December 10, 1999 ***"Epiphany."
    I tend to miss a lot due to my lack of willingness to participate, for one reason or another, usually good.  For instance, in high school, I, on several occasions, chose to sit in the cafeteria and be berated by certain social studies (savor the irony) teachers rather than sit in the gym and be berated (though I suppose it was supposed to be getting "pumped up") by cheerleaders and football players in what was lovingly referred to as pep rallies.  Now, don't get me wrong, I loved watching the cheerleaders.  Yes, indeed.  But I kind of balked at the fact that we were taken out of class to pep up the football players when there was nary a word said to the academic team to pump them up.
    I was on neither one.  My football and academic team careers both ended when I met my four-stringed friends (basses, for those of you not well-acquainted with me yet.)  I still love football, though.
    But, anyway, back to the epiphany I had this evening....
    On my way home from picking up my truck (new tires for Christmas!) I drove past my old high school, where there was a dance, or so the sign read.  I went to two dances in my high school career.  One, because I had nothing to do.  The other, the Prom my senior year, because I got to M.C. the thing.  And that, except for the tux, was a blast.  Oh, and except that I took a friend of mine who was, at the time, dating a dude who was 23 and wouldn't go to the dance with her.  We had fun nonetheless.  Oh, wait...there was senior dinner dance too.  Which culminated in about ten of us getting a room afterwards and getting terribly inebriated.  That was also the night that my buddy Tim gave birth to the "Z-Rock Dog Tag" story and the "Chug It, Timmy!" story.  Those will be future entries, fear not, dear readers.
    ANYWAY...to what I was talking about...the epiphany.  I find myself, albeit occasionally, wishing that I could re-live the past.  Go back to high school and actually ask that one girl out (and, no, I don't think I'll ever tell that story here.)  Go back and keep playing baseball one more year.  Go back and tell my band in senior year, Mystery City, that I didn't care what stipulations we got, we were playing in the damn talent show (long story, and with a bad ending.)  Go back and never be friends with one certain girl that I worked with at a certain yogurt store (again, long story.)
    So the epiphany is this:  f*ck the past.  When we're born, we've got a finite amount of time on this rock to work with.  If I missed chances, f*ck 'em.  Live now.  Work now.  Play now.  Do it now...not yesterday.  As so many people have so eloquently observed, not the least of which being Iron Maiden's Steve Harris:  "As soon as you're born, you're dying."
    But I'll still bear one scar...I wish I could've found a better place to lose my virginity than in the back of my mom's Mercury Topaz.  Sorry, Mom.
 

December 8, 1999 ***"Trial & Error(s)."
    I tried to watch the Billboard Music Awards.  I really, really did.  Jennifer Lopez was cute as an opener.  The Red Hot Chili Peppers were very good...I was impressed.  I'm not a RHCP fan, but they impressed me.  Cool tune, cool music...then they had Snoop Doggy Dogg come out to do a rap with them over the end of the song.  How can a multi-million selling rap artist have no sense of timing or rhythm?  How the hell does that happen?  Almost completely ruined the tune, but Flea's bass playing and John Frusciante's leads held it together.  Neat-o.
    And, somehow, I knew the thing was done.  I knew that nothing else remotely emotion-laden or soulful would come out of my television as long as I stayed tuned to FOX.  And then...yes...oooh...ahhh...Britney Spears.  I honestly have never heard more than a snippet of any song of her's.  It starts...something about saving mankind?  Then she appears.  Semi-attractive.  If I were 16 I'd probably lust after her lips.  Then she danced.  Interesting.  Then she opened her mouth..."oh, baby, baby...."
    I went and took a shower, I felt so dirty.
    Rock lyrics...no, pop lyrics..."oh, baby, baby...."
    I started writing songs when I was 15.  Never once have I written: "oh, baby, baby."  Nor will I.  Am I a prima donna?  Sure, maybe, whatever.  I just know that I require a bit of depth when I listen to music.  Now, I like Duran Duran.  I liked Poison (but they looked like girls...cute girls...I was confused....)  I like pop stuff that's done with some soul.  Not the pre-programmed schlock that fills Top 40 radio today.
    Britney Spears.  A cute girl and a voice coach will make millions.  I'm going to scour the local high schools for a mid-pubescent chick to make money off of.  If I can't get her to sing, maybe I can at least pimp her out...that's about all pop music is about anymore anyway.
    *sigh*
    Sorry to sound so dour and codgerly.  I'm not really as old as I sound.  I just have this strange artistic take on music.  Like writing, it's not hamburgers.  Though hamburgers are fine in music (see the above referenced Duran Duran, Poison, Twisted Sister, etc.)  I want to be moved.  I want to hear soul.  I want to know that there was some sweating involved in the recording of a song.
    Just tuned back in time to listen to Metallica with a symphony...I dislike Metallica...always have...but this is interesting...not bad...cool that they can keep time with a symphony...can't wait for the Hammet guitar lead...that's what usually destroys any Metallica song in a live setting from what I've heard...oh, the manic wah-peddle inflected noodlings were almost drowned out by the symphony.  Good.  Saved the tune.  Not bad.
    I'm off to listen to my Alice Cooper "The Life And Crimes Of..." box set....
 

December 7, 1999 ***"Less Folks, Less Strife."
    Well, the Buccaneers won last night, 24 to 17.  I was close in my call of a 24 to 21 victory by my team, which now stands alongside the Detroit Lions atop the NFC Central.  Ah, the thrill of victory.
    And, y'know, having many acquaintances and not many really close friends has advantages...like not having to buy Christmas presents for a lot of people.  Don't get me wrong or misconstrue what I say:  I'd love to buy a lot more folks little things during the holidays, to show them that I care about them and wish them well during the season.  However, my list, due as much to my financial state as anything, is short.  I tend to like to give odd, little gifts.  Books and things that I don't think the person receiving them would ever buy for themself.  My folks are always the hardest.  T.'s pretty hard too...how about a woman who doesn't wear jewelry?  That knocks out the typical guy's idea list right from the get-go, huh?
    A challenge, to say the least.  I think that's why I've always hated (literally) getting presents.  For Christmas, really, I'd rather have a little wing-ding somewhere, a bunch of us go out to dinner someplace, make merry and have some fun.  That's enough.  The less Hallmark there is in my holiday, the better.  The less frenzied purchasing, the better.  The less worrying over what to get, what to get, the better.
    But I will say this:  there are a couple gifts that I'm giving folks this year that I just absolutely know will garner howls of laughter, hopefully for some time to come.  Should be fun.
 

