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Shit Twice and Die Like a Man

Alright. These were all recorded on a 4 track some years ago. All sounds by the author except for stomping from my children upstairs. Visit the House Band page to hear these songs with your ears through your computer. Breakfast In the Afternoon I’ve grown into a lazy young man My skin is all that I have Come and take my place among the master race I will do all that I can to shit twice and die like a man When I quit this place, bury me on my face I grew up an angry young man The anger here is as fine as sand Don’t I look foolish now staring down at my hands All the broken glass in the schoolyard The broken eggs beneath Gowanus Parkway Through the Gilded Age didn’t we thrash about and rage I

6 Books to read before you die: part II

A Moveable Feast by: Ernest Hemingway “Paris in the twenties was a moveable feast.” Indeed, and a lot of American party boys and lesbians made bank and their artistic reputations at the twentieth century’s most indulgent trough. What this book told me is that our current obsession with social media and reality television is not a completely modern invention. It’s a proven fact that humans are naturally inclined toward gossip, and voyeurism and Paris in the twenties was an orgy of namedropping, scene politics and social philandering. Between Hem’s book and Gertrude Stein’s Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, we meet Picasso, Matisse, Fitzgerald, Pound, Joyce, T.S. Eliot and Aleister Crowley. Th

A Masters Miracle

There was only one TV in the huber cell. The programming was determined rather democratically. There was a strong contingent in favor of professional wrestling, so the cell tuned in without fail for Monday Night Raw, WWE Main Event and, oh yes, Friday Night Smackdown. I worked second shift, so I missed the wrestling. During the week, I was subjected to television for a couple hours during the day before work. The only people left in the cell at this time were drug offenders who would rather sit in jail than get jobs. They watched MTV. Thusly, I was introduced to a spunky, young lass in a plaid mini-skirt imploring, “Hit me baby one more time”. I remember watching these grown men in st

6 Books to read before you die: Part 1

Demons by: Fyodor Dostoevsky The Brothers Karamazov might have been Dostoevsky’s best work, but Demons speaks most directly to the inscrutable nature of the man’s genius. You slog through 100 pages, 200, 300, 400, wondering if anything is going to happen; then, in the last couple pages, you get punched in the gut. Really, I felt a physical revulsion reading the last chapter of this book – a chapter Dostoevsky didn’t include in the original manuscript. Art happens, eh? As always, my great fascination with the Russian heavyweights of the 19th century is in their uncanny ability to transcend 150 years and illustrate the stubborn, unchanging idiocy of the human nature. A common criticism of Dem

Joe and Beezy

This story literally came to me in a dream. I basically just transcribed it and filled in some details. If it seems like a trite allegory on race relations in America . . . fuck, blame society for pounding this shit into my head. Clint Eastwood will direct . . . Joe and Beezy When my brother Curtis left to join the army, he left behind his Benjamin 392. For years the gun had been his most trusted sidekick. I think he sensed some sort of poetic justice in leaving it to me; having himself finally graduated to shooting real, live human beings with real killing-power rifles. The 392 was a pretty common air rifle, but it was powerful and effective and, at that time, about the baddest thing

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