Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Sing, Sweet Broken Hearted - Available January 2012

Here's the new cover art and lyrics for my upcoming album. 
Be sure to pick up the new record "Sing, Sweet Broken Hearted" available January 2012 on iTunes/Amazon.
Until then, check out for a FREE download of "You'll Find Love" (feat. Kalyn Eastman/Jaron Clark), live tracks and alternate mixes of songs from the record.  
I've been working hard booking shows across the country so check back soon for a complete list of dates and tour information! Enjoy!

Hey Darlin'
In my heart there are walls higher than the trees
But no one knows, no one knows but me
Yet still you set me burning just like gasoline
But no one knows, no one knows but me

I don't have the words to tell you all these words are about you
But I want you to know that it's you that I'm dreaming of
But no one knows, no one knows but me

I've never been too good at that whole trusting thing
But no one knows, no one knows but me
Yet still you seem to find the very best in me
But no one knows, no one knows but me

Darlin' this whole city seems a constant uphill stream of endless motion
But girl you look so pretty so let's you and me go run out to the ocean - and never leave
Somewhere no one knows, no one knows but you and me

You'll Find Love
He sold knives and rosaries by the riverbed
In a coat sewn by his mother dear, that still caused memories of tears to flood his head
But he wore it to recall the words she said. When she said;

You’ll find love one day, oh. You’ll find love
You’ll find love one day, oh you’ll find love

She was born to life atop a circus wire
Until a series of events with kerosene and unattended elephants transpired
And the circus was destroyed by means of fire
So splendid was his smile when she saw him there peddling his cutlery
Concealed by camouflage of trees she so anxiously stared
But through the branches he saw her beauty un-compared

She said:
I’ll find love one day, oh. I’ll find love
I’ll find love one day, oh I’ll find love

But then one night a note and knife stuck in her tree she found.
It read:

Angel of mystery,
If you want to see me, if you want to meet me than come down tonight
 to the waterside
We can dance in the moonlight until the morning breaks the night
But if you don’t want to then it’s quite alright
I’ll be alright; oh I’ll be just fine

So she put on her best gypsy gown and came down from the tree
To the sight of a crowd gathered ‘round the estuary

For tragedy that evening struck the humble town
The water-gates had finally cracked but carried safely on his back
He’d swam the orphans all to higher ground
But heroic deeds can lead to heroes drowned

She ran to his side as they dragged him from the waves
And oh, how she cried when the savior could not be saved
“He was my one and only love” she claimed

But I’ll find love one day, oh. I’ll find love
I’ll find love one day. Oh, I’ll fine love
Love, love, love, love, love I’ll find love


Please, Don't Eat the Flowers
What would you do if I promised you the moon then gave you the world instead?
Would you laugh at the exchange or be angry because I changed my word and hang your crying head?
If I promised you flowers then brought you April showers that made the chrysanthemums bloom
Would you clap with delight at the change oh so slight or accuse me of lying to you?

If you want to find a better man
Go ahead and try if you can
Where are you gonna find a better man?
No one else can love you like I can
Not another one can understand
You’re never gonna find a better man

If I swore not to change the way I feel today but then fell more in love with you
Would you cry, cry, cry, cry and lie down and die and accuse me of being untrue?

If you put down your knife and I put down my gun
Would we stop this fight and straight to arm in arm run?
Our hearts beat through our chest like pounding cannonballs
Yet still we both resist the urge that’s begging us to fall
We’re afraid to fall in love because we’ve watched love fall apart
So we change the combination to the safes around our hearts
Oh, how it hurts - trying oh so hard not to get hurt

The Waiting
Oh, my mother, I was born only moments before
You died and they carried you away
Sent to walk alone for my father was unknown
Upon these streets will I walk and will I lay

Alone, alone and orphan on my own
Until the pale moon shines upon my grave

My mother I have tried to be your joy and pride
But failure comes naturally to me
All these sins I find passing before my eyes
I pray soon one day I’ll be redeemed

Alone, alone and orphan on my own
Until the pale moon shines upon my grave
Alone, alone just hollow flesh and bone
This world’s a waiting room for judgment day
hey hey hey - hey hey hey hey

But I’ll see the sunshine some morning
So I timidly smile because I know in awhile I’ll be free
So I’ll bloody my feet on this gravel where I walk and sleep - until then

Oh, my mother, you’ll be joined by a broken wounded boy
When the angels have carried me away
hey hey hey - hey hey hey hey

Who I Am
Hold on, I hold on
To the prayer I’ll become the man I’m born to be
I’m the final leaf on a withered tree in a struggle to decide
Should I hold through the cold alone or conform and fall and die?

Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?
I’m trying oh, so hard to find who I should be
Do you know who I am? I’m begging, Mister, please.
Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?
If you know who I am can you tell me?

When did I become just some foreign currency
That’s valuable to someone somewhere – but here I’m worth nothing?
The most elegant of poetry in a language you can’t read
To the right eyes I’m beautiful but you don’t understand me

I’m an escalator broken down and in need of inspection
No up or down – I’m just stairs now - with ambiguous direction
A single card missing from a deck that leaves the whole game unenjoyed
It’s funny how just one thing can leave you void

 Woman Bound
I was woman born; now I’m woman dead
‘Cus that woman came then that woman left
She set my heart to raging flame
That was then put out by my tears like rain

I go down, down in misery ‘cus that girl got a hold of me
I’ll drown, drown, drown in the raging sea until she’s gone away from memory

I was woman free; now I’m woman bound
‘Cus that same old woman came back around
I’ve begged her to go but she’s promised to stay
Leave that woman alone or you’ll become woman chained
All alone I was lonely; but I’m begging for lonely right now
‘Cus that girl is looking so homely there in that wedding gown

I was woman born; now I’m woman dead
‘cus that woman came but she never left me

Goodmorning, my dear
I’m so glad you found me here
Let me linger on your lips and take your breath away
You use me to get through; then claim I’m only killing you
Then the moment that you’re done with me you throw me in the drain

But oh, me, I see that you’re only using me
The moment that the flame is gone you’re gone without goodbye
But it’s so clear to see that you still depend on me
Even though you claim that I’m not even in your life

I’m your cigarette; see that you never will forget me
Even though you’ve burned me out to ashes
But who’s the weaker one; I’m not in need of anyone
And you cling to all my friends left in the package

Oh, like smoke through the air we were gone
We’re gone like smoke through the air

Oh! My Soul
The hardened heart will break just like a stone being crushed
By the hammer of a slave on the old railway lines
The whore and the saint will both be judged as one that day
When the master, finally humbled, with his servants he has dined

Oh, my soul will be free one day
When my heart has asked for one more beat than God’s willing to pay
Then I, oh I, I’ll be carried away
And my flesh will not stay bone when I have been laid in my grave
No, my flesh will not stay bone when I have been laid in my grave

They hung tight a rope around the stealing man’s neck
Before he rocked like a cradle in the wind gently blowing
He said, “The atheist will burn in hell right there beside me
The only difference is that I know and believe that I’m going”
The borders all will fall just like a man being shot
In the back by the hand of the law for stealing bread
And the soldiers then will march at sweet Armageddon’s call
When the devil’s learned to pray and we’re all saved by the dead

Some Kind of Dream
All these chances I take fly like a sparrow toward some kind of dream
But regrets and mistakes are a barrel pointed at me
There’s no mountain too high when you’ve learned how to fly
Just spread your wings and lift off the ground
But the problem with flying is; no matter how I try it ends with
READY! AIM! FIRE! - BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! - Shoot me down