December 6, 1999 ***"Buccaneers."
    My favorite football team, since I was a wee youngster, has been the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.  Sure, during the good years, I watched the Bengals with interest.  But, for some weird reasons, I always liked the Bucs.  At first it was the Creamsicle orange uniforms.  Then I got older and started to understand football and sports in general.  Played baseball and football...even played a year of soccer.  My competitive side, as I don't particularly like to mix competition with creativity in general.  Things like poetry slams and battles of the bands just leave me feeling hollow.
    And tonight my beloved Bucs are playing the Minnesota Vikings for a share of first place in the NFC Central Division.  Monday Night Football.  *sigh*  Rapture.
    MNF is coming on in a short bit...and I'll get to watch my Bucs (hopefully) kick some Viking butt.  Maybe watch Warren Sapp or John Lynch knock Jeff George into next week.  Beautiful.  My pick:  Bucs 24, Vikings 21.
    It's odd, I suppose, that I don't hang around with any sports fans.  Most of my friends could care less and only know of the Buccaneers because of my hats and other assorted odds and ends (the old orange and red flag on my wall, for example.)  Sort of good, though, too.  I typically don't like to hang around with folks who live for "FU-BALL!!!" as my buddy B. described it in a journal entry.  Maybe I'm just too anxiety ridden and hard to please, but I need lots of stuff to keep me interested in life.
    Oh, and for those of you interested, Warren Zevon has a new album due out in early '00.  If you're up for paying dubious amounts of cash, you can find early, unmixed versions on eBay.  Personally, I can't wait.  With all the tripe on the radio for the last five years, it's nice to know that some folks who do it right are still out there.
    And don't forget to watch out for the red herrings that will cross your path during the course of a day...especially if you throw them out there yourself, to protect yourself from the true issues you need to deal with.  
 

December 5, 1999 ***"Happy Freakin' Holidaze...."
    Due to monetary situations beyond my control, my holiday shopping is almost done.  My apologies to all those upon whom I'd love to bestow a gift or two but cannot.  You have my well wishes and hopes for a happy millenium for you and your kin.
    T. just left and I'm feeling blue, as you'd expect.  She had to get home to her kitten, though, who'd been left alone for a day or so whilst she was up here with me.  I've got to do the WAIF 24th Anniversary Party tonight.  My friend and Scriptus Live co-host, Greg, and I are opening the show.  Should be great...um...I'm trying to convince myself.  Only good thing is that I'll go, read a few, (hopefully) sell a few books (donating a buck of each sale to WAIF) and then head home.  5:30 am comes mighty early and, alas, I'm not as young as I was in college, when I'd get home from a gig at 2 am and still get to my 8 am class.  Not anymore.  This party lasts till midnight, or a little after...have fun, gang.
    Oh, and T. and I went to see "End of Days" Saturday night.  If you want an indepth, researched and very well-written religious spellbinder, go see "Stigmata," a great film.  "End of Days" is, as I described it upon walking out of the theater, a typical Arnold Scharzenegger film except that instead of fighting aliens, future terrorists or commandoes, he's fighting Satan.  And, as you'd expect, he wins.
    The good thing?
    His character, the enigmatically named Jericho, dies at the end.  Impaled upon a sword.  That was worth the price of admission, I must say.
    Not that I'm reverting back into the cloud-covered wretchedness that spurred much of my second book, Tripping Darkly, but I've been followed by a maelstrom of frustration lately.  Thunder claps of despair and lighting shots of white noise in my head.  I'm in need of something, though I'm not sure what.  Whenever I'm around T., it dissipates, but always returns.  I relish my times with her even more because of the solace they provide.
    Perhaps a move south.
    Perhaps starting a new venture.
    Music.
    Words.
    Something...and I need it soon....
 

November 30, 1999 ***"Holy Rat Crap, Batman!"
    I'm currently enjoying some "Uncle Willie's High Fiber Cholesterol Free Microwave Popcorn."  Mmmm, mmmm good.  Just got back from spending the evening with my Mom...went to Grandpa's, went to a funeral of a friend of the family (well, Mom went in...I listened to soft rock on the radio) and then to show her to a place she needed to go in Covington on Friday.
    One month till Y2K...one month and counting...the tension is just enough to make your eyes bleed, isn't it?
    I love hanging with Mom for a lot of the same reasons that hanging with many of my friends is good...the conversations it stimulates.  I should've taped it as I'm currently malfunctioning  in the memory department.  Good stuff though.  Talked about children (telling them what's going on instead of hiding them from reality), strip clubs (places I and my friends have been), moving to Lexington (which I may be doing) and other assorted stuff.  As you can tell, my Mom and I have a special kind of relationship.  Back in college she helped me study for philosophy exams sometimes...I think she got more out of it than I did, which was a lot.  May have stunted her thoughts though (which, I suppose, is sort of a point of philosophy, huh?)
    But, Holy Rat Crap, Batman!  Why do I feel so torn all the time anymore?  Is it the lack of stunning success.  The fact that I'm 26 and not nearly where I wanted to be by now?  I remember when I was in first grade I used a calculator to figure out how old I'd be when the year 2000 hit (back then it was still "the year 2000" and not "Y2K").  27.  I told myself, even at that tender age, that I didn't want to be normal by that time.
    I wasn't writing or playing music at age six, but I knew that I didn't want to be what everyone else was, or something from t.v., though being a police officer did have an appeal because my grandfather was one.
    And now I work a regular job for the benefits, mainly, and, though I write and play music, I feel as if I've let myself down.  I don't work as hard as I should on it.
    I suppose that in that knowledge lies the answer, though.
    Scot2K, right around the corner....
 

