I Kan't Spell
Set Where I tell You to Set
Over your head feathers started to fall inside the elevator; pillow feathers. The white ones that we all wish would fall on us. The fluffy white ones that have no ground good enough to grace their pendulum-wafting downfall. The fluffy white ones would get caught in your hair and you would brush them out and giggle a little harder than a child would. You would giggle with a woman's passion and grab the sides of my face, slowly moving your fingers and hands to the back of my head to grab my hair. You would raise your right knee up around the back of my thigh and push me with all your weight as hard as you thought you could to the back of the elevator. You thought I had done this for you. I was nothing more than there.
You like to make love to music the same way I like to write to it. You would turn to me and say, "Put on track 4. No baby. Put it on repeat." I would role my eyes because I heard it as many times as I had entered you. You became a record with no b-side. You became a Hemingway novel where the old man never made it back from the sea. He died out there with the fish and consequently the story was never told. I would interlock my fingers into yours and push them over your head and kiss around the baseline of your neck. You would moan, but you would moan to the song, and I would be thinking about what paragraph could follow what I was trying to complete.
There was a child sledding down a hill in back of our house and you looked out at him. I was standing next to you and you grabbed my arm and put your head on my shoulder as if to tell me you were happy and needy at the same time. You leaned up on your tip toes and kissed my neck. I wanted to push you to the ground and run. Instead, I lifted up my right arm and ran my fingers through your thick brown hair. You sighed a little knowing that my gesture meant "No" just as much as your gesture meant, "Please".
And that was that. She had been reading Carl Gustav Jung (She got that far). She tried to convince me of the analytical value of poetry. She failed miserably in the morning. That bright sunny moment where I ate french toast with corn syrup. I'll wash my plate tomorrow. I would always want tomorrow no matter who was there or where they came from. She was wearing nothing but panties. Her small breasts were playing about. Maybe if she had a nice simple book she would have been more attractive to taste, to touch. Her breasts are plain. Her mind is reaching. She is simpler than her recanting. I told her to leave after she so kindly washed all the dishes.
Graham Greene Can Kiss My Ass
You ever read something that is so good that you hate it? You hate it because you didn't write it. You look at a band name and decide that you could have come up with that name if you were only in a band and had a reason to.
Well Doug gave me this damn Greene book called "The End of the Affair" and I read it in one and half days. I am now reading it again. I have been writing to see if I can write at all lately, and reading shit like this does two things; 1) it lets me know that I basically suck balls - 2) it gives me ideas about ways to put things. How do writers write? I can read music critics and blogs until my eyes fall out - but very few people can really write. And no matter how much ego boosting goes on between people's websites and their pety lives and poor expressions - it will never make anyone that much closer to writing for a living and for the adulation and admiration and applause of others. There will never be a round table discussion about Betsy Wetsy's blog posting on her boyfriend leaving her that is entitled, "I am SO over you!". And there will never be accolades thrown to Fratboy1984 for his post entitled "Clemson parties more than anyone! WOOOO!"
Anyway - thanks Doug, and fuck you Doug for bringing this to me. It's good. It's real good. It's upsetting. It's real upsetting.
Kay Bee Love
I wanted you like a child wants a toy.
A child, on a Thursday, after a haircut walks along the 2nd level of a mall in a small suburban town adjacent to a city and in the midst of his scratchy neck, he stops, twirls to his mother's breasts and nuzzles her stomach with his face. He points to a gleaming red and blue sign perpendicular to their present spot and squeals, "I want. I want. IIIIIIIII Waannnnnnt."
The mother looks down and asks, "What do you want baby?"
Sparkled and startled the child gazes back, "A toy!"
"Well what toy in particular?"
"Yes, baby. There must be a picture of something in your head that you want."
The child being young, maybe 5 or 6, has no real idea of want. He only knows demand of attention. He does not know "Want". He may want, but his idea of want is defined in his id of demand. He might as well be crying over changing the channel or someone spilling his grape juice. His desire for the toy is only a secondary release for his need to have attention from his mother.
After a few moments grinding his feet in the floor. He looks up like a drunk midget and blulrts:
"I want a rocket ship."
"A toy rocket ship?"
"Yeah - a toy rocket ship. One that flies and goes zoom zoom brrrooomm."
He makes circles with his hands and arms as he imitates what his new toy might do. His lips are pursed together making a vibrating sound to mimic what it might sound like.
They walk into the store. His idea of a rocket ship changes 50 times as he walks down the aisle. He wants little plastic soldiers, then light up games, then drawing books, then a big red bouncy ball and so on and so on.
The entire time the mother looks for a rocket ship. She finds one shoved in a corner with a dent in the plastic screen protecting the entrails from the fingers. She grabs it and looks back to the child. She is holding his hand as he is outstretched to the world. He grabs at everything. He lunges at all the baubles. He wants them all. His mother crouches down to her knees and hands him the rocket ship.
"I don't want this."
"You said you wanted a rocket ship."
"I want that and that and that. Not some stupid rocket ship. It doesn't even fly."
"Well, you can't have those other things. It's the rocket ship or nothing."
The child looks at his mother and rips his hand out of her loving embrace. He crosses his arms, bites his lower lip, stomps his foot, and appears inconsolable.
He picks up his face from the floor and utters loudly so other patrons are sure to know his disgust, "I hate you! I don't want the stupid rocket ship."
The mother puts the dented dusty rocket ship back and replies in a soothing voice, "Ok baby let's go. No toys for you today."
"Fine! I hate you."
Meanwhile the rocket ship and the boy cry. They cry the same tears in a place where plastic and skin are the same. Where everything desirable has a soul. They cry in pain because mothers aren't always around to influence decisions and correct our lives.
As I said earlier my new position is Time taxing. I have been trying to write as my ego is being stroked by friends. But I can't help but laugh at myself everytime I try to do it. Anyway - went to a concert on Tuesday - playing some tennis this evening - - umm - - that's about it I guess.
Thaumaturgy (THAW-muh-tuhr-jee), n.: The act or art of performing something wonderful; magic;
I waved my finger in front of you as if I were wishing for all the light in the universe to be in a jar that I could keep in my house. A "migration jar" I would call it. The matriculation of all living things would come to follow it. I would wave my hand in front of it again and give back to the world what was mine. I would be heralded. You would not believe.
