Department of Redundancy Dept.

Life Without Lance...

2005-08-16T15:24:00.000-05:00

thoughts of Lance Armstrong...and the composition of mankind's heroes and gods...lance, in many circles, is viewed as both. The winning of the seven tours...cancer...rock star girlfriend...texan. All add up to the closest we've seen to an honest to goodness HERO...and now he's gone.

i was there for the last five tours so I've been around and I KNOW that the athletic accomplishments of lance will not been apporached for a long, long time to come...and just like all of the TRUE greats...rode off into the sunset with all of the hacks aruging if he's still not the man to beat...the great thing about American sport is that it's one of the last places one can go and strike it rich because they can hit harder, run faster, or win bike races...which means the next lance is out there right now...sweating,practicing...i can't wait.

free ipods hmmm...

2004-08-09T16:56:00.000-05:00

we'll see....

okay here's how this thing works...

you sign up for one of the offers...(I did the $6.95 Computer Professor deal, after I receive the cd-rom's I have to cancel) and then I refer 5 friends to do it too and get an ipod..

if you don't have an ebay account you can sign up and bid once to complete your deal too...

anybody wanna try and get a free ipod...try this

email me reddirtred@msn.com and let me know...

we'll be soon bobbing for apples...

2004-08-05T02:24:00.000-05:00

"I had to leave my life in Dallas
that town will always be you
in every crowd, on every corner,
every face I'd see you
so with nothing more than a tank of gas
I drove away without looking back
and I guess that's how I got where I am
going anywhere as fast as I can..."
--Lee Ann Womack

I sometimes wonder why the cool, damp idea of fall...

makes my mind wonder.

your so vain...you probably think this song is about you

2004-08-04T12:45:00.000-05:00

Today my advice is: don't personify your baggage...

We all have baggage. We all want to bleat out to the world and cry, "Great, tremulous woe unto me."

We all want to feel we now can draw strength from our troubles and become better people because of past misfortune and in the same breath cast a thin veneer of self-importance over it.

We all want to think that in some way our troubles were more troublebling...our problems more problematic than others...

but you know what?

they weren't and they're not.

shame on you and shame on me.

life is hard so get a helmet...and we all could use a big dose of humility...

keep that in mind.

Always something there to remind me...

2004-08-02T19:52:00.000-05:00

I was driving this evening and came across some great 80's song....Pet Shop Boys...A-Ha...Mike and the Mechanic's....I don't remember which one but you have the idea.

As I drove, I did somthing that immediately I wondered about. I turned it up.

I've been thinking...and I want you to as well....why do we like those songs? I mean sure it may be music that never tires...still fresh and cutting edge...whatever....

What I mean is, I think that sometimes we add nostagila to our like of a song or band or genre. I mean I was listenting to a song that was a cool and now, hip...on the charts at a time when older kids I knew were exactly what I wanted to be...older.

Those are songs that are a part of the soundtrack of their lives and to some extent a part of mine...but, at a time when all I wanted was to be a part of them.

So...now that I am older...and those songs come on the radio I want to turn it up and let it be a part of my life's soundtrack....

but it doesn't....
it just makes me older.

I have this friend...

2004-07-29T15:58:00.000-05:00

who sometimes is wound a little tight...

and sometimes has little patience with people...

and sometimes takes hints or suggestions a tinge off of their intent...

and I don't want to bring something up if he already knows about it
because I can hear him as I type this saying:

"you think I didn't know about that...shit...dude...I knew about that..."

so...having said that....

matt...the link on your main page for the webcam is broke.

I think my best quality is my modesty...

2004-07-29T14:24:00.000-05:00

rant.

One thing I have noticed is that there are no shortage of people who blog and use it as a place to rant.

no problem.

it's what it's for...

hell...free therapy for some...

but the self-importance that comes in the bundled up package of e-soapboxing can reek of 3 day old fish....or is that guests....fuck Mark Twain(see how I did that....for most, the reference to the Mark Twain quote about Fish and houseguests smelling after 3 days is a lost one...or so the self-important writer would like to believe).

Anyway....saying it loudly or using ALL CAPS, i guess, does not make it right...

neither does using big words.

so keep that in mind

another thing that bothers me while I todder the slippery corner of my own box of soap for one further, brief moment....is people who use fractions when talking about their age...23 and "5/8"...

cmon...jerkoff...speak in whole years like the grown-ups do...

whatever.

Nothing says America like, "Haiku"...

2004-07-28T12:25:00.000-05:00

Keroauc derived the "American" haiku....it's the same as a traditional haiku; its three lines, it's short, it's beauty is derived by painting a complete picture or conveying a thick, rich emotion in a disciplined, syllabic way. The difference in an "American" haiku and a traditional haiku is that, Keroauc's creation pays no heed to syllablic counts.

how american..."3 lines is good enough...fuck it...."