November 26, 1999 ***"Art And The Zenith."
    Conversations with B. are always stimulating because they course off in so many different directions.  Tonight we went out & had dinner, talked about his upcoming trek to UK to become a master of an art, talked about chicks (chix?) <apologies to J. & T.> and art.  We also went to the Greater Cincinnati International Airport...great time.  For four bucks parking we rode the Delta subway-like train, watched planes, watched people and talked.  Very cathartic place, that airport.  I occasionally go there with a notebook and write, but it's good for conversation too...almost like an amusement park...or a zoo.
    One bizarre thing, though, was an office door marked cryptically as "Y2K Office."  No lie.  It's on the first floor on the opposite end from the Delta terminals.
    Anyway...art.
    And faith, to a certain extent.  I'll be honest, I'm sort of a mix between a Taoist and a Transcendentalist.  Sort of.  Let's just say I have my beliefs and I hold them very strongly.  One of them is that I don't personify "god."  So that leaves out most major Western religions.
    Anyway...art.
    B. and I were discussing art.  Personally, I believe he's a fantastic painter and photographer.  Perhaps I'm biased.  I recognize that.  But from the most objective point of view I can muster, his work is still exceptional, soulful and true.  His contention was that none of his stuff really moved him.  Which brought me to the point of art.
    You see, the artist is never going to be moved by his/her own work, not the way an audience is.  To some, creation is simply self-expression and they never want it shown or read by others...that's a different beast.  To the artist to endeavors to show, read, play or be their art, the art will always be at the point of creation.  At the zenith of heart, soul and truth when the emotion is RIGHT THERE...on the page, the canvas, the strings of the guitar, whatever.  And then it moves on.
    It moves on to the audience, the lover of art and the lover of this truth that artists bring forth, based only on their faith, be it in themselves alone or in their knowledge of their place in the universe.
    I know I'll never write a song that will move me like Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill," Mother Love Bone's "Crown of Thorns" or King's X's "Goldilox" move me...but I can hope to pour myself into what I write so that maybe, just maybe, I can move someone else in that way.  My love comes in the pouring forth of myself.  The art is in the reaction beyond that zenith of creation.  Where faith truly exists, hope blossoms and love is borne.
 

November 25, 1999 ***"Movement."
    Truth be told, there's not much on my mind today.  It is Thanksgiving, and I just got done eating the traditional dinner with the family.  Not all of us, the us that used to partake of such events, are here anymore though.  Christmas is the same.  There's no going over to my Grandfather's house on the Eve, and the other Grandparents on the Day.  One Aunt is gone, taken by cancer in January.  Seems that the seams are pulling apart, things fraying and wearing thin.
    Over the last year and a half I've fallen in love, though.  So perhaps things do change and cycle through.  Perhaps the plan, whatever plan there might be, is simply grinding on and on.
    Whether your belief system warrants it or not, there are choices and then there is destiny.  Both exist and work together.  Much like whether we're molded by our genetics or our environment, these things are not mutually exclusive.  Things happen, choices are made.  People live and people die.
    On this day of Thanksgiving, for whatever we actually celebrate it for anymore, I celebrate the cycle that I am a part of and the opportunity I have to add to it.
 

November 23, 1999 ***"Morons...All Of 'Em!"
    Sometimes I'm a sucker just like everyone else.  We all get suckered into things.  Recently, just by the strange happenchance of turning the televsion on at the right (wrong?) times, I've watched portions of ABC's "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?"  Sick.
    Why do I say it's sick?
    Have you watched it?
    Where do they get these pieces of Samsonite that are contestants on the show?  Yeah, Reg(is), I'll use my "lifeline" just to make sure that the sky is blue.  Yeah, Reg(is), I'll use a "lifeline" just to be sure that King Tut reigned in Egypt and not England, France or Alabama.  Sure, Reg(is), I'll ask for the audience's opinion, realizing that they're just as moronic as I am, who they think the Skipper's little buddy was!
    If you've taken a breath of air, you should get at least $500,000.  For the million, it might be a prerequisite that you've stepped out of the house to check for mail once or twice.
    Oh, and a note to my friends:  If any of you get on the show and call me as one of your "lifelines," please know beforehand that the first words out of my mouth after Reg(is) introduces himself are going to be to ask him if he's ever boinked Kathie Lee.
    Bet on it.
    Trivia questions for cash...Alex Trebek is probably having a field day with these losers.  They couldn't hold the jock of any of the poor schleps who've ended "Jeopardy" in the hole.
    *sigh*
    Okay, granted, if they asked me a question about films I'd use a "lifeline" and call my friend, B., partly 'cuz he'd know the answer and partly 'cuz I know he'd ask Reg(is) the same question 'bout Kathie Lee.
    Personally, I'd like to be the first person to go through all the questions without having to take a commercial break...thanks for the check, Reg(is)!
 

November 19, 1999 ***"Twisting And Lies."
    There is nothing worse to me than a lie.  Now, we have all lied before.  Pressure causes people to lie.  Fear causes people to lie.  Well, wait a minute...those things don't cause lies, but they are catalysts.  A lie is always a choice, whether that choice is self-preservation or a simple maneuver around a critical question.
    Anyway, I (among others) have been lied to at work.  Right to my face.  Things went from a point-of-view and statement that any position that opens up is, was and shall be filled by posting it and interviewing qualified applicants to people suddenly being put into open positions.  Lies.
    Anyway, I'm looking for a new job.
    Now, off that subject, all of the old Twisted Sister albums have been reissued with bonus cuts.  Too cool.  My friend G. thought I was nuts when I got so excited.  However, let me tell you something:  all kinds of music get me off.  Twisted Sister's You Can't Stop Rock N' Roll was the second tape I ever bought as a youngster, right after Huey Lewis And The News' Sports.  Sick?  Nah...when we're young we just know what we like.  We don't know genres and stupid boxes that the media and promotions people put things into.  Radio, too.
    Now, when I started playing music, a few years after those purchases, two things entered into my mind.  First, Dee Snider's interviews weren't typical rock fare.  He was (and is) quite a bit more intelligent than your average rock n' roll animal.  Among the hodge podge of crappy hard rock bands, T.S. had lyrics that were deeper than the average.  Granted, some of their stuff was just silly, but the campy, kitschy elements were part of their thing.  Second, Mark "The Animal" Mendoza, T.S.'s bassist, could actually be heard.  If you remember much of the 80's metal stuff, bass was almost non-existant in the mix.  You could always hear Mark though.  That showed me, and later when I got into Iron Maiden, Steve Harris showed me, that bass could be and was an integral part of a harder edged sound.  In fact, the bass is what MADE things heavy in the first place.  And Mark Mendoza's two transitional bass runs in the tune Like A Knife In The Back are just super, super sweet.
    So, I learned that music could be not only a source of inspiration and fun, but also intelligent, and that bass was my thing.  I fell in love with bass, really, from that bassline in that one Twisted Sister song long before I ever picked one up.
    So, all I have to say is this:  I'm an S.M.F. and proud of it.  And proud of the fact that T.S. sits right between R.E.M. and Peter Gabriel in my CD collection.
    You can't stop rock n' roll....
 

