Une Décharge

It’s said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Upload a pic to your blog and write Exactly 1,000 words about it.

He skulks in the corner like Horwendill’s ghost, appraising my every action and judging me with the eye of the unavenged. I wear the mark of Feng and Gerutha, of incest and murder, with neither Amleth, nor Hamnet to speak council for me with wild, raging fury. And as the actor moves forth and back upon the trod and worn planks, I am captive to his whim. The ghost is hungry.

Faceless, nameless, without form, he speaks at dawn with the voice of kindness, but in the dark, the kindness turns to tremor and squall. I shudder in my bedclothes, throwing up useless defense as I scramble under the hospital linen and recite private catechism to the Lord in Heaven. If I should die before I wake, the slow torture of one thousand cuts awaits me on the other side. So, I sleep when no one watches. Someone always watches.

The man in the corner, the Nurse, the boy in the chair and the man inside my mouth. They all watch. They leer and smirk, taking small joy in my excruciation. They have been here from the beginning. They have always been. They know not of Before. They simply Are. And Will Be. Eternals of the Begotten. The Antecedents. Of a time before the Old Ones. The stuff of nightmares. And none more, than the Lurker.

In my time of dying, he means to hold me in bloody embrace and carry me away, yaup and wail echoing through the caverns of Charon. No Virgil, he will see me through the gate, without ceremony, my soul borne away to the place of its eternal display. I will be a trophy on a pedestal of humiliation and grief. Deuteronomy says that “the eternal God is thy refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms”, but I know that the arms that await me are not those of Jehovah. They are claw and talon and wing and scale and mouth and tongue and fang and appendage. But the everlasting, loving arms of God and Beatrice shall be eternally denied to me if the Jacob the Lurker has his way.

The Lurker. The Watcher. He spies upon me and remembers. A wicked vengeful grimace on his face betrays his intention. He whispers in the darkness and seduces. I hear, but I do not listen. When I turn away, I feel his foul sour breath upon the nape of my neck and feel his spider leg’s touch along my side. He strokes my arm and calls my name. It is better to turn and face him, for then he retreats, hidden by shadow. He will not face me. He bides his time.

The Nurse comes at noon with her poisons. She has philtres and tonics and tablets of hallucination. She says she means to help me. She means to make me well. But I know she lies as well. They all lie. Her capsules weaken my body and force sleep upon me. When I have drifted into the arena of the unwell, she will prepare me for Jacob and the knives that await me. I lie still with more than mild dread. With ratched, clang, sturm und drang she lords upon her wards, with the confidence and authority of one who knows how it will end. There are no surprises for her. She holds all the cards. The Hermit, The Hierophant, and The Fool. The Emperor and The Tower. She wields the cards of Judgement and Death. The Hanged Man and the Wheel of Fortune. Even the Devil himself resides in her deck. Only the lone card of Justice remains omitted from her hand. The Nurse has no interest in such things. Only Alchemy and Castigation hold sway with her.

The boy in the chair is my betrayer, my brother and my killer. If the Nurse prepares me and the Lurker attends me, then the boy shall be the one to take my life. He is the one I fear the most, this assassin of Perdition. My vigil stays his hand and makes his charade promulgate, but he continues. Facing the window, he sits as mute as desperation. He pretends. He attempts to purchase my confidence with his silence, but I know his mind. I see upon his eyes, the reflection of suffering and fire. He is a beast, adrift in an age of men, beyond the knowledge of the mortal. He has cut and bitten and skinned and flayed and burned and bludgeoned and drowned and whipped and mauled and mutilated. He has taken more lives than there are breaths in the life on a man. To know him is to meet the Black Angel. I must take action against him first.

As for the man inside my mouth…

He tells me of another life. Another where and when. A life more ordinary. He tells me of the Hospital (the Grand Hall) and of the outside (the Circle) and of a mother and father I don’t remember (never had). His stories carry the ring of truth, but I can still feel the thorns of deceit in his words. Words that collect in my throat like cancerous bile eating away at the source of my aenima. There is no outside. There are no mothers and fathers in this world. If the hospital exists, it is a prison. I did not arrive. I have always been here before. And until the last night comes I shall be here in the morning, noon and evening, each day collecting and gathering as a durden of living days, until the great Fangorn that is my life stands eternal and evermore. And I will swallow the man inside my mouth and he will speak no more. I have always been the caretaker and sleep will not rob me of my duty. Though he means to assist the Nurse in her pursuit, they will never lull me to slumber. Instead I keep them awake at night with my screams.

