Sleeper Hit of the Year

Blue October - "Dirt Room"

-B
You think you own me, you should'a known me!

Poetry Corner #3

And now, a little T.S. Eliot for all you nighthawks;
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

-B
All the pretty ladies go to the city

Mind Eraser, No Chaser

Only the folks at Cracked could come up with the visual aids needed to support my own (and the rest of the sane worlds) opinion that Glenn Beck has managed to lose his fucking mind...more than once. It's as if he lost it, found it in the lost and found box at the Special Olympics, did a lobotomy with his zombie hands (weepng like a little bitch the whole time), cried, made racial remarks over the air, cried some more and became the unofficial spokesperson for Time Cube (viewer beware).

-B
what does it mean when the knife and the hands are your own

Silhouette Serenade

Still one of my all-time favorite songs by one of my favorite bands, who managed to turn into another one of my favorite bands (Sirens Sister). Plus, this song may have the best opening line ever.

-B
The last thing I want to do right now is read your stupid poetry

This time of the year is always hard. The materialistic obsession often resulting in two grown adults going UFC on each other for a fucking Tickle Me Elmo doll or whatever the new fad is, the "war on Christmas" bullshit Fox spews out every hour, and of course, the holiday-lovin' idiots at work that you have to put up with when they hang sparkly shit all over the fucking place; as you may or may not have guessed by now, I hate holidays. However, out of respect for the holiday freaks out there who seem to find joy in a world of misery and try to convince me that happy thoughts will make my personal shit go away, I will instead talk about the 25th Anniversary of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame concert. I have displayed two lists below; one list of artists/bands that couldn't be there, and another that should have but weren't. Here we go:

Bands that couldn't be there:

1. The Beatles
2. The Clash
3. Led Zeppelin
4. Marvin Gaye
5. Michael Jackson

Bands that should have fucking been there, but for some reason, weren't:

1. Aerosmith
2. Pink Floyd
3. Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
4. The Rolling Stones
5. Bob Dylan

That's all, feel free to argue or whatever, I don't care. I posted my favorite part of the show (besides Simon & Garfunkel) up above.

Oh, and Happy Holidays!

-B
standing on the corner, suitcase in my hand

The Easy Way

I couldn't have said it better myself.

All Hail Chez!

-B
This is the sound of me wearing thin

Notion

One of the best songs in the past 5 years by one the most under-appreciated bands by th American music industry; particuarly my nemeisis, fucking Pitchfork!

-B
I got a notion that says this doesn't right

Poetry Corner #2

Yes, I enjoy poetry, and no I don't give a shit what people think. I am especially fond of the great writers such as Vidal, Mailer, Singleton, Milton, Homer, Baudelaire, Wilcox, Lao Tzu, Aristotle, Keat, Kipling, Dante, Goethe, Oscar Wilde, T.S. Elliot, Blake, Bukowski, Burgess, Buroughs, Jim Carroll, Victor Hugo, Huxley, Kerouac, Lucretius, Persius, Sylvia Plath, Shakespeare, Mary Shelley, Patti Smith, Updike, and of course my all time favorite, William Butler Yeats. However, since I have already exposed you to my favorite Yeats poem, I shall now introduce you to my favorite poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. However, before I do, if you have any interest in reading some amazing poetry that makes Jewel's poetry look...well even worse, here is a short list of recommendations. And now, I would like you to enter the tragically beautiful mind of Ella Wheeler Wilcox, I hope you enjoy.

For this is wisdom-to love and live,
To take what fate or the gods may give,
To ask no question, to make no prayer,
To kiss the lips and caress the hair,
Speed passion's ebb as we greet its flow,
To have and to hold, and, in time-let go.

-B
It's 4:03 and I can't sleep without you next to me.

