Blog: It Does A Body Good, Part 1

Decatur, or Blog of Applause for Sufjan Stevens

“Goldenrod and the 4H stone,
The things I brought you,
When I found out you had cancer of the bone

Your father cried on the telephone,
And he drove his car into the navy yard,
Just to prove that he was sorry

In the morning, through the window shade,
When the light pressed up against your shoulder blade,
I could see what you were reading.

All the glory that the Lord has made,
And the complications you could do without,
When I kissed you on the mouth.

Tuesday night at the Bible study,
We lift our hands and pray over your body,
But nothing ever happens.

I remember at Michael's house,
In the living room when you kissed my neck,
And I almost touched your blouse.

In the morning at the top of the stairs,
When your father found out what we did that night,
And you told me you were scared.

All the glory when you ran outside,
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied,
And you told me not to follow you.

Sunday night when I cleaned the house,
I find the card where you wrote it out,
With the pictures of you mother.

On the floor at the great divide,
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied,
I am crying in the bathroom.

In the morning when you finally go,
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low,
And the cardinal hits the window.

In the morning in the winter shade,
On the 1st of March on the holiday,
I thought I saw you breathing.

All the glory that the Lord has made,
And the complications when I see His face,
In the morning in the window.

All the glory when he took our place,
But he took my shoulders and he shook my face,
And he takes and he takes and he takes."

~~ Sufjan Stevens, ‘Casimir Pulaski Day’

So I don’t typically do this, because I’m always suspicious of

a) promotions and

b) people who become dangerously obsessed with any one particular topic (take the Promise Keepers, for example).

That said, I think everyone should stop wasting time reading this and go buy Sufjan Stevens’ new album, turn out all the lights in his or her room, and listen to it as they drift off to sleep, as I’ve done for about two weeks now.

That’s right, I’m paying high regards to a folk album.

But what an album. Stevens swears he is working on a full-length album for every state in the U.S.

He’s well on his way now, with two whole albums. But the newest, “Come On Feel The Illinoise,” isn’t nearly as pretentious as one might expect.

Stevens understands and advances folk rock in a way few have done since Dylan. And if Stevens has a rival for characters sketches, it may only be Paul McCartney.

The music is glorious – understated, textured, delicate. Soft when it needs to be, bouncy and catchy when you start to get bored.

I should note the album is marginally inaccessible at first, with songs written in odd time signatures with unusual subject matter. But you get over it quick. I recommend you start with “Decatur, or Round of Applause for your Stepmother” before anything else on the album. It’s a beguiling intro to Stevens’ style.

But the real meat of the album is brilliantly more subtle than catchy songs like “Chicago.” When was the last time the not-meant-for-any-radio-play-ever songs were the best parts of a record?

One example is a borderline love ballad in which Stevens compares himself to serial killer / child molester John Wayne Gacy, Jr. The song is horrific, containing as much shock value as any Marilyn Manson song. But the tone is part of the fun, and Stevens makes no apologies for Gacy’s behavior. He simply notes we all have a dark side, and a history, and sometimes judgment is best reserved.

Of course none of these attributes is enough to make me pour accolades on a pop musician. Indeed, there were a lot of terrific albums in 2005 that deserve loud praise. And if you’ve spoken to me about music this past year, you've probably heard loads of it.

That said, this album is so highly original, it’s hard to peg it’s musical value. It certainly won’t be a trendsetter like American Idiot was in 2004. And it doesn’t quite have the quirky charm to inspire the indie rockers like early They Might Be Giants. Still, it is charming, in its way, and complex and mature and slightly subversive, without being too sinister.

But one song in particular stands out: “Casimir Pulaski Day.” To summarize: the narrator’s friend gets bone cancer, and dies at a tragically young age. I get the vague impression she was a high school girlfriend, perhaps first love. And while the death is far in the past, the narrator finds a card from the girl when he’s cleaning, and is reminded of the entire incident. The narrator describes praying for the girl, and praying with the girl, and praying with friends, all to no end. God takes the girl anyway.

Depressing right? Not really my style, right? But take heart! The message gets better.

This song is a reflective piece. We’ve all lost a close friend at a young age (though thankfully not a first love for most of us).

And that’s a true test of faith, particularly for the young. We get frustrated, we get angry. We do weird shit like driving to the navy yard in furious sorrow. And dammit, we sure as hell question faith and God.

But here’s the uplifting side: despite the tragedy, the narrator hasn’t lost any faith at all. He is inspired by her faith in her final days, and in a moment of clarity in his mourning, he “sees” God in the window.

And that’s beautiful. This is not a song of depressing death. There is no indication of anger. This is a song of spiritual comfort. This is someone who’s grappled with utter despair and come to terms with his feelings about God. This is someone who is at peace.

