Monday, May 30, 2011

Sent From Hell to Rock Your World Like a Tattered Wagon Wheel

I keep wondering at what point one is no longer considered an orphan? Honestly, the thought of a 56 year old orphan seems kind of ridiculous to me. I'm going to say the cut-off is probably somewhere around thirty. With that as an opening statement, I had an utterly insane guy approach me on the street last night [and the following story is going to blow your mind like some kind of vicious thought hurricane]...Once upon a yesterday, a rugged man, riddled with age, walked up, sat down on the rustic guitar case he was carrying and listened intently to the slow sad lines I sang awhile. Sounds like the start of an amazing story that involves highway robbery, train jumping, outlaw love and epic death in a fiery rain of bullets after a years of having the police hot on our tails, doesn't it? Well, it's not. If that's the kind of stories you expect out of my life than you're obviously an over-expecting-no-friend-of-mine. If that's what you need to be content, Warren Beaty, did a great job with Bonny and Clyde; so go watch that. Hipster elitists. Anyway, back to my story...he'd sat calmly for awhile when, out of nowhere, he covered his ears and started screaming obscenities while telling me that my Fender sounded like trash and that he'd give me $1000 right then if I'd smash it on the street and play his Taylor. He opened his guitar case, which contained a loaf of bread, a bible and a bunch of random keys, bells and other jingly objects tied to a shoelace and attempted to hand me an invisible "Taylor" acoustic that he claimed was given to him by Tommy Lee in exchange for his writing fifteen songs for Motley Crue. He then proceeded to list off the names of the members in the band as proof that he really knew them. I was impressed and was preparing to smash my guitar but before I could say anything, he handed me a business card from FedEx with a woman's name on it, told me his name was Daniel and if I'd give him a dollar he'd show me his ID to prove that he wrote for Motley Crue. Apparently he didn't need the dollar because he whipped out a Wisconsin drivers license with some random Asian guy’s picture on it and some name that wasn't even Daniel. I guess he’d stolen it. I still hadn't really said anything and was attempting to ignore him when he shouted for me to stop playing and tried to hand me his non-existent guitar again. When I didn't accept his gracious offer (mainly because I physically couldn't), he became enraged and started ripping off the random articles of clothing he had draped over himself and throwing them all over Broadway. He had a pair of jeans over his shoulders like a cape that he sent flailing into the wall and a bunch of random strips of colorful cloth and neck ties he flung across the street. He tossed his guitar case a little ways or so down the sidewalk (sending its contents sliding across the ground), chased after it then sat in the, now empty, case a dozen feet or so away from me. I tried to ignore him and started playing again but he quickly made that impossible. Apparently the fact that his loaf of bread was scattered across the ground didn't matter as he began forcing three or four pieces of bread at a time into his mouth creating a sort of 'chubby bunny' effect. It was the weirdest thing I've ever seen. A group of tourists came by and he spat his bread out everywhere with an Old Faithful-esque spew, yelled in a sing-song voice that he loved bread and started offering them the regurgitated pieces saying it was the bread of life and a part of his body. Then the moment I'd expected arrived; far later than anticipated. He crawled up to me holding a bible and, other than the fact that he was crawling and dressed like a maniac, every ounce of insanity left his body as he calmly whispered, "I'm tired, homeless and hungry. Can you please give me a dollar to get a hamburger?" I told him I'd give him two dollars and pay for a taxi if he'd leave. He ripped out several pages from the bible, jotted a few scribbled notes in blue highlighter across them, studied them intently for awhile before, finally, saying it looked like a good deal and offering a deal sealing handshake in agreement. No sooner had I handed him his two bucks when he leapt to his feet and offered the first person who walked by the cash. He just walked right up to some random guy and handed him my $2. He started dancing and singing Wagon Wheel by Bob Dylan before running back to me and asking for more money. I was like, "No way, man. You're just going to go give it to somebody." He became furious again and told me that I was a liar and nobody in the music industry had ever heard of me, whipped out a pink plastic phone, shouted what he thought was my name into it and told the "producer from Warner Records" who was on the other end to look it up. He smiled kind of maliciously and said, "We'll see about your stories, man. He's looking you up right now and I'll get the truth." I was fine with that. It was a toy phone and he'd spelled a hilariously random name into it. Not to mention while he was "on the phone" he wasn't talking to me...and I liked that. He laid the phone at my feet, told me to keep playing for the producer because he could hear me fine and liked what he was hearing, then he took off running down the street. He came back a half hour or so later, told me that nobody at Universal, Warner or Sony had ever heard of Hot-Ray Walker (which I guess he assumed was my name?), called me a liar again, spat in my face and told me he was in a hurry so if I'd pick up his trash he'd send Jerry Only from the Misfits to meet me and would write a good review on his website about me. He then dumped out his guitar case, shook a bunch of candy wrappers that were apparently inside his gloves, handed the toy cell phone to some random Joe, jumped in a passing taxi and was never seen again...thus proving that there is a God in heaven...

