Prophetic Line

We're both used goods

and it's buy one get one free

Dark Days Ahead

And I'm not talking about the winter months...

 

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what will be known as some of the darkest days any of us will ever live through.  It's all a bit relative, it's all a bit wavy in the distance but we will all share in the hardships ahead.

Wayward Running

I'm sitting here still

Chilled between two sheets 

My mind wandering still

My thumbs keeping me the beat

On spacebar keys

 

What's the thing that fills

Eloquent spaces

Between she and he

What's the magic pill

Keeping me the beat

On spacebar keys

Huge Developments

I'm on youtube.com!

Late Night Sleep Tight

Well,

I've been studying for my Spanish exam tomorrow.  I'm very exhausted but, because of this little 20mg upper I'm still not asleep.  I'm starting to love these little pills called Aderoll, it's almost like cheating except the fact it's not unethical.  Example:  Thanks to Aderoll I typed a 30 page paper (including research) in two days and received an A on it.  Pretty cool eh?  I think so.

Hopefully I'll be in Cleveland tomorrow to see the Misfits at Peabody's (thanks to the free tickets my magazine supplies me)  I don't think it will ever get old writing for these guys.  In fact, I fancy myself making a career out of it one day.  But until then, it's just the uppers and senseless amounts of nonsleep. 

Chao.

The Waitress (A Rant)

First, let me begin by letting everybody know that I DO NOT discriminate between religions... I hate them all (except the eastern religions, there seems to be some kind of truth and honesty  to it)

I have had my fill of religious texts, religious television, religious websites and religious propaganda.  I don't dislike you... I just think some of you are fucking crazy that's all.

Like my waitress yesterday evening.  I'll just call her... Mary.  Mary started off being a great waitress then quickly fell into the chasm of terrible ways to be professional and frankly socially aware.

Story:

Mary comes to the table and complements my dates dress and her breast size.  Cool.  That's completely cool.  Look at my date's boobs I don't mind, seriously I encourage it.  They're quite the attention getters.  Anyways, Mary then tells us that she prayed to God for big boobs.  Ok now let's hold on here for just one second...  God isn't a genie... he doesn't grant you 3 wishes.  At least that's what I've learned from studying the New and Old Testament.  If God was a genie and granted wishes... I would pray on a daily basis.

So Mary still has me at this point though, I forgive her for mentioning God...maybe Mary has had an interesting day.  She concludes the comment with "instead of giving me bigger boobs God just made me pregnant, he works in crazy ways doesn't he?".  Alright Mary, you're still on my good side at this point.  Seriously, I forgive you.  Please, just get my water with a lemon before you call forth heavenly angels.

Religion, in my opinion, serves a very important function in society.  It doesn't serve shit at my dinner table in a sports bar...sorry.

Mary comes back, takes our order than tells us that, "I was once very troubled, into drugs and alcohol and God saved me.  I said the sinner's prayer and was saved.  You should say the sinner's prayer with me or you'll goto Hell for eternity and trust me, eternity is a long time".  Mary, thank you for you're concern, really I appreciate it but, I know eternity is a long time and no I do not want to pray with you.  In fact, I think hell would be alot better than the uncomfortable position you have put me and my date in on this wonderful evening.  Why isn't this type of situation considered sin?  I know one of the 10 commandments is Thou Shallest not Pray to Any other Gods.  Why can't a commandment be Thou Shallest not Push me onto others who do not pray for me?

Why is coveting your neighbors goods a sin and covering my mashed potatoes with God gravy not?  Seriously Mary I'm sure you meant well but if you want to keep receiving that 20% tip I left you so you wouldn't curse me then I suggest you quit with the God stuff.

I wonder if Jesus was a good tipper?

Thanks

Or rather, the evolution of The American Dream.

Every journey needs a purpose right?  Well I think every journey needs a purpose, it just seems logical.  So this trip coming up needs a purpose.  I've decided on something very close to home, controversial, interesting, engaging and all around fantastic:  The Death and Resurrection of the American Dream.  Here is the premise, while I travel the country side no doubt meeting colorful people from all different walks of life I'm going to keep a journal (possibly a vlog) of the experiences and how people have changed their daily lives in the past 8 years.  Of course I'll be putting my own spin on things and for journalistic reasons I'll start doing research on the areas I'll be visiting as soon as I can.  Chances are I'll be doing quite a bit of reading before I leave.

My blog will be the main outlet for my writings and whatnot including the video feeds.  I'm planning on 3-4 times a week updating my location (assuming the Internet is reliable where I happen to be at any given time or I may just subscribe to a satellite Internet service). 

This may seem a bit vague, a bit convoluted a bit...idealistic, romantic, crazy, absurd, dangerous and half a dozen other adjectives but, this is what I need to be doing.  I've got the bug and I need to leave.  I'm not leaving responsibility behind oh no, I plan on paying my bills ahead of time or while I'm gone.  I'll take up some small jobs if need be.  I have bartending experience I should be able to get a job anywhere.

