I no longer use the "sportmurphy.com" email listed elsewhere online. try myspace/facebook if you have something to say or ask.
![[Powered by Blogger]](http://buttons.blogger.com/bloggerbutton1.gif){kind=small}
Monday, March 31, 2003
Lately… don't know why… it's been things sticking out of walls. A paneling brad, shook loose by spooks. A slot wall prong, laden with blister-packed store products. A long, hinged towel rack. A coat hook. An inadequately bent-down nail, protruding through the obverse of a rustic door.
All of these and more, waiting to snag, tug and scrape at me and my garments as we hurry through the rooms and hallways of life. It feels as if they are saying, "hold on there, mister… not so fast!" But why? Why are my perambulations any of their beeswax? What is WITH these clutching corridors of enforced reflection? Like stationary skeeters a-pricking my conscience and a-pulling my cardigan, they relentlessly intrude upon my peace of mind.
Or am I the intruder? Does the convex catch ...bulging from the arm of yet another ruined waffle henley... whisper: "You heard the partition. G'wan… beat it… there's a world out there! Git!"
Dunno, friends.
But I do know this much:
3 "new" Berrie Jigglers are on the way:
"Sheba," a faux-Indian deity,
"Kilroy" ...the GI graffitto made manifest in rich, redolent, oily "Quiverall" with a schnozz like Mr. Natural,
and a nameless, running police officer.
Can't wait, and I'll suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous interseptal juttroddery if life will only keep these gelatinous joy-bringers a' coming.
All of these and more, waiting to snag, tug and scrape at me and my garments as we hurry through the rooms and hallways of life. It feels as if they are saying, "hold on there, mister… not so fast!" But why? Why are my perambulations any of their beeswax? What is WITH these clutching corridors of enforced reflection? Like stationary skeeters a-pricking my conscience and a-pulling my cardigan, they relentlessly intrude upon my peace of mind.
Or am I the intruder? Does the convex catch ...bulging from the arm of yet another ruined waffle henley... whisper: "You heard the partition. G'wan… beat it… there's a world out there! Git!"
Dunno, friends.
But I do know this much:
3 "new" Berrie Jigglers are on the way:
"Sheba," a faux-Indian deity,
"Kilroy" ...the GI graffitto made manifest in rich, redolent, oily "Quiverall" with a schnozz like Mr. Natural,
and a nameless, running police officer.
Can't wait, and I'll suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous interseptal juttroddery if life will only keep these gelatinous joy-bringers a' coming.
(Apropos of previous posting, my song: CACTUS BOY. Since the 5 people who ever listened to the song all the way through probably never listened twice, here's the lyric.)
Go on and mingle among 'em a little bit, go on, child.
What's that quizzical sniffle they greet you with? What's that, child?
That's just the way they know their own... it's a very special smell!
When you catch a whiff of it, run like hell.
A group's a gang's a mob's an army: itching to deploy.
"Noli Me Tangere."
You tell 'em.
You're "IT," Cactus Boy.
There's a whole buncha nothing a-crawling through the world, child.
When it eyeballs on Something, it wants to make it die.
One's a soul, and two's a love song. Yonder come a hoi polloi...
Wish 'em all out into the cornfield, Cactus Boy.
Everybody!
-Copyright 2000 Sport Murphy-
(Note: "cactus" as in: Arms up, spines out, alone in the wasteland. "Noli Me Tangere" is Latin for "Don't Touch Me" …it's also the name of a plant bearing spurs. Hoi Polloi is the masses. All groups are dangerous. Most individuals are, to some extent, worth knowing; they're "something." They gravitate to groups, though, becoming nothing in the process. This is my proudest recorded accomplishment. The "everybody" shout at the end is a joke on sing-alongs, as well as announcing who should be "wished out into the cornfield" …which is another Twilight Zone reference. The episode is "It's A Good Life," starring Billy Mumy. I imagined the song as a Broadway song, performed by a cast of one to an empty theater. Musically, it was an attempt to answer the age-old question "what if Henry Cowell wrote "One For My Baby?")
Go on and mingle among 'em a little bit, go on, child.
What's that quizzical sniffle they greet you with? What's that, child?
That's just the way they know their own... it's a very special smell!
When you catch a whiff of it, run like hell.
A group's a gang's a mob's an army: itching to deploy.
"Noli Me Tangere."
You tell 'em.
You're "IT," Cactus Boy.
There's a whole buncha nothing a-crawling through the world, child.
When it eyeballs on Something, it wants to make it die.
One's a soul, and two's a love song. Yonder come a hoi polloi...
Wish 'em all out into the cornfield, Cactus Boy.
Everybody!
-Copyright 2000 Sport Murphy-
(Note: "cactus" as in: Arms up, spines out, alone in the wasteland. "Noli Me Tangere" is Latin for "Don't Touch Me" …it's also the name of a plant bearing spurs. Hoi Polloi is the masses. All groups are dangerous. Most individuals are, to some extent, worth knowing; they're "something." They gravitate to groups, though, becoming nothing in the process. This is my proudest recorded accomplishment. The "everybody" shout at the end is a joke on sing-alongs, as well as announcing who should be "wished out into the cornfield" …which is another Twilight Zone reference. The episode is "It's A Good Life," starring Billy Mumy. I imagined the song as a Broadway song, performed by a cast of one to an empty theater. Musically, it was an attempt to answer the age-old question "what if Henry Cowell wrote "One For My Baby?")
Well, I never did get around to talking about seeing Laura, Ken, Kelly and Pavol at Mars (great friends and gangs o' fun) or meeting John Strausbaugh (a good egg), nor seeing Steve Espinola's set at sidewalk as well as Debby Schwartz's set (both splendid) nor getting well loaded as young David, Meredith and Bianca Bob sat by helplessly (a lovely hang). It was nice. But, while cleaning up my desktop clutter I found an immediately pre-war entry I decided not to post. I'll put it up in part, though. Mainly because all the schtick and sarcasm might give a wrong impression, even though I will mostly continue to avoid comment as this thing progresses, because what I think doesn't matter worth shit. Just seems like this thing comes up enough in conversation that some less flippant comment is probably worthwhile for blog balance. Anyway, here's some of that.
Well, geez... in spite of all the recent tomfoolery and wiseass provocations various, the day looms and a sober mood descends. Do we begin the war today or what? We'll see. I used to spend St Patrick's day with the clan, being Irish and looking to see if we could catch Pete marching in the parade. In even older days, it'd be the old man sharing some whiskey with us as we listened to the old songs and I'd slip on some Pogues to watch the old man roaring with laughter at Shane's vulgarities. Fado, fado; Pete's gone and the old man can't do the whiskey no more and I don't even know if we'll see the parade.
After the Afghanistan bombings began, one of Pete's in-laws forwarded around a picture of a bomb with "PETE VEGA FDNY LADDER 118" painted on it. Some of his Air Force brethren had done up a number of them like that. What was one supposed to think? Was I to feel ashamed of the partial vengeful bloodlust I felt? Was I supposed to be sickened by it as was that other, pacifist part of me? Well both, sort of. But neither, honestly. I truly couldn't find any satisfaction in the idea of bombs decimating people, especially bombs bearing the name of a guy I loved, who died saving lives from a hostile attack. I couldn't pretend there was something "wrong" in the action of those flyboys, trying to put a measure of direct, personal purpose into their duties.I just saw his name, finally, and remembered that this name was once attached to funny drawings doodled during perfectly banal afternoons and loving letters sent from overseas. The bombs had NOTHING to do with Pete. The picture became a blank thing to me: Just another totem of a world I refuse to try understanding.
Everything there is to understand is too small and ugly to warrant words. Too huge and grotesque to put a frame around. It's what humans do, that's all. I appreciate what motivates the teeming doves at their rallies (many of whom are my dear friends) and I appreciate what moves the resolute hawks (many of whom are my dear friends) to cheer this action. But what I think is absolutely meaningless, so I've chosen to simply make jokes when discussing it at all. My sense of country dictates that all first concerns are for our troops and our citizens, and if that isn't sufficiently "global" or humanist, then I'm a dick...we all knew that. It doesn't mean I want Iraqis to get snuffed, either. Who wants any of this? Still, here it comes. I don't get humans at all. Well, that's not true. I do get them. Way too clearly. My song Cactus Boy is what I think about it all, so that's enough.
Well, geez... in spite of all the recent tomfoolery and wiseass provocations various, the day looms and a sober mood descends. Do we begin the war today or what? We'll see. I used to spend St Patrick's day with the clan, being Irish and looking to see if we could catch Pete marching in the parade. In even older days, it'd be the old man sharing some whiskey with us as we listened to the old songs and I'd slip on some Pogues to watch the old man roaring with laughter at Shane's vulgarities. Fado, fado; Pete's gone and the old man can't do the whiskey no more and I don't even know if we'll see the parade.
After the Afghanistan bombings began, one of Pete's in-laws forwarded around a picture of a bomb with "PETE VEGA FDNY LADDER 118" painted on it. Some of his Air Force brethren had done up a number of them like that. What was one supposed to think? Was I to feel ashamed of the partial vengeful bloodlust I felt? Was I supposed to be sickened by it as was that other, pacifist part of me? Well both, sort of. But neither, honestly. I truly couldn't find any satisfaction in the idea of bombs decimating people, especially bombs bearing the name of a guy I loved, who died saving lives from a hostile attack. I couldn't pretend there was something "wrong" in the action of those flyboys, trying to put a measure of direct, personal purpose into their duties.I just saw his name, finally, and remembered that this name was once attached to funny drawings doodled during perfectly banal afternoons and loving letters sent from overseas. The bombs had NOTHING to do with Pete. The picture became a blank thing to me: Just another totem of a world I refuse to try understanding.
Everything there is to understand is too small and ugly to warrant words. Too huge and grotesque to put a frame around. It's what humans do, that's all. I appreciate what motivates the teeming doves at their rallies (many of whom are my dear friends) and I appreciate what moves the resolute hawks (many of whom are my dear friends) to cheer this action. But what I think is absolutely meaningless, so I've chosen to simply make jokes when discussing it at all. My sense of country dictates that all first concerns are for our troops and our citizens, and if that isn't sufficiently "global" or humanist, then I'm a dick...we all knew that. It doesn't mean I want Iraqis to get snuffed, either. Who wants any of this? Still, here it comes. I don't get humans at all. Well, that's not true. I do get them. Way too clearly. My song Cactus Boy is what I think about it all, so that's enough.
Saturday, March 29, 2003
Gee... been having a bout of bloglassitude of late, eh?
Well, there's been a lot going on. I'll save the real news for later, but a mention of a long lovely day of NYC rambling this week. I'll indicate with asterisks where I've decided to digress into abject lies.
Went in planning to see Kelly Copper's exhibit of works derived from the frames of found home movies, and took this as an opportunity to visit other friends in town. First to David Garland's place, where he played me some of the new songs from his just-completed humdinger of an album. His best set yet, this thing, and the new ones are incredible. Beaming with pride to have collaborated on a few of the album's selections. After this treat David, his wife Anne and I were shocked by a huge BOOM somewhere out there. The instant, inevitable and obvious worry. *David and Anne, cowering in sudden, helpless fear, looked to me for... I dunno, answers... reassurance... the usual. "Never fear" I shouted.*
I went down to investigate, troubled to see a bunch of emergency vehicles heading straight for the Ed Sullivan theater, home of David Letterman's show, which was my next stop. Turned out to be an electrical fire, which blew out a manhole lid. So I returned, *calming the Garlands and the rest of the building's terrified occupants. Brushing off the mass "hurrahs" with a modest shrug, I signed a few autographs, kissed a few babies* and walked to the park with David for a chat and a cuppa. After that I headed back to the theater to meet my young nephew David and up to the writers' offices for a long-postponed visit with chum Steve Young. I mean chum as "buddy" ...not a bucket of fish-guts meant to lure sharks, which would be one hell of a rude thing to call one's buddy.
And while on the subject of blogwise clarity... when I say David at this here post-Garland point in the narrative, I mean young David the nephew, but not when I say Young, which is when I mean Steve, who writes for yet another David I've never met, so don't even worry about that, since THAT David was on sick leave anyway. Of course, later I was to meet up with Steve Espinola, who is - of course - not Steve Young, so bear in mind that any later references to Steve - meaning, references concerning the period after (young nephew) David and I leave Steve (Young - writer) (which hasn't even happened yet in the current tale, since we're just arriving at David's offices to meet Steve after I left David to meet David, who'd later accompany me to meet up with Steve) - mean Espinola. But it seems like if I singled out Steve Young for "last name" treatment, it'd be a sort of rude thing to do with such an esteemed buddy, who is no mere bucket of shark-lure to be bandied about off the side of the "first-name-basis-boat" as it were.
