some massive decisions regarding my life, relationship, and job. Enough betrayal, backstabbing, apologies and drama for a queer soap opera. I've weeded some people out of my life and brought some closer. To top it all off, I quit my job last week. The 200 mile roundtrip commute, and being gone 4 to 5 days a week was just too much. It's had a very negative impact on my emotional state, my relationship, and life in general. It's scary and surreal not being employed, but it's also kind of a relief. Of course, we'll see how I feel if I haven't found something in a couple of weeks.

The truly odd part of all of this is how I've responded. I am usually a bit high strung, compulsive, obsessive, and sometimes manic, with a flair for dramatic. Yet, with everything I have been faced with over the last month or so, I've managed to be incredibly calm, introspective, and, dare I say it, positive. I wish a lot of this would never have happened, but I think it has forced me to address a lot of issues in my life and with myself that I had too easy of a time shoving back. 2010 has been off to a shit start, but I think that if I bust my ass enough, I can make some gravy out of the rest of the year. Fuck, this optimistic shit is exhausting. I need a beer...

Anyway, the job hunting has given me a lot of time to analyze my life and myself. I'm not going on some bullshit self realization trip, but there are things in my life that I truly love that I have let lose importance. My writing has gone to crap. I haven't done any dj mixes in a couple of years, and the podcast that I have rambled about for years has yet to surface. Also, while I'm trying to embrace my beefy, stocky, cubness, I also need to start exercising. I'm always going to be a big strapping bastard, but I'd like to be one that feels a bit better every day and can maybe, look just a little hotter in my collection of band tshirts.

So...expect more rambling on here, as well as a possible podcast tie in. I promise to keep the "I lost 10 lbs" comments to a minimum, but if I look super hot in that old Dead Kennedys shirt, you may have pictures forced upon you...

Recycling special ed stories...I am going to hell...

So, it's been a month and a half since my last post. A lot has happened in my personal life, and I've discovered a hell of a lot of great new music. I just haven't at all been inspired to write. Anytime I sit down to, I get distracted by some aspect of my life, whether trivial or intense. I have a lot of things to write about and plan on it as soon as I make sense of it, or I just feel like rambling about a few bands I've come across lately...Until then, here's an old entry from Livejournal that was written during my time working with high school special ed students. I've been meaning to get all of these adventures together and see if I can make something of them. Feel free to comment, suggest, whatever...

Yesterday afternoon, one of my students came bounding into class, hooting and hollering all excited...this isn't uncommon because he's an obnoxious prick, but he proclaimed that he had something he needed to tell the class...he was obviously foaming at the mouth to share it, and since there is still a tiny sliver of niceness left in me, I told him to go ahead...plus you never know when it'll make good story material...anyway, he tries to get the class quiet, which is quite a chore with 19 special ed students, half of whom are behavior disorder, but anyway, he clears his throat dramatically to get everyone's attention and then announces, "I know what I'm going to do when I graduate..." He's a senior and will be graduating next month. As much as I want to encourage my kids, I knew this was going to be a train wreck..."I am going to college to be one of those guys that makes things talk!!" The teachers just look at each other a bit confused. "You know...one of those guys that makes things talk without talking...like they stick the dummy on their leg and make them talk without talking..." A ventriloquist, I mutter. "Yeah...one of those guys that make dummies talk." I bit my tongue to keep from blurting out, "You mean my job?" Anyway...I know I'm a mean evil bastard and shall end up with downs syndrome, a bad limp, and a stutter in hell, but I found this fucking hilarious...first, ANYONE wanting to be a ventriloquist is funny as shit to me...but this student in particular? It just killed me. I am glad that he has a goal, though I'm more happy that he is graduating as he drives me to borderline homicide...not a day goes by that I don't daydream about punching him in the back of the head with my stapler. I've written about him stalking me before...calling my house 30 times a night and showing up on my porch in the middle of the night...saying incredibly inappropriate things to me (which I guess now, he'll be able to do from inanimate objects). He's also a compulsive liar...RASCAL FLATTS asked him to join the band, but he wanted to finish school...and EVERY girl he gets fixated on becomes his girlfriend, moves in with him, is pregnant with his baby, and they ALWAYS have to have an "NDA" test, which I will assumed is a DNA/paternity test to see if it's his...which always happens magically overnight despite the fact that we are in the fucking middle of nowhere...it's always his and yet, somehow, when he fixates on a new person, the whole thing magically goes away...i gues it's an immaculate conception AND miscarriage...he's now started "practicing" by making his pens and pencils talk to each other...he's given them all names and makes them speak for him in class...this is amusing, yet fucking creepy...as it's very disturbing having a pen named SUSIE babbling random shit that makes no sense while you're trying to teach history...when I ask him to quiet down and stop disturbing my class, he gets pissed and says that he needs to practice and that I am ruining his future!