There are certain moments that take you to a place far from you. There are scenes in your life that play out as if you were a lion ripping an antelope to pieces and the versa of trotting home with said carcass to deliver amongst the pride. Black to white. Brick to mortar. Satin to piss. You need the alternative. You have the switch. It is the flicker that makes the magic. It is the glint that brings the starburst. It is the alternative that allows you to leave.
"What ever happened to the idea of wanting to be great? When does it die in all of us?"
She looked back at me with food hanging half out of her mouth and her eyes wide as if I had just said that I had some terrible disease.
"When did you stop caring about being the most amazing person ever to live? When did you stop believing in the magic of the ability; the chance? When did you stop believing in the chance?"
"I don't know. I still believe in it I guess."
I got up and threw my chair to the floor causing a scene. Causing what I wanted right there and then. I was creating something.
"YOU GUESS!!! How dare you GUESS at such a notion? If you wanted to achieve greatness, true greatness, it would drive you. It would take you from food, sex, life, love everything you knew if you wanted to achieve it. If you wanted to live you would have nothing but anti-guesses. You would have all the certainty the world ever knew."
She calmly folded her arms as if she had the winning poker hand.
"What are you so certain about? Where is your greatness?"
I sat back down and tapped my finger loudly on the placemat of the dine-in pizza shop.
In the noise that comes from the air you can hear electricity. At least that's what I saw one time in a movie. In the ocean there are things in the deepest parts that we can't even imagine to exist. That's what I read one time in a magazine. The human brain only uses 10% of it's actual ability. That's what I gathered from a book as a child. My life beats on without the ability to define magic. My life beats on in search of that definition.
When we define a man in the end of our time, whatever species is to evolve from us, I hope magic is part of our definition.
1)The theory that the self is the only thing that can be known and verified.
2)The theory or view that the self is the only reality.
Dreams are made of falling ideas. You can't touch me when I sleep in blankness. I can only be with my own head. Sleep was a gift given to us by God in hopes that we might learn to be alone and find our spirit. Sleep was our passage to enlightenment.
"What do you dream about?" She said looking at me with brown curls falling over her eyes.
"Nothing. I never dream. What do you dream about?"
"Do you ever have nightmares or dreams that are agitations to your sleep."
I leaned over and said softly, as if to give her secret information
"I do dream. And the only dreams I have are nightmares."
"Are they scary?"
"No, they are nightmares because when I wake up they aren't true."
We took a taxi into the city to see the buildings. All I saw were people yelling, "Fuck you" at the world. I saw people higher than these building. People were squawking at each other. They were acting like monkeys with no respect for the forest. There was so much evolution taken back by the city. Crammed in people lead crammed in lives. Their condensed spirits fall out of them when they die like muddy clay falls onto hot concrete. Plop!
From my office I can see the city breathe. It's streets like a chest going up and down and the buildings like arms and fingers touching everything. The analogy of city to man can go on and on. I never thought to make the analogy of man to man. Live within your own body and ignore the other's around you and you will hate everything by the time you die.
I held your face in my hand as if I was trying to hold the most delicate thing ever created or formed by earth. I thought at any moment, with any quick touch, any false faith in my fingers, you would crumble or blow away. I took in the lines as if a Da vinci painting were in front of me. You dare not touch in fear that you may crack, smudge, or taint the oils so perfectly assembled. You can only admire. You cannot use. You can love from a far but to engage or make a purchase at such a thing is to trick your soul into denying all that nature has shown you in the name of beauty.
"Why are you leaving?" she said with a shy, heightened and hurt voice.
"I can't do this to you."
"I can't let you believe that I'm real. I can't let you think that this exists. I will never exist the way you dream me."
"You already do."
"You don't understand your dreams."
Random Thoughts of Women
There are those moments when the sea chases you down in Ohio. You look around slowly. You grab your knees and extend your torso so as to feel your body reach for its peak feeling. You twist in the sun as if you wanted to wear a shirt of burning helium. The sea has found you. You cannot escape it.
We walked along barefoot in the grass. Not the initial intention but our shoes seemed to have no meaning in this field. By the chain linked fence they laid. Your shoes were on top of mine and slightly angled down as if dipping it's neck into a pond that was forming in my sole. You wore bluchers that were blue with white rubber bottoms. Your feet were bare, and as I looked awkward removing my socks you simply jutted ahead, eager to feel dew between your toes. You were eager to show me you were a child around me. You were anxious to let me know that freedom and my presence were synonymous and tangled up together.
I watched the sun come down through the pines. The pines always seem to want to die. They never get the chance to be anything but green in the winter. But, in the summer, when the rain stays away, and the locusts come to feast, or the gnats become overwhelming, they turn brown. They turn brown from the heat. The sun came through the dying needles and you had to shield your eyes.
In the morning on August 6th you opened the paper. I had known you for 7 months. You brought me coffee.
"I don't drink coffee," I said to you.
"No need to be sorry. I've never seen you drink coffee either."
"I usually don't but it's Sunday and I thought you might like some on this lazy morning."
"I don't want it."
Somehow, a leap was attempted. There you were flying through the air with your hands grabbing for wind. You were hoping you had the light bone structure of a wren and the wingspan of an eagle. But, you fell like a rock into cold waters below. You fell and never recovered. You simply ceased to be anything but something I didn't want to know.
We ate dinner once, and you grabbed a crouton with your fingers. You flipped your head back and popped the bread into your mouth as if you were eating shrimp on the coast of St. Croix. I picked up my fork and wiped it with my napkin as you sipped water and attempted to not look like a whore that was wearing too much make-up. I never forgave you for that moment. I never cared after that.
A Permanent Fixture
It is official. I am now a staple of the Baltimore area. I am looking out my new office with a view of the east side instead of the south side. In case you had not heard, I have been moved from my previous position, placed into a secular crazy role and told that I will not be required to travel any more. I liked the travel. But, to be honest, I think I may like the routine of everyday life - especially given the summer months coming up and the good times to follow.
