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Saturday, October 07, 2006
People have begun to write me concerning the departure of Slim Moon from Kill Rock Stars. It was news to me as well, and the obvious question is: will I remain on the label?
Well, the answer is: I dunno, but... I guess I know. Y'know?
Naturally, I had just begun recording a new album. Finally. This will continue in any event.
In the highly likely event KRS does not want it, I'll let you know how to get one. It'll be a little while yet; we want to make it a great one.
Working on my comic/mag as well.
Under current conditions I need to ration out my energies, and blogging, emailing and social interactions have suffered, but I hope the compensation will be good, concentrated creative work.
I'm tired of tragedy and bad luck keeping me staggering, shellshocked. Life is very fucking short.
I'm making the best work of my life; lack of support, success or subsidy has never stopped me before and it won't now.
20 years of invisible work... I only hope for at least another 20 years of it, invisible or not, because "a man's got to make whatever he wants and take it with his own hands" as Alan Price sang.
From childhood to the day I croak, the main thing is making stuff... this is my answer to death and denial and douchebaggery.
I plan to perform a bit as well, so wish me well with all these plans, as I wish for all of you and all of yours. And as I wish for Slim and for whoever's left at KRS.
See you soon.
Well, the answer is: I dunno, but... I guess I know. Y'know?
Naturally, I had just begun recording a new album. Finally. This will continue in any event.
In the highly likely event KRS does not want it, I'll let you know how to get one. It'll be a little while yet; we want to make it a great one.
Working on my comic/mag as well.
Under current conditions I need to ration out my energies, and blogging, emailing and social interactions have suffered, but I hope the compensation will be good, concentrated creative work.
I'm tired of tragedy and bad luck keeping me staggering, shellshocked. Life is very fucking short.
I'm making the best work of my life; lack of support, success or subsidy has never stopped me before and it won't now.
20 years of invisible work... I only hope for at least another 20 years of it, invisible or not, because "a man's got to make whatever he wants and take it with his own hands" as Alan Price sang.
From childhood to the day I croak, the main thing is making stuff... this is my answer to death and denial and douchebaggery.
I plan to perform a bit as well, so wish me well with all these plans, as I wish for all of you and all of yours. And as I wish for Slim and for whoever's left at KRS.
See you soon.
Monday, September 11, 2006
I still love you, bro, and miss you like a motherfucker.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Gee, what does it take to make me actually write words after months of no blog, no email? This:
Oliver Stone, easily one of the world's shittiest major filmmakers (which, btw, means: "his films suck cock more than anyone else's except for Spike Lee and the Coen Brothers" ...not: "I don't like his politics"), cashes in on 9-11 in a new entertainment product starring the world's crappiest actor (which means nobody on earth is a crappier actor), Nicholas Cage.
Why is this director especially suited to take on the job? In his own words, from today's Newsday:
"My initial reactions, having come from Vietnam, having seen the disaster of that, having seen Watergate, having imagined what JFK was like, I can't say it was the greatest disaster of my life," Stone says of 9/11. "It was one of several big, bad nightmares along the road for America, but it has to be kept in perspective. When you live life, over 60 some years" - Stone turns 60 in September - "come on, we're not Boy Scouts here."
Touching, eh? And obviously, who better qualified to tell the tale, then, eh?
(I still can't figure out how Stone's "imagined" JFK qualifies as a disaster of epic proportions... Anne Coulter's version might, maybe... speaking of disasters).
But this jaded view does not completely convey the heart of Stone
(who, incidentally, was originally named "Oliver Ng" when he first "came from Vietnam," I think). Newsday's piece continues:
Stone didn't jump on the 9/11 film bandwagon right away. The director says he was depressed by the march to war in Iraq, and as a way to "get out of it," he decided to make the 2004 release "Alexander," which allowed him to "go into another world of ancient history, and the first East-West clash. I'm very lucky in my profession to be able to do that, because these last three years in America were --, they were hard. It's a tough fight for Americans."
