Ryan Bisio: Writings

I received a notice in my yahoo email account earlier this evening that a new video with me included had been posted on “Youtube”. Obviously, my first reaction was to trace my steps for the last two weeks and see where I could have been unlawfully videotaped. I sped to the site and found that somebody hung some concert footage on the Youtube wall. Whoever it was, the next time I’m in Monterey (or anywhere), let me buy you a Stiff drink.
I remember the show vividly- it was in early January. The famous Dave Eaton was a part of the band then, and of course there were Tim and Jasper, that band that should have been called “Trio Bisio” from the beginning of Jump Street.
The cut chosen for its call to the internet was “Hurry up and Wait”. A song that was written about 47 minutes before the song “Go No My Dear” (which was a VERY new song at the time) was penned. “HUAW” was lying around the floor for about six (6) months before it finally got written. The groove was intact, the chord progression was stapled, the way the song would be melodically phrased in the vocal, a general recipe for scope involving the manner it which the lyrics would be written. The only thing lacking in that song was me getting in the correct mood to write it. I wrote those songs last November, and besides the piano ballad “The Clock Waltz”, those are the last songs I’ve authored.
There hasn’t been a single millisecond in the last five (5) years that I haven’t had at least three (3) songs spiraling around my head looking for the landing strip. Songs that hang around like an annoying spouse- the difference is they don’t bother me at all. As my band mates can attest to, I lead songs around the block for months on end, and the only way I can write them is if I have the internal and external freedom to get into (my) weird and menacing moods it takes to write them. Chain smoking, pacing, reading a book, scribbling with a shrewd look on my face, lashing out, and yes, sometimes drinking.
It would be preposterous to say that’s the “only” way I can write songs. I’ve undoubtedly had songs undress themselves in front of me, and have no intentions with fumbling with foreplay. For the most part, those are some of my favorite songs.
If you fast forward ten (10) months (to the day) since last November, you’ll find me smack dab into one of those frenzied songwriting lusts again- and this ones heavy. I wrote two songs on Tuesday, and with a running glance, they seem (to me) as good as anything I’ve written in three (3) years. The song “Sail it on the Wind” had been lurking in the dark for almost a year now. I remember playing it in Elizabeth’s room LAST November. Similar to “Hurry up and Wait”, the song had been done in every way BUT lyrical content. “SIOTW” was written in a fashion that I’m not used to- but will without question try again.
I moved on to a song that was conceived about three (3) weeks ago- when I first arrived to Europe. As I’ve told to numerous people, the song gave itself up to me every day of those first three weeks. It gave just enough to come back to it the next day, which I did. This song had a knack for foreplay, one which I wanted full part of. After finishing “SIOTW”, the juice was boiling to write this one- and it just took off the page. I think when Jasper and Tim hear it they’ll want to be a part of it. “Timely” meets with “Simple as it feels” then starts to hump “Windows”.
I’m starting to lose focus here so I’m gonna’ cut it short. I’m (trying) to stay up tonight and watch the first game of the NFL season. An affair featuring the defending world champion Indianapolis Colts, squaring off against a team I would gamble on a lot, the New Orleans Saints. The game is on at 2am my time, which is 5pm on the West Coast…
The men’s team I’m coaching has they’re first “friendly” game tomorrow against “Herlev”. Apparently this “Herlev” squad is a gang of brutes. I have a feeling we’ll give a good showing tomorrow night- at least for a half…
Ok for now. I have a vague suspicion that I know who put the footage on Youtube, but it might be ignorant speculation. I applaud you, and so do my band members for that.

The main street was narrowly conceived and steadied onward for miles in each direction. Three to five storied brick buildings settled both sides of the street and when the wind would pick up, the street would serve as a wind tunnel for walkers and bicyclists.
Between the aged auburn colored brick structures stood carefully aligned rows of three oak trees that were transitioning they’re way towards a look of autumn. Golden brown colored flakes danced off the branches and gracefully tumbled down in the brisk morning bluster. The aroma was a mixture of fresh sea air, stale cigarette smoke, and slow growing mold.
The occasional honk of a car horn and the timid ring of a bicycle bell topped the volume level on the main street. The sporadic conversations held between fellow residences would sometimes be transported by the wind to the ears of others, but that was as seldom as the sun showing its face to the town for a whole day.
Street vendors would staple they’re fruit stands to the ground in the early morning hours- and if they didn’t wash the fruit do to a time crunch, they could always count on the rain.
The rain would bring a variety of audio to the sonic capacity of the people. Road Buses would drive by spraying road water off the tires which would sound like 1,000 simultaneous paper tears.
There were two schools located on the main street- both clinging to the opposite ends of the arrow-like strip. At nearly noon, the children would congregate towards a bakery that was on the top right corner of a four-way intersection. They would form a serpent-esque line and wait patiently for they’re call to the counter. Inside they would linger to get warm, while purchasing pastries that would hold them over for hours on end.
On the wooden fence that bordered the school on all sides hung elementary level paintings in a smorgasbord of colors and patterns, and designs. One painting had a dense blue background which contrasted a white Saber tooth Tiger with two full rows of sharp fangs protruding. Disproportioned monkeys surrounded the tiger with olive colored bodies and black pin striped tails. From they’re positioning, the monkeys seemed to be taunting the tiger. The portrait gave the impression that if it was a real time film, the tiger would never be able to capture the monkeys with his savage jaw.
In the very center of Main Street stood the tallest building in sight, a slender church where each sides of the roof met at a sharp point on top. A large bell dwindled about ten feet south of the roofs peak, and gave the inkling that it hadn’t been rung in a significant amount of time. A white cross was engraved from the brick right above the front doors, in plain sight to anybody who would notice it, and the cross gave the facade of feeling lonely. The church as a whole seemed like it could be swept away from the roots by the swift winds of change. The church would open its front doors on Saturdays, as if opening its mouth to speak. Inside the church behind the alter stood an ascending row of organ pipes, that seemed to be minutes away from rusting in the damp dreariness.
Often the same group of two men would sit on a tiny wooden bench directly in front of the church and drink beer from bottles purchased at a liquor store directly across the street. When the men weren’t occupying the bench, they’re proof of life remained in the form of empty beer bottles that would roll towards the street when the wind gusts picked up.
A third grade level education was the only prerequisite for being a weatherman in the town. 300 days out of the year the report would say,” Morning cloudiness proceeded by 30 minutes of light showers, to be followed by a brief break-up of clouds, not after the return of clouds and light rain in the evening.”
It was there that a man cradling a baby in his arms asked me a question in a language that I couldn’t understand. I told him I only spoke English, and he walked away down Main Street, carefully placing his steps while negotiating the child in the wind.

Trying to knock out all the letters I owe people in one (1) night. I’m about halfway through the list right now, but my direction is yanking me towards an email I received tonight from a fellow musician based out of Maine called Christian.
This acoustic blues act contacted me via email in regards to a week long Denmark leg in his independently assembled European tour starting (I think) next week. Being that I haven’t dipped my toes into the Copenhagen music scene yet, this inquiry was gazed upon with perversion and intrigue.
The week I would (potentially) join “them” is during the days of October 6-10. The obvious next question to a primate would be who are “they”?
“They” are a group of singer/songwriter acts who are getting this tour roofed by an Independent label “Marilyn Records” based outta’ Sweden. These three (3) acts (so far) are hoping to cultivate the dubbed “Indienational Tour” into a battlefield of singer/songwriters marching toward respect. I told them I couldn’t do it- I’d be salivating and masturbating over his email for too long.
Things are currently in the works for this assault on Denmark- although my right pinky is useless.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve been grappling with this new song like we signed some contract to make the fight go 124 rounds. Neither one of us is budging on our own ideas for the song, but at some point one of us will have to give in.
Best case scenario- I give in. That means the song has more purpose then what I’ve written off of what it’s given me so far. If the song gives in and I’M right…
It’s an optimistic tune with as simple of a chord progression as I’ve written in four (4) years. A lot of chords in the purposeful harmony, but there isn’t a clear distinction on how the song should be melodically phrased in the vocal. These are the demonstrative crisis’s I DEAL with everyday, and if you’ve never experienced it, for good or ill- good for you.
I’ve been realizing as of late that the borders around the country genre have peaked there heads out at me very friendly, and in listening to the latest Ryan Adams CD, those borders must be a cozy place to chill.
My new song has a real country feel, but when interjected with my guitar style and vocal delivery, the song doesn’t have a borderline location whatsoever. The things that sometimes do are the chord progressions, as was the case in the song “Simple as it Feels” (mine, not Ryan Adams). In fact, strike what I said about “interjected with my guitar style”, my guitar playing can lurk near the border, especially in the shade.
I then realized that the most recognizable acts I’ve shared a bill with own real estate on the border. Perhaps the most notable (although few in my circles NOTE IT) was border tycoon Shelby Lynne. She ravaged The Coach House on a cold November evening for $10,000 large. Not a clear percentage of those attendees were “satisfied” with what they saw that night, but Shelby Lynne undoubtedly…
It’s not necessary given the mood I’m in tonight to go into any REAL detail from that show. The point is she roams the border land.
The other act I shared the stage with was Carey Ott. Ott simply dazzled the audience that I was apart of with his trance-like physical movements as he sang and finger-picked his Guild acoustic guitar. His hypnotic facial expressions while singing were fascinating, as he would open his lids showing his wild-eyed frenzy, or close them in a contorted and painful way although singing in a wizardly country twang. He has a hit song on “Grey’s Anatomy” titled (I think) “I wouldn’t do that to you.” I couldn’t have been more impressed by his act or his personality. His manager went onto say all the country singers in Nashville want to write with him. Its good thing he’s gotta’ career in music, because if he walked into a real company making faces like that, the investors would sell.
The point is: the song I’m writing has a country thrust, and if it would fucking SPEAK TO ME, we might be able to lunge it into an element of shock and unexplored doors that are littered with tobacco stains, denim, and raw hide.

