August 17, 2003 + "Production Value."
    Something often overlooked in today's music is production value.  That is, the overall sound of the CD (though this is mainly an engineer's doing) and the performance aspect (the producer's role).  Much of today's music, especially rock music, is turgid crap, with very little dynamic value from song-to-song or even within pieces of music.  Sometimes, it takes old dogs to do things right.  I speak of a CD I just purchased because, on a whim, I listened to some of it on a listening station at a store.  It is Jane's Addiction's latest, Strays.
    What did I notice first?  The clarity of the production.  Layers of guitars and sound, but each has the room it needs to breathe.  Each element of the music is there, clearly evident and mixed nearly perfectly.  Powerful, but not overpowering.  Light where it needs to be as well.  And to whom do we owe the production value?
    Bob Ezrin, a guy who's been doing it for decades.  Remember the heyday of the original Alice Cooper band?  Bob's work.  Also worked with Kiss and reinvented their sound (to me, anyway.)  Amazing.
    Others that have been around the block, but who make albums that stand out are Daniel Lanois and Brian Eno, sometimes separate, sometimes as a team.  And it all stems from dynamics, knowing where to let a song breathe, whether on analog tape or in a digital format.  We could all learn a lesson from listening and staying true to the artform, rather than going for the thick-as-a-brick sledgehammer approach of most modern rock out there.
    I have noticed as well that Journal VII has gone on way, way, way too long.  Be looking for Journal VIII soon and be ready to change your links.

August 13, 2003 + "Amazing Violence."
    Well, of course, violence isn't amazing.  It's pretty boring, really.  An easy way out.  Like ad hominem attacks and the avoidance of actual points within political debate (see M. Savage and R. Limbaugh for examples).  Violence has a place, to be sure, but I'm more and more critical of it.  Much like expletives, when used conscientiously, they make sense, but one soon grows quite numb to their inherent meaning(s).
    Speaking of growing, I'm having growing pains.  No more details, because the detail would give things away, but I'm trying to educate myself and get my viewpoint to line up with some folks.  Not having a whole lot of luck right now.  Sort of like having bad horizontal control on an old television, the picture's just not quite right.  It's there and it is easy to see what's going on, or what should be going on, but the focus is lacking.  Or, perhaps it is my viewfinder.  That's the most difficult thing.  Where does the vision issue lie?
    Speaking of focus, I think that's a huge problem.  I'll take time to refocus tomorrow afternoon when I cut the grass.  I hate cutting the grass, by the way, but it is good for two hour's worth of nothing-but-time-to-think.  Then I'll practice and, again, have time to think.  A metronome, a set of scales and time-to-think again.  End up playing for an hour, running scales in time to a click and thinking, letting my hands do the work, to the point where I don't even begin to think about playing.  It's just my hands and the beat.  The coolest thing is when I "come to" sometimes and find my hands not doing the scales, but meandering about on the neck in some interpretive dance along to my thoughts.  Haven't done that in a long, long time and I think I need to.

July 27, 2003 + "Miscellaneous."
    Apparently, based on information garnered in the last 12 months, there are more folks of the Kaeff line than I had previously thought or been told about.  New ones popping up all the time.  Hence, my plan:  I will endeavor, with the aid of those I've touched base with and my parents, to create a family tree and post it somewhere here on the DKP site for the family to view.  This is in the hope that more names, photos and information will pop up that I can add to it.  It has become quite apparent that if you've got the name, you've probably inherited part of the don't-see-don't-know philosophy as far as keeping up with others of the clan *smile*.  I'm going to attempt to tie up some loose ends because, above all, I'm really curious about who all is out there.
    I live in Georgetown, KY, by the way, which is the home of the training camp for the Cincinnati Bengals.  Now, I have been a Buccaneers fan since I was a wee tyke, but always watched the Bengals too, and I think they're going in the right direction with Marvin Lewis as their new head coach.  However, troubling signs are afoot...you see, on our way back from up North tonight, a fellow was changing the sign at the Wendy's here in town.  It read:  "Go Bengales!"
    Not a good kickoff, to be sure.
    I feel as if I have a great deal of frayed ends hanging about, blowing around my face right now.  Need to get some smaller projects cleaned off my desk soon.
    The band is doing very well, writing some interesting stuff and starting to get our sea legs under us as far as working as a cohesive, creative team.  It's a learning process.  One minute, insanely frustrating, and the next filled with wonder at what just happened.  Pretty cool and very invigorating.  Hoping to have recorded something and be out there by early fall.
    Handy note:  always check your city's garbage collection regulations before purchasing a new garbage can.  I won't go into the tale, but let me assure you, it was ugly.
    For those of you interested in super-cool, avant garde guitar, check out David Torn.  Just do a Google (or search engine of your choice) search on him and prepare to be amazed.
    Music-of-the-weekend:  (the aforementioned) David Torn, Neil Young, Adrian Belew and Audioslave.

July 11, 2003 + "Eighteen Strings."
    Ever since I started playing music I have hated, absolutely loathed, changing the strings on my basses.  Not sure why, but I just dislike it a great deal.  Luckily, bass strings last for a while, at least the several kinds I've used (used to use Ernie Ball sets and then moved to Elixirs because they rock and they last).  Many a time it was that I would grudgingly pull some towels over the kitchen table or kneel by my bed and change the strings on a bass or two.  Over the course of last night and this afternoon, I changed the strings on all four of my current basses (one bass, a fifth, is currently on consignment at a local music merchant...if anyone's interested, e-mail me).  Eighteen strings...two five-string basses and two four-stringers.  Ugly.
    Happily, the intonation was good on all of them, set ups were okay except on my blue P-bass, my oldest standing bass.  Action's a little high, not terribly so, will probably still use it at practice tomorrow, but I will need to do some tweaking to it.  Also used not the Elixirs, but a set of D'Addario Half-Rounds on my Spector just to give them a try.  A bit thumpy, but good tone.  We'll see how long they last...to be sure, if they don't last I'll never use them again because, as mentioned above, I hate to change strings.
    Here's a picture of the blue P-bass with it's new stickers....

    Sorry for the flashbulb burst in the middle of Michael Monroe's head.  It's a Hanoi Rocks sticker that Tracy and I found at a local shop.  For those interested, also represented are Henry Rollins, Manic Street Preachers, CD Street and Albert Einstein who is marching along my pickguard.  I used to hate it when people put stickers on their guitars and such, but for the last few years my blue P-bass has been a clearinghouse for odd sticker finds.  I was, after I cleaned the old ones off today, tempted to buy a mirrored pickguard, a la Steve Harris, but decided against it when I remembered the HR sticker.  If nothing else, even if my playing sucks, it's a good conversation piece, eh?
    DKP is currently preparing to release The Prophylactics' single for the Meet Cleaver Theatre Theme song.  It's going to be a three song disk, possibly with a hidden track or two, especially if I can dig up The Ballad Of Johnny Wu.  Good stuff.  We also have on-deck the new book, Rendering The Impossible.  That's due out this fall, possibly not on DKP, but we'll see how those things go.
    Going to be a busy weekend...to all, I wish a rockin' evening and a jammin' weekend.

July 3, 2003 + "Less Than Zero."
    Okay, admittedly, I'm behind in updating the Journal.  My bad.
    I bought a new CD a few days ago, Type O Negative's "Life Is Killing Me."  Great disk.  Much better than their previous album, "World Coming Down."  One odd thing on it, though, is the song Less Than Zero, which begins with a stilted bass groove...as soon as it came on, I thought to myself, "That sounds just like Through This Lens," which was a Secret 9 song I'd written with Tim and Travis.  Regardless of sound-alike grooves, I really like the T.O.N. disk, as I said.  Melodic, heavy as heck and with some really interesting production things going on.
    To be honest, if I had anything poignant to say, I would have been putting more entries up.  Most of my recent creative output has been put toward pen & paper work, lyrics and poems.  Also been putting in time helping Master B. with the Meet Cleaver Theatre work (see the DKP links page for information).  Very cool, very inventive stuff.
    Santo says gracias, amigo!
    I even got to play a Mexican wrestler named Santo.  What more could you ask for?  *smile*
    Here's a plea, on the eve of Independence Day:  wake up, please?  Everyone.  This country wasn't founded by people who sat on their butts complaining and not acting.  It was founded by a bunch of traitors who wanted a better way of life *smile*.  Sometimes the truest patriots are those that defile the status quo.
 

June 19, 2003 + "Witches And Wizards And House Elves, Oh My!"
  I'm coming out of the closet on this issue:  I've become thoroughly *$#*ing obsessed with Harry Potter.
    Up until two weeks ago, all I'd seen were the two movies and then only at the behest of my wife.  I hadn't paid any mind to the hoopla and, as I tend to do, if something takes the nation by storm, I normally ignore it.  To my detriment sometimes, to my great relief at many other times.
    Two weeks ago, on a whim, I picked up the first Harry Potter book.  It was lying on Tracy's nightstand (she's read all four books several times, I think).  I couldn't put it down.  It was as if...as if...someone had cast a spell on me.
    Within a week, I'd read all four books.  From a purely artistic point of view, J.K. Rowling's characterizations are brilliant, the plots are complex, but not overly so and the stories move with great fluidity and precision.  And they're a heck of a lot of fun and have a ton of emotion tied into them too.  It's difficult to get me to actually care about characters.  It's generally reserved for the esoteric few.  But, doggone it, I found myself caring about these characters.
    And the books have another facet too...they have a very, very expansive range.  Much like The Simpsons or Animaniacs in the cartoon field, the Harry Potter novels could easily (and have) translate to a huge cross-section of ages and cultural backgrounds.  Classic tales of both growing up and learning tied in with classic good versus evil plotlines, with subtexts of racism and philosophy thrown in for good measure, but without being pedantic at all.
    I never thought I'd say this two years ago, but yes, my friends, I am a fan.  And I'll be reading the new book right after Tracy's done with it (she's the one who put the deposit down on a copy, released tomorrow, back before my conversion).
    In other news, please check out Meet Cleaver Theater for some good, ol' B-movie fun.  You'll be glad you did.
    This weekend...this weekend...cleaning out the studio and making some room to freakin' work!!!  I have various song ideas to put into demo form, but I have no room in here to play!  It's killing me!  Also some housework...a few minor projects that need to be taken care of involving PVC and weed killer, but not together.
 

June 7, 2003 + "Vent."
    I've turned into an antisocial bastard again.  It's not turning 30 that did it.  That was just another day (though a very enjoyable one thanks to my family, friends and beautiful wife.)  It's just being around people that does it to me.  Perhaps it's focusing on the negative, but the lengths of my infuriation seem boundless lately.
    To folks who smoke:  be respectful of others even if you're not willing to respect yourselves.  If you toss your cigarette butts out of your car window, you're littering my world.  And, geez, I thought you morons couldn't get enough of that crap...don't you want the last remnants of the butt to burn out in your car's ashtray and loose their luggage into your car?  C'mon!  A real smoker sticks to his/her butts, man.  Suck 'em dry and then take some more for good measure.  Hell, eat the things, or save them up for a big mid-summer butt-burning bash.  We could sell tickets!  Butt-Bash I...smoke 'em if you got 'em, and if you don't, grab one of ours!
    Parents:  if you don't restrain your kids while shopping, I may end up pushing one of them over a railing, especially when they're perched so perilously close to it anyway.  I hear parents all the time wondering why their kids don't respect them...respect breeds respect.  My mother and father taught me discipline and compassion, intelligence and creativity, and they did it by caring about me, what I was doing, but giving me a long leash and, if I screwed up, calling me on it and making sure it didn't happen again.  Not by coddling me or saying that "it's just a phase."  Phase, my butt.  Discipline and respect are taught, not induced or given with a pill.
    To Reality Shows:  just f*cking stop.  There's nothing real on television except sports and some of that I'm not even sure about.  Entertainment is not art, either, so stop thinking that the "next American Idol" is anything more than a media conglomerate's pawn to get you to shell out some dough.  Reality?  Geez, if it was truly reality then that moron that fell into the fire on Survivor a season or two ago should have DIED out there, shouldn't he?  How much danger is there when a life squad is ten minutes away?  Survivor, my butt.  Schlock is more like it.
    And art is art.  Art is produced/created due to an obsessive urge within the artist(s) to talk, teach, persuade, describe or show something that others may normally miss or provide a voice for those that have none (eg a love song telling one's partner how they feel when they themselves can't find the words to express themselves, or a poem doing the same).  Art reveals.  Art glorifies both the wondrous awe and the amazing limitations of human existence.
    It is not on a label owned by the WEA conglomerate, that much I can assure you.
    It is in a Mark Strand poem.
    It is in a Concrete Blonde song.
    It is in an Yves Tanguy painting.
    It is in Lightnin' Hopkins' guitar.
    It is inside all of us, when we're willing to take a look.
    It's a short life, folks.  Perhaps this is my mid-life crisis (insert Faith No More song here).
    Wake the f*ck up.

