Tuesday, December 28, 2004

pity

she gave herself away
without reason
so young
thoughts like fish
seared
uncooked through
queasy
too easy
baby screaming
like life depends upon it
… someone.
packed some things
drove
chased the sun
until land turned liquid
fish uncooked
through
introduce themselves
the devil
crosses his legs
and blushes
losing
so this
is how it feels
get sucked
down
below air
can’t breathe
no light
consequence
devil’s bedfellow
naïve
but now she knows
losing
small victory
what it is
darkness
remembers
how it all started
back of a car
no light
screaming
offering herself
for what
for this
freezing
exposed
not every mistake
may be erased
the baby
screaming
same as ever
her shoes
lead
like magnets
to rock bottom
…erased

between aisles

they met at a pet
chain store
he could never have her
in real life
but he found its rules
suspended
somewhere between the aisles
of kitty litter
sleep cushions
and dog
chew toys.
“where is the toilet?”
she smiled
she didn’t see
his pimpled face
greasy pony tail
she couldn’t know
his love for music
fear of god
and his certitude
that he is not
of this world.
“hello…
do you hear me, dude?
she sounded
exasperated
not smiling
but god
she was talking to him
really talking
poor, bullied him
she needed him
she knew it
and he imagined a day
he could have her
to himself
in real life
play music
talk about god
lie down beneath the moon
show her where he’s from
laugh….
but she
with yellow mittens on her hands
just walked away
turned and walked away
when all along
he could have told her
the toilet is broken
….if only she’d asked

Monday, December 27, 2004

Screaming From Beneath The Waves....

"'The waves just kept chasing us. It swept away all our huts. What did we do to deserve this?'"
***
"Many foreign tourists, some evacuated in their bathing costumes, were left destitute, all their possessions and passports lost to the waves."
Bodies Piled on Asian Coasts, Tsunami Kills 22,000
http://www.truthout.org/docs_04/122804Y.shtml

One thing about nature, it doesn't know how to discriminate. If the times in which we live don't already stink of the brimstone armageddon threatened throughout the book of Revelations, then I can't fathom what lies ahead. I realize that generation after another has for centuries reckoned that the end was nigh, but really, there is a perpetual eschatological pit in my stomach that I can no longer alleviate by escapist and head in the sand meanderings. I gaze at a full moon above and wonder how far away lies a light of deliverance ... if not of biblical proportions then what? If humans don't fuck up the world then nature, the great leveller indeed, will be sure to finish the job for us. Kiss your kid; your spouse/significant other; hold your breath and steady you go ... the great leap forward ... to what ever lies ahead. Happy new year ... happy new life.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Heads will roll....

Now that the core members of The Work Project have seceded from its imaginary domain, I am free to devote more efforts to the Whorehouse, sort of. First, I've invited a couple of friends to join me here, whose contributions shall be greatly welcomed and, hopefully, mutually inspirational. The "sort of" pertains to the fact that TWP may be kaput for the founding fathers, but such fathers have now packed their bags and gone underground ... to another time and place. It will be a good thing, notwithstanding the perpetual plight of the countless civilians and soldiers who so senselessly die each day in Iraq and Afghanistan, let alone so many other sad/awful depots across our world today. Happy holidays, to the best of your ability to separate dream from reality, reality from dream ... if only for a short while before one must again lace up the boots....

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Final Solutions

Alas, the panacea for the Patriot was the unfortunate demise of the Work Project site. Thus, the Patriot's lips smile again; his tired body ... is granted life anew. Here is my send-off at the Work Project, followed by several of the creative writings I posted exclusively at TWP:

"The mill is closed. There's no more work. It's scientific experiments for the lot of you...."(excerpt from Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life")

For different reasons, a decision has been made by the founding fathers of this site (TWP) that our Constitution was never intended to be taken literally ... whoops, I'm mixing apples and oranges again. In all sincerity, The Work Project is closing shop. At its inception, we the people deigned that this site would be a veritable melting pot of excited artists/pseudo-artists kicking against the proverbial pricks of life, which rebellion would, in turn, help call others to arms. Though we have been pleased with the quality of work submitted to date, the general reaction has been ostensibly lukewarm; some contributors have not been able to contribute as frequently as we would have hoped (perfectly understandable reasons or otherwise); and perhaps most significantly, some spurned applicants to join the site have levied personal assaults against one or more contributors for myriad so-called reasons.
Life is a bitch, people, or as one great writer, Thomas Hobbes once said, it is "nasty, brutish and short." If some of you haven't divined already, you will be denied jobs, you will be fired from jobs, and there will always be people who think you are shit. But the point is to stay true to yourself; true to your muse. If, for example, Matthew Good listened to everyone who tells him what an asshole he is or how he is this or that, a glorious, life-defying record like Avalanche, for example, would never have been created. Sure it is disappointing to fail; sure it is sad that one or more artists you respect don't think the calibre of what you have to offer at this time is what we were seeking. But does that mean you suck? Does that mean you are forever doomed to be mediocre? Hardly. I am 39 years old. I've learned that there are some thing in life at which I'm better than others. But I'll say this, I am a hell of a lot better (and/or worse) at some things now compared to when I was 20. We are forever evolving. Don't ever think that you won't improve; evolve. If you love something, you want something ... work really hard and reap rewards in time. Most importantly, there is no reason whatsoever to launch personal attacks against someone who doesn't first throw stones at you. It's business, whether you like it or not, just watch The Godfather. Just because you don't like it doesn't make your way that of the world; authenticity lies in challenging such mores with your every breath, word, chord....
Thanks again to those who genuinely did care about what we were doing. We will still be doing our own things -- you know where to find Matt, and I know Daniel, Jess, Scott and I all have our own respective sites/blogs in which we will continue to do what we've been doing and beyond. There is no reason why you can't do so as well. Thanks also to the excellent contributions made to this site. Happy holidays to all, and peace....
Paul