But I searched through the streets just looking for some kind of dream
Always praying that I would find something or something would find me

A shot ripped through my heart and I fell through the branches and into the dark
But I was higher on the mountain than I’d ever fallen before
That’s where I met you, broken and bleeding, just a wandering dreamer like me
And when I looked at you, pretty darlin’, I finally could see

That I’d searched through the streets just looking for some kind of dream
Always praying I would find something or something would find me
I’d traveled the world looking for diamonds and pearls
But I found all I needed when I found a beautiful girl

There’s nothing so wonderful as finding your sweet peace of mind
 I’ve never seen beautiful the way that I see in your eyes
If I hadn’t been shot down learning to fly
I’d still be searching for something my fall helped me find
I thank God I was shot…

Sing, Sweet Broken Hearted/The Declaration
It’s been the hardest year of my life so far
The surgeon hands of time still work to mend my heart
I died the day that I lost my wife
But somehow dying taught me how to be alive
I made bags of riches more than eyes have seen
That served as temporary peace in a world of shattered dreams
But as fast as they were given they were taken back from me
But I found peace in misery

Swing low, sweet chariot
Come down and carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Oh Lord, I’m so tired of being alone…

I searched to find solution but it seemed
That every weary path was wrong
I slept in cars in graveyards and parking lots for months
Never before had lonely hit so strong
But in my darkest time of need, Oh Lord, you forced me to see
That even through the blackness, the pain and the fear
You’d been hanging on to me
So I sang it, I sang it, I sang –

Swing low, sweet chariot
Come down and carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Oh Lord, I’m so tired of being alone…

I’m broken but I’m not broken down
I’m torn but I’m not torn apart
I’m shattered now but I can still stand
You can never break an already broken heart

I’m not broken anymore my love
I guess I’m stronger than you thought I was
I’m not torn, I’m not crushed – I’m something beautiful…

All songs copyright © 2011 Jordan Eastman Music and property of Jordan Eastman music and Soundwire Records
 They may not be distributed or altered in any way without the artist's permission

Thursday, December 15, 2011


Love? What is love? Love eternal, on the other hand...well, can love last eternally? Love only lasts as long as one allows it to remain; and to remain eternal is another thing entirely. We fall in love in an instant and fall out of love in the same. Like a flicker it's past and we're off in search of some new flame to kindle our smoldering desire for passionate amity. This time of year people become foreign and Christmas dissects their emotions to reveal the hidden depression or undisclosed affection buried within their hearts. We either cling to each other or wind up remembering the people we no longer cling to.
It's the time of year people either get married or commit suicide; sometimes both. It's kind of liberating.

I keep watching everyone else fall apart and it makes me happy knowing that I fell apart first. It's a horrible game to have won, but a victory nonetheless. It's been a balanced scale of passion and misery, where for every wedding band there lies unfaithfulness, and for each engagement photo taken, another's photo album is thrown in the fire to be forgotten...and somehow I've found myself in the middle of all this trying to make sense of it all. Apparently my affinity for relational collapse comes as a strange form of solace for most, as I perpetually find myself taking the position of counselor; a strange calling for someone with such a strong sense of calloused apathy to be given. Regardless, it's left me thinking and makes me remember why closeness often frightens me. At least in its initial stages. Growing up sucks. I've thought a lot about that too, actually. I grew up once. It nearly killed me. Maybe the whole thing was wrong. You've grown up and turned into this beautiful woman; you may be throwing your whole life away by doing so, but hey, at least you'll look pretty during the transition; while I, miserable I, remain desperately clinging to the same boyish youthfulness and child-like fantasies of yesterday. I keep chasing things that you claim to support me in from the comfort of your quaint two bedroom condominium in the darling suburbs. I guess I just grew up differently. Maybe we never grew up at all.

All of these things run through my head. I sit here awhile while I try to sort them out and make sense of everyone else's destruction. A message from an old girlfriend comes in and I realize, for the first time, that we're all in the same situation. I disregard the flirting comments and pretend to be oblivious to her obvious attempts to hook up. We talk awhile. Say goodnight and it's over. Hopefully forever. I kind of laugh a little. It's grey outside now. I guess it's finally Christmas; the time of year when everybody's looking for somebody and nobody wants to be the somebody nobody else is looking for. I'm glad I'm alone. Maybe things are easier that way. Maybe things have been perfect all along...

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

What's it Take to Get Smile Around Here?

The last few days have been strange for me. I bought a hat. Think of that. A blog post about a trapper cap. It's kind of stupid looking but it's warm and keeps my ears from freezing - the hat, that is. The blog looks relatively normal and doesn't keep me warm at all...
It snowed a bit tonight. That's foreign to me. It wasn't much, just enough to make me realize it's supposed to be Christmas and for the second year in a row I don't care. I just want to leave again. I like leaving. It means I'll soon be somewhere else. Somewhere that isn't where I was before. Anywhere, really.

I set my hair on fire today. There's something weird but not entirely surprising. True story. I stuck my hand in my pocket and found a lighter. Why it was there, I'm not sure; but it was there all the same. I was talking to someone about lighting my hair on fire and it just sort of happened. I don't need to cut my bangs, I guess. It's amazing how quickly hair burns. I'm not sure how Nero tolerated the smell.

On a relatively normal note, I've been booking US tour dates non-stop for the last several weeks. We'll be gone around month straight. Two days off. It's ironic that I decided to book shows in the north-east during the coldest time of the year. We're working our way from Chicago to Manhattan in the middle of February. How stupid. Only vikings plan trips that way. At least we'll be making our way down the east coast and into Texas by the end of March. I'm really excited to be on the road again. It's been too long. Not to mention this time I'm not playing for anyone else. Look at that, I did my own thing. Who'd have ever thought...
We're playing some fantastic places I haven't been in years, and some cities I've never performed in. I'm excited to play in New York and Philly. Both great cities with awesome crowds. Overall, I think it's going to be a good time...but I'll post more on that as things progress. 

So there's this record I've been working on...
Record comes out soon! I'm going to post the lyrics for the whole album, cover art and release date information in the next week or keep a look out!

