my grandma, who was really my mom, died today.

10:oo am 3/30/07

im broken, finally

there is a scent called 'nag champa'. its burning now like she is here. i love that smell.

more me

shes gone
my son is gone too
swears shell return
i hope its tru

i hate talking about me, but lets do it anyway

ive missed work. for doctors and hospitals and tests. ive seen maybe four doctors in one week, had a weird test (ENG) and have found out the following:

my balance issue - dont know
MRI - dont know, which is a good thing (im going to get a pic of it though, i want to frame my brain)
ENG - dont know
ENT (ear, nose, throat) doc - ears drums on both side are completely retracted (sucked in to the cavity with tubes, etc behind it) causing hearing loss (which could get worse). also, i may need tubes put back in. nice. left ear is infected.

side bar: in 1982 i had surgery on my left ear. i was told i had hole in my ear drum. there was no hole. i had a mastoidectomy. there was a cyst/tumor growing behind my ear at the base of my skull (which is een through the ear, i guess) and they took it out. i didnt know this until yesterday.

good to know, wouldnt you think?

and, the ENT doc says all this ear shit isnt the cause of my balance issue.

so one answers as to why i cannot remember any thing any more or stumble side to side from time to time like a sod.

my next post, i plan on elaborating the ENG. its very fucking interesting and weird. humorous and terrifying, yeah thats how ill call it.

you cannot trust anyone

so.
i may have a vestibular disorder. nice.
it may be called 'Meniere's Disease'. even better.
it may require surgery. the hits keep coming.

i may never be able to play drums again.

but enough about me.
and,
lets review.

someone said they make music because they have to, i can see that though its amusing. i have always found composing/playing as a catharsis/therapy. i forget what catharsis means right now. but, if we take this theory of creating art as a need, then what do you do if its physically taken from you. its not a question.

decison, decided, done

im happy in a sense. ive never been a happy person and thats fine with me. play with my friends a revel in the fact that youre no better than them; also cherish you stole from them.

im tired:

of idiots
of self
of me
of you
of metaphors

metaphors are created to hide truth. pieces of shit crawled under a rock and growing hair and not having a clue and will not listen to reality...
wait...
they didnt bring it either when it was needed on this side.

you cant even say goodbye.

Fact

"The great American folk singer and composer Woody Guthrie died on October 3, 1967, after suffering from HD for 13 years. He had been misdiagnosed, considered an alcoholic, and shuttled in and out of mental institutions and hospitals for years before being properly diagnosed. His case, sadly, is not extraordinary, although the diagnosis can be made easily by experienced neurologists."

Source = Huntington's

The Cold War, Die Cow, Die I (draft)

They met on the side of a road not knowing what to look for only having talked on the phone once or twice. They shook hands and talked about a certain car and one of them introduced the other to yet another man whom the guy did not know but thought he looked like girl. We made noises together and ten years passed.

In those years, the guy that looked and talked like a female left. More came and went. There was the one who had accomplished more than any of us. There was another who might have been a face in the industry. There was the brilliant and caring guy who built a tree. And there was the kid, who remained a kid. After all these men, after long drives, bright lights, cigarette smoke, and the stench of beer and burnt cigarettes, the bitter frost-bitten story of a cold heart starts here.

Now two men lay flat on an over-used surface gazing at the same blackness above wondering if it truly is a ceiling or can you go higher. Did anyone win? Who is Cain and who is Abel? Know these men are not related if only by words. Once the best of friends, sure, but not now. An army exists though it is only one man. The betrayer against the betrayed. An arsenal of electronic words. ‘Were going to die here, son.’ Pause. ‘Okay father, I am ready.’ Fucking Thermopylae. The one who stands alone here is the one loaded. The one who stands with others here is the one unarmed.

my love, or endless

why cant i let this die? die you fucking over-weight, alcoholic, selfish, vain cow. for the lord of whomever, just die.

i reread conversations. but its not helping.
i have been erased. but its not helping.


this blog was meant as a column and it shall be. no over-used metaphorically-challenged poems that only i would get will appear. no poems period. theyre dead you know, poems. they died with bukowski and cummings and poe. and so the dead need to be laid to rest. what a minute, theyre already entombed. oh, but we will conjure up a spirit as such and lose originality all together. wont we? yes. i have proof.