G (what?) Sus…

Your last letter was a god damn masterpiece- I thought about forwarding it to Virg but if you had any idea of the internet speed I’m working with, you’d be shocked if this note finds you within the next 13 working days.
Tough to say where to start this rant. Suppose I could start by saying my right pinky feels like it would be better suited being sold in the deli section of your local Safeway. It doesn’t even feel like it’s mine. I shoved it into some dumpy big man’s belly button when he was bombarding towards the lane, and when I pulled it out they stopped the game to look at it.
After I got back from the “ER”, I knew that whatever the Danish doctor said about it “noot bing broken”, so “dawnt warrie obout tit,” wasn’t all the case. I wouldn’t be surprised if I tore every tendon and ligament in that thing.
As I’ve told everybody- out of the ten fingers I have, my right pinky is the ONLY finger I don’t use when I play guitar.
On other (money) fronts, things out here are outrageously expensive. The Danes pay a belly full of taxes. Restaurants have tax and tip included (you should have seen my face when I saw the first Bill), so the price really jumps out at you. When you break it down, it’s really a little more expensive then California- but being new, you really wonder if you’re getting your moneys worth.
The one person who is getting her moneys worth is the QUEEN. We drove out and saw four (4) of her Castles In One Day. Just in the greater Copenhagen area. I asked Henrik, “What do you get though?”
An obvious answer is Free Health Care. I can vouch for that since my visit to the “ER” was obscenely free. I was looking all over the hospital for a cash register.
The teams I’m coaching seem to be doing well. They are initially committed to playing hard, and show superb attentiveness. I’m working about 14 hours a week, so I have a lot of free time on my hands.
I’ve very recently picked up the book “In Cold Blood”, by Truman Capote. An absolute chiller to the bone- with gorgeous prose. You might recall the movie “Capote” (Academy Award Winner) was about the creative process of Capote in gathering his research for this bombshell. Its funny- Robert Blake plays one of the killers in the black and white version of the film…
I’ve been playing this new tune I’m writing very perversely, for it sings like a dandy instrumentally. One of those tunes where the melody pops right out and you don’t need to go digging for it. It implies how it should be sung vocally already, which makes my job only to fit the lyric and go for the jugular. It’s more of a chord progression then I usually write, which the “connecting” chord for the whole tune ended up being an A7. Tough to say what it’s about yet, but it will speak to me when I quit staring at it.
Switching the topic to depressing music, the music they listen to out here is radically improper. All I’ve heard so far is pop music sung by legendary greats like Kelly Clarkson, and the melodic archer Justin Timberlake. I mean, you can’t even get any Usher out here…
Indeed, and there doesn’t seem to be room for much else. I heard there was a really big jazz scene, but it’s been elusive thus far. Shit, all of a sudden I’m chomping at the bits to hear some jazz. Things are Heavy.
The few people I’ve played my music to have observed it from a queer distance, and considered it from even further. But like my man Henrik said,” If sound good, audience will lllike.”
I hope things on your end are looking fat. Look into coming out here around December 18 or so. If Matt gives you any more shit about it, tell him you accidentally looked down your pants and realized your balls were bigger then his.
Alright for now. Send word- and let me know how your situation is holding up out there in Sacramento.

Yours in sudden abstinence,
RCB

Today was the first day of official practice for the “Junior Boys #1” team, and the “Men’s #1 team respectively. Since I am sidelined right now with a DISCLOCATED right pinky finger (which would be far better off broken since I’m confident without the expertise of my Danish “doctors” that I’ve torn every ligament in it), I am the sole Head Coach of both teams.
The boy’s team did a magnificent job. Magnificent by NO means means that it wasn’t sloppy. Magnificent means they’re effort and commitment to playing hard; they’re attentiveness and listening skills, and the overall coach ability of these 14 + 15 year old horny teenagers was noteworthy. In fact, they played so hard that they seemed too be as some people call, “out of control”.
I usually get things started at practice with some intense running. I make them run a “Deep 6” as it’s called- A sprint to each baseline six (6) times in 33 seconds. You can’t cruise a deep 6, and you certainly can’t run it nonchalant. It makes players vulnerable within two (2) minutes of practice starting. If they don’t make the time allotted to them, they have to run it over (usually there is only one (1) or two (2) guys that don’t make the time). This causes people to work together and come to the conclusion that the day will be a lot better if EVER BODY makes it on the first time.
After they finish they are panting- and I like to start up “full speed, full court passing”. A ball at the baseline in the middle of the floor, and a line of players where the baseline and sideline connect. They sprint up the floor passing back and fourth without letting the ball hit the ground or break a basketball rule called “traveling”. When the middle player comes to the opposite free throw line, he comes to a jump stop and delivers a pass to the streaking wing for a lay-up. After the ball goes through the net, or today, skips off the glass, Hard, the ball still can’t touch the floor. This causes full concentration, and never quitting on the play. After the ball is rebounded by the passer, they switch sides and do it on they’re way back down the floor. With the lack of dribble and rebounding assignment, the ball should NEVER touch the floor. Every time it does, it is counted and will be the # of “down and backs” they run after the drill.
Once they slaughter that, I like to move to a drill called “Full Court 3 Man Weave”. A drill makes basketball players move like hockey players skating down the rink. Three players intersecting interestingly down the floor passing the ball, and obviously, not letting the ball hit the floor. Once the ball is woven down to the opposite hoop, a recipient will receive a pass for a lay-up. The rebound must be negotiated on the run, since the three players need to be in the three respective spots on the floor to take it back. They then repeat the task coming home. I start the drill with a four (4) pass maximum. It is possible to make it down in three, but they will have to do that later. Once every player has done it three or so times, I impose a three (3) pass maximum- which forces players to run much harder since they have to get down the length of the floor in fewer touches. After each player has gone the same amount or so, I dictate a two (2) pass rule- which causes even more grimace to those who are out of shape. I count the number of touches on the deck, and add that to the total of the last drill.
Without hesitation I whistle the drill dead, and strike up a transition drill called “3 on 2, 2 on 1”. A drill where they have to make spontaneous and instinctual basketball plays in transition. Compounded with the physical fatigue they now carry with the previous drills, this also forces players to focus and make good decisions when they’re tired. Three players force the ball offensively up the floor (the ball is now allowed to touch the floor, the dribble is in full affect) where two defenders await on the other end. The offense should make a score within two passes (maybe, maybe three). The player who shoots it, or turns the ball over has to sprint back and defend the former defender on a 2 on 1. If you are on a 2 on 1 fast break, there is never an excuse for shooting anything other then a lay-up or dunk shot. The lone defender who previously was on offense, must now outlet the ball to one of the two new offensive players waiting on the baseline, and keep playing. This always proves to have at least one player getting in extra cardio during the drill.
Once that drill is massacred, I reminisce on all of the fumbles and times the ball hit the ground in the previous two drills- and make them run as many down and backs as the number states. Today it was 13- which is an unlucky number, but taking into account that it was the first day of these drills, and the fact that they are out of shape, isn’t that bad. I’m sure I missed a few, or didn’t count the vile ones. I state that it won’t be timed, but if they aren’t running hard, I will stop it and time it. After they finish running, I give them the option of picking a shooter to make 1 free throw, or they can shoot 1 each as a team which HAS to add up to 70%. They chose the latter, which ended up at a 54% clip.
They then had a deep 6, in 33 seconds. Upon completion, they are allowed a 5 minute water break.