Sunday, December 11, 2011

We Tired and Shameless Few

Life is a war in which we fight to the death, glance back from our hospital beds and applaud whoever has accomplished the most. Like a photograph, it flashes, we pause, then look back at the still-frame in mocking agony of what used to be. Why is success placed before living? Why view life as an opportunity to become something rather than an opportunity to experience? Yet here we are, stuck in relationships we want out of, working jobs we want to escape and bound by the assumption that risk is the potential invitation of failure. It's easy, I guess. People tell me far too often that they wish they could do things when, in reality, if they simply did them their desires would come to fruition. Is it fear or just the love of simplicity? Things are easiest when they're familiar. People do things all the time because coping with consistency is easier than the discomfort of change...even if change is the remedy to their affliction. I understand responsibility and respect success, but to place it before enjoying life seems sinfully flawed. It's easy to talk of aspirations from a recliner - but another thing entirely to bleed-out, striving to obtain those aspirations and use the recliner to tell the story of your success some day in the future. It bothers me. Sure there are subtle, underlying frustrations streaming through this entire dissertation; but regardless, the point stands true. Whatever. I'm tired of it. What purpose does a rant serve besides self-gratification anyway? Rants are like humanity in winter. We start warm and conversational, sitting by a fire, maybe. It's safe here. The walls protect us from the elements of the caloused world outside. Conversation changes and, somehow, the topic deepens. Someone gets upset. Their stiffened ego was injured. Voices rise and we step outside into the cold. Grumbling a bit we might take a few steps. The stairs are slippery. We're cautious. Eventually, we find the freezing obnoxiousness of the whole situation taking it's tole and we, who once stood upright and fought for our God-given opinions, now look tired and old; hunched over, arms clenched tightly about ourselves like defenseless children. It's too cold to argue. Nothing really matters anyway. The harsh stinging of everything combined becomes too much to bear and we forget whatever it was that started this whole thing in the first place. We cough a little. It's freezing. We make our way back through the door and rush to the warming arms of the welcoming fire. The others soon follow and we all laugh at the silliness of the whole situation. Soon our cheeks are reddened by the glow and all is forgotten. It's over now; but a while will pass and the whole thing will repeat itself. Pointless. What is the point? There is no point. It's all a bunch of pointless pointlessness. Sometimes the pointlessness seems more convincing than others. That's just good salesmanship; but it remains pointless nonetheless. It's like a big vat where everyone tosses in their opinions, we sort them out one by one until we all agree, but by the time we've reached where we started the opinions have all changed and the whole thing starts over. Pointlessness. What is pointlessness anyway? Why don't we just call it trainwreck? Trainwreck. The whole pointless thing is a stupid trainwreck and nothing makes sense anymore. Who's writing this whole thing, anyway? Take the pieces, one at a time. Inspect them. Twist them. Mold them. Force them into little shapes and make them fit back together until you find the original thought behind the whole stupid thing. I bet your thoughts on the original thought are different than you originally thought they were. It's cruel, isn't it. No one knows anything yet we all know everything. A strange paradox of the wisdom of fools. A viscous labyrinth of time. We work to support our reproductions, reproduce to create more hands to work and work at reproduction like it's last good thing the good Lord left behind...

What does any of this matter...they're just words anyway. I could say, "Panda bear, fruit dance, bubble gum, rainbows" with any sense of conviction and some rambling idiot would call me genius. It's a travesty. A perverse, all forsaken travesty...

In the end,I'll leave it all alone...

“When did your childhood end? How badly did you get hurt, when you did, when you were this little wee little hurtable thing, nothing but big eyes, a heart, a few hundred words? Isn’t it wonderful how we never recover? Injuries and wounds, ladies and gents. Slights and abuses, oh, what a paradise. Living in fear, suiting the hurt to our need. What a happy life. What a good game. Who can stand the most, the most life, and still smile, still grin into the coming night and say more, more, encore, encore, you fates, just give me more, more, more of the bloody bloody same.”  - Will Eno

Monday, December 5, 2011

Tazing a Drunken Isaac Newton: Pt II

For those of you who have not read Part I of this adventure, please visit before continuing

For those who have, there are new developments in the story....

As you know, after screaming frantically while attempting to beat down the door, the police arrived and the drunken assailant took off at a dead run in the opposite direction. At this point, there was a 5-10 minute segment where the police where wandering about looking for the man before he came sprinting out of someone's backyard and across our complex parking lot. During this lull, we became the closest of friends with the drunk group of people who were being attacked by the Running-Man. In fact, we became so close that Blake and I will be standing in one of their weddings. Mark your calendars.

Anyway, after running into one of the fine women who, ironically enough, was returning from the court-case pertaining to this event, I was given the full details of what happened during those seemingly uneventful minutes of the Running-Man's absence...

...they go a little like this...

As it turns out, he really was a professional fighter. Go figure. This discovery was made after several police had arrived and were searching the surrounding areas for his whereabouts. While we were standing there, wondering where he'd run, the police had chased him into a backyard and were attempting to apprehend him; at which point brother went to town beating down police officers and trying to escape until he was tazed - for the first time. After being stunned, he ran from the backyard and toward our complex - and was quickly tazed again. This time he reacted by throwing a police officer into a chain-link fence. In response, a second officer threw Running-Man into a fence and proceeded to taze him again - several times - resulting in the viscous screams we heard from the parking lot. While attempting to walk him back, homeboy took off again, ran through our complex, back into our line of sight and the rest, as you know, is flat-out, downright amazing, history at its finest.

And that, my friends, is an amazing story.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

A Two Step Robbery

Some people break down doors. Others open them. I usually open them. However, sometimes I crawl directly through them, break off the handle from the inside, open the door, and return to the room I started in. Confused? Let me explain...

The year was 2011. The month, November. The day, Tuesday. The hour...sometime. Regardless of the ambiguous hour, it seemed a day like any other; but little did we know the awesomeness that lay before us. For years the door to the back warehouse had remained tied open and nothing much was thought of it. However, today it was closed. No matter. People close doors all the time, right? Wrong! Well, people do close doors all the time; but what I was referring to was the subtle implication that everything would be fine when it turned out otherwise - get off my back. Anyway. When attempting to get a case from the warehouse, we found the door; which is passed through literally hundreds of time a day, was, not only locked, but entirely jammed shut. To make matters worse, the handle was spinning freely and all of the bolts to remove the door or handle were on the inside of this heavy, metal, warehouse door...that everyone in the building needed to get through. After nearly an hour of Clay and JT attempting to pick the lock, remove the handle, etc. I offered to try to climb through the tiny window in the door. Clay, my general manager, quickly told me not to try it and went to call a door company. As soon as he left, JT very bluntly asked, "Dude, can you fit through that window?" Everything seemed to move in slow motion as I followed his eerie stare and traced the path of his bony finger to a tiny opening within the door way. There we stared at the smallest window ever built by man...all theatrics aside, it was a freaking stupid small window. Strictly to erase any doubt that I am exaggerating or expanding on it's size, I have included a picture or said door and it's diminutive window. Besides, expanding the size would have made this next situation far easier. Deciding it was worth a shot, we removed the glass and I attempted to go through. Being smaller than my shoulders, I had to stand on a chair and olympic diver position myself to go through pencil straight. Getting my arms and chest through the hole, I was stuck halfway through. At this point, it basically came down to me yelling at JT to push my feet, while I rolled my body diagonally so my hips could fit through the opening. In the process of this nonsensical maneuver, my belt caught the edge of the window. While I was trying to get my belt unstuck, JT, unaware of the hangup was pushing violently on my legs. Suddenly, my belt buckle broke open and my hips pushed through the window; tearing my shirt wide open and forcing me through. As I dropped head-first into the room, my pants caught on the window and were torn off me as I fell. Before I hit the ground, my foot got stuck in the window and I hung there a moment before twisting my ankle free and falling on the cement. Laying on my back, looking straight up; my pants around my ankles and my shirt torn off, JT's head popped through the window and, laughing hysterically said, "Looks like you made it, buddy" followed by the frantic cries of Clay screaming, "He went through the %#^@ window! He went through the *#&! window!" It was pretty much amazing. Even after I'd made it through, the screws were stripped (just like me) so I still had to bend, twist and eventually kick off the door-knob, use a screw driver and wire-cutters to cut a hole through the metal to pull out the dead-bolt and figure out some way of straightening the hinges so it could open again. Needless to say, the door is now safely secured - in an open position...but if it ever closes we've found an instant and rather comical solution. Brilliant.  

As if the night wasn't already amazing enough. Blake and I went through Wendy's in the kangaroo mask and got the most amazing reactions from a group of older women at the RedBox...but that's another story.       

Monday, November 28, 2011

Tazing a Drunken Isaac Newton

Last night marked the most amazing situation I have ever found myself in the middle of.

