Clean Slate

Life is complicated. Life is simplicity. I have no doubt the complications, heartbreaks, happiness, sorrow, failures and successes we experience in life are due to our own feeble and frail human makeup. At least this is all too obvious in my case. We as adults, are what we as children were instructed to be. Our weakness as well as our strength, was in us at birth. What we do with these emotions and feelings that we were born with has a lot to do with the grownups that we had to use as role models as children. If our parents turned to violence in order to deal with whatever stress they had to deal with, and we had to watch this, or be used as the brunt of their frustrations, then we are more than likely, going to do the same things when we come of age. But even if they kept it hidden from us, we could feel their vibes. We knew. Children are like dogs in a way. They seem to sense when things are bad. I have a theory that when we are born, we are all knowing. We have the answers. Although we have not yet learned to speak or walk, we know the secrets. When we begin to learn, we do this by observation. Our eyes see what the people who are older than us do. Our ears, although not able to understand actual words, can easily decipher, from the tones of the words we hear, good and bad. Happy and sad. Angry and happy. While the cooing sounds our mother may make when lying next to us, when it is just the two of us and no one else is around, they are greatly outweighed by the negative and angry tones that may be made at other times, even if these actions are not directed toward us. Good things are natural, therefore they are easy for our young minds to take in, digest and process. In the human-animal psyche, while violence is natural as well, it is much more difficult for us, especially as babies, to accept. It does not seem natural. It takes some getting used to, as opposed to say, sounds we may hear that are loving and caring. But once the shock of violence to our system is introduced at such an early age, it quickly, perhaps instinctively, takes precedence over the natural, calming feelings of good. This tells us that bad outweighs good, which puts our positive nature on the back burner, and forces our still forming mind to not only focus most of our attention on the negative, but to begin the process of forgetting the naturalness of our in-born positive emotions.

Short term, long term, uh...

Well, this is a trip. After all this time, I found this blog, yet again. I have never really used it very much, but am planning on bookmarking it (I know how to do that now), and visiting it, hopefully every day. After having become one hundred percent legal, as far as my medical marihuana card certification is concerned, I am allowed to possess two and a half ounces of medicinal marihuana, and be in possession of twelve marijuana plants as well. I have six right now, which are my first attempt to grow any more than one or two plants at a time. I know nothing about the process. The quality of medicinal weed is very high indeed, and can be purchased from licensed dispenseries. I even have my card! Has it's pro's and it's cons. I am definitely on yet another list, but the weed is pretty much legal, so it's cool. I'm getting too old to rebel. That was yesterday.

What Liars Should Do.

One thing I hate pretty much mo0re than anything else is people who, while in a position of power or authority, lie to me. I have only one thing to say to them, and that is this: you should go out into an open field, somewhere near an African banana plantation, where the overlord is a white man, and the paid bosses are African, but are pretty white, really, until it comes to the one word that they hate just as much as their slave-proper brothers, especially when it comes from a white man's mouth, which is nigger, and which you should scream as loudly and consistently, in their general direction, until they all hear you, and are coming for you in droves, with guns and spears and all kinds of evil nasty bad shit, and they shoot you, and stab and poke you, but not enough to make you die, just enough to make you pass out for a while, and when you wake up, you will find yourself buried from the neck-down in dirt, with African shit all over your head, as well as cow's blood and honey mead made from calf's blood and urine and rotten milk, which, if you drank it, you might get really good and fucked-up and not notice the Red African Man Eating Fire Ants who are quickly crawling over the ground towards you, but you can't drink it, no, you can't drink ANYTHING because, like I said, you are buried from the neck-up in solid dirt, and therefore can't move your limbs and soon you will be devoured slowly by the ants while the African's fuck your wife and children in front of your eyes. That is what people in power who lie to me should do.

Why I don't Like Public Libraries. Part One.

