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...

Perfectly/Imperfect

"//...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...

...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...

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...

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...

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 way...life 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...

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...

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.

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.

Breakdown: 
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.

Breakdown: 
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.

Breakdown: 
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 going...you 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...

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 gone...it bothers me...

The Bravest of Lions, the Smartest of Scarecrows, and the Most Loving Tin-Man To Ever Drown a Healthy Man Begging for Mercy

I Keep Fighting to Keep From Drowning. Somebody Toss Me an Anvil...


Mistakes.
We've all made them. But watching the birth of a mistake that everyone knows will lead to one of those, "Sweet Lord, what have I done" moments fifteen years from now kind of makes me want to vomit. Not because the cute little mistake fetus is covered with error filled after birth, but because that sweet little catastrophe that passes off as adorable while it's screaming and peeing everywhere is going to grow up into a ball of hellish disaster mommy's going to have to face for the rest of her life. Nevertheless, dive in, old friend. In the end it'll only kill you.

//Let's talk about the weather//
I've been in Nashville for a grand total of 15 days now and have been directly hit by two (2 for those who can't read and only visit this blog for the pictures) tornados. The latest of which kicked through my tailgate with the vigor of satan himself. It amazes me that wind can blow hard enough to bend the hinges on two (II if you're a 15AD Roman and only read this blog for the classical Latin references) tailgate doors, toss them carelessly into the bed of my truck, move everything about and flood my (home?) in a matter of seconds. Everything I own got completely soaked. From clothing to guitars, I looked like I'd just finished playing a show on the bed of the Caspian Sea. Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy, you have no idea how good you had it landing in a magical faerie-land of singing midgets, witches and flying monkeys. I've been hit twice and am still stuck here in Nashville praying to some day win her Tin-Man heart...
On a dietary note,
as it stands (or sits), I'm currently at an empty Panera with the only other person in the restaurant sitting unbelievably, awkwardly close to me. Apparently I chose the only table in Panera Bread that doesn't inject a crippling, poisonous toxin into your legs when you sit down and my dinner guest enjoys the benefits of walking. I'm not sure how true that assumption is, but it has to be close to accurate considering my current seating predicament. Funny thing is, if he rolls his eyes the slightest bit to the right he'll be able to read this entire blog (quite easily, in fact) and know that I want him to leave...hopefully he can read...extremely well.