Caroline had left and Blake and I had just concluded watching the worst cinematic debauchery ever created. Honestly, after sitting through a horrific rendition of Red Riding Hood, I thought my life had ended. Little did I know that it was just beginning (there's a sermon or twelve in there somewhere, I'm sure). It's 3am. I enter my room, turn out the light and lay down. Literally thirty seven seconds later I hear the most profane screams coming from outside. Looking out my window, I see a collection of hammered drunk people, standing outside a taxi, screaming at each other and threatening to murder this other guy if he didn't leave them alone. I know this because they literally said, "I'm going to kill you if you don't leave us alone" several times during their explicit conversation. Logically assuming that someone was going to 1) leave someone else alone or 2) get murdered, I awoke and proceeded to watch the following events transpire:
While the group was screaming at this other, random guy and telling him to get back into the taxi or they would kill him, the cab driver, obviously irritated with the developing story-line, drove away and left the individual the group wanted him to take away. At this time, the guy they wanted to leave said he would kill them all and called one of the girls poor; which instantly resulted in one of the other guys punching him in the face. Knocking him to the ground, the girls started screaming and made everyone move into the apartment and leave the guy out on the pavement. Fortunately, they lived in the apartment directly across from mine! Coming out of my room, I found Blake staring through the peep hole in our door and laughing hysterically. The group had moved inside and the drunk guy they were trying to leave was standing outside the door, screaming frantically and punching the door while they yelled back that they had called the police. We took turns watching him for awhile as he would back up to our door, scream "fighting is what I do for a living!" then run full speed into their door, get knocked to the ground, get up, scream "send out just one man! Fighting is what I'm good at!", boxing dance around, then punch the door two or three times super hard. He did this for about ten minutes before finally just telling him that he thought his phone might be in their apartment and they needed to let him in so he could find it. They didn't believe him, apparently. During all of this commotion, Blake and I had determined that he was extremely funny when irritated, so every time he calmed down we would do something to irritate him again. At one point, he was just kind of standing there with his head against the door, offering to teach them all how to fight if they would let him in. As he kept pushing his fighting abilities, though highly doubtable, and was only 7 or 8 feet away, we weren't too willing to risk the off chance that he was a professional MMA fighter. Therefore, when he was in this vulnerable state, we employed the "two-man-double-tag-team-hit-the-other-guy-and-slam-the-door-before-he-can-react" approach. While he was standing there, Blake whipped open the door, I hurled an apple full speed at the dude, hit him in the back of the head, Blake slammed/locked the door and we both dove for the peephole to witness his reaction while laughing hysterically. The guy had no clue what happened. He was screaming and kicking and yelling that he was going to kill whoever did that. Shortly after, he proceeded to continue beating down their door and our entertainment continued. Another 5 minutes passed and, finally, we decided to talk to the guy. Grabbing another apple and Blake grabbing a wrench, I opened the door, walked out and said the super clever and awesomely funny and original line, "hey man, you've got to be quiet; it's 4am". Which, to our dismay, he very cordially and calmly replied, "I'm sorry man. They hit me in the head and stole my phone and wallet. I had to track them back here and now I'm trying to get it back. I called the cops but they aren't here yet." I don't know how necessary it is to point out that he was lying, but I will; he was lying. Before I could even say anything, two police officers rounded the corner and greeted us. They asked him for his ID and he started telling a random story before turning around, mid-sentence, and taking off at a dead run the other direction. A chase ensued and before we knew it, there were a dozen cop cars around us. It took about ten minutes but, eventually, he was seen sprinting across the street. Apparently the police saw him as well because they tazed him and, amidst bloodcurdling screams, handcuffed him in the street. Ironically enough and much to our delight, when they were walking him back, he tried to run again...leading to another healthy dose of tazing. Beautiful. We all had to fill out witness statements and it turns out that the girl across the hall and her friends had met him at a bar, he jumped in their cab and insisted on coming home with them. Considering I'd seen the situation transpire from the beginning, it all made sense. What was amazing was watching a dozen drunk people all in a state of panic trying to retell the story. Priceless. What was even more amazing was that one of the chicks (fortunately the only attractive one - go figure) was terrified that he was going to break free and kill her...therefore I was comforting her and she was clinging to me tightly - which, as she was drunk out of her freaking mind, lead to her kissing me frantically and telling me how brave I was. The sun was up, I smelled like a woman's spit and alcohol and had just witnessed a live episode of COPS in my front yard. Needless to say, McDonald's was the next stop in this unparalleled adventure. Once our dining had concluded, Blake and I sat on the couch laughing non-stop and re-telling the situation for nearly an hour. Walking down the hall, we both realized that I was still holding an apple...and he had a wrench in his back pocket. The laughing began again and the world was a better place...

True story

Friday, November 18, 2011

Someday I'll Find Something

There are some things we control and others that control us. Then there are things so uncontrollable that the more we attempt to control them, the more out of control they become. That's how I've felt the past month. Like I'm trapped in this revolving room of doors where each open path leads to another random room that leads back to the one I started in. Doors keep opening and I keep moving; but no forward motion occurs. It's like a plaguing nightmare. It disturbs me and leaves me with this eternal longing to run toward something I can't find. It's this sort of weird vacancy searching for fulfillment. I guess I feel that if I go enough places and meet enough people, I'll find the right place and meet the right person. I though I'd found both. Maybe I had but was too frightened to admit the fact that I'd allowed myself to trust again. Who knows. Now I'm caught in this strange paradox of loneliness and distrust where I'm faced with the decision to trust someone enough to not be lonely or avoid loneliness by being with someone I don't trust. It's a flaw I'm repairing. When did I become so cold? I don't want to be dark; It's just all I've known for the past year. I'm thankful for the experience and am stronger for it all, but standing alone, fighting for dreams that no one else believes in gets tiresome from time to time. I'm happy; I'm just exhausted from forcing myself to smile. I want it all to be natural again. It'll turn around. It always does. I'd just rather fight to make things happen for myself so this lingering sense of helplessness frustrates me. I guess it's that control thing again.

I keep waking up from this stupid dream that rips my heart out. Why does it always come back? I think every second together ran through my mind. It was strange. I even got up, made her favorite chicken alfredo and watched Iron Chef in the dark like she used to. It made me want to cry. I wonder if she misses me? I sat awake flipping through photographs thinking awhile. I think it was her eyes that did it. God, those eyes. I felt safe there; like the world was collapsing around me but everything was beautiful. Ironic how things swing full circle. That brought to mind another night in the back of my truck at 2am when I felt that peace again. I should have said something to her. Whatever, I tore off my rearview mirror years ago; but for some reason I keep staring at the reflections in the windshield waiting to turn a corner so I can't pick them up anymore. Keep moving forward and praying that someday I'll find something that makes it all make sense.
A beautiful story with un-beautiful parts...

On a lighter, more awesome note,
I was juggling these corndogs I made and dropped one into an open jar of powered sugar (yeah, you read that right). A flawless discovery. Seriously? Honey-batter corn dogs coated in powered sugar? A delicacy from God himself.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Who I Am

Video for an acoustic track of "Who I Am" appearing on my new record, "Sing, Sweet Broken Hearted"
Withered trees, foreign currency, poetry, escalators and playing cards. Discover what they all have in common within...

Be sure to check out for free downloads, show/tour information and tons of other cool stuff. Catchy new release with perks for listening coming early next week. Be sure to tell your friends, post it on facebook and check back often!

Monday, October 17, 2011

Buddy Holly!

I think I've done something horrible...but I'll get to that later...