As I type this I'm sitting in a laundry mat.  My clothes keep endlessly spinning in circles trying to outrace all the grease and dirt that is mixed in with the gray laundry water.  Sometimes it just seems like a losing battle folks.  No matter how much we run it's always in circles and we're always being chased by the sins of our past and the errors of our ways.

Picture Time

Porn Star Will

 

Lovin' the new laptop ya'll.  It's a Dell Studio 15.  I paid almost 1,000 for it but I think it'll be worth it in the long run.   Well... I've started my preparations for my long awaited trip coming up in March.  I'm getting pretty excited now the only thing I have to do is save up money.  Further details to come...

Still looking for that brave soul to embark with me.  I promise it will be a good time.

Later Ya'll.  

testing...

From my new laptop... Shweet

Welcome to the blue
Period.
Just looking for something
New period.
Been working too
long
To be writing damn
songs
Talking about reasons
Period
For leaving or speaking
my mind period.
I'm keeping that teenage angst
behind period.
Just giving you the sign
that
My rhyme and rhythm and voice
for singing
Isn't dying anytime
Period.
I'm loving that feeling
When I know I'm sitting
below
The clouds that move on
Without me.
Period.
They have bigger parades to rain on
They have bigger rays to tan on
They have bigger fish to fry
They have other idle eyes
To catch in sky nets
Inspiring writers and poets
Period.


See? That's just how it is
Gotta have your ups and downs
Period.
You can't smile with a frown
You can't clap convincingly when coaxed
You can't stop
You can't stop
You can't stop
When something feels so damn good
Period.
Just another shot
Just another shot
Just another shot
Coursing through my veins please
Refrain from speaking during
The ceremony
Period.
Shut the fuck up so I can find
My happy place.
Period.
Remember the only thing that
Will never turn it's back on you is
You own reflection
Period.
Welcome to the blue
Period.


Just a little free writing there. You have to love the stream of consciousness stuff.

Ah yes, it's been a while...

I should be working on this paper due tomorrow afternoon yet here I sit... contemplating where life is taking me. It seem every few weeks or so I get into this introspective/retrospective mood that pretty much perpetuates itself continually for several days then once my mind wraps itself around whatever seems to be happening at that time I forget about it. I quit my job today. It was a long time coming.

I feel school is hindering parts of my creative mind.

I feel working when I'm not sitting in class is hindering parts of my social life/ my creative mind.

I'm a caged animal.

I'm immortal.


I've noticed that when I'm instructed to read something I don't read it. When I'm coaxed into learning something I don't learn it and finally, when I'm brainwashed into believing something I feel empty. Where is all the honest passion in this world? Why can't I make my own major? What ever happened to the renaissance man? In his day, Leonardo Davinci was considered crazy.

There's a fine line between crazy and eccentric.

And yet... I still procrastinate.

Onto politics:

Barack has let me down.

McCain is a liar.

Palin is shallow and more popular than she needs to be.

Biden was the wrong choice.

And finally, I'm sick of all the mudslinging.

The economy is shit and we're all going to die poor anyway.


And in the words of the late George Carlin:

You know why we kill in the name of God? Because my God has a bigger dick than your God.

Pictures of the New and Improved Bedroom...

C'mon ladies, line forms out the door har har.

Drugs, Rock and Politics:
Pearl Jam’s Epic Wake Up Call to the Filthy Masses. Final Version