To top it off, the poor bastard looks like a rejected extra from PLANET OF THE APES...there is nothing physcially wrong with him...he's just behavior disordered and a bit slow, but he really looks like his momma fucked CHIM CHIM...and yesterday on my way to the grocery store, I drove by him...he was squatting down on the sidewalk, tying his shoe or looking for grubs or something...he stopped, jerked his head up with his arms out, and followed my car with his head, mouth and eyes wide open...he looked like a nature film when chimps are walking, hear something, and stop and look around for the source...I kept expected Marlon fucking Perkins to start doing a voiceover...

anyway...maybe none of this is amusing...maybe i'm just a mean jaded beast of a man...but i find this shit endlessly amusing...trust me...special ed, or not, the kid's an asshole...

RAISED BY SWANS

If you turn on the radio, it would seem that the state of the music world is continuing it's rapid, but evergoing nosedive into preteen drivel and washed up watered down grunge rehash. MTV and VH1 are a vast sea of moronic "reality" shows where any douchebag with enough lack of self esteem can become a "star". Log online, however and there is a world of blogs and websites proving that this may actually be one of the best times for music ever.

As a music fanatic and occasional snob, it's truly astounding to me, how much fucking brilliant music I discover nearly every week. I've blogged about the great scene coming out of Eastern Europe and Russia, especially in regard to post rock and shoegazer. A little closer to home, however, is the staggeringly perfect band, RAISED BY SWANS from Ontario, Canada. I'm actually at kind of a loss at finding bands to compare them to. I hear hints of the Swedish band Kent and Death Cab For Cutie combined with a bit of shoegaze and post rock. Awash in a sea of melody, mood, and dreamy dynamics, this is solitary, late Saturday afternoon with a small buzz going, I want to get lost in my music listening. Not depressing by any means, but definitely music to let completely wash over you.

DISCOGRAPHY:

CODES AND SECRET LONGING 2005
NO GHOSTLESS PLACE 2009

DEADGIRL

While DEADGIRL wasn't as shocking, sick, or astounding as I was lead to believe, it was still a twisted, somewhat disturbing, EXTREMELY dark film. While vaguely hinting at the zombie genre, it's more a bleak coming of age drama. Getting past the shocking, misogynistic imagery, I saw a comment on the dark side of humanity, and even moreso, the extremely sick, dark, fuckedupness of masculinity at it's basest. Whether it's self inflicted pain, fag bashing, date rape, or having sex with an undead "corpse", the lengths a man/boy will go to in proving their masculinity are always a driving part of the dark heart of this world. We all have come across men that view women as beneath them. This film shows what happens when you strip away personality, choice, and humanity from a woman and she truly becomes nothing more than a piece of meat. Is an undead girl still a person? If she can't die, feel pain, sadness or be dehumanized...is it still wrong? While a lot of people may view this movie as nothing more than exploitation wrapped in a pseudo message, I honestly felt like it managed to sidestep being shocking for the sake of shock and actually managed to say something. This is not something i would recommend to most people, nor that I could probably have watched with most of my female friends, but naive or not, I honestly feel that this film had a valid message and reason for being made, and it, mostly, succeeded.

While I am excited to actually be writing again via this blog, I am obsessively going back and rereading my posts everyday, realizing that my writing has really gone to seed. I'd never claim that I was a brlliant writer, by any means, but I think my way with words and occasional cleverness with dialogue, phrasing, and telling a story, made for a usually enjoyable read.

