Absurdist Media

She Never Showed

2009-01-26T10:48:00.000-05:00

Prepare Your Pussyship For Fuckboarding.

2009-01-24T15:34:00.002-05:00

Houston, We Have No Problem.

2009-01-24T15:32:00.000-05:00

I'm Not Going If They Don't Have Michelob

2009-01-24T15:31:00.002-05:00

Get Out and Vote . . . On Michelob.

2009-01-19T11:02:00.001-05:00

-tedd-

Some Friends Are Better Than Others.

2009-01-19T00:59:00.001-05:00

Oh God, Make It Stop.

2009-01-19T00:47:00.001-05:00

Why Not Drunk? Why Not Now?

2009-01-19T00:42:00.000-05:00

I Can't Quit You, Michelob.

2009-01-19T00:04:00.001-05:00

so smooth

Gotta Go To Your Wedding? Why Not Do It Drunk?

2009-01-18T21:50:00.002-05:00

WHERE YOU'RE GOING IT'S MICHELOB.

She's Pretty Progressive, I Think We'll Abort.

2009-01-18T21:39:00.000-05:00

I Puked on the Beach.

2009-01-18T21:24:00.000-05:00

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!

Michelobo.

2009-01-18T17:41:00.003-05:00

"Howl, howl/ Your fill and overripeness of the heart/ I may not come with you/ Companions of the broken bouy/ I may not seek/ the harbor of your drifting shore."

You, sir, are a fucking pussy.

2009-01-18T17:34:00.001-05:00

Mich VII. It's gooooooooooood.

There's So Much Fucking Michelob in Me Right Now.

2009-01-18T17:25:00.001-05:00

The Night Belongs to Michelob

2009-01-18T17:22:00.001-05:00

I'm obsessed.

I like it a lot.

2009-01-18T16:31:00.001-05:00

2009-01-18T16:04:00.001-05:00

Sworn Eyes.

2008-08-20T10:58:00.000-05:00

-tedd-

2007-11-13T02:22:00.000-05:00

Man, oh man.

. . . Ain't Dead Yet.

2007-10-08T12:00:00.000-05:00

If I were Woody Guthrie I would yell at you with my shanty slurred scream that "I ain't dead yet." I would grab you by your firmly starched and pressed lapels and fist-force you into an unseasonably humid-hot New York night and show you a populace buried beneath 40 years of "progress." If I were Woody Guthrie you would see a downtown skyline before there were no towers to say aren't there and proclaim anti-prophetic truths to no one in particular. I would jar your caffeine eyes and keep them as a kind of warmth.

If I were Woody Guthrie I'd let my shirttails fall asunder and you would have to do the same. Wandering Village streets you've never crossed I will tell you of dust bowl lives in this dust bowl world and pave your way with dust bowl dreams. If I were Woody Guthrie my voice's drawl will outwit them each and every time and you will smile quietly to yourself in a face-flush-red kind of way. If I were Woody Guthrie I would out finger pick every well-to-do and seemingly vibrant young man at McSorley's on a Friday night and tell them that this land was meant for their mothers and fathers.

If I were Woody Guthrie I would cunningly contemplate your fascist mind and inspire a thousand younger and thinner wild haired singers. If I were Woody Guthrie I would live in rooms with no windows and low ceilings and unstifle situations with a single breath one drunken epiphany at a time. I would stare at you with a stone sober stare as if to say, "darling you really needn't bath today." If I were Woody Guthrie you would dance down Mermaid Avenue arm and arm with no one but yourself and yell "He has risen" over and over at the condos where Dreamland once stood as steam ships inexplicably pass noisily on their Atlantic bound arcs.

If I were Woody Guthrie none of this would matter anyway. Money wouldn't buy the train-tracked passage west. This machine wouldn't have to kill anyone.

If I were Woody Guthrie.

-tedd-

Yep.

2007-07-23T01:33:00.000-05:00

Good point.

Return to the Fold: a 50 Post-a-bration of Sad-Sackery

2007-06-05T19:06:00.000-05:00

At some point, I came across a record I never knew I had in my collection. I have no reason to think I bought it. It was not a record from my sister, father or friends collection that I ended up with somehow. It was not one I could recall picking up in some thrift store or off the street. This was not something I could recall borrowing. It was just a record sitting to the right of my Springsteen and Dylan collections-- completely out of place.

Somewhere in my scant amount of traveling I had come across something I could not do without, never used it and now realized how unnecessary it was. I can't say I want to hear the record or care about it, it's just comforting to know it's there. Like this site, a tossed-away idea that ruminates in Tedd and I's afterthoughts every now and again, this record produces nothing of quantity, but who's to say it's not quality? Not to bemoan or laud my own non-accomplishments, but this site is pretty good for 50 posts in over a year. It could be better-- more readable, less snarky and updated on a bi-annual basis-- but it could be worse.

The original big-picture idea of this thing was to have most of my friends who wanted to write for a living try out new ideas on people (mostly ourselves to be sure). Absurdist Media was, and to some degree still is, completely dysfunctional and without point. Instead, this became a place to share obtuse ideas between two friends living ten feet away from each other. Sure, that's fine. The best laid plans are usually the ones no one wants any part of anyway. Or, more exactly, the best laid plans are the ones that only benefit yourself.

Thus, Absurdist Media goes away from time to time. I get emails or reminders from a few friends and I begin constructing an idea of what to do (whether it be the ill-fated reviews of my favorite forgotten albums or the wildly stupid "experiment" series). The finished product, acting as a terrific metaphor for the web log itself, seldom looks or feels like I want it to or how I intended it to. So it goes, perhaps, but the idealist writer in me is as pissed as the perfectionist with a stain on his/her shirt or as mad as the athlete finishing in second place.

Slipping past me, then, is the fact that the last two years have been chronicled quite well in these 50 posts. My New York City experiment is, thus far, a miserable failure. Most of my time is not spent writing or reading these days, but pondering the finances and resources it may take to gain some sort of sober view of the future. It's pretty bleak. Dark, and with demon rum in hand, I spent last night with a pair of Roseanne reruns and a sneaking suspicion that being up at 6 AM was a terrible idea. When I finally did sleep fitfully and drunkenly (awaking three hours later with no chance of sleeping through my hangover), I was overwhelmingly fretful-- afraid of having another day laid to waste.

The point of this diatribe about my night is suposed to set up a further mirror on why this site's dark periods are reflective of a larger whole in my life, but it's not going to. It's just going to linger there like a racial remark in the workplace or a unused record sitting lifeless on a shelf full of worn-out wax.

So, instead of making the corollaries to failure and regret, I'll close this therapeutic rambling by quoting what could be one of my favorite sentences... ever.

"It is one of the splendid yet sinister fascinations of life that there is no tracing to their ultimate sources all the winds of influences that play upon a given bark-- all the breaths of chance that fill or desert our bellied or our sagging sails." --Theodore Drieser, "The Titan"

It's fitting, then, that someone else can say what I've tried to for years in one sentence. Fitting, as well, for the fiftieth post to end on a bitter and unsure note.

Experiment 2: Experimenter Harder

2007-04-16T23:10:00.000-05:00

I am experimenting with soundtracks; specifically bad movies set to my favorite albums.

The Movie: National Security
The Soundtrack: Fugazi's The Argument

The Schematic: The movie is a classic buddy cop movie with a twist. One guy is white, and the other is BLACK. Steve Zahn is accused of beating a black man (Martin Lawrence!) and is relegated to... whatever. The point was to match up Fugazi songs to the film to make it better. I honestly thought my roommate Paul had something going with this pick.

The Reality: Probably not going to work. I think we just wanted to listen to Fugazi. Yes, the actual song "The Argument" was funny in a couple of scenes, "Ex-Spectator" ("I'm not a citizen...") worked for a few arrests, and "Cashout" and "Full Disclosure" are good rock songs for car chases and action points, but there were better choices for this movie. We didn't make the right choice, but then again, "National Security" offered us little with which to work.

The Experiment: Failure. This band's Modus Operandi had no place within the ridiculous nature of National Security. The Argument might make sense behind an arthouse film, but not a Springtime fresh racial comedy. A pointless endeavor. Sorry to waste your time. Nothing proven, nothing gained. Fugazi was a good band, though.

So it goes.

2007-04-12T02:52:00.001-05:00

Yes, these are blogs about something in particular (and this ain't it), but an important man passed yesterday. One of the all-time kings of satire, and a man that amassed more sidebars and intrigued more minds than anyone I know ever will (combined!) succumbed to the world's only real guarantee. This will be short and sweet, like many his books, like many of his ideas, though thankfully unlike his life. I didn't like it all, but damn if I didn't love what he meant anyway.

Thank you Kurt Vonnegut. Thanks for everything and more. May you lay in nothingness and continue to impress us all still.

So it goes.

An Experiment, of sorts.

2007-04-07T16:32:00.000-05:00

Today I am experimenting with soundtracks. Specifically bad movies set to my favorite albums.

Today's Movie: A Walk to Remember
Today's Soundtrack: Sunny Day Real Estate's LP2

The Schematic: The movie is a placid attempt to recreate "tepid" romance between a high school stud and a high school "romantic Christian." Sunny Real Estate is a cross between the lyrical-poetic-nerdy-Christian and "Pretty Hard Rock." The two should mesh well.

The Reality: Um, they do. I thought this would be funny, but it totally worked. The part where Jamie (a pale and still somehow attractive Mandy Moore) and her father (some dude) have a confrontation about her boyfriend, uh, Jocky Von Popularpants (some douche) is perfect alongside "Rodeo Jones." The part where the old set of friends confront Jocky? Nice fit for "Friday." "8" makes a nice companion to the long "proving yourself" scenes where Jocky wants to prove he's worthy of Jamie. "5-4" runs along the scenes where Jocky learns about Jamie's cancer, needs help from his Dad and learns about life while driving around. Man this was totally worth it. The song Red Elephant is outstanding in the wedding scene and closing the film to credits. I'm telling you, I'm a genius.

The Experiment: A begrudging success. Sunny Day Real Estate was supposed to be a bridge for good music to become popular, but the break-up/make-up composition of the band kept them from being the Jimmy Eat World before Jimmy Eat World. This movie actually gets better with this as a soundtrack. A Walk to Remember is a cheesy shithole, but LP2 has its share of ridiculous moments as well. While I will never watch the movie again, this experiment births the scientific theorem: I am a pussy.

Next experiment: Screeching Weasel's My Brain Hurts/Wiggle take over Legally Blonde.

(UPDATE: Screeching Weasel alongside Legally Blonde/Witherspoon is not worth it. Trust me.)

A Quiet Drink Alone.

2007-04-06T11:34:00.000-05:00

A couple weeks ago I stopped in at a neighborhood bar I sometimes frequent for a quick, and totally uncalled for, pint on my way back to my apartment after work. Broadway Station is the kind of bar that on one night can be brimming with the drunken yelps of local Mets fans hurling curses at one--or all--of the seven or eight television screens, the next night is a smattering of colorful mixed-drinking karaoke enthusiasts, and on yet another night (namely the ones that I enjoy patronizing) is utterly vacant.

On this particular night I saddled up to the middle of the bar flanked only by a bald man and his high-strung and extremely white date, the neighborhood's "Old Guy Who Still Drinks" whom I have seen sipping his way through straight house whiskey interspersed with gulps off of a Budweiser draft with ice cubes, and a hulking bro-dude of a bartender. Eager to become lost in this scenery I ordered a Smithwick's, paid the large biceps, tribal tattoo, and tiny eyes that poured the beer, left my remaining cash next to me on the bar, and promptly began writing nothing in particular to myself in a moleskin I was recently given as a birthday present.

A quiet drink alone often turns into more than just that, and my quick beer before heading home turned into four, five, and I think a sixth. I have attempted to transcribe my scrawlings from the evening despite their complete lack of where-withal and coherence (It appears I become fixated on the jukebox choices made for a largely indifferent and startlingly unpopulated audience):

There's something painful about listening to "Don't Stop Believing" in a bar. When an over-privileged white girl pumps $5 into a crappy touch-screen jukebox "Some will win/Some will lose" indeed. "It goes on and on and on...Strangers searching . . .." God help us all.

I think Tom Petty has said everything I felt or will feel in the most concise and musically traditional manner that they warrant being said in. You really can't fuck with that. "Gonna leave this. World for awhiiile . . .." I always feel like The Heartbreakers never got enough credit. I'd be pressed to name any of them, but that bass player only uses his thumb to ring out the notes, and the guitar player seems ever willing to put up with Petty's use of the D-suspended chord over and over again.

Shannon Hoon was a victim of the 90's. Many would cite Kurt Cobain, but Hoon really was: His band was wildly unremarkable, not unlike The Cardigans or Bush, but to his credit he sounds like he's earnestly feeling it on the vocal delivery on "No Rain." I mean, the lyrics make little-to-no sense, but the muscle bound bartender is singing along, "All I can do is read a book to stay awake/And I start to complain that there's no rain." Kurt Cobain was a victim of his own self, Shannon Hoon was a victim of a musically overly-saturated era--people remember details about Cobain's life and music; all anyone remembers about Hoon (if even his name) is that damn bumble-bee girl running into a field full of other bumble-bee people and the hippie-like frolicking that ensued in the video for this song. Though you know, no one is going to be singing along or reciting anything that I've ever written in 15 years at a bar. Don Henley probably has the lock on this though. You can't start a band with a name as ultra-American as "The Eagles" and not have an effect like that on people. "Blind Melon" just isn't going to cut it.

Evidently, and unfortunately, people still remember who Johnny Lang and Duran Duran are. Hell fire.

Watching a female sing-along with to The Dixie Chicks, "Wide-Open Spaces" is horrific. This bar is now officially the whitest place I've ever been since my bar-going days in North Carolina. I feel like I'm watching an end-scene for an hour-long comedy/drama on NBC. The main character, whose name I'm sure is Tiffany, just got over Skyler once and for all, and is free now to annoy everyone is a twenty-foot radius at local watering holes.

I just earned myself a free beer after this one. I do not really want it.

Is it possible to listen to "Love Is A Battlefield" without that image of the music video popping into your head? Furthermore, is it possible to endure the song without someone in the bar mimicking the dance moves from it? I'm glad I didn't come-of-age in the 80's. Pat Benetar really sucks, and I've always thought she resembled a lizard for some reason.

I wish Ernie Hudson had recorded an album instead of the guys from Miami Vice or Eddie Murphy. Ernie really shit the bed on that one. He would have had something important to say to us. Being the only black Ghostbuster had to be taxing.

I can't help but wondering what the guy who played Hawkeye on MASH is up to right now. Last I saw of him he was on some weird video series we watched in 8th grade science class. It involved a boat's scientific expedition. There was a deaf girl I'm pretty sure, a couple of other co-eds (for a slight hint at sexual tension), and Hawkeye. I remember in a particularly moving installment a character urinated on another character that was hypothermic. I don't know that it was Hawkeye who did the peeing, but I'm sure Radar would have simply hugged that individual back to health.

"Cigarettes and Alcohol" by Oasis? I think the last time I heard this song was on MTV just before heading out the door for another rousing day at Lake Braddock Secondary School in 1995. I forgot how British they were before "Wonderwall" got played every five minutes on the radio. Ryan Adams version was a lot better. Fucking Oasis.

The old guy is looking at me weird because I keep jotting crap down in my notebook every so often. He's probably going to start talking to me soon. Old men love talking to me at bars for some reason. I wish my girlfriend were here right now.

That's it; I'm leaving a free beer behind. I can't do this anymore. A quiet drink alone has turned into too many, and I have to work tomorrow. I think I can taste the morning's hangover on the back of my throat, and feel it in my sinuses already.

-tedd-

I've Made a Huge Mistake...

2007-03-22T01:05:00.000-05:00

The rebirth of InsignaiticCancer. I'm retarded.

Harris Teeter Stole My Virginity: Revisited.

2007-03-16T18:27:00.000-05:00

During my last year of college at UNC-Greensboro the English Department was kind enough to wave my credits for English 101, which I had taken at Emory and Henry amidst the lunacy of a wildly uneventful Spring of 2000. As a senior, and an English major, taking a Freshmen (I'm sorry, "First-Year's") writing class was not something I was particularly thrilled about. What I found however--aside from sitting next to 18 year-olds with pictures of their proms lovingly placed behind the clear plastic of their three-ring binders--was that the class wasn't a total waste of time. While I did little-to-nothing throughout the semester I did manage to write some blunderingly awkward essays either very late at night the day before they were due, or in the morning before heading out for a day's classes. I recently stumbled across one that is by no means good, but for some reason I felt was worth posting. If I remember correctly we were asked to write a personal essay on a life-changing event that had happened in our lives (you can imagine the "The Day My Dog Pro Walked Into a Moving Pontiac Aztec" type essays that were produced). What follows is what I wrote.

Enjoy. I think. Whatever.

Harris Teeter Stole My Virginity  

Under brutal fluorescent lighting I could see it all neatly laid out before me--my past, my present, my future--all horrifically patterned in cleverly blocked gray, white, and brown linoleum tiles and strategically placed food items; the regulars coyly eyeing me in between placing boxes, jars, and plastic sealed produce into their shopping carts. Their judgments and thoughts palpable to my mind: "He's not one of us now, but he will be soon," "Look at what's in his cart, definitely his first time in here alone," "Oh my, two for one on Hungry man dinners." Yes, this was the beginning of the end, there's no turning back, no hope left, it has begun . . . I'm doing my own grocery shopping for the first time. My youthful innocence is now perverted, molested; my violator is not a shifty, mustached, van driving man. No, my corruptor is a much more fickle and elusive gentleman-suitor named Harris Teeter.

I remember hearing or reading somewhere that competing food companies covet and jockey for specific locations on the grocery aisles. I don't remember where exactly, the beginning or end of the aisle, which end would even be considered which anyway, it's all relative to where you are in the store really. Having your product placed at eye level is obviously an advantage isn't it? Or maybe having your product lower for the children that are clutching their parent's legs, so it's there, glaring in their little faces. The scene that unfolds when this happens is both horrific and beautiful--the initial request and appeal to the mother or father, the denial from said parent, the boiling up and over of tears, the redness of the face, the screaming, stomping, the parent's cursory glance from side to side to see how many people are watching, then conceding to avoid a scene. Children really have honed an art, and they practice it every day in stores across the world. I continue meandering up and down aisles. Where did I read that Nabisco, Kellogg's, and Frito-Lay stealthily product place items where my untrained, uncultured, and thoroughly impressionable mind will unknowingly pick up the bag of oven toasted, air-crisped chips? The thought of my subconscious toiling away, guiding me through the store frightened me to no end, "You need the Pregu Old World spaghetti sauce. There's a picture of a gondola adorning the label. Tedd, get the Kraft cheese, not the generic brand; sure you only need one box of Pop-Tarts for the week, but two for that price? Envision it, you'll come in from playing pick-up basketball with your friends, they'll scour your fridge for hydration, they'll say 'Sunny-D!! Your mom's the greatest!' Then you can casually yet arrogantly tell them, 'No guys, that was me, I did that.'" The truth is I've never played a game of pick-up basketball in my life, but there the Sunny Delight sat in my cart, its orange container clashing with the light blue hue of the Rice Crispy Squares box. There's no rest for the weary tonight. This is the twilight of my youth. I approach the pharmacy.

This section of the store can't contain anything but practical items people of all ages, races, and creeds need--certainly it will offer a brief repose before heading back out to face the theft of my young exuberance aisle by aisle, one item at a time. I stop in front of the vitamin display. "You know maybe it is time to start thinking about that kind of thing," I tell myself, "I mean shit, I don't eat right at all, I smoke, I know I read that smokers need to replenish their vitamin C more often than non-smokers, and hell, meeting that daily iron requirement can't hurt either." I drop the Centrum multivitamin supplement into my cart. Oh god what have I done?! Vitamins. Did I really just do that? Sure enough, there they sit, nestled between the Chips Ahoy and Quaker Oatmeal. It is here, standing next to the vitamins and dietary supplements that this all too poignant scene in my shopping cart taunts me, calls me names, makes lewd gestures, and then walks off with my Mom under its arm. Vitamins. The buzzing of the muzak triggers something in me, my mind gets carried off by the bland rendering of Otis Redding's "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." I can see myself dawning the suit for work, my carpool buddies from the office honking the horn in my driveway, the thick smell of far too strong coffee cascading out of their fashionable silver travel mugs and thermoses. I grab the briefcase my wife gave me for my birthday last month, kiss the Misses and say goodbye. I leave out the side door through the garage because last week I caught my blazer on that tricky screen door on the front porch and had to go and quickly change my whole attire, what an embarrassing debacle that was. I put my briefcase in the trunk that has been opened for me and close it strongly and firmly with the authority that is entirely unique to the elite and young business class. Yes, indeed when I get home from work I'll head to the old Harris Teeter, but this time I'll have a list in hand! Oh yes, don’t want to forget those tampons for the wife, or my Centrum multivitamins. Christ, can't have that happen again. The muzak fades as the song ends. I put the multivitamins back and decide to buy the chewable version. This is certainly an act of grand defiance none can ignore. The Zapatistas have nothing on me, after a hard day of guerilla fighting I bet they come home to their swallow-only vitamins. I pity you "revolutionaries" searching for a glass of water to ingest these pink capsules of conformity. I really do.

My work now done in the pharmacy I press forward, past the frozen entrees, past the ice cream, grabbing items purely on impulse in an attempt to display my angst towards the whole system: string cheese; Top Ramen, and plenty of it; Doritos, the ones that make your breath smell horrendous and leave your fingers gently residued; and in my final defiant act, Cookie Crisp cereal. I make my way to the checkout lane with the shortest line and make wait next to the "Weekly World News," "National Inquirer," and various other women's publications that have so much airbrushing done to the model on the cover that you have to smile and force yourself to look away. As I look over the candy and adamantly stand opposed to Harris Teeter's final attempt at selling me something, whether it be batteries or razors, I can't help but think about what would happen if I were run over in the parking lot pushing my bagged purchases to my car--a real hit and run. No, the driver of the Escalade would not stop for me. My cart and all its contents would be strewn throughout the parking lot. I wonder what the police officials, EMTs, and Harris Teeter management would say when they gather around me; they would all be there at the scene. There I would lie, dead, mangled, possibly horribly disfigured, and they would not be able to help but piece together what kind of person I had been solely on the items I had just purchased. The Sunny Delight, Cookie Crisp, Chips Ahoy, 2% mile, the Ramen noodles, Mama Celeste frozen pizzas (three for two dollars). And just off to the side somewhere, lying under a package of string cheese growing mushier by the second against the heat of the asphalt, would be the chewable vitamins catching all the officials and gawking eyewitnesses off guard. I would be carted off to the morgue, but what of the groceries? Would they merely be thrown away? Maybe pilfered by some other shopper on their way out. Or would a cart boy be forced to collect what was salvageable and reshelf them all, recycled and resold to the next young consumer full ideals, dreams, and ambition?  

"Paper or plastic, sir?" the portly man at the register asks me.

I think for a moment: "Paper or plastic, plastic or paper?" Which one is worse for the environment? I'll show them, when they come to scrap my carcass, the shell of what I once was, off the parking lot they'll see my last display of reckless abandon and vigor. They will all shake their heads in disgust at the plastic or the paper, whichever is in fact worse for the environment, and ask, "Why?" My arrogance will shine through after my death, will boldly an un-reluctantly give them the middle finger.

"Sir, what is it going to be?" the clerk asks again.

"Plastic," I say without remorse, without hesitance, not looking the man in the eye in order to effectively convey my apathy.

"And would you like to apply for VIC card?" he asks. I pause for a moment. "Yeah, I would," I say. I know that I will be back next week.

-tedd-

Bored and Listless (get it?)

2007-02-28T01:45:00.000-05:00

I'm half in the bag and my roommates are asleep and I haven't had real human interaction for more than an hour in 48 hours and I'm watching/listening to old Jawbreaker videos/tunes and I am bored as hell and I don't know what the hell else to do, so here's the list I want to put up for the week. So here's the list and a couple of pictures of me drunk (one containing the other active purveyor of columns for this fair blog). Huzzah!

*All songs or albums by the same name are specified in parenthesis.

These are the songs/albums I listen while drinking alone. I listen to these pretty much every time I consume alcohol by my lonesome.

Jawbreaker-- Bivouac (song)
There's something about flipping your head straight back with a slight buzz and mouthing the word "Bivouac" as though you were screaming it a someone. You really just have to experience it.

31 Knots-- Breathe to Please Them
A recent phenomenon, but I think this one is going to stick around. An amazing song-- long, building and unbelievably pretty while maintaining a sense of unadulterated anger. SOLD.

BlueTip-- Join Us (song)
A song made for drinking alone and a complete rejection of other people. Isn't that really what drinking alone is all about? Thinking without the aid of groupthink?

Bruce Springsteen--Nebraska (album)
The entire album is perfect for drinking by one's self. Seriously. From the stories themselves to the overall feel of the music, I can't think of one better collection of songs for loneliness and self-examination.

Jawbreaker-- 24 Hour Revenge Therapy (album)
This is my favorite album of all time, so it fits in this category damn near perfectly.