Steve hosted us as graciously as ever, despite constant interruptions from people expecting him to write funny stuff for the show. *This impertinence was not to be tolerated, and I told Steve that if he insisted on entertaining America instead of amusing us, we'd take our business elsewhere. Things got tense, and if it hadn't been for my reluctance to set a bad example for David, it could have degenerated into a real brannigan. As it was, things took an ominous turn. Young stood upon his desk, coiled and ready to strike with a very heavy-looking vintage box camera as I goaded him on with a potted palm I'd dragged in from the hall (a defensive precaution dictated by previous, similarly atavistic visits to the office of this loose cannon). "Come on, comedy-man... take your shot; I'm so scared I forgot to laugh!" I spat. Steve just snarled: "Bah! Let's see you sing yer ditties with 'xelfielloR' imprinted across your skull, Caruso!"
Sanity prevailed and, after a round of sweaty apologies,* David and I said bye to Steve and headed downtown to Kelly's exhibit at Anthology Film Archives. Kelly was, as it happened, the only Kelly in the evening's plans, which must be a relief to you, even though I find it a little obnoxious on your part that this should seem like a "relief" since, as delightfully singular a person as Kelly is, you have no right to assume that another "Kelly" would somehow represent a surfeit of "Kellys" or be - in any way, shape or form - "a Kelly too far." How DARE YOU!
*I'm so pissed,* I'll continue at another time.
But before I go, I promised big news, and the big news is... it's official:
Shelley is pregnant!
Look for our newest release in December.
I am astonished. We are delighted.
Hommina hommina!
But what to name the baby? These things can get confusing.
Well, there's been a lot going on. I'll save the real news for later, but a mention of a long lovely day of NYC rambling this week. I'll indicate with asterisks where I've decided to digress into abject lies.
Went in planning to see Kelly Copper's exhibit of works derived from the frames of found home movies, and took this as an opportunity to visit other friends in town. First to David Garland's place, where he played me some of the new songs from his just-completed humdinger of an album. His best set yet, this thing, and the new ones are incredible. Beaming with pride to have collaborated on a few of the album's selections. After this treat David, his wife Anne and I were shocked by a huge BOOM somewhere out there. The instant, inevitable and obvious worry. *David and Anne, cowering in sudden, helpless fear, looked to me for... I dunno, answers... reassurance... the usual. "Never fear" I shouted.*
I went down to investigate, troubled to see a bunch of emergency vehicles heading straight for the Ed Sullivan theater, home of David Letterman's show, which was my next stop. Turned out to be an electrical fire, which blew out a manhole lid. So I returned, *calming the Garlands and the rest of the building's terrified occupants. Brushing off the mass "hurrahs" with a modest shrug, I signed a few autographs, kissed a few babies* and walked to the park with David for a chat and a cuppa. After that I headed back to the theater to meet my young nephew David and up to the writers' offices for a long-postponed visit with chum Steve Young. I mean chum as "buddy" ...not a bucket of fish-guts meant to lure sharks, which would be one hell of a rude thing to call one's buddy.
And while on the subject of blogwise clarity... when I say David at this here post-Garland point in the narrative, I mean young David the nephew, but not when I say Young, which is when I mean Steve, who writes for yet another David I've never met, so don't even worry about that, since THAT David was on sick leave anyway. Of course, later I was to meet up with Steve Espinola, who is - of course - not Steve Young, so bear in mind that any later references to Steve - meaning, references concerning the period after (young nephew) David and I leave Steve (Young - writer) (which hasn't even happened yet in the current tale, since we're just arriving at David's offices to meet Steve after I left David to meet David, who'd later accompany me to meet up with Steve) - mean Espinola. But it seems like if I singled out Steve Young for "last name" treatment, it'd be a sort of rude thing to do with such an esteemed buddy, who is no mere bucket of shark-lure to be bandied about off the side of the "first-name-basis-boat" as it were.
Steve hosted us as graciously as ever, despite constant interruptions from people expecting him to write funny stuff for the show. *This impertinence was not to be tolerated, and I told Steve that if he insisted on entertaining America instead of amusing us, we'd take our business elsewhere. Things got tense, and if it hadn't been for my reluctance to set a bad example for David, it could have degenerated into a real brannigan. As it was, things took an ominous turn. Young stood upon his desk, coiled and ready to strike with a very heavy-looking vintage box camera as I goaded him on with a potted palm I'd dragged in from the hall (a defensive precaution dictated by previous, similarly atavistic visits to the office of this loose cannon). "Come on, comedy-man... take your shot; I'm so scared I forgot to laugh!" I spat. Steve just snarled: "Bah! Let's see you sing yer ditties with 'xelfielloR' imprinted across your skull, Caruso!"
Sanity prevailed and, after a round of sweaty apologies,* David and I said bye to Steve and headed downtown to Kelly's exhibit at Anthology Film Archives. Kelly was, as it happened, the only Kelly in the evening's plans, which must be a relief to you, even though I find it a little obnoxious on your part that this should seem like a "relief" since, as delightfully singular a person as Kelly is, you have no right to assume that another "Kelly" would somehow represent a surfeit of "Kellys" or be - in any way, shape or form - "a Kelly too far." How DARE YOU!
*I'm so pissed,* I'll continue at another time.
But before I go, I promised big news, and the big news is... it's official:
Shelley is pregnant!
Look for our newest release in December.
I am astonished. We are delighted.
Hommina hommina!
But what to name the baby? These things can get confusing.
Monday, March 24, 2003
A new and gratifying review of the album, dear reader. This time it's from my birthstate, Texas.
With all these lovely folks writing all these lovely words, surely SOMEBODY would be willing to play some shows with an old fellow? Anybody? Is this thing on?
http://www.fwweekly.com/issues/2003-03-20/listenup3.html
Sport Murphy
Uncle (Kill Rock Stars Records)
By Matthew Smith
The thought of yet another 9-11 album probably induces more yawns than interest by now - but don't run off just yet.
Mike "Sport" Murphy-Texas-born but New York-raised-lost his nephew, a fireman, in the World Trade Center disaster. Uncle, Murphy's third album, is a tribute to his fallen family member.
An expected pall of sadness and loss hangs over the disc. "No Fair" is a mournful ballad to those gone on. "Sleepy River" works as both lullaby and funeral dirge. But the c.d. is not total gloom. Although quiet and contemplative, this album is also filled with a sense of hope.
Unlike Springsteen's The Rising, which will probably become one of those albums greatly admired but seldom played the further 9-11 recedes into history, Uncle-because it uses that event as a jumping-off point, not a base-feels more relevant. Apart from a few direct references to "piss-proud swine" and people afraid to read the newspapers, Uncle works as a celebration of life's fragility and preciousness.
The album's history aside, Murphy emerges as a bright new voice in American music. He has the storytelling chops of Springsteen and Dylan and the inventiveness of Tom Waits and Brian Wilson. Warm string and brass sections share space with barroom singalongs and plaintive spirituals. "Bird in the House," funny and harrowing at once, sounds like Waits doing the Kinks.
This is adult rock 'n' roll at its best. Not the work of some over-the-hill band still releasing pointless albums in attempt to recapture faded glory and milk boomer nostalgia, but of a mature, thoughtful musician, full of genuine purpose and soul.
With all these lovely folks writing all these lovely words, surely SOMEBODY would be willing to play some shows with an old fellow? Anybody? Is this thing on?
http://www.fwweekly.com/issues/2003-03-20/listenup3.html
Sport Murphy
Uncle (Kill Rock Stars Records)
By Matthew Smith
The thought of yet another 9-11 album probably induces more yawns than interest by now - but don't run off just yet.
Mike "Sport" Murphy-Texas-born but New York-raised-lost his nephew, a fireman, in the World Trade Center disaster. Uncle, Murphy's third album, is a tribute to his fallen family member.
An expected pall of sadness and loss hangs over the disc. "No Fair" is a mournful ballad to those gone on. "Sleepy River" works as both lullaby and funeral dirge. But the c.d. is not total gloom. Although quiet and contemplative, this album is also filled with a sense of hope.
Unlike Springsteen's The Rising, which will probably become one of those albums greatly admired but seldom played the further 9-11 recedes into history, Uncle-because it uses that event as a jumping-off point, not a base-feels more relevant. Apart from a few direct references to "piss-proud swine" and people afraid to read the newspapers, Uncle works as a celebration of life's fragility and preciousness.
The album's history aside, Murphy emerges as a bright new voice in American music. He has the storytelling chops of Springsteen and Dylan and the inventiveness of Tom Waits and Brian Wilson. Warm string and brass sections share space with barroom singalongs and plaintive spirituals. "Bird in the House," funny and harrowing at once, sounds like Waits doing the Kinks.
This is adult rock 'n' roll at its best. Not the work of some over-the-hill band still releasing pointless albums in attempt to recapture faded glory and milk boomer nostalgia, but of a mature, thoughtful musician, full of genuine purpose and soul.
Sunday, March 23, 2003
"We should seek by all means in our power to avoid war, by analysing possible causes, by trying to remove them, by discussion in a spirit of collaboration and good will. I cannot believe that such a programme would be rejected by the people of this country, even if it does mean the establishment of personal contact with the dictators."
Neville Chamberlain
Neville Chamberlain
"If any one of these groups--the British, the Jewish, or the administration--stops agitating for war, I believe there will be little danger of our involvement."
Charles Lindbergh- September 11, 1941
Charles Lindbergh- September 11, 1941
Saturday, March 22, 2003
Man I'm so upset about it all that I have decided to act locally. I went to my freezer and took out the box of Pepperidge Farm "Texas Toast" and crossed out "Texas" and wrote "Terrorist" because Bush is from Texas and if French Toast is now gonna Freedom Toast then how does he like this? Because he's the real terrorist and just like Tim Robbins said, Bush should have said after 911 that everyone could help more by turning a vacant lot into a baseball field and that would show the terrorists something better than just bombing people. So I put the Terrorist Toast back in the freezer because I wasn't hungry anyway and who could eat when there's a war going on. But then I just got upset because that's symbolic but who would see it except someone who is already looking in my freezer
Then I went and laid down on the sidewalk right in front of the house and stayed for maybe an hour and if somebody came and said I was blocking the way, I'd say "damn right, isn't it inconvenient? Well it's a lot more inconvenient if you're an Iraqui citizen and the U.S government which is this huge corporate monster says they can kill you in an unjust war that the people ('it's still WE the people, RIGHT?' - Dave Mustaine kicking it old school with megadeth) didn't even get to say whether or not we even wanted to do and the UN was not even paid attention to even when they said they FORBID Bush and his war pigs to do this, which their only doing because they want your oil and Bush is getting even for his father."I was all ready to say this to anyone who came down the street.
But everyone just kept crossing the street and I screamed "COWARDS! COWARDS!" at them and I wished my friend Justin was home because I know he'd do it to and then they'd have to FACE us instead of pretending the whole war is so justified and stuff and going back to their safe whitebread homes and not even caring. But Justin was away at the "shit-in" with everybody else but NO I couldn't go because there was no room in the car but there was enough room for Nicole though, who is all "I'm so antiwar" even though she really is so apathetic and only says she cares because she wants to get with Justin.
So I had to give up my protest and go inside and see them on TV (blech! I NEVER watch TV) where everyone went to the business district and smeared feces all over themselve's because the war is so shitty and stinks and there is Justin laying there in front of some big corporate headquarters right next to the guy from System of A Down and their all covered with shit and the cops are coming over with handkerchiefs over their noses (what's the matter, fascist, can't stand the stench of US policy!) and nightsticks in the other hand like they are about to beat everyone up for just doing what their rights are as US citizens anyway or was the Bill of Rights revoked when we weren't looking just like the UN charter was?
And lo and behold there's Nicole and she is vomiting because as I found out later she can't stand the smell of shit (yeah, real fucken radical, Nic-hole, afraid to mess up your Abercrombie and Fitch outfit) and then this reporter goes up and talks to her because they think she was protesting too by pukeing but all she says is "rawwwlpph" and keeps heavingup her guts the bitch. I bet they put everyone in jail for just speaking they're mind and then who knows when I'll see Justin again? I hate the war so much and everybodies so complacent about it.