Some people have seen, some people have heard, but nobody has read that I'm moving to Denmark on August 5th.
Hence: That sets up the "Paternity Leave Show" that is in the books at Monterey Live On August 3rd, 8:30pm.
This is the most anticipated show (for me) that I've ever played. This is a display of a band in its prime- playing one last time before a lengthy hiatus.
We will be playing every song we've connected on as a group, and I will be playing solo material that I don't normally get a chance to tickle.
This show has a palate full of emotions wrapped up in it- most notably that I won't play with Jasper and Tim for a while. It has all the trimmings of an incredibly memorable night for me, and prospectively all that attend.
I cordially invite anybody who can attend to do so. We would all like to thank everyone who has supported us- and I would like to thank everyone who has supported me in my four (4) years on the Peninsula. Whether it be basketball, music, coffee, cigarettes, anything that has brought me together with people around here, I would like to tie them into August 3rd.
This brings me to Basketball. I signed a 1-year contract to play professional basketball for a club in Copenhagen, Denmark. The season ends in early May. I have absolutely no idea where my life will take me from August 5th.
But without question it will never take me away from music. I will be updating the music page, posting new songs I’ve written, recorded, and will undoubtedly be writing scrolls of screeds to anybody who reads them. I should be fairly easy to get a hold of via internet services.
Ok for now. Hopefully we'll see you on the 3rd. I'll buy you a drink.

With ease,
Ryan Bisio

We are sorry to announce the show tonight and tomorrow night in Southern California have been cancelled. More information will be given when more is recieved. We apologize in advance, and will refund any pre paid tickets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Broken moonlight waltzed off the dense pond water, where exotic colorful fishes swam in and out of eroded limestone caves. A sticky humid heat lingered onto the evening with no signs of a forfeit. In the distance a sound of hungry voices from a poverty stricken lost village, with rusty tin roofs, dirty laundry hanging from scorched rope and particularly menacing mosquitos taking the skies. For it is night, and while the privileged sleep, secret bills are passed, and unparalleled disaster is hiding in the shadows, waiting for its call to the stage.

Dr. Viekrans knows his sins. They roll into his subconscious uninhabited, like a ghostly morning fog, but doesnt nearly as long: patients to see, co-workers to ignore, money to make. The land of the free, home of the brave!

Viekrans low beams are approaching a week of utter relaxation in the Bahamas (so he was told). No no, its all business honey, we wouldnt even have time to go outside! The concession of his wife goes according to script, not unlike his previous insurance scams, and misdiagnosiss. For this is a business trip, and the information obtained in the Bahamas can not fall upon foreign ears.

A progressively primitive looking fellow, Viekrans looks like a Neanderthal with excess capital. Money to façade his ice age silhouette, as well as his personality. Always one to flirt with his weight, the Doc is up to about 260 lbs, and knows this trip isnt going to be one of cardiovascular intent. This causes Viekrans insecurities- only when dealing with patients who seem to have better fitness routines than him. Yeah, you can work out thats fine. But if you take these four pills a day, it would be a much more relaxing substitute.

As a youth, Viekrans used to wear his emotions on his sleeve. However through the years, his sleeve has been covered by a bullet proof vest and a white lanky medical overcoat. Having practiced for 14 years, the pro bono days of caring for patients best interests and personal relationships (possibilities for sexual innuendo) are gone. Pushing the envelope in the medical field is now in his rear view mirror. Objects in mirror are further than they appear. A pay check player.

Living in the South Bay (along the San Andreas Fault) in a town called Los Altos, flying solo out of San Francisco became very routine. The Doc walked gingerly through the terminal in route to gate 81. There was absolutely no debate whatsoever that Viekrans had a receding hairline, and this caused sweat to be visible above the brow, particularly during laborious walks saddled by luggage. He wiped his brow, unloaded, and sat down. Fashionably early, Viekrans now has to join the masses, in waiting.

Conversations shaped like cul-de-sacs happen everywhere. Like they say, theres a sucker born every minute. While hypothetically projecting dollars and cents, and the events of the trip, he hears two women making small talk a few seats away. This distresses him, as these words viciously collide with the math hes trying to do in his head.

My boyfriend just bought a house for him and his daughter, a four bedroom, and I cant wait to see it.

Wow, really? How old is your boyfriend?

43. Hes very mature for his age, and has a rapist wit about him. Hes so funny! A few days ago, he picked me up from school with bunny ears on his head.

Really, well, how old are you?

Im 19.



There is no religion, prescription/street drug, relationship, or catastrophic event that can change human nature. Special interests, hidden agendas, connivance, and lies are all part of survival. A traditional stew (so to speak), which has marinated since the beginning of time, even when referencing the good book. Selling out allies, repeating confidential information, eavesdropping, all for the edge of one upping another human in the quest for defined separation. In this day and age, financial interests take the flank. The Church of Money. In George Washington we trust. It is estimated that 92% of humans would put hits out on their grandparents in return for an obese checking account, with 401k possibilities. Like Viekrans face, this progressively primitive form of survival still has the underlining principle that evolution can not erase. This craft has been ascending for some time, but in the months and years to come, evidently will be fatal.

There is a part of the human brain adjacent to the cerebral hemisphere that controls the impulses of being an asshole. Over the years, the medical field has stated that the Pituitary Gland, controls visceral functions, body temperature and behavioral responses such as feeding, drinking, sexual response, aggression and pleasure. What Viekrans knows is that this gland is crucial when trying to rip off the average human. The pituitary gland, also known as the get yours gland, is obviously the key to survival. Thoughts can skillfully be herded past the Medulla, shaped in the Pituitary, and finally carried out into the Cerebrum. This action takes milliseconds, but can last a lifespan. There are no known neutralizers to this beside mental retardation, and the wrath of Mother Earth, which at the drop of a Gail force wind, or an 8.0 tremor, can make cowards out of all of us, and has.



Sal Prickman: Demonstrative figure, walks with a bow-legged prowl, and could hear anything said around him by anyone with impunity. The Drew Rosenhouse of the medical field, a mogul in the game, the rook of the chess board. Prickman was a highly touted medical student out of Stanford, and had a plethora of job offers eagerly awaiting his commencement. Taking Medicine to the Next Level, read a caption underneath his photo in the Debauchery Times. Prickman leaps into this story due to his headway in prescription pill inventions. Over the course of the last ten years, Saldo (as his boyfriend calls him) has successfully patented a number of pills. His accolades include pills for diabetes, male genital dysfunction, chronic fatigue, and his new one on the brink, The A.M Pill. His self proclaimed, breakthrough. Not the breakthrough that could better humanity, much more trivial. The pills premise- Laughter inducement.

Now we all know there has already been an established cure for cancer, and HIV. With overpopulation a big concern, the curing serum for such ailments has to be kept to a low end dull. The medical field keeping closed mouths on current activities, cures, illegal transplant procedures, etc. Doctors from everywhere, all related by money, meeting in closed quarters, swearing on their scalpels to secrecy. We have heard reports of prominent figures stricken with HIV, and within five to seven years, the disease is gone, undetectable. Instead of leaping to the forefront in the medical field and making cures for these diseases accessible worldwide, Prickmans intentions now lie elsewhere, namely in products that will sidestep the long term benefits of the human race, and give short term relief with long lasting financial monopolies. A parallel to the A.M. Pill can be found in the music industry. Musicians jeopardizing the integrity of the art to gain access to the big ear. A fugazi false front that will ensure a limo ride to The Church of Money. Once the account is established, the separation from other humans is evident by the purchase of Hummers, suburban castles, shrinking phalluses, and dung protruding from the oral cavity, causing excruciatingly foul breath. Ticket sales skyrocket while the zest for the craft spirals in a decent of decadence and alimony payments.

