dEAR DiArY

So i was walking along out front of my house yesterday, minding my own business, reflecting on life and how I could better children's lives and shit when I found this diary. I mean, there's snow and shit everywhere from the 'Blizzard to End All Blizzards' last week and my foot just sorta hit something hard sticking out of the snow.

I bend over to pick it up and it's this flowery pink mini-book that just reads "DiArY" (with the caps just like that) and a broken lock on the side. I look around, pick it up and hey--why not look inside? Maybe it's got a name or an address or something inside.

Nope, nothin.

I kinda read a couple sentences, it's all done in green pen and the pages all have faded gay flower backgrounds. Cursive. Alot of underlining and bolding. Loopy L's and hearts over random letters. What do I care about some teenage girls diary, right?

I'm about to throw it as far as I can behind these houses in spite (I am, after all, a dude) but during the wind-up-

CRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

I am a dude. And it was only 7pm. But that was the biggest, blackest, loudest crow I'd ever heard in my entire life. And we don't get crows here in Lansdale. Some shit was definitely going down. I froze and watched that sucker perch on a tree across the street and just look at me.

Again, I am a dude. And I am NOT superstitious but... I don't know I just felt like going home right quick. And it was getting cold and everything. And in my surprise I guess I put the diary in my coat pocket and forgot about it--even though, it's weird, I don't remember ever putting the book in my pocket.

Anyhow, later that night I found the book on my computer desk. I guess I took it out of my pocket and put it there. And I started idly leafing through it and trying to get a feel for who's diary this was.

Was she a nerd? Could she be a hot 20-something year old? How was her grammar? (I really, literally, actually thought that. English major disease.)

I decided I just had to share what I found. For fun. I'll try my best, but I don't know that I can manage all the bold, italics, underlining, misspellings and emotion she really put into it.


Here's a cute little part:



















dEAR DiArY,
i know its been awhile since we talked. its been like ages, am i right? (or am i right!?) and ive done soooooo much at school it's like crazy!!! ive got homework from mr. cadmere again, can you believe it? i mean THAT for starters. than there's all sorts of THINGS been happening between kara and me again but its totally not true i like jimmy stiffle -- he totally blows his nose practically allllll the tiiiimeeeee. maybe if i was a giant tissue box. hahahaaa shes so retarted sometimes it's like duhhhhhhh kara, but i need her for the dance her dad is gonna get us like a limo or a escalade or a something really expensive and i dont want her to just go with jules and sarah and them without mEE. and did you know fishes can not swim backwards diarY? HaahHa i learned that today in school and then totally was BoRRReeeeddddddd for like 10 strait hours for nothing. but i feel good again today diarYYYY!! except sometimes my nose it still has the pain. it still comes and my head starts to hurt and it's like someone is squeezing in my brain and there are dark clouds everywhere. my mom says maybe its migrains and the hay and everything but i dont like it. i just wish it would stop the red the RewD RED red the red [note: there were splashes of dark red on this page but the girl apparently ignored it and kept writing over it] reddddDDdd ..... <3>kill my family especially my brother dillan who's the most retarted in the family. tHe whole family thinks he's going to go to a smart high school and that's all they talk about and he'll run for preSiDenT and it's like i dont even exist anymore. weLL DiArY i probbly have to go lay down and do homewOrk or something my head is starting to KIlllllll again and my stomach hurts and the stupid bird is outside my window again i hate that bird i hate it HATE IT HATE ITTTTTTT that bird i want to kill it i want to KiLLll it i hate IT its looking at me that crow. it crWWW its aLWAYS looking at me and I need to kiLL trhe PResident kill the bird Fcckkkk theFFFF the PRESIdent I need kiiiiiiiiii- [note: there are strange symbols and markings I can't recreate with the computer etched into the page here] -to lay down i don't feel good no more but it was good to catch up and i guess ill prob write in you again before the big dance next week and i dont even know if i want to ask anyone, especially not jimmy stiffle and i dont care what kara says i Don't Like Him!!! i know jules is going without anyone so ill prob just go with herr and it'll be so much fun!!

PS - totally hate homework today!!! :-# !!!!!










I figured the grammar wasn't too hot, probably your stereotypical 7th grade teeny bopper girl. Spelling was a little off for her age group but kids these days are ruined by the internet and text messaging. It's only a matter of generations before we writers are heralded as either a) gods among men with doctor-like intelligence or b) archaic useless paleontologists who might as well sign up as trash collectors.

Whichever it is, I've still been reading more into this diarY to try and get a read on something I can't put my finger on. Something is just a little 'off' about these entries and I can't quite figure it out. I'm sure it's something stupid or as simple as 'she doesn't use apostrophes correctly.' Ahh the youth of today. Bunch of crazy little flip-a-shits. I should throw this stupid diary out but I just... can't. It's weird.

Anyway I'd transcribe another entry but my head is fucking kiLLing me. Maybe I'll try to get my hands on some perks and pop some of them suckers and sip on some Sailor Jerry's--that's mother nature's cure. I hope it doesn't have to do with these damned nose bleeds I've been getting. Until next time, my bLoG....



PS - I did the math. Even if the Flyers won the rest of their games and all the top teams lost over 50% of the rest of theirs, we'd have about a 2% shot at capturing the PresiENts trophy.

Hair --- i have it.

this is what i have.


it's thick.
it's luscious.
it's creamy.
it's metal.
it's mine.

Sucksin A. Dixxx

+ Pronger for Prez + Cannon for Vice +

Ohhhhhhhh Wuss Hapn'en Capn'en!
(i so wanted to put a picture of Sami Kaps here)

Pronger Steppin' On Richie's Toes
Teammates Love the Richie

It's only a couple of games in a row.
It's only a couple of quotes.
It's only talk in the media.


“We need to make it [bleeping] happen on Thursday,” Pronger said. “It needs to [bleeping] happen now, so we can get over that hump and get this ship headed into the right direction.”


But once I read that quote I started thinking:
Holy shit, Prongs is a bona fide bad. ass.

It wasn't just the '[expletive]'s either (they were nice.) It was just.... it was just 'it'. So simple and to the point and strong. It's exactly what a captain should say. And it's exactly what Richards would never say.

I love Mike Richards.
Unhealthy unequated man-love.
I know his birthday (Feb 11, 1985 -- 23 days before me)
I know his birthplace (Kenora, Ontario)
I remember Richie (then on the Kitchener Rangers) fought the balls off Corey Perry (then on the London Knights) during a playoff game.
I know he was drafted 24th overall behind --ughhh-- Jeff Carter.
I remember his first goal was a slapper inside the blue line against the Rangers.
I remember most of his goals (all of his shorties)
I remember almost all of his straight-up nasty hits.
I remember most all of his fights.
I was just at the Caps game this year where he got that Hat Trick.

I have a custom jersey that reads CANNON (his nickname as accidentally appointed by hockey geeks on HF Hockey Boards) CANNON!!!










(oh, there's a tie-down fight strap on that bitch, too. i'm 200% L-E-G-I-T)


I'm not really into knowing his favorite snack or anything (although I know Jeff Carter's is Dorito's apparently) but I know and follow the guy (from a career perspective).

So yea, he's my favorite athlete and I super-love him and was calling for him to be the captain since day 1. But I finally think I'm ready to say Cannon might not be the answer for captain.

Maybe he is, I don't know.

Some guys lead by example.
Some guys are real vocal.
Some guys are scary quiet.
Some guys rip their own teammates throats open.
Some guys set their hair on fire and go insane.

Every captain is different and every team gets captain'd in different ways. I don't know what makes this team click or not click recently.

I can't see what goes on in the dressing room. Is it a captain issue? Is it injuries? Is it a coaching issue? Something's not right with the Flyers and I'm not going to sit here and guess until I get it right. All I can tell you is what I see and I sorta kinda watch Mike Richards more than anyone else on the ice.

and ever since my boy became captain....














