* · oh · god! · here · comes · the · backlash! · *
- grab a megaphone, blow your brains out -
i haven't felt the urge to write about a feeling in quite some time.
writing was normally an outlet for every bad thought i had in my head, and those were bountiful, but since my cognitive behavioral therapy, i've been able to teach myself to be proactive about those bad thoughts, turning them into something to improve my life, rather than use them for both, attention, and the comfort that came along with feeling morose.
the michael jackson memorial is on.
i realize, in the age of one hundred and thirty character attention spans,
that the very notion of michael's passing is already old news, which, on its own, is quite indicative of the ugly state of the world, but since his passing, while i've been terribly upset, i never really sat and thought about why i was terribly upset.
but now the michael jackson memorial is on.
i joked to my wife, in an offhand sort of way, via email, that i'm watching the memorial, and that i was sad, and in an un-thought out, spontaneous fit of typing, said 'my childhood just died...'
and then i re-read that.
my childhood, in a legitimately awkward and sincere way, just did.
my wife, months and months ago, asked me to go through my childhood and list all the great things i remember about my childhood, from birth to, say, mid teenage years.
i couldn't think of one.
but boy i could recite every negative instance, to an extremely vulgar degree. i had/have loving parents, a loving sister, a wonderful upbringing, but, as i grew up, i grew scales on my back, rotting claws, and a mind hell bent for disaster.
and so a monster i became. a maniacal, complacent, and subtly vicious monster that could crush a room with one sentence, and crush a person with a look.
but now the michael jackson memorial is on.
for my fifth birthday i got 'thriller'
on vinyl. i remember everyone at my birthday party screamed as if he had just walked into the room. i remember screaming too. i remember how happy i was that, that was mine. i remember asking my mom to put that record on, religiously, and i remember dancing to it, not well, mind you, but it didn't matter. i remember not having a clue what 'mama-se, mama-sa, ma-ma-coo-sa'
meant, but giggling every time i heard it, because i loved it so much.
i remember being in my basement , with cousins and aunts and uncles and family friends, watching a motown anniversary special, and with a wonderment only a child is still luckily able to have, watched him moonwalk for the very first time. i remember rewinding it and rewinding it and watching it again. i remember the goosebumps i got from literally hearing the crowd in that audience cracking their jaws on the floor and then having to decide whether to leave it on the floor and keep watching, or, pick it up and potentially miss something else, completely inhuman.
i left mine on the basement carpet.
i remember the thriller video. i remember being so incredibly terrified and excited at the exact same time that i didn't quite know what to do with myself. me being so young, having both a 'run and hide/no stay this is amazing.'
disposition sent a brand new chill through my veins that i couldn't escape. and i never wanted to. something else would have eventually given me that feeling. but something else didn't. michael jackson did.
i remember not seeing e.t. until much much later than any person should, but i could recite the entire movie, because my uncle got me a picture disc, of e.t., on vinyl, narrated by michael jackson, with a giant poster of michael and e.t. together. my mother dug it out, thankfully not having thrown it away through the years, and gave it to me on sunday, and i stared at it, and a rush of child hood comfort and complete sadness that through my self created monster that i constructed, didn't allow myself to hold on to that memory, and that record. but now i have that record again, and i plan on listening to it, again.
and you can say what you wish about michael jackson, about the deeply deeply troubled and disturbing life that was laid out for him. it is pop consumption for the ages, and will be talked about until the end of time.
none of that matters to me.
i am perpetually and forever thankful to michael jackson for giving me the remembrance of a childhood smile that i shattered from my life, that i now have back, and will not allow myself to pretend didn't exist.
and so the michael jackson memorial is on.
and i am filled with great sadness and true joy, filling me with that 'run and hide/no stay this is amazing'
disposition once again, like he first taught me.
thank you michael.
ere's some pertinent news for you all.
the pope recently apologized to canadian aboriginals for abuse, both physical and sexual, by missionaries from the 19th century until the 1970s.""Given the sufferings that some indigenous children experienced in the Canadian residential school system, the Holy Father expressed his sorrow at the anguish caused by the deplorable conduct of some members of the church and he offered his sympathy and prayerful solidarity,"
and in other news, some dude, who claims his grandfather knew a dude who once had a beer with another dude, who said he once bumped into hitler in a strip mall, apologizes for the holocaust.
everything is all better, guys!!!
all jokes aside, i would like to direct your attention to one of the most adorable, beautiful, darling, eye opening little pieces of video i have seen in a while.
i am man enough to say that three quarters of the way through i, and also my adorable, beautiful, darling....umm, eye opening? wife got a little misty up in the eyeball region.
some people you just want to have the honor of being around them for a moment, and absorb what they put out into the world, in hopes you can even get a breath of it.
i have a feeling that 48 year old susan boyle, from bathgate, is one of those people.
i encourage you to watch this, you literally get to watch a person's dream present itself in full view, and, in a day and age where we get more out of praying for failure than applauding success, it was a truly humbling experience to watch someone give a giant, unrelenting fuck you to us all.
some songs are so earnest that even earnest
wouldn't go there, or make a movie with antics only bertram and earnest would find amusing, and not just because earnest is dead. but, i guess, in a cynical world, earnest is dead, as well.
couple of the best sentences i've ever written, right there.
i laugh every time i hear this song, for two reasons. one, because, well, listen to it. and two, because it was heavily featured in one of my favorite movies, hot rod. john farnham - you're the voice (1986)
"je m'appelle mike, je m'appelle philip, je m'appelle mark et je m'appelle boon. nous sommes level 42 sur antenne 2, vous regardez super platine."level 42 - something about you
my search for the official video brought me to this....which is so much better than i could have ever imagined...it's like wanting to eat a hamburger, which, on its own merits, is quite delicious, and then finding a hamburger made of ice cream and vagina. i mean look at the thumb slap work....and the intensity in the players is palpable...i get sweaty just watching it.....
i love this song
so as of last week, my band, way to go, einstein, put out our second record, pseudonym
and as of today, it has sold like ten thousand copies, and we can't keep up to the demand by the people wanting our music....