Though the tone of the music is appropriately solemn, it’s not a sinister-organ-music-death dirge. For example, there’s a heavenly trumpet solo that leaves the impression of acceptance, of carrying forward, of salvation.

I don’t know whether the song is a personal story for Stevens, or one lifted from a friend, but the words and lyrics come from the heart and their origin hardly matters, because the themes are relevant to everyone (except maybe John Wayne Gacy, Jr.)

This is the brilliance of the song: it’s painfully personal, but it’s meant for everyone. And songs like this capture the very central core of human emotions – we all share suffering, memories both happy and sad, and moments of spiritual calmness.

This is an example of the rich textures on Stevens’ album. I promise not all of the songs are this depressing. But sometimes, art should reflect the complexities of life. It gives us perspective, and it’s a terrific relief from the irritating blandness of radio pop.

Happy listening,

Sketch E.

Put A Blogger In Your Tank

"I'm no hero! We'd all be heroes if we stopped using petroleum!"

~~ Mark Wahlberg, I Heart Huckabees

I can score you some coke
And some grade one grass
But I can't get a gallon of gas."

~~ The Kinks, 'A Gallon Of Gas'

Who needs the zoo when you have Congress? Only this zoo is full of one specie of side-show carnival animal. And it looks like an elephant, only it's stupider.

Yes folks, that’s right. Time once again to step off my high pedestal of “all politicians represent some form of domestic terrorism” and point out, with a whuppin’ stick o’ words, that Republicans seem to have suffered some sort of reality stroke, forever damning them to some warped wonderland where We Need A Fence (yes, they’re serious) between the U.S. and Mexico to keep the terrorists out. And illegal immigrants, because frankly, they look like terrorists. Who can tell these days?

It only costs an estimated $8 billion – way to cut back on federal spending, GOP.

This fantasy world is not the Mr. Rogers fun world of make-believe. No, this is more like Big-Top-Pee-Wee-meets-that-big-hairy-spider-from-Lord-of-the-Rings terrifying.

I have a friend who is a genius, but can also be extremely pessimistic. His theory is that the world is going to have to get really fucked up before it starts to get any better. So every time something morbid happens, he says, "good." Because the way he sees it, it's just speeding things up to the point where people will take action.

Example:

Sketch: The U.S. has secret military bases all over the world where they house terror suspects.

Friend: Good.

Actually, that was a hypothetical. Here's a real example:

Sketch: What about nuclear war? What if human beings bombed each other off the face of the earth?

Friend: Good. Then some other species can evolve and take over.

Fortunately, there's at least one area where my friend can currently take great pride in the Bush Administration: the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.

Yessiree, even though moderate Republicans blocked efforts to open the refuge to oil drilling on the congressional budget bill in November, there are renewed efforts to attach the measure to the Pentagon budget bill before Congress adjourns for the holidays.

And frankly, I think that's great. What this country really needs is ... more oil!

And what a vast sum of oil lies beneath that cold, crusty surface! TEN BILLION BARRELS OF OIL!

That's sweeter than a hunnert dollar tax-cut check.

Ten billion barrels! Imagine, if you will, what ten billion barrels could DO for the U.S.!

Wait, better than imagining it, let's use Bush Administration estimates to figure out what it could do! Why? Because I love conservatives, especially with their liberal (PUN!) estimates of how much oil can be recovered from ANWR.

So according to the Energy Information Administration (EIA), we could recover up to 16 billion barrels of oil, though a more realistic estimate says we'd get less than 10. But hey, I'm feeling generous.

16 BILLION BARRELS OF OIL!!

EIA also estimates the U.S. uses around 7.3 billion barrels of oil per year at the current rate. Of course, EIA also predicts oil consumption will hit 9.1 barrels by 2025, when ANWR would be running full force.

So, by opening ANWR, we could fuel the United States energy demands for ... TWENTY-TWO GLORIOUS MONTHS! That's nearly two whole years!

Of course, silly liberals freak out over statistics like these. They just don't understand that a lack of oil means higher gas prices, and higher gas prices means poor people suffer.

Roughly 25% of the income of families at the poverty level is spent on gasoline.

So you see, driving up oil prices is just hurting the poor, and these bleeding-heart liberals think the poor should just keep on being lazy and working 16-hour-a-day jobs just to afford value-menu fast food meals for their families.

So sure, ANWR would take 10 years to open, and another 10 to ramp up to full production, and produce a mere 16 billion barrels of oil. But what these statistics ignore is the SAVINGS.

And there's nothing more American than saving.

So, back to EIA estimates. With ANWR fully operational, the oil could reduce prices per barrel by ...

30 to 50 cents a barrel.

And there's 42 gallons of crude oil in a barrel, which translates to a whopping 20 gallons of gasoline. That means Americans, including the poor, save a grand total of about two pennies a gallon.