Captain Credit:
-been a major piece on the PP and the PK
-gets in the refs ear during the game
-leading the team in points (for the most part)
-still lays those nasty hits
-watches over his flock and his stock
-makes everyone around him better

Captain Critique:
-making blind passes to the middle
-tries to dangle and do superstar moves instead of the simple play
-doesn't drop the mitts anymore
-hasn't been as grindy in the corners
-doesn't seem to yell (at teammates, opponents, or anyone)
-boring boring boring interviews




He just doesn't seem entirely comfortable with the position off the ice. Almost like he doesn't want to say anything stupid or contradict himself or anyone else on the team so he plays it safe. He's going the 'silent leader' role to appease everyone. Like he wants to 'play it cool' -- not because he thinks his shit doesn't stink anymore-- but because he's taking his role almost 'too seriously'.

On the ice he seems to be doing just the opposite. He's acting like his new mega $ contract makes him mega-dangles Cannon machine. He's trying to fit passes and shots through miniscule windows. He's not just dumping the puck in the corner and chasing it like a madman -- he's got a new 'always got to make something happen' mentallity.

And it's almost like he's torn between fighting for everyone on the team at once and not fighting at all because he thinks his team can't afford to lose him for 5 whole minutes. And I get alot of that attitude, you don't want your best player getting thrown out of a game for getting into a fight because that'd be just selfish but.... eh, it just seems the whole 'Captain' thing is awkward for Richie.

Don't get me wrong. He's a great leader. He doesn't take a shift off. He plays with as much heart and determination as any single player in the entire league. He lays his body on the line. He blocks shots, he lays the lumber, he has a fucking wicked slapper and he can thread a needle through rush hour traffic with the best of them.

And again, I don't know if he's an 'in-your-face-badass-expletive-hurling-quote-machine-mother-fucker-who-sets-the-locker-room-on-fire' guy behind closed doors. Maybe he's perfect, the team is just sucking it up and I'm imagining things. He just looks kind of 'hand-cuffed' by himself and maybe needs to see a guy who kind of wore the C on a Stanley Cup winning team. A guy who kind of won the Norris trophy. A guy who kind of won the league MVP years back. A guy who kind of is one of the most feared and dominating men in the NHL. Sure, Richie may be the guy down the wire, let's just add some more NHL 'seasoning' first.
























Maybe a switcheroo would be good for both of them.

Maybe Richie can go back to just being badass my-man Richie and Pronger can yell and rant and rave and 6'6", 230 lbs all up in guys faces in that locker room and scare the ever-loving shit out of guys like Coburn and Carter. He also wouldn't have to be 'stepping on anyone's toes' with those size 30 machetes strapped to his feet.

Maybe we have a coup of power and Pronger appoints himself king. I feel he's dangerously close to doing just that and not only is the Prongs experienced, well-accoladed and rich in knowledge and badass-itude... but he's a fucking monster.


Let's ask former Pronger teammate Chris Kunitz. Chris?




























And maybe I'm entirely overanalyzing and I'm dead fucking wrong. So....Let's just fire John Stevens!

saints are going all the way.... to hell.

i have drew brees on my fantasy football team.
you don't.

and for the record -- i don't believe in the Saints.

i know they changed defensive coordinators -- and that explains why they're slightly better on defense. But where is this offense coming from? Are these guys 'coming into their own'? Has sean payton finally 'figured it out'? Is the team of destiny finally ready to claim it's ranks among the NFL elite?

fuck no.

it's god hittin 'em up in reparations for the levee's n shit. just you wait.
The saints will fall. (and I don't even hate them)
























One thing's for sure though.....
i have drew brees.
you don't.

things i want to do by the time i grow up....

all of them.

--Red Button--

there's a darkness in the room. it's deafening.

it presses in from every side, waiting. it leans forward, crowding the little pool of light cast from the desk lamp.

i've been staring at the wood grain in the desk for 5 minutes straight now--not really seeing. i blink a couple times. it's shaped like barbara walters, but less wrinkly.

what the fuck am i going to do for breakfast?

i stare some more at barbara, tracing the darker brown patterns in the desk with my eyes. she stares back with that fake smile of hers. i rub my eyes and groan, leaning back in my chair, breaking the silence for the first time.

the room reacts.

the darkness stirs like smoke, rearranging itself throughout the study. my head, it hurts, and i can't stop rubbing my eyes. the voices begin to whisper on invisible threads and they won't go away. barbara begins chanting something sinister in a language i can't understand. i stare back at the mottled wood pattern, the darkness playing tricks, the soft sensual venom of barbara's lips moving. i'm more annoyed than anything else-

"can you shut the hell up, i'm trying to think for christ's sake!" i tell her.

the darkness is shifting, swirling, stirring to life all around me. something big is about to happen. the voices chatter, the tempo is rising, the lamp's pale light flickers. something big is about to happen. the room is awash in secret sounds and things just out of sight are moving, shifting, reaching because they know--something big is about to happen.

i try and drown it out, but it's growing to a crescendo-- "something big is about to happen..."

"like fuck it is," i say, and i slam my fist down on the red button.

like carbonated soda the room hisses and filters back into calm, vaunted darkness. barbara walters is just a few swirls of wood grain and the curtains are still. a sheen of stillness.

i rub my eyes again and groan. i sit with my eyes closed for a couple minutes in the blissful silence.

"now...what the fuck am i going to do for breakfast," i wonder out loud this time. it's 4 am but i don't have anything else to look forward to until then.

maybe i'll have ostrich. i've never had ostrich.

a small red dot is blinking soft red on a monitor in the corner of the room, affirmative of the launch. tens of thousands will be dead in the next few hours, consumed alive in a fiery ungodly holocaust of flame. entire cities torched alive, burning into the desert night like living effigies--screaming, a crack and a pop, then a constant smoldering stillness.

i leave the office, close the door behind me, lock it, and nod to Jenkins and Robbins. i walk towards the East Wing, the entire White House still asleep in predawn quiet.

the inside voices shuffle and push their way to the front a little with bubbling mirth and vicious laughter. but i tell them to relax. it's Tuesday guys, i got work and shit to do i reason, shaking my head a little. maybe i need some of the pills.

and maybe i'll have pheasant.

it's such a pain in the ass sometimes to be president of the United States.

Glory Suicides -- American Tradition

Just like Harry Houdini to magic, Charlie Kelly in 'The Day Man Cometh' and Evil Knievel in stunting-- you need 'an angle.'

Now I've been around the block. I know a thing or two. And the wave of the future is here. And someone needs to step it up. Ready for it.... it's
Suicide.

But not just any suicide.
American suicide.
Patriotic suicides.

.....
Glory Suicides.
.....


Boom.



Picture it:
Thousands gathered in attendance. The old, the young, men, women and children of all ages gathered around in a hushed awe, holding their breath, a glint of joy in their eyes, as their Hero is attempting a badass, awesome, jawsome, show-stopping suicide.

Pyrotechnics.
Props.
40 Cameras.
Endorsements out the Wazoo.
Celebrities assistants.
T-Shirts.
Movie deals.
Monster venues.
Even zoo animals and circus people.
















All in wide-eyed anticipation of a spine-shattering, fire-breathing, and yes, always wholesome first degree murder in the first person.

Kinda leaves ya breathless, doesn't it?
Now throw in an American flag waving.
God, I just got an erection.

I haven't worked out all the details or exactly how the scoring etc would work but how about a once-a-month tribute to the most brutal, spectacular suicides. And not just any suicide -- a Glory Suicide. Waving an American flag. Jets flying by overhead. Kids going "WoW!!!!!!". It gives me the shivers.

Like I said, I'm still finding the right market saturation approach and collecting the raw data, looking for investors, etc etc (the ever-diligent me) but all I need now is a face and some cashflow.

