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Friday, May 28, 2004
here I am recording MAGIC BEANS! "Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to heeeeeeaaaaar... just siiiiiing! Sing a sooooonng!"
Bear with me, just testing this new photo capability. L to R: Sport Murphy, Miles Hunt
Thursday, May 27, 2004
VELVET REVOLVER?!? Hahahahahahahahahaha!
Yeah, why not? Hope they move ‘zilla units.
PBS just wasted an hour of my life, an hour which would have been better spent emeryboarding my corns. A friend recommended this “Frontline” show, THE WAY THE MUSIC DIED, on the recommendation of some other lying sack o’ shit who’d evidently seen it. The press-release claim:
…What happened to music? Where were the stores? Who were the new artists? What was hot and what was hype? This winter, starting at the 2004 Grammys, my FRONTLINE production team
and I set out to answer those questions. And this week, in "The Way the Music Died," we offer some of our answers. We'll also introduce you to some artists we met and followed along the way - America's hottest new rock band, "Velvet Revolver," and an appealing young woman named Sarah Hudson. She's attempting the nearly impossible - to find success as a singer/songwriter in a business almost everyone agrees is on the verge of collapse."
HOO BOY!!!
What did we glean from this show?
Sarah Hudson is the cousin of that actress whose mother is Goldie Hawn. A “struggling” singer-songwriter - to the industry born – hoping that the fortunes being spent on her career launch will pay off in bigger fortunes made. Her talent is, to put it kindly, suspect.
“America’s Hottest Rock Band” - the aforemocked “Iron Aftermath” …uh… I mean “Vanilla Foreverchanges” … no wait… “Petsounds Underground” …er… “Velvet Revolver” – turns out to be a supergroup of famous 90s heroin addicts. They suck astonishing ass. Can you believe that the castoffs of Guns-N-Roses and Stone Temple Pilots would suck astonishing ass? IT’S TRUE! Sob!!!
The program is essentially a commercial for these two acts, masquerading as hard-hitting journalism. What else awaits us in this breezy hour of blatant nothingness?
We see rock critics with strangely-shaped faces commenting on the state of the industry. Ooh, it’s baaaad! Downloads! Baaad! Chain stores stock but few of the releases and censor them! Baaaad!
We’re told that of the 4 trillion album releases per annum, only 2 become hits. Oooooh! Tough odds!
Brrrr!
Hommina, Hommina! We learn exactly DICK, which is exactly what rock critics have to teach us about anything.
We see Outkast’s manager bemoaning the fact that the labels don’t put out great MUSIC anymore. Like Outkast, I guess, who are everyone’s dearly beloved because they sorta remind everyone of actual, decent music once heard by everyone. Just what I need: a wan reminder of the thin crap of older days (so I can “get it” on terms I already know), but with a nice contemporary spin (so I can feel sorta hip and relevant). Best thing Since Lauryn Hill, I say! She also reminded everyone of stuff that used to be similar to something that was once good, and with hiphop cred, too! Yeah, why don’t the labels put out more of THAT?
We see David Crosby personifying integrity, wisdom and the lost art of great songwriting. Yeah, he’d be the first person I’d go to… if I wanted tips on how to survive decades of pharmaceutical gluttony with enough cut left in my strut to provide a beaker of viable cum to wannabe mommas who’d rather not upload junior the old fashioned way. But integrity, wisdom and the lost art of great songwriting? Bob Gaudio would be my "go-to" guy. (See? I used a snappy contemporary cliche there. That's what I'M talking about)
Best of all, we witness the dead-eyed putzes who work in the music biz. Spouting tired malarkey about how “people were skeptical of Strawberry Kontroversy, but after their 6-song debut gig, jaws were hanging open… jism and slish befouled the pants of everyone present… jaded executives drew dueling swords for the honor of signing them…” …ad hilarium. These overpaid pismires are a laugh a minute, talking about how Scott Weiland will “probably” be able to deal with the new career in spite of his continuing love of chinee oblivium. How many thousands of worthy artists don’t rate a bird-flip from these jackals, yet they prop up a biohazardous cadaver like this with claims of “he LIVES for music… it’s all he is!”
