CD Relase On Friday - or - Yippie Skippy!

If you'd like a copy of the disc, email me and I'll make it happen one way or the other. Right now we are charging $10 a copy and will gladly mail it anywhere on the face of the planet... and beyond.

Obsquatch@gmail.com

A Parade Of Ex-es - or - Calpurnia's Warning

Things couldn’t be better. Am I exhausted? Overworked? Under-paid? Over extended? Under appreciated? Yes. Yes I am. But I am happy. I am soaked to the bone with my own sweat, stretched to my maximum by my own commitments, pushed to the edge of my physical limits, and ready to wake up and do it all again tomorrow. I am bruised and callused and burned and scared and bandaged and bleeding and happy to show off my battle wounds. There is dirt under my fingernails from last week that, no matter how hard I use that bristle brush, won’t come out. I am living in a torrent of my own design and, in all honesty, haven’t had a day off, a day to myself, a day with no work, a day alone, in over thirty days. I smile more than ever these days, but my body, my muscles, my being whines about the last job with every new job that I take on. My bones are tired. So why is it when I get to rest them, when I finally find some time between the whetstone and the grindstone, when I’m rebuilding my strength, why is it then that my dreams turn into a parade of ex-lovers. It is as if ever past commitment, every pretty face that has turned sour towards me, every lost and shattered relationship is dispatched against me while I sleep. They are beautiful and vindictive and unrelenting; lined up like Senators at the Theater of Pompey. I wake up exhausted, with my heart visibly beating through the thin summer sheets. Last night’s thunderstorm has become this morning’s drizzle.

Garrison Keillor's Notes From July 12th - or - I Really Am A Direct Blood Relative Of The Other JC

Going on the Belief Walleyes Eat Late

by Thom Ward

we fish at dusk. No strikes.
Just the occasional bass
thwapping the roof of the water,
making us wish our boat
were anywhere but here.
Which is the umbrella bed—
fat sandbar of stalk weeds, shells,
tangled hooks and lures,
the snouts of old centerboards.

We've nailed some giants off this bed.
Speckled green, dorsal fins bristled,
they died in the snarl of our net.
The thought of those fish
can tease a mile of line from a reel.
So we let out a little more
As the lake goes back and the loon
cries to its mate. The locals say
when you can't see the end of your pole
the day is done.

"Going on the Belief Walleyes Eat Late" by Thom Ward, from Small Boat with Oars of Different Size. © Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2000. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

It's the birthday of the man who said, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." That's Henry David Thoreau, (books by this author) born David Henry Thoreau in Concord, Massachusetts (1817). In 1854, he published Walden, or Life in the Woods, which has become a beloved classic.

It's the birthday of poet Pablo Neruda, (books by this author) born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, in Parral, Chile (1904). As a boy, he read all the time and wrote poetry. Even though his father disapproved of his writing, he kept doing it, and he was encouraged by the poet Gabriela Mistral, who lived in his town and later became the first Chilean to win a Nobel Prize. In 1923, when the boy was 19, he sold all his possessions in order to publish his first book, Crepusculario (Twilight), and he published it under the name Pablo Neruda so his father wouldn't be upset. In 1924, he published Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, which was incredibly successful.

It's the birthday of mystery novelist Donald Westlake, (books by this author) born in Brooklyn, New York, (1933), the author of more than 100 books.

He worked as slush-pile reader for New York-based magazines, and at night he wrote his own short stories — things that did not often advance past the slush pile. In fact, he received 204 rejection slips before his first short story was ever accepted. But soon after that, the first novel he wrote was accepted by Random House. It was called The Mercenaries (1960), it was huge best-seller, and it was nominated for the prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America.

He wrote fast, sometimes publishing four books a year. Publishers had reservations about releasing multiple titles in one year by a single author. And for this reason — especially early in his career, when he was furiously prolific — he used pen names. Mystery novelist Donald Westlake was also mystery novelist Richard Stark, and he was Curt Clark, and Timothy J. Culver, and Tucker Coe. And he was Samuel Holt and also Edwin West.

Almost all of his books are set in New York City. His two most famous characters: one a bumbling, disorganized criminal, John Dortmunder, and the other a callous felon named Parker.