Sweet Nostalgia/Tennessee Rose

It's been an eventful week. A series of random happenings leave me wondering what the heck comes next? After heading out of Tampa around 8am, I began my journey to the hills of Tennessee. There's something strangely sobering about an extended drive alone that makes you realize there are still several things you want out of the place you left, and leave you wondering if you'll be able to replace them in the place you're going. I guess I'm just a coward. Anyway, after arriving in Nashville, I forced my tired way through a depressing show and decided to find some random place to sleep. It was about 60 degrees outside and, after (bathing?) in some apparently freezing river of Tennessee, I somehow wound up talking to a Jewish hotel owner who, after haggling with me for 15 minutes, ended up letting me get a room for $20. Since I didn't need a shower anymore, I went to bed and tried to figure out what on earth I was doing in God-forgotten Tennessee.
I awoke the next morning around 6:15 to some random dude waltzing into my room and, after a brief second of awkward glances, he calmly asked if I was checking out at eleven because he had just paid for the room and they had apparently double booked it. He then proceeded to say that, were I checking out, he would simply go get coffee or something for a while and return rather than bother the man at the counter who had given him such a good rate. "Okay." I replied, "there's nothing weird at all about that..."
Deciding I had better give the man his room, I departed and made my way to Madison to meet with a man about a horse (okay it was a job interview...just roll with it). Upon my arrival, I realized that it was actually only 6am and my clocks were still on Eastern Standard Time. Seeing that I had 10 hours before I was supposed to interview, I found an amazing cemetery, parked beneath some pine trees and slept for nine. Thanks to the nutritional supplement I received from some pancakes and the energy boost that came from re-arranging my house truck, the interview went well...although the weather looks gloomy.
Bored and hungry, I headed downtown to figure things out. There was this amazing group of typically cynical, hipster street performers playing outside of a boot store I ended up hanging out with (the hipsters, not the boot store). After throwing around music and so forth, we all ended up at this sweet, little, indie elitist's paradise to play an open show. I love how raspy my voice has been in the two days I've been up here. I want to put my voice in a jar and take it all around the world with me. I met a bunch of people and ended up hanging out with these girls from Illinois and Virginia, discussing time travel and the bizarre relational habits of a nearby couple. When it was all over, we had decided to start a storm chasing company and name our van Stormchaser Carl. The weather looks threatening.
The girls left for wherever and I drove around awhile and found an under construction golf course to park on. It was violently windy and, within 10 minutes, it started to rain. I sat in the back of my truck eating crackers and writing a song about hating things; all the while being amazed at how hard it was raining. 2:30am: I went to sleep. Around 4 am, I woke up to the sound of, what appeared to be, a freight train barreling toward my truck. Except it wasn't a freight train. It was already super windy, but out of nowhere, my entire truck (which was facing west) spun around and was blown about twenty feet from where I had originally parked. Now that I was facing the opposite direction I was previously, I looked out the only window my truck bed provides. Ironically enough, my phone rang with a weather warning to inform me that there was a severe tornado warning within 1 mile of my location. I believed it. Mainly because I could see it. There was a tornado right outside my truck that had just caused me to do a complete 180 and slide 20 feet across the green of the 16th hole. It was strangely loud and, despite the fact that it was dark out side, everything kind of looked greenish for an hour or two. I'm not really sure what happened after that because I went back to bed and thanked God for rain. 5:30am. Headlights. Redlights. 1 Light, 2 Light, Red Light, Blue Light. This one is a little cop, this one says this sleep must stop. Knock knock, knock knock. You're trespassing. Don't you see the sign that says Trespassers Will? That's short for Trespassers William. You have to leave. I was too exhausted to argue and too cold to even really worry the fact that a branch had knocked a huge dent into the side of my truck and was now laying on my hood. Ces la vie I guess. I talked to my dad awhile before crashing in a Wal-Mart parking lot for the next 4 hours. It hasn't stopped raining now for the last two days. For some reason I'm outside of Knoxville tonight. I was thinking a lot and guess I just kept driving after I left the city. It's raining too hard to really know exactly where I am. Judging by the fact that it's unusually cold and mountainous I'd have to say I'm somewhere in the mountains. It's pretty here though. I like the acoustics of playing guitar in a sardine can-esque truck topper in the rain. Something calmingly nostalgic about the whole situation. It's like my primitive roots are being quenched. Living in my aluminum covered wagon, searching for the last pale smile in the west...

The Truth Behind Lying

Love. You feel it? There's something strangely nostalgic about walking through a crowded shopping center and watching the love-struck, invincible duo, weeks away from implementing the knowledge gained from that book on nautical rope-works that your sea-faring grandfather left on your diner table years ago and tying the knot way later in the sentence than the punch-line should have been.  Like the 3 musketeers after that one guy died and the other guy who replaced him got electrocuted by an eel, they parade through the isle armed with I Want This Guns, blasting everything with their registry lasers, everyone with their smiles and every career dream with their hopes of getting married. Her shimmering dumbbell that some call a ring blinds all who pass as their smiles explode like hand grenades; forcing obnoxious amounts of happiness-shrapnel into everyone's faces. It's spring; and more than the rosy cheeks and escalating flowers prove such. In the spring of their love, romance blooms like tiny flowers pushing up through the dust, held together by the confidence that his arms will be the blanket that keeps her warm through the winter years...that and the blanket she just laser beamed with her buy me this cannon. Plants need fertilizer...so does love...so fertilize her...and fill the world with tiny little babies and other little human, baby-human things. Hope it works out for you, overly happy, cheezy-joke telling, hyper jock guy and smoking hot despite your incredibly unrealistic height but your perky smile and charming personality make up for it girl. I miss your joy. Treat her like a queen, good sir. Trust with all you have, pray to God she's honest and treat her like a queen regardless...forever...  

