April 1, 2002 ***"This Ain't No Joke."

March 31, 2002 ***"More On The Pump, And A Question."
    Don't forget about the Name Scot's insulin pump contest, which will go on until about April 10th or so.  Get your entries in and check the link in the March 27th Journal about it.  I'm still 50/50 on continuing it's use.  While my blood glucose levels have been a bit better, I've had more unresolved highs (nothing higher than 252 mg/dl, but that's still bad) than before.  It's also a complete bitch to sleep with.  I've tried anchoring it to my leg with a velcro strap, attaching it to my underwear.  About the only thing left is to stick it under my pillow and hope I don't choke on the tubing.
    Lesson:  with anything good, there comes bad.  Every silver cloud has a grey lining.  Don't forget this, kids, because it's a lesson that will haunt you throughout your days.
    Here's a question that came up in conversation with T. the other morning.  Okay, so Israel and Palestine are finally getting it on with the intent to basically ravage the entire Mideastern arena of world conflict, if not the world.  It's religious and it's full of territorial pissings of the highest order.  Everyone's freaking about it, with good reason, but hasn't this sort of thing happened throughout history?  Wars over religious beliefs and/or holy places?  Jews and Christians.  Chinese (gov't) and Buddhists.  Your list would go on like a rundown of, well, of people who died in the World Trade Tower Plane-ing.
    Lesson:  with anything good, there comes bad.  Or as the typo I just cleared out read, with anything god, there comes bad.
    News:  the Bible is not holy.  It is a written history, a book of lessons and advice.  God is holy.  Remember that.  Do not put anyone or anything in front of god, whether your god is Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, whatever.  Realize your positioning in the world too, while you're at it.
    Question:  the Holocaust, the attempted genocide of people of the Jewish faith, plus the extermination of intellectuals, homosexuals and pretty much anyone considered non-Aryan by Hitler and his lackeys (who were amazingly non-Aryan, but that's a separate bit of nonsense), happened.  It is documented and was, truly, one of the most horrific periods in world history.  Along with the Crusades and the Industrial Revolution (again, separate bits of nonsense).  I know of historical and memorial landmarks in Germany, which is apt.  In Germany it is illegal to refer to the Holocaust and imply that it didn't happen.
    We also have the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., which opened a few years back.  A good idea, I think, and also apt because of the idiocy of race relations and, well, just interpersonal relations, period, in this country.  It is necessary.  I haven't researched it, but is there a museum, like the Holocaust Museum, or memorial dedicated to the American Indian?  Never forget, friends, that our forefathers did the same thing, in most respects, to the natives of this land that we call free today.

March 27, 2002 ***"A NEW CONTEST!!!"
Name Scot's Insulin Pump!
Click here for details on
the contest that's sweeping the nation!!!

March 21, 2002 ***"Thoroughly, Utterly Disgusted."
    It's a chilly, windy day in Georgetown, KY.  After work, I went to the pharmacy to pick up my insulin and, when I came out, there was a small newspaper-like thing in the back of my truck in an orange plastic sheathe to protect it from the weather.  With my hands full and mild rain coming down, I grabbed it and headed home.  Normally, when I find things like this, or ads placed under the windshield wiper of my vehicle, I pitch them immediately.  I consider it an invasion.
    If I had only known what I was taking home with me.
    "Facts The Government And Media Don't Want You To Know!" is what the cover of this booklet, like a religious tract of some kind, screamed at me.  There is a picture of the World Trade Towers with a Star of David emblazoned across them on it too.  Talk about some strange, unrelated imagery.  I will not go too far into the details of what the inside of this thing has to say.  It is basically a white power tract that denounces all things Negro, Hispanic, Jewish, etc.  A load, as they say on the street.  It provides websites to "back up" the assertions.  In truth, it is meant to play on the fears of most (white) people in the continuing wake of Sept. 11th.
    For my stake, the "world church of the creator" and their Kentucky chapter, and their slogan of "white liberation" can kiss my white butt and go back home.  Don't waste the paper.  Don't waste my time.
    Is this the area I moved to?  Is this where I'm living?  Am I living on the set of the freakin' Geraldo Rivera Show or some sick, twisted vision from a Ricki Lake nightmare?
    Ah, but it got worse, my friends.  Further on in this, after my initial disgust and horror had subsided, as a Know-Your-Enemy thing, I read the booklet cover-to-cover.  You would think this was a religious thing, wouldn't you?  A hyper-Christian movement for all things white bread and USA?  No, my friends.  The books that this tract wants you to get for a small "donation" have on their covers, amongst other things, Stars of David that are crossed through right next to Crosses that are also crossed through.    The group's symbol is of a capital "w" with a crown and a halo above it, thus announcing themselves as believers that the white race (represented by the "w") is the king (read as "god") and holy (with the halo.)  The self is the king and there are no others.  The root of Satanism, my friends.  And I doubt that the poor schmuck who tossed this thing into the back of my truck really knew what he was doing.  A shame, truly.
    Of course, that could be me reading far too much into it too.  The folks could just be your plain old, average white supremecist idiots.  Right next to the black power fools.  And the anti-Semitic groups and the pro-Jewish lobbyists.  I hate 'em all.  My hatred is righteous, though, my friends.  If you don't understand humanity and don't understand that we're all in this together, then I hate you.  I hate a lot.  For the "right" reasons.  I hate whoever put this thing in the back of my truck and caused my evening to be such a dark one.  I hate the fact that they quote Thomas Jefferson in this thing.
    Ah, but I'm sinking down a few too many levels.  In my heart of hearts I know that, as we're all humans, we'll all err as humans do.  A good example of the humor of race issues was given to me by my close friend and bandmate, Travis.  Where he works, a black fellow was walking around giving the "black power" sign of the fist raised in a sign of righteous indignation.  He came near Travis and did this, said, "black power!" and Travis closed his white hand over his fist and said, "white control."
    The right thing happened.
    They both laughed about it, realizing how limited both viewpoints are and that, truly, we are all in this together.  There are many sides to these coins.  Choose wisely if you choose to flip it in the air.
    And if you get one of these in your truck bed or on your window, pitch it.  It's not worth the enervation.
 

March 14, 2002 ***"In A Pickle Again...."
    "I can't believe she's not f*cking here!"
    "Now she's got me in a pickle again!"
    "This is getting...this is getting...this is getting out of hand!"
    Other than that there were unintelligible mumbles coming from the hunchbacked ogre's maw as he stormed away from Joseph-Beth Bookseller's in Lexington, KY tonight.  T. and I were in line, buying a few books, when this fellow, about 5'5" and maybe 250 pounds, in dirty slacks and an even dirtier gray winter coat walked up to the first of the two cashiers and requested a conference with "the manager, she's short and has dark, curly hair...I need to speak with her again."
    The cashier, in the midst of a transaction, stalled and called a manager who came within a few moments.  The people in front of T. and I were making some big purchases so we got to see the whole thing unfold.  He waits...the manager, a young, striking J. Crew model guy approached and asked if he could help.
    The moment of truth...you could see the rusty gears working...this was not the short and dark haired one he wished to speak to!  He went into his spiel again.  I still couldn't figure out what he wanted, really.  The manager, smartly, pulled him aside and they were conversing as T. and I checked out.
    We make our way to the exit when, out of nowhere, 21st Century Schizoid Man (apologies to King Crimson) blows past us verbalizing the phrases that start this entry in something above a normal voice, but below a shout.  Oh, the looks on the faces of the elderly folks waiting to go into the Piccadilly Cafeteria...astonished and horrified.  This must have been what Rush Limbaugh always talked about!!!  The youth of America!
    We ended up behind him and, here's another odd thing, he walked right out of the Jo-Beth plaza entrance and walked along the wall down toward CompUSA and Willis Music.  We got to the truck and I wanted to follow him...he'd disappeared though.  We went slowly past each store and he hadn't gone into any of them.  Like a cool breeze in the hot, humid Cincinnati summer, he was there and then vanished.
    Had I been with my buddy, Bunny, I've no doubt that we would have stopped the guy and interviewed him.  I want to know what he wanted in Jo-Beth and why he was so enervated that he's been spurned by this short, dark-haired manager.  Was it a secret love affair?  A bizarre voodoo curse?  Had she stolen his medicine?  A bizarre religious cult thing?
    Inquiring minds....
    Instead, T. and I did his voice all the way home, saying the phrases and trying to decode them, laughing all the way.  I felt like I was in high school again, when our creed was "fun at everyone else's expense."  Everyone, even ourselves, was fair game.  If it got a chuckle, it was good.  The world needs more freaks and wack jobs like this guy tonight.  He made my day, truly.
    And before anyone goes nuts on me about being more compassionate and not picking on folks like him, let me assure you that there is no guarantee that his fellow had any "problems."  He could've just been an irate customer.
    But I doubt it.
    "I just want to add that virtually every writer I know would rather be a musician."
    --- Kurt Vonnegut
 

March 13, 2002 ***"So Very, Very...."
    The auditions for the vocalist position in DaVinci's Burden are nearing their end.  Well, the first round anyway.  One more of that crew to have over, then we'll listen to the disks (yes, we're recording every one for review later) and choose those that we want back for a second round and more getting-to-know-you type stuff.  Greg was fascinated by how well all of the entrants have done for the most part.  My take is that instrumentalists, if auditioning, can wing it a bit.  There's more room for error, for minimal talent to pass as workable in a band situation.  That's not to say that you can suck and still get a job - that's untrue - but it seems that instrumentalists are forgiven more.
    Vocalists, on the other hands, generally have had at least a bit, if not a lot, of training.  When someone applies for a vocalist job, they're on the money, talented and know what to do and how to do it.  That's what we've found at this point.  It's going to be a tough decision in the end.  I can't give any more away than that just in case some of those we've auditioned are reading this...all I'll say is that I hope the second auditions are as much fun as the first.
    On a totally different note, some random thoughts:
  The Only Punk Bands  That Matter(ed):  The Ramones, Supersuckers and The Clash.
  The Only Truth About Fast Food:  It makes you fat.
  The Only Truth About Work:  If you're not working on something you love, quit and find something better.
  The Only Truth About Management:  Agendas are not a substitute for listening to your employees.
  The Only Truth About Artists:  We'll all die unfulfilled (and that's part of the fun of it.)