Corpus Jean-Baptiste

Jesus got on down
From the cross,
Did his damnedest
To cover his privates
… shroud of turin …
and verily said unto they who had gathered:
“I’m going fishing.
Now bring me the head
Of my cousin John the Baptist.”
And to this they did obey.
The lord resurrected his cousin
And proclaimed him,
“Lord John …now follow him;
not I.”
Some of the old lord’s flock
Then did kneel before this Baptist.
The roman sentries dropped their dice
And stopped poking under each other’s togas
To behold this queer spectacle;
And Caiaphas and the jewish clerics did stop plotting
Where to find cheap real estate…
For a moment or two.
The Baptist then did say
To Mary Magdeleine,
“Now Mary, do prop my head up
that I might see….”
And so from on high
The Baptist disapproved
Mightily
Of that which he did perceive:
“People, people,”sighed the Baptist,
“Get ye to your wits.
What’s so funny
About peace, love and understanding?”
Some of the multitude
Did then roar their approval
Like lions freed from daniel’s den,
But the clerics dove to gather the falling coins
Of the baptist’s titillated horde,
And the romans did there seize
This baptist’s head
And posted the talking head
For all to behold
Atop the signpostTo Golgotha.

Then all the romans mooned him,
Laughed and shouted out with glee;
John without a corpus,
He’ll go down in history….

Melancholy Tavern

Guy stumbles
Out of the john
Crotch wet
Piss
Fly down.
Woman turns away
Nearing forty
No mate
No kids
No thanks.
Simpsons on tv
Shrouded in neon
Warm import beer
Cigarette smoke
Plastic pitchers
Unwashed.
Grateful dead on the stereo
Blown left speaker
College guys high five
Backwards caps
Cheap cologne
Or bad deodorant
Rubbers in pockets
Just in case.
No hot chicks here
College guys conspire
Where and how to get laid
Tonight's the night.
Kidless woman looks up
Head pounding
Clock ticking
The same song playing
Piss guy is staring
Sketching on a beer coaster
Is he sketching her?
Downright rude
Still staring
Her head spinning
Kidless woman gives evil eye
Piss guy won’t stop
Staring
Sketching
A large phallus
On a beer coaster.

Her Harbour

Only when
You were tarred and feathered
Could she it.
Sipping her tea
Before dumping her backwash
Into the harbour
She conceded that,
Yes,
You in fact resembled
A bird
Of the flightless variety.
Field glasses to watch them
By day
In your blue socks
Shin high;
Your beak in books
About birds
Night after redundant night,
She drew further still
From the muddled muck
Of ever deigning to think
She could think of touching you.
“Look, a sparrow;
there, a blue jay….”
Like an anaconda,
Repulsion
Wrapped itself round ideal
And left this.
Just when
Did you get your head
So far up your arse,
And ain’t she the greater fool
To have followed
Done nothing
Just stopped caring?
Red coats
Bleached white
In time
They’ll come to take her away
Oh yes
To fish her
From her harbour of tea,
And all the while
You just won’t stop
Making bird noises…
Always domestic …
Outside her head
Then in
You flightless bird
Come nothing
Outside and in
Until there is no memory…
Safe harbour
Just....

Ten Hail Marys

The crossword puzzle boy
Looked cross-eyed
At the cross:
“Jesus,
What the devil Is wrong with me?"
Shadow made null
In the throes of nights unforgiving,
The boy kneels alone…
Hands bound or clasped;
Opportunities obscured
As do clouds to the sun
By a world of men
Limited to see a rain man
In the place of a boy who waved at trains
And would do so still
If only he could win
Not lose
Go up
Not down….
Jesus looked puzzled
Hanging there
And asked to have the hair
On his chinny chin chin
Scratched…
No,
shaved entirely.
Jesus then scoffed
Between coughs
And declared his own problems
Too overwhelming…
And even so,
Either he didn’t even exist
Or he didn’t intervene
In the affairs of men.
If only he could win
Not lose
Go up
Not down….
“Now say ten hail marys,
My son,
And fetch me a carafe
Of that communion wine,
Will ya?”
The crossword puzzle boy
Tendered the wine
Made the sign of the cross
And left the church behind;
Jesus imbibing,
Giggling,
Sobbing …
“Thank you, rain man.
Definitely….”

King of Cool

Oh, you long
To crack his code.
If it’s not the secret handshake
Then it’s the “you the man;”
Not the richer clothes
And cigar puffs
To distract them
From his hairline or waistline,
Then it’s the way he dances
To the music that says nothing;
Big butt cheeks protruding
White man over-biting.
And his confidence….
Sure the aura of confidence
Is easier to convey
When premised upon
Such a hazy depth of field
And shallow insight,
Because the bar is as low
As it is pliable.
Yet still there is ever
Something about him
… king of cool …
it is unmistakable;
just ask his friends
and their desperate housewives;
desperately rich
And yet bankrupt
With their stocking feet
On their pudgy hubbys' thighs
And shopping bags strewn about beneath tables
like the spoils of dinner.
Like tape to the back of a poster,
He takes more
Than he ever gives…
but that is okay.
Like mosquitoes
To white light;
Like a halo of flies
Round a fresh turd,
You heed his mandate
Like all of them,
For to die among friends
Unoriginal
Uninspired
Narrow lips
And beer-retarded ambition
Infinitely exceeds a death
Left wanting
To be the man…
just like him.

shah of america

peeing
letters in the sand
h
a
t
e
but the t
and the e
go undone
so thirsty
the heat
the high sun
he’d dig for china
if he knew the way
dig inside
claw deep inside
to turn himself out
anything to make them
come back
make time
go back
so none of this happened
h
a….

