Setup for Upcoming Gigs

I'm getting ready to play a few dates in Tampa, FL. For the gear heads, this is the equipment I'm going to play.

As for the bass guitar, I'm going to alternate between a modified pawn-shop Ibanez and a Fender Jazz. The strings are medium gauge round-wounds. I normally play flats, but Boss likes round-wounds.

I'll post practice footage next week. Wish me luck.

Sonnet: For the Kittens

10/09/2013

For the kittens 

This day the third has gone, congealed like peas. 

Mother readies the small grocery bag:

The dying kitten coughs its final wheeze, 

I exit the house & light another fag. 

Death has plagued this litter, and the world, too.

We’re scarcely born than the struggle begins

To nurture those or what stand in death’s queue. 

Mortality may result from immortal sins,  

But I’m no cleric and loss occasion 

For rabid lectures from a fired pulpit; 

Nor do I welcome secular equation 

On matters dear to the human spirit. 

This morning we have lost another one. 

I pray t’morrow death’s foul spell is gone. 

(c) 2013

I don't mean to gush with sentimentality, but I really do love animals. 

More "Autism" in Art (Kraftwerk)

I'm getting the Elektro-Musik itch again.

Was Andy Warhol Autistic?

According to this article in the Guardian, Andy Warhol may have been autistic.  The theory seems plausible, but does it in any way effect our appreciation of Warhol? I don’t think so. His admiration for all things plastic, that is, artistic, is echoed in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, and yet no one is studying the Irishman’s pathology! In my opinion, Warhol was the greatest performance artist in history; his art and personality were the same thing. Moreover, Warhol’s aesthetic methods oddly resemble Benjamin’s model for proletarian art in “The Work of in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” 

Anyway, whatever; the important thing is to live and create. 

Venus in Furs (John Cale is A Genius)

Sorry Reed Fans, but Cale’s eerie instrumentation made this song a success.

Out of curiosity, does anyone have John Cale’s personal phone number? I don’t have the money to hire him, but I’d like to hear his voice at least once.

Andy Warhol (Bored) at Your Funeral

Your death, cold, prolonged by disease 
Matters little to the bees
Circling the garden.
I don’t remember if it means
Much to me but
You used to sit in the garden
(You nurtured the plants)
And that is well since
You are no longer.
But I see you in the swaying trees
(even if)
It doesn’t matter to the bees,
I beg your pardon.

So many words to mince
I’m no elegist. 

(c) 2013

Awkward Tao Lin Reading (& Drugs)

Our greatest deadpanner reading under the effects of drugs.

From an essay:

"Arrive early and talk to Rita and her friends, unsure if they’re all also on mushrooms (as they’d previously agreed) because Rita giggles nonsequiturly even when sober, until an unsmiling woman in her 40s—the event organizer—approaches saying something about 'housekeeping.'" 

Not Here (Short Story)

On the eve of his departure, Michael sat across from his Mother on the kitchen counter. 

“I’m not kicking you out,” she said. 

“Yes you are, “he said, “but I don’t want to have that discussion again.”

She slid a check for 190 dollars across the spotted marble. 

“I need you to close that account before you leave,” she said. 

Michael sighed and patted his breast-pocket. He revealed an empty pack of cigarettes.

“And here’ something extra. Buy yourself two packs this time.”

*

Michael stood on the porch: Doesn’t this suck ass? He walked around the façade, passing the water fountain his mother decided to install at the end of driveway (ridiculous, he judged) and knocked on the small studio door. Inside, he heard Brian, the tenant, scrambling to put his pants on. Coins rained from the pockets of a frayed pair of Jeans. The door opened. Brian flashed a tobacco-stained grin. 

“Going to get cigs. And close this account,” he said, waving the check. “You want to come for the ride?”

“Yeah, sure,” Brian said, “Let me get some money. You mind stopping at the 7/11? I’ll get you something.”

The two men boarded the aging Dodge Neon. It couldn’t be described as red anymore, the paint had by degrees faded and chipped. 

The car drove three blocks and stopped in a lot facing a convenience store. Brian offered Michael a cigarette and they smoked one each before Michael bought more cigarettes.

“So when you leaving?” Brian said. 

“Soon,” Michael said.

“Yeah, this city sucks—although I’m sure they’re all the same right now. Except Malibu, maybe. The Real Estate never goes down over there.”

Conversation as such was an unusual concept for Brian. He merely said the first idea that came to mind, tangential or not. 

“But you got a few gigs,” he said, something relevant.

“That’s the silver-lining, but I sure as fuck didn’t think I needed to study French to make a living as a musician. I could have done that and not steeped myself in student loans.”

“You got farther than I did,” Brian said. “That’s for sure.”

