4/28/2009

Marlaina Miller, Associate Manager, American General Life and Accident











Marlaina Miller, Associate Manager, American General Life and Accident

Marlaina Miller, Associate Manager, American General Life and Accident

Marlaina Miller, Associate Manager, American General Life and Accident

Marlaina Miller, Associate Manager, American General Life and Accident

10/11/2007

Classifieds

FAILED ARTIST sought by bakery to
sample our new line of brownies. 75K/yr.
and full benefits. Work from home.

MAJOR ENTERTAINMENT CONGLOMERATE
seeks bitter, balding, musically hyper-competent
42-yr. or oldr to compose and produce
scathing indictments of us. Don't bore us, don't
get to the chorus, full orchestra arrangements preferred.
Salary commensurate with disgust.

HYDROPONICS GURU! The fall '07 Willie Nelson
And Friends Tour Needs YOU! Guitar-stringing ab-
ility a plus but will train the right person! 2K a week,
benefits include free RX.

STAFF WRITER POSITION available with Cynical
Motherfucker Magazine. Special knowledge in music
and politics a plus! Unbroken need not apply! Planning
Autumn 5-mag arc "The Genius Of Avril Lavigne". Fax
writing samples (300,000 words plus preferred, with
illustrations) to XXX XXXX.

DOKKEN REFORMING FOR '08 TOUR '80's metal
monsters seek freak energy bassist with hammer-on skills,
to-die-for cheekbones and largeish cock. But not larger than
Don's. Payment rendered in cocaine; hair ex-
tensions mandatory. No neat freaks, no Christians,
Don XXX XXXX between 2 and 5 AM. Leave message after
intro to "Hell's Bells".

STABLE BOY required at Chatterley Meadows Ladies Riding
Academy. Some heavy lifting. Multitasking self-starter with
stick-to-it-iveness. $5.50/hr., no benefits. Cruella XXX XXXX.

7/17/2007

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6/19/2007

Ruminations...

So, who wants to hear a riveting first-hand tale about guns and drugs in th' third world?

Who wants to read about th' creative processes of a deeply experienced artist?

Uh, who wants to read something insanely funny, true and fucked?

Who wants to hear some cool music by an uncompromising contemporary talent with a soul?

Yeah, that's what I thought. Me fuckin' neither! Idol's on tonight, right?

Folks, this blog may not be long for the world. Sorry. It is slowly becoming a little bit of an albatross to me. True, I do it for myself but I can make myself laugh without pouring all this time down a fuckin' hole. I can certainly

keep my pecker up without all th' lost time. Contributing to this culture is a little bit like having sex with sandpaper.

That said, I'm undertaking an intense and engrossing project this summer. I have unlimited access to a great studio space this summer with grand piano, drums, every amp and guitar imaginable, and some great acoustic spaces.

So I've decided to record my defining album- the one I've always wanted to and tried to make again and again. I got pretty close with my last burst of creativity in '05-'06 and the only thing that didn't cut it for me was an over preponderance of synthetic sounds borne of fiscal necessity. I can't stand listening to the digital piano on some of my coolest piano-driven songs and I want to record some songs with real sonic cohesion and real drums and piano and guitars and string sections and everything.

I want to take 15 or so of my best songs of the last 20 years and really pore over them and record spacious, acoustically unhyped, technically unassailable versions of them and just sing the fuck out of them and pick the 11 or 12 twelve best. And if in the process I get a wild hair and start writing then that'll be fair game too.

I want to dig through my catalog and find elements that unite my work and exploit those elements. I also want to identify whatever the consistent elements of crappiness are and remove them. I want the final product to sound really unified without ever lapsing into sameyness and I want it to sound just a little down-home sonically. Like a Michael Penn record or th' sort of tossed-off virtuosity of the White Album but with my sort of baroque neo-soul American Songbook thing. And yeah, some electronics like I dig. Some tone-distressing that serves the music.

But still with all my jiggery-pokery. Because that's what's fun for me. And I want to have good musician colleagues contribute in what I assess to be my areas of weakness. I also want to have some well-deployed string sections and some string quartet things which is expensive but totally doable. The better my arrangements and scores, the cheaper.

And I want to give it a few months. Maybe upgrade my rig a little, if at all possible. This is going to be my most important work, a summation of my output up to now. I'll almost definitely stay away from anything I've released for real with any band or that's been on the radio although "I Could Cry" is one of my top ten. Definitely many songs from my current run. "Station Road" would sound dope with real piano and real Rhodes doing the Eno sections. A live take of "PaulMcCartney" on a real grand piano would be choice. "Monday Wedding" and "Mystery" with nice, real-sounding, shambolic drums and guitar amps in rooms mic'd back.