Monday, December 20, 2004

Top Records of 2004

For those who don’t know, I have been a writer, contributor and staff member for New York City’s esteemed The Big Takeover, a punk/alternative fanzine boasting 20,000 subscribers, for ten years. In addition, I have amassed a ridiculous bounty of records, cds and tapes that occupies nearly two rooms in our Chicago bungalow. When asked why and/or how I have compiled so many, I typically explain that I am perpetually in search of great records; great songs; music that not merely defines me but inspires me … lifts me toward greater heights. As any other great aficionado of art, let alone music, will confess, most art, including music, does not ever attain such lofty aspirations. But if the pleasure lies in the pursuit above the destination, then I am pleasure’s victim.

The following represents my top picks for new records released in 2004. I am not including reissues, live albums, or albums, such as the excellent No Cities Left by THE DEARS, that was released in the U.S. in 2004 but actually first saw the light of day, in The Dears’ instance, in Canada in 2003. So, here they are….

1) WOVEN HAND Consider The Birds (Sounds Familyre)
Grandson of a Nazarene preacher man, Woven Hand/16 HORSEPOWER protagonist DAVID EUGENE EDWARDS invokes a fire and brimstone, spirited and interventionist god throughout his canon of records. However, he does so resplendent with an increasingly mesmerizing and relentlessly affecting sense of purpose, as well as music. Presenting his most consistently challenging and focused work since 16 Horsepower’s masterpiece, Folklore, Edwards refuses on Consider The Birds to pardon the listener with two profoundly lighter songs as he did on Folklore. Here, “judgement will not be avoided by your unbelief, by your lack of fear, nor by your prayers to any little idol here,” and “the world will bow, the knees will be broken for those who don’t know how, He takes no pleasure not in the legs of men.” Years ago, the great Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds likewise disquietingly levied threats of damnation. But whereas Cave often lurched over and even into his audience as though he knew the only way people would ever understand him was if he grabbed each and every one of them by the throats and beseeched them to change their ways, Edwards croons almost underneath his sublimely dark, sparse folk music as if through a victrola; as if he knows no one out there will ever get it and gehenna itself is inevitable. Still, Edwards’ mission appears not to be one of self-preservation (“I don’t have the courage to carve my splinters out, no”), but rather … for salvation; deliverance (“I pray him come, I pray him soon.”). At times frightening, at times utterly beautiful (especially the unbelievable “Oil on Canvas”), this is ever fascinating and a truly remarkable achievement by an awfully serious man.

2) RICHMOND FONTAINE Post To Wire (El Cortez)
Much has been made of how WILLY VLAUTIN is ceaselessly drawn to writing and singing of losers, the downtrodden, and their affinity for liquor and violence, but what is often missed is how sympathetic are his characters; how often times beautifully realized are his songs. Indeed, love and hope and wishing for better times are really the essence of his songs. The “losers” and good-for-nothings result from their love, hopes and wishes undermined by the nature of the other; by the nature of life itself. Post To Wire is Richmond Fontaine’s fifth record, and it is by far their best one. It is “alt/country” at its finest, replete with sumptuous pedal steel guitar, real life songs about real life people (the way “country” was always supposed to be), a strong sense of melody and conciseness, and some musical muscle that sufficiently harkens back to their earlier days in which they more closely resembled The Replacements or, even more, Uncle Tupelo.

3) WILCO A Ghost Is Born (Nonesuch)
This is a natural extension or, as is sometimes the case here, subtraction in the wake of what most critics agree was an unequivocal masterpiece, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. But although JEFF TWEEDY & company sometimes appear to deface the beauty seemingly effortlessly composed in the uber-head of Wilco with random Crazy Horse guitar histrionics, redundant loops and that frightening, interminable noise to conclude “Less Than You Think,” a horse is still, after all, a horse, and true beauty is impervious to derogation because it already accepts that which is less than perfect. The subtle magnificence of this record is not obvious, but is rather a wonder revealed after diligence and study. Silence is employed where most songwriters think noise, and vice versa. Tweedy invokes his revolving door of band members to help challenge him to make better and even more interesting music, and together they generally succeed. “Wishful Thinking” is a dazzling achievement, and Tweedy’s thoughtful lyrics, born of recurring battles with demons of one color or the next, are completed works unto themselves.

4) MATTHEW GOOD White Light Rock & Roll Review (Universal)
It is easier to destroy than to create, I often tell my two year-old son. Watching the glee on his face when he knocks down his tower of building blocks, however, it is manifest that there is a joy for joy’s sake in getting out one’s ya-ya’s. On the heels of 2003’s ambitious, artful Avalanche, Vancouver’s sociopolitical activist extraordinaire and musical prime mover Good has now opted to tear down the facades around which we live, rather than construct edifices within them as on most of Avalanche. Stripping the process of this recording down, or back to early to middle-era The Who or Kinks propels these musical performances so as to augment Good’s super-charged, at times vitriolic sentiments concerning our times, which seemingly grow uglier by the day. WLR&RR is a breathtaking tour de force conveyed at breakneck speed. Though most of these songs are not conducive to the kind of awe and reflection prevalent on Avalanche, this record seizes one’s attention from the first chord of “Put Out Your Lights.” And one wild, bending roller coaster ride later, one is left stammering to reassemble head to neck, stomach to midsection, heart and thoughts to daily living. Along this amazing journey, Good has crafted among his best ever songs in “Empty Road,” boasting gorgeous pedal steel enhancements and his perpetual wish for solace and understanding in the face of so much danger and hypocrisy (“This empty road, it keeps me looking for a place in your heart, it’s all I know.”), and one of his most uncompromising, jarring songs in the great single, “Alert Status Red” (“You know I’m jealous of how you can just turn them off, those bad ideas that seem so soft”).