The hippy-haze air was thick. Night sky and moon were within grabbing distance. Everything fueled by an adrenaline feed straight from the pumping hearts of the drug zombies sparked and lit ablaze when Eddie Vedder’s prophetic pipes echoed off the Tennessee horizon spawning what would become Pearl Jam’s most epic performance. We all saw Christ that night and it wasn’t because of the drugs.
Vedder and the band eased into the three hour long set, which included a shit ton of rarities as well as Pearl Jam staples, with Hard to Imagine. Vedder belted the chorus, “Things were different then”. Ah yes Eddie, things were different; the world loved us and we all left rainbow shits behind in toilet bowls everywhere. Pearl Jam reminded Bonnaroo how fucking sweet the 90’s were and how fucking shitty things are getting. Vedder spoke candidly following shouts of Fuck George Bush, “A lot of fucking emotions flying around the world these days…So you’ve got a Texan in the White House and it (gas) goes from $1.40 to $4.00 a gallon. I’m not good at math, I’m going to let you do that.” Vedder interjected little snippets of politics throughout the show in true Eddie Vedder fashion; unfortunately, the only thing he stirred up was the acid vibrations that moved spontaneously through the crowd. Bonnaroo is a great place to get people together but you have to speak through the drugs first. Reign O’er Me was one of the highlights of the night, Vedder released an atom bomb over the crowd vaporizing everything within 2 miles with his nuclear vocals.
Pearl Jam continued towards the 2nd encore and Vedder, visibly exhausted, wailed and groaned his way from an amazing rendition of Black to a ten minute goliath jam of Porch. The man standing beside me just stared in shock at the stage, I nudged him, “Dude are you ok?” “Yea man, I just forgot where I was for a minute there, this is intense”. It was intense. Anybody who has ever been to one of these monster festivals knows all it takes is a bad batch of mushrooms and one crazy fuck to turn the grounds into a free-for-all of dripping sex and bloody violence.
Encore numero dos highlighted my two personal favorite Pearl Jam songs, Release and Alive. Release was haunting with Vedder’s lulling ooo’s and ahhh’s. Lighter’s sparked and many went inside their heads for the trip. Alive, on the other hand, revved the crowd into a state of frenzy. The man beside me sang at the top of his fucking lungs words that he wasn’t quite sure of, thrusting a closed fist weakly into the humid air. The crowd followed in suit but most knew the words better than my sidekick.
Luckily, Vedder and company stuck around for a third amazing encore. Vedder closed the show with a rocking cover of Dylan’s All Along the Watch Tower. The stage blew open into chaos, Manchester lost control. Eddie Vedder screamed, “Two riders were approachin!” again and again. Mega solo after mega solo, energy, blam, crash and afterglow. Peace. Cheering crowd. It was over. Pearl Jam had played the best show of the weekend. “Dude, that just fucking happened man”, I said to the man drooling beside me. “What happened? Was that Dylan?”, my random concert buddy blankly walked away into the festival still dazed by his overdose of psychedelics and the come down from the ecstasy he found on the ground earlier in the day.

The Move and the New Apartment.


First of all I would like to say, it's interesting how things just magically dissapear while moving... I would take pictures of the new place BUT the usb cord to my awesome digital camera is missing. I would ride my bike to walmart to buy another one BUT my quick release axel is missing so normally I would just listen to some tunes from my external hard drive BUT the usb cable to that is missing as well.

Classes start tomorrow bright and early at 8am (the art of acting). I can't wait although I'm not sure how I'm getting to class yet. I'll probably just walk.


More later.

Here's my buzzbin magazine article so far on Pearl Jam's Bonnaroo performance in June:

Drugs, Rock and Politics:
Pearl Jam’s Epic Wake Up Call to the Filthy Masses.

The hippy-haze air was thick. Night sky and moon were within grabbing distance. Everything fueled by an adrenaline feed straight from the pumping hearts of the drug zombies sparked and lit ablaze when Eddie Vedder’s prophetic pipes echoed off the Tennessee horizon spawning what would become Pearl Jam’s most epic performance. We all saw Christ that night and it wasn’t because of the drugs.
Vedder and the band eased into the three hour long set, which included a shit ton of rarities as well as Pearl Jam staples, with Hard to Imagine. Vedder belted the chorus, “Things were different then”. Ah yes Eddie, things were different; the world loved us and we all left rainbow shits behind in toilet bowls everywhere. Pearl Jam reminded Bonnaroo how fucking sweet the 90’s were and how fucking shitty things are getting. Vedder spoke candidly above shouts of Fuck George Bush, “A lot of fucking emotions flying around the world these days…So you’ve got a Texan in the White House and it (gas) goes from $1.40 to $4.00 a gallon. I’m not good at math, I’m going to let you do that.” Vedder interjected little snippets of politics throughout the show in true Eddie Vedder fashion; unfortunately, the only thing he stirred up was the acid vibrations that moved spontaneously through the crowd. Bonnaroo is a great place to get people together but you have to speak through the drugs first. Reign O’er Me was one of the highlights of the night, Vedder released an atom bomb over the crowd vaporizing everything within 2 miles with his nuclear vocals.
Pearl Jam continued towards the 2nd encore and Vedder, visibly exhausted, wailed and groaned his way from an amazing rendition of Black to a ten minute goliath jam of Porch. The man standing beside me just stared in shock at the stage, I nudged him, “Dude are you ok?” “Yea man, I just forgot where I was for a minute there, this is intense”. It was intense. Anybody who has ever been to one of these monster festivals knows all it takes is a bad batch of mushrooms and one crazy fuck to turn the grounds into a free-for-all of dripping sex and bloody violence.
Luckily, Vedder controlled Bonnaroo for a third encore. More to come…

I'll be changing things around and adding a bit more to the end. This is just a rough draft.

R.I.P Isaac Hayes

He was an RnB legend

and Chef from Southpark

Here's to you Isaac!