.....my god, that's as far as i can go with that one. not...even...close...
we're in that...we'll literally suck your cock if you buy our record phase...
so with that being said, if that is something you are interested in, and let's face it, who doesn't
want a gang blowjob by five dudes, help a brotha out and, at the very least, check us out..i think we made a really solid record and i'm quite proud of it. shocking i know, but i think it is something that can stand up in music, as it is certainly better than, i dunno, flo rida?
anyways, you can buy the physical cd at cdbaby.com, by going to this link;pseudonym at cd baby, baby....
or if you like those crazy itunes, like all you kids do these days, go right here, canada or the states, or anywhere, you can get it at itunes...if this link doesn't work for you, just type in way to go einstein in your itunes..i think that's how it works, i wouldn't know, i just
got an mp3 player for christmas of last year. i am in the know.
also, you can find us on myspace and facebook, where i frequently make fun of us, and, maybe you??? you will have to add us and find out, won't you. just go to those and type in way to go einstein and you are set.
thanks for indulging me, your comments and support in regards to the band and the record are greatly appreciated.
i'm going to do my best to not make this preachy, because no one wants to be preached, at. i mean i will try my hardest to not turn this into some sort of pseudo i have a dream speech.
so, anyways, last night, i had a dream
fuckin dr. king. monopolizing the dream story telling niche.
so i had a dream. and it was pretty amazing.
i was playing a show. a musical performance, a complete blowing of minds via my raw and animalistic tendencies on an instrument, some people say they see god himself upon completion of one of my performances, some people think I'M
god upon completion of one of my performances, and i may have misheard, but i believe the phrase "like the first time i heard the beatles,"
was tossed into the air to swirl around the heads of the unassuming....but, it's what i do. i'm an entertainer. a performer. a consummate dream..come true-er?
i can make up words and terms, because of the gifts i bestow.
this dream was no exception. in fact it was so eerily accurate i had to pinch my own balls when waking up. after i pinched my balls for nothing more than unadulterated pleasure seeking, i had to pinch my arm to see if i was still dreaming or not.
so, let me paint the picture for you, using my finger brushes.
the scene was, my parents backyard. a home made basketball hoop (not those fancy new *GRAWW TOTALLY EXXXTREME GNARDOGSSSZZZ* basketball hoops)
, a cracked cement makeshift court and hockey rink (i initially typed hockey rick, and i was like, pshhhh, hockey rick wasn't in THIS dream...stupid kevin, hockey rick has nothing to do with this, greedy fucking rick.)
but this athletic thunder dome was transformed into a cat walk for my tasty feline licks.
the crowd: my immediate family, aunts and uncles, cousins, parents..you know, the toughest crowd since the now infamous mall incident when a then barely out of shitty draws olsen twins had an in-store and did not perform 'brother for sale...'
needless to say, i am lucky to have gotten out of there alive, i was in several pieces, but i was alive, miraculously...but what a rush...i mean the fucking olsen twins!! GAJHA!!!LKHEA...
the band: myself, and of course, my sister. i was on guitar, my sister was on, the hit sticks. yep. remember those hit sticks, where you could just take these electronic sticks and drum the air, and an unfortunate thwack would resonate from the tinny little amplifier that accompanied the hit sticks, simulating a drum god aesthetic for children of all ages, worldwide? yep, she was on the hit sticks.
and me? i was on....the half eaten dinner roll?
i shit you not. i was the guitar player from this "look the fuck out white stripes.."
duo, and i was playing a half eaten dinner roll, in the fashion of a guitar. and i was makin it sing, man....i mean, if jimi hendrix would have stepped in, i would have buttered his biscuit something awful, by dripping my buttered rock and half eaten roll all over his stupid drugged up eyes, blinding him instantly with the deliciousness that is my hot roll.
and the crowd loved it. i believe at one point i was in complete rock god stance, or...sits....on my knees, back arched, head tilted to the heavens, summoning the dinner party gods, allowing them to speak through me and my limp biscuit, and i was just going for it. i really want you to stop for a moment and picture that. me on my knees, playing a bun, and distorted guitar notes coming out, in a backyard, on a slightly over casted afternoon. it's a beautiful visual. solo after solo, heather thwacking uncontrollably on the hit sticks, and my uncle dave roaring with approval....
i played the show of my life. all in attendance agreed, they had never seen someone play an edible object with such tenacity, passion, and moxie, than when i took an extended ten minute slow hand solo, almost telling a story through bendy noted buttery goodness....leaving the jaws dropped, exclaiming, "i can't believe it's not butter!!!!"
oh it was butter, you better fucking believe it. because i have a fucking dream. a dream where dinner rolls can change this world, and heal this world...... one guitar solo at a time.....
your move, mlk.