Well - anyway - the draw back to the job is that - well - it is much more time allotted - i.e. If I go to the bathroom - somewhere along the way I have to allot for that - 12:21 - 12:24 smoked cigarette kind of thing - customers pay out the ass for our services - so some of them are finicky about what we say we do with our time - this means that my IM and blog time will be cut significantly.
Have a great Monday -
He looked at us and said...
I want those words to be spoken at my funeral. Those kinds of words that should always meant to be said while someone was alive. Those kinds of words that I say to you when you sleep far away from me. Those kinds of words that I wish fall on your ears even though you are gone from my life.
I want to be choked by someone else's honesty in the face of my own misery.
Swing the pendulum one-way or the other, but choke me. Cut off my ability to react in anything but a slump or smile. Let me feel the way I make you look.
I am numb these days to all but doubt and expectations of pain. I am numb to anything that may be rewarding because the obstacles in my way, though not present to the reward, are quite real, and quite cumbersome.
I want to bleed out my life onto the street. I want it to mean something. I don't want it to look like merely something you throw a jacket over to keep your shoes from getting dirty. There are moment when that blood comes so close to coming out of me that I have to walk away from everyone. I have to walk away and not care about anything that anyone is trying to grab, steal, or beg from me. I become extremely alone and mean. I enjoy it.
I want to feel cold hands on my elbows walking me towards the corner alley to stick its greasy tongue in my mouth and drag long bony claws on my stomach. I want to feel sick at the world again. I want to feel excited about the world again. As it stands now I am only feeling optimism towards the past and trying to look to the future beyond any obstacle and any person holding ice cubes where there should be cup cakes.
I don't want to take it out anyone. I don't want anyone in this room with me. I don't want to look at anyone when I'm like this. I want to go get drunk. I want to go fall down. I want to put on sad songs and smoke cigarettes, blowing smoke out of my window and watching the people below. This is what drives me to become better again. Being alone is the best medicine I can give myself. I am not an idler. I am not that lazy. When I am alone I work. When I work I feel better. When I feel better I hope to speak to you again with a lighter heart and the ringing of a eulogy in my ear.
Do I want you to leave?
Just In Case Your Had Doubts
If you want to really fall in love with Oasis and want to go see a show or buy an album - what you have to do is watch an interview - - just watch it - -
And my world is complete
I have received the number one listing on Google for this - - -
"double dickle on the rocks"
Striped Shirts and The Fucks That Wear Them
Dan Hughes of Federal Hill Fame legend and soon to be married - forwarded me on this link because he has probably heard my diatribe on Striped Shirts and the fucks that wear them.
Oh I hate striped shirts. It's always 5 guys in a circle that go out wearing them. Or it's some fucknut schmuck who's girlfriend bought it for him and now he is forced to proclaim to the world that "Yes, I love Ben Sherman." or even worse, "My Girlfriend is 22 and she thinks Banana Republic has nice shit."
Does this shirt help to define your evening? Is it like seeing a fellow silver back in the wild, sniffing the Aqua Gio you both share, and running towards each other to hug in a striped shirt club embrace that involves swashing hair gel products, Diesel jeans button clashing, and shaved forearms and chests that have ingrown hairs on them. Does this shirt do that to young men out on the town?
How can they possibly look around during the evening and say, "Man I look like an intelligable, viable, original, thinking male in my shirt that everyone else hear owns."?
How do they keep from clawling out there own brains? What stops their fingernails from plucking out their own eyes in defiance of this sick ritualistic cage of clothes that have been rapped around their necks telling them that it was ok to look like all the other dumb fucks out there?
And the worst one's are - oh the worst one's are the one's who go above and beyond - the extra 50$ guys I call them. Ben Sherman 110$ BR 60$ but man when you start really getting into the labels and spending 500$ bones on a shirt that's when I get firey. Because while I appreciate the effort - I still don't see the nuances in your larger collared, shinier buttoned, more streamed lined shirt. Why don't I see it? BECAUSE IT STILL LOOKS LIKE EVERYONE ELSE'S FUCKING SHIRT YOU FUCK NOSE!.
You see - this fad of striped shirts will become as funny as hyper color one day. And once again I'll be able to look back and be glad I stuck to my guns. I'll be able to look back at this ridiculous wall paper you sad men wear and realize that; I got more pussy with clever t-shirts and a strange little paper boy hat then you did wearing your "I can't believe they let me breed wearing this fucking shirt" shirt.
Anyway- That Phat Free site is dope. Thanks Dan!
Crazy People Shirts
Be prepared to be creepedtafied - this is just ludicrous and was brought to me by our good friends at Preshrunk - the coolest t-shirts I dont want you to buy because I want to be the only one to own them.
I'm sure ..thious would have more enlightening things to say about these creations of ridiculousness - all I can provide is slight levity - enjoy.
We'll start off with the lovely pop culture symbol Teenage mutant Ninja Turtles being taken over by the Jesus minions. Rename them from devout painters to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
"Just say "no" to your brain". or "We hate Jews" - they should have that one on there.
Fighter of Communism and the richest man in the world without a job. The Pope - man - that's just awesomely odd that anyone still cares about the Pope.
This one is kind of cute. But - are there really this many people that live in the Midwest talking about "killin all the darkies" and "Saddam Hussein should die" and "Bin Ladan - that SoB"? - I mean - are we that frightening a nation outside of the urban areas? More importantly, are we that frightening to them?
Holy Fuck! And I mean that in full pun mode.
Woohoo! Because all the dumb bastards will be in heaven (you have to say that with a North Carolina twang for it to be funny). Oh man - I hate religion oh so much.
Pwwhwhhwhwhfhfhhfhaaa - that was the sound of me spitting my drink all over my laptop as I try to envision these people living their lives.
"That dang rainbow is ours you fag." - again say it with a Georgian accent this time.
I had no idea these things were in city hall or what the hell this even means.
More "Fuck Yeah" For You!!!
New White Stripes Single - it's loud - it's different and it's - man it's different but it will be pouring out of every bar in about 3 months - bring on the summer baby!!!
In a bonus - Let there be love - by Oasis is the second song off that mp3 play list - check it out.
Double super bonus - it also has Jackson Browne - Something Fine at the bottom - listen to that and just try to hold the smiles in.
Guess where I'll be Friday!!!