5) DAVID KILGOUR Frozen Orange (Merge)
I have casually tracked Kilgour’s long and diverse career dating back to his earliest days fronting New Zealand’s THE CLEAN, but Frozen Orange is so far and away his most consistently tuneful, affecting and, moreover, challenging record. Kilgour artfully and ostensibly effortlessly invokes the wonders of youth (“You lost that summer feeling, long ago”) on this record without reveling in such days gone by. Sure, there are those jangly, chiming guitars and generally conversational vocals, but there is such a breezy, reflective spirit and warm atmosphere wrapped around these songs like a windbreaker over the shoulders of a child. This is a songwriting sensation; a splendid, song-based record amenable to any setting or mood.

6) BARK PSYCHOSIS Codename://Dustsucker (Phantom UK)
A record as susceptible of profound inspiration as much as, if you’re listening alone at night and contemplating existence, profound sadness. Like the great, latter day TALK TALK, GRAHAM SUTTON’s Bark Psychosis imbues its music with subtlety, silence and space more commonly found in skillfully constructed, wide-open jazz. Likewise, they both feature prominently redundant but highly affecting, trance-inducing tapped and feather-brushed drums played in an array of time patterns, no doubt resultant of the fact that Talk Talk drummer LEE HARRIS applies his mettle here. But on this new album, Bark Psychosis paints conventional melody in all the right places, bringing into relief the ultimate affect and mood of these sublime proceedings to dramatic, soul-edifying effect. Beautiful, terrifying, pacifying … but unequivocally inspiring. By the time the bleakly beautiful “Rope” subsides, you’ll be speechless, if not breathless.

7) ELLIOTT SMITH From A Basement On The Hill (Anti)
Smith’s posthumous swansong record appears to adequately convey the myriad moods, impulses and psychological struggles with which he was combating before his death. But like a flower in the desert, there are numerous beautiful pieces and images juxtaposed against the harsh restlessness that was ostensibly Smith’s life to live … until he no longer did. And such beauty (“Twilight,” “A Fond Farewell,” “Let’s Get Lost”) sure is necessary to help tone down Smith’s naked honesty, self-deprecation and, at least in hindsight, his threats of suicide (“I took my own insides out; give me one reason not to do it”). If “King’s Crossing” is Smith’s most daring chef d’oeuvre, then “Pretty (Ugly Before)” should be the theme song for anyone who has ever awakened only to ask: What the fuck is the point? Regardless of the occasional forays beyond objective harmony, this record shows Smith at his most ambitious; his record most impervious to caring what listeners would think. He is dearly missed.

8) THE FUTUREHEADS The Futureheads (Sire)
Here is pop punk at its finest. Infusing the snappy, aggressive rhythmic to and fro surges and exciting backing and alternating vocals of middle-period The Jam, the punchy melodic sense of early XTC and the quirkiness of Devo, The Futureheads inject a kickass jolt of harmony, muscle and humor with their debut record. The dizzying heights attained on “Decent Days and Nights” and “Robot” are complimented well by their remarkably respectful and yet explosive take on mega-talented KATE BUSH’s haunting “Hounds of Love” – indeed, the two songs barely resemble each other and yet The Futureheads’ version is no less stirring. The likewise excellent Franz Ferdinand may sell more records and grace more magazine covers courtesy of their skillful intertwining of dance with post-punk music, but The Futureheads’ sense of melody with balls is the real thing.

9) AMERICAN MUSIC CLUB Love Songs For Patriots (Merge)
San Francisco’s American Music Club’s first record after a 10 year exile in Splitsville reveals in spades why they should never have split in the first place: People need to hear MARK EITZEL’s confessional, image-laden lyrics augmented and, yes, tempered by the dynamic musical performances of his longtime AMC compatriots. Eitzel’s several solo records always reminded how great a writer he is, but without AMC to offset his sometimes excessive over-singing, the results were too often ordinary, if not irksome. If only for the desperately satirical and yet compassionate “Patriot’s Heart” (“remind me what we’re celebrating, that your heart finally dried up or that it finally stopped working”), which served as a veritable bugle wake-up call to arms for this writer, as well as the dramatically moving “Home,” this reunion would have been necessary, let alone welcome.

10) THE CARDIGANS Long Gone Before Daylight (Koch)
A friend put a song from this record, “Feathers and Down,” on a compilation made for me some months ago. I was slackjawed by its depth, warmth and sincerity … this couldn’t possibly be the same Swedish Cardigans that sang that atrociously insidious “Lovefool” a few years back. But it is, and “Feathers and Down” is just one of several rich, moving and wonderful songs that stand up awfully well within the singer/songwriter tradition. The Cardigans have somehow, gratefully transformed into a band that paints, tickles and lulls rather than blindly resorts to simple verse-chorus-verse and unoriginal songwriting, and have made a memorable record in the process.

Honorable Mention
I likewise enjoyed the following ten records a good deal, in alphabetical order: Arcade Fire Funeral (Merge); Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds The Lyre of Orpheus/Abattoir Blues (Anti); Dogs Die in Hot Cars Please Describe Yourself (V2/BMG); Franz Ferdinand (Sony); Doug Gillard Salamander (Pink Frost);Interpol Antics (Matador); Kings of Convenience Riot On An Empty Street (Astral Works); The Libertines (Sanctuary); The Open Silent Hours (Universal); Snow Patrol Final Straw (A & M) The Trash Can Sinatras Weightlifting (Spin Art)