Holy mutherfucking MOLEY! 2 million spent on fucking PROMOTION. (Kill Rock Stars spends about one two-millionth of that on my shit. And they’ll get it back if I ever sell copy ONE of my albums. Let me tell you folks about “the way the music dies.” Mind you, I ain’t complaining… I know my stuff sucks… to most ignorant cuntwipes, anyhow. At least KRS puts it out)
In terms of actual insight into why the music business is a catastrophe, the only thing I can suggest is to take a bird’s-eye view of this whole program:
Empty shuck and jive all ‘round.
Parrotshit critics.
Talentless talent.
Execrable executives.
All the obvious targets and obvious et ceteras… plus the cultural cretinism, journalistic fraudulence and programming cluelessness that allows a program such as this to pass muster as ANY sort of “report” on ANYTHING relating to ANYTHING at all.
HOW DARE THEY ENTICE ME TO WATCH THIS FUCKING INANITY!!!!
FUCK PBS… the only time they show ANY music you’d want to see, bet your ass it’ll be interrupted every 2 minutes by some ingratiating employee trying to persuade you to send money so you can OWN THE FUCKING PROGRAM YOU’RE OSTENSIBLY WATCHING! “On dvd with 2 extra numbers, and no interruptions from ME!!” Is this not the stupidest form of blackmail yet devised in order to keep that blowhard Charlie Rose employed? All the rest of the time it’s the “seven spiritual laws for increased bourgeois accumulation" and please-make-it-stop documentaries about uninteresting Hispanic peasants caught in the crossfire of grave conflicts that you’d have to be Noam Chomsky’s retarded brother to give two shits about. Oh yeah, and Ken Burns’ 69-hour series on the history of American Stamp Enthusiasts (and the brave African-American pioneers who gave all to pave the way for multicultural philately in the land of the …hmmm… not-so-free), to be savored by Nilla-wafer caucasoids with more dollars than brain cells who think they are intellectually and morally superior to their snarling, slackjawed counterparts who sit shouting “FUCKING A!!” At Bill O’Reilly’s latest declaration of outrage.
What was I saying? Oh yeah, the music industry…
Let the industry collapse. Tonight, please! And let us understand why it is collapsing: Music sucks, consumers are jerkwads, everything costs too much, everyone in the entertainment racket is a bottom-feeding waste of flesh that ought to be piled high along with with all the others in some Abu Gharib of Just Infinity and power-fucked by thorny pneumatic dildos until the whole steaming heap yells “I’m SORRY!” in 12-part harmony, and then immolated.
Let it collapse!
Every major and minor and indie… every club and coliseum… every chain store, mom and pop shop and website… every radio station, tv outlet and website… every magazine and website… every sensitive loose-sphinctered singer/songwriter, jowly jaded pro, menacingly gesticulating Crow Jim rapper in full bounce-squat, silicon-titted tweetytwat, downtown two-bit hipster with an amp and a power drill, terminally melismatic American Idolater, sunglassed tinnitus-bound club dj, Asian Mozart specialist du jour, snotnose Jazz purist with a college degree in “so what”, subsonically growling deathmetal clown, melodically-gifted chucklehead superfluon, crackerass Country fraud yodeling belligerent odes to the “working man,” shitsoup soundtrack hack, head-tilting all-the-right-influences idea-free Rockist, drip-dry New Age soporificant, Ironic dork-pop-revivalist douchebag, fearless politically-aware lone wolf, closeted goth self-dramatizer, McSweeney’s-approved high-concept wunderkind, hustling has-been, anxious dreamer and self-plugger with a website…
…every blog.
Naaaaah, just kidding. Rock ON!
Yeah, why not? Hope they move ‘zilla units.
PBS just wasted an hour of my life, an hour which would have been better spent emeryboarding my corns. A friend recommended this “Frontline” show, THE WAY THE MUSIC DIED, on the recommendation of some other lying sack o’ shit who’d evidently seen it. The press-release claim:
…What happened to music? Where were the stores? Who were the new artists? What was hot and what was hype? This winter, starting at the 2004 Grammys, my FRONTLINE production team
and I set out to answer those questions. And this week, in "The Way the Music Died," we offer some of our answers. We'll also introduce you to some artists we met and followed along the way - America's hottest new rock band, "Velvet Revolver," and an appealing young woman named Sarah Hudson. She's attempting the nearly impossible - to find success as a singer/songwriter in a business almost everyone agrees is on the verge of collapse."
