There was no shortage of silly things to say or risks to take. And I took one of them until the sattelite shutdown any rhythm that was generated. So I took to a firey dream of unrealized potential.
Love awoke me in the middle of the night, we nearly honored another life.
Some cats have a Ford Mustang, I know how they must feel behind the wheel. I busy myself with glamorous things like bug bombs and dental appointments. It's all good until they raid your home in the wee hours, looking for holes in the plaster to repaint. I worry about hanging out in the same places as these businessmen, so I move to the bus stop.
What a deadly show- every band was amazing and played like their lives depended on it. We squeezed over capacity into the tight venue and the whole place broke into a flooding sweat, until four in the morning-- the final piece of equipment put away.
Can't seem to control myself when it comes to filthy humor. We tumble over the most inane "what she said" wisecracks and find it curiously addictive.
- I'll be the judge vibe
- as if vibe
- hope you're happy vibe
- cool later vibe
- not like you care vibe
- choking on tears but its cool vibe
- or not vibe
* a list of different "vibes" people give off in casual conversation.
Boy: You know what?
(Looks at girl. Slams fist on table) (Bam!)
Boy: I love myself.
If you love me,
I must be worth a damn.
Van keys, can of Monster energy drink, Meshuggah 'Chaosphere' t-shirt, broken guitar stand, sunglasses, cassette to cd adaptor
We work hard and try to stay aware of our pretenses, each of us keeping the other in check. But without scrutinizing the mirror like an uptight ass, we remind ourselves that this is fun-- and it all falls into place.
There's a local band- who not only suck but are also straight up thieves. I won't name any names, but we'll prove this Saturday who the better man is.
When I was fifteen, my friend Frances said that we would probably mellow out when we got old. I was a young hardcore kid and couldn't imagine it. She's got two kids now. I'm considering never doing a solo tour again.
Home again and making up for lost sleep. It always takes a few days to come off the tour-high and adjust back to domestic life. But the spirit is resilient and adapts quickly to its immediate situation.
An old friend gave me a videotape of our college gang of freaks, from 87-89. I watched part of it today, awestruck at how I used to be, wishing I could go back and do it right.
Watched the Roky Erickson documentary at Lincoln Center last night, it was much better than expected. I like movies that stay with you a while after.
I returned the rental car two days late qnd they charged me triple the rate. I waited in the queue to check in my cumbersome luggage and they said I was too early, I'd have to wait an hour. Obviously someone is counting the days and the hours, if not me.
Not too much longer...
Ex-skins marching tough through someone else's bar. Vodka blurring the edges of tourist rockers and yoga exhibitionists.
It's not often one gets to perform in a church and hear someone yell "SATAN!" in a demonic voice- the humor wasn't lost on everyone.
I started at the end of what remained and worked my way back. What I uncovered was correct, just and deserving. I made a place for it in my luggage, I kept it cool during the heat wave.
We went to Venice Beach for a swim. The waves were relentless and we spent the majority of our time catching our breath. Plans were broken faster than they were made when I lay my head on that generic hotel pillow.
Neurons firing all night, synapse connections keep your eyes on the wheel and your hands upon the road. If you're gonna show up late, at least let it be because of an impromptu tangle with a natural hot spring; not because you wrestled a two hour traffic jam only to end up in Santa Ana.
Last night I felt like someone else was singing songs I barely remember writing. When it was over I felt warm blood on my hands- probably mine, but I felt no pain so it was hard to tell. I sold copies of the new CD, chatted with folks, packed up, drove back to the hotel, fell straight to sleep.
Four and a half hour layover in Phoenix last night. My mind was soft and dirty by the time I got on the plane to Seattle. I'm in some remote part of the hotel, only mildly furious about tour stuff.
I finally saw my first copy of the new record. Enough time has passed so that I could perceive it objectively. Visually, I think it is stunning- especially the way the text and images coincide with the songs.
Bottom line: ALWAYS trust Simon Descendo!!
I've rehearsed a bit and packed up all my equipment so it will fit in a suitcase. I leave in two hours for Seattle, my first show is tomorrow. This tour has been touch and go for a while so it's a relief to actually be stepping out the door. Haven't even started and already I'm reaching for the Advil.
Saw a trailer for a Hollywood disaster film based on 9/11 starring Nicholas Cage. I almost lost my lunch. It never takes us long to make tragedy turn a profit, what did I expect?