Reading this blog thusfar, however, I can definitely see how rusty and stiff I am. There doesn't seem to be that conversational smoothness to my writing anymore. I'm hoping this is just a matter of being out of practice and not a sign that I have gone to shit.

The dilemma that I am having is whether I should forgo too many more posts until I feel a bit more comfortable with my writing again. I have to wonder if a blog, especially a new blog, is the right place for me to spew practice runs...

When was the last time an album grabbed you by your guts?

If you love music...truly love music...you should download this EP. The band released it for a free download, so don't feel bad about being a thieving shitheel. This is probably my favorite album of the last couple of years. At least since AMANDA PALMER released WHO KILLED AMANDA PALMER. This is absolutely stunning music. An intense, dreamy, beautiful, hypnotic wall of sound from Slovakia. I cannot stop listening to this album. I've raved about it on Facebook, but I just think something this amazing should not be overlooked.

http://www.exitmusic.org/label/theills/

Sleepwalking through fog...

Just a music post. Nothing much else that I'm quite ready to babble about at the moment.


It seems like Russia is becoming my newest source of quality music. With a big influx of atmospheric minded bands, you don't have to be Sarah Palin to see that the mother country is churning out some truly innovative and amazing artists. Case in point, my soundtrack for this afternoon, EVERYTHING IS MADE IN CHINA's album AUTOMATIC MOVEMENTS. Blending post rock, alternative, a bit of shoegazer, and some ethereal electronic, they somehow manage to combine the best bits of EXPLOSIONS IN THE SKY, SIGUR ROS, RADIOHEAD, MOGWAI, M83, AND THE ILLS while still sounding original and diverse. While there is a commonality of moodiness and harmony, not one track on the album sounds exactly like the last. If you're looking for fun, bouncy, pop, I'd recommend going elsewhere, but if you are of the mind that an album should be listened to from beginning to end, absorbed, and completely lost in, I highly recommend this beautiful, intense, hypnotic record.

http://www.last.fm/music/Everything+is+made+in+China

Since i just spent an hour composing a rambling post about my fixation with music, I figured that I'd mention a couple of bands that I'm loving on right now and were the soundtrack for that epic.




My love for all things post punk and vaguely 80's sounding led me to the amazing Belgian band CUSTOMS. Their 2009 album, ENTER THE CHARACTERS is an excellent 46 minutes of indie/post punk/alternative in the vein of Interpol, The Killers, Echo and The Bunnymen, and The Cinematics. Without sounding too derivative of the new wave of early and mid 80's British "raincoat" bands that have surfaced over the last handful of years, they mange to pull off being moody and epic, while still being bouncy and danceable.






Los Angeles band, EULOGIES, released their debut album in 2007, but it's their sophmore release, HERE ANONYMOUS that caught my attention with it's updated spin on classic indie rock. Somehow managing to sound like your favorite mid 90's college radio track, yet completely fresh and modern. They've managed to nab audio appearances on everything from the 2008 film THE WRESTLER to the Showtime series, CALIFORNICATION. If you are at all a fan of quality indie, without the pretension, give this a listen.

Anyone that knows me can attest that I'm a music fanatic. I eat, breathe, and live it. I've been this way since I was a kid dancing around my parent's living room to Boston, Kiss, Queen, and the Studio 54 record set. My obsession with collecting music started with a copy of KISS's Destroyer album that my parents bought me for my 3rd birthday. From there it became nearly compulsive.

If you grew up in a small town in the late 70's/early 80's, the skating rink was the epitome of a social life. The time I spent coordinating my parachute pants with my strategically placed bandanas set the tone for the eyeliner, ratted hair, bondage gear goth days of my early 20's. My mom, being the rockstar she still is, would always give me money for my nights "out" at the rink. She did this every weekend, despite knowing that while all the other kids would be playing Pole Position and buying plastic trays of nuclear yellow nacho cheese dip, I would be huddled under the dj booth, flipping through the stack of used 45's for sale. Each Friday night, I'd come home hungry because I'd spent my treat money on a Blondie 45 or some Culture Club single. Yet, week after week, my mom would send me out the door with a $5 bill, and have a snack ready for me at 9 o'clock when I got home.