HOO BOY!!!
What did we glean from this show?
Sarah Hudson is the cousin of that actress whose mother is Goldie Hawn. A “struggling” singer-songwriter - to the industry born – hoping that the fortunes being spent on her career launch will pay off in bigger fortunes made. Her talent is, to put it kindly, suspect.
“America’s Hottest Rock Band” - the aforemocked “Iron Aftermath” …uh… I mean “Vanilla Foreverchanges” … no wait… “Petsounds Underground” …er… “Velvet Revolver” – turns out to be a supergroup of famous 90s heroin addicts. They suck astonishing ass. Can you believe that the castoffs of Guns-N-Roses and Stone Temple Pilots would suck astonishing ass? IT’S TRUE! Sob!!!
The program is essentially a commercial for these two acts, masquerading as hard-hitting journalism. What else awaits us in this breezy hour of blatant nothingness?
We see rock critics with strangely-shaped faces commenting on the state of the industry. Ooh, it’s baaaad! Downloads! Baaad! Chain stores stock but few of the releases and censor them! Baaaad!
We’re told that of the 4 trillion album releases per annum, only 2 become hits. Oooooh! Tough odds!
Brrrr!
Hommina, Hommina! We learn exactly DICK, which is exactly what rock critics have to teach us about anything.
We see Outkast’s manager bemoaning the fact that the labels don’t put out great MUSIC anymore. Like Outkast, I guess, who are everyone’s dearly beloved because they sorta remind everyone of actual, decent music once heard by everyone. Just what I need: a wan reminder of the thin crap of older days (so I can “get it” on terms I already know), but with a nice contemporary spin (so I can feel sorta hip and relevant). Best thing Since Lauryn Hill, I say! She also reminded everyone of stuff that used to be similar to something that was once good, and with hiphop cred, too! Yeah, why don’t the labels put out more of THAT?
We see David Crosby personifying integrity, wisdom and the lost art of great songwriting. Yeah, he’d be the first person I’d go to… if I wanted tips on how to survive decades of pharmaceutical gluttony with enough cut left in my strut to provide a beaker of viable cum to wannabe mommas who’d rather not upload junior the old fashioned way. But integrity, wisdom and the lost art of great songwriting? Bob Gaudio would be my "go-to" guy. (See? I used a snappy contemporary cliche there. That's what I'M talking about)
Best of all, we witness the dead-eyed putzes who work in the music biz. Spouting tired malarkey about how “people were skeptical of Strawberry Kontroversy, but after their 6-song debut gig, jaws were hanging open… jism and slish befouled the pants of everyone present… jaded executives drew dueling swords for the honor of signing them…” …ad hilarium. These overpaid pismires are a laugh a minute, talking about how Scott Weiland will “probably” be able to deal with the new career in spite of his continuing love of chinee oblivium. How many thousands of worthy artists don’t rate a bird-flip from these jackals, yet they prop up a biohazardous cadaver like this with claims of “he LIVES for music… it’s all he is!”
Holy mutherfucking MOLEY! 2 million spent on fucking PROMOTION. (Kill Rock Stars spends about one two-millionth of that on my shit. And they’ll get it back if I ever sell copy ONE of my albums. Let me tell you folks about “the way the music dies.” Mind you, I ain’t complaining… I know my stuff sucks… to most ignorant cuntwipes, anyhow. At least KRS puts it out)
In terms of actual insight into why the music business is a catastrophe, the only thing I can suggest is to take a bird’s-eye view of this whole program:
Empty shuck and jive all ‘round.
Parrotshit critics.
Talentless talent.
Execrable executives.
All the obvious targets and obvious et ceteras… plus the cultural cretinism, journalistic fraudulence and programming cluelessness that allows a program such as this to pass muster as ANY sort of “report” on ANYTHING relating to ANYTHING at all.
HOW DARE THEY ENTICE ME TO WATCH THIS FUCKING INANITY!!!!