And Jacob awaits.

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The accompanying photo is from Jean-Philippe Charbonnier's 1954 exhibition of photos of French psychiatric hospitals.

The Geto Boys - Mind Playin' Tricks On Me

The Departed

Color is a powerful tool that can brighten up a room as well as give life to a piece of writing. Pick an unusual color from your Crayola box and bring it to life.

Where have you gone?

Blue Gray, Lemon Yellow, Orange Red, Orange-Yellow, Violet Blue, Green Blue, Magic Mint, Teal Blue, Blizzard Blue, Mulberry, Maize and Raw Umber.

Where do the colors go after they have ceased to exist in the official canon of spectral variety. After the Lords of Crayola have decreed that they are Chomata Non Grata. Is there an iridescent afterlife to which they can aspire? And if a color is discontinued from the Crayola spectrum, does it vanish from the rainbow?

Such would seem to be the case for the aforementioned colors. Who but the most eidetically gifted among us can even recall the relative hue of Raw Umber. Brownish? Kinda. And Mulberry could fall anywhere in a range from ROY to BIV, though I know it's probably not a green. Though, it's no wonder that five of the fallen twelve are shades of blue, as there are more shades of blue than any other in the line, four of the retired shades were sent packing all in the same year, 2003. The horror.

But the remaining five...These are the colors of my childhood, or a fair representation, thereof. Lemon Yellow and Magic Mint are practically the official colors of the 1970's, and Orange Red was always the shortest crayon in the box, 'cos it was used on such a regular basis. But Maize...Oh, Maize. What your people call corn, my people call a wondrous color that nourishes and heals. But alas, thanks to Crayola, generations of children will grow up, drawing unnaturally bright stalks of irradiated corn that bears little resemblance to real life. Must be all those GMO's.

Oh, colors, how I miss you so...

R.I.P.
Ice T - Colors

For Ernest Gary Gygax 1938-2008

So you just got a job writing for Trivial Pursuit. They are branching out from their general trivia games and creating more niche brands. Create a niche and create a six-question card for your game. Your niche should be a little odd-so no movies, music, etc.

First as a means of explanation for this post, I have to confess to an addiction. At this point, I'm almost 50 hours (though not consecutive, thank jeebus) into "Elder Scrolls VI: Oblivion" for the XBOX 360. And I'm friggin loving this game. It's pretty much exactly as dorky as it sounds, but as much as I love it now, I can only imagine how much better this would have been when I was 12, and waist deep in my Dungeons & Dragons phase. 25 years later, and I'm right back to that special place, in the darkest recesses of my forgotten past. No more need for imagination, when it's blown up onto an HD monitor with surround sound. The kids today don't know how leisurely they have it.

This alone would be cause for nostalgic recollection, but two books I'm currently reading are doing a fair bit of mining inside of my memory caverns. The first, "Everything Bad Is Good For You : How Today's Pop Culture Is Actually Making Us Smarter" by Steven Johnson, opens with a summary of the process for creating a character in Dungeons & Dragons (D&D for those on the inside), as an example of extreme and obsessive number crunching in the pursuit of attempting to have fun. The other book is even more accommodating to my present state of mind. "The Elfish Gene" by Mark Barrowcliffe is a memoir about a young man in Coventry, England who, in 1976 in introduced to a new American game, and how it proceeds to destroy his life in all the best ways that can only be appreciated in the forgiving light of adulthood.

None of this is by design, but rather the byproduct of one of those serendipitous moments that often results in things like two comet or volcano movies or two Steve Prefontaine movies being released at the same time. Just the stars, I guess. And so, this rambling preamble brings me to the actual theme at hand.

Trivial Pursuit :

Edition


Geography:
Parent company Tactical Studies Rules (or T.S.R.) was located at P.O. Box 756 in which northern American city?

Entertainment:
Almost universally reviled as an absolute flop, Dungeons & Dragons (2000) was a live action adventure film starring which of the once ubiquitous Wayans brothers?

History:
D&D, first published in 1974, was largely based on another wargame system published in 1971 by E. Gary Gygax, one of the games original creators. What was the name of the original game system?