Westlake wrote on a typewriter — manual typewriters, not the electric kind — from the 1950s through the 1990s and into the 21st century, up until he died on New Year's Eve 2008 from a heart attack at the age of 75. His reasoning: "I don't want to sit there while I am thinking and have something hum at me." For decades, he wrote in the middle of the night, getting started at 10 in the evening and going through till 4 in the morning. But later he moved his work schedule to daytime — still seven days a week — saying, "I loved it [working at night], but social reality impeded. Now I wander in here at 9 in the morning or so, and come back for a while in the afternoon. I am a very lenient boss." He usually wrote about 7,000 words in one sitting, which is something like 25 double-spaced pages in 12-point Times New Roman font.

It's the birthday of (Gaius) Julius Caesar, born in Rome around 100 B.C. He came from an aristocratic family that traced its lineage back to the goddess Venus, but by the time he was born, his parents weren't rich or even distinguished. And so it was rather ambitious of him to try to become a Roman politician, at a time when it was almost a requirement for all politicians to come from powerful families.

In the last years of his life, Caesar was appointed absolute dictator of Rome. He had ambitious plans to redistribute wealth and land, and he began planning public works and an invasion of Germany. But a group of senators, led by Brutus and Cassius, wanted to bring back the old republic. So they organized an assassination on the steps of the Senate. Caesar died from over 20 stab wounds.

Julius Caesar said, "Which death is preferably to every other? The unexpected."

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.®
-Garrison Keillor
The Writer's Almanac

Face Book Doesn't Know Me - or - Still Dizzy After All These Years

A friend emailed me this photo from Facebook. Maybe I'll breakdown, maybe I'm steadfast, maybe I need breakfast.



And then there is this lil' thang. Even my Pops, who hates tattoos, likes it.

I have since shaved the rest of my chest, sliced my nipple, been slapped three times by the Rev's wife, and done too many shots of Jameson to count. I am loving life. Now, if only...

Currently Reading, Currently Reeding - or - My Teen Years Are Not Considered Teen Reading Material

As much as I think the alternating authors for alternating chapters is a gimmick to keep both stories a little more suspenseful than they actually are, I am really enjoying this book. John Green has a way of making insignificant and unremarkable main characters into some kind of social litmus paper; proving to me that even the most drab friends of mine from my childhood in the woods would be perceived as unbelievable if I had the energy to write them out the way that I remember them. The dread headed mountain hermit that, every summer, would build an ewok-style tree house and move into it as a summer home away from his mother's house. The hot and busty pot head neighbor who would invite me over after school, ask me to do her Earth Science homework for her, which I would happily do day after day after day because when I finished, she would get me stoned to the high heavens while she danced around her room, whipping her hair all over the place while singing Violent Femmes, smoking a joint and driving me crazy in her over-sized t-shirt and panties. She got her weed from a mostly homeless guy who lived in a tiny shithole appartment that was always full of dirty dishes and zombie people.

The more I think about it, the less I think my life is suitable for a John Green audience. Maybe that is why he hooked up with David Levinthan on this book, so show a bit more edge and to drop a few more F-bombs.

Fuck yeah, John Green.

Lines I Wrote - or - As Yet Unpublished... Wait... Fuck... Now I Need A New Second Title

"You don't know what you are missing."

"I don't know what I got."

"I believe you. Are you ever coming back?"

"We shall see." Just as the words left her lips she did the unforgivable. She smiled. Maybe it wasn't a full smile, maybe it was a shrug and a smile simultaneously, but to me it couldn't have hurt more if she used a sledge hammer. How dare she smile now. At me. Like this? I didn't have a choice, my mind had already blurted out the words, my mouth just followed suit.

"No. No we won't. You might see it, and I might see it, but I think that this, this right here, you and me, this creek and this moon, that half dead tree and this big rock with it's obvious examples of bad penmanship, this is the last thing that we will ever see. You are right, you don't know what you got. And I can promise you that you don't know what you are missing."

That was when I turned my back and walked off. It suddenly occurred to me that I might be color blind. Tomorrow I'll know for sure. Tomorrow I'll look at that mess of dots again and guess what number is hiding behind them. No matter what I see on that test card, I don't know if I'll ever see her again. I'm not sure what kind of blindness they call that, but it stings a lot more than not being able to tell the difference between green and red.

