je ne sais quoi.

I'm swallowing rusty thumbtacks and coughing dry earthquakes that make blind spots and black spots relief carve on my eye balls. I'm starting to think that being well is the abnormality for me. I have to face the notion that I'm sickly.

I didn't used to be and I hope I'm bearing it with none of the regret of a history of some strong constitution. I imagine a lot of it's related to my father's passing and the way I handle all of that stress. I hate the word, I feel it imperitive to define it so I don't sound like a pussy.

It's the midwestern in me, I hope. The guy who's a little proud of the bad back I earned and who really only feels good after working hard. the guy who's always been ashamed to be a musician, song writer and now, office employee. Like this is a softness. I wrote Tanner about weakness today. I hope that carried. I think I look like I hate softness when I actually hate weakness. Kindness when it isn't political, self-serving or cowardly is amazing.

Which brings me to why I'm writing tonight. I usually get a song out and shut up for a bit. I rest all proud and fulfilled. I'm gonna call that weakness and keep my promise to write and practice every day. To get in some physicall exercise and to continue to be proud of my bad back and useless work ethic.

I'm a lazy man, but I have amazing will power when I need it. I can make myself do (or not do) anything I need.


Your Voice Is....

Not much tonight. I got a song instead. Not at all what I expected. In A.

I hope they come from somewhere else.


Day 40-something of a damn drought.

Another night without a song. I'm listening to everything and hearing parts of songs in everything, from my tires underneath me to my lighter on the cigarette pack, to the soft tic of this typing.

The parts won't sing together and the words won't come.

I want it to be in C but C's just too bright and won't let me mourn. D would be right-Jay sees it blue and I just feel it pulling me to it. I hate the incubation, the carrying the song around for weeks or worse waiting for the tune to meet the words and that part of me that won't talk to me uses my hands and throat for just a....

There's this sad exhibitionism. There's the deep fissure that this hints at. I hate typing, too. It's too easy to edit and I already have an editing problem. I guess it never stops the salmon swarm of words, the riot of that always becomes the extra 4th and 5th verse I leave at home. I never trust the person receiving the song to use both hands. At least never at first.

The better I get the more I take out, the better the hints, the softer the sale.

All the mechanical pencils are pointing at me and laughing with the pens over by the note book. There's no one to drunk dial; no drunk and not one thing to say if there was.

Ten years ago I'd try to finish a bottle of Bushmill's, lock the door, put out the lights and call Molly, but Molly's married and never liked those calls anyway. I always cried like some kitten. It sure ain't ten years ago. There's no one, after all this comfort, to call and promise silly things, like I'll be good or I won't forget or I love you. Bucket knows I do and what good is that?

There's little poetry in stark and obvious truth, it's why all those political songs suck. Spit truisms someplace else, our problem isn't our ability to imagine a great world, it's our inability to tell the sodium lit, bare-ass naked truth in some way that makes it sound like a good yarn.



Tracy Morgan is a genius. Apparently "Jaguars" is the local Titty Bar. Awesome. I will, someday, start an homage page to the great Tracy Morgan.

First I'll write a fucking song. It's been over a month since anything came out of me and I get worried, depressed and sick of anything that came before. I can't sit and record because I'm antsy as hell and the shame just spirals like a flushed toilet.

Sometimes Kev can’t write a song. Sometimes he’ll bitch and whine about it and sometimes he’ll write a song about it, but mostly he’ll get on the computer and find shit to laugh at or bitch about.

This should do.

That'll definitely do. What the fuck is that? Is there a joke in there? I don't get it.

I really need a song. Sometimes months pass and I'm OK, but I guess I'm just full to bustin' and need to turn the valve in line or something. I promised to write everyday and I was hoping not here. But y'all get the run-off when song constipation strikes. Sorry. Terrible booby prize.

I keep thinking about the great post I've planned as hymn to Morton Downey Jr. I think about loss and the damned permanence of it. I think about everything under this rainy sky and none of it walks on iambs or wears rhyme.

Oh, and Bucket, if you ever stick your head in this hole, Happy Birthday. I love the hell out of ya.



I was born in 1974, the same year as People magazine; the same year as Patty Hearst's abduction and Nixon's impeachment, the Bathurst Gaol Riot, TWA flight 841, The Rumble in the Jungle, and the discovery of Lucy, A skeleton from the hominid species Australopithecus afarensis.

I wrote songs even as a child. I used to sit on the swingset in the back yard on Edgelawn with my dog Charlie and make 'em up as I went along. We had stairs that went down to our finished basement alongside the back of the house. I sat on the cement at the top and sang about the same things I do now-mostly loneliness and how hard people are to hold on to.

Popular songs included "I Haven't Got Time For The Pain", "(You're) Having My Baby, "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" (the Stones version), and "Smokin' In The Boys Room".

Jack Benny Died. Penelope Cruz was born.

Throughout school I felt incredibly isolated. Parties depressed me in high school. I went home more alone than I was getting ready. I never knew what to wear or how to talk to the girls. I never knew what to say. I couldn't fight. I got my ass kicked a lot in grade school, both at school and at home. I'm pretty good at taking a beating the last time I checked. I've always been a little afraid to hit in the face.