November 18, 1999 ***"Animalistic Tendencies."
    We're all animals when you bring things down to it.  Sure, we human folks can reason, which is a beautiful thing.  It's brought us art, science, deeper understanding of our existence.  But, when the rubber hits the road, we're animals.  That's part of the basic, intrinsic problem with humanity, or as Bruce Cockburn sang, "That's the burden of the angel/beast."  It's how we balance our urges with our reason, or vice versa.
    I was once enamored of a certain young lady.  Infatuated is more like it.  She was attractive.  Fairly nice to be around, at first.  Not a bad person, by any means, but misguided in many ways and a bit too much of the gamester.  People who've studied psychology but never gained any deep understanding of the thoughts are like that.  They play games all the time so they never see it when someone's playing with them.  It can be tons o' fun, but ultimately very boring.  Sort of like checkers.  It's great for a time, but eventually you want a real challenge.
    Truth is, I was an animal at the time.
    Truth is, I just wanted to fuck her.
    I realize that now, with hindsight and a chance encounter which, thankfully, included an offhanded greeting and not much else.  Heard some really angelic singing tonight too at a place called The Cabaret in Cincinnati.  We'll be doing a poetry reading there on December 17th, but tonight A. from DaVinci's Burden sang and so did one of the barkeeps.  Fantastic stuff.
    Anyway, that hindsight stuff.
    Animal.  Pure animal.  And the animal clouded my logical thought processes.  I would've come to my senses immediately after the initial, ahem, well...you know.  Thankfully, nothing happened, I quit talking to her and things went on.  And, eventually, I met someone who inspires both my "human" side and my animal side.
    With age comes wisdom, and the realization that all things, though tempered with our animalistic tendencies, are better with emotion and reason and, in this case, love.  T. is my other half, my soulkeeper and my love.
    And we both growl occasionally, too.
 

November 17, 1999 ***"Starve."
    I'm tired, so utterly tired, of living my life based on someone else's schedule.  But we all do it, don't we?  Money and food are the great motivators...or they were...I suppose getting home in time to see the new episode of Friends is a real motivator too.
    I thought of something driving home today:  are we all really cut from such like cloths or do we simply follow the herd for the sake of following it?  I think we all, all of us, think strange things sometimes.  It's just a matter of where we draw the line between reasonable and atrocious.  Ever held the ladder for someone and thought to yourself, if only for an instant, what it would be like to pull it out from under them?
    No?
    Liar.
    But we don't do it, do we?  Of course not.  Out of either fear of the ramifications or out of respect for the other person.  Probably a little of both.
    But what of those who don't care?  They're out there.  And they're not the ones with the little "anarchy" logos on their backpacks either.  They're right there at work with you, in suits and ties, just like you.
    I want to starve myself of this world.  Of its facades and false truths.  Of its televisions and sacred electronic media.  Shed my skin.  Shed my life.
    But how will I live without my amplifiers and CD's and my microwave oven?
    Ah, the trap we're all in.
    Welcome to the end of the Roman Empire, Pt. II, playing everywhere you fuckin' look.
 

November 10, 1999 ***"Philosophy."
    I have a degree in Philosophy.  If you've read my bio or own one or three of my books, you know that.  Also have a degree in English, but it's the one in Philosophy that most folks don't understand.  Why do I bring this up?  My college PHI advisor and professor who I took seven classes with e-mailed me in response to a greeting I'd sent him and he wanted me to let him in on what's been up in my life.
    Pressure.  Much like having Dr. M., my English advisor/professor come to the poetry reading at Joseph-Beth last month.  Well, okay, not pressure as such.  I thrive on deadlines and pressure.  I groan and get feisty and then I get things done.  I used to not study for exams in college just to see how I'd come out.  I used to write my papers late on the night before they were due...not due to lack of time (though working 35 hrs. a week and playing in a working band puts a crimp in your schedule, trust me), but just for the test.  The test of myself.  Ended up with an honors GPA (e-mail if you want the exact number...I don't feel like publishing it...that would be stupid.)
    But back to Philosophy.  Y'see, when I started at Northern Kentucky University I wanted to major in English and minor in Secondary Education.  Imagine that.  Me, teaching your freshman daughter about poetry.  Egads.  I met with the professor who was the liaison between the English Dept. and the Education Dept....his office was a mess, like a tsunami of papers all over the place.  He asked if we could postpone our meeting, which had been scheduled for two weeks.  "Sure...I'll drop back by."  I never did, though.
    I'm like that, though.  I don't go out of my way to be in social situations.  I don't go drinking with the boys.  I wasn't member of any real clubs or organizations in college (the music and work took that time.)  I was fine with those choices.  That's the breed of cat I was and am.  It kept me from being the student on the tip of most professors' tongues but, hey, we can't all be Elvis, right?
    During that first semester I'd elected to take a class called Introduction to Philosophy.  To say it was eye-opening is to make an understatement of the first calibre.  Questions I'd always been asking myself were in there.  It was amazing.  Overwhelming too...I did what every underclassman Philosophy student does, I think:  every new school of thought is IT, what the world is about, without any qualm or doubt.
    Then, toward the end of the semester you realize that maybe you oughta slow down and lead with your objectivity out front.  But the wonderful thing about my professor, who I'm going to send an e-mail back to tonight or tomorrow, is that in every essay question he asked for you to reflect on the point, for your views (well-stated and thought-out, of course.)  Prior to this, all I'd known of giving my thoughts to teachers was the occasional creative writing assignment.  It forced me to internalize the ideas.
    Anyway, I'm not directly doing anything with my degrees.  I'm writing, playing music and working a day job.  But the extent that my education finds it's way in is astounding.  My background in English giving me the ability to communicate more effectively and the Philosophy giving me both the background in logic and analysis, and the background in ethics and morality.  That wasn't an emphasis in the program, but I took every class I could involving the ideas.
    I could depend on two things in my advisor's classes:  he would mispronounce my last name, even on the seventh class, and then smile at me and say he should know that by now, and that he would begin by drawing the differences between Philosophy (the love of wisdom), Knowledge (understanding how things are) and Wisdom (the way we use knowledge, in a way to enhance life).  And, then, Philosophy was the "attempt, in a reasoned and comprehensive way, to answer basic questions about human existence."  I got my affinity for Kant (though I have still not been able to get further than a few pages into the Critique of Pure Reason) and Emerson & Thoreau, and even to Kierkegaard (I'm in the midst of Thoughts On Crucial Situations In Human Life.)
    Lord, what a long entry.  Sorry.  I guess my overall point is that, though I feel like I've turned my back on my studies, both of English and Philosophy, by where I've chosen to take my life, the things I learned are still with me and have shaped a lot of who I've become.  They've made things a might confusing sometimes too, but that's okay.  I owe a lot to my professors, because even the ones I disagreed with (see my creative writing classes) added bricks to my framework.
    But mainly to my advisors, I tip my hat.  I don't think I ever really thanked either of them for their help, their time, their conversations and their direction.
    Thanks Dr. McNally (English).
    Thanks Dr. Richards (Philosophy).  It was your Intro. to PHI class that directed me to take another and then decide to double-major in Philosophy too, and gave my thoughts a lot more direction.  I'll get through the Kant's Critique eventually.
 