Lil Guy - or - Back Against The Wrecking Machine

Yesterday, I saved a baby Robin. Birds don't trust people. But babies just don't know better.

I think it was a he because he jumped. Jumped and fell from about fifteen feet.

I saw a fully grown red bellied Robin only minutes earlier. He has a worm in his beak. I helped the lil guy get back up to the area from which he jumped and seconds later he was fed a worm, ruffled his not quite flight ready feathers and looked out on the world from his 15 foot high perch, rebuilding his pride and preparing for his next jump.

I silently went back to work with a smile on my face.

Three Quotes Oe Equal Or Lesser Value - or - A Psychologist, A Screen Writer, And A Band Walk Into A Bar

"A certain degree of neurosis is of inestimable value as a drive..."
-Sigmund Freud

"There's someone here. He stole your underwear."
-Charlie Kaufman - Eternal Sunshine

"I tried to do my own thing, but the trouble with your own thing is you end up on your own."
-Beta Band - Simple

The Fucking Bike Club Kicks My Butt - or - Poopin' In A Washing Machine

Here are some photos. I don't really remember these events. Somehow I got a Ft. Lauderdale visor out of it. Holy crap, I'm an idiot. Enjoy.

You Didn't Ask But Imma Tellin' Ya Anyways - or - See Here, Here's How I See It

This is what I think.

When people talk to me, hear me blather on and on about, well, just about anything, and then tell me I am weird, I am flattered and charmed. It’s like a pick-up line to me.

Here’s how I see the world.

Accomplishments are, in my opinion, best in large quantities of small doses. I like accomplishing many little things through out a day; getting outside and running around on the grass by the lake on a beautiful sunny day, getting all my dishes cleaned and put back into the cupboards after cooking myself a good sit down meal, finding a new place to bike too, searching for the oldest head stone in a cemetery, sitting and playing 80's metal tunes on my ukulele and making people smile as they walk by, or putting on a brand new pair of socks. Things like that complete my days, and I find myself trying to fill my days with life's simple accomplishments. Happiness is elusive when you search for it, like looking straight at the stars only to find them disappear as your focus lands right at them. It is easier to see and recognize happiness when you are not staring straight at it, but rather when you catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of your eye. I don't look for happiness anymore, by that I don’t mean that I’ve given up on trying to find happiness, I only mean that I don't search for it directly. I don’t ask myself, “What will make me happiest right now?” I just laugh when I feel it is time to laugh and bitch and swear when it is time to bitch and swear. Sometimes, swearing up a storm of curse words that would make my parents disown me is exactly what my endorphin glands need to get kick started back into making me smile again. That's probably why I've been threatening to punch all my friends in the dick. Dick punch threats are hilarious.

Someone once said to me, “Only dead fish go with the flow.” I believe them to this day. Someone else said to me, “You seem to look good in women’s sunglasses,” to which I replied, “I know. Weird, hu? Good thing I’ve never tried on women’s underwear. I just don’t think I could restrain myself if they made my butt look good.”

And as far as love is concerned…

Love wreaks havoc of the placid waters of my mind and turns them into a boiling torrent. It is wonderful and exciting and exhilarating to be in love, until the undertow grabs hold of your ankles and drags you, kicking and panic stricken, to the murky and lonely bottom. Of course I never learn my lessons and as soon as I can pry myself free and kick to the surface for a fresh gasp of air, I suddenly find myself swimming with reckless abandon away from the safety of the shore and straight towards a thunderhead in the middle of the ocean. I guess my fear of drowning isn’t convincing enough to keep me in the shallow end. I just wish I had some floaties.

This is me in another life...


And now I want to see this movie. Someone rent it and bring it to me.

Dig On This One - or - Stuck In A Groove

Stuck in a Groove / Phonovideo from Clemens Kogler on Vimeo.