New World Border
In addition to getting my alternate (well more or less acurate) news from Tim - I have decided to clue you in on another Baltimorian living guy person being...yep - that has a site - it's John Fabromufastedaiuzm - I can't remember his last name but it's long and it starts with an F - I think it Fabrizio but I kind of like to make it long and weird - makes me feel better - anyway - he has a kick ass site called New World Border - you can find it in the upper right hand corner, or for you meat heads and my normal reading constituants, you can keep trying to find this post like you try to find Junior Varsity Meat Market - over and over and over again - I think you'll like what he writes. I hope to see him around the city more often - it's tough to find new solid people to encourage any kind of social change - but John seems like one of those people - I trust I will see him around more often -
Recap and Such
I know I know it's Wed. but - I've been away doing things and well - you know - watching TBS for a couple days. Anyway - weekend stuff for you to chew on - in no particular order BTW -
"You can't shut me down! I've hit 13 times in a row!"
"I'm sorry but roulette has been shut down for the evening."
"I'll play you 100 dollars a throw in rock-scissors-paper."
That's it I guess - I worked most of the weekend at Slider's - it was fun and all - but at the same time it was painful as all get out -
I'm going to discuss two things - actually 3 - the first is that the people who read this, for the most part, are people I know or whom I have come to talk to via the 1's and 0's medium. Many of them are aware that I will tell you anything about myself from my weird voyeur fantasy to breaking down and crying about my Dad. So I don't hide much. That said - - -
Peeing yourself is one of those awful things that happen to you when you are little. You really don't know how it happens. It just does. It's not your fault. You just pee. Your Mom makes you go to the bathroom before you go to bed and hopes that works, but it doesn't. It's as though there is a pee monster in your closet. he looks a Sesame Street character and he is carrying a large suction device that will drag out urine and spew it on your Dukes of Hazard sheets like he was spreading dressing on a salad. I wasn't a bed pee boy but I had my occasional lapses with the old fire hose. The last time I peed the bed was when I was living with my ex-girlfriend. We had a dog - and that dog used to sleep in the room with us after we got done having sex. It was a big dog but a snuggler. And she was also a pee pot. So one night I had a dream I was in front of urinal whizzing away - and needless to say I peed the bed. My girlfriend woke up and immediately said, "Bret. Oh My God! Did you pee the bed?" Me being of quick mind and body, leapt from the bed acting horrified, and blamed it on the dog. The girlfriend believed me and I was home free. One night we went out with some friends, and as noted above, I'm not real ashamed of anything, I told the story, and her face opened like a cracked coconut and she admitted to knowing that it was me all along. She just didn't want to say anything.
Last night I peed myself. Not a lot as in I wet the bed. But more as in a pre-zip up last drip kind of pee yourself. Again, I was dreaming that I was peeing at a urinal. Luckily, I woke up by the time the first drop exited my wang piece. I caught the whiz before it could ruin my evening and make me question my bladder control at 25. Anyway - thought you might like to know - - - I showered at 4 a.m. BTW - sorry Mike.
I wish I smoked pot sometimes I do. I really wish I could curl up with an ounce of pot and watch cartoons all day. Because damnit, 10pm to 1am every night blows my nards off my body and then they roll around on the ground doing the Mexican hat dance.
I'll have to admit that I'm a little late to the party on the "Adult Swim" front - but for the most part - it hasn't really smoked the masses - wait til "Get Your Was On" and "Boondocks" come to the lineup in the fall.
I find edgy cartoons like Aqua Teen Hunger Force and Robot Chicken to be fucking amazing and not bound by normal TV criteria. There is no soul to look in with these mediums. The cartoon medium can depict sick twisted cut throat humor without trying to pull off reality. A satirist or artist can use inanimate (well animated but you get my point) objects as a device for their message without compromising themselves. Most of the stuff is silly, yeah. But, there are somethings that will make you wish you were 19 again and you could sit in someone's basement or in a dorm and suck down reefer and eat fried foods and watch Cartoon Network all night long.
Some random Get Your War On for laughter:
And the winner is....
Last night, as I do every Wednesday during baseball season, I went to Sean Bolan's right next to our house, for 1/2 priced burgers, and usually, the first 5 or 6 innings of the Oriole game and a couple Red Breasts and Guiness. Upon walking in, I was without phone, and hence was without my usuall burger sucking down partner, Fest (Mike).
So I'm sitting there chatting with the bartenders and talking shop about the Orioles to the usually misinformed, baseball illiterate, sissy namby pamby men, who eat their food there. And the bartender says,"Hey, we are giving away a keg of Becks to the winner of trivia tonight."
I reply, "Really? I may have to make some calls to play this retarded thing."
So I go home and get Mike, and I call Erin, and Mike brings Charbizz (or Charlotte, whatever you would like to call her.) They get there 30 minutes before 10. I have been fending off our empty chairs from future soccer moms and middle aged dads for hours.
"Can we use this chair."
"I'm sorry some people are coming."
1 hour later.
"Can we use this chair?"
"No, I'm afraid they are taken."
1 hour later
"Can we use this chair?"
"Negative." with a scowl...
The game is ending and the food tab is paid and the chairs have been procured and everyone is present. The best part about trivia is the team name. I don't play a lot of trivia but I have to say that the team name is just as vital to your enjoyment as winning. I have played with some pro trivia guys. As a matter of fact Doug's crew of pop culture freakish information junkies has to be one of the most intimidating group of trivia people ever. But the names, oh the names, they can be anything from a continuing saga of trying to fit the word "Jerk" into your team name to "Furburgler".
Team name example: "We don't believe in the constitution or any of it's principles "Jerk"." is a team name. Or - "The East Jerkstars."
Now while those names may not seem very awesome, and they aren't, the fact that they fit it in every week makes them regulars and gets them laughs.
So I am torn between self-promotion with "Junior Varsity Meat Market" or a slew of other possibilities. I had "Sammy's Syringe", "Ponson's Pussy Pounders", "We're from the streets bitch.", "I hate babies but I love cocaine", "Heroin is for pussys" - the list went on and on - in the past I have had such names as, "Sometimes you gotta race.", "Cosby Sweater", "Yut", "I have a 4 inch cock". Anything that gets you laughs is well worth the embarrassment or social awkwardness. I finally decided on "Lee Mazilli's Bastard Children" as the name.
