somethin's fishy

I just recieved this message on Youtube while trying to watch something.

".....but, but I'm in Canda!"

golden boy

I may be late on this viral internet story, but I'm going to share it anyway. This is the story of Ted Williams - a man that was homeless up until being shared around the world via internet for his incredible "golden" voice.

I thought of just continuing through my day upon finding this, but found it too inspiring and important to simply cast aside. It simply goes to show that talent and imagination can still be found in today's bland world of gadgetry.

He now owns a house in Cleveland and is a broadcaster for the Cleveland Cavaliers. Watch the video below. I promise it will impress.

amazing!

Before leaving for home, I decided that it would be a good idea to deep clean the house. Here in Toronto, the garbage system outside of waste and recycling also has a bin for organic compost. Seeing as I hadn't changed my bin in a while, it was go time.

There must have been some seriously rotten shit in there, because as soon as I removed the bag from the bin, I barfed!! Blluughghhaaaahhhuuuuwwa!!! Amazing! It smelled so rotten that I barfed right there on my lino floor!

I think barfing is the funniest shit ever. One time my dogs got sprayed by a skunk back home and the sheer smell of the skunky-dogs getting washed in the tub made my sister barf. I thought that was amazing.

I've never personally barfed from smell alone, until about ten minutes ago. It happened instantly. So rad.

I've never had a big problem with barfing. Most of my close friends know this. I used to barf on purpose after big nights of binge drinking, just so I wouldn't feel like shit in the morning. I don't do it anymore. Come to think of it, I've gone through all kinds of drinking ritual phases. Two sweet barfing instances come to mind: one was with Tiff on the Nathan Phillips Square ice rink last winter after drinking super expired McDonalds milk (one halfwit security guard thought we were bulimic, so I made him smell the milk), and the second with Meme in the city hall parking lot on top of a Smart Car, which subsequently led to Meme spewing the most amazing rice barf of all time.

Barf is awesome. Don't be afraid of it, unless you have the flu, then prepare for shittyness.

Honorable Mention goes to Lwam last Saturday night at the Madison, which was based on a gag reflex rather than drunkenness. Beautiful Heinekin barf cascading down a set of wooden stairs followed by the roar of 20 screaming jocks? RAD TO THE BONER.

that's callled tweeting

ALRIGHTMEANDBLAIRAREGETTINGDRUNKONOLDEEANDGOING
SWIMMINGWEALSOHOOKEDUPWITHGIRLSINNYC

above video: Battery Park, NY.

escape from the city

fuck it.



i get tired of people, in the general sense, quite easily. i circle streets at night and realize what a dismal thing humanity really is. i haven't quite decided whether life is truly difficult or impossibly easy, and i don't lose sleep over it.

i've decided to send out an open invitation to all girls who are interested in cutting all strings and moving to the country with me.

we'll wear denim, sleep in, kiss a lot and have a dog.
i'll drive you into town in my truck when you want, and i'll pick up the paper.
we'll build a library in our bedroom and our floors will creak louder than the weather vane on the roof.
things will be quiet most of the time, until we decide to spin records and dance.

no experience necessary. only requirement is that dirt under the nails needn't be a problem at times.

mizokami san

Have you ever seen an ear do this?

Tomo dropped this bomb on us a couple months back, and nobody was ready.


"Doesn't it look like a dumpling?"

That's as close as you get to me laughing without rolling on the floor.

True Patriot Love

Happy Canada Day, my friends.

Having skimmed through my usual blog roll earlier this evening, I thought it necessary to at least brush upon the fact that it's Canada Day. The only thing I've missed mentioning while on tour is the passing of Michael Jackson, but that topic deserves some planning, which I'll get to.

But really, etiquette and tact aside: I love this fucking country.