Honesty. Remember it? It's that age-old, ancient practice of telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; so help me God, I feel like this behavior is far from prevalent in our society. While we all smile at the nostalgic tales of chopping trees, *happy sigh* walking miles to deliver change, *proud grin* and the inability to tell a lie *uproarious clapping*, our daily actions leave these stories seeming more like mere works of fiction rather than depictions of true human behavior. In a way, I guess they are. After a rigorous counting exercise, I discovered there are a grand total of zero cherry trees at Mt Vernon. Meaning...either ol' George went to freaking town with his Paul Bunion-esque lumbering tendencies or the whole story is contrived around myth and is complete and utter BS; thus proving this entire work of literary genius correct. In truth, however, through experience and simple observation it appears that our principle goal in nearly everything is simply self furtherance and the fulfillment of whatever the underlying motive may be. Whether the ulterior goal is to further a career, learn the interior, molecular structure of the Atlantic Blue Whale or become the leading synthetic goat skin manufacturer in the greater south-eastern region, our motives motivate us to stay motivated for our true goal; us. What happened to selflessness? Who jumped sacrifice and left her bleeding and lifeless, floating face down in the estuary? Who shot decency through the heart and replaced his nobility with shameless self-promotion? It saddens me that, through an endless list of contacts, I have more clean shaven, middle eastern friends than I do those I would trust with even the lightest of situations. We've allowed ourselves to slip into a world where fear drives us and a lack of trust sustains us to the point that honesty and openness scare the living death out of our very being. Locked away in shells like clams, we hide from the truth behind our quarantine signs in attempt to protect ourselves from the world outside; all the while spreading the disease and and feeding the rampant outbreak by doing so. An epidemic of deceit. A widespread plague with a cure that we all possess.    

Fetus. Push. Despite our endless attempts to conceal it, we're all hiding from something. We all lie about something. Whether it be to ourselves or to the world, we all play pirate. We each bury our emotions on deserted islands, conceal them with X's and construct a means of recovering them we never will reveal. We sort out our fears with the parrot hanging over our shoulder as we wave our pointed hooks at those we fear and turn our blinded, eye-patched eye on the flaws of those we love. Don't believe me? Trust me...I'm lying too. Regardless, there's still trust in the world; just ask the swooning, moonstruck lovers and you'll find hope, dependency and purity in that single, unfaltering emotion we call love. There's still honesty; just don't ask any politician or televangelist. There's still self-sacrifice; just look at the endless bags of lifelessness delivered to the homes of mourning families while war rages on forever. For the rest of us, there's birth. We're so locked away in our routine insecurity and terrified of feeling things that we need to be reborn. Kick through that cozy little shell, break through the walls of conformity, hack off the umbilical chord and fetus plunge face first into the world that we're supposed to be living in and truly live. Rebirth trust. Rebirth honesty. Rebirth life.
Strength to change. define it...

Unicorns and The Way Things Die

Everyone wants to change the world. Some attempt to do so with money, others with power, fame or silly haircuts. In truth, many have gone so far as to trade vintage car parts with the Devil for a shot at winning Superbowl tickets in hope that they could then sell them to feed a starving kitten in Malaysia and, by doing so, provide a starving child with a slightly more filling meal than he would have had. However, I have not allowed myself to be swayed by fashion, tradition or the ever surrounding methods of charitable culture. While curing cancer, battling vikings and finding economical fuel sources are all worthy causes, I have pledged my time...nay...my life, to something far superior. For the last sixteen years, I have dedicated myself to the study of mythological creatures, sacred mammals and the way things die.

After years of endless study, at last I have discovered the reason Unicorns no longer roam the earth. I will admit that my research was hindered by the fact that my entire life I had been taught that their extinction occurred as the result of a tragic tuberculosis outbreak brought to their valley by the giant crabs who lived on the island across the sea. According to popular belief, when the crabs attacked Unicorn Valley, they cut off the horns of the alpha-males and harvested their tails to produce stronger jump-ropes. Without their unihorns, the Unicorn's immune systems shut down and they all caught tuberculosis. Being a member of the salmon family, this caused severe birth defects resulting in their children being born as elven trolls and leaving Unicorns alive no more. However, as so often happens, what once was accepted as fact has now been revised. History has rewritten itself and the world is enlightened by means of my shocking and violent discovery! The truth in Unicorn extinction lies, not in disease, but in their dreaded unihorn itself! As we all know, in 1411, Unicorn Valley was revered for their tall grass, flowing fields and tree-high barley fields. However, due to the famine and people disregarding the "Please Do Not Walk On The Barley" signs, the height of these once luscious fields began to decrease. As a result, their supplies diminished and whenever a unicorn would attempt to eat, his unihorn would stick into the ground making it impossible for them to eat grass shorter than 8". Once the tall growth was gone, all the Unicorns either died of starvation or were eaten alive by rabid wolves while they were stuck to the ground and unable to run.