Here are the top 5 gnarly suicide ideas I've been kicking around for the program:








Oh Chopper My Chopper

Ok, so we rent 2 helicopters and fly them directly over top of one another. Our hero will be in the top chopper sans a parachute (that's fancy for 'without'). Both choppers are holding steady directly over the stage and placed in the center of the stage is a floor-mounted Nickelodeon graduated cylinder that they used in Nickelodeon's Family Double Dare (not like the one they used--the actual one they used). Our Hero jumps out of the top one directly into the whirring blades of the lower one. The audience has to guess if his eviscerated entrails fill above the red line.

Boom.

We got Shishka-[his name].
Bonus: an extra exclusive ($) ticket gets you seats in 'the pit' which is directly under both helicopters. blood shower = happy customers.






Face that Launched a Thousand Rips

This one is more an endurance test that could take hours/days. But I figure people watch Nascar and those guys hardly ever die. Our guys is 100% guaranteed to die. I mean, in what other entertainment medium do you get that? Answer: None.
Well, our Hero will sit and kneel directly in front of the camera and take paper cuts. Oh, and he cuts himself. From industrial fresh-pressed sheets of legal white over and over and over and over in his head and face until he bleeds to death and dies.

Boom.

That. is. metal. It's like a horror movie -- you just can't look away. Only in this case there will be fireworks and a constant barrage of Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA" blaring in the background.
Bonus: we will of course make Glory White the official paper supply of the Glory Suicide program. $core.





Barbed Wire Hangover

Our Hero will play in the equivalent of a McDonald's Ball Pit -- of barbed wire. Rolling around in the pit, small individually-cut pieces of wire will be ingested by the hero and right before bleeding to death (both internally and externally), he will get out and take a seat at a dunk tank. A lucky child from the audience will get the chance to 'sink' our hero into a vat of Glory Suicide brand whiskey. He must drink his way out.

Boom.

I'm only assuming he dies. From the cuts or the alcohol. If he doesn't.... well, I don't know.
Bonus: The winning dunk kid gets a lifetime supply of our whiskey.






Chainsaw Chop-Up
Hero grabs a chainsaw. Hero hacks off own limbs one at a time. Will he be able to get all 4? Is it possible?! Can he really even do that?!! How can he--- but that doesn't---
Oh, he'll be able to do it.
Our Glory Hero is a professional.

Boom.

Maybe have some tree-chopping contests going on before and afterward.
Bonus: The look of sheer wonder and joy in those kids eyes is all the bonus we'll need.






Red, White, and Boom

My personal favorite and a 'can't miss' if you have a flair for the dramatic. This Glory Suicide is a marvel of modern technology and human engenuity. It will definitely by the Grand Finale.
Our Hero will start by swallowing enough remote detonated explosives to take out Rosie O'Donnel. And he will do it during a good ole' American Eating Contest. Children from the audience can come up and volunteer to out-eat our Hero (sadly, with FCC and US constrictions, the children will be chowing down on something American, like apple pie, not explosives.) He will then wave goodbye, get in a military class Stealth Bomber and take off to the song "Living on the Edge" by Aerosmith.
Attention will be directed to the center stage where a 15-foot giant remote with a giant red button directly in the center is highlighted by 30 spotlights. This button is the detonator for all the live explosives our brave Hero just ate. The live band will be playing, they'll sell candy and stuff and put up general Glory Suicide Fun Facts! up on the jumbotron for a while.
Then, in a hail of 25 jet engines buzzing by overhead the stealth bomber will release our Hero out the escape hatch and skydive to the ground, hurtling hundreds of miles an hour through the air..... on fire. That's right.
At this point he'll need some sort of slow-down device to get his bearings straight (can't have him missing now, can we? And can't have him taking the wind out of everyone's sails by using a slow, stupid, safe old 'parachute', can we? Probably deploy some sort of MC Hammer parachute pant technology) and position himself hurtling towards the red button.
--and this is my favorite part--
The Hulk Hogan Theme - American Made will start blasting loud enough to kill small animals and oriental women. The pyrotechnics will erupt from every direction, charring and permanently blinding some (small price to pay.) The jumbotron will be going nuts and zooming in on our Hero. Dads and sons will be high-fiving and saying "phuck yea!!!!" (with a 'ph' because it's family oriented). Women in bikinis will come up in pods placed specifically beneath everyone's seats. Shit will be going bonkers. Old people will be shitting themselves. Women will be ripping their clothes off. Everyone who snuck a gun into the event (we don't even pat you down at Glory Suicides -- this is your 2nd ammendment. We encourage it) will start shooting it in every direction. People will be pissing straight into the air without getting wet -- like straight up.
Then everything will stop all of a sudden. No noise. No one moving a muscle. These puny terrorists will appear from everywhere (hired by Glory Suicides of course) and the main terrorist will appear on the jumbtron and say something in some sandy foreign language that no one understands. Then he will grab an American flag and rip it up as everyone is trying to figure out what the phuck this jack-off is doing.

Errra-reerrrrrrrr?!

The music will make that 'record skip' sound and a goofy 'BoiNg!!!' and the terrorists look all surprised and all these old WCW and WWF wrestlers will come out in their full wrestling gear grab the terrorists holding them in arm bars and headlocks. We look on the jumbotron and the main terrorist is looking scared at--
Oh my God!! It's Hulk Hogan!!! He shakes his finger no-no-nooooooo
Everyone starts chanting. And all at once Hogan drops the terrorist and the wrestlers body slam the other puny terrorists onto mini-land mines (they won't really kill the terrorists, it's just to make everyone think they do) all as the music kicks back double loud.
People go ridiculous! Society doesn't even make sense anymore.
Our attention goes back to our hero. He's hurtling closer and closer (while all this is happening) and he's finally seconds away. The audience begins a frenzied rapturous countdown.

9...
8...
7...
6...
5...
4...
--the air itself is on fire with it--
3...
Closer
2...
CLOSERRRR
1...


Boom.




Square on the button, as his body showers the audeince in human chum and they celebrate the greatest gift of life... death.
Bonus: this. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkOTfbw6nxk




















Gone'run Wiiild on YOUUU terrorists




So like I said, I've got a pretty solid framework. Some good ideas. Gotta work out some small stuff -- where to get terrorist outfits, edible explosives, industrial strength barbed wire, figure out if one guy does all 5, does he go on a live tour, do you need a special permit to blast music as loud as I need to, who rents helicopters, my, my, my, but I'm rambling.
Like I said though, investors are still needed but you want to act fast--this opportunity just will. not. last.

Hit me up if you think of any ideas or have any questions or know a guy looking for work. And keep an eye out for America's next great pastime--
Glory Suicides

Dessert Island Top 5 Time

Yes, Dessert Island.

A whole Island made of expired candy, delicious soggy graham crackers, and sandy chocolate beaches. Mhhhmmmmmm!!!

You can't really eat alot of it, seeing as how it's been exposed to the elements for thousands of years, but let's say you're stuck there. And let's say you have 5 of your favorite 8-track cassettes! And an 8-track machine that doesn't run on batteries, but instead runs on shitty dessert foods.

Now we're talking!

Well let's assume you can bring any album--regardless of whether it was ever made in 8-track form. What 5 hot tapes would you want?

I thought about mine, and the answer isn't as easy as 'What are my favorite albums?'. On the contrary. You need variety. Imagine if your favorite band was Matchbox 20 and you wanted 2 of their albums (clearly Yourself or Someone Like You and one of the others). Now you pick 2 more 90's-rock-band albums and you throw in your favorite Classic Rock CD to round out your Top 5...

Wrong.

You're on a Dessert Island here, probably forever. Variety is huge. So you think of your favorite albums in various genres, polish up your 8-track tapes and kick back, right?

Eh....