Art & Literature:
There have been several D&D related novel series, such as "Forgotten Realms" and "Gourd the Rogue". The most successful line was launched in 1984 and stills continues publication today. What is the series title?

Science and Nature:
Turns of action and events of random probability are governed by mathematical calculations of numbers generated by the iconic d20. What is a d20?

Sport & Leisure:
Which power forward/center, four-time NBA champion, a three-time NBA MVP, and current captain of the San Antonio Spurs confessed in 1997 to a love of renaissance fairs and Dungeons & Dragons?

Answers:
Geography: Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
Entertainment: Marlon Wayans
History: "Chainmail"
Arts & Literature: Dragonlance
Science & Nature: A twenty sided die
Sports & Leisure: Tim Duncan

Weezer - In The Garage

Fame, its not your brain, its just the flame

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt is not my name. Robert Paulson is not my name. My name is Laurie. What's your name? Tell the story of how you got your first, middle, or last name.

In the original proto-German (yes apparently I'm a Mexican with a Germanic name, go figure), hrôdberxtas was derived from the roots, Rhod meaning "fame" and Berht meaning "bright".

jealous?

Eh, don't be. It's not easy saddled with the fame and attention that the name implies. Anonymity is an underrated state. It goes to your head and just plain fucks you up. Strangers walk up to you on the street and greet you like they've known you for years and you don't have a clue who they are. People try to give you things just for being who you are. It's true. Not huge things like cars or anything. But, sometimes, meals are free. Seriously. Especially at sandwich places. You never have to pay for weed. Swear to God. And members of the opposite sex (or even the same sex) that never would have given you the time of day before, suddenly want to get to know you better. There's no guarantee of actual intercourse or anything, but the odds go waaaaay up. Going to the movies is free, too, sometimes. And more than occasionally, someone else buys your drinks. Free invitations to awards shows also seems to be part of the package, if you're into that kind of thing.

J.D. Salinger had the right idea. Just hole yourself up and avoid the public as much as possible. That's the life.

Not even joking.

Is it any wonder I reject you first?
Fame
-David Bowie

David Bowie - Fame

I am Uatu. I am "The Watcher"

It's the weekend! Time to celebrate and spend time with the ones you love (like Jack Daniels). Write a description of your favorite bar or hangout from an unusual perspective. Maybe you're a fly on the wall or the bathroom attendant.


It's funny that so far, two of the assignments seem tailor made for two significantly longer pieces that I'd written previously. There's a short story I wrote once, set in an airport lounge and based on the Radiohead song "Let Down" that could have been written with the previous assignment in mind had it not been written ten years ago. And this one reminds me of a story I wrote around that same time that starts in "Lovejoy's" and references the Electric Lounge. I'll save you the time by telling you that in retrospect, one is much better than I remember and still not terribly good, and the other is probably nowhere near as good as I seem to think it is.

As for the assignment before me today, I'm bending the rules and going only slightly off topic. It's a bar story. But not a bar I have fond memories of. Hell, it's not really even a bar I remember very well. But, the fact that the story isn't even really about me does make me a fly on the wall, so I guess that does satisfy at least part of the requirements. It's not pretty, and a little gross. Here goes.

Back around '97, my roommate and I were on Sixth Street in the middle of the work week. He was a waiter, and when you live with waiters you come to realize that the concept of a weekend is nonexistent. When you work til 1 o'clock on Saturdays, a Tuesday becomes as good a night as any to go out. The only difference is slightly better parking and an entirely different experience in people watching. The overwhelming crowds are gone. In their place, a different breed of barfly appears. A heartier strain. No tourist, these warriors, they operate on another plane of existence. Male and Female alike, their morality bears little resemblance to the social mores that the everyday man has chosen to live by. They are far more serious in their pursuit of the frivolous. I never felt a part of them. I was only along to observe, mindful that any drastic behavior or sudden movements could leave me mauled, eaten and partially digested like Timothy Treadwell.

And so again, I found myself out on Sixth Street in the middle of the week. Pick a bar. Any bar. Any random nameless, faceless, characterless bar that usually exists for the sole purpose of providing legit coverage for nefarious profit. Not mob money, per sae, but meth money wouldn't be out of the question. These places come and go and comeback under new ownership, with new names, but the interior never manages to change. The history of Sixth Street is writ large upon the bricks of these establishments. And after the apocalypse, the roaches will gather beneath their sturdy roofs and raise a toast, glasses high, to the long gone daddy man cub that was Homo Sapien. And they'll cue the DJ. To the beat of Rob Base and DJ Easy Rock's "It takes Two", the roaches will dance till dawn. Just keepin' it weird.

but I digress.