Otis Redding--Dreams to Remember
This is the saddest little tale, but for some reason I feel better after hearing this gem. I could have put a million Otis songs on here. I could have put entire albums, but honestly this is the one.

Built to Spill-- Fling
A sweet ditty from There's Nothing Wrong With Love that absolutely floors me. The cello pipes in, Doug Marscht is making perfect sense-- it's just wonderful.

Decemberists-- California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade
A long and rambling song that just puts me down. This song is perfect for winding down, but enabling you to keep the wistfulness that simply envelopes a night by yourself.

Jimmy Eat World--Roller Queen
Honestly, I don't feel like explaining this one. I just don't.

Juno-- Leave a Clean Camp and a Dead Fire
Sometimes, friends, you just gotta rock.

Karate-- The Halo of the Strange
Brings me back to being in Iceland and Sweden. This one is fairly rare, but I pick it enough to count it. It was the only time I was abroad and it is my most positive memory of being in Europe with someone I barely knew and meeting no one (though I do love those countries and want to go back badly).

Red House Painters-- Another Song For a Blue Guitar/Have You Forgotten
Sometimes you have to not so much rock, but be horrifically sad and reminiscent.

Richard Buckner-- Dents and Shells (album)
Yes.

Se(bad)oh-- Bakesale (album)
Maybe Tedd will explain it to you if you don't already understand.

Small Factory-- Hi Howard, I'm Back
Both a sentimental and overall favorite from youth. This song epitomizes growing up in an environment of both casual respect and being looked down on. Being friends with my sister's older friends, I was essentially labeled as a nutcase and everyone's least favorite favorite for my formative years. This band nailed my angst with this song, and then I understood the rest of the album as I grew up more and more. Maybe it will be on the overlooked list. I'm not sure.

Shiner-- Surgery
An obituary for youth and an understanding of being a part of something that will never matter yet absolutely makes all the difference (kind of like writing for this site/ everything I want to do these days).

Ticonderoga-- Locked in the Back Freezer
Just an awesome reflective song.

Jawbreaker-- Bivouac (album)
See first song on list and then just add the rest. It's like that. Especially tonight.

Neil Young-- Only Love Can Break Your Heart
There is just something about Neil's whine that is perfect-- in this song especially. It makes for a perfect sadness and longing.

Guided By Voices-- Glad Girls
Strictly for the reminder of an old bar I used to hang out in (College Hill in Greensboro, NC).

Rolling Stones-- Wild Horses
Falling asleep to this song on repeat was a staple of my first three weeks in NYC and my last couple of nights in Greensboro, NC. Plus it is the consummate last call song for any good bar.

Wu-Tang Clan-- Enter the 36 Chambers (album)
Sometimes, you gotta feel it.

Ghostface Killah-- Stay True/We Made It
See above explanation.

Johnny Cash--In My Life
Amazing.

Beatles-- In My Life
Amazing.

and finally...

Jawbreaker--Kiss the Bottle
What, exactly, did you expect?

Running On Empty on The Capitol Beltway: The Day The Music Died.

2007-02-23T17:14:00.000-05:00

There is one thing that remained constant for me throughout my years living in Fairfax. There is only one thing that I ever upheld when returning from various college campuses hours from Northern Virginia. No matter the year, my own varying and changing interests, or what was going on in my generally banal life, my Ford Taurus’ radio presets always had the same station plugged in as preset number one—94.7 “The Arrow,” the self-proclaimed “Capitol of Classic Rock.”

Why is this? Is there something intrinsically comforting about hearing “Black Dog,” “More Than A Feeling,” or “Knights in White Satin” while careening north on I-95 or east on I-66? Perhaps there’s some kind of esoteric world-view that is upheld by play lists that rarely alter, but slowly broadened to include The Cars early 80’s material, or the occasional broadcast of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under The Bridge.” Whatever the plainly subtle or casually stark reasoning behind 94.7’s appeal (more than likely it was their annual barbeque battle in the heart of Washington D.C. featuring delicious cooking smells juxtaposed against the aging appeal of members of Blue Oyster Cult awkwardly clawing their way through a jamming-heavy set) the station has forged a special place on a local radio dial that bolsters nothing to anyone in particular. WHFS, the stalwart “alternative rock” station of the 80’s and 90’s became an outlet that is now devoted to playing the soundtrack to your last eat-out Mexican dining experience after having spent the last six years refusing to believe that there was music recorded after 1996—one can only hear Bush’s “Glycerine” or Sponge’s “Plowed” so many times before scanning around for other, less annoyingly nostalgic, options. For many FM-jaded and beltway-entrenched listeners like myself 94.7 was the only bastion of hope—the crappy inflatable life raft cast off the side of the sinking vessel HMS Suburbia.

Until my father grew to love nothing but silence in his well waxed, detailed, and perpetually new-car-scented Explorer I would be bombarded with Lynryd Skynyrd’s “The Breeze,” Wings’ “Band On The Run,” and a general retrospective of all things Bob Seger and Neil Young on my way to countless baseball practices, bi-annual trips to the mall for new Levi’s, and the occasional Baltimore Orioles game. This was a welcomed departure from Oldies 100 in my mother’s perfume drenched and ever overly warm sedan while being whisked off to the dentist, weekly allergy shots, scout meetings, and the math tutor. Perhaps this is why when I began my foray into driving our local classic rock station found its’ way to the top of my programmed stations: I not only enjoyed and respected the aesthetic of these rock bands, but I just simply associated “Love Me Two Times” and the dueling lead guitars at the end of “Hotel California” with going somewhere more fun than an office building with a creaky elevator and a bunch of medical supply boxes lining its antiseptic hallways. This fact alone is most probably responsible for me subjecting countless friends to road trips fueled solely by unleaded gasoline, several packs of cigarettes, many 20oz Coca-Cola’s, and extensive searches for another classic rock station, and thus a third, fourth, or even fifth listening of the “We Will Rock You” into “We Are The Champions” experience (for this I am most decidedly not sorry.) After all, it was “Slow Ride” which was so conveniently played by 94.7 as I edged my automobile back onto the interstate after receiving the first of many speeding tickets I have been issued¹.

And now I have learned that my next trip home, one which will be the first sans-Taurus or any car for that matter, will also be greeted not by “Jailbreak” or “Born To Run,” spun by a fear-inducing and poetically phallic station known as “The Arrow,” but some ratings-ready, and cuddlingly-cute inception known as “94.7, The Globe.” After having read up on this newly formatted radio frequency I must say I am nothing short of dismayed, and a little confused. The Globe is totting itself as a “Green Station,” and according to the website their mission statement is simply, “We want to be part of the solution.” The solution to what is unclear. Having done a little more research into this “green station” paradigm I have found that they seem to utilize a more environmentally friendly transmitter (I had no idea transmitters were capable of being harbingers of environmental ill) and plan to educate and promote eco-friendly causes/alternatives. This is just great. First the steady rock rotation of my youth and increasing and impending adulthood is stricken from my short jaunts home, and now to up the ante my favorite station is apparently being run by the staff of the local Whole Foods. Here is The Globe’s station outline as it appears on their website:

OUR MISSION:
WE WANT TO BE A PART OF THE SOLUTION.

1. THE GLOBE - We All share and have a vested interest in The Globe.

2. MUSIC MATTERS - Music is our priority. That's why we're here.

3. THINK GLOBALLY, ACT LOCALLY - As a Local Radio Station, we'll support our community...because we live here too.

4. REAL DEEJAYS, REAL PEOPLE - Our DeeJays know The Music and have a say in what they play.

5. LISTEN TO THE LISTENERS - This is your radio station. You will co-create it and author its evolution.

6. MUSIC DIVERSITY - Do you know anyone who likes just one kind of music? Neither do we.

7. BE ADVENTUROUS - We'll be open minded about new ideas, innovation and New Music.

8. DEEPER TRACKS - As we all know, there are songs worth playing that are not just the Hit Singles.

9. LESS REPETITION - Without repeating, belaboring, or saying this over and over and over again...well, enough said.

10. WE WON'T INSULT YOUR INTELLIGENCE - The Globe will have commercials (got bills of our own to pay) but we will try to keep them to a minimum and present them in a way that respects our listeners and our advertisers.

11. LET'S HAVE FUN - None of this is a joke, but seriously...let's have some fun.

12. WE'RE NOT TRYING TO SAVE THE WORLD - Oh wait…see #1.

Now I know that some of these bullets seem reasonable, but we all have been subjected to the empty rhetoric of newly programmed media outlets. I dare to ask what was the problem with having a balls-to-the-wall, Americans -in-America, style rock station? I implore you to think on how it is possible for a once barbeque-cooking, Budweiser promoting, George Thorogood-hosting, juggernaut can morph into a handholding, “eat your vegetables,” flaccid and blank-shooting, whimper of a station. In all seriousness The Arrow was the kind of outlet that once re-monikered themselves Boss Radio, playing nothing but Bruce Springsteen and The E-Street Band for the 48 hours leading up to his concert in the area². According to one article I read about The Globe there will now be a special Earth Day event involving the station—try setting “Thunder Road” or “Cat Scratch Fever” against that contextually rocking backdrop.

There is nothing I can do about this turn of events but quietly mourn the loss of my old friend, The Arrow—the once mighty Capitol of Classic Rock. As I commute to and from work here in New York each day I will hold you first in my mind as I listen to The Band, Crosby, Stills, and Nash³, Led Zeppelin, and Tom Petty on my iPod. I won’t ever forget how you gently, yet forcefully, got me out of bed and accompanied me to work or school each day—or how, once drinking age embraced me, you kindly and parentally urged me to “keep rock and you alive; don’t drink and drive.” What The Globe attempts to provide will certainly be a stern and glaring reminder of what we once enjoyed (and evidently many took for granted.) While I was not able to be within broadcast range of your last day of delivering quality classic rock, I can only assume that it all ended with a well- charted sequence of songs. When I hear it in my head it unfolds something like this⁴:

AC/DC-“Highway to Hell”
Bad Company-“Bad Company”
Lynryd Skynyrd-“Tuesday’s Gone”
The Band-“The Weight”
The Rolling Stones-“Wild Horses”

I can almost hear the dramatic and sweeping piano outro of “Layla” from here, as you boldly tried to fit in one last song before the granola stench of the new management pulled you and your 60 minute uninterrupted rock block away from the control console.

Godspeed friend.

__________________________________________

¹Rather than Tom Cochran’s soft rock classic “Life Is A Highway.”
²A bold move which caused my brother to actually call the station as they launched promotion at 9am on a Saturday morning.
³Maybe even Young.
⁴The first two selections are clearly in angry reaction to the infringement to come.

-tedd-

Heilig-Levine LP

2007-02-20T17:52:00.000-05:00

It's not often I can kill two birds with one stone but this is one of those times. Here is the second installment of the overlooked and unappreciated albums series and my choice for the best album of 2006. Now, I know this actually came out near the end of 2005, but like with my last list, if I didn't get to hear it until 2006, really, I count it. That's the way I do shit. Problems? Take that shit to the river and hold it underwater.

Ticonderoga- The Heilig-Levine LP

When I first heard Ticonderoga, I had no idea that amongst a few of my friends, this album would become an obsession. I also take credit for being the provocateur in a small, small way to a successful relationship for one of the band members (whom I’ve met briefly). In effect, I’ve been a “number one fan” since the beginning which is completely ridiculous. In fact, there is not one good reason I can give you as to why I picked this over Midlake or any of the other fantastic albums on this list. I just know it makes sense. It is complete, well written, experimental, full and flawless. Anyone who disagrees has a bias—that is how much I believe in this album.

The instrumentation, while large in scale never overemphasizes itself. You never hear an out of place organ or horn, never an unnecessary guitar noodling, never a part that does not fit. They incorporate unbelievable melodies with horns, violins, keys, and electronic noodling. Concordantly, the vocals are around when they should be, silent when they have to be. The lyricists/vocalists take chances with the ethereal and even silly lyrics in the middle of serious moments.

For example, in “They Can Run,” the seemingly stereotypical forlorn love song, the focus of the lyrics shifts numerous times including injured animals drawing metaphorical buggies, blood, sunburn, and tons of food. It ranges from feeling classical 1800’s storytelling (“bought a horse/ with cracked feet… so tie on/ your wagon and/ head due east”) to casual references to going out for drinks and sub sandwiches.

The rambling blues riffs in “Flippin’ Burgs” contrast heavily with the airiness of “Why Do You Suppose.” Neutral Milk Hotel-ish in nature, the latter song uses heady cleverness, yet offsets this with a solid build in instrumentation that arrives at a perfect point. Turns of phrase and excuses for abnormal behavior beget the self referential end lyric “Why do you suppose/ I just can’t leave you alone?” The serious building and enigmatic “Sparrow” is both stoic and sad with a twinge of emotional response to a very delicate storyline that explains just as much through telling lines (“Sorry, don’t be cross with me/ if bent back and broke your wing/ I’ll see all the vultures shadows on the ground/ they don’t look a thing like me) as the song does through violin breaks, cadenced drum rolls and the undeniably beautiful coda.

The seemingly excessive “Country Mouse” is, in effect, the introduction track to exactly how talented this band really is: a battle of wits with the excess determination to use every ounce of sweat an album can make without being gaudy to the listener. It seems at any time during The Heilig-Levine LP the listener would be overstimulated, but the opposite effect exists. Unlike the building triumph of an instrumental juggernaut like Godspeed, You Black Emperor! or Silver Mt. Zion (and etc.) Ticonderoga uses a sparse, three or pieces at a time to keep the affair simple. The result is spellbinding: rock songs like Poison Control and opener “Fucking Around” pay homage to the area that surrounds them (the formerly bustling with talent plains of collegiate North Carolina) with simple Superchunk-like drumming and loud guitar without any superfluous electronics or woodwinds, etc. The latter produced one of my favorite lyrics:

Your long winded clichés
Won’t make you different
They’ll just prove you desperate
And like the sunset you’ll be gone
Just fucking around.

Meanwhile, the gentler refined songs grab the listener in more subtle ways: the aforementioned “They Can Run” is a stripped down masterpiece, “Chatterton” closes the album with a mellow sulk (I’ll come over/ and use you/ don’t misunderstand me/ I’m still your bitch” creeps in after a long stringed introduction. “Snakes” uses more of a building approach with short melodic blasts of strings and a grandiose arrival to the song’s apex. The song itself is as important as its placement—proof that the subtleties matter as much as the music itself. “Centipede,” with its mid-tempo dexterity pares bares back the loudness of “Fucking round” and provides an anti-sing-along a cappella midpoint with outstanding lyrical juxtaposition to the song’s lazy format.

That’s just it: the lazy movements and captured moments of The Heilig-Levine LP is offset by the work put in. Like a beefed up Karate, everything seems especially easily but reproduction is exceptionally hard. Trust me; I’ve tried on both accounts. What makes this album unbelievable is not that it is fundamentally better than some of my favorite veterans (Built to Spill, Roots, Channels, etc.) or more ample than the newcomers (Midlake, Page France, Grizzly Bear, etc.). It’s just that, to me anyway, this album is more successful in incorporating the listener (instead of trying to exclude—more on this in a future article), involving themselves, and inventing a new, albeit subtly so, sense of sound.

website

myspace

label info

Oh really?!

2007-02-20T16:22:00.000-05:00

Is that so?

Also newsworthy, "Dogs Hear," and "Racism exists."

I'd like to ask... did they conduct this study at bookstores and fast food restaurants across the nation?

Music post will be up later today.

The Best of 2006... or something.

2007-02-11T16:21:00.000-05:00

Because I am bored and hungover and I forgot how much pleasure I derive from writing for this website, here's a list with some disclaimers and explanations.

Best of 2006
Disclaimer The not obvious rules for this list are as follows:
--No EPs
--If I couldn't remember it off the top of my domepiece, then it doesn't count
--I consulted two different best of lists 24 hours in advance to refresh my memory
--There is no order to the list and there is no number limit
--If I saw the band tour in support of the album in 2006, I count it (This only counts for one band)
On with the list:

Midlake "The Trials of Van Occupanther"
This disc absolutely floors me in every possible capacity. It's beautiful, insane, soulful, etc. It appeals to every possible side of my musical upbringing as well as my love of new and inventive ways of storytelling. If you don't like this album, I fear for you. I really do. You aren't listening (and I'll bet you don't hear sleigh bells either).

Life and Times "Suburban Hymns" (The aforementioned entry to the Toured in '06 rule)
This album opines the loss of the original suburbia and catalogs the semantics of childhood/adulthood in an enclosed state. Add to this the fact that Life and Times do this without a semblance of cheesiness-- fluidly and with an aura of floating above emotion and a physical manifestation of failure. It is an embodiment of an idea without exploitation, and it is damn near perfect.

Long Winters "Putting the Days to Bed"
I was told I would like these guys for so long. I was told and told and told. I finally listened. Thank Christ I did. Fun, purposeful pop-rock with well-crafted lyrics and an absolutism in the stories, John Roderick and company put together a masterpiece-- sonic, lyric and otherwise.

Page France "Hello, Dear Wind"
It's a reissue, but I'm putting it on here anyway. It's wussy, filled with religious sentiment and overall the exact record i would never let anyone hear me listening to. It's more than a guilty pleasure though. It's warm, unpretentious and an overall gem. It's what a child would write if he/she had the ability to master music-- I mean that in the best possible way. Seriously.

Ghostface Killah "Fishscale"
Ghost remarried his style in an inventive ceremony. He had something old (the hunger to demolish the new state of rap), something new (an alliance with some of hip-hop's best producers, something borrowed (the so called "coke rap" scene that he was a major force in to begin with), and something blue ("Whip You With a Strap" being one of Jay Dilla's finest beats just as he was immortalized).

Channels "Waiting for the Next End of the World"
I can't say enough about the best record of 2006. No really, I can't:
http://insigniaticcancer.blogspot.com/2006/08/our-lord-and-saviour.html AND
http://www.ampcamp.com/product_info.php?products_id=2643&osCsid=d591990b6cc964c70c8ec0df7a4967d5

Richard Buckner "Meadow"
Dear Lord. This man has changed the way I view music more than once now. It's gonna be REAL tough for me to listen to singer-songwriter stuff and not just want to break this CD out. He had the right hired help and the perfect sense of how to use it. Holy hell.

Converge "No Heroes"
Am I including this because I loved the last two records so much? Probably. These guys are still really fucking great though.

Low Skies "All the Love I Could Find"
This album records a painful progression through a lifetime of heartbreak. You can feel every single synapse twinge in your body when you listen to this record. Slow, downtrodden, angry, sad-sack songs that trudge through the only lesson worth writing about. This records absolutely NAILS the sound of broken men and women and their incredible stories of passionate mistakes. "I'm bound to fail you." That's just perfect, man. Just perfect.

Roots "Game Theory"
A return to the fold. I loved this album. That's all I gotta say.

Grizzly Bear "Yellow House"/ Califone "Roots and Crowns"
I get the same dreamy run-through feeling from both of these albums. Though they are not as alike as I make them sound, they have a quality only understood if you hear them. I actually believe the "Yellow House" and "Roots and Crowns" are indescribably put together, and both outstanding.

Built to Spill "You in Reverse"
Anything these guys put out would be in my best of, so describing this album is pointless. Just get it.

Mono "You Are There"
"You Are There" is an album of absolute sonic perfection. I can't imagine listening to this and not being destroyed. No shit.

(Late addition) Bruce Springsteen "The Seeger Sessions"
What, exactly, did you expect?

And that is the list, friends. Honorable mentions to J Dilla's "Donuts," (I just didn't listen to it enough to count it), Del Rey and Portastatic's "Be Still Please."

Feel free to shit all over this list. The next list will be my favorite albums in the world to listen to... it's about to get nerdy in here. Best of 2007? It'll include the Shins and Menomena. We already know that.

"Join Us."

2007-02-10T18:56:00.000-05:00

(Ed. Note: This is the first in a series of timely and remarkable albums; unloved and overlooked.)

When Bluetip’s Join Us came out in 1998, I had no idea who they were. In fact, I had only limited knowledge of their contemporaries. All I knew was Dischord Records had provided some other fantastic taste-altering selections in my young life: Minor Threat, Fugazi, Rites of Spring, Jawbox, Government Issue, etc. I was mostly juggling upbeat pop-punk (Promise Ring, Get-up Kids, etc.) and downtrodden rock (Jawbreaker, Sunny Day Real Estate). The former was a by-product of three years removed from society—a jaunt in military school that was as much fueled by jock-rock than any discernable tastes, i.e. I took what I could get and that was accessible pop—and the latter a notation of my life in a pit stop on the way to the North Carolina beaches. Jawbreaker (et al) and the occasional hardcore band were the outlets of choice for lifelong friends.

Bluetip’s importance, personally, ranged from a straightforward lyrical mentality. There was no referential “you” or lovelorn scenarios unexplained. There were no frills—no metaphors that didn’t fit or unwarranted emotional outbursts. The streamlined approach explained more without a victim mentality (victim’s mentality, see also: my entire record collection until 1999). This lack of showiness is, however big a downfall with modern audiences, a cat-call to the angry male (ages 18-27). This includes alternate takes on break-ups, the pursuit of happiness—including paring down one’s acquaintances while noting one’s loneliness)—work-related problems and a general awareness of one’s actions and consequences. From the first chord to the last, every phrasing complete thought, fragmented curse, and impartial judgment of character remains important to the ideas behind Join Us.

Joining Bluetip means a rejection of the groupthink ideal with absolutely no ideas on how to combat the consequences. It is, in fact, less embattled than the group’s angular rhythms and loud caterwauling would suggest. The overall aesthetic involves less acrobatic means than the norm—defensiveness and self-loathing—of personal lyrics. Instead of triumph over tragedy (or vice-versa), Join Us’ aesthetic involves a series of vignettes mixed with confessionals.

The first song, “Yellow Light,” is a short emphatic piece about as small victory leading to a greater understanding. It is a set-up for the failures and finality of the album’s stark awareness of faulty behavior:

Not always sad, just easier to write like that

When I’m depressed I think I want to stay like that

But man today things just barely went my way

It’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time.

(chorus) I made every yellow light today.

The improbability of something actually going well for the protagonist is immediately foremost. Later, when angry outbursts and separatism become the norm, the listener is not shocked. Instead, he/she awaits the levelheaded lyricist to explain himself. Songs like “Join Us,” “F-,” and “I Even Drive like a Jerk” may not repeat the simple and somewhat positive idea within “Yellow Light,” but they mirror the sensibility of self-awareness; of ordered (even sensed) dissension.

It’s that dissension that struck me when I heard “Yellow Light.” I was working at WUAG 103.1, the college radio station at UNC-Greensboro. I reached into the CD stacks to grab a Bluebird CD, an old staple for the end of my springtime radio shows. I didn’t realize I had the wrong CD until it was just about time to play, so I played the first song, a short one. Needless to say I enjoyed it on a technical level immediately. The brevity struck me—this song said a lot in a little time—and I was intrigued to hear more. I went and bought the album three days later ($4 bucks on vinyl… I miss North Carolina record stores). I sat in my room for days reading the lyrics and memorizing the phrasing. I remember being shocked that such a record existed and I had never heard of it. Other people had. In fact, when I would list them as one of my new favorites, most of the town’s music Nazis would dismiss my views for years to come. I still have this album to thank for being a musical outcast for my formative college years. Still, I play the record over and over. It never gets old.

Musically, Join Us’ high and low points are scattered. The first side (especially “Yellow Light,” “F-,” “Cheap Rip,” and “Salinas”) highlights the basic punk ethos: be fast, be loud, and be angry. These songs are the “recognition period” of the album. Other times, the aforementioned angularity assaults the listener—one could dismiss these as Fugazi/Jawbox rip-offs, but the precision would prove one wrong. This is not an album of noisiness or a “big” sound. For example, the title track is an admission of guilt and a dismissal of groupthink. Musically, it resembles a parity of their influences, but lyrically it separates itself entirely. A party of friends and enemies is described at one point as, “…so many in one place saying ‘you don’t count.’” The lyrics lead the listener to believe that the speaker’s loneliness is a chosen lot, but that line gives away the desperation of being appraised.

Before “Join Us,” however, is the most atypical song on the album. “Cheap Rip” displays the lyrical cleverness, and musical assault of which Bluetip was capable. The description of writing an angry letter replaces the actual feelings being expressed to the person addressed in the letter. This use of the objective correlative is the separation point that defines Bluetip compared to their late-nineties (and onward) counterparts. Where most would describe the contents of the letter, they describe the process:

Third draft trying to scrawl “sorry,”

Take a second as I fold it slowly.

Stamps make shitty band-aids,

My letters come back stamped, “fuck the sender.”

The process makes up for the trite and abrupt lines. The listener can forgive raw emotion when it is masked, or in this case, introduced with an apologetic sense of accomplishment. We are more likely to understand the sentimentality of the situation if we actually know about it. Rather than resuscitating a vague image of love or broken-heartedness, Bluetip resurrects the ideas of being surreptitiously apologetic. The protagonist’s obstinacy is realized during the task—he learns this as we learn this.

