HEX RAY VISION.

...literally, moving on! Spending this week saying farewell to my beloved home in exile, DISGRACELAND (Take the tour!), while also preparing to merge with my current galpal, Emily. We've got our claws in a late-50's ranch house straight out of my interior-design wet-dreams: 3 bedrooms, 2 living rooms, 1.5 bathrooms, a breakfast nook, a giant back yard, and a swinging patio area. More than enough space to host three people, 4 cats, a movie studio, and about nine states' worth of glitzy thriftstore bounty. We're going to spend the week polishing wood floors and painting the walls aquamarine.

The new house is away from East Lawrence, which is strictly terra incognito for me... But I hope that a move out of my old stomping grounds, away from downtown and all of its psychological guideposts, will finally help divorce me from the last decade of my life. Moving on, indeed.

Wrapping up a week of three shows from both bands: Two with SEXTAPES, one with PALE HEARTS, (which ended with a drug fueled vomit sesh under some bushes in North Larry)...Now I'm taking a week or two off to focus on TEEN TROUBLES instead.



Hopefully we'll have this last bit wrapped up by October, ready to edit, so we can start scripting our next project, a shot-for-shot remake of TEENAGE STRANGLER:




The plan is to start shooting in the spring, with an eye towards breaking in cast and crew for our reboot of THE GALACTIC JUNGLE, which, despite all odds, I'm still hoping to finish before I die.

Shooting one movie, writing two more. Two bands playing three separate shows this week. Two jobs, one of which I called in from this morning just so I would have time to MAKE FOOD. A car that needs worked on, a computer that needs worked on. Four cats. An outline for a novel. Enrollment fees due for my daughter's 5th grade year. Utilities in the balance. Diversion fees still pending from January's epic domestic battle. A drinking problem, a drug problem. The looming possibility of another move.

No time. No money.No friends. NO REGRETS.

The tide rolls in, the tide rolls out...the phases of the moon wax and wane... but all things come full circle in the end.

Thusly, Yours Truly returns to Livejournal.

I've had a few adventures, but you I never forgot you, friends.

It has been presented that what we view as reality is simply a construct, that we interact with a shared intelligence to enshroud ourselves within a prison of symbols. Wiser minds than my own have acknowledged that peering through this veil of symbols is akin to waking from a form of cultural amnesia-- but it requires no small effort to chip through the shell of languages, logos, credos, and gestures that define our species, especially when our senses are constantly bombarded with text messages, reality shows, energy drinks, celebrity gossip, extra value meals, and meaningless political cock-flashing. It's easier to just give in, to absorb the flashing lights around us, and let the talking heads deliver information in tightly controlled bursts.

Priests, politicians, and witch doctors of all stripes have historically staked their claim to the access points of "The Divine," merely adding their own brand of symbology to the mix. In this way, the layers of our reality-construct have become more elaborate, and the greater truths have become more obscured. The hologram of reality is defined by its symbols-- thus, whoever can manipulate these symbols can manipulate reality. This practice is known as "magic," or in some circles, "marketing."

The problem with magic is that our most successful practitioners-- specifically heads of state, business leaders, and clergymen-- only seem to extract the information that benefits them most, that reinforces their power-position in the world. Hence, the Nike swoosh, the Jesus cross, and the printed text in most history books. Your teacher, your pastor, and your nightly newscaster are the only intermediary between the symbol-makers and the symbols themselves. Any actual, meaningful contacts with a "higher reality"-- such as dreams, deja vu, out-of-body experiences, hauntings, extraterrestrial contact, or the occasional psychedelic freakout-- are immediately explained away, filed in the "discard" rack, and summarily forgotten. If it doesn't fit within the parameters of our assured (read: DICTATED) headspace, it didn't REALLY happen. Case closed.

But what happens to this knowledge after we cast it aside? The forbidden history, the forgotten names and experiences, where does it all go when the warlocks-in-charge seal it behind the plaster wall of illusory status-quo? Does it vanish forever? Or does it continue to exist somewhere, in the supercontext beyond this shared hallucination we call "life"?