March 7, 2002 ***"Addendum And Clearing The Air."
    Okay, when I wrote it, I should have known not only to turn there, but that what I was typing was a bit too esoteric given my mindset last night.  I should have clarified what I meant when I typed "In the end, the right thing is simply defined as what we did" in yesterday's entry.  That is actually in direct reference to the concept of constant, sorrowful regret over past choices such as what you had for dinner, why you broke up with so-and-so or why you decided to buy a house without checking on the sewer line and finding that the owners had planted a tree horrifically close to it.
    As my dear friend Timmy scolded me in an e-mail today:  "People have an awesome power at their command - it's called choice.  With great power comes greater responsibility (uncle Ben Parker - Spiderman's  uncle)."  If taken to the extreme, as I know that many are apt to do, my statement from yesterday nullifies any responsibility or concern for the greater good and turns life into an existential soup of anarchy and disgrace.  I have no doubt that, were I more famous and someone with a wire loose read that, they could quote it in their trial for raping a barnful of cows and throwing a wingding of a shindig in celebration of it, or something even more heinous (is that possible?)
    If you're a longtime reader of these pages, or if you know me or tuned into Scriptus Live when we were on the air in Cincinnati, you know that, of all things, I prize personal freedom and personal responsibility side-by-side.  Having done intense studies of ethics and morality while working on my Philosophy degree, I know that there are many sides to the coin of responsibility and the motivation of one's actions.
    Simply put, here's what I meant:  If you allow every decision to become a brick in the sack you tote along with you through life, you're going to end up at a standstill.  Drop the bricks, learn the lessons that they all have carved on them and then throw them away.  But always remember those lessons and utilize them in the coming decisions you have to make.  Every decision leads to an infinite number of pathways.  Choose wisely and never regret the choices you make using sound reasoning, calm judgment and an eye to the future and the ramifications of the decision not only on yourself, but on those around you.

March 6, 2002 ***"I Knew I Should've Turned There...."
    So the trench in our front yard is now a line of dirt, piled slightly above ankle level.  Not that it looks bad, mind you, but it's a bit distressing.  I am not yard proud, nor am I house proud.  I enjoy a clean house.  I don't let the dishes pile up (except on Tuesdays and Fridays, due to band practice).  We keep our grass cut.  I'm just not the type to go overboard on weeding a garden, painting fences or worrying about shrubbery (Nee!).  The line of dirt marking where our own personal shit creek runs is getting to me.
    We drove by the house tonight on our way elsewhere and I pointed out that we should get a model of a mole (where to find one, though?) and put it up at the end, by the sidewalk, just to frighten the kids away.  Then T. had the idea of a Bugs Bunney stuffed animal or model of some type, poking up from the end of the trench, carrot in hand.  I added that we'd need to paint the mailbox as a street sign pointing out the left turn that poor Bugs missed at Albequerque.  Ah, the humor of it all.
    I know the mound will settle with the first good rain we get, so I'm not much worried.  Hey, it's about thirty square feet that I won't have to cut grass on for a while.  That's got to be a good thing.  I swear, if I move again the yard I move to will be about half of this.  I love it, don't get me wrong, but good lord...I can feel the back pain already from muscling the mower around the trees and flowers that the previous owners saw fit to plant.  Freakin' green thumbed monkeys.
    (In all fairness, the previous owners were a lovely older couple who did a magnificent job with the yard and the gardening.  I appreciated it from a distance when we saw and fell in love with the house.  Now, as owner of it, I despise it.)
    Thought of the day:  how do we truly know the right thing?  Every decision we make, if you look at it, could have rendered thousands upon thousands of other realities into play instead of the one you're in at the moment.  Regretting a decision is absurd because there are millions of opportunities with every breath we take (every move we make, etc. <apologies to Sting>).  In the end, the right thing is simply defined as what we did.  The action.  The movement and the journey.  That, my friends, is where the magic lies.  If you're standing still, you're dead.

March 3, 2002 *** "Just Like Yesterday."
    It seems like everything is simply a reconnection anymore.  Nothing new, everything just like something that happened yesterday.  I'm tiring of trying to sort out yesterday with no new information to file it with.  No new cards or data lines with which to see the pains and struggles in a different light.
    I type this as I sit, comfortable and warm, sipping spiced apple cider from my Eeyore mug in my office.
    Things on the homefront are now stable after last week's freak sewer line trauma.  It's been replaced, the old cast iron junction under the house is now gleaming white PVC (polyvinyl chloride for those uninitiated).  The old ceramic line to the city sewer is now also PVC.  The trench in our front yard, looking disturbingly like the trench on the first Death Star, is to be filled in once the inspection is done...hopefully soon.  The tree in our front yard, which the previous occupants of our house planted a mere two feet from the sewer line, will be cut down in the spring.  The roots, my friends, the roots...dear god, the roots are a labyrinth of tree veins within our dirt.  I've never seen so many roots.  Soon to be mere detritus, swallowed by the earth again in the coming years.  From seeds you came, to dust you go.  I want a couple of blue spruce trees out front to replace it, right along the sidewalk.
    Which reminds me of that episode of the Simpsons in which Monty Burns turned wack-job and built the Spruce Moose.  Wonderful.  Poor Smithers.
    More later...my thoughts are coming like machine gun fire and I can make sense of them no longer....

February 25, 2002 ***"For Those Who Wondered."
    This is as close to reconciling an insulin reaction in words as I have ever come.  Brand new, fresh off the presses at 3:15 AM.  Hope you enjoy it 8^)...I'm off to take another reading....

Reaction At Night

I awake to thoughts of mercy and flight,
Of having my lover’s breathing remind me of angel’s wings
As they take to the sky after having redeemed dying men
And granted absolution to sinners about to embark on the
Great hereafter.

I awake to songs playing over and over,
Fortunate Son by CCR,
And knowing distinctly that if the song ever plays out
And ends on this jukebox in my mind
So will life end; so will this illusion turn to dust and
Fragments of dreams, shards of hopes and particles of sunlight.

I awake to lines from Kant and Hume repeating in my head.
At this point, I know that I am having a reaction
Because although I’ve read both Kant and Hume,
I can quote from neither in my fully conscious mind.

52 mg/dl is what the machine reads.
I eat a Zinger, a quick fix
(and a tasty one too)
And sit for twenty minutes to take another reading.

My reaction at night,
To my disease and to life itself.

Scot N. Kaeff
2/25/02  3:08 AM

February 21, 2002 ***"Wearing Away, Wearing Down."
    No news is good news, or so the saying goes.  Had a doctor appointment today that went surprisingly well considering I forgot everything I needed to take with me.  I have two binders, one for insurance papers and one in which I keep my glucose test logs (for the uninitiated, I'm diabetic).  My doctor also wanted my glucose meter so she could download my readings and chart them.
    I got there and realized I'd forgotten my meter.  That would have been bad enough.  I also realized that the binder I'd brought was not my glucose log, but rather my insurance binder.  Nice.  In nearly 18 years of dealing with this condition, I have never forgotten my log when going to the doctor.  First time for everything, I guess.  As it turns out, my (new) doctor was terrific about it and we talked about a great many things, went over my lab results from earlier in the week and I got some good information.  I'm seriously intrigued at this point by the idea of an insulin pump.  Easiest way to describe is is that it looks like a pager and acts as a tiny, offboard pancreas, delivering insulin steadily throughout the day.  Positives are that point, that it acts as a more regular source of insulin without the spikes and lows of typically injected insulin, and that there's one injection, of the small catheter attached to it, every three days instead of the normal 9 that I currently take (3 per day.)  I'm ready.
    The vocal auditions are in progress for DaVinci's Burden.  The level was set high by our first entrant on Tuesday.  He did a terrific job and had a really strong presence and great attitude.  We're booked with folks for the next couple of weeks, which is a good thing.  We should have a good group of people to choose from and it looks like we'll have to invite some back for second or third auditions and maybe a writing session or two before we can choose.  This type of thing has an effect on those auditioning as well as on us.  For us, we want the best fit, the best person and personality for the band.  For them, we want to make sure they come away with a positive feeling from being with us for a bit and that we treat everyone fairly in their audition.  None of us are very jaded yet.  The music's too positive for that to happen, I think.
    If anyone's interested in buying a truck, I'm looking to sell mine.  All you have to do is take over the payments.  I'm also selling some of my instruments (a bass, an amp and an effects unit)...e-mail me if you're interested.

February 17, 2002 ***"Writing, Wondering, Wishing."
    It's almost spring, or at least it feels that way.  About 50 degrees yesterday.  God, how I wish it would snow one or two more times.  We all complain about the weather and how it's so schizophrenic in the Midwest, but I enjoy it.  My sinuses don't, but I do.  That and I really don't want to start cutting grass again yet.  But, of course, there are other things to do in the yard that I'm going to enjoy.
    Many moons ago, when I was cutting grass along with working at Record Alley to save up money to buy my first car, I cut the yard of a divorced woman down the road from my folks' house.  Her husband, somehow, had procured a gravestone, the marker of Marie U. Hersting.  It's in German.  I have no more background than that, and that it sat in their yard long after the Mr. had left.  One day, the lady of the house and I were talking, I mentioned it, she asked if I'd like it and...well, I guess I lit up like a Christmas tree.  Oddly enough, I didn't expect the help or a positive reaction, my Dad was pretty excited too and helped me load it into his  trunk and take it down to our place where it has sat in the backyard for some number of years.  It's a great conversation piece.
    A remark on my comment up there about my Dad is that this is not a derogatory comment at all.  Prior to judging me or my Dad, picture yourself asking your Dad to come help you transport a gravestone to your backyard.  Right.  Now you understand what I meant.
    So, now with a house of my own with my wonderful fiance, I have a place for it.  The previous owners had an island of flowers in the middle of the backyard.  This spring, the island becomes a cemetery.  The coolest thing is that, from my backyard, you have direct sight to the road behind us and there is plenty of traffic on it, so everyone (I hope) will be catching sight of it.  I don't want to put it up as a shocker or a thrill, though.  I've just had it for so long and not known what to do with it that, when the idea came, and with it the chance to cause some casual travellers to open their eyes a bit wider, it seemed perfect.  We'll see.
    In other news, auditions commence on Tuesday for a vocalist for DaVinci's Burden.  We have some strong candidates, from what Greg has told me in his notes from the telephone conversations.  Good thing.  That's the final piece to lock in, then we're set to become more aggressive in recording, seeking gigs and, of course, writing.  Speaking of writing, I have a bit to do myself.  Hasta.
 

