Thursday, January 31, 2008


"No! It's not fair that he-- that he... married that spider lady, with the bondage stuff...."

"Hey, do you even party?!"

"The assailant touched his dirty Kid Rock grubbfinger to Ms. Isabelle-Delarue's 'kitty-spot', police said."

"--and and I was like: BING! Can I get a WHAT WHAT?!! Haha--AND MAKE IT OILY!"

"He was a Green Beret. His friends thought he looked like Little Richard."

"He ate a chicken nugget. And then the other guy ate a chicken nugget. And then they looked at me like I was a rat. Like I was lower than dirt."

"The snake rubs snakesnot on his recent kill."

"Because of his camel spider, the children of the neighborhood teased Dr. Sonderbar, called him a retard and a witch, and tried to burn him on a fire of seasoned oak."


"Nope. There has never been a more advanced fish shovel. So make it as oily as you can."


Now, I've thought about this for some time and trust it to be the very truth: I would rather nibble the remains of an apple core protruding from a prostitute's pussy than listen to the entirety of Vampire Weekend's debut. They make me hate pop music and New York City as an idea. I like to think my cynicism is not a brand devoid of hope, but this old world is in a terrible condition and these criminals get me scrambling for a bottle of the strong stuff and an Arvo Pärt disc every time.

Geezus... in the span of writing that last paragraph, two people asked my opinion on Vampire Weekend. What goes on?

Monday, January 28, 2008


I ran into one of the Dabenport fellows the other day. The first thing he said: "So, are you putting out the new Dabenport album?" Hm... the subject came up a couple times with other members but it slipped to the back of my mind. Last I'd heard, kinda'-fancy-at-the-time local label Audiopants offered to put it out and went so far as to list them on the roster of their out-dated website ("we will be back winter 2006"). So, I'm intrigued although I don't want to spread myself too thin what with many projects looming on the horizon. Putting together their first album was a weird task. To save money, each part of the physical CD -- cover, cover printing, CD duplication, and insert printing -- was done by a different company and I assembled each disc myself. It came together pretty well and working with John Porcellino was a dream come true. It just occurred to me that I haven't yet put it on iTunes. Haha.

Early last night, ENB and I attended a Scotch tasting hosted by a fellow we buy smoked salmon from. He supplied not only a great number of wildly delicious fish appetizers but also 20 or so bottles of fine Scotch. I sampled about 7 of the Scotches, most of which were truly unruly. I regret not writing down any names but I can't imagine a time when I'll have an extra $60 lying around to pick up a bottle. ACL stopped in for a hot minute and split around the time the (::cough::) alternative a capella group started in on a Puddle Of Mudd song. If you ask me, the bagpipers stole the show.

ENB bought me a subscription to Open City for x-mas. Those books provide a lot of revisits and pleasure. With that and the Brent Van Daley book finally coming together, the writing bug bit me and some ideas are coming together for a story about the "coke mines of France".

Saturday, January 26, 2008


Raven feathers and their feces, often referred to as "corn nuts," can be boiled into a dirty broth unsuitable for drinking.

Ravens will eat almost anything. I even saw a raven eat another raven. I can imagine a raven would eat the toes of a child, the filthy creature.

With a rapid staccato pecking, ravens can remove the eyeballs of a dog in a matter of moments. A moment can be almost any length of time but what is a moment to a raven? I imagine it must be very short, almost nothing.

About ten inches larger than a crow, ravens are an average of 27 inches in length, about the same size of some non-flying common house cats and a large knife my stepfather used to wield before my sisters and I at night during times both sober and drunk. Often referred to as the "lindbergh baby of the bird world" because they are so often kidnapped and held for ransom then found in the woods with bludgeoned skulls, ravens are coincidentally the same length as Charles A. Lindbergh III, son of famous aviator Charles A. Lindbergh II.

Often confused as the same bird, crows and ravens are in reality quite different. While growing up, crow's are often treated better, receiving decadent gifts from their parents like leather penny
loafers, and fur coats and flashy jackets as opposed to the denim jean vests ravens are often seen in.

Ravens can be seen all over the globe in areas like arctic islands and north african deserts. They can be found in England, Mexico, Turkey, and sometimes flying around the ceiling of Wal-mart. And one time in my friends house. He was frightened, called me over, and I brought my broom and a squirt gun filled with vinegar.

There are eight species of raven, including the Common raven, the Australian raven, the Forest raven, the Thick-billed raven, the White-necked raven, the VW raven, the Coney Dog raven, and the Sammy Davis Jr. raven named after the popular nightclub singer, Sammy Davis Jr, who was known to vigorously rub a raven wing against his scalp before gigs.

In his book entitled The Bad News Bears, Edgar Allen Poe made multiple references to a rapping raven that played at a club called The Chamber Door. Of course, this was a work of fiction and no such club existed.

Japanese emperors have exalted the raven as a creature of beauty and strength. Excerpted here for you, a 14th century Japanese prayer:
"Oh, raven.
You are so beautiful.
You have such pretty hair.
And your eyes your eyes are
pretty too. Very pretty. You are my pretty,
pretty girl and I want to kiss you all over."

Ravens have amazing eyesight for having only one good eye. Yes, it's true: all ravens are blind in one eye but have extra great hearing in one hear. They can see through almost anything surface or material except for lead, hence the nickname "The Superman of Birds." What a fun fact.