For starters, I should mention that I've never really understood the large amount of pride that one puts into it's own nation. You'll never see me defending Canada in fatigues, nor will you see the red maple leaf stained permanently on my arm. I've always thought that priding oneself on the soil you were born on was more of an elementary idea, and that goes for every nation. There's not a country on this planet that I'd pronounce any pride from. However, I know that I enjoy living here.

I won't go on about how much I love the Rockies or Double-Double's, but rather what is contained within our borders, figuratively speaking. Our culture (and trust me, we have one) is such an incredibly fragile thing. It really only hangs by a few, strong threads. Our passive nature as a nation really allows us to legitimately lollygag around almost any situation, and I love that. The manners, the courtesy, the respect for one another: it's all quite remarkable.

It's only when you step outside of this nation that you realize how unique our culture really is. And you need not travel too far: minutes south of any Canadian border lies an accent you'd swear was as foreign to you as China. Having traveled across this country many times, under very different circumstances, I can tell you that Canadian culture is not too hard to find. All you really need is an empty stomach (to crave the food), a vehicle and destination (for the sights), some knowledge of the French language (because you're supposed to), and an old couple to talk to (because that's where the straight Canadian goods lie, largely).

I could just as easily go on about how many problems we have in this country, but I'll leave that for another day. Because who likes to get shit on when it's their birthday?

And besides, I got to see Joel Plaskett play last night for free in St. Johns, New Brunswick, so how hard can life here be?

I really want to revise this, but I'm tired from driving across the country. I'm going to bed, and wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy Birthday Canada.

sunday advice

A piece of advice:

Never give somebody credit for being good looking, because nobody deserves it.

Certain things such as style, clothes, hair, and makeup are commendable, but never straight looks.

Because really, their parents happened to rub together just enough, and at that precise moment, said person was created. And by rub, I meant they were fucking. What's creditable about that? 

Some people are fun to look at, and a lot of people aren't. Never in my life have I placed somebody on a higher pedestal than another for the purpose of looks. That's senseless. 

That's also life. 

assault and pepper

Hey Friends!

I've not been a slack as of late. It was just old Ted Rogers holding our internet signal ransom for several days. Yet, a lot has happened.

I might as well start with last Thursdays show at Call The Office in London.

The night itself was an overall success. Seeing as I don't have Facebook, I never really know who's "attending" and who's not. I'd heard word that many old friends were confirmed guests, and nearly all of them showed! This made for some, well, I'll just say interesting events. Even great friend, past-bandmate, and wonderful human in general Nathan Albion made his appearance. Dan and I used to be in a band with Nathan called Gerald Pessy way back in the day. We also almost won our highschool Battle Of The Bands together after only two weeks of playing our instruments.


The show also went quite well. There's a young and shakey kid doing sound at CTO nowadays, which caused us a bit of sweat. Aparently the show sounded good from the croud. People seemed to respond well to the new material. Even the new-new material (a near remix of an untitled song that had been played at several shows) went off without a hitch. That new version is pretty awesome, and a lot more fun to play, even though I stole the beat from a Josh Ritter album.
I have to mention, the Call The Office stage has heat like no other club. I'd rather play in the desert than feel the lights of that place. I always bring a change of clothes to those shows because, combining the heat with the vigor I play with, always makes for a sweaty performance.

The next morning, after some delicious King's Inn Diner lunch, we made for the road. I drove. Upon arrival, we all split for a Triple S before the show. I got Chippy's, located directly across the steet. If you've never eaten there, and have an appreciation for fish & chips, boot your ass over there as soon as possible. We then showed up for sound check.


I'll be honest, and I've said before, Lee's Palace scares the shit out of me. It's a massive venue that has seen some of the best bands on the planet play since before you were born. The walls of the place just ache with history. Not only is it one of the most notorious, but the best sounding clubs in the city. So naturally it was a bit nerve-racking packing our gear in it's hollow state. All of the bands were cool, except the bill didn't have any flow whatsoever.

The order went as follows: college funk, hue, hip-hop, then metal. Goofy.