Attention:

My Piece of Crap Grammar Paper Written in an Hour! Go Forth and Get me that Slacker's Grade!!!
(Seriously, I can do so much better than this, I just want to get this freaking class over with)

The Great Grammar Debate


Hunter S. Thompson was one of the most unpredictable, dramatic and funny men of his time. Those qualities carry on through his writing. Thompson’s style is akin to a commuter train crash, one sympathizes with the passengers and is in horror by the event but, cannot help but be stunned and wowed by the calamity of it all. Thompson’s writing has an element of danger to it. Thus, I chose Hunter S. Thompson’s first novel, The Rum Diary, to examine further. The Rum Diary chronicles his days as a free-lance journalist in Puerto Rico in the 1950s. I will be juxtaposing his novel with a short story I wrote titled Nocturnal Emissions, a twisted depiction of the college life style.
The first major difference I noticed was sentence length. Thompson slowly draws the majority of his sentences out like a bow then he fires a fury of words in shorter, starker sentences. He does this consistently throughout The Rum Diary. Thompson balances Hemmingway’s directness with Fitzgerald’s beautiful descriptions. One sentence in particular is a whopping 162 words long and describes a mile long walk through the streets of San Juan. The sentence acts as a timeline, listing each tiny discovery as if Thompson wants us to illustrate the scene for him with slides. Thompson is using long drawn out sentences to give the reader a feeling of a casual and leisurely environment. How else can anybody describe Puerto Rico? One can almost imagine Thompson sitting at his typewriter slowly writing out his words with a cigar in his mouth and a bottle of warm rum sitting beside him on his desk with the ocean breeze coming in through a curtained window. If he wanted to speed things up a bit, he would have used shorter sentences that are more frantic and emotionally jabbing. But, Thompson takes his time.
On the other hand, when I wrote my story I wanted to play with a very stark and quick rhythm in memory of Bukowski and inspired by Hemingway. Much of my story is dialogue, short and blunt phrases. The short sentences add to the confusion of the whole piece, the sentences never give you a second to catch up. The voice of my narrator is sarcastic and belittling. I didn’t want the reader to have much “fluff” as it were. I didn’t want to slow things down. I wanted to go at the reader like Muhammad Ali. Although my story breaks most grammatical rules, I get my point across. My story is not meant to be taken seriously however, Hunter’s novel is meant to be read with seriousness.
In every creative writing class I have ever taken, the use of strong verbs is always a topic of discussion and I never understood why until now. I’m beginning to wake up from my verb dark age into an age of verb enlightenment thanks to Thompson. Thompson packs his sentences with wild verbs like warped, barking, marveling, and zipping. Verbs are a very important part of his writing. The verbs he chooses add to the character of each sentence. He also uses verbs in nontraditional ways as well. Normally barking would refer to animal noises but he uses the word in relation to one person talking to another. A large amount of colorful verbs seems to add a bit of life to any writing.
Unfortunately, for me, in my writing I use rather dull and gray verbs for the most part. My attention to short and stark sentences limited my use of strong verbs and I believe some of my sentences seem boring because of it. The verbs I chose all coincide with the every day usage and meaning of the verb. I think it makes for an overall monotone affect. Perhaps in the future I will spend greater time constructing sentences with varied verbs to increase the energy of the writing.
The overall feel of Thompson’s novel and my short story are completely different. The style of Thompson and the style I chose for my short story are completely different. I always considered Thompson a great influence on my own writing but apparently, I don’t write like him, I just write in the spirit of him. It’s interesting but I always thought my writing was very similar to his. The feel of The Rum Diary is one of a relaxed vacation filled with innocent adventures and warm Puerto Rican rum. Hunter makes sure to reflect that in the structure of his writing. In Nocturnal Emissions, the feel is of confusion, annoyance, and hilarity. I’m not as skilled at writing as I would like to think but, much of the emotion does come through structurally even though it may be accidental. Finally, as Hunter would call it, the wisdom. To keep a reader interested, it is not always the content that counts; sentence structure and variation has a lot to do with keeping a reader reading.

The Rum Diary



Well, it's official, The Rum Diary movie is going to happen, is happening now and will be done with production shortly. I'm stoked. The Rum Diary was Hunter S. Thompson's first novel written in the 1950's. The book chronicles his time as a freelance journalist in Puerto Rico. Basically, the movie is a "sequel" to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Johnny Depp is reprising his role as Hunter and a few other familiar faces are going to appear in the movie as well. It'll be released sometime in 2009 I think. I'm stoked.