I want to fall backwards into it like a pond. Backwards into music. Back and to th' left. I want to have a big, amazing, worthwhile achievement under my belt by the fall and maybe that'll fill my sails for wherever the fuck it is I'm supposed to be going in this consarned life. I think it'll help, I really do. I'm really trying to figure it out, I swear. I just love music so much. I'm not good at music because I have clever hands. Far from it. I have to love it so much to make it happen because it can be a huge struggle for me. I'm capable of hearing things and then being tortured by not being able to get them to come off of my fingers and I never give up because I love it so much.

It might be my last chance, man. I'm just starting to realize. I'm just starting to get it. It's sinking in. Everything we do doesn't have to be defining or carry that sort of baggage but it does for an artist. I have a responsibility to figure out how to be content and I feel like a huge part of it is going to involve the closing of a

window in order for some fucking door to open.

But god damn it is it going to be one beautiful closing window. I have the power to control that. I have control over that.

Stuff I Came Up With

1. Yeah, I came up with "...so not...". "I'm so not looking forward to 1999". I came up with "...so not..." in '98.

2. I also came up with "you go, girl". That one was in '93. I came up with that one day when I was bored and this woman was doing something I forget what but I wanted to express my support and encouragement so I came up with, "you go, girl".

3. Also, "teh". That was me in '01. I was th' first one to misspell "the" as "teh". I was lurching towards my ultimate identifier: "th'"

4. I cannot claim credit for "mother of all...". Saddam Hussein came up with that one before th' first Golf War to describe the battle that awaiting the Americans in Kuwait and Iraq. I love that it's become an American colloquialism. It's like Jews saying, "Juden Raus" or something.

5. I didn't come up with "...from hell". That was Richard Lewis in th' early '90's.

All these other ones are mine, though. YOu all owe me a fuckin' dollar.

6/18/2007

From Th' Desk Of Thor Heyerdahl

Thor Heyerdahl
434 Polenschmoken Vagen
Copenhagen, Denmark
June 16, 2007

Dear Mr. Lightfoot;

What a delightful surprise it was to Google my name this morning and realize that someone had taken a renewed interest in my studies of th' Bog People. I am fascinated with your hypothesis regarding the possibility of Bronze-Age autoerotic asphixiation. Truly this is the work of a great and incisive mind.

In fact, the reason I am writing to you, aside from the desire to congratulate you on your fascinating analysis, is to invite you to join me and my team as I reopen the Case Of Th' Bog People this very autumn. We will be re-opening the excavation sites at Assholenburgh and Cumshottenhammer and I would be honored if you would join us as a consultant.

I anxiously await your response as we venture forth again into th' unknown.

Admiringly, Thor Heyerdahl.

P.S. How on earth could you have known about the ancient pre-solstice celebration of Pigsperm Night? I am indeed humbled. Humbled!

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6/11/2007

Woah There Stupid Motherfucker


Dude you're there in my fucking stats EVERY DAY. Searchin', searchin' searchin'.
Searchin' for Mahat Magandi.
Dude, you HAVE TO STOP. You've been doin' in for months, months, MONTHS.
Am I crazy? Am I showin' the world I'M a retard? Woah! I could've SWORN th' guy was Mahatma Gandhi but HEY, WHAT TH' FUCK DO I KNOW ANYMORE IN THIS KOOKY WORLD WHERE EVERYTHING'S WHAT PEOPLE SAY IT IS?
Maybe he WAS Mahat Magandhi! What the blithering fuck do I KNOW! Maybe Wikipedia sez that now! Maybe I need to brush up on my history! woah! I know all sorts of history stuff about 'Merican presidents like Douglasmc Arthur and Dwighteis Enhower! And Henrykiss Inger and his advisor Richardnix On! So I feel I have some authority to speakon thissub ject!
Heck, maybe he played euphonium with Georgehar Isson and Paulmc Arntey! Maybe he was devoted to th' principal of nonviol entprotest!
Stop making me endure your torture.
Here's to make sure you receive my missive: MAHAT MAGANDI MAHAT MAGANDHI MAHAT

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6/10/2007

Street Lights, People


????????????

Errr.


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Th' Fucking Bog People: New Voices, New Perspectives


Yeah, right? What's the polesmoking deal with the fucking Bog People? Thor Hayerdahl discovered them in the Peat Feilds of Norway and ever since it's been this whole thing, man. I just happened to remember them because I read something on Ned's blig about being "kerned tighter" and it sounded like maybe something that would be involved in just garrotting someone's sorry, wrinkled, Bronze Age ass.