Technorati : Wilcox, poetry, yeats

A Momentary Lapse Of Reason

Main Entry: in·sane

Pronunciation: \(ˌ)in-ˈsān\

Function: adjective

Etymology: Latin insanus, from in- + sanus sane

Date: circa 1550

1. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

My train of thought, as well as my life it seems has been nothing but the above definition; insane. I have spent my whole life putting others before myself, and I always get the same result. Almost thirty years of fighting for a life a meager peasant would wish upon his cruel master. Where once I saw a clear path, I now see fog on the windiest of roads. It sometimes seems like nothing more than pure luck that I have not driven (or been driven) over the side of the road, tumbling towards my inevitable bottomless pit of failures and disappointments. I used to think that I was a good person; I would do anything for anyone, and break my back for those I barely considered acquaintances, much less those I truly cared about. Now I can't seem to care about anything. This is nothing new; those who knew me throughout the yesteryears have seen this behavior slowly un-bottle itself, every year seemingly getting worse and worse. Like most children, I dreamed of gold but awoke with rust. I am not sure of the exact moment I began this downward spiral of disappointment and disenchantment, but it seems to have happened long before my memory developed. I can't remember a single period of my life where I have been happy. Maybe I never have. My eyes saw Alexander while the mirror reflected Amory; failing upwards for so long that you begin to feel like you have actually accomplished something until the moment arises where the mirror's reflection finally overcomes your eyes' own overblown perception of failure masked as success and joy. Nothing I do ever seems to be good enough for anybody, and quite frankly, I fear I am done with it. This town, this life is nothing more than a redundant video game that you cannot win, but there is no reset button. I fear I am rather done with this life. There is nothing I can improve, and all I seem to do is fail. So maybe it is time to move on...find another road to travel in another place where no one has any predispositions of my past or predictions of my future. Sorry California, but I am done with you. The next few somber months shall be spent trying to find another place to lay my head, for I fear I have overstayed my welcome here. Sometimes, when you know that you just can't win, you have no choice but to face the fact that you have lost.

-B
And I hold you close in the back of my mind, and raise my glass 'cause either way I'm dead. Neither of you really help me to sleep anymore; One breaks my body and the other breaks my soul.

Goodnight Unknown

For those few who know me personally but were unaware of this, Lou Barlow is one of my favorite musicians. He is ranked in my top 5 somewhere between Tom Waits and Eddie Vedder. So imagine how happy I was when I heard that Lou Barlow has a new solo record out titled Goodnight Unknown. Before I give my personal take on the record, allow me to acclimate you with his previous work; he was the original bass player for Dinosaur Jr., still one of the greatest alternative bands around that manages to continually get better. He was also the man behind the very underappreciated Folk Implosion and my favorite of all his work, Sebadoh, who I was lucky to see live at Old Ironsides in downtown Sacramento in 2004. He has also released two solo albums, along with a handful on EP's under the moniker Sentridoh. He has played a very large role in the late 80's to early 90's music scene, and continues to be the Paul Westerberg of my generation (in my own humble opinion.). The song "On Fire" off of Sebadoh's 1996 release Harmacy is still listed in my top 10 favorite tracks of all time.

As for his new record Goodnight Unknown, I would rank this as some of his best solo work. Where his first solo album Emoh was a mostly acoustic, soft haze of melodic tunes, Goodnight Unknown hit's just a smidge harder. It is a little cleaner sounding than Emoh, but still carries his lo-fi fashion. "Don't Apologize" may sound a little like it was ripped from Sebadoh's later releases, which is not a bad thing at all, but most of the record is standard Barlow acoustic style with occasional electric fuzz. The opening track "Sharing" starts the record off with a mid-tempo garage rock feel, but it smoothes itself out by the last track, "One Note Tone". For those who just could not get into Sebadoh and thought Dinosaur Jr. was a little too indy-grunge for them, Goodnight Unknown is a perfect starting point to jump into his catalog, and then just work your way back. Trust me, you can't go wrong with a single release that carries his name (which happens to be a lot), but this is a great introduction into his lo-fi world.

-B
My mind is open, not my arms. Half the world ago is locked out; I led you on, you did no harm; this story ended when you walked out.

Technorati : dinosaur jr., folk implosion, goodnight unknow, lou barlow, sebadoh, sentridoh

Sad, But True

-B

My Circus Nuts

Why don't Circus Peanuts taste like peanuts? And why are they named after a circus, when they clearly resemble and taste more like packing foam? They look just like soggy Nutter Butters, have the texture of, well, packing foam, and clearly do not come in any other flavors like honey-roasted, salty, spicy, cool ranch, or even...peanuts. This is what happens when I have been sick for two weeks, haven't eaten in two days and am left alone to my own insane devices. This is the kind of shit that comes pouring out of my brain when I am not under parental supervision at the age of 29 when I am clearly abnormal at best. I need a drink, or some sleep, or drugs or whatever. I'm losing my mind.