Tuesday night barhopping was a weekly occurrence. As was Wednesday night bar hopping. Since this shit gets hard on the wallet, we stopped being as discerning as we once were and started stumbling into any place that screamed "Drink Special" These places were easily found via a simple mathematical theorem known as the "Crew Neck Principle" which dictates that the cost of a drink in a bar is inversely proportional to the size of the doorman's t-shirt. The tighter the shirt, the cheaper the drinks. In the past five years, this theorem has been adjusted for fashion and is now known as the "V-Neck Principle". But remember, this only holds for the majority of the bars found in the Sixth Street area only. Any detour onto Red River, and a more complex mathematical equation involving the application of the "Wifebeater Law" and a Lone Star tattoo adjustment must be invoked. The math is too hard. Don't do it.

Where was I? Oh yeah...

Wednesday. Or Tuesday? It doesn't really matter. We were in a random bar along with about ten other thick skinned jaded thrill seekers. There's music. Maybe. And my roommate and I are at a corner table by the window. One of those really tall tables with bar stools instead of chairs, so your legs just dangle over the edge like a five year old. A drunken belligerent five year old. Alongside the wall between our table and the bar was a potted plant of some sort. A fake plastic rubber tree plant, perhaps. I highly hope it was. And next to that plant was another table from the Billy's Big Boy line. The details of the rest of the bar are, for the purposes of this recollection, unimportant.

Now, I don't remember if they were there already when we arrived, or if we were there first, but at the next table, were two couples. Young. Happy. Shitfaced. The usual. And, I want to state right off the bat and for the record, that we weren't staring, leering or stalking. There was just nowhere else to look. Or rather, nowhere nearly as interesting. Beers in hand, my roommate and I watched the show unfold.

There was flirting. A bit of drinking. Some polite conversation with a healthy dose of innuendo. Some more drinking. Deals were being negotiated at the next table. Boundaries were established and permissibly ignored. Matters of transportation and immediate housing were brought forth and decided upon. They may have started the night as individuals, but these strangers had managed to pair up and were on the verge of going home to respective houses and closing the deal. But first, there was the time out. Sex was in escrow as it were.

The girls got up from the table, or rather jumped down from the stools and walked away to the bathroom, leaving the two guys behind to talk about whatever guys talk about when they'd rather be on their way somewhere else, to get laid, than make small talk. They sit there for a few minutes, when all of a sudden, the guy closest to us starts up, off of his seat, and puts the back of his hand to his mouth. A look of utter horror appears on the face of the other guy. A quickly in one swift movement, the guy on his feet pivots right, faces the potted plant holder and unleashes a righteous Technicolor Yawn. He yakked harder and longer than a victim of a Sarin gas attack. It was like "Stand By Me". And the truly fucked up thing was that no one else noticed. With the exception of him, his friend, my roommate and myself, the rest of the bar was blissfully unaware that anything was happening. And the two guys had had even less idea that my roommate and I had watched the whole thing. They were just as ignorant of us as the rest of the bar was of them.

And then the girls came back. Single file, they marched back from the bathroom, ready to go. By this point, the guy standing next to the table again and had only just managed to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. (You do realize where this is going, right?) Using his clean hand, he reached over and grabbed the girl he was going home with by the belt. He pulled her toward him and gave her what Kevin Costner described as a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts for three days. And his friend said nothing. He just watched with the same mixture of revulsion, horror and absolute fascination that we did.

As for us, we were powerless to stop it. Pass judgement if you like, you won't be the first, but any Star Trek nerd worth his phaser knows that it's a violation of the Prime Directive to interfere in anyway that shapes or otherwise alters the course of a subjects life. I didn't make these rules up. I just choose to occasionally live by them when it's convenient. I am Uatu. I am the watcher.

Like Rakim Says:
I've seen enough shit to leave your frame of mind broken
I'm still alive and scopin
Be another hundred years 'til my skies close in
And I'ma die with my eyes open. The Watcher

Anyway, that's my story.