Friday, December 17, 2004

Let's get metaphysical

Whilst devoting the bulk of my "free time" of late to "creative" work at www.workproject.blogspot.com , regrettably the Whorehouse has gone whoreless: windows shuttered; smiles turned cold; condom wrappers unopened. The land of great promise for patriots was but a mirage, at least for the past week. I'm contemplating resuscitating the House with an infusion of ... well, I just don't know yet. In truth, if I'm contributing my creative writings and reviews exclusively to TWP, then I fear the Patriot is less interesting ... for me, if for no one else. I'll try and conjure some way to permit my free time to be amicably and satisfactorily split between the two blogs, it's just that I only have x amount of time to offer beyond son, wife, home, work and personal.
Anyway, one thought I'd like to share at this time, given that this is, after all, the season in which to sip milk of human kindness (thanks, Dickens). The other night I was walking, with 2 1/2 yr old/nearly 40 pound son Adrien in my arms, down several blocks to my local video store to get a movie (Bourne Supremacy, I think in retrospect). It was raining outside. It was dark. It was cold. He was heavy. He didn't want to walk -- wanted to be held. Did I say it was raining? Anyway, a guy I don't know personally beyond reciprocal waves and hellos when we see each other outside saw us trudging in the rain by his house as he was getting home from work, and he said hello, and then asked if we'd like him to get us an umbrella to use for our walk. I said, humbly, no but thank you so much -- that's so nice of you to offer. Such a little thing, but I couldn't help but wonder how many "strangers" you know who have/would ever offer to get you an umbrella out of his home for you to use so you wouldn't get wet? Pretty amazing milk of human kindness, in spite of these wretched times. Thanks, man. Thank you.

Friday, December 10, 2004

Ramones are for kids....

This morning I spent nearly an hour "teaching" 2-6 year-old students about punk rock at the Montessori school which my son attends. I briefly explained its place in time, why and how it was born -- focusing on a reaction to the lethargic, self-indulgent, about-nothing music that was increasingly characterizing rock music in the 70s, as well as punk's inherent expression of individuality; of extolling who and what you are, conformity be damned. I tied this latter facet into the story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and his misfit toys, and how sooner or later every person's respective virtues become realized, even if it takes a while for others to take note. Obviously there was only so much I could do with such a young crew, but the kids really seemed to dig it, ultimately declaring The Ramones their favorite. I played them Sex Pistols, Clash, Ruts, Stiff Little Fingers, Birthday Party, The Jam, and the african american group Bad Brains, woman-fronted Siouxsie and Banshees, and a number of other groups. It wasn't easy trying to keep their attention, but I brought punk books for them to look at, and even affixed kid-safe safety pins to their respective shirts, to their joy. At the end, they gave punk rock a big thumbs up, though I told them that it would be perfectly acceptable if they didn't like it -- that's what all of this is about: to express yourself, make up your own mind, and be who/what you are. It did go over well, more than one kid declaring: "I liked all of it!" My son Adrien, on the other hand, found the reality of his daddy devoting his attention to all of his friends at his expense to be ... well, unacceptable. He did quiet down, but insisted on being held by me at all times and inserting the cds into the jambox, as if to say, "he's my daddy, don't you forget it."

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

In the Kingdom of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man is King

"America Is So Much Better than This" By Senator Russ Feingold AlterNet.org
Tuesday 07 December 2004

Sen. Russ Feingold (D-Wis.) has the unique distinction of being the lone dissenter in the Senate on the vote approving the Patriot Act. He also was among a handful of Senators opposing the resolution to authorize the Iraq war. And last month, he won re-election, beating his well-financed Republican opponent 55-44 percent. He said the following on the Senate floor on November 18 upon learning of Condoleeza Rice's appointment to replace Colin Powell as Secretary of State:

The administration's Iraq policies in the first term painted a picture of an American government that isn't so sure it rejects torture; that isn't competent and careful enough to properly vet intelligence presented in major speeches and briefings; that willfully rejects the lessons of history and the advice of its own experts; that is surprised when disorder results in massive looting; that misleads taxpayers regarding the costs and commitments entailed in its policies; that spends billions upon billions without any effort to even budget for these extremely predictable costs; and that is willing to politicize issues fundamental to our national security in the ugliest possible way.
We deserve better. Certainly the brave men and women of the U.S. military who are fighting every day to make this effort in Iraq work deserve better. We do not honor them by accepting lousy, irresponsible policy in the halls and hearing rooms of the Capital and then leaving our soldiers holding the bag on the ground, when policy collides with the hard truth.
The administration's record of the past four years suggests a foreign policy careening out of control, driven by ideologues who want to test their theories in the laboratory of the Middle East one minute, by domestic political considerations the next, and by spiteful attempts to punish those who disagree with their methods the next.
Where is this going? Who is in charge? Who knows? No one ever seems to be held accountable for the blunders, the failures, the wildly inaccurate presentations and projections or the painfully ineffective initiatives. Congress cannot simply accept more of the same, keep our heads down and hope that somehow we will muddle through. The stakes are far too high. Our national security, the stability of the world that our children will inherit, our troops - even our country's honor - are on the line. Congress has an obligation, not to oppose every administration effort, but to reassert our role in helping to steer the ship of state wisely rather than recklessly. I look at our foreign policy over the past four years, and I know that America is so much better than this."
http://www.truthout.org/docs_04/120804A.shtml

Words are idle to those who have no ears; whose eyes are blinded to dissent, to alternative proposals, to undermining the silver-lining of their respective pockets. I read another article yesterday by a generally moderate, generally open-minded, noted journalist, Andrew Sullivan, the premise of whose article suggested that things are going better in Iraq because 80% of the country (the Shiites and Kurds) don't wish for civil war and do want january's so-called election to take place. Well, considering that said 80% were on the outside looking in under Saddam, to say the least, of course they relish the opportunity to gain power for the first time in at least decades. But to say things are better is to ignore a falling sky because your baby uttered his first word. Hallelujah! How are things better when everyone who is known, or even thought to be cooperating with our imperialistic presence in their country is murdered? Maybe they are only 20%, but isn't it obvious by now that they will NEVER accept a leadership bearing the U.S.' imprimatur? Worse, they will happily die to prove that point, and we already know how impossible it is to root out insurgents that are re-stocked daily by Arabs the world over to assume the places of their fallen brothers. So, optimistic?