After last night's interview, I've had a lot of people asking for the lyrics to the songs I played. Rather than responding to every email individually I'll post them here. As I've also had several requests to explain the movie references in Last Plane to Lisbon, a brief breakdown is posted below as well. Enjoy

*all songs are copyrighted 2008-2011 Jordan Eastman Music*

The Devil Wears a Smile

                               

I promised to love you and I did

I swore that I would give you, girl, everything I had to give                                       

And you gave your word that you'd always be mine

For always and forever right until the end of time...but how you lied

I swore that I’d honor and protect

I’d give you all my love and kindness, passion and respect

And you gave your word that you'd stand at my side

Through sickness and in health, riches and when I can’t provide

                   

Now you're gone and I’ve lost everything that I held close

They say the Devil wears a smile and pointed horns…but I can see…

That the Devil is a woman and that woman’s got a hold of me

On bended knee I begged you to be mine

You took my ring and said that you'd forever be my bride

But forever doesn’t mean always to one as cold as you

You walked away as quickly as you swore to say I do

…I see through you…

Still you burn, burn like a fire that erases each beautiful memory

Breaking hearts and stealing desires you consume 'till you've broken each part of me

Still I pray that the fire will have no desire to hold you too...the way I once held you

The Boxer

                         

You were an angel sent to the ground by the Lord in the skies up above

Wrapped in arms with a boxer whose beatings surround but you took the bruises in the name of your love

You were silent and graceful and faced every blow with a prayer- hoping he’d someday change things

You’d bandage your wounds after all you could bare

You took count of your scars with a true soldier’s pride as you cleaned off the blood in the mirror

When he’d finally collapse you would pray to someday be free

You’d say nothing on earth lasts forever - soon I’ll be released from this pain

You’d cling to your bible that lay by your bed saying someday this is all gonna change

You’d cover your scars as you walked through the streets

To the old wooden church where the choir would meet

Where you’d beg to learn to forgive the cause of your bleeding

You were clinging to the edge of a prayer - saying someday all this hurting will change 

He’s still the man he used to be - he’s just lost himself along the way

When he finds his way back home I'll bid my hurting and my sorrow goodbye

Black eyes couldn’t blind your faith and the bleeding couldn’t make hope die

You carried everything, with grace. You could withstand anything…

You were a lamb with the strength of a lion full of grace not a beating could tear

You stood while he broke you down and in response all you whispered were prayers

You thought of the days when you were young and you wondered what happened

When you fell in love with a man who swore that he never would leave

But those days now are gone and he constantly swears that he’s changing

But the bottle’s a gun and it slaughters the man of your dreams

Now nothing he says you believe anymore...
(chorus)

You carried everything with grace. You’d withstood everything. 

He came home one night to greet your goodbye and the vision of an old suitcase 

You’d carried everything but he couldn’t change

The phone rang hard in that hotel room saying Daddy’s driving all over town

His prizefighting days are over he claims that he’s never gonna ever let you down ever again

It’s over - you win - let’s wipe clear the past and start over again

Though your arms both were broken you had carried him high in your prayers

As you whispered goodbye I watched tears leave your eyes as you were freed from the burdens you’d felt

He fell to his knees watching you finally leave every beating and bruise that he'd dealt

He was the boxer, momma, but in the end you won the belt

Silhouette the Sky

                                  

Alone tonight beneath these devil painted skies

Once for love I was protected now for the same at dawn I’ll lose my life

I'm torn back to the memories that I hide

Soon to be erased by gallows where the hangman’s noose is tied

I close my eyes as my regrets play in black and white

Just like a film noir of my life - the devil sleeps with me tonight

As my door swings open wide so soon I’ll silhouette the sky 

Through a deafening sound like thunder above the crowd I can hear my mother cry

My chains sing an eerie chorus in the wind 

To the rhythm of a healthy, beating heart that’s soon to end

They’re singing: 

Step by step, beat by beat, soon this dust will be replaced with air beneath my feet

            

I can feel the sun’s embrace falling softly on my neck so soon to be replaced…

I feel a burn on my neck moments before my last breath

May God have mercy on my soul as I am ferried to death

The judges deafening cry to let this murderer die

I should have hung up my guns before I hung up my life

Last Plane to Lisbon

        

I’ve kissed you half a million times in the backseat of my dreams

And in my head you’re hand in hand with me

I must have watched a million times my scripted movie scenes

Where we fall in love and it winds up perfectly

But a girl don’t need a boy whose name is in lights

When there is someone else out there for her who can come home every night

A girl should never have to miss her man

So settle down with a loving boy and put a diamond on your hand

I wish that I was selfish enough to beg you please

 take my hand and destroy your life with me

But just like Bogey’s classic lines on Casablanca’s screen;