May 25, 2003 + "Getting Close."
    It is truly an odd time.
    I go to work every morning with the same feeling in the pit of my stomach that I get when the Bucs are losing, or when I go to the doctor.  An utterly unrepairable feeling of dread, for every aspect of what's going on, or is about to happen.
    Misery.
    I shall leave the surly ranks of the twenty-somethings in less than a week.  I remember being so amazed when I turned 10.  Then being somewhat enthralled at turning 20.  And now disgusted at turning 30.  So many plans gone up in vapor, plucked from the mind and banished from reality.
    I didn't get to vote at all, for anything, on May 20th because I'm registered as an Independent.  I wonder, truly, how any American could register as anything but an Independent.  I wonder, really, how anyone can hit that button and simply vote the "party line" on any ballot.  The deception of politics is woven tightly into our culture, is it not?  You bunch of sheep.
    I say that with the most touching smile on my face, by the way.  You're not sheep.  I just wish people would open their eyes a bit wider, especially at the polling booth.
    The band is now complete.  We have a fantastic singer and invited a drummer in last week.  See C.B.D. for more information.  The name of the band is undecided.  It was originally to be Chaos By Design, the name of my solo project, but I've since found several other people/companies using that name and have decided to nix it, love it though I do.
    The grass needs cut, but its supposed to rain today...and we want to see the new Matrix film...and we're going to try to have dinner with my folks...so the grass shall grow.  Let it grow...for the winter comes too soon....

May 11, 2003 + "Impossibility."
    The manuscript for my new book is nearly completed.  The title is Rendering The Impossible.  Quite a change from the working title, which was Walking Through Walls.  There are several themes in the book.  Cold and wintery themes, religious themes, and your standard socio-political themes.  It is not head and shoulders above my last, The Mirror Suite, but more of an accompanying book to it.  I'm quite proud of it, not satisfied, but quite happy with the work contained in it.
    As a different approach, and for many reasons, I'm taking a different course of action with it.  I am submitting it to a couple of open chapbook competitions with some publishing houses.  I despise the idea of competition with art, but I also realize that, essentially, every time you submit work you're competing with everyone else that is submitting anyway.  C'est la vie, right?
    I'm hopeful that I can interest an outside publisher in this manuscript.  Diabolical Kitten Publishing, for all the work I have put into it in the literary field, does not have the distribution or monetary backing to push another release any further than the realm we're currently in.  In other words, we've reached the edge of our envelope of opportunity and need to press forward.  If no one steps up, of course, DKP will release Rendering The Impossible in the fall of 2003.  My hope is, though, that with an artistic partnership with another press/label, there can be a mutually beneficial exchange of both resources and ideas by which we can both evolve further in our art.
    Too much to ask?  Perhaps.  But then that's what expanding one's envelope is about.

April 29, 2003 + "Pain Is The Name Of The Game."
    This entry will deal with pain, drive and willingness to give everything you've got.
    My baseball heroes while I was growing up were Will Clark, first baseman for the Giants, Rangers, Orioles and Cardinals, and Pete Rose, various positions and MLB Hit King for the Reds, Expos and Phillies.  It was simple, really.  They drove.  Clark was more physically gifted, but had that determination.  Rose, Charlie Hustle, was determination personified.  He wasn't supremely talented, but his work ethic made up for it on the field.  That and a great eye in the batter's box.
    Though I do not view music or writing as competition - they are artistic and creative ventures - that determination has fed those things for me as well.  The drive to move forward, expect more and push.  It has cost me friends and bandmates at times, with them viewing me as too anxious or too driven.  This is fine.
    I'm playing in a softball league with my wife, Tracy, and last Tuesday I pulled a muscle in my leg in the first inning of our game.  I gutted it out, in serious pain, and we lost pretty badly to a better team.  By Sunday, my leg felt better.  I'm not the only one nursing an injury on the team, by the way, as several of us are hurting.  Fast forward to Monday afternoon at work when I knelt down to pull a manual from the bottom of a shelf and then attempted to stand up.  I say "attempted" because my left leg just didn't cooperate fully.  Reaggravation of the pulled muscle.  Nice.
    So, tonight, in pain, but feeling better, I played.  Thank god our manager put me at the bottom of the batting order because I had serious trouble running.  Fielding wasn't too awfully bad, but running bases was the worst.  A couple of hits and runs scored, though, and we played a very competitive game, losing only 15 to 9.  Through the game, though, some of the other players were telling me to take it easy and that it's not worth hurting yourself worse.
    Now, granted, it is a fun league.  Co-ed softball is fun.  But, I have that competitive streak...mainly with myself.  If I'm playing, I'm giving it all that I've got.  I'm not walking to first base, by god, I'm humping it as best I can, even if it means dragging my leg behind me.  Once the game was over, I just sat for a few minutes.  I had worked mental magic on myself through the game...mind over matter...my mind's on the game and the pain doesn't matter.  This is fine, of course, until you're heading to second base and your left thigh decides it has had enough and locks up on you.  It added to the fun, though.
    But this is music too.  This is the drive.  These are things, the ball playing, the music and the writing, that I adore, that I truly love.  I'm not much of a ballplayer, and never was.  Football either.  Strategy and fundamentals?  I've got 'em, in spades.  I love that about sports, the strategy.  Playing?  Mediocre and subpar are words that come to mind in describing my abilities.  But I have that drive.  I give it all, regardless.  You have to.  That's life.  If you don't give it all when you're having fun, then what the heck are you going to do when you have a gun in your mouth and three seconds to get out of the situation?
    Which brings me to my job.  I used to have the same attitude there.  Competence was huge to me.  Ability was huge to me.  Pragmatism was huge to me.  Service the customer, get it done right and move on.  But I am loathe to feel that way anymore.  I must say that it has been sucked out of me.  Am I burnt out?  I thought so for a while, but I've changed my course on that.  I'm not burnt, I'm just down by 10 in the bottom of the ninth, two outs and my power hitter just tapped a weak grounder right back to the pitcher.  I'm just awaiting the throw to first to end the nightmare.  Every day.
    And it makes me sad that I let the decision-making of others, and other peoples' attitudes, have this impact on me.  But, as the saying goes, you can't control what you don't have in your control.  Or something like that.  It is sad, though, that I poured forth more effort in the softball game tonight than I have in the last two months of work.  Because I cared about the game.  Simply that.  Nothing more.  Caring.
    I need to control my health better.  I need to focus more on the things that actually matter in my life (my wife, my music and my writing).  I need to focus my determination better.  I need to quit swinging at the first pitch and make the person on the mound work me.  I need to not run around for a couple days and let my leg heal some.
    It's all about focus...and determination.  Pete Rose bowling over Ray Fosse...I've always felt badly for Ray, but that image is so much a great example of an approach to life.

April 23, 2003 + "April Showers Bring Down Towers."
    Welcome to Spring everyone!
    *sigh*
    The new band is coming along quite nicely, at least from what I remember tonight between zoning out into an insulin reaciton toward the end of practice.  Well, practice/audition for a drummer.  Extended our invitation to the vocalist we've been playing with for a few weeks to officially join the band.  She's got a terrific personality, will be dynamite onstage and is very creative.  A beautiful voice as well.  The perfect package and a good person to boot.  We got lucky, very lucky indeed.
    I still am at odds with my job.  Or some personalities at my place of employment.  Yes, that's more it.
    One of my best friend's weddings is coming up.  It'll be fantastic, that's a guarantee.  I'm quite excited about taking part in it, and am terribly happy for he and his fiancee.
    I've been writing quite a bit.  Also editing the new book down to form.  Lots going on, but with no actual ends in sight.  Much like Spring itself, it's a period of rebirth and the sowing of seeds for future good.

April 9, 2003 + "How Long Has It Been?"
    Okay, pardon the lack of updates, but a lot's been going on.  Lots of writing on the musical front.  Lots of editing (well, maybe not a lot, but moreso than in the past two months) on the writing front, preparing a new manuscript.  Lots of, er, stuff.
    Here's something I just picked up on.  I had heard some things by The Flaming Lips in the past and, while thinking they were pretty cool, never went beyond that.  Recently, I picked up a few of their disks and have been walking around in amazement over them.  I also realized that, sometime in the mid to late '80's, Perry Farrell (vocalist for Jane's Addiction and Porno For Pyros, along with the man behind Lollapalooza) heard The Flaming Lips and decided to rip Wayne Coyne's vocal style right off, right down to the slightly off-key parts, odd phrasings and patterns.  Eerie, how similar.  Strange thing is that, when I hear Wayne sing that way with the Lips, it makes sense.  Perry never did.  Personal opinion.
    The television show American Idol, which has snuck into even our little home, is horrid.  No other word fits, just plain horrid.  So you can sing...does that an artist make?  Or is it all about the pomp and flair, the makeup and hair?  And what are Randy Jackson (who we've now dubbed "Yo-Yo Dog" due to his frequent salutations to contestants), Paula Abdul and Simon Cowell there for anyway?  They're not judges, apparently, since their comments are strictly background, or so it seems.  Idiocy.  And, for anyone who would say to me the famous words, "well, could you do any better?" I can only respond with the following:  no, I could not hit notes as well as most of the contestants, but I can darn sure write a better song and pour quite a bit more emotion and vigor into what I've written than them.  Except for the dude that wears an area code on his clothes...it ain't Ziggy Stardust, but it has potential.
    Wretched.
    And since I've now steered directly into rant territory, television on the whole just sucks.
    Television journalism sucks.
    The Lexington Herald-Leader is the biggest piece-of-garbage excuse for a newspaper on God's green earth.
    Basketball is the devil's game.
    Hockey players are angels on the ice, thus hockey is God's game.  Football is Gabriel's game.  Baseball is Job's game.
    Enough...I'm digging a hole straight to China....

March 29, 2003 + "The Strange Case of Overparenting."
    What is it about most parents that makes them think their children are morons?
    Tracy and I went to dinner last night at a Chinese buffet.  Yes, a bad idea to begin with, but it did become entertaining.  A couple was seated next to us and they had three daughters, ages approximately 5, 4 and 1.  The mother did not sit down for more than 10 seconds at a clip.  The father was a bit more restrained, but not much.  They argued over whose turn it was to go grab some vittles and whose turn it was to make over the kids.
    Now, you would figure that the kids were raging, horrible tykes, completely incapable of handling being out at all.
    Not so, my friends.
    These were three of the most well-behaved kids I've seen in some time.  The only time they got annoyed, and actually this was a lot, was when their mother hassled them about "Eat!" or "Wipe your face!"  Other than that, the kids were doing just fine, calm and collected.
    Strange.  Then there were the kids that were running around like heathens and whose parents were more entranced by General Tso Chicken than by their brood...the two sets of parents could learn from each other.
    Kids learn the most from their mistakes...let them make at least a few.
    As an aside, let's chat about good management.  I'll put it into a football scenario.  If you have an experience veteran player, one that has been loyal for years to your team, do you just let him go if he receives an offer in free agency from another team?  Hmmm.  Takeo Spikes, linebacker from the Bengals, was let go to the Bills a couple of weeks ago.  This will hurt the Bengals, though they've replaced him with Kevin Hardy, an apt player, but not a shining star.  To baseball, when the Reds resigned Barry Larkin a couple of years ago, a former ML MVP and link back to the World Series team of 1990, did that help or hurt the team?  Some would say it hurt, tightening the budget straps for other, younger players, but at what cost the experience and the knowledge of the game he brought.
    The right move was to stand up and be loyal to those who have given loyalty to you.  In Takeo Spikes's case, of course, he wanted out of Cincinnati and its cesspool of football (but one that may turn around with their new coach).  There was no real reasoning to be done.
    Loyalty is a tricky thing.  But when one side deliberates and chooses the best path for themself and the other side completely ignores what that one side has done for them, it is most assuredly a mistake.  My best wishes to my friend who made that choice to move on...you did the right thing, as evidenced most blatantly by the reaction you were given.