Then I'm thinking about haiku's....and read a really good one by a friend of mine...and his is the same as one of Keroauc's....I mean not the same, verbatium....but the same as writing,"Roses are crimson"...and passing that off as an original thought...

now.

I know my friend didn't read Keroauc's and re-write his own...I doubt he's even read or heard Keroauc's...but it poses the question(half-heartedly): "Does plagerism have to be intentional to be plagerism?"...I say: yes, it does.

but.

at the same time I will always think of Jack's every time I read my friend's...and the thought will always be:"it's just like Keroauc's..."and not give my friend's poem the credit it does deserve...

so...hmmm...that kinda sucks.

"useless,useless
rain!
pounding into the ocean"
-Jack Keroauc
"American Haikus"

letting your greed catch up with your imagination....

2004-07-27T16:19:00.000-05:00

sitting here thinking about Spalding Grey....you may or may not have ever heard of Spalding Grey, but in my opinion, the greatest storyteller in American History....and a hero of mine...

Spalding Grey, who is famous for his cult classic monolouge "Swimming to Cambodia"....commited suicide not long ago by drowning....fitting...

Sometimes I wonder....

2004-04-22T15:44:00.000-05:00

so....the hot bed of topic is roiling with the idea of who's to say what or what is not art.

Now...here's my short and sweet salvo fired in whomever's direction you wish.

Art is in the eye of the beholder. My argument is and has alway been that I have a problem when the label of "art" rests in the cradled arms of the artist...

So...just because I have an opinion on who does and doesn't suck doesn't mean that I am right but you know what, you silly little goof? It doesn't make me wrong either....

Having said that....deem whom you wish as worthy of the monicker "artist"...but if I disagree and you want to discuss it...bring your A game because I'm a pro...but it doesn't make anyone right....get it?

Now...lest get back to swapping spit and touching peckers....

"Your not wrong Walter....your just an asshole"---The Dude

Galveston...

2004-04-19T16:32:00.000-05:00

(the search for the perfect song) Part 3

The sun continued to bare down on them through a partly clouded sky but Vic swore that…was that a rain drop? He wondered, no…couldn’t be… it’s hotter than hell on the Fourth of July out here (which, ironically, it almost literally was). Then he felt it again…and another…and another. Soon, he just had to ask.
“Is that rain or just water from this road work” pointing to the shoulder where men charred from the sun were laying concrete.
“Don’t know, I can’t tell but it sure smells like rain.”
“Look” Vic noted, “The bridge to the island.”
“Wow,” Bird replied, “a double rainbow.”
Sure enough... out of the driver side window and off to the East hung two perfectly shaped rainbows on resting on top of the other.
So there it was, raining on them in choking heat. As they left the mainland and headed for the island, Vic, without seeking permission this time, punched the “on” button and could not believe, neither of them could, what they heard.
“I can see clearly now the rain is gone….”
The bridge to the island was as wavy as the ocean. Driving across it, you truly felt as if you were skimming the waves themselves.
“All of my dark clouds have disappeared…”
They could not believe it. All those miles. All of this time. Finally, they had the perfect song for the perfect moment.
“Gonna be a bright, bright, bright sun shinny day…”
As if it were planned: the rain, the song and the roller coaster ride of a bridge all ended at once, just as quickly as it had begun.
As if everything was meant to happen just that way. As they drove onto the island, Vic reached for the radio only being stopped midair by Bird.
Nope.
No way.
“Don’t even try to top that!” He reached for the knob and flicked the radio off. Next stop: Baja Beach Club on the east end of the seawall.
“I can see clearly now….”
Indeed.

Galveston...

2004-04-13T18:14:00.000-05:00

(the search for the perfect song) Part 2

Well, almost anything. He felt he did know good music when he heard it and for that reason, he became Bird’s “on-again” “off-again” manager and chief confidant.
Vic had held so many jobs at so many different times, if he had to fill out an application for a straight job (which he swore he never would do again) he would get confused at where he worked and when and for how long. He had gone to college dropping out minutes from a degree. He went to school to be a paramedic, graduating at the top of his class, but never bothered to apply for a job as a paramedic. He was a bar-tender. He had a radio show. He put more new shingles on more than his fair share of homes. Now, here he was, trying to make it in the music busi-ness with his friend Bird. Who, ever so often, would fire him for drinking too much and booking too little, only to re-hire his friend again amid promises of “straightening up,” “ keeping an eye on the big picture,” all that.
So here they were, rolling south out of Houston headed to Galveston Is-land and the beach, a night “off” from their “business” trip.
It was six o’clock when they finally pulled into “Brian’s Seafood and Steak.” It was a shotgun-shaped building with a pitiful bamboo and green all-weather carpeted deck that they were sure was added to the restau-rant after the fact. They picked “Brian’s” for no other reason than the fact that, this close to the Gulf, anything from the seafood side of the gumbo stained menu probably was good. It was, they agreed, paying the check with what little gig money they had and moseyed their way back of 45 headed south for the island.
The heat stuck to them like a wet wool jacket, even with evening coming on, only now there was the added humidity of the Gulf. Silence continued to hang in the air. Vic stared at the clock on the lifeless radio… 5:55. Vic wished it would play one song which didn’t piss him off, just one song. Just as there was no room in Texas for country music that sounded more like pop music, it seemed there was no room for it in the oven of a car that the two of them sat and sweat in.
“You mind if I…” Vic started, reaching for the dial.
“Yes.” Bird spat before Vic could finish his sentence.
“But I wanna just see if….”
“No.”
” Don’t.”
So, Vic just stared out the windshield while cutting the wind whipping by outside with his arm like a bronze sword, tanned from a thousand miles of Texas sun and no air conditioning.
That’s when it started.