February 11, 2002 *** "Answering The Question Of Allegiance."
    This entry is my catch-all answer to those of you (four to be exact) who have e-mailed me regarding my allegiance of fandom to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.  In short, the allegiance is nearing an end.  For those uninitiated, I have been a fan of the Bucs since I was six years old, around the time of their first trip to the NFC Championship game.  I bled creamsicle orange through the '80's when the Bucs were the epitome of football stinkiness.  When those orange jerseys just screamed, "Watch out!  We suck!"  Why was I a fan?  As a small child, I liked those uniforms, and I stuck with them.  I was loyal.
    However, in the Bucs' recent treatment of Tony Dungy, their former head coach, I began to fall away from the pack.  Without going into great detail, they turned their backs on the man who turned the franchise around, along with GM Rich McKay.  Say what you want, I know the Glazer family (Malcolm, Bryan and Joel) owns the team and the fact that their investment hasn't paid off in a championship probably irks them.  Fine.  But at some point, you have to be loyal and do the right thing.  And even now, in turning away Marvin Lewis as the potential successor to Dungy, they're screwing things up even more.  So, I sit here typing this tonight having done something I had never done before mere hours ago.
    I bought merchandise for three NFL teams other than the Buccaneers.  Not just one, but three.  Hedging my bets, perhaps.  The three teams that I am, if only tentatively, supporting now are as follows:
  Kansas City Chiefs.  I think that Dick Vermeil, for as much as I hated him when he was with the Rams, is a good coach.  And, hey, he became a traitor to the Rams.  I love that, man.  Priest Holmes (RB) and Trent Green (QB) will make a formidible offensive tandem in the coming years.  Also, I'm currently playing Madden NFL 2002 as the coach of the Chiefs and, though there were some good trades and key free agent acquisitions on my part, I have them at 13 and 0 and looking for their first championship, albeit on a computer game, since Super Bowl III.
  Arizone Cardinals.  Okay, the hat is totally cool looking.  That and, considering their history of being the poster children for mediocrity for their entire existence (what is it, one playoff appearance in the last 30 years?) they're a good follow-up to my support of the Buccaneers.  Jake Plummer (QB) is starting to turn into a decent veteran and Dave McGinness, their coach, has them on the right track.
    Finally, the Indianapolis Colts.  Why?  One, single solitary reason:  they hired Tony Dungy as their head coach.  Tons of offensive firepower and Tony will get the defense to where it needs to be.  Expect playoff runs to commence with this upcoming season.
    That's it.  Five months or so until training camp begins...I'm already antsy....

February 10, 2002 ***"Blown Away."
    I love my family and I love my soon-to-be-in-laws.  It's very cool, everyone has pretty neat relationships with each other.  And, like most families, occasionally the things uttered about the dinner table are downright hilarious.  Case in point:  last night we had a birthday dinner for my fiance's brother and mother and we went to (gasp) the Golden Corral.  Long line, but truthfully the food was pretty darned good and it was worth the wait, and the people-watching was grand too.  Anyway, we're getting up to leave and I'm tired anyway, so all was becoming funnier by the moment, and T.'s mom starts to arrange the tip money on the table and stick it under the biscuit basket.
    Why?
    "Well, it might blow away."
    There was a  moment of silence, then I started laughing and had to head for the exit so as to not make more of it than it was.  Let me assure you, dear readers, there was not the slightest wind in the place.  Just the frantic breezes stirred up by patrons digging back to the buffet to fill up on meatballs and rice and the slightly less brisk wind stirred up by the waiters and waitresses themselves.
    Hilarious.
    In other news, I think Greg might be right about the LCD thing in music.  I refuse to go further in-depth on that in this space because I may mortally offend some people, but I think he may have had a point.  Which begs the question:  why do I play music?  It's a subject I've touched on often in these pages.  Ultimately, I suppose, it has to be self-relations, self-communication and self-actualization.  And then you hope that someone else gets something out of it.  But that artistic bent, alas, falls far short on the concert stage most times.  Then you straddle the line of marketing and sales and, suddenly, if you're not careful, the art is corrupted.  But is it for the greater good?  That's why The Clash, a punk band with highly political motifs, signed with a major label...to be able to reach the masses.  Hypocritical or smart as heck?  You be the judge.  For me, the jury is still out.

February 6, 2002 ***"It's Like Throwing Up In The Spring."
    Actually, the line in the song is "It's just like throwing open a window to the spring" but that hasn't stopped several people from remarking that, in the chorus to a song by my band, DaVinci's Burden, called Window To Your Weeping, it sounds like I sing about throwing up in the spring.  I swear that I don't.  Really.
    I did, however, throw up a great deal on Sunday morning, prior to the super duper Super Bowl.  Sinus infection...it was ugly.  My headaches anymore are dealt with only by Excedrin Migraine, several of them, and sleep.  But, oh, such sweet relief was on the way as the St. Louis Rams lost to the Patriots in the Super Bowl.  My dislike for the Rams is matched only by my dislike of the N.Y. Yankees.  It's pretty bad.
    In other news, aside from Greg, our guitarist, hurting himself, the band is doing very well.  We decided against going with the Dashboard Dogs moniker and reverting to DaVinci's Burden, which Greg and I played in from '98 to '00.  The name was his alone and most of the songs were his and mine.  Our goals and musical palette are similar enough now, with Travis Gibbons on drums, that we decided to go for it.  Always liked the name, myself, anyway.  Dashboard Dogs didn't carry quite the seriousness that the music requires.  We're not dour, stone-faced "serious" musicians, but we do take the playing and writing very seriously.  We like to laugh too.  Odd juxtapositions of emotions within our realm.
    More later...don't feel like typing now.

January 24, 2002 ***"Still Dazed, But Seeing Clearly."
    First off, thanks to my pal who gave me a buzz last night to make sure that yesterday's journal entry was exaggeration and not plans for the future.  In truth, it was much venting, but every bit of hyperbolic venting does have the standard ounce of truth.  In this case, it was a gallon or so, but still not enough to make real the thoughts.
    How did I handle work today?  I took my ragged copy of the Tao Te Ching with me and at every point where someone made me want to lose my cool, I opened the book and read a chapter.  Amazing how the book seemed to know what I needed each time too.  I maintained my cool.  Aren't you proud?
    Go to http://www.diabolicalkitten.com/dashboarddogs.htm for information on the new band.  W. Travis Gibbons and I are still the rhythm section, but we've switched guitarists to one of my longest standing friends, Greg Blankenship.  New tunes, new grooves, very cool stuff.  Sort of like R.E.M meets King Crimson.  Yeah.
    Another good thing is that it just came to my attention that another band had started using the name Secret 9!  Darn it.  I'd searched everywhere, too, and not found 'em till a little bit ago.  It's cool, they can have the name.  Anyone tries to snag Dashboard Dogs, though, and they're in for it.
    Work tomorrow...I'm putting in my eight and heading north for practice and am not thinking about my job until Monday at 6:30 AM when I show up again.
    Have a good weekend, folks, and remember:  "We may be likened to two scorpions in a bottle, each capable of killing the other, but only at the risk of his own life."  Dr. Robert Oppenheimer said that.  Present day rings the same, except there are about twenty scorpions in the bottle, stingers poised and thrusting forward.

January 23, 2002 ***"Daze."
    Today was one of those days when suicide seemed like an apt alternative.  The thing is, that feeling never quite went away until I got home to my fiance.  Even now, though, the traces of it, like fingerprints on the handle of a gun, still course through me.  I don't think I could take another person's life unless I were threatened.  Then it would be no problem.  So, from that, there's no chance of me heading for a clock tower with a high powered rifle, nor is there a chance of me packing heat in to the workplace.  A bomb strapped to my chest, just large enough to make me explode and splatter my guts into everyone's coffee?  Now that sounds like a plan.
    But of course, I jest, at least a little bit.  The simple fact that my job is pushing its way into my thoughts like this.  The fact that I allow some of these cretins (and, let's be fair now...most of the people I work with are quite cool and I dig them...the others make up for the cool ones tenfold) to mark me with their sh*t-stained comments and ideas makes me even angrier.  I have a temper, but I've learned to control it, at least most of the time.  I'm much better now than I was five years ago.  But when someone, someone in particular, asks me a question, then asks three other people the same question and gets the same answer, thus wasting all of our time, it makes me more than a bit irate.
    Why are all of these people breathing my air?
    Why won't they just give in to the Darwinian ethic and die, thus ridding the gene pool of their idiocy?
    The weak die off so that the species survives and remains strong?  Yeah...that's why I've stopped believing Darwin.  Do we evolve?  Yes, science and time have proven it.  Do we get stronger?  No, dear readers, no.  We get comfortable and stupid.  We get weak and irresponsible.  We get worse with every generation.  With every moron willing to die (and kill) for a god, we get weaker.  With every politician elected, we get weaker.  With every bullet fired in anger, we get weaker.  With every loathsome twit believing that they can get to heaven by belief alone, we get weaker.
    It's what you do AND what you believe.  It's HOW you treat other people AND the world we live in.
    I hate so much right now.  The work, my surroundings, all of it.  Yet I sit here stewing in the one place I honestly love, a room away from the person I honestly love, near the things (materialism does have a few claws in me) I love.  My life is such a dichotomy.  My life is frustration, yet I would barely change a thing.
    Except for beating the living snot out of some of my coworkers.
 

January 18, 2002 ***Amazing Strains Of Stupidity."
    You have to believe me, I didn't mean to do it.  Three of you folks wrote in to me expressing concern over me not updating the journal as much lately.  To you, and all who didn't write in, I apologize.  Things have been strange and I have been weary.
    But all that's over now...or at least I think it is.
    However, prior to going into those things, here's an amazing strain of stupidity:  war.
    It's end result, though, is destruction.  Let us not be foolish in our hopes of defending freedom and gaining revenge on others.  Either side, "good" or "bad," has one aim, which is the destruction of the enemy.  Can it in all the morality and cultural wisdom you want, but that's all it is.
    So, from Picasso, we again get the quote that every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction.  Fine.  Let's destroy so we can create something better.  But, then, what is better?  Freedom?  A certain, specific religion?  Hmmmm.
    And don't get me wrong...this is not a neo-pacifistic attack on the current world events.  I'm simply trying to make sense of it all.  People fight over land, over money, over women, over gold, over music, over so many silly things.  People fight over god, too.  Crusaders, all of 'em, but for different gods.  Do you pray to a god or to the stock market that you've been holding on high for so long?  Icons, all of them.  The icons of greed, the icons of the church, the icons of nations.  Symbols.  But what is beneath the symbols?  That is what matters, friends.  I am not a pacifist, I am a non-violentist, as my philosophy advisor, Dr. Jerry Richards termed it.  Discuss, lay down arms, resolve with your mind and heart...but god help you if you smack me first because then you're getting everything I have and then some.
    There should be no modern weapons in war.  I firmly believe that technology has destroyed (there's that word again) the true concept of war.  That being a mano a mano approach.  No guns, planes or boats.  Broadswords and shields.  That's it.  Whoever's left standing wins.  Let's get it on.  Be men, not video game whores.  That's what turned me around on the whole nationalistic war(game) attitude of the turn of the century...when that one pilot in the Gulf War literally said that flying in and shooting at his targets, due to the heads up display in his cockpit and the distance, was like playing a video game.  Perhaps (insert X-Files music here) we've all been in training for the next world war since the day of the release of the Atari 2600!!!
    Forget it.  Give me a cabin in the woods.  Call me when the bombs drop so I can witness the flame of humnaity snuffed by it's own ego.
 

January 15, 2002 ***"Um, Happy Freakin' New Year/TB Debacle"
    So the Tampa Bay Buccaneers fired Tony Dungy late last night.  Dishonorable, I feel, though I understand the reasoning on the surface.  Dungy is a class act, beginning to end.  He brought honor and respect to the football team that has been my favorite since the early '80's, when I learned what football was.  One losing season in six years there, and that was his first.  Four playoff appearances in six years.  Unheard of for the Bucs.  Dungy did it (mostly) his way and didn't follow the flavor-of-the-month tactics the NFL usually sees a glut of.  Much like a folk singer compared to Britney Spears...one guarantees success while the other guarantees a clean conscience.  Either can get the ring, though one usually does, albeit at the sacrifice of much of their soul.
    Tony, from a lifelong Buc fan, thank you.  I wish you the best wherever you end up, likely Indianapolis, much as I hate the Colts.
    In other news, well, there isn't any other news.  More later.  Who knows when???
 