The two men crushed the butts beneath their heels on the asphalt and walked inside the store. 

Michael bought two packs of cigarettes. 

*

The car stopped in the busy shopping center. Michael and Brian walked across the lot and veered in disparate directions. The former needed to close the account at the bank; the latter wanted to check out the new stuff at the smoke shop. They disbanded. 

For once the bank was empty. Two tellers stood behind the plexiglass partition like wax mannequins. Michael was the first, and only, person in line. (Jesus, is the economy this bad? he thought.) 

“Next,” one the mannequins, a woman, called out. 

He advanced and presented the smiling woman with the check and bank statement. 

“One moment, please,” she said.

The teller typed on her computer, picked up the phone and dialed a local extension. She listened to the voice on the line for some moments, screwing her lips this way and that, never meeting Michael’s eyes. At last she put the phone down. 

“Our manager would like to speak with you,” she said. 

“Why?” he said. 

The question, simple as it was, gave the teller pause for thought. 

“Um, I don’t know,” she said.

“Because this was all arranged beforehand. I only needed to hand in this check and my bank card…” 

“Well…”

“Why does this asshole want to see me? I’m not a captain of industry or anything. I’m sorry, lady, but I have shit to do. Have the Corporate Manager call me if he wants this check.”

Michael walked out the bank. Brian waited for him by the car. 

“What happened?” Brian said. 

“I got a little upset,” Michael said. “I have a lot on my mind.”

*

“Oh, thank Heaven,” Brian said, sitting on the curb in front of 7/11. 

Michael walked in circles, sipping on a slushy, and puffed on a cigarette. 

“That’s the thing,” Brian said. “It’s alright to live in this town, but it ain’t no place to die.” He laughed. 

“I’ve always said that,” Michael said. 

“What?”

“I’m not dying in this town.”

*

Michael pulled into the driveway. Brian disembarked and walked back to his rented room. Michael waited a little before pulling the key from the ignition switch. He concentrated on the rumbling of the car and a surge of anger tainted his awareness and he punched the steering wheel. He didn’t know what to think of his life anymore. Suicide was an option but it just didn’t feel right…

“Did you leave the check at the bank,” his mother said, as soon he appeared in the kitchen.

“No,” he said, coldly. 

“Why not?”

“I’m not going back there. And I’m not coming back here.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

But the son disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom. 

Renewed with an unknown rigor, Michael checked the belongings he had packed and the instrument cases. 

“I’m not going to die here,” he said. 

(c) 2013

What Might Pass for Music

For those of you interested in Musique Concrete, I offer this track. It’s off a music project that fell by the wayside. The backing track is a sequenced rock drum groove with basic guitar chords. The rest is a garbage truck and jewel-box ballerina, sampled with a tape recorder and looped for mathematical variety at rigid intervals. Please comment. Or not. 

Noah Cicero & Invitation to A Pity Party

Subject: “Please read this. I might off myself."

Mr. Cicero,

I am a frustrated human being. A few months ago, I was laid off from a decently-paying job and now I have my disabled mother to care for with meager earnings as musical sideman. After reading your book, The Human War, I decided I would try to write a book, as I’d been putting the damned thing off since I finished college (and nothing has gotten better). I admire you as a writer and would appreciate your criticism of my novella and two short stories. I think you’ll be honest with me, as you’ve been honest everyone else. If they suck, please—and this cannot be emphasized—let me know. I am at crossroads in my life and need to make important decisions soon.

Sincerely,

M.

*

I emailed Noah Cicero because I finished a substantial piece of fiction. It’s a great feeling, but the elation is gone. I’m now forced to reflect on the years which led up to the production of Volta: A Novella.

I’m sure I’m not the only one (Jesus, John Lennon). I graduated from the University of Central Florida (UCF) in 2012. With my distinguished BA in English, I worked several odd jobs. None of them paid well, and I’m still not rich. This has had the unfortunate consequence of making me exceedingly neurotic. I don’t know what to make of my future.

My ticks eventually drove my mother insane, so she’s kicking me out of the house. I’m going to take a working holiday in Tampa, Florida as a paid bass player. If I have lesson to impart, it’s this: Craigslist will get you farther in life than a degree.

I cut my perfect job-interview hair last night. This is what I have now:

I’m inaugurating this blog with these words because this is a blood-letting.

Fuck college.

Fuck Corporate America.

Is there anything like freedom anymore?

*

So stay tuned, or whatever it is they say. I’m going to post interesting anecdotes, along with guttertrash literature, in the coming weeks. 

If you’re interested in purchasing my hopeless novella, Volta, you can find it here:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/melek-bonpartie-cocteau/volta/paperback/product-21285080.html

It makes a terrible gift and you can spite ex-lovers and family members with this dubious gesture.