"Phonovideo is a VJ tool or visual instrument used to display animations in an analog way without the help of a computer. “Stuck in a Groove” is the first film made with this technique, it serves also as a demo for the technique .
In the future phonovideo should be used for live performances in cooperations with musicians, performancers and other artists.
The music for “Stuck in a Groove” was created by Richard Eigner/ Ritornell.

www.clemenskogler.net/phonovideo"

Inner Face Punched - or - What Else Would I Write About At 4:52am Besides The Thing That Is Keeping Me Awake Against My Will

Every morning for the past two weeks it is the same. Every morning at 4 am or so, I wake up. I wake up and wonder who has been punching me in the face all night. The bone underneath my left eye is swollen and tender, it aches to the touch and I can feel my heart beating in my bloodshot eye. If feels like my something is building up pressure behind my eye, trying to eject it out of my skull from inside my head. I push on my eye with my palm and it throbs behind my eyelids. My left temple feels like a railroad spike is slowly piercing it; a rusty, oily, dull and crocked railroad spike, being driven in by a ball pin hammer. I can feel my teeth ache all the way through my jaw line and up past my cheekbones. It hurts to open my mouth, it hurts to close it, it hurts to yawn, it hurts to sleep. What kind of inconsiderate asshole has broken into my apartment in the middle of the night and started walloping me in the face? When I blow my nose, streaks of blood are mixed in with the fibrous brown junk that has invaded my sinuses. I am suddenly totally awake, absolutely wide-awake, eyes open, face aching, in complete pain, and miserable. I am sick. I have a nasty sinus infection that isn’t going away. It’s been a few weeks, some days are fine, some are torture. By this point, I know that no one has broken into my apartment and punched me repeatedly about the face, and by this point, I know how to get back to sleep. I grab two towels and stumble towards my shower. I leave the lights off while I crank the hot water knob. It needs to be hot, almost too hot, and I need to stand directly under the showerhead and let it pour over my head, 360˚, like a scorching deluge, blanketing my entire head. I will stand like this, in the dark for about a half an hour. The sludge in my head will start to break up and I’ll drag it out of my face in a fit of snorts and coughs and sounds that I remember hearing my grandfather making from behind the closed bathroom door of my childhood. I remember hating those sounds. As a reward for my efforts, I get mouthfuls of brown and red chunks. I have a face full of gross and it won’t let me get rid of it without it proving that it’s taste, texture, color, and viscosity is gag worthy. I lean my head out the shower and spit mouthful after mouthful of awful into the newly lined trashcan next to the tub, just like I did last night. There is no way that I was going to spit this out into the shower drain and run the risk of this blob refusing to squeeze through the drain holes and just sit by my toes. I’d rather change the garbage bag again tomorrow, er, I mean later today, just like I did yesterday. The pain slowly subsides underneath my blanket of hot water. My temple, my eye socket, my cheekbone, my teeth, they all calm down and I turn off the water. I wrap myself up in my two towels; one around my waist, one over my shoulders. I slowly return to bed, mostly soaking wet. I take a chug off the NyQuil bottle sitting on my desk, next to my alarm clock. I’ve stopped using the measuring cup days ago. “That tastes like sleep,” I murmur to myself as I slid back into bed after tossing my towels onto a large pile of their comrades that has taken over half of my couch. Maybe I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. Nope, got no insurance, and I’ve dealt with sinus infections just fine in the past. It’ll brake and I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll just write about it instead.

Any Kinda Mustache Promo Is Good Promo - or - Amazing Band Poster In Need Of A Band

This poster was drafted up by Chicago's Sons Of Susan a day after a show I played with them. I assure you that if these three mustaches ever meet again, the world will treble at the bass our feet.

How Do I Feel When I Wake Up In The Morning? - or - Courtesy Flush

Goodnight, Beautiful Mystery

"So it goes." This is Billy Pilgrim’s way of accepting the passing of all things into death within the pages of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughter House Five. Three simple words that signify the release of existence into the vast void of nothingness. It is a beautiful method of looking at loss; inevitable, simple, and peaceful. It makes dying a graceful action, like a cowboy’s last, slow saunter into the sunset. I have dead friends, dead family, dead pets, dead neighbors, dead bottles of champagne. I can let them go with a smile, knowing that I’ll remember them in the best ways I know how. But when love dies, it doesn’t simply cease to exist. It burns a path all the way back to the beginning and leaves a crosshatch of scars over your heart. So it goes.