But hey, multiply that by 300 million Americans, and you have yourself one heckuva underground coupon, my friends.

So fuck shit yeah, Congress. Let's drive a big ol' metal drill into the virgin wells of Alaska.

And fuck the environmentalists, who are screaming some shit about caribou, if they try to stop us. Some people just have no common sense. I mean, how do you logically explain to these eco-freaks that what we really need to do is sink more money into non-renewable resources, and protect the poor oil industry, who posted its largest profits ever after jacking up oil prices in the wake of Hurricane Katrina?

This is AMERICA, people. We have to do BUSINESS here. And if Congress wants to make an (inflated) estimated $2.5 billion in leasing revenues by opening up ANWR, so be it.

And what's worse, eco-nutbags are constantly yapping on and on about global climate change. And with what evidence?

Just because we had a record number of category 5 hurricanes this year,

and just because we had a record number of tropical storms overall this year,

and just because the earth has seen the sharpest increase of carbon in the atmosphere in history, most of which took place since the industrial revolution,

and just because sea surface and atmospheric temperatures are rising at a dramatic rate,

and just because the polar ice caps are melting at measurable yearly quantities now,

and just because the president of the National Academy of Sciences and the director of the National Climatic Data Center both testified before Congress in July that climate change is occurring at a tremendous pace and is caused by humans,

and just because the rest of the world (let's be real, only 160 countries) signed the Kyoto protocol and the U.S. didn't,

and just because the rest of the world agreed to take stronger action at the Montreal climate conference and the U.S. didn't,

these people think the climate change conspiracy is real!

HURRICANES AND THE GLOBAL CLIMATE FLUCTUATE ON A NATURAL CYCLE PEOPLE. It's all just a coincidence!

And do you know how I know that? Do you know how I can point to all that compelling scientific data and scoff?

Because Michael Crichton did the exact same thing in his July testimony to Congress. (yes, this actually happened)

Look, if a guy smart enough to write a fiction book about time travel says global climate change is bunk, well, then, dammit, I do too.

So if you're stupid enough to believe environmentalists and liberals and foreign government officials and the leaders of the scientific communist conspiracy, well then, don't come crying to me while I sit in my posh coastal home, drinking gasotinis, reading State of Fear and laughing at you.

As my friend would say, "good."

Peace and love,

Sketch E.

Beware Of Cow Duck

Blogging On Sunshine

' "Howdy, lem," my grandpa said
With his eyes closed
Wiping the eastbound dust
From his sunburned brow

A life before doubt.
I smell the engine grease
And mint the wind is blending
Under the moan of rotting elm
In the silo floor.

Down a hill
Of pine tree quills
We made our way
To the bottom and the ferns
Where thick moss grows
Beside a stream.

Under the rocks are snails
And we can fills our pockets
And let them go one by one all day
In a brand new place.

You were no ordinary drain on her defenses
And she was no ordinary girl
Oh, Inverted World
If every moment of our lives were cradled softly
In the hands of some strange and gentle child
I'd not roll my eyes so.'

~~ The Shins, 'One By One All Day'



"I find that ducks' opinions of me are very much influenced over whether or not I have bread."

~~ Mitch Hedberg



Hello, inverted world.

I feel damn fine today. It's Nov. 16 and I wore a short-sleeved shirt to work today. Say what you will about D.C. -- and I say a lot -- at least it's warm here. Sweet, cherished warmth.

And speaking of warm, I've got a "gag me" gross dose of warm and fuzzy coming your way, about a very cherished, very insane friend, and the value of living out your dreams.

But first, a fond memory:



So I have this very cherished, very insane friend. My favorite type.

We share a deep bond, constructed of many finer, more shallow bonds banded together like fibers in a juicy, creative muscle.

And when we're together, and that muscle flexes, the creative tension tears furiously through the air, a haywire laser aimed with the utmost lack of precision, burning haphazard holes in reality.

A setting:

A man-made lake. Carved for beauty, polluted with indifference. But wet and shiny and appealing to us.

Fuck studying. It's sunny and cool and lunchtime. What better place to eat than this lake? It has ducks.

Oh, those ducks. So funny, with their feathers and flapping, wading and waddling, quacking and snacking.

And so damn fat! Imagine! So fat, so gloriously happy! No exams, just wings and water and webbed-feet and waistlines.

My friend and I have no wings, no webbed feet. But we do have food and a lake and sunshine and a cool breeze and fat, quack-happy ducks to feed.

There is joy in bringing joy to others, and ducks are easy to please.

As are we, really. We entertain the ducks and the ducks entertain us. They quack, we giggle. If they had any, I'm sure they'd feed us chocolate in return for our bread -- ducks seem the generous type.

But the ducks are ducks. Brown, some with green heads, most not. Plain. Hard for us to indentify with something so ordinary as a brown duck. We can't tell if they are insane, but aside from our insatiable appetite for bread, we have little in common.