December 29, 2001 ***"It's A Snowy Day."
    The holidays are almost over and a new year is upon us.  I remember almost two years ago, at the "turn of the millenium," how strange things seemed to be.  I'm not sure they've changed much since.  I feel more settled as a person, yet antsy as an artist and worker.
    The artistic side is my writer and musician.  I've been sending poetry out to journals and getting the typical rejections.  It's part of the game.  Alas, that's all it seems like sometimes is a game.  The music is coming along well.  With Tim leaving Secret 9, ostensibly on a hiatus, we recruited one of my other best friends and a former bandmate in DaVinci's Burden, Greg, to play with Travis and I.  It has changed our sound greatly.  More open and flowing as opposed to rigid and compact.  Sort of R.E.M meets King Crimson, if that makes any sense to you.  Trust me, it makes sense in real life.  The future of the band is nebulous, Tim is nebulous.  Yet, even with all of that, I'm happy.  We're venturing into new territory, so even I, who likes concrete ground to stand on, if only to reach into the sky again, am cool with it.  We're creating art, and that's what matters:  the creation.
    Writing-wise, I have the material for my next book.  The writer in me has hit roadblocks along the way.  Not the typical writing blocks, but roadblocks in who I am as a writer, my voice and such.  I suppose I've forgotten how to trust myself somewhere along the way.  Perhaps it was the few weeks I put into hardcore editing, preparing manuscripts for submission, that did it.  Need to get out of that frame of mind and just create again.
    I know it will be good, though.  A thing I do musically, sometimes, is to intentionally not play bass for a day.  Then, usually, when I pick one up the next day, new things will flow out.  Strange things that, in my typical practicing/playing, wouldn't have been there.  Or they would have been there, but cluttered in other snippets that bunch together around them.
    I don't hold that artists merely have their antennae higher than others, receiving signals, but sometimes I can understand that point of view.  Where you play something and just think to yourself, "where did that come from?"  It's part of the whole process that I love.  The discovering of new parts of yourself and, thereby, the world too.
    My best to all in the new year...hope to see or talk to all of you soon.

December 3, 2001 ***"Your Journal For The Next Few Days...."
    Howdy friends.  Your journal entry for the next few days is this:
    The Diabolical Kitten Publishing Gallery
    Click on it and go revel in the photographic wonderment of the DKP visual world.  Or something like that.  It should be fun, really.  Scathing commentary and some truly wonderful pictures taken by myself, Brian Easterling and Tracy Phillips.  Let me know what you think, too, by e-mailing at the above address.

December 2, 2001 ***"Crybabies and Cemetery Views."
    First of all, a notice to all that there will soon be two new pages posts on DiabolicalKitten.com.  The first will be a photo gallery from Georgetown's cemetery that T. and I did last weekend.  The second will be a photo gallery of today's Tampa Bay Buccaners - Cincinnati Bengals football game.  What a hoot.
    For those of you new to the page, I am a Tampa fan and have been since I was a wee lad and saw their uniforms, even prior to really knowing what football was.  They're my team.  Now, in 1998, on December 27th, the Bucs played the Bengals and my father and I got to witness the devastation of a 35 to 0 Buccaneer triumph.  No harsh words were said to us at all.  It was in all aspects a fun time.  The people around us, both Buc and Bengal fans, were cool and cordial for the most part.  There are always a few drunk morons.
    Today, T. and I went to the game.  Paul Brown Stadium is a wonderful facility.  Cincinnati, for all the trouble over the cost and timing of the completion of it, you got yourselves a jewel of a stadium and you should be proud of it.  You, the fans, however, should be pickled, strung up and horsewhipped.  Perhaps it's that the Bengals, after a decade of loss after loss like the Bucs had in the '80's, are seeing some light at the end of the tunnel.  That's my only answer.  Through most of the game, it was cool.  The Bengals came back to tie the game with 15 seconds left at 13 all.  That's when it began.  The guy in front of and to the left of me turning around to make the "bring it on" hand motions toward me.  I smiled at him.  People flipping T. and I off (we were in our Buc regalia).  People telling us to alternately "f*ck off" and "go the h*ll back to f*ckin' Tampa."  Fine.  Whatever.  The thing is, like when the Bengals play the Steelers and Browns, there was a larger than normal contingent of Tampa fans in attendence.  Those three teams have large followings in the 'Nati, for one reason or another.
    And, of course, I was delighted, shouting my pleasure, when the Bengals, after a great Mark Royals punt, fumbled on their 2 yard line.  John Lynch fell on it and then Martin Grammatica sealed the win in overtime with a chip shot 21 yard field goal.  Final:  Bucs 16, Bengals 13.
    So, I say to you Cincinnati fans who verbally harrassed T. and I, along with the thousands of other Buc fans as we walked to our vehicles:  you suck.  We won.  Live with it.  Deal with it.  But for god's sake, don't cry about it.  It was a great game.  The Bengals' defense played exceptionally well and the team is getting better.  After a decade of misery, that's small solace, but you're on the right track.  Your worn out jabs and tired wheezes go nowhere with me.
    In all honestly, most of the cracks came from drunks.  It's part of the reason I hate alcohol.  It turns people into morons.  And, when you consider that the majority of people out there are morons to begin with, you see the inherent problem.  It's why I hate going to concerts.  10% of the people are there for the music.  The others are there to get drunk, high or laid, sometimes all three, to the background of screaming guitars and thunderous drums.  Perhaps that's hyperbolic.  I don't know.  The football game in '98 was a shining star.  Most of the folks around us knew football, took pride in watching the game and understanding, offering good questions about play calling and such.  It was like the King Crimson concert earlier this year.  We were all there for the music.  The groove.  The energy and the emotion vented through the notes and beats.
    I am idealistic, I know.  To a fault.  But that's me.  I doubt I'll ever attend another football game, unless it's between teams I don't care about.  Good thing Cincinnati's so close...and that the Bucs only play them every so often.

    Reidel Anthony of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and Darnay Scott of the Cincinnati Bengals prior to the game on December 2nd.  Can't we all just get along???
 

November 30, 2001 ***"Links, Time Passages & Submission Time."
    Greetings & salutations, but I'm not here to poison your blonde friends or blow up your school.  (If you understand that reference, then you've seen one of the funniest movies ever.  Name it, e-mail it to me, and the first one of you to get it will receive a free copy of The Mirror Suite.)
    The first order of business is new stuff on the DKP Link-O-Rama...scroll down when you get there and hit the Philosophical Links section for some interesting, entertaining and, in some cases, darn near unreadable takes on the world by some of my favorite thinkers and overseers of wisdom.
    Time seems to be drifting by rather quickly, doesn't it?  Talk about a fast year.  Perhaps it's just that it has been so very busy.  T. and I are working on submissions to poetry journals.  I'm editing at present, doing prep work for what will become the next poetry collection sometime in the fall of next year.  Trying some of the stuff out in journals and 'zines first though.  They're always like your children, these writings and scribblings, but I do have to say that I'm really happy with a lot of them.  Some, however, are like David Klingler...all the talent in the world, but they can't quite get it done.  It's a terrible feeling to have such an emotion inside and to miss by just a minute bit, the tiniest fraction of an inch, expressing it completely.
    That's what keeps us moving, though, isn't it?  If we were able to express perfectly every time, there would be no challenge and no reason to continue.  It's the journey, not the destination, per se, though where you're headed determines the types of roads that you'll be travelling on.
    Here's a poem...actually, not a new one at all.  This is like a B-side for an album because it's one that was typeset and done, but didn't make it into 1999's Soliloquy:

I Won't Fall

I never would have dreamed
Or guessed
Or wished
For something like this.

A valley, green like heaven's pastures,
Bowled in a horizon of translucent blue skies,
Cloudless but for you.

Floating above me, watching me
And somehow knowing me through only my words.

Whispering through the leaves,
Glancing past my ears, caressing my skin
And pushing me back onto the sunlit ground.

And talking about the stars coming into view
In the East
Until the night calls us to sleep.

But I won't fall.

(c) 1998 Scot N. Kaeff

    Typing it out again, I know why it didn't make it into Soliloquy...I just plain don't like that poem.  It's one that I was just talking about.  I know what I'm trying to express, but I'm missing it by a fraction.  It just doesn't do anything.  It's a Mona Lisa without eyes.  Hmmm...not even that, really.  A Mona Lisa without a face.
    I don't know...off to bed....
 

November 20, 2001 ***"Long Time...."
    Greetings again, my friends.  Apologies to the longtime readers for not writing in the journal here for two weeks.  Things have been hectic, which is no excuse, but simply the reason.
    T. and I went to a Chinese buffet last night.  She'd gotten in late due to having to testify in court (part of her job) and we just decided to go there.  All was going well until I got up for the third time, with the intention of downing a small bowl of egg drop soup as my dessert (no ice cream for me, thanks) and I had a "vision."  This happens fairly often.  I just see things.  Sometimes they're warnings, sometimes just things that give you that deja vu feeling.  This time I saw myself dumping egg drop soup down my front.
    And you know what?  I did.  I poured the bowl, was getting ready to put noodles in it, the dry ones, and the bowl slipped just enough in my hand to make me dump it all over my shirt and pants.
    Now, some may call that visualization.  I saw it and, in a positive way, I made it happen.  However, to them I say that visualization requires forethought.  This was something I just saw...and could have changed had I heeded the warning and gotten, say, another egg roll instead.  Alas, I did not.  Just a thought for you.
    In other news, Secret 9 has been working hard, and we've added a member, my longtime friend and co-conspirator in many a strange and wicked venture, Greg Blankenship.  It's expanded the sound quite a bit and we've been writing up a storm.
    Many things I've thought about writing about here lately but, unfortunately, it's 5 AM as I write this and my mind has suddenly gone blank.  To all a happy turkey day and to all a good night...more soon....
 