The weather keeps changing. Spring turned to Summer and now the Autumn leaves fill the ground and Summer is a friend spoken of in passing. I'm sitting here on my porch, the cool wind blowing billows of aromatic smoke through the air as cobwebs are singed from furnaces abroad in preparation for the upcoming Winter. It's nice here. Who would have ever thought a year ago that I'd be sitting on a porch in Nashville, TN, listening to the Pixies and wearing a cardigan? A cardigan? Really? True fact. It's probably the most horrible thing I've ever done (Yay! There it is!). Granted, it's not a large V-neck cardigan that screams "Fabulous!" and flaming femininity - but a cardigan all the same. It's my Buddy Holly, chick getting sweater -- with giant buttons -- very large, disproportionate, black, super awesome, buttons -- that were pretty much the deciding factor in the purchase. I think the fact that it's consistent with my all black attire lends to this newfound sensation of feeling like an emo Mr. Rogers. What's even more amazing is that by the time I get to the end of this paragraph I'm going to have a hyphenated last name. "Welcome to Mr. Holly-Rogers neighborhood, the place where we cut our wrists in a non-life threatening manner every time the trolly comes around and Conor Oberst performs each thursday at 7."
And on that note, I'm going to point out that there is no creepier name than "Mr. Holly-Rogers"...

Attack! Attack! He's all in black. Don't look back. Don't look back.

I think I wrote the best song of my career. It talks about withered trees, currency, poetry, escalators, playing cards and the vast similarities between the five. It all sort of paints a picture of five seemingly unrelated objects in a sombre and unorthodox perspective that somehow ties them all together to make perfect sense at the end. It's slow, dark and eerily beautiful. (Go figure). I recorded it in a hallway and felt a strange sense of accomplishment when it concluded. It's strange how that works. I laid down two more tracks last night. For some reason my songs keep coming around to the same person without my intention. It's amazing how revealing writing is to even the one writing the lines. I can lie to myself, but take down my defenses and when it's over I look at the paper there is nothing holding back the truth. I like it that way. It keeps me aware of myself. It gives me hope. I think we often convince ourselves we want or don't want certain things simply to avoid frightening changes, failure or disappointment if they never come to pass. I like finding my true feelings on a physical piece of paper. It keeps me striving. It keeps me honest. I like that. I want all my songs to be honest. Honesty carries others when they need it. I want my songs to be anthems of hope; even if it's by revealing my own healing wounds in effort to show others they aren't alone. The broken helping the broken toward combined repair without bias or hidden motive. It amazes me how strong the weak can be when the weak join together...

Fight! Fight! She's dressed in white. Tonight's the night. Tonight's the night.
Buddy Holly...In a Cardigan

Sunday, October 2, 2011

The Start

I can't move. It's like there's something monstrous preventing any sense of forward motion. It's frightening. It occurred to me how strange it can be; perception, that is. A mere mental idea that can change the course of physical reality or a thought that turns weapons to weakness and boundaries to building blocks. It's funny how one can find strength in things that destroy or be destroyed by something powerless simply because of their perception. Like a rain cloud pouring umbrellas; do you fear at the fact that your normal defenses have turned against you or simply catch one that works and use it to deflect the remaining downpour? Often the slightest turn of events leave us too paralyzed in torment to realize the minute proportion of the situation and result in tragedy. It's strange how we perceive changes as takeover and allow the smallest of wounds to fester into something devouring. Negativity is a mildly venomous snake that bites your heel when you least expect it. You can either tend to the wound and cure the issue directly or let the toxins proceed. If ignored, numbness occurs and any sense of sensation or natural feeling is diminished, vision is impaired and your perception, judgement and clarity are redefined by the poison consuming you until finally, in time, you become so overwhelmed by what started so small that the once flawless you becomes lifeless and is left with crippling effects that can scar or destroy a lifetime. Healing comes in stages. Pain hurts. Casts are uncomfortable and mending bones are weak. Often to repair a broken bone doctors are required to re-break the injured area to ensure the strongest repair. If you deny this necessary brokenness, healing still occurs, but the results fall far short of where you were intended to and potentially could have been. If allowed, when the cast is removed, what was once injured and broken will have grown back stronger than it was originally. Emotions parallel the physical. Sorrow is merely delight in a repair, bravery is simply the shunning of fear and you're only as alone as the ones you surround yourself with. Perceive greatness.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Free Song Download

Hey blog readers and music lovers alike,
Now you can download my new song "the Waiting" from my upcoming album "Sing, Sweet Broken Hearted" 100% FREE until the album is released.
There are 2 ways to do it:

1: go to and click "download" next to the song "the Waiting"
2: go to, like the link and click the download link at the top of the page.

If you like the song, be sure to repost the links, tell ALL your friends and pick up the album once it's released.
The next release is going to be something  totally different so check back often for more FREE download opportunities, contests, album info, show dates and other cool stuff.
The record is well under way so I'll be sure to keep updates posted as they come!

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Beating a Dead Horse to Death 'Till it Dies

"A Cow Eating a T-Rex" - by Jordan Eastman
Has anybody seen the commercial with the girl wearing the corndog hat? I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. Corndogs aren't supposed to be hats; they're supposed to be corndogs...hmmm...
I wonder if Tom from MySpace has a Facebook account? I'm sure he does; how else would his friends keep up with his busy lifestyle? It's not like they're going to have MySpace to check his status updates. I'm watching the Denver Broncos and Raiders struggle through what some consider football. It's more a contest of who can earn the most penalties. Everyone's tied at seventy four thousand. Watching the Broncos fumble around is like watching a baby giraffe try to tightrope the Grand Canyon; it's so awkward and illogical, but for some reason, I want to see how the whole thing turns out. You know a game sucks when the biggest highlight is the cheerleaders dancing with trash-bag like raincoats over their uniforms to protect themselves from the rain. Amusing. That's just rude; like telling someone you're not wearing anything under your parka...

Thursday, September 8, 2011

God Left the A/C on and Froze out Tennessee

My mind's like a broken record player; skipping back, over and over again through the same thought for days. At least it's a good record. A few dark spots but it always makes me smile. Quiet, pretty little pieces with haunting lines that I find myself wishing I could re-compose. I've learned how it goes; it'll skip for awhile, playing the same few parts over and over until they finally fade out to the quiet hiss of beautiful white noise. Then there's nothing for awhile. But always, when it's least expected, the needle's replaced and the melody plays itself to me once more. We wrote this record together, you and me. I like to think we could have done it a little better...

//...down we can go, down like a stone through the waves of the sea//we can drown, you and me; in our sweet memories//drowning beautifully//oh, so beautifully...//