They handed out little red tickets and said that they have changed the rules from "the winner gets the keg" to "the winner of the raffle gets the keg" Now this is a 200 dollar keg. This is a sweet keg of Becks. So I turn to Mike and say,
"Work the magic baby"
"Oh, oh, ohhhh, it's over."
"Sweet dude. You going to ask Adam?"
"Ohhh yeah Ohhhh yeah"
He waddles over. Throws a little fairy dust in the tenders ear and things look fine from my viewpoint.
I don't know how he does it, because honestly, when I try shit like that I come out all smarmy and needy. When Mike asks for that crap, people just give it to him. The fix is now in. We play trivia.
I ran the Caddy Shack category but fell apart on Sports and Drummers. I was ashamed.
The raffle comes. The bartender has the tickets in a peanut bucket and is mixing them around. When we gave him the tickets we put our names on the back. I wrote "Bret Holmes" on the back of my team's tickets. He is still swishing around his hand in the bucket and I think to myself, "Nah this looks almost legit. We didn't rig it." Then he pulls out his clenched fist and reads the "name" off the back and says, "Michael Jenkins". The bar gives a moderate round of applause. The bartenders give us a wink. We give them a 50 dollar tip. We now have a $200 keg of imported German beer in our house. You are all invited to come share in yet another 1414 festivities filled weekend....next weekend. Because this weekend, we have the Yankee series, Sliders, poker, and maybe even a little trip to AC.
Enjoy your day. Love Bret.
No Way I Make It That Long
Well I am being ushered back down to DC today to do work that wasn't completed before. I guess it's ok but there are some things I wanted to do in the office today, mainly, get my "art of knowledge" blog back up and swimming. I guess that will have to wait a couple more days.
In other news - - - -
On-Sale: Saturday, April 16th @ 10 am local (EST)
Tickets at: At all DC/Metro Ticketmaster outlets, as well as at Merriweather Post Pavilion and The 9:30 Club, Phone charge- 800-551-7328 Online at www.ticketmaster.com
In other other news - - - -
The album will be released on June 6 in the UK and June 7 Stateside. The first single, "Blue Orchid", will be released one week earlier. While some tour dates have already been announced, Jack White has told the LA Times that he and Meg plan to play "events" rather than traditional concerts in initial support of the album. He went on to say, "First we're going to play where we are not well known. Then if we have time, we will play New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Frankly, we are waiting for technology to advance in the United States before we attempt to perform this record live there."
This, of course, comes from the man who records his albums on old analog equipment.
One Year and It's Time To Upgrade
I watched the new CEO of our company speak today and realized how mediocre and complacent I have become with my job. I pass the buck. I blame things on other people. I have no desire to accept any more responsibility than I am otherwise expected to except.
Anyway - I am going to start writing in my other blog at nights in order to get back into my industry like a man instead of like a gerbil on a fucking wheel. The company that has taken ours over had a good message for me today. Either grow or leave. It was made very simple. The great thing is that they are growing in the industry that I am interested in and are using technology that I understand. There are some things that have to change about my approach to my job. If I want to play with the big boys, I'm going to have to start acting like one.
Actually This is Goodness
Ok - so if you clicked on that link below - you have endured enough horribleness for the rest of the week. Congratulation you have just seen the most awful thing ever made by any one person ever.
So as a sign of good faith I offer up - with much hesitation - one of my favorite new bands that I have failed to really share with anyone - yet most people are starting to know who they are and will eventually get their genitalia blown to bits by listening to them -
Their name is LCD Soundsystem - they have free mp3 snippets on their site - I recommend it highly - especially the soon to be bar favorite - "Daft Punk is Playing at My House" - don't worry you'll be hearing it soon - and you can say "I knew it when" - even?
After Long Last
I have searched high and low to find the greatest rock video of all time. It used to be The Darkness 'I believe in a thing called love'. But, that video has been eclipsed by not only a beautiful wonderful inspiration and deep song about the love for our country - but the video encapsulates what I think we all strive to live our lives by. I hope to one day make something that is in the same artistic realm as the beautiful piece of art.
Please click here to support our troops.
Did I just get quoted by a teacher at University? Scroll down and look for artofknowlege.blogspot.com
Like a Lighter in Front of a Grenade
After the bars clicked off the lights I walked home. I walked down the puddled street and rubbed my shoulder in unison with my foot coming down, against the wall next to me. I was talking to myself and having fake conversations with people I wished were next to me. I came to a stoplight.
Blink, clink, blink, clink
I could hear it turning on and off. The world was deafeningly silent. I could hear my heartbeat and the rain drops gathering in the sidewalk reservoirs below. I could almost feel the earth move and that I had to walk it like a lumber jack walking a log in the river.
Blink, clink, blink, clink
I shook my head and moved onward. I was now past West st. and coming to Ostend. I looked up and without seeing I could hear.
Blink, clink, blink, clink
This time the blinks and clinks were louder.
I looked in both directions and saw the front of the library to my left and all the way down 5 blocks on my right. I saw, what looked to be, a witch in long ravaged tattered clothes running with her arms up about 3 blocks away. She was running towards me. She was running at me. She was running for me.
She was screaming, but not with her mouth. Her body was making some noise. The deafening of the world was in full force to my senses. I cradled my head in my hands and turned my torso 90 degrees to block out her coming hiss and pangs. That pang was like a child banging a wash bin all day with a crab mallet. That hiss was like a spiked tire popped by a rusty nail. I turned my held head back without moving my chest.
She was gone.
Blink, clink, blink, clink
Blink, clink, blink, clink
I crossed the street. I ran all the way home making the loudest sounds my body could make without using my mouth.
Top of the Stairs
"What the hell is at the top of the stairs?" I wondered out loud as I clicked and clacked up each marble step. I had caught a glimpse of my hairline and retinas in the mirror on the wall next to the cresting ascending staircase. I had no wish to walk into this room and see a man I had never known.