You need to think of timelessness. And growth. Have you ever loved a CD the first 5x through it and every time thereafter it just kinda... got predictable? Kinda just 'eh'? Now think of an album that aged like a fine wine. And just gets better every time you listen to it. Hot musical scores where you hear something new almost every time through. Now that's a keeper.

Just don't forget length, too. You don't want a 35-minute pop-rock album with the same 12 tracks. And it's no good if there's no variety within the album itself. And don't you think it's a good idea to have album choices for different 'moods'? No use packing Alanis Moreissette, Emo I, Emo II, Staind, and Dashboard Confessionals-- I mean, talk about nothing to lay out in the sun in, these albums just scream 'pale', 'sickly', 'sadness' and 'introspective'. Nothing like one of them when you celebrate discovering 'fire' for the first night. Or putting one of them on when you 'get in the mood' to get intimate with some soggy marshmallows because you're Oh-so-lonely.


This is alot of work.
Don't take it lightly. (it's all you'll have forever)
And don't screw it up.



Mine, in no particular order.....


Led Zeppelin
Led Zeppelin II











My heroes of classic rock, The Zep. I feel this is truly one of the most symbiotic bass-drum relationships ever caught on an album. The pocket and weave between Bonhom and Paul Jones is palpable. To a boner-inducing pitch, even, on The Lemon Song. It's the ultimate chill-out air-bass song. And if you're not into air-bass don't worry, it rocks for the casual air-drummer.
I needed a Zep album and this one is more diverse and refined than Led Zeppelin I in my opinion. This album revolutionized rock and these guys just had such a feel for what they were doing it's outrageous. I've listened to it countless times, and it's something I can actually 'sing along with' if I'm feeling really lonely and I need to perform a Whole Lotta Love on myself. It's timeless. It's old school. It's mostly upbeat. It has jam-essentials mixed with killer Paige riffs. Need I say more?
Also, I'm pretty sure they invented drugs.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9-DNTY8ONw
(The Lemon Song cover - highlighting drum and bass intra-mechanics of funk)





Tool - Lateralus










This album is a collaborative, intertwined, dark piece of sinister work. I wasn't sure about putting a Tool album on my list but there's something about this one that grows into the listener. It's the only CD that I physically went out and bought 3 seperate times (once lost, once scratched) even though I had it on my computer. I can't explain it. It's a brooding inward spiral that captivates and swirls around in my brain in the form of Danny Carey drum madness.
Seriously, drummer Danny Carey and bassist Justin Chancellor deserve an Emmy just for Schism let alone Lateralus or Ticks & Leeches or... frankly, the rest of the album. Just has a great 'flow' to the whole thing with alot of '3/4' and off-beat subterranean rhythms. This is for my nighttime or deep thought kinda moods.
FACT: Sometimes I listen to this whole album just for the drums. Danny Carey, he just 'is', ya know?


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UhjG47gtMCo
(Tool - Schism video. These guys do drugs, too. wow.)







Miles Davis - Get Up With It











Miiiiiiles Davis. The jazz-man. This little number isn't your prototypical Miles album either. It's way funkier and at times way more 'out there.' The man was a musical genius and his improv and 'touch' dance in and out of the deep, deliberate tracks laid out by some of jazz's most talented and influential artists. Take your average studio bassist or drummer from a rock band. Now multiply that by 7,000 -- that's an average studio jazz bassist or drummer. Now multiply that by horns, drums, crazy background sounds and 5,000 more and you've got a Miles Davis studio performer. These guys are the pros.
Red China Blues is a funk-splosion of progressive blues. And there's a 32 minute song called He Loved Him Madly which is eerie dark and experimental and contageous and... and I don't even know. Crazy. Then there's Honky Tonk -- all I can say is, you listen to it, and you become black. And the jazziness is enough to break up the verse-chorus-refrain of the repetitive nature of most rock and mostly eating stale chocolate syrup leaves every day.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EuKhccJi_GI
(Miles - Red China sounds like we're workin on that ole Chaaaiiiiin gang.)







Opeth - Deliverance











"This next song, is a fucking masta-piece." ~ Mikael Akerfeldt.

Mikael sums it up nicely. Deliverance is one of the top 3 most-listened-to-songs on my ipod -- no small task for a 13:36 long song. It's also one of the most metal albums I've heard in my entire life. The thing with most metal, is it's re-sale value. You hear it, you've got it, it's fast, let's move on. But not Opeth. Opeth uses crazy time signatures, plays with volumes, harmonizes vocals as well as growls, goes into acoustic breakdowns, and shreds out ridiculously tight intellectual music.
Every member of Opeth can play better than you. It's a fact. But I've just never heard a group blend death metal, latin drum beats, and jazzy-blues guitar solo-ing like this. This album in particular, drummer Martin Lopez puts on a metal-latin clinic. The sounds are so much deeper and so much more enjoyable with each listen. I hear something new on this album every time I listen. And 3 tracks on it have been my 'favorite' song on the album already.
Plus, if I'm blasting this, I could kill any small or large animal I find on Dessert Island without even blinking. In front of its parents.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYQwG1deEzo&
(Opeth - Deliverance on drums. play it 3x fast and i'll give you $1)



Stevie Ray Vaughn - Texas Flood











Stevie 'Cocaine Ray' Vaughan is guitar. He is blues. The devil sold his soul to Stevie Ray so Vaughan would play a private concert for his daughter's 7th birthday party. She never made it to 8.
With all of the 'bass' and 'drum' action going on on this island this was a nice change of pace. Blazing fast blues licks mixed with some of the most genuine, soul-spoken, ridiculous solos I've ever heard in my life. You hear new things within the individuals notes of a Ray Vaughan solo every time you listen. I'm trying to find more adjectives to describe this madman on the axe... but I can't. My only regret is that Little Wing isn't on this album. But Lenny, written about his wife, is the projection of a human soul in guitar chords. To quote Stevie Ray: "I never really learned notes or scales, I just sort of played what I felt."
Play Stevie play. Let me tell you them blues about eating shitty desserts everyday...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pF1p8sawWJ0
(Stevie Ray - Lenny this is what cocaine looks like. he's literally not conscious for this whole song. look at the sweat drip off his nose. oh my god, he's channeled his soul and left his body / done drugs and whiskey)











& The 'On-the-Cusps'

It was tough to not let these absolute gems aboard, but sorry fellas, only 5.
These 8-tracks washed ashore somewhere else I guess.....
Pink Floyd - Dark Side of the Moon Medeski, Martin and Wood - End of the World Party (Just in Case) Incubus - SCIENCE Porcupine Tree - In Absentia Phish - Story of the Ghost Metallica - Master of Puppets
Tool - Aenima


What about your top 5?

upon seeing myself outside of myself.

these hands
are so strange
like gloves that don't fit.
the air
is so thick
everything tries to swim
but it can't
it won't
--something's wrong--

i look down at these shoes
all the defects stand out:
the creases,
the scuff marks,
the frayed lace.

i want to feel grief
i want to shed tears
but i can't.
i won't
--something's wrong--

the machine churns us along
we file on in syncopation
until i find myself
before the oak-box apex.

i see myself in this moment
like i've never seen myself before
the hair, the lips, the skin, the cheeks
-especially the cheeks

puffing out, unnatural tallow,
make-up covers the decay.
a scar above the left eye
the only thing
left that's real.

this body is too heavy.
this face is too wide.
these wax eyes are unstaring.
they can't.
they won't.
--something's wrong--

these hands i hold,
creases, marks and grooves i've
never seen--
trace out
stories i've never heard

who am i?
i sort of remember someone else.
i sort of remember
something that's not there.

the cogs of the machine
grind and shift,
the grief must go on,
even without me.
a long, deliberate drole.

we're released
back into daylight.
the darkness
is locked behind slabs of
mortar and stained glass.

the haze starts to clear
i start to remember who i am
i start to believe it.

my hand traces an imaginary scar
above my left eye.
i smile for the first time

because i can.
because i will.
--because everything...is right.--

Hurricane WSC

The secret is out. I work in Germantown. It's 'medium' ghetto.

