Stellar Preformances 1 part A: Star Spangled Banner

Aside from those long Magical Cherokee fingers, one thing that amazed me about Hendrix was just how many god damn recordings he put out. This man put out more of a trail of music then I as a naive musician could have thought possible in such a short career. From a strictly sales perspective the amount of timeless songs, solos, photos and endless lesson books that came out of his little 'Electric Church' world in 4 short years he wouldn't have needed to touch an axe again regardless if he didn't know how to read the German Warning label for '9 Barbiturates is 8 too many'.

It wasn't hard to pick one though. I don't listen to it as often as I do the endless electric voyages on his many alien interpretations of Villanova or hear my train. I mean how often does an officer need to read the Iliad? just once and you know it's perfect by itself for all the right reasons. You don't need to trip on it, it's not like it's even got a groove.

If I recall the first time I sat around and watched his whole Woodstock project I wasn't even that stoned but I spent the entirety of the video with my face inches away from the screen convinced I was legit hearing some sort of monolith prophecy from Europa being wielded through his hands.

Of course people are going to cream themselves over it simply because he was a paratrooper playing an old American glory tune through a fuzz box during a guerrilla war, but the innocent performance itself was like the gypsy girl playing Mozart in front of Nazi Captain Amon Goeth, it had to be perfect.

He did it once, he did it arbitrarily and it was perfect. Just to put it in perspective, the written notes are a fucking major scale no different then fuckin Marry had a little Lamb the tune you had to learn on your recorder in 4th grade and he played it in between Voodoo Child and Purple haze, two of the heaviest tunes in the last half century. The shit deserves to be studied like Gettysburg.
I'll go through the technicalities tomorrow...note for note.

I'm a little man, man, he's a big man..

After he was slaughtered on his doorstep some solvent was injected into that small dissolving group. Of course the only one left standing ironically is Paul, the Oz, the brains behind the magic.

This man wasn't killed because he had any affiliation left with the beatles but because, like all crimes, the act of violence was just reflective to the murderer who happened to have a strong psychotic attachment to his victim.. and people don't drool over just anyone, they have to be like John. They have to want you to get into their head.

I'm obviously speaking as if you've seen his last Cavett show appearance, and not just the Forest Gump overdub.

Kind of like a habitual blogger and attention fiend who's only experience of 'getting out' is going from one building to another building, John defends himself rampantly by spitting out pre-thought, rehearsed statements of himself to a naive dope head in the audience, he actually almost fell forward off of his chair at a fairly simple question.

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I honestly woke up early today, and was going to post something on my mind about Lennon. I sat in formation and thought of how many pages I'd have to flip through on google images to find a manageable one.

Hopefully he was as dumb as I thought and his choice to wear the bogus military surplus 70's era fatigues with Sgt chevrons was not much of a choice, rather an extremely ignorant attempt to draw more eyes from his hollowminded solo career audience. I could understand if he had some kind of intricate image to uphold, then I would simply feel like that husband who had to pardon the man who fucked his wife unknowingly because she was married to me.

John has never been the steam in the pipe, the coal in the furness. His idea of contribution was posing nude and playing sitar with indians. His protests and inspired peace marches were a farse and had no effect on the real world....

the patch he wears on his arm..6th marines, the Indian head, a patch he picked because it seemed witty............that's my unit. and he's fucking british.

Ultimate ineptness: take 8

Something I thought was worth sharing for an innocent laugh (because this is all about fun, it's not for any reflective self revelation I swear), I just realized although I don't believe in fuck anymore, that on a completely 'id' level I am emotionally parallel to one of those apathetic christian individuals who's soul is dimmer then the ever rotting skin of Anubis.

...I arbitrarily stumbled into IHOP for the first time not to long ago and just didn't care to feel sorry for myself that my eyes homed-in, beyond all the free filet's, on the perfect ingredients to the composition of a fruit salad. The note worthy event of the night though is mindlessly forgetting I'm in Jacksonville, the strangely single cutie busing our table had a point to make on why she's a grizzly-wintergreen girl because she grew up around mules, and instead of vomiting I just took pity on her.
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This is what I call being Justice-Creative: spilling a little creativity without the effort, doing yourself some daily justice. I didn't start, draw, idealize or customize via current events, this comic, though I did replace the little penny worth caption that sets the mood for such a relatively bland drawing. I began with 'witisicms' and 'lol catz' and milked those dry...