We were rushed going on, seeing as the previous band ran late. I was literally still tightening my stands while Darcy tinkered the opening chords of our set. A great amount of people showed up, except we didn't make any money because they were all on the guestlist haha. S'all good. We payed for our gas money the night before.

Afterward we all hit Dance Cave and danced uncontrollably. Kevin Black and I jammed so fucking hard to Arcade Fire. I'm pretty sure we created our own dance circle in the middle of the floor just because nobody wanted to be hit by our flailing limbs. Atta boy. Another story that deserves some attention is actually quite funny. Minutes before we left after packing our gear, a fight broke out only a few feet from us. The cops showed up, and one of the guys who sucker-punched another dude approached us and told him to take his wallet. We said no, so he kicked it under our van. All I did for the next ten minutes was stare at the guy while he was being questioned by the cops. But why would he do this? It's simple really. The oldest in the book.

See, when a cop questions you for something illegal, all you really need to do is chuck your wallet away. That way, upon questioning, you can make up any address you feel like and the cops would be none the wiser. You'll never recieve a ticket and never pay a fine.

The punchers girlfriend noticed me eyeing him up and pleeded with me to not rat him out. To be honest, the only reason I didn't was because Darcy was driving and didn't want to get involved. Lucky him, because I was drunk and wanted justice. The most funny part is, she was pleeding with me as I was sitting in a van full of people, and after I continued to shove everything she said to the ground, my only reply to her was:

"Na na na na na na na na, BATMAN!!!"

We all had a good laugh at her expense right then and there.

I went home after that and slept. Then! Just when life couldn't get any better! I awoke to tickets to that afternoons Jays game against the Kansas City Royals! My good friend Andrew Siu and his lovely girlfriend treated Blair and I to some free tickets behind the plate. That was fucking awesome. I don't really have any good stories about that, except that I would shout any obscenity Andrew asked me to, including telling Vernon Wells to "EARN THAT 20 MILL!!!" when he was up to bat. He then struck out.

A week later, Darcy and I attended the annual Alzheimer's Tournament at The Highland in London. This was our fourth year playing, and easily the most hilarious yet. I won't go into too much detail, because I have a tonne of pics and video from that day, which I will post hopefully as soon as my sister sends them. You're in for some hilarity.

That same night a whole whack of us went out to Raygun and party-hardy'd, until we eventually ended up at Caitlin's place, free-styling and putting back drinks until the sun came up. Those freestyle tapes exist somewhere and I'll see what I can do to retrieve them.


Nowadays I've just been working, doing laundry, rehearsing, recording, painting, photographing, working on a website, Luminato, watching playoff basketball with K, walking, organizing, and enjoying what has been one of the best summers in years. My life seems to be one hectic, fantastic moment after another.

everyone sit down. it's sharing time.

Let me fill you in on a little story of mine.

Flat out, when I was a kid I was fascinated with penises (or the correct multiple penis term: penae), particularly my own. I found them so interesting. My sister didn't have one, but my brother and dad did. Old guys had weird ones, and so did dogs. They shrank and grew throughout the day, mostly whether or not it was bath time. I would constantly crack jokes about how I had the biggest dick in the family. I would present this theory using any lock on a door, and it went a little something like this:

I would turn it out from the door a little and say
"Miiiiike......huhuhuhu"
then a little more and say,
"Daaaaaaad.....huhuhu"
and then crank the thing full out and scream
"and meeeeeeee! hahahahahah"

My mom still thinks that's funny shit, and so do I. I was a special kid.

Yet what I am most famous for is called "The Dance of the Dinkies"

The Dance of the Dinkies was more like my "Fuck whatever I'm doing right now, it's time to make grandma laugh" ritual. All it really consisted of was me stripping butt-naked, run into a room, scream "DANCE OF THE DINKIES!!!", and proceed to swing my dick around and have a full-body dance freak-out. Everyone thought it was hilarious, but I'd usually get chased around by my mom with a wooden spoon because it wasn't the most polite thing to do when we had company over.