 I love you, girl, enough to let you leave

Still I die a bit inside when I think about your smile

 but I smile, baby, dying just for you

I wonder when you’re lonely do you think of me awhile

 if you’re wondering the same, well girl, I do - think of you

I can be your Woody Allen if you’ll be my sweet Diane 

We can kiss beneath Manhattan stars if you say that I’m your man

I’ll be the bravest lion, girl, if you’ll walk my yellow road

I hear there’s one more plane for Lisbon - let’s go

I’d love to beg you, Princess, to come and be my bride

But we’d collapse like Rhett and Scarlett running like Bonnie and Clyde

So I’ll drink the poison water so you think that I have died

And I won’t drag you through this wandering world of mine

I wish that I was selfish enough to beg you please

 take my hand and destroy your life with me

But just like Bogey’s classic lines on Casablanca’s screen;

 I love you, girl, enough to let you leave

So I dress you up in Tiffany’s in my streetcar of desire

Where you’re the Audrey Hepburn starlet in my mind

But when I awake I paint my face and end it all in fire;

Only to dream again that night that you were mine

There’s one more plane for Lisbon and you’re boarding it with him

Here’s one more last goodbye I guess this is how it ends

Here’s the last plane to Lisbon so I’ll fake a smile as you climb aboard with him

And kiss you softly in my mind  - here’s lookin’ at you kid…

Okay...

As a general rule, the entire song takes the final scene in Casablanca where Humphrey Bogart makes it possible for Ingrid Bergman to leave on the last plane to Lisbon, despite their being in love, as it's better for her and draws a parallel with a real life attraction that is hindered by career paths, circumstances, etc.

Verse II is full of movie references with similar or comparable themes:

'Bogey's classic lines on Casablanca's screen...' - the entire story of Casablanca is about loving someone and letting them go because it's best for them. Humphrey Bogart lets Ingrid Bergman leave with another despite his being in love with her.

Woody Allen and Diane Keaton/"kiss beneath Manhattan stars" -  Diane Keaton stared in several comedies with her costar/director/boyfriend Woody Allen including a dark/romantic comedy called Manhattan.

"Be the bravest lion if you walk my yellow road" - The cowardly lion, brainless scarecrow and heartless tin-man walk the yellow brick road with Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz

"One more plane for Lisbon..." - The plot of Casablanca revolves around attempting to catch the last plane to Lisbon

"Beg you, Princess, to come and be my bride" - play on the title of 1987 film The Princess Bride

"Rhett and Scarlett" - Tragic love affair from Gone with the Wind between Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'hara

"Bonnie and Clyde" - 1967 film staring Warren Beatty and Fay Dunaway based off the life and death of a 1930's era gang of outlaw lovers.

"Drink the poison water so you think that I have died..." Juliet drinks serum that makes her appear dead in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

"dress you up in Tiffany's" - Tiffany's is a jewelry store featured in the 1967 Audrey Hepburn film Breakfast at Tiffany's

"in my streetcar of desire" - A Streetcar Named Desire: 1951 Elia Kazan film staring Marlon Brando/Vivien Leigh based of Tennessee Williams play by the same name

"When I awake I paint my face and end it all in fire..." - in Jean-Luc Godard's 1967 film Pierrot Le Fou, Jean-Paul Belmondo's character (Pierrot) paints his face with blue paint prior to blowing himself up over the loss of his girlfriend.

"Here's one more last goodbye" - Line whispered by Bogart before bidding goodbye to Bergman in Casablanca's final scene

"Here's lookin' at you kid..." - line used throughout Bogart and Bergman's love affair in Casablanca

It's A Disaster!!!

I had another great interview/acoustic performance with Double D and Bones at 99.1FM WIKD this time in promotion of my own project rather than Hot Riot!. In case you missed it, you can check out the entire interview here: http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/13210449.

In case you don't want to watch/listen to the entire thing, here's a two hour interview in 18 seconds:

A series of horrible jokes, Derek grew a pedostache/long conversation where I mock said stache. DD: "If I shaved my mustache I'd look like you know who...NINE NINE NINE!" Me: "That was 1943, with inflation it'd be TEN TEN TEN!" more terrible jokes, played hot-potato with an open metal fan, discussions about my upcoming EP/Tour/real interview questions including stories about bums/nazis/plane wrecks, The Devil Wears a Smile live acoustic, cleverly timed divorce joke/discussions about jumping around on stage, The Boxer live acoustic, explanation of previously mentioned song, Last Plane to Lisbon/Silhouette the Sky. Talk about religion, shameless self promotion, a really long joke about spaghetti, end of the Disaster Show/start of next show, spaghetti joke continues through first few minutes of next show...