A letter came 4 days ago. I had no idea who the name on the envelope belonged to but it was personally penned and stamped so I opened it and inside I found a white card with the name "Buster Donald" embossed in raised type face. There was no title. There was only the name and on the back it read, "172 Avondale Drive. I have something for you."
I took a few more steps to reach the top. A maid in a standard French outfit came over and asked to take my coat. She handed me a piece of paper. On it was written this:
His wife saw his trouble and one day told him to take a bath. He was in the tub trying to relax when he moved his body and saw the water rise. He leaped from the bath and ran down the streets soaking wet and screaming, "Density! Density! Density!" He barged into the Emperor's chamber and explained how to test the validity of Gold.
I smiled a little and folded the paper up neatly and placed it into my pockets. The fit was tight, as I had not worn the suit in a long time, and had since put on some inches to my waist.
I was standing in front of two double doors and I knocked. I heard no answer. I knocked again and still there was no answer. I opened the right door slightly while slightly tapping on it and saying, "Hello, Mr. Donald?" There was no answer. I saw that the curtains were all pulled wide open and judging by the sun it was about 2:30.
As I entered the center of the room I saw a silhouette dart across a silk screen placed in the North West corner. I wielded myself and saw another silhouette, too fast to make out any distinguishing features, blow passed my back and I could feel a slight breeze. I whirled around and around again and continued to see strange shadows. I walked over to a desk that had papers blowing around from the commotion. Under a paperweight of Icarus I saw a note that read, "Freedom is in you."
As I turned around, I saw a naked little man with a faltering bathrobe skip, and land into a run. I slightly jogged to the thrown open double doors and only saw little wet footprints tracing his escape down the stairs and out the front door.
I heard cries of "Eureka! Eureka!" as he ran out into the world.
I Was Wrong, You Were Right
I saw a bright red ball bouncing down the street towards me. It wasn't the kind of ball that looked wayward or off center in it's purpose. It was obvious that this ball was coming to me; from something; for me. I bent down to receive it in cupped hands the way a vagabond would drink out of a puddle. The ball stopped. It stopped 3 feet in front of me. It was too far for a hop. It was too far for a reach. It was too far for a grab. And so the ball stared at me and I stared back.
What do you want ball?
Ok? Who sent you?
I'm talking to a ball.
Jesus I'm talking to myself.
I turned around and started walking. I heard a little voice that came from far away. It was a distant yell that sounded, from where I was standing, like a muffled cry.
"Pick it up!"
I turned again and saw that the ball had traveled the 3 steps I had walked in order to stay 3 feet from me. I leaned down and duck waddled to the ball. It did not roll back. It looked like a flaming cherry. It seemed like a scolding piece of charcoal that had no intention of being received by me. It looked independent. It looked free. I felt as though it were a wounded dog that didn't trust me to pet it but was hungry and thought I might have bacon in my pocket.
I got over top the ball and looked down. The sun reflected off the northeast corner as though someone had painted the glare on. I heard the distant yell again. This time it was closer but still seemingly muffled and cautious.
"Pick it up!"
I leaned forward and picked up the ball. I tossed it to myself as I stood up from my squat. I saw that there was something written on the side I had not seen. It was in tiny little black verdana letters on the bottom. I shielded my eyes from the sun and held the ball forehead high in front of me: "Do not run". I pursed my lips together and furrowed my brow, shrugged my shoulders and turned.
I walked home bouncing the ball and looking in car mirrors to see what was behind me.
"It's a free-for-all. I think Aaron Burr has eighteen votes somewhere."
Ahh the West Wing. This show is a beacon of light out there in the TV ocean. I can see it blinking on and off over and over out around the ruler that seperates water from sky. I can see it undulating up and down but could never quite get a handle on it enough to really call it mine. It was my guiding light as opposed to my own personal star to wish on. This was during the Sorkin years. Now - it's just total fucking shit for the most part. LOL!
I watched the finale last night, "2162 votes" (the number needed from state Caucasus to nominate a candidate for either party) and I admit the dialogue hasn't been the crispest for a couple years now, but it's almost as if they are trying to write through another man's pen. It's always been the dialogue, pithy conversations about anything from National Security to Shakespeare that gave the show it's aloof approach to politics, satire, and drama. It's always been the give and take between the characters that made you go running online to find exactly what a "whip" does or who the current chief of staff is. And for that I always applauded the show, because I can honestly say, that through the West Wing I have learned numerous things.
But last night it let me down. They elected a candidate (Jimmy Smits) to go up against the Republican candidate (Alan Alda) at the start of next season. And honestly - I wasn't that thrilled. First off - they nominated Leo (Bartlett's chief of staff) as Santos' (Smitts) vice president and Al Bundy was even in the fucking race. It was fun to watch but it's not real thrilling to me anymore. Without Bartlett, without Toby, without Charlie or CJ I can't say that I want to watch next season. And I am especially not turned on to watch if all my characters are gone ....AND there is no Aaron Sorkin. But next season will be an encompassing mess that will have the Bartlett administration on it's last legs and it will have the presidential race as it's front story. So I'll get to see them all once again - once again dragged through the mud and meant to mumble "Open Sesame" as opposed to "Shibboleth".
Anyway - I'll watch next season I will - and I think they were smart to do it this way - because I don't think we will ever see another President on the TV show the West Wing so it will be good for us to watch Bartlett ride off into the sunset with one last swipe of his pen or lash of his tongue and we will be able to see and imagine what the next president might do in the future - but I'll be wishing that next president's dialogue be written by Aaron Sorkin.
Hi, We are Travis - and You Are?
Travis is a band that I have loved for over 7 years now. Their careers started out with a huge Indie push. While people like me went out and snarfed up the new "Good Feeling." and devoured it, most people found it to be akin to a flaming duck taking a shit while falling out of the sky. I found it to be quite original in some parts. You could hear Fran's voice wanting to be softer and then harder. You can tell Andy was going to be a great guitar player if he only had the right songs to do it.
Well "The Man Who" came along and everyone peed themselves 2 years later when "Why does it always rain on me?" hit the airwaves. Now I had Travis fans coming out of the woodwork but something very strange was happening. No one knew it was Travis. They were always saying ,"Oh I love this song." or 'Oh my God this song is so good." And I squirmed and worried that my band would be known as "that band". They would fall into the same cateogry as Simply Red or Rick Springfield. So for years I carried the banner and armed with burned cds and a big mouth I proclaimed to spread the word as much as possible.