A typical raven weighs less than your average slice of pizza. This was evidenced when at least five, perhaps six ravens, fought over a slice of pizza I threw at them on an unnamed waterfront in the continental United States. It brought delite to my heart to see these creatures wrestle with and ultimately fail to carry away and consume the slice.

Friday, January 25, 2008


1.) Though we were warned, I still didn't expect the soreness in my forearm the following day after KH and CL acquired and installed an antique dartboard. We're trying to accustom ourselves to a few hours of throwing a week (although I'm still trying to shake a semi-irrational fear of sharp objects flying head-level). CL told a real cringer of a story about a friend that suffered a "William Burroughs" instead of a "William Tell" in a dart match -- a "Joan Vollmer", I s'pose. Anyway, last night, after getting my ass murdered in the first game, I technically won the second. I say "technically" because I still would have won if the others players hadn't crapped out right before the last round, which they did.

2.) The first night of Bloom with ACL and I running the t-tables had a fair turnout and I couldn't shake what lucky, privileged fellows we are. We DJ finer restaurants on odd nights, play outright strange music, get paid in cash and drink for free. It's fucking insane. Totally insane. This strikes me as so sad to say, but if I had a [working] car and my own set of tables to play out, I'd pursue this crazy fucking gig even harder. If someone's looking to become a benefactor, I'm willing to make them the best possible mixtapes for the rest of my life.

3.) Although "Xangô" was the track that broke my brain on Baden Powell, "Berimbau" is equally beautiful. It's stark and very solitary feeling, something you'd play to yourself, alone at home. It was late one night a couple years ago when Luiz Bonfá's "Manhã de Carnaval" came on the radio. The woman's voice still sounds like a trumpet, powerful and brassy, and it'll never leave me. The film soundtrack it came from, Black Orpheus, is a bit of a difficult listen -- the fidelity is surprisingly low, there's a lot of background noise from the film -- but it's an incredibly rewarding album. In terms of structure and variation of themes, it's perfect. I'm beginning to believe that the best albums are thematic and repetitious in nature. If a piece is strong enough, the variations can serve as the studying and revisiting of the original. The depth gained will be a great reward.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008


I had a shaman
and nothing could stop
his form from shaking
horrors were manifesting
and the hours were sinking.

Monday, January 07, 2008


"You see, the ass is just an extension of that strange pussy."

Louis rolled a Zig-Zag around a filter, stuffed it with a brown moss and flicked it at the first woman. She lit the joint and held it like a cigarette, leaning into the second woman as she dragged. The bed sank in deep and unnaturally under their weight. There, in that spot below, the box spring was bent and ruined. It occurred to me only then that Louis must have hammered away between 1000 pairs of rosy thighs on this bed.

"It's one big organ... organism...." He snickered and trailed off. "Do you want to lose that cape? I'll trade you. I'll make it a nice trade." He placed his left hand middle finger between his lips and sucked the shake off like it was sugar. He smiled wide and pointed at my shoulders. "You can make another cape."

"No thanks," I said. "She and I fell in love making my costume." Sharon and I took a big hit and waved goodbye to the ladies. You could smell the room turning horny.

As we stepped into the hallway, Louis tugged at my cape. Turning back, he clasped my shoulders and started kneading. He smiled again and focused.

"They like your mask." He squinted back over his shoulder at the crimped blonds.

In the half hour spent scoring from Louis, the snow began falling and the sidewalks were perfect: not a single footprint. Stepping from the stairs and onto the concrete, we each felt a blood rush and began laughing. Heat crawled up from the Lycra and over my neck, pins & needles covering my scalp. Underneath the mask, my hair stood on end as I recalled one night we slept on a mattress and box spring with no frame. We woke to eat a tube of Pringles, still faded from the moss. The next day, we took pictures of your pregnant belly and your water broke in the bathtub.

Saturday, January 05, 2008


Feeling completely burnt out by the holidays, I was apprehensive to begin a three-week tenure DJing for Aaron while he gallivants around Argentina with his girlfriend. Still, I hate to say 'no' to opportunities, especially those opportunities that pay and/or offer free food and wine.
On the first night, my game was off: it had been a while since I DJed and the effects of working a holiday retail job every day for a few weeks were exacerbated by a lack of sleep, food, and water. On top of some heinous mixer issues, some visiting friends were visibly bothered for the better part of the night which put a slight damper on the mood. Not long after midnight, I was more than happy to scramble home with said friends where could all relax. About ten people were over but I didn't last long in my condition and soon passed out.
Last night was a far cry from last week. My set went very well, the highlights being a long section of soul/cosmic/jazz kind of stuff made possible by the addition of a crate of Aaron's records and playing out Rota and Badalamenti tracks for the first time. Actually, before I played the latter artists, a patron complimented my choices by saying the music made him feel like he was "living in a Cassavetes film" (I think he may have been mistaken with his director choice but whatevs; I'll accept it). It was an incredibly reassuring night.
So, I'm back to work on my mix after a short and unplanned hiatus. For a portion of last night, I almost directly mimicked live the work I've done so far to great results. I've got two more dates this month and much to look forward to.

Tuesday, January 01, 2008


Shawn slid down the roof's incline with trumpet under arm, landing in the dark murk below. Stuck and sinking deep into the brown mass, he began playing a melody from Concierto de Aranjuez. He had felt blocked for some time -- blocked from new melodies and ideas -- and he began to feel open. Still, he sank.