20 Minute Piece of Mind

I've had a bunch of recent emailings from people asking me why I don't write stuff here anymore. No political rants, no keen observations, no answers to your burning questions, no poetry, nothing as far as words are concerned.

Well, sometimes there's nothing left to say. Sometimes a post communicates what a post needs to communicate. This thing has been in progress for almost nine years, I've had my say. It's not like I'm going to really break new ground with words. Likewise, those who know me, already know how I'm going to respond to stuff. Things basically rule or they pretty much suck. Take your shades of gray.

But because I do listen to you, I'm going to spend 20 minutes typing stuff here. I'm going to put on the early draft of my newest EP--which stands at exactly 20:00 right now--and type what comes to mind. It might be nothing, it might be notes on the EP, it might be somewhat interesting.


I work with really talented people. I'm the lucky one. How did I collect such a talented group of close friends? I'm amazed sometimes. Like NOW, obviously. We need to make more stuff.

Photography can be difficult. Albums are hard. Videos are harder. But, like Ralph said, we're here to do the hard things. Theatrical acting would probably be the hardest of things.

Skateboarding is bliss and I should really do it more. [substitute "playing guitar" for "skateboarding" and apply that as well]

I wish I weren't so lazy or so half-assed with my output. Shit, this is turning into some sort of therapy session. It wasn't meant to be that at all. I can do better. That's why I cannot stand when people tell me how "good" something is. That means they either don't know art too well or they don't get what I'm doing. I guess they won't be engraving "easy friend" on my urn.

I need someone good to play some lead guitar right here (2:30 ish).

I really enjoyed that Grown Ass Man project I just did. Makes me feel as if I did something with a little meaning. That was as necessary as it was organic.

I'm too sloppy with the cuts, too impulsive, too finished-in-the-head all the time; almost like the ideas are good enough and the execution is an insignificant afterthought. Execution is everything. Perhaps I can evolve into that era.

More volume at 7:00...oh my, this is coming together (note: piece #3 ("15") isn't working for me yet, but there's a place and there's a purpose). Haha! I make albums for a handful of people and only like three fingers ever get it. I make crazy albums. This shit doesn't make any sense to anyone. I'll say it's "quite specific."

Bass is "good a thing." So are cymbals. So is wah. I'm not big on the lyrics. Give me thick, distorted guitars and some rhythms and I'm good to go.

I'm so over technology. I mean tech for the sake of tech, like when people ask me shit like, "how many apps do you have on your phone?" What is that?! My answer is always, "I don't know, the number I need to do what I do." I'm pretty sure when this contract for my iPhone is up, I'm gonna let it lapse. Who needs this shit anymore? Big Dave Wave sent me some TED lecture piece that was neat and stuff but it was TOTALLY tech for the sake of tech masturbatory computerized blah-blah. So what?
Want to impress me? Draw something freehand with a pencil. That's magic. Write a story that makes me think. That's incredible. Sing a song. That is wonderful. Tell me a story that's not so self-serving. The rest of this nonsense is redundant.
And now this whole military "drone" thing is out of control, hummingbird-sized, bee sized? It's all rise of the robots as prophesized by Philip K. Dick and Aldus Huxley. Tech for the sake of tech. People all existing for "social media" and shit. Nobody knows anyone anymore. Nobody reads anything anymore.

The saxophone? What's that? I've never really cared for the sound that much. Saxophone should always be used sparingly unless you have a dope ass nickname like Trane. You know what I mean. Not everyone can blow a sax. Not my tea.

What do I like? I like lots of stuff. I'm all joy all the time, don. I like this coffee I'm drinking. Simple joys. I like how well my shoes have broken in. I like this shirt. My breakfast was delightful. I don't get overly nostalgic or sentimental. I've learned that only leads to bruised organs and sad face emoticons. The past is the textbook. The present is life. The future is unknown. No reasons to press, stress, or flip out over everything. Saw a dude today who opened the coffee shop door with a napkin. He's one of those never touch anything because he's afraid of germs types. He carries napkins to open door. How fucking frightened is this dude of life? That was so sad.

Nobody knows what this piece sounds like at all. And only like three or four people--IF I'M LUCKY--will ever listen to it. That's micro art. My world of art is micro art. I'm always surprised when someone outside of the three or four people I know actually listens, looks at, or processes my work.

I don't understand how to court an audience. I don't get it at all. Don't know what to say or what to do. I'm just a guy who makes stuff so he doesn't die. I just a guy who's more than half-way done living on this planet and just wants to leave a few breadcrumbs behind about what it was about. The robots will like that, I think. Everybody will dance the robot in the year 3030.
How much time do I have? Like a few weeks to finish this record up? I do declare myself "on schedule." I can hardly believe that the Kingdom of Leisure formed 15 years ago over on Fairfield. That's crazy talk. It seems as if no time has passed. But now we're old ass men still tearing it up in a young person's world. As unafraid as I am to grow old, I'm terrified to be old. I'm sticking with my option to go Hunter S. Thompson when the time is ripe. I have no need to be geriatric. I won't need the machines, thanks.
But for now. Right now. I'm OK with things. I could do more. Could do better. Could seek more fame and fortune. But I'm still just making stuff. Maybe it'll pan out, maybe it won't. Art is art. There lies satisfaction.

When I'm done, I'll be done.

20:00 40:00

Sike! I listened twice, sue me.

Now riddle me this: Knock-knock?


Now orange you glad I don't write more often.