The answer, I think, is quite obvious. That knowledge is still there. Information never dies. Quite the opposite, in fact-- it grows faster and larger with each ticking second. It remains, sometimes hiding, but always waiting to be absorbed by the right minds. This is the realm of the occult.

I like to peer through cracks in walls. I like to overhear snippets of passing conversations on the street. I love digging through trash for discarded treasures, reclaiming forgotten bits of this world and recycling them into something new. This is a vital part of my daily existence-- I wrap myself in the fringed edges of our culture and crawl through the public eye like a beautiful scab. I pore over record bins and junk drawers in thrift stores in every town I visit. I will bury myself for hours in the dingiest corridors of abandoned buildings, memorizing every layer of graffiti, every ancient shoeprint, every oily rag and empty can. I visit these lost corners of culture and mind and I bring something back every time. Sometimes my brain is so full that is spills over at the sides, staining every lyric I write, every story I tell, every movie I shoot, every drawing, every thought, every movement, every breath. The information I collect is re-introduced into the world, and my reality shifts accordingly. The larger my projects become, the greater my sphere of influence-- you see where this is going?-- until eventually, I hope to channel this information in such a way that the group mind is altered on a mass scale. This is what the Situationists referred to as "seizing control of the Spectacle." I can do this through music, through images, through words. All I need is a little charisma and a willing audience.

Do I consider myself a magician? I am proud to say that I do-- although not in the most traditional sense of the word. To me, books like THE PSYCHOTRONIC ENCYCLOPEDIA OF FILM or THE RE/SEARCH GUIDE TO INCREDIBLY STRANGE MUSIC carry as much esoteric weight as anything churned out by Crowley or Regardie. I derive as much hidden meaning from a viewing of GLEN OR GLENDA as I do from my daily tarot readings. And while I don't hitch myself to haughty, antiquated rituals as a means of directing my will, I do see an immediate correlation between musical performance and spellcasting-- both involve inducing a trancelike mood to bestow information upon the attendant group. Leading a band and screening a movie is just another form of wizardry, in my opinion, and the more practiced I become, the more arcane knowledge I project into my work, the more of a change I can effect on the external world.

CONTINUED IN PART TWO: THE PROGRAM (AND HOW WE GOT WITH IT)!

In the midst of fourteen straight days of work (which, between two jobs, grants me precious little time of my own), I find myself clinging to fleeting moments of inspiration to help me maintain some sembelence of sanity. Today, I was granted three such moments...


I received THIS in the mail, which I am incredibly excited about:



I stole the neighbor's paper and saw THIS on the comics page:



I witnessed the aftermath of THIS on my way to Job Number One:



What did I do to deserve such a fun day?

A few images from my daughter's awesome visit over Thanksgiving:









We had a fabulous time-- making sock puppets, reading scary stories, playing "Centipede," quoting "Airplane!"... All the usual things people do to bond with their children over the holidays.

Four days came and went faster than I expected, though. It never seems like enough time, but it would feel that way to me even if we spent the rest of our lives hanging out together. The clock is always ticking.

In other news, I started shooting my movie! I'll have some footage for you all to gawk at soon...

There's this magazine called DETAILS that has been around forever, but I've never troubled myself to peruse an issue. Until yesterday, that is, whilst lingering in the dressing room area of a local resale shop. Kelly was trying on clothes, I was sitting on a couch, and there was a big stack of magazines sitting on the table beside me. Right on top was an issue of DETAILS. Figuring, What the fuck?, I picked it up and flipped ot a random page.

The article was 10 SIGNS YOUR WIFE MAY BE CHEATING ON YOU. Some of the red alerts on the list included SHE STOPS NAGGING YOU and SHE GETS AN UNEXPECTED WAX JOB. Ya-a-a-wn. I flipped to the next page.