November 8, 1999 ***"Innate."  + Baggage
    I've always had the innate ability to f*ck everything and everyone around me up.  Not intentionally (well, okay, occasionally...but not often), but regardless, it's happened.  I think, at times, I care too much and want way, way too much for things to work out RIGHT.  That word's in caps because it's important...there is no definite RIGHT.  I realize that, but I still f*ck things up.
    Bands?  Yeah.  Being too close to the situation to realize that by pushing as hard as I have that I was squeezing the life out of them.  I'm a musical murderer.  A note-bending marauder.  A tremolo mangling menace to minor keys.
    I guess my main concern with this rant is that I have something very, very valuable to me right now.  Something that, if I lost it or caused it to go away, would literally wrench the heart out of my chest and leave it bleeding on the floor.  But I have other things that are valuable to me too...it's a balancing act, really.  These are very different loves, though.
    My love of music and written words is a love of my expression.  My "me"-ness.  My viewpoints and the stimuli in my life.  My hope and my faith, most of the time.  The fact that, right now, my musical life is in shambles is killing me...I need that expression, that outlet.  My writing is coming along, slowly.  Ever slowly.  But still moving.  And then there's the thing I've come to value so much over the last year.  And we're all insecure about things.  We're all human here (except for you techno-geeks out there...I can feel your circuitboards frying from here.)
    I just wish I could let her know that my love for her is, quite literally, beyond words.  And I write...I know expression.  I can't express it.  And I hate the word "can't."  But I can't.  What she's come to mean to me is astronomically big.  And I suppose that's why sometimes, when we're not communicating well (which happens to all couples, I realize) I take it to heart and want to immediately DO SOMETHING about it.  I'm a fixer.  Some things I can leave.  Unopened mail.  Fine.  CD's strewn about.  Fine.  Lack of communication...no way.
    *deep sigh*
    My greatest fear is of f*cking this up the way I've done so many things in the past.

Baggage
    In talking with many friends over the last week, it amazes me how much baggage people tend to carry around.  So many people are apt to open the suitcase from under their bed and just sit in it instead of opening it, putting some clothes in and walking forward into new adventure.  The devil you know is better than whatever might be out there in the darkness...or even in the lit room across the hall.
    Bullshit.
    Here's my oath to all those who let themselves be burdened by past relationships, by past failures, by past choices:  living in the past is slow suicide tomorrow.
    Have fun digging your graves you weak poseurs.
    I use my past, my mistakes, my "almosts" and my damage to make a better tomorrow for myself and thereby for the people around me who I love.  I love darkness, but I love light as well.  I choose to live and dance in both.  My insecurities do not hamper me.  They're with me, but they do not weigh on me.
    To quote Andy from The Shawshank Redemption:
    "Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'."
    Make your choice, baby, 'cuz life ain't waitin' up for you....
 

November 7, 1999 ***"Artful Dodgers."
    T. and I went to the Cincinnati Art Museum today...and what a beautiful day it was.  I can't wait until the day that neither of us has to "go home" after our time together (we live about a hundred miles away from each other.)  I like art museums, overall, though I have the same problem there that I have at poetry readings and such...too much information to process at one time and get it all.  Give me a week or so to go through at a slow, steady pace and I'll be fine.
    I liked the old days of albums and cassettes...about twenty minutes a side, good length and good music.  Nowadays you've got bands putting out 73 minute albums that are forty minutes of good stuff and thirty-three of filler & extras.
    A lot of the stuff today, sad to say, was filler to me.
    Jim Dine's skull study (can't remember the exact title) on the landing heading up to the third floor is terrific.  A lot of the modern era art was cool.  Some neat stuff.  Picasso's always fun to look at and turn around in your head.
    I guess art, as so many other things, is in the eye of the beholder, huh?  I'd love to have a museum filled with Georgia O'Keeffe and Yves Tanguy, but that'll never happen (though Georgia does have one to herself in NM.)
    Art is available in so many forms...in the music you hear (yes, kids, pop music is art), in the books you read and in the clear sky on a November day.  It's just a matter of looking for it.  Art's not a rattlesnake that'll snag you when you're close.  Art's like a pillbug under a rock, which is much of it's beauty.
    To use a 90's term:  art is interactive.  For art to be art, it must have an audience.  Be an audience, or be an artist tomorrow.  Trust me as a writer and musician...it's the best way to live, and to live at all we must all be artists in some way.