“Carbon Copy” is a repetitive slow-to-a-fault build toward the more pointed “Salinas.” Its vagueness is expressed both lyrically and structurally. The riff maintains its confusion and drudgery throughout while the lyrics repeat themselves:

I hear the S’s of their conversation.

I would be angry but I appreciate the honesty.

I press out days in perfect carbon copy.

I used to get angry, now I like the consistency.

In the “everyman” lyrical approach, Bluetip provides a cautious look into the skullduggery of work conversations—the craftiness of a man listening to other’s talk and assume that he is involved recalls the paranoia of Poe or Dostoyevsky set to an abrasive blues rock riff—the perfect song for Jason Farrell’s Rockabilly-esque vocal swagger.

“Castanet” offers the first glimpse into the speaker’s cause for anger: “I must’ve severed everyone I knew/ on the day my sisters pointed out the sense to call it quits with you.” Jason Farrell yells this with no accompaniment; driving home his own unwillingness to avoid problems (though the albums seems to be centered on ridding the protagonist of his problems). The solution is both omnipresent and unstated. While the listener knows that Farrell is obviously opining for a change, the change is in name only. He knows that losing someone’s company does not mean their lasting impression goes anywhere: “If I miss you, I can still do a damn good impersonation.”

The second side is a scatterbrained affair—“I Even Drive like a Jerk” is a marathon of prophecy and emphatic self-assuredness. It opens: “I got myself convinced/ that if I do die/ it’ll be in a car wreck/not as a direct result of any cross-eyed looks/ I might be getting from you.” Vocalist Jason Farrell gives more away in this song than any. The conditional feelings of his narration (if I die…) are his fault completely, but he at least claims to have another person in mind. The mystery guest is possibly a victim of his own beliefs, or the same person continually referenced in a justifiable break up (re: “Castanet”).

“Bad Flat” is the anti-anthem—a mid-tempo jam that uses staccato vocal meanderings with clever phrasings: “Every good day gets old.” “Sugar, come back to the cavity.” This song could double as a reprehensible study of a man drawn to drama or, simply, a case study in bad days and car trouble. Either way, it begins the descent of the album—the beginning of the album’s “giving up period.”

At some point, the general idea seems to be that nothing gets better. In 1999, I was unsure of this, but as I get older alongside Join Us—its unvarying nature and the constant brutality of mundane affairs—that idea has followed me throughout my ventures. At no point is this more prevalent than writing this article. The fading in and out of the final riff in the instrumental “Cold Start” running it’s course (J Robbins showing his face, no doubt). I am reminded of the past few jobs, the last few years, the rejections, the loss, the continual bleeding of good friends into the vastness of the coastlines, and the overtly negative feeling that belies each day not doing exactly what I love doing.

Still, the “giving up period” of the album retains the bittersweet dissension of small victories. “Jersey Blessed,” the precursor to “Cold Start,” is a true testament to the observational Farrell being overcome with his own irritability. The song centers on a constant riff, and the music gives way to the storytelling. It is the New Year’s story of a man drinking alone while surrounded by his own personified loneliness: “Watched New Year’s hit in an upstate bar/ men’s liquor breath that whispers/ “Please let me be liked./ Start my new year right.” “Noses sour cross the faces of girls smelling desperation/ so they stay unfocused.” “Men’s courting kisses miss their mark/ they start grasping at strings.” As the night progresses, fights erupt, and Farrell equates wanting to be liked to being punched in the face. This metaphor is completely natural given the specifics of the story and the overall feel of the album. The story itself being altogether believable is one thing, but Farrell making us believe his lesson learned is another.

The album, until this point, had made several assertions, but none as severe as the grandiose one set in the final songs. Farrell’s understanding comes full circle in “Slovakian.” His travels (presumably on tour) take him to Europe, and meet him with like-minded individuals. His return home brings his recurring anger (as described in every other song) to a boil. His (Henry) Jamesian look at his viewpoint while removed from America is a perfect settling point; a place to rest after an album of pointed complaints and matter-of-fact misanthropy. Through blaming his surroundings, Farrell reminds the listener of anticipation “…of tomorrow’s headaches, the soft reminder for what I done today.” Content in his current surroundings, he makes a final judgment call—repeated during and after the song—“It’s yesterday back home.”

Fittingly, the return is glossed over. As are the final rebuttals and mentions of lessons learned. The point, finally, is as graspable to the listener as it is to the band. Through the impartiality, the banality, and the backstabbing, Join Us is a rejoinder to the vagueness of a Fugazi and the specific verboseness of a Jawbox. Bluetip wrote an accidental antithesis—an anticlimax of antipathy that drives home a point lost on most. Sometimes, there is no point. To a soon-to-be twentysomething, knowing that there was no point, that everything and nothing is your fault, that you have right to be angry, is pretty important. I’ve come to realize that these ideas are just as important now. The 1999 and 2007 versions of me don’t have a lot in common other than this album. Yet, in fact, Bluetip proves the old adage true: “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” I like the way they put it: “It’s yesterday back home.” The revolving doors of new and old lessons conjoining are, indeed, a Carbon Copy. Maybe I’m not so angry now, but I get it. Join Us is a big reason why.

See also: Retisonic (current Jason Farrell project).

Absurdist Media Celebrates One Year Of Little Importance!

2007-02-09T11:20:00.000-05:00

In the grand spirit of self-acknowledgment I would like to humbly admit to you, the consummate reader, that February is not merely a collection of passing days for bundling up against the climate with the warm remembrance of African-Americans of note—ah, how Tubman’s Underground Railroad curls itself around the exposed skin of your neck like a thick and lovingly crafted scarf--or Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Dubois’ subtle written rivalry pulls itself over one’s head as reaching and hopeful arms boldly find their way through arm holes of a well-worn sweater which only grows warmer with age. Nay, dear reader the shortest month of the year also now commemorates the one anniversary of Absurdist Media’s clinically induced, and entirely labored, birth!

And what a year it has been.

Cover letters were written and thoroughly ignored by perspective employers, a well cushioned couch (and constant companion) was paid a loving tribute, hastily written fiction was delivered to the masses for better or worse, largely banal observations were explicated and generally noted in a lengthy fashion. Names were named, apologies were made and retracted, once inhabited areas were visited and discussed, Starbucks’ were visited simply for their lascivious internet connections, and through it all the constant hum and dim lighting of the laptop prevailed.

So, what can we expect in the second year of a fledgling and seldom read Internet blog?

I would not begin to speculate on such things but if trends continue, and by “trends” I mean stolen moments in which I am able to jot down potentially grand essay ideas on the train or at work, there is the possibility of several multi-part, dictioned odysseys on topics as varied as music to laser hair removal, cartography to the increasing disappearance of the El Camino on Eisenhower’s fine interstate system of highways. What Jeff may have in store for the next year remains a mystery to me as he is stubbornly holing himself up for hours a week watching television and obsessing over product placement, and all the while tightening his grip on his rarely discussed dream of owning the most sensitively stripped wardrobe this side of the East River.

It is also necessary to thank those of you who have left of comments over the last twelve months. Not only is it nice to see what you think about our ramblings, but it just nice knowing that someone is actually stumbling across our page and taking a moment to see what we have to say (my apologies to those who were googling Jadakiss, Panic! At The Disco, etc. who were looking for anything remotely insightful or biographical on either topic).

So let’s all keep our fingers crossed against self-implosion on the part of Jeff and myself, and have a wonderful new year with much of the same from Absurdist Media—like NPR, but without relevance, know-how, a studio, pleasantly soothing speaking voices, a well-honed and executed vocabulary, tote bags at pledge drive time, or legal representation.

-tedd-

"I want a new drug..."

2006-12-19T16:04:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's been the inappropriately mind-numbing hug of the holiday retail season here in New York--one which allots me 40+ hours a week of which to watch my boss' bank account inflate to national debt eradicating levels--maybe it's coming to grips with the fact that the notion of a "Christmas bonus" is merely something which is fretted over by Clark Griswald in "Christmas Vacation," or quite possibly it's just that stacking books vertically on tables is neither economically or emotionally fulfilling, but I've been entertaining the thought of seeking more gainful employment of late. When I first moved to the grand illusion that is New York City about a year ago I spent a month scouring employment pages looking for work. I quickly gave up on every 20-something's internet resource for such things--the mysterious and sexy Craigslist--after seeing postings that read (and I'm not making this up): "Helicopter pilot with helicopter" and "Best Selling Novelist Wanted." Rather than plod my way through endless ads for unpaid internships or positions in the highly glamorous flyer/street-soliciting field I intend to heavily market myself to some lesser-known industries that would certainly necessitate someone of my highly resourceful caliber and moral candor.

Job 1: Gun Shooting Range Attendant

While I have a limited relationship with fire arms, mainly BB guns and .22s at Boy Scout camp in 90's, I feel every confidence that I can lovingly distribute ammunition, rental weapons, targets, and hearing saving ear muffs to what I'm sure is a culturally and intellectually diverse clientele. Returning home at the end of an enriching and stimulating day of helping citizens blare away at paper targets adorned with human shaped silhouettes I will crack a cold, non-imported beer brewed by the humblest of breweries and curl up with the relaxing knowledge that a small percentage of my regions gun-totters will more successfully administer a kill shot next time they are presented with opportunity to do so.

Job 2: High Rise Window Cleaner

I remember reading a classified add in Greensboro, North Carolina's error-ridden daily paper, The News and Record, for a company hoping to employ a person to clean the exteriors of the unassuming downtown office buildings. The pay was exceptional (in the neighborhood of $20/hr down the street and two blocks over from Health and Dental Benefits Ave.) and I almost sent in an application despite being terrified of heights. Perhaps wearing the tightly secured hat, or helmet, of a high rise window cleaner in New York City would help me conquer my phobia, or at least give my co-workers something to laugh at as I uncontrollably squirm and weep at 70-80 stories above street level. Maybe they just need someone to drive the truck to the work site and be waiting with coffee and cheese sandwiches when the rest of the crew returns to the sweet, sweet surface of the Earth.

Job 3: Psychiatrist's Receptionist

My good friend Mike is currently making preparations to begin this doctoral work in psychology. I'm really proud of Mike for this. I met this fine gentleman when we were thrown together freshmen year in the prestigious and architecturally shameful halls of Hillman Dormitory at Emory and Henry College. I eventually left Emory and Henry after my sophomore year (I also spent rooming with Mike) but we've stayed in touch, and close friends, over the years and one of things he has mentioned in the past few months is about the eventual practice he would like to start. This got me to thinking that maybe I could work the front desk, schedule appointments in a large ledger, scurry around with manila folders, and check clients in and out. I mean if nothing else I would have a fantastic time trying to guess who was suicidal, manic-depressive, suffering from "personal demons" at the hands of a plethora of vices available to us, the modern human, and create a points system to award myself for correct wagers on a person's mental illness. I would call this game "Guess the Wealthy Persons Problems" and would hangout around the water cooler waiting for the doctor in the afternoon with carefully prepared records of my highly informed waiting room diagnosis and taunt him/her with the fact that I am drastically under educated in comparison, and still know what "selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor" means. Then I will ask for a raise.

Job 4: Street Sweeper

As most rappers will tell you, "It's real out on the streets," or "There's no such thing as criminal justice. This is street justice . . ." Etc. With as much talk as the streets get I think being the lucky individual to clean such a cultural muse would be the noblest of undertakings. If I manage to perfect this art perhaps Bed-Stuy will one day be adorned with a statue bearing my likeness holding my dearest possession: A broom. I don't really know where I'm going with this, but at least I'd be outside on pleasant afternoons and I could deflect the elementary school taunts off of the kid that I was when I was eight years old onto me, the poverty line, municipal employee . . . or maybe I just like the feel of Dickies against my skin. It's incendiarily sublime!

Job 5: Cross Country Truck Driver

Maybe the best route for me to take is that of the loner. Forget friends, women and the like--I'm married to the road. Bandying across state lines with only diesel fuel and no-dose to accompany me I will impose my own eruditions and 2am epiphanies onto the thematic truths of the song "Convoy." I will arrive at my trans-continental destination in a grizzled, pedagogic, and timeliest of fashions. I will always allow faster traffic to pass me on the left and my flawless safety record will be heralded by all of my beer-gutted peers. There will be no truck stop too greasy, too unclean, or under-stocked in novelty items to be graced by my eighteen wheels of glory. When the time comes to hang-up my unironic mesh cap and belt buckle, I will settle down with a woman I'm sure will bare a striking resemblance to Emmy Lou Harris in the mountains of Virginia, grow a casually rural beard, and write painfully acoustic songs that steal chord changes from The Band. My lap steel guitar player will be named "Tiny" due to his shocking corpulence, and the steering wheel with the metal ball on it will hang from my rustic home's wall, which my Emmy Lou Harris-like wife will catching me staring cloudy-eyed at as the sun rises over Appalachia, knowing that my heart will ever be cruising at 65 mph across I-40 towards to the sunset.

If anyone out there has read all of this, and can make my new career a reality, please contact me through this website concerning my future employment by your company. My cover letter can be found in the archives of this very blog under “Can You Take Me Hire Enough?” and I am more than willing to send any other materials you may need in regards to determining salary offers etc.

Hope everyone has a nice holiday doing what you're doing.

-tedd-

iCaffeination.

2006-11-29T13:42:00.000-05:00

So the pirated Internet connection we at Deception House have been suckling on like the financially malnourished infants we are has seemingly dried up this week, and driven me into the tastefully and carefully decored confines of a Starbucks Coffee. I've been sitting here for about an half hour or so guzzling down a $4.50 something-or-other (it has whipped cream though) and suddenly became inclined to write about some of the albums I've incessantly listened to over the last few years--this is probably due to the overwhelming lack of variety on the itunes that is pumping through my headphones at the moment. What I've decided to do is throw the itunes on the festive "party shuffle" setting and then write a brief piece about the album that each song is culled from, resulting in what I'm sure will be your immense satisfaction and entertainment.

2:09pm: Converge, "Jane Doe."

The first time I heard this album was in the blindingly white and unwindowed confines of a register count-out room in the back of Tower Records in Fairfax, Virginia. Our "hardcore" manager was pumping it out of a small boom box in corner as he recklessly and expertly blazed through a drawer of twenty-dollar bills and a smattering of ones and fives. Until this time I had only associated Converge with two things 1) Being straightedge and 2) Straightedge kids enjoying breakdowns by pummeling one another. "Jane Doe" quickly changed all that for that me. I still don't think I've heard anything quite as angry as the sound produced on this record. I remember when it came time to mix the ill-fated Quell album Sammy said he used "Jane Doe" as the gauge for the overall volume on the mix.

2:16pm: Radiohead, "OK Computer."

The summer of 1997 was an odd time for me. I was 16. I worked at Pizza Hut for $4.25 an hour. It was the summer before I was sent to military school. I played the 8-Bit Nintendo game "Dragon Warrior II" incessantly in my basement bedroom while listening to "OK Computer." Far too much has been written, spoken, speculated, assumed, and theorized about this album for me to do such here. All I will say is that this album's songs create angular images in my head and it always has--and I have no idea as to what I mean by that. "OK Computer" is arguably one of the best written, arranged, produced, and executed albums of the 90's and meant that the group of unsmiling Brits were no longer just musicians, but "artists" (whatever that's supposed to mean). It also catapulted the popularity and clout of Thom Yorke--the lazy-eyed boy hero of undergraduate drama/art majors, disaffected suburban youth, and the generally depressed--as an original voice in an oversaturated and wholly unoriginal musical landscape.

All I knew at 16 was that what I was hearing was really fucking good, and was probably trying to relate lines like "For a minute there I lost myself," or "When I am king you will be first against the wall" to my socially retarded teenage life, and that when 4:30 came around I would turn my CD player off, save my character's progress on Dragon Warrior, and press the power and reset buttons simultaneously on the NES in order to not lose my quest data, and leave to go to work.

2:27pm: Engine Down, "To Bury Within the Sound."

Roughly three months before this album came out on Lovitt Records I attended my first ever MacRock festival in Harrisonburg, Virginia. My college roommate Mike and I barreled up I-81 to this mountainously sleepy college town for a weekend of independent music. High on my list of bands to see was Engine Down. In 1999 I had my head firmly up the asses of Lovitt Records' bands, especially Engine Down. This would be the first time I saw the band play of what was at least twenty before their demise in 2005, and was ultimately the best. "To Bury Within the Sound" was Engine Down's departure from screamed vocal lines (something I was, and still am, a huge proponent of) but they made up for it with depth of musicality and one of the strongest rhythm sections I've ever heard. To me Engine Down's next two albums simply never matched the previous two, but Jason Wood's bass lines and Cornbread Compton's drumming only got better--the bass playing on Engine Down records is what I've always tried to emulate when I've played and recorded with my own bands since.

2:40pm: At The Drive-In, "Relationship of Command."

For a time in the late 90's and into roughly 2001 At The Drive-In were the band to have seen live. It seemed like every show I went to I'd overhear kids with one-strap bags, brown pants, and black glasses talking about the singer climbing around on amps, the painfully thin guitarist throwing his guitar around, and the general chaotic energy of their live set. I never got to see the band live myself, but when I bought "Relationship of Command" I got it. And I got it damn quick. I used to drive around Emory, Virginia's rural back roads in my Ford Taurus blasting this album and screaming along for hours on end when I needed to clear my head. I would come back with a soar throat, the stench of Camel Lights on my clothing, and meet up with Mike and go eat pizza in the cafeteria feeling much better about everything. Thank you At The Drive-In. Thank you.

2:53pm: Wilco, "Yankee Hotel Fox Trot."

I've loved Wilco for a long time. I distinctly remember listening to their album "Being There" in my barracks room in Echo Company in Fork Union's Memorial Hall on my first afternoon there. My platoon leader, LT Vatne, made me turn it off because I wasn't supposed to listen to music while I was learning how to wax my floor, but I listened to it really quietly anyway. Fast-forward about four years and I'm at Gate City Noise in Greensboro, North Carolina buying "Yankee Hotel Fox Trot." This album is Wilco's equivalent of "Pet Sounds." I've never liked the "you have to listen to it on headphones to appreciate it" kids, but this is one of those records. There are so many sonic layers to these songs that I'm still picking up new things when I listen to it today. I think the best statement I've heard about this album, and Wilco in general, was made by my friend Jonathan at College Hill in Greensboro as the song "Poor Places" filled the PBR soaked bar: "I don't know man. Wilco is one of those bands that write songs I only want to listen to alone. You know what I mean? I don't really want any of you all around me right now."

3:05pm: Jimmy Eat World, "Clarity."

There are so many routes I could go with this one. I could talk about how good Jimmy Eat World used to be before they turned into whatever it is they are now--which is essentially a substantially chubbier and less-interesting band than before. I could site one of the many times I listened to this album on a road trip several times in a row, and the conversations that occurred over it. Hell, I could even talk about the bonding I've done with many of my current and most important friends over a mutual admiration for "Clarity." Instead all I will say is that one time I was studying for a final exam with a girl whose name I can't remember in my bedroom at 208 Wilson Street. During a break in our furious review of mathematics this girl began coming onto me extremely hard. A bit later she was browsing my record collection and came across "Clarity" and said, "Oh, I didn't know Jimmy Eat World had more than one album--I thought "Bleed American" was it." At this point I asked her to leave my house. As I walked her to the porch and closed the front door behind her my roommates who were in the living room asked, "What was that all about?"
"She thought Jimmy Eat World had only one album," I said.
Collectively my three roommates let an extremely sincere and lazy, "Ohh."
My roommates and I were total assholes. But "Clarity" is that good.

I'm going to leave this foray at that as the tables here at Starbucks are becoming hot commodities, and customers in very nice wool coats and shoes are lurking around like people looking for parking spaces at a shopping mall during Christmas season. That and I feel like I'm a living museum exhibit in the front window here entitled "The caffeinated and technologically savvy modern man."

-tedd-

Some Musics

2006-11-12T12:56:00.000-05:00

I’ve always dreamed of having a free CMJ pass—imagining myself gallivanting around the city seeing all the bands I’ve ever wanted to see made me believe in a higher power. In effect, my vision was skewed a bit. The way it worked out, I got tickets to the weakest CMJ in recent memory. Even the Sub Pop showcase was fairly weak (I didn’t go). It gave me a chance to concentrate on some of my favorite bands from a few years ago and some new ones. Here’s a wrap-up of some of my favorite performances.

Photo Credit: Rich Merritt via Cinemechanica.com

Cinemechanica
Hello Sir Records Showcase

Having multiple drummers used to be an obscure idea unless you were Paul Simon or Santana. Now, the idea is burgeoning into a full scale movement. Among the advocates are Fugazi (live only), the Melvins, Del Rey, and a slew of up and coming acts. Cinemechanica put on the loudest and most emphatic act I saw at CMJ this year.

Cinemechanica has always left me dazed after their shows. It used the video-game atmosphere—the back and forth note crammed guitars playing off of one another, the angry lyricists, the seeming importance of their dedication to being technically superior. Now, after a lineup change that includes a second drummer and new bassist, they leave me confused. Gone are the lyrics and shouting, and entered are the (longer darker louder) instrumental sequences. Gone are the days of sing along pointing and clapping. Enter the maturation process.

This doesn’t mean they’ve left behind the edginess or given up on their old sound. In fact, you can still hear their desire for showmanship. As their drummers roll through fill after fill, you can feel the energy the percussion gives to the crowd and the players themselves. It would seem that with the advent of their additions, they’ve subtracted their preposterousness and become the band they were destined to be: better than nearly everyone around them. It’s what they’ve
strived for, and they are close. I am lucky enough to have witnessed the transformation.

Each song better than the last and a buildup to the finale—an 8 plus minute rock out—this was the performance that kept me from seeing The Shins. Admittedly, I was pissed the entire night, but ready to support old friends. By the end, I was completely overwhelmed. I had watched the beginning of what should be the pinnacle of a fantastic band. This was much better than seeing some new songs from their old sound. Cinemechanica, in effect, proved themselves by hyperextending their more comfortable dynamic—expanding the limits of so-called “nerd” rock to become impossibly overwrought. I mean that in the best way possible. Afterwards, they were haggard and spent; ready to cut everyone in half to see if we were alive. If we were, it was thanks to them.

You can hear them on myspace.com/cinemechanica or you can find them on hellosirrecords.com. Do it.

An update...

2006-11-09T00:39:00.000-05:00

Happy Democrats' Day, all.

Just to let you know, I have a few posts coming up on some wonderful bands I saw at CMJ. Should be one a day for the next week or so. Be prepared.

J--/ The Media Absurdist

A new story...

2006-10-27T20:58:00.000-05:00

You know the drill. The story comes from a writing session. This time, my friend Eric and I wrote a story about diving. The character had to have asphyxiation hallucinations and see Neptune in some form. Here goes.

Marco at the Bar

Marco took a weekend off from work for the first time in three years, and now he was having underwater oxygen problems. He knew it, because, his large hands shook violently. He was outside of some shipwreck remains. His vision was blurry. He began to try and keep abreast of the situation. He estimated the time of day. Right now, he would be loading in one of the larger orders of the day, and overtime would have kicked in a couple of hours. He could see his boss in his office, taking a break from his laptop long enough to stare at Marco and his crew.

He was a decent manager, Marco, and his strength was working alongside his men. Where were they now, his team? His counterparts? They could not feel the water, the slime of the ocean floor, nor could they see the beauty of the ocean life around him. Distended barracudas slithered alongside of him, their tales caressing his extremities. Swimming low to the ground, they seemed to be inviting him beyond the ship’s remains. He was powerless but to go with them. Why weren’t they attacking? Was there a friendly barracuda? Did his team send them along?

His team could only see the inside of the workspace—the warehouse’s standing water and sweat smell due to lack of air conditioning—and maybe slivers of light leaking in through the windows. Maybe a door was open. Maybe. The bossman hated that sort of thing. The less you see of the outside world, the better. Marco adapted that idea into his own thinking. He mainly worked and went home. Sure, he hit the local bars sometimes with his crew to maintain friendships with his men. He would mention the boss’s wife and drank cheap beer. He would come into work hung over on occasion. Mostly, though, he was in on time and the last one out, filing away paperwork to make everyone’s jobs easier. He was boring and consistent, but beloved for it. The occasional crack about his lifelessness would creep around, but longtime friends and employees would defend him. He heard. He knew. When he took a weekend off to dive—something he used to do before his managerial position—they were impressed. He walked with an excited and prideful step the whole week awaiting his trip.
The stingrays danced around him jubilantly, colored with red and blue ribbons extending from their prongs. They did conga lines around him, slinging dirt over his mask. Seahorses would clear his vision while scallops would drink brine from multicolored flasks talking shit about their ex-wives. Eels were nodding in agreement making their bodies shapely in mixed company. Sharks sat with Remoras complaining about the economic growth in the Pacific as compared to the stagnant Atlantic. Human dumping! There was the problem. Monocles dangled from the eyes of Pompano, and Sea Mullet raced around drunkenly trying to find willing hellhounds. A lone Rockfish twisted and bumped on a makeshift stage above the rest of the action. Music piped in, but was indiscernible.

