Monday, November 28, 2011

Hard Rain's A Gonna Fall

I've had this little tradition that until now I've never shared. I'm not sure why I haven't, or why I feel like I should share it now, but here it is:

Sometimes, when I'm writing and may be having trouble finding that rhythm that lets the words flow through my fingers and punch the key that needs to be punched, I put my shot glass and/or or beer glass in front of my Fostex monitors and let Bob Dylan's music seep through it. Like the sugar cube resting on the Absinthe spoon, it gets doused in some strange music that doesn't translate to the human ear. It gets covered in a fuel that doesn't ignite with an earthly spark. Once it bonds to the blood, that door is kicked down and the words and rhythm come with little effort.


Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Governor or: The Copulation of State and Church

I had just finished my plate of scrambled eggs, tomatoes, sausage and toast when Governor Mary Fallin entered the restaurant. I watched as she was mobbed by churched-up conservatives who believe President Obama is a Muslim Socialist sent by Satan to destroy Jesus and Marriage.
“Don’t pity her,” I thought. “This is what she lives for.”
I watched as she posed for pictures with bratty looking kids with spiked hair. They had no idea why their parents forced them to stand next to this strange blonde woman who smiled as her lobotomy eyes glared into the camera. A hunchbacked grandmother with white cotton hair rolled her quadriplegic granddaughter to the governor. The grandmother held back tears as she begged the governor to help her crippled granddaughter. The governor smiled and sent her aide to retrieve a long white robe and a ceremonial brass bowl from the trunk of the limo. She changed into her robe and poured water from a Mason jar with the word “Holy” written on the side in black permanent marker into the bowl. The aide kneeled on all fours as the governor placed the brass bowl on the aide’s back. The governor raised her hand and the chattering of the dining area instantly ceased. The only thing that moved the air was the sound of Interstate 40 vibrating off the glass windows. The governor mumbled “Ab amicis honesta petamus,” a Latin phrase she learned from She then sprinkled a few drops of water on the child who sat helpless in her wheelchair. The grandmother wept as the governor touched the child’s forehead. Suddenly, the child’s right arm began to twitch as if it were about to be released from the grip of paralysis. But it was only a malfunctioning nerve.
“Well shit!” exclaimed the Governor, kicking her aide and sending the brass bowl crashing against the wall. “I really thought it would work that time.”