Free Song Download

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

1: go to www.reverbnation.com/jordaneastmanmusic and click "download" next to the song "the Waiting"
2: go to www.facebook.com/jordaneastmanmusic, like the link and click the download link at the top of the page.

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

Beating a Dead Horse to Death 'Till it Dies

"A Cow Eating a T-Rex" - by Jordan Eastman

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

God Left the A/C on and Froze out Tennessee

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

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

Apathy

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

Anchors Aweigh, My Soul

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

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

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

Oh! For Love

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

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

Dustbowl Troubadour and The Airborne Toxic Invasion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jazz Hands

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

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

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

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

This is The TItle

This Is The Post

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.