November 5, 2001 ***Lot's O' Stuff."
    First off, congratulations to the Arizona Diamondbacks for ousting the N.Y. Yankees.  Thank you to the D-backs for showing that Mariano Rivera is human.  Thank you to Bob Brenly for doing a masterful managerial job, in my eyes.  Aside from Dusty Baker, I don't think there's a skipper I'd rather play for in MLB.
    Secondly, here's your must read book:  Saddam's Bombmaker by Khirid Hamza.  All the things you thought might be true about Iraq and their government, nuclear aspirations and chemical/biological weapon agents...they're all true.  Of course, Dr. Hamza could be an Iraqi plant, but I doubt it.  An intriguing and, given the current state of world affairs, terrifying read.
    Thirdly, my ear's giving me troubles again.  The left ear.  I occasionally get ear infections, always at the most inopportune times.  This time, I'm going to the ER in just a few moments (it's currently 5:40 AM), missing the first part of work for it.  If it's not a diabetic issue, it's something like this, or my thumb, which is still bothering me as well (tendonitis there).  Life has become ugly, physically, over the last two weeks.
    Fourthly, I'm about to jump off of the Buccaneer wagon I've been riding for two decades, since I was very small.  I cannot take much more.  I cannot take the pressure.  I'm soon to become just an NFL fan, with no allegiance to any specific team.  That way, I can root on a game-by-game basis.  That way, I can jump up and down in joy when *chuckling* Chicago comes from 14 down to whip Cleveland in overtime.  Ah, yes, football will be much more fun if I make this jump.
    LATER:
    Just got back from seeing Monsters, Inc.  A very good flick, I must say.  Especially knowing how long it literally takes to render images like these computer animated films (I have friends in high places, you know) made it all the better.  Nifty story too.
    With all the junk in the world today, I'm considering starting a new movement, a united front for truth, honesty and respectability.  Remember, folks, politics and government aren't (or shouldn't be) about power, but rather are about maintaining a constant progression and a standard of life which allows each person to be their best.

November 2, 2001 ***"The Aftermath."
    Dear friends, let me tell you of this year's Halloween.  I'm used to the Halloweens where I grew up.  Hordes and hordes of children and their parents roaming the subdivision's darkened confines in search of frights and treats.  Last year, I ran out of candy and if not for the aid of two friends who dropped by and happened to be carrying some Dum-Dum's and other delights, I would have had to turn people away (thanks again, Travis!).
    So this year, my first in the new house with T., we did it up.  Pumpkin decorated, colored lights under the carport along with many candles to create the mood, a string of jack-o-lantern lights in the front window.  And the full moon.  Who could ask for  more?  We even bought, literally, about seven pounds of candy.  My rule is one piece per kid, unless they put a lot of thought and effort into the costume.  Originality counts for a lot when it comes to candy, you know.
    And we had nine kids.
    Just nine.
    Pathetic.
    For all its other wondrous charms, Georgetown, KY is just the absolute pits when it comes to Halloween.  Thank goodness we invited Travis & Amy over and had Popeye's for dinner and played some games, otherwise the whole evening would have been a terrible wash.  I have pictures of the decorations, but it pains me to even consider putting them up.  A reminder of a gruesome night when it became apparent that, to my chagrin, Halloween, as my pal Bunny pointed out in his online journaling, just ain't what it used to be.

October 28, 2001 ***"Here It Comes...."
    Like many of my friends, Halloween is my favorite holiday.  No gifts to buy or anything like that, just a wholesome fear factor, ghosts and goblins, frenzy, candy and the like.  Of course, the candy doesn't do anything for me.  After age 11, when I was diagnosed as diabetic, I'd go around, gather a bagful and divide it up amongst my friends, saving a few pieces to ward off insulin reactions.
    But Halloween is my favorite time of year, as well as my favorite holiday.  The sound of leaves crackling under my feet, the chill in the air, the colors on the trees, the sweet smell of those dead and dying leaves...god, it's a rush that's seldom duplicated.  Just like spring is a time of renewal, autumn is a time of laying to rest...and, as such, of dreaming up new beginnings.
    And with all the tragedy and misery that the world has seen in the last two months, and all that will come, perhaps I'm enjoying this Halloween more than any previous one.  Look to the skeletons, my friends...their eternal smile should tell you all you need to know.  Seize the day for tomorrow may well be too late.  The dance of the ghouls, and light of the jack-o-lantern's eyes, the screeching of bats...all there to remind us that there is another side, there are good and evil and, though only celebrated on a pagan holiday that Hallmark and others adopted for financial reasons, they're there every other day of the year as well.
    When you walk out tomorrow, take a deep breath and relish this season, a season when a simple mask can make you what you always dreamed of.

October 14, 2001 ***"Frightened And Angry; Fear & Loathing."
    I am not in the mood to be messed with at this point, not that I often am anyway.  Anthrax scares...that used to mean, to me, that the band was due to put out a new album, not that I may become infected with this newly crowned death spore.  Bombing a country that, a decade or so ago, the Soviet Union gave up on.
    In fact, here's my political agenda:  get out of the middle east (uncapitalized on purpose).  Leave the animals to their own crummy wasteland.  Stop exporting oil and buy internally.  It will cause a bit of a tragedy in the world economy, but at what price our lives?  I don't want to die because we've decided to work out democratic magic in countries half a world away.  And don't get me wrong.  I'm not downing all of our work overseas.  However, I do believe that, like our own country, others have to make it on their own.  It's sickening.
    And it comes down to money.  Simply put, money makes the world go around.  Not god, contrary to popular belief.  God's weeping over what this world is becoming.  Not politics.  Not Allah or Jesus, not socialists, fascists, republicans.  None of them.  It's cash, my friends, cold cash.
    I hate seeing my future on CNN.  I hate that my dreams and hopes for the future are being dashed by men in suits who pray to gods with their fingers crossed.  I hate what is happening to the world.  Against U.S. policy, let's face it:  Libya should have been laid to waste, as should have Iraq.  Iran?  In the early '80's it should have been nothing but a stinking pot of dust and blood waiting to cool down so some Texans could go in and run the oil fields.
    But that's the politician in me.
    In truth, I abhor violence, which makes all of the current world events all the worse.
    We're living in troubled times, my friends.  Grab some marshmallows and roast 'em by the fire of a world that's dying.

October 2, 2001 ***"Yes, Sir.  No, Sir.  Thank You, Sir."
    It was only the fourth time in my rather young life, but I got pulled over this evening.  Terrible, the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized the car I'd just blown past was a police officer.  That feeling of dread when he pulled out and got right on my bumper.  I was slowing down, contemplating going ahead and pulling over, but then speeding up to the actual limit...then the flash of the blue lights.  Ugly, that color is.
    Coming back from Secret 9 practice, which was no practice because Tim had to bail, I stopped at my folks' house and left from there.  Well, there's been construction going on off the main road, 3L Highway, for months and the routes have changed a few times.  I'm used to 3L Highway, 55 MPH all the way down.  Wrong, my friends.  I had gotten on, feeling fine, when I realized the person sitting on the side (this is just after dusk, by the way) was a police officer.
    Now, my Grandfather was an officer of the law and from the time I was five years old, giving me eleven years to ponder this prior to getting a license, he told me how to respect and communicate with police officers, especially when in a traffic situation.  I remembered.  I've gotten one ticket, when I was sixteen, for running a red light right in front of an officer.  I deserved it.  These errors often come when we get complacent and think we KNOW what we're doing.  I ended up with a warning on my next two pull-overs, both for speeding, though not way over the limit.  Simple:  respect the officer, realize your error and hope for the best, be ready to take what you deserve if you get it.  Fine.
    And tonight, my friends, I was so terribly busted.  There was no denial, no hope, no prayer.  A wretched thing.  The officer was professional, as most are (don't let a few rotten apples spoil the whole bunch folks - just as not all NFL quarterbacks are Ryan Leaf, not all police officers are from L.A.)  He takes my license and paperwork, goes away, comes back after checking me out (my driving record is exemplary) and, believe it or not, says he's giving me a warning.  His words:  "Mr. Kaeff, I'm giving you a warning tonight, but please be more careful.  I clocked you doing 52 in a 35, which is 17 miles over the speed limit and that's a large fine.  Have a good evening and be safe."  I said my thank you's (all the necessary sir's included) and pulled out with the officer behind me.
    Okay, I'm dancing jigs in my head, thanking all the relevent saints and deities.  The officer gets in front of me in the left lane.  I, having to go home to Georgetown, had to get on I-275, so I swung in behind him as we neared the highway entrance.  You know how some folks, in turning lanes, will edge out into traffic on a green, hoping for the green arrow or to be able to sneak through on the yellow?  A pickup in front of the officer was edging out from out turning lane.  I'm stopped, wondering how stupid the guy is.
    Turns out he's a first class moron.  He's edging out, the light's yellow, a car runs the yellow in the opposite lane, holding him off.  The light turns red, the pickup truck burns through the intersection to the on-ramp.  The police officer who just let me off flips his lights on and nails the guy within 200 feet of the on-ramp.
    I waited for the green arrow, swung wide around the two of them, and thought to myself, "My friend, you're not going to get off as lucky as I just did."
    The moral:  don't be complacent and always pay attention.  It's difficult sometimes, but it pays off.
   And for those of you curious, I did not go over the speed limit at any point the rest of the way home.

September 27, 2001 ***"Two Weeks Of Fun."
    Yes, it has been two weeks since I last updated the journal.  Quit sending e-mails, I'm back, just keep reading.  Let's see...where to begin.  I'll go randomly. Secret 9 had our gig at Artsapalooza.  Quite a few folks turned out to see us (thanks!), which was a good thing.  Sold some CD's, too.  They'll be available on the website very soon, I hope.  Still have to figure some marketing things out first.  It was a good show, I think, in retrospect.  We're a good band that just needs a tad bit of tightening up and more vocal practice.  We're playing music that's not your normal, everyday stuff and, with some of our breaks and timing, we need to be dead on for it to work.  We were on about 80% of the time live, and that's good, but not where we need to be.  It'll get there, I have no doubt.  I feel good about what we did and, for me, Mr. Ultra-Self-Critic, that's an amazing thing.
    Plans for next year's DKP output are coming together.  I have the material for my next book lying in wait, with new stuff popping up just about everyday.  I'm still hoping that my project with Bunny, that was supposed to come to fruition this year, will happen.  Lots of possibilities on the horizon that I'm excited about.
    I'm working out too (with my beautiful fiance).  This is strange.  I haven't worked out since I was a freshman in high school, playing football.  I hate it.  I truly do.  But it's a good form of hatred.  I can turn my hatred on the dumbbells.  It's a daily battle, running or lifting.  Haven't been at it long, but I need to lose the extra 40 pounds I put on a couple years ago when I moved to a desk job.  If not just for my health, then for my sanity too.
    And, after that...I'm drained and my biceps feel like bags of wet sand.  I'm surprised I can type.  Off to update some DKP site pages...talk to you all soon!

September 14, 2001 ***Close To Home."
    Two things:
    1.  If you view these pages using IE, any version, they won't look quite as good as if you were using Netscape.  Call me strange if you like, as most of my friends do for this, but I like Netscape better.
    2.  I live in Georgetown, KY.  This afternoon, one of my best friends, Greg, stopped by and we had dinner and then some good, long overdue conversation.  T., my fiance, got home and we all sat on our patio chatting.  Just after dusk, I noticed lights in the sky.  With the recent grounding of flights, I kept looking because it was the first plane I'd seen in a few days.  The light pattern was odd though.
    As it got closer, coming over a tree, I saw that it was low and it was arcing toward the north, very quickly.  Greg and T. saw it too.  A UFO?
    The answer was obvious.  No passenger jet would execute a turn like that (unless it were hijacked and turning toward a target) and no passenger jet could put forth the speed to appear on my horizon and be gone over the next in less than a minute flying that low.  The sound was different than a passenger jet in the sky too.
    One of our military's finest flew over Georgetown tonight.  Part of me was distressed, part of me was relieved and all of me is feeling the trepidation in the situation.