Back to Prickman. With the intrusion of the mass media shovel feeding pointless information and fearful hypothesis to the masses, commercializing his pills was a four inch hurdle, which he easily skipped over. Daily information splattered over a dense catalog of media outlets, nowadays makes everyone in the world feel that they are suffering through some sort of lethal symptoms. Do you wake up in the morning? Do you take two shits in a day? Well worry no longer; we have a pill for you!

Epiphanies of major prophet possibilities can cause hot flashes and nausea. They usually dont last long, and run through the Pituitary like a stray cat. Months ago, this epiphany struck Saldo in his place, and with little effort, he was able to filter it through to the Cerebrum, nudging it. Sal became fatigued from the lavora, and decided to take a short nap.

By brainwashing the masses through the media, and with my impeccable resume, The A.M Pill could easily be in high demand. Name one person that makes you laugh that you dont like? Simply pop a pill in the morning and laugh your way through the day. Thus, sending a shockwave through the studies of clinical depression, and a low undertone of weariness to the marijuana smoking fraternity. Finally a cure for the solemn, those with absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever, can get their laugh out there in the world. Those who arent stricken with lack of laughter will flock to the local drugstore and artificially insure their laughter continues, legally. The nation a complete laughing stock. People dont even know what theyre missing out on. Dull the edge of the day to day routines. I have a short list of doctors who owe me favors, and could get the pill into circulation in no time flat. Getting past the Department of Health was a problem of the past, not the future. Nobody questions my verve, integrity, sexual preference. Getting the pill passed the Department of Health is a phone call away.

The pill suitable for everybody. Peasant workers: Hey, go clean those bathrooms!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

The bosses: Yes sir, Ive been here for seven years now, and I was wondering about a raise?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!





Prescriptions bring People Together

By: Curtis Hamsling



Today in Central Park, legally obtained prescription pills were the story, as the 1st Annual Laugh Rally took place. People from as far away as San Francisco took part in what was estimated as the biggest rally in United States history, with 1.5 million people sardine packing themselves on the Great Lawn. Sally Jones from Brooklyn chimed in with this, Its just amazing! This pill really puts life into perspective. Why be mad or frown, when you could laugh all day long? EEEHEHEHEHE!

Every person in attendance in good humor, no one worried about the Countries foreign affairs, homeland security, and erecting gas prices. The country having a swell time, and isnt that what lifes all about?



Sal quickly awoke. The daydream turned into the color of money. Americans with dependency on the A.M Pill would dump funds uncontrollably into his product. Next on the agenda-finding guinea pigs, start testing; keep it on the hush



The pills ingredients: A touch of opium (for perspective), extracted THC (the imperative part of the laughter), caffeine (for balance), and the slightest dose of methamphetamine (to cause unruly addiction). These ingredients would cause the perfect storm and give the pill much anticipated longevity.

Testing quickly started. The first animal that would carry the brunt of his wrath would be rats, next guinea pigs, then Rush Limbaugh. Laboratory minions left there personal practices for the opportunity to be part of the project, the liberating pill. The first rat, after five minutes of looking nasty, rose up on its hind legs and started doing what appeared to be an ethnic belly dance. A very ill advised attempt, but according to the researchers, a positive sign for things to come. The researches gathered ten guinea pigs for the next round of testing; trying to find an average of how many positive laugh inducements would come out of it, and a better appraisal of what the negative side effects would be (just for curiosity purpose, not for mass elaboration). The first guinea pig took approximately 10 minutes to show a sign, before belting out an elderly mans cackle, which lasted much longer then 10 minutes before it was finally put to sleep. Much to the Prickmans dismay, only four of the 10 guinea pigs showed signs of laughter, but that was plenty good enough odds to bring in Rush Limbaugh for further testing. Prickman, an avid baseball fan knew that 4 out of 10 would easily get you into the Hall of Fame.

Limbaugh flew in on a private jet to San Francisco International Airport, and was quickly escorted by limousine to the laboratory facility. Limbaugh was on a tight schedule, since he had mendacity and Republican propaganda to infect and fester throughout the Country. Rush sat down rather earnestly, rolled up his left pant leg, and threw back the pill, as he had thrown back many pills in his heyday. Since Limbaugh was quite familiar with popping pills, surprisingly the pill took about 15 minutes to set sail, then without conscience he quickly rose and proclaimed enthusiastically, Eureka! Youve found it!

Success! Sal shouted as he took a victory lap around the facility. He continued on patting his noble male researches on the ass, one by one, not before shaking the hands of the women physicians. Next course of action: Who owes me favors?

Short list of Doctors- Dr. Viekrans, Dr. Grapeskin, and Dr. Tomfoolery.

Grapeskin and Tomfoolery quickly obliged. Im honored I would be one of the first to carry on your pill Mr. Prickman.

Another idea for Viekrans though, one with the most hidden of agendas. The secret garden, full of zucchini.

Hello? Viekrans answers.

My favorite Dr. Viekrans, Sal Prickman here.

Sal, I havent talked to you since the venereal conference. How have you been?

Dandy, Ive been dandy. Listen, Ive been thinking about you a lot lately. Ive got a proposition for you. There is a roundtrip ticket waiting for you at the airport. I want you to meet me in the Bahamas, tomorrow.

The Black Box Cabaret was host last night to one of the memorable acoustic shows in its lackluster history. The bill consisted of three acts, all from different areas, with contrasting styles of music, attire, on stage dialogue, and post show plans. In the red corner, weighing in at around 200 lbs was the night’s opener, Vavak, who hails from Long Beach. A capable guitar player, whose Martin cutaway acoustic only raised his stock in the eyes of those who don’t have one. A very big voice with a nice falsetto at times, Vavak opened the set up very nicely and was appreciated by the audience.
Second on the bill was Jonah Matranga. Matranga, originally from Boston, arrived a little late to the show, with no apologies, and why should he? Prominent in the industry with his other project and punk band “Onelinedrawing”, Matranga blessed the crowd with his solo acoustic set, which in turn, used pre set loops off his laptop, giving the audience a feeling of a big band, but without the body odor. Matranga got in a minor verbal confrontation with a fan in the front row, before getting into the Bob Dylan song “With God on our Side.” Matranga extended the Dylan song with a captivating delivery, which lasted about 10 minutes. When asked about which style of pizza he prefers Matranga grunted, “No comment..."
Last on stage was headliner Ryan Bisio. Bisio, a Monterey native seemed to have a home court advantage, although that’s only if you were drunk. He took the stage quickly after Matranga and struck up a new song, "Matchstick Mister.” This in turn, caused a stir throughout the venue, except in the Vavak and Matranga camps. Vavak, when asked of his whereabouts during Bisio’s set, he replied, “Well, there was a rat stuck outside in a gutter, and I was trying to lead him out, so he wouldn’t drown. After a while, it really seemed like he wasn’t listening to me, so I grabbed a stick and tried to nudge him in the right direction.”
Couldn’t make this stuff up.
Bisio’s set flowed as smooth as a raging river, while he paddled his way with his orange acoustic guitar. By mid set, an unidentified source said that plenty of groupie love would be available to Bisio, upon request. Being his charismatic self, he acknowledged a select few in the audience while constantly mumbling witty gibberish. The set concluded with the track “Windows”, which wasn’t heard by Matranga, due to him approaching the outskirts of San Francisco at that precise time.
The only real hick-up in the night was after the show. Allegedly, Bisio tripped over a surplus of Jonah Matranga merchandise, which was scattered about along with his 14 cd’s, ten shirts, and countless women around it.
“I couldn’t really tell what I slipped on,” Bisio announced from his hospital bed. “There was just so much stuff over there, it could have been anything.”
The concussion left Bisio with very fond memories of the show. Nobody had the guts to tell him any different.
After the later theatrics, the crème that rose to the top was that of a great show, overall. Vavak played a great set, and rescued a nasty rat. Matranga played in incredible set as well, and was quickly off to bed, estimated around $1,000 richer. Bisio played a good set, and his post show injury solidified to himself that there were record labels and A&R people in attendance. With that said, I give it a rating of ***1/2


- Peter Cummings

Been a while since I’ve touched down. I feel the need to apologize, but there’s nobody to apologize to. Just me. I’ve been knee deep in the NCAA tournament, ripping up brackets, giving money to charity gambling organizations, and seeing with other people’s eyes, the truth of parity.
I’m pretty much off the Final 4. Being a fan these days, my expectations of this years tournament were of epic storylines, powerhouse programs squaring off, high level players outdo ling each other, Nike sponsored teams. The aroma that filtered through was one I anticipated at the seasons beginning, but then shrugged off for the more exciting idea, that the best teams would move through.
LSU
UCLA
George Mason
Florida

Hardly the crew I would kick it with on a Saturday night, or even a Wednesday morning. I’M NOT SAYING THAT I’M NOT HAPPY FOR THESE TEAMS. I would contemplate scrotum reconstruction plastic surgery for the chance of playing in such an extraordinary event (I’ve tried to stay away from using the word extraordinary because all the pronunciation really means is that you’re just a little better then ordinary). But the point is, I’m off the stuff.