White People
-are few and far between
-lock their car doors when driving through
-don't know the area
-are either old-school, lost, or shady if you find them

Black People
-are everywhere
-drive in excess of speed limits, with little regard for other laws, and efficiently
-know the area
-come in all flavors (crackhead, awesome, hilarious, hooker, drunk, churchy, and regular)


Check, check, check.

No big, I just don't wave around $100 bills at night, I'm nice to the people in the neighborhood, and they're nice to me.

But sometimes I see crazy shit. And I had to write this down in words, though they may do the scenario no justice whatsoever. Here goes....

TIME: 10:15 am
PLACE: Chelten Ave & Sprague St.

...we were loading up the Tahoe for my rout. It was just my dad handing me boxes out our loading window. We're right across the street from Pastorious Elementary and I'm looking alongside the school and there's this guy walking funny.

Usually you see alot of that on Chelten Ave but it wasn't 'cracked out' walking, it was full-blown 'retarded person' walking. I'm talking hands T-Rex'ing up near the chest, kinda tilting his head down and he's just walking real.... weird. Black guy, maybe in his mid-thirties slinking along, almost like 'sneaky retard' walking. And as I'm watching him a mini-van passing by pulls a U-turn right in front of the store and pulls over to the curb directly across the street.

It looked like this lady in the minivan pulled over for the weird dude, but she was on her cell phone talking it up and never looked at the guy. Just waited there for no reason. Again, no big deal--but everything just feels kinda 'connected' and 'not-connected' at the same time.

So I load 2 more boxes into the back of the Tahoe and look up again. The T-Rex Dude is directly behind the minivan so I can't see him in my line of vision. The Minivan Lady is still chatting away totally ignoring the world just pulled over on Chelten Ave. I'm about to look away when--what the?!

T-Rex Dude is sprinting. Full-out retard sprinting. His hands never more than 4-inches from his chest. And as he's running he sorta hunches over--bending only at the waist. He runs towards Sprague and I'm going over the bus stops in my mind figuring out which way the K runs, figure the guy must be running to catch the bus.

Nope.

Mother fucker hugs the wall and doesn't break stride, turns and runs up Sprague St. There's no bus stop up there. At all. Pastorious's schoolyard is up that way. As I'm watching the Minivan Lady slams her phone closed, puts her minivan into drive and turns up Sprague--as if to follow him--but stops. Right in the middle of Sprague. Doesn't pull over to the curb or anything--just stops.

As I'm watching this 'bizarre scenario' unfold two fairly hefty, fairly loud, fairly fun-loving women are walking down our block on Chelten. I can't repeat most of what they were saying. Not even on a blog where I use the word 'fuck'. These 20- to 30-some year old women were laughing and discussing their sex-life so loud I think my deaf grandmother who died 10 years ago was blushing.

About 10 feet before they passed by us one of them said something particularly loud about the male genitalia they'd recently come into contact with and they both broke into raucous laughter. The one smacked the other on the ass, the one yelled 'you mother fucka!!!' chasing after her and they both went flying by me. If I hadn't moved I may have been stampeded. I may not be able to blog today. I really felt the wind rush by. It was like they didn't see me or my dad at all. I'm just glad they didn't run into the Tahoe. The SUV's about 7 years old and probably wouldn't have survived the encounter.

By the time Bertha and Shaqueefa rumbled by, the Minivan on Sprague on the other side of Chelten still hadn't moved and now there were cars trying to turn up the street behind her. 3 cars or so lined up and began honking at the Minivan Lady. Finally she revved her engine and took off out of sight.

At this point I can't explain the past 2 minutes and I'm kind of staring at everything in shock. It's like a scene from Final Destination. All these little 'marbles' keep rolling around setting off a series of events -- small, disjointed and confusing but somehow connected. I'm kind of zoning out and my dad is off looking around not moving or saying anything either.

Then this shade-ball black guy with his hoodie on tight comes walking by and he's giving that 'anxious eye' you have to look out for, so we load a couple more boxes and he walks right between us and there's that really awkward, really 'both sides on guard' thing going on where no one talks and all eyes lock and then look away.

Again these don't sound like alot but they just had this 'charged' thing going on. Like you feel like 'it' is about to happen. Only you don't know what 'it' is. Like Deja Vu sorta I guess....usually only lasts a few seconds, maybe a minute and I figure it's passed until--

--she appears.

I still don't know if she was white or black.
I still don't really know 100% if it was a woman.
I don't know where the fuck she came from.

I guess it was a homeless lady. I say I guess because it was hard to tell under all the clown make-up.

Like full-blown blue around the eyes. Full-blown bright red lipstick all around her mouth. Full-blown weird pasty white coloring. She was just in the middle of the street, kinda dragging her feet towards A&E. Me and my dad stared at her for almost a full minute, occasionally moving a box, so it looked like we weren't. But we didn't talk to each other. We couldn't talk.

I've seen lots of homeless, vagrants, crackheads, and even some loonies from around the corner -- but this was some new breed of strange.

She made no sound and kinda dragged her feet, looking off in the distance very somber and sad-like. Just like a god damned Sad-Face Clown you see in the Circus. Well she's shuffling closer and closer and I have 2 overwhelming thoughts:

1. Something bad is about to happen (I've seen It, mother-fucker!)
2. How can I use my camera phone w out her noticing?

She's gets closer and I see her feet. Socks with real big goofy sandals. Not over-sized like a clown, but not regular sandals. And she's wearing one big khaki colored jumpsuit that looks pretty stained and old and is covered with buttons and patches I can't really read. She's a few feet away now and I can't figure out why she came as close as she did. Our truck is backed up to the building. She was across the street. If she wants to get by she's going out of her way to come past us to do it. She's walking closer and everyone has stopped moving.

Stab me?
Ask for change?
Honk her nose?
Turn into a monster?
Perform fellatio on me?

This insanity of the past 5 minutes has reached it's crescendo (an excellent Dark Tranquility song). Every instrument is wrought with tension. Everything I know about what should happen on Chelten Ave on a Tuesday morning is out the window. This isn't Germantown anymore. For all I know this isn't reality anymore.

She's like 2 feet away from me now--like way in my personal space bubble. She looks up at me without really focusing her eyes, looks at my dad. Everything goes deathly quiet.


1 whole second goes by.
Nothing.

She lowers her head and sorta drags her feet, back on her merry-ish way. I still can't even talk. Our heads just watch as she walks down Chelten and fades away. I turn to my dad and we both mae the "are you serious face" and start laughing because, let's face it -- what else can you do?

Everything feels 'back to normal' too. It's like none of it ever happened and I talked with my dad about it and I tried to explain it to my mom and I just tried to explain it in this blog but it was just so.... weird. It was all the little things I maybe didn't explain the right way that made it all the weirder. Little miscues. Like a dog barking and then suddenly silence. The timing of the running T-Rex-Tard. The look in that crackhead's eye. Maybe the wind blowing and then suddenly not. Voices carrying on the wind. Weird stuff. It all just swirled together to form this perfect 'weird storm'.

And somehow it was all tied to that crazy, homeless, weirdly out-of-place Sad Clown Lady. As if it were Hurricane Weird-Sad-Clown (WSC) and somehow she was the 'eye' of the storm.

And that's still the thing about it that bothers me the most.

Where did she come from?

I was outside the whole time she was getting closer, right? You don't just 'not see' that until it's right up on you, right? And I was definitely doing alot of left-to-right of my surroundings considering all the other stuff going on for a few minutes there.