March 20, 2003 + "Family."
    My maternal grandfather died today.
    Any death in any family is generally striking.  He was my last remaining grandparent, though, so it is moreso for me this time.  All of my grandparents, and all of my family members for that matter, mean the world to me and have each nurtured me and added to my life in countless ways.  Sometimes saying goodbye is tragic, sometimes it is unexpected, sometimes, unbelievably, it is a relief.
    This is none of those, it is simply sad.  To me, my grandfather lost much of his spark when my grandmother died some years back.  He carried on, though, and watched as my aunt died from cancer a few years ago, which was terribly hard on all of us.  I have to say that I am more than a bit numb right now.
    There is always, to me, some form of guilt, some form of "I wish I could have...." that goes along with a loved one's death.  These are the things that make the passing so difficult.  My belief system (or my ideal system, depending upon how you want to read it) is such that I know my grandfather, like my other relatives and friends who have slipped the mortal coil, is elsewhere, possibly looking on, possibly newborn at some other place, existing still.  Or perhaps learning still, watching us still.
    The Tao teaches that "when there is no desire, all things are at peace"...perhaps, then, death is the body's realization that there is nothing left for it in this world at this time.
    Regardless of whatever rhetoric I could propose on this day, I do miss a number of people greatly.  I miss my grandfather and grandmother, I miss my Dad's Dad a whole lot, and I miss my friends who have gone on to greater cosmic things.
    In death we realize the necessity and beauty of family.

March 16, 2003 + "Cats Going Nuts."
    Oh, like death to me is Spring.
    I dread the cutting of the grass, the weeding and outdoor numbskullery.
    But, then, there's baseball.  And driving with the windows down and terrifyingly loud music playing.  And the lack of clothing which, on many, is a good thing and more than makes up for those on which you still ache to see a floor-length coat or, perhaps, in the worst case, a body bag.
    And the cats are going nuts because we've opened our sealed domain, the windows on our house have been opened to the weather which is already too warm for me.  I'm good at 55 to 65 degrees.  Anything above that and I'm miserable.  So you can imagine me in a typical Ohio Valley summer...that is to say, 95 degrees with a relative humidity of nearly 100%...awful stuff.  Why I didn't bolt for Anchorage at the first opportunity, I'll never know.
    But here we are.  Happy Spring, everyone...enjoy it as I wallow in misery.
    * the preceding journal entry is indeed ripe with sarcasm, but as we well know, every pint of sarcasm is tainted with an ounce or two of truth*

March 3, 2003 + "My Views?"
    I've been asked to give further insight on my views of the world today, the "Midest Crisis" and other such things.  I'm just assuming that some folks didn't like my suggestions of March 1st.  C'est la vie, baby.
    Here goes:
    I feel like I'm on the bad guys' team.  Other countries want dialogue.  We say (using "we" in the loosest terms possible) that we're through talking.  Others say their countries have the right to arm themselves, being sovereign nations and all.  We say that they shouldn't, that they're a threat to freedom.  Others want us dead.  We kill ourselves every day, poisoning ourselves with what we eat, what we watch and what we do.
    Hmmmm....
    First off, it's any nation's right to bear arms in defense or as a weapon of aggression.  It is also our right to defend ourselves.  Ultimately, no matter the gains of having friends, it's all for themselves when the chips are down.  You think France or Germany, the same monkeys that sold Iraq its nuclear technology, wouldn't turn on us in a heartbeat?  But, then, we were fighting against weapons that we'd sold Iraq, or given them, back in '91.  You see, folks?  It IS like pro-wrestling!  The good guys turn bad and the bad guys turn good really quickly, better not miss an episode!
    Dialogue?  Yes.  Always.  Without communication, we are nothing.  Without communication there is no understanding.  Without communication there is no progress.  Without communication there is no growth.  And you see, no growth-no understanding-no progress = war.
    Simple, eh?
    Finally, we're all a bunch of scum on this planet anyway.  We suck it dry like we suck each other dry.  We're destined for extinction because our "leaders" in the world are people like George Bush, Saddam Hussein and the rest of the lot.  We've voted - or been very silent out of fear - and allowed our futures to be bartered by fools who think power is the ultimate end, rather than a positive future and growth toward a human community on earth instead of the violent ant farm that is has become.
    People suck.
    But it's very easy to change.
    Take your lips off the pipe of fear and destruction and quit sucking.

March 1, 2003 + "The Way Of The War."
    I'm not much for war.  Just not into it.  Sometimes, is it necessary?  Sure.  Absolutely.
    Should George Bush have dialogue with Saddam Hussein?
    Man, that would be a debate for the ages!!!  I'd do a pay-per-view on that one...think of the money we could make!  And that's what war's all about, right?  Money, pride or religion.  It's never over something sensible, like crops or civil rights (civil rights being the antithesis of war).
    Let's do the pay-per-view and settle things that way.  Have them wrestle.  Whoever loses has to disarm.  I like our chances.  Bush is younger and a tad more spritely.  I'd bet on him getting a pinfall within two or three minutes.  Giant superplex off the top rope and its all over, man.
    Watch out for those foreign objects...Hussein's just the type to keep a fork or something in his tights.

February 20, 2003 + "Ice Storm 2003?  Gravy."
    Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been gravy at all.  The massive amount of ice that coated Central Kentucky from Saturday night until today, causing major power outages and such, has been a disaster.  In one sense, it was quite cool to see...everything looked really groovy, shiny and neat.
    However, when there's the danger of a tree falling on you due to the weight of the ice on it's branches, that sucks the neatness out of it very quickly.
    Rather than deride the weather or add more colorful commentary about it, I shall simply give you a picture of me and a friend of mine.  It's good to have friends on the inside, as it were....

February 15/16, 2003 + "Seven Hours Of Pure Entertainment."
    Factoid:  it normally takes about an hour & fifteen minutes to get from Northern Kentucky to my home.
    I had gone to Cincinnati to visit Bunny and run through musical ideas for a television program he's working on.  We (he, me and his fiance, Jeanne) had lunch at a super place called Dewey's Pizza.  I left there around 4:00 PM.
    I had planned on not going to see my parents, but they wanted me to and I hadn't seen them in a while, so I went by.  Here's a note:  the weather around these parts called for rain, freezing rain and sleet, with snow overnight.  Pure ugly.  It wasn't bad going to their house though...until I stepped out of my truck (another important point - I drive a truck) and almost slid across their driveway.
    I left their house at 5:00 PM.  My plan was to hit home around 6:30 PM and have dinner with my wife, Tracy, and then work on doing a full demo of the music for Bunny's show.
    As I hit I-75 South in Erlanger, KY, though, I noticed a higher-than-usual number of vehicles in the ditches on either side of the highway, an overabundance of blue and red emergency lights and a lot slower driving than is normal for that stretch.
    Yes, dear readers, it was an icy hell just brewing for me.  And me?  I'm either very stupid, very brave or just slow on the uptake.  I continued on.  More vehicles, mainly trucks (hint, hint) and SUV's in ditches and against the retaining wall.  I think every police officer in NKY was on 75 helping with accidents.
    Now, what type of vehicle was I in?  Yes, a pickup truck.  Pickup trucks do not mix well with ice.  Sort of like orange juice mixed with freshly brushed teeth.  It's bad.  Just like Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley.  Just plain horrid.  Just like pumpkin pie with strawberry jelly.  It's not good.  No weight in the back end equals little to no traction.
    I took it slowly and carefully.  It's all I could do.  I hooked up with a semi that I trusted...can't say why except that I trusted him to not run up on peoples' rear ends and, whenever he slowed, I would slow and then inevitably hit a patch of ice that I would not have seen otherwise.  It was all good and I thank him and wish him well wherever he's at now.
    My trucker friend and I hit mile marker 150 on I-75 South and, rather than just slowing on the incline we were on, we came to an absolute dead stop.  For an hour, we crept every so often, but no more than a mile.  Then, it all ended.  For a total of about three hours we sat there on 75.  I called Tracy, my folks and Bunny at various points to keep them abreast.  Actually, I only called Bunny once...it was at that point I realized exactly how long I'd been on the road.
    I got out at a couple points and talked with fellow travelers and truckers that were wandering around.  A trucker informed me that a semi had jacknifed up ahead and was across the roadway.  We all slid around.  There was a layer of ice on the road that made it impossible to walk without holding onto a vehicle.  Even the divets on the side, the wake-up strips, were slick and terrible.  No traction there.
    At about 10:00 PM, we got moving...very slowly.  It took me several fishtails and much patience, but I made it up the hill and down the other side and traffic began to even out, then thin out.  Salt trucks had made their way through ahead of us and left slush instead of ice, which was welcomed.  Where we had been stopped, we couldn't see the other, Northbound lanes.  As we got to a point where we could, that side was stopped dead too.
    Things went along okay for a number of miles, though slowly.  I left my trucker friend behind, perhaps out of anxiety, more likely just because I wanted to get home.
    Somewhere just South of Sadieville, I hooked up with a line of vehicles, me at the tail-end, that were following a salt truck.  The Pied Piper of the icebound traveler, the salt truck led us over new slush and at a steady, but slow, pace for a couple miles, until we came to a hill.  I noticed from my vantage point that emergency blinkers were coming on and the salt truck was making a getaway from us, heading over the crest of the hill without us.
    The Pied Piper promised salvation, but he led us astray!
    Ice.
    Wet, slick, cold ice.
    The ten cars and one semi, plus my truck, in the gaggle dispersed, with most of them slowly trudging up the hill.  I was behind the semi trying to keep myself straight when I saw his tractor sliding left and his trailer curling around to his right.  At the same time, my tail end was kicking left .  It was like a ballet with one dancer weighting thirty tons and one weighing about a ton.  I would lose this battle, if there was to be one.
    As the semi pulled himself together in the high speed lane, how I do not know, I was trying in vain to get traction.  There I sat, sideways on I-75, pointing West, with traffic approaching behind me and a semi that just barely kept from being another jacknife victim to my left.  No traction, and I wouldn't get any with my current state.  I let off the brake, left it in neutral (stick shifts are good things) and rolled backwards till I was parallel with the lanes of the road again...and very, very, very slowly, I inched forward.
    I've had my truck for five and a half years...we know each other well.
    I got to the edge of the road and those divets I mentioned earlier.  I kept my right tires on them and my left ones in the middle of the slow lane, where all the salt had collected.  My fillings almost rattled out, but I went about two miles like this.  I felt like I might be able to hit the pavement full-on again and tried it...and fishtailed again.  I went back to the divets for about three miles.
    Finally, slushy road abounded again.
    I made it to my exit for Georgetown.
    I made it to Rt. 25.
    I made it home.
    I have no more adrenalin in my system.  That hormone is on the endangered list at this point.  There's just no more left in me.
    Looking back, I think the following numbers are accurate:
    Average speed:  15 MPH  with a High of 32 MPH and a low of barely 1 MPH.  I never hit 55 MPH, or 45 MPH, for that matter, on my ride home on I-75.
    Things I thought about while sitting idle for hours:  Tracy, the new band, the theme song for Bunny's show, my parents, the Buccaneers and their recent Super Bowl win, guitars, basses, new amplifiers, Stormtroopers, lying politicians and phony wars versus decent politicians and wars that should actually be fought.
    Things I read while sitting idle for hours:  liner notes to Rollins Band's live album, The Only Way To Know For Sure, and Alan Watts' This Is It.
  I'm glad to be home.  Seven hours later.  This will be a topic for the next poetry reading I participate in...it's going to make a rockin' spoken word piece, that much I know.
    (See?  There's always a silver lining, right?)

February 12, 2003 + "Strange Days."
    Music:  The Slip - Angels Come On Time
    Thoughts:  bordering on existentialism
    Time:  8:15 PM
    I won some nifty stuff from a contest that I entered halfheartedly.  Being a CD whore, I picked up a disc some months back by the band I'm currently listening to, The Slip.  Very cool, eclectic rock with grooves for miles and intelligent, emotive lyrics.  Great stuff that I bought on a whim because I liked the cover of the disc.
    Inside the disc was an entry form for a contest they were running.  Grand prize was a guitar, some CD's from Rykodisc and some artwork.
    A week or so ago I got an e-mail saying I'd won.
    I'd forgotten that I entered, to be honest.  It's cool, though.  All this from picking up a disc on a whim, just like I used to do when I worked at Record Alley through high school and college.
    Lesson:  you never know what great things you'll find when you take a chance on something new.

