A Couple Of Quick Fucking Lies.

Sometimes I have th' urge to sort of still the tempest of my psyche and just sort of once and for all try to be at peace with all that is around me. And I daydream about the sort of serenity that some people live with, and what it would be like to possess serenity like that.

That's a lie. I never have that fucking urge.

Sometimes I have the desire to stop living a threadbare existence as an artist and find some work that could be meaningful to me and allow me some financial freedom instead of always hustling and sucking little drops of cash out of the cracks in th' system. And I daydream about the sort of ease and luxury in which many live these days without care or money stress.

That's a lie. I never, ever have that fucking desire.

Sometimes when I'm driving home from a show at 4 AM I find a field and pull over and just go out in the field to admire the stars, arrayed like jewels across the black velvet night sky. I often think of the wonders of the universe and I'm humbled and made righteous by the sheer unmitigated tinyness of my footprint. And I'm grateful that I have a job that lets me hardly ever miss a sunrise.

That's a lie. I certainly never pull over to look at the fucking gayass stars. I'm too exhausted and the last thing on my mind is the stupid sunrise, which I for one could frankly live without. And I live with two fantastic children that live normal lives and it makes me feel like a god damn vampire to be honest with you. Staggering in at fucking 6 in the morning night after night. What kind of a fucking example is that? Jesus Christ. At least I don't drink much.

Oh, and the universe? The consarned universe can smoke m'pole. As far as I'm concerned the universe can smoke m'pole. As far as I'm concerned the whole thing was thrown up for my wanking pleasure. How about that?

There. I hope that makes up for that last unbelievably soft, shitty, self-obsessed and directionless post.

A Bit Of The Old Ludwig Van

In a park in New Britain did Soulfinger brosay some warblies into th' warm summer morning yesterday. It was a horrorshow shoom indeed and right gromky, what with the music bouncing off buildings; verily it scratched an itch in th' zoobies.

I did the first verse of "What's Going On" with just the old goloss and Rhodes and it was compelling to me given the fucking craven, grazzy mess our world currently is. It boils th' kruvvy.

Alas the sun was not my droog after the second hour; I found myself dratsing against the heat, sweating as fast as I could peet water. I must have drunk more than a gallon but I never once had to piss so skorry was it bursting out of my skin. Once I got home through 2+ hours of traffic I was useless for anything th' rest of the day and pretty much just wilted away around 9.

I need some endurance fast. It's not quite the four hours of pirrhuetting that kills me as it is the combination of that and throwing up the entire PA and breaking it down. I'm such a paragon of self-destruction that I even exercise unhealthily; summer is basketball season so we're talking an hour or more of brutal halfcourt in th' swelter. I don't exercise quite so much as make sure I can still take a beating. That's my measure of health.

It's like when I got my vocal nodules and started doing therapy with the emminent Lis Lewis in th' city of angels. She was trying to ascertain all the things I was doing wrong and asked how I warmed up for a show. I told her I usually liked to have a couple drinks and you know, have a giggle, and then put on "Physical Graffiti" in th' car and enjoy some wholesome cigarettes and make sure I could hit all th' notes on "Immigrant Song".

I was not the most difficult case.

Sorry I stopped with th' Clockwork Orange shit. I forgot.

I Have Seen Evil And It Munches Rug

Woah! Holy Mary Mother O' Frist!

This is where it all comes down, citizens.

This, my friends, my dear and cherised compatriots, is where th' wheat gets separated from the polesmokin' chaff. This woman embodies sheer, unmitigated evil in a way Ann Coulter takes FUCKING NOTES ON. Whenever I need to jolt myself back to reality after a musical reverie or a particularly piquant romp o'er the moors and meadows of my mem'ry I JUST TAKE A LITTLE SIP OF THIS EVIL, EVIL BREW AND I CAN OPERATE WITHOUT ILLUSION.


This hideous, necrotic, despicable, putrescent little shit reminds me of the high, unctuous note of stink that can only manifest itself in distant mountains of pus. Does that sort of get it across? The moment that she blew fully formed out of dad's priapic forehead attachment is the moment that Hope Died. I used to think that was when John got capped but the national tragedy that is Mary Cheney represents a whole new acme of hopelessness.

When I think of Mary I want to pull my brains out my nose like the Egyptians used to do with gypsies and sodomites when they bricked them into walls on th' eighth day of th' thirteenth month.

Do you see where I'm coming from, man? The hypocrisy of her very being occurs on so many levels and takes so many little twists and turns through dimensions of sheer impossibility that it's like a goddamn movie that afterwards you don't know if you really saw it or it was a hallucination. Speaking of which, every time I see a pitcher of Mary Cheney I just thank god that I've wrecked my head s'bad I can just about go slack and slip into a reverie of Cheetos.

A reverie of Cheetos.