...this guy sitting near me is wearing headphones and keeps giggling to himself...I have a feeling this whole post is going to reenact itself...

Sunday, May 29, 2011


"//...Oh, my mother I have tried to be your joy and pride; but failure comes naturally to me//"

I wrapped up recording last night. I guess, technically, it was 5:30 something this morning. Nothing really grabbed me until I recorded a one take track of a song I'd written only a few hours prior and it made everything else sound like an inferior waste of time. I write constantly, but every now and again there's one song that just comes out exactly as it needs to be and captures something other songs don't; that's what happened with The Waiting. It's raw, dark and somehow hauntingly beautiful. Maybe it's the weeping cello line. I couldn't be happier with the little sad song. Thank you Soundwire Records for making it possible. I'm floored by how well the whole album carries with only a tambourine, clapping and stomping as the sole means of percussion. You don't even really notice that there aren't any drums at all. Well, not until I point it out and ruin everything anyway. Now it'll sound weird. People always comment on "My Look" here in Nashville. I guess I look different. I just never realized how much I stood out until was the only guy in town who didn't look like an effeminate cowboy or a Taylor Swift baby doll. They always say I look like a rock n roll Johnny Cash. I can live with that. In fact, I'll take that baby and run with it like a kidnapping, sprinting fiend. I had a guy who takes pictures on the street in an Elvis suit for a living ask to take a picture with me...true fact. He actually gave me a dollar and told me if I couldn't make it with "my look" and sound than nobody could. I think he's my new best friend. Or at least the guy I'll call for a confidence booster. I always try to stick out whenever I play and I guess the fact that I've been playing out nearly every night means I end up standing out a lot more often than usual. Going backwards a bit, I've listened to the rough mix of The Waiting 837,000 times and can't get over it. I feel like a pompous, self-absorbed jerk listening to my own song that much. Speaking of arrogance, I get a small twisted sense of pleasure whenever cocky people get the runs or are deathly ill. It makes me want to ask them how it feels to be down here with the rest of us. I don't think anyone can be arrogant with diarrhea. Well, maybe Glenn Beck. It kind of happened on accident while playing on the street a few nights ago, but after breaking every D and G string (don't laugh), I ended up putting on whatever gauges I had left over to finish the night and ended up with my guitar strung in common tuning but with E/A/A/B/B/B strings. I'm not really sure why, but the uncommon tone I got out of it sounded so unique that I ended up restringing my guitar that way when I recorded last night. I'm pretty sure that satan is a cicada. One got in my housetruck last night and the end result was nearly suicide. They're hideous and hideously loud. I think the only thing that would be worse would be tiny dragon unicorns with poisonous horns who could break through windows and sting you in your sleep with their toxic poison that makes your flesh decay, limbs rot off and leaves you convinced that you're a pirate with laser vision named Davis. That might be worse. Or Muskrats. Muskrats are definitely worse. A flying Muskrat would make me cry...