February 8, 2003 + "Somehow Not Quite."
    Somehow, something's not quite right.  I'm surrounded by good things, with the token bad things, but everything seems shrouded in gray.  I need to talk to a friend of mine, but my schedule has not permitted it.  I shall endeavor to fix that today at some point.  I need to touch base with reality and conversations with him are cornerstones of what I define as reality.
    Music is slippery now.  It is good and it is exciting, but it is also somehow strange.  Like the third date with someone that you are truly head over heels with.  Everything is good, but strained due to the growth of the relationship(s).  I do not feel grounded and, moreso, I feel a bit lost.
    I suppose that is art.
    If you truly know where you're going, then you're not going anywhere at all.

February 4, 2003 + "And Now, The News...."
    Current Music:  Camper Van Beethoven, The Slip and Peter Gabriel.
    Current Books:  Down And Out In Paris And London by George Orwell and Zen Buddhism: Selected Writings of D.T. Suzuki.
    A brief two-day hint of spring and now it is cold again...thank goodness.  I love winter, in all its glory.  Spring means grass to mow...which reminds me that I have to pick up the lawnmower from the shop where it has been in twice now, for about three months, because when I last attempted to mow the grass, it wouldn't start.  Long story short, its finally fixed...I think.  It's far too harrowing to go into, really.
    I'm tired of the pull of my job.  The pull away from what I truly love to do.  Perhaps it's the Orwell book that I'm reading causing the extra trouble in my head.  Perhaps it's the feel that, in four months, my life is over.
    Just kidding.
    I'll only be thirty.
    But thirty is old, isn't it?  I look to my pals who have just recently turned for input...but not too much, it seems to ghastly to go into.
    Speaking of pals, one o' my bestest pals, Bunny, did a thin on one of his pages about dreams and it was absolutely hilarious, and insightful.  It's difficult to be both, but he straddles that line very well and very often.  He is a renaissance man and I love having him as one of my go-to guys.  Not coincidentally, he is one of the ones that just turned thirty.
    Anyway, it made me think about dreams.
    I remember none of my dreams.
    I see things occasionally, during my wakened hours, and they happen.  ESP?  Perhaps.  Just in touch with life?  Perhaps.  Dreams, though?  I haven't remember a dream since I was five and awoke from a nightmare where a green gremlin, looking shockingly like the Green Goblin from the old Spider-Man cartoons, trapped me in our old garage in Bellevue, KY, where we lived till I was seven.  From that point on, maybe a snippet here or there, but aside from that, nothing.
    No dreams.
    Not that I doubt my mind is raging while I'm sleeping just as it is, or moreso than, when I am awake, but I just don't get the benefit of remembering it.
    Again, input is needed...is there a fix?

January 30, 2003 + "Still Jazzed."
    Yes, dear readers, I am still quite jazzed from the Buccaneers' win last Sunday to capture their first world championship.
    But, at the same time, I'm barely alive at work.  Usually, no more than two bad days get strung together.  This week, however, has seen all four days thus far be absolutely horrid beyond belief.  If tomorrow, the last day of the month, when billing becomes the be-all-end-all, is anything like these past four, I may just have to...do something.  Not sure what, just yet.  Just something.
    Sometimes the utter silliness of some folks' decision making skills astounds me.  The way some folks look at a grain of sand as if it were a part of the Adirondacks that is just impassable.  It is beyond me.  Do what you need to do and shut up.  Don't hassle me with the who-for's, the why-for's and the what's...just do it and leave me out of it.  And don't hit me up for something five times and expect a warm welcome the sixth time.
    If it sounds like I'm roughed up, well, I am.
    I'm not the only one, though, and I realize that.  I'm muddling through.
    The good news is twfold:  first, I feel the dam about to burst.  I've been on a long dry streak, writing-wise, both poetically and song-wise.  I've had my ideas brewing again.  I've stopped editing for the new book because of this.  I have more than enough material, but I want to wait to see what I can scoop up and put down in the next few weeks.  Musically, I couldn't be happier.  I'm playing with three guys who care about the music, care about the compositions and lyrics, and can jam like nobody's business.
    As an example, I got my first blister in years...in years, mind you, last Saturday.  It hurts terribly right now (just got done with practice).  Its a mark of diggin in again and trying to find who I am as a musician now.  I know who I was.  I know, or I have a vision, of who I'd like to be.  It's like an old lyric of mine, "I know who I am / But I'm trapped in the shell / Of who I've let myself become."
    I'm attempting to break the shell and become more me, personality-wise.  I like to groove, I like to dig in.  I also like to throw odd things out there.  It's beyond words.  I can't describe it, but I could play it for you.
    I can't show you, but I can make you groove to it.
    I can't paint it, but I can make it seem like a color.

January 26, 2003 + "WORLD CHAMPIONS!!!"
    I believed.
    I believed for years that they would eventually put all the pieces together and win the championship.
    I believed, I wore the colors, I watched.
    I hoped.
    And the Buccaneers did it.
    2002-2003 SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONS
    TAMPA BAY
    BUCCANEERS

January 19, 2003 + "They Did It!!!"
    Longtime readers of this journal know this already, but I need to set the stage:  the first football game I remember as a child was the 1979 NFC Championship game between the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and Los Angeles Rams.  I fell in love with the Bucs and their uniforms and have been a loyal fan ever since, through the torture of the '80's as I learned about football and through the building of the team in the '90's.
    And so, with more than 20 years invested in my team, I am so very proud to type the following words:

  NFC CHAMPIONS...
    The Tampa Bay Buccaneers!!!

  See ya next week in San Diego for Super Bowl XXXVII!!!

January 11, 2003 + "Nostalgia, He Said."
    At the risk of dating myself, I'm presenting a trip down memory lane.  A friend that I thought I had lost due to the intricacies of music and bandwork many moons ago (we had thought it was 8 years, but I believe it to be closer to 10 as of this writing) contacted me out of the blue a few days ago.  It was quite unexpected because the last time we spoke it degenerated into anger and loathing for, really, no good reasons.  That interaction, though, and the lessons learned, have aided me since.  I recognized his voice immediately upon hearing it on the other end of the telephone line, from the other end of the country.
    A long time ago in an area not so far away, I was in a band called Midgard.  We were all good musicians, wrote some decent songs and played out a fair amount.  We changed singers and that's how I met Adrian.  The photo below is from a gig we did at Never On Sundays north of Cincinnati in, I believe, 1993.

    That's Tony Wheeler on guitar, Adrian on acoustic & vocals, me on bass and Robb Kottmyer on drums.  Back when I had hair, too.  Not that I don't have hair now...it's just about eight inches shorter than it was in this photo and, if memory serves, I had just gotten about four more inches hacked off a short time before this show.
    Midgard, for what it was, as I alluded to before was a great training ground for the future.  Adrian and I left Midgard to start a new band that would eventually become Feelin' Crystal, which had moderate success in the Greater Cincinnati area.  Due to the strains of career and scheduling, Adrian didn't end up in Feelin' Crystal, though he and a fellow named Jason Rohlman were to be our vocalist and second guitarist.  Jason didn't end up in the band either.  It was a turbulent time all the way around.  It was good to hear that Adrian still has the old Peavey SP-1's we bought together.  I still have the CS-800 Power Amp myself.  Turns out the equipment, much like friendship, can take the beatings of the years and still come back to sound sweet later on.
    For further reference: SK Band Time Line

January 1, 2003 + "Another Year, Another Debacle."
    So, another year gone, another year in the offing, eh?  The great wheel of life turning on and on, right?
    Yup, sure seems that way.
    Christmas was good and last night, NYEve was good too, both spent with friends and family.  A wonderful time had by all.
    I'm not the sort to make NYResolutions.  Never have, really.  It seems silly, as Tracy pointed out, since if you can't promise yourself to do something on June 30th and stick to it, why should you be able to in the middle of winter at the turn of the year?
   I will say this, though:  there will be some changes this year.  Not sure exactly where, but there will be changes.  I have no shortage of projects taken on for the coming year, such as a new book, reissues of CD's and such, plus starting a new band.  There has to be something deeper, though.  I need some self-actualization this year.  I need some inner peace.  I have domestic joy and I have artistic turbulence - both good things - but I have not found a balance for myself inside this bone bag I reside in.
    I think I have simply not focused enough on the "me" part of me.
    Here are some random thoughts:
    -  will someone tell me what the impending war with Iraq is really about?  I'm going with the oil/money in the guise of civil liberties and such.  Granted, Hussein sucks, gassed his own people as an experiment with biological agents and on down the line.  However, something seems horribly fishy about the whole thing.  And, really, if you topple him all you're going to get is Iran running in to seize the charcoal briquettes leftover after we bomb Baghdad and rebuilding it into an even larger version of sociopathic religious fundamental zealot morons.  Do we really need this?
    -  I'm predicting big things for my Tampa Bay Buccaneers...it feels right this year, that's all I can say about it.
    -  My inspiration sponge is dried and crusted, but the tap is dripping with increasing frequency, threatening to soak the critter again.  It is a good thing.
    -  William Faulkner:  "An artist is a creature driven by demons.  He doesn't know why they choose him and is usually too busy to wonder."
    -  A Christian Zen Koan:  "Can God create a rock so heavy that even He cannot lift it?"
    Starting the new year off as strangely as the last one ended....

December 15, 2002 + "Spelling Be."
    Spelling is a big thing to me.  So are grammar and punctuation.  It is quite disconcerting to me to reread some e-mails and things I've written in the past couple of weeks that have horrid problems of these natures.  95% of them can be attributed to the Scot-Speed-Typing school of issues.  I type fairly quickly and, as such, make some errors.  Even though I normally proofread things, some slink by.
    My latest issues are having "of" come out as "fo" and "the" come out as "hte" for some reason.  Or just completely leaving off letters, especially if they begin the next word.  For example, I'll type "Where is you rocket ship?" instead of "Where is your rocket ship?"  Its like some sort of strange newspeak phenomenon that only I'm getting hit with.
    So, to all those who've read my latest missives and thought ill of me, I apologize.
    In other news, hey, Christmas is coming!
    Capitalism at its finest.  I love it.  I know there's more to it than that, especially if you have certain religious leanings, but we know what's really up with all the commercials and sales:  money.  Not good will, not peace on earth.  Money.  Yes.
    My idea of my families meeting here at our house for dinner and each of us donating money to a  pot to be given to a charity drawn from a hat was met with ridicule.  So be it.  I'll play the game, then.
    Let's buy!
    Create a need and then fill that need.
    A holiday meant (I assume) to celebrate a religiously significant event...we'll turn that into an event where everyone is obligated to give people they love or know a gift or two.  Good.
    Now we'll advertise to these would-be consumers.  Good.
    Sales galore!  Lights!  Tapestries!  Santas!  Oh, my!
    I'll stop...I'm being cynical again, aren't I?
    This time of year brings it out in me.
    Just a big hootin' ol' grin!!!
    Er, I mean grinch...that typing thing again....

December 12, 2002 + "Musicology, Misuse & Misery."
    The new band, embryonic as it currently is, played for the first time tonight, sans one fellow who couldn't make it.  With this first jam session not only did my hopes of the last few months get realized, but some misuse of time on my part did as well.
    It is no one's fault but my own and I realize this and accept it willingly.  Life is a long learning curve?  No, more like a learning ocean, with varying degrees of waves that you surf or drown in.  I'm in a shallow between two waves right now.  That is what I realized tonight.
    One of my hopes in forming this new band was to progress as a musician myself as a subtext to writing cool, soulful, emotional music.  They go hand-in-hand, I think.  I have a long, long way to go.
    You see, I was playing tonight with some seriously good musicians, far beyond what I'm used to.  That is not to say by any means that the folks I've played with over the last couple of years were weak in any way.  Not so.  Just different, with different skill levels and different musical agendas.  I, however, allowed my practicing to fall off and fell to a lower level as a player because it is all that was called for.  I-IV-V progressions, while a fine staple of music and necessary, after a while fail to inspire.  When my inspiration wore off, I let myself fall off.
    Again, I place no blame but unto myself and I do not in any way point fingers at anyone.
    I have a lot of work to do if I want to make this new band work with me in it.
    And some of you, like my wife, may feel I'm being a bit too difficult on myself.
    Perhaps.
    But I feel as if I've let myself down in a big way.
    And, on top of all that, we started to play tonight and I kept losing my signal to my amp.  Crisis?  A bit, but luckily there was another amp there I could use.  Turns out that the input jack on my amp has puked.  Sort of karmic, eh?  Do not stop, do not pass go...settle down, get your chops back and then think about plugging in, brother.
    Okay.  Having just typed that, perhaps I'm am being hard on myself.
    But, again, I know for a fact that I'm nowhere near where I want to be and it's because I've misused so much time that could have been spent in the journey, but was spent playing in a shack by the side of the road.
    It will change....