And then our discovery: the crazed duck, the mutant, the genetic freak with a beak -- this we understand. This duck is different. It is special. It is one of us.

It is colored like a cow: black and white in a meandering pattern down the length of its body. As if it fell into a pool of God's cow-paint palette, and God said, "Fuck it, let's see what happens" and blasted the creature down to earth, to live as an oddity to be celebrated or feared.

We chose celebrity.

It's fat as could be, and eats like a pig.

We dubbed it "cow duck," for obvious reasons, though it seems fucking hilarious even now.

The cow duck!

The cow duck, that eats like a pig.

"What sort of sound do you suppose a cow duck makes?" I ask.

"Oh! Oh! It's like ... a quack ... with a moo ... and sort of ... an oink!"

We look at each other with a brief pause -- a moment of discovery and enlightenment -- eureka!

"QUOOOOOOIIINNKKK!!!" we both shout simultaneously, then nearly fall off our seats, because we are laughing so hard.

This is not hyperbole. We really almost fell over, onto the concrete path that wraps around the lake. We probably would have been hospitalized.

But we recovered in time, and the cow duck became the stuff legends are made of.



Meanwhile, back at the ranch:

In a completely unrelated series of events, my friend and I consistently dine at a seedy pub known as the Blue Danube, or more affectionately, The 'Dube.

The 'Dube is a special place: there is artwork everywhere. The walls are filled with paintings and old Guinness advertisements, and the ceiling is spattered with brilliant tiles.

Allow me to explain. In an effort to replace the sagging, musty, yellowed ceiling tiles, the management of the pub created a phenomenon: they encouraged patrons to bring in a tile of their own, painted with any design they wished, to replace the aging tiles. As an added incentive, they offered a $5 gift certificate for each tile received.

It was slow catching on. The restaurant had only a handful of tiles at first, but gradually, over a period of three or four years, the ceiling began to fill. Tiles of every imaginable type and talent. Distorted faces, 3D renderings, undiscernable shapes and figures, paintings that were exact replicas of famous works of art or even the Guinness ads on the walls.

It gives the bar a unique and nearly irresistable ambience. So many colors! So much talent!

For years, every time my friend and I went to the Dube, we'd say we would paint a tile.

Not that we ever did. It's just ... one of those things. Sometimes bland expressions sum it up so well. It's just one of those things you always say you'll do and never do.

Like, "Oh man, one day we gotta take that trip to the llama farm" or "Man, someday I'm gonna drink 24 Guinnesses in a day to see if I really do get my recommended daily allowance of vitamins and minerals."

We say these things, but never DO these things.

We said we'd paint the tile, knowing we never would. And the ceiling began to fill up.



So, years later, my very cherished, very insane friend graduated from college. I'd say that's lame, but I made the same mistake the year before.

And what do you get a very cherished, very insane friend for a graduation present? If you've never had a very cherished, very insane friend, you're

a) missing out on a lot of fun and

b) spared the anguish of trying to find the perfect gift for such a friend.

SO

I thought, and thought, and thought, and thought and thought and thought.

And then I thought,

"I've got it! The perfect gift!"



I know, you already know what I thought of, you clever bastard.



But those assholes at NASA wouldn't part with one of their precious rocket ships -- at least, not for $2.50, which was all I had, so I got her a ceiling tile instead (sorry I'm such a cheapass, HH).



I wrapped it up beautifully -- it took a whole roll of wrapping paper -- and presented it to her while her roommates eyed the package with great suspicion (they know me well enough to know I could have given her a really flat puppy). She opened the package, and her reaction was perfect.

Puzzlement.

Realization.

Wild whoops of delight.



Her roomies were still puzzled, as they were unaware of our years-long pact.



I told her to pick anything she wanted, and I'd buy the paint and supplies and we would make it together and then take it to the Dube.

She thought long and hard -- she wanted it to be perfect. And finally, after much deliberation, she opted for ...



COW DUCK! QUUOOOOOOIIINKKK!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA



We went crazy. She drew a beautiful, perfectly cartoony design (as evidenced above) -- and we painted it, decorated it with feathers and ribbons and puffy paint and they hung it up at the Dube.



And you know, this would be a great end to our story. We lived out a dream, years in the making. Made good on our pact. Our promise. Our friendship.

But there's a terrific epilogue to this tale.



A few weeks ago -- months after the Dube proudly displayed our cow duck in the ceiling -- my friend called me, barely able to speak.

"Bloobledy blanga mananga ganoe!" she babbled.

Now, usually we're able to communicate quite well with very few sensicle syllables, much to the amazement of mutual freinds. But I was utterly mystified by that statement, which prompted my next question:

"What?"

"Bloobledy cow duck mananga page-amaphone!" she said.

