Reaping Th' Whirlwind SUCKS.

Oh, we'll be remembered as assholes. Oh, we'll be cursed, our graves dug up and our skeletons dragged through the streets of unspeakable Blade Runnerish ghettos. God, it's horrible what happens to us.

And how sorely we deserve it. Well, not me. I don't fuckin' deserve it. Odds are you don't deserve it either. But I don't deserve it even more than you don't deserve it because I'm th' fuckin' Polish Cavalry trying to turn back th' Panzers. Yeah, that's me.

I mean, there's some other stuff I deserve. That's how I come to terms with this sick feeling I have. This disquiet. Displacement.

Dude, when I gave up on California and that it was pretty cut and dry because I always try to take responsibility for my shit and I realized my responsibility was to not be miserable. It was easy to leave that mess because I knew that, whatever else, I could never be content if I despised the very ground under my feet. I knew that was a starting point. I knew I loved Western Massachusetts because it's th' Land Of The Ice Cream Scooping PhDs. And I knew I'd end up fuckin' delivering pizzas with other brilliant college-educated lefty tree-hugging freaks and that was a-ight. Yeah, it's scarier when you're 40 than when you're 26 but so motherfuckin' be it. I'll be fine. My musical revenue streams are slowly, slowly, slowly growing to where I could see joining th' Working Poor by next summer.

I mean, I sort of get it now. You have to just always have a bunch of pokers in th' fire and you have to keep track of and nurture all the little flamelets as they flare up and die down and you have to write every fucking penny conceivable off your taxes and then some.

I think the target looks something like this, although I suspect our talented and enterprising Duncleshmeister will be on to even greener pastures by th' time I deign to approach his mark. You can't be all Brian Wilsony, man. Is the thing. That's not going to get you much but a sweet MySpace fuckin' page in this cold world. And plus look what th' dickens it did to our man Brian. Although again- happy to report, happy to report. Every cloud has a liquid centre. Like how I spelled that all British?

In fiction we had this little soundcheck song we used to do called "I'm British" which was just this sort of dopey robotic bouncing-octaves-on-the-bass synthpop thing and you'd sing in a bad English accent and say th' things you do and the chorus was "...because I'm British...I'm British..." It was amusing to come up with stuff that you do that is ostensibly British by nature and then it would just be all nonsequiter shit like "...Iscoopuplittlechildrenand I takethemtothewoods because I'm British...I'm British..."

we also developed a pretty scary three-part a cappella rendition of th' Mentos song which was quite probably the best thing we ever did. The best thing. Aside from when we fired whatsisname and took his picture and made all these blown-up images of his face and stuck them all over our amps and instruments. Uncalled-for but strangely compelling.

That's it in a nutshell, isn't it?

But anyway, back to the pain. We're here for th' pain. We wanted fuckin' upliftenment we'd go somewhere else I s'pose. Lawksamussy yes indeed.

All right here's th' pain for you- I'm starting to feel the same way about this whole country as I did about California in '01.

These people were all here before, you know? They were here. But they kept their fucking weird totalitarian shit to themselves, right? Now they're all Out, you know? They all came the fuck out in April '03 and now we have to read their stupid stickers and look at their flags all over everything.

Not much of that happening in Madrid, my friends.

And this horrible thing where we've turned our celebrities into these animated corpses of mediocrity that spend so much time branding, branding, branding, that when th' thing takes hold they're like, oh, yeah- I'm just a talentless person that stumbled in front of the camera at the right time. I don't actually have anything.

Lennon once referred to himself as "the guy who won the pools". I thought that was pretty cool.
It was cool that he was that cognizant of th' business and the role of luck and timing in starmaking.

But hey, that's Lennon, right? And that's Ray Davies. It's even Vedder and Kiedis and Cobain and them to a lesser extent. But now we've got the Cash Pack, and we've got this hip hop money legacy in music now that reaches its tendrils right back to the 80's. And the top of the American music heap are these random people who have their clothing lines in production before they release a "recording".

And behind it all is guys like me. For every K-Fed there's a dozen fuckin' guys sitting in front of computers cranking this shit out. With their ProTools LE and their sweet front ends. And hey, K-Fed's video is "dropping" registered trademark this week BIG on VH1 don't you fucking know. so hold on to your fuckin' wallets, citizens. And don't forget that Hulk Hogan's daughter's new album is flying up the charts too and boy is it good.

After the first song I RAN to my fucking SUV and hit th' WalMart for all manner of personal care products. It's such great music, man.

K-Fed. K-Fed. What the fuck, huh?

I think the logical sequence of events will eventually lead us to actually having a turd as president and a bucket full of vomit as our Gershwin, our Stevie Wonder. And all our cultural and political icons will be various disgusting bits of cast-off, stinking fat and offal. Fuck, yeah.

and our TV shows will just be these animated pieces of shit and reeking tampons animated and walking about and selling fuckin' chicken parts for th' Good Folks At Home.

And that's what we've lined up for, man. Well, not me. Actually, what th' fuck. Me too. That's what we've chosen, man. Nobody sez I can't hit maliboo with a head fulla Ketamine and rotgut and a Tek 9 and dilute th' workforce. So by not doing that I'm just as much a part of the worthless-by-design celebrity anticulture as anyone else. I'm complicit.

it's what we get. It's what we fuckin' bought. Reaping th' whirlwind sucks.