FUCK PBS… the only time they show ANY music you’d want to see, bet your ass it’ll be interrupted every 2 minutes by some ingratiating employee trying to persuade you to send money so you can OWN THE FUCKING PROGRAM YOU’RE OSTENSIBLY WATCHING! “On dvd with 2 extra numbers, and no interruptions from ME!!” Is this not the stupidest form of blackmail yet devised in order to keep that blowhard Charlie Rose employed? All the rest of the time it’s the “seven spiritual laws for increased bourgeois accumulation" and please-make-it-stop documentaries about uninteresting Hispanic peasants caught in the crossfire of grave conflicts that you’d have to be Noam Chomsky’s retarded brother to give two shits about. Oh yeah, and Ken Burns’ 69-hour series on the history of American Stamp Enthusiasts (and the brave African-American pioneers who gave all to pave the way for multicultural philately in the land of the …hmmm… not-so-free), to be savored by Nilla-wafer caucasoids with more dollars than brain cells who think they are intellectually and morally superior to their snarling, slackjawed counterparts who sit shouting “FUCKING A!!” At Bill O’Reilly’s latest declaration of outrage.
What was I saying? Oh yeah, the music industry…
Let the industry collapse. Tonight, please! And let us understand why it is collapsing: Music sucks, consumers are jerkwads, everything costs too much, everyone in the entertainment racket is a bottom-feeding waste of flesh that ought to be piled high along with with all the others in some Abu Gharib of Just Infinity and power-fucked by thorny pneumatic dildos until the whole steaming heap yells “I’m SORRY!” in 12-part harmony, and then immolated.
Let it collapse!
Every major and minor and indie… every club and coliseum… every chain store, mom and pop shop and website… every radio station, tv outlet and website… every magazine and website… every sensitive loose-sphinctered singer/songwriter, jowly jaded pro, menacingly gesticulating Crow Jim rapper in full bounce-squat, silicon-titted tweetytwat, downtown two-bit hipster with an amp and a power drill, terminally melismatic American Idolater, sunglassed tinnitus-bound club dj, Asian Mozart specialist du jour, snotnose Jazz purist with a college degree in “so what”, subsonically growling deathmetal clown, melodically-gifted chucklehead superfluon, crackerass Country fraud yodeling belligerent odes to the “working man,” shitsoup soundtrack hack, head-tilting all-the-right-influences idea-free Rockist, drip-dry New Age soporificant, Ironic dork-pop-revivalist douchebag, fearless politically-aware lone wolf, closeted goth self-dramatizer, McSweeney’s-approved high-concept wunderkind, hustling has-been, anxious dreamer and self-plugger with a website…
…every blog.
Naaaaah, just kidding. Rock ON!
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Mmmmm -
Tonight I'll break with tradition and write while I feel good. Been sipping from 3 bottles of absinthe, two French and one Spanish.
Naturally, life hasn't suddenly become idyllic, but I've lately adopted a strict provisional approach to it all, and today was notable for nothing especially bad descending on our heads. Something to celebrate, that. Shelley, Maureen and I hung out with the babies, and without getting too descriptive about this perfectly bland (always a good thing) afternoon, accept my assurance that it was so, and I knew it, and savored all.
In view of such rare, appreciated bucoleriffic voutation, I elected to "strike whilst the iron is luke" and enhance already pleasant circumstances with a touch of yon good green elixir. Gladly, the first tendrils of thujone reached my brain right on time for a wild thunderstorm, which roared over our environs just as they began to sink brow-deep into the mystic Purkinje effect. Swell coincidence. We stood on the porch as the world chirped, cheeped and Ka-boomed about, and all nature shrugged off its businesswear to gambol for a while in loose, iridescent pajamas.
Such green! Criminy! Green as a raw recruit chomping a mouthful of baby spinach, pondering the flag of Holy Ireland. I was blissed beyond all ken, and remain so these hours later, after many foolin'-no-one cries of "just one more." I am at this moment an insolent poison lizard, lolling on a fat broadleaf vine in compleat zen fuckyallitude. Content to remain but a mossy lump befuzzing my tiny parcel of crazed nature as I dimly audit sweet all-unknown with these omnidirectional, spheroid eyes of mine, I belch forth definitive celebratory fanfarations over today's sublime nonevents. Tomorrow will likely suck powerfully, as is its wont, but who cares? Not Sport Murphy.
I swat a skeeter with my new tail and hum a merry air.
I won't try to claim that nights like this are "worth" all the other shit, but I will shout confidently that yer regan grice-vegas of the world - knowing no green but that of envy, money and that spiritual dysentery peculiar to corpse-feeders - CANNOT know this feeling, and that is something to gloat over.