B.B. King- The Master and Architect


I'm listening to BB's performance at Bonnaroo this year. I was there but, I just had to find a bootlegged copy. Holy shit he's awesome. BB is the grandfather of modern blues and he acts like it too. On stage, BB brought the audience in to a candid (and wisdom filled) performance that poured from his 82 year old blue heart. When I die, I want BB to be the person who greets me at the pearly gates with his rendition of "You are my Sunshine". Nough said, he's fucking awesome and nobody has any reason to believe otherwise. God Bless the Grandfather of Blues. (I'm not even religious)

Live performances have always been my favorite they really show what a band is capable of. What happens in the studio doesn't mean much to me at all, it's constructed, planned and tainted by retakes, rewinds and electronics. If a band can give a good live performance they are good enough for me. Radio head, on Monday, gave an "OK" performance. I'm starting to believe they are a studio band unfortunately. Although, they did give a grand performance at Bonnaroo in 06.

By far, the best live band I have seen thus far has been The Raconteurs. Jack White knows how to get a crowd going.

Again the clock hits 4:56... It's a curse I swear

Busy week ahead. Packing, Cleaning, Studying for my Final, Moving, Working, Painting. Where has the summer gone? It seems like it was just yesterday when I walked outside and smiled at the first summer breeze. I'll be busy to the bluesy beat of B.B King.

My Buzzbin Magazine Article:

I just want it to be known, buzzbinmagazine.com screwed up with the credits to my article. Apparently they believe somebody else wrote it. I'm going to talk to them about it asap.

Start drinking those Pina Coladas and eating handfuls of psychedelics because Morning Bell has crafted a damn good album that mixes Mai Tai warmth with groovy escapism. Through the Belly of the Sea makes Sponge Bob Square Pants look like a fucking pussy.
Through the Belly is a concept album based on those “Choose-Your-Own-Adventure” books everybody reads as a kid. It’s interesting. Each track tells a bit of a narrative while you listen. Unfortunately, the concept feels loose and doesn’t bring much to the table other than an interesting marketing ploy. The concept is easy to forget.
What is lacking in terms of concept is forgiven once the album plays a few times in your stereo. I found myself lulled by the mellow melodies anchored by nebulous guitar work and jazzy drumming. It feels as if Morning Bell is playing behind aquarium glass with sharks singing harmonies and sunfish tossing tightly rolled joints on the stage. Imagine Roger Waters performing The Little Mermaid soundtrack. Yes, I’m serious. In fact, I would not be surprised if Through the Belly synced nicely to The Little Mermaid. I’m sure every stoner reading this will try.
The album is diverse. A poppy burst like the opening track “The Speed of God” sits beside more cerebral tracks like “The Octopus Walks Across the Coral” and “Waiting on Sleep”. In addition, we are treated to occasional rocky riffs and instrumentals, which make Through the Belly of the Ocean unique and enjoying experience. The real gem of the album is an epic track titled “Faster than Eagles, Stronger than Lions”, a truly rocking song with a playful bass line and hard riffs that contrast to the rest of the album’s more relaxed approach. “Faster than Eagles, Stronger than Lions” sticks out, whether that’s good or bad isn’t quite clear. What is clear however is the attention to detail in each track. The album is full of discovery; each track is peppered with little bubbly effects that enhance the Caribbean/Lets just all sit down and drink on the beach feeling.
Over all, it’s eclectic and progressive and leaves the listener feeling intrigued. Through the Belly of the Sea is a testament to Morning Bell’s future as kings of indy-progressive-pop-rock. I highly recommend everybody pick up this album and take a day trip to the aquarium. It will be a surreal experience. I promise.

I will be leaving... in 7 months time. I don't know when I will be returning only that I will be gone for quite some time.

Despite every nerve in my body telling me that this trip is the wrong thing to do, "it's irresponsible, it's selfish, it's at a bad time, it's stupid, it's dangerous. In 7 months I will be driving across the Ohio state line hopefully not to return until I am done.

A pilgrimage? That makes sense. Pilgrimages are journeys for the religious or spiritual to a holy place in hopes of achieving some sort of enlightenment. Some sort of... inner peace. Some sort of... bigger purpose.

I know my limitations or, at least, I think I do. Maybe this adventure will help me to become closer to who I really am. Or maybe it will kill me. Whatever the case may be. Death is not the ultimate goal.

I will be taking my laptop, guitar, books, plenty of water, money, credit cards, clothes, 2 person tent, paper, pens, my drum and anything else that seems important at the time. There is room for two in my car.

Ideas?

Generation Gap

I've been reading a book called Generation Me. Great book, very interesting. Basically, it discusses, in detail, what makes the generation born 1980-2005 unique. More or less... we suck at life. But anyways, very informative, great facts, super statistics and all in all a very groovy read.

Here is a poem I've just started. It has a lot of revision to go but the basic idea is there...