September 13, 2001 ***"Looking Ahead."
    What is there to say?  You look ahead, past the terrorist attacks, past the loss of life, toward a new day.  There is nothing more.  Retribution?  Sounds good on the surface, but this battle will never end.  There will always be evil, no matter which side you're on.  The other side is always evil.  To the Islamic Fundamentalists, who we're all assuming are at the heart of the attack on the U.S., we're Satan, Ktulu, whatever name you want to give.  To us, so are they.
    Now is the time to think hard about humanity.  About spirituality.  About life in general, as many have given theirs, or had theirs taken, we need to reflect on ourselves.
    My heart goes out to not only those who have died and are facing this onslaught, but to the world in general.  We have a long way to go before this is rectified, and it will never heal.  Ever.
    Apocalyptic?  Perhaps.  I have run between several friends about the issue, and my fiance came up with strange and highly compelling arguments for the hand of a higher, or in this case, lower, power having some stake in what happened based on the numbers of the hijacked flights.  Some coincidences are too coincidental to not take seriously, at least a little bit.  If you're interested in that, e-mail me and I'll forward you the details.  E-mail address is above.
    Until next time:  be safe, be kind and be aware.

September 11, 2001 ***"Safety."
    *Silence*

September 9, 2001 ***"Changes, changes, changes."
    Let me tell you about television in Central Kentucky...if you need a personal injury lawyer, watch television for about, oh, a half hour, and you'll be able to take down the numbers of at least five different ones who are there at your beck and call to work to get you "a check for $75,000!"  It's downright disgusting how many of these people there are, trying to sucker and swindle everyone else.  Who's the bad guy?  Why, the insurance company!  Wrong, folks.  It's all dependent on the situation.  If you just got rear-ended, your insurance company, if you have a reputable one, is your best friend.  And there's the rub, as Hamlet would say.  "Reputable."  Lawyers, insurance companies, hobbyists, trash collectors, teachers...we're all in the same boat.  No one's your enemy until they make themselves your enemy.  Paranoia is a useless emotion/fear unless it's warranted in some way.
    However, I am interested in meeting one of these lawyers down here, Gary Becker.  Seems that every time someone hears the guy's name they're willing to settle the lawsuit without question or they're choking on a turkey sandwich just at his mere mention.  To be honest, every time I hear his name, I wretch myself.
    Aside from that, Central KY is wonderful.  The people are great, the scenery is great and our house is great.  You'll notice some changes to the DKP site too...I had toyed with the idea of changing the company name to simply Diabolical Kitten, but have gone the other way.  It is DKP and will be DKP.  The thing is that we are expanding into more CD/musical releases with the upcoming release of Secret 9's e.p., Celestial Salad, and some cooperative film projects coming up.  Nice.
    Make people wonder, that's my m.o. most of the time.  I don't force feed unless it's really in my best interest.  Like at a bank...you have to force feed.  In public?  Nah.  Give 'em enough rope and they'll either hang themselves or end up right beside you.  Either outcome is fine, but it's kind of my little social Darwinism theory.

September 3, 2001 ***"Boxed In."
    Actually, the title should read boxed out...as in moving my life from the boxes that it had been packed into for a few weeks.  My wonderful, beautiful fiance and I have officially become residents of a town just north of Lexington, KY.  We are in our house and are in the process of making it a home.  My office is decorated...there may be pictures coming of that sometime soon.  The kitchen is set up.  We're here.
    And I am so very tired.  From the process of moving to the actual unloading to the beginning of a new phase of my life, it is an exhausting process.  I know that I have travelled too heavily.  There are too many bags on my bag, but luckily they're all physical things, not mental things, and I can easily either throw them away or sell them to other suckers...er, people...who may have a use for them.
    There's a new gig too...October 22 at the Lexington Public Library as part of SoUPfest 2001.  My gratitude to Troy Teegarden for inviting me to participate.  Sounds like it'll be a wondrous time.  For now, though, I'm off to dinner and some well-deserved R & R.

August 24, 2001 ***"No Pressure."
    I'm not stressing over the impending move, I'm stressing over getting organized once it's over.  I'm not (really) stressing at my new job, strangely enough.  Actually, I'm less stressed at this point in my life, even with the state of flux I've been in for a month, than I have been in years.  Lots of factors going into that.  Partly the fact that all of the folks I'm working with down south are terrific, helpful, friendly and all good.  Partly the fact that I'm finally with T. on a consistent basis.  Even my credit card bill, which arrived today and contained the work done to my truck a few weeks ago, couldn't bring me down, though it did sober me up a bit.
    Regular updates will begin in mid-September once all my stuff is set up down in the new homeland.  See you then....

August 18, 2001 *** "Amazing, The Junk!"
    How is one guy, me, able to compile such a lot of junk?  I'm going through, packing and throwing stuff away, and I'm just amazed at the amount of pure crap I have.  I can trace my history through photos from 8th grade in my desk drawers.  I even found my high school and college class rings.
    Secret 9 got our time for Artsapalooza on September 22nd.  We'll be on the main stage at 6:00 PM, rocking and rolling.  I'm also doing the poetry part of the day again, which is at 1:00 PM.  I love Artsapalooza...this'll be the third year I've participated, and the third different band I've played there with.  Strange in and of itself.  Well, actually, two band, but in four different incarnations.  Hard to explain.  It's a good time...if you're in Symmes Township (just north of Cincinnati) on the 22nd, stop in...it's all free and all day long.
    More next week...hello to all my pals who I'm losing contact with during the flurry of activity...I haven't forgotten you, I promise!

August 11, 2001 ***"In The Process."
    Sorry for the infrequent updates, folks.  I had my first full week of living in Frankfort and working at a new job for the same company in Lexington, KY and, to be honest, it's kicked my ass.  My emotions have been a tumble worthy of the U.S. Womens Gymnastics team.  One minute I'm happy beyond belief to be with T. and to be pursuing our life with more intensity, the next minute I'm terribly woeful at the idea that I'm becoming what I never wanted to become, that being a nine-to-fiver with only the brief hope of making my dreams come true instead of actually pursuing them.
    If I seem a bit sentimental, pardon me.  I also miss my folks a whole, whole lot.  A lot of my friends had either strained or just plain lousy relationships with their folks.  I love mine dearly and have always gotten along with them except for that short teenage period when my Dad and I were at each others' throats constantly.  I miss the cats, Sami and Roland.  I miss the streets I drove on.  I miss it only taking a half hour to get to band practice instead of an hour and ten minutes, then and hour and a half to get home at night.
    I hate going through my things here and throwing things away, packing things up.  I hate how much stuff I have.  I'm breaking many sentimental bonds, but not enough.  Do I need all these books, for crying out loud???  No, I don't.  But they're going anyway.  If you need something for your library, e-mail me and ask me for it...chances are it's here somewhere and I'd be willing to pass it on to you if you'll pay the postage.
    I hate that my time will be taken up with the new house, though I adore the house and love the fact that T. and I will be together.  The time I used to edit, typeset and produce books and to write music will be severely limited very soon.  Will DKP survive?  I honestly do not know.  T. is all for it, which is good, but I feel my creative juices dwindling.  Perhaps it's simply the stress from the move.  I hope so.
    More next weekend...until then, wish me luck...life is swirling.
 
 

July 29, 2001 ***"Money, Recording & Leaving."
    Secret 9 recorded Friday and Saturday.  Much of it was setting up, getting sounds and tech stuff on Friday, then actual recording on Saturday.  In all, we spent about ten useful hours on Saturday recording.  We'll ignore Friday's time, which was mainly Tim and Travis, because most studios you go to will have their equipment set up when you get there...and if they don't, run.
    So let's take those ten hours of recording and say we would've gone to a normal studio around town here...that's about $400.00 we would have spent just getting bass and drum tracks for four songs, three of which will be completed and released, hopefully by our September 22nd gig at Artsapalooza.  Assume then that it would have taken two times that time, twenty more hours, to get guitars and vocals, then mix and master the songs.  So we're up to $1,200.00 dollars for three songs.  Then add in the cost of manufacture and cover design...well, don't.  I'm handling the cover and Tim and I both have CD burners.
    This three song e.p. would have ended up at about $2,000.00.  At present, all we have into it is $20.00 for CD's and our time and effort, which is priceless, but not in a monetary fashion.  We had time yesterday to experiment with mics and sounds.  I'm happy, for once, actually happy with my bass sound.  The drums sound very good.  The peace of mind, of not being "on the clock" makes home studio recording so very wonderful.  The songs, Epilogue, Third And Vine and Camera Eye are going to sound fantastic at the end.
    And at this time next week, I'll be living in Frankfort, KY and preparing for my first day of work at a new location, in Georgetown.  Yesterday I listened to WAIF during the 5 to 6 pm timeslot, where Scriptus Live used to be, and caught the fill-in they had until they find a permanent replacement.  I was just a touch sad, not terribly so.  I made the right decision based on my reaction.
    Life is going to be changing very, very quickly this week.  Forgive me if there are sporadic journal entries until T. and I get into our house (the loan was approved this week...yahoo!)