WHEN TO GO ANAL. Subtitled: NOW THAT ANAL SEX HAS GONE MAINSTREAM, MORE MEN ARE STARTING TO DEMAND IT ON THE FIRST DATE... AND HERE'S WHY! This article was illustrated by an image of a woman's ass with a photshopped trail tunnel blasting between the cheeks.

I closed the magazine. In less than thirty seconds, I was able to identify the target demographic for DETAILS magazine: Passive-aggressive closet-cases whose wives are cheating on them because they compulsively force anal sex upon them every night. Am I mistaken about this?

Here's my tentative list for this month's 80'S VHS HORROR FEST... THis isn't set in stone by any means, and I'm certainly open to comments and suggestions!

THE GATE
CHOPPING MALL
WAXWORKS
NIGHT OF THE DEMONS
BRAIN DAMAGE

I kind of blew my load last year-- RE-ANIMATOR,FRANKENHOOKER, TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 2, and MOTLE HELL. How can I hope to match an all-star lineup like that one?

I plan to start shooting my new movie in a couple of weeks (my first REAL solo mission!), and I'm terrified from brain to balls. I want to get this first scene under my belt before the cold weather hits, then tinker with sets all winter long so I'm all set to dive into the main plot next spring. I'll be utilizing an actor I don't personally like (this being the "murder" part of the murder mystery, his screen time will be blissfully and brutally short), I have yet to cast any principal leads... fuck, the script hasn't even been completely written yet. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

I guess I have to begin somewhere. And besides, if I can't bring myself to start this thing, what hope do I ever have of finishing it?

Three months left in 2007, and I have to admit that this has been one of the top five worst years of my life. Some of you may have noticed a steep decline in Livejournal posts these past 9 months... The moments of glory have been few and far between, I'm afraid, and I resolved long ago to stop boring my Friends List with the intimate details of my most depressing moments.

On the other hand, 2007 has been my most lucrative year, creatively... Whoever said there was no correlation between psychic misery and artistic output must have been a shill for some global antidepressant company. If unrelenting stress and a soul-wrenching blue streak translates into higher creative returns, then bring on the heartache, man!

Here are my resolutions for 2008 (three months in advance, even!):

1. Condense and compartmentalize. I have too much stuff-- movies, books, clothes and knick-knacks-- and too little of it is relevant to my lifestyle. CLEAN IT OUT! This goes for friends, too... If you aren't on my "A" list, you'd better start watching your step. (kidding) (not really)

2. Chill on the booze. Scale back from an every day drunk to a mildly social imbiber. Too many of this year's problems were alcohol-related, and I'm getting too old to harbor and wild Bukowski-esque fantasies about myself. Scale back on the sauce, and scale back on the friendships with people who do nothing else but drink.

3. The Spook Lights go NATIONAL. For real this time. We're recording next week, and I want to tour like a motherfucker next spring. Kelly and I can dump any dead weight we deem necessary-- It's time to take this show on the road, with or without the current lineup.

4. Work on this all-ages club thing. Some kids I know in town are trying to wrangle the funds to open one up, and I've offered to help set up a few benefit shows at the bar for them. Also maybe do some flier work and see about booking a few bands from time to time. This music scene has treated me pretty fucking good for the past 15 years-- I figure it's high time I gave something back to it. Plus, if I'm really planning on moving away in a couple of years, ti would be nice to leave something more behind than just a fashionable memory.

5. Stop caring so much. Look, just because I'm your pal doesn't mean I give a shit about your wanky poetry or lame-ass jam band. Likewise, just because I'm your bartender doesn't mean I care about your meaningless problems. I'm sorry to hear you don't have a home or any money to feed yourself... But riddle me this: How the fuck can you afford to sit in the bar and bitch to me every afternoon? Take it on down the road, buddy-- preferably to the job placement office.