What would the boss or the boys think of these sea creatures—these crustaceans quibbling over sports records and placement in the all time canon of speed and prowess in hunting prey? Marco wondered why the animals were so frisky. Why, when he was unable to come to the ocean so often, would they put on such a marvelous show? Why not when he was young and able-bodied; available to banter alongside them—admit that he thought their life was as good as, nay better, than his own? His dream of the sea was that of an ordered existence much like his own.

True, Marco was a lonely man. On land, he was barely noticeable—a “shop guy” with little chance to escape his scheduled pattern. As his routine dictated, he had no time for real motivation to the arts, love, or any extended understandings of the world beyond his narrow existence, but he was proud of his accomplishments. There were other smarter people around him who made less money and had less opportunity than he did. His bulky frame showed signs of aging—a cursory glance would see a balding gutted man, though strong in upper body from years of lifting. Thin red hair grew over half his ears, and his ruddy complexion was highlighted by thickly framed black glasses. He was no main attraction, but his appearance was unimportant to him.
Now it was different. His body shook for an extended period of time—seemingly from lack of air. The sea was a violent dark, but brightness fell over him. He was in the spotlight. His body’s violence was lifted, and he fell into a rhythmic set of motions. Pointing and dancing, he delighted the creatures crowded around the ship. They laughed and clapped. He tried to yell out, but his body seemed to lift above the fray. He flew upwards over the crowd as it burst into standing ovation. He tried to thank them. His eyes closed with pride. Pressure from years of repression lifted from him. The fish were less frequent, the light around him stronger. His eyes fluttered open and closed. Would that the boys saw that. He was in complete control then. He imagined his boss seeing it all peeking from the side of his desk.
The men raised him toward the top of the water, but he had no idea he was being rescued. He could make out a human figure above him. Shimmering brightly, the man was smiling and motioning for him. One of the guards had his hand around Marco’s shoulder leading him. He was not aware he was being lifted from his certain death.. As far as Marco was concerned, Neptune himself was asking to see him in a brightly lit, sky blue office—extending forever against the murkiness of the undersea nightclub still abuzz; still clamoring for an encore.

I Write Nonsense, Not the Tragically Anthemic.

2006-10-24T17:23:00.000-05:00

I, Tedd Wood, have been more than guilty in the past of perhaps entertaining opinions about music/bands that fall well within the realm of "far too vehement." This was especially true from the years between 1997-2003. To my credit I have made special efforts to keep particular viewpoints on music to myself--particularly when someone is telling me how much they love The Strokes, Fall Out Boy, or Dashboard Confessional. I feel that a large portion of my improvement in this arena is due to be blindingly poor to records stores in the last nine months. My fiscal inability to stay abreast with vinyl and CD purchases has rendered me lost in a forest of nostalgia in my living room with only my previous album purchases and cunning to protect me.

However, this month all that has changed.

In previous posts I have alluded to my purchase of a Led Zeppelin DVD this summer that allotted me a free magazine subscription. While this should have been an afternoon for celebrating and wallowing in the decadence of my luck (I now owned well over three hours of Zeppelin footage from 1968-1975 in addition to receiving a free periodical) fate instead handed me a nutmeg of misfortune. I am only permitted to view my Zeppelin DVD when no one else is home because of my roommates' unwillingness to hear me ramble on (you see what I did there) about how under rated John Paul Jones' arrangements and bass lines are to the band's overall musical canon, and Chuck Klosterman--the sole reason I wanted a subscription to a fledgling-for-relevance magazine like SPIN anyway--stopped writing for the publication not but two months later.

Which brings me to the issue at hand (literally).

The latest edition of SPIN features a cover that makes me physically angry. For the past two to three weeks the band Panic! At the Disco have been staring up at me from the home of all of my apartment's monthly magazines, the bathroom floor. I've never liked this band's music. My first encounter with the gender-vague hipsters of Panic! At the Disco was via the Fuse network. "I write sins not tragedies" is quite possibly the most banal example of song writing I have encountered since the band Thursday gained their ten minutes of popularity a few years ago dismantling a levee through which groups like My Chemical Romance, Motion City Soundtrack, Taking Back Sunday, and insert nasally-aggressive-three-word-name-band here poured out of. For a solid year one of my favorite, and most frustrating, activities was to guzzle a six pack of Schlitz beer ("Just the kiss of hops!") and watch Fuse in my Greensboro home and witness the total absurdity of what was unfolding on the 32 inch box that lived on the side of the living room the couch did not. What I witnessed during the span of my six pack was that evidently this wave of "punk" rock wants to be remembered on VH1 in 10-15 years as when 80's hair metal glamour mated with new-wave chic and subsequently adopted the (lack of) musicality of Billie Joe Armstrong and his Green Day cohorts.

But I digress.

Panic! At the Disco is a terrible band, and I'm sure they are each deplorable human beings. If the cover shot from SPIN does not make you upset then I, sadly, cannot help you (or know you) anymore. It looks like Culture Club wandered into A Flock of Seagulls back stage wardrobe room, became confused as to how to exit, so both bands decided to fuck their way out and twenty years later we're stuck with a band that has an exclamation point in the middle of their damn name.

Much like my cigarette smoking Panic! At the Disco should, nay, MUST, be stopped. Who needs a drink?

-tedd-

A Vague Sketch of Somewhere in Particular

2006-09-28T11:03:00.000-05:00

I recently took a three-day excursion to my parent’s house in Fairfax, Virginia in order to pick up a television I had left behind and play the role of "good son" and visit with Mom and Dad. I haven't properly lived in Fairfax since I was 16 years old—my "homes" being a smattering of rural Virginia barracks' rooms, college dormitories, dilapidated punk rock houses in central North Carolina, an enormous downtown abode in Richmond, Virginia, and a humble and unassuming apartment in Queens. Throughout these forays I've always made the occasional trip back to Fairfax, and with each passing visit it becomes more apparent that the house I grew up in is no longer my home. I don't mean this in the dramatic "Garden State" pool scene dialogue sense of the "idea of home," but more in a casually "it's-getting-weirder-and-weirder-to-come-home" kind of a concept. While holed up in my basement--a barely recognizable shell of where I used to furiously pass my time as a teenager—I wrote the following bit of something as the cable television hummed on in the background.

A Vague Sketch of Somewhere in Particular.

Fairfax is a series of unromantic realities. Fairfax is an endless sprawl of strip malls with banking chains seemingly changing with each visit and casually situated in the corner of their parking lots. Fairfax is all-too traversable roads named Backlick, Rolling, Braddock, Burke Lake, Ox, and Lake Braddock Drive. These roads carried my friends and I aimlessly through nights without destination. These 45 mph stretches eventually led us to places like Waco, Austin, Mexico, Tallahassee, Emory, Blacksburg, Greensboro, Richmond, New York, Norman, Chicago, and Seattle; to colleges, jobs, the military, the arms of fiancés, and the bottom of bottles. Fairfax is Twinbrooke Music where I learned how to play guitar, Main Street which has now been re-routed, Yesterday's Rose thrift store, and Record Convergence which is now a dry cleaners. Fairfax is the stale smell of cigarette smoke in Dan Kline's basement where we effortlessly wrote bad songs that meant the world to us.

Fairfax is Jon Clough's Ford Aerostar barreling down the County Parkway towards the Franconia-Springfield stop on the Blue Line. It is the barbed wire fencing around the perimeter of Lake Braddock Secondary School, the endless parade of County vehicles from 8am to 3:30pm Monday through Friday, the Taco Bell at Burke Center with its' brutal fluorescent lighting. It's make shift rafts on Burke Lake at midnight, homemade crosses adorned with flowers and pictures on the side of Lee Chapel Road. It's 7-11 coffee and under aged cigarette purchases, it's Saturday Night Live after NBC's nightly news in a King's Park basement, it's bad marijuana that you didn't want to smoke anyway. It's the bulb-lit burning of the Capitol line from I-395, it's "Living on a Prayer" at 2am hurdling along Constitution Avenue, and Friday nights at the Black Cat on 14th street NW. It's Best Buy's yellow awning eyeing you from Old Keene Mill Road, and MVC Late Night Video's hesitant clientele. It's night shifts at Pizza Hut for $4.25 an hour, and falling asleep listening to the Violent Femmes for two years. It's dinners at 5pm, and plastic-packaged deli slices of ham and turkey in the refrigerator. It's alarm clocks set for far too early with nothing pressing to do with your day. It's high performance mutterings of Honda Accords and SUVs, walking to the seldom-visited public libraries, and skateboarding in neighborhood cold a sacs.

It's planes delicately aligning themselves for the runway at Dulles International Airport, the smell of cut grass in the summer, and a smoky burning enveloping your nose and tongue throughout the winter. It's the marching band practicing within earshot of your driveway, and bike rides that take you nowhere. It's kids huddling in patches of woods smoking first cigarettes, police cars hiding in darkened recesses, and radio-favorites performing at George Mason's Patriot Center. It’s a medicine cabinet full of acne treatments that don’t work, a complimentary toothbrush from the dentist’s office, and rubber bands for your braces. It’s shooting basketball in front of the house even though you don’t like basketball, your neighbor’s infatuation with gardening, and pretending to pick up your dogs’ poop in clear bags when someone is watching from their kitchen window. Its overheard conversations about sending you and your brother to military school, and coming home a year later with less hair and even fewer acquaintances. It’s parties in townhouses you weren’t invited to, 94.7 “The Capitol of Classic Rock,” DC 101, and WHFS. It’s John Madden’s voice on Sunday afternoons while your father sleeps in front of the television, sneaking sips from your Mother’s boxed wine, and taping movies off of HBO.

It’s Boy Scout meetings in elementary school cafeterias, the occasional broken bone, allergy shots, and the suffocating smell of your mom’s perfume in a Ford Taurus while the oldies station plays The Supremes. It’s mailboxes standing watch along curbs, and four digit addresses affixed to front doors that are seldom used. It’s Maryland seeming like a foreign land, and anything below Woodbridge being the “south.” It’s another day to hail the mailman, and military kids whose parents wear Pentagon badges to and from work. It’s deliveries of mulch from local nurseries, the friend who likes The Doors a little too much, and open flannel shirts. It’s parking stickers for local colleges on rear windows of automobiles, and Giant Foods’ epic competition with Safeway. It’s little kids taking karate classes at Wakefield Recreation Center, and softball tournaments sponsored by area sporting good stores. It's reading the City Paper in front of Tower Records at 10pm, and helping Susan roll silverware into napkins in exchange for free cheese fries at Lone Star.

Fairfax is the clattering of dogs' paws on the floor above your room at 6am, a subtle interest in God, and learning Nirvana guitar parts at 2am. It's your father's record collection, and a banjo sitting in a case that has seen more days and nights than you have. It's a growing fear of the future in an already fearful present. It's a sense of alienation, and a burning desire for acceptance from the people you've been told you'll one day meet. It's concerned voices asking after you from other floors of the house, and a mini-fridge full of Coca-Cola. It's posters of people you would rather be, and the unyielding feeling that one day you'll prove something to them all. It's self-doubt seen through other people's eyes, a summer spent listening to "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and waiting for a phone call from a girl you met in Europe who lives in South Dakota. It's nights spent being the third wheel, and panic attacks alone in the dark. It's months that passed with seeming immobility, which added up to nothing of consequence. It's faked sick days, new phone books left on your porch, and naps when you're painfully awake.

It’s the urgency you once felt manifesting itself into your now daily life. It’s four walls with small windows that let a glimpse of suburban sprawl rap at your conscience—knowing that this is all a part of you no matter how hard you try to deny it. And the faces that once made up this scenery can never come home again.

-tedd-

Lettuce for the People: Another Writing Exercise.

2006-09-28T09:39:00.000-05:00

Here is yet another attempt at writing fiction via the now regularly performed writing exercises at my apartment on Wednesday nights. This week's prompt--if I can remember it correctly--was to include:
1) A main character who is hiding in a non-urban environment.
2) The words "florid," "mnemonic," and "marital."
3) A moment of panic that forces the main character to violence.
4) The mention of a green vegetable somewhere in the story.

Here then is what I was able to come up with in the 45 minute time limit we gave ourselves. I'm honestly not that pleased with it, but I'll post it anyway in an effort to show people that I'm at least trying. No more beer runs directly before we start writing--I had to ask Jeff, Eric, and Paul what the three words we had to include were at least four times throughout the exercise and I think they got a bit frustrated with me.

Lettuce for the People.

Perhaps it was George’s overwhelming sense of adventure, or his innate and well-known stupidity that caused him to pin himself further against the bathtub’s floor, but either way he immediately regretted his decision.

“How the fuck did bits of lettuce end up in our shower?” he queried to no one in particular, “You fill a bathtub with beer and ice and someone goes and tosses pieces of lettuce in the goddamn mix?”

George and his roommates, each a collection of single, fattening, and in George’s instance balding, men of 27 were hosting a party on caliber with one they’d easily thrown four to five times over the last six years since they initially moved in together during college. The house and its roommates were currently engaged in one of their favorite pastimes during such drunken events—hide and go seek. George, lacking the foresight of the other partygoers had delved head on into an icy-cold bathtub full of beer (and apparently lettuce) forgoing the more conventional confines of a messy closet or discreet basement nook.

“Seriously, how the hell did this lettuce end up in here,” George again said aloud despite the urgency for silence, “This is just fucking inconsiderate.”

George’s now soaked through denim pants and long-sleeved shirt, the “Canadian Tuxedo” as his friends referred to it as, was the last thing on his mind, which had selected the florid chunks of lettuce floating around his chest as most prevalent and pressing matter at hand. As the moments slipped drunkenly by George’s mind began to race: “Who the hell could have done this? What asshole brings lettuce to a party? Wait maybe they stole my head of lettuce. That’s even more beat-up. Stealing a man’s head of lettuce, only to shred it up and throw it in a bathtub of beer. I mean, Coors isn’t that bad. Taste of the Rockies. Jesus Christ. Lettuce? Fuck.”

As George continued to postulate how the green leafiness made its’ way to the water in the tub he could hear the footsteps of Susan beginning her search of the house for the hiding participants.

George and Susan had once dated for three years. From the time they entered school at the tender age of 18, they had begun dating—casually at first and finally accepting that they loved one another somewhere around finals during the fall semester of 1999. What eventually led to the demise of the relationship was George’s proposal of marital stability two years later. Susan, not one for settling down, and much to George’s own ignorance, had been cheating on him throughout most of the relationship—devoting her time mostly, and quite adamantly, to achieving a sexual encounter tally that rivaled the results of most complex math equations and other mnemonic devices.

“That bitch will never find me in the goddamn tub. Unless she’s needs another beer I guess,” George said floating five to six silver Coors cans to the other end of the tub, “No one will look in the tub . . . I’m the only one crazy enough to hide in some ice cold water. Fucking dumb bitch.”

Susan continued to creep about the four-bedroom house looking for the five to six people who had decided to join in the game, “This is idiotic. Every third party these guys have I end up doing the same thing—wandering around their house trying to find where the hell they’re hiding, and it’s always the same damn places. I know George is in the damn tub freezing his ass off, and he’s going to get a cold again in the middle of August.”

Stepping over trash and through various drunken party conversations about “how awesome Journey is” Susan made her way to the hallway bathroom’s door and sat down with her back against it. She could hear George talking to himself and sloshing around in the water from the hallway.

“This fucking lettuce. Christ Jesus.”
“George I know you’re in there. You always are.”
“What? Fuck you.”
“Jesus,” Susan sighed to herself.
“You know what Susan? Don’t even start with me; I heard that under your breath from in here. Shouldn’t you be fucking someone behind my back by now?”
“Wait, what?”
“I knew. I fucking knew the whole time.”
“You did? I’m . . . I’m sorry George.”
“Yeah well, you’re sorry and I’m a guy wearing nothing but denim laying in the middle of ice and beer, and evidently FUCKING LETTUCE in the bathtub.”
“Did you say lettuce?”
“Yeah I said lettuce Susan. Lettuce,” George stood up from the tub jarring the once placid tub water, beer, and rapidly melting ice cubes. Susan oblivious to this rested her head back against the door.

“You know what, I’m not even pissed at you Susan. I’m more pissed at whoever it was that brought this lettuce into my home only to toss it into the tub. That’s just strange and fucked up. You don’t do that.”
“I’m not listening to you George. Please just shut up.”
“Well you should be listening to me, there’s lettuce in my tub and I don’t know how it got here. It could be mine for all I know, and someone took it.”
“George you haven’t bought groceries since I’ve known you. It’s not yours.”
“So, so you are listening to me now huh? That’s just great,” George now had a foot out of the tub.
“Just shut up will you. I’m tired of all this shit. Your parties, your friends, your . . . whatever, your fucking lettuce,” Susan was getting quite audible to everyone in the house now.

George was completely out of the bathtub and dripping water everywhere. Stumbling towards the door he had nothing on his mind but reprimanding whoever had brought the head of lettuce into his home.

“You know what . . .” George’s voice trailed off to Susan as the door to the bathroom violently swung open striking her head causing several people in the hallway’s vicinity to become alarmed, “ . . . I hate vegetables . . . in . . . general. Ah hell.” he slowly finished his statement as he realized he had just knocked his ex-girlfriend out cold.

George stood over Susan’s slim figure in the hallway with a drunken and complacently feigned sense of alarm. Someone he did not know was already on the phone for an ambulance, and there was more lettuce yet to be discovered at the end of the hallway.

-tedd-

Did you mean exercise?-- part, uh, two

2006-09-14T19:20:00.000-05:00

In case you have yet to read Tedd's explanation, Tedd, Paul and I had a writing exercise where we had an albums worth of time (approximately 45 minutes) to write a short story-- or as complete a one as possible-- using the following rules: a conversation between a female apparition and a main male character must be had, you must use the name "Alex" in the story, and there must be a truck/moving van and one fruit somewhere in the story. Tedd's is hilarious and, not surprisingly, mine is grotesque and depressing. Enjoy!

Decay

The body was lying on my lawn when I went out to get the paper. I don’t think anyone else had seen it. Mainly, I wanted to see what the body looked like; how it died.

It was a woman’s corpse. She was nude and corpulent, lying on her side with the left arm and breast tucked underneath her own weight. White liquid (or maybe skin?) seemed to be melting off of her eyes in the heat. It was hot, even by August standards. Her eyes were leaking, not melting—leaking formaldehyde, probably. They were gray. Not like the gray of a threatening sky, but like the gray of a fluorescently lit room. Like tablature, only filmy and thin.

I was crying. Not bawling or emotional, but watering from the semen-like smell of the body. I tried to cover my nose, but how respectful is that? It was not her fault she smelled so bad. It seemed irreverent to cover my nose. Unnatural—like when a child acts indignant about cooking smells before devouring the finished product.

As I approached, the body seemed to get smaller. She couldn’t have been any more than 20 and about 5’6”. Her hands were thin and long—the one un-tucked arm pointed toward me with fingers gracefully splayed out to show her delicacy. It was as if she wanted to dance. My porch light was on. I noticed that when I walked out. Perhaps she was notifying me.

Other than the body and the light, there was a delightful appearance to the house. The neighbors often commented on it. It was easy to take pride in—simple color schemes on a white house, well kept grass and a crabapple tree adorning the middle of the front lawn. The corpse bordered the shade of said tree. Fallen crabapples lay around her—a couple of rotten ones lying about like unwanted memories.

I was over top of her. The stench, unbearable, had my eyes leaking as much as hers—was she crying too? Nothing but pride held my hands at my sides. Funny thing, my pride didn’t take me inside to call the police or investigate in pants. I remained in my burgundy terrycloth robe.

The woman’s neck had long cut marks along its midsection, and deep cuts in the back and right shoulder. Perhaps she fell from a truck when she died. Or maybe she was dragged behind a pick-up. I couldn’t tell.

When I decided I’d had enough, she spoke. I don’t know why, but it didn’t scare me. The whole yard seemed to turn red and gray when she spoke. She was beautiful—her voice pitched like a long time smoker but not to the point that it had affected her too much.

“Where am I?” She didn’t move while she spoke. Not even her mouth. Her stringy brown hair began to dry out.

“Just outside of town.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.” I was rubbing the back of my neck and looking around.

“Look at me.”

When I did, she was vibrant. Her leaks evaporated from the grass, and she was cured of her abrasions. Her lips were full and red. Only her position was unchanged. Her contorted body ripened in front of me. She reminded me of a former girlfriend—God save me to remember which.

“What happened?” I could only manage that question without reaching to touch her.

“I was riding out of town. I hit something. My car did. I ran off the road is all.”

“Oh, that’s all?”

“Can you fix it; make it better or anything?”

“I… well.”

“I know doc. It’s bad. Can you help?”

Of course I couldn’t. I was no doctor. I scratched into my neck harder and harder as she spoke.

“Well, doc?”

“What’s your name?”

“Alex.”

“I can’t help you, Alex. I want to, that is. But you—you see, I, well—you’re well past, um…” I started shaking uncontrollably. I collapsed next to her and took shallow breaths.

“I need your help. Can you help me? I have to get home. I have classes in the morning.”

“Yes,” I said. My voice quavered. I inhaled sharply. “You have school to attend to. You have to wake up early.”

“So, what’s it gonna be, doc?” I heard my front door open.

“I can’t.” My eyes were closed. I didn’t remember them closing.

She withered to her former deadened state, and her right eye, again gray, stared back at me. I lay almost parallel—facing her.

Behind me, my wife screamed.

“WHO IS THAT? WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?! IS SHE DEAD? OH GOD! JOHN!”

She was worried, and rightfully so. She ran inside, presumably to call the police.

When I got to the door, she had locked it behind her. I sat down, in my robe, without crossing my legs and waited for the authorities.

The police and an ambulance arrived. The officers theorized that a cadaver truck had lost a body. There was little explanation as to how. No one ever asked Alex’s name, so I didn’t mention it. My wife kept her distance from the situation, staying inside with the kids. She peeked out the window every few minutes.

After the authorities departed, I walked back over and collected the rotten crabapples. I threw them, as hard as I could, into the neighboring street. They exploded on impact. Their remains rolled into ditches or sat in the middle of the street to be crushed by oncoming cars in the midday rush.

On the Rodeo

2006-09-13T22:50:00.001-05:00

So I took part in a writing exercise with my roommates Jeff and Paul tonight. We had roughly 45 minutes, the duration of an album, to write a story that included the following things: A conversation between a deceased female and a living male, another person (alive who cannot hear the deceased person), a character named Alex, a moving truck/van, and a fruit.

What follows is my first attempt at writing fiction in several years. It's not great by any means, but it seems worth posting simply because fiction is something I have made a concerted effort to avoid writing for some time--thinking about it as I write this it's been since a fiction workshop I took at Emory and Henry in 2000 that I wrote any kind of short story or fictional account in general. Enjoy.

On the Rodeo

“You’re going to have to explain to me one day how in the hell someone as OCD as you wound up working the rodeo circuit Fred,” George yelled from the back of a twenty foot trailer. The beer guzzling driver everyone knew as “Tiny” had unhitched the moving truck an hour ago, “I mean shit man, you’re the only one on this trip that has to group all his equipment in a descending order of size in the same damn corner of the trailer night after night.”

“Every time we pull into a new town and unload this damn thing you start talking the same mess. Just toss me out my damn gear and let’s get on with this fucking thing,” Fred said behind a cloud of Marlboro smoke billowing into the darkened trailer that was at least ten degrees hotter than the sun-caked landscape barely visible to George. Fred’s leathery skin still managed to reveal that he hadn’t slept well in weeks, and his tone of voice towards George further enforced anyone in ear-shot’s assumption of such.

“Well, you know what? Fuck you Fred. You’re the one who’s so picky about how your shit gets packed, how it gets loaded, how it gets unpacked, and I’m the one in here climbing over all this crap getting your gear. And then when I get finished with all this shit all you do is bitch and moan until everything is set up just right. You really need to get some sleep, or see a doctor about this compulsive shit partner.” George climbed out into the sunlight, spit next to Fred’s perfectly shined boots. “I’m going to get a goddamn apple. Have fun.”

Not one person associated with the rodeo knew what had happened to Fred in Chicago two weeks earlier. On a run from Kansas City up to Michigan there was trouble with Tiny’s truck and the whole rodeo had to stop in Chicago for two days while the transmission was replaced and parts were ordered. During those two days Fred had killed a retarded girl of about 11—her name, if he remembered correctly was Alex. At least that’s what he would always know her as because she kept mumbling “Alex” when he came upon her at an otherwise desolate street corner in an industrial section of south side. Since the incident Fred hadn’t slept or ate much, and for some reason kept hearing her slurred, barely coherent speech whenever he attempted to bed down for the night in his trailer. The oddest part in Fred’s mind was that Alex’s mumbles were becoming more coherent with each passing night. After finishing his cigarette in long, methodical pulls, he decided to wait on unloading his gear and go back to his trailer and lay down.