I can't stop crying
So now I'm gonna write a poem about all if it or something.
Then I went and laid down on the sidewalk right in front of the house and stayed for maybe an hour and if somebody came and said I was blocking the way, I'd say "damn right, isn't it inconvenient? Well it's a lot more inconvenient if you're an Iraqui citizen and the U.S government which is this huge corporate monster says they can kill you in an unjust war that the people ('it's still WE the people, RIGHT?' - Dave Mustaine kicking it old school with megadeth) didn't even get to say whether or not we even wanted to do and the UN was not even paid attention to even when they said they FORBID Bush and his war pigs to do this, which their only doing because they want your oil and Bush is getting even for his father."I was all ready to say this to anyone who came down the street.
But everyone just kept crossing the street and I screamed "COWARDS! COWARDS!" at them and I wished my friend Justin was home because I know he'd do it to and then they'd have to FACE us instead of pretending the whole war is so justified and stuff and going back to their safe whitebread homes and not even caring. But Justin was away at the "shit-in" with everybody else but NO I couldn't go because there was no room in the car but there was enough room for Nicole though, who is all "I'm so antiwar" even though she really is so apathetic and only says she cares because she wants to get with Justin.
So I had to give up my protest and go inside and see them on TV (blech! I NEVER watch TV) where everyone went to the business district and smeared feces all over themselve's because the war is so shitty and stinks and there is Justin laying there in front of some big corporate headquarters right next to the guy from System of A Down and their all covered with shit and the cops are coming over with handkerchiefs over their noses (what's the matter, fascist, can't stand the stench of US policy!) and nightsticks in the other hand like they are about to beat everyone up for just doing what their rights are as US citizens anyway or was the Bill of Rights revoked when we weren't looking just like the UN charter was?
And lo and behold there's Nicole and she is vomiting because as I found out later she can't stand the smell of shit (yeah, real fucken radical, Nic-hole, afraid to mess up your Abercrombie and Fitch outfit) and then this reporter goes up and talks to her because they think she was protesting too by pukeing but all she says is "rawwwlpph" and keeps heavingup her guts the bitch. I bet they put everyone in jail for just speaking they're mind and then who knows when I'll see Justin again? I hate the war so much and everybodies so complacent about it.
I can't stop crying
So now I'm gonna write a poem about all if it or something.
Friday, March 21, 2003
Nothing but a prayer - to nobodaddy - for all of 'em, ours and theirs. But especially OURS. And fuck the European Union anyway.
Sunday, March 16, 2003
HEY EVERYONE!
WE'D JUST LIKE TO THANK EVERYONE FOR "CHECKING IN" THESE PAST FEW MONTHS, AND THE BEST WAY TO DO SO IS BY GIVING YOU A "VOICE" IN KEEPING THIS THE BIGGEST, BADDEST BLOG ON THE WHOLE WEB!!
For starters, we want to give a big SHOUT OUT to everyone who wrote and faxed us with their suggestions and criticisms! When we asked everyone what they wanted from a blog, we expected some heated opinions, but you people are INSANE! Just kidding! LOL! : )
Your comments were OFF THE CHARTS rad, and will help us to bring you a more EXTREME blog for Spring! But just because we are about to unleash some of the edgiest "BLOG GONE WILD" content you've ever seen, don't think we're gonna stop there! Let us know how you feel about SPORT SPIEL 2.0, and don't hold back!
Remember: this is YOUR blog!
When YOU talk, WE listen, and here's what you said:
"Does anybody really care? " - T. K. (Chicago)
"Could I be dreamin'? Is this really real?" - R. O. (Alabama)
"Same old song!" - K. L. (Kansas)
"Closed my eyes and I slipped away!" - B. D. (Boston)
"Turning and returning to some secret place inside" - T. N. (Berlin)
"Whaaaaa-Oooooo! Yeah yeah yeah! Oh, no no no no no no NO!" - D. J. (New York Dolls)
In our new, streamlined blog, look for some of the changes YOU demanded!
SPORT SPIEL IS NOW A NO-SMOKING BLOG!
Bring your children in here with no worries about second-hand smoke… or schtick!
SPORT SPIEL WILL NOT TOLERATE INTOLERANCE!
We're calling a "time-out" on slurs like "cocksucking muslims" and such. One love!
SPORT SPIEL SAYS "WHOAH!" TO SELF-PITY!
We're corking up the whine and puttin' it back in the cellar for a more "upbeat" vibe!
SPORT SPIEL WON'T SUCK UP TO ANY MORE REVIEWERS!
Sure it's nice to get a good write-up, but that doesn't justify deifying kind critics! Fuck 'em all!
SPORT SPIEL SAYS "NO NO NO" TO REDUNDANCY!
Ives? Berrie Jigglers? Barris? Cassavetes? Enough… try: Beyonce! Pokemon! Woolery! Hanks!
Sure, it's easy to "cut" stuff, but it's what's NEW that counts.
And we are "Springing" ahead to a jam-packed blog for the vernal equinox and beyond!
After tabulating all the suggestions you've sent, look for more of the following in future installments of SPORT SPIEL: the "BAD BOY" blog!
1) Lots of passionate commentary about the IRAQ situation! No-holds-barred! SOMEBODY HAS TO SAY IT!
2) More comedy in which lovable African-American characters interact with clueless white people trying vainly to be "down"... YES! We DO "know what you're saying, 'dog' !"
3) Competitions and challenges with built-in devices rewarding treachery and deceit!
4) Lots of gratuitious slamming of CARROT TOP! Prop comedy? WHAT A DICK! Ha ha ha!
5) A new auto-load THEME SONG from SMASHMOUTH! Get your game on!
6) Up-to-the-minute info on how many units are moved, how many tickets are sold, how much everyone got paid, relative chart / bestseller list / critics' choice positions of all books, films, cds, television shows, etc., how much the whole thing cost, who's fucking who, what's hot and what's not, 100 best whatevers of all time, post-game analysis, post-press conference coverage, exit polls, panels of expert commentators, behind-the-scenes peeks, and insider dish! Don't be left out! No need to with SPORT SPIEL!
7) Thousands of incredibly brief and comparison-reliant reviews - written by children - of EVERYTHING out there... "just in case!"
8) Occasional introduction of a new quirky-cute MASCOT you can use for whatever those things get used for by people like you, until it gets around pretty widely and you get so sick of it you start your own web site claiming to HATE that same quirky-cute mascot, which itself will be popular in an ironic way for exactly 3 weeks until even people who catch on to the "I HATE..." schtick are regarded as nerds by you, already busy digging a brand new MASCOT that WE'LL SUPPLY!
9) Mpegs of our favorite CEREAL COMMERCIALS depicting families torn asunder by each member's uncontrollable need to eat ALL THE CEREAL without sharing!
10) Cheats, shortcuts, Easter Eggs, hidden shit and backdoor entries into things not worth seeing, knowing or doing! WOW!
11) IMMEDIATE composition of shockingly dark jokes, tailor-made to apply to any new tragedies and disasters. Sardonic amusement: ON DEMAND.
12) More comedy in which attractive Young Persons interact with clueless old people trying vainly to be "hip" ...YES! We "get it ...duh!"
13) Beautiful images by "painter of light" Thomas Kinkade.
14) Lots of blistering commentary about the MEDIA bias! Take-no-prisoners! SOMEBODY HAS TO EXPOSE IT!
15) Gentle poking fun at ATHLETES in a way that reassures them that we really envy and admire them.
16) More and more MANGA and ANIME type art, much of it including weapon-brandishing chicks with their breasts exposed!
17) New and ever-finely-split genre categories for RAVE music including: "Bugout!" "Boing-n-Beep-sans-Thwump!" "Comalectro!" "Pipe-and Tabor!" "Dronethrash!" "Smegdub!" "Scotch-and-Water!" "Home!" "Deep Home!" "Old Kentucky Home!" "Onion-Dip-Hop!" "Nu Veldt!" "Loopfade!" "Acid Waltz!" 'Dripsonnix!" and "Dialtone!"
18) Great steaming heaps of things to FORWARD to people on your email list! Funny animations! George Carlin quotes! Petitions and questionnaires! Dead Links!
19) Dubious, modern-as-tomorrow services requiring a draconian subscription arrangement you'll live to regret, offered as spurious free trials!
20) Lots of bold commentary about what a bunch of ASSHOLES all those other ASSHOLES are! Fearless! SOMEBODY HAS TO CALL THOSE ASSHOLES ASSHOLES!
AND MUCH MUCH MORE...
...but why give it all away? Along with the exciting NEW LOOK we'll unveil shortly, we're sure that all the blog upgrades we're planning will reposition SPORT SPIEL as a leader in the field. We hope to make it a blog that you will feel "cool" reading and sharing; we foresee a blog that blasts the paradigm of self-involved journal-posting to create a genuine community. SPORT SPIEL will be our "virtual town meeting" where ideas are discussed and discarded, trends evaluated and eviscerated, and every innovation in culture, science and society held up to the light and "hmmmed" at until something distracts us. All this and a whole lot of FUN too! We want YOU to come here for your quotes, kicks and comfort. We want to be your friend, your lover, and something of a spur toward innovations in thinking and living your life. We want to "bump up behind you" on the "subway," as it were, "grinding" our "tumescent sexual organ" on your virtual "ass" until we "cum in our pants," so to speak.
THANKS FOR MAKING THE FIRST 3 MONTHS OF SPORT SPIEL SUCH A RAGING SUCCESS!
AND HOLD ON TIGHT FOR APRIL, MAY AND JUNE... THE NEXT 3 MONTHS!
BY THEN WE'LL HAVE OUR "6 MONTH SPECIAL EDITION: ON THE THRESHOLD OF JULY, AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER" AVAILABLE, ALONG WITH OUR "BLOG OF FAME" AWARD CEREMONY FOR ALL YOUR FAVORITE ENTRIES FROM WINTER AND SPRING OF 2003, WHICH IS PRETTY MUCH THE PERIOD COVERED BY THIS 6-MONTH GROUPING OF BLOG ENTRIES WE ARE NOW SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF!
KEEP YOUR SHIRT ON, SPORTSPIELOMANIACS! THE BEST IS *DEFINITELY* YET TO COME!
FOTFLMYMFAO!!! :0
Your "Big Bloggin' Daddy" ...Sport Murphy
WE'D JUST LIKE TO THANK EVERYONE FOR "CHECKING IN" THESE PAST FEW MONTHS, AND THE BEST WAY TO DO SO IS BY GIVING YOU A "VOICE" IN KEEPING THIS THE BIGGEST, BADDEST BLOG ON THE WHOLE WEB!!
For starters, we want to give a big SHOUT OUT to everyone who wrote and faxed us with their suggestions and criticisms! When we asked everyone what they wanted from a blog, we expected some heated opinions, but you people are INSANE! Just kidding! LOL! : )
Your comments were OFF THE CHARTS rad, and will help us to bring you a more EXTREME blog for Spring! But just because we are about to unleash some of the edgiest "BLOG GONE WILD" content you've ever seen, don't think we're gonna stop there! Let us know how you feel about SPORT SPIEL 2.0, and don't hold back!
Remember: this is YOUR blog!
When YOU talk, WE listen, and here's what you said:
"Does anybody really care? " - T. K. (Chicago)
"Could I be dreamin'? Is this really real?" - R. O. (Alabama)
"Same old song!" - K. L. (Kansas)
"Closed my eyes and I slipped away!" - B. D. (Boston)
"Turning and returning to some secret place inside" - T. N. (Berlin)
"Whaaaaa-Oooooo! Yeah yeah yeah! Oh, no no no no no no NO!" - D. J. (New York Dolls)
In our new, streamlined blog, look for some of the changes YOU demanded!
SPORT SPIEL IS NOW A NO-SMOKING BLOG!
Bring your children in here with no worries about second-hand smoke… or schtick!
SPORT SPIEL WILL NOT TOLERATE INTOLERANCE!
We're calling a "time-out" on slurs like "cocksucking muslims" and such. One love!
SPORT SPIEL SAYS "WHOAH!" TO SELF-PITY!
We're corking up the whine and puttin' it back in the cellar for a more "upbeat" vibe!
SPORT SPIEL WON'T SUCK UP TO ANY MORE REVIEWERS!