Monday, August 29, 2011


A phone call. I accept the offer and now question myself. Walking through the back halls, the lonely sound of my tambourin striking my guitar case echoes for miles with every step. I shouldn't be here. Looking out from the stage, I've stared for an hour now across a vast, empty room full of more chairs and tables than faces. I've played here before. I'll play here again tomorrow. Tomorrow they'll scream. But tonight; tonight's different. The few distant bodies across the room seem nearly as lifeless and apathetic as I. There might be a dozen patrons; all of which look near collapsing. It's smoky here. Few people are left but for some reason a tobacco lined heavy fog fills the room. I prod the hopeless crowd with as little expectancy as result. Nothing works. I laugh a little to myself and mutter faithlessly through a routine of whatever I desire. No one's listening. I'm fine with that. I'm exhausted; It's all slow songs from here, darlin'. I mutter thanks into a broken microphone and exit to an equally smoky downtown. I've had this lingering feeling of nothingness today. I want to be alone. I find a place I used to sleep. It's beautiful out here, beneath the pines. It's dark here. It's nowhere. I strum my guitar and play through the same few songs I'd played shortly before. Only this time they seem to matter more. Nothing matters here; that's what makes it flawless. Bats flutter from tree to tree while smoke from some ambiguous location fills the leaves. I can't seem to escape smoke tonight. I want a pipe right now. I feel restless. It's 12:15am and I want to stay here all night. Maybe I will. At some point I realize I'm hungry and leave the serenity for mouthfuls of MSG and emptiness. I'm killing myself. It's peaceful tonight. I'm apathetic to the world but at the same time everything is perfect. I collapse on my couch and pick a banjo until there's nothing left worth watching on a muted television. It's cold in here. I lay on the floor, finding patterns in the ceiling and wondering why I'm awake. Restlessness. A flash. Words pour like fountains across a notepad while fleeting melodies find their way to my guitar. I'm three songs deep now. I like nights like this. Empty soda cans rattle on the floor while I stomp the ground and mumble the words to my recently born creation. I found it. The TV flashes again. The Rangers won. I smile. Hamilton homered. I've been awake for days. It's beautiful here; being alive. I turn out the lights and noisily walk to my room. I won't sleep. It'll run through my head relentlessly and until I awake to everything I've dreamed I can't turn it off. I think awhile and laugh briefly at the vast array of suspenders hanging from my closet door. It's tomorrow now. It's been tomorrow. I wonder what joy awaits me...

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Anchors Aweigh, My Soul

"...the world would be perfect if it wasn't for nudists..."

Everything that chases me hasn't caught me. Everything I chase I haven't caught. Life's a twisted paradox, full of irony and unforeseen changes; a strange blend of emptiness and perfect fullness that leaves us with the choice of picking which we want to embrace more openly. Not that we're honest about it. We were all meant for the stage; some massive collection of thespian plastics faking our way through the role we're cast in life. It's an improv comedy show where the actors suck and you rarely get what you went there expecting. I guess that's the best kind of show in a way. I'm tired of watching people feel desperate and pretend otherwise. What good is life if we aren't meant for something? Perhaps it's born of relentless parental prodding but I can't help feel like I was meant for something more than the complacent life most seem satisfied with as their own. I don't want to talk about heroes across the dinner table when I could be the hero families are talking about. Who were those heroes when they were my age? No one. Little, "No-One-Gives-a-Crap-About-Dwight-David-Eisenhower" grew into something timeless, didn't he? Hopeless? Nonsense. Fight for something. It's not always comfortable but when was the last time someone built an empire from an easy chair. Empires are born of calloused hands and dreams are reached through warfare. It was made brilliantly clear in conversation the other night that the only difference between wanting something great and being great is doing it. Anyone can do anything; they just have to do it. More often than not, we get in the way of our own aspirations and blame everyone else for not handing us our destiny with milk, cookies and a bedtime story...

I finished recording last week. Although I was unable to lay down everything I planned to track, I'm considerably happy with what got done. Initially I intended this to be a chronicle of the last 18 months as a sort of final kiss goodbye through a lyrical journal entry of death and reconstruction. As I didn't have time to track the whole thing, the concept sort of got condensed and wrapped up as a horribly broken, three track finale explaining it all. It hit me. I cried. It's built up so I took down my walls and, dear Lord, it hit me. I'm extremely aware that it was a vocal catastrophe but I pray to God the emotion carried into it. From a live recording of "The First Time" to a painful memoir recounting my life followed by the cries of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" and concluding with a two minute declaration of strength, peace and restored confidence through the lines //I'm not broken any more my love/I guess I'm stronger than you thought I was/I'm not torn, I'm not crushed/I'm something beautiful...// I've never felt release the way I did. I'm almost scared to listen to it. I guess we'll see. My sister was amazing. She flew in from a summer in Holland and tracked vocals for two songs she'd never heard in her life one take each. I've never seen anyone hear a song for the first time, hum a few bars to herself, roll the track and belt it into a microphone with such confidence and precision. She's a beast to say the least and my ears had a vocal feast. "You'll Find Love"...I'm excited to hear her on it...and we anxiously await...AH!
Florida was beautiful. I saw the faces I'd been missing and caught up with the dearest of friends. They amaze me. I shouldn't have gone; I realized how much I still miss about being there.
  //One day soon, my old dear friends/we'll meet again, we'll meet again...//

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Oh! For Love

Boots: buy 1 get 2 free. Who's clever business strategy was it to sell boots buy 1 get 2 free? Sales are up but for some reason we're in the red. Speaking of red, I landed a pair of sweet red boots out of the deal. Nevertheless,  I still feel like somewhat of a boot pirate afloat on the high seas, seeking quality footwear and pillaging villages at every chance without concern for the local business' profit margins or commission rates. Seriously though, I walked out of a boot store with a pair of $200 red gun-slinger boots for free though...and when it comes down to it, that's all I really care about. I guess, technically, they're "Oxblood" but who's concerned with specifics. I have AIDS; well, not really, it's actually a minor cut on the end of my finger; same thing really though. See, specifics don't matter. Point made. I wrote a song the other night about an abandoned circus performer falling in love with an orphan who peddles knives by an estuary. They both watch each other for days; her from a tree she always climbs and he from his cart; but because of their previous hurt they're too scared to confront each other until one night he leaves a note stuck in her tree inviting her to a gypsy dance with him. As she doesn't have anything else beautiful to wear, she puts on her mother's wedding gown and rushes to the waterfront to meet him. To her dismay, when she arrives, she witnesses a crowd gathering as a group of men are pulling his body from the water. In tears, she rushes to his side and finds that the water gates had broken and he had drowned saving a group of children from the flooding waves. She feels heartbroken and is hugging his dripping body when she suddenly realizes that he had helped her find love and hope in a world where she had previously felt abandoned. As the townspeople see her crying over him in a wedding dress, they assume that she was his fiance and accept her as as one of their own. Finding a family in them, her faith in humanity is restored and she continues her search for love strengthened and renewed. It's kind of a strange gypsy tale of sorts but I'm pretty sure the world needs more of those...

                                                                      ...although I'm not really sure why...

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Dustbowl Troubadour and The Airborne Toxic Invasion

We grew up far too fast. I sewed red buttons onto my favorite black shirt this morning. I had to cut off the black ones you'd sewn on a year ago to replace them. Funny how that works. Circles, circles, circles. I played a show in a flowerbed. Somehow I ended up playing said horrible experience at a motorcycle expo-esque situation before a few hundred non-musical bikers who didn't really realize I was there. I'm amazed at how much dust one creates when stomping a tambourine atop a pile of mulch in a freshly fertilized oleander garden. By the time I left, my pants were covered in dirt, my face was black and I was coughing up dust and spitting out inhaled poison. It was flawless. I'm convinced that there is nothing better than performing outlaw folk atop a pile of dirt in the baking southern sunset for 300+ bearded men and lesbians who are completely unaware of your existence. Other than the fact that I'm probably asthmatic now and lost 10 years of my life due to the toxic invasion on my lungs, I'm pretty sure that's what heaven will be like...only with a bit more responsive crowd and fewer lesbians. This week has been eventful. Friday's show went well, other than the fact that they told me I was too loud then the band that played after me had a drummer and two 212 cabs blaring. That was stupid. On an amazing note, everything I've been working on in the last few months finally made sense to me today. Out of nowhere, I received an email this morning from someone I've never met informing me that my music gave her hope to stand through her current crumbling situations and forced her to build a new perspective of living. Unlike others who've perceived my songs of death and brokenness as being dark or cynical, she grasped the hope and positivity behind it all. "Life isn't permanent." she said, "hearing you talk of death as means to life and emptiness only as something able to be filled forced me to realize that no matter what life throws my way I'll be fine. You expressed such joy thorough sorrow and made dark situations seem laughable and trivial to the point that I realized that nothing in this life matters and this is just a rest stop on our way to somewhere far far better. Like you say, we'll all be eaten by worms anyway (or something like that lol)." All I really want to do is express sincerity, honesty and hope through my work and as everything I've put together the past year has been a monstrous journal entry interpreting my life from an autobiographical perspective, I've come to realize that the only way to be sincere is to truly experienced the things you're talking about. It came together for me. Sharity, whoever you are, thank you. Tonight's been a weird one. For some reason my mind keeps going all over the place. Maybe it's on vacation. I'm a mind tourist of sorts. I'm flying to Florida in a few weeks and want nothing more than to be there now. I'm kind of worried that I won't ever come back....