Depressed enough by the "march to war in Iraq" that he needed to distract himself with a costume picture. But his reaction to 9-11 was "eh... seen worse."
Though - in my view - as stupidly obscene as Mel Gibson's anti-Jew tirade, none of Stone's remarks will make the faintest stir or the slightest difference.
Neither did the attacks themselves, though, did they... make any difference I mean.
After all, as Stone said earlier, this was not the greatest disaster of HIS life
(cue Adagio for Strings... pump up the pathos).
And "these last three years" have been tough for Americans...
this means the previous three were less so perhaps?
Dunno how things were in your neck of the woods between the day the towers fell and the day we invaded Iraq, but I can tell you how things were here. And how they've degenerated since.
Oliver Stone supposedly tells the rousing story of several who made it out alive. I'd tell you about some who did not, and a family that continues to crumble because of it. But that's neither good entertainment nor good propaganda, and shucks, I'm nobody at all.
Well, better go to the multiplex and shell out cash so Oliver Stone can give me some "perspective."
http://www.newsday.com/entertainment/movies/ny-ffmov4838388aug06,0,4864818.story?coll=ny-entertainment-headlines
Oliver Stone, easily one of the world's shittiest major filmmakers (which, btw, means: "his films suck cock more than anyone else's except for Spike Lee and the Coen Brothers" ...not: "I don't like his politics"), cashes in on 9-11 in a new entertainment product starring the world's crappiest actor (which means nobody on earth is a crappier actor), Nicholas Cage.
Why is this director especially suited to take on the job? In his own words, from today's Newsday:
"My initial reactions, having come from Vietnam, having seen the disaster of that, having seen Watergate, having imagined what JFK was like, I can't say it was the greatest disaster of my life," Stone says of 9/11. "It was one of several big, bad nightmares along the road for America, but it has to be kept in perspective. When you live life, over 60 some years" - Stone turns 60 in September - "come on, we're not Boy Scouts here."
Touching, eh? And obviously, who better qualified to tell the tale, then, eh?
(I still can't figure out how Stone's "imagined" JFK qualifies as a disaster of epic proportions... Anne Coulter's version might, maybe... speaking of disasters).
But this jaded view does not completely convey the heart of Stone
(who, incidentally, was originally named "Oliver Ng" when he first "came from Vietnam," I think). Newsday's piece continues:
Stone didn't jump on the 9/11 film bandwagon right away. The director says he was depressed by the march to war in Iraq, and as a way to "get out of it," he decided to make the 2004 release "Alexander," which allowed him to "go into another world of ancient history, and the first East-West clash. I'm very lucky in my profession to be able to do that, because these last three years in America were --, they were hard. It's a tough fight for Americans."
Depressed enough by the "march to war in Iraq" that he needed to distract himself with a costume picture. But his reaction to 9-11 was "eh... seen worse."
Though - in my view - as stupidly obscene as Mel Gibson's anti-Jew tirade, none of Stone's remarks will make the faintest stir or the slightest difference.
Neither did the attacks themselves, though, did they... make any difference I mean.
After all, as Stone said earlier, this was not the greatest disaster of HIS life
(cue Adagio for Strings... pump up the pathos).
And "these last three years" have been tough for Americans...
this means the previous three were less so perhaps?
Dunno how things were in your neck of the woods between the day the towers fell and the day we invaded Iraq, but I can tell you how things were here. And how they've degenerated since.
Oliver Stone supposedly tells the rousing story of several who made it out alive. I'd tell you about some who did not, and a family that continues to crumble because of it. But that's neither good entertainment nor good propaganda, and shucks, I'm nobody at all.
Well, better go to the multiplex and shell out cash so Oliver Stone can give me some "perspective."
http://www.newsday.com/entertainment/movies/ny-ffmov4838388aug06,0,4864818.story?coll=ny-entertainment-headlines
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
"Syd Barrett, the former lead singer of Pink Floyd and one of the key
figures of the 60s, has died at the Cambridgeshire home to which he
retreated as a recluse more than 30 years ago."