I started to write about the origins of punk yesterday, and had to log-off early. My big plan was to get on line again today, and finish what I started, but now that I am here, on a public computer, in a public library, the whole idea seems to have drifted away. It might be because the woman sitting next to me, literally smells like a corpse. I can't recall a stench worse than her, or even close to being anywhere near her smell in my entire life. She smells like a rotted corpse might look, as I have never seen a real one, only those portrayed in movies. I have however, seen pictures of bodies piled upon one another, from the holocaust, and she even smells worse than the worst of those. I would get up and move, but my time is short. I fear that if I had to smell her rot for any extended period of time, my days might just be short on this earth. How one could possibly smell like that, and not know it, is beyond me. I wonder, should I complain? should I attempt to tell her just how badly she reeks? I am truly afraid that should I tap her on the arm, it might just puncture her thin skin, and at that point, all of which is inside of her that is actually making her smell like she does might come pouring out, and I just may not be quick enough to dodge it, inevitably getting some on my shirt sleeve, which would somehow permeate my entire existence. My entire soul, leaving me smelling like she does, and eventually, getting so used to it, that one day in the near future, I find myself in the same boat as she is in now.

Punk Rock Music

I feel as though I must clarify something here. Last night, my new 'friend', Tina, made a confession to me, that there is only one type of music that she dislikes, and that would be Punk Rock. I quickly recommended three songs to her, mainly for her listening edification, which were as follows: Fear; "Fuck Christmas"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Zgol2NQhlM, mainly for the humor as well as the excellent Shock-Value (more on that later), The New York Dolls; "Pillhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajIt6x9ubwAs"- (the best version I could find on-line), for the gut rocking cool of it all, plus the swagger. Who else could pull this off wearing a dress other than Punks?, and finally The Sex Pistols; "New York" (by the way, if ya don't know it, give it a quick listen>>>>> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71lJWj03OUI), for the, well, for the fuck of it. I thought these would supply a quick primer to Punk. I hate to have people judge something without seeing or knowing the whole picture, ya know what I mean?

From what I have been able to cull from history, such as it is, Punk was risen from the ashes of the apathetic nothingness, the staid and barren state of things both culturally as well as socially in the U.K back in the 1960's. There was a garbage strike at the time, and it was literally piling up to unbelievable heights in the streets, as well as the lack of jobs available to youths in this country. The kids there were, musically, caught between the hippie music, and a great void of, well, nothing in particular. The Government, meaning the Queen and her minions, who were and still are, rich beyond belief, were, as always, calling all the shots, and the kids, albeit a small handful of them, were ready for Anarchy, which they were led into by such seminal bands as the Sex Pistols and (possibly, but not in my book, by any means The Clash), whom opened the doors for a pretty much 'any thing goes' attitude toward music, and held tight the line (Pistols) between revolution and evolution and anti-government status, such as glorifying apathy and the cultural-stale that was at the time, seemingly being force-fed down the throats of the poor to middle class English teen market.

