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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 www.infantsforsacrificeorslavetrade.org, 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.