It mostly looked like this, except totally naked and with much more enthusiasm, if you can imagine.

I think that's enough sharing for today. Dismissed.

give a fuck? me neither

Tomorrow I am taking part in Del's 13th Annual group exibition.

It's in Scarborough. The ultimate success will be me not getting mugged.

If you really, really feel like coming, the show is located at 275 Bangurgh Circle, Scarborough Ontario. I'm bringing my best friend to help set up and drink coffee together. Other than that, it's just an opportunity for me to kiss babies and sling bullshit.

the secret machine

Sunday's, believe it or not, are usually the most eventfull day in my week. I'll try to put myself into harms way as much as possible.

After clearing my head from last nights mosh-fest with a good old sleep in, I decided it was time for a proper meal. I settled on a breakfast of homemade hash browns, bacon, carmelized onions, creamed spinach, and fried eggs. This took forever because I haven't fully figured out how to make perfect hash browns yet (recipes are my enemy). I cook by trial and error.
Once I was done eating I called my mum and lovingly wished her a happy Mother's Day. She deserves every bit of it, because I have the best mum on the planet, no matter how much you argue with me.

Now, something I usually do with my Sunday's is to go for a nice long walk. This walk usually starts somewhere around St. Clair station, as I will take the subway up there on the Yonge line, just to walk home. However, I decided this was too short for my liking and headed west on Bloor St. I had a savage headache at the time. Listening to Stockholm Syndrome on full blast didn't help too much either, but who cares?

Upon walking into the Annex, I decided visit the local BMV. Here, I do as I usually do in any book store: walk to the travel and maps section. To be totally honest, I have no idea why this happens. It is simply the most attractive section of any book store to me. I think books on travel and maps are romantic and mysterious, full of honesty and curiosity. I have a serious love for old world exploration maps. I'll go into further detail about this love at another time.

Around this time, I got a call from John Bean. Oh John, my friend. We decided to meet up for a pint a half an hour from the time of his call, so it was time to get some food first.

I stopped by the local Ginger to grab a quick bite. It was here that I also experienced my latest panic attack. I should first mention that panic attacks are nothing new to me. I used to get them quite predictibly when I was young. I couldn't watch an IMAX movie without having a freak-out session. The sheer size of the screen would cause panic. Yet they have become less frequent, thankfully, over the past several years. But by god are they horrible. It feels like a bad drug trip without the excuse. With drugs you can at least convince yourself that there are powers at work that are beyond your control. When it's a straight-up panic attack it's scarier because it's just you and your mind working against each other.


These are your usual symptoms:

• Rapid heart beat, pounding heart or palpitations
• Sweating
• Shaking visibly or inside
• Choking sensations or lump in throat
  
• Smothering or shortness of breath sensations
• Nausea, bloating, indigestion or abdominal discomfort
• Dizziness or unsteadiness
• Feeling light-headed
• Derealization (feeling unreal or dreamy)
• Depersonalization (feeling outside yourself or like you don't exist)
• Fear of losing control or going crazy
• Paresthesias (numbness or tingling sensations) in face, extremities or body
• Chills or hot flushes
• Skin losing color
• Blushing or skin blotches

However some symptoms are more present than others, the major symptoms I experience are Derealization, Depersonalization, and Paresthesias (and not because they are all big words). There may be others but I am almost always alone when they occur.

Basically, try to imagine that your head is floating, severed from your body, and that you aren't even present existentially. The only way to remind yourself that you have arms and legs is to either attempt moving them or to pinch them, just to remind you that they are still there. Anti-gravitational pull seems to take effect and you'll feel like you're about to be sucked into the ceiling at top speed. You can't read, you can't hear a thing, and the person you thought you were is reduced to a pile of functionless matter. Everything shakes, and everything is scary; even the comics section of the paper you so dearly love.