Home, while on the road, was an RV trailer pulled by his own F-150 he bought ten years earlier. It was commonly noted among the other members of the rodeo that it was the cleanest vehicle of the at least 30 trucks, vans, trailers and cars on the circuit. This was due to Fred’s necessity to wash, detail, and wax the truck on an almost daily basis. It was also common knowledge that Fred, a heavy smoker, forbade smoking in the F-150, and for this reason he generally remained sans-company on long drives between shows. The inside of his trailer-hitched abode reflected the same care and meticulousness that the outside of the truck did. Everything evenly distributed from one side to the other. His bed was always neatly hospital-cornered, and clothes hung in the small closet next to the bathroom according to color, sleeve length, and frequency of use. Fred headed straight for his bed—carefully placing his boots at the foot of the bed of course—and laid down facing the wall as he always did. It wasn’t long before Alex’s now incredibly audible and childlike voice spoke to him.

“Why did you push me into the street? There was a tow-truck coming,” Fred was almost more amazed at how articulate the voice had become than the fact that a dead, retarded girl was speaking to him.
“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t trying to push you. I, I . . .” Fred trailed off.
“What do you mean?” Alex demanded.
“It’s just that the shirt you had on. I mean, the buttons on it.”
“The buttons on my shirt? What does that have to do with you pushing me into an intersection?”
“The buttons were all misaligned. You had them buttoned into the wrong holes and your shirt was all crooked. I can’t stand stuff like that.”
“So you knocked me into the road for it?”
“No. Not at all,” Fred was bewildered at how mature Alex’s voice had become, how assertive, “I was going to try and fix it for you. It was only a couple of the buttons, I just wanted to make it right.”
“But what about you pushing me? How was that fixing the button problem?”
“Look I didn’t push you already,” Fred was getting angry now, “I came up to you, you were obviously oblivious to everything that was going on. You just kept mumbling ‘Alex’ at me, drooled all over yourself, and stared at me. So I reached out to fix the buttons for you—no harm intended—and you lunged at me. I got startled and just instinctively kind of pushed you away from me. That’s all. Just pure gut reaction. If that damn tow-truck hadn’t have been coming down the road you’d still be alive.”
“The driver didn’t even stop. He never saw you either. Probably thought I had just wandered out into traffic and didn’t want to have to explain it to the police. But you, you ran off as soon as you saw the tow truck kept going.”
“I’m sorry all right. I don’t know what to say anymore. I’m just plain sorry,” Fred was sweating now. His mind slightly wandered to the fact that he’d have to change his pillowcase and thus the whole of his bed’s sheets—he couldn’t have mismatched colors on his bed at the same time.
“Why are you thinking about your sheets? You killed me and you’re thinking about changing your sheets because you’re sweating a little bit?” Alex’s voice was alarmingly angry to Fred’s ears.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the kind of thing I have to think about. I can’t help it. I mean for fuck’s sake, I felt compelled to adjust the buttons on a stranger’s shirt at a random intersection in the south side of Chicago. See what I’m getting at here? I’m clearly fucked up,” Fred was starting to tear up.
“One day you’re going to have move past this Fred. One day you’ll have to let all this petty, OCD stuff go. You know that. Seriously, I may have been retarded when I was alive, but an obsessive-compulsive rodeo cowboy? That’s just plain stupid.”
“Thanks Alex. As if I didn’t already know that.”

There was a knock at the trailer door, and Fred knew immediately that it was George coming to see where he’d gone, and why he left the trailer unattended.

“I have to go now, Alex. You there?” Fred’s question was left unanswered despite repeating it several times in varying degrees of volume.
“Who the fuck are you yelling at in there bud,” George’s voice cut through the thin walls of Fred’s trailer.
“No one. Absolutely no one. I think.” Fred’s voice was weak and somewhat trembling.

Pulling himself up out of bed he slowly edged his boots onto his feet; left foot first as always. Pulled his hat down over his silvering hair, and stepped out through the door, and punched George directly in the face for no reason in particular. Blood from George’s already jagged nose sprayed onto Fred’s white shirt before he fell to the ground.

Fred walked off towards Tiny’s trailer; there was a lot of work left to do before show time.

-tedd-

Did you mean "exercise"? (post editing)

2006-09-05T22:16:00.000-05:00

So, Paul and I had an exercise. We were to construct a short story in the time it took to listen to The Forms' "Icarus" EP (around 12 minutes). The idea had to be original, one character had to be named Samuel and we had to use three random words from Tedd's collegiate dictionary. The words ended up being: monkeyshines, paralytic and thatch. We were allowed one read through for general repair, and one read through by the opposite party.

Mine is entitled "Samuel of Maron." Maron does not actually exist. I know this.

Paul's "Exercise One" is viewable at This Is Depression, one of my favorite things in the world.

NOTE: Please also read the post after this one, it's Tedd's new reflexive piece. It's wonderful. I didn't know it was there until after I put this up. Love him. Without further ado...

Samuel of Maron

Samuel the ghost haunted a thatched hut just outside of a village in Maron. He was not the typical spirit—one looking for vengeance or postmortem piece of mind. Instead, he sought relief from the despondency of death: a more calculated practice than his counterparts. His were monkeyshines; the kind of marginal pranks expected from a sophomoric child rather than an apparition.

Maron, with its diminutive populace, lay off the Ivory Coast. It was an island discovered by Samuel’s nearly conquered tribe. Retreating in the night, Samuel was killed by one of his warriors trying to board an escape boat bound for Maron.

Samuel apprenticed with a very peculiar and particular patron upon his passing. His master, Archimedes, a cripple even in afterlife, was an astute and oftentimes gentle soul. He was one of understanding and toleration, and he immediately took to Samuel. He felt a general disdain for the man responsible for Samuel’s death, and granted a petty grievance with the apparitions’ alliance for Samuel’s haunting license, good until his killer’s demise.

Maronian life expectancy was not fantastic, so Samuel had no choice but to train as quickly as possible. Archimedes worked with a professor’s cruelty—grading the gradient nature of Samuel’s ability yet leaving the feeling of impending doom when necessary. Being that Archimedes was paralytic, physical violence was out of the question. His was a psychological style. He would often say, “We’ll be spirits again by the time you learn to walk through inanimate objects, lad,” or “My my, tribal wars will be long gone when we finally get to interspecies communication.” Though frustrated, Samuel was able to grasp things quickly.

Archimedes granted him worthy after months of training, and Samuel immediately hovered over his oppressor. The killer was cowered over a bush defecating. His bones were feeble and weak from the lack of nutrition offered by the young island, and he was staring straight ahead with consternation. His hut, only ten feet away, was messy and badly constructed. Samuel, being lighthearted and hardworking in nature, knew the travails of his former counterpart. He recalled his own messy hut. He could see through the malice of his killer’s months-old actions, and Samuel half-smiled. His stopped heart warmed. He felt more alive than when living—more so than in conquest, sexual practice or rigid and determined conversation. He lost sight of the anger that had driven him during training. He could remember the compassion he reserved for his enemies in battle—killing them when they were so badly hurt. He was famous for reminding the dying of their families, and that they would remember the dead to their villages as heroes.

He turned and flew through the walls of the hut. He overturned a can of ashes near the bed and spelled his own name. Even that seemed too much, but it was at least a reminder of his killer’s error. Samuel thought later he would just fly—for an hour or so and then come back and set up an elaborate water trap; a humorous gesture of forgiveness between former warriors.

A Five Point Program for Self-Improvement.

2006-09-05T13:53:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been battered in the face with particular character flaws that are decidedly due for an addressing. These issues of character have either been over-thought by myself (usually alone while listening to Ryan Adams or "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot") or during the course of conversations, via telephone or in person, with certain friends/family. I present to you a brief synopsis of the flaws you can witness me tackling in true athletic form--if you live in the New York area, or can at least imagine me expertly negotiating like some big city lawyer or homely southern colonel depending on your regionality.

1. Stop feeling uncomfortable and intimidated when using chopsticks in the vicinity of Asians. You are not some sort of "cultural imposter."

This is an issue I recently dwelled upon at the Whole Foods off Union Square on a recent lunch break. As I gingerly created an angle between myself and an Asian family (nationality undetermined) as to not let them catch me awkwardly manipulating my chopsticks to shovel sushi into my face-hole, I felt the overwhelming urge to swallow the wasabi by itself in order to snap myself out of the self-induced fear I have of being deemed inept by Asians while using their utensils of choice. I mean I don't judge anyone who can't eat spaghetti effectively with a fork, why is some Asian guy from New Jersey going to judge me for occasionally stabbing a renegade ort of sushi with a single chopstick?

2. You are not a member of a baseball team, nor do you play baseball--stop wearing that damn hat all the time.

I am a firm and adamant hat wearer. I have been for some years now. This generally follows a seasonal trend that isn't related to the beginning or end of baseball season in the least. The baseball hat is worn during the warmer months and is then replaced with the knit hat in the cooler months. Firstly, I would like to acknowledge that I realize the baseball hat creates a "hat-mullet" when I wear it, and yes I know how bad that looks. However, for those familiar enough with the hairstyles my unhatted head is capable of birthing you know I'm far better off with the hat-mullet. Now quite recently my summer hat, and thus my hatted-existence, has been called "silly" by someone in particular and that kind of got me thinking: It's time to tame the mane and toe the tepid waters of the hatless lifestyle. For those that lived in Greensboro from 2002-2003 and remember the "Swayzee" I apologize if it returns.

3. "You drink a lot of coffee for someone who wakes up at 11am on a working day."

I forget whom that quote is from, but they probably work at News Bar on University Place and 12th. Yes, I admit I have an intense affinity for coffee. The individuals I've lived with over the past four years or so can vouch for my reckless abandon with a coffee maker, particularly my Black&Decker Versa Brew that sadly stopped working when I plugged it in after a move to Richmond, VA last year. So yeah, maybe I drink half a pot of coffee before I leave the apartment for work. And yes, perhaps I have been known to enjoy a couple large cups while at work, or have a couple mugs before I head out for a night on the town. This isn't really a problem is it? I've been known to hit the perfect point of caffienation several times in one day and I think that's something to be proud of. I'm taking this off the list. Sorry to have wasted your time.

4. Buy new pants. Or for the love of god at least get the legs hemmed up--time to move past the cuff man.

I'll be honest; I only own maybe three pairs of jeans. One pair of which is the official "laundry day" pair and liberally holed from god knows how many previous wearings. Anyway, I apologize to anyone that may have picked up on my lack of variety in the pants department. I am poor, and am working on scouring New York's many thrift stores for pants that fit--but finding jeans at the thrift store is something I've never had any luck with. Unless you like horribly tapered legs. I do not.

5. Stop feeling pretentious when reading poetry and drinking hot tea in the privacy of your own home on a day off.

There is absolutely no reason I should feel bad or any way precocious for this act, but for some reason I feel like that kid in your college literature survey class that was always sweatered no matter the weather conditions, and seemed to always be sipping from a travel mug billowing with the flavorful aromas of the campus-neighboring coffee shop, all the while stroking his casually rural beard a la The Band or Blind Faith-era Eric Clapton. I'm not that guy. I mean I like The Band, I'm familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda and Saki--I even think Sartre is pretty interesting--but I'm not bothering anyone. I'm going to have the damn tea and read the shit out of whatever I want to. And yeah, I'll wear my reading glasses so I don't get a headache. Go to hell. Wait, I'm talking to myself here. Damn it.

So these and other tragically uninteresting habits I will be tussling with in the most heterosexual of manners in the coming months. Wish me luck, and keep the suggestions coming. I apparently will.

-tedd-

Sit-down (and roll) Comedy

2006-07-31T17:04:00.000-05:00

So: my knees hurt sometimes. Do I have arthritis? Probably. Am I too young? I should be. Do my knees hurt anyway? Ten-four. So: I'll probably be crippled by the time I'm 50. Now: can I make fun of cripples now, in anticipation of my own eventual crippledom? Or do I have to grin and bear it until I finally get my training wheels?

As an aspiring stand-up comedian, questions like this plague my thoughts. And I think the answer may lie in proximity. Your ability to get away with a joke has to do with how close you are to the subject of the joke. I can't say the N-word. This is because I am not black and I'm not a racist. If you want to say the N-word: you must be black. There are exceptions but, for the sake of argument, let's ignore them.

Ok, back to proximity: in 1956, if you wanted to make a joke about the Holocaust you probably had to be Jewish. Now anyone can make a joke about the "final solution." Sure, there are still those who gasp but I have a name for those people: fags. Once again, I'm forced back into the ouroborus. Can I say fag? I'm not gay. Sometimes people assume I'm gay because I have gorgeous hair and I read books...But I'm not. So, I probably can't say fag. Well, I take that part back.

Biggie's first album was Ready to Die. And his second album was Life After Death. And he died. So if I have a comedy album called Ready to Roll that features me in a wheelchair on the cover: will I be thought of as a prophet and a genius? Or as a dickweed? Does a prophecy fulfilled that leaves the prophet crippled but alive still result in the prophets martyrdom? A martyr has to die, right?

Let me go ahead and complicate an already complicated subject: I don't really have any jokes about the handicapped. Not any good ones at least. But: if my probable cripple-ality allows me to make any joke I want about the legless or lamelegged, then I'm willing to write a few. It's quite a conundrum I've conjured up for myself.

I'll make it a little worse: what if I plan on being crippled and they end up curing cripple-ation in 2019? Not only am I a dickweed, I'm an ultra fuckwad. Then I'm the worst example of a bygone age when people made fun of other people because they were different. Me is to Cripples as Birth of a Nation is to blacks. Youch! I definitely don't want that.

Ok, back to proximity. I can make jokes about cancer because my father died of cancer: AND he was over forty years older than me WHEN he died of cancer: SO if I'm going to be crippled in forty years than I can make fun of cripples now. RIGHT? Or wrong? Maybe we'll never know.

Music: The Improvement of a Tired Form, Part One

2006-07-21T14:01:00.000-05:00

This is part one of many parts in an ongoing quest to explore (both personally and sociologically) the foundations and functions of music, and how one can improve the current status of popular music. Enjoy, J--

When one spends a substantial amount of time considering the emotional value of music, the result will more than likely turn into a value assessment of one’s character traits. At some point, when the likelihood of emotional response becomes imminent, conception becomes a different form of inward expression. This is important. Listening becomes a secondary format for understanding—projection being more immediate. For example, if you are introverted, the lyrical side of any song will reflect a certain understanding— the opposite is true for the outgoing individual who will look to the repetitive and ignorable instrumental side of a band’s/group’s catalog. This is evidenced by the number of people who argue music simply by its impetus for dancing or soundscapes (the rise of instrumental music being a catalyst for this essay). Necessity for classifications derives its merit from this type of general understanding of human condition--i.e. labeling comes from judgment.

Within any given musical classification, a certain amount of marketability is mixed into the music’s fan base. With each new genre comes a contextual choice. Should we market a new type of music to a fan base that enjoyed other classifications? Calling a certain type of music “Crunk” or even labeling a certain age group the “hip-hop generation,” immediately envisions a certain type of fan—the contingency supporting southern hip-hop for example can equate this movement to a post-punk wave of rock bands like Wire et al, but there is no need—“Snap," "Bounce," or “Crunk” (with the monosyllabic syllogisms for drunken antics) are ready made for marketing. “Math Rock,” “Post Punk” and etc. consolidate the appreciation of formerly unpopular styles of music. This typifying of the musical mindset grossly miscalculates the amount of effort and emotion in music; it guarantees the brevity of these subgenres. Therefore, emotional response becomes completely unnecessary—garnered useless by generic tags affixed to simplify the nature of movement from other musical forms.

Essentially, music’s dada is forthcoming. Since the emotional mindset of the consumer is so innate and lost, listening has become an exemplary way to completely betray the onslaught of iconological contrariness. The aforementioned difference between listening techniques (the example remaining introverted vs. outgoing) is, then, more important to avid consumers that they are projecting their own personalities onto their musical choices. Segregation of the genre specific forms of habit—fans of certain music tend to advertise that love with clothes, buttons, and imitations of the prominent figures of said genre. These habits become more important than the music itself. The way a consumer carries his/herself is inherently more valuable than an actual music conversation. Like being a New York Yankees fan means more than being a baseball fan, all music conversations become argumentative rather than appreciative of music (or baseball) itself. Argument, acceptance and agreement become the cyclical understanding of a music conversation—as the sentence now seems to go, “have you heard the new ________? It’s not as good as __________, but better than the new _________.” There is neither appreciative talk of performance nor a specific guideline, save for comparisons and argument. Music has become a form of function—a narrow vessel of personality rather than a fruitful dialogue of artistic integrity. Conformist conversation has cornered the market. Listening has become a useless facet in both the music and the banter.

Considering listening as a form of expression seems pointless in the face of such a graceless musical era—as we speak there are probably six different “generations” all sharing the same age groups. Instead, listening must take on its true form. Identification and projection must be separate from the "muscle" of new music. For instance, one of my favorite bands, the now dysfunctional Hot Snakes, bent their genre to the point of cessation of classification. There is everything from the 1950’s to the 1990’s within most every song (as I reviewed them once—"Punk Rock, Rockabilly, Rock and Roll and Classic Rock" can finally hang out in the same room together). One listen, however, could immediately assign a label of “Rock” and move on. Upon multiple listens, the subtle nods to other genres and overall quality of the music percolate the listener’s sense of innate observation. There are many examples of this, but the preachiness and condemnation of music is altogether to easy to adopt (part of the problem, so to speak).

Listening will weed out the imperfect--training of the ear to understand quality of lyric and emotional attachment to instrumentation will comprise a better understanding of each genre's place in the present. Coincidentally, having to understand and label all music’s standing is still a rather new venture in musical history (were the kids raving about the Baroque back in the day? Did they even really think that Baroque meant anything more than different?). As it stands, the definition of listening—making an effort to hear something; paying attention to garner understanding—stands to reason that people are only hearing the sounds and patterns of music on a large scale. Music used to be a formative escape, whereas its new place in society is a point of discussion alongside television, movies, and sport. This idea of classification is fine but wrong--albeit unintentionally. Entertainment is a knowing and demanding beast meant to form a barrier between respect and understanding. Respecting a musician is to fundamentally dismiss his/her/their entire form. Understanding a musician is the same as acknowledgement. To define is to confine, but to listen may be divine.

Q: Why? A: Why not?: Explicating Jadakiss' "Why?" Pt. II

2006-07-15T14:53:00.000-05:00

At long last I have found the time for round two of my Q and A with Jadakiss. The second verse of the song “Why?” had some hard-hitting subject matter, but I think I managed to put Jadakiss’ worries to bed under a blanket of reason, logic, and empirical truths.

Why do niggas push pounds and powder?
It seems to me that the selling of illegal drugs generally spawns from the need for money. People who prefer these substances are usually willing to pay top dollar for them, resulting in unusually high profit margins—or if you grow up in the suburbs it results in the purchaser being the proud owner of a zip-lock bag of Oregano or baby powder.

Why did Bush knock down the towers?
This is a topic that megaphone wielding, banner making demonstrators in Union Square feel very passionate about—that and likening Bush to Hitler (I’m still trying to work that one out). While I am in no way a Bush supporter I can’t say I believe in either a) Bush’s physical prowess being mighty enough to knock over tall office buildings or b) his intellect being honed enough to organize the September 11th attacks. Furthermore, why do the people who bring this question up always forget about the Pentagon? It’s kind of like straightedge kids conveniently forgetting that Ian Mackaye said, “Don’t fuck” in the lyrics to “Straightedge.”

Why you around them cowards?
They make me look cooler and more masculine than I actually am.

Why Aaliyah have to take that flight?
If I remember correctly she was returning from, or flying to a video shoot in an exotic island locale. In short, she was trying to make that money. I also contend that if Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper’s flight had crashed during the summer returning from wholesomely rocking the islands the song “American Pie” would never have been written, or if it had it would have been composed by Bob Marley while high.

Why my nigga D ain't pull out his Ferrari? Why he take that bike?
Okay, I have to plead ignorance on who “D” is, and to his possession of a Ferrari and a motorcycle. Whatever happened as a result of D’s automotive choice I’m sure he just wanted to feel that breeze on his face, or enjoys the feel of protective equipment on his bodice.

Why they gotta open your package and read your mail?
I don’t know what kind of packages and mail you’re getting these days, but I know if the government wants to open my packages and glimpse the cell phone charger I left at my parents house during a visit, or security check the controversial nature of my utility bills/bank statements they can go right ahead.

Why they stop lettin' niggas get degrees in jail?
Did this happen? If so, when? My impressions of jail are a smattering of weight lifting, religious unrest (usually between Muslims and Christians and/or white supremacists), drug selling and using, cigarettes as currency, generally there’s a guy in a wheelchair hanging around the television room and who is really insightful, some forced sodomy on “the new guy,” and of course the heart-warming emotional maturation that occurs when the older “lifer” teaches the young twenty-something how to read and helps him get his high school diploma.

Why you gotta do eighty-five percent of your time?
In relation to what I described in the last answer I’m sure that sodomized “new guy” would be damn excited about only having to serve 85% of his sentence. Mostly I feel that the general, non-jailed, public would like to see more prisoners complaining about serving 100% of their sentence rather than just 85%.

And why do niggas lie in eighty-five percent of they rhymes?
The truth is boring. The average rap fan would much rather hear hyperbolic claims about street life instead of the truth, or hear any kinds of commentary on how to solve socioeconomic injustices. This is why groups like The Roots aren’t as financially successful as Dem Franhize Boys.

Why a nigga always want what he can't have?
Mostly due to a complicated and cyclical relationship between the individual and the consumer culture we exist in. That, and possibly the inordinate amount of “bling,” expensive cars/boats, costly alcoholic beverages, unattainable/ exploited females, large mansions, and sports related apparel that appears in rap videos and MTV’s cribs.

Why I can't come through in the pecan Jag?
Go right ahead; see if I give a shit. Just don’t cry when my 95’ Taurus and I Tokyo Drift past your stupid ass.

Why did crack have to hit so hard?
Crack is highly addictive, and reportedly “so much fucking rowdier than that pussy cocaine shit,” by a bum who pees on the dollar book carts bi-weekly at the Strand Bookstore.

Even though it's almost over, Why niggas can't get no jobs?
What’s almost over? Joblessness? That’s not almost over. It seems to me that good jobs go towards those amongst us who can network or have much better luck than everyone else. This is particularly true for college graduates who can’t get a response to a resume and cover letter for an entry level position because despite the phrase “entry level” they want 3-5 years experience in the field. Jadakiss, if you want to team up on this, maybe we can take a day and go get some answers on this one. I’m free Wednesdays and Thursdays.

Why they come up wit the witness protection?
Witness protection is a good thing. Isn’t it? I mean, if I saw something, had to appear in court to testify and in turn did not want to be murdered or have my family/friends systematically killed, I’d say witness protection is pretty all right.

Why they let the terminator win the election? Come on, pay attention.
California’s residents are not intelligent. Seriously, they would have voted for me if I looked good shirtless.

Why sell in the stores what you can sell in the streets?
Mass marketing my friend. You’re able to reach a wider base of consumers versus whoever wanders up to the trunk of your car, or rendezvous’ with you in a secluded parking garage or alley.

Why I say the hottest shit but be sellin' the least?
Sounds like a personal problem to me. Also, I see little evidence to your “shit” being the “hottest.” Have you heard Mos Def? Seriously.

Everybody Loves a Winner.

2006-07-13T15:22:00.000-05:00

As tens of people may have noticed by now I haven't written anything for the site of late. Why you ask? The answer is quite simple: I recently entered the "I needed to step back, take some time to myself, personal reevaluation/build a personal recording studio in my decadent but cozy mountain estate's basement" phase of the "Behind the Music" episode that is my life. So what have I been doing? What lessons have I learned during this introspective foray? I present to you, the reader, a brief list of my most recent revelations and goings on.

1. After camping at Linville Gorge in North Carolina with eight male friends I have decided that my chosen friends are either a) incredibly homophobic b) want to be African-American more than anything in this world or c) are all homosexual and racists. Conclusion? I still love my friends.

2. Rocks hurt terribly when you fall on them.

3. Beer is not the Oracle of Delphi. The belligerent gentleman on Avenue A had a point. I think.

4. I have decided that there is a lot going on beneath the surface of one's jukebox selections. One who drops a dollar into the machine and picks "Go to Hell" by The Clash is understated, making a subtle nod to the cultural and musical importance of the band's achievements by not subjecting you to a "London Calling" or "Spanish Bombs." This person most likely works an entry level, data-entry job and is trying to come to terms with the nine-to-five and is furiously attempting to figure out what "business-casual" means.
Where as the person playing "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" followed immediately by "Heart of Gold" both of which were preceded by "Wild Horses" and "The Weight" is me seamlessly sequencing last call songs in an effort to depress you.