July 26, 2001 ***"Control And Lust."
    I have a control problem, an issue.  I enjoy having control of my life, most likely because so much of my life is out of control.  It is also, at times, driven by the amount of control I exert.  Being diabetic, this is a thorn in my side.  I have to control what I eat and my blood sugar level.  Sometimes I slip, but not nearly as much as some folks.  I do okay.  Seventeen years and very few issues.  Some in my eyes and carpal tunnel syndrome.
    I have no control over my life in other respects right now.  We're waiting on the approval for our home loan, which shouldn't be any problem, but the waiting is killing me.  I'll be living out of boxes for a few weeks (at least) and I just want to dig in and do it.  I hate thinking about it and not being able to gain the empirical knowledge to deal with it better.  The theories and guesswork is worthless and shows me how little control I have over things.
    I suppose, in the end, all I can control is my attitude...and that's the hardest thing.  I can handle giving control in some things too, like Secret 9's upcoming recording...that's Tim's baby.  He's the one with the patience and technical aptitude to handle the machines and trinkets with which we'll record.  I just don't have that.
    And my attitude...I'm a strange cat, that much I know.  Someone, long ago, said to know thyself and I really think that's the key.  Realizing my faults with control, realizing to only worry when it's productive.  Realizing to let go.  As the great Tao says:  Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom.  Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power.
    And now, about lust.  I am a lustful creature.  I lust for music, for creation, for a diet of words and images to keep me alive.  I hate the ordinary and lust for the "different" and yet I abhor things done "differently" just for the sake of being "different."  There has to be an honesty there, a truth in the depth of soul behind something.  And I am a man...I lust.
    I'm a lucky man because, though I exert control (see the above) in a great many things, I lose it in the right places.  Lust is a motivator, just like fear.  Career lust can be good.  Creative lust can be good.  Sexual lust can be good.  I admit that I lust after my fiance.  You may read this and not understand, but I'm sure that she does.  Of course, being the male pig that I am, many women pass through my world daily who stir lusts too.  Those lusts are fundamentally, to me, the difference between humans and animals.
    Animals simply breed.  It's biological.  Humans, with our ability to reason, add more things, like that ever elusive LOVE into the mix.  And love is necessary, and hard to control.  I have had fewer than ten sexual partners in my life, but more than three, and I wouldn't change a thing.  For every time I've turned it down or not asked a woman/girl out, I can count a time that I didn't make a mistake.  It's that little voice in my head, which I've alluded to in previous entries, that says, "Scot, you'll be sorry...it'll be fun, but you'll be sorry."  Okay.  I've learned to not ignore the voice.
    But it still feels strange, though I know it's a natural, biological reaction, to look at other women and become, ahem, aroused.  I'm in love and would never in a million years go against that, which is where the strange feeling comes in.  Who am I that I cannot control my reaction to a smile, a smell or a passing glance?
    I'm a man.  Troubled, barely controlled and at times, weak.  Life is about restraint, control and lust.  We must learn and endeavor to learn restraint, to exert control and to experience lust for what it is:  a motivator for better things, not the thrill on the surface.  When I lust now, unlike five years ago, I laugh.  It's fun because I recognize the inherent silliness of it.  I marvel at my reactions.  Truly, how could anyone sell the farm for a mere hour of pleasure?  Or for cigarettes?  Or alcohol?
    We're animals, but there's nothing that says we have to act like them...or perhaps we should:  after all, animals have no reason to argue over morals.  They simply live, free and naturally.

July 23, 2001 ***"King Crimson."
    Travis and I went to see King Crimson with my friend John Reynolds tonight.  It was, simply put, astounding.  I'm a poet (registered, mind you...I have my papers) and words simply cannot express the sounds and the sights.  This is what music should be.  Fun, challenging and intelligent...it was, in a word, art.  And it was beautiful.
    Couple that with Travis and I going into a "vintage" music emporium up the street from Bogart's in Cincinnati...you know the type of place:  it's an old, dingy instrument so it's automatically woth five times as much as any normal, non-"vintage" freak would pay for it.  Anyway.  We're walking up the steps and I hear from the front room:  "Yeah, it's the glam slam metal jam tonight, baby!"  I recognized the voice from VH1's Behind-The-Music series.  Yes, indeed...out front was none other than Poison's C.C. DeVille.  Oh, dear lord.  And out front of the store was the line of people to see King Crimson.
    I was afraid he'd be slaughtered if he walked out of the store.  Well, not afraid...I was hopeful, actually.  It was just very funny.  Travis and I walked out, right past him.  I glanced over as he attempted a heartfelt blues lick on an overpriced Les Paul.  Nice.  Well, his hair was nice...the blues lick fell kind of flat.  I'm not picking...I still own three Poison cassettes.  Couldn't care less.  It was just a strange juxtaposition with what we were about to see and hear.
    And King Crimson, again, was amazing.  We already went through that.
    And we got to meet Adrian Belew.  John grew up with him, played in the music scene around town with him when they were younger, and we got in that way (thanks again, John!!!)  Rest assured, if you're a fan and ever wondered, he was indeed the nicest fellow you'd ever want to meet.  A rare thing in the business that he is in, but there it is.  Intense music coming from very good people.  I got to meet Trey Gunn as well, which was quite a thrill.
    It's seldom that I become a total wacked-out fanboy, but I was tonight.  And I feel good about it, the music, and I can't wait to get to practice tomorrow.
 

July 21, 2001 ***"Every Ending Is A Beginning."
    Scriptus Live ended tonight...it was sad in many ways, but fulfilling in others.  You know you've left when you walk away feeling good instead of feeling guilt, sorrow or a sense of waste.  I feel very good right now.  It's amazing the amount of calls and e-mails I've gotten for the show in the past two weeks.  I guess we had a larger listenership than I had thought.  I do feel good.
    It has been a while since the last update...just been very busy with the move.  T. and I are buying a house.  Very scary.  Very grown-up.  Not me at all.  I enjoy it because it will put us in a very good position.  Life can move on.  I want to write and play music for my "career" but for the time being I'll still be with the same company I've been with for five years.  That's good for insurance and continuity purposes.  The band's doing well and I'll be commuting for practices and gigs.
    All in all, life has been a whirl of colors, people and things.  It's only going to be more like that in the coming weeks.  I'll apologize ahead of time for any lacking in putting up journal entries.
    The one thing I'm looking forward to most is living in Georgetown, KY, where the Cincinnati Bengals have their training camp, and hanging my Tampa Bay Buccaneers banner out in the front of the house.  Too sweet.
 

July 8, 2001 ***"Pics Of The End Times."
    I have for you, my dear readers, two pictures which will illustrate with great clarity the area that I am about to move to.  Here you go:

    This chap, though he rode in the governor's "hog" ride for glory, apparently isn't very smart.  And though I know there are a great many motorcycle enthusiasts who eschew the wearing of helmets ("brain buckets" to them), let's be honest:  you're hurtling down the rode at 55 MPH and get cut off, then slung from your bike.  You're going to wish you wore your helmet.  But, then, what do we expect from a state - sorry, Commonwealth -  whose road signs beg us to "Drive Smart Kentucky!" instead of the grammatically correct way, "Drive Smartly Kentucky!"  I suppose this fellow is par for the course.

    Personally, I find this to be adorable.  There is indeed a road in Frankfort, KY named To Be Announced Avenue.  You've gotta love it.  Really, really you do.  Oh, to be the clever little boy or girl who thought of this.  I just have to wonder:  will it be announced soon???

July 7, 2001 ***"So Much To Do...."
    For the loyal readers of this journal, I apologize for the lack of entries.  Things have been a whirlwind with the upcoming move and pulling up of roots.  I hadn't realized how many roots I had let grow, I suppose.  There was a good practice last night with the band, Secret 9.  I didn't sing particularly well, but other than that things went well.  We had a guest who gave an honest critique of the songs and playing.  That also went quite well, all things considered.  She pointed out several things that we had missed.  It's always good to have an objective set of ears, especially ears not necessarily attuned to our certain brand of music.
    Not that we necessarily have a brand.  In fact, we're pretty eclectic.  From one song to the next I don't think most folks will be able to figure where we're going next.  Hopefully it will stay that way and perhaps even go off further in different directions.  Most notable is Travis, our drummer.  He hasn't been playing too awfully long, but he's laid into them with such gusto and such desire to do something different, to play outside the box (or beat, in this case) that it's really infectious.  Tim, with his myriad effects, can go in much the same direction.  Which leaves me to either lay low and surround the bass realm with what has become "me" or to try to stretch out and experiment as well.
    It's a tough thing to do.  There are a few songs in which I play things not normally associated with a typical bassline, but for the most part I'm doing the fundamental groove thing.  And, honestly, I enjoy it.  Especially since I'm singing the majority of the music.  But there's also a part of me, perhaps the part that watches my hands and knows about my minor case of carpal tunnel syndrome, that realizes that branching out wouldn't be a bad thing.  I've often considered a Stick as an option, if not for the cost.  There are other things too.  It remains to be seen.
    Regardless of my playing, the band sounds great.  Things are coming together.  If all goes well, we'll have a single ready to distribute and sell at the Artsapalooza gig on Sept. 22nd.
    Of course, I'll be living in Lexington by then.  Which brings us full circle to why I'm such a nervous wreck lately.  Remember folks, no matter how prepared you think you are, when the moment comes, you're probably not at all.

July 1, 2001 ***"Oh, My God, The Door Fell Off!!!"
    T. and I went to look at a house today.  With my imminent move to the central Kentucky region, these are the types of things that I'm in for.  Not that I mind.  It was sort of fun; everything with her is fun.  She's more the fixer-upper type than me...I write songs and poems, rail about government and would rather let someone else fix the windows.  She works in government and would rather tile a floor.  Strange, but beautiful in so many ways.
    Anyway, the house looked grand online and in the pictures.  Oh, Lord, how pictures can deceive.  The wonderful realtor who showed the house to us was terrific.  Very helpful.  The house was a mess.  Someone had bought it a few years back to fix up and, we assume, sell at a reasonable profit.  The trouble is, the whole place is in a state of being half-done.  Some rooms painted (in vivid colors like forest green and pink) and some with nothing but wallpaper pieces left over the cracked drywall.  They'd replaced the hot water heater...and left the old one lying beside it in the basement.  The fuse box was there...wires everywhere, like three octopi had gotten into a no-holds barred wrestling match for control of the basement.  The floors were there...I was afraid to step in certain places, but they were there.  The best was yet to come though.
    When T. and I went down to look for the fuse box we heard a crash upstairs.  Sensing that there may be some trouble, we raced up the rickety stairs to find our realtor standing by a closet with the door of that closet, a heavy oak door, lying against the wall.  She'd just tried to open the closet and the door, in a vain attempt to escape the house of horrors, had leapt from it's hinges.  She was scared, T. was scared...I was mildly amused, but glad she didn't get hurt.
    And so that's how it went.  We talked about it a great deal.  T. was in favor of it if we could get them to lower the price significantly.  I wasn't.  Just too, too much work to be done before it would be, to me,  livable.  It could be a great place, but we haven't the time or money to make it so.  Hopefully the realtor, who really was a cool person and did very well under the circumstances, will be able to find us something more suitable.  A month away from the big move now.  I declared that the 21st would end the radio show this past Saturday and was deluged with calls.  Wish I didn't have to leave, but all things must end.  There is the slight chance that the show will continue though....
 

June 28, 2001 ***"Hanging And Leaving."
    Secret 9 has gotten its first gig.  See the Events page for details.  It'll be a good show.  We've played Artsapalooza three times before, Tim and I last year and myself with DaVinci's Burden the year prior to that.  It's a great outdoor arts fest...get there, my friends.  You won't regret it.
    Also, as I alluded to before, I think, the last Scriptus Live is July 21st.  Be sure to tune in for that.
    I got to hang out with Bunny for a short time tonight.  Homsickness is setting in and I'm a month away from moving away to Lexington, KY.  I'll miss having my friends so close.  Friends are hard to come by.  Real friends, I mean.  I count about six people as real, real friends.  People who know my deepest, darkest and don't judge me by those things, but accept them as part of me.  My closest friends are people I've known for a long time, emphasis on long.  I treasure them.  They keep me grounded.  Without my friends, I would be a wilting plant in the noonday sun.