               ...I really like the red buttons on this shirt...

                                     ...and this time nobody else's opinion really matters...

Friday, July 15, 2011

Don't Cry For Me (When I'm Gone)

The following post is a legal documentation of true, slightly embellished, events. Any embellishments included are slight and all exaggerations are mild and unintentional. These are truths; and truths stand without compromise or change.

Dogs. Ferocious, rabid beasts with foaming mouths and dripping tongues. We'd climbed the walls in effort to inspect the giant clam hidden behind the boundary and take for our own the vast treasure that lay within. It was after midnight and our plans were nearly flawless; enter where the defense was weak, gain entrance to the shell and take whatever was inside leaving no trace of our existence. The walls were breeched and, as we ascended the steps into the mouth of the monstrous clam all seemed silent. Shining my light around the vastness, it became clear as to why the silence prevailed; the entire being was in shambles and seemed to lay in crumbling abandoned-ness. Hours passed. A shimmer. A soft humming sound. There it was; the very prize we'd been searching for. High upon the pallet of the clam lay the largest pearl eyes had ever seen. It was a clever location to conceal a treasure of such greatness; for who thinks to look for a pearl inside of a clam? For generations, men had ravaged the giant oyster population in search of Monte Pearle; always disregarding the clam - until now. Assuming a series of traps would trigger once the pearl was removed, I grabbed the 16 pound pearl, lay a 18 month old baby in its place and turned to exit the mouth of the clam. Unfortunately, when I'd ordered my infant from, I'd neglected to check the "paraplegic" box and the darn thing rolled off the mushroom where the pearl had been. No sooner had he moved, than the clams mouth began trembling and, with what seemed painful force, began to close upon us. Grabbing my companions hand, we raced for the ever-fading light. We escaped. Sliding out in the final moments before the clam was sealed forever. We watched, arm in arm, as it sunk beneath the dirt and a beautiful garden of pineapples grew in its place; concealing all evidence that it had ever been there at all. There we stood, encaged within four walls, oddly enough, in a pineapple garden. Then it happened. Dogs. Ferocious, rabid beasts with foaming mouths and dripping tongues running directly toward us. Judging by the fact that they were already dragging bloodied, severed limbs and had rabies, we assumed they weren't the adorable puppies one would find yipping playfully in a basket, beneath the tree on Christmas morning. We ran. She tried to jump the wall while I walked out the unlocked gate right next to her. Just as she got to the top of the fence, she flipped backwards and fell headlong back into the cage. She fell 18 feet until her skirt snagged and left her hanging upside down just inches from the ground. We laughed at the situation for awhile until we realized we were still being chased by ravenous wolves. I helped her down and we both walked out, safe and unharmed, only moments before the dogs would have pounced upon us. Ironically enough, on the way back to the truck, I realized I'd left the pearl behind when I went back in to help her down. We weren't really that worried about it. The whole thing was really about the experience and building friendships more than anything else, right? At least we both were safe. At least until she stepped in a hole and broke her leg completely off. I had to sew it back on with a safety pin and an unravelled hat my grandmother had crocheted for me (pronounced crow-shayed; not crotch-it-ed). Sorry, Grandma.  - The End

On another note, in the bathroom some classless scum graffitied numerous lines stating his disgust for the Jewish, black and Mexican races. Why don't people ever pen uplifting graffiti? When have you ever heard the following conversation:  Some guy: "Hey Jordan, why are you smiling so much today?" Me: "I just feel so edified and exhorted by the graffiti I read in the Taco Bell bathroom this morning. Did you know that the Mexican race is a hard working, well mannered group of intelligent individuals who are responsible for some of the worlds finest, affordable culinary delights?"  The answer: never.
I long for the day that I drive past a bridge and read,  "I am supportive of the Jewish people and their struggle for religious freedom and peaceful existence!" or "High 5 for Emancipation!" written across a bathroom stall. Honestly, the only people we should be degrading to are those who design the artwork that goes on bowling balls. Trust me, I'm always the first to write, "I hate bowling ball art designers" across the top of a Nashville, McDonalds...

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Jazz Hands

I hate to keep bringing up the awkward kid at Panera, but dear Lord, he is awkward. He always gives me free stuff, which is fine, it's just that he does it in the most uncomfortably gay way possible. It's never, "Hey man, you can grab a free pastry with your coke if you want." No no no. He phrases it like this, "Know what goes good with soda? I'll slip in a sweet pastry delight under the radar and let you find out. Yum yum yummy yummy..." *awkward smile* See, that's just weird. Speaking of weird, Caroline and I went to the Andy Warhol museum yesterday. I've never been a huge AW fan but, have to say, when put in perspective (and for the era) he was extremely influential and ahead of his time. Who thinks to associate a looping soundtrack of layered gunshots to a painting of Elvis with a handgun or create a series interactive record album covers? Clever stuff. Quite honestly, the best part of the whole thing was the kid's section. I did a forward/reverse/embossed painting of a goat in a trench-coat holding a gun. It's called "Forward/Reverse/Embossed Painting of a Goat in a Trench-Coat Holding a Gun". It was a good day, we Warholed, watched Spinal Tap and ended up playing the most amazing game ever created with Aubryn and the James Gang. What do you get when you cross a prosthetic limb factory with a recording studio...

Sunday, July 3, 2011

I Don't Want to Be Your Friend::I Just Want to Have a Conversation

I've done something horrible. With a single, Thor-like swing, I shattered the very essence of my being and tore my integrity to shreds by finally breaking down and getting an apartment. No longer am I a lonesome wanderer, treading the dusty roads, sleeping beneath bridges and amongst the graves while living off my toils and labor. Gone are the days of climbing atop trains and waking up to the smell of unshowered flesh and the sight of muskrat infested creeks. I've changed, nay, transformed from a homeless, nomadic troubadour to a civilized and en-homed, upstanding citizen. What's happening to me? What have I become? I need to figure this out. I've been playing so much lately that it's reached that thrilling point where people have started singing along or will tell me they really like the line "_____" from one song or another and quote it perfectly. It's good to know people are listening. They might listen too much; I was walking down broadway the other night and passed a street duo just as they were singing the lines //some say the devil wears a smile and pointed horns but I can see/that the devil is a woman and that woman's got ahold of me//. I sat there kind of shocked by the fact that they were playing my song but sang along awhile before the guy stopped suddenly and yelled, "Oh my god! This is the kid who wrote this song!" He then introduced me to his girlfriend and we talked for awhile. As it turns out he's seen me play several times and after he showed the song to his girlfriend they learned it and have been doing it together since he saw me play all the way back in May. That's cool, I guess. Other than the fact that the chords were wrong and some of the words were off. One thing's for sure, he definitely made me realize the importance of having things copyrighted. Glad I cover myself before playing out. I want to get out of this town. I think I want to get out of anywhere. I got my hair cut today by the first person in the world who understands how I want my haircut. That's why she's a barber...or barberette, rather. I don't think that's right. Regardless, the sailor language, touring discussions and killer music only added to the experience. The cops stopped me and made me take my bandanas off at the theatre last night. That was weird. That should be my next band name; the Band Anna...