I recorded a song last night called “The Behavior of Time”. It felt right.




Everybody’s out to get rich people’s stuff


Thomas wasn’t a thief. Although that could be up for debate. Not that he was, just the definition of thief. For instance, stealing the virginity of numerous California girls wouldn’t be found in Webster’s, but possibly could categorize as a thief to the families of those done wrong. Right.
Thomas wasn’t worried about proper attire. Apparel was arbitrary, ambiguous, a theory without substance, a tilted scale. “Only God can judge me.” Thomas, a jaded free spirit who wore it on his sleeve, if he even wore sleeves. Usually his thought process for dressing was the clothes that were located closest to the front door had the best chance of being worn.
Thomas wasn’t the nemesis of a razorblade either. His five o’clock shadows only concerned him on their week anniversary. He wasn’t a rebel. He had unwavering confidence in his personality, and other obvious things. He didn’t see the short term need for catering to other people’s subliminal wishes on how a young man should appear upon first appearance.
Thomas was a year into his three year sentence of working at Suonavo Tennis and Fitness Club. An upper class establishment, whose target audience in their initial campaign in the mid 70’s was to find prospective members, who had money to burn, headspace for gossip, energy to talk Republican politics, but yet liberal enough to snort cocaine in the hot tub area after the children vacate, then hope that their legacy will be passed on to future generations. Thomas worked in the fitness/weight room. He realized on arrival to the club, that he would need to become increasingly capable of ducking members when they looked like they had a tennis question for him. Proper back stroke, rolling the wrist over on the forehand, things he would learn while trying to give advice, early. He didn’t play tennis, didn’t pretend to, but knew someone who did…
The job seemed like an ill fit from a distance, but the true reason was known by everyone. Thomas was born into an undeniable physique. A stature that often made married women change their stance on facial hair. A Lou Farigno type build, with little to no maintenance required. His biceps burst through any type shirt he was wearing, his pectorals- mammoth upon inspection, and his quadriceps defined through his jeans like he took lethal injections of human growth hormone, daily...Once while driving through Nevada, he and another assailant stopped at a washed up interstate diner for some scrambled eggs. In a near booth, a well dressed man who had no business being in there other than to possibly be purchasing the diner’s property approached Thomas and said, “Excuse me, you’re pretty yoked…”
It was a Monday, a vulnerable day for most people’s patience and checking accounts. Thomas, sitting at the fitness desk, was in his upright and locked position, when a recognizable member waltzed in and grabbed a towel. A well kept white male in his mid 50’s with a potentially surgical sarcastic grin permanently worn on his mug. No word exchange, no look, just the same as he’d done exponential times before. While watching him strutting away, Thomas started counting the reasons why he didn’t particularly take a liking to the particular member. He started rehashing times when he had been blown off by the culprit. Dick. The member then got settled on his favorite treadmill, and Thomas simulated his waltz for comedic purposes, but not blatantly enough to where the member (who will remain anonymous) could notice. Even if he did, Thomas had supreme confidence that he couldn’t be able sniff it out. While walking past him, the member looked at Thomas with utter distaste. “Chalk another one up” he thought, and went on with his duties.
Preoccupied with conversation, cleaning Stairmasters, and the inevitable towel folding (which was his favorite, he was convinced he was becoming a better future husband one day at a time) he shuffled down to the men’s locker room for towel collection. During the decent down the stairs Thomas could feel the energy getting worse and worse. And worse. He jumped the final three stairs very athletically. Athletic enough that if the locker room had the capability of hidden footage, those inspecting the tape would be set at ease with his grace while carrying such a massive frame. Back to the energy, it became apparent that the member was down there, with a bone to pick. “FUCK”, the member said cowardly.
Thomas, struck with a rude rhythm by the one way exchange responded,” Are you okay sir?”
“No!” The member replied. “I just got my belt stolen, and my wallet which had all my credit cards, ID, FUCK. I’m going overseas tomorrow and this really FUCKS everything up!”
A brief wave of sympathy swam over Thomas initially, but it was washed over by a tidal wave of irony. “No wonder somebody stole your shit, you’re an asshole”, Thomas thought to himself, but the words, “Did you see anybody you didn’t recognize?” came out.
Then.
At that instant, like a ton of Egyptian bricks the member gave Thomas the most suspicious look any human had ever given him before. It started at the eyebrows, a clinch that drew two lines immediately in the middle of the member’s forehead. Then the posture. Stressed shoulder blades, jittery, obviously, he just got his wallet stolen, but…..the attempt of a look that tries to say, “I know something you don’t know.”
“…No”, he said. “I didn’t see anybody besides…you know…the people I…usually see…”
Thomas shivered, “Well, I’m gonna’ go to the Pro Shop and report this right now,” he surprisingly firmly announced.
The member had a reflex action, “Bunch of FUCKING thieves around here. Hasn’t always been though? How could some one do this to me?”
He then changed poses as if to waltz quickly and gay and states, “You know what? I will go down there and report this.”
The horse faced member skittered by and made his way to the Pro Shop. Thomas watched as he made his way down the narrow pathway, past two wooden benches not before hitting the clearing which after the rain soaked rose bush should only be about 20 steps ahead to your right. It was.
Thomas returned to the fitness desk with a heavy conundrum. He thought the member could had very well been trying to convince his superiors to the ideology if crime actually coming from the inside. Thomas clenched his fist, which in turn, pumped up just enough blood through the blood vessels to increase flow especially in the bicep area causing a full flex within a matter of second stretching the shirt to the affect that a pose is in the making where if a certain woman on a certain day in a certain mood saw that bicep reflection off a mirror she would change her stance on facial hair as well.
Time moved slowly. Nearly 30 minutes had gone by since Thomas’ first accusation of robbery in the first degree, with motive baby. “By now, my boss is probably calling the Feds”, he thought. “There probably plotting on how to take me out. There probably gonna………”
BR@%$@$&#ING!
The ring of the desk phone came as an untimely event, although nothing immediate seemed negative to Thomas. Unless of course, it was his superiors. Thomas went with his instinct and answered the phone.
“Suonavo Fitness this is Thomas, how can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m the one…
Thomas knew right away. He could smell a skunk in his bedroom.
“…who lost his wallet. I just wanted to let you know I have it. I left it in my car when I went in to work out.”

Soil welcomes the storm; where security guards have prior felonies and the cost of Band-Aids couldn’t be any higher.
I am injured. Shelved. Paying a stiff price for a trite joke.
See, there is a certain arm motion, rather, wrist motion involved with making a credible gambling gesture. A flick of the wrist, confidently. If one should feel inclined to look arrogant while doing it, it betters the situation. I was walking upstairs with a friend of mine talking about God knows what: and while trying to prove a ferocious point, borrowed from the sure handed technique to add credibility. I think I might have been convincing enough although my actions seconds later would contradict such an irrational notion. While flicking the wrist, much like throwing money down on a table (or a male masturbation gesture, but without the cup of the palm, or in my case, the feet) I decided to spin my body around to add degree of difficulty. In doing so my equilibrium faltered.
I was in a split second tailspin and

BOOM?