"Ok this time in very simple English phrases please," I said.

She breathed, which I imagine was the first breath she'd taken in at least five minutes.

"OUR COW DUCK IS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE PAPER!"

Indeed, a photo of our tile appeared on the front page of the student paper, the Lantern, teasing a business profile of the Dube in the Arts section.

Well, shit. That paper has a circulation over 50,000 strong, so a hell of a lot of people were seeing our artwork. But the cow duck luvin' didn't stop there.

The article itself talked about the tile phenomenon of the Dube, and how attractive the place looked with so much color, and all the social functions the tiles play -- people eat there to look at their own tiles, they spend time critiquing other tiles, they stare at the tiles when conversation lags . . .

The author went on to describe a few tiles ... including ours, which they described as a "fan favorite."

Fan favorite!

We had no idea. We were just damn proud it was up there, damn proud to see it in the paper. And though the article mysteriously referred to it as "lamenting duck" (we pictured him being quite happy), we knew it was ours -- it's the only duck tile on the ceiling.



So there you have it. We lived a dream, and now we're ready to make millions on the Columbus art scene, because we've struck the fickle vein of social popularity. And you know what? It's a great feeling.

But at the risk of dripping with sap, I have to say, the greatest feeling was just making the damn thing in the first place. You can't imagine how fun it was, arguing arbitrarily over the design, getting messy with paints, and laughing uncontrollably -- living the dream.

So my challenge to you, my very cherished, very insane readers: take the time over Thanksgiving break to think, long and hard, about something you always said you'd do but never did -- preferably with a friend. Pick a day (Christmas break?), make a plan, and do it. Take some pictures for me.

You'll value it forever.

And if you're really lucky, others will appreciate it, too.




Peace and love,

Sketch E.

London Blog

'I can't look at the rocket launch;
The trophy wives of the astronauts;
And I won't listen to their words;
'cause I like ... birds.

I don't care for walkin' downtown;
Crazy auto-car gonna mow me down;
Look at all the people like cows in a herd;
Well, I like ... birds.'
~~ Eels

Alright you squishy bucket of worms. I'm tired of being threatened. And you're absolutely right to kick me in the butternuts. It's been far too long -- a whole month! -- and I have a series of blogs ready to post. So let's get this steam engine boilin'.

This particular blog is cheating a bit. It comes from an essay I wrote for a newsletter for a very dear friend, and so, with pemission from the Diva herself, I reprint the essay in its entirety, to stave off the threats while I prepare my next blog. May you all be appeased.

Also note, blogger has allowed me to add 'word verification' to the comment section. This should prevent all the ads for penis enlargers, hair replacements and breast enhancers I've had automatically posted to my blog lately.

In theory you just have to type in a word to verify you're a person and not a computer. Let me know if this isn't working for you. The only other option is for me to moderate each and every comment posted to my blog, and I'd just as soon not censor anyone who has a real opinion.

Now, on with the show:

In the bloggie-style spirit of indulgent self-revelation, I thought I’d share with you the moment that gave me my philosophy on life. This isn’t gospel; I’m not a preacher. It’s just advice, words of wisdom from an unwise man. And like all advice, you can evaluate it, and follow it to whatever degree you choose. All I know is this philosophy, my philosophy, has made me a happy man.

My senior year of high school, I took a trip to England and Ireland.

How does a poor boy from West Virginia pay for such an adventure? By putting two dollars a week in a jar every week from the time he is 10 years old until he is ready to graduate.

I had actually been saving for a trip to Australia -- a dream I eventually realized. But at the time, I didn’t have enough money.
But never fear, my loved ones. I opted without hesitation to empty that jar -- it was quite heavy by that point -- and traveled with classmates on a 10-day frolic through Great Britain. We had a solid itinerary: Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, Stratford-on-Avon, Dublin and the sweet green pastures of Ireland. Christians, countryside, castles and clocks.

The plane ride was long, and by the time we got to our London hotel, our adult chaperones were exhausted. They wanted a nap before dinner and argued over whether or not to let us leave the hotel. I was frustrated: we were in London, England, on our first night, and these people wanted to shut us in a hotel for hours. Eventually, they realized attempting to keep an intelligent group of high school students in a hotel in London would be approximately as successful as Freddy Got Fingered. So they let us go – on the stipulation that we stay within a six block radius of the hotel.

Right.

By sheer chance, two of my best friends from elementary school were on that trip. We’d lost touch over the years, but were still fond of each other. Not in a creepy Hobbit pillow-fight-in-bed sense, just a dudes-who-grew-up-together-and-lost-touch sense.

So that evening, my friends and I made a pact. We were going to walk until we got to the end of the city.

We set out admiring the view; London feels every bit as old as the ornate Victorian homes and gothic churches that line its streets. The buildings are weather-worn but have managed to age gracefully. They look almost wise, and it’s odd to think that most of them have been around for generations of humans, and will see many more generations than any passersby.