Incidentally, this is a reminder that my "creative" writings are now exclusively found together with those of my brother Daniel and multi-faceted artist Matthew Good at www.workproject.blogspot.com Hope you check it out.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

If I Had A Hammer


"Coulter: Canada is "lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent"; Carlson: "Without the U.S., Canada is essentially Honduras"
On November 30, as President Bush visited Canada to meet with Canadian Prime Minister Paul Martin in an effort to improve the two countries' strained relations, right-wing pundit Ann Coulter and CNN Crossfire co-host Tucker Carlson ridiculed the United States' northern neighbor. On FOX News Channel's Hannity & Colmes, Coulter said that Canadians "better hope the United States doesn't roll over one night and crush them. They are lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent." On CNN's Wolf Blitzer Reports, Carlson stated: "Without the U.S., Canada is essentially Honduras, but colder and much less interesting"; he went on to say that instead of following politics, "the average Canadian is busy dogsledding." And on Crossfire, Carlson referred to the "limpid, flaccid nature of Canadian society.'" http://mediamatters.org/items/200412010011

Why do some people live? Does Coulter eat the shit she serves ... to millions who shamedly do partake of said shit? Why does the bow-tie wearing mid-thirtysomething Carlson still have a job after Comedy Central's The Daily Show's John Stewart lit he and even his pseudo-liberal partner/Bush friend partner up? I've seen Ann Coulter speak, and when I look into her eyes I don't see a human being; I see an automoton, or a martian. Granted, those on the far left of the equation can often sound almost equally deluded, but this Coulter is really missing some vital neurons, no doubt about it. Why preach separation, myopia, and bigger-dick thinking, Ann, did you ever hear of the demise of every civilization that ever occupied the space of ruler of the world? It gets us all in the end, sooner for some than later, and this type of utter idiocy (and its vast constituency) secures our place in the soon-to-be vanquished ... this lifetime or the next. What is the point of believing you stand alone atop a world but refuse to open your eyes to the consequences of your own selfish exploitation of the earth and its peoples? Guilty; damned. As a fellow parent, one would think-- obviously naively so -- that one would care about what is said and done now in relation to that which necessarily follows ... and reap the consequences of such present acts and omissions. Go ahead, spread hate, torture, murder, neglect and for us or against us/my way or the highway thinking ... I realize it's all you know.


Flag Stickers and Yellow Ribbons

Beginning after this post, I'm excited to say that my lyrics/poems/stories, as well as reviews and maybe even photographs will appear together with friend/musical and lyrical great/ geosociopolitical activist Matthew Good and brother/great writer and existential humanist/soldier Daniel Regelbrugge on a collective arts site, www.workproject.blogspot.com
At least for the time being, I will utilize the Patriot for my non-creative writing, etc., work. Anyone who has enjoyed any of the ramblings on this site, please do check out theworkproject, not only for my stuff but for that of Matt and Daniel. Pretty cool shit, and ultimately it will feature contributions well beyond our unholy trinity.
That said, I wrote the following while pondering the prevalence of these godawfully cheesy flag stickers and yellow ribbons that I see on so many cars. In my opinion, I'll wager that 90% of those brandishing said stickers and ribbons on their cars are republicans. This is my humble retribution:
Flag Stickers and Yellow Ribbons”

Coughing …
Seated beside him
And his smoking jacket,
She pressed a finger to his lips
Through the thick and thin of his dirty beard
… He smiled …
And she uttered her disgust:
For the smell
For his shadow
For feeling dead
When she didn’t feel nowhere.
Flag stickers and yellow ribbons
On the back of his pickup,
He was a Bud man
But tried to live the high life
In his jumbled dream
Of striving to be one of the guys.
Seeking definition
In advertisements,
He’d stare at richer men
And envy clothes
But call them nancy boys
To his knee-slapping pals.
He was a patriot
He was a chicken shit
He loved the lord
He fucked behind her back
He was a hunk papa
He watched tv.
He didn’t make out what she said
… Something about smell and dead …
He was trying to watch tv
And she was annoying him,
As usual.
But he figured it had been a while,
And four kids later
She still wasn’t so bad to look at
So he felt she deserved
To merit the pleasure
Of going down on him.…
And all the while
He could still watch tv.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Woke Up This Morning And Found Myself ...

"IRAQ ATTACKS CLAIM 21; 70 DIE IN THREE DAYS
UN envoy casts doubt on election-- BAGHDAD
Twenty-one Iraqis were killed by insurgent attacks in northern Iraq on Sunday, bringing to more than 70 the death toll in a three-day spree of violence that has affirmed the resilience of the insurgency less than two months before scheduled elections.In the worst attack, 17 Iraqis employed by the government died when two civilian buses in which they were traveling to work were ambushed by gunmen near the northern city of Tikrit, according to the U.S. military. The Iraqis were employed at an ammunition disposal dump, officials said. http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/chi-0412060169dec06,1,7496330.story?coll=chi-news-hed"

Maybe I should just re-post last friday's entry, "Safety?", until the end of my days.

A good friend of mine, James, recently expressed surprise that my recent three-cd compilation, Whorehouse Desert of the Patriot's Heart, is generally understated and "subdued," whereas " i was expecting some hard-biting, angry tunes considering the re-election of the communist and the contents of www.patriotwhorehouse.blogspot.com" James later noted that, "however the concise, intellectually invigorating lyrics more than portrays how you're feeling" When I compiled all of the songs for the compilation, it came at a time when I was just passing the post-election states of outrage, dismay and embarrassment, and I was just starting to grieve ... for the past, present and our future. Thus, the compilation represents a wide array of sentiments, stated and understated, so to speak. Anyone who knows me knows that this is not to say that I'm not prone to fly off the handle or, in the wake of the relentless, bountiful deaths in Iraq feel like -- as Chameleons' erstwhile great Mark Burgess once said -- "Everyday I'm crucified ... by everything I see."