I hit my left middle finger on a jagged wall. I knew instantly it was bad. I then started shaking my wrist in a similar gambling fashion, but this time with obvious and chagrining pain. My friend, behind me at the time of arrival to the wall, knew as well as I that my recent fate would be in the bathroom, appraising the damage, planning tourniquet possibilities.
While looking at the bleeding pattern through the pours of my former left middle finger, I could tell the bleeding epicenter: reservoir was deep. I had been to Target recently so I had plenty of toilet paper available if the call came. Once the bleeding subsided enough for a Band-Aid to be placed, I realized I was late for the tip of an ever important college basketball game between Big East rivals on an “upset Saturday” as they call it in the “get em’ up” field. The damaged finger didn’t even feel like it was mine.
At this time in my life, I would almost consider myself in some respects to be left handed. I am right handed, but with the loss of my left these days, my guitar playing lingers in the distance, waiting for me to stumble to it, for a life lesson.
The wind tonight is huge. The kind of wind where you don’t go outside; the kind of wind where if you do go outside to pick up a load of laundry that you forgot in the drier, you feel like a power line is going to snap and hit you right behind the left ear. Too many plans gone array, too many people walking under ladder’s tonight, while in the distance, the black cats are hiding.

The sunlight waltzed in between the aged white colored shades onto the futon where I slept. I didn’t fight it, arose, and checked my phone for the time. It was 7:31am, day of.
For as long as these shows on my LA swing were booked, I tried as much as I could not think about them. My last show was in October, and I barely could remember it. Months had blurred together, with common themes of confusion, insecurity, and the unknown tipping my triple beam scale. I knew what I could do on stage, but hadn’t proved it in a while. I knew I had to find something in these shows. Perhaps something I had lost along the way, or something fresh I needed to stick in my bag to carry on in the journey. I had many songs in the studio that needed finishing, many songs that needed to be written, and many nights where I questioned my existence in music, but I was trying not to think about it. Thinking about it would make me preoccupied. I had to be on my toes.
I moseyed around the confines of the room for what felt like forever, and then sat down on the futon littered with dog hair. I flipped through the television stations settling on the film Chinatown, starring Jack Nickelson. A mid 70’s film which I knew was raved about by film scholars’ world wide. I dove in. The whole setting of the film was around where I was staying. Los Angeles, San Pedro, Hollywood, Chinatown. I recognized a scene from a beach spot in San Pedro where I visited the day before. Steep treacherous cliffs with cement slabs nestled at the bottom containing gang graffiti and innuendo, segueing into the blue of the Pacific Ocean. Jack’s character was a witty/confident private investigator trying to get to the bottom of high profile agenda’s and the racketeering in the LA white collar community. I eagerly allowed the film to sidetrack me, if only for a few hours.
As the day tumbled along I knew at some point I had to start thinking about the show/return. I stepped out to the balcony to have a smoke. My mind couldn’t resist. For the first time, I pictured myself on stage. The thought had only crept into my mind, but it was all I could handle. I instantly started fidgeting. The thought of me performing made me feel ill. I was panicking. Trippin’. Wondering if this cigarette was laced with doubt, or fear. I put it out quickly. My friend James then came outside and said, “Hey, I’m gonna’ take a little nap right now.”
“That’s cool,” my mouth said without even asking my brain. Of course it was cool, but I was thinking about other things. Terrible things. Foolish things. These thoughts made ME want to sleep, Heavily. I then thought, “If I left right now, I could be two hours north of here by the time he wakes up, halfway home.” I dismissed this instantly. Sitting in traffic was the last thing I needed. I probably would have just got out of my car and started walking toward the abyss. There’s so much traffic in LA, even if you saw the girl of your dreams, you wouldn’t even be able to look at her without fear of rear ending somebody. How do you meet people if there are so many people? I’ve digressed.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I was so scared of. I checked myself into a personal prison, where I was the Warden. I told myself, “Alright, if I don’t get booed off stage, I will be the happiest Italian in America.” Setting the bar so low I might trip over it. I needed to be reminded why I was even down there, and I couldn’t ask myself.
I started tuning my guitar, running through scales on a piano trying to warm up my vocal chords, trying to find some sense of focus, to no avail. It was time to leave. I couldn’t believe it.
Mapquest, the online source for false driving directions guided my way through the sardine packed Los Angeles streets. It was apparently 21 miles to the venue, but after being in the car for over an hour, I again started cooking excuses-medium well. Throat ailments, the Clap, everything popped in and out of my mind. “Traffic! Yeah. We got stuck in traffic, I mean, we’ve been in traffic this whole time, why not a little more, huh?”
I arrived at the venue earlier then expected. I asked the manager about sound check, and he looked at me like I asked to perform foreplay on his wife. I went straight to the bar. “Hi, can I have a Red Stripe please?”
The lighting at the venue was much to my liking, dark. Maybe then they wouldn’t even see me perform, too dark. She brought the red stripe in the bottle, nice. I then started thumbing through the LA Weekly looking to see who was playing around town, but really looking for my name. There I was, twice. I took a hit that settled the bottle at about half. Wiped my mouth, looked around, nobody saw me try to take a whole beer down in one drink, good.
The sound guy came over to me like he had seen me before, or knew who I was. There was no way he could have heard of a musician who tries to back out of his performance at prominent venues. Those musicians slip through cracks, are in with the dust and gone with the wind. He had long hair tucked in the back of his sweatshirt, and a bull horn of a voice.
“Tom Fisher’s the name, what’s yours?” He said.
“Uh…Ryan, yeah….Ryan Bisio.” I couldn’t believe I sounded so feeble.
“Bisio?” He said with genuine curiosity. “My uncle’s last name is Bisio. I’ve never met anyone with that last name.”
“Really?” I replied. “Neither have I actually. I was hoping there were more though, so I wouldn’t be as easy to find, or easily remembered after this show.”
He looked at me puzzled. I had to pick up the slack, quickly.
“Are you Italian, is your uncle Italian?” I said trying to salvage whatever was left of this obvious debacle.
“…No, we’re Irish.” Tom said with obvious confusion of what planet I had landed from at some point in the week. “You wanna’ get this sound check going?”
“Sure,” I responded.
I walked with curiously short strides to the stage, as if little steps would get me there later. I plugged my guitar in for the levels, NOTHING. I then tried a different cable, NOTHING. I turned my guitar up full blast, NOTHING. This was all I needed. A fucking instrument situation was really going to calm me the fuck down. Shit. I waved Tom over to put some fresh eyes on my already crumbling situation/guitar.
“Might need a new battery in there. When is the last time you changed it?” He asked. I had no idea.
“There’s a Radioshack walking distance from here, you better run over there quick, you’re on in 15 minutes,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll go run over there. Listen, if I’m not back in 10 minutes, don’t look for me, don’t send anyone to find me, just try to move on with your life…”
Off I was. I needed one of those fat batteries, the square ones; I know you know what I’m talking about. I walked in, it wasn’t busy at all, just two guys at the register talking to the clerk. I stressfully looked for the battery section; saw some keyboards, cell phone accessories, wished I had a little more time to spend in there, but I was in a hurry. In a hurry to get to the end of my music career, ready for the cu de gra’. I saw the batteries behind the register, and stood in line with no product in my hands. I was now behind the two men who weren’t threatening me, but –suddenly- were- with- there meaningless- conversation- with –the- clerk- when- I- was- late- for- my- show- and- needed- these- batteries- to- even- finish- out- my -sound -check. I started pacing and tapping my feet so somebody would notice, attracting attention strategically through actions. It worked. I stepped to the front of the line, bought the battery, and was off to whatever fate awaited me.
I climbed back on stage, Tom was right, it was the battery, and the guitar worked…Fuck. I then got my microphone levels right and headed into a backroom to wait. I sat there with my head in my hands, agonizing over my set. I looked for my set list in a notebook I carry around. I couldn’t find it. All that was there were my losing college basketball picks from earlier in the day, wait, I think Notre Dame won though. Just as I realized I didn’t have my set, “Tom Slippery” slid in and said,” Hey, you’re on in one minute.”
“Sick,” I said condescendingly. He walked away.
I thought to myself,” I don’t have a pen, I don’t know what songs I’m gonna’ play, man… that chow mien I had earlier was nasty. I could still leave, I could still pull the plug on this, I’m in control of my life, if I don’t want to play I don’t have to play. Why don’t I wanna’ play? This is what I do. This is what I’m best at. Man…if I walked in there right now and told them I didn’t want to play I bet they would…”
Loudspeaker: “Everybody please welcome to the stage, Ryan Bisio.”

Simple as it Feels

Blueberry Red

Timely

The Stone

Backwards Letters

New song that has no title that I still haven't written yet

Invitation to the Groove

Wonderwall

All Along the Watchtower

Untitled #1


An incredible show, great venue, great sound. The CD of the show will be up soon. It's nice.