Yeah I know they're supposed to be one liners but sooner or later my wittiness will condense itself.

for the semi musically inclined

Somewhere down the long line of alcoholic anger induced assumptions and collective plateaus of boredom we came up with things like Hippie Communism. When you think of this stereotype you think of 20 minute bass loop solos in a folk song with 2 chords, smitten with so called lyrics that seem to have a purpose, usually about planting daffodils in place of butchery foundations.

I mean I admit I wouldn't have gained much ground on the whole personal enlightenment journey without Phil Lesh, but I'm also not really in a position to be against the war, what does that make me?

(hold on I have a point this time)..I was asked today "are you some kind of peace activist?". apparently as a feared warrior when concern is shown in innocent conversation towards the man on the receiving end of a missile, it is jargon for hippie..so much for keeping a low profile.

shitbirds..

We all know those people who have to wear certain accessories or flaunt their false contributions to the world which is really just a reflection to towards a botched childhood.
For example wearing a simple Golden Glock pistol tie clasp the size of a nickel on television..but we love these people. Like that ancient African King who decided it was totally righteous to bear the responsibility of taking every woman's virginity in the tribe before she had gotten married. Or people like Donald Trump. Their inner philosophy looks like a really well played, 4 hour long game of Jenga, just real simple, one piece on top of another at this point. The best thing is we marvel at them because hey, they did something right! our livelihoods are based off of running our systems and societies by their example. We don't want to be like them as individuals but the people we trust in the big chairs are these ungodly renditions of immorality. They are like really focused and energetic shitbirds.

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I definitely learned some Pavlov conditioning in the basic years of school, because I know when I start to explain something the first thing that naturally spills out is a question or some candy ass self righteous comment like 'I may be wrong but..' and immediately my half fried conscience decides it would be ever more blunt and potent to just thrust the fundamental mindset into oblivion and spit out, instead, something I feel has been waterlogged from sitting undisturbed or undiscovered for myself.
No it's not narcissism it's immediate communication. one cannot have real conversation without an open ended opinion or a deep relevant discovery through a common subject, right?

Repent!

Take any tune off of the album Hail to the theif, Radiohead, replay the bridge over and over in some retardedly alien manner and increase the volume progessively while moving it up chromatically by key each time,and you'll have an idea of how I feel right now, just straight bluelight buzzed.




if you take a good Tom Waits approach to your own life and try to squeeze some color out of your otherwise pointless life you can get some good juice, as an example: when it unfortunately comes time for me to pass on to another job, if the manager happens to have half the ironic humor as I have he should find my prior job lists incredibly odd in their sequence. each job I have had, I worked directly with customers on a daily basis, none lasting more then a few months each, then my latest job I signed up as a rifleman, and better yet the light machine gunner in my fire team.
If that flew the fuck over your head, the punchline is that somewhere in there I snapped and decided, in a time of national stress and violence, to break off from bar stool salesman and account CSR to 'Americas own personal Maiming device'.
I just want to get a good confirmed kill before I see to it that it's time to repent.
just make sure you write down your personal discoveries.

I'm going to continue to think like Tom Waits for the duration of the night, see if I don't wake up in the fetal position in my locker.

oh it's tireless

Most likely this is just another exercise in my futility to subdue some sort of borderline something-or-other mental state of mine in and out of a typical infantryman's workday, usually consisting of a fairly trivial and meaningless existence, similarly to the life of a an average walking dead man. Or maybe it's just the middle aged oriental woman who think that their lace bras and commissioned husbands can really cover up their resentment towards the US for the use of napalms in the southeast Asia campaigns, who handle my 4 pack of Red Bull every Monday night that just really busts my nuts to the point of insanity.
This may appear to be an attempt at a typical New Yorker style blog, though instead of Business and Obama (no not politics, just Obama), I shall swap for irregular, untimely and sadistic humor, that may or may not be partial to only myself. Yes I too notice something staring back when I look in the mirror.

So why not start us off with some Rejected New Yorker cartoons that I have remade...a little hobby of mine.

Economic fascism? I mean seriously, are we so bored that we are somehow locked into some paradoxical oxymoron? Like whats next, another Green Day world tour sponsored by Nelson Mandela?