Finally, had a fun time at good friend Mark's birthday party in Bucktown (Chicago area) on Saturday night. Although I was in a den of relative conservatives and many Bush supporters (there were even some Texans next door, proclaiming "George is such a good guy," great southern drawl and all, I was able to maintain my composure, placated in great part by Mark's purchase of my favorite beer (Molson Canadian) on my behalf. Politics aside, we discussed the predicament of baseball/steroids and what to do with the game, its players, records broken, and abusing players' contracts. Here, to me, is a big question in the face of talk that the NY Yankees are said to be inquiring whether to void/opt out of abuser Jason Giambi's contract: If, according to previous abusers dunderhead Jose Canseco and now deceased Ken Caminiti, a great percentage of players were/are using steroids and "everybody knows about it," should there not likewise be blood on the hands of the respective teams' ownership and/or MLB? In other words, teams shouldn't get to eat their cake and eat it too -- if they knew/should have known players were abusing steroids to put up bigger numbers (and, incidentally, win games) and thus obviously reaped the fruits of the players' offerings, then why should they get to void/opt out of the contracts to which they signed such abusers? The whole game is defaced.


Plate of Fries

“Plate of Fries”

Sleep from his eyes
Driving;
The void is only so
Because he fears
The skeleton
Shrinking
The mind
More shallow
Time
Not his own.
The road relents to the past
And unveils a present;
Eyes closed.
Throws his clip-on ties
Onto a wrinkled heap;
Brandishes the bible
And scraps of notes
Of what the pages really mean.
Flickering lights
...
Roadside diner;
The way she carried his plate of fries,
He knew she knew
The trouble with the world
And all the lonely people….
She smiled too much
For someone like that;
Someone who ought not to be working
After the hours
Of the futile gifts
Of all the lonely people
To life’s soft parade.
Can’t get it out of his head…
The flashing lights
The driving rain
The song she was singing
Before she spilled coffee
On his shirt and clip-on tie
And book of Revelations.
“She was the devil,”
He’d tell them all,
“The god’s honest truth.”

Friday, December 03, 2004

Safety?

"Baghdad Hit by Two Major Attacks BBC
Friday 03 December 2004
At least 26 people were killed when a mosque and a police station came under attack in the Iraqi capital Baghdad.
A car bomb exploded outside a Shia mosque in a Sunni district, killing at least 14 worshippers and wounding 19.
A short while earlier, rebels fired mortars and then stormed a police station, killing at least 12 people - mainly police officers."
http://www.truthout.org/docs_04/120404Z.shtml

What would it be like to live like this? Sure, New York City and Washington D.C. tasted a sample of this type of terror over three years ago, but that was restricted to just one day; awful and long as it were. These people have wives, children, husbands, siblings, parents as we do. Are they lesser humans because they live way over yonder? Are they savages; godless people who merit no tears? How pathetic that so many Americans think that way. God on our side, my ass. I look at the pictures of young boys and girls ... dead, limbless or burned beyond cognition because of bullets, bombs, mortar.... There was once a dream called life for these countless humans; but alas, only a dream. It matters not to me whether such injuries and deaths were authored by US soldiers or insurgents; that which was started ... just won't stop. What to do if I was a husband and father in Baghdad; in Mosul; in Fallujah? I'm sure I'd be already dead and God knows what of my family. The US soldiers ridicule the so-called Iraqi army and police for deserting and/or fleeing when encountering the first signs of trouble, but really, if the insurgents knew my identity and would kill my family for fighting alongside Americans, what choice is there? What matters? The murder of all I hold sacred for this? My mind is paralyzed when considering a life like this. Day after day; night after night ... terror, murder, bombs. Are the hopes and dreams of these people meaningless? Of course some might challenge these questions and/or points by decrying the lives they previously lead under Saddam, but who are we to impose our values of what life ought to be like upon those who have lost the only things that mattered to them in the first place, their loved ones; their very lives. It's hell all around ... and you were praying to evade the wicked inferno of hell at death? No, you're already in it. Yes we are, if only for knowing that which is endured; those who suffer in every sense. This is hell, oh yes.

Roberto Clemente

On December 31, 1972, one of the greatest baseball players of all time and, moreover, a tremendous humanitarian, Puerto Rico's Roberto Clemente was killed. His airplane, carrying relief supplies, including food, clothing and other support for Nicaraguan people displaced after a recent earthquake, crashed off of the Puerto Rican coast. His body was never found. The next day this story was, of course, reported in newspapers all over the world. I read about this as a seven year-old boy on that New Years' Day, the day my mom endeavored to take down our then artificial Christmas tree. When she did so, she took some of the newspaper of that day -- including the headlines, photos and story of Clemente's death -- and used it to line and/or pad the bottom of the fraying box in which we'd put the parts and limbs of our tree year after year. And so, year after year, every December we'd break out our Christmas tree and I would behold the story of Roberto Clemente's death as if it had happened yesterday. I recall this plot repeating itself well into my teens. I wrote the following last night:

"Roberto Clemente (21)"
yellow newspapers;
auld lang syne
again and again...
we cower 'neath the light
of a dead star.
are we sad
the holidays secede
yet again
from the grasp of our anticipation;
our blind waltz with euphoria?
aren't we sad
we fail to fill the boots
of our resolutions?
pale faces
aimless gazes
under the star light
that bends our knees
sullies our palms
supplicant....
broken down to be rechanneled
and bear witness
to a new light,
and then take flight
over seas
over mountains
to rain good
snow charity
and dispel clouds
to reveal love
in bold relief
in the stead of endless days
of waiting
wanting
of wondering.
teach us
to teach,
there is no time
for opened eyes;
no passion
in the shadow of the light.
the star disappeared
before we knew how to speak
and do;
disappeared
shooting star
but never forgotten.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