While in Britain they exploded, here in the states they floundered and clung on to college girls attention spans the same way a pimply face kid hangs on to the controllers while staying in the 'Adams' dorm. And that was their fan base, 50,000 college girls wanting to fall in love with a wee Scotsman who sang about love and video taped himself pooping and holding his baby, and me. Always me at these concerts surrounded by girls in big sweatshirts with hats and acne. AHHHH! But alas -they came out of that unmarred as well.
The Internet thievery was in full swing and while fighting the hordes of Randy 'Travis' fans out their on the mp3 circuit I managed to procure enough live shows that if rolled into pieces of paper could choke a donkey. I sold these online and became a Travis aficionado. I was organizing meet ups before gigs and got to meet Fran and Andy a couple times.
Sooner or later the trend of 'Why does it always rain on me?' faded away. They were brought back to the tunes. They toured again without a new album. They chose Remy Zero as their opening act and I followed them to 3 more shows and loved every second of it. They combined their first gnarled mean album and this sad bastard album and came out with a set and a sound that was equivalent to the Stones or Oasis. And what was better is that these guys were modest, honest, down to Earth, fun people to watch put on a show. They were my favorite band for a couple years.
The last two albums, 'The Invisible band' and '12 memories' weren't as radio friendly, or maybe they had just been run over by the Coldplay bus and two sappy European bands couldn't handle the airwaves in the big ole' USofA. But, it didn't matter to me - because I could still be in any bar, at any house, in any harem and like a dog smelling bacon 3 houses over, rise to my feet and say to anybody next to me, "This is fucking Travis mate.". And I would sing every line. The sad part is - that person will start singing as well only to look back at me and say -"Who is this again?"
~~~Travis has an album out now called "Singles" - if you don't own a Travis album - I would not be ashamed of anyone buying this and I recommend it with the utmost fever. If you like Travis - these are some other bands you may not know but may really like -
There was a lake in Ontario I used to dream about. It was surrounded with rickety boards that cluttered around grassed over knolls. Those half covered bellies of dirt once felt the feet of children brush over it in a hurry to get to the edge; the edge of the water where they stared down into a reflection of youth and liked to smile. They all liked to smile at themselves. When they were finished smiling they would look at each other and without hesitation, like fish feeling the current, or birds feeling the air pocket, they would dart off in the exact same direction. They would leap back over the mound, and down into the thick of the tall grass.
I would sit on a porch in the corner to collect the shade. I was increasingly uncomfortable, as I got older, because of the weight gain. I constantly shifted my hips and looked for a place to rest my elbows and maybe cross my legs. An old hat was pulled down over my eyes and there was just the sound of children playing. Children playing can be the sound of arguing, wrestling, running, and screaming about cheating or winning. Playing to them is teeth and tears. Playing to my children is always about grunts and grit. Taught pre-pubescent muscles wanting the rope or hogging the ball. The time for leisurely enjoyment with fishing poles and tackle in tow was for the babies. I told them that war was an acceptable game. And war they played.
They ran passed the porch a couple times with make believe m16 and machetes of fortune. One of them stopped to a slow stroll in front of me. He came to a halt the way a car slams on it's brakes and then goes into neutral to let the target know that he knows as well.
I lifted up the brim of my cap and looked at the boy with a squinted eye and a curled "tempt me" smile. He kicked the dirt and looked at his shoes. I leaned forward.
"What you want boy?"
"Wanted to know if you wanted to play."
"Is that so?"
"Well now that is an interesting proposition. But I think I've had enough playing for a while."
I rocked back a little trying to find a place to rest my wrists and spread out my knees so that I could relax. I squirmed at the idea of food and lemonade. I felt my stomach start to burn from the lemon pie I had eaten earlier. I felt my face get a little flushed and full as I heard the children running in the back. I leaned my hat back over my eyes and rested my arms across my chest.
"O.K. then" I mumbled over and over again. I smiled at the darkness given to me by the brim.
Recap of Opening Day
1 slightly sun burned Bret
4 1/2 pound Slider (not the bar but Eric Slider) made cheeseburgers consumed
6 12 ounce draft beers
5 Bottled Budweisers
2 Tori poured shots of Rasberry vodka
1 Senior Kirk and Nick sighting
1 Keano Deano, Baier and Tony sighting
1 Zorn and Nichols sighting
1 Robin Davis sighting
1 Strange Mirel reference - which was hilarious "I saw her at the gym. She's dating my boy Jose'. She told the dude she was a waitress."
2 Chicken Cheesesteaks
3 Hot Dogs
1 Jameson and Water
3 Lemon Drops
1 Episode of 24 where a stealth bomber shoots down Airforce 1 - so awesome - I may never watch again.
1 Container of Butter Pecan
1 Drunk Erin
1 Sober fest
1 inning missed because the TV was turned to soap operas
7 tickets to the game turned down
1 Mitch Hedberg toast
1 Goo sighting
1 Mickey Cuchella Hot Dog eating contest which was actually kind of funny
3 "Man whore" references from girls knowing Zorn and I from our old days at Power Plant - man...
1 Farah sighting
4 Millstream girls that Deano has slept with
5 Firefighters impressed that Mike and I played baseball with Mark Texiera
1 Extremely poor effort at sleep
1 New Oriole hat purchased
1 beer poured over my head because I said "You don't have the balls sweety"
2 Sammy hits
1 Oriole win
The summer officially began yesterday and it couldn't have come soon enough. On with the smell of hot dogs and fied foods when I walk home. Bring back cargo shorts, rainbow flip slops, a revised t-shirt collection and sunglasses. Cold Budweiser and afternoons hoping that the Orioles will be good enough to keep our attention. Mike wants a summer of debauchery, but right now it just feels like the summer of easy.
Well, well, well - another first Monday in April has come upon us. And again, we here in the Charmed City sit with new hope, new life, and a new lease on enjoying ourselves for an entire summer. Baseball brings about, in red blooded American's, the peace that comes with watching a spatial game that we at one time all participated in, being played in serenity, very quietly, very near, and throughout the duration of the summer, what seemed to be, very patiently.