Friday, May 27, 2011

...and the world came crashing down

How many gay guys can you force into a single room before the whole place goes up in flames? 37. 37 gay guys are how many you can force into a single room before the entire building explodes in a fiery burst of counter cultural destruction. Unless it's a brick building, has ceilings higher than 18 feet or was constructed prior to 1947. Then the numbers shift a bit. But that's another story. In fact, the San Francisco fire of 1906 was started by an over allowance of homosexuals at the 1906 Sausage and Bun festival. True fact. Speaking of gays, I think I ate a poisonous chicken yesterday. Three bites in I felt a strangely ill, after four I felt like I was on a boat in the stormy Atlantic and after seven I was seeing psychedelic images flash before my eyes in a hypnotic trance of dancing elephants amid whirling color in vivid hallucination. Thank you Wendy's for a perfectly sober acid trip. I'm laying down some tracks this week. Not sure what I think yet. I guess I'll know after the weekend's over. Yesterday was my 23rd birthday. I think I got off work around ten or so and ended up in some abandoned parking lot west of Nashville. I sang myself happy birthday, ate a month old cookie with a match as a candle forced into it and watched the rain beat against the window, drip through the ceiling and creep through the walls of the truck-bed I still call home. I just kind of sat there. I've been thinking a lot and haven't been able to shut myself off the last few nights. I think the hamster that generally runs on the wheel in my mind was replaced by a sprinting Olympic runner and his nocturnal Kenyan habits keep me awake. Sometimes being alone becomes so blatantly obvious that you can't help but acknowledge it. When I think about it, nothing yesterday really felt like a birthday at all. I guess I feel a lot older than I am. At least it was more eventful than the travesty we called the (most recent) rapture. On an interesting note, this semi in front of me had a chain dragging under his truck and hit a skunk. The skunk got caught on the chain and was being dragged down 65, filling the air with evidence of the skunkslaughtery that occurred. It was pretty much a nuclear holocaust. Babies died. I'd love to go to a psychic and have her predict my future. My life is so incredibly random and disoriented that she'd have migraines for months following. Why are there never male psychics? Guychics? That can't be right. That just looks like Guy-Chics. Maybe all transvestites are psychic. I wonder how many psychic transvestites you can fit into a building...
I wonder what Tim Curry's been up to lately? I came up with this arrangement for a cover of the Pixies "Where is My Mind" that I want to do. It's so dark and brooding. There's something beautiful about songs like that that's inexplainable. I had this pompous, God's gift to the music industry, moron try to 'explain' punk rock to me today. I looked at his flipflops, socks and polo-shirt then past my leather jacket to my tattered jeans and combat boots and just smiled. If he walked in the building I'm in right now, we'd hit quota and would all go down together...

Sunday, May 22, 2011

How To Swallow Poison With Only Mild Repercussions

05/20/2011; 3:00pm. It seemed a day like any other, the sun was shining, birds were singing, the world was scheduled to end at midnight and all was right in the universe...or so I thought. Earlier that morning, I'd walked into work carrying a sixty-four cent bottle of peach flavored water and, despite its lack of being Dr Pepper, I was rather pleased with it. However, my hopes and dreams of a healthier alternative were shattered in an instant when I was informed that my delightful substance contained aspartame and was slowly destroying my very soul with it's rat-poison substance. That said, keep rat poison in mind because I'm going to come back to that in a while. Anyway, due to their excellent price, I had purchased several of these toxic beverages and am now looked on in contempt by health enthusiasts and sugar purists across the globe. In the end, I disregarded the statements as I knew my time on Earth was rapidly ending and, therefore, survival tactics didn't matter. As I believe absolutely everything anyone tells me, rarely form my own opinions and am often swayed in myriad religious directions, I knew I would be face to face with God himself in mere hours and felt it necessary to go out cleansed, refreshed and purified in the most natural way. After locating an amazingly beautiful spring outside the city, I spent an hour or so swimming, cleansing my body, washing my hair, and photographing the unmatched serenity this haven encapsulated. It was an unparalleled display of aquatic religious liberation. After awhile I was torn from my sacred trance when a large snake slithered from the water and perched himself on a protruding rock. Knowing snakes are really satan reincarnate, I decided to take a picture of him to show Jesus the next morning. Not having a zoom feature on my phone, I had to creep through the water and stand with my feet on either side of the rock he was on and hold my phone, literally, 10 inches from the amphibious serpent. He must have been Amish and felt as if I'd captured his soul (thus shattering any hopes of his being raptured) because after that, he followed me through the water, and cut my swim short. Feeling a little squeamish after encountering the devil only hours before I was scheduled to die, I climbed out onto a fallen tree that was hanging over the water and began playing my guitar. Five minutes hadn't passed by when a turtle no larger than a quarter swam by and stopped directly under me. I laid my guitar on a log and lay on my stomach, hanging over the water, to take a picture of the turtle. Leaning only inches above the water, I felt something run across my leg and leap into the water directly on top of the turtle I was attempting to photograph. A monstrous splash struck my face and I nearly lost all control of my bowels. While I tried to regain my balance and get away from whatever it was flailing about in the water, I realized it was an enormous rat; about the size of a possum or a beaver. I watched in disgusted horror as he ripped the turtle's shell in half and ate him alive. This all happened in a matter of seconds and I was still trying to figure out how to get my guitar (which was about 10 feet away) and get off this log without being eaten alive by the ravenous beast below. Turtle consumed, the rat climbed from the water, onto my guitar and began trying to push beneath the strings to get inside the sound-hole. All I could think of was how badly I wished I had some rat-poison infused peach water to throw on him and end this repulsive attack. I was shuddering and freaking out. I broke off a branch and hurled it at him. He jumped back into the water, I reached for my guitar while he attempted to climb back onto the log directly between my legs. More in effort to get him away from me than anything, I gulf club swung my guitar right into his side and sent him flailing into the woods. I think I sat in my truck for an hour after that trying to figure out what exactly had just happened. It's been two days now and I still jump at everything and shudder every time I think about that soaking wet, giant rat. Now I know how Wesley felt in Princess Bride. Having only 7 hours left in my life, I headed down to Broadway to busk a few hours and make enough money to get a 'World is Ending' pizza. I'd played for two hours, stomped my tambourine in half, broke 5 strings and made $41.37 before it started raining heavily and my second good idea of the day got destroyed by nature. You'd think the last day of Earth's existence would be perfect. Nope. Luckily, there was an open mic at the Commodore that helped bring a sense of clarity to the day's seemingly random, catastrophic events. After Sarah talked me out from underneath the table where I was trembling and crying in shock from my rodent attack, I told her the story and described the rat in detail; it was huge, swam under water, ate a turtle and could fly, talk and vote Republican. Being the Canadian she is, she informed me it was probably a Muskrat. Google confirmed. Now I'm glad I didn't throw aspartame water on him, it probably would have just made him smell like peaches and not killed him at all. That would be a waste of $0.64 if you ask me. Shortly after, I faked my way through an emotionless set that I think was marred by the day's events. One good thing though was this ridiculous guy who played right before me. He was dressed like Hoss from Bonanza, stood around 6'8" and sang horrible songs about being chased by indians and not being able to talk to girls. It made me kind of depressed, thinking that he would be the last person I'd ever hear sing before I went to heaven. 11:49pm. I crawled into the back of my truck, ate three cans of tuna, some gummy bears and prepared for God's return. Didn't happen. That's why I'm writing this now; on the 22nd. Regardless, if the world had ended, I would have had an incredibly eventful last day alive. Oh well, we'll get 'em next time, Tiger. I just watched Bambi for the first time in years...beautiful...