Dr. Dre - The Watcher
Jay-Z - The Watcher 2

Duke Ellington And John Coltrane - Sentimental Mood

“If a composer could say what he had to say in words he would not bother trying to say it in music.” ~Gustav Mahler As writers, we are trying to say what we have to say in words. However, music is a very important part of most of our lives. Pick a song from your myspace or ipod playlist and write about why that song is important to you. Feel free to add video to your post.


Do me a favor, please? You who know me. If you're still around at the end. The very end. When coils, mortal and otherwise have been shuffled off.

I'm not a sentimental man. I don't want for much. I've often said that a burlap sack and a six foot hole will suffice as a final resting place. The last thing I want is for those I leave behind to have to shoulder the financial burden of a costly funeral. But I also know that no matter what I say, funerals are for the living. You'll do whatever you want. Hell, in my case, you probably will just put be in a burlap sack and throw me in a hole in the ground. That's cool. I just ask one thing. Please play Duke Ellington and John Coltrane's rendition of Sentimental Mood at my funeral. That's all I want. The rest is up to you.

-----------------------------------------------------------

The mid 90's were when I hit my stride, picking up new music the way a two year old picks up a language. I was working at Camelot Records at Barton Creek Mall in a very unique situation. In the early 90's, the Camelot Corp. purchased every mall standing Hastings Records in Texas, increasing their standing in the state by dozens of units. And in the entire state of Texas, only Barton Creek Mall had a Hastings and a Camelot, resulting in two Camelots, not only in the same mall, but in the same wing, spitting distance from each other. Rather than shut one of the stores down, Le Grande Experiment was born. The inventory was re appropriated between the two stores, so that one unit sold Rock, Hip Hop, Country and everything else that actually sold. The other became known as the Classical Easy/Listening Store, an unfair sobriquet, as the store also stocked Jazz and Film Scores. Added to this, the store also had the distinction of being the only unit in the chain with a preview policy. Which meant that although the Pop store was constricted in the scope of what was allowable as in store play, the sky was the limit at the other store, provided you actually liked Jazz and Classical.

A difference of opinion over managerial style (my supervisor's, not mine) led me to seek a transfer to the No Man's Land across the courtyard. Settling in with a new manager, I slowly began to take advantage of my new surroundings. For starters, there were no customers. Seriously. The 'burbs just weren't ready for it. Occasionally the random University type would wander in , browse, realize that the selection was still better at Tower Records and leave. The store was not long for this world. So I took advantage. I took advantage of their disadvantage. With no customers, the pressure was off. I sat on a stool at the counter and I read. I wrote. And I listened. So much of the music I've come to take for granted came out of that period. The minimalism of Phillip Glass, Steve Reich and John Adams (not the president). The impressionism of Ravel and Debussy. The modernism of Arvo Part and Henri Gorecki. The fantastic film scores of Nino Rota and my all time favorite composer Ennio Morricone. But most importantly, there was Jazz.

It was during this period that I first heard Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, Thelonious Monk and Ornette Coleman. I discovered that Herbie Hancock didn't just "Rock It", he was a "Chameleon" who could funk as well as George Clinton when he wasn't taking it easy on "Cantaloupe Island". Art Blakey. Billy Holiday. Charley Parker. Ella Fitzgerald. Jimmy Smith. Oscar Peterson. "Kind Of Blue". "Time Out". "Chet Baker Sings". "The Black Saint and The Sinner Lady". "Saxophone Colossus". Classics, every one.

But above them all, the twin saints of John Coltrane and Duke Ellington. "A Love Supreme", "Black and Tan Fantasy", "Blue Trane", "Live at Newport", Giant Steps", "Far East Suite"...these were the records that really hit me in the gut. Coltrane would die in his early forties, pioneering Free Jazz, a style of playing that fifteen years later, I'm still trying to get my head around. Ellington would die at the age of 75, almost ten years after being absolutely screwed out of a Pulitzer Prize For Music that he had more than earned. Between them, they composed some of the most enduring music of the American Jazz idiom. And together they collaborated exactly one time, in a session that yielded only seven songs. Six of those songs were terrific. Exceptional, even. One was transcendent. It was a moment in time, captured on the first take and not repeated again. And it's the one song I want, to play me home.