Luckily, the thought of seeing John kept me grounded enough to stomach my meal and meet him at Bathurst station.

Long story short: we went to the Green Room, downed a few jugs of Tankhouse, and chatted each other up. John is a great listener. He lets me chew his ears off. We talk a lot about film, hip hop, girl problems, old friends, modern day technological problems, and things that make us laugh - amongst other things. Our usual policy is: meet for a beer when the sun is up, leave our beer when the sun is down. Tonight was no different. John is one of those friends that I know I'll be checking out girls with when we're 60. I can just see it coming.



Regardless, that was my Sunday. How was yours?

picture sifting

I'm currently sitting on my old PC here in London and thought it would be funny to search through my received files from the past few years. Some of the stuff was just too good to not share, so here's what I'm talking about:
That's Adam Green. Him and his babe wife own The Little Red Roaster. He is one of the only people I've ever met that I would truly call a character. He is instantly quotable and never ceases to make me laugh. I could tell you a hundred stories, but I won't.

That would be Dan and I sitting in the Melbourne airport during one of the longest layovers I've ever experienced. That night we decided it would be unwise to stay in a hotel when we could just spend the night in the terminal. Looking back, I'm wishing we did. By that point I hadn't slept in over two days. I spent the night safeguarding our gear and writing in my journal while the others attempted to sleep. I can never sleep when there's the risk of losing my belongings, especially my Thai fisherman's pants. Check that shit out!That was taken at the second-last Joe Schuster Way Halloween party. I've been going to those for years and sadly they just got too crazy and were forced to discontinue them. But it was nice to party with Mario, Whoopie Cushion and Emily Rose. That party always had the best costumes.
Way back when, Hue was a circus. When we'd play live it wasn't uncommon for each member to play every instrument on stage during different songs. It was so, so hectic between songs because everyone would change positions and end up playing something entirely different from the last song. I can be seen here playing the bass, which was always a fucking pleasure.

That is Harrison Ford in a speedo. I never really cared to delete it from my received files, probably because it makes me laugh every time I see it.
This photo above was taken two years ago on the patio of CTO. If you haven't already figured it out, that is my gay twin, and his name is Andrew. I was freaking out. Nobody there could believe what they were seeing, and neither could I. The entire night felt like a segment from A Christmas Carol.
This man is a famous Fijian, at least to me. We stayed on the island of Mana and noticed this man strutting around with his huge gut, just building stuff and throwing down huge Fiji-Life style naps (that's when you lift your t-shirt above your belly to relieve some heat, and it only looks cool on them so don't try it)
Again, another crazy Hue lineup of musicians. Mary-Beth is probably the most talented musician I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Her accomplishments trump most seasoned orchestra players, and she's not even 30. Before she played for ex-president Bush, she was recording with us in the studio and the CIA would call her periodically for security checks. That was a trip.
That's my friend Ferris rocking the Indian look so hard with that hand drum.
That's my friend Stephen. He is the most asian person I know and also happens to be a super genius (don't those usually go hand in hand anyway?). He once proved to me that 1+1 does not equal 2. Maybe I'll call him up and ask some day how this is so. He likes history.
That's Gary. Bike and I found Gary in a Wal-Mart parking lot. He was trying to cross the road and held up traffic until we scooped him up and took him home. Later that day we did our research, built a habitat, and fed him crickets. His tongue was long and lethal. In fact, I used to have nightmares that Gary would grow ten times his size and suck my eyeballs out of my head with his incredibly long tongue. He changed color with mood and would always try to escape from his tank, and he usually succeeded. He would climb curtains and the fake trees in my brothers Africa-themed bedroom. Gary is now dead and resides in Dans freezer awaiting a proper burial. Peace out Gare-bear.