I don't know. All I know is I survived Hurricane WSC. It came and it went and every hair on the back of my nexk stood on end and everything seemed just 'something askew'. But I'm fine. I think I just might make it.

Where was she going? Where was she from? What actually happened that day?
We'll never know.

I'd like to think "to spread the work of Satan", "Hell", and "interdimensional riffing". Respectively.


















picture this. but more like dee reynolds' psycho clown. but also more like homeless.

i forgot i had a blog.

i forgot i had a blog.

What's the 9-1-1?

9/11

A Day Forever to Remember...Forever
...or something.

I forget.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not an anti-9/11 remembering-er, or a freedom hater, or a French-fried faggot! I just don't remember if it's called 'A Day in Infamy', 'A Tragedy of Forever Eternally', or 'The Greatest Show on Earth!'. (I doubt the last one)

I just don't have any strong attachments to NY, to the WTC, or to the USA in particular.

And again, I'm all for candles, and FOX specials, and patches on sports jerseys, and anti-terrorist bumper stickers, and people remembering their deceased friends and relatives. It's all good in my book. I just can't pretend it means more to me personally.

It didn't really affect my life in an unalterable way. I don't know anyone who was hurt by it directly. I don't know anyone who died that day. I don't even know anyone who directly knows someone who died that day. I'm sure if I did this blog would be called Liquid Molten 9/11 and I'd have more brightly colored pictures, more stories about how I really really really hate terrorists, more colorful language, and fancy red, white, and blue trim on the borders of the page. But I don't. And I won't.



****************
Sept. 11, 2001
LaSalle College HS


Me and Mike Dougherty meet after homeroom in the caff
1st period FREE and 2nd period FREE.
We're bored and walk to 7-11.
In 7-11, on a TV, they show the first plane crash into the WTC.
7-11 Pretzels are so hot and so doughy and so good.
I turn to M-Doc "Stupid Italians"
I really believe the World Trade Center is in Italy
We get back to school an hour later & everyone is going nuts.
TV's on everywhere.
Faculty, students, everyone quiet. Just watching.
Second plane crash couldn't be a mistake. US is under attack.
Oh shit, I think the WTC is in New York.
It is.
Rest of day is spent talking and watching news.
At home I get a call from a Meghan.
Meghan who?
It's not Meghan O'Neil from up the street (my current GF!)
It's Meghan 'Horse-Sex' Mayers from work (Freddy Hill)
She loves horses. Like alot.
She stares up at Thunderstorms laying on her front lawn w goggles.
That's not normal.
I'm not really friends w her -- but I know she likes me.
She just wants to know if I'm ok.
I, and everyone I know, is ok. I mess w her a little.
I say 'Oh, yea, didn't some plane crash or something'
She tells me the news.
I say 'I better go so no planes crash into Lansdale'
Hang out w some friends.
Talk about how crazy the whole thing is.
Go home. Go to bed.
Possibly inebriated.
Talk about it on the news and in school alot.
That's it.
******************















(I typed 'anti-terrorism' into google images and got this: segway + soldier = awesome.)



And that's how 9/11 was to me. And I understand it was hell on earth to some people, but I'm not gonna pretend to be one of them. It was whatev. Terrorists are gay. Tragedies happen all over the place I feel bad for. NY is the hometown of the NY Giants.

All a bunch of facts. All whatevs. I actually feel the worst for Horse Sex. She was a nice enough girl, just more into lightning storms and horses than I was. And I totally would dropkick a terrorist for attacking the US and all if I saw him, but there aren't many here in L-Dale.

I think that's my problem. I need more terrorist attacks here to really 'get into it'. I mean, for it to really hit home, ya know?

Let's just see those faggots just try and torch a Holstein cow at Freddy Hill. You'll get your come-uppins shithead. Wanna set yourself up w explosives and go to the cheap Gulf station everyone goes to at Valley Forge and Allentown and suicide bomb there? Fuck you, asshole! This is America! Maybe try and fly a plane into The Bowling Alley on Main st? I don't fucking think so. You mess w one patron at the Montgommery Mall and you mess w all of us you towel-wearing bitch.

Cause these colors don't run, terrorist dick-hole. I'll go so far as to call a Jihad on your Jihad. I got your 47 Virgins buddy-- and they're all 35 year-old hentai-loving dudes who live in their mom's basements. I'll call you a coward to your face and piss on a picture of your leader Osama in my urinal. This is Lansdale dickcheese, and we will fuck your terrorist ass into the next millenium.

Too Good Too Post

Things I've been doing instead of posting stupid, retarded blogs on the even stupider, more retarded internet.

-flying over Russia in a manual (not electric) helicopter
-sharing hash with the pope
-wake-boarding along the schuykill river
-dropkicking a termite
-dividing by zero
-listening to the new porcupine tree CD
-engineering soap that wont burn your eyes
-recording music backwards.
-setting up a trust fund for the clintons
-eating liquid nitrogen
-working on my slapshot
-watching hockey youtube videos
-making love to my girlfriend... from another continent
-chewing bubblicious gum
-listening to celine dieon and crying at night
-getting a 'cole hamels' haircut
-wanting to play more drums
-staring directly into the sun for 6 days... and 3 nights
-writing children's books in human blood
-smoking 4 joints at night and driving a schoolbus full of children
-trying to do fantasy football
-trying not to get arrested
-defeating robots at chess
-smiling at the end of green mile
-thinking about skynet
-smoking cigars and thinking about life
-getting my 'freak' on
-teaching dolphins to fly in reverse
-melting ice cubes with my mind
-watching inglorious basterds last night
-shaking my own hand -- using only my right hand
-laying down the funk






















so as you can see, i may never be on the internet to post again.
i'm busy as fuck.

Evil-ution: Story of Dudes

So I was thinking about evolution the other day. (What? You don't?)

Legit, though--

I was thinking of evolution, possibly because I'm weird, whatever. But I was trying to figure out how we're the top of the chain. Because, let's face it, obviously we are. Right? And obviously we'd know when another species came to fruition and populated the earth if it was superior. Right? And when it comes it'll obviously be a bulbous-headed, 4-finger, (I mean, who uses the pinky. Just look at my hand), super-intelligent future-beast. Right?


No fucking clue.























I mean, it seems like the obvious choice, What separates us from the other living animals? It's that big, sexy brain. The mind. The thinker. The zombie app. (fuck the opposable thumbs and fuck speech and fuck DNA)

So intelligence is good. It's complex, it drives us to create, imagine, develop, survive. Intelligence has got us where we are, will get us farther and farther along, and if evolution works the way it's supposed to:

--intelligent people will have more success than morons
--they'll have better survival rate
--thus a better chance to mate and pass on 'intelligent' genes
--the human species will grow more intelligent

Well, according to The Flynn Effect, this is exactly the case. IQ has been studied in various countries and, on average, society gains 3 IQ points per decade. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flynn_effect (wikipedia can't lie) Cool.

And intelligence is really useful, right?
Yea, actually, it is.

Intelligence is what gives us the ability to manipulate the world around us. Intelligence gives us 'tools' (and not the guys in popped collars kind.) Intelligence delivers us from harm. It bestows on us comfort. It grants us riches.

It protects our possessions, our livestock, our families.
It builds our monuments, our shelters, our factories.
It cures our illnesses, our handicaps, our thirst for more.

So intelligence is definitely on the up?
Bingo.
Intelligence is definitely a good thing?
Yup.
And intelligence will provide a beautiful future?
Wrong.

--We're all dead.



You know how I know? Cause I'm a dude.

You only need to know 2 things for my theory:
-dudes are dudes
-intelligent people create bigass weapons


That same intelligence and complex thinking that's created some great inventions, cures for diseases and the likes of central AC are no different than the minds that created nuclear bombs, biological weapons, and the DMV.


