Young Frankenstein, The Towering Inferno and Herbie Rides Again came out. The Goddfather II won best picture.

The year began on a Tuesday, I was born on a Friday night. June 14; Gemini; year of the Tiger. I share a birthday with Che Guevara, Boy George, Yasmine Bleeth, Marla Gibbs and Jerzy Kosinski. That sums me up pretty well.

My earliest memory is of being in a shoe store and being small, staring at belt buckles and hugging the salesman's leg for wearing the same pants as my daddy. They were blue. I looked up and was scared.

My Father was 36 for most of the year and my mother was 26 for half of it. She turned 27 the Wednesday before I was born.

My sister turned 3 a month or so before I was born. she wanted to return me initally, but decided to keep me, after all.

My best friend growing up was Pat Stammer. He didn't like me, but there wasn't many kids on Edgelawn. I pronounced "Edgelawn" Edge-a-lawn until very recently.

Happy Days premiered and The Brady Bunch was cancelled. Little House on the Prairie started a nine year run.

Rikki Feltes changed my life in 5th grade. I think he was the first person who seemed to like me. Maybe it was Phil Kramer. The first girl I "went out" with was Maureen Conlon. She broke it off behind the bushes, but said we could keep it going if I didn't tell any one. My first kiss was Kathy Lies in the parking lot at Freeman School. There was some wonderful petting and awkward female relations that ultimately led to a rather disappointing loss of virginity at 18. It wasn't the girl, she was wonderful in many twists of the term, but the build up killed it.

12 days after I was born The first use of a UPC code was implemented for a pack of Wrigley's Gum in Troy, Ohio. 4 days after that Rev. Martin Luther King's mother was killed during a church service in Atlanta, Georgia. 15 days after that Christine Chubbock shot and killed herself (eventually) during a Live TV broadcast in Florida.

I've been to Florida twice, both times to Disney World. Once as a child and then again as an adult with a girl I worked with and her children. Epcot Center was my favorite, as a kid I got a stuffed "Figment", as an adult I got a Virgin Mega Store T-Shirt for free from the resort.

I had more fun as an adult.


My father died today at 5:15 pm, Central Time. At home and at peace for the first time in months. I was there and I think he knew it.


Sorry Jay and Gail and RD- I already beat y'all up with this.

I tend to shy from the political posts. I tend to hate that side line speculation, it's impotent and for me, a waste of energy; but then all this is, I suppose, and if you can't say something nice then shout.

All the talk turns to barn locking after the horse is gone; gun control and the role of the media ad nauseam. To me, none of this matters. If the why could possibly prevent some horrible happening from ever dancing out of the darkness again I guess I'd care some, but it won't. If we didn't have video games or violent movies we'd watch each other fight-ever seen someone get hit in a bar? A bloody accident? The most ardent pacifist can't take their eyes off of it. If we all had guns some one would shoot first and if none of us had guns we'd use rocks and knock each others teeth out. Perhaps we could limit the body count, but that's a red herring. Loss is always intensely personal; loss is like love and we stand alone in it. I grieve for all of those who lost someone at Virginia Tech, but individually. None of their pain would diminish had fewer passed.

We enjoy the body count like we revel in the arrogance that our children are the worst generation to ever breathe. We're not. They're not. I don't think video games or CSI: Las Vegas can change what we are and what we, as a species, have always been. We have My Lai and those killing fields, we have the crusades, we have the Battle of Changping and the Holocaust. We have inherited our violence as our birthright, from the September Massacres to the Rosewood Massacre, from the Bromberg Bloody Sunday to Wounded Knee; from the Bonus March to the Bath School Massacre (incidentally sporting a body count topping our most recent and making liars out of many pundits, reporters and general commentators). History won't stand up to the whitewash we give it and we're all guilty.

Individuals kill. (James Edward Pough, Colin Ferguson) Groups kill, Churches kill, governments kill, Terrorists kill, patriots kill, fundamentalists kill, postal workers kill, students kill. We are killers.

That's what we are. folks who kill and then stand around being shocked by it all. As long as we can point at everyone else or some fucked up kid and feel scared but safer because they are the Other (a phenomenon responsible for countless killings, lynchings and genocides) then we're insulated from it and we can sit here and talk about it and the causes while we debate the ethics of a goddamn war-a war, a fucking mass murder for shits sake, over what? And don't say freedom because killing for an idea is still fucking killing.

We're killers and either it's all wrong or it's not. I don't see middle ground and I don't want to talk about it anymore. Hate that Cho kid, fine, but hate yourself right with it. We're in this together.

Suicide's violence, too-at whatever pace. Time for a smoke.


The Anagrams of my name Awards.









































peaches and cream?

Seems a flurry of activity makes me homecoming king here when I get literary and outside of my self. I risk wrecking the whole thing reintroducing something decidedly less fictional.