December 7, 2002 + "Christmas?  We Don't Need No Stinking Christmas!"
    A shiver to you all out there in the frozen world...ain't it great?  I adore winter.  Well, I adore fall and I generally like the winter.  Seems fall, though, only lasts for those few short days where you get to enjoy "jacket" weather.  Then, all of the sudden, there's snow on the ground and you're wishing you were back in school just so you can have a day off to enjoy the stuff.
    But Christmas is upon us and, alas, let me assure everyone who is normally on my list that it will not be a banner year.  Probably a smile and a kind word is all I'll be able to afford, but what is Christmas really about anyway?  The money spent or the friendships maintained and the goodwill toward all?  I choose the latter, myself.
    The tentative title of what was to be my solo project is Chaos By Design.  This is, however, with the hiatus, most likely permanent, of DaVinci's Burden, becoming a full fledged band.  I'm quite glad of this, actually.  I've gotten to meet some very cool musicians and will also have the opportunity to play with a few that I've admired for some time as well.  Should be fun, intense and successful.  Stay tuned for that.
    And, of course, I'm a hopeless shill...keep in mind that the DKP Store is open for business for all your holiday shopping needs (please ignore my statements in the second paragraph of this entry while browsing our catalog.)

November 23, 2002 + "How Progressive Are You?"
    If you've known me for any length of time, or you're a longtime reader of this seemingly endless experiment that my journal has become,  you know that I am not a big fan of labels and tags for literature or music.  Granted, there are eras of literature and eras of music, but to tag something immediately puts a stifling hold on its inherent abilities to grow.
    Thus, it is with much shame and horror that I occasionally say that I like "progressive" music.  Truth be told, I like a lot of just about everything, from Iannis Xenakis' manic dissonant classical stuff to Warren Zevon's powerful, emotional rock.  Actually, if you listen, compositionally, they have a bit in common.
    Progressive music, to me, is music that cares not what time period it is written in but, rather, cares about delving into the deepest emotional places, perhaps putting a light on social issues, extending the envelope of composition and implying the yearning of the human heart.  It is not simply a band that can compose a tune that changes keys and time signatures every four and a half measures while staring meekly at its toes between songs while on-stage.
    Iron Maiden was and is a progressive band.  Why?  No one, and I mean no one, can or does sound like them.  Strip away your preconceptions and, from a musical standpoint, address their compositions.  The interplay of the two (now three) guitars and the harmony leads and riffs.  This is not simple stuff.  This is heady, eclectic music with a vision and force that only the best classical compositions can match.
    Bruce Cockburn is progressive.  Why?  Matching lyrical wit and wisdom with a wide expanse of instruments and feels for his 30 year career, not caring for the taste of the moment on the charts.  It is an artform to him, much like it is to Mr. Zevon.
    King Crimson is progressive.  Why?  Not for the obvious (time changes, key movements, composition styles), but rather for the eye to the future that they had and still have.  Robert Fripp for having the keen business sense to start Discipline Global Mobile and take the reins of his and his band's own career.  And the musicians in the band, from Ian MacDonald to Bill Bruford to Tony Levin to Adrian Belew to Trey Gunn...more well-rounded players you will not find anywhere.
    R.E.M. is progressive.  Why?  Take a sunny afternoon and listen straight through from Murmur to Reveal and you will find a band that has grown, changed and affected music, rather than having music affect them.  When you see growth in a band, then you see progression (get it?) and there is progressive music.
    Music, contrary to what you see in the current pop and country markets, is an artform, my friends.  Yes, indeed, it is about entertainment as well, and shaking your booty and having a good time, but it is an artform.  Just as artists and poets have the occasional silly work, fun work, something to stir laughter or a smile, so does music have it's pop acts.  Regardless, it is an artform.
    And art is noted by its progression, it's constant mirror of society and its ability to convey the emotions of the time.
    That's how I judge progressive music.

November 19, 2002 + "Flux It!"
    Raising myself from the embers and ashes is something I've grown accustomed to over the years.  It is happening again and all I can say is, well, at least I'm prepared for it.  I'm currently meeting with musicians to sift through and find people that I want to put a new band together with.  Not that DaVinci's Burden is completely dead, but alas, with two members leaving the area, we've hit a roadblock and, quite possibly, gone off the edge.
    So it is left to me to open the door to the future.  It is not with a trembling hand this time.  Actually, I kicked the door in.  I've been playing too long and my desire still burns too hotly to not go all out.  I know what I want to do and it is the same thing that I've wanted for as long as I can remember.  My dreams are intact even if the veil around them is changing shape and color.
    http://www.diabolicalkitten.com/cbd.htm
    If you're interested, hit the link and e-mail me.  I've gotten great responses from a bunch of people here in the area, met with a couple so far, doing the meet & greet to see how we click and all that.  It's good.
    My hats off to my old pal, Aaron, who called last night.  Partly a trip down memory lane, partly bringing each other up on what's been going on in our lives.  We played in a band for a while, which didn't work out for a multitude of reasons, and lost touch with each other.  Sometimes music makes us do silly things.  Or, perhaps, the blindness with which we pursue our dreams.
    And so, it was quite sobering, the conversation, and a reminder of how to keep the outlook strong, the will powerful and, most of all, the music emotional, revealing and uplifting, even in the face of despair.
 

November 6, 2002 + "Welling Up."
    I can't say that everything is bad, per se.  It is most certainly not.  Personally, I'm fine.  It's everything else.  The (sad) state of the world.  Politics.  My job.  Artistic endeavors.  There are stones in the road of each that cannot, at present, be moved.  Motivation is at a wane, slowly seeping from my pores with no action being taken with it.  Smiles are less likely amid the maelstrom of mediocrity that my hopes are becoming.
    Or, perhaps, I'm being melodramatic.
    I will simply state here and now that my empathic tendencies are draining me beyond my capability to recharge in a decent amount of time.  I do not want to care as much as I do, about my job especially.  A change there would be in order, but the job market is slim.  Not knowing who will carry my company's insurance next year is a problem too.  It's not that I so much want to not be diabetic to avoid needles and things...I can dig them and they've become friends.  It's the insurance that always finds a way to dig under my skin and spread new strains of hellish indignities.
    Maybe it's just post-election day tremors.  The realization upon arrivnig at our poll and seeing for myself that, as feared, more than half of our "elections" were people running completely, utterly and totally unopposed.  I may feel the need to actually jump in next year, much like Hunter S. Thompson running for Sherriff of Aspen, I may have to throw my hat into the ring.  At least for a City Council position.  Who knows?  It's a thought.  I could be the only one on council in a denim jacket and Buccaneers ball cap...just like our National Honor Society picture from high school.  Who's the dude with the long hair and jean jacket?  Oh, that's Scot.
    I must find a way to calm or deride the darkness that is welling up within me.

November 3, 2002 + "Something Harrowing."
    I can't honestly say that it's so much harrowing as it is disturbing.  Politics, that is.  For example, the Amendment up for debate/decision in Kentucky.  All of the television ads say to vote for Amendment 2 for our children and for the growth of Kentucky's economy.  It's made to sound as if Amendment 2 will strangle our ability to attract companies to the Commonwealth and hurt our education system, which is actually already in a state of disarray because of KERA (Kentucky Education Reform Act or some such nonsense...thank god I graduated a few years before it took effect.)
    Amendment 2 will actually take two things out of Kentucky's Constitution.  One mandate is that a company must actually do business in the Commonwealth to be incorporated here.  The other is that a company cannot own land for more than five years without doing something, as in doing business, with it.
    Personally, I think these two mandates are good things.  I don't want companies from outside the Commonwealth incorporating here for tax breaks and such without employing residents or doing business here.  I don't want companies buying up land and sitting on it, doing nothing with it.  If you want to do business here, do business here.
    You see, it has nothing to do with education.
    It has to do with money.
    That's why none of the ads actually say what it's about.
    I love Autumn, but I hate election day.
    Harrowing business.
    I'm seriously thinking of going into politics....
 

October 24, 2002 + "Sublimity."
    Sublime adj of outstanding spiritual, intellectual or moral worth or tending to inspire awe because of elevated quality.
    While driving home from practice, such as it was tonight, and with the tortures of my workday still echoing in my head, I began thinking of sublimity.  Another adjective tossed about rather carelessly, I think, in our world, just as the emotions of love and hate are.  I remember hitting upon sublimity in a course on Romantic Literature in college.  Not Romantic like Harelquin novels, but the Romatic era of literature, which included the brief, but very cool, Gothic movement.  Nothing like giant helmets falling from the skies to kill a prince or the necessity of labyrinths, you know?
    Anyway, I digress.
    While driving home I began searching my melted mind for examples of true musical sublimity.  And here you go:
    1.    Warren Zevon - the guitar solo in the song, Looking For The Next Best Thing, nearly makes me weep because it fits so perfectly and is what every guitar solo should be.  That is, not just a wankfest, but a separate theme adding to and advancing the emotion and soul of the song itself.  Played by Waddy Wachtel, a frequent Zevon collaborator, it is perfect.  Along with this, throw in the entire Excitable Boy album.
    2.    Ellis Paul - the basslines on the album Translucent Soul, written and played by Tony Levin, especially on the title song.  Utterly, incredibly perfect, especially when teamed with the percussion of Jerry Marotta.
    3.    Peter Gabriel - the song Solsbury Hill...enough said.
    4.    Iannis Xenakis - Kottos, a composition for solo cello.  Odd and frighteningly beautiful.
    5.    Bruce Cockburn - the song Tie Me At The Crossroads When I Die is a masterpiece.
    6.    Lyle Lovett - the song If I Had A Boat is mournful, yet beautiful and hopeful at the same time.
    7.    Hamell On Trial - Ed's Not Dead-Hamell Comes Alive
           Iron Maiden - Live After Death
     these two are tied for the best live albums rock & roll has produced
    8.    King Crimson - the song The ConstruKction Of Light, from the composition to the utter lightness with which it is played...stunning on record and it was even moreso live.
    9.    Tony Levin - Belle from his solo album, Waters Of Eden.  A piece with his brother on piano, Tony on bass, written for their mother.
    10.  Vince Guaraldi Trio - Linus And Lucy. Has a more perfect song been written?

    I welcome your thoughts and ideas on other sublime musical moments...pleiades@diabolicalkitten.com

October 19, 2002 + "Wed And Wild."
    Nothing's different, yet so much has changed.  In a wonderful way.  Our wedding on October 12th went off without a hitch (my many thanks to our families and friends who helped us) and our honeymoon was a blast as well.  So we're back here in our humble abode to take stock, enjoy the weekend and then prepare to meet the masses again on Monday.  For me, I also have to try to get used to typing with a ring on my finger.
    Photo galleries from both the wedding/reception and our honeymoon will be posted within a week or so for those of you interested in playing voyeur to our events.  From the short groups of photos we've seen thus far, we should have a bundle to look through and pick out things to post.
    More to come....

September 29, 2002 + "Savor The Passages."
    The countdown is on now.  In two weeks hence, I shall be married to my beloved partner, T.  Why have I never put her name in the journal entries where she appeared?  Fear of karmic imbalance?  Who knows.  Her name is Tracy Lee Phillips and she is the love of my life.  Fate has no hold on me except the rigors that diabetes might place on my physical being.  Other than that, control is mine (or, perhaps, I just think so.)
    We met with the man to perform our ceremony, a friend of my family and a great friend of mine for a number of years, Reverend Timothy Ellis, yesterday and he brought something to my attention that had slipped under my radar.  It is from my first book, A Complete Sentience (poems for the breakfast table).  The poem is Early Life Crisis.  The businessman in me says to ask you all to purchase it so you can read and relate to what happened, but I know that poetry is horribly unfashionable in most circles, as opposed to having a copy of Sports Illustrated or Cosmopolitan out on your coffee tables (joking, friends, joking!), so here is the piece:

Early Life Crisis

I dread being thirty and waking up
Alone.
I fear being alone, yet I've come to be
    a friend of loneliness.
You see, sometimes it's better to befriend
The one who can cause you the most harm.
That way, you're seldom surprised.

I've befriended loneliness,
I've befriended the macabre,
    homicidal parts of myself that always
    lie in wait,
I've befriended the mean parts of myself
    that snap at the wrong times,
I've befriended pain and anger,
    so that I can temper my frustration.

But I have yet to truly befriend a woman.