Men will still fight. Still battle. Still call on revenge. Still assert dominance. It's just what we do. It's only a matter of time before 'our weapons' are on a bigger scale than 'our environment'. And that's not hippie, "peace, not war bro, for WW3" talk either. It just seems logical.

I pound my chest. He pounds his. We run at each other and punch the shit out of everything--someone dies, someone gets hurt--whatever. Big deal. I pound my chest. He pounds his. And we pull out laser-guided surface-to-air 8 million megaton nuclear shells and.... well, alot of things are fucked.

Our 'tools' that elevate us above the animals will be our ultimate downfall. And maybe it just sets back humanity to a pre-tool primitive world. Maybe it all balances out. I don't know dogshit from donuts on what'd happen. Who knows. We're all dead? Cockroaches only ones left? Maybe cockroaches and just giraffes? (That'd be awkward.) Any number of possibilities, really. Which makes me wonder-- maybe we aren't top of the evolution chain.

?

What if we're just fancy nothing? Who says intelligence, a soul, a sense of purpose in this world counts for anything? Maybe it's just as good as having a fucking multi-color beak. Yea, looks cool, keeps you alive a little longer..... but it's just a beak.

What if the only purpose of life is to 'survive'? To pass 'the seed'? To reproduce--and reproduce aLOT (I'm lookin at you Irish people.) Then does it matter if you have feelings along the way? Does it matter you invented central AC along the way? Does it matter you even changed the earth?

Sure, we like to think about things and we think intelligence is the most important thing and not only do we think we're the most intelligent creature but we probably are the most intelligent creature and that in turn makes us think we're the pinnacle of life on earth.

That sure is alot of thinkin.

But we die the same as the emu. We procreate in much the same way as my dog (when I watch him at night with my infareds). We fight much the same as those two pigeons I saw at work the other day battling over a french fry. Thinking only seems to get you so much. It gets you buildings. And roads. And religions. And finances. And an 'economy' and 'government' and 'rules' and a pretty pompous self-involved view of what life should be. But it is, still afterall, life.

So maybe it's just pretty colorful beaks and we seem only to compare ourselves to the other species of the world in 'beak dynamics'. But I don't think a beetle wants a beak. (I guess if he did he might want it colorful, I'm not sure.) I think a beetle just 'is' a beetle.




















Yikes....



It just gets ya thinkin some days. I mean, does any creature think there are advanced evolutionary creatures above it? Would we? Would it even matter in the long run? Who knows. Hell----maybe Darwin was full of shit.








PS - So I don't particularly believe any of this. In fact, I was gonna write a blog on 'machines are actually the next stage of evolution--we just don't know it yet' and include tons of Terminator references and Skynet jokes. Another time.

i h8 Ry-in Feel'ds

Did you ever let anyone borrow your Ampeg BA115HPT bass amp and then the very next day did you miss it?

Me too.

Thank you Ryan Fields, I appreciate your basement holding onto my amp for me, because for a second there, I was worried I would have to have it back at my house where i could play it at my leisure. But you sure have taken that load off my mind. Thank you!

And the good news is I sold my practice amp to stupid, retarded Ben's stupid, even more retarded brother. So now I have NO amp to play on. But good news!! I found one of my instrument chords to not play on an amp with!!

Wow, I just read the specs on my Bamp. Holy shit no wonder I hate lugging that big, tube-filled beast around everywhere I go. It's 80lbs!

You can god damned keep it, Flyin' Ryan. Why would I want to carry that from your basement all the way to my car? Wow, I really had no idea it was that heavy. I might just leave it there permanently. I don't need it that bad.

And Jesus Christ, this thing has lower end. That's some monster thump. Hmmm, it says here something something something "plus the warmth and coloration of a 12AU7 tube front-end."

That just sounds so delicious. I had no idea Billy Sheehan promotes my amp. Hmmm, wow. I'm a badass. And imagine that, I want to play it now. Bad.

I wanna hear that smooth, deep low end rumble through me. I wanna get down and play that off-note on the off-beat. Like I wanna rattle and roll all over Treble's dick (assuming all treble was one individual--and a man). I wanna live it up and pick it up--the groove that is. I need it.

Like Tom Fox just picked up my bass and played a lick and put it down. Like someone was talking about my bass and it's in my eyesight. Like I just listened to The Lemon Song and I'm high. THAT's how bad I wanna jam now.

And that's pretty bad. Oh well, date night with MEGHAN. Guess I'll just go out to dinner and worry about bass later. Like when-I'm-not-at-my-house-but-instead-at-Ryan's later.

Fuck you, Ryan Fields.
Thanks for letting me leave my Bamp.
Asshole.






















http://www.ampeg.com/products/bassamp/ba115hpt/index.html

The Superbowl is Gay

I was in Vegas in June.
I was drunk.
I also bet on the Eagles to win the Superbowl.


And that's just it, I wasn't that drunk. I was feelin' fine, I was rollin roulette like a gangsta, and I was high on the Eagles draft picks.


Well, as of yesterday, I've officially hit rock bottom.
2 Months ago I was feelin' a 13-3 record.
Now I might as well say 3-13.


Book it. Done. Game over.


We'll quickly go position-by-position and give my:
Worst Case Uh-Oh's.....



QB
-Well, it's still Donovan McNaab. Good enough to give you a chance.... not good enough to win it for you in the clutch. He's getting older and mobility and injury problems have become worse over the years.
-It's also his final year as an Eagle w the job on the line (in my opinion), so maybe that lights a fire under his 'smilin,-i-threw-it-too-low-my-bad' ass. I consider Donny Mac a wash. I mean, what if we had... Rex Grossman?
-Back-ups?
RB
-Running backs have short lives. When it's over, it's over. Westbrook is one of the best in the biz, but the injuries have been piling up and the stats have started to slow.
-McCoy? I really don't like relying on rookies to make an impact. Blocking is usually an issue for them. And who's our 3rd string if B-West does go down..... Booker?
WR
-Can DeSean repeat his stellar performance w defenses keying on him now? Will Curtis be healthy and effective?
-Who the hell is your 3rd guy? You expect another rookie to emulate Jackson's breakout year last year? Good luck, especially w a kid who's never played NFL ball and has already missed half of training camp because of contract disputes.
O-Line
-So we've got Shawn Andrews who might still have back issues and now has head issues? We've got his brother--first name 'Stacy'--?
-Not only are there injury issues to deal w first (like, will they all play), but this O-line has never played together before, and the veteran presense of Thomas and Runyan is out the window?
Kicking
-The past couple years Akers hasn't been Mr. Automatic and Sav has been good, but inconsistant and super Austrlian.
-We hope to God D-ake doesn't have to kick at the meadowlands....
D-Line
-They aren't bad. Contain most rushes. Put some pressure on the QB. But they don't have a real game-breaker or sack machine that alot of other 'top-notch' teams have.
-Trent Cole has baby brown eyes that could mesmerize his teammates.
LineB
-I was super-pumped for a breakout year for my boy--Stewart Bradley--and the rest of the LB'ers and then.... there goes the year.
-Bradley was the QB of the defense and a natural leader on a team that lost alot of leadership over the offseason.
-Other LB'ers are OK, nothing great. Who will fill Bradley's void?
CornerB
-The only hard-hitting proven pro in the backfield is Sheldon and wouldn't you know it he's having contract issues w the Eagles. Another Lito?
-Asante and Hobbes are good cover-guys to a degree, but apparently the team has them learning/working out alot of press coverage---- something they didn't do for New England.
Safety
-No Dawk. You just can't replace that.
-Don't know who's gonna start or what kind of game they bring. Whoever it is will be a slightly better cover guy (in theory) and be a drop-off in every other category (all the way into the locker room and beyond)
Coaching
D -Jim Johnson. The man w the master plan. The bringer of blitz. Even if the pieces weren't the best by themselves, JJ could always find a way to fashion a masterpiece on D. Putting guys in the right places, trusting those unteachable instincts of his, and master-minding that whole explosive, unforgettable Eagles defense this city takes pride in.
-Don't know what McDermott's got. We can hope-- but it's as simple as that. Plus, think of how the players will react. He may have their attention and their praise--but does he have their unwavering trust and will to go into battle?
O -Andy will always be Andy. Yea, we have a Fullback. Does that mean we'll use him or start running? What are you, crazy-- this is Andy.
-Forget who the O Coordinator is and it's getting late....
M(anagement) -Jeffrie Lurie and Joe Banner are scum bags. They think their shit don't stink and the bottom line in their world is the almighty $Dolla Dolla bill. They look down on the very people that support them and treat the fans, the media, and the players like they're idiots.
-Won't spend the money to pay better players or keep our good players happy. Possible holdout situations.