We walked and talked and laughed at old times and recounted tales of girls and booze and cars and jobs. We randomly turned street corners, until we were convinced we were lost. We had no concept of time, and only the ache in our feet to suggest how far we'd gone. Finally, our stomachs overcame our willpower, and we somehow found our way back to the hotel in time to catch the group dinner. We were well over an hour late, but managed to avoid the lecture.

When I returned from London, it seemed odd to me that our walk that first night was the most vivid and important memory of that trip. We saw some truly awesome sights, many of which I may never see again. And yet my favorite memory is a long walk with my friends, something I’d done a thousand times before with those very same people.

It honestly took me years to figure out why that particular moment was so special to me. Not that I spent all those years thinking about that one subject; I became distracted by girls and booze and cars and jobs. But once in awhile, perhaps talking to my friends on IM or some other technological narcotic, I would remember that trip, that night on the town.

And on one spectacularly unspecial day, I figured it out.

Despite the tight schedules and group pictures and shared meals, my friends and I had shared something that distinguished our trip from everyone else. We were different.

There were similar moments, if less profound. But the collection of those incidents created an utterly unique experience.
Many have gone to London, before and after me. But their experiences are different from mine, because I did something utterly insane: I walked to the edge of the city.
Not that we ever made it. But that's missing the point. We set out on a fantastic and whimsical detour, and maybe our goal all along wasn't the one we spoke aloud. Perhaps our spoken pact was an impossible mission, but our unspoken agreement was that we would see and experience London in a fashion entirely separate from any other tourist, from any of our companions. This was our moment. Subtle, impossible, unique. And I've reveled in it ever since.

We all have the ability to follow a set path, to follow life’s itinerary. And that path is wonderful. We’re bound to learn and experience and see marvelous things.

But for me, it’s the random side trips that give life it’s flavor. I’ve never been afraid to drop what I’ve been doing and take a trip somewhere I’d never planned on going. I’ve made some wild decisions – changed majors on a whim, or asked out girls I’ve barely known.

But those random moments don't have to be life-altering. They can be something as simple as taking a walk with old pals on a warm spring evening.

Those are the moments that define us. Those are the moments that make us diverse. And sure, sometimes I'm terrified that I’ll be lost, that I'll never make it back to my intend ed path.

But a truer realization drives me onward. For as many times as I've been lost, I've never had a single regret.

Peace and love,
Sketch E.

I'll Give You Sum'n To Blog About!

"There's no point for democracy
When ignorance is celebrated
Political scientists get the same one vote
As some Arkansas inbred
Majority rule
Don't work in mental institutions
Sometimes the smallest, softest voice carries the grand biggest solutions.

What are we left with?
A nation of God-fearing pregnant nationalists
Who feel it's their duty to populate the homeland
Pass on traditions
How to get ahead, religions,
And prosperity via simpleton culture."

~~ NOFX, 'Idiots Are Taking Over'



Wha'd you say? This is 'MERICA boy! And it just keeps gettin' better ever' day! HOOOO-EEEEEEE.



Alright, people. You're gonna love this. Which is sick, because you shouldn't. But GOT-DAMN, how can you resist an adorable 9-year-old girl with a gun?

HEEE-HAWWWW.



We interrupt this blog for a special news bulletin:

So I wanted to just link to this article, but the corporate pricks at the NY Times got greedy, and now it's $3.95 just to see an archived article there, because everyone wants to pay four times the price of the newspaper itself to read an out-of-date article, especially when any library will provide it for free.

But I've beaten them at their own game, because I previously copied and pasted the highlights in a secret e-mail to an undercover comrade, and thanks to the search power of G-mail, I was able to retrieve it just for you, lovely reader. SO FEAST, good friends. And feel the sweet pleasure of sticking it to the man.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog:



The Times article may be the greatest example of the fine line between comedy and tragedy I've ever seen. It was ridiculously long article about a man who has a very unique job: he gets paid to teach young children how to kill animals. The parents get to go too, boy howdy, but the idea is to get kids interested in what the adults consider a dying art.

So the article profiles a 9-year-old girl taking advantage of this fantastic program:

'She had won a "dream hunt" given away by a Vermont man whose goal is to get more children to hunt, and she had traveled about 200 miles from her home in Bellingham, Mass., and was missing three days of school to take him up on his offer.

"Almost everything you hunt is pretty fun," said Samantha, grinning and perfectly at home with a group of five men, the youngest of whom was nearly three times her age.

At one point, as the group crossed a wooden bridge, Samantha's father, Scott, who had accompanied her - and had filled out her application for the hunting contest - teased her that trolls lived under the bridge.

"Dad," Samantha said with bravado, "I got a gun."