Thursday, May 19, 2011

No Surrender/No Retreat

I've lived in a truckbed for nearly 6 weeks now and, honestly, can't think of anything I'd rather be doing. It's amazing how efficient one becomes when stripped of everything that most consider necessity. With systematic regularity, I've figured out how to shop, cope with weather conditions, stay hygienically acceptable, store food/clothing/guitars/amps/etc, sleep, cook, travel, practice and do virtually anything else quite comfortably in the confines of a 4x6 truckbed. It's bizarre. It's gotten to a point that I don't even think of it as abnormal anymore; although subconsciously I'm well aware of the fact that it's as abnormal as a paraplegic kick boxing champion. On the other hand, if it's really true that musicians in Nashville go from having their truck repossessed to making two million in the course of a week, I'm pretty sure my next home will be a 6500sqft beach-house on the coast of Florida. Regardless of housing status, I know where I want to be and I'm not dropping my fists until I've fought my way to the front and have everything I've worked my life for. No surrender, no retreat. I'm supposed to be playing every night next week and have a bucket full of new material I'm dying to play out with. I met this girl the other night who looks eerily similar to Audrey Hepburn; and not the adopted redhead version of Audrey Hepburn that's really Paris Hilton in a Breakfast at Tiffany's outfit. I got my movies back last night; all things are right in the world once again. It was really good do see my grandparents. I hadn't seen a familiar face in so long I'd nearly forgotten that people had recognizable faces at all...