When I think of the return of baseball I am lifted to remember summer smells of grass, dirt on my pants, farmer's tans, homerun derby 2 hours before a game, and John Miller on the radio during the ride home from my games. I am forced to recollect clinking of bats and popping of mitts. There is something about diving on cool grass in July, or taking in a light lunch between games in a double header that still brings tingles to my spine. While the games we will all watch today does not fully encompass these original virtues of the Nation's pastime, they are not far off.
I remember being a huge Cal Ripken fan as a child. Every boy in Baltimore who was an Oriole fan loved Cal Ripken as a kid. It was only as you grew up that you started to maybe identify with different players. But, I remember being 8 years old and running to the kitchen every time Cal was on deck to poor a coffee cup full of milk so that I could run back to the TV, sit on my knees, and do my strange "Cal get a hit!" routine. I would drink a sip of milk before every pitch and when he got a hit, I knew it was because of my faith.
Today I will sit with friends and talk about the joy of talking about nothing. Football talk is boring, heavy, blunt, and without mystery. "They should run more. They should pass more. He was open. Nice block". Yawn. Baseball conversation is debate brought about by knowledge which once tied into passion. Football conversation is usually done with too much bravado, too much noise, too much novice information, and most people rarely played the game passed the High School level. But baseball is something that most people have followed their whole lives. Therefore, you can sit with anyone for 2 hours and not say a word. You will grunt together at a hanging 1-2 curveball hit by the opposing team into the left field gap. You will slump a little when the cutoff man is missed. You will chuckle at the third to first pickoff play and may even utter a slight, "Kid's move." at the TV screen. You will sit up a little straighter when the ball comes off the bat at a thundered 40 degree angle. You will move your shoulders as if you were the umpire when your pitcher paints the black with a 2-2 fastball.
The festivities that surround baseball are not the same as other sports. And the time invested in learning the game, appreciating the game, and watching the game are matched by no other investment I have known. I have spent more time watching, playing, and attempting to understand the game of baseball than I have spent vested in any other endeavor throughout my lifetime. And this includes every year of schooling added up and put together. Those who never played will only root in hollow tones.Those blue collared American sons and daughter who spent their summers playing the game of generations past will raise eyes with anticipation, and hope for more than a few weeks, that this might be the year, that something special will happen on this pitch, that this will be the savior of our team. There will be winning streaks and good luck. There will be clutch hits that show the gleam of everything good about the game in one person's smile. There will be fans crowded around the TV today wanting to believe that this team they pull for and support could bring them some sort of satisfaction and relief.
Thank God for the return of baseball. Thank God for cool summer days and easy weekday nights spent watching the team that we love. Thank you for the return or what we knew as a child and the chance at one year of rekindled friendships, pregnant feelings of hope, and the peaceful ease that comes from hearing the words, "And the Orioles take the field." Innocene reborn through watching grown men play a child's game.
OASIS LYLA MP3
Come and get it while it lasts - I'm so glad I got my hands on it - I don't know if I could have waited another 40 days.
This is the link - go nuts.
It's a decent little tune but it sounds like 95. They aren't going forward in any way but it doesn't matter anyway. It's not about the tunes any more. It's about the times and the smiles. Cheers!
...and in other news...Joe Cocker and Johnny Cochran die
Yeah - I just though I would complete the trilogy. Joe Cocker I kind of like. Johnny Cochran was just a fucking lawyer that got famous for getting a famous well liked murderer off on killing a couple people. Johnny is in hell somewhere and Joe - well I'm convinced Joe died somewhere back in 69 after Woodstock.
Is that not the strangest torso you have ever seen?
"This last one is called. 'I'm gonna look like I'm taking a shit'
And there's evil fucking, hugging, money grubbing, Jackie Childs - I mean Johnny Cochran. A lawyer so dubious they made a TV character out of him. What a joke. I'm sure he left behind a sweet jewelry collection.
Mitch Hedberg Dead at 37
The Mitch Hedberg Wiki has more jokes - these were my favorites - Peace be with you Mitch.
Pandora Song List
Amazon Wish List
Revolutionary Wealth - Tofflers
Things Making Me Smile
Listening - [out of 5]
Benjy Ferree - 4.8
The Thermals 3.1
David Gray 3.8
Like the guy with the beard? YES - like the guy with the beers. What? Yep
Bands That I Check Schedules For
Badly Drawn Boy
Belle and Sebastian
The Black Keys
Drive By Truckers
Mark Hopkins Band
Iron and Wine
Mates of State
Two if By Sea
Places I Rock in the Flesh
The Knitting Factory
The Otto Bar
Places I Eat/Drink in the Flesh
Cross Street Market
No Way Jose
The Irish Pub
The Waterfront Hotel
My Greatest Hits (that's so lame)
The time I almost killed a child
July 4th in Korea
Excerpts from Demian
Why I screen phone calls
Bret's Death Metal Report
A conversation at a cocktail party
A conversation at breakfast
So you think you are a Baltimorian
A conversation about a girl singer
Observations from a bar
Observations of strippers
Why I love Oasis
I would go to war
"You Son of a Bitch" An Open Letter to Tom Friend
Dance to Your Ocean
When men become pussies
Jason Whitlock is a racist propaganda promoter
Pitchfork takes music snobbery to new level
The Cosmic Clash of the Red Sox and Cubs
The Hatred that is Runts Candy
Starting corporate line-up
Do you know me? List 1 / List 2 / List 3
The Night I Burned Philly Down
So You Want to be a Booze Hound
She Said it was Free
Funniest Corporate Story Ever
Striped Shirts and the Fucks that Wear Them
Pieces of Morning
Oasis Album Revew
The Art of Tipping
Starting Fires With Grass Stains
Bret's Federal Hill Food Review
Sexcapades and your Picture on the Internet
Stupid Secrets the Return
Stuff I Swing By From Time to Time
Indie Video Archive
Large Hearted Boy
Pitch Fork Media
Scenestars MP3 Blogs
Sound Garden Baltimore
Angry Little Girls
Junior Varsity Meat Market
Baltimore City Paper
The Baltimore Sun
Villa Julie College Baseball
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