The dream hunt - all expenses paid, including taxidermy - was the brainchild of Kevin Hoyt, a 35-year-old hunting instructor who quit a job as a structural steel draftsman a few years ago and decided to dedicate himself to getting children across the country interested in hunting.

His efforts reflect what hunting advocates across the country say is an increasingly urgent priority, and what hunting opponents find troubling: recruiting more children to sustain the sport of hunting, which has been losing participants of all ages for two decades.

"Forty years from now our kids will be learning about this as history," said Larry Gauthier, one of Mr. Hoyt's buddies on the bear hunt. "Hunters should be included as an extinct species because we're falling away so fast, we need to be protected."'

Now let's be serious people. Have you ever heard anything so sweet? And here I thought politics was our nation's greatest profession.

And lo! Apparently, because of urban sprawl, people just can't hunt like they used to. And wow, all that wildlife preservation I do, and here it's the hunters who are an extinct species.

Thank God someone is out there protecting the interests of our nation's children. And what better way to do that, than to give a 9-year-old a shotgun. Man, people just make me want to caper with joy.

The article went on to detail how the girl lied to her friends and teacher about her absence, further evidence that we all need to jump on this bandwagon of teaching strong morals to children.

It must be said that Duffman first told me about this article. Here's how the conversation went:

Duff: So they show this 9-year-old girl, cute as a button, dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, holding a shotgun.

Sketch: In West Virginia she'd be quite a catch.

Duff: Yeah, sounds like a prom date.





Ok, I have a confession to make. All that jibba-jabba praising the adults in the article above? Well, that was sarcasm. I know it was terribly misleading, and I am ashamed.

But take heart!

There are far more intelligent adults in the world, such as some Kentucky-folk that started the Creation Science Museum.

I learned about this museum from The Washington Post (you will note people can still inform themselves at no cost at this fine paper). Here is the beginning of the article:

PETERSBURG, Ky. -- The guide, a soft-spoken fellow with a scholarly aspect, walks through the halls of this handsome, half-finished museum and points to the sculpture of a young velociraptor.

"We're placing this one in the hall that explains the post-Flood world," explains the guide. "When dinosaurs lived with man."

A reporter has a question or two about this dinosaur-man business, but Mark Looy -- the guide and a vice president at the museum -- already has walked over to the lifelike head of a T. rex, with its three-inch teeth and carnivore's grin.

"We call him our 'missionary lizard,' " Looy says. "When people realize the T. rex lived in Eden, it will lead us to a discussion of the gospel. The T. rex once was a vegetarian, too."

The nation's largest museum devoted to the alternative reality that is biblical creation science is rising just outside Cincinnati. Set amid a park and three-acre artificial lake, the 50,000-square-foot museum features animatronic dinosaurs, state-of-the-art models and graphics, and a half-dozen staff scientists. It holds that the world and the universe are but 6,000 years old and that baby dinosaurs rode in Noah's ark.

The $25 million Creation Museum stands much of modern science on its head and might cause a paleontologist or three to rend their garments. But officials expect to attract hundreds of thousands of visitors when the museum opens in early 2007.

"Evolutionary Darwinists need to understand we are taking the dinosaurs back," says Kenneth Ham, president of Answers in Genesis-USA, which is building the museum. "This is a battle cry to recognize the science in the revealed truth of God."

Wow. That is truly amazing. Thank goodness someone decided to put those damned evolutionary biologists in their place, what with their "DNA" and their "fossil record" and their "facts," trying to persuade good ol' fashioned 'mericans that a 2000 year-old book just might be a little behind the times in its science. Yes indeedy, it's a terrible shame that only "45 percent of Americans believe that God created humans in their present form 10,000 years ago (or less) and that man shares no common ancestor with the ape."

Dammit, people 'r' smarter 'n 'at. Number ought to be a hunnert percent.

On the bright side, "65 percent of Americans want creationism taught alongside evolution."

You see my point? When has the majority ever been wrong about anything?

And it gets better. According to the NY Times, 38 percent of people are ...

... wait for it ...

... in favor of replacing the teaching of evolution with creationism.

Now I ask you, kind reader, Who are these freaks that are not in favor of teaching the Truth to our children? Who does not want them to know the facts: that vegetarian Tyrannosaurus rexes once communed in harmony with men?

It's time for 'merica to wake up, and stop living in sinful id'norance.



Ok ok. Whew. Sarcasm takes its toll.

Seriously, so often, my friends come to me with an embarassed confession: they don't read the news. And I've heard so many people criticize America for not being informed when there's so much free information in the world.

What's the point in having a literate, democratic society when so few inform themselves?

And the really cynical critics blame our generation for not being interested in the news.

But this just isn't true.