**WARNING: the following paragraph contains jewmor (Jew related humor), makes light of the holocaust and contains holocaust related, super catchy lyrics. If you are pregnant, have heart conditions or are offended by such debauchery, please skip to paragraph 23, section a7 **
       Shortly following the show, an impromptu jam session broke out in the lobby concluding with my improvised Holocaust tune "Put On Your Shoes and Hide Your Jews". In my opinion holocaust jokes are immoral Anne Frankly won't be tolerated. Needless to say, by the time it was finished, the entire room was singing along to the uber catchy chorus of, "...put on your shoes and hide your jews - in the wall. Pray to Yahweh they don't have hammers to break it down and make it fall. Put on your shoes and hide your jews - in the mattress; because the painful fact is - sad but true -they're after you - if you're a jew."

---> Paragraph 23 a7:
**WARNING: the following paragraph contains reLENTless witticisms (Lent related mockery), cult references and the use of the words festive, angry, and wednesday. If you have prosthetic limbs, are sensitive to light or are offended by such content, please stop reading my blog and go back to watching your 'Best of Glenn Beck' broadcast**
        Unaware of the fact that it was Ash Wednesday today, the following conversation took place just as I was walking out of the studio: (randomly attractive girl walks out of a student gathering with, what I believed to be, facepaint from said festive gathering.) Me: "Whoa! Somebody painted a cult symbol on your forehead!" (unbelievably angry look from said girl as she storms off) Derek: "Seriously Bro? It's Ash Wednesday and she's obviously Catholic." Me: "Oh, that is today, isn't it? Well that makes a bit more sense then. Before I just felt like I told a semi-offensive and awful joke, now I feel like an ill-informed jerk. That's discomforting."
And that's the story of how I became slightly embarrassed for the first time in my life...

Thanks for a great show guys! Can't wait to do it again!

Je t'aime

"Love is a viscous cycle of switchblade sons and poison girls fighting to die the slowest..."

Meat Hooking With Grandma

I'm laying on my back in the middle of the floor, searching for meaningful pictures in the seemingly ambiguous patterns scattered across the ceiling. I've been listening to Tom Gabel's solo project through the last crackling speaker left in my 1948 laptop. The acoustic version of Random Hearts is fantastic. This record sort of made Against Me!'s seemingly instant leap from gritty acoustic screaming to polished and professional melodic rock make a bit more sense. Good stuff. On an observational side note, band names with exclamation points look ridiculous when used in a possessive context (see above). I booked another radio interview/acoustic performance for next week, this time in support of my own musical endeavors rather than someone else's band. There's something more fulfilling doing it this way; even if the money isn't there. The dependancy on someone else to move a project forward is stupidly exhausting and often more frustrating than profitable. I don't know if it comes down to my simple hatred for the human race or if I just don't like someone else holding the keys to my destiny, but I'm pretty sure that I hate both the human race and anyone attempting to hold my preverbal destinal keys. I'm kind of excited about this whole live in my truck and tour the southeast situation that I've been planing. I want to be somewhere, and being back on the road might solidify that equivocal emotion. When it really comes down to it I know exactly where I want to be; I'll just never willingly admit that to myself as it seems to be the first thing I've ever perceived as impossible. I guess impossibilities are possible. Regardless, it doesn't change a thing.

It's my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary tomorrow...and there's your title explanation.

A Timeless Display of Gelatin Manslaughter (in 1945)