November 1, 1999 ***"F*ck you and your world."
    Here's one for you:  abortion should be legalized with a limit of 18 years of age.  If you can make it to 18 without doing something stupid, you get to live the rest of your life.  If you're under 18 and get caught, say, drinking and driving...sorry, bubba, you're outta luck and knocked on the back of the head with a ball peen hammer till you're dead.  Bye, bye.  If you murder, you get murdered.  If you pollute, you get polluted...if you throw your cigarette butt out the window of your daddy's car, you have to either eat a plateful of cigarette butts or commit hari-kari.  Your choice...if you're gonna play, you've got to pay.
    I think abortion up through the 54th trimester would be just dandy and probably cure a lot of society's ills.
    Okay, I'm being sarcastic.  Dry humour.  Whatever.  I'm just sick of banking institutions (like Firstar, the holder of my truck lease) that don't know what the hell they're doing.  Long story...let's just say they lost my payment from last month, charged me an extra month for this current bill I've got, and then today when I called a nice young girl tells me they got last month's payment on October 12th.  Hmmmm...something rotten in Oshkosh, methinks.  Especially since my bank hasn't processed that check yet.  But Keri told me it was gotten and gotten I shall chalk it up to be...and if it ain't, well, Keri can pay the damn money they lost.
    And, just in case you're wondering, I DESPISE my job.  Harsh?  Maybe.  True?  Absolutely.  I just don't care anymore.  Do I want this managerial position that's I'm interviewing for right now?  Yeah, sure I do.  For the time being until I can find a job that will utilize my skills and not make me sick everytime I walk into the office, that is.
    *sigh*...don't take this entry too seriously...ever since I left T. this morning this day has just gotten worse and worse....
 

October 29, 1999 ***"Tiresome, Cumbersome."
    I'm tired of everything.  Even the season, autumn, can't bring good things to bear right now.  I've lost my will for so much.  It is my fault.  I cannot place blame elsewhere.  Is it my viewpoint?  Is it my blood sugar?  Is it my job?
    Who knows?
    I hate the world for not being brighter.  I hate the radio for the utter shit that it plays.  I hate the idiots and their Daylight Savings Time.  I hate the Braves and the Yankees.  Hell, I hate Major League Baseball for so many things.  I hate my room.  I hate everything I write because I can never quite express myself as I want too.
    Sure, sometimes it's close.  Sure, I have positive comments from many people.  But I never quite hit the mark I set out there in the field...my arrows always drift, or hit the edge of the target, or hit nothing at all and fall, wobbling, into the grass somewhere.
    Even my loves are not enough right now.  I need time away.  I'm taking Monday off from work and I need to release, to decompress, this weekend.  My tank of harrowing bullshit is full.  My head is spinning far too much.  I bit far too many undeserving heads off at work this week, and I'm chopping my own head and feelings and emotions off right now because I can't bear to be myself sometimes.
    Weak?
    I feel like the weakest motherfucker to ever breathe god's clean air right now.
    But, then, the air hasn't really been clean since the industrial revolution, right?
    Fuck it.
    More next week, after the spring either breaks or unwinds and accepts more.

October 26, 1999 ***"Grrrrr."
    I'm glad T. asked me about the journal tonight on the phone...I'd totally forgotten that I haven't written in over a week.  Seems there's a lot going on in everybody's lives right now, taking us away from the things we love to do.  It's shades of winter (autumn, actually, but when you go from 80 degree days to 50 degree days, well, you sort of skip autumn) coming through.  Hibernation seems like a good idea.
    Not likely, though.
    I wrote a poem tonight, started it in the shower, called Gargoyle's Lament '99.  I always seem to be hit by inspiration at the most inopportune times.  Well, I guess there's really not an inopportune time, is there?  Don't want to upset my Muse and be left without any inspiration.  Or do we create our own Muses?  Yes, I think we do.
    Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
    I started what turned out to be the last piece of the poem in the shower and finished it whilst drying off, or took mental notes, as it were.  And then there it was...and is.  It needs some tweaking, but it's good enough for it's intention: to be read on the radio show on Saturday.  Should be cool...run right from that into, maybe, Werewolves of London or Lucretia, My Reflection.
    *sigh*
    Which reminds me how much I love this time of year...not necessarily just Halloween.  The leaves changing, air crisper, the smell of winter right around the bend...I adore fall, what there is of it in the Midwest.
    Until next time, watch the skies...gargoyles are about....
 

October 17, 1999 ***"Reading My Soul."
    Today was a fantastic day...did a reading with a bunch of other writers at Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Cincinnati (best book store in the Cincinnati area, by far) that went exceedingly well and it was my one year anniversary with T.  Even though my sinus' weren't cooperating and I had a headache most of the day, that couldn't dampen the mood.  Days like this don't come so often, so I relish them when they show their faces.
    Much of my family came to the reading, too, along with B. & J., which was very cool of them, and one of my college professors came too...that was a bit nerve-wracking because of the respect I have for him and the fact that he influenced me so much in college...but overall having all those folks there was a huge confidence booster.  It made me read better, I think, because they took time out of their lives to come.  And, I guess, that's why I try to do so much when I read or when I'm on the radio.
    If someone takes the time to tune in to Scriptus Live or to come to a reading that I'm at or come to a band gig, I owe them something of myself.  A bit of my soul.  Some entertainment, though I don't consider myself an entertainer.  I'm just me...a writer, a songwriter, a regular guy who does irregular things.  But when I do those irregular things in front of people, I want to make them think about what just happened when they walk away.  To think about a line or a poem or a song when they're driving home.
    To put it bluntly, I want to touch everyone who comes.  Peter Gabriel's song, "I Have The Touch" sort of comes from a point of view a little bit like that.  The brief moment and the electricity of connecting with all of an audience or, sometimes, just one person.
    It is truly a beautiful thing, and a thing I live for.