5. Recently issues of Vibe magazine have begun arriving at my apartment. What is most odd about this whole scenario is that they are addressed to me. After hours of contemplation on how this could have occurred (mainly on the toilet while reading Vibe magazine) I remembered that when I purchased a Led Zeppelin DVD set at FYE (a purchase whose impetus was solely "to treat myself to something nice,” yes I'm a total dork) I was rewarded with a free trial magazine subscription. I seem to remember choosing something else, and using Vibe as a secondary choice, but I like to envision the marketing department at the Vibe offices reviewing my choices for subscriptions, seeing that I bought a Zeppelin DVD, and then immediately concluding that they can convert my musical tastes to that of mainstream hip-hop, or "the culture of the streets," by subversively mailing me their publication. This particular meeting would be held in large and tastefully decored office at the top of the mighty Vibe complex, with a leaked copy of the new Outkast album spilling out of the speakers of a stereo with an ipod hooked up to it. In an effort to thank the fine people at Vibe magazine I intend to dress as white as possible, go to the whitest, but not hooded or shaved headed, events and locations and have my picture taken holding my free trial issues of Vibe. These pictures will then be sent lovingly to the Vibe offices in hopes of being printed in the letters to the editor section, elevating me to some kind of mysteriously epic status within the ranks of the magazine's staff and readership.

6. After an awkward, and very AM, discussion with my landlord in which I was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette from behind a delightful mustache/soul patch combination I recently shaved into, I’ve concluded that he sounds increasingly like Christopher Walken with each conversation I have with him.

So there you have it. I intend to begin posting on a more regular basis in the coming weeks so please check back regularly for more inane observations and meanderings from your friend Tedd.

In perpituity, throughout the damn universe

2006-06-23T15:09:00.000-05:00

People will often disappear into the far reaches of our mind. A basic rule of relationships is an understanding that change will ultimately render a person completely useless. Just as useless is trying to rationalize that change. It could be purposeful—a shift in idealism, a new set of surroundings, etc.—or completely arbitrary—a new schedule, a significant other, less interest in commonalities than before. Finality, not explanation of character, is to blame in most cases. Point of fact, a deficiency in understanding the nature of change can be blamed more often than a violation of Friendship Terms and Agreements.

Violations do occur often, but simple variations from the norm are hardly the standard practice. Before delving into the abscesses on the thin skin of friendship, I should probably refer to the verbal contract within most friendships. I referred to this earlier as the Friendship Terms and Agreements. The idea, as most ideas, does not actually exist—moreover its implication is as ridiculous as analogous persons being considered one’s “best friend(s).” However, as much as FTA does not exist, the standard conception of friendship relies heavily on a set of regulations.

Therefore, I have sculpted a friendship contract—a legally binding written agreement that defines the understanding of the people surrounding you and their obligations. (Note: FTU=Friendship Terms and Use, FTA=Frienship Terms and Agreements)

1) If you are in trouble, at any point, I will be there to help.
a) Trouble, being inasmuch a separate entity from general mischief but not wholly removed, can be defined by marital and/or other spousal related matters, death of family member or fellow friend, imprisonment (contingent upon bail, telephoning others to raise bail, or visiting occasionally), personal injury, monetary issues, or sensing and alleviating general stress and/or problematic assumptions about current/past environments or general doubt as to the grand design of “the journey of life.”
b) The words “be there” are subject to change—a phone call, letter, email, internet friend site comment, or calculated visit are all acceptable to the terms of use within friendship, though the severity of each varies with the seriousness of said “troubles (refer to 1a)”. Point of fact, if you are to send electronic mail via the death of a family member, this is plainly more acceptable than leaving an internet friend site comment. The order of severity is as follows from least to most revered within TFU: friend space comments, email, written letter, telephone call, personal visit.

2) You should respect what is mine, and I you.
a) “What is mine,” being vague, is defined as follows: regards toward spouses/life partners/significant others/other friends, moneys, material possessions, ideas, ideals, and any/all responsibilities regarding personal agreements outside of FTA/TFU.
b) This clause retains a bilateral understanding that respect, being mutual, is self contained—i.e. one friend who makes less than another must respect this boundary, and vice-versa. One who is with significant other must respect that another friend may be without.
i.) Living in the same spaces can redefine this notion, but should not ultimately exclude parties from FTA/TFU.
ii.) Any/all cases of breach involving a person living with two or more friends and/or two persons in romantic engagement should refer to 2b (i), or consult with a representative close to both parties as an arbitrator.
iii.) Arbitrator from 2b (ii) should have no vested interest in case, but should be tied emotionally to both parties or bring a specific clarity to any/all situations considered.
c) Commonalities and space issues are contained therein—personal space and time alone are considered under the realm of 2a, and should be referred to as such for any/all violation of FTA/TFU.
d) Note: ex-spousal agreements and terms are separate from contract agreements and must therein be made known in specific instances when necessary. FTA/TFU are not liable for lost friendships dealing with partial or imagined ownership of humanity or spiritual engagement except within newly found religious fulfillment—covered in 2a “...ideas, ideals.”

3) Defense of physical harm, if necessary, is required.
a) Defense includes both physical contact and use of intelligence to avoid situations where mutually exclusive clauses or insurmountable odds are at stake.

4) You will not point out faults or otherwise mentally debilitate me unless necessary.
a) “…point out faults or otherwise mentally debilitate…” is defined under the following premises: general conversations involving members of the opposite sex, conversations involving three or more parties, involving strangers or those not under contract, or in one-on-one conversation when defined idea of “trouble” (1a/1b) is involved.
b) Mental debilitation is non-exclusive, but can be affixed to the following standards: race, ancestry, place of origin, color, ethnic origin, citizenship, creed, sex, sexual orientation, age, marital status, record of criminal offences, family status, personal tastes and style choices, or handicap.
c) Necessary times are not limited to nor defined by the following, but can definitely be exercised within these circumstances: times of conscious and unnecessary brashness or either conscious or unconscious self-deprecation or debilitation, or any times friendship contract seems in jeopardy of breach.

5) Physical harm between parties is prohibited unless exceptionally necessary.
a) Harm, being vague, is defined as physical injury or damage incurred at the hand of contract signee with intent to inflict said damage to friend.
b) Exceptions include: sporting contact without malice with organized rules, impromptu strength challenges as prompted by and observed by outside parties.
i.) Harm that involves extracurricular activity stemming from 5b should be dealt with in an according manner by using the arbitration guidelines from 2b (ii).
ii.) Any/all physical or physiological harm resulting from alcohol abuse subject to the same as 5b (i).
iii.) Alcohol abuse is not covered in any way within FTA/TFU. All incidents stemming from alcohol abuse cannot be used as an excuse for breach of contract without witness and amount of alcoholic consumption accounted for. If any incident occurs and both witness and amount are accounted for, contract breach defers to 5b (i)/5b (ii).

6) If the contract is breached, the end should not justify the means.
a) Anyone in violation of said contract is subject to breach, but is in perpetuity also subject to the forgiveness clause* and contract reinstatement insofar as the proprietor of the established friendship sees fit. Contract will be reinstated or re-signed with no record of earlier breach intact.
b) Proprietors of contract, should contract be breached, are not required to continue obligatory friendship, nor duties therein, unless parties feel fit. All negotiations are to be held in good standing.

*Forgiveness clause and et cetera: All parties considered within breach of FTA/TFU contract are subject to forgiveness which can include verbal contractual addendums to be recorded into written word at a later time. Forbearance of friendship during times of hardship is permitted for periods of time designated and agreed upon by both parties. Forgiveness clause can be used more than once, but never in concordance with a new contract. Contract does not require acceptance of parties outside of friendship (i.e. new or old relationship partners of any stature), as humanity does not count as ownership clause, only" regarding the idea" that they are deemed respectable by other parties (refer to: 2a, 2b, 2c, 2d).

Is this Love? That I'm feeling? Is this the Love? That I've been searching for?

2006-06-04T21:04:00.000-05:00

For no particular reason, here's a short narration of what happens from point of eye contact with a woman at a bar. It's just a little one-act.

Cast of Characters:
Jeff (Me)
My Brain
An Alluring Woman

Woman, laughing, looks over shoulder at Jeff alluringly.
Brain: HOLY FUCKING HELL! THIS IS HAPPENING. We’re totally gonna have the sex with this the woman.
Jeff: Whoa. Easy, killer. You have to stay calm, otherwise I will joke about abortion or something. I say wait. If she looks again, we’ll seize the day.
B: Alright. Fair enough. Here’s the game plan. Act cool; casual. Continue looking around with contempt at the dudes with women’s jeans on, and then make way over to the jukebox. Do we have a smooth dollar—holy shit because if we don’t it’ll look TERRIBLE—so we can…
J: Easy…
B: SHE TOTALLY LOOKED AGAIN! LET’S BEND HER OVER THE SINK IN THE BATHROOM AND—
J: STOP. You can’t just do these things, Brain. Isn’t there a proper protocol—what about the game plan?
B: FUCK IT. SHE’S OURS.
J: This could be just meaningless surveying on her part. Let’s keep our cool here.
B: Maybe you’re right, pussy. What’s YOUR big fucking finish? Let me guess: you’re going to talk to her about music or books and then decide that she’s really cool and hope to hold fucking hands before the night ends with meaningless banter about calling—let’s be honest, duder, you ain’t calling her—and a masturbation session quiet enough not to wake your roommate. Or better yet—stand around with your head in your ass and complain when some asshole sweet-talks her out of her pants? Great. Please continue.
J: That’s harsh, man. Hold it together. Don’t give up on me just yet. All I’m saying is—
B: You may as well pack it in. I already know the ending.
J: Christ. OK, is she looking?
B: I don’t know. How long has it been since I tried to convince you of suicide?
J: We HAVE to work together here. She’ll start talking to some hulking brodude with a backwards-fitted Yankees cap, or worse—some fucking shithead with a female haircut and an ironic pair of glasses. I’m looking casually indifferent—in her direction, no less. The time for action is close at hand. I’m on it—I’m focused.
B: OK. I’m sorry about all that—it’s just that I get so frustrated. Unimportant, I think she’s walking past to go to the bathroom. Make eye contact.
J: Alright, here goes.
Jeff: Nothing.
B: Don’t panic. Now is the time to hang out around the jukebox. Here’s the plan. Get the dollar in, make a selection, and when she walks back by, get her to help with the next picks. It’ll work on one condition: DON’T JUDGE HER PICK. Just nod and act like you aren’t the piece of shit early nineties music dork that you are. Be easy.
J: Dually noted. Here she comes.
Woman walks by and half smiles. Jeff nods casually at her and looks away.
B: What the fuck was THAT?
J: I froze.
B: FUCK. Do you even have a DICK? I know you do—I send messages to it to arouse every now and again.
J: Sorry. We’re not out of this thing yet. She’s still close by. Maybe I can—
B: This is pointless. I’m out of plans—figure it out yourself.
J: It’s probably best. She’s out of my league. She’s probably got a boyfriend who’s in a really supercool Kinks rip off band.
B: That’s it, ease into the excuses. Next we complain.
Girl rises from nearby seat with cell phone call. She leaves the bar. She returns moments later with friends obviously meeting her.
J: Man, I should go talk to her, but I would hate to interrupt.
B: Why would you? It’ll just lead to meeting new people or having fun. Stimulation? Who wants that?
Jeff walks to bar for another beer/whiskey drink.
J: She doesn’t seem like she needs anyone talking shit to her right now anyway. She probably gets it all the time.
B: Plus, you’re retarded. That might not help.
J: It’s best. I’ll just hang out with the dudes tonight.
B: Good. Maybe you’ll finally give up and stop giving me hope.
Hours of Anchorman impressions and lame puns ensue, and the woman gets up to leave.
B: OK, I know this doesn’t matter, but she’s right behind you, and we both know she’s glanced over twice.
J: Yeah, but she’s leaving. I don’t want to be that guy.
B: BE THAT GUY. I’M BEGGING YOU. FOR ME—FOR YOU—FOR US. DO SOMETHING CRAZY. DO SOMETHING.
J: What would I say? I guess I—
B: SAY ANYTHING—I DON’T CARE. “I like that skirt.” “What’s next?” “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOUR NAMEHOLE?” ANYFUCKINGTHING—just HURRY. SHE’S LEAVING!
J: I should, but—
B: NOOOOOOOOOO! SHE’S LEAVING NOW!
J: She’d probably just—
B: Don’t do this.
J: I’m not that kind of dude that can just walk up and act out like that. Women don’t like—
B: And she’s… gone. Outstanding.
J: It’s OK. It would’ve been bad if I were to try and talk to her.
B (weakly): I hate you.

…and SCENE.

On any given night, feel free to replace part of Brain with that of Keith Cutler. Thank you.

Sean Parrott: Funniest Person in Nashville

2006-05-24T11:47:00.000-05:00

I greet you as the Funniest Person in Nashville. Ego, you say? No: I was awarded a Fresca, the sign that I am, for a week at least, the funniest person in Nashville, TN.

How does it feel? Strange. I have always had beautiful fever dreams about making people laugh uncontrollably with a mere funny face. Hoped to make guts literally bust (covering the audience in a Gallagher style blood spray) with a gay joke. Wished upon a star that I could create a Pythonesque death by funny. These are the dreams of an aspiring comedian: to be a genocidal comedy killing machine. But I never thought about the responsibility of a title like "Funniest Person in Nashville." Jeff Foxworthy lives in Nashville and he made a billion dollars off of comedy (so he must be funny right?) What if Dave Chappelle happens to stop in Nashville this week? He is one of my favorite comedians and a certified genius. If I happen to run into either of these titans at Coyote Ugly, do I have to battle them in a no-holds-barred-bareknuckle-comedy showdown? The answer is YES!

Have no fear folks! I have created a brilliant strategy to use their powers against them: fight fire with fire!

Picture the scene: I am walking through Coyote Ugly (Nashville's Premier place to see aspiring female country singers turn themselves into objects in the hope that they can score a record deal or at least score with a guy who has a record deal so they can fuck his wallet all the way to the bank) minding my own business. I order a sprite and a water and as I pay I feel a moustache brush my shoulder. I smell a phantom mullet. My lips twitch, ready to fire. I spin and deliver: "If yooooooouuuuuuurrrr house is so big you make God jealous, you-might-be-Jeff-Fox-worthy." PING! It bounces off of his moustache, killing Bill Engvall. "If yoooooouuuuu built a career on redneck jokes and somehow (inexplicably) rebuilt a career on MORE redneck jokes, you-might-be-Jeff-Fox-Worthy." A hit! A stupendous hit. Down goes Foxworthy! Down goes Foxworthy!

Yet another scene for you to picture: I am walking through 615 (Nashville's Premier place to see Young Buck wannabes brandishing firearms in an attempt to boost their street cred) minding my own business. I order a sprite and a water and (after an onslaught of "fuck you cracka" and "what the fuck you think you doin?") I feel an unexpected trip to Africa, coupled with a possible drug addiction, brush my shoulder. I smell weed. I turn and deliver: "You aren't Richard Pryor!" A low blow, granted, but in his altered state of mind it hits deep and he turns into a pile of mush, weeping and screaming: "I'm rich biiiach!"

My title of "Nashville's Funniest Person" intact, I drive off into the sunset with an alpaca named George. The sign on the bumper says, "Just Married" and tin cans clinkle clankle in the dust as the credits roll. THE END...?

Press Conference: Sean

2006-05-18T17:54:00.000-05:00

To begin: Hello. To continue: The following is a transcript of my first Abusrdist Media Press conference. I was so nervous. I hope I didn't blow it!

New York Times: You live in Tennessee, not New York. Why do you hate being cool?

S: Frankly, mister, I resent the implications of that question! I will say this however: what Nashville lacks in hipness it more than makes up for in Churches per square mile and (redundancy anybody?) homophobia. Repent, heathens!

New York Times: Are you calling me gay?

S: Your mom's gay...next question.

San Francisco Gayzette: Gay bashing? This is 2006 people!

S: Your mom's 2006...next question.

Chicago Tribune: What plans do you have for your new position at Absurdist Media?

S: See, everybody! That's a good question! Well, sir...

Chicago Tribune: Ma'am.

S: Let me finish, sir! I am planning on delving deep into all the topics that float around in this bowl of brains that is my skull: Stand-up comedy, Surrealist Films, Vaginas and hate crimes.

Chicago Tribune: Ma'am.

High Times: Doesn't that Chicago Tribune dude look like a dyke?

S: Yes, he does.

High Times: If you could smoke out of anybody's skull, living or dead, whose skull would it be?

S: Oprah: anything to see her dead. I've got time for one last question.

All: AWWWWWW.

S: I'm sorry folks, I've got deadlines to meet!

San Francisco Gayzette: Wanna make out?

S: Yes, yes I do. Thank you so much everyone and I look forward to doing this again.

Look out for my first column, which is bound to show up sooner or later...or else!

A press conference, of sorts

2006-05-12T19:10:00.000-05:00

With the addition of Sean “The Wolf” Parrot, we at Absurdist Media feel as though we’ve taken a leap into the upper echelon of formative non-fictional writing. We’re not embarrassed to say we think we’re contenders for a championship. With that we’ll take any questions you may have:

Washington Post: Does Sean’s obvious love of British Humor affect the way you and Tedd will view your own writing?
J: No, I think this will work itself out. We’re not asking for any change in Wolf’s approach to the game. He’s a force. He knows what he can do, and he’ll do that in our offense as well as he did it in others. He’s been around.
T: Most certainly not. I warmly welcome the liberal use of the letter “u” in words that we, the stubborn American populace, have eliminated it from. However, there is no way in hell I will allow myself to be subjected to reiterations of anything involving Monty Python and his alleged “Flying Circus.”

San Francisco Chronicle: Where that good weed at?
J: I gotchoo son.
T: How you going to ask something like that in front of my wife and kids?

Richmond Times-Dispatch: There were rumors of a trade, maybe Tedd for a Paul Nair-type of back that could fill some positional holes. Any truth to those rumors?
J: Absurdist Media have never considered any trades. Tedd is a crafty veteran who still plays his position better than any player in this league.
T: Eat shit.

Arby’s Underground: An obviously sought after talent, why did The Wolf decide to sign with such an underachieving site?
J: I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I’ll answer that with another question: why wouldn’t he want to underachieve? It’s God’s way. He is risen.
T: We put out. There is also a thoroughness to my post-coital cuddling that is unrivaled.

Maximillion Colby Quarterly: How does this affect you’re other off season plans?
J: It’s all a matter of recruitment. We filled a solid position hole, here. I knew if we could get The Wolf, the rest would just fall into place. He’s going to attract other major league talent, sure, but we should remember that we’re keeping him around as well. It’s exciting all the way around. Robespierre!
T: Most notably my intentions of defection to the Sudan have been put on hold. Otherwise my workout regiment of wildly and provocatively performed reps and sets is still in place, and I will be ready for beach season. Ladies, I’m talking to you.

Christian Science Monitor: You’re all going to hell.
J: I am a scientist.
T: Wait, what?

We’ll bring Sean up for a few questions soon. Thanks for everyone’s involvement.

Q: Why? A: Why not?: Explicating Jadakiss' "Why?"

2006-05-01T12:00:00.000-05:00

Jadakiss' album " "Kiss the Game Goodbye" features a song entitled "Why?" This track features a series of questions regarding, this, our collective modern-condition. Jadakiss, query and postulate no more. I have taken the time to answer your questions, not to mention those of guest artist Anthony Hamilton, over a series of verse by verse installments. I apologize for the untimely response to your questions--I have had a lot coming across my desk over the last 14 months.

Yo, why is Jadakiss as hard as it gets?

This question can be approached from two different angles. On the one hand Jadakiss may be querying, “Why am I the toughest manifestation within what is commonly called ‘the rap game?’” This is not so much a question as it is a declaration of his own prowess in the field of hip-hop. Way to be full or yourself.
The other manner in which we can answer this question is through the lens of the artist's own self-examination. Perhaps he is asking “why is it so hard to be me?” This is a bit pedantic and self-absorbed—not unlike the previous assumption. To answer this I can only answer with another question: “Why is it so hard for you to remain relevant in the modern soundscape?” Maybe you should get together with a friend or two and have an honest discussion about your reasons for creating music and how prevalent you can be in terms of honesty and originality amidst a highly competitive field. And leave the high-dollar booze in the liquor cabinet. Just put on some soft music, have a moderate amount of wine, and just talk with each other . . . just talk.

Why is the industry designed to keep the artist in debt?

Here is a sentiment that perhaps Prince is more equipped to tackle than I, but I will give an earnest response. Music, mainstream music to be more precise, has become a business: that is to say an industry of supply and demand. The “industry” I think that our comrade is addressing here is the record company his music is released through—at the time of the release of the single “Why?” the Ruff Ryders/Interscope label, or perhaps the royalties battle that was spawned by Jadakiss’ departure from Puff Daddy’s (I’m sorry, P. Diddy) label Bad Boy Entertainment. I think that the latter is probably the impetus for this question, and one can only tell you, Jadakiss, that dealing with money-hungry, all business, bottom-line centered, corporate dick-head such as Puff Daddy was your first mistake. Furthermore, it appears to me that you’re not hurting that bad financially. Are you really in the red here? This is merely an assumption but maybe making some lifestyle decisions would help you climb back out of the negative in your back account. Scale back the tall-tee budget, buy cheaper baseball hats (stop leaving the New Era, 59/50, label on the bill and no one will be able to tell it’s not precisely the brand the pros wear), and maybe take advantage of public transportation on your big city visits. I won’t suggest cutting the “bling” from your wardrobe, as I know you need some kind of validation in the eyes of the materialistic urban youth.

And why them dudes ain't ridin' if they're part of your set? And why they never get it poppin' but they party to death?

I’ve taken the next two lines of the song, and thus the subsequent questions, and will delve into them at the same time due to their similar thematic issues. It’s hard to tell what is the hell is being asked here. What does he mean by “set?” I’m going to assume Jada means one’s crew, or “posse,” here. “Ridin’” is another part of the vernacular that I’ll take a stab at and say is referring to taking part in, whether through means of support and love, or being more physically proactive in one’s lifestyle/career path. The rap world seems to be centered on entourages—doppelgangers that are generally littering studios, limos, parties, and back stage areas wherever said artist might go. (Please note Mr. Jada: extraditing these individuals by as few as three to four would help you out in terms of your financial woes alluded to in your previous query). To go straight at this question I must respond by saying that “them dudes” are riding because you allow them to do such. It might be time to take a stand and say that you aren’t going to carry around dead weight anymore. Helping out friends is one thing, but in the end they won’t respect you (and vice-versa) if you continue coddling them. Help someone grow up. This might enable the persons in question to “get it poppin’” on their own two feet rather than merely taking part in the party.

Yea, and why they gon give you life for a murder?

Murder is illegal and carries with it a heavy sentence if convicted: death, or life in prison.

Turn around only give you eight months for a burner?

Smoking marijuana is also illegal, but when held in comparison with taking another person’s life is far less severe of a transgression. As such a lesser fine is levied.

Why they sellin' niggas CD's for under a dime?

If this is happening please show me where it’s happening. I love music but am not afforded the economic means to procure it at the moment. Amazon lists the price for a new copy of your album “Kiss of Death” at $13.98 as of the time I am writing this—roughly 140 more dimes than you feel your CD is currently being sold for.
(Writer's Note: It has been brought to my attention by Jeff that "dime" is referring to $10 and not 10 cents as I had assumed. I apologize for jargon-related mishap, or for merely taking Jadakiss' heartfelt ponderance too literally. Equipped with this new information I would still like to stress that at the time your CD is sold to distributors and various media outlets the price may dip slightly below $10. When I worked at a Tower Records I believe the cost was around $8.99 per CD. The mark-up for the consumer, however, is substantial. So, Jadakiss, your willingness to worry about the money in your pocket once again, and not that of the the average consumer--the one's who pay up to $17 in some instances for your music--is yet again paramount.)

If it's all love daddy why you come wit your nine?

Here is a very valid question. The tendency of some to express that “it’s all love,” or some variant of that phrase, to express their general benevolence only to contradict such by being “strapped,” whether literally or figuratively, is a conundrum that has remained at large in modern society. I do not presume to be the one to put these concerns to rest, but my thoughts on this issue are as such: Despite one’s willingness to remain peaceful and considerate of the world around them there are complications that arise from the inability of others to follow suite. This is certainly well documented, and perhaps nowhere more amplified, than in the genre of rap or hip hop. This is why an event like The Source Awards is such a volatile situation. An annual event mean to honor the artistic achievements of the year—for the purposes of my answer an event meant to shower recipients and even nominees with love and praise—suddenly turns into a trash-talking, feud-birthing debacle not unlike a weekly professional wrestling program. However, rather than resulting in a pay-per-view event that will settle the dispute a gun is generally waved about at an after party, or the artists in question release track after track of trite and boring material with wildly boring and non-purpose serving guests. This is most easily exemplified by Tupac and Biggie.

So where does this leave us? Where is the answer? It’s probably as simple as pointing to the urban zeitgeist in which many rap artists are reared. Perhaps, over time of course, those who have been subjected to violence by those who claim it’s “all love” could work proactively in the community to affect real change rather than making spectacles of themselves and others in videos, albums and in other public places.

Why my niggas ain't get that cake?

Chances are that certain goals aren’t reached in life due to many different circumstances. Whether these circumstances are within our realm of control or not is not up to us of course. The world sadly in not a fair or balanced place, and the figurative “cake” eludes many to most of us at best. The only piece-of-mind one can come away with is if they stop, look around, and realize that they’re probably ass-deep in “cake” but do not take the time to realize it.