After amassing a rather substantial pile of 45's and LP's, I discovered the bright lights of Tape World and Musicland. Not being lucky enough to have access to any indie record stores as a kid, the mall was my source for all things cassette. As in my roller rink days, my mom would drop me and her friend's daughter Ashley off at Metcalf South in Overland Park, Kansas with my allowance and money for food and snacks. Inevitably, when she came to pick us up a couple of hours later, I'd crawl into her Thunderbird with a plastic bag full of tapes and band t-shirts, and a growling stomach.

High school led to an addiction to CD's and their empty promise of superior sound and indestructibility. Both of which were pretty much lies, but that didn't stop me from amassing a collection that now stands at a perfectly alphabatized 3-4 thousand, and is still growing. I can't count how many times I'd live off of canned tuna because I'd hit that poster child of 90's alternative nation, the used cd store, and spent all of my grocery money on a stack of obscure indie or industrial cd's and 12 inch vinyl. Whether it was my deep passion for music, or the surfacing of my OCD, I'd have to be alone the first time I listened to any new album. I'd organize stacks, saving the album that I was most excited about for last. Even now, one of my favorite sights is a stack of unopened cd's waiting for me tear the plastic off of them.

In the modern era of mp3's, ipods, and file trading, I either get laughed at or lauded for continuing to buy my music in a physical format. I do have 2 ipods that I love dearly and have packed to the brim with thousands of tracks. I have a cell phone that will hold music, as well as a pc with a hard drive full of music files. Yet, I still continue to buy cd's from my favorite bands, ask for them for birthdays and Christmas, and even when I download an album, I always, at least, burn a copy of it onto a CDR, often eventually buying an actual copy of it at some point. It's funny having guests over to our new apartment vs when old friends visit. The more recent people in our lives have no idea that there is are storage bins of music stacked in closets and under the bed, while my old friends inevitable ask where the hell my wall of music is.

I know rationally that converting everything to a digital format would free up so much space in my apartment. I'd no longer have a need for bookshelves or stacks of storage bins for storing my thousands of compact discs. I will even admit to falling for the ease of downloading. Not only have I been been able to discover hundreds of amazing bands online, but it's possible to track down songs and albums that I've been hunting for years or had nearly forgotten about. That said, I still see this as a nice addition to my music obsession and not a replacement. Regardless of ease, mobility, convenience, or free space under my bed, nothing can replace that feeling of flipping through a bin of cd's or albums and finding something amazing. I miss the days of walking into the Love Garden in Lawrence,Kansas, or Musicwerks and Sonic Boom in Seattle and having the person behind the counter spend 30 minutes playing me something new they thought that I'd love, just based on the stack of purchases I'd put on the counter. Just like nothing will ever come close to that lovely smell of a library, the sound of a small, hole in the wall record store is something that will always hold a very special place in my heart.

My friend, Damon, who is no longer with us, told me once that the moment he realized that he truly loved me as a friend was a night he and I spent drinking beer and talking about music. He said the light in my eyes and the passion that I was radiating while talking about bands, songs, and concerts was me at my best and something actually quite beautiful. That night is one of my favorite memories of Damon, and his comment I consider one of the biggest compliments that I have ever received. I know that my cd collection and the amount of space it takes up are an annoyance to my boyfriend, and that sometimes my single mindedness when it comes to fixating on an album, song, or band are probably a deficit when it comes to my conversational skills. Despite all of that, I know that anyone that truly knows and loves me gets it. They know that music is such an integral part of me. That passion for it makes up a large part of the man that I am. It's something I wouldn't trade for anything. I consider myself lucky to be such a sickly obsessed music geek and I'd still gladly trade my lunch money for the the new Cinematics cd any damned day.