Through warm curtains of acrid, fragrant piss, through jungles of all manner of fecal detritus, across plains worn flat and hard by the farts of a trillion pteridactyls, her name finds its way to me, whispered on a sickly, fetid wind. Mary Cheney....Maaaaary Cheney... I'm like a Poe character, gnashing my teeth and scraping my chair over the spot in the floor where I deposited the gristly morsels of my faith after I hacked it into a pile of turned ground beef with my fucking elbows.

Did I say that.

Clockwork Orange Week At Th' Orchestra 1: Soulfinger Diaries.

Hey, droogies! Now that my bolshy bratty Ned's baddiwad medical chepooka with his noga is over forever, let's move on to the always choodessny world of Soulfinger! Sladky!

Thought I'd pay tribute to th' best biblio 'n' sinny ever this week by gavoretting in Malchickese, since I'm always dabblin' with it anyway. I recently saw The Movie for the sixtieth time after several years without and it was as horrorshow as ever.

Where to nachinat with th' latest Soulfinger banda chepooka? Played a show on Friday and I honestly can't even remember where it was or anything about it. Anything. I'm sure it was singularly bezoomny. Clearly one of the best of my jeezny. Also a couple on Sunday. Oh, now I remember- twas some merzky shlaga. The usual bitva with that bratchny McClintock and his endless supply of drencroms and firegold. 'Twas gloopy and flip and took th' usual toll on th' old goloss. The poor old goloss and th' gorlo. Didn't get a chance to fill the old brooko and by the end I was feeling quite bolnoy. Would have killed for just a tomtik of kleb and a malenky kartoffel.

But no, brothers. 'Twas no one interresovat in my poor brooko. The lewdies weren't interresovat in my need for a malenky mounch. Just a little pischcha. And then of course at the end that baddiwad bratchny McClintock had his glazz on some gloopy devotchkas with some choodessny horrorshow groodies so that slowed the whole enterprise down as always. Don't get me wrong- I'm no shoot but after a long show, singing many a warble, I'm a little more interessat in a bit of synthmesc and some spatchka than I am in a bit of the old in-out-in-out with a pyahnitsa ptitsat in some grazzy vaysay. Plus the old zhenna would surely tolchock me in the yarbles for goin' at some sharp's sladky sharries with the old yabzick.

Ah, brothers. The strack. All for the sneety of a bit of pretty polly. Oozhassny Soulfinger.

Word's In- Ned's Fine.

Mama Jingo reports that our Neddie is through Th' Procedure and doped to the gills. I didn't realize it was going down so soon but there you have it.

I'll call tomorrow and see if he's Taking Calls, but from what I hear it's cool. Now he's on crutches for like eight years and they'll know in a couple if Alistair Cooke's bone takes. God bless us every one.

The bone thing sounds sort of wrong. Let me rephrase: they'll know if he takes to Alistair Cooke's bone.

Never fucking mind.

Here, Malchicks, Is The Answer.

Woah! Heavy.

I don't think I'd be accused in a big hurry of having any sort of misplaced faith in th' human animal. 'Tis what is it. Until they perfect god damn androids (next year) this is who we have to hang out with and play music with and work with and drink with and fuck.

That being said, let me tell you something I've learned which you probably have as well. The something is this: every creature has its nature. In understanding any sentient being the biggest key is to be found in the nature of th' thing.

Many of us delude ourselves into thinking someone's nature is something that it isn't so that we can more easily hang with it. This, of course, backfires eventually. The beauty of understanding someone's nature, of striving to understand someone's true nature, is that all the questions we pose to ourselves about that person can be answered in th' striving.

I look, of course, at the nature of bands. I've had a lot of them and I've been the leader of a few. If you want a certain thing, if you want a drummer who is sympathetic to a song or a guitarist who understands the power of dynamics, get one. Don't get someone else and try to impose it on them.

This is why I envy the succesful bandleader. When you have the power and cash and cache to assemble a band, you have the ability to define what you want and get the appropriate personnel rather than going about it the other way. The Unsettled Way. Look at that fucker Sting, for example. He picks a band based on the demands of a project. If he wants a consummate pro he just picks up th' phone and calls Christian McBride or some crap. He decides what it is he wants and just plugs in the right humans. What a god damn luxury.

It works with any situation. I've finally come to understand it over the last few years. Learn someone's nature. Take your time. Coworkers, lovers, bandmates. And remember- people will often try to hide their true nature when they want in bad enough. But it'll rise to th' surface in time.

Never expect anyone to operate against their nature. It runs too deep. Not only that, it's the key to their own uniqueness. You might not want a lover who insists on walking on you in stilletoes but you might someday. You just might. For now, let them find someone who craves it, daddy.

And don't be angry when people refuse to operate against their nature. They can't. They can't. Be big enough and strong enough to not expect the impossible.

And listen to Bobby Lightfoot songs. Daily. All sorts of wisdom is backmasked into that shit.

Oh, and don't forget- a stitch in time leaves th' whole polesmokin' world blind.