Early proto-punk bands, from Amerikkka, such as The Kingsmen, and the whole Garage Band thing from the early to late 60's and beyond, mainly from the North-West of the U.S., I would have to say, pretty much set the precedent for the anything goes, mind numbing more or less free-form jam bands that would soon be all the main-stream rage from Seattle, such as Cobain's band (I forget the name) and their ilk, which only goes to show one of my favorite sayings, or quotes from my late father.. "Nothing Is New". Nope. It's pretty much all the same thing, packaged a bit differently, sure, put-forth differently as well, but still, everything is old, and nothing is really new. The whole Punk movement was originally put in place for one reason and one reason alone, and that was to shock the establishment. Sometimes the status-quo needs a good, violent ass-fucking to stop them in their tracks, and allow them to take notice of just how staid they have become. In the 1920's America, it was Jazz/Swing music and flappers to boot. In the late 1930's and 40's, it was Big Band and Swing music. The 1950's brought in an influx of Negro music, such as Little Richard Penniman (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFL047fmsgg) and the like, which scared the Amerikkkan Governmnt so badly that they banned it from the airwaves, mainly due to man's fear of any cock that might be bigger than his own. For them (U.S. gov) to even have to think about losing their women folk to a band of sex-fueled, wildly dancing, uninhibited Negro's (hey, I capitalized it, so shut the fuck up) was beyond any normal thought pattern they might have, and thus, was almost stopped before it could flourish. Note that I said almost. Despite the fact that seminal rockers such as Little Richard, Chuck Berry and the like could not get any mainstream radio air play (Little Richard actually ended up selling his songs to Pat Boone, for $50.00 a piece. Please watch this-shudder-video, and see for yourself http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vv-LAbMbEn4), their music nevertheless did not stop the black rockers from kicking lots of white ass, and fucking even more white daughters than would have been the case had the F.C.C. not made such a big deal out of the whole thing in the first place. The Cleveland Ohio disc-jockey, Allen Freed was screwed over by the Gov'ment, not for his doing what everyone else in the music industry was doing, which was taking bribes (payola) for certain songs receiving air-play, but for his openly backing several black Rock and Soul acts, as well as putting on his now infamous Rock and Roll shows, for all the white and black kids to attend. I know this doesn't really have a lot to do with the subject here, which is Punk, but if you don't have a full understanding of just what Rock and Roll, which is what Punk is directly culled from, and all of it's strange history, you could never fully grasp the whole Punk movement, which, as I stated earlier, was not as much about the actual playing of the music, as it was the people, or the musicians, who (attempted to) performed it.

One did not really have to be a great, or even non-existent musician, to somewhat front a Punk band. A good example of this would be the late, great Syd Vicious. Syd couldn't really play the bass. But he could sneer with the best of them. Elvis Presley knew only a few, rudimentary chords on the guitar, yet one would have never known that, as he, at least in his early years, always had one slung around his neck. Along with that sneer. Musicians such as Vicious and Presley played their sneer much better than their instruments. They wielded their attitude with the same care-free, reckless abandon that they wielded their guitars, much more-so, if you really look at it. So it is the attitude that is the main, the key ingredient, in firstly, Rock and Roll, and ultimately, as it is what I am writing about here, the whole Punk Rock episode of musical history.

When I first heard Punk proper, which was around 1973, when I was 15 or 16 yeas old, I was simply delighted. It was a band called the New York Dolls, and I believe what I most liked about them was their seemingly uncaring attitude. They didn't seem to care if their guitars were tuned, or clean, or if their vocals were melodic. And they sure as shit did not care about what people thought about them. I think the word that best describes the way they probably thought might have been 'FUCK'. At least, that's the word that came to my mind when I heard them rocking out with such tunes as "Personality Crisis, or "Looking For A Kiss". If you haven't listened to these songs, and have been put in a position of judging music whatsoever, then all I can say is Shame on you! Coming from a musical background full of The Beatles, The Stones, and Elvis (now don't get me wrong. This type of artist is still first and foremost in my now, but not for long, non-existent musical catalouge) , whose polished studio-music was near perfection, with nary a hint of what might be considered a mistake, I was really very refreshed to hear this type of music blaring forth from my speakers. Yes. This is what Rock and Roll was really all about. Kicking ass and taking names. If you don't like what were doing, then get the fuck out, and make room for some new-thinkers. You might want to look at this video, before you box Punk Rock music. Before you judge a thing such as music just on it's sound alone..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CxyDX8kN6s...... Cab Calloway. What a concept!

I first began playing "Hard-Core Punk Music", because what I really wanted to do was kill a few people. And the more I scared myself with that sort of thinking, the louder I turned up the vocals and guitar amp. The more I wanted to see certain people bleed, the more anger I put into my songs' lyrics. In essence, had I not had Punk, I would probably be in prison. Thank You God For Punk Rock Music. For Expressionism. For Fucking Freedom! Let It Ring, Baby.