Sure it's nice to get a good write-up, but that doesn't justify deifying kind critics! Fuck 'em all!
SPORT SPIEL SAYS "NO NO NO" TO REDUNDANCY!
Ives? Berrie Jigglers? Barris? Cassavetes? Enough… try: Beyonce! Pokemon! Woolery! Hanks!
Sure, it's easy to "cut" stuff, but it's what's NEW that counts.
And we are "Springing" ahead to a jam-packed blog for the vernal equinox and beyond!
After tabulating all the suggestions you've sent, look for more of the following in future installments of SPORT SPIEL: the "BAD BOY" blog!
1) Lots of passionate commentary about the IRAQ situation! No-holds-barred! SOMEBODY HAS TO SAY IT!
2) More comedy in which lovable African-American characters interact with clueless white people trying vainly to be "down"... YES! We DO "know what you're saying, 'dog' !"
3) Competitions and challenges with built-in devices rewarding treachery and deceit!
4) Lots of gratuitious slamming of CARROT TOP! Prop comedy? WHAT A DICK! Ha ha ha!
5) A new auto-load THEME SONG from SMASHMOUTH! Get your game on!
6) Up-to-the-minute info on how many units are moved, how many tickets are sold, how much everyone got paid, relative chart / bestseller list / critics' choice positions of all books, films, cds, television shows, etc., how much the whole thing cost, who's fucking who, what's hot and what's not, 100 best whatevers of all time, post-game analysis, post-press conference coverage, exit polls, panels of expert commentators, behind-the-scenes peeks, and insider dish! Don't be left out! No need to with SPORT SPIEL!
7) Thousands of incredibly brief and comparison-reliant reviews - written by children - of EVERYTHING out there... "just in case!"
8) Occasional introduction of a new quirky-cute MASCOT you can use for whatever those things get used for by people like you, until it gets around pretty widely and you get so sick of it you start your own web site claiming to HATE that same quirky-cute mascot, which itself will be popular in an ironic way for exactly 3 weeks until even people who catch on to the "I HATE..." schtick are regarded as nerds by you, already busy digging a brand new MASCOT that WE'LL SUPPLY!
9) Mpegs of our favorite CEREAL COMMERCIALS depicting families torn asunder by each member's uncontrollable need to eat ALL THE CEREAL without sharing!
10) Cheats, shortcuts, Easter Eggs, hidden shit and backdoor entries into things not worth seeing, knowing or doing! WOW!
11) IMMEDIATE composition of shockingly dark jokes, tailor-made to apply to any new tragedies and disasters. Sardonic amusement: ON DEMAND.
12) More comedy in which attractive Young Persons interact with clueless old people trying vainly to be "hip" ...YES! We "get it ...duh!"
13) Beautiful images by "painter of light" Thomas Kinkade.
14) Lots of blistering commentary about the MEDIA bias! Take-no-prisoners! SOMEBODY HAS TO EXPOSE IT!
15) Gentle poking fun at ATHLETES in a way that reassures them that we really envy and admire them.
16) More and more MANGA and ANIME type art, much of it including weapon-brandishing chicks with their breasts exposed!
17) New and ever-finely-split genre categories for RAVE music including: "Bugout!" "Boing-n-Beep-sans-Thwump!" "Comalectro!" "Pipe-and Tabor!" "Dronethrash!" "Smegdub!" "Scotch-and-Water!" "Home!" "Deep Home!" "Old Kentucky Home!" "Onion-Dip-Hop!" "Nu Veldt!" "Loopfade!" "Acid Waltz!" 'Dripsonnix!" and "Dialtone!"
18) Great steaming heaps of things to FORWARD to people on your email list! Funny animations! George Carlin quotes! Petitions and questionnaires! Dead Links!
19) Dubious, modern-as-tomorrow services requiring a draconian subscription arrangement you'll live to regret, offered as spurious free trials!
20) Lots of bold commentary about what a bunch of ASSHOLES all those other ASSHOLES are! Fearless! SOMEBODY HAS TO CALL THOSE ASSHOLES ASSHOLES!
AND MUCH MUCH MORE...
...but why give it all away? Along with the exciting NEW LOOK we'll unveil shortly, we're sure that all the blog upgrades we're planning will reposition SPORT SPIEL as a leader in the field. We hope to make it a blog that you will feel "cool" reading and sharing; we foresee a blog that blasts the paradigm of self-involved journal-posting to create a genuine community. SPORT SPIEL will be our "virtual town meeting" where ideas are discussed and discarded, trends evaluated and eviscerated, and every innovation in culture, science and society held up to the light and "hmmmed" at until something distracts us. All this and a whole lot of FUN too! We want YOU to come here for your quotes, kicks and comfort. We want to be your friend, your lover, and something of a spur toward innovations in thinking and living your life. We want to "bump up behind you" on the "subway," as it were, "grinding" our "tumescent sexual organ" on your virtual "ass" until we "cum in our pants," so to speak.
THANKS FOR MAKING THE FIRST 3 MONTHS OF SPORT SPIEL SUCH A RAGING SUCCESS!
AND HOLD ON TIGHT FOR APRIL, MAY AND JUNE... THE NEXT 3 MONTHS!
BY THEN WE'LL HAVE OUR "6 MONTH SPECIAL EDITION: ON THE THRESHOLD OF JULY, AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER" AVAILABLE, ALONG WITH OUR "BLOG OF FAME" AWARD CEREMONY FOR ALL YOUR FAVORITE ENTRIES FROM WINTER AND SPRING OF 2003, WHICH IS PRETTY MUCH THE PERIOD COVERED BY THIS 6-MONTH GROUPING OF BLOG ENTRIES WE ARE NOW SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF!
KEEP YOUR SHIRT ON, SPORTSPIELOMANIACS! THE BEST IS *DEFINITELY* YET TO COME!
FOTFLMYMFAO!!! :0
Your "Big Bloggin' Daddy" ...Sport Murphy
Thursday, March 13, 2003
Another UNCLE review, O beloved TTBs!
This one's from a Brit zine called DO SOMETHING PRETTY. What is it with the English and me lately? All those rebel songs of yore would have me Oirish ass hating the lot (never did, honest) but there is evidently some recent karmic konnect wiv 'em - well apart from Tony Blair's and the English antiwar crowd's respective relation to their counterparts here - and I can only say I'm dead chuffed. Milo, let's GO, brother! I'm ready. Meanwhile...
Let's read what Chris Parkin thinks. A stranger to me, Parkin sees what few see, and hears with ears so finely attuned it staggers the imagination. Read and learn, Real Frantic Ones, how one correspondent siezes the very essence of my hopes and efforts and shares that acuity in a short piece of astounding breadth and depth. I picture Parkin bearing a tongue of flame o'er his/her head like the sainted martyrs of legend, guilelessly bearing musical enlightenment for those yearning to bask in its benevolent glow. Are you ready? Are you willing to accept the challenge represented by Parkin's eloquence? Let us - hand in hand - follow Parkin to a better future: one full of kind wisdom, zesty down-home flavor and most excellent tunage. I attribute apostrophic / grammaticational oversights and such to a fervor that seems to have gripped the reviewer's typing fingers when confronted with the majesty of Uncle.
http://www.dosomethingpretty.com/album_reviews.htm#sportmurphy
SPORT MURPHY – UNCLE
When Mike ‘Sport’ Murphy was a small child, his sister had a son and the two were raised as brothers, remaining close throughout their lives until Peter was killed in the line of duty as an NYC fire-fighter, saving lives at the World Trade Centre. Uncle is an attempt to express his anger, sadness and longing for the nephew so tragically snatched away from him. His feelings and sentiments are expressed vividly through gentle, minimalist folk songs that touch the soul and examine the realisation of life’s fragility.
The warmth of the album is surprising, considering the albums inspiration and subject matter, whilst introducing any humour at all is heroic. Opening with the tragic No Fair is a clear indication of the pain and suffering the death of loved ones causes, the search for realisation and the loss of faith. Dealing with Mike’s visits to their old neighbourhood the song takes him back to a childlike world, crying:
that place where hope survives behind the grief / where souls abide in sweet belief / that you’ll be there – your not there / oh god it isn’t fair, no fair.
The sweetly played flutes, piano and gently strummed guitar flow slowly through much of the album with old recorded snippets of Mike and his late nephew messing around as kids. They’re heard singing and taking the piss, putting the record into context – attempting to show us what has been lost. The Americana-esque The Lost Children is heart breaking in its hopefulness, while the stunning cover of Charles Tindley’s gospel tinged What are they doing in heaven declares that there is hope for human kind, even in death.
Every song is beautiful enough, but when partnered with the reason it exists, it shakes the heart to the very core and I could go on all day analysing and examining every song on this record. Like the attack on Peter’s in laws and their wallowing in media celebrity, the thank yous to friends who have helped the family and himself. But it’s the final song The Clang of the Yankee Reaper that best sums up the wonder, sadness and understated beauty of Uncle. Van Dyke's slowly chiming music provides the background to Mike’s little nephew laughing, and in its short burst there lies hope for us all – we all die but the joy we give to others, and the peace we bring, lives on.
Chris Parkin
This one's from a Brit zine called DO SOMETHING PRETTY. What is it with the English and me lately? All those rebel songs of yore would have me Oirish ass hating the lot (never did, honest) but there is evidently some recent karmic konnect wiv 'em - well apart from Tony Blair's and the English antiwar crowd's respective relation to their counterparts here - and I can only say I'm dead chuffed. Milo, let's GO, brother! I'm ready. Meanwhile...
Let's read what Chris Parkin thinks. A stranger to me, Parkin sees what few see, and hears with ears so finely attuned it staggers the imagination. Read and learn, Real Frantic Ones, how one correspondent siezes the very essence of my hopes and efforts and shares that acuity in a short piece of astounding breadth and depth. I picture Parkin bearing a tongue of flame o'er his/her head like the sainted martyrs of legend, guilelessly bearing musical enlightenment for those yearning to bask in its benevolent glow. Are you ready? Are you willing to accept the challenge represented by Parkin's eloquence? Let us - hand in hand - follow Parkin to a better future: one full of kind wisdom, zesty down-home flavor and most excellent tunage. I attribute apostrophic / grammaticational oversights and such to a fervor that seems to have gripped the reviewer's typing fingers when confronted with the majesty of Uncle.
http://www.dosomethingpretty.com/album_reviews.htm#sportmurphy
SPORT MURPHY – UNCLE
When Mike ‘Sport’ Murphy was a small child, his sister had a son and the two were raised as brothers, remaining close throughout their lives until Peter was killed in the line of duty as an NYC fire-fighter, saving lives at the World Trade Centre. Uncle is an attempt to express his anger, sadness and longing for the nephew so tragically snatched away from him. His feelings and sentiments are expressed vividly through gentle, minimalist folk songs that touch the soul and examine the realisation of life’s fragility.
The warmth of the album is surprising, considering the albums inspiration and subject matter, whilst introducing any humour at all is heroic. Opening with the tragic No Fair is a clear indication of the pain and suffering the death of loved ones causes, the search for realisation and the loss of faith. Dealing with Mike’s visits to their old neighbourhood the song takes him back to a childlike world, crying:
that place where hope survives behind the grief / where souls abide in sweet belief / that you’ll be there – your not there / oh god it isn’t fair, no fair.
The sweetly played flutes, piano and gently strummed guitar flow slowly through much of the album with old recorded snippets of Mike and his late nephew messing around as kids. They’re heard singing and taking the piss, putting the record into context – attempting to show us what has been lost. The Americana-esque The Lost Children is heart breaking in its hopefulness, while the stunning cover of Charles Tindley’s gospel tinged What are they doing in heaven declares that there is hope for human kind, even in death.
Every song is beautiful enough, but when partnered with the reason it exists, it shakes the heart to the very core and I could go on all day analysing and examining every song on this record. Like the attack on Peter’s in laws and their wallowing in media celebrity, the thank yous to friends who have helped the family and himself. But it’s the final song The Clang of the Yankee Reaper that best sums up the wonder, sadness and understated beauty of Uncle. Van Dyke's slowly chiming music provides the background to Mike’s little nephew laughing, and in its short burst there lies hope for us all – we all die but the joy we give to others, and the peace we bring, lives on.
Chris Parkin
Book-publishing-trends Humor Dept.
Some surefire titles (with subtitles... essential) to pitch at publishers. Next stop: Borders' new release table.