Oh yeah, and I met Ben Folds in the bathroom and ended up eating turkey sandwiches at Panera with him. Not in the bathroom.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Who Cries Over Dead Spiders?

It's been a weird week. Nothing really seems to satisfy me and, like Jennifer Lopez after her hips go out, I'm not able to shake it. It's a bizarre state of despondency where everything feels mediocre and imperfect. Anthony Weiner. Quite possibly the best choice of name for one who sends lewd photos via numerous outlets. It's like a perverse play on the subconscious. Everyone hears it, then second guesses themselves, then confirms it, then laughs, then the cycle repeats. I don't want to touch on Weiner too long, but it's a stiff situation but I'm sure he'll pull through it with Clinton-esque form. I found this picture of myself by searching something to the effect of "Nashville Street Music" on Google the other day ------------->
It's a cool encapsulation of what I've been doing when I'm not on a stage or at work. I broke my tambourine in half that day. I've played 14 shows in the last 10 days and still stand out here whenever I get a chance. Friday I played three times; 2:30p, 6:30p, played on the street awhile then across town at 11p. I found a recording I did last june during a time when everything I'd built was in a painful state somewhere between cracked and shattered. It's like eight minutes long but there's something strangely beautiful about the whole thing. It's an emotional journal entry, begging things not to break and somehow set to music. I remember recording it. It was live in downtown Ybor City, FL, June 22nd, 2010. I'd dropped a Zoom H4N on the piano and completely made up the whole song on the spot. I'm so glad I caught it on tape. I was crying my eyes out and was terrified to try to play that night. You can hear every emotional strain in my voice and by the time I finished, the tension in the air was so thick you couldn't breathe. I finally let out this huge sigh of relief and everyone started clapping for what seemed an eternity. I've never had so many people hug me after a show as I did that night. I haven't been brave enough to listen to it until today. I'll email it to anyone who wants to hear it. Ironically enough, I found that recording on the same day that I wrote a song (on the same subject) called "Who Cries Over Dead Spiders?" touching on fact that the whole thing doesn't really matter. I like where I am right now. I've never been happier with my life, friends, family, music, opportunities, etc...((starts singing))...//my my my a man can't ignore the signs; depression will kill you just as much as dying. My my my a man can not deny that sometimes it's not even worth the crying...// 
I'm not playing for the first time in 10 days so am super excited to check out Nichole's show tonight then trying out my new tunes "Loneliest Tonight" and, the previously mentioned, "Dead Spiders" tomorrow. Gonna be a good time. They're considering inducting Johnny Cash into the hip-hop/rap hall of fame for his contribution to violent lyrics with Folsom Prison Blues' line, "I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die." I hope to God it happens. Nothing cooler than Johnny Cash touching all three music halls (Rock, Country and Hip-Hop/Rap). My truck smells like a civil war era plantation. It's a cotton-pickin' good, ol' fashion time in the modern age aluminum covered wagon...

Friday, June 17, 2011


I scream at inanimate objects. It's been over a week now, and my horn is still going off without warning. In fact, it's gotten worse. In the past few days I've honked at a man in a wheelchair, an old woman, several drive-through attendants and just about anything that's near me when I'm driving slowly. It seems to only happen when people are at their most vulnerable or directly in front of me. It's the most annoying situation that could possibly ever happen to anyone. My natural reaction is to yell at my steering wheel and tell it to shut up. It works. Therefore, the shouting will continue until it works as intended. At a redlight two days ago, it was just going to town with its delightful squeal, so I reached under the steering wheel and ripped out everything that could potentially be connected to it. My horn didn't go off, but my airbag definitely did. I'm pretty sure they switched the bag with a mule hoof at the factory because I'd personally rather be hit by a freaking bus than have that happen again. "He would have been fine but the airbag deployed and tore his head off..."

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Strange Assistance: A Gerbil's Worst Nightmare...

So the weirdest thing just happened. I was standing in an ungodly-ly long line to purchase a soda when, to my surprise, a gangly young employee walks up to a second register and waves me to the counter. He asks what I want, I tell him I want a soda, he violently slams a cup on the counter and then steps back with this silly, goofy looking girlish smile on his face. We kind of sat there awkwardly for awhile before he raised his eyebrows in a sort of "why are you still standing here and aren't you going to thank me for the free soda" kind of way that made me get a kind of sick, cramping feeling in my stomach. Up to this point, I still hadn't picked up on what was going on; then the following conversation made it all make sense: Him: "I gave it to you for free. Didn't you notice I didn't even log into the register? I just saw you in line and wanted to check you out so I called you over here." Me: (awkwardly) "Oh, okay. Thanks." Him: (unbelievably awkward smile) Me: "Um, well, thanks again" (walking away) Him: (excitedly) "I really like your belt!" Me: (stopping, running the previous conversation through my head and finally realizing that he meant 'check me out' in a literal sense not check me out in an assist me in my purchase kind of way) "Uh, thanks?" Him: "It's a rope. That's, like, so rocker." Me: "Yes. It is a rope" Him: "Who thinks to tie a rope like a belt? You are so creative sometimes." Me: "Um, okay. I'm gonna go get my soda now..." (I walk away while he follows me all the way down the counter with this dumb grin on his face. He yelled after me to let him know if I needed anything else but I just left. It kind of made me feel weird having him watch me every second...

Drowning in Darkness: A Gerbil's Worst Nightmare (Pt II)

Yesterday I was so frustrated by the fact that I'd felt like trash for five days that I forced everything soothing or vitamin c oriented into my broken, tattered body. From peach/honey tea to orange juice to lemon aid to lemon everything else to flat out lemons and triple action cough-drops and tuna. I can't really feel my teeth due to the high acid content but I feel a lot better today. I think I've got album art figured out. I'll post it on here once I get the final product out. The whole thing is kind of a really dark, Lucero meets Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash's broken-hearted-yet-smiling-and-hopeful-for-better-days-son kind of feel. It needs some work but I like it a lot. I wanted to approach things differently, so the whole record is a sort of portrait depicting the constant battle between sorry and happiness and parallels dark situations with hopeful resolution. It talks about heaven in a depressing way and sorrow like it's the best thing that ever happened to someone. I wanted people to feel conflicting emotion; emotions that don't typically walk hand in hand, when listening to the songs. I hope I did it right. It's extremely raw and stripped down so it's easy to fall into that awkward "nice try but you really missed it" category. We'll see. In 7 songs, it touches on love, abortion, orphans, divorce, getting shot, death, dirt, drowning, Woody Allen and heaven (not necessarily in that order). I have elven minutes to finish this post before my time runs out at this internet-stingy Panera. On a side note: rather than correcting the spelling error on the word eleven in the previous sentence, I'll just make up an excuse and say that I meant to type that. Elven minutes are slightly shorter than normal minutes, have pointed ears and run at a much quicker pace. I need to fly down to Florida and record a couple more tracks. I need to fix something. I really want to track this song I wrote last night. It goes like this...*starts humming the first verse*...