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/news/obituary/0,,1817952,00.html
figures of the 60s, has died at the Cambridgeshire home to which he
retreated as a recluse more than 30 years ago."
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/news/obituary/0,,1817952,00.html
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Look! The only 3 people I give any kind of a fuck about! Well, not really... I love YOU too.
Everything is different now. Here are Miles and Lily in their Sammy Davis Jr. T-Shirts:
Thursday, March 02, 2006
My Thanks to some friends who've written messages of love and concern. As for the specific medical / economic situations mentioned in the previous entry... well, the "absolute worst" did not happen and that's what passes for good news. But life continues to batter us physically, financially, emotionally and whatever else you've got.
My Mom is in the hospital now as of last week... will be away a few more weeks. Pneumonia among other things. The catalyst for this was a near-disaster involving the house's oil burner. This was caused by some fuck not correctly doing the routine maintenance he was paid to do several months ago. There was considerable damage done.
My brother had his foot amputated today after a severe diabetes-related infection turned gangrenous. My Mom does not know as yet, and is too delicate to deal. Since he's her main helper... driving, shopping, so forth... this creates a new and troubling situation apart from the already grim news.
None of us have enough money to live on properly as is, and of course this all makes the strain more ominous. Depression haunts us all. Any report I offer on current trials is random; they come so fast and furious that last week's horror gets trumped by this week's. I resist talking about it very much, because I am sick to fucking death of playing the benighted whiner. Nevertheless, the onslaught is surreal in its relentlessness and ever-unpredictable variety.
It achieves the condition of black comedy... like that fake "lost dog" ad listing the pup's numerous ailments and deformities followed by "Answers to the name Lucky." The luck of the fucking Irish, mate. And surely there are some reading this who relish the account of our misfortune, ain't that right, Regan? Well, go ahead. It's the least of my concerns, enemies, flown-the-coop friends et al. I'm more interested in acknowledging those of you who give a shit and reach out with the small, loving note or the breezy phone call despite my own poor recent track record in keeping ties bound.
Between Shelley and me raising our beautiful, joyous, ballbustingly demanding babies with no assistance from baysitters, etc, and running around coping with doctors (and my family members struggling in two different hospitals), it is virtually impossible to respond to individual messages right now, so please understand that you're not being ignored and your support is anything but unappreciated.
My absolute exhaustion makes a world of chores all the rougher, but there is a deeply renewing energy that comes from the affection and faith of friends; it truly helps. There are even occasional words of encouragement for my forlorn musical efforts, and that pulls small success out of crushing failure. That inspires a spirit drenched in hopelessness and worn down by constantly trying to sandbag the levee.
The ocean will take us, of that I have no doubt, but some of you send humor, prayer, appreciation for things like these songs of mine that mean nothing to me anymore. That does mean something to me. And that makes the stupid music somehow valid. And that gives the chores another purpose beside the immediate and concrete: to salvage whatever can be salvaged from life and elevate that... celebrate it.
At the dismal end of wretched 2005, I resolved to make art and music this year... to reconnect with beloved friends, enjoy (what's left of) my wonderful family and keep an eye trained on the higher possibilities. So far it has been tough to do all that, but I remain determined. Financial demands force me to take some horrid job as soon as possible - retail, cleaning, something suitable for an unqualified middle age-er - but creation will somehow resume.
Life is so fucking brutal. Dunno if Pete and brother Bob and Dad and all the others lost are anywhere pulling for us, but I am so glad I knew all of them and know all of you. I answer to the name "Lucky." And the only reason I'm alive is to instill the importance of that in Lily and Miles' sweet, new souls so that they can survive this purgatory. And laugh and sing, somehow, through all that they encounter, human and even worse.
So my love Shelley and I will deal as best we can, and we'll see you soon. I swear.