I finished my taxes the day they were due, I got photoshop installed at least for this month and outside of the couple of days of free time I'll be suffering for my brand new pneumonia everything is just, well, pickles and ice cream.

Yes, I'm still smoking-but I'm religious with the fine antibiotics and the puffer.


Pickles and Ice Cream.

I'm entertaining the idea of writing a book. a liquid, lonely, lazy book about sex. No sensationalism or even real prurient interest. It will deal mostly in mixed signals and apathy. I want to encapsulate the heads knocked together and the weird thoughts you have while fucking. I'll have to invent some complete whore and write it all "Jilting of Granny Weatherall" where the main character keeps obsessing about how both protagonist and antagonist have similar textures of hair and worrying about how she smells.

I think I'd like to be a girl. I don't want to get silly and write about thinking she's fat, although that would be masterfully implied, all that body image shit...Wait: I'll be a black woman. self conscious of her very chocolate skin and tight curls. Fucking white guys, or some Asian dude who really does have a small penis-no-a black man hung like a duck. Hell yeah and some Asian John Holmes. Dabbling in lesbianism without any real passion. Constantly doubting herself for her lack of lust: aping and faking it. Promiscuous in the manner of some gay farm kid with a giant hat and a red Chevy 2500 with a plow. I'll start it like this:

"I always hate this part. Not the fucking, that's fine, pleasant enough once you kind of get into it; once you get past the undressing and the surreptitious sliding of a sensual (you hope) hand over your ass to check for zits; once you conquer the cramp from clamping down on the gas from the beer that brought you to his silly room with another floor lamp that looks like a windswept umbrella; once you've successfully hidden your mild disappointment at his love handles or his greasy thatch of pubic hair; once you've bound your contempt for his breath and his beard; after those fall you're fine. I hate the wait. The polite space where you're sure he's asleep and the ticks of the clock are your bed's siren song. You're more alone that you were shaving legs 7 hours ago and mostly let down.

Oh, he fucked you fine and he's handsome in his shy way but you settled again for some approximation of desire. You didn't want the sex, you wanted the company and you traded for what he wanted and the company was fine while it lasted but you don't want it again. It's the breadth of an hour that finds you merely responded. You don't want what you wanted and you don't really care if this happens again unless he suddenly turns interesting and stops talking about the last book he apparently just barely nicked."

Or something like that.



The wind's whirling so loud that it sounds like I have people walking around my house randomly banging on it. The dogs don't seem alarmed, so I'm not going to be. The news guy threatened snow over night. Like Prince said, "Sometimes it snows in April".

Seems all very fitting to the way I brought the month in and the way I feel about April. I suspect my father will die this month. Like I always knew he would. I had to turn the heat back on.

I spent a couple hours scanning in pictures for a friend from work and put them on a disc for her. Seems like a small thing to do. They were these amazing shots from the 50s and 60s of her family. I guess I could put some up here or on the Flickr account. I doubt she'd mind much and most of what I have there some one else took any way. I'm pretty nostalgic tonight in the most murderous meaning of the word. Putting all the SST pic and pics of myself together in some superstitious, semi-religious way. Something just made a big bang outside. Surrender Dorothy.

My blood sugar has been some place in the stratosphere for a couple of weeks now, suddenly slamming down into scary and then running off again. They tell you stress has a lot to do with it and that the loss of a family member is one of those great big stressors. All in all I guess I'm not surprised.

Bucket's out tonight again. She's been out a ton lately and I hope she's just having some fun and spending time on her relationships like I always tell her to and not avoiding me like everyone else is. Not that you should think that I'm particularly crazy about spending time with me these days. She just sent a text saying that the song from my guy from Scrubs is on at the restaurant. She means Overkill from Colin Hay. I have some grand idea of an album of home recorded covers. Mostly just because I hate covers, but some part of you wants to take great things and hold them close with the same ritual mentality that makes me put pictures of me in with everyone else and this thing I try to belong to.

I 'm typing out of loneliness. I'm just not sure out to kill it with out liquid. It's always there and there's no fucking reason for it. Jay and I talked for hours on Saturday. He said some kind things and some hard things and I love him. I forget that becasue I get so far away from everything and everyone that I doubt love at all. The thing I carry with me from that is how similar we are in our apparently oppposite kind of way. All the things we have and all the things we share and all the things we fight and all these things we hold so far apart and the things we can't understand about each other seem to grow from the same fat root. We're profoundly, amazingly isolated. Maybe that's the voice all of my friends share, when I look at them. We're fighting loneliness.

That's some thing we can share, even if method usually keeps all of us out and apart from each other as well. It's some fucked up thing to all hold up together and some fucked up thing to protect as our common voice.

We sing well together. Makes a lot of sense that we're struggling so hard to get the harmonies together in the studio when we have to deal with the concrete and physical reality of being separated in a small, dead box. The shitting metaphor is enough to wound.

Goddamn all this flesh and firm ground. I'm dealing, Matt, just like you said I needed to.

'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!


T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.

The Waste Land


APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 35
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 45
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations. 50
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City, 60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. 65
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 75
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'