I'm clean, you fucking vermin, and I still smile despite your best efforts. I'd also like to see any of you hammer out something this coherent while this drunk. Or while sober. I'd like to watch you try to understand it in either state.
The high motherfucking price of me-ness, as detailed throughout this blog, is a bargain for what it buys:
to BE me. And to know mine.
My love to all who truly love me and mine, and a special benediction to little Sawyer Kalbaugh.
PS - had a fun hang with (among other chums) one Michael Kupperman the other night. The best cartoonist working today, and a funny cuss in person as well. Cheers, fellow sot!
Tonight I'll break with tradition and write while I feel good. Been sipping from 3 bottles of absinthe, two French and one Spanish.
Naturally, life hasn't suddenly become idyllic, but I've lately adopted a strict provisional approach to it all, and today was notable for nothing especially bad descending on our heads. Something to celebrate, that. Shelley, Maureen and I hung out with the babies, and without getting too descriptive about this perfectly bland (always a good thing) afternoon, accept my assurance that it was so, and I knew it, and savored all.
In view of such rare, appreciated bucoleriffic voutation, I elected to "strike whilst the iron is luke" and enhance already pleasant circumstances with a touch of yon good green elixir. Gladly, the first tendrils of thujone reached my brain right on time for a wild thunderstorm, which roared over our environs just as they began to sink brow-deep into the mystic Purkinje effect. Swell coincidence. We stood on the porch as the world chirped, cheeped and Ka-boomed about, and all nature shrugged off its businesswear to gambol for a while in loose, iridescent pajamas.
Such green! Criminy! Green as a raw recruit chomping a mouthful of baby spinach, pondering the flag of Holy Ireland. I was blissed beyond all ken, and remain so these hours later, after many foolin'-no-one cries of "just one more." I am at this moment an insolent poison lizard, lolling on a fat broadleaf vine in compleat zen fuckyallitude. Content to remain but a mossy lump befuzzing my tiny parcel of crazed nature as I dimly audit sweet all-unknown with these omnidirectional, spheroid eyes of mine, I belch forth definitive celebratory fanfarations over today's sublime nonevents. Tomorrow will likely suck powerfully, as is its wont, but who cares? Not Sport Murphy.
I swat a skeeter with my new tail and hum a merry air.
I won't try to claim that nights like this are "worth" all the other shit, but I will shout confidently that yer regan grice-vegas of the world - knowing no green but that of envy, money and that spiritual dysentery peculiar to corpse-feeders - CANNOT know this feeling, and that is something to gloat over.
I'm clean, you fucking vermin, and I still smile despite your best efforts. I'd also like to see any of you hammer out something this coherent while this drunk. Or while sober. I'd like to watch you try to understand it in either state.
The high motherfucking price of me-ness, as detailed throughout this blog, is a bargain for what it buys:
to BE me. And to know mine.
My love to all who truly love me and mine, and a special benediction to little Sawyer Kalbaugh.
PS - had a fun hang with (among other chums) one Michael Kupperman the other night. The best cartoonist working today, and a funny cuss in person as well. Cheers, fellow sot!
Saturday, May 15, 2004
my sister got a call from the city medical examiner. seems they identified a leg as having belonged to my nephew pete.
his fucking LEG. does this agony ever end?
anyway, the reason they called her instead of the merry widow is that the phone number on file for regan grice-vega was no longer correct. since only the widow can decide what to do with pete's remains, they asked if maureen could contact regan for them. after all, they must be in touch, right?
regan grice-vega has continued to refuse any contact between my sister and her granddaughter.
she has had occasional (postal-only) contact with my mother and my brother, who apparently send money for ruby, the child. so my mother gets the occasional photo of ruby to weep over, provided she keeps those checks coming.
my sister, already enduring a permanent grief unimaginable to anyone who hasn't shared her experience (and there are others... more than you think... parents of victims, shunned by the spouses of their lost beloved), is newly traumatized. she contacted pete's firehouse to relay the information to regan grice-vega.