Monday, May 16, 2011

Fascination and How Hot-Hands Saved My Life

Last night was a catastrophe of musical destruction. We broke everything. One song in, my cab started sparking blue flames and shocked the living grace out of my hands through my strings before cutting out. I got so mad that I threw my '69 jazz bass into the speaker and started screaming. Thanks, whoever you were, for bringing another cab/head on stage so I could at least finish the set. I think the remainder of the show consisted of sheer frustration, vented by breaking everything within reach; without concern for musical quality or professionalism. I don't do unprofessional; but you never would have known it had you been there last night. I was really distracted. High-5 for mediocrity. I went in the parking lot, crammed a pack of hot hands in my socks, taped a few to my chest and crawled into my frozen truck bed with every intention of passing out and sleeping my entire May 16th away. Sometimes I hope to forget that some things ever happened; other times I hope I never forget how good those times were. I woke up. It's not as easy to pretend you're fine when you don't seek out temporary replacements to serve as distractions from reality. I've kind of been distant all day. I don't really want to talk to anybody. It's grey and raining again. It's fitting, considering the date. I've felt like crying all morning. I wonder what Abigail's thinking today. I made the mistake of looking her up earlier and wound up in a Panera bathroom trying to pull myself back together. It's funny how life doesn't ever go as planned. I never would have believed it had you told me this is where I'd be a year ago. I don't think I'd want it any other shattered but I made a wicked kaleidoscope out of the pieces and nobody can take that from me. I may never be able to deny that a sense of brokenness is there, but life looks more beautiful than ever when looking through the pieces. It's all about perception. The coolest thing about mental kaleidoscopes is that colorblindness doesn't diminish their enjoyment. Walmart has a sign that says they now carry pipe tobacco and hookah supplies. Who would have guessed. I don't know why, but a guy just walked in the door with his hands in his pockets and all I could think about was how crazy it would be if he pulled out a gun and started shooting everyone in the room. I'm the oldest 22 year old in the world. I hope I always view things like a wide eyed child...

Friday, May 13, 2011

Famous Last Words (A Rap)

These days they say you can't get by on common talent alone
You've got to win public opinion without being a clone
It's all conceptual targeting, intellectual marketing
Face, clothing and body, hair shorten and darkening
Proper instruction through press and production
Introduction at functions discussing the common junctions 
While photos flash fast, past mistakes will CRASH! CRASH!
Into the next day's news agenda's front page
You feel the situation sliding, you were gliding, now you're fighting and deciding
While your staff is quickly writing lines your fears are all subsiding
This is it! This is your hit; that bit the kids will not forget
Lyrics recorded, careers restored and everything's in one accord
Until they find you lying, crying, why oh why they all are trying
But their heroine's done heroin and the shining star is dying
That was close to an overdose so you fake smiles but no one knows
That you know that they know that you know that your career is over
You say you want a second shot but your fans moved on and they forgot
that you once ruled the spot light, it's just not right but you say it's alright
You shave your head knowing fame comes running back to you the day you're dead
The pills are by your bed, drop 'em in, tilt back your head.
Like mommy said, "Sleep easy now." And in the morning you're all over town
On every tongue. The radio plays every song you've ever sung. You were so young.
But innocent? No. It was time to go but you couldn't move on and now you're gone
But still fighting to stick around, you pound rounds of sound
From underground released posthumously
Even in death you can't be free from all your fears and insecurities
You showed us all it takes more than talent to win in this talent show
You got what you wanted; we all know your name for 18 more seconds of fame 
You slipped away in the same way you'll slip our minds in a few days
Until years go by and they play your song on the radio
 it's sad, I know, but we'll all go;
"Oh yeah, I remember her. She's the one who lost control and gave her soul for rock n roll"
But some other foot stepped in to fill your shoes
 She fills the news like you used to, it's sad but true
You just couldn't move but we moved on and now you're gone
We've forgotten all about you...

Monday, May 9, 2011

Plastic Modern Art

I miss the big stages I used to play on. I play a lot here in Nashville, but there's something tiresome about being the loudest thing to happen every night. I'm not as pretty, but I do it well. Country music doesn't understand sincerity anymore. It's depressing. I'm never going to sing a song about a freaking tractor because a tractor doesn't mean anything to me. In reality, it doesn't mean anything to most people. But regardless, someone wrote a song about a tractor so everyone in Nashville wrote a song about one. I'll never understand how so many people shape themselves to fit a common mold and still have the guts to call themselves original. It's plastic. Like parts off an assembly line, mass produced and duplicated to perfection they flood the streets with similar fashion, style and sound. That's cute, but I've heard it a thousand times. The girls here really like elastic pants. It's funny though, every woman over 40 has Wynona Judd hair, gaudy jewelry and heavy makeup, 30-40 wear blue jeans, boots and baggy tops and everybody else looks like little Taylor Swift clones in tiny dresses, cowboy boots/hats, faux curly hair and that whole fake Shirley Temple, I'm pretending to be way younger than I really am so I'm more marketable facade going on. It's great. I keep writing these duets. I can't begin to express how badly I want to find some adorable little southern belle to play them with. They're the saddest songs I've ever written. I write a lot of sad songs lately. They just feel right. Gary would say depressing isn't marketable, but polished marketability depresses me, so it works both ways. I miss my Tampa friends. We get along in a way I can't with anybody else. It's real. It's 11:11...faithless. I miss that girl. I keep thinking about her. She's happy, I guess. That's good. I'd rather her be miserable so I could save her life. I guess that's just my selfish superhero side coming out. I've been quiet a lot lately. I want something to happen. I kind of just want to be anywhere but this dingy cafe.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Women & Their Attractiveness: A Want Ad