By the time they recorded Duke Ellington's composition "In A Sentimental Mood", it was already regarded as a standard. Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan and Django Reinhardt, among others had all had a turn at it. This recording session for the album that would come to be simply titled "Duke Ellington & John Coltrane" was largely seen as a friendly experiment, with muted expectations. Coming from two very different generations and styles of Jazz, there was some reservation about whether their dissimilar playing styles would prove cohesive. The end results, however, were absolute genius. Both men proved equally capable of give and take. Coltrane's saxophone provided a perfect compliment to Ellington's piano, and nowhere more so than on the album's opening track.

The piece opens with Ellington repeating a gentle six note melody, as the drum provides a quiet accent between measures. In the second bar, Coltrane's horn delicately floats into the room and establishes the theme as Ellington continues to play variations of his almost tiny six note melody. The effect is hypnotic. For the first full minute, the contrapuntal progression lulls the listener into an absolute state of bliss. By the second minute, the players ease into a more traditional arrangement, with Coltrane carrying on the second theme of the piece and Ellington staying in the background in the role of sideman, before returning to the initial theme and arrangement after half a minute. And then come the solos. A striking chord from Ellington announces his presence with authority as the tempo changes to a swing rhythm, in acknowledgement of the Jazz style that he pioneered almost half a century before. He seems to tip toe around the melody, playing phrasing that only bears a slight resemblance to the main theme. Coltrane picks up the ball and runs with it, continuing the side story that Ellington began during his solo, and brings it to a satisfying conclusion. And then it's back to the beginning with a restatement of the main theme, ending with Ellington returning to his initial six note melody.

And that's it. 4 minutes and 16 seconds, give or take. But I would venture to say that they may be the most perfect 4 minutes and 16 seconds that I've ever heard. I've sat with eyes closed and been in the room with the ghosts of two men who changed American music, Ellington sitting right/center and Coltrane standing over on the left. It's one of the few pieces of music that I know by heart, not as a player but as a listener. If I try hard enough, I can play the entire thing back in my head, capturing every slight nuance and every percussive accent. At it's heart, it's a love song, the main melody composed on the spot as Ellington, the Original Player, tried to impress two girls that were standing on either side of his piano. In the film "Love Jones", when Larenz Tate tries to seduce Nia Long, he knows exactly what record to play. "Sentimental Mood". And it works. And I'd be a liar if I say that I haven't put it on more than a few mix tapes, myself.

I can give no satisfactory reason for why this particular composition resonates so powerfully for me. It simply does. It is as much a part of who I am now as Wim Wenders' film "Wings Of Desire" and Vladamir Nabokov's "Lolita". But, taste is subjective and by no means definitive. One man's Aria is another man's Metal Machine Music. However, the personal choices we make, aesthetic or otherwise, are a reflection of us. The books we read. The films we watch. The music we buy. They may not be who we are, but they are what the world outside perceives us to be. The secret of life is to stop caring about how others see you and just do for you. And so I do. And I will hopefully continue to do so for years to come. Until, as James Brown said, "I cain't do no more!". And when the day comes that I've done my last encore, Danny Ray has thrown the cape over my shoulders and like James, I'm quietly escorted off the stage of life, I only ask one thing. Hold the after party anyway you want, just be sure that you play "In A Sentimental Mood" for me, just once.

In A Sentimental Mood: Duke Ellington, John Coltrane
Uploaded by MoonSymphonie

Where cheap plastic disposable crap still matters...

Remember, remember the 5th of November: Today is a brand new day for our country. It is also Guy Fawkes Day (if you don’t know who he is or have not read/watched V for Vendetta, please do some googling/ netflixing/ trekking to Austin Books some time today). Today you get a break from my fascist regime to bask in the joy and glory. Write whatever you want.


The great raconteur, Corbin Harwell, when asked why he owned so many albums, responded in the most logical manner possible.
-Because I'm not always gonna work in a record store.

I'm reminded of the scene in Die Hard when German terrorist/exceptional thief Hans Grueber paraphrases Plutarch's Life of Alexander. Surveying the architectural model in the executive conference room at the Nakatomi Tower, he says "...and Alexander wept he saw the breadth of his kingdom, for he knew there were no more worlds left to conquer." The benefits of a classical education. I have to make due with the internet.