SNK

  The irony in this poem, as was pointed out to me, is that next May, I will indeed be thirty years old.  I have, though, truly befriended and fallen in love with a woman who sets my mind, my heart and my body aflame.  And in that process, I've found that I have let go of a great portion of those "macabre, homicidal parts of myself" and, rather than by befriending pain and anger, but by befriending Tracy, I've tempered my frustration.
    The poetic meanderings of a younger, more torn up me.  I'll be thirty in May.  I was, I believe, 23 when I wrote Early Life Crisis.  Sometimes the crisis of youth is simply impatience.

September 12, 2002 + "Ah-ooo, Werewolves of Kentucky."
  Somewhere along the way, I remember standing outside the Kentucky State Police Northern Forensic Laboratory with my friend Greg discussing the genius of the lyrics to Excitable Boy by Warren Zevon.  I remember my friend Kristian, a bit earlier, and we're talking around '92 or '93 now, buying a copy of Zevon's Transverse City album from me at Record Alley.  I remember buying A Quiet Normal Life, the best of WZ's Asylum Records albums and then, being the glutton for great music that I am, collecting everything else of his I could get my hands on, along with becoming a fan of Hunter S. Thompson along the way.  They just sort of go together.
    I got to see Warren Zevon live once, unfortunately only once, at Top Cat's in Cincinnati on his tour behind the Mutineer album on March 4, 1996.  Funny one-liners from the show:
    "Relax people, I'm a folk singer now."  to the raucous and riotous crowd that welcomed him.
    "Just what I wanted to be...an oldies act."  to the crowd after he mistakenly asked for a request and, as one would expect, got Werewolves Of London called out to him.
    Another funny event of the show was that Kristian, who went with me, and I sat right by the soundbard at Top Cat's and Kristian was right next to the stage light faders.  The fellow running sound was in charge of sound and lights and asked Kristian to bring the lights up as WZ made his way onto the stage so he could tweak the mix.  He did a great job too...and he gets to tell everyone that one fateful night in Cincinnati, he got to run the light show for Mr. Bad Example.  My jealousy has never quite subsided.  That show, along with being an incredible statement of how one man with great songs and a lot of talent can entertain and enlighten an audience (with occasional assistance from Duncan Aldrich), was also the first time I heard Phil Cody.
    When Greg and I hosted Scriptus Live on WAIF 88.3 in Cincinnati, we had two theme songs over the five years we had the show.  We began with Lawyers, Guns And Money and then began using If You Won't Leave Me I'll Find Somebody Who Will.  At least every two weeks, a WZ tune found it's way onto the Cincinnati airwaves between our segments.
   Warren Zevon announced today that he has been diagnosed with untreatable lung cancer.  He's laying low in L.A. (at l'hermitage, of course?) with his kids and writing and recording up a storm.  When Jeanne, my friend Bunny's fiance, e-mailed the news to me today, I fell as quickly as the Bengals in their home opener this year.  WZ's last two albums, Life'll Kill Ya and My Ride's Here, easily his best since the '70's, are almost foreshadowing what's happened.  Songs celebrating life, but with an eye toward the inevitable.
  I was staying at the Westin
    I was playing to a draw
    When in walked Charlton Hestin
    With the tablets of the law
    He said, "It's still the Greatest Story."
    I said, "Man, I'd like to stay
    But I'm bound for glory
    I'm on my way
    My ride's here...."
  from My Ride's Here (Zevon/Muldoon) (c) 2001

  Don't let us get sick
    Don't let us get old
    Don't let us get stupid, all right?
    Just make us be brave
    And make us play nice
    And let us be together tonight
  from Don't Let Us Get Sick (Zevon) (c) 2000

  Along with the obvious reasons, his talent, songwriting abilities, entertainment abilities, it is Warren Zevon's ability to juxtapose the light and dark within the single measure of a song that so caught my attention and still holds it. Excitable Boy, a brilliant swinging tune, tells of just that, an excitable boy.  One who takes little Suzy to the junior prom and ends up raping her and killing her, then building a cage with her bones ten years later when he's let out of the asylum.  But the music is so incredibly happy!  And there's a social aspect there too.  A fun song, but especially heading into the '80's, it was a comment on society not taking seriously the ramifications of actions.  The boy commits the crimes and is written off to the reasoning of his simply being excitable.  A poke of fun, a wry turn of phrase, a bit of sarcasm.  A wink and a smile and some devilish piano playing, especially on the live version on Learning To Flinch.
    I don't miss WZ yet (he being alive and all), but I will, once I cannot look forward to more music or the slim chance that he'll be playing somewhere close to me so that I could catch him again.  I told my manager, Rock, of the announcement and he took it as I did.  Then he turned and said, "Well, it's okay.  Someone'll dig him up and build a cage with his bones."
    A dark moment infused with that sideways smile that seems to accompany all the best Zevon tunes.  A perfect moment.  For myself, I offer my thanks to Mr. Zevon for that one transcendent concert and the hours of fun and inspiration of his music.  Let me hold the door for you, sir, your ride's here....

September 10, 2002 + "Beginning, Middle, End."
    T. sprained her ankle at Jazzercise this evening.  We just spent the past four + hours at the local hospital, where everyone is friendly and knowledgable, but in no rush.  Typical of Central Kentucky, really.  Not that I mind.  Very little stress.  But I'm a bit more pragmatic than most, like to get in, hit things and get them done and then move on to something else, always more to do.  I'm very out of place, in other words.  C'est la vie.  T. is fine, in an air splint and on crutches for a week.  Rather than going with the typical joking barbs, she has now been dubbed "Grace."
    A relative that I did not know I had made contact with me a few days ago, having found my last name online and been led to the DKP site.  I adore finding out more about my family's past.  The Kaeff name, from what I've found up till now, is much like a whisper in a wintery forest...you know you heard it, what it sounded like, but you'll never convince someone else that it was there.  We have some relatives up East, some in Indiana and some in Florida, but overall it's quite the twisted little tale.  However, much light is being shed on it with my new contact.  She even sent a picture from 1913 with relatives from generations ago.
    It was absolutely eerie seeing my Father and Grandfather's eyes and facial structure, and I assume mine as well, in a gentleman who was a young man in 1913.  But quite exciting too.  I hope for new information and some mysteries to be uncovered in coming weeks and, perhaps, with luck, to meet some of these faraway relatives in the near future.  A family reunion?  In the Kaeff case, more like a meet & greet for new friends who never knew they existed.  It would be good.
    And, in reverence to tomorrow, I have nothing but silence and the hope that in all the pomp and circumstance of the many memorials and parades that we will truly reflect on not only those who perished, but mainly on our position in the world and what place we have as a stronghold of freedom and the idea, the whisper of true democracy, that could be a noble truth in the world.
    Requiescat en pace.

August 20, 2002 + "Presently Ill + Anitya."
    So I came home last Friday night to find my beloved, T., coughing and sneezing.  She'd caught a cold somehow.  As you may expect, the nasty little germs found a new home in me, causing me much sorrow.  A cold in August?  Yes, dear friends, yes.  Stayed home from work today due to throat pain and loss of voice, nasal pain and drainage and the wobble that comes from taking too many barely-effective cold drugs.  I'm currently mixing Drixoral and Dimetapp...possibly not a good idea, but I figure I'm diabetic, and thereby a virtual testing ground for drugs and medical ideas, so what can it hurt?  Alas, it doesn't seem to be working and I'm guessing I'm 50/50 on work tomorrow.  I can't work if I can't communicate and I don't want to infect anyone else there.
    But some interesting things have happened.  T. and I already had Percey, actually her cat, but as everything is shared now, she's ours.  A couple months ago a woman where T. works got to the office (lab) in the morning and heard a noise from her engine compartment.  It was a cat that had ridden to work with her.  You can imagine the odds, first of there being a cat in your engine compartment in the first place, then of it surviving a journey from your home to work safely.
    But safe she was, a youngster in heat.  We figure her previous owners had gotten her as a kitten not expecting life changes to take place as she went from kittenhood to full-blown cat mania.  T. and I took her in and I named her Anitya, a Buddhist term for impermanence.
    This is Anitya:

    Cute, huh?
    She is a character.  She and Percey had a bit of typical trouble upon first meeting, but Percey, the older, handled it very well, especially in one attack sequence where Anitya lunged at her from across the room and Percey, ever the calm, stoic feline, simply sat where she was while Anitya nearly slid into her while trying to stop after realizing that Percey wasn't going to run.  Pretty funny and pretty cool interaction.  They're buddies now, though.
    But over the last two days Anitya has done some strange things.
    T. and I were eating dinner last night and Anitya came around begging.  I had a tortilla chip in my hand, had my hand hanging down and I felt a pull on the chip.  It was Anitya.  I loosened my grip and, strange as it may seem, she gingerly took the chip from my hand in her teeth, set it on the rug and set about crunching it up in little bites and eating it.  Odd.
    Then, prior to heading to bed, T. was lying on the bed reading and eating a plum.  As I came into the bedroom after taking copious amounts of antihistimines, I found T. chuckling as Anitya ate the plum while she held it out to her.  Odd indeed.
    Then, this morning, as I sat dazed, watching the early morning news and trying to breathe, Anitya came up and walked across my lap, stopping for me to pet her, then ended up on the end table and just stuck her head directly into my glass of water and started drinking!  It was only funnier this evening when she attempted the same thing and misjudged the depth of the water, thus sticking her whole snout in and having to snort the water out of her nose while T. and I laughed.
    Anitya...a character amongst kitties.  Further adventures to come, I'm sure.

August 16th, 2002 + "Never Let It Be Said...."
    My last book was The Mirror Suite and it focused on perceptions and their differences from reality, the concept of reality itself and our place within the subjective and objective.  The lessons I discovered two years ago were driven home to me yet again this evening.
    I am rather empathic, that is I take on the emotions around me.  I notice things, feelings, and take them in, harbor them.  Thus much of my spare brain space is utilized shutting things out and closing up shop.  I subscribe to the truth that, though I may not be smiling on the outside, that doesn't mean I'm not grooving on the inside.  I am an acquired taste...and to acquire the taste, you have to take a bite first.
    Apparently I've alienated some people very close to me with my ways.  Admittedly, I'm not an easy person to get along with sometimes.  Or, in truth, you may perceive this to be the case.  In reality, no matter my seeming mood, I'm seldom taken aback by conversation, questions or tasks.  What you see is not always what you get.  See?
    But I realize that I have a couple of fences to mend, and along with the fences, the things waltzing through the fields within need to be tended to as well.  We have let things stagnate for far too long, you see?
    My goals in life are to live well, create, notice, understand and experience.  My goals have never, ever been to offend or shock.  But apparently I've offended people who view not only my journals by other pages on the DKP site as well.  To them I offer this:  perhaps my intention, rather than offending, was to open a door in you that you otherwise would have left to cobwebs.  Experience.  Truthfully, I cannot see how anything I've posted on the DKP site, or in any of my books or any DKP releases could be offensive.
    But my idea of offensive is skewed from the world's (objective) I suppose.  Most people find certain language offensive.  I do not, though as I've grown older, I only use "naughty" language when my frustration level is way up there. In general, I attempt to, as a poet, I suppose, find better ways to describe things.
    What do I find offensive?  People who smoke and dump their ashes and butts out of their car windows.  People who make themselves look busy but, in actuality, are taking a free ride.  People who seek and revel in the lowest common denominator (and, to be fair, I'm not being pretentious...I like LCD stuff too, but have some variety, folks.)  People who become offended but will not attempt to gain an understanding of their feeling.
    I dunno.  Maybe it's all just me after all.