--------------But have no need to fear. Quick Banner quote:

"I feel this year we have the best roster in the league,” Banner said. And owner Jeffrie Lurie, he assured us was all about winning. The money means nothing to him, Banner explained.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggghhhhhhhhttttt.... you faggot.




















Anyhow, that's where my brain is right now. Just jotting down my doubts and fears. Hope it'll turn around as we figure things out and finally get closer to football season. I mean, there are definite counter-points and positives to take from (almost) every position I listed. I know that. But we'll see. Just preparing for the worst case scenario.

And hopefully, this isn't just another let down year. Cause don't get me wrong, I love the 'Birds. I still got them picked to win it all baby! Shit, I got $30 or so invested in a Superbowl win. That'll pay out something like $330 or $400 or..... hmmmm, where did I put that ticket....

Jam 101 -- Funk You

yea, i haven't blogged in a week or something, but I also haven't porked anyone's mom in a week or so and no one's said anything about that.

Let's see...what to talk about with you jamokes. Hockey's far away, hammered is what I'm always getting, a jam approacheth---

YOU: A what-a whateth?
ME: A jam dickhead. You know, like a jam.

A jam. It's something that follows The Laws of the Conservation of Energy. It can neither be created nor destroyed. It's something that happens -- it doesn't occur. It's something that you can feel more than you can hear. It's something that is alive and inside. It moves and reproduces. It feeds and it grows. It's a million things more than it's a 'one single' thing. And there's no such thing as the same jam twice (that's just liberal bullshit talk).

Jams don't have to be dirty funky--but mine are. They don't have to make musical sense--I'm sure alot of mine don't. They don't have to have a top, a bottom, a beginning, or an end-- or a middle for that matter. A jam is just what it is--a fucking jam.

I know next to nothing about music theory. I know where like 5 notes are on the bass and I know where the octave to each note is.... so I know like 10 notes. I play with all sorts of people ranging from 'I-know-E-minor-sus-7-and-teach-guitar-at-george's-music' Bradford S Granberry to 'Woa-man,-check-out-this-tasty-Phish-lick' Scotty. There are styles and stipulations you have to actually bring to each jam. Here, lemme lay it down for y'all:


------------------------------------------------------















The Jam: As Sex


Woa, don't put it there--who's on my instrument!
Wrong hole--plug into my higher input!
Let's work into it slower now, it's starting to burn!
My turn to take it from the top, bitch!
Where the fuck are we right now?
Why do we always do it the way you want?
Now I'm feelin ya!
Give me that tasty lick!
Holy shit, we're going to explode all over the audience!
--and--
Hold on guys, some semen in my eye.

Just a few quotes you'll hear during the average jam. Complications and intimacies run amok over the course of a hot n heavy jam. And it's no wonder. Jams are complex, emotional, crazy creatures. You have bandmates and you don't want to step on their toes. (I won't get into what happens if you have feelings for your bandmates--and they're boys.) But you don't want to sit by on the sidelines and watch all the fun from the bench. What about the drummers feelings? Does he wanna mix it up and do some gay symbol tickling and intricate tom-work? What about your guitarists stamina-- can he withstand the rigors of intense in-your-face metal all jam long? Is your bass player solo-ing non-stop and jumping around all over the neck showing off his blazing speed instead of just laying down some solid thump? It's all very personal and very touchy. It doesn't take much to make a jam go awry, but it takes a shit-load to make a jam cut out a hot path of awesomeness.

Not only do you have to have make love to your instrument, you have to have sex with your bandmates. That's alot of dirty-dirty. And explains why Rock n Roll is all about drugs and sex.

1. Keep the Pace
Don't have everyone humping the air randomly with misguided musical notes at random intervals or you'll get something that sounds like baby sheep being thrown into an industrial blender. Stay in time. Relax. It doesn't have to be Opeth tight and technical. Keep it 4/4. Stay at a reasonable speed for the majority of the jam. You'll have your chance to unleash holy-solo-hell when the time is right.

2. Know What Makes THEM Feel Good
Don't just go out there and do what makes you feel good for 2 hours. Tickle the taint. Lay down some boring stuff and provide some cover-fire for the other guys to break out. This obviously has alot to do with your instrument and your style, but don't be that guy who solos the whole jam long or only plays the style best suited to your needs. Essentially, just don't be a selfish dick. Luckily in Uranium Bassment my boys Jones Benner and X-Factor will rock out, slow it up, and mix it up by throwing me a 'Funk Bass Jam' bone. Keeping the whole group satisfied is a hot way to 'simultaneously climax' all over during key parts of the Jam that just fucking sound 'awesome'.

3. Get Sensual
Feel the jam happen in you, in your instrument, and in your Bandies. Make love to your instrument. Go hot and heavy over her private parts or slowly build her up. This is crucial to 'changing directions without words', the hardest part of jamming. Hear your guitarist going lighter on the chords but adding that sinister bend? Is the drummer getting heavier and faster on the drums in a 'slowly building' kinda way? Something bad is about to happen and to make sure it gets pulled off in extreme awesome fashion you need to feel the subtleties around you. On the next measure make it happen. Let that wild animal passion rip out and put the balls to the wall at this next cymbal crash. Remember--musical instruments and bandmates can not press charges for rape.

4. Experiment
Whip out the blow-up dolls, the chocolate sauce, the scented candles, and put the ball gag in the dog's mouth-- it's time to mix it up. Who wants the jam to get boring? Fuck buddies is to married couple as funky jam is to written songs. Sure, they all have their place, but this is a mother-funkin jam. Don't go solo-ing around some weird Egyptian scale you learned last week all jam long but do try something weird here and there. Spice it up. Don't be afraid to mess up. You may not like it all--but you may just find the recipe for Liquid Gold.

5. Use Your Head.... Not That One
Sure, it's good to go in knowing scales and rules and pieces of songs and how to turn a riff ilonian or whatever but here's the key -- use your Dick. That's right. Whatever instrument you're playing is an extension of you. Strum that dick and crank your balls to volume 11. It's no use counting to 4. It's no use predicting where the E key fits halfway through your solo. Start just moving. I mean 'moving'. Sway with the beat. Turn off the brain. Pretend you just took your cocaine through a straw in a glass full of Jack Daniels alla Stevie Ray Vaughn and let it all out. Let go of that barrier of reason and logic. Stop thinking about the song and be the fucking song. This sound is an extension of you. If you want to shred some baby armadillo's in a wood chipper let your fingers carve a wicked riff. If you want to have sex with the pope on top of a cathedral drop those majestic beats and let your feet and snare drum do the prayin'. You feel the need to let loose the hot sexual magma of hurricane sex you slap the shit out of your dick and stop poppin' n lockin the dirtiest nastiest low-down frequencies you can find. Become something else. Become the jam.























So there it is. The Jam as sex. So next time you hear your neighbors strumming up the sweet sounds give yourself a chuckle. You know they're all dudes and if they're any good at jamming -- they're practically doing each other. LoL! MFG!!! Faggzzzzzzz!!!!