Galveston...

2004-04-10T13:04:00.000-05:00

(the search for the perfect song) Part 1

The heat rising off I-45 to Houston was horrible that day. To make matters worse, there was nothing worth hearing going out over the airwaves. That is to say, there was nothing particular about this drive in early July thorough south Texas except that for Bird and Vic it would end in the Gulf of Mexico.
To make it into Galveston they would have to negotiate their way through Houston, a fairly difficult task at five o’clock on Friday afternoon. Then it’s a burn down 45 to the end of the mainland. Finally, cross the bridge, straight to the beach for a break from the heat of a Mexican suburban with no air conditioning. In July. In Texas.
“Why don’t you turn that damn thing off, man?” Bird sighed. “It’s giving me a headache, and if I have to hear one more Tim McGraw song I am seriously considering pulling this rig over and punching you in the teeth!”
Vic laughed at this thought. Bird was a pacifist beyond reproach and could not, in all likelihood, punch his way through a very wet paper bag.
“You try it and I’ll knock you on your ass.” Vic replied with a chuckle.
It was amusing that the two of them, crazy from the heat, were engaging in conversation you might expect to hear in a bad gangster movie, with bad actors and a very bad script.
Because the driver has the say in these matters, Vic flipped the dial to “off”. They rode in silence, save the wind whipping through the three open windows (the driver side window merely cracked, unable to roll up or down). At last, they entered Houston, hot air blowing from every vent.
Surprisingly, the traffic in Houston was manageable and the two slid through with relative ease. In a rare burst of excitement, they joked at the prospect of now having a little extra time for their favorite pastime on the road: drinking beer. Oh, and trying to concoct a barely believable lie to tell the locals about who they were and what they were doing so far from home. This was comical, alone, because they fancied themselves to be in the music business.
Well, Vic did anyway.
Bird, honestly, was in the business, writing some of the best songs you may never hear. He was even starting to get some airplay on smaller stations from Amarillo to Wichita Falls to Plano, even down to College Sta-tion; this being the real reason for the trip for Bird. He was hoping to meet a few people down here in South Texas and maybe, with a little luck, sell a few records.
These little radio stations were fantastically Texan. One thousand to 10,000 watt beacons of everything a Texan is. They were full of Texas pride, playing noting but music by Texans, for Texans, about Texas. There was no need for music from “Nash-Vegas” around these parts. There was little desire to hear so-called “country” music that didn’t have a fiddle, didn’t talk about having a Shiner Bock with buddies and didn’t mention Texas.
That was exactly what Bird wanted a piece of. Although he wasn’t technically from Texas, he and Texas got along just fine. Hell, some Texans even considered adopting him as one of their own. They accepted him, despite his geographic disadvantage. They welcomed him. Just as they did, over time, with Jerry Jeff Walker, Gary P. Nunn (who wrote the theme song for the television program Austin City Limits), Ray Wiley Hubbard and select others.
You see, in Texas, music is more than something you hear on the car radio when going to and coming home from work. It’s more than something you dance to. It’s more than background noise for paying bills around the kitchen table in early spring, windows open, attic fan humming. Texas music is a way of life. It’s a lifestyle, a recreation, a coming together of like minds. It’s music written and sung by folks who have something to say and listened to by people who want to listen, who really do listen. Texas music is so powerful, in fact, with a little timing and luck an artist can make a very comfortable living doing what they love for people who love it and never have to leave the Lone Star State. For Bird…that was just fine.
Vic, on the other hand, wasn’t sure.
Of anything, for that matter.

Sometimes a song is just a song...

2004-04-09T17:35:00.000-05:00

A flute with no holes...isn't a flute.
and a donut with no holes...is a danish.
-Ty Webb

Down to seeds and stems again in more way than one so today...I want to give you one of my favorite poems from e.e. cummings....it's about a car:

she being Brand... (XIX)

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

-e.e. cummings

snaps for that fruity old pervert....