CORDUROY! - How a ribbed fabric changed the course of history
SNIFFLING: HEARTACHES AND HEAD COLDS - What our runny noses can tell us about where we've been and how we got here
HOLDING IT TOGETHER - Paper clips and the march toward organizational thinking in society
THE BIOGRAPHY OF GUM - A journey through what we chewed, why we chew, and the impact of recreational chewing on life as we know it
LINT: A TIMELINE - How fluff has affected the progress of Man
"WELL, I GUESS SO..." - Evasiveness in public and private: an informal meander through eons of "er..."
EINSTEIN, OSMOND AND UMBRELLAS - The story of our love affair with not getting rained on
"SLOWLY I TURNED..." The saga of vaudeville referencing and its influence on contemporary discourse
THE SECRET LIFE OF PRANCE - A survey of frolicking through the ages
NO TICKEE NO WASHEE - Frustration, ethnic stereotypes and laundry: a meta-memoir of civilization as seen from the other side of the counter
THE REMARKABLE RHOMBUS - The lighter side of a geometric concept that altered our perception of reality
HE NEVER KNEW WHAT HIT HIM - 2000 years of "sneakin' up on a guy" and how it defined us as a people
NUMBER TWO - The shocking, exciting and hilarious adventures of "that second digit" in myth, math and euphemism, and why we can't live without it
AXOLOTYL - The drama, romance and evolution of potrzebie
Some surefire titles (with subtitles... essential) to pitch at publishers. Next stop: Borders' new release table.
CORDUROY! - How a ribbed fabric changed the course of history
SNIFFLING: HEARTACHES AND HEAD COLDS - What our runny noses can tell us about where we've been and how we got here
HOLDING IT TOGETHER - Paper clips and the march toward organizational thinking in society
THE BIOGRAPHY OF GUM - A journey through what we chewed, why we chew, and the impact of recreational chewing on life as we know it
LINT: A TIMELINE - How fluff has affected the progress of Man
"WELL, I GUESS SO..." - Evasiveness in public and private: an informal meander through eons of "er..."
EINSTEIN, OSMOND AND UMBRELLAS - The story of our love affair with not getting rained on
"SLOWLY I TURNED..." The saga of vaudeville referencing and its influence on contemporary discourse
THE SECRET LIFE OF PRANCE - A survey of frolicking through the ages
NO TICKEE NO WASHEE - Frustration, ethnic stereotypes and laundry: a meta-memoir of civilization as seen from the other side of the counter
THE REMARKABLE RHOMBUS - The lighter side of a geometric concept that altered our perception of reality
HE NEVER KNEW WHAT HIT HIM - 2000 years of "sneakin' up on a guy" and how it defined us as a people
NUMBER TWO - The shocking, exciting and hilarious adventures of "that second digit" in myth, math and euphemism, and why we can't live without it
AXOLOTYL - The drama, romance and evolution of potrzebie
OK - I'm being told to recognize someone out here reading the blog... wait, someone over here... YOU!
I'm being asked to mention someone with an "S" sound... maybe a "sss" or a "sh" in either the first or last name. Steven? Sonia? Schultzie? Stymie? Shmuel? Perhaps a Smith or a Steinberg or a Shaw?
OK... now has this person passed over? Right, OK, that's what I'm getting. Otherwise they'd just call you on your cell phone instead of being channelled through me, they are saying. They are sarcastic, eh? At least in this case, right. So we are on the right track here. Someone important to you has passed over. I'm being asked... this is strange... they need you to acknowledge something about a kind of in-joke or private reference... something to do with a purse or a shopping bag or a rain barrel or a grain silo or an international treaty... I'm getting "containment" ...does that mean anything? It will later. There's an accent. This person had certain verbal traits characteristic of the area in which he or she lived, or wished to live. Maybe this was a put-on or an affectation and you used to think "oh, come off it, you fucking poseur" ...all right, no, that was not the case... that was only a joke I'm being asked to apologize for.
Now this person is related to you, right? Not necessarily a blood relative, or an in-law even, but a "relation" somehow. Close friendship or similar height or same city of origin. Does that mean anything to you? Yes, I'm getting that. He or she is telling me there's some kind of a noise connecting you with him or her... is it a "he" by the way? I see... could be either... yes that's what I'm getting too. Yes. Anyway, there's a noise I'm supposed to mention: a "bang" or a "baaaaa" or a "burble" or a "bzzzzzz" or something. Are you understanding me? Sometimes they play around with phonics... the B sound may be actually referring to bananas or Bing Crosby or Barbados or OK... yes... breasts. That's what I'm being asked to focus on.
Is there some connection you feel to breasts? I'm getting a breast recognition. A mother's breast perhaps... a huge whopping pair of June Wilkinson-esque wonder-jugs? ...maybe a pert pair of "foreign movie" tits... pendulous goddess teats, rough-hewn into ancient stone... nipple-less Barbie Doll mounds o' peril... Nell Carter bubblin' brown boulders or Mary-Kate and Ashley training mamms? Maybe a metaphorical breast: the glass tit of the TV? A turkey breast sandwich? Have you ever walked 2 or 3 abreast? There's some connection you need to recall regarding breasts.
You've been worrying about something lately, they're telling me. A problem or a conundrum or bafflement or consternational whatchamawhoozit or enpuzzling confusement... a tough nut to crack or a horse of a different color or a real head-scratcher? It's something on the mind of you or someone close to both or either of you. I'm being told that you should relax and stop worrying about this thing. You tend to do that, they're saying... you worry or fixate or ponder about things, people, issues, places, species, integers, hues, theme songs or "where the fuck did I put my keys/glasses/television remote." Correct? Sometimes, right. I'm getting a gentle back pat of reassurance there.
Now someone else you know has passed over as well, right? They are together. In life they were either very close or very far but there is some extreme of physical distance or, metaphorically, intimacy. They were either close or far from each other or each (or one of the two) was this way to you, either on this plane or, somehow, on the other side, geographically and literally or in a sense of empathy or sympatico. Is that making sense to you? OK, it will eventually. You should concentrate on a ticket or pamphlet in this connection. Maybe a flyer or a circular. A saw... an old saw... a bit of homely wisdom or a homely widow... a homing pigeon... Walter Pigeon. A person with an animal name: Marlon Brando or Christopher Wren or maybe flying buttresses or Pat Buttram or a plate of buckwheat flapjacks. Does that sound yummy? Yes, I'm getting that too. Mmmm. With lotsa syrup. Blueberry. Waiter! No... wait...
I'm being asked to acknowledge the color blue here. You have a blue garment you used to wear? Some kind of trouser or jean or pant? Perhaps a top, shirt, blouse, pullover, cardigan, windbreaker or scarf or beanie? You wore this... I'm getting a strong affirmation... and laughter. Something amusing that you two shared while you were wearing this garment or item of apparel... or maybe it is simply that you wore some sort of clothing to see or attend something or other that amused you or at least intended to amuse you. Blue Man Group? Some comic who worked "blue?" Buddy Hackett or Redd Foxx? Maybe it's just that this comic or entertainer/entertainers BLEW?
Gallagher? Franklin Ajaye? Elton John? Pamela Anderson? Yes...
I'm getting something about "sucking..."
"suck..."
"sucker..."
I'm being asked to mention someone with an "S" sound... maybe a "sss" or a "sh" in either the first or last name. Steven? Sonia? Schultzie? Stymie? Shmuel? Perhaps a Smith or a Steinberg or a Shaw?
OK... now has this person passed over? Right, OK, that's what I'm getting. Otherwise they'd just call you on your cell phone instead of being channelled through me, they are saying. They are sarcastic, eh? At least in this case, right. So we are on the right track here. Someone important to you has passed over. I'm being asked... this is strange... they need you to acknowledge something about a kind of in-joke or private reference... something to do with a purse or a shopping bag or a rain barrel or a grain silo or an international treaty... I'm getting "containment" ...does that mean anything? It will later. There's an accent. This person had certain verbal traits characteristic of the area in which he or she lived, or wished to live. Maybe this was a put-on or an affectation and you used to think "oh, come off it, you fucking poseur" ...all right, no, that was not the case... that was only a joke I'm being asked to apologize for.
Now this person is related to you, right? Not necessarily a blood relative, or an in-law even, but a "relation" somehow. Close friendship or similar height or same city of origin. Does that mean anything to you? Yes, I'm getting that. He or she is telling me there's some kind of a noise connecting you with him or her... is it a "he" by the way? I see... could be either... yes that's what I'm getting too. Yes. Anyway, there's a noise I'm supposed to mention: a "bang" or a "baaaaa" or a "burble" or a "bzzzzzz" or something. Are you understanding me? Sometimes they play around with phonics... the B sound may be actually referring to bananas or Bing Crosby or Barbados or OK... yes... breasts. That's what I'm being asked to focus on.
Is there some connection you feel to breasts? I'm getting a breast recognition. A mother's breast perhaps... a huge whopping pair of June Wilkinson-esque wonder-jugs? ...maybe a pert pair of "foreign movie" tits... pendulous goddess teats, rough-hewn into ancient stone... nipple-less Barbie Doll mounds o' peril... Nell Carter bubblin' brown boulders or Mary-Kate and Ashley training mamms? Maybe a metaphorical breast: the glass tit of the TV? A turkey breast sandwich? Have you ever walked 2 or 3 abreast? There's some connection you need to recall regarding breasts.
You've been worrying about something lately, they're telling me. A problem or a conundrum or bafflement or consternational whatchamawhoozit or enpuzzling confusement... a tough nut to crack or a horse of a different color or a real head-scratcher? It's something on the mind of you or someone close to both or either of you. I'm being told that you should relax and stop worrying about this thing. You tend to do that, they're saying... you worry or fixate or ponder about things, people, issues, places, species, integers, hues, theme songs or "where the fuck did I put my keys/glasses/television remote." Correct? Sometimes, right. I'm getting a gentle back pat of reassurance there.
Now someone else you know has passed over as well, right? They are together. In life they were either very close or very far but there is some extreme of physical distance or, metaphorically, intimacy. They were either close or far from each other or each (or one of the two) was this way to you, either on this plane or, somehow, on the other side, geographically and literally or in a sense of empathy or sympatico. Is that making sense to you? OK, it will eventually. You should concentrate on a ticket or pamphlet in this connection. Maybe a flyer or a circular. A saw... an old saw... a bit of homely wisdom or a homely widow... a homing pigeon... Walter Pigeon. A person with an animal name: Marlon Brando or Christopher Wren or maybe flying buttresses or Pat Buttram or a plate of buckwheat flapjacks. Does that sound yummy? Yes, I'm getting that too. Mmmm. With lotsa syrup. Blueberry. Waiter! No... wait...
I'm being asked to acknowledge the color blue here. You have a blue garment you used to wear? Some kind of trouser or jean or pant? Perhaps a top, shirt, blouse, pullover, cardigan, windbreaker or scarf or beanie? You wore this... I'm getting a strong affirmation... and laughter. Something amusing that you two shared while you were wearing this garment or item of apparel... or maybe it is simply that you wore some sort of clothing to see or attend something or other that amused you or at least intended to amuse you. Blue Man Group? Some comic who worked "blue?" Buddy Hackett or Redd Foxx? Maybe it's just that this comic or entertainer/entertainers BLEW?
Gallagher? Franklin Ajaye? Elton John? Pamela Anderson? Yes...
I'm getting something about "sucking..."
"suck..."
"sucker..."
Sunday, March 09, 2003
Quotation time:
In the course of my six half-hours of egocentricity I shall (among other deeds) discuss the difference between fact and truth, I shall describe professor Royce and the necktie crisis, I shall name professor Charles Eliot Norton's coachman, and I shall define sleep. If you ask "but why include trivialities?" my answer will be: what are they?
(e e cummings - "Six Non-Lectures")
That there's about as nice a summation of my aesthetic as I can find.
Friends, If you haven't been keeping up with Otis Fodder's "365 days" project, I don't know what I'm gonna do with you. Go here and look at his "desert island discs" selections:
http://www.otisfodder.com/desertisland/index.html
...and while there, click on the eyeball which will take you to an index where the link to "365 Days" can be found.
I have nothing else right now. If anything, I have email to catch up on.
In the course of my six half-hours of egocentricity I shall (among other deeds) discuss the difference between fact and truth, I shall describe professor Royce and the necktie crisis, I shall name professor Charles Eliot Norton's coachman, and I shall define sleep. If you ask "but why include trivialities?" my answer will be: what are they?