Throne of Lies

In the wake of the re-emergence of kind, revered soul Donald Rumsfeld to the news because of the war crimes charges levied in Germany against him and others concerning the Abu Ghraib atrocities, as well as consideration of the mentality of those who are wont to high five the perpetual killings in the Middle East -- justifiable or not a la the Mosque execution of the mortally wounded insurgent, my friend Martha offers the following brilliant quote and assessment:

"'Anyone who looks with anguish on evils so great, so repulsive, so savage, must acknowledge the tragedy of it all; and if anyone experiences them or even looks on at them without anguish, his condition is even more tragic, since he remains serene by losing his humanity.'Augustine

What troubles me is not so much Augustine's reference to one's indifference of serenity, but that I've seen and heard other human beings overtly, insensitively affirm acts of violence that should have invariably horrified them. How far beyond a "mere" loss of humanity is such a person? What have we become?"

Shit, how great/awful is that?

The Echo Chamber

Here is the latest lyric I, under my pseudonym of One Emaciated Reckoning's protagonist Thomas P. Canton, wrote -- last night after having watched an intriguing Russian film called (in English) "The Return." The lyric has nothing directly to do with the film. Just the mood it put me in:

"The Echo Chamber"
Gas leak
in the echo chamber
hello, hello
this wasn't meant to happen.
can you hear me;
can you hear me?
like the game of telephone line,
that which ends
cannot be foretold.
a man digs a hole
then falls inside.
a dog chews a bone
and chokes to death.
the happy bride
now dines alone:
you toasted the moment
then lost your years
to indifference
then fatigue.
no one calls
no one cares
pick up the phone
and wonder why
and for whom;
what you have to give
and why would you anyway?
do this to yourself;
it's all you've got.
in the echo chamber
it's all so clear;
the meaning made lucid
the words said twice.
gas leak
you smell nothing
but just know.
hear me.
your memory
fades;
pick up the phone
no use
why?
you won't remember
when you understood;
what you understood...
or so you thought.

Long Time Coming

So New York Yankees erstwhile (if you look at his stats over the last two years you'll see why I say erstwhile) slugger Jason Giambi has confessed to abusing steroids. See: http://aolsvc.news.aol.com/sports/article.adp?id=20041202022809990009 This has been obvious to anyone who has watched players like him (and Sammy Sosa!) shrink before our very eyes now that baseball has something of a random test drug policy in place. So this isn't news to me. What is, and has been the more serious issue is what to make of all of the gigantic, unnatural statistics put up by so many star players over the past several years. In other words, if Bonds (no definitive proof of that yet, although Giambi says he got his steroids from Bonds' personal trainer), Sosa and the like were using steroids (or corked bats, for that matter, you idiot Sosa) during recent record-breaking seasons -- records that stood for decades, are the new records still legitimate? Bonds looks likely to break Hank Aaron's all time home run record this season or next -- doesn't it matter if he cheated? It must.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Feed the World

"Band Aid 20 Do They Know It's Christmas 2004 remake of the landmark 1984 single organised by Bob Geldof for African famine relief. Artists include Paul McCartney, Chris Martin, Bono, Dido, Keane, Travis, Snow Patrol & others. Also includes the original 1984 version. "

I sure did like the original version -- Boy George, Paul Young and all -- released way back at my tender age of 19. But I suppose that, if indeed all proceeds received from this new version likewise go to African famine relief, then more power to them. And Bono makes an encore performance -- does he get the same lyric to sing? You can get this cd via various online stores, www.sirendisc.com is one of them. I wonder if they replace them old timeless synthesizers underlying the crescendo, "feed the world ... don't they know it's christmastime?" Here is a link for a noble, annual fundraising effort conducted by The Independent toward famine relief and support in similarly situated parts of the world: http://news.independent.co.uk/world/africa/story.jsp?story=588490

It Doesn't Change

" Alleging responsibility for war crimes and torture at Baghdad's Abu Ghraib prison, a human rights group has filed a criminal complaint in Germany against US Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld and other top US officials.
The New York-based Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR) and Berlin's Republican Lawyers' Association said they and five Iraqi citizens mistreated by US soldiers were seeking a probe by German federal prosecutors of leading US policymakers.
The Center for Constitutional Rights noted that while several US soldiers were facing court martial for the abuse and sexual humiliation of prisoners at the US-run Abu Ghraib detention center in Iraq, their superiors looked set to escape discipline.
The complaint names Rumsfeld, former CIA director George Tenet, Under Secretary of Defense for Intelligence Steven Cambone, Lieutenant General Ricardo Sanchez, Brigadier General Janis L. Karpinski and other military officers who served in Iraq.
" http://www.truthout.org/docs_04/120104X.shtml

Why is it that so many of Bush's former aides are "resigning", but not Rumsfeld? Ridge was a disgrace for his role in the dismantling of the Fourth Amendment under the guise of the sick joke that is called the "Patriot Act"; Ashcroft was likewise a disgrace ... only to be replaced by a smarter and therefore potentially far more dangerous man; Powell was no disgrace except in the eyes of his more draconian/right wing superiors seeking true cronyism and so now they have it in Condi; and then there is Rumsfeld.... Your catastrophic so-called plan for a post-war Iraq, notwithstanding Abu Ghraib, continues to cost so very many precious lives and body parts on multiple fronts that you should be summarily arrested. As the great Bob Dylan said of his eternally true and relevant "Masters of War" (written during the Vietnam era when he was in his early 20s, no less!):

"'I don't sing songs which hope people will die, but I couldn't help it in this one. The song is a sort of striking out, a reaction to the last straw, a feeling of what can you do?' As the liner notes for The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan further state, "The rage is a way of catharsis, a way of getting temporary relief from the heavy feeling of impotence that affects many who cannot understand a civilization which juggles its own means for oblivion and calls that performance an act toward peace."