Women. As popular opinion suggests that women are more than the mere objects they were considered to be two hundred years ago, I will attempt to keep this post as objective as possible (what clever phrasing, eh? It's because I'm a man). There are many things that make women attractive. Hair, for example, an attractive woman should always have hair. A nice smile; another essential element to a woman's attractiveness. Personality, wit, monetary stability, kindheartedness, the list goes on and on. While the pages of things that lead to womanly attractiveness is extensive, there are myriad things that, regardless of beauty, personality, etc will shatter any sense of attraction all together. I have put together a list of things that will transform the most beautiful woman into an unlovable mess in an instant. Observe...

Example 1: Chewing. 
Chewing, an art that was once primitive and beastly, was taken by women and restructured into an elegant dance of tooth and food in attempt to accentuate their less aggressive nature and attract the opposite sex through these mannerisms. However, many women digress into past habits and destroy the attractiveness their fore-mothers fought so hard to construct. Follow along: It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, music is playing and a (seemingly) radiant young woman parades into the cafe I'm dining in. She is beautiful and, possessing the Y chromosome I do, I have every intention of pursuing a conversation with the woman. She gets her food, takes a seat across the room and dives into the most mal-practiced attempt at eating eyes have ever seen. Obviously attempting to dine in a manner that is sexually attractive, she refrains from the normal large bits men so frequently take. Well done. Also, rather than wanting to appear too hungry, she cuts small pieces of her sandwich and brings the pieces to her mouth individually with the proper utensils. Still doing well. However, it was when the food got to her mouth that everything went haywire. Rather than putting the, already too small for satisfaction, piece of sandwich into her mouth, she began to nibble at the morsel with rabbit like bites, crinkling her nose and chewing vigorously. After what seemed an eternity, she concluded bite number 1 and continued to do the same time and time again. Attractiveness Status: Shattered.

Hair Length: 10
Pretty Smile: 10
Great Personality: 10
Ability to Not Look Like an Idiot While Dining: -476

As you can tell, our Abilitytonotlookstupidwhileeatingodomiter rang off the hook with every bite.

Example 2: Rhythm
Rhythm is that thing that keeps our feet stomping, hands clapping and, if things go as planned, bodies swaying in unison, arm in arm, to the rhythm of two hearts beating as one. However, a lack of rhythm is not only unattractive, it is also a sin. A woman's ability to clap or sway is a direct representation of the state of her soul; a lack of rhythm displays a filthy, vile, non-redeemable soul. Example 2/Exhibit A: I'm playing a show. I've done it a million times before. An attractive waitress brings an equally attractive young woman to the table directly in front of the stage. As of now, the night couldn't be better. I play a slow song, we make eye contact and everything that should happen in that moment fell into place as it should. She's smiling and brushing her hair from her face as she screams through the checklist with flawless perfection! She eats flawlessly. We progress to the 'audience participation' portion of my set-list where the crowd is given the simple task of clapping along. As if clapping wasn't simple enough, I'm stomping on a tambourine to ensure a steady rhythm and avoid any confusion. It's at this point that the once steady train of love is derailed, bursts into flames and kills everyone aboard in a fiery mess of blood and scorched flesh. Despite my stomping and the entire room clapping, this blasphemous broad can't even scrounge up enough sense to smack her puny hands together with any sense of rhythm whatsoever. As our future love began collapsing before our eyes, she began looking around the room in a frantic state of panic and attempted to watch the hands of the other's clapping. Visual rhythm: clever backup...can she do it? Failure. Attractiveness Status: Crashed and Burned.