I am a business

So I decided to get my taxes done yesterday. Nearing the end of the session at H&R Block (which was terribly located on the fifth floor of The Bay near the kids clothing section, and they only told me the address of the building), I was asked if I had any other source of income. I bit the bullet and reluctantly said that I was an artist (and not because of tax evasion purposes). After a bunch of questions and fine print reading, I qualified to be a small business owner!

In reality it's probably not all that cool, but this will definitely be beneficial for me seeing as I can claim all of my material expenses on my income tax returns. And that is a lot of money. I roughly estimated that over one thousand was spent within the last eight months. But, you have to give to get I guess.

I'm really looking forward to this. I've always enjoyed personal banking, not business. I still go to my branch to pay my bills and make transactions. In fact, I've never even attempted online banking before. There's something about the tangible exchange of money that just feels more sound in my mind, and it gets me out of the house. Does this mean I have to starting wearing my suits? Sweet! I fucking love wearing suits.

if this post is riddled with spelling mistakes, please cut me some slack. it was done one-handed

plaster sandwich

Well, I have since had an upgrade and it is surely more stable than the last. This addition has made me realize many things, some of which I will now go into detail about.

. It has been a very interesting learning curve so far. Actually, I should say re-learning curve. I am slowly realizing what I can and cannot perform with my right hand. For instance, these are the things you wouldn't think would be difficult, but actually are: grinding pepper, getting your wallet out of jeans, tying shoelaces, grating cheese, all bathroom activities, shaking hands, answering the phone, writing, typing, riding a bike and holding pretty much anything.

. It's really warm. I never think to wear gloves when it's cold, (not that a glove would ever fit). I can even avoid using oven mits at times.

. It is relatively bad ass. People really second look when they see a busted hand protruding from a jacket sleeve. It's just among one of those cool things to have in your hands when walking. The list also includes: hot dogs, a wreath, a coffee, a box of books, a bag of fruit, a christmas tree, a tripod, etc. Either that, or they think I'm an idiot.

. If I had a lady throughout the duration of this cast we would probably have lots of sex. Lots and lots. That's something I would enjoy doing with my time instead of fumbling with paint brushes and roaming around College Park. Nothing like the mambo to take your mind off things.

. Showering is becoming less difficult. Seeing as I can't get my cast wet, I have to do whatever it takes to keep it dry, even if it means asking my Coll-Bev lovers to hoard empty sleeves for me. The only really difficult thing about showering is dispensing soap. How is it done with one hand? Think about how you'd do it. I'll leave you with that image.

. Since I'm not working, I've been forced to conjure up some get-rich-quick schemes. Around my place they call that "The Big Dirty". I always find a way to make giant sums of money really fast, and it pisses off my brother to all hell. He'll work for three months and I'll sell two paintings in a day. Sometimes that horseshoe gets uncomfortable in my ass.

. Half of my shirts don't fit because I can't get my arm through the sleeve.

. The cast will probably affect my stair climb later next week. I use my hands a lot throughout the event when grabbing the rails. Oh! Also, I'm accepting pledges and I'm $25 away from reaching my goal, so if you like to donate to the cause just drop me a line. I'll go into detail about this day later this week.


All in all, this cast has turned out to be a very interesting ride so far. I've never had something so constricting attached to my body for so long, except for that time in Vegas, but that's a whole other story. Every morning I wake up and it just feels like it was all a dream, until I attempt to wiggle my fingers. I guess distance makes the hand grow stronger.

race to sleep

On any given day I couldn't care less about telling stories about dreams, or hearing about peoples dreams. It's never really interested me, and why should it? It never happened, and probably never will. Although some dreams are just hilarious, why should other people care about my or your subconscious? This is probably the same reason why I never read fiction novels. I crave knowledge, and although I have a very vivid imagination, I don't really put a lot of interest into things that will never occur. Is that lame? Maybe.

Well, today is not one of those days because I have two dreams I simply have to get off my chest.