I bring this point up because I fear that I have come to a crucial crossraods in my life. Nothing earth shaking, at least for the less obsessive of mortals, but life defining nonetheless. I fear that I may have reached my saturation point for new music. And frankly, that just bums me the frak out. Since 1987, I have prided myself on being three steps or more ahead of the game, throwing off the musical bell curve of the general populace and changing directions faster than Beck (he really only has two directions: Sometimes he's somber and sometimes he makes fun of Black people. and that's it. He just spends his career going back and forth.) Almost fifteen years in music retail has given me the opportunity to indulge my every musical whim, enabling me to become exceedingly well versed in topics as diverse as Brazilian Tropicalia, pre-Punk American Garage Rock, Grime, Memphis Soul, Memphis Power Pop, American Power Pop, Gulf Coast Swamp Pop and dozens of other specific musical distinctions that most everyone else on the face of the planet could give two shits about. To most everyone else, including Billy Joel, it's still just Rock And Roll. And that's just peachy. It's all just noise. Joyous beautiful noise.

But my brain is full. Or maybe I just have plenty of toys to play with and I don't like what's being sold to the kids nowadays. The epiphany of sorts came during a Mountain Goats show last week (nothing drives home the reality of no longer working at a record store like hearing the reaction, "who are the Mountain Goats?") It wasn't the Mountain Goats. They were excellent. It was the opener, Kaki King. I'm not sure at what point the internal monologue machine went into overdrive, spouting off lines like "Are you fucking serious?" and "You're shitting me" and "Where's Ashton?" It was like being in the middle of an Andy Kaufman performance, minus the funny part.

If you aren't familiar with Kaki King, she's an acoustic guitar instrumentalist, with a virtuosic finger tapping technique. She also happens to be an exceptionally cute and exceptionally tiny girl. Which I suspect goes a fair way toward making up for the fact that she can't sing in key to save her life. And while this has never been a handicap for anyone in the angry punk/metal/rock school of music, Kaki King is decidedly narry of those. Oh, she may shake her tiny fists in rage and say "Fuck" on stage a lot, but I'm not buying it. No, Kaki King is far less Amphetamine Reptile Records, or even SubPop (classic OR current). Ms. King is decidedly more of the Windham Hill Records variety. At a certain point in American music, Windham Hill was the premier New Age record label, home to the definitive New Age group Mannheim Steamroller (The fact that the record label was originally funded by the profits from the 70's novelty song "Convoy" is another story for another day). Also on the label was an acoustic instrumentalist, with a virtuosic finger tapping technique named Michael Hedges. He played the exact type of slap tappy plink plunky hippy dippy guitar that you expact from someone on a new age label. Which is pretty much the same type of music that Kaki King plays. The only difference is that after eight albums, Hedges died in a car wreck and is thus far only remembered by aging guitar nerds (right here) and New Age fans. Meanwhile from the moment she debuted in 2003, Kaki King was annointed as the new sound of guitar. Sorry, ain't buying it.

And here's why. I could seriously give a shit that Kaki King plays Hedges style New Age guitar. It's just that hipsters aren't supposed to like this shit. And if you ask them, they'll probably tell you that they would never listen hippy New Age guitar instrumentals. But that's exactly what Kaki King plays. At one point, she tried to ROCK. And rock she did. She rocked exactly like Eric Johnson, another hippy dippy guitar rock instrumentalist. And hipsters, most definitely don't listen to Eric Johnson. Especially Austin hipsters, since he happens to be from here, and there's nothing Austin hipsters hate more than successful local musicians that don't play indie rock. As to the singing, when there was any, it was flat. Not terrible. Just flat.

Which brings me to my real point. I want out. I know too much. Literally. Not in the sense that the knowledge in my head has become a liability (though I suspect it has), but in the sense that there is simply too much useless information taking up space in my brain. During the above rant, I consulted the internet for reference exactly once. To look up the correct spelling of Mannheim Steamroller. The rest off it came pouring directly out of my fevered ego. Kaki King. Michael Hedges. Eric Johnson. Convoy. Tropicalia. This is the shit that I rant about, I realize that even I don't care about my opinions. Nor should anybody. If you wanna like Kaki King, then Bully for you. Ain't nothing gonna break my stride. Nobody gonna slow me down, oh no. I got to keep on moving. And so should everybody else. You like Medesky Martin and Wood? Awesome. Can't stand them myself, but I can just go fuck myself. Wanna know a secret? I can't stand Pavement. Or Yo La Tengo. Or the any Wilco album after Summer Teeth. So what?

I'm throwing in the towel. I'm done trying to keep up with the kids. I'll only get more frustrated. I'm just going to move into my cave with my Al Green records and be better off for it.

No seriously.