October 12, 1999 *** "Yeah, and you?"
    Sometimes I wonder just what the hell I'm doing.  You too?  Yeah, I figured.  Had a real heart-to-heart with one of my best friends last night...he's going through some rough times.  I guess the things that seem obvious to those of us not actually struggling really are hard to see through the haze of the fight.  God knows I've lost my way in this crap many times.  Sometimes you have to bring yourself down to surviving.
    Here's my gig:  I work at a material handling company (glorified euphemism for forklifts & racks).  I didn't get my degrees in English and Philosophy to aid me in any way with finding the correct solenoid for some guy's counter-balanced truck.  Though it may seem that having read Kant's Prolegomena might be a wonderful tool in that world, I assure you that it is not.  But it's a job.  I can pay my bills, I can afford to publish my books and make music, I can keep myself supplied with insulin and make my truck payments.
    Hell, I'd work at McDonald's if I had too, if something happened at my job.  It's about surviving.
    There are no more patrons of the arts.  I cannot go live with a rich family and have them commission music from me, or poetry from me.  Just doesn't happen, Bubba.  Those days left when the stock market took over, when folks decided that Big Macs were better than Grandma's roast and that t.v. really was entertaining.
    Art?
    F*ck yes, I'm an artist.  There, I said it.  You don't believe me?  Artists have to starve for their art, you say?  Hey, I'm diabetic, bro...I starve myself for a day, I die.  Sorry, but there is WAY too much I haven't seen of this world to go out like that.  Artists have to suffer for their art?
    My friends, I suffer every day when I wake up at 5:30 in the morning and go play with motor brushes, tires, grease and crud so that I can survive SO THAT I CAN CREATE...and so that I can live.
    Modern art is the art of survival...it's just that some of us tend to write about it, paint about it, make films about it and live it a bit more deliberately.

October 4, 1999 *** "Shmoo."
    Do you remember the character called Shmoo?  It was a white, globulous creature with whiskers that sort of molded itself into many sundry forms.  A friendly sort of thing.  I can't even remember if the cartoon itself was called Shmoo or if he was part of another cast of people, but I think about Shmoo occasionally.
    What a neat character.
    If anyone out there has tapes of anything Shmoo-related, I'd be interested in getting a copy *smile*.
    Two readings in the next two weeks...October 9th at the Cabaret and October 17th at Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Cincinnati.  Gonna be busy...actually, gotta get busy and work up a bunch o' poem-like things to read this Saturday.
    Going Saturday morning to possibly trade my truck in and get a better one.  Don't get me wrong, I love my truck (note the country-western tune playing in the background), but I need an extended cab and a bigger engine.  If I'm going to end up buying the thing after the lease runs out, I want it to be what I want, period.
    New music coming with some friends of mine, as well as with DaVinci's Burden.  It's interesting and stimulating to write music with folks who aren't necessarily musicians by trade, if you know what I mean.  I'm writing more too.  Seems my summer doldrums are going away.  It helps that I'm reading good stuff too...new book I bought, The Last Night Of The Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski.  Amazing stuff.  I may pick one of them out and read it in honor of him this Saturday, just to do it.  Sort of like playing a cover in a band.
    Could be fun...no, no...it's what I love to do, my fiance will be there, I'll be with people I like to be with...it most definitely will be fun.
 

September 30, 1999 ***"Prez Stuff."
    Last time there was a Presidential election, I wrote in Hunter S. Thompson and Warren Zevon as my vote.  I couldn't, in good conscience, vote for either the Dole ticket, the Clinton ticket or the Reform Party ticket.  Just couldn't.  A wasted vote, you say?  Sure, whatever.  The heart of our republic is that no vote is wasted.  Every vote cast with a clear conscience and true heart is a good vote.
    For those of you uninitiated, go back to my first journal page and read my entry on Jesse Ventura.  Good man.  Good ideas.  Sound judgment.  I am not a member of the Reform Party.  As a matter of fact I never changed my party affiliation from when I first registered to vote some years back (after I was legally able to...long story...I came to my senses eventually, 'nuff said.)  But that's irrelevant now, right?
    Who do I think could do the best job for the United States in the upcoming Presidential Election?  In the fracas of P.R. and crap that's about to ensue?  Let's check out some options...
    Marty Brenneman & Joe Nuxhall?  Broadcasters of the Cincinnati Reds radio network.  No political experience to speak of.  Nuxhall has the uncanny knack of whistling through his nose with every word...it used to just be around the 7th inning when he'd had a few brews, but now it's all the time.  Don't get me wrong, I love him, but that would be a negative P.R. thing.  Marty would be terrific.  What a spin doctor he'd make, too!  Anyone who could sit through some of the late-80's Reds seasons would be a great politician.
    John Fogerty & Warren Zevon?  The musician ticket.  Both have been around a while, both have political references in their lyrics, denoting a certain social conscience.  Both could throw pretty neat parties in the Oval Office, I'm sure.  This is a strong one.  Ah-oooo...werewolves of the White House!
    Michael Stipe and Mike Mills?  Singer and bassist/pianist of R.E.M.  Like the just-mentioned, both have been around a while and have been involved in many politically-based causes over the years.  Both are well-known and could carry the youth vote, I'd bet.  Stipe is the idealist, the one who could catch peoples' attention, Mills is the studious one who could implement the ideas.  And Peter Buck could be the Secretary of Defense or some such thing.
    Michael Jordan & Scottie Pippen?  Jordan's retired and, probably, bored.  Pippen's back is ailing again and he should probably hang it up.  Fame, fortune.  Hmmm...here's a better one:  Jordan and John Elway.  Or, maybe, Jordan and Pete Rose.  Yeah, Pete Rose.  Absolutely!
    No...seriously...
    Dr. Hunter S. Thompson & George Carlin.
    'Nuff said.
    Just think of it.
    The sarcasm alone would drive "career politicians" back to their New England summer homes to hide and wait the storm out.  Amazing...
    But maybe Y2K will take care of everything for us....
 