What the fuck is the story with the Bog People though? Did they call themselves "The Bog People"? Otherwise where did it come from? And don't tell me it wouldn't be the coolest fucking band name since I-just-don't-know-when-all?

So, was it some religious thing that made these people fucking throw each other into swamps and shit? Because, man, I'd have to really be in some sort of trance to strangle someone and throw them in a fucking peat bog like a total a-hole. I mean, I'm not judging or anything, there is sort of a punk element to it.

So, did they have some fucking contest or some crap for who got to jump into th' mud and croak? Did they play mumbledee-peg for who got to get choked and tossed? Was it that bad back then? I've had days when I sort of wished someone would strangle me and throw me in a deep swamp of shit. Today wasn't entirely without moments of faint desire regarding this activity.

Were they Bronze Age Autoerotic Asphixiators? Another not-unlaudable band name if I dare say so myself. That would be funny. "Fuckin' Lasse choked himself jerking off" "Fuck it, throw him in the fucking bog".

Plus, you know, they found all this millet seed in their stomachs. The Bog People. So, the way I see it, these people fucking ate a bunch of raw grain, jacked off, strangled themselves and fell into peat bogs!

Which, while being pretty fucking punk rock, suggests an era of somewhat uninterrupted crappiness.

What would motivate one to behave thus? What the fuck would make you do that? I think one must confront the mystery by wrapping it in a modern paradigm! Definitely! O.K., so let's picture this dude fucking playing Xbox and then eating a large order of McNuggets, jerking off and strangling himself and throwing himself in a fucking swamp. Put in this context it continues to elude easy classification I'd fucking say.

I suppose the possibility also exists that the town all got together and just picked the biggest asshole and did the foul deed with them. I could see how that would make sense because I can easily think of several people in my town that I'd like to force a bag of fucking bird seed down their throat and choke them and throw them in a pit. And maybe, just maybe, if a consensus could be reached that included local law enforcement and such, we could all rid ourselves of a great deal of worry.

And then, in 3000 years, someone could dig them up and laugh at them as hard as we laugh at th' Bog People. I hope it wouldn't be me! I try to get along with folks. Plus I'd never wear a fucking babushka like the Bog Dude in th' picture. If some dude walked around our town that way, well, he just might wind up face-fucking-down in a six-foot-deep mud puddle. Jesus, we don't countenance that sort of fucked up shit here.

The other thing is that these are some ugly motherfuckers to be sure. Look how wrinkled and off-kilter they are. Dude, look at his fucking guy- he looks like the fucking Tin Man. Huh? Right? Jesus, all fucked up like that? His own mom probably rigged the drawing-of-straws so she'd never again have to confront what nature and a right rodgering by Olaf next to the Shitting Place on Pigsperm Night had wrought below her millet-filled guts. Ha ha ha ha. Jeez, he looks like an asshole. He looks like this drummer I knew who shall remain, Frankly, nameless. I bet this fucking guy never got off the hi-hat either. Chhk chhhk chhkk chhkk until the rest of th' band couldn't take it anymore and they carried him to the moonlit solitude of the peat bog and there rid the world of another crap drummer. A drummer who Frankly could never get off th' hi-hat.

Fuckin' Bog People. They're all rotten and dead and fucked up and I'm laughing and drinking delicious espresso because I'm ALIVE, fuckers. God damn it if I don't have something up on some motherfucker, right? Ha! And the odds that I'll be alive tomorrow and eatin' something good for brek and IT WON'T INVOLVE YOUR BORING SHIT GRAINS THAT YOU PAID SO DEARLY FOR. DEAD BOG FUCKERS. LYING ALL DEAD AND PRUNEY IN YOUR HOLES. With your adorable head gear. Dead fuckers. You're all so fucking B.C. You're not where it's at at all, man. Not even Paris Hilton would fuck you.

I mean, there's lots of talk out there about this generation or that generation being the Greatest Generation but let me tell you you mudsuckers aren't even on th' ballot. You're LONG FORGOTTEN, swampies. You're washed up. This is the most that's been written about your bony asses since some bored interns dug you up indifferently in 1962 and commented chucklingly on the wrinkled teeniness of your prehistoric pizzlers over cigarettes which they ashed on your gross, rotten prune nuts.

The fucking Bog People! Rock the bog, Bog Dudes. I don't really hate you. Tell you this, though- you ever track that shit in my clean kitchen I'll give you what for. Bog fucks.