September 11th, 2007:

Vladmir Putin dissolves the Russian Government. Shinzo Abe steps down as prime minister of Japan. Israel resumes its missle bombardment of Palestinian settlements along the Gaza Strip.

Also, Kelly Nightengale and Rob Gillaspie are featured in the latest Lawrence.com "Style Scout."



( CLICK HERE for the whole shocking story! )

And now, a story from my week of bartending:

Monday afternoon, a couple of meth-banging hags slithered through the Replay doors and forced themselves against the bar. One of them had a twitchy eye and several blood-crusted bald spots on her scalp; the other was missing several important teeth in the top part of her mouth. Like every other person I hate in the world, they stepped on the wrong foot straight off and ordered a shot of something called "Liquid Cocaine."

"Do you know what's in it?" I asked.

"How should I know?" one of them gasped. "You're the bartender!"

I shrugged. "Never heard of it, and if you don't know what goes in it, I'm not going to make it."

Her friend shouldered in, impatient and slobbery. "How about Kool-Aid? You know what goes in that?"

"Sugar, water, and powder from a packet."

They looked at each other, did a simultaneous eyebrow-pinch, and turned back to face me.

"Don't you know how to make anything?" Blad-Patch asked.

I shrugged again (I've gotten REAL used to shrugging at my job), then motioned to the row of whiskey bottles on the shelf behind me. "This is a real beer-and-bourbon shot bar, lady. Anything up there look good to you?"

Tooth-Gap licked the space in her blackened gums. "Sex on the Beach?"

"Never had it." At this point, I was just being obstinate. I know what a fucking Sex on the Beach is, I just don't like making them. Mainly because I don't like the people who drink them, and I want to discourage their patronage. This pair of jittery twats, for example. The only way I was gonna make Sex on the Beach for either of them was if the drink recipe called for a shot of draino in each glass. Unfortunately, the fella who wrote THAT particular bartending guide is probably behind bars by now. People don't appreciate a good population-thinning like they used to. So it goes.

They finally settled on Buttery Nipple shots, which I agreed to make in hopes of expediting their departure. Two shots each because, in the words of Bald-Patch, "They'll get you really fuckin' fucked up this way!"

Their faces hovered inches from the bottle as I tapped out a few drops of Irish cream. The shot glasses fogged up under their mutually heavy panting. Gap-Tooth was literally drooling on the bar, but I couldn't tell if it was from anticipation or because of her unfortunate dental impairment. Either way, the counter below her chin had slowly glazed over with a reflective pool of acrid saliva.

I pushed the shots over to them with one finger each.

Bald-Patch rubbed her paws together. "Oh yeah, oh shit, oh boy. This is the good stuff here. Lotsa booze in them Buttery Nipples. They will get you all kinds of fucked up."

I turned my head while they sucked them down. Call it professional courtesy-- I didn't think it was appropriate for me to vomit on the floor while they had their afternoon meal. When I looked back, all four glasses were empty, and Gap_Tooth was smearing a white glob from the corner of her lips.

"Mmm-MMM!" she belched. "I sure do love that buttery flavor! I tell you what, if my husband's nipples gave out that butter-stuff, he'd never leave the bedroom... and neither would I! HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!" She clutched the bar with all of her might, as if the force of her laughter might send her rocketing through the wall.

Bald-Patch rolled to her feet and helped her friend upright. She looked me up and down with what I presumed to be her best bedroom gaze. "You're fine, but you ain't the finest." They collected their belongings and beat a sweaty path for the door. "We gotta catch a bus to the Crosstown Tavern... that's where the REAL hard stuff is!"

"Hard Stuff"= Crack or Cock? I turned this equation over in my brain as they vanished outside. Thankfully, no palatable answer presented itself. I poured myself a beer and glanced at the empty tip jar and I thought, Ah, well. Sometimes the money isn't worth it, anyway. Then I switched on the TV over the bar and flipped through channels, hoping to catch the end of "Golden Girls." Those ladies on that show, they were a REAL class act...