Who Cries Over Dead Spiders?

It's been a weird week. Nothing really seems to satisfy me and, like Jennifer Lopez after her hips go out, I'm not able to shake it. It's a bizarre state of despondency where everything feels mediocre and imperfect. Anthony Weiner. Quite possibly the best choice of name for one who sends lewd photos via numerous outlets. It's like a perverse play on the subconscious. Everyone hears it, then second guesses themselves, then confirms it, then laughs, then the cycle repeats. I don't want to touch on Weiner too long, but it's a stiff situation but I'm sure he'll pull through it with Clinton-esque form. I found this picture of myself by searching something to the effect of "Nashville Street Music" on Google the other day ------------->

It's a cool encapsulation of what I've been doing when I'm not on a stage or at work. I broke my tambourine in half that day. I've played 14 shows in the last 10 days and still stand out here whenever I get a chance. Friday I played three times; 2:30p, 6:30p, played on the street awhile then across town at 11p. I found a recording I did last june during a time when everything I'd built was in a painful state somewhere between cracked and shattered. It's like eight minutes long but there's something strangely beautiful about the whole thing. It's an emotional journal entry, begging things not to break and somehow set to music. I remember recording it. It was live in downtown Ybor City, FL, June 22nd, 2010. I'd dropped a Zoom H4N on the piano and completely made up the whole song on the spot. I'm so glad I caught it on tape. I was crying my eyes out and was terrified to try to play that night. You can hear every emotional strain in my voice and by the time I finished, the tension in the air was so thick you couldn't breathe. I finally let out this huge sigh of relief and everyone started clapping for what seemed an eternity. I've never had so many people hug me after a show as I did that night. I haven't been brave enough to listen to it until today. I'll email it to anyone who wants to hear it. Ironically enough, I found that recording on the same day that I wrote a song (on the same subject) called "Who Cries Over Dead Spiders?" touching on fact that the whole thing doesn't really matter. I like where I am right now. I've never been happier with my life, friends, family, music, opportunities, etc...((starts singing))...//my my my a man can't ignore the signs; depression will kill you just as much as dying. My my my a man can not deny that sometimes it's not even worth the crying...// 

I'm not playing for the first time in 10 days so am super excited to check out Nichole's show tonight then trying out my new tunes "Loneliest Tonight" and, the previously mentioned, "Dead Spiders" tomorrow. Gonna be a good time. They're considering inducting Johnny Cash into the hip-hop/rap hall of fame for his contribution to violent lyrics with Folsom Prison Blues' line, "I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die." I hope to God it happens. Nothing cooler than Johnny Cash touching all three music halls (Rock, Country and Hip-Hop/Rap). My truck smells like a civil war era plantation. It's a cotton-pickin' good, ol' fashion time in the modern age aluminum covered wagon...

OFF!!! WITH THEIR HEADS!!!

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

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

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

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

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

I Feel Sick to My Stomach...

I woke up at 5am with a pounding headache and a bizarre feeling in my chest. I think I might have eaten sand paper in my sleep because my throat is raw as sushi. I feel kind of dizzy. I don't really feel like writing this anymore. Something is wrong with my housetruck and my horn goes off randomly. It's absolutely hilarious because it not only scares everyone in the surrounding area, I also get to join in the terrification as I never know when it's going to occur. One time it stayed on for 2-3 minutes. People were flicking me off the whole time. I'd just wave back. I went to Joseph's birthday party the other night. It was a good time. There were fire dancers and we played music. I got hit on pretty bad three chicks who were arguing over who I should go home with. I ended up going home with the Walmart on Dikerson Pike and writing a song about it. It's weird to me how society views a male who is sexually active with numerous partners as successful and people seem strangely proud of him. However, when a girl does the same thing, she's considered a trashy whore. No wonder our society is in shambles. Why should it be considered normal for a guy to perpetually offer himself out there and leave the girls, unprotected, and on the defensive? If you don't give yourself away you're mocked as a pious prude and if you do you're a slut. I don't get it. Whatever happened to relationship? It's weird, I was at a movie the other night with two amazing girls and got a text from someone I've known for years. As soon as I saw the name I smiled and got excited. What the heck was that? I felt like an insecure middle-schooler passing a teenage crush in the hall and making eye contact for the first time. It was the weirdest thing. Turns out she only needed something and doesn't really care that I'm alive, but it made me think; what makes me more excited to hear from her than to be with two super cool, attractive broads in person? How did she get that magnetism? What causes emotion like that? Isn't emotion optional? Well, I guess the reaction, at least, is optional. It made me happy, though, knowing I still haven't shut myself off. I've worked hard this past year to ensure that I didn't become despondent and emotionally aloof after everything I went through. I'm glad I still have a sense of sensitivity. I guess it opened me up. I used to never let on how I felt about anything. Now I'm writing exaggerated stream of consciousness in a freaking blog that anybody and their mother can read. Most of it is through the roof, blatant sarcasm expressed in the exact opposite emotion I'm really feeling though; so I guess that keeps me safe and keeps people from really knowing me. There's still a wall there. I realized I have zero talent for throwing a frisbee yesterday. I'm pretty sure both Caroline and I lost half our body weight running after each other's godawful throws. One cool thing, though. While we were walking this bird kamikaze dived straight into the ground and killed himself (see picture). I just threw up the spaghetti we made last night. I guess I'm getting sick. My throat is killing me. I'm going to walk to Panera and get some hot tea and honey. I'll finish this over there [15 mins later] the CMA's start thursday here in Nashville and the amount of cowboy hats is unbearable. Broadway is blocked off and there are tour buses everywhere. This weekend is going to be amazing. I actually had an alert go off in my phone this morning telling me not to plan anything for this weekend because I can make so much money playing outside of the Bridgestone Arena that it would be stupid to not take advantage of it. I shouldn't have walked here. Now I have to walk all the way back to my truck. I didn't think this one through very well. I can't believe it's taken me over an hour and two locations to write this blog that really has no real significance whatsoever...