Last weekend, my boyfriend MJ had a massive craving for Chinese. Being a chef, he comes in contact with foodies from all over the city. A chef that he works with had told him about this phenomenal hole in the wall place right down the street from our new apartment. Possibly the "best" Chinese in Kansas City. On that recommendation, how we could we pass it up? After a long search online, we had narrowed it down to a place 2 blocks from our apartment. As we parked, it was inevitable that we eat there, it being "famous" and all (the sign swears it)...Unfortunately, my brilliant, talented mister, has a few issues with retention of names and directions.


In retrospect, the bars on the door and the curtained/blacked out glass door should have tipped us off that something was amiss. Our neighborhood, Westport, however is an interesting mix of hipster, bohemian, yuppie, gay, and criminal, so bars on windows are a pretty common sight. We figured maybe the rather dark entry way and tiny 80's kung fu crime movie waiting area would lead us to some truly amazing, authentic food. Instead, we were led by a boy of about 10 into a dining room right out of some 80's Asian massage parlor envisioned by John Waters. Peeling wallpaper hovered over labia pink paneling. The lighting was entirely early 1980's home interior party brass and frosted glass fixtures. Each one missing 2 to 3 light bulbs. There was a long buffet that dead ended in an aged pepsi fountain dispenser sitting on a sawhorse and a piece of plywood.

Each table had a lovely mural straight out of some Nagel goes nature nail salon. For some reason ours looked like it was lifted out of John Wayne's bathhouse.







As we were seated, a very very large black woman was filling take out containers from the buffet, while screaming at her mother to shut the hell up, that she wasn't paying for damned nothing, so she should shut her damned mouth, and that she was acting ignorant. The containers were so full that she couldn't get them closed, which was obviously a cause of much distress for her. With an exasperated sigh, she gathered up her heaving, leaking containers and headed out the door. Apparently, on her way out, she dropped one in the parking lot. This was evident by her obviously annoyed and very angry sounding mother who was ordered back in to see if they could fill a "recplacement" container, no charge, since they hadn't made it out of the parking lot yet. From out of nowhere, this slight, but very intense, angry looking Chinese woman, whom we later concluded was the owner, came barreling out, shaking her finger, loudly proclaiming, "NO, NO, WE DON'T DO THAT!"


MJ bravely exploring the buffet...


The 10 year old boy was, of course, our waiter. After dropping off our drink order, he disappeared behind a curtain to not be seen again until the end of our meal. I glanced up from my plate of what can only be truly described as middle American Chinese cuisine, to see the boy appear from behind another curtain with the owner hot on his trail. She screeched at him in Mandarin and with a look of mortal terror, he wandered over to our table to inquire if I needed a refill. I told him no thank you, as MJ pulled a whole chicken foot out of his low mein with a puzzled, but amused chuckle.






I had no more than pulled my wallet out to find my debit card, when I heard the owner shouting at the boy in Mandarin. As he paused for a breath, the very browbeaten kid visibly mustered up enough courage to bellow, "HE SAID NO!!!". The glare she gave him was enough to make me feel like pissing my own pants. She then whirled around and disappeared behind yet another curtain. The boy looked over at us with a look of utter defeat, then shuffled off, head down to sit next to the rickety front counter. I'm still feel guilty for not taking the damned refill and keeping the poor child from the caning we're pretty sure he was getting as we started the car.




We're still not sure what the curtain behind me was hiding, but we both swear we saw it move a few times...


We paid our $14 and actually made it to the car before we both lost our shit. As we idled at a stoplight a couple of blocks down, MJ glances over at the neon lit storefronts next to us. He then matter of factly points out the glowing "PEKING" on the front of one of them. Through the window, we can see what looks like a beautifully decorated, charming Chinese restaurant. MJ grins at me sheepishly, and mumbles, "Oh yeah, Peking...that's the place I meant."


Though the food was entirely mediocre, we both agreed that if we'd gone anywhere else, the food would probably have been much better, but we'd never have had the absolutely surreal and hilarious dining experience we were just presented with. If John Waters ever needs a location, this is the spot. I honestly expected Divine to come out from behind one of those fucking curtains that were everywhere and start shoving low mein up his dress. Sometimes it really is the company that makes the experience...