then there is sanity. i swear to you, wherever i am at, whomever i am talking to, i have heard the phrase, "you know the definition of insanity is, right?" about 195952329563254648613 times in the last six months.

i always find what im looking for in my mind when i do this. but this is the last time. maybe. i dont know. i hope so. and, yes, i do know the definition of insanity.

i want to talk to you about the following things here at no cost to anyone but time:

• music (bands, writing, playing, show and cd reviewing, instruments - local and abroad)
• politics and politicians (state and national / foreign - note: my resume says i can. i have actually worked for politicians (the incumbent and the campaigner) who will remain nameless for the time being)
• baseball (need i say more)
• philosophy (especially Existentialism and the Absurd - im learning. we are a black hole)
• books (what ever i feel like)

oh man, i adore agendas. im an idiot.

and to those who may be reading, i mean every word i say. and trust me, its not arrogance.

now, i will ask you one more time, die cow, die. im going to say this in my head and maybe out loud in public, 'die cow, die'. and im not even hungry.

what im reading now:
for esme with love and squalor - salinger
the first man - albert camus
a little of aristotle and kant as well

what im listening to right now:
everything

bye,
the better w

the st soundtrack 2.0 (entire albums)

wilco -all
mono - all
explosions in the sky - all of a sudden i miss everyone
mogwai - all

the sunken treasure soundtrack 1.0

i dont care, go ahead and judge:

lost one - jay-z
the sharpest lives - my chemical romance
say you, say me - lionel richie
slow hands - interpol
turn me loose - loverboy
every breathe you take - the police
the man comes around [early take] - johnny cash
what goes around.../....comes around - justin timberlake
the grand tour - george jones
public pervert - interpol
this aint a scene, its an arms race - fall out boy
devil in jersey city - coheed & cambria
hello - lionel richie
lazy eye - siversun pickups
misunderstood - wilco
the light & the glass - coheed & cambria

note:
i just broke all the "rules"

the massacre went well part two

this city is overwrought with shit.
i hate to curse but i cannot help myself.

set aside the homeless issue, the drug abuse and/or drug transactions that take place in my sight, the front of my home (where i stand to smoke); if you remove redevelopment of inner-city projects (push the poor to the outskirts of this mass of land named after someone no one cares to study up on), then maybe all we have left is a place to eat, shop, and drink (hence the convenience of modern man/woman). never mind over-priced housing which is, in itself, ridiculous. and lets not speak about our senators and representatives caring about their constituents.

missing from up above (paragraph) is music. the music here is no sunken treasure (my column, clever huh?). nor are the bands that populate the genre. genre doesnt live here in houston, only scene. and then there is that stupid, yet catchy, song that rings in my head now - i should paraphrase - this aint a scene, its a goddamned arms race.

renamed (creating a new sect), i heard something called 'spacegaze' and/or 'stargaze'. i dont know either (if youre asking yourself what that is). its gratifying to know i 'helped' create it (only in houston - this type of music is nothing new if you look at bands like 'mew' or 'denali'). and i could go further and complain, but i digress.

music in houston is amazing in the fact that nothing will come about from it yet there are the persistent. unless youre zz top, or destinys child or (and at a stretch to mention) blue october, do you really stand a chance to get signed to a label that will 'take care of you' and maybe try and save the world? save the world is bad here.

but anyway. i think what matters here is this:
NOTHING.

music is what it is. the chemistry and dynamic (of which i believe crutial to any level if success any band) is what matters the most (granted ive played for a few years, in bands, live shows) in any city, any scene. geography does matter, in a sense.

but should we remember seattle.

the massacre went well

so there lives in a plastic container certain amounts of candy that are supposed to fix. but we will see.

better people and they dont live

oh, the clandestine opportunity of a source of information and irrationality.
i have nothing left.

clandestine. we dont use that word enough. also, oh, well, fuck it. words die faster than friends and/or family. words and people, theyre the same. they heal and hurt. as if only never to look inward.

i live in a world where acceptance is a ritual unparalleled to anything i can define.
a world where people give up.
humans torture.
demons exist eternally.

im drunk. im drinking too much and i know this. twelve a night we are up to and i dont much give a shit.

my son stood, on his legs, nothing to hold him up, for one minute today. i watched in awe. this little man, hes my savior.

jeffery todd thompson

five years later, youre still resting.

ill miss you always.

3/3/02

im sorry i wasnt there for you. i can never say 'sorry' enough.

so i cry