-B
songs of yesterday now live in the underground

Technorati : circus peanuts

There Is No Enemy

I have a hatred for Pitchfork that rivals my hatred for Nazi's, Ann Coulter, Volkswagen Beatles and soccer combined. Pitchfork is to music what Dorian Gray was to Victorian society in Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray . The condescending, patronizing publisher of music and artists reviews that reminds me of every clerk at every independent music store I have been too. If someone other than them has heard of it, it sucks. The artists suddenly become mainstream sellouts.

Now I will admit that the radio generally sucks. Most of what you hear on the FM airwaves is either early 2000's era hip-hop or talk radio. I will also admit that I have a wide variety of musical tastes, and will give anything a chance. Somehow, people perceive this to make me out as a music snob or elitist. You people are stupid and you need to invest in a dictionary or go back to whatever poorly funded public school you went to and demand your parents' tax dollars back.

Having said that, Pitchfork does occasionally hit the mark on some records. And while I am still not over their down-spiral of betrayal towards the great Sonic Youth, a band that has never made a bad album, they have redeemed some of their soon-to-be-exhausted respect by actually giving the new Built To Spill record There Is No Enemy a positive review. Yes, it seems that occasional people can in fact pull their heads out of their pompous asses and do their job correctly. So go check it out and if you like what you hear, pick it up. It is a great album, and it looks like Pitchfork hit their one-time mark for the year. I am somehow not surprised.

-B
They don't wanna think about the other side. Is that grass just greener cause it's fake?

Technorati : built to spill, pitchfork, sonic youth

Confessions of a Delirious Man

I am currently hopped up on the following drugs:

Prozac
Valium
Benadryl
DayQuil
NyQuil
After-NoonQuil (I think)
Loratadine
Prilosec
Sucrets Cough Drops
Robitussin
Tylenol

So if anything I type here seems odd, don't be alarmed. Also, I am listenting to the Pixies, so that helps to make the colors delicious. I am watching Jon Stewart on mute, but I can hear him in my head. He is telling me to do things...horrible things. Things I could not bring myself to do, even if I did have a badger and some duct tape. I am going to go to sleep and hope that the monsters are not lifted directly from my nightmares and made into physical representations of their bowels-of-hell images I see when I close my eyes. Also, go listen to Kenotia...cause I fear Carlisle may need more Sangria. And buy their album, it is very good. Good night, and go fuck yourself San Diego.

-B
Here comes your man

Consent to Non-Consent

Leave it to Halliburton to include a clause as terms of employment that states that you can not sue...even if, you know, your coworkers gang-rape you and lock you in a storage container for 24 hours to prevent you from reporting it. Apparently, since the crime did not occur on American soil, the victim is barred from taking any legal action. Now I am not an expert on international employment rights within a domestically owned company, but I do know this...if you are a victim of a crime perpetrated by your coworkers while traveling for business outside the country on behalf of your company, you have every right to take every punitive measure against not only the offender(s) but the company itself for failure to provide you with a safe working environment. How this is any different, I fail to understand. Fuck Halliburton. I hope those rapists get sodomized by a fucking cactus...on fire...on YouTube for all to see. But, seeing as how Halliburton is associated with some of the most evil acts & people of this century, I doubt that is going to happen. So if she were to, hypothetically, bring a fucking gun to work and shoot those fuckers in the face, she would be exempt from any consequences. I'm Just, you know, throwing it out there.

-B
Polly wants a cracker; I think I should get off her first. I think she wants some water to put out the blow torch.

Please Stop Making SAW Movies

I have an idea for a movie...hear me out. There's this guy, and he is obsessed with teaching people "lessons about life" while he murders them. I don't think he covers ethics in any of the movies; I'm not sure, I never made it past the first movie. But that's not important, because neither did common sense, rational problem solving skills, or story continuity. And this guy, he dies in the second movie...we think. See that's where all the suspense comes from. We don't know if he is alive or dead, nor why or how he is killing people in order to help them become more civilized human beings. Crazy, huh? Well I'm just getting started. We see him die 2 times, but he keeps appearing in each following sequel. Maybe he uses the force like Darth Vader, how the fuck do I know.

Anyway, we get to number six, and like each year before, we release it on Halloween; we're not sure why. Now, in Episode Six: Return of the Creepy Saw Doll and the Guy who foretold five movies worth of murder in the future, he is back to kill more people to teach them why they suck as human beings...after being dead for 4 movies...maybe. Toss in some masochistic engineers' most useless/creepy inventions designed specifically to force people to kill themselves, some vague hint of a story line, and of course, tits, and BAM! Hollywood gold. Can you smell the money already?