(e e cummings - "Six Non-Lectures")
That there's about as nice a summation of my aesthetic as I can find.
Friends, If you haven't been keeping up with Otis Fodder's "365 days" project, I don't know what I'm gonna do with you. Go here and look at his "desert island discs" selections:
http://www.otisfodder.com/desertisland/index.html
...and while there, click on the eyeball which will take you to an index where the link to "365 Days" can be found.
I have nothing else right now. If anything, I have email to catch up on.
Wednesday, March 05, 2003
Here's an interesting take on Uncle which ran in the conservative paper The New York Sun. I'll comment a bit afterwards.
By MARTIN EDLUND
In the immediate aftermath of September 11, art rang false. It seemed
too articulate, too artful.Thank goodness for the slow-moving machinery of
the music business that it gave us even a short moment of silence.
When songs about 9/11 did come -- and it wasn¹t long -- they were an
inadequate answer to the silence that preceded them.They didn¹t feel like
acts of catharsis so much as dashedoff works of opportunism. Neil Young¹s
"Let¹s Roll" -- rushed from recording studio to record store -- was unequal to
the complexity of our emotions; Paul McCartney¹s "Freedom" was an empty
battle cry; Steve Earle¹s "John Walker¹s Blues" was misguided; and Alan
Jackson¹s "Where Were You" was just plain stupid. Only Bruce Springsteen¹s
album, "The Rising," did even partial justice to its subject.
Today, more than 16 months after the fateful day, we get an altogether
different musical document of 9/11: the album "Uncle" by Mike "Sport"
Murphy. Murphy is not a popular artist on the level of those others. A
long-time New York underground musician, he is known only to indie-rock
obsessives. Perhaps as a result, his offering is less ambitious. Murphy
speaks only for himself, and only to an intended audience of one: His
nephew, Peter Vega, a firefighter who died at the World Trade Center site.
A devotee of Stephen Foster, Brian Wilson, and the composer Charles
Ives, Murphy¹s songs cover a range of styles. But more important than their
musical variety is the multiplicity of emotions they touch on. The album
begins with the song "No Fair," which recalls Murphy¹s visits to his old
neighborhood in the confusing weeks after 9/11 -- before Pete¹s death was
confirmed.The chorus includes the childish plea "Oh no, it isn¹t fair / no
fair," sung to a weeping violin.
The album continues, journal-like, through a range of emotions: hope,
sorrow, anger, gratitude."Bad Guest" and "Played by Linda Blair" examine the
extra stress Pete¹s death puts on already-strained family relations. "Miles
Across the Sea" and the Beach Boys-inspired "Paul LaGrutta" thank friends
for their support.
Murphy and Pete were about the same age, and they grew up as brothers
rather than uncle and nephew. "Uncle" includes many of their in-jokes and
private messages; it¹s a privileged glimpse into a close, loving
relationship. In this sense, some of its least-musical aspects are its most
affecting. "Behistun" is a 20-year-old recording of the first song Murphy
ever wrote, submitted with the note: "Pete would collapse in hysterics to
know it made a legit release, and that¹s why it¹s here."
Murphy litters the album with haunting snippets of recordings he and
Pete made together when they were young.Track nine, titled "Welcome to New
Jersey," is a ghostly round sung by the two after a childhood road trip. The
brassy funeral dirge, "In Other Words, Never," ends with young Pete saying,
"Say Goodnight world, I¹m going to sleep now. I want to get up early
tomorrow."
"Uncle" won¹t begin to equal the commercial success of the other 9/11
albums (Springsteen¹s and Jackson¹s are both up for Album of the Year at
next month¹s Grammy¹s). Nor should it; "Uncle" is self-indulgent and
meandering. But its purpose is self-indulgence; in its honesty and humble
ambition -- the desire to memorialize a loved one and vent one¹s own pain --
it succeeds where the others fail.
NOW THEN...
It's clear the guy applauds the thing more from a philosphical standpoint than as "music to enjoy." This doesn't bother me, though; it's another way to skin the cat. There's something valid about his backhanded commentary toward the end, and while it pains me to see the perception expressed that my music "shouldn't" succeed commerically, it is a glimpse into the other side of my dilemma. I spend so much time and effort on this side, I welcome a sober take on the bemusement many of even my staunchest supporters seem to feel toward the work. For example, this from KRS owner Slim Moon:
"There is some stuff that I put out because it just makes sense. It might not be my favorite, but it makes sense. Then sometimes I insist that we put out something like Sport Murphy, which doesn’t make sense at all. I’m moved by music that is personal and autobiographical and kinda corny."
I assume it's cool with Slim that I post that remark, since it's on the KRS website. Now I know Slim would never insult me, and I don't take "corny" as any kind of insult... it's one word for a particular quality I look for in music. Likewise, I don't choose to view this guy's use of "self-indulgent" as a swipe. But put yourself in my position if you can... People who LIKE my stuff can't imagine anyone wanting it! It feels a bit like riding the retard bus. It's not their fault, it's mine. Fully. I make strange, ungainly things. In no way am I discrediting their views, nor do I resent their expression of them. God knows, nobody has put his money where his mouth is for me as fully as Slim, nor have too many writers evidenced the kind of serious, analytical thought regarding my albums as has Martin Edlund. Both indicate real respect along with a strange whiff of benign dismissiveness.
All this seems an odd afterword to a very complimentary review, but it affords a chance to demonstrate why I have such furious push-and-pull convulsions about bothering to make this stuff.
By MARTIN EDLUND
In the immediate aftermath of September 11, art rang false. It seemed
too articulate, too artful.Thank goodness for the slow-moving machinery of
the music business that it gave us even a short moment of silence.
When songs about 9/11 did come -- and it wasn¹t long -- they were an
inadequate answer to the silence that preceded them.They didn¹t feel like
acts of catharsis so much as dashedoff works of opportunism. Neil Young¹s
"Let¹s Roll" -- rushed from recording studio to record store -- was unequal to
the complexity of our emotions; Paul McCartney¹s "Freedom" was an empty
battle cry; Steve Earle¹s "John Walker¹s Blues" was misguided; and Alan
Jackson¹s "Where Were You" was just plain stupid. Only Bruce Springsteen¹s
album, "The Rising," did even partial justice to its subject.
Today, more than 16 months after the fateful day, we get an altogether
different musical document of 9/11: the album "Uncle" by Mike "Sport"
Murphy. Murphy is not a popular artist on the level of those others. A
long-time New York underground musician, he is known only to indie-rock
obsessives. Perhaps as a result, his offering is less ambitious. Murphy
speaks only for himself, and only to an intended audience of one: His
nephew, Peter Vega, a firefighter who died at the World Trade Center site.
A devotee of Stephen Foster, Brian Wilson, and the composer Charles
Ives, Murphy¹s songs cover a range of styles. But more important than their
musical variety is the multiplicity of emotions they touch on. The album
begins with the song "No Fair," which recalls Murphy¹s visits to his old
neighborhood in the confusing weeks after 9/11 -- before Pete¹s death was
confirmed.The chorus includes the childish plea "Oh no, it isn¹t fair / no
fair," sung to a weeping violin.
The album continues, journal-like, through a range of emotions: hope,
sorrow, anger, gratitude."Bad Guest" and "Played by Linda Blair" examine the
extra stress Pete¹s death puts on already-strained family relations. "Miles
Across the Sea" and the Beach Boys-inspired "Paul LaGrutta" thank friends
for their support.
Murphy and Pete were about the same age, and they grew up as brothers
rather than uncle and nephew. "Uncle" includes many of their in-jokes and
private messages; it¹s a privileged glimpse into a close, loving
relationship. In this sense, some of its least-musical aspects are its most
affecting. "Behistun" is a 20-year-old recording of the first song Murphy
ever wrote, submitted with the note: "Pete would collapse in hysterics to
know it made a legit release, and that¹s why it¹s here."
Murphy litters the album with haunting snippets of recordings he and
Pete made together when they were young.Track nine, titled "Welcome to New
Jersey," is a ghostly round sung by the two after a childhood road trip. The
brassy funeral dirge, "In Other Words, Never," ends with young Pete saying,
"Say Goodnight world, I¹m going to sleep now. I want to get up early
tomorrow."
"Uncle" won¹t begin to equal the commercial success of the other 9/11
albums (Springsteen¹s and Jackson¹s are both up for Album of the Year at
next month¹s Grammy¹s). Nor should it; "Uncle" is self-indulgent and
meandering. But its purpose is self-indulgence; in its honesty and humble
ambition -- the desire to memorialize a loved one and vent one¹s own pain --
it succeeds where the others fail.
NOW THEN...
It's clear the guy applauds the thing more from a philosphical standpoint than as "music to enjoy." This doesn't bother me, though; it's another way to skin the cat. There's something valid about his backhanded commentary toward the end, and while it pains me to see the perception expressed that my music "shouldn't" succeed commerically, it is a glimpse into the other side of my dilemma. I spend so much time and effort on this side, I welcome a sober take on the bemusement many of even my staunchest supporters seem to feel toward the work. For example, this from KRS owner Slim Moon:
"There is some stuff that I put out because it just makes sense. It might not be my favorite, but it makes sense. Then sometimes I insist that we put out something like Sport Murphy, which doesn’t make sense at all. I’m moved by music that is personal and autobiographical and kinda corny."
I assume it's cool with Slim that I post that remark, since it's on the KRS website. Now I know Slim would never insult me, and I don't take "corny" as any kind of insult... it's one word for a particular quality I look for in music. Likewise, I don't choose to view this guy's use of "self-indulgent" as a swipe. But put yourself in my position if you can... People who LIKE my stuff can't imagine anyone wanting it! It feels a bit like riding the retard bus. It's not their fault, it's mine. Fully. I make strange, ungainly things. In no way am I discrediting their views, nor do I resent their expression of them. God knows, nobody has put his money where his mouth is for me as fully as Slim, nor have too many writers evidenced the kind of serious, analytical thought regarding my albums as has Martin Edlund. Both indicate real respect along with a strange whiff of benign dismissiveness.
All this seems an odd afterword to a very complimentary review, but it affords a chance to demonstrate why I have such furious push-and-pull convulsions about bothering to make this stuff.
This post, as promised, has been deleted. A shocking exercise in vulgar intolerance, it has caused grave offense to some. What can explain or forgive such blatant bigotry? Nothing. Alas, I am deservedly ashamed and hereby dutifully eradicate it with humble pleas for redemption and a firm resolve to correct my ways. Religion is SO important. It has been so helpful to us all for so long.
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Scott Montgomery kindly sends this from Barnes and Noble's site, which credits the text to the All Music Guide. Oddly, I can't find it there. Dunno, but it's nice. This Ken Taylor fellow is unquestionably a clear thinker, informed listener and as good a human as the species has on offer. There's little doubt that Ken Taylor is a man with much to say... a soul of admirable purity and a mind of enviable ingenuity both as listener and communicator. We would do well to follow his lead and become the kind of enlightened society of which the prophets spoke. And Ken Taylor may well BE a prophet; he is - as this proves - a fine writer and something of a philosopher. I am naming my kid "Ken Taylor Murphy" regardless of gender. So should you. Here:
Mike "Sport" Murphy's Uncle hardly seems the typical fare for the fiercely independent Kill Rock Stars imprint. That's not to say that Murphy isn't the fiercest of independents himself, but rather than the usual punk offering of the label, Uncle is a quiet homage to Murphy's firefighting nephew who died in the line of duty during the World Trade Center rescue effort. Murphy and his nephew Pete were quite close in age and grew up living together, forming a brotherly bond throughout their childhood. It's clear that Murphy didn't intend to make a record for all tastes here. Rather, this is a collection of thoughts, songs, and found recordings of them as young children, intended as an exclusive gift to Pete. It's got its share of in-jokes and bits that have little relevance outside their family, but there's not an ounce of sappiness in this tribute -- only truly heartfelt moments between Murphy and his nephew. In compiling Uncle's songs, Murphy included tracks that were inspired by the pair's mutual experiences, simple cassette recordings of the boys in their younger years, and even some later-recorded numbers with Pete in the studio. When songs were written specifically for this record, Murphy gave himself roughly a day to capture his emotions and record them to tape. What results is a Cohen-esque epitaph rendered in the form of an incredible record.