August 2, 2002 + "You're Never Going To Believe This."
    These are dark times, my friends.  You're never going to believe this one.
    Last night, just after climbing into bed, T. and I remarked to each other how warm it seemed in the house.  Odd for her because, as with most women I've known, she's generally always cold.  Not odd for me, because I'm prone to be hot, even if it is 50 degrees outside.  40 is a good temperature to me.
    So I get up and go to our thermostat and kick it from 74 degrees to 72.
    Nothing.
    To 70.
    Nothing again.
    Hmmm...something strange is afoot at the Circle K.
  And it ain't George Carlin.
    All kinds of things ran through our minds...we finally got to sleep with a fan blowing air around in our bedroom.
    While pondering the possibilities of replacing a compressor or a control module ran through my mind today, T. replaced the thermostat (yes, she's the handy one in our couple...about the extent of my technical expertise is changing the fuse in my amplifiers, batteries in instruments and flashlights and the changing of bass strings.)  No good.
    Her Dad, Earl, who is, like my father, a highly experienced and highly technically astute individual, came by when he got off work and we (meaning he, really, with T. acting as flashlight holder and screwdriver-getter) tore the A/C unit and furnace down, got into the breaker box panel and were testing everything.
    At first, it looked like the control module.  But the testing, with the Simpson meter I went back to work and nabbed, was intermittent on whether power was going in and coming out, going in and dying or what.  Next bet was a broken wire to the breaker box.  Possible, but maybe not.  More testing is needed.
    Mind you, by now it is 85 degrees in our house, the cats are miserable, Earl, T. and I are sweating like junkies in rehab and the situation is looking more and more hopeless.  Earl was preparing to hard-wire things to get us up and running, at the very least when the strangest thing happened.
    T. looked down and an expression I can only describe as utterly deflated came over her.
    Seems a plug, behind the water heater, not the furnace, was halfway out of the wall.
    We all, all three of us, knew that a system like this should be (key word being "should," dear readers) hard-wired into the breaker box.  Ours, alas, is not.
    When plugged back in, voila, our A/C was back on the warpath to destroy the heat that had invaded our house.
    And the moral, my friends?
    Possibly Occam's Razor, that, all things being equal, the simplest explanation or cause is usually correct.
    More likely this:  Never, ever, ever take anything for granted.  As soon as you do, you'll end up sweating in a pool of your own sweat wondering how you could have overlooked that minor detail that turned your day into pure misery.
    We now return you to your regularly scheduled sitcom....

July 28, 2002 + "Sale Time"
    Please visit the Scot N. Kaeff Sales page for current items of interest to musicians that I'm liquidating.

July 17, 2002 + "Restoration."
    Every once in a while you see something that brings an honest, genuine smile to your face without you even realizing your joy.  Something that picks your spirit up in hands of a mother and caresses you, allowing you to forget, if only for a moment, your cares, worries and troubles.
    I had one of those experiences tonight at my future brother-in-law's house.  T., her mother and I were over there helping out and I happened to look out the side door into the street.
    What I saw brought the aforementioned smile to my face.
    It was one fellow in a motorized wheelchair heading down the street.  He was pulling a friend, with whom he was chatting, who was in a non-motorized wheelchair.  They were just booking down the street, the one boy in the motorized chair talking over his shoulder to his friend, and then he did a little maneuver in the street, a little hot rod swerve, and the boy being pulled raised his fist for a brief moment.
    I chuckled, tickled by the friendship that I saw before me and the realization that these two guys were far more centered in their universes than I am in  mine right now.  You've got a problem?  Yeah, right.  Deal with it.  With the right sentiment and the right strength of mind and heart, there is nothing that can truly stand in anyone's way.  I had a restoration of that belief tonight in that simple sight of watching those two guys travelling down the road.

July 10, 2002 + "Advertising."
    Far be it from me to be accusatory, but many of the world's problems...well, at least Western civilization's...can be traced back to advertising and marketing.  Let's face it:  we're all in a demographic and someone wants our money, whether it's a record company or a soft drink maker.  It is now, though, infringing on my peace times, like going to the movies.
    Along with being a piece of crap as far as a movie goes, Men In Black II also carried ten minutes worth of previews attached to its front end and, of all things, a ten minute Sprint PCS commercial which featured aliens from the film.  The first couple minutes of the ad were the president of Sprint talking about how their new technology was going to revolutionize wireless communication.
    I paid the bucks for the film, okay?  I don't need to be inundated with these gross commercials, especially when I'm a captive audience.
    But, as I type that, I realize that our first inclination, which was to leave the theater, get our money back and find something more productive to do, was the correct one.  We should have walked out.  But, no, we watched the crappy flick.  Worse than that, T. e-mailed Sprint and got a response from a marketing guy who claimed to have no knowledge of the commercial and said that Sprint had nothing to do with it.
    Really.
    But it all falls in line.
    Coke really does taste like battery acid...it's not really refreshing.  To be truthful, it usually has a nasty habit of making you even more thirsty.  So you can then buy more Coke.
    Hot dogs are no better at baseball games than at home, so why do they cost more?  Because you're a captive audience again and, darn it, you'll pay for your entertainment and food you miserable sucker!
    Michael Jackson called Tommy Mottola of Sony Records a racist because of his poor album sales and said Sony didn't do enough to promote his last album.  Hmmm.  A racist?  Michael, you're being paid more than anyone on Sony's roster, my bleached friend.  Come off of it.  And Sony could've tripled the fifty or so million bucks they spent on promoting your last album, but it wouldn't have mattered...like Men In Black II, it was a piece of crap.  But you can't take responsibility for that, or that you're out of touch with today's music "scene," can you?  Place the blame and play the race card.
    Horrid.
    Women with huge breasts are beautiful, right?  Hmmm.  Marketing.  Make people want plastic surgery.  How?  Create a need and then fill the need.  Strange thing is, and I researched this (purely scientific, of course), that European Playboy centerfolds generally had smaller breasts than their American counterparts.  In the comparison I did, 91% of American centerfolds had at least a C cup breast size.  European centerfolds rated only about 53% for that size and up.  Personally, I've always liked smaller breasts...and yet, every woman I've dated has been ample in the breast department.  See?  Marketing doesn't rule everything.
    The point being, by the way, do you dig your own sense of beauty or do you believe it when some fashion model is plastered on every magazine in an effort to prove what is beautiful today?
    Do you think for yourself or do you allow yourself to be swept away with a demographic wave?
    Think, people, think!
    And don't be afraid to walk out on a movie either.
 

July 5, 2002 + "Give Me The Keys (And I'll Driver 'Er 'Ome Meself!)"
    A line from a Hanoi Rocks tune called "Cutting Corners" for you in the subject of this entry.  You'd have to hear it...brilliant work from band that then went away due to a drug & booze-addled singer of another band doing a DUI crash & burn that involved the death of HR's drummer, Razzle, and have recently come back.  Yahoo!  I'm not a huge fan of glam/punk stuff, but Hanoi Rocks was, without doubt, one of the best bands of the '80's.
  Chaos By Design has begun recording demos with the help of my Dad, who aided me in repairing my ancient workhorse four-track.  Thanks Dad!  First song worked up is called "Cold Side Of Town," a story of love, jailtime and a jailbreak worthy of Phil Lynott-like vocals (but I can't sing anything like him, so why try?)
  DaVinci's Burden will commence recording in the next couple of weeks too.  It's a birthing process, I think.  It is so trite to compare bandwork to being in a marriage, but it is, and the recordings are the children.  Or are the songs the children?  Either way, it's utter weirdness being in a studio-type environment, whether it is at home or in an actual studio.
    Work still stinks, by the way.  Haven't written anything about my day job in a while, so if you were wondering, yes, it's just as before.  Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...and you may find yourself...(apologies to David Byrne.)
    Editing will begin for the next book from DKP in the next week or so.  (Does it seem to anyone else, as it does to me while I type this, that I'm piling a whole lot of stuff onto myself?)  I have the material and hope to have it done by winter for release prior to Christmas...it'll make a great gift...promise!
    Also, here's a short tour of Studio Napalm at DKP.

June 27, 2002 + "Odds & Ends."
    So I've been busy with many things, thus my thoughts are manic and weird.
    Check out Artspike and pick up the print version if you're in Cincinnati...not just because I've been writing for it, but because Arie and his crew have started up a very cool arts mag.
    Check out Phil Cody's website...The Mad Dog Sessions have been released...my copy is on its way and I can't wait.  One of the best songwriters to come out of Cincinnati (by way of L.A.) period.  Caught him opening up for Warren Zevon many moons ago and the impact of that concert still rings in my ears.
    As for the hoopla about the court and the Pledge of Allegiance, well, here's my take:  I'm an American and I believe in personal liberty and freedom.  Like freedom to change the radio station if I don't like the show host or the songs being played.  Like the freedom to insert my own lines in the Pledge or to take the fact that it's "one nation under God" and that God is not specified as a Christian God and write my own religious views into it.
    Sometimes freedom is a tenuous thing.  A very thin rope by which we swing like a pendulum over a sea of easily made but horrid decisions.  There's no reason to ditch the Pledge for any reason.  Especially in an age like this one, solidarity is necessary and those very simple lines speak volumes.  No matter how corrupt and unsightly I find our government, I know that our way is the best because we can make changes...if we see fit.
    I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America....

June 15, 2002 + "Older."
    So I know I'm getting older.  I've forgotten several things lately, appointments and dates and things, that I never would have in my youth.  For a time I balanced a full time job, college and a working band with no datebook or organizer of any kind.  Just kept it all in my head.  Apparently, though, the tides have changed.
    And it seems like such a simple admission, to say you're getting older and things are changing.  Things are harder.  It takes more than ten minutes to recover from cutting the lawn now.  I used to cut grass and immediately go meet friends to play basketball.  Ah, no more.
    I suppose that perspective is the most important thing to keep.  I'm not necessarily getting older in the sense that things are getting bad.  My health is average and overall things are great.  It's the perspective of coming to grips, really, with mortality.  God knows, if I freak out now, how am I going to handle it when my hair starts to go gray or my hands finally clench and don't allow me to play anymore, if I live that long.  I've always felt that my stay in this large hotel of life is going to be shorter than average, a thought intensified by being diabetic, but if I'm going to handle it at all, the time I've got, I need to renew my stances now.  My perspectives.  My goals.
    It is not an easy task.

June 9, 2002 + "Thoughts, Minors & Publications."
    It's been a good weekend.  Got to hang for a bit with close friends, see another I hadn't seen in some time, spend time with T. and just enjoy things.  Didn't write a lot, but got some good news.  More on that later.  Right now, though, a thought.
    On our way home this evening, we passed a church with a sign out front reading Pray To End Abortion.  Personally, I'd like to change it to read Pray To Help Orphans Find Homes And To Educate People About Birth Control.  But that's just me.  Abortion is legal.  Period.  It can be a medical necessity.  It is part of life.  We all die.  Everything dies.  Yes, like the bumper stickers I see all the time, abortion does stop a beating heart.  So do the wackos who ambush abortion clinics and kill unsuspecting doctors.  Right to Life?  For who?  This isn't the age of the Crusades.  Take care of your problems close to home and worry about everyone else's later.
    *deep breath*
    I was going to write a long take on Minor League baseball and hockey, but I shall forego that.  It's just this simple:  for the most part, minor league pro sports are just more fun.  I cherish my Shreveport Swamp Dragons hat (minor league affiliate of the S.F. Giants).  I dig my Kentucky Thoroughblades hat (defunct AHL team in Lexington).  Living in Northern Kentucky was great because I had access to so much...the Dayton Dragons and Louisville Bats in baseball, plus the new Lexington Legends since last year.  The Cincinnati Mighty Ducks and Cyclones in hockey.  It's just incredible the amount of talent and teams out there if you look for them.
    And how can you not love the minor leagues for their team names?  I mean, really!  The East Coast Hockey League team in Macon, GA is call the Whoopee.  As in, makin' whoopee.  The Macon Whoopee.  You cannot tell me that people do not have fun at their home games.  Also in the ECHL is the Greenville, SC Grrrowl.  Cool, huh?
    Back to baseball...some of my favorite minor league baseball team names or logos:
    The Lansing Lugnuts
    The Portland Sea Dogs (with an evil looking seal as their logo, clutching a bat in its mouth)
    The Michigan Battle Cats (remember He-Man anyone?)
    The Las Vegas 51's (referring to Area 51...their logo is a little alien head and an atom model)
    The Brooklyn Cyclones (has there ever been a cyclone in Brooklyn...or Cincinnati for that matter?)
    The Lake Elsinore Storm (with black or red hats and only a pair of eyes glowering at you from them)
    The Savannah Sand Gnats (ah, those summer nights with sand gnats nipping at your nose)
    The Auburn Doubledays
    In short, if you get a chance to go to any minor league game, do it.  You will have a good time, as opposed to most pro games where much of the fun is lost to corporate sponsorship and high dollar contracts.  In the minors, though they're there in hopes of getting those high dollars someday, the guys playing are still there because they love the game.  And they play like it.
    Finally, got word back from the Louisville Poets Guild that five of my poems were accepted for their 2002 anthology.  Nifty.