The other night I dreamt that I was walking the streets with Bike. It was later in the evening and we were just out for a stroll. I noticed one woman really checking me out and following us. This woman looked exactly like Jen from Hells Kitchen.
Yes, that Jen. Except she was a TTC employee and on her name tag it read CLING. I have no idea what that means, but moving along. We talked and she was being really touchy and inappropriate. I threatened to call the TTC office and report her behavior, but she was persistent. We began walking quickly through some mall and she was running after us! I was honestly terrified. We thought we'd lost her in some backyard, until I got smoked in the head by a can of Five-Alive. It was CLING, once again.
The strangest part about this dream wasn't really about sex-hungry TTC employees, but rather citrus fruit. Every time we thought we'd outrun her, I was assaulted by a flying piece of citrus fruit. That is the jist of that dream.

Now, the next dream is more of a personal nightmare. Some very close friends, especially my band, know about this dream because it scares the shit out of me. I have it about once a month and it never gets any better. I dream that my drums slide away from me while performing in front of large groups of people.

Basically, try to imagine playing the drums on top of a sheet of ice and every time you hit something it slides further and further away from you. Not only this, but everything is at really strange heights. Cymbals will be nearly eight feet in the air and my snare drum will be five feet to the left. I never play my drum kit, and something terrible always happens. During last nights dream I just gave up during a performance and decided sing a solo version of Oh Come All Ye Faithful acapella, except with tonnes of delay on my vocals, which sounded terrible and nobody clapped.

I wish I could express how much I hate these dreams. The funny thing is, I've experienced things like this when playing in reality. I remember when opening for The Spades last year, my kick drum (the big one) slid around the stage to the point where I couldn't even produce sound from it because it wasn't attached to the pedal. I would have to pull this 50-pound beast back to me at every chance, even mid-song.
And that is that.

it's a wrap

Once the swelling subsided, I knew something wasn't feeling right. My pinky finger was all twisted and my knuckle had been clearly pushed backwards.
After checking into emerge I awaited to hear my name called. It's really based on priority, so I understood why I was forced to wait three hours just to see somebody. I spent my time mainly talking to this woman, as well as eavesdropping on the police that were questioning her. Poor thing.

I was also quite amused at how many different places I was asked to wait throughout the hospital. I think it topped off somewhere between nine or ten different locations. At one point I was asked to stand in the middle of the hallway, conveniently located in front of a room where a fat naked Samoan guy (I think everyone is Samoan) was laying in bed. Deelish.
I then had my x-rays by some douchebag who got my hopes up when saying "Well done" but actually meant "Your hand is fucked".

Long story short, I've managed to fractured and misaligned my fifth metacarpal. This means cast time, and not even one of those cool casts. I look like I have a mummy hand. Apparently this will be on for around four weeks. I still don't consider this to a break, so the streak lives on. Yet now that I think of it, how uncool is it to have never broken a bone? Broken bone stories are far better than none at all.

studio log

music credit: Beirut - The Concubine

Viva La Vida - a live critique

THE FOLLOWING VIDEO IS MADE TO BE WATCHED AS SUCH:

For starters, make sure both the audio clip and YouTube video are fully loaded.

These are meant to be played at the same time.

Cool? At this point, press play on the podcast first, and listen for when to press play on the video. You may want to adjust the volumes so that my voice is slightly louder than the audio coming from YouTube. You can adjust both levels in the player. Enjoy!..but don't at the same time.

ain't i a sap

A few months back everyone in our band challenged each other to write a quick piano part to be recorded and put on our MySpace, under the Band Members category. Naturally, I wrote something ultra sappy in a key that I usually refer to as "black notes", meaning using nearly all the black keys on a piano. Very specific combination's of black keys sound like love, hate, and everything in between the two.
I have always been known to write dismal melodies on the piano, and I'm totally fine with that. I think I provide a bit of balance to a bands writing curve that usually revolves around fast pop hooks. Leave it to me to provide irregular chords, depressing progressions and slower tempos. This is probably drawn from my love for early George Winston.