Why is a brother up North better than Jordan/That didn't get that break?

In this life breaks are often hard to come by. Sadly making it in professional sports is frequently based on such a break. It seems to me that these days there are several instances where high school basketball players are being presented with the opportunity to forgo college and be drafted directly into the NBA. Whether this is a wise choice or not it a different debate all together, but many are not afforded “that break.” I would also site that in many instances showy street ballers (i.e. the entire And One demo team) that appear to have athletic abilities beyond Michael Jordan would not be able to function within the realm of the NBA because of the rules that govern game play (i.e. traveling, use of the feet in regards to ball handling, not to mention the team aspect of the sport on a professional level).

Why you ain't stackin' instead of tryin' to be fly?

I’m not sure what “stackin’” is supposed to mean, but by using context clues I’m assuming the Jada is referring to putting on fake appearances for others rather than being true to one’s self. I would refer Mr. Jadakiss to Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poem “We Wear the Mask,” a telling and gritty work that explicates the torment of putting on guises before terrible oppression. Dunbar’s poem carefully weaves its thematic truisms throughout its stanzas and stresses that despite the horrors of slavery the use of a guise is the only means of survival. While slavery is certainly more of a nadir than the current plight of the African-American experience in the 21st Century I would think that perhaps these individuals are “tryin’ to be fly” in an attempt to rise above certain injustices within the music industry, or in order to endure particular misfortunes—their “flyness” proving to the dominant forces that they cannot be broken emotionally or intellectually. However, I’m sure that this is not the case in the least, and to most simply looking cool is a source of happiness, despite how hollow their lives are.
(Also see, Ralph Ellison's spectacular work, "Invisible Man.")

Why is rattin' at an all time high?

If “rattin’” means turning people in, or “narcing” it may stem from the inability of the generally honest and good to put up with the stupid crap that the perpetually dishonest and malevolent through in their faces day in and day out. Just a thought.

Why are you even alive?

In my particular case a man named Tom Wood and a woman named Louise Wood engaged in the sex act during the magical August of 1980. I, the strongest of the sperm deposited into my mother that harrowed day, infiltrated my mother’s fertile egg—“conception” if you will—and eight months later (I was born exactly one month premature) I was birthed into this world.

Why they kill Tupac n' Chris?

In the years that have followed each person’s death this question has been repeated again and again. I would site Tupac’s tattoo that read, “Live by the gun. Die by the gun.” You talk enough shit and eventually someone gets pissed off, and sometime you piss someone off enough with that shit talking that they will kill you.

Why at the bar you ain't take straight shots instead of poppin Cris'?

Most of us can’t afford Cristal, and must turn to alternate means for unwinding with friends. It many cases taking shots is the quickest and cheapest means of achieving drunkenness. Particularly when you keep to the bottom shelf liquors. If you would like to give me the money to pop some Cris with I still wouldn’t be able to because that money would be promptly spent on rent and bills.

Why them bullets have to hit that door?

My assumption would be that the bullets were fired accurately and at a range in which marksmanship was no longer a factor.

Why did Kobe have to hit that raw?

There are times in which someone’s talent affords them great wealth, admiration, and respect. There are even times where this happens at an age in which the person is not equipped to handle the sudden attention and accolade because they are simply not mature enough to realize that poor decisions still carry with them consequences.

Why he kiss that whore?

Strong words Jadakiss. Please refer to the last answer.

Why?

Why not?

Please check back soon for answers to the rest of Jadakiss' song and questions therein.

-tedd-

Of Sickness and Silence

2006-04-28T23:22:00.000-05:00

Everyone gets sick at least twice in a New York winter. My battles with the elements of illness in the winter of 2005/2006 typically followed drunken nights. One such encounter followed a night of drinking with my roommate and fellow mediator Tedd Wood. That night, we pondered our fates in a near empty Beer Garden, making quick work of dark hefeweisens. We came up with a list of complaints of our surroundings and a plan for reconstructing said fates.

Moreover, we involved a new plot for happiness. A slightly scientological plan, the past was regarded and retired that night. All references to olden times—good, bad or indifferent—were merely reference points to the present. This was fulfilling. Like our dulled senses and slurring speech, our pathways were retarded only by focus. Old friends, though beloved were none of our concern. Past habits could be repeated anew, with a new patience for ourselves. The Winter Olympics blathered in the background—the European bartenders gave horrible service. We alluded to interlocked pathways and how those even as close as our roommates had no perspective on how empty the ideals of backward thinking really were.

Of course, none of this was spoken. The entrails of conversation lead us to this point—there is no real conversation to be had once the fifth year of a friendship arrives. All of them are recycled jokes and memory based reveries. Essentially, all the discussions arrive at the same three points: I can’t believe person X did that, we did something ridiculous last night/that night, or I hate my current social/living/working situation, the provenance of which is usually beer (especially in our case). Understanding these conversations comes only through careful study—what is being said is important only in reverence to the emptiness. Spoken words are less important than those ignored.

That night, we considered the merits of not hearing from friends of our former social circle. I observed the fact that Tedd had “dated them all away.” In doing so, we focused the narration of stories on not worrying about this fault. We embraced the idea of changing the guard, and considered each of these friends a part of a greater convenience within reconstruction of atmosphere. A new city brought not only promise, but routine. Change does not always involve decision making. It rarely matters at all. All of this was processed drunkenly in a throwaway tag line used often by the two of us: “Fuck it, you know?” I don’t remember who said it, but this oft used phrase was followed by a particularly deferential silence as Sahsa Cohen landed a difficult jump. We paid attention to that line—more important than it had ever been. We embraced it as mantra to our new beginning. We worried not about what lied ahead, but for one moment worried about the exact moment we controlled.

Of course, this mantra is dangerous. Used in moderation, even, it proves itself mocking of a real sense of history and purpose. Living for the moment is discreditable to be sure. However, within one moment, it can so violently shift the model of definition that two men will focus on figure skating as a means of escape. As sickness began to close my throat and line my sinuses, I was awed by my own complacency. That a man can forget the simple power of phrase is as pointless as a triple toe loop.

The majesty of conversation is simple. Don’t worry about what it is, worry about what it isn’t. Fuck it, you know? Embracing a dangerous yet desirable perception is as pointless as drinking in winter. The embrace, however foolish, still exists. Therein lies the meat of a silence—two friends surrounded by their own tolerances. Though I was sick for two weeks afterward, I would defend that choice.

On My Grandmother.

2006-04-11T13:25:00.000-05:00

My grandmother is an amazing woman. Seriously, this woman's life baffles me. It's not that she did anything overly remarkable--she didn't survive the holocaust, facilitate the Underground Railroad, or serve as the muse for the song “Layla”--she is, however, the most grounded and thorough individual I have ever come in contact with. Sure, she gives me an impossibly hard time on the infrequent occasions I see her (perhaps it's my fault I " . . . spent all that time at all those colleges and aren't doing anything with my degree and life,") and she still has the odd habit of referring to African-Americans as "colored," but there isn't a malicious nor racist bone in her body. What qualifies her for “amazing” status to me is her seemingly preternatural ability to make me feel like I’m seven years old again.

I have come to realize that as I get older my parents are more and more accepting of the concept of me being an adult. My relationship with my parents has evolved into a friendly co-existence in which neither side fully understands the other, but is at least willing to hear the other out--a notion that would have left me physically ill not but six years ago. However my grandmother still approaches me like I need to sit at the kids table at Thanksgiving dinner, and probably need to take a thank you bite of the green beans "even if they make you gag Teddy; they're good for you." And the crux of it all is that I don’t think she actively approaches me in this manner; it’s really all self-imposed.

I sat down on March 21, 2004 and scribbled out a letter to grandmother that read as follows:
Dear Grana,
Thank you for your birthday card and the $50 check you sent. Things are going well here in Greensboro. Classes are going well too. I’m sorry I used your birthday money last year to help finance a tattoo. This year I’m going to probably treat myself to a steak dinner.

That is as far as I got and I never sent it. My problem with communicating with my grandmother stems from several things that ultimately render me a perpetual child in her eyes, and each issue has its’ due turn in figuratively sweep-kicking me—sort of like the purple and gray clad “bad guys” in Kung Fu for Nintendo, I walk directly into it.

First, I feel guilty. I’ve been to my grandmother’s house in Greenville, North Carolina exactly one time since I was 14 years old. That was in July and I showed up well hung over from an ire-filled evening of drinking in Cary, NC—home of the nicest Bojangle’s I’ve ever set foot in—and smelling not unlike a distillery from profusely sweating due to both the lack of adequate air conditioning in my Ford Taurus, and the oppressive hug of eastern North Carolina’s summer humidity. In the three and a half years I lived in North Carolina I visited her one time. I am a bad grandson. Further escalating my guilt is that I had even been to Greenville on numerous occasions—albeit it was always to play shows, and I seriously doubted my grandmother’s willingness to either a) come to a noisy rock show or b) let a noisy rock band stay in her home. I have no doubt she would have thrown fresh sheets on the numerous, wood-framed beds in the many unoccupied rooms on the second floor of her house¹ and turned a blind eye to our general and utter grunginess as human beings over a delightful, and lovingly prepared breakfast. I diverge, but what I’m driving at is that I should have taken a weekend and driven the couple hours it takes to traverse the highways from Greensboro to Greenville (or “G-Vegas” if you speak in a certain jargon) but I never felt comfortable enough to do that on my own. It wasn’t until I knew my Mom would be there that I agreed to visit for a night, and for some reason I decided getting sloppy with friends the night before was the best preparation I could muster². Again, I am a bad grandson. My singular visit was actually really pleasant. In a very wholesome two hours we all assembled a jigsaw puzzle while discussing everything from the politics of the day to my Aunt Mary-Jane in San Diego who no one ever sees anymore. In a not so wholesome moment my Grandmother convinced me that my Uncle had a twin brother who died before he was ten and that his death was never explained—a story my Mom literally laughed in my face at when I questioned her about it when she returned from the bathroom. And that’s how my relationship to my Grandmother seems to unfold: I catch myself feeling like I’m gaining credibility in her eyes one moment, and then I do something (like falling for anecdotes that are obviously fabricated) that puts me on a blacktop playing four-square; in her eyes I’ll always be a little kid participating in a rousing game during emotional recess.

The second issue at hand is my cousins Hannah and Julie. Hannah and Julie are remarkable grandkids. They both manage to keep my grandmother abreast of their lives through handwritten letters and phone conversations. I hear about these missives through my own mother, who makes sure to tell me of their existence in an effort for me to follow suite. I never do. I can’t explain why, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I have nothing to report. My cousin Julie has helped publish some form of Anthropology paper in conjunction with one of her professors (I haven’t fully wrapped my head around exactly what this paper was on, or if it was even Anthropological in nature, but she’s published a scholarly paper is the point). Furthermore she is now married and has provided the all important great-grandchild as of this fall—I’ve seen it, it’s damn adorable, but I couldn’t devote full attention to it because of the campy, joke-bearing, t-shirt her husband was wearing that said something alluding to him being a new “daddy,” which made me feel so horrible for him I couldn’t stop looking at it. Hannah, who is older than I am, also has married and has also brought a great-grandchild into my grandmother’s life. Hannah has provided one of the most colorful scenarios I have ever witnessed my grandmother in. Hannah and her husband Jonathan were married in the middle of the woods outside of Harrisonburg, Virginia in an extremely informal ceremony led by a pierced hippie friend, and I believe Jonathan was barefoot. The look of my grandmother processing all this as we walked through the woods and back to our cars, her entirely wedding-appropriate attire carrying her over dirt, tree roots, and loose rock, was one of total incomprehension, but littered with complete acceptance. Adding to this memory is her getting wine-drunk with my mother at the reception as a bearded, banjo playing fellow in Birkenstocks performed in the backyard of a communal house while the smell of marijuana smoke hung in the mountain air. Everyone, including myself, is proud of Hannah. I know the act of rearing children does not make one more qualified for the affection of one’s grandmother, but when you’re still incapable of sustaining a prolonged romantic relationship it begins to become truth.

Much like my Grandmother both Hannah and Julie are much smarter than I am. My Grandmother attended Wake Forest at a time when there were only a handful of women on campus, and during a period where women did not necessarily even go to college, and she excelled academically. As for Hannah and Julie intelligence seemed to pick my Uncle Buddy, a deer-hunting gentleman who tells dirty jokes at Christmas dinner, as the conduit through which to deliver hereditary book smarts to the grandchildren. This is not to say my brother James and me are unintelligent. But we are frequently unintelligible. While Hannah and Julie were adding sterling marks to the academic palate that is their transcripts James and I were spending our formative years at Fork Union Military Academy learning to walk in neatly ordered columns and flanks, spinning rifles, and mastering the ever tricky hospital corner while making our beds. My family tends to locate itself in the same place only once a year, kind of like The Eagles reuniting whenever they need money, and it’s very difficult being surrounded by people who are so obviously mentally sharper than you are—I generally retreat to the basement and forgo the small talk and snacks, preferring to spend time with our dog Chev’rn watching television or skate videos with James. When I have tried to involve myself in these discussions it generally turns into Hannah talking about her job as a social worker, and Julie milling over her many career options. When my Grandmother, who usually moderates these state of the union type conversations, allots me my time to address the panel all I’ve been able to contribute is a colorful update on whatever music project I’m involved in, and then close out the Q and A portion with the standard, “Yes I know I majored in English, but I really don’t want to teach.” Intelligence is relative to the situation I suppose, and in that regards I have generally been the situation’s proverbial charity case throughout my life.

My inability to weigh-in with my Grandmother intellectually aside (she routinely defeats me in Scrabble when I see her—my Mom claims she cheats, I think it’s just because she's older and has heard more words), there is another important facet of her personality to explore. Not to tinker with the mechanical innards of sentimentality, but my Grandmother has paid me some of the most genuine compliments I have ever received. One comment jumps out at me in particular, and it was special because it seemingly came out of nowhere without any premeditation on behalf of my Grandmother. The scene could be written like this:

Scene: My parent’s kitchen. Tedd enters stage right through side door after a six-hour drive home from college. Dirty laundry firmly in hand he greets, and in turn is greeted, by various immediate family members. Tedd’s well-dressed Grandmother, or “Grana” as she is referred to, enters kitchen from stage left.

Tedd: Hey Grana, you look good, it’s great to see you. (Hugs his Grandmother awkwardly as he is holding laundry basket of bad smells.)
Grana: It’s good to see you too Tedd. You look good. (Pauses, steps back to better size up her grandson.) You know, I love your eyebrows.
Tedd: I don’t know Grana; they’re kind of thick and unruly if you ask me.
Grana: No, no, they remind me of this actor whose name I can’t remember from the 40’s. They make you look really handsome . . ..

I can’t explain why this compliment of something as trivial as my eyebrows had the effect it did on me. In fact I’m positive my Grandmother doesn’t even remember saying anything remotely like that, but I’ve always held onto it, and it has made me smile just for a second more times than I can count—even at times when I have been debilitating unsober. My Grandmother’s ability to say something seemingly trivial—in spite of even being able to remember the name of the person that spawned the comparison—that then resonates for years afterwards is startling. Whether it’s a comment about a physical attribute, or advice on how to properly break the speed limit—use the left lane only for overtaking slower vehicles; always scan the horizon from right to left for speed traps—my Grandmother’s words repeatedly reformulate in my head with no regards to the elapsed time since I first heard them. I’ll never be able to say something that will have that impact on someone in my life, and it that’s a very formidable thought to overcome. Now maybe I’ve built this point up in my head too much, and I know that it doesn’t necessarily put pressure on me to walk around doling out grand epiphanies to everyone I love or care about, yet everything my Grandmother has done in her life—from raising my Mom to be insightful enough to marry my Dad to indirectly causing me to even write all this—is something that I will probably always feel humbled by.

So where does this leave me? Aside from guilty, mentally dwarfed, and utterly humbled I am beginning to realize that all of these seemingly negative ends are actually something worth being happy about. My Grandmother is not the least bit un-modest, and that goes for everyone else in my family as well. All the great qualities I see in my Grandmother are my perceptions of her—they’re what I see as admirable in a person; she never told me she is what an amazing person is supposed to be. When I look at this woman I am seeing the kind of human being I would like to become, and not everyone can say that about his or her Grandmother or any member of their family for that matter. I’m pretty damn fortunate. What it’s taken me 25 years to realize is that if I were able to see myself as equal to her in any way, or feel that I’ve done anything in my life that surpasses her accomplishments I would be acting totally foolish. The grandeur I surround my Grandmother with is a result of her experiences, and there is no possible way I can ever not be a bumbling seven year old in her eyes—I just don’t have the experience that comes with simply existing to be anything other than what I am. And who is that person? He is someone who will get a $50 check enclosed in a well dictioned letter that offers encouragement and love no matter how old I act in her mind.

¹ I would like to point out that one such room, the one that happened to be prepared for me on this particular visit, has a stairway leading to the house’s attic within it. As my Grandmother showed me to the room (perhaps she felt I’d forgotten where it was, the last time I was at her home I couldn’t even drive) she informed me of the raccoon problem she’d been battling in the attic for several months, and that I should not be alarmed if I here something moving around behind the door to the attic stairway. This warning was followed by the statement: “The pest control guy told me I could try blaring loud, obnoxious noises from this room to scare them away, and I called your Mom to see if I could get a copy of your band’s CD.” My family appreciates my artistic forays.

²If you are going to go see the Violent Femmes play for free, a band I actually respect despite the alarming amount of retards who were clearly only there to hear "Blister in the Sun" live (seriously, you could be a lacrosse player and know the words to that song, shut the fuck up with the "let me go outs" in my ear) only to follow it by attending a party in which you are assured, "No, my roommate is sleeping at her boyfriend's tonight. You can totally sleep on her bed," only to be awoken to the loudly queried, "what the fuck are you doing in my bed you fucking loser," you'd have been dutifully drunk as well.

Letter Writing 2: Write Harder

2006-03-27T21:41:00.000-05:00

Dear Tedd's Couch:

I know Tedd's Mom doesn't like you—the way you used to be brighter, whiter and exotic. I'd rather you be the quixotic and idiotic register of my comfort than the vision of Mrs. Wood’s perfection. Please, no disrespect to her, she’s a saint, but you’re a martyr. You have suffered in both hue and retinue—a dull seat due to the entourage of Virginians and North Carolinians that have occupied your formless cushions.

The stains on your exterior tell no tales, but I lounge on you rather than wondering if you would've fared well in a thrift store or died on the streets of Richmond, VA. You accommodate the tall and wide like the handicapped stalls of fast food restaurants, yet you seemingly take up little space. You provide the comfort of a post work atmosphere, yet you cradle the long term nap or full night’s sleep. I’ve slept on you drunk, visiting, watching television, listening to depressing albums. I’ve kissed women on you, convinced them to stay in my house. I’ve caroused and capered on you, sentimentalized and anthropomorphized you. I’m around you and get jealous of others when they sit on you-castigating me to the other smaller couch.

I know that you have lived in rooms and seen me do devious shit—unmentionable unwarranted acts of carnage—and you would never hate me for it. Yours is a personality of a true warrior; a battle tested friend with a quiet verisimilitude. You are true like trivia show answers, sports triumphs, news broadcasts and reruns of treasured sitcoms.

Though dirty, you glow like late night television, casting light onto my closed eyes. Though covered by a sly slipcover, you’re true color cannot be displaced; your pillows exposing your off-whiteness like blonde eyebrows on jet black-haired hipster girls. You know I love them. You know me better than friends or family—my secrets and indiscretions are ingrained in your cracks. Your couch pulls out revealing your inner strength.

I sit on you now, honoring you, hoping that I won’t have to get up until it is time to sleep. My legs resting on you like you were the patriarch—the proud yet presumptuous father I already have but never see anymore. I sit on you now and consider writing this letter to Tedd’s mother. I would show her your importance beyond that of worn-in comfort and stability. The metaphorical giant that lies within you resembles a thicket of wheat. Feeding the overwhelmed constituents within your blades, you remain steady as the weighty wind tries to break you at the stalk. Though not unbreakable, you are, at least in theory, utterly irreplaceable. Yes, in theory you are a beacon of sturdiness worth your weight in visiting patrons and live-in denizens.

Mrs. Wood, I disagree.

Sincerely,
J--

The Brooklyn Syndrome

2006-03-24T12:08:00.000-05:00

New York has a way of stripping you to your simplest inputs. The separation and isolation of trains, cabs and largeness can create a piecemeal inward narrative; a self muting diatribe worthy of exclusion from normal context. For example, I need eggs. This is normal. By the time I reach the eggs, however, I have talked myself into ham sandwiches, beer, bread, and I never even buy eggs. The city moves around you, not through you. Everything the inner dialogue wants is a warped version of something better. Better always exists: better jobs, better apartments, better men/women, and better arguments. Yet, there remains something better than you. It’s Brooklyn.

I live in Queens. Bringing this up is an inherent mistake. The divide in any conversation in New York revolves around one of three things: your neighborhood, your entertainment choices, and your old friends. However, no conversation matters after you admit to living in Queens.
Queens, like the unmentioned portions of any cities lies dormant in minds like old movies—the Sunday TNT/TBS movies that everyone watches hung over. Brooklyn’s hip exterior awaits you like new movies. The new movies await you in theatres. The new movies gleam like alabaster. The new movies exist solely to mock your empty wallet. The new movies are better, glitzier, and heavier. They hang over you in advertisements, water cooler conversations, and appear with well timed veracity—topically variant and beautiful like fresh snow. Brooklyn exists one hour away (by train at least). As a borough, Brooklyn is the definition of uncharacteristic cool. All your young friends live there and assume you do. Manhattan is old hat—though cheaper in Harlem. Queens has the bigger rooms, better landlords, overall tighter feel, yet it seems so uncool. Brooklyn uncoils itself in back alley bars packed with the elitists. Essentially, stripped to it’s core, it is the definition of the lunch table I was banished from in my one year of public high school. The only difference? That lunch table never had anything I wanted in the first place. Brooklyn’s style belies that of what I want—interesting conversation and musical heretics.

Unlike my younger days, I now realize the understated is the obvious. Simplicity contains the grand design of the articulate and gravitas. Warranted explanations are the décor of the writer and artist, thus creating the social fold of Brooklyn’s elitism. Obviousness seeps through it’s streets, and plants itself at the local watering holes. Isn’t that what high school is for though—realizations of the simple? Back then, overstatement was the ruler of the day. The only objective was to be seen. Look at me, I have a tie and no collared shirt. Look at me, I play sports. Look at me, I have a girlfriend. We are holding hands and making out at lunch. People sustained themselves by simply standing around others more popular than they were. Semi-circles of future enemies and elitists formed around the social norms; groups defined by choices of all kinds (clothes, music, even smell at times). Now, as aforementioned, the simplest inputs are readily available. The pared down group can be geographical, musical, monetarily similar, work environment related, et cetera. Placement in social order depends less on commonality, and more on sheer locale. I can become great friends with nearly anyone merely through the need to communicate. The only problem is where I live. A typical conversation, when drinking in Brooklyn:

“Where do you live?”
“I live in Queens.”
“Really. Why? I mean, it’s so far away, y’know?”
“Yeah, but I like it.” I know this isn’t true (it takes less than 25 minutes to get to lower Manhattan), but I don’t explain over the horrific droning of the pointless DJ.
“Oh.”

Conversations like this one are not generally snobby by any means, but they provide little openness—they are counterproductive. Saying I live in Queens invites snarkiness and closes off a sense of belonging to both parties. Often, in fact, I have had to leave after these conversations because the conversations dried completely. Awkward silences tend to follow the “oh” like they do when the trains reach optimal speed and make it impossible to hear the person next to you. So I leave the person to consider why a man in his mid-twenties would live in Queens when, aside from its apparently horrendous locale, it’s the antithesis of New York’s atmosphere; the literal opposite of the cultural elite.

Queens, to its discredit, does offer very little by comparison to the two major boroughs. There are fewer youths, bars, theatres, museums, etc. There is a lack of excitement and reciprocity. Queens does not give me options like I give it rent. Dormant for the most part, I feel no need to linger after I get home from work. Queens’ strongest arguments are merely ill-conceived dopplegangers of the rest of the city. Their version of Chinatown looms large, but realistically, Flushing is a long train ride away for the Americanized version of Manhattan’s foul smelling haven for cheap bus rides and delicious foods. The New York Metropolitans, despite the influx of new and expensive talent, are the second rate Major League Baseball franchise. The museums reek of second hand information—my bus stop includes a sign directing you to Kaufman Theatre—an Andy Kaufman version of motion picture insight. Not the most interesting perspective; a de facto argument against calling Queens a “hip” place to live.

In the midst of these arguments, Queens stands put as my choice for a home for the time being. I would be remiss in saying I am not planning on ever living in Brooklyn. I will. The thing is—and this goes for Manhattan too, the same thought process that guides me to buy beer instead of eggs is the same that will ultimately drive my distrust of Brooklyn’s endless faux hawks and needless bar DJs. On the way to Brooklyn’s more capable conversations, I need to drink alone for a little while. Sure, eggs are cheap nourishment for a man who has lost thirty pounds in five and a half months, but beer’s inebriating quality is more prevalent right now. I’d probably have a steady girlfriend and more opportunities to network in Brooklyn, but I need that hyper-loneliness that drives me. Queens’ non-English speaking contingent alongside its anti-youth movement capitulate the attitude of the slacker and quitter better than any hip bar or trendy haircut. I suppose I could live in Bedstuy or thirty eight stops off of the “L” (or “fashion”) train, but, in essence, we are discussing the same mindset anyway.