Ken Taylor
Mike "Sport" Murphy's Uncle hardly seems the typical fare for the fiercely independent Kill Rock Stars imprint. That's not to say that Murphy isn't the fiercest of independents himself, but rather than the usual punk offering of the label, Uncle is a quiet homage to Murphy's firefighting nephew who died in the line of duty during the World Trade Center rescue effort. Murphy and his nephew Pete were quite close in age and grew up living together, forming a brotherly bond throughout their childhood. It's clear that Murphy didn't intend to make a record for all tastes here. Rather, this is a collection of thoughts, songs, and found recordings of them as young children, intended as an exclusive gift to Pete. It's got its share of in-jokes and bits that have little relevance outside their family, but there's not an ounce of sappiness in this tribute -- only truly heartfelt moments between Murphy and his nephew. In compiling Uncle's songs, Murphy included tracks that were inspired by the pair's mutual experiences, simple cassette recordings of the boys in their younger years, and even some later-recorded numbers with Pete in the studio. When songs were written specifically for this record, Murphy gave himself roughly a day to capture his emotions and record them to tape. What results is a Cohen-esque epitaph rendered in the form of an incredible record.
Ken Taylor
OK - full disclosure - I directly accused Isaac Guzman of being a mere "ink-tease" ...the sort of slut-scribe who tempts you with promises of coverage in order to lure your boon companionship. I still think the guy is only looking to enhance his prestige / quality of life by placating me with press so I'll hang with him, but nevertheless, he has come through. Here's a nice tight piece - not overly ruined by editors, I trust, though I do sense that moony tangents about my brilliance may have been cut for space - at last seeing daylight in today's New York Daily News. Buy copies for relatives. WRITE CONCISE "LETTERS TO THE EDITOR" IN RESPONSE, since if you send one clever and gripping enough (you 5: write witty ones... you other 5: write moving and poignant ones... you last 2: write glib and hip ones. Now... GO!) it'll mean more ink via the letters column, and maybe it'll even make Isaac look good to his bosses. Share the piece with your dim, disinterested-in-music relatives and slug co-workers and say "Look, I know this guy! You should get this!" Legit proletarian newsprint attention! I'm not kidding! They'll buy, jack, they'll buy! Man, I'm already thumbing through vacation brochures. Thanks, Isaac, I toast you with the fine fine Scotch that has kept me up this late.
http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/story/64150p-59780c.html
A heart-tugging cry of 'Uncle'
By ISAAC GUZMAN
DAILY NEWS FEATURE WRITER
In the 17 months following the 9/11 terrorist attacks, dozens of musicians, ranging from elder statesman Bruce Springsteen to the "riot grrrl" band Sleater-Kinney, have released songs about the tragedy. But few, if any, have made a statement as personal as "Uncle," the third album from Long Island's Sport Murphy. The record's 22 tracks were all written and recorded as a tribute to Murphy's nephew, Pete Vega, a firefighter who died after Brooklyn Heights Ladder Co. 118 responded to the World Trade Center attack.
Murphy, 43, and Vega, who was 36 with a wife and daughter when he died, were practically raised as brothers in Brooklyn's Windsor Terrace neighborhood. Murphy was so distraught that he started drinking after several years of sobriety. But he resisted writing anything about Vega, so that he wouldn't be accused of trying to "capitalize on 9/11 sympathy and propping myself up as some kind of spokesperson."
Months later, however, the songs finally began pouring out. Some, such
as "No Fair" and "Everybody's Gone," were filled with grief. Others, like "Johnny Lightning," recalled the pair's youthful high jinks, some of which found their way onto the album due to Murphy's childhood fascination with portable tape recorders.
"It all just kind of came spilling out," Murphy says. "Some nights were emotional, but it was a good release that way. Some of it was just frustrating because I felt like nothing I could do could say enough."
Released on the Kill Rock Stars label, the album has received high critical praise. Britain's Uncut magazine called Murphy "a skewed pop visionary" who is "the true heir to the mercurial genius of [the Beach Boys'] 'Pet Sounds.'"
Ranging from bizarre analog keyboard experiments to lush folk-pop and even a take on Charles A. Tindley's 1901 gospel song "What Are They Doing in Heaven Today," "Uncle" covers a wide musical terrain. Once the leader of the local alternative rock band the Skels, Murphy has been drawn to unlikely sources, such as early-20th-centry composer Charles Ives and 19th-century songwriter Stephen Foster, as well as modern-era musicians Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks (who appears on the album).
"Sport's not relying on cliches," says David Garland, host of WNYC's "Spinning on Air. "He's being inventive with the music and the words, yet the end result is not something terribly highfalutin."
In fact, Garland was so taken with Murphy's approach that he plays on several of "Uncle's" tracks. He's one of nearly two dozen musicians who participated on the album. It's an approach that Murphy has fostered since releasing his first solo album, "Willoughby," in 1999.
What stands out most, however, is the naked honesty that informs every song. In remembering his nephew, Murphy found a powerful source of inspiration, one that is nearly as palpable in the music as it was during Vega's life.
"He was an adrenaline junkie," Murphy says. "He was always jumping out of planes. Before he died, the life he led and the risks he took were pretty instructive when I would get self-pitying about how tough it was to be a musician."
March 3, 2003
http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/story/64150p-59780c.html
A heart-tugging cry of 'Uncle'
By ISAAC GUZMAN
DAILY NEWS FEATURE WRITER
In the 17 months following the 9/11 terrorist attacks, dozens of musicians, ranging from elder statesman Bruce Springsteen to the "riot grrrl" band Sleater-Kinney, have released songs about the tragedy. But few, if any, have made a statement as personal as "Uncle," the third album from Long Island's Sport Murphy. The record's 22 tracks were all written and recorded as a tribute to Murphy's nephew, Pete Vega, a firefighter who died after Brooklyn Heights Ladder Co. 118 responded to the World Trade Center attack.
Murphy, 43, and Vega, who was 36 with a wife and daughter when he died, were practically raised as brothers in Brooklyn's Windsor Terrace neighborhood. Murphy was so distraught that he started drinking after several years of sobriety. But he resisted writing anything about Vega, so that he wouldn't be accused of trying to "capitalize on 9/11 sympathy and propping myself up as some kind of spokesperson."
Months later, however, the songs finally began pouring out. Some, such
as "No Fair" and "Everybody's Gone," were filled with grief. Others, like "Johnny Lightning," recalled the pair's youthful high jinks, some of which found their way onto the album due to Murphy's childhood fascination with portable tape recorders.
"It all just kind of came spilling out," Murphy says. "Some nights were emotional, but it was a good release that way. Some of it was just frustrating because I felt like nothing I could do could say enough."
Released on the Kill Rock Stars label, the album has received high critical praise. Britain's Uncut magazine called Murphy "a skewed pop visionary" who is "the true heir to the mercurial genius of [the Beach Boys'] 'Pet Sounds.'"
Ranging from bizarre analog keyboard experiments to lush folk-pop and even a take on Charles A. Tindley's 1901 gospel song "What Are They Doing in Heaven Today," "Uncle" covers a wide musical terrain. Once the leader of the local alternative rock band the Skels, Murphy has been drawn to unlikely sources, such as early-20th-centry composer Charles Ives and 19th-century songwriter Stephen Foster, as well as modern-era musicians Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks (who appears on the album).
"Sport's not relying on cliches," says David Garland, host of WNYC's "Spinning on Air. "He's being inventive with the music and the words, yet the end result is not something terribly highfalutin."
In fact, Garland was so taken with Murphy's approach that he plays on several of "Uncle's" tracks. He's one of nearly two dozen musicians who participated on the album. It's an approach that Murphy has fostered since releasing his first solo album, "Willoughby," in 1999.
What stands out most, however, is the naked honesty that informs every song. In remembering his nephew, Murphy found a powerful source of inspiration, one that is nearly as palpable in the music as it was during Vega's life.
"He was an adrenaline junkie," Murphy says. "He was always jumping out of planes. Before he died, the life he led and the risks he took were pretty instructive when I would get self-pitying about how tough it was to be a musician."
March 3, 2003
Monday, March 03, 2003
And another thing...
Why do I hate this little twat APRIL LEVINE so much? There are a million pubescent annoyances raking in the shekels, but somehow she irks me the most. Yeah, I know it's "AVRIL" and it's "LAVIGNE" ...but fuck that noise... "Advil Visine" for all I care. Arugala Lasagna... Argyle LeSpleen... Orgone Machine... by any monicker she's intolerable. She looks like one of those horrible, expensive Italian dolls that used to scare the shit out of me in the back of the Sears wish book. I was flipping around the dial one day and landed momentarily on some awards ceremony... Grammys, I guess. All these scumbags were coming into the theater, interviewed by Joan Rivers on the way. Now, I can't fucking suffer Joan Rivers under any circumstances, but here I was sympathizing with the old bat as she contended with Afro LaSheen and her band of snotty little boys. Rivers asked typically sillyass questions on the order of "did your parents encourage or discourage you in music" bla bla and Aztec Rogaine just stared her down with those astoundingly lifeless eyes and sneered something like "of course they encouraged me." That may be what she said, but the message was: "overstretched cadaver, you are but a fart in my airspace: begone, or I'll kill you just like I killed Telly Savalas." Whence such arrogance? This little Keane child of the damned did a record about how some dumb chick winds up sorry because the "skater boy" she'd rejected is now a big pop star. So? That's the kind of idea American youth gets all hot and bothered over? Fuck you, Azer Baijan, Oscar Levant, Ah-oo-ga Ballpeen or whatever your name is. I'm glad that other kid won all the trophies with her song about "Don't know why I didn't come."
This other kid is better looking, plays the piano, has something like a voice and her song resembles music. And it may also be the best jazzish ballad about inhibited orgasm since "Daddy Don't Live In That New York City No More."
Take that, Uphill Beguine...
Gravel Latrine...
Cousin, Cousine...
Nofrills Zazeetch...
Roger Vadim...
oh, whatever.
Why do I hate this little twat APRIL LEVINE so much? There are a million pubescent annoyances raking in the shekels, but somehow she irks me the most. Yeah, I know it's "AVRIL" and it's "LAVIGNE" ...but fuck that noise... "Advil Visine" for all I care. Arugala Lasagna... Argyle LeSpleen... Orgone Machine... by any monicker she's intolerable. She looks like one of those horrible, expensive Italian dolls that used to scare the shit out of me in the back of the Sears wish book. I was flipping around the dial one day and landed momentarily on some awards ceremony... Grammys, I guess. All these scumbags were coming into the theater, interviewed by Joan Rivers on the way. Now, I can't fucking suffer Joan Rivers under any circumstances, but here I was sympathizing with the old bat as she contended with Afro LaSheen and her band of snotty little boys. Rivers asked typically sillyass questions on the order of "did your parents encourage or discourage you in music" bla bla and Aztec Rogaine just stared her down with those astoundingly lifeless eyes and sneered something like "of course they encouraged me." That may be what she said, but the message was: "overstretched cadaver, you are but a fart in my airspace: begone, or I'll kill you just like I killed Telly Savalas." Whence such arrogance? This little Keane child of the damned did a record about how some dumb chick winds up sorry because the "skater boy" she'd rejected is now a big pop star. So? That's the kind of idea American youth gets all hot and bothered over? Fuck you, Azer Baijan, Oscar Levant, Ah-oo-ga Ballpeen or whatever your name is. I'm glad that other kid won all the trophies with her song about "Don't know why I didn't come."
This other kid is better looking, plays the piano, has something like a voice and her song resembles music. And it may also be the best jazzish ballad about inhibited orgasm since "Daddy Don't Live In That New York City No More."
Take that, Uphill Beguine...
Gravel Latrine...
Cousin, Cousine...
Nofrills Zazeetch...
Roger Vadim...
oh, whatever.