OUR PARENTS ELECTED NIXON TWICE, PEOPLE. In fact, they RE-ELECTED him after six months of Watergate stories. And now, the elders are giving kids guns and telling them insane stories about dinosaurs living with men as if it were a fact.

So don't feel so bad, kiddies. It's not that our generation is dumb. America has ALWAYS been this dumb!

My advice: getting angry is pointless and stressful, so fuck it. Forget the news. Forget education. Go out, get drunk, get laid.

And if you get blindsided by news somehow, and it makes you feel dumb, well just remember: dumb is the majority.

Funny ol' world, innit?



Peace and love,

Nas-T

Bloggle It Up, Yeah, To Keep It Warm

'I was almost over
My world was almost gone
In a sudden rush
I could almost touch the
Things that I'd done wrong
My jungle's made of concrete
Through silence I could feel
My aim is true I will walk on through
These mountains made of steel.'

~~ Rancid, "The 11th Hour"

My mind is drugless, this is madness.

I am dissolving into the music.

Dammit Matt Freeman is a bastard. Who can play an instrument that way?

Only a man who sold his soul to the devil. And Freeman did just that. Sold his soul.

And good for him. This world needs its villains. Especially those who play bass with such vile instinct. Mean bass.

Listen to it, goddammit. Listen. Fast. Faster than a human being’s neurons can travel. At least, one that isn’t possessed. So fast the strings should be melting from that bass. You can’t even see his fingers move. Even when you can’t see him you can’t even see his fingers move.

There is chaotic blur and music sings oh so sweetly.

Who plays like that?

Matt Freeman is possessed.

But possession, like love, comes in many varieties. Freeman is not possessed by demons. He is possessed by passion. The passion to create, passion overpowering impulse, thought, feeling, physics. Furious passion.

Passion like that can only come from one place: a soul.

Matt Freeman beat the devil. He beat the drugs, he beat the devil.

The world is a lovely place.

Peace and love,

Sketch E.

Blogging Up A Lung

‘Desmond takes a trolley to the jewelers’ stores,

Buys a 20-carat golden ring,

Takes it back to Molly waiting at the door,

And as he gives it to her she begins to sing:

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da,

Life goes, brah!

La-la how the life goes on;

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da,

Life goes on, brah!

La-la how the life goes on.’

~~ The Beatles

A tainted memory:

It’s a birthday party for two.

Not that it’s her birthday.

Not that it matters.

We are young. We are foolish.

We are desperately in love.

I have tried to make everything right: cupcakes with candles; expensive caramels; balloons; birthday napkins and plates; shots of rum; a small gift; a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner strung across the ceiling, each letter a neon burden to the eyes, the letters book-ended by cardboard candles.

But the finishing touch; the last modest, magnificent stroke of pastel; the keystone that binds tight this perilous construction, is music. Her favorite album: the White Album. Playing slightly out of sequence because naturally ‘Birthday’ must be played first, greeting her as she enters, making the surprise a surreal and sensual assault.

The colors! The tastes! The sounds! The smells!

… and oh, those touches. Soft caress, kiss of gratitude, hint of tongue.

She blows out the candles and we devour our cupcakes. They are too sugar-sweet, but what does it matter? The rum is too strong to drink by itself, so we leave it. We are drunk without drinking. The liver is spared. But the head, la cabeza, is intoxicated from within. The levees have broken, the hormones flood in. A hurricane of passion.

A circus of silliness! Dazzling, dizzying, death-defying dare-devils!

And then: the clarion call for the clowns. Crystal-clear chords, struck on the rasping strings of a ragtime piano. The bass, almost by accident, arrives with a bouncing rhythm.

This may be my favorite Beatles' song.

My eyes and ears are melting. Sensory overload. Which is more beautiful – the music or the girl? I am torn. She laughs and grabs my hands and the strain is relieved. There is no choice between music and woman now: I am immersed in both.

‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da,
Life goes on, brah!’

We dance. Not like a club, not like a ballroom, not like a concert. Not in any sane or usual way at all. Just holding hands, and swinging in crazy circles around the room, singing and laughing, her laughter as heavenly and bright as the Beatles’ music.

This is perhaps my happiest moment. An image so utterly clear, a moment so perfect the weight of it compresses the chest, even now, to think of it. This is the type of image film directors spend their lives trying to capture, driving themselves mad in their failure. Her body, clad in velvet-soft pajamas. Her face, so sweet, so clear, the room behind her a frenzied blur. We spin, laugh, dance, sing.

This is life. Oh, how it goes on.

Music, relationships, lives.
These, our hallucinations,
Inspired and induced
By experience, connection and passion.
They are wisps of smoke,
Created and dissipated
By the mouths and the hearts that form them.

This is my memory, kept deeply buried, personal, private. My happy place, visited in moments of despair.

Bled now like pus from a wound.

Let the healing begin.

Peace and love,

Sketch E.