Christ, all that fucking money.

What it means in th' great scheme I don't know (although my strong suspicion is nothing) but I just sold my first fucking radio ad for a ridiculous amount of money. I mean, it's probably no great shakes to you but you have to realize that I'm a pauper down to my very nature. It's just that I want to spend time with my music and in my head. I have no problem with performing in front of people god knows but that ain't investment banking pay. I don't swing with th' 9 to 5 real good an unfortunately it gets worse with age. I've tried to keep my financial and personal encumbrances such that I can just live the way I live without being a burden or a liability to anyone. I even manage to sock a little away but that usually gets cleaned out when we need a pound of coffee or some bread.

Plus, until a few years ago I always thought it would be temporary until the world realized my indisputable talent and viability.

Yeah, this fuckin' ad. It's definitely more money than I've made with any of my commercially-challenged convolutions. It's more cash than I'd make from 20 Soulfinger shows. And now there's talk of more work. I'm glad I took this seriously and hit it out of the park for this agency. It was hard because that's never done me a fuck of good and you get sick of continually putting out. For bupkes. Bupkes, baby.

I mean, it's not like a fuckin' inheritance or anything, but it is eye-opening. Plus, if I start to feel guilty and compromised about it I can just remember that the fucking world never bought my god damn records so they can gently suck and nuzzle me bepimpled scrotum for all I fucking care. Christ, all that fucking money. I could really set up shop, you know?

I love the thing bands do when they make some bread and they set up their whole complex to leap into their recording career but they've just had their recording career.

A Little Autumn Number For You Lonely Hearts From Bobby Lightfoot

Dear Jane;

I hope this letter finds you well
In your home in New Rochelle
With your wicked heart
That played me like a bell

I hope the autumn paints you in her hues;
Yours in reds, mine in blues
And that love is yours if love is what you choose

And may it never end;
I hope it never ends for you

Dear Jane;

Sometimes it's very hard to see
What is right in front of me
But you never were one much for make-believe

And may it never end;
I hope it never ends for you.


Uh hey hey hey what th' FUCK now

well daag gane it again, man. Just dammit. How are we gonna fuckin' do it, man? How are we all going to just get alooooong, man?

Been to th' mountain, citizens. It was tall and I stood on the summit and I cried heavenwards and all I heard was my own strident winge, baby. And it didn't sound all that great. Not compared with Mt. Washington, man. Tiny. Tiny like a fuckin' mite that eats the mite's dead skin that eats th' mite's dead skin.

All I want to do is get along, man. You know? You gotta go along to get along, man. And there's just a couple things I need to get along.

Say, for example, I wanted to get along with Dick Cheney. Dude, I totally could. No, man. I'm fuckin' serious. I could get along with Lynn's li'l taxidermy project, man.

But I would have to first rip out Dick Cheney's colon through his cloaca and doublewindsor it around his neck. That's all. Something tells me DICK WOULDN'T GO FOR IT.

Dick Cheney doesn't want to get along with me, man. He won't even meet me halfway. He wouldn't, say, just let me take out one single eyeball and stomp on it. Dick Cheney wouldn't Negotiate, man.

Same with fuckin' Dennis Hastert. I could get along with Dennis Hastert, totally. I am so not bullshitting unto you at this point in time, comrade. We could hang out and he could tell me all about the different varieties of human flesh upon which he gorges himself.

but I would have to first disembowel Dennis Hastert with a rusty compass and I would have to piss in his coffee. Again, man; simple terms, simple terms. I bet that neocon shitbag wouldn't so much as ENTERTAIN it. These fuckers are all take, take, take. It's that whole POLESMOKING conservative stern father thing, man.

Dennis fucking Hastert doesn't want to get along. Guy wouldn't even chop off his finger and lightly braise it in reconstituted butter. Selfish son of a bitch. Fucking Dennis Hastert and Dick Cheney just aren't go-along-get-along kind of guys.

Just like that fucking wrinkly walking scrote George Giant Fucking Dildo Bush. That weasly god damn architect of international reflux. Motherfuckin' Pharma ought to have him on their fucking payroll, man.

Oh, wait- never mind. What was I thinking.

And that fucking hideous human cigarette Katherine fuckin' Harris! Oh, lawks-a-mussy dat some scary polesmikin' crap right that there.


I could hang. I could hang. She could show me how she was stitched together from children's nightmares. She could fix me with her angry little raisin-like eyes and speak her truth to me. No matter how unspeakable it was, how eldritch and horrid and involving ancient Druidic immortality sacrifices and that.

Katherine could relate her story back to th' pharoahs, man. I could listen without judgement.

But I would first have to shove a lamp post up her ass and connect it to a 1000 amp power source and I would have to drag her behind a cart over a thousand miles of dirt road and I would have to leave her tied in th' desert for the scavengers 'n' scorpions.

Simple, right? To the point. Katherine harris you know wouldn't so much as permit me th' audience, man. These neocon phreaks are nefarious; selfish and self-aggrandizing but make one small token gesture towards reconciliation and they shut down like Krusty Franklestein in fucking Prom Night.

Well, can't say I never tried, man. We all make our own choices in this pole smoking life.


Recording Protocol #8: Backwards Chimes

Friends, only a fool would fail to acknowledge the raw, hallucinogenic power of backwards chimes. Apply phasing before reversing so this is also backwards.

Then apply it again.