The beauty of Astoria hits you at four in the morning. Drunk after a train ride from Manhattan, I sop my last piece of bread onto a sauce ridden Styrofoam plate—the remnants of a beef souvlaki shish kabob affectionately referred to as “meat on a stick.” The particular souvlaki joint I frequent—quite literally a cart on the corner of Broadway and 32nd street) was overrun with muscle bound men waiting in line as their all-Greek dance clubs shut down for the night. Several Puerto Ricans hang their heads out of their trucks blasting “Mas Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee. The two groups shout at one another. In the midst of it all are my roommates and I alongside two males our age. They praise our meat on a stick contingent, and admit that they drunkenly drive from Brooklyn every Friday for the delectable yet unidentifiable meat.

“I would live in Queens for this. In fact, I might move into Astoria soon.”
“For the meat?” I’m shocked.
“Yeah—that and it’s cheaper here and closer to Manhattan than where we are now.”
His friend pipes in—“Yeah, and I mean, what the fuck? It’s all New York City.”
Intrinsically, I nod with pride. I live here. I already knew that. I freeze for a moment, and realize that I am just as guilty of prideful indignation as any resident of Brooklyn. That’s fine. Simple as it may be, I live here is a justifiable response. The simplest inputs are usually the ones that make the most sense. As I walk, the background noise settles into the slow paced rhythm of Astoria—the occasional car, a couple laughing, my roommates enjoying their late night meal. I will sleep without noise, and sleep well. I live here. This thought resonates through the drunken haze. I have learned to like the Mets, Andy Kaufman was pretty funny, and i don't have enough money to watch new movies anyway. Sure, everything will get better, but I’m exactly where I want to be right now.

1996 Wasn't That Cool. And Neither Was I.

2006-03-23T13:08:00.000-05:00

Two days ago the age of 25 warmly and somewhat recklessly greeted, accepted, and then fondled me in a series of Lower East Side bars. Reaching quarter of a century status has particularly resonated with me for several reasons--the most notable of which is that I'm several years older than the characters portrayed in the movie "Reality Bites," and I still make substantially less income per week than protagonist Leliana Pierce's (portrayed by the lascivious Winona Ryder) $500 a week. Amidst this stark realization, and the forty glamorous hours I spend at The Strand per week, I managed to allot some time to sit down with myself at the tenderly depressing age of 15 for a Q and A. What follows is a lovingly transcribed account of a wholly revealing dialogue with myself ten years removed from, well, myself:

Tedd Now: So Tedd thanks for taking the time to meet with me. What have you been up to?
Tedd Then: Nothing. I don't do anything. Life sucks.
Tedd Now: Provocative. Surely there's some news you like to share with me.
Tedd Then: Not unless you consider sitting around the basement and watching VH1 and listening to hours of music "news."
Tedd Now: I see. Well, there's a lot of good stuff coming up for you. Believe me I know, I am you.
Tedd Then: Yeah, like what? More school? Fantastic.
Tedd Now: Well you get to start driving next year. That's something. Of course you kind of total Mom's car...wait, never mind.
Tedd Then: I'll pretend I didn't hear that.
Tedd Now: My point is simply that you should cheer up a bit.
Tedd Then: Right, cheer up. There's nothing like waking up every morning hating life, yourself, and everyone around you. I'm such a loser.
Tedd Now: Look 15 year old Tedd there's something I've been wanting to hash out with you for a long time now.
Tedd Then: And that is? Christ, I'm sure this will be good.
Tedd Now: Bottom line is you really need to quite being such a pussy. I mean damn man. This whole "No one understands me, I'm the enigma" thing really is pretty tired.
Tedd Then: *Looks sullenly at the floor*
Tedd Now: Look man, I'm sorry. I'm really not trying to be harsh, but you need to cheer up some. Everything isn't that bad, and it gets a lot better. In a few years you'll see what I'm talking about. Doesn't the prospect of being happy intrigue you at all?
Tedd Then: If I were to become happy I'd miss the comfort in being sad.
Tedd Now: Don't fucking quote Nirvana lyrics to me Tedd at 15. Jesus.
Tedd Then: You still caught that reference after 10 years huh?
Tedd Now: Of course I did, if anything I've had 10 more years to listen to the same songs you're listening to now.
Tedd Then: So I'm still kind of a dork ten years from now? Great. If you called this meeting just to rub it in it's totally not appreciated Future Tedd.
Tedd Now: Sorry bud, that wasn't my intention. On the up and up you do get into some other music than just Nirvana and The Beatles.
Tedd Then: That's pretty sweet I guess.
Tedd Now: Yeah, and you actually have people to listen to it with.
Tedd Then: Hmmm.
Tedd Now: And you play and write music a lot. In fact you'd be surprised to see where you end up living and what you're doing.
Tedd Then: Like what? Where?
Tedd Now: Well, for starters you meet some really good people and do some decent bands with them.
Tedd Then: Do we do any Nirvana covers?
Tedd Now: Just get off of Nirvana for a minute okay? And you're living in New York with great friends.
Tedd Then: New York? How is that?
Tedd Now: Well it's kind of like existing in a massive, seething, I-Pod commercial.
Tedd Then: What's an I-Pod?
Tedd Now: Don't worry you can't afford one.
Tedd Then: Fuck.
Tedd Now: I know. All I'm saying is in the future you're going to really forget about all this over-thinking everything you do, and all the journaling about hating everyone and move on.
Tedd Then: So I move past being a teenager basically?
Tedd Now: Exactly, but your 20's are kind of marred with the same sort of disillusionment, but combined with being very poor.
Tedd Then: Wait that sounds pretty bad...
Tedd Now: But factor in alcohol and there's some moments of mindlessness where none of that matters. Plus you'll be able to grow a sweet beard.
Tedd Then: I could get into that.
Tedd Now: Well, look Tedd at 15 thanks for taking the time to sit down with me again. I could keep asking you questions, but fact of the matter is that I already know what your answers are going to be. I am you.
Tedd Then: Sure thing I guess. You want to hangout and listen to some music?

What followed was a blur of mid-90's rock n' roll, peppered with a healthy dose of classic rock--mainly Led Zeppelin's "II" and Pink Floyd's "Animals." I left Tedd at 15--his tattered jeans, army jacket, greasy under-cut, and Nirvana "Sliver" shirt and all--with no real conclusions about what has transpired in the last ten years. I did come to realize that Stone Temple Pilot's lyrics are still about absolutely nothing, and my suspicions that Oasis was in fact not the second coming of The Beatles have been confirmed.

A Letter Writing Campaign

2006-03-10T18:35:00.000-05:00

I've decided to write some letters. Some will be funny. This one really isn't. Enjoy.

Dear Youthful Idealism:

I have been better. The yellow stains around my collar are forming deeper, and my feet are weary. My headaches and drinking are getting worse, but are still infantesimal comparative to the space between myself and the goals I warranted as my own years ago. I eat less than Orwell's Animal Farm inhabitants. I am a small fish in a pond the size of New York City. The people there are dejected and hate you, Youthful Idealism. They think you are funny joke, but an indiscriminate idea long out of reach. Their hatred of you causes them to hate me for holding out hope. Hope glimmers in my eyes like clenched hands on a just born infant.

I won't liken you to a prizefighter, Youthful Idealism. I won't. It's too easy. I'm giving up on easy. Easy is a countryside and a car full of cheap gasoline. Easy is an all-night Coin Laundry. Easy is an old vinyl record without skips.

I'll never have it easy, will I? My father taught me that. He hates you too, but he still believes in you through me. I am martyring myself aren't I? I'll probably learn how to cook well, and never be able to afford the real ingredients. I've learned to look impressed at grocery stores. I walk the aisles and marvel at the choices; the comprable prices of cheeses and cereals. The ebb and flow of the soda aisle's colorful exterior is rife with your understanding. You offer the wealth of colors, but in the end you are a pale comparison to the happiness of the kids on macaroni boxes. They beam with pride. Their lives have arrived at a happy point.

What I'm saying is that you are a poorly constructed crab cake. Your ingredients are unattainable. You break apart at the hint of failure. Interminable shame accompanies those who follow you to large cities, small colleges, mid-tier publishing houses, and bars. No one really realizes your cruelty. Your loving arms wrap around us and offer us a beer in our apartment, and then hang around long enough to cheer against our sports teams, puke on our bathroom floor, and clog the drain with your thick spitted realism. You hit on our significant others and eat our Tostitos, complaining that the lime flavored ones are better.

God I hate you, Youthful Idealism. I need you around like ex-drinkers crave cigarettes. I welcome you like a high schooler welcomes an internet synopsis of a long British novel. I believe, but I still hate you. Improbably, I warrant hope, and I slave for the men and women that once held you dear. They wear a predictable smile when I am unable to fulfill job vacancies or publish marketable fiction pieces.

You motherfucker, you better give me more chances. You live in every drink I mix, every hyphen that lengthens my already long sentences, every pair of socks I re-wear because I can't afford laundry, every call about college loans I don't answer. You'll die alongside my hope in a few months when I reassess my choices. You'll smile as you pass through me to some other foolish young face, brightening each table they serve.

You're a poorly disguised repossession officer. You're an upstanding pederast. You're in my kitchen right now refilling my whiskey glass and forcing me to talk about my narrative voice. I want you to sleep on the couch tonight, Youthful Idealism. I can't sleep with you in the room, but I won't sleep unless you're around.

I won't ever forgive you. I won't. Youthful Idealism, I can't even hear what you're saying-- not even the inflection in your voice or the way you slip in and out of my thoughts can appeal to me right now. Not even a little. Not even a lot. I'll sleep better ignoring you, but knowing you're there.

Respectfully,
J--

Mid Day Anonymous

2006-02-28T22:47:00.000-05:00

I was driving seven over the speed limit in the passing lane when the truck veered toward me. I didn’t honk my horn or swerve toward the guardrail. I did not scream. I did not gasp or clench my wheel. I did not react.
I had been on the road from Baltimore. I was visiting a woman I had been seeing. All too brief, the weekend was lovely—the kind of visit I could only have had traveling alone and the kind I needed before moving to New York City.
Since the near accident, I’ve tried to slow every good moment down, though not through epiphany or sentiment. Essentially, epiphanies are planned through thought or careful consideration. Sentiment relies too heavily on forced memories. Accidents, being aberrations, force the mind’s reaction away from memory.
In fact, I only remember scant details: only the brightest, sharpest details and afterthoughts wash over me. In retrospect, it is probably best to forget the sun being out, the hall of trees surrounding me, the line of a song blaring “What will you do now, with no one to go to,” the eighteen wheel truck, and the drive entering it’s sixth hour of no air conditioning. The details unimportant; it was the earnest thought that came just as I considered death—many have suffered, and none has thought themselves worth it. This was a line in a song I never performed, a fitting tribute to its overwrought nature. Yet the line remains a refuge. A coarse reiteration of what any 23 year old knows: I will never be important to a future generation, but should always be important to this one (even if in a small circle of friends and family).
While the sudden thoughts were validated by the piecemeal memory cycle, I couldn’t explain the stillness of my reflexes. The problem with lack of reaction is its marginalization—finality relegated to an afterthought. I didn’t have a problem with the idea, only it’s being recycled. Why leave myself defenseless? Do I really consider myself “worth the suffering?” Is that what I want my last thought to be? Many have suffered, and none have thought themselves worth it? After the truck swerved back into its lane, I questioned my “final” ideas and lack of response. A sweeping remorse came over me, and I attached myself.
I imagined my funeral at eighteen or even twenty; an affair with unsure emotions and unprepared speakers.
As I passed him later, the truck driver and I locked eyes. I apologized silently for my tactless vision—my lack of notification that he could have killed us both. He apologized for almost killing us both. I was reticent to pass him, but I was glad to experience this double confession. Freeing, the forgiveness became a manifesto of sorts. I apologized to everyone I knew for my lack of action that day, if silently: women I should have treated respectfully, family I have not trusted, friends I have scorned, and acquaintances I have ignobly offended.
Of course, I realize the dangers of living in apology, but no understanding comes without remorse, and none comes through panic. Now, I come to that understanding. Now, I slow down to react without self effacement. Now, I imagine a funeral of joined hands and otherwise happy souls reunited and reliving a suffering soul that no longer thinks to matter. I am worth the suffering, in a way, as vindicated by a trucker’s nervous nod toward a Boston cap and a sweat soaked tee shirt.
Without a car in New York, I may live longer, but I may not receive the erstwhile indulgence I received while narrowly avoiding death. I-85 never looked as lifeless as when I lived through it, yet never as vibrant as I remember it.

The Casting Call Has Been Made. Who Will Answer?

2006-02-28T12:52:00.000-05:00

I recently attended an open casting call for extras here in New York City. What follows is an account of my visit to the offices of Casting Networks in lower Manhattan on a blustery day in February.

10am: I arrive at the office building on Broadway. As I approach the unassuming offices I notice a lengthy line of hopefuls waiting out front on the street frantically trying to keep their hair in order. I sigh to myself and take my place at the end of the line.

10:15am: Strike-up small talk with a strikingly short woman of about 27. Barbara, as she identifies herself, regales me with her storied career as an extra/acting hopeful. Moving to New York from Boston for easier access to acting seminars and classes, Barbara has been featured somewhere in the distance in upwards of twenty films and television shows.
"You should really consider joining one of the Unions. They really take care of you," says Barbara, "You have a look that will probably land you a few roles." I shudder at the consideration of sitting in a crowded cafe well behind the real actors as they shoot scenes to be a "role."
"Yeah man," chimes in Eddie a surly Latino of some weight, "All it takes is one director seeing you around on set and your made." Eddie begins recounting what seems to be his proudest moment in life, which consists of half of his face being in the right frame of a shot in John Leguizamo film. Wait, we'll say "movie," not "film."

10:25am: Begin ignoring Eddie, who has evidently changed his name from Rodrigo to the less ethnic "Eddie" at the behoovment of his agent. Yes, extras apparently have agents.

10:30am: A suspiciously well dressed, ninety pound man, about 25 years old, emerges from the front door and begins handing out personal information sheets. Eddie cracks a bad joke about making us wait in the cold. The waify guy, I later learn his name is Sean, impatiently tells him to "go ahead and leave then." I laugh at Sean's impending bald spot to myself as he awkwardly paces by in jeans that are far too tight for him.

10:45am: I question whether or not to stay. Eddie is far too social, and I keep catching Barbara looking up at me.

10:55am: They allow twelve us in to the building. On the elevator ride up an employee of Casting Networks warns us to "look out for the little gay guys running around up there." No one laughs, and we all pour out of an over-crowded elevator.

11am: We are urged to make ourselves comfortable while they enter the information from the aforementioned sheets into their computer data base. There is no where to sit. I begin noticing people have head-shots with them.

11:10am: My information is keyed in by Sean's "friend" Patrick. Patrick is alarmed at the fact that I am not a union member and have no experience with being an extra.
"Why are you here then? You're totally unprepared for this," Patrick queries.
"I had nothing else to do today. Do I need my own headshot for this?" I asked.
"No, no we'll take a digital photo for you. Stand over by that wall and we'll take it."

11:15am: It is becoming apparent that I am the only one who needs a headshot taken today. Sean approaches me and asks me if I want to check my hair before he takes the photo. I tell him no, "Maybe someone is looking for an unkempt, gloomy guy." He doesn't laugh.

11:16am: I am standing on a large white block in front of a camera.
"I'm going to need a big smile now Tedd," says Sean, sounding like Carson from Queer Eye. I muster something I think looks like a smile.
"Oh c'mon now silly, you look like someone took the cheese off your macaroni."
"What?" is all I could respond with as the flash goes off.
"You just look confused in this one, let's try again," Sean says looking flustered.

11:17am: After repeated camera malfunctions and odd stares from other people in the room Sean finally gets my picture:

"You'll be getting a call if any of the directors are interested," Sean lisps at me, "You leave the same way you came in."

11:18am: Safely back on the elevator the gay-joke guy asks me how it went.
"I don't know, good, whatever," I tell him.
"See what I meant about the faggy kids?" he asks.
"Whatever." I walk off the elevator and back onto Broadway and head for 23rd Street.

11:20am: I stop at a street vendor and purchase a delicous hotdog. Sean, evidently now on some kind of break, walks past and says something regarding my meal choice and the caloric intake of such. I decide that I do not like Sean.

As of yet I have not been contacted. In a city full of the suicidally beautiful and eternally hopeful it doesn't exactly pay-off to have physically banal attributes or be rational I suppose. At least it's not LA.

"Can You Take Me Hire Enough?"

2006-02-24T13:06:00.000-05:00

Tedd Wood
23-50 31st Ave. Apt. 2
Astoria, NY 11106

My name is Tedd Wood and I am applying for the full-time position available. I must say my interest was aroused by your online classified ad because of the challenging light in which you portray your office environment. Your advertisement’s careful manner of alluding to the deadline based work, and the high-profile clientele your agency serves, only made me the more adamant about there being a place for me in your offices.

First I would like to drop my guard for a moment and put it out there that I in fact have no experience in this field. However there are many intellectual aspects of my person, not to mention stunning physical attributes, that I feel provide any prospective employer with the impetus to bring me on board.

To begin with I am capable of maintaining a tasteful amount of facial stubble on a consistent basis--nothing over board here, just gloriously sub-five o'clock shadowing (which can be sculpted if that's what you're into) year round. I can automatically provide a Simpson’s quote to fit any given work/socially related conundrum in order to lighten the figurative blow to your ego. I do not perspire. I am not afraid to "roll three buttons deep" when wearing a button-up shirt. When I smoke I look VERY cool. I can beat any rival company bigwigs in a drinking contest. I am well aware of the food pyramid guidelines. I won't steal toilet paper from the bathroom unless my roommates and I really need it. I do not watch movies; I watch films. I am familiar with the works of Patrick O'Brian. I can define the word "topography" and use it liberally. I am kind to dogs and small children are amused by me. My fade-away jump shot is nearly un-defendable. I actually think about veterans on Veteran's Day. I use Q-tips regularly. I found the wizard's key and escaped the dungeon in Dragon Warrior II. I own a Powerpad for the Nintendo Entertainment System. I know what MLA stands for, and scoff at the Chicago Style. I find the "Ariel" font to be "fruity" in appearance. I enjoy spelling the word "color" like this: colour.

I will be calling you in the coming days in order to follow up on the status of application and hope to schedule a meeting with you so we can further discuss my eligibility for the position and I can inspect the water pressure of the Men's restroom sink to insure that it meets my standards. Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Tedd Wood

"Three Feet Hire and Rising."

2006-02-24T12:56:00.000-05:00

Tedd and I have decided to post our cover letters here, in case any employers randomly come upon our site. Here's mine:

Jeff Laughlin
2350 31^st Avenue Astoria New York 11106
(917) 202-2271

Dear Sir or Madam:

My name is Jeff Laughlin. Your Company has evidently become desperate enough to place a plea for workers on the internet. Loneliness is a curable disease. When hired, I will serve to fill the void Your Company now feels in its hollow hallways, underused break rooms and oversized bathrooms. I will run my fingers sinuously over yr wood paneling; answering the heeded calls of yr dour, scientific appeal for “2-3 years experience.”

Oh, I have experience. When hired, I will service yr needs professionally and reliably. I will layer and texture yr offices with my inbox maneuvering; manipulating yr grant statements with the care of a matriarch even during the high paced business day. I will read yr proofs—lick at yr tender words with my long red pen—and mark them ever so gently until you decide it is enough. Then I will discharge the day’s mail.

Then, in a true admission of my character, I will languidly lay over yr desk and mini kitchens caressing you with conversational hi jinx and inimitable extroversion until the hour of parting comes. Yr office parties will quiver in ecstasy with my arrival. With an enigmatic and realistic approach to Your Company’s emotions, I will tickle yr tender yet turbulent traumas and reminiscences with regard and whimsy—tactfully and artfully undressing the inner-being that lies within the mainframe of Your Company’s soul.

Your Company and I are admittedly rife for change and right for each other. End this, the sorrowful separation of our being, once and for all. Surrender your objectivity and succumb to the urges that ravage yr internal being. When hired, my proficiency to Excel through Word will reign down from the heavens like manna lavished upon the faithful. Your Company can ill afford to waste any more precious time—no matter the precociousness or timeliness of my reply. Oh, to be within Your Company’s demanding businesslike atmosphere—engrossed in the woebegone hierarchy of love!

I am proficient with HTML.

With Best Regards,
Jeff Laughlin

Retrospecticus

2006-02-23T00:40:00.000-05:00

I grew up in the suburbs of Washington DC. I played Little League; my parents did a tremendous job of raising me. I stopped playing baseball and began earnestly hating my youth. I went to a public high school situated next to my neighborhood. I began listening to “Alternative Music.” I began hating everyone around me and wanting nothing but their acceptance all at the same time. I started smoking cigarettes. I drank coffee. These things stunted my growth. I went days with talking only with my eyes. I got a driver’s license and drove into the city. I felt at home. I totaled my mother’s Taurus coming back from the psychiatrist. I went to military school. I suffered from crippling panic attacks. I traveled to Europe and kissed a girl on the mouth for the first time in a Parisian hotel. I was 17. I read James Joyce’s Ulysses and feel like I understood it. I shook Clarence Thomas’ hand before I was given my diploma. I went to college in the mountains where the scenery is drinkable. I made good friends. I fell in love with someone who couldn’t love me back. I reread Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey. I joined a fraternity because it was something I swore I’d never do. I left the mountains of Virginia to live in my parent’s basement for the pending fall. I peddled music. I played in a band. The band stopped. The World Trade Center towers were knocked down. I drove past a gapping hole in the Pentagon on my way to a show. I relocated to North Carolina in the winter of the year of the palindrome. Amazing people accepted me. I played shows. Many shows. I bought vinyl records. Lots of records. I fell in love with someone who loved me back. I played more shows in more bands. I went on tour twice. I graduated college. I worked at a laundry-mat/bar. I like blue-collar people. The person who loved me back stopped doing that. I drank more than I ate. I walked around a lot and listened to an old Walkman. I realized how much I love my friends. I became promiscuous. I hated it. I moved to Richmond, Virginia. My bands broke up. I became jaded. I felt like I was getting up to walk to high school every morning. I met someone who liked me but I wasn’t capable of letting anyone like me. I drove to my friends every weekend. I put color on bathroom signs for money. I enjoyed eating chicken wings with Harp beer once a week in the company of transplanted soccer hooligans. I left the south. Now I make bed in New York City.

--TW

Theatrical Blather: So It Begins

2006-02-07T23:54:00.000-05:00

I've always considered myself more of an idea man—someone with realistic approaches to writing originally. For instance, around a year ago I wrote a series of want-ads. They weren’t grounded in any sort of romanticism or directed to anyone in particular. Instead, they featured one inanimate object or idea speaking to their idea of an ideal life—a nail speaking to its ideal board or an evicted house searching for the right inhabitants. I was going to send these to certain high end periodicals and have them put in their “looking for…” sections, thus making me a “published” author in each of these magazines. Devious, but brilliant, this idea never came to fruition.

Instead, I’ve lost those ads. I searched through my “Old Shitty Writing” box, and old files to no avail. The old stories I found were predicated not on characters, plot or the standards of good story telling. Rather, they showed the desperate pleas of an incapable talent. I’ve come to realize that an idea man’s last resorts come early. Desperation set in by the time I was twenty three. Quite possibly, I am not cut out for solicited writing. With ideas like these, who needs publication? The question poses an oversimplified answer of “no one, obviously,” and that can be perturbing—a “so it goes” stratagem with which I have been all too familiar.

The idea man is one that constantly grapples with horribly contrived plots such as the want-ads. The variable is to construct these into the normal writing structure—essays, stories, poems and the like. In the last year, I have continually believed that the worst idea would be to contribute reckless ideas with absurd explanations to a general public. The danger of pretentiousness becomes too apparent, followed by the perils of an uncultivated audience (or lack thereof, for that matter). Though reticent to commit to randomness, I am clearly not committing to complacency either.

Therefore, I present Absurdist Media. An idea that once branched out to include a number of friends that I thought believed in their talents, now it dwindles to two (with guest hosting possibilities). Presumably, the blogging culture does not bode well for aspirations of grandeur. A website is in the works—at least it should be. For now, this is a blogspot-centric operation. Future plans involve the blogspot site being the random outlet for conversation about the website or honing the craft, if you will.

In a sense, this is ultimately giving up. The idea man is fine with that, and in fact welcomes this version of his favorite national pastime. If giving up becomes an expressive form, I should be pretty good at it. Realism, in effect, becomes a haggard form of quitting as well, especially when considered in any way original. Essentially, all the idea man is ever left with is quitting and those damn ideas.