Simple as it feels

Untitled #1

The Stone

A song I haven't written yet with no title

Invitation to the Groove

Wonderwall

Windows

All Along the Watchtower


Det. Merlo,
Sorry I haven't got back at you. I've been in traffic for three days strait now. Fumbling around LA, trying not to look like a tourist, a terrorist, a goat...
I heard a nasty rumor that the only way you can come to my show is if you take the public transit?
The last show was alright. You should have seen the chick I opened for bro, I think her name was Melissa Maki, I met her Dad-Joe outside the restroom, I took a faster route to get there, tried to open the door, but it was occupied. My hustle showed that I was obviously next in line, as he conceeded to bronze. He seemed like a pleasant guy, asked who I was. "I'm Ryan, i'm a libra, i'm 24," I replied, sounding like it had been rehearsed in front of a mirror. And what a mirror it would be/if this chick was posing in front of it. I didn't stick around for her set though, I was hungry.
There's this dog in a nearby apartment here in Torrance that stands on the edge of a two story balcony, looking ready to make the final plunge. A dog suicide. I've been filming the dog for two days, waiting for the last straw to sever his patiance, the lambo leap.
When I was a kid, there was a "Winchells" donuts in Eureka. I had fond memories of maple bars, old fashioned, powdered, powdered with cream filling (never liked those), apple fritters. Anyway, Winchells got bought out by Happy Donuts, some sort of erratic chain that develops business in locations where they are completely away from it's fan base, much like I do-Happy Donuts was a scam. Filled with tomfoolery, sycaphants, and sub par efforts at constructing donuts that were anywhere near the quality and dedication that Winchells used in there stint. A pillor in the society of Eureka, gone, gone forever, gone for no reason, gone for Happy Donuts.
Winchells apparantly bounced back, opened up a store here in Torrance, just down the street about 14 blocks. I asked them if they remembered me from Eureka, they shrugged, no. Trying to make solice of the situation I said, "well, I guess I look a lot different these days." They agreed.
I'm thinking about going to see Adam Morrison play @ Pepperdine tonight, 7:30. PM. We'll see though. Sounds great now, we'll see after I check the line. Holla.
Your friend and mine,
Dr. Ray Farnsworth

Some of the most glorious days to date arrived here on the peninsula, with freshly cut grass welcomed into my senses like I’m preparing for a little league affair. Minding my own business-taking it in, I see a stranger wearing a familiar face. Isaac. From about 20 yards away I see he has stubble on his face, inconsistent, dressed in all black running attire, dark black hair matted down to his head like he had been wearing a bike helmet all day. He sees me from a distance and saves the wave and long yell for the obvious encounter-destined.
“How you been man?” I ask truthfully.
“Ok dude”, he works quick. “Just trying to sell some shit-I have a truck I’m trying to sell cause’ I haven’t been using it much lately, trying to get this Cadillac-I put some 24’s on the truck, but I can get those taken off easy if I sell it, I also have a go cart with a racecar engine in it, you ever seen those?”
“Um, I think I…”
“Yeah, it can go 0 to 60 in 4 seconds-but I don’t even use it, just trying to get some money, but I guess it doesn’t matter-my Mom just sold her house in Torrey Park for a million-maybe she can kick me some funds, my Dad is an estate lawyer, he makes like $700,000, maybe I’ll just ask them for some money and keep my shit, I just haven’t been using it cause’ I’ve been laying around and home doing nothing, watching the news all day, really bringing me down-I’m Jewish so I’ve been reading the Bible and I think all these crazy people are working into God’s plan, they’re gonna’ wipe the world out and we’ll start over, just like before-it’s like Salinas, the east side, since 85’ they’ve been so aggressive over there, but it’s all spelled out in the Bible, everything-I don’t know…I had a near death experience when I was a kid-some nerve disease, and since then I’ve been looking to God for answers-I quit smoking bud after the illness- I started smoking when I was in 6th grade, my brother smoked but he didn’t hook me up-it was all of his friends, but since then my left ribcage seems to be bigger then my right, and I don’t know if it has anything to do with my lungs-Do you read the bible?”
I finished unconsciously chewing all the way through two of my fingernails before I answered. I knew there was a reason I liked this kid. “I’ve dabbled in the past”, I sheepishly replied.
Be nice to everyone you see, because chances are, they’re struggling too.

I left our lopsided conversation happy that he won. Maybe the thing he saw from a distance was the size of my ears, willing to listen. He reminded me so much of a friend of mine Nick, who I lived with during a stint in Santa Rosa. Nick was also Jewish, while the physical resemblance and feverish stream of consciousness set them parallel. Interestingly enough, Nick’s parents also never check their balance to see if they have enough money to cover gas and a pretzel. No mustard. I breathed easy being reminded of Nick. I took one more look at the breeze, smelt my watch-and went on the internet to see if the medical field has made any headway in fingernail surgery.

Thought of the day:
Another example of technology pulling a hamstring, in the midst of reaching for products. A new razor blade on the market is proclaiming to have "5", check it, "5" blades now to ensure a close shave with comfort. Begging the question, what's wrong with the other "4" blades...
I must admit I use 3. But in disrespect of the new ads, I’m going down to 2. Act bold.

Song of the day:
“String quartet op. 131 in C sharp Minor”- Beethoven
How’s that for a title. Been in my head all day, had to analyze it and track the score this morning. One of Beethoven’s best works, and done (well documented) after he’d already gone deaf. It’s mathematical yo.

I woke up yesterday with much anticipation for the Super Bowl. Not as gripping of story lines crossed in this game as other years, but enough to make me consider its outcome vividly. A reliable source told me “Seattle outright” would be the winning bet. It sounded right to me. Legit enough to tell a colleague of mine that took the mutual advice, and made the play.
An avid watcher of pre game shows etc, as game time rolled closer my mind started to really favor the favorites, Pittsburgh. (Not trying to take credit now, especially since I didn’t even play the gut wrenching notion). Taking Pitt would also ensure that the viewing agenda’s in my apartment would even out, and we could view the game with some trash talking. That’s what I thought would happen.
As the middle of the third quarter started, I realized I had been watching the whole game, and couldn’t remember one play, one catch, one commercial, one anything that was exciting enough to hop back in the short term memory. We were watching a dud. Not even the Stones at halftime could salvage the fate of this Super Bowl-one of the most boring Super Bowls in recent memory.
Hines Ward scored on a trick play in the fourth, a pass from Randle El, driving the stake in the heart of Seattle fans, and my friend who so confidently took my advice on Seattle. I was a flip-flopper.
I was happy to see Ben Roethlisberger win a ring. His poise, confidence, and charisma seemed to be worthy of a title. I’ve always been a big Ben fan, for two years I guess…Can't believe he's younger then me.
What was up with Tom Brady doing the toss? They invite a guy who would give his scrotum to be playing in the game, to do the coin toss? Rub it in his face? He couldn’t have wanted to be there. Especially when he got booed when they announced his name…
A report surfaced this morning that Joe Montana didn’t attend the Super Bowl MVP ceremony before the game, due to money issues. The league guaranteed Joe $1,000 along with motel, rental car, game tickets, food, etc, and Joe allegedly wanted $100,000. A stiff asking price, but the mental anguish that would have went into him watching that game would have far surpassed $100,000. Might have rendered him suicidal…
Now it’s Monday, and American’s can get on the road to collecting back their debts from yesterday, the biggest blank ever, to be shot out of the NFL’s gun.