1. World wars great depressions leave young minds
with big impressions shaping heart times
glued together with silly putty
held together with erector-sets

2. Magnetized to television sets
turn your radio dial to haunted

3. Little boys dreamed as they seemed frightened
war time conquerers and heros screamed
nothing is how it seems halloween
nothing is how it seems halloween
terrible wails and ghosts cry save me

4. They don't know where to go does it snow
in eyes of widowed mother's wide eyes
sly bastard children sing nursery
rhymes whispered into fairy filled ears

They stood erected in sun set skies
Blazon silhouettes tall testaments

The Daily Grind

*Ring* --Snooze
*Ring Ring* --Snooze
*Ring Ring Ring* -- Ugh

I feel we all (eventually) get caught in what some people call "the daily grind" also known as "the usual routine". Get up, get dressed, goto work, come home, eat and, do it all over again. This happens when we, as costumers, put ourselves into the system and start making payments on debt we have collected. These payments can include rent, car payments, credit cards or whatever. Dylan's song, Working Mans Blues #2 comes to mind. Basically, it's a cycle that is always continuous and never changing for most of the people in the western world. It's pointless, boring and most of all...unethical and wrong.

I've been caught in the snare by "the man". He's got me by the balls and I'm crying. I need to escape as soon as possible.

Going to a four year university has its perks. Parties, knowledge, atmosphere, culture. All these things influence us to become better people. But, when we graduate, most of us will have collected right around 50 thousand dollars in student loan debt. A pretty hefty sum of money. Say goodbye and welcome to the grind.

The only way I see it possible to escape the institution is to never enter it to begin with. Never collect debt. Yet, it's nearly impossible...the system is set up to enforce debt on the common man. Many people don't have a choice, they must take out loans to survive. It's wrong. It's fascist.

The bottom line is... The bottom line rules us all. There must be a balance between living selfishly and giving to others when you have a surplus.

Ah yea, Grammatical errors baby.

Every take a grammar class? Why not? I don't blame you. They suck. Diagraming sentences is probably the lamest thing I've ever had to do in my academic career. I know it's all for the better good though. Anyways, working on part II of "Giving the Gift" right now well, at least the 2nd story that is going to be inserted in. <--- should never end a sentence with a preposition.

Summer is going well aside from losing 500 dollars. Just found a roommate for next semester, that takes a lot of pressure off of me. Also, work is going well too.

Nothing much of consequence lately. Short post.

Later Tater

"Reserving judgement is a matter of infinite hope."-- F. Scott Fitzgerald-- The Great Gatsby

Here today...

It's funny how a believer in Karma (like myself) can seemingly get completely screwed a majority of the time. It's been a tough few weeks for me financially and today I just discovered 500 dollars of mine...missing? What the hell? I hope it's helping whoever happened upon my stash by whatever means. But seriously, if you have my money please give it back. I know times are tough and things are sucking right now but think of your neighbor man. Think of your neighbor.

Come visit me! I'll be behind the bar quite a bit the next few weeks. Beef O'Brady's in Twinsburg. Ask for Will.

Peace

Still...

Catching the clock at 12:34 1:23 2:34

Is this normal?

A couple cool little pictures for everybody.
Taken on my new camera.
Groovy eh?











If I were a key
I would be in
un-obvious
un-imagined
un-thought-of
how the hell did it get there places

Down the street
From Ordinary

In the bottom of coffee cans
In shoes
Between rhythm
and blues

Dark corners
Fuzzy memories
dreams that slip-- free

Returning
half as vivid
and twice as moving

Igniting a switch
the kind of which
has never been heard
or been seen
or been smelled before

spending time
writing reason and rhyme
during thinking season
noses to the floor

searching
just searching...
for locks that mate
the key

And maybe lost treasure explodes from our mouthes
And maybe doors lock to keep us out
And maybe skeletons in closets make way for new wardrobes

Or maybe not

Maybe we spend time writing rhyme
for wrong reasons

Words are pleasin'
only to those who hear them
or see them

What about beat
stomping of feet
clapping of hands

Percussion bands
made from red knees
and shoes with more soul than
James Brown and The King put together

It's humanity
in United Tribal Harmony
That's the key
That's the reason
That's the -- stop

And Listen

It's beatin
It's beatin
It's beatin

Bum bum di dum
speaks eternal drums
from times when
the sun was our most treasured
commodity

Bum bum di dum
echoes through church halls
and hospital wards
and libraries
where thinking minds spread silence

Shh...
There are no words
to describe
the flow of the soul
through ones body...

bum bum
only beat
di dum
only beat
bum bum
only beat
di dum
only beat
only beat
only
bum bum di dum
bum bum

Notes from Bonnaroo:
(These have been pulled from my notebook, documenting June 12th-15th)

June 11th 2008 (My Birthday)
77 South 6:40pm
West Virginia

Vegitative mountains cascade across the horizon. The overall feeling of the drive has improved greatly since the serpent bit the Focus's hoof. The average speed of this stretch is somewhere between mellow and boredom. The only thing holding us together is the universal sense of adventure and the promise of a fucking rightous week. Funds are stable. Moral is high. Traffic is closing in around us and cruise control is our only companion on this dreaded decaying highway to Graceland.