A 4:30am wake-up call means Spanky let me sleep in this morning.  There's nothing more enjoyable than getting up a half hour before going to bed and spending the day in a ditch full of stagnant, rancid water, blackened by the contents of a backed up, broken pipe. I love when shows get canceled and this is my rockstar replacement. However, out of the ashes rise beauty. These last 4 days of constructional glory paved the way to an absolutely timeless dream that God alone allowed to posses my thoughts during the angel induced sleep on the 3 hour drive home...It all began on the highway...*mental images go blurry and the sound of harps begin as we segway into the dream portion of the story*...there I was, riding shotgun in the truck just as I was in real life, when to the left of the road I saw, what appeared to be, a group of 19th century, bearded mariners. There were six or seven of them just standing there, holding umbrellas, large trunks and giant mugs of steaming hot tea. As we got closer, more of them began to appear; men, women and children, all dressed as ancient sailors; complete with beards, umbrellas and over-sized steins of tea. We turned the corner and my seat shot through the roof of the truck and sent me flying into the air; giving me a visual perspective of the surrounding area. While I took in the panoramic view, I noticed that these sea-faring creatures lined the road for hundreds of miles. Apparently I ran out of helium, because after a minute or so, I fell at a million miles per hour and landed back inside the truck. When I did so, a giant rocket shot from the muffler and propelled us through the street at what I'm sure was a highly illegal speed. The road started winding incredibly and hills appeared out of nowhere. Judging by the speedometer, we had cleared 900mph now and were getting faster. The people on the side of the road were simply a blurry mass of bearded fishermen and women until the radio came on and started playing I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers. Apparently the vehicle didn't like that song and stopped short instantly; sending me flying through the windshield. Rather than breaking through a sheet of glass as expected, it turns out that windshields are apparently made out of cauliflower (which is far less injury inducing than shattered glass) and I wasn't injured at all. I soared through the air for a moment or two before landing in an enormous field of gummybears; clutching a large piece of cauliflower about the size of a tennis racquet. I sat up and realized that the gummy bears were all alive and were rather upset by the fact that I had brought a vegetable into their sugary gummy patch. They told me I had to get rid of the cauliflower if I wanted to become "The Warrior" and, since I had no earthly clue what they meant by that, I convinced one of the bearded sailor women (turns out all of the mariners on the roadside were women. Go figure) to trade a harpoon for my cauliflower and I returned to the gummy patch. I made friends with this gummybear (who talked extremely fast and only spoke French) and he explained to me that the bears had been held captive by the beauty of a wonderful woman they had captured, but that because they were all in love with her, they needed someone immune to her beauty to kill her so they could go about tending the coal mines in the area without distraction. As it turns out, the gummybears were responsible for distributing coal to the local communities and since they spent all their time arguing over who was going to marry the girl, the people were starving to death because they had nothing to burn in their charcoal grills and were too afraid to eat raw steak. Despite the monstrous amount of capturing and community romance that seemed to be going on, I agreed to kill her. I picked up my harpoon and followed them to where they had her imprisoned. Finally, after walking for miles, we arrived at what appeared to be an enormous strawberry. As the fruit began to crack, the gummybears scattered like mice at a kitten factory and hid in the surrounding trees. The berry broke open with a flash of light and a good friend of mine (who, to avoid any kind of awkward conversation in the future, will remain nameless) stepped from the fruit shaped prison and began walking my way. As I've known her for a good while, I decided it best not to thrust my harpoon through her chest without discussing it with her first. However, before a word was said on the subject of my slaughtering her with a whaling spear, she smiled softly, wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me for what seemed an eternity. I was dumbfounded. Without a word, she took my hand and led me through a heavily wooded area and into an enormous car dealership. As we walked through the dealership, I looked over my shoulder to see the tiny eyes of the gummybear army peering through the trees of our recently departed forest. My beautiful friend told me that if I ever wanted to become their leader, I'd need a new truck. Somehow she talked the dealer into giving me a free truck with helicopter blades on top and we hit the road for God knows where. I guess some time between me freeing ______ from the strawberry prison and getting this awesome truck, a huge war had broken out between the gummybears and the sourpatch kids because by the time we got back to I-4 the two armies had lined up and were prepared to attack each other. They didn't have any weapons and, because they were all gummy creatures, they didn't really look that angry, but for some reason we knew that if they started fighting, the whole world was going to end. Looking into the passenger seat, my companion had somehow changed clothes into this amazing, Zelda looking outfit and had an enormous machine gun in her lap. Not too sure how I got there, but the next thing I remember is flying my truck into battle along side a monstrous army of, now sword/spear/giant fork wielding gummybears with _______ hanging out the window blowing the living crap out of the sourpatch kids with her beastly gun. I think it goes without saying, but for the sake of the story I'll throw in the fact that she looked amazing while doing so...no joke...anyway, we fought for hours until we eventually ended up in a 1940's era military airfield. Because our helicopter truck was on fire and had sourpatch limbs stuck to the undercarriage and hood, we jumped from the cab as the truck fell from the sky into a giant pile of gasoline-filled barrels laying next to an ammunition hanger. Needless to say there was a huge explosion, the whole place went up in flames and we (of course) wound up flying a B29 bomber flying over metropolitan Japan. As it turns out, it really was the 1940s. August 6th, 1945 to be exact and we were on the Enola Gay; the plane that dropped the "Little Boy" atomic bomb and utterly destroyed Hiroshima. There was a lot of noise and screaming that eventually led to my waking up to Spanky's profane cry of profane profanity at some foreign broad who cut him off in traffic...as I looked down at the half-empty bag of gummybears laying in my lap, all I could do was smile. : )