September 27, 1999 ***"Week-End."
    This weekend was the Artsapalooza Festival on Saturday and the Renaissance Festival on Sunday.  Artsapalooza was a lot of fun.  Tons of painters, some writers, lots of great dancers and bands.  John Kachuba and his group, the Arts Council of Greater Loveland, did a great job on the event.  DaVinci's Burden opened the show on the amphitheater stage.  First real gig for this group since we added Randy on drums.  Went very well, all things considered.  Believe it or not, it was my first outdoor gig...weird, eh?
    Did a short poetry reading too, and had the DKP table set up selling books and CD's.  Met some good people...very nice to be out where I can actually meet folks face-to-face.
    Also got invited (thanks Lonna!) to another poetry reading at a place called the Caberet in Cincinnati on October 9th.  Then there's the Joseph-Beth Booksellers Local Author Fair on October 17th, which is also the one year anniversary of my first date with T.  Gonna be a packed couple of weeks, there.
    I love being this busy, though.  I wish I could make a living from DKP, but it's just not to be just yet.  Probably take a few more years, if it happens at all.   But whether the venture is lucrative or not is not why it came to be.  It's all about the art and the emotion.  And, it's all about the enjoyment of doing it.
    Oh, and if you're wondering why I'm writing this at 10:00 in the AM, well, must've eaten something that didn't quite agree with me yesterday...but I'm feeling better...maybe better enough to go to the Cincy Reds last home game this afternoon.
    Take it for what it is...
    Go Reds!
    Go Buccaneers!!!  2-1 right now...bring it on, 'cuz the defense is awesome!

September 20, 1999 ***"Post Overboard."
    A tragedy occurred yesterday at Oktoberfest Zinzinnati, an annual event in Cincinnati.  Toward the end of the event a man whose blood alcohol level was more than double the legal limit drove his car through the blocked off streets of the downtown area injuring 27 event-goers, some of whom were police officers.  Stupid.  Utterly stupid.  They guy should be locked away for a good long time and, to me, never drive again.
    Here's the thing:  I know the fellow's father.  He's a good man.  A friend of mine.
    Here's my problem:  The Cincinnati Post, in their follow-up article this afternoon, printed the address of the culprit.  Is this news?
    No, it is not...not by any means.
    We've become so self-absorbed and entertainment-driven that printing things like this culprit's address has become "news."  I know a bit about journalism, having written for some local papers and local zines... I know a bit about tact and real news.  This is not real news.  Real news would be words from the prosecutor's office, words from the defense attorney, the charges brought against the culprit, reaction from some of those who were injured, thoughts about how well the Cincinnati Police force did in keeping order.  Not this man's address, no matter how despicable his crime(s) are.
    I called The Post and spoke to Mike Phillips, the editor of the two writers whose story printed the man's address.  I told him I thought this information was, considering the circumstances, a dangerous thing to do.  And that it was not in any way "news."  He replied that the address was a matter of public record and that if they started editing things like that out, then there would be nothing to write about...and that is a direct quote.
    I hereby ask that anyone who reads this, once you check the link above and see the article in question, never again lay hands or eyes upon the Cincinnat Post or the Cincinnati Enquirer.  If those are the kind of news people they have there, I'd rather gather the truth myself.  I don't need this sensationalism and crap...I want news, not entertainment.  I want the truth, not an address so someone can go attempt to reap their own vigilante justice on someone's family.  Mike Phillips and the entire Post staff should be ashamed of themselves for adding to the sorrow and anger this city, and this family, is already feeling.

September 19, 1999 ***"Vote For Chaos!"
    The WAIF Annual Membership Meeting is going down this afternoon.  I'm not happy about it.  It's just like many other organization in that some folks (not all, by any means) are there simply for the "power" that they have when on the Board.  WAIF is an all-volunteer community radio station, one of the few of its kind in the nation and one of the longest running.  It's a fantastic place in a lot of ways and I'm proud to be able to put a show on there every week and be a part of it.
    If only there weren't the egos involved.  If only some folks would recognize the importance of good taste on the radio.  The importance of keeping their logs (for FCC regulations) up to date and done correctly.  The importance of the station over their own personal goals and such.
    Don't get me wrong, the in-fighting of last year is gone to a large extent.  But I know not to trust in peoples' words...I trust their deeds.  There are several people who will not get my vote this year, and it may surprise some.
    Enough about that, though.
    I want to run for governor.  But I'd have to be a mayor first, right?  Okay.  Mayor of Covington, KY.  I'm not a politician.  I don't want to be.  There shouldn't be career politicians.  There should be term limits and more people from the private sector, who know what it's like in the "real world," involved in politics.  There should be common sense in politics.
    Or is that an oxymoron?
    Likely so.
    Political aspirations?  Me?  Sure.  For one thing, I know I could do a better job than 95% of the clods in public office now.  The two party system serves only to keep people in power and keep individuals with good ideas out.  Politics is not about money.  It's about keeping standards and keeping things fair.  This is not a dictatorship.

September 15, 1999  ***"Condemning My Soul"
    It may seem a bit odd for someone to spill their guts online, and to a certain extent I agree.  Part of this is therapy for me.  My chance to rant about certain things (see original journal page for more of that).  My musical leanings are changing quite a bit.  My affinity for bombastic pieces is waning.  I no longer have a need to be so aggressive, though I love the dynamic that a heavy guitar can lend.  I want soul in my music.  I want soul in my life.
    My job sucks my soul most days.  As I wrote in a letter to a friend the other morning, I love hard work.  I love accomplishing things, completing tasks.  But there's a difference between working hard for something you love (like Diabolical Kitten Publishing) and working hard for something you really, at the end of the day, don't care about.  The difference?  At the end of one you're fulfilled...at the end of the other, you're just tired.
    I put up a sign by my desk at work.  It reads:  "Don't mistake my actions for some sort of caring...this is simply my job."  Everyone's seen it, from the mechanics to my manager(s) to the company president.  I'm sure some took it the wrong way.  I've got this built-in sense of responsibility, it seems, and always have.  Just because I hate my job doesn't mean I'm going to half-ass it.  There's nothing worse than a slacker (and, yeah, yeah, I'm part of what the media still refers to as "Generation X" but I like to think of it as a Billy Idol reference as opposed to a comment on my lifestyle).
    Here's my thing:  I'm going to change my life.  I have two poetry readings/gatherings coming up and they will be my point of reference.  I realize most poets only gain recognition posthumously.  Fine.  Most musicians never make it.  Fine.  But this is what I do.  And I'll be damned if I'm going to let my wretched job take my soul.  I'm there for one thing...the benefits (I'm diabetic).  Not the money.  If it were the money, I'd have left long ago.
    But I'm looking for something else.  Something to stir my soul on the job as I try to work my cauldron at home.
    Anybody out there need a term paper proofread yet?