Fucking Hippie

One of the main things that allowed me my sanity at the salvation Army for the last eight months and nineteen or so days, was the fact that I was involved in, in charge of, really, the Praise Band. Now that I have checked out of the ARC motel, I have no venue to perform in. Grand Rapids being the second largest city in Michigan, and a college town to boot, means that there are several coffee houses and the like which gives a singer-songwriter such as myself the opportunity to perform. Unfortunately, the neighborhood in which I am temporarily residing has no such place, and the only way for me to get around is either by foot, or by city-bus, which I really do loathe. And as much as I love walking, it is rather cold and slushy for one to do so this time of year, so I again, must practice the one thing (out of many) that I am not very good at, which is patience.

On my way here, I spotted a fucking hippie. "What better person to ask about a coffee house than a fucking hippie", I said to myself as I walked in his general direction, trying not to be obvious in my attempt to make eye contact. "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to know of any coffee houses around here, would you?", I asked. "There's a Burger King right there. I'm sure they have coffee", was his reply. I said thanks and walked away, muttering something to myself about how if I wanted coffee, I would have simply gone to B.K., you stupid fucking hippie! Now, as I think about that transaction of words, I see things from a different perspective. I somehow, sometimes, have the negative habit of grouping people together, much like the police do when they assume that if one is black, dressed like east L.A. Gangstas, driving west down I-94 out of Detroit, listening to violent rap 'music', which is blaring from their 1972 Lincoln-lowrider-town car that they might just have something to do with the illegal drug trade. I believe they call it 'profiling'. My assumption was that, simply because the fucking hippie had long hair, and probably smelled of patchouli and weed, that he, was indeed, an 'enlightened one', and being such, would surely know of all the head-shop's, coffee-houses, sit-in's, be-ins, love-in's and the like. My mistake. (No, not 'my bad'. For some reason, it simply bothers me when people over a certain age, say 3, use that term. Much like the phrase 'baby mama'. My God, it is one thing to actually be a sheep, but do people have to continually do the whole bayyyying thing in public, just to keep on proving the fact that they are so easily led. If one wanted to be 'cool' and 'hip' nowadays, all one would really have to do is watch one of the reality white trash-poor negro talk shows such as Springer and the like, to have the whole vernacular down pat, and just because it is socially acceptable to talk like you have no common knowledge of the English language, and books are something you have on a shelf to impress your Parole Officer, doesn't mean that I have to join the parade. Sorry for the rant).

But I digress. Back to the hippie. I finally found the library, and thought that I would write on my newly found, old blog, that I apparently started some time ago, but had forgotten all about 'til just the other day. I do miss writing so very much. I am at a point right now, where I feel as if I am doing nothing way too much(?), and when a man becomes lazy and complacent in his life, well, at least for me, it can be a bad thing. I am so very fortunate to have the talents that I have, but at the same time, if I am not creating, then I feel as if I am frozen. But, I am happy, and I am content. as much as I feel the need to keep people at bay, at arms length, I have extended my physical self, as well as my Heart, to a woman as of late, and so far, it is a good thing. a very good thing. and if that is all I have right now, I am a very rich man indeed.

Free.. Somewhat.

I have been locked away for the last, well, almost 9 months, in a place that, in retrospect, was probably good for me, although at times, I pretty much went squirrellry there. according to this spell check thingie, 'squirrelly' is not a word. Neither is squirley, squirrely, squirelly or squirley, or thingie, for that matter. I really can't be bothered with semantics at this point, as I am trying to figure out this blog-site, having deleted my real blog, which I had been writing on for several years now. With the push of a button, gone. All gone. While doing some research online, looking at who offers free blogsites, I stumbled across this one, and lo and behold, found that I had already posted on it, some time ago, which is nice I suppose. As I have not one thing to write about now, I am going to publish this, and see just what that whole process entails.