If you want a movie about 9/11 check out the documentary of the same name by the French filmmakers Jules and Gedeon Naudet. They happened to be making a film about the NY Fire Department on that fateful day-- it's unbelievable.
The sky is cracked where the trees used to be and the moon is drunk on Wild Turkey. I can remember the last time I looked at the world, through a glass of Coke.
Zippity, there aint a single gold tooth in sight, and not a penny to flip.
Descendants of style rules and cats that prefer to piss in sinks-- sorting through tiny clothes and heaving boxes onto hot parking lots. Looking across the room at a blue cardinal fixed on me. Saving my love for thee.
Electricity glowing through haunted bones, like the moon carves its way between the stones
I haven't touched a guitar in a fortnight, but I've done it long enough so that the rust can shake off in an hour or two.
In the direction of the vanity mirror, I faced. For the first time in weeks. My face was dirty and it looked like I had been crying. I sat down and drew a map of the Middle East, to the best of my knowledge, by connecting the cracks in the pavement.
"Your work is really piling up on you, you son of a bitch!" I used to say that to people as a joke and now I'm living it fo realz-like. Who's laughing now, huh?
It's humid here, and steamy from the rain. I could probably find other things to write about than the weather but I'm one of those guys who can watch the weather channel for hours.
Otherwise, I do chores and find a creative outlet in crude, barbaric HTML.
Went to see Dead Sea at Surly Girl last night- shredding. Smitty has the best attitude. The night before I saw Teeth Of The Hydra at Carabar, blew my socks off. Wish Dead Child could get a gig with them here...
Judgements affect the direction of your glance, which deflects into every aspect of your present situation-- to me as well as that pathetic businessman, that jobless slacker, that stupid Barbie. Judgements, my own and theirs alike, making this abject alone-ness, this newspaper, this chair.
Saw a bumper sticker: Horn not working, watch for finger. Promptly raised mid-finger high and proud.
I wish I could concentrate on music right now, but real-life situations are more pressing. I always enjoy being a little bit scared, but not like this.
Its strange how less you try to make yourself seen, the more visible you are.
I have been a dick about answering the phone and returning calls- this always happens when I'm recording. A Swedish all-girl band, Audrey, is giving me $1300 for two songs. So I recorded four and I will give them the two best ones. The other two will probably end up on MySpace. I'm still recording the vocals and I'm being light-hearted about it- I'm not in ultra-perfectionist mode where every phrase must be exactly aligned with the other. This is about capturing a vibe as quickly as possible.
Its very humid out and the AC makes my knees ache. But all the studio equipment makes it so hot, I get restless legs.
I want to photograph empty chairs, they remind me of bodies for some reason.
Practice blew out my ears so I'm straining to hear you talk. A delightful jaunt down Decade Street put me in touch with my old / younger self. I replaced the lid of the tobacco box with the skin of an accounting manager.
I take photos with my camera and send it as a text message to this blog- its the only way I can do it these days. I feel like I'm tearing up an exotic country, dodging bullets just to send these shattered missives to loved ones and enemies alike. These smoke signals and coded bomb threats, designed to pleasantly interrupt daily life.
Met up with Early Adam for a night at Surly Girl. Ending with Pacman and an amazing band from Greece, Socrates, recorded in 1971.
Went to the fountain and watched the model train go through the village. Gave the girls a ride to work. Wishing I would have stuck around yesterday and talked to old friends. But was too upset.
Two flourescent yellow-green canaries, roadside. Dead Child songs keep flowing to me and I trap them. The postman makes a mistake and delivers someone else's copy of 'Outdoor Living' so I read about the best shotguns of 2006.
And wept like a babe. JWO, you stepped up to the plate with great courage. I'm so sorry.
The long drives are starting to get to me, I'm getting that thousand yard stare. But there's no time for breaks / brakes.
I picked up the Pony in Orange County and started driving east. Today I was on I-40 for ten hours- through the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, and stopping to check out the 50,000 year old Meteor Crater. Photos of bison and video of sunset behind, pajamas and sleep ahead. Blessed with good fortune, I put the Pony Girl to sleep.
Via Las Vegas.
After watching the 'Lost' pilot for the first time, my fear of flying only continues to increase.
The people that linger in front of the pastries the longest are the ones that most need to lose weight.
The arduous task of writing a song, drawing a cartoon, and checking myspace messages simultaneously.
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