While it means nothing at all, I just want to mention that the habitual self-castigation and kvetching in these entries has nothing to do with the commercial failure of my work, which I fully expect everytime I set out to work. It's the damning with faint praise and the "telling non-mention" that gets to me. I can't get too specific about this, because I'd wind up making my friends feel bad if I cited examples. Let's look at it this way, though. There is a hierarchy of work. It gets a little convoluted, but a simplified, off-the-cuff layout might go something like this:
GREAT WORK (recognized) Bach, Thelonious Monk, Bob Dylan
GREAT WORK (unrecognized) David Garland, Alec Wilder, R Stevie Moore
GREAT WORK (accepted on principle, but seldom enjoyed) Harry Partch, Ives, The Minutemen
GREAT WORK (mistaken for utter shit) Brian Wilson (when his best work was new), Scott Walker (ditto), the Bee Gees
GREAT WORK (appreciated widely but underrated) Carole King, Four Seasons, Hoagy Carmichael
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (mistaken for Great Work) Beck, The Byrds, Nirvana
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (appreciated widely) all solo Beatles (that isn't utter shit), Lauryn Hill, Bruce Springsteen
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (ignored) Epic Soundtracks, Supersister, Neil Innes
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (mistaken for utter shit) ELO, Bobby Rydell, KC and the Sunshine Band
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (accidentally achieving genuine Great Work status) Alice Cooper (the band), Tijuana Brass, Gary Lewis and the Playboys
UTTER SHIT (famed, praised, best selling) 99 per cent of what's in the store, Rage Against The Machine, Sting
UTTER SHIT (generally accepted as good-to-great by "music savvy" listeners) 80 per cent of your cd collection, Rod Stewart, Liz Phair
UTTER SHIT (mistaken for Great Work) most Philip Glass, most Prince, Rachmaninoff
UTTER SHIT (mistaken for Good/Decent/Mediocre) Eminem, Smashing Pumpkins, John Williams (the composer, not the guitarist)
UTTER SHIT (accidentally achieving Great Work status) Rodd Keith, Joe Meek, Mysterious Clown
Now, obviously, this is totally subjective, so spare me any complaints. I was thoughtful enough to skip stuff like Led Zeppelin. Also, there are vast nuances within the second category (Good to Mediocre is a mighty steep gradient), and a lot of things shift about in my mercurial estimation. Why no mention of faves like Serge Gainsbourg, Neil Young or Sly Stone? My aim is not to be exhaustive or definitive, but to give a broad outline of the situation in order to rank myself as per the thrust of this particular monologue.
One wants to be in the GREAT WORK (recognized) category. This can never be. The mind knows and the heart senses (thanx, Biff) that, often, truly GREAT artists become convinced they make UTTER SHIT. The dream is so far reaching that the artist can only see the shortfall, and certainly nobody else is equipped to judge greatness... it's almost unique that in Bob Dylan's case this has happened. So one daydreams of status in the GREAT WORK (unrecognized) category. This delusion can be maintained until one gets "noticed" to any degree whatsoever, and if this goes poorly, it's direct to the GREAT WORK (mistaken for utter shit) category, and there could, of course, be a GREAT WORK (mistaken for good/decent/mediocre) category as well. All is vanity. Seldom (at the outset) is the possibility entertained that one is not worthy of any of the GREAT WORK subsets, otherwise who'd bother? Eventually, however, this realization will sink in.
The ego cannot bear to be in the UTTER SHIT zone, even though, as we see in the final grouping of Keith and Meek and Clown, this could be a slick way back into the GREAT WORK club. Catch is, you need to be completely fucking nuts and will never reap the joy of knowing how GREAT you are. Self-consciousness (of the kind demonstrated by this very blog) forbids that level of trickster accomplishment. So we face the grim truth (we think), and try to determine in which part of the middle area we can homestead. Again, it'd be fantastic to find oneself in the G/D/M (appreciated widely) slot. This is the most enviable position in all the first 2 groupings. You make a sweet living, get the props and the oral sex, and need not go crazy with the Genius saddle (deserved or not). If posterity revises you into the UTTER SHIT file (this is almost always the case, by the way), no skin off your ass. Alas, this is not possible for the likes of me. Truthfully, GREAT WORK (unrecognized) is a likelier prospect. But let's get real.
A G/D/M (mistaken for utter shit) presupposes that one is noticed enough to get mistaken for utter shit (assuming it's a mistake). It ain't me babe. So where? O Where? Any sane person, given all the choices, would be more than content to be in the first subcategory of UTTER SHIT. Your cluelessness will ensure permanent psychological security and you'll live like a pasha until your worthless career ends and your pernicious cultural influence enters its camp half-life. Pretty much the same can be said for the second rung on the UTTER SHIT ladder, assuming you make Rod Stewart bucks (see that's a pretty thin slice of the cold cut, deciding whether he should be there or in the first UTTER SHIT group. It's all ballpark). I firmly believe I am not bad enough to accept any of the UTTER SHIT designations, though that's often in doubt. So we wander through the G/D/M wilderness, bumping into chumps and champs alike, like Casper the Ghost looking for a friend.
I aver that it's certainly possible I could fit the G/D/M (accidentally achieving GREAT WORK status) spot to a charitable observer. But that same self-consciousness issue arises, and this too is flung to the rocks. G/D/M (ignored) might be the most hospitable clime for one such as me. Admittedly way down the spectrum towards MEDIOCRE, with occasional peeks into DECENT if I jump energetically enough and catch a fair breeze. The people I've chosen for this subset, especially Innes, have at times made GREAT WORK. So their selection may betray my own desire for similar ranking.
However, if - and it's a big "if" - I continue making music, there can be no justification for such labor (and it is labor, motherfucker... like you can't imagine) unless I find a way to convince myself that GREAT WORK (any subcategory) is possible. Sometimes I hear Magic Beans and still think it's possible. That was surely as close as I've come… Cactus Boy especially. Believe it or not, and I'm sure you'll believe it, there are rare moments when I believe I ACHIEVED it and that you're all too fucking unevolved to recognize my Genius in its totality. Perhaps a firmly held conviction of that unforgivably egotistical sort is always simmering below, and accounts for all my rage and depression. It surely takes honesty like unto Genius to even admit such a thing, wouldn't you agree? I didn't think so. You're right: I'm an asshole. Anyway, I don't expect to find a means to reconstruct my delusion to any practical degree. If I do, though, it will probably involve going completely bonkers (not an impossible thing), and maybe it'll catapult me into the UTTER SHIT (accidentally achieving GREAT WORK status) subcategory. Luck be a lady!
You'll notice there is no UTTER SHIT (unknown) listing. Of course, there should be, and maybe... gulp... maybe I'm... oh jeez.
GREAT WORK (recognized) Bach, Thelonious Monk, Bob Dylan
GREAT WORK (unrecognized) David Garland, Alec Wilder, R Stevie Moore
GREAT WORK (accepted on principle, but seldom enjoyed) Harry Partch, Ives, The Minutemen
GREAT WORK (mistaken for utter shit) Brian Wilson (when his best work was new), Scott Walker (ditto), the Bee Gees
GREAT WORK (appreciated widely but underrated) Carole King, Four Seasons, Hoagy Carmichael
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (mistaken for Great Work) Beck, The Byrds, Nirvana
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (appreciated widely) all solo Beatles (that isn't utter shit), Lauryn Hill, Bruce Springsteen
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (ignored) Epic Soundtracks, Supersister, Neil Innes
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (mistaken for utter shit) ELO, Bobby Rydell, KC and the Sunshine Band
GOOD/DECENT/MEDIOCRE WORK (accidentally achieving genuine Great Work status) Alice Cooper (the band), Tijuana Brass, Gary Lewis and the Playboys
UTTER SHIT (famed, praised, best selling) 99 per cent of what's in the store, Rage Against The Machine, Sting
UTTER SHIT (generally accepted as good-to-great by "music savvy" listeners) 80 per cent of your cd collection, Rod Stewart, Liz Phair
UTTER SHIT (mistaken for Great Work) most Philip Glass, most Prince, Rachmaninoff
UTTER SHIT (mistaken for Good/Decent/Mediocre) Eminem, Smashing Pumpkins, John Williams (the composer, not the guitarist)
UTTER SHIT (accidentally achieving Great Work status) Rodd Keith, Joe Meek, Mysterious Clown
Now, obviously, this is totally subjective, so spare me any complaints. I was thoughtful enough to skip stuff like Led Zeppelin. Also, there are vast nuances within the second category (Good to Mediocre is a mighty steep gradient), and a lot of things shift about in my mercurial estimation. Why no mention of faves like Serge Gainsbourg, Neil Young or Sly Stone? My aim is not to be exhaustive or definitive, but to give a broad outline of the situation in order to rank myself as per the thrust of this particular monologue.
One wants to be in the GREAT WORK (recognized) category. This can never be. The mind knows and the heart senses (thanx, Biff) that, often, truly GREAT artists become convinced they make UTTER SHIT. The dream is so far reaching that the artist can only see the shortfall, and certainly nobody else is equipped to judge greatness... it's almost unique that in Bob Dylan's case this has happened. So one daydreams of status in the GREAT WORK (unrecognized) category. This delusion can be maintained until one gets "noticed" to any degree whatsoever, and if this goes poorly, it's direct to the GREAT WORK (mistaken for utter shit) category, and there could, of course, be a GREAT WORK (mistaken for good/decent/mediocre) category as well. All is vanity. Seldom (at the outset) is the possibility entertained that one is not worthy of any of the GREAT WORK subsets, otherwise who'd bother? Eventually, however, this realization will sink in.
The ego cannot bear to be in the UTTER SHIT zone, even though, as we see in the final grouping of Keith and Meek and Clown, this could be a slick way back into the GREAT WORK club. Catch is, you need to be completely fucking nuts and will never reap the joy of knowing how GREAT you are. Self-consciousness (of the kind demonstrated by this very blog) forbids that level of trickster accomplishment. So we face the grim truth (we think), and try to determine in which part of the middle area we can homestead. Again, it'd be fantastic to find oneself in the G/D/M (appreciated widely) slot. This is the most enviable position in all the first 2 groupings. You make a sweet living, get the props and the oral sex, and need not go crazy with the Genius saddle (deserved or not). If posterity revises you into the UTTER SHIT file (this is almost always the case, by the way), no skin off your ass. Alas, this is not possible for the likes of me. Truthfully, GREAT WORK (unrecognized) is a likelier prospect. But let's get real.
A G/D/M (mistaken for utter shit) presupposes that one is noticed enough to get mistaken for utter shit (assuming it's a mistake). It ain't me babe. So where? O Where? Any sane person, given all the choices, would be more than content to be in the first subcategory of UTTER SHIT. Your cluelessness will ensure permanent psychological security and you'll live like a pasha until your worthless career ends and your pernicious cultural influence enters its camp half-life. Pretty much the same can be said for the second rung on the UTTER SHIT ladder, assuming you make Rod Stewart bucks (see that's a pretty thin slice of the cold cut, deciding whether he should be there or in the first UTTER SHIT group. It's all ballpark). I firmly believe I am not bad enough to accept any of the UTTER SHIT designations, though that's often in doubt. So we wander through the G/D/M wilderness, bumping into chumps and champs alike, like Casper the Ghost looking for a friend.
I aver that it's certainly possible I could fit the G/D/M (accidentally achieving GREAT WORK status) spot to a charitable observer. But that same self-consciousness issue arises, and this too is flung to the rocks. G/D/M (ignored) might be the most hospitable clime for one such as me. Admittedly way down the spectrum towards MEDIOCRE, with occasional peeks into DECENT if I jump energetically enough and catch a fair breeze. The people I've chosen for this subset, especially Innes, have at times made GREAT WORK. So their selection may betray my own desire for similar ranking.
However, if - and it's a big "if" - I continue making music, there can be no justification for such labor (and it is labor, motherfucker... like you can't imagine) unless I find a way to convince myself that GREAT WORK (any subcategory) is possible. Sometimes I hear Magic Beans and still think it's possible. That was surely as close as I've come… Cactus Boy especially. Believe it or not, and I'm sure you'll believe it, there are rare moments when I believe I ACHIEVED it and that you're all too fucking unevolved to recognize my Genius in its totality. Perhaps a firmly held conviction of that unforgivably egotistical sort is always simmering below, and accounts for all my rage and depression. It surely takes honesty like unto Genius to even admit such a thing, wouldn't you agree? I didn't think so. You're right: I'm an asshole. Anyway, I don't expect to find a means to reconstruct my delusion to any practical degree. If I do, though, it will probably involve going completely bonkers (not an impossible thing), and maybe it'll catapult me into the UTTER SHIT (accidentally achieving GREAT WORK status) subcategory. Luck be a lady!
You'll notice there is no UTTER SHIT (unknown) listing. Of course, there should be, and maybe... gulp... maybe I'm... oh jeez.
Now that you have him, strap him to a nuclear bomb and drop it on Mecca.