Hair Flipped From Face: 10
Smiled Coquettishly From Crowd: 10
Ability to Not Look Like an Idiot While Eating: 10
Has Some Mild Sense of Rhythm Whatsoever: - 12,286,317

We were going to grow up and have babies together. Now I don't even want to look at you...

Example 3: You Don't Have to Be Smart; Just Don't Be a Lying Catastrophe
While I would never personally marry an idiot, there are many men who hold this quality above all others and will wait until God's return to marry the stupidest person on earth. Stupid is fine. I can understand stupidity. However, if you're an idiot, claim it. Idiots survive by mastering three essentials and this alone sets them apart from all others: Beauty, Dining Ability and the Confidence to Look Amazing But Not Talk. Many times a paint can has more intelligence than a brunette; but the brunette looks a lot better in an evening dress while climbing out of Aston Martin. Hence, the brunette has the strong upper hand and men more frequently choose the idiot over the paint can. Those who are aware of their idiotic nature but can counteract that fault with stunning features and an amazing photogenic appearance. However, once an idiot denies that she is an idiot and attempts to cross the traitorous, uncharted waters and become the 'Full Package' she sets herself up for a disaster most can't overcome. Observe: I'm at an incredible black tie affair and some friends of mine and I are in the process of discussing politics and other opinions that can never be sorted out in a professional manner. A radiant blonde is standing nearby. She's dressed flawlessly and is handling her glass in a manner that only a true dining professional could manage. She takes a seat on my arm-rest and, as all idiots should do, doesn't say a word but simply observes and looks wonderful while making me look more attractive than I really am (but that's a topic for another time). All is going perfectly until the conversation took a turn toward the topic of euthanasia. It wasn't thirty seven seconds into the conversation when this, now-hideous, broad screeched with the cry of satan himself, "Youth in Asia! I love the youth in Asia! I heard that wave thing and it made me so sad. Somebody really should help them." ...and we all stared in amazement...
Attractiveness Status: Tsunamied, Flooded and Drowned.

Overall Beauty: 10
Ability to Make Me Look Better: 10
Ability to Sit on Chair Arms Without Falling: 10
Concern For Drowning Asians Between the Ages of 5-17: 1,000
Ability to Conceal The Idiot Within:  - 27,000,000

Oh, the stupid things we made you say for the rest of the night. Don't pretend you know things you have no idea about. If you are pretending to know something, be vague. Don't just keep going and going and going and going and may make someone's night but you'll never make a happy home.

While the list of Attractiveness Shatterers is as long as the list of things that make women attractive, we must all continue to swim through the vast sea of stupidity in search of the handful of women who have managed to overcome all odds and achieve perfection. By juggle the complex world of beauty, brains, personality and sheer amazingness, so many have arisen with strength, grace and elegance to complete the "Full Package" spoken of earlier. To you, good women of the world, my unparalleled respect and admiration is awarded. For the rest of us swim on, good sirs, swim on...

Monday, May 2, 2011

Some Kind of Dream...

I'm sitting upstairs in this depressing diner, looking at the flooding streets below. It rains a lot here. The Killers are playing softly in the background. I'm playing across the street in half an hour. It's a good venue, but for some reason I'm in no hurry to leave the flawless sense of nostalgia I find in this cafe. I've been flipping through pictures a lot today. They remind me of things I used to feel. You wouldn't know it to look at her now, but she used to be so beautiful...she still hits me every once in awhile....
I wrote this song last night about a bird trying to fly over a mountain but gets shot through the heart and falls through the branches and lands in a dark, unknown area. He's terrified, but as it turns out, he finds everything he was looking for at that place on the mountain and would have missed it all had his original plan not failed. I kind of feel like that sometimes. I've been shot before. I'm pretty sure I've killed a few people too. We all have. I tried to get a hotel for the second time in twenty days. I'm pathetic. I checked in but there were no lightbulbs in the room so I left. I like it better in my truck anyway. No one bothers me there. I'm too loud for sophistication. I keep having this weird dream about a beautiful girl singing on a dimly lit stage with me. The audience is captivated and our chemistry is amazing. Everybody's silent and listening intently. We sing a few songs and she starts crying and turns to leave but I stop her and ask her what's wrong. She smiles at me and whispers, 'we were wonderful, weren't we?'. I smile. Then the lights go out, everyone goes crazy with uproarious applause and when the lights come back on she's bothers me...