Blue Eyes Beneath Grey Skies

by Jordan and Jeremy Eastman

She stares toward the horizon a lot lately.  The sound of crashing waves she once found comforting, today leave her feeling helpless, vulnerable and afraid. Even the distant laughter of children playing in the sand serves as little consolation and echoes through her emptiness, heightening her awareness of her life threatening circumstances.  As the somber waves draw closer with the rising tide, she feels as if she will be swept to sea and drowned in their fatal embrace.  Slowly looking back toward the joyful children, she watches them smile as they construct tiny castles of sand and wishes she could hide beneath the security of their sandy fortress and escape the tragic reality that surrounds her.

          The sudden screech of a seagull in search of his next meal forces her to realize how powerless her traumatic accident has left her. She now finds fear in even the most common occurrences and even the birds she once chased boldly, now leave her trembling in terror and longing to run from them. Looking down to where her legs once were, she trembles. Despite the familiarity of her surroundings, her brokenness allows an increasingly familiar fear to consume her; every wave seems like a funeral, and every screaming bird strikes horror in her heart.

          Without warning, she is torn form the ground and thrown violently through the air. She lands in the treacherous waves, only to be pulled once more into the blindingly sunlit sky. As her body is consumed by the ravening birds, she hears the distant cries of her now-captivated youthful audience as they exclaim in excitement, “Mom! Mom! Did you see that seagull eat that crab?”

The Breast of Times/The Worst of Times

I'm pretty sure I just watched a trailer for the worst cinematic homicide since the television premiere of Roadhouse. I'm not sure what it is, but there's something about any film staring Nicholas Cage that makes me want to dress as an indian, swallow rat poison, slit my wrists, tie a plastic bag over my head and hang myself in a room full of burning dynamite above trap doors that drop me into a river of alligators causing the steel shoes I'm wearing to pull me beneath the waves so that if the poison doesn't kill me, I don't bleed to death from my self inflicted wounds, the asphyxiating bag doesn't suffocate me, my neck doesn't break, the dynamite is somehow extinguished and I don't drown in the violent river, the raging gators will eat me alive for appearing as an avid supporter of Florida State University. With the rapid influx of commercials, I've come to realize, and after sitting through an absolutely fantastic Superbowl XLV my realization has become a sort of solidified belief, that the primary marketing tactic employed by major corporations looking to sell ANY product whatsoever is, in fact, boobs. Honestly. (Follow along): Worried about your next root canal? Well here's a large breasted blonde in a soaking wet bikini to convince you that you should come to our dentist's office! Example II (that's 2, not eleven): Breast cancer is plaguing the world and millions of women's lives are in danger and have been dramatically altered by this horrific disease. However, as if my double J cup breasts don't obviously imply that I am not a victim of breast cancer, we'll do a strategic zoom out so you can see my entire, perfectly toned body in this ridiculously skimpy outfit that accentuates my curves like latex paint as I try to convince you to donate $1.00. In all honesty, the pitiful display of half-naked American salesmanship makes me wonder how far business will bend over to sell a product...then I saw a commercial staring some Olympic gymnasts doing back bends and thought to myself, "oh, that's how far they'll bend over." In all seriousness though, international marketing's perpetual run on sex appeal makes me wonder how absurd the televised commercials in third world countries where clothing is 100% optional would be if only they had television. Hey there hut-dwelling, fully naked, morbidly skeletal Aboriginals, want to trade your starving chickens and bone necklaces for a quality, hand made, partially used spear soaked in dingo blood?! If not, here's a fully clothed fat woman sitting inside a comfortable home to draw you from reality and convince you to buy (trade, haggle or barter) out of a sheer, unquenchable lust for the unobtainable rather than logic or necessity. In short, and what could have saved you the reading of this entire verbal slaughter I call a blog post, the fact that we see nothing wrong with perpetually complaining about the travesty we call an economy while a simple draw from reality dramatically increases a products ability to sell is sickening. Snap out of the illusion that a half naked woman holding an over sized head of broccoli means that you too like broccoli and help repair a lost society in a tragically wounded world. Thank you.