I'll See You In Nightcourt!

I've never considered myself a songwriter as much as I have a three minute storyteller playing guitar. It's not even so much a guitar; it's more of a curvaceous best friend who allows me to release emotion and moans and weeps when I run my hands across it. Kind of a friend with benefits. The only real difference, I guess, is it's easier to hum and sing along to my stories than those by Charles Dickens. Not to mention my rhyming schemes are a bit more well crafted. Chaucer, on the other hand, was a rhyming, timing (often crime-ing) son of nobody with places to go, buddy, who could put me to shame in this old, rhyming game with lines to sweep my heart away and rock my world and make me say, 'hey hey, there friend, hey hey I say, the lovely words you gruffly bray move me and blow me away and make me want to sing and play the way that you do every day." I'll never be Chaucer. In fact, I'll never be anyone else. If you don't like me or my music than don't hang out with me and don't sing along. I don't think music should be so much of a contest. Competing musically is like putting the losing half of two recently divorced couples in a room and making them argue over who's been hurt the most. It's an expression. Granted, some people express themselves in a way that seems more appealing than others. I don't want to hear an over dramatic whining broad, whereas others would appreciate her sentimental expression. Therefore, as with anything, some bands come along, 'express themselves' in a generally accessible way, and make everyone else seem less important. It's like breaking your arm, entering a room expecting sympathy but the first person you talk with gets a phone call mid conversation, finds out her husband and three children just died in an accident and all of a sudden your broken arm doesn't really matter anymore. You're arm is still broken, you're still relevant; she just draws a lot more attention than you because her situation is something more engrossing. I think that's where most people go wrong. They keep a metaphorical cast on their arm because that's how they've always drawn attention and never consider that by doing the same thing they've been producing the same minimal results since the beginning. I'm convinced that the only way to stand apart is to simply do the same thing in a bigger way than everyone else.  i.e. be the one who falls from a plane when everyone else fell from a swing-set; get hit by a train when they got rear-ended or step on a land-mine when they had a fire-cracker go off a bit too early. In any form of artistic expression there's not really a wrong way of doing things, I just don't want to ever become content with complacency and always be the guy with a broken arm in an amputee clinic. You can be good; but I want to be better. I've gotten really into the bands Cadillac Sky and Dead Man's Bones here lately. You should check 'em out. Good slow stuff. I've found my new favorite activity to do when I can't sleep at night is sit in on nightcourt. It's absolutely amazing the cases that roll through. This dude who looked like a bearded nine year old came in un-announced, walked up to the judge and asked about getting somebody out of jail who was supposed to have been picked up four hours prior. The judge told him that he'd punched a security guard after being released so they'd have to post $5000 bail or he couldn't be released. No sooner had Too-Young-To-Have-A-Beard walked out when this gnarley looking broad come running in, interrupted the current case and walked right up to the stand. She's pregnant and holding a 1-2 year old child and, as it's 2am and the judge is behind glass. This crazy hooker dame grabs the mic like she's Madonna or something and screams directly into it. Everybody in the whole place jumps. She screamed about how stupid it was that they wouldn't let her get her fiance (pronounced Fee-Yawn-Say) and that the only reason he hit a security guard was because he was upset that he couldn't see her. The judge was like, "Listen, A) you're in contempt of court and I can have you arrested, and B) I already told the guy who just came in here that you have to go across the street and post bail." Without hesitation she replies, "Yeah he's my friend. He's the guy I've been sleeping with while all this #$%@ with my fiance has been goin' down." He pretty much told her he didn't really care and she could get out or go to jail. That kind of stuff happens every night. I'm pretty sure that Caroline has officially earned genius status for the brilliant suggestion. Well worth it. Screw dinner and a movie, take your date to nightcourt; she'll see how crazy you could be and be happy to be with you. I had a guy purchase a $2600 keyboard from me with a stolen credit card yesterday. I would absolutely love to be sitting in nightcourt and have that dude roll in. People who wear sunglasses inside might as well have a sign permanently stapled to their forehead that says, "Hi, I'm a douche." There's this pompous looking fellow sitting at the table across from me in a Wal-Mart fedora and diamond earrings, working on his computer and looking over the top of his Oakley sunglasses. I legitimately want to get up and punch him. On the other hand, he might actually be cool because he has, what appear to be, three bowling pins protruding from his man purse (satchel). I assume he juggles? Now my mind's going crazy trying to force this guy into various, over-the-top scenarios. I enjoy watching people. If you look hard enough, you find the weirdest things in the most common situations...

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