Yo Yo First Burns of DatM

Neighbor Kent wouldn't mind a copy of my songs thus far. He heard me rockin' the backyard lonely but shout is how I sing and thus it the BANG-BAM transfers to the nearby houses.

"I could burn you a copy of the tunes so far."

"Yeah that'd great."

His speakers are spectacular. The audio set-up whoa! Kent is a super sound hound so for my dinge to be playing at some point for whatever many/not-so many seconds will be awe-the-some.

So goes the burn of my demo reel . . .

Death and the Maidens

Why title the album "Death and the Maidens?"

That's all I seem to fucking sing about. Killing myself or swooning over chicks. So there ya go, Lackeys.

And here ya go, Lackeys.

The 1st and 3rd burn of DatM. JBoy has the second CD in his Corolla somewhere, currently unmarked.

Look closely at the tracklist. Something's missing. Enamored enamored I am enamored. So enamored am I, I unknowingly left Modern Lovely off the 3 initial burns

Oops =P

I'll catch 15 on the 4, 5 and whatever, whenever, if ever. ?

Neighbor Song Jive, Yeah

I went outside to walk the house's block of Jim Dr. with Sage yellow/orange-stripe strapped on to practice K.P. & Envyi's 1998 Hip Hop hit single Swing My Way. The approach is quick-fire verses and a swell singing chorus.

"Shorty swing my way, you sure look good to me . . ."

Across the street on the other sidewalk I walk the walk, singing (or shouting according to your . . ok ok it is shouting =P) out the million word song I'm trying to memorize. There are stutter stops of course, so much info into such a little brain is a Johnny Mnemonic-type O-VER-LOA D. I cross the street again and on the return 40 yard trip back to the house a door opens. It's the door of a good ol' neighbor Robert. But it's not Robert upon welcome, nah, it is his wife, Marlene.

"Good morning!!" I says in joy.

On a phone she speaks away towards my direction, smiles asking "So was that you singing out there the other day?"

"Yup that's me" I reply, smiling back.

"It's good! I had to stop talking to my friend on the phone so I could listen!!"

Awesome, I think to myself. =)

She asks if those songs she heard were my very own. I tell her yup I have written 12 ditties now.

Marlene says there is a particular song that she especially marked for and based upon her lyrical 4-5 word recital I surmise it may either be the Hall & Oates tune I covered or a Decemberists chow I like to holler, Engine Driver.

"You should be on American Idol!!" she says with delight to which I am very gracious and thank her mucho. "Will you vote for me?" I ask. "Yes!! Yes."

Have a nice day, door closed.

Tremendous! =)

I walk back to the front of 613 with a bit of Engine Driver, "and if you don't love me let me go."

In to the kitchen I stand, guitar in hand, smiling, telling Parental Unit A & B of the yahoo compliments received from neighbor Marlene just a minute ago.

Unit A is apathetic.

Unit B has a look of disgust on its face.

Thanks for the support, guys. You're incredible. Really, you are.

The Man Who Came To Write

What is writing to me?

It is both friend & enemy.

It is the di di mau,

the gun to the head.

It is the rescue chopper

flying over head.

Tortured, I scream

"Them damn rats

gone eat my legs."

Write

I wither as withered,

better to pen cripple

than to get bet on

with a 'volver to the head.

BOOM!

I am not (yet) dead.

Still I write,

I write

of being (when) dead.

BOOM!

I am not (no) dead.

Yes I write,

I write

of living a life

sentence.

For write do I do

'Tis the voice

I

may or may not have.

Just read these words

and learn me

and learn what life is seen

through the di di mau

now slowed down,

for it is written.

I write.

I am not yet dead.

So friend.

So enemy.

In my stead.

Exist beyond the simple touch of pen.

What is writing to me?

It is to live

beyond

being dead.

So friend.

So enemy.

Go on.

Eat my mind's legs.

Go ahead.

Rescue thought chopper

fly overhead.

Both matter not

for I write.

And it is written.

And it is written.

BOOM!

I am not (will never be) dead.

Lacking as a Marx

So I'm in the shower, splish force splashing away the yesterday and Marx comes to mind. Specifically Chico (pronounced Chick-Oh, get it right monkey) Marx who got his name because he was a well known "chicken chaser" - he sure love them chicks. So do I, Lacking I. The difference being that Chico had the swagger and the suave to fulfill his desires to be accompanied by many a female.

I got shit.

=l

So as I shower I ponder "Which Marx brother am I?"

Chico is out of the question. That guy is pimp. The pimpiest of the pimps of the Marx Brothers clan. Groucho? Am I Groucho? Nope. He's got such a quick wit that if he did his stuff in slow motion in his sleep I still wouldn't be able to keep up, no sir. It would be awesome to talk fire like Groucho but alas my words typically come out only after minutes of ultra-careful deliberation. Then rehearsal. Then a mic check. Then a second rehearsal.

Not Groucho. No.

Nooray for Captain Spaulding.

Harpo? Honk honk!! Negative. His innocent mischief is unmatched while I walk these modern days as an utter prick. Additionally, there's no way I could shut up and throw a hoopla on physical antics alone. As loud as I write, I am loud as I speak (when enthused). AND I can't play the harp. Honk honk no. Be quiet, you're not Harpo, oh Lacking One.

So that leaves . . .

Zeppo Marx.

Huh?! Zeppo Marx?

Wait wait wait wait waaaait. The straight man? The boring one? I'M Zeppo Marx? Ahhh crap. Margaret Dumont was a more well known straight man then the lesser Marx. I might as well be Gummo!!

Despite the refreshing shower I STILL goooooooot shit.

=P


[ FUN FACT: Chico's real name is Leonard Marx. Playa. ]

Yes Indeed It Is the 1st of the Month

"Hey Life, it's me, I STILL see ya!! And it's the 1st of the month. What up, homie?" Enjoy.