June 26, 2001 ***"Moving On...."
    I'm in love.  That's the reason I'm doing this.  It's the reason I do everything, I suppose.  I love music, so I write music and play music.  I love words, so I write poetry and lyrics and stories (and journals).  I love my fiance, so I'm moving to Lexington.  Our original plans, last year anyway, were for her to transfer to her employer's location up north here.  Didn't come to pass;  lies and mistruths, carrots dangled in front of us.  Typical in her line of work, I suppose, with the red tape that hounds governments into paying ten dollars for a package of staples.  So, I'm moving to Lexington.
    Hunted for a job.  With the current trends in the economy, I wasn't surprised to find no fish biting.  Makes sense.  Luckily, a position finally came available with my current employer in their Lexington branch.  It will make things easier.  I'll be keeping my position of being with the same company for five years (helpful when you're looking for a home, I've heard) and will also know many of the people I'll be working with.
    However, for all the good this is bringing, and it is indeed all good, this is also a huge move.  I've been stagnant most of my life.  Lived in Greater Cincinnati, in the same place, mainly due to being diabetic.  I don't use that as a crutch, but it wouldn't do for me to live on my own.  I don't want to die.  Not yet.  In twenty years, when my body's broken down completely, probably, but not yet.  It was a safety measure.  I'll be leaving all my good friends, but I can still call and e-mail and see them occasionally.  I'll be leaving my position behind the microphone on Scriptus Live on July 17th (tune in, please).  I'll be moving Diabolical Kitten Publishing down south.  I will not, however, be leaving Secret 9.  I will commute for that.  It is worth it.
    The sudden change, the sudden possibilities, are too overwhelming right now.  I've been in a fog since I learned of things this morning.  So much to do, so many bases to cover, so many little things hampering the process.  Sometimes I just want to grab my insulin, guitars, notebooks, get in my truck and leave all of this behind.  Not just move, but start over completely, or die in the process.  That intense instinct to just abandon and run.  But I never have before.  I'm too compulsive and obsessive. I stick to things, ride them until the end, or until they leave me behind.
    I'm still riding...off into the sunset.
 

June 25, 2001 ***"Wrestling With Stuff."
    So I'm writing and watching professional wrestling this evening.  Strange bedfellows?  Ah, but the contrast is amazing.  To watch something with absolutely no redeeming social or intellectual value just sort of sucks away all pretence of the workaday world.  I used to love wrestling.  Now I watch it in the same way that I watch shows like South Park - pure humor, except that South Park has a great deal of intelligence to it.
    I think it also has to do with the fascination of watching the audiences.  And the hope, the great hope, as when I watch auto racing, that I'll see someone get maimed.  It's not out of hatred or disrespect, but I can't find any other reason to watch.  Granted, this is just me.  I understand that many people adore NASCAR.  Fine.  Go to it, brothers and sisters.  Have a day.  Me?  Leave me alone with my guitars.
    Boy, aren't I the pretentious jerk?
    *smiling proudly*
    Another thing about wrestling is that a  lot of the wrestlers are actually very talented public speakers and, in truth, great athletes.  Say what you want about the "sport" of it;  I couldn't do half the stuff that these guys do.  There won't ever be another wrestler, though, who can turn a phrase like Ric Flair or Dusty Rhodes...those guys were hilarious and frightening at the same time.  That was the wrestling that I enjoyed.
    I've lost my place.  There were other points I wanted to make about wrestling...apparently they've been sucked out of my head and into the vacuous wastes of television-sports-entertainment land.

June 23, 2001 ***"Gas?"
    I got gas this afternoon.  I only paid $1.42 per gallon for it.  On my way home tonight, from practice which is out in the country, I saw gas for $1.26 per gallon.  Was it or was it not just two weeks ago that I paid $1.98 per gallon for gasoline?  Yes, indeed, it was.
    What has changed?  All of the things I used to think were involved have been blown away, ignored or proven to not exist.  No reason at all for this price dunk.  I need help.  The rational side of me needs to know a reason for this and I can't find anything.
    Is the gasoline I got today not any good?  No, my truck's running fine.  Everything points to it not being a quality issue at all.  So what, then?  Supply and demand?  No, no, no...those levels have not changed, contrary to opinions you'll hear.  And anyway, could the supply and demand change that much in a few days to warrant a fifty to sixty cent price cut?
    In truth I think I know what it is.  We're all suckers.  We have to get to work, to school, to pick up the kids and take them to practice.  We all have activities we need to go to.  We're all stuck in having to get somewhere.  How do you do it?  With a gasoline-powered vehicle.  We're pawns in an international game of conspiracy and denial, screws and hammers.
    I'm slowly understanding more and more about how the world works.
    Oh, and I'm rooting for Barry Bonds in what will likely turn out to be this year's hottest sports story.  I've been a Giants fan for a long time.  More than Barry, though, I'm just happy the Giants are beginning to play better and get more out of their pitching.

June 20, 2001 ***"Sickness And Depression."
    I stayed home from work today.  Blew my voice out at practice last night, which was truly terrible.  Things will change on Friday...P.A.'s being changed and we're turning down.  Not rock & roll enough for you?  Too bad.  My advice to younger, more spritely musicians out there:  take care of your ears and voice.  My right ear has lost a lot of its high-end sensitivity due to the first two years I played music.  It was in a garage down the street and  I was set up to the left of the drums, with my right ear within two feet of the high hats.  Not a good thing.  But you don't think of those things when you're young, right?
    Then I woke up this morning with a blinding headache...that was it.  Not being able to think straight with the headache, or talk effectively with my voice blown, I called in.  It sucks too.  I was doing pretty well this year as far as conserving days off.  We don't get "sick" days where I work.  I have two "personal days" and ten "vacation days."  That's it.  Oh, how I wish I had the same job in Europe.  Shorter work days and more time off.  No wonder they're behind in industry, but it'd be worth it.
    Hold on...gonna go fix myself some lunch.
    Okay...I'm back.
    I've been doing the mortality ring again, thinking and pondering.  Thinking about faith too.  One of my closest and dearest friends has been in the faith circle for some time now, searching and digging.  I thought I had faith figured out for a long time.  I had faith in myself and I had faith in the cosmos.  This is not a typical Christian faith, mind you, but a more significant faith.  It's a faith that is not transcendent, but imminent.  However, the more you listen to people who claim to have faith with a capital "F," the more you have to question the entire background and truth of any faith at all, in anything.  We all know, or at least I do, that groups of people are bad.  People in ones, twos or threes are okay.  The more people you get together in a group, the more people tend to put up walls and build defenses.  The more threatened people become, and thus they hide behind masks.  Faith can be an easy mask for folks not willing, or afraid, to see the world around them.  They have to narrow things and anchor themselves in something.
    Personally, I like to be adrift.  I like to adventure.  I have my faith, but unlike most folks, I don't flash it around.  I don't utilize it as a shield.  It is not a tool.  It is simply a fact, a fact of life.  As simply as opening my eyes, I found it.  The world is beautiful and deadly, awesome and horrific at the same time.  You can hide yourself if you want, but I find it immensely entertaining.
    And, as an artist, it makes things so interesting.  As Francis Bacon said, "The job of the artist is to always deepen the mystery."  Can it get any deeper than it already is???
 

June 17, 2001 ***"Movies, Science And Music."
    We went and saw Evolution today.  For the life of me, I can't understand why every review I've read about it has panned it horribly.  It was a funny movie.  Some great one liners, good rapport between the main actors, a good, if wholly unbelievable, story.  Nicely done.  And for everyone bagging on David Duchovny for leaving The X-Files and jumping into another "science fiction" piece of work...c'mon!  It's comedy, and his dry delivery held up very well in Evolution.  Now I just want to see Orlando Jones and Chris Tucker in a movie together...that'd be a riot.
    And hair shampoo...who knew?
    My listening experience to the south of Kentucky on Saturday consisted of Manic Street Preachers, Phil Cody and the Rollins Band.  On the way home this evening it was Ron Whitehead (spoken word/poetry from Louisville), Ass Ponys and Iggy Pop.  Just in case you were wondering.
    I've been getting into a lot of theological discussions with folks over the past week.  Strange.  I never bring it up, but somehow get drawn into the conversations and, almost always, become a sort of mediator or, in the best cases, an antagonist.  I won't get into my views here...it would take too long...but I do think that far too many people choose to close their eyes and view the world through a tunnel, completely ignoring the beauty around them.  If you simply accept, then you never grow.  And I'm not advocating a complete dropping of your own beliefs or dogma, but rather a quest for knowledge of other things.  How can you be a true Christian without knowing about other religions too?  The world is a large place, and I don't question anyone's faith...I simply question their reason for the faith.  For your soul?  For your god?  For your own peace of mind?
    As a great man once said, the unexamined life is not worth living.

June 15, 2001 ***"Can It Get Any Weirder?"
    Everyone has curiosities, right?  Things you see or read and have always wondered?  One thing that I love to do on the radio show I host, Scriptus Live, is to examine things I don't understand.  This usually refers to creative pursuits like painting...I have no talent with paint and canvas.  None.  I can write about painting, and paint pictures with words, but if you ask me for a tangible painting, I know I'm licked.  And I grasp that.  You have to know yourself.
    Now, some months ago, Greg, who used to co-host Scriptus with me, suggested a show about a certain topic for which we had access to the perfect guests.  It was interesting to me in a lot of ways.  Again, something I have no background in, but have seen, experienced from afar and always wondered about.  Since the show's about not only writing, which it was when it began, but creativity-in-general, how about one of the pursuits where creativity abounds, along with humour, sarcasm, parody and, strangely, sex?
    Yep...we're doing a show about drag queens.  It should be just a gas, really.  I don't know how many folks will be there, but the guests are being put together by Joan from Alternating Currents, another show on WAIF right before Scriptus.  Getting to know a lot of the folks who do that show has made an impact on me.  Not that I really cared before, but it's really made my belief that folks who judge based on sexual orientation, or race or gender for that matter, are truly blind.  It's about the person, not who they choose to have a relationship with or have sex with.
    Of course, if you're an artists of any kind, you end up meeting a lot of gay folks.  Not sure why.  Doesn't really matter.
    Anyway, the show will be Saturday, June 23rd from 5 to 6 PM on Scriptus Live, WAIF 88.3 FM.  The line of questioning will be based on this simple question:  how creative do you have to be to turn a man into a woman...and have them pass for it?  Just from chatting briefly with Joan about it, very, very, very creative.  NERF footballs help, I understand.
    Like I said...it should be a great time.  I'm grinning just pondering the questions I can ask.  Tune in.

June 14, 2001 *** "Moving On UP...."
    Another new edition of the Journal.  I never, ever thought I'd keep it up this long.  I started it, really, on a whim back in '99, a few months prior to the big Y2K scare.  It was a way to explore issues, vent and also an exercise in writing, especially in a very different format than what I'd grown accustomed to, with poetry and songwriting.  I didn't think I'd keep it up this long, nor did I think that I would end up getting so much feedback from you, dear readers.  Rest assured that these journal entries are never censored.  What I write, I feel, at least at that momen