So I plead to whomever is responsible for this never-ending yearly theatrical nightmare, please stop. I can't take anymore. These movies are stupid. The plot sucks and is so convoluted and distorted that J.J. Abrams cries himself to sleep at night, wishing he had thought of it first. Maybe number 7 will have them stuck on an island with the people from Lost and they can just all kill each other and end both stupid fucking franchises...oh shit, I think I just gave Abrams a boner.

-B

You never started loving me so you can never quit; I could rule this fucking world and you'd still think I'm shit

RIP Les Paul

We have seen a lot of celebrities pass away this year; especially within the past few weeks. And while the King of Pop was the best at what he did, and most of us grew up on John Hughes' movies, no life was taken that made such a large stamp on the world than that of Les Paul, who passed away today at the age 94. He created the world of electric guitars and effects, and opened the door for the musical pioneers of the past 100 years.

Think of a band, any band, and you can bet at least one member has played a Les Paul guitar. Hell, even an electric guitar. There would be no Led Zeppelin, no Beatles, no Rolling Stones, no Beach boys; name a band, and they would not exist had it not been for this man. He created not only the guitar that he is most well known for, but also many varied musical styles and equipment such as overdubbing, tape delay, multi-track recording, fretting techniques, etc., all which are still used to this very day.

While being more famous for his innovations and contributions to the world of music than the music he himself created, he was the man behind the music. He was man everyone was inspired by, from his Godson Steve Miller of the Steve Miller Band to Tom Scholz of Boston to Tom Morello of Rage Against The Machine, to any musician who went beyond the four-chord wonder method. Woodie Guthrie once said "anything more than three chords is just showing off"...well thankfully Les didn't see it that way.

Writing this is a very surreal experience for me; I actually met and had a conversation with Les Paul a few years ago. Like the millions of other fans he had met in his life, I doubt he would remember me but he would always remember those lucky ones who had the honor of meeting him as a collective of music fans. People looked up to him as if he was Jesus walking on the notes and melodies made by the ripples of sound on the waves of the Sea of Galilee. And I can say from personal experience, he was one of the nicest, most humble of people I have ever had the honor of meeting.

Les Paul paved the road for the millions of musicians in the past 94 years, and there will never be another man who could contribute so much to the art of music. He was a one time in history man, and that is why all of us musicians still tread the path he paved, and always will; there will never be another as great to pave a different road to travel. Rest in peace Les, you will be missed.

-B
and even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the lord of song, with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

After The Thriller Is Gone

I, just like most of you, am getting pretty tired of hearing about Michael Jackson. Thankfully, his tragic passing does not seem to be attracting the media hullabaloo as Anna Nicole Smith's death, and she didn't even contribute anything to society. I mean, FOX News, you know, the most trusted news source, spent more time covering her death that week than they did covering the war in Iraq. However, the flipside to that proverbial coin is that his death should obtain more attention than it has. Allow me to explain.

Michael Jackson's landmark record Thriller, released on November 30th, 1982 respectively, had 7 singles, won 8 Grammy's in three different categories at the 1984 Grammy Awards. It has been and still remains the best-selling record of all time. And this was an album that his record company, Epic, did not expect to do well (Epic seems to not have much faith in their bands, or at least that's what I have noticed over time). This was his sixth album.

Naturally, he is easier to be remembered for his recent activities than his past work and legacy left behind in the world of music. Currently I can rattle off over a dozen jokes about him, just off the top of my head. Yet, I could not at the same moment think of the titles of over a dozen of his songs. That is something to be said about society's twisted and macabre way of finding humor where there should be sympathy, caring more for scandal than success, and proving once and for all that the world is going to hell at a much higher speed than a basket is capable of producing (if any).

My point is that yes, he was accused of child molestation. Yes, he was accused twice. Yes, his behavior near the end of his life became quite obscure (which could be said about almost any celebrity with his legacy of success). Neverland Ranch was a little weird. He did try to build a giant robot of himself and let it wonder the Strip in Las Vegas while shooting fake lasers at people. And if I remember correctly, he was black (not to intend that in a negative way). But none of that should belittle or distort his contribution to the arts.

He was a great artist, a great performer, and there will never, in many ways, be another Michael Jackson. Some say that's good, some say bad. Either way, he accomplished more by the age of 10 than any of you reading this ever will, especially me. So go ahead and make your jokes, your viral video parodies, or whatever it is that will help you get over the fact that you will never be 1% as successful as Michael Jackson. So show some God Damn respect.

-B
break up the concrete