June 15th 2008
2:27am

It's the final long day of what has become yet another wild existance within the drug economy city-state known as Bonnaroo. The days may melt together but, my peeling sunburnt nose doesn't hold any biases. This year rain clouds replace dust clouds, teeny boppers replace hippies. Zealous Metallica fans bring alcohalic rowdiness to new extreames. The old and true Bonnaroo is still within reach on the horizon. I'm glad the spirit still lingers guarding the drug zombie's rights to be drug zombies. Zombie. Drugs. Music. Peace. Harmony. Splash.

Bonnaroo:
We are products of:
1. Rain showers that begin with
a crashing cymbol
Pieces of a corporate social consciousness
2. Twisted views of stereotypes
and happy birthday symphonies
Drugged Dust Clouds
Hippie Haze
3. 3 days of Valhala
sold to the highest bidder
Packaged, Marketable
Uneasy settling
uneasy acceptance of authority
they took the baby's umbrella

Overheard:

"It'll be alright", he said "Just try it"

"I'm at Bonnaroo, can we talk later?"

"So where are you from?"
"Oklahoma"
"Ontario"
"Charleston South Carolina"
"I'm from New Jersey, trust me, I'm not the typical New Jersey resident"
"New York"
"Michigan, Detroit"
"Cincinatti"

Some are here to "find themselves" while others are looking for a "good fucking time". Bonnaroo is a catalyst for so many good things. Pure human existance. Exstacy.

Wisdom:
"Reserving judgement is a matter of infinite hope." F. Scott Fitzgerald-- The Great Gatsby

What a wonderful piece of work.

Anyways, I worked another bar shift tonight. You can call me Mr. Bartender from now on. I insist. The bar was slow, not many costumers tonight, a bit dead. But, I had a couple of guys come in right before close who were interesting...

This is how the conversation developed (more or less)i've

Me: Can I get ya something to drink man?
Guy 1: Sure, 2 labatts pints, that'll be all.
Me: Ok, what's your name?
Guy 1 (hesitantly): Ira
Me: Nice to meet you Ira.
Guy 1: Likewise

After a bit a man joins him. They start discussing the drama behind being professional mascots for some local sports teams. The following was captured by eavesdropping. I do not feel ashamed.

Guy 1: If Slider can do it why can't I? I mean, what's the point?
Guy 2: It's Ok, you're great at what you do.
Guy 1: Ya know, that bitch ended up calling The Monsters and saying we never showed up. What a bitch.
Guy 2: Yea, that's shitty.
Guy 1: So imagine me trying to explain that one. I'm completely fed up with this fucking system.
Guy 2: You should audition to be Slider, less work and more pay.
Guy 1: You're right, I should. I have 3 years experience. I know what I'm doing.
Guy 2: Go for it.

These conversations really happen? If I can say... Ira (Guy 1) definately looked like he was his high school mascot as well. He was probably made fun of for it. In fact, he was a pretty laughable character overall. Poor Guy.

My god, I have the weirdest intuition. Everytime when a digital clock is near me and the time is something like 12:34 or 2:34 or 4:56 I seem to sense it and I look at the clock. For instance, just this second I looked at my cellphone and the time was 2:34am. So Gonzo.

Peace

14 Hour Work Daze...


At the end of what seems to be a shift that lasts forever (actually 14 hours is forever...almost) everybody is in what seems to be a mindless daze undoubtedly from too much thinking and extreme movement. I work in the restaurant business have been since I was 17. I'm now 21. 4 years of my life have been devoted to serving fat and drunk costumers obnoxious amounts of food and alcohol. It's a drag.

I must take a shower. The restaurant grime is eating through my skin. Grease is seeping from my pores. The sound of the ready bell echoes in my tired shot gunned mind.

Shower...

He sips his coffee as he contemplates the front page
The headline reads: Famine
He turns the page
The headline reads: War
He turns the page
The headline reads: miracles happen everyday
In small
Whispering words
He orders another espresso

I find myself always thinking when I'm in the shower. It truly is one of my favorite times of the day. It's my belief many inventions were probably invented in the bathroom, the product of one man's complete and uninterrupted thought. What if we could all have uninterrupted thoughts everyday? What then?

I broke into my house today, I'm a regular cat burglar.