there will be no press attention or oprah winfrey appearances for this, so regan will gain no opportunity to bask in limelight. there is no financial gain for her in seeing that this body part is properly buried. her apathy towards pete's memory was evident in an obscene ny daily news article last september, wherein she remarked that she's "moved on" and that she no longer has pete's daughter wear the gold pendant with his picture on it (a gift from my sister). so what do you suppose will happen to pete's leg? the garbage heap, most likely.
while nearly every day i recall muslims worldwide dancing with glee after the towers fell, the image doesn't inspire in me half the murderous rage as the mere thought of regan grice-vega; this ugly little cunt from brooklyn has earned my special loathing. i blame her for the despair that accelerated my father's death and which has decimated the spirits of my entire family. my sister, who has been an incredible help to us with the babies, is literally sick over the whole thing, wondering what will happen to this part of her slain child. i'll bet regan grice-vega's cousin colin quinn could think up some swell jokes about all this.
in other news, for those of you who retain a mild curiosity about my continuing disintegration but who'd never think to call or write, i have finally agreed to take an antidepressant. o frabjous day!
this will probably preclude drinking, which is the one activity i still enjoy. but never fear, it will not stop me from tinkering late at night with these dire little songs you'll probably never hear. i'm attempting to write enough of them for the one-man, home-recorded album that is my only option (since i am now virtually friendless, and a stranger to the kind community of musicians - even the suburban-weekend-jerk-off contingent) for delivering the big number 4 album to krs ... i'm sure they anxiously await my newest work of genius and will do everything in their power to see that it gets noticed.
as far as the babies go, i have decided to reserve mention of them for only those people to whom i actually see or speak... those precious few who've proven they still give a fuck, and you know who you ain't. miles and lily are the only sweetness in my world.
discussing them in this blog would be, like my entire creative career, a case of casting pearls before swine.
his fucking LEG. does this agony ever end?
anyway, the reason they called her instead of the merry widow is that the phone number on file for regan grice-vega was no longer correct. since only the widow can decide what to do with pete's remains, they asked if maureen could contact regan for them. after all, they must be in touch, right?
regan grice-vega has continued to refuse any contact between my sister and her granddaughter.
she has had occasional (postal-only) contact with my mother and my brother, who apparently send money for ruby, the child. so my mother gets the occasional photo of ruby to weep over, provided she keeps those checks coming.
my sister, already enduring a permanent grief unimaginable to anyone who hasn't shared her experience (and there are others... more than you think... parents of victims, shunned by the spouses of their lost beloved), is newly traumatized. she contacted pete's firehouse to relay the information to regan grice-vega.
there will be no press attention or oprah winfrey appearances for this, so regan will gain no opportunity to bask in limelight. there is no financial gain for her in seeing that this body part is properly buried. her apathy towards pete's memory was evident in an obscene ny daily news article last september, wherein she remarked that she's "moved on" and that she no longer has pete's daughter wear the gold pendant with his picture on it (a gift from my sister). so what do you suppose will happen to pete's leg? the garbage heap, most likely.
while nearly every day i recall muslims worldwide dancing with glee after the towers fell, the image doesn't inspire in me half the murderous rage as the mere thought of regan grice-vega; this ugly little cunt from brooklyn has earned my special loathing. i blame her for the despair that accelerated my father's death and which has decimated the spirits of my entire family. my sister, who has been an incredible help to us with the babies, is literally sick over the whole thing, wondering what will happen to this part of her slain child. i'll bet regan grice-vega's cousin colin quinn could think up some swell jokes about all this.
in other news, for those of you who retain a mild curiosity about my continuing disintegration but who'd never think to call or write, i have finally agreed to take an antidepressant. o frabjous day!
this will probably preclude drinking, which is the one activity i still enjoy. but never fear, it will not stop me from tinkering late at night with these dire little songs you'll probably never hear. i'm attempting to write enough of them for the one-man, home-recorded album that is my only option (since i am now virtually friendless, and a stranger to the kind community of musicians - even the suburban-weekend-jerk-off contingent) for delivering the big number 4 album to krs ... i'm sure they anxiously await my newest work of genius and will do everything in their power to see that it gets noticed.
as far as the babies go, i have decided to reserve mention of them for only those people to whom i actually see or speak... those precious few who've proven they still give a fuck, and you know who you ain't. miles and lily are the only sweetness in my world.
discussing them in this blog would be, like my entire creative career, a case of casting pearls before swine.