My Mom is in the hospital now as of last week... will be away a few more weeks. Pneumonia among other things. The catalyst for this was a near-disaster involving the house's oil burner. This was caused by some fuck not correctly doing the routine maintenance he was paid to do several months ago. There was considerable damage done.
My brother had his foot amputated today after a severe diabetes-related infection turned gangrenous. My Mom does not know as yet, and is too delicate to deal. Since he's her main helper... driving, shopping, so forth... this creates a new and troubling situation apart from the already grim news.
None of us have enough money to live on properly as is, and of course this all makes the strain more ominous. Depression haunts us all. Any report I offer on current trials is random; they come so fast and furious that last week's horror gets trumped by this week's. I resist talking about it very much, because I am sick to fucking death of playing the benighted whiner. Nevertheless, the onslaught is surreal in its relentlessness and ever-unpredictable variety.
It achieves the condition of black comedy... like that fake "lost dog" ad listing the pup's numerous ailments and deformities followed by "Answers to the name Lucky." The luck of the fucking Irish, mate. And surely there are some reading this who relish the account of our misfortune, ain't that right, Regan? Well, go ahead. It's the least of my concerns, enemies, flown-the-coop friends et al. I'm more interested in acknowledging those of you who give a shit and reach out with the small, loving note or the breezy phone call despite my own poor recent track record in keeping ties bound.
Between Shelley and me raising our beautiful, joyous, ballbustingly demanding babies with no assistance from baysitters, etc, and running around coping with doctors (and my family members struggling in two different hospitals), it is virtually impossible to respond to individual messages right now, so please understand that you're not being ignored and your support is anything but unappreciated.
My absolute exhaustion makes a world of chores all the rougher, but there is a deeply renewing energy that comes from the affection and faith of friends; it truly helps. There are even occasional words of encouragement for my forlorn musical efforts, and that pulls small success out of crushing failure. That inspires a spirit drenched in hopelessness and worn down by constantly trying to sandbag the levee.
The ocean will take us, of that I have no doubt, but some of you send humor, prayer, appreciation for things like these songs of mine that mean nothing to me anymore. That does mean something to me. And that makes the stupid music somehow valid. And that gives the chores another purpose beside the immediate and concrete: to salvage whatever can be salvaged from life and elevate that... celebrate it.
At the dismal end of wretched 2005, I resolved to make art and music this year... to reconnect with beloved friends, enjoy (what's left of) my wonderful family and keep an eye trained on the higher possibilities. So far it has been tough to do all that, but I remain determined. Financial demands force me to take some horrid job as soon as possible - retail, cleaning, something suitable for an unqualified middle age-er - but creation will somehow resume.
Life is so fucking brutal. Dunno if Pete and brother Bob and Dad and all the others lost are anywhere pulling for us, but I am so glad I knew all of them and know all of you. I answer to the name "Lucky." And the only reason I'm alive is to instill the importance of that in Lily and Miles' sweet, new souls so that they can survive this purgatory. And laugh and sing, somehow, through all that they encounter, human and even worse.
So my love Shelley and I will deal as best we can, and we'll see you soon. I swear.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Obviously I've been absent from this blog for a while, and when I do it it's usually very silly shit. Things have been very hard here.
Today they got a lot harder; we are facing a genuine catastrophe I won't go into.
Shelley and I have a lot to contend with now, and whatever energy we can muster will be directed toward enjoying and nurturing our babies. Everything else is overwhelming and terrifying. Money stuff. Health stuff.
I am sorry that I've been out of touch with all my friends, but it seems likely to remain that way for the time being.
Please keep a good thought for us.
Miracles, anyone?
Today they got a lot harder; we are facing a genuine catastrophe I won't go into.
Shelley and I have a lot to contend with now, and whatever energy we can muster will be directed toward enjoying and nurturing our babies. Everything else is overwhelming and terrifying. Money stuff. Health stuff.
I am sorry that I've been out of touch with all my friends, but it seems likely to remain that way for the time being.
Please keep a good thought for us.
Miracles, anyone?