If you want to know what I’ve been doing since October, it’s difficultly simple to explain.
At about 6:51am everyday I wake up and start clock watching-monitoring oversleeping, plotting my day, toe wiggling that leads to the brain. I get out of bed around 8:00am pack up my things-writing pad, pen, phone, keys, wallet, chap stick, it takes me about one minute getting to my car. Upon view, I check my tires for air inflation, really looking for sagging, then pay no more attention until I routinely climb in. THEN I PUT DAVID GRAY IN THE STEREO.
Oddly, I listen to about 95% of my music in the car. Sometimes I sit in, and through the windshield into my carport, you can see the wall...
David Gray entered my appetite in 2002. Heard that his first big label record White Ladder is the best selling album in the history of Ireland…His voice is the sound of a man on the top of a mountain, singing down to humanity. His vocal delivery sends shivers through a corpse, with the melodic touch of a wizard. He has respect industry wide. And in my apartment.
Tonight, my tires looked good and I left for Safeway. With directorial timing, the Gray track “Lately” dropped in, like an apple off a tree-onto my hat...The layers to the song could mummify Goliath. The chorus turning into an acoustic whirlwind, and when listening to it for the 216th time, realized he played the staggering melody in the passage, harmonically as well?
Continually amazed, I entered the store and went shamefully strait to the deli. The man behind the counter was a jolly black man, million dollar smile, didn’t snag his name, but noticeably could hear him talking inspiringly-fondly about the Lord to another customer/who didn’t seem to be purchasing anything; she didn’t have a basket, or a name tag. He recited phrases from what seemed to be the bible-it sounded familiar, though I’ve only thumbed through it, maybe David.
“How’s your day been”? He asked for the 56th time in the day.
“Tough to say, I’ll know after I try these wings right here…”
He gracefully scooped six wings, liked I asked for six. Six looked about right though. I approved.
“Thanks a lot,” I said genuinely.
You can’t pay at the deli's at Safeway, so I walked a quarter mile in 20 steps to the real registers. They look the same, only much more traffic.
My eyes for no reason look at the price. It gazes up at me laughing.
“$4.06?” I mutter so nobody can hear.
“How can a man of the lord sell me six wings for four dollars?” I ponder-until I realize it’s another example of money being bigger and more thought about then God.
I then made small talk about the Super Bowl to the-clerk-named-Cindy who I always recognize, then head to the car. Walking in short strides, I see a man on a pay phone picking his nose vigorously and I think,"If he can handle it, I can handle it..."
Friday night plans IN cars + vans ALL trying to leave the parking lot. A man in an old white truck with hay blowing out the back lets me in. I wave, then pull out on the street, reeking of life-and get trapped behind a red sedan-that’s stalling.
”I have no idea what this person is doing,” streaks across my head like a plane over a stadium, carrying a message on the back, probably plugging some car dealership. I concentrate, maneuver past her, see her on a cell phone. Two seconds after that, I see a group of guys who appear to be basketball players (I can always spot ballers in a lineup). They were. They were also wearing Sonoma State basketball shirts, which made no sense. Sonoma State is traveling partners with San Francisco State, I heard San Francisco is playing tonight, which means Sonoma State has to be playing somewhere, and they’re not playing CSUMB, because CSUMB is playing Cal State Stanislaus tonight, and Chico State tomorrow night, Sonoma State plays CSUMB next weekend, but they’re here this weekend, I don’t know what’s going on.

The brisk morning wind bypassing my bones and moving dead east, offshore. A hummingbird glides effortlessly in and out of an overgrown green planter box. The distant sound of a drill penetrating the earth, approaching. Early coffee breaks bring a sanctuary/safe haven for the grind. I pick up a newspaper nearby that shows headlines of bombings, death, fugazi weather reports, and shoe sales. I put the newspaper down. An old teenager with a grey sweatshirt, torn front pockets and beanie cap pumps gas laboriously. The drilling getting closer. Men in three piece suits, money on their mind, coffee in their agenda. Coffee shops are like airports, a stop before the final destination, in and out, things to do.
“What a beautiful morning”, says an elderly woman as she shuffles by me with a blanket wrapped around her.
“Sure is”, I lie.
The drilling now here. Road construction. Jack hammers playing 64th notes, tractors all weather rusted yellow, with a foreman’s orders faint in the final mix. A plane flies by, a personal jet carrying somebody who somebody thinks is important. Flying curiously low with deep pitches. I wonder how many planes take off a day, and ponder how very few crashes there are. I take a hit of coffee. The wind now blowing leaves left over from autumn, getting their call to duty on the parking lot pavement. One in particular catches my eye. A leaf which looks like it escaped from a museum. Shaped like a maple leaf with dynamic shades of colors-green, brown, orange, yellow, red, surrendering to the fate that leaves do. I take another hit. A Robert Redford look-a-like, well dressed in a brown wool sweater, tie protruding from the top, hair parted lavishly moving from left to right. He’s walking a dog. Could be a show dog, I’ve never been able to tell the difference. A small Yorkshire terrier which has probably had three haircuts more recently than me, at the end of a 20 foot long leash. I turn away. A long drawn out parking lot conversation in full swing to my 3 o’clock. Conversations in which “I want to leave” body language isn’t picked up, due to the artillery of words. Must be speaking louder than the drilling. Must be important. Probably.
Only glimpses of a lunch break for the road workers though. They have to pave the road to their coffee break. The conversation ends anti-climactic with barely a wave of acknowledgment. In and out, things to do.
The sun peaking its face out through the aging cypress tress, gazing in on me modestly, I look right back. Take another shot of coffee. The Robert Redford clone now without his dog, looking around with his hand on his forehead, shadowing the sun. He gazes at me disturbed. I don’t have his dog.
The wind picks up. My time here is through. The drilling stops.

I subscribe to the theory that musicians are all a link in a chain. Taking influences in all sensory ways and connecting themselves. Some links are steel with gold plating, which makes them more identifiable to the masses, the naked eye. All you can hope for is a link.
Ryan Adams is not unlike important artists that I’ve seen and heard. I think he grew up in Carolina, and then felt the calling to the “Big Apple”. Similar to Dylan in that respect. His new tune out right now is titled “29” and is nothing short of a knock. A guy who can strip down to bear acoustic, and leave the listener vulnerable in his imagery. A very honest lyricist, his vocal chords are directly connected to his soul. I heard “29” on the radio before I realized it was Adams. The song is similar in scope to the Chris Isaak tune “Baby did a bad bad thing.” The primitive tone of the electric guitar, guiding the way the tune is to be vocally phrased. The rhythm so apparent that you forget that you’ll never forget it. I can tell you where I when the Beatles were on the Ed Sullivan show and I can tell you exactly where I was when this track stunned my existence. Bored with contemporary music, with music telling stories that have already been told, “29” came out of the radio with its middle finger in the air. While folding a towel, I got the edges right, laid it down for the final fold, and then dropped it what must have looked like a panic, and gazed at the radio as if he was going give a personal message at the songs conclusion. That track can leave you muttering things to yourself like,” What a fucking idea, or I might as well quit.” When inspiration doesn’t come from other artists, rarely does my edgy-confident work. I’m still at the point where other artists compliment my courage. A single track can keep me in the zone for weeks. With that said, I have to go return these shoes-too small and the wrong color.

For what do I owe the pleasure?
Transparent exchanges of insecurities-with voice tone taking the flank. Tradition arrantly tossed aside for the quick fix, the now, the soon. Foreshadowers foreshadowing shadows that start upstairs, and seep decadence on there southern migration. Vanity idolized-lies polarized-the truth pasteurized-for the mass intake.
For what do I owe the pleasure?
Hybridism fossilized from the brainlessness of jargon. Pop star musicians fumbling about on instruments-virtuoso’s picking up second jobs. California casino’s in the place of humanity.
For what do I owe the pleasure?
Technology forging us nowhere, faster. When one wonders when compassion takes the lead…When a line is drawn in the sands of time, marking when a change became real. I don’t understand what I owe this pleasure. Death seems a relief. I can’t finish this unless I’m in my right mind.

Pooch,

I’d like to think that my relationship with dogs is…improving. It’s kept me up nights, honest. You would think that you would give me the benefit of the doubt though. It’s not like I’m looking for a fight, or looking for a friend. Just humor me one time, go through the motions, pretend like your interested, and then go about your day, will you? I mean, I don’t take offense when you lick your ass in front of me, why won’t you relax if I don’t seem excited to see you, or even offer you a stroke.
I have to be honest; nothing turns me off faster than a loud bark. A warning/ communication/ misunderstanding. When I was two, and was bit by my own dog in the FOREHEAD, the bark symbolized something other then dialogue. I’ve seen dogs that don’t bark, and we get along fine. I’m trying, why can’t you take the initiative? You have heightened senses, why can’t you see I’m just trying to go about my day. I know you don’t want me to take you home. I know you know I wouldn’t be a good caretaker. Why do you want more from me? Don’t wag your tail like this is annoying, just listen. And don’t act like you want me to pet you unless you do. And if you do, be subtle about it. Game me. Know that two strokes and a tap is all I’m good for. I have baggage, but I’m willing to drop it, if you do your part. This aint no dictatorship here. Are you clear about your roll?
We’ll try again tomorrow, but lose that collar in the mean time, it’s filthy, and smells like your tongue, which smells like your ass.
Ryan