Seven Foot Long Reefer....

2004-04-07T18:31:00.000-05:00

The trophies of my escapades are much like having a good day at the slots....on the internet...for play money....no one gives a fuck and it doesn't pay even ONE of the bills...

"Nothing in the this word is more common than unrewarded genius..." Calvin Cooldige( and my buddy Bird ) said that...so it doesn't matter that Dave Ray isn't writing for the New Yorker cause you know what...even if he was he'd still loathe...it also doesn't matter if he never links my blog...cause I don't need his help...it doesn't matter that Kev Mo can't find the band gig he deserves...and it doesn't matter that my past life of cocaine and road going was flushed down the truck stop toilet drain cause I was the drunk in an outlaw country band...

You know, if Kerouac would've been offered a nice paying accounting gig...he would've taken it and not look back...so the "romantic" idea of being the last of the "hardcore troubadours" is a foolish one and is in no way worth it...

but you know what... tonight....I miss my guys

Hoops of Wrath....

2004-03-25T18:13:00.000-06:00

During the Depression...the Midwest was plagued by an anomaly in weather which resulted in no rain and lots and lots o' wind....resulting in the Dust Bowl...now farmers with no money and, literally, no land to farm, were forced to take to the Mother Road to feed their families....Californians didn't want anything to do with these deadbeats and labeled them, accurately, "okies."....Now...very much in the same vein as the "n" word.....if you don't come from Oklahoma....don't call me an Okie...cause I will hit you....and, for the love of Budda, stop referring to THE University of Oklahoma(at Stillwater)...as "Okie" State...I mean..........shit

They all want to play Hamlet...

2004-03-24T17:19:00.000-06:00

Carl Sandburg once said that...

and I think he was trying to say that all actors want to play Hamlet as the total and consuming tragedy that the role of Hamlet commands is one that they and only they, with their immeasurable talent, could possibly justifiably present...

I bet I've read that poem five hundred times since my speech teacher in high school showed me Sandburg...

but that's not what I read...

I read in his words that everyone loves drama...craves it...invents it for lack of quantity....sadly, feels empty without it....

so if it's people at work that are a little too pushy of their needs with you...or it's a wisecracking, anonymous blog reader that thinks it's funny to bag on people getting you riled, maybe even concerned that you're not the expressionist you may have convinced yourself you are, well...

i guess the curtain calls.

THEY all want to play Hamlet.
They have not exactly seen their fathers killed
Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill,
Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders,
Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers
O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl in the saddest play the inkfish, Shakespeare, ever wrote;
Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad and to stand by an open grave with a joker's skull in the hand and then to say over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a heart that's breaking, breaking,
This is something that calls and calls to their blood.
They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.
--Carl Sandburg

A Shitty Blog for Shitty Blog's Sake....

2004-03-24T09:23:00.000-06:00

you know...whoever came up with the idea of "art for art's sake" screwed it up for all of us out there who enjoy pictures and paintings of things.... not ideas...

Now that's not to say that I am incapable of understanding, appreciating and relating to art through the expression of idea, moods and feelings....it just that when we allowed the artist the ability to label art... what we really were doing was giving poetic license to many, many no talent hacks out there living their "dream" of emoting through their chosen medium...

So everyone should express themselves...but saying it out loud doesn't necessarily make it worth hearing...

I just want to know where is it written that if you move to Taos after finally mustering up the courage to leave your husband of 20 years because you needed your freedom...because after 20 years of being a team player you don't feel you got your share...now your an artist...

In my opinon...your a sherk...escapist....

life got hard and you forgot your helmet...

now it aromatherapy...new age flute music....and (most importantly) your art....

for art's sake...

and this.

another shitty blog

Tag Teamed

2004-03-23T16:00:00.000-06:00

Okay...this is some crazy shit...For the first time Tag will be an Olympic Sport...that's fucking "A" right...tag.

Now...you know who's on the fucking...and I find this hard to type...the U.S. Olympic Tag Team?

Dante Hall (NFL's leading punt returner), Deion Sanders, Terrell Owens and the Pride of Oklahoma State...Barry F. Sanders....

so now we got a Tag Team...which is nice...

2004-03-23T13:43:00.000-06:00

European Vacation gets a raw deal...and Beverly D'Angelo was(and still is in my book...but my book is a little freaky-deaky) one of the most underrated sex symbols in movies in the last 25 years...

2004-03-23T12:39:00.000-06:00

I don't really understand the whole craze with American Idol...I mean...for the most part ,what the collective public crave and craze over I see why and probably more times than not I am right along with them...Big Brother....Friends....The Apprentice...Sopranos...even Sex in the City...good Monday Morning water cooler talk...no doubt...

But American Idol never took hold....and I don't mind...

another one is blogging....

hence.