June 7, 2002 + "Weekend."
    The weekend, my friends, cannot come quickly enough.  The headache that awakened me this morning is fading, but there are eight hours between me and band practice, then little more between T. and I visiting with Patricia Herrmann, printer of the Gods, to start work on our wedding invitations and then, glorious, no more committments this weekend except to each other.  One of my best friends is having a yard sale this weekend too...go to the links page and visit Jeanne's Folderol for details...it should be a blast.
    Coming this weekend will be a Journal entry on Minor League sports.  They're just more fun.  But why?  I'll explore that a  little bit because, for one reason or another, it's been on my mind.
    I've been writing a lot in the last few days, musically.  Not many words coming.  They drip like molasses from a bottle that, while full, seldom gives up it's contents without a fight lately.  The notes, though, are seeming to spring from my fingers.  This is a good thing.  There is always a brief moment of calm rain before the rage of the storm.

June 2, 2002 + "Days Passing Through Wilderness."
  My 29th birthday was two days ago, on the 31st of May.  I got what I thought I'd always wanted.  I had no cake, there was no celebration other than cards and well-wishes.  My fiance and I had a great time in a belated outing on Saturday, but for the most part the day passed by with barely a whisper of any event.
    And yet, I feel a bit empty now.  Perhaps it's been the view I've cultivated of birthdays as being just what I had, that is, just another day.  Perhaps it's me begrudging the passage of time.  Whatever the case, I feel the need to celebrate further next year, especially because it will be my 30th.  Oh, how the days pass like my birthday did, with barely a whisper to remind you to look around and enjoy the view, and how quickly that view may change.
    In other news, check out Artspike, a new arts magazine in Greater Cincinnati.  I have an article on DKP and D.I.Y. publishing in the debut issue that should be out now.  It looks to be a fine publication with a promising future.
    Plans are in the works for many other new things around as well.  I'm going to begin the editing process for the new book in mid-June. DaVinci's Burden will begin recording in late June.  My solo project, Chaos By Design, is in it's embryonic stages as well.  Plenty to keep me busy through the summer months.
    Oh, and my love and I will be married on October 12th too *grin*.

May 23, 2002 + "Highly Unstable And Ready To Blow."
    The world's situation is quite highly unstable and ready to blow, as am I.  India and Pakistan. A war years and years in the making.  Over a piece of land.  And ideas.  Nothing more.  The best real estate agent in the Western hemisphere couldn't unload the tract they're setting up camp across from each other on.  Silly.  Pointless.
    Money and religion, plus lack of communication.  People sticking their noses in where they don't belong.  Ego.  Ego.  Ego.
    It's all about me, man, all about me!  Right?  Who cares what's right?  It's all about what I want, what I feel and what I need.  Not you.  Okay?  I have the gun and therefore I'm right.  I have the bomb and therefore I'm right.  I've convinced these teenagers that to die for me, and for our god, is a free ticket to heaven, nirvana or the afterworld of their choosing.  Therefore, I'm right.
    I want to scream at the world. I want to take all of the world leaders over to Tony Roma's, get some good barbeque and have a chat.  There's more to life than this, folks.  Just like there's more to life than your credit cards and the season finale of Friends or whatever godawful show it is you're watching this week.
    The simple fact that some thug wants to kill me because I believe in a different god, grew up in a capitalist state or am white is absurd.  But, then, we've been nurturing this mindset for hundreds of years, haven't we?  All in the name of marketing.  Create a need and then fill it.  You want to be cool, right?  Just like everyone else?  Unique, that is?
    Screw it.  My karma wants better for me than to die as a poster child for the vain hopes of old men in ivory towers.
 

May 18, 2002 + "Judge Me By My Size, Do You?"
    Saw Star Wars II: Attack Of The Clones today.  Let me just say that I am, by all accounts, a child of Star Wars.  It's the first movie I remember seeing and it hit me very hard, both from the standpoint of ethics and storytelling.  It amazes me the negative reviews this newest installment in the saga has received.  The writing was well done, the dialogue was good and the story, though hard to follow at times, was excellent.  The foreshadowing was amazing too.  Little bits here and there that allude to what we know will happen later on.
    I have to say that I chuckled a bit seeing the young Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, too, knowing they'll be fried by stormtroopers in about twenty or so years.
    And Yoda is a bad, bad...er...whatever he is.  Awesome.
    My only concern is, and this is probably a play on all of us, really, the conceit of the Jedi Knights.  The truth is right in front of them and they cannot see it, or refuse to see it.  They believe too strongly in themselves, hence the trouble they get into.  My opinion.
    Overall, a nine out of ten and definitely worth wading through the crowds to see.

May 5, 2002 + "Ignorance And Expectations."
    I tried out for Jeopardy! this morning and, alas, did not make the cut.  Of course, of the seventy or so of  us in the room, only five made the cut to play a mock game.  I'm betting that the folks who drove in to Cincinnati from such remote regions as West Virginia and Toledo, OH were feeling a bit underwhelmed at the experience.  The thing is, and I would hope that they agree, it was a lot of fun and, in truth, a pretty cool experience.  We got a lot of questions answered about the show, thanks to the group of administrators there, which was well worth the time taken to me.
    And I got to keep the nifty Jeopardy! pen that they gave out to all of us to take the test with.  I'm going to put it right alongside my Prozac pen that I got from my pharmacist in Northern Kentucky in my writing instrument Hall of Fame.
    T. and I also went to our confirmed place-to-wed,  the chapel, that is.  It is indeed a beautiful place, small and built in 1880 and located at one of our favorite places in Cincinnati.  Quite cool and I am sure, beyond doubt, that we made the right choice as far as the site for our impending wedding.  Date is set at October 12...more updates as they become available.
    Scot's fact from the past week:  for men, when dressing semi-professionally or professionally, your belt is supposed to match your shoes and your socks are supposed to match your slacks/pants.  Can you tell I've been shopping?

May 2, 2002 + "How To Quit Your Job And Return In A Half Hour."
    I quit my job today.  For all of a half hour.  Then I went back.  It all started because of a few words.  These are "communication," "knowledge" and "ego."  Let me backtrack a bit.
    I have no trouble making decisions.  Ask me and I'll do it.  I'll dig for information and attempt to make a reasoned and practical decision.  Do not ask me to make a decision, though, and then go the opposite direction.  And, worse yet, if you cop an attitude with me, be prepared for me to either a) face you head up or, b) tell you where to get off and leave you in a trail of dust.
    The trail of dust was my choice today.  Without going into gory details, I made a decision when asked, got attitude thrown at me for how I went about making the decision, then had my decision ignored and, well, I grabbed my backpack, my hat and left.  Goodbye.  No use for you and your petty ego, my friend.
    I thought we were all on the same team.
    Here's a newsflash, I guess:  teams are never truly teams.  The word "team" has been destroyed amid the egos and salaries of pro sports and the greed, tyranny and lies of corporate America.  There is no team.  There is "I" and "I" alone.
    Advice to all:  communicate.  Say what you mean and mean what you say.  Give details.  Be thorough.  Be honest.  If you have nothing useful to say, do us all a favor and shut up.
    Knowledge.  Know your area(s) of specialty and work within them, but always try to broaden them.  Even those who know less than you can often see a different perspective that can help you or make a job easier.
    Ego.  Get off your high horse, back the hell up and check your ego at the door.  Be confident in yourself, but the ego is a dangerous little vixen.  The moment you allow it off the leash, it'll nip you right in the ass.
    So, I got halfway home and moved in my seat, thus noticing my insulin pump.
    I'm diabetic.  I can't quit my job.  I need the insurance.
    That's why I went back.  Plain and simple.  Along with the realization that I'd just let someone else's ego control my situation.  I felt like I was in high school again.  Same type of game.
    I got tired of playing then and, amazingly enough, I'm tired of playing again.
    I go to work and put my eight hours in from here on out.  No more, no less.  No thought of moving up.  Don't want it.  I'm too "nice" of a guy, I think.  I trust too much.  I trust others to make good decisions and be rational.  So much for that.  I will succeed at what I love to do, not what I currently do.
    No ego.
    Communicate.
    Learn and be learned from.
    That's life.
    Live it.

April 22, 2002 + "All The Things I Never Knew."
    Okay, so I haven't written in two weeks...many apologies.  Things have been hectic around DKP Cental HQ.  First off, congratulations to Tim Ellis, who won the Name Scot's Insulin Pump contest with his entry of Forrest (Pump).  I couldn't help but love the reference and it truly was an ingenious notion for the name.
    Secondly, DaVinci's Burden has welcomed our new membler, vocalist Emily Durham.  Her energy alone has already made quite an impact.  We'll be working on older material, writing new stuff and preparing to record soon and be playing by summer, we hope.
    Aside from those things, much writing has been creating snowdrifts around my door.  Sugars have been mainly steady, but the occasional highs and lows have really kicked my butt, moreso than previously.  Control has never been a tenuous thing with me.  Though my overall blood glucose readings have never averaged higher than the 140's, highs happen and lows happen.  Lately, my average has been around 110, which is excellent, and I think due in large part to the pump.  However, when I've gotten high (from the cannula slipping out once, miscalculating carbs and not taking enough insulin, etc.), it's been harder to regulate back down.  Not sure why.  I just know I'm exhausted lately.
    And stressed.  I hate that word.  It's so overused in today's world.  Work has become more of a chore than usual.  I feel like a mouse on a wheel most days, with the only breaks being spending time with T. and playing music.  I guess that's what the average grind is...which is why I vowed long ago to do the day job thing only as long as it supports my large-scale venture.  It slowly is coming to hinder it, though.  Well, not slowly, it's been coming for a while.
    There has to be a better way....

April 7, 2002 + "Constantly Reminded."
    The Name Scot's Pump contest is nearing an end and, I'm afraid, so is my patience with the pump itself.  The cannula, the small part that stays in my body to deliver the insulin, must have come out yesterday while I and my family & friends were trying desperately to fix up the yard from where we replaced the sewer line a month or so ago.  Didn't feel it at all, but I know I was bending and stretching the area it was in (my right side).  T., Travis and I went to dinner, I took my bolus and then Travis and I went to Lexington for a bit.
    We came back and watched a movie, then he left and I went to take my blood test.  445 mg/dl.  Folks, when I was ten and went into the hospital diagnosed as a diabetic, my sugar was around 400 mg/dl.  For anyone looking for a good time, use the chick's name on the bathroom wall, don't rip your pancreas out in an attempt to make your sugar go sky high.
    As an aside, the only other time it's been that high, it was much worse.  I had the flu when I was fifteen or sixteen and finally had to go to the hospital due to the condition and DKA.  My sugar upon arrival was too high to read on a meter.  Turned out it was around 800 mg/dl.  The fact that I was able to walk in under my own power was amazing.
    So, anyway, I take another bolus wondering what in the heck was in dinner to shoot me up that high.  Upon taking the bolus, it ran my insulin reservoir in the pump down to about 2 units left, so I changed out.  And, when I did, guess what!  A puddle of insulin that I'd just delivered and a cannula that was definitely outside my skin.  Nice.  Hadn't even felt it.
    So, I tried to put a new infusion set in.  Must've hit the wrong spot because pain doesn't begin to describe the seering jolt of electricity in my side (left, this time).  As I so eloquently put it, "F*ck!"  I calmly put the infusion set down, got a trusty old syringe, gave myself some short-acting and some long-acting (H and NPH) and stayed up for a few more hours to make sure I was headed down.
    This morning, I was 131 mg/dl and feeling okay.
    Not only is the pump a constant reminder of being diabetic, but also of how frail this all is and of the delicate balancing act I'm in the midst of everyday.

April 1, 2002 + "If Ever There Were A Time To Panic, Now Is It."
    We've gone colorful for this Journal again.  The colors will, hopefully, reflect the mood of certain entries.  Green for this one because it is the springtime of a new Journal, a growth period.  But some things are still leftover from the last journal, namely the Name Scot's Insulin Pump contest, which is still going on, until April 10th or so.  Get your entries in by clicking on that link about 22 words back.
    In other news, the auditions for the vocalist position in DaVinci's Burden are almost at an end.  Our final return appearance is Tuesday evening and we hope to have made a decision by the weekend after reviewing the tapes and moving through heavy discussions.  We're down to two very talented women and it is going to be difficult.  All of those we auditioned were talented, actually, but these two were especially so.  We were lucky to have such a wide espanse of folks write in to our ads.
    And, beyond that, nothing at this point...except I'm looking to buy a new lawnmower.  Turns that that, me being the idiot that I am, I just parked the lawnmower in our garage over the winter.  Didn't drain the fuel or anything.  Just parked it.  Imagine my surprise when it wouldn't turn over this evening.  C'est la vie.  I love having a house, but at this point a condo or apartment seems so very intriguing.