The Slow and Steady Fall From Grace Known As:

Time and redundant time again we are reminded that what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger. Sure, I believe it. I believe in delayed satisfaction and all that jazz. Sure, I believe it. But, doesn't the philosophy sound a bit slavish? A bit empty with hope? Some live their lives by said philosophy and kudos to those who enjoy it. I must admit, I'm tired of being tested to the very limits of my personal rope. For once it would be so nice to have things come easily. I'm reminded of a fish that sits hopelessly trapped in his small, stark fishbowl:

The Fish

in his clear confining bowl had

No Hand

in choosing his lonely cir-

Cumstance

I Think

about what he thinks about

Maybe

he makes the most of his life

Even

if watching his reflection

Grow
Is The

only way he passes the time

Unfortunately for the fish, he cannot grow legs and escape. That's what sets us all apart from the fishes, that ability to change our surroundings. I'm eager for a change of scenery. A change of pace. I'm hungry for more. I don't have to wait for magical meal flakes to be dropped from the heavens, I can hunt.

My personal fishbowl is a paper trail blazed from California to Maine. Documents across the country have my personal information stamped all over them thanks to my recent purchase of a 2003 Ford Focus. No matter how many miles a gallon it gets, it can never drive me far enough to escape the harsh reality that my childhood and adolescence is slowly leaving me. Adolescence is an experience I am only now starting to appreciate.

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad/ They may not mean to, but they do” - Phillip Larkin


I’m naive to think anybody would be interested in reading a short biography about a twenty something aimless college student. Yet, this is for me. Not my reader.

21 years ago in Akron Children’s Hospital your humble author was born into an America ruled by Ronald Reagan and a planet with 5 billion residents. I like to think most of them were morning the death of Andy Warhol. I was born, immediately rushed to an ICU and that’s where I lived the first several weeks of my life. My mother suffered the same fate. Before I achieved self-awareness my body was invaded, raped and permanently scared. It was all in the name of Hippocrates. I’m grateful.

We all are left with only a handful of memories of childhood. We all wish we can remember only the good times; birthdays, ballgames and parades on main street. Unfortunately, we can’t always remember what we want. The residue is all that remains, a smell or a sound or a particular phrase.

Childhood for me was a mix of good and bad, as is typical. Strawberry picking and physical abuse appear in my head side by side, neither holds more clout than the other. They are pasted in a collage fashioned from the smell of cut grass and the sobering reality of a bee sting.

One of my favorite memories as a child is, interestingly enough, of the humidifier my mother used to set in my room when I was sick. I was a sickly child in general. The steroids and “breathing treatments” given to me kept my body ticking as my mind wandered into fantasy. The humidifier represented, to me at the time, an undying protector found in my mother. My coughing would worsen throughout the night and she would feed me cough syrup every 3 hours. I pretended to hate it. Eventually, mom would stop coming with cough syrup. I had to sneak downstairs and get it myself.

At a young age I discovered my unrelenting curiosity and my knack for mischief. I didn’t keep either a secret; I flushed toilets when people were in showers, I put soap into dinner. I did it all. I quickly became resourceful. Dad would sleep on the couch, mom would be working and I would be climbing on kitchen drawers to reach the candy jar. I went largely unnoticed. Positive reinforcement was rare, corporal punishment was expected in my house.

Part I- Confession
The following few essays are written in an attempt to reveal who I really am through writing. It will share my personal history, reflections, stories and attitudes as honestly as possible.


Part 1-

My room is dimly lit in warm yellow light. An American flag hangs behind me, a peace sign replaces 50 white stars, a nod to my love of freedom and harmony.

This is where I write. My desk is exploding with post-it note shrapnel screaming to-do lists and meaningless words like mastodon and yowl. The to-do lists are always titled tomorrow. A creaking floor above me whispers lover's secrets almost always less than 10 minutes at a time. A blowish wind outside tugs in a new season every three months and I've only just started to notice. My speakers thump with classic rock staples and undiscovered nobodies begging karma to give them another chance. This is my existence in a nut-shell. A gross generalization of my life. This is the result of a diet of Adderol and Miller Lite and Captain Morgan, ingested with moderation.

I've lived for nearly 21 years. Well, I haven't lived most of those. I must admit. This is my honest confession. Observation. I have observed my life for the past 21 years in silence. I've taken in the smells, feelings, emotions, sounds and images and analyzed ever tiny detail and spit out my personal take on things as fact. What I boast in outer confidence I lake in inner conviction. I am the product of miles of road covered with glass gravel and the inability to fit into my own shoes. But, I'm always better because of my scars, or I would like to think.

A Wicked Life

A Twisted Style

An Epic written by:

West Gibson

To write about Hunter S. Thompson is to invite a world of wild circus madness into my notebook. I feel I need to make myself two, maybe three rum and cokes and take an occasional drag from a tightly rolled marijuana cigarette. I need to do the Good Doctor justice, inebriation is of the utmost importance.
My mission is to bring to you a sense of what made the writings of Hunter S. Thompson so damn different, so unique. It’s a dangerous task yes, it’s absolutely unholy. I am risking falling into a chasm of drug culture and slacker related ramblings about how Thompson liberates my soul, and how he truly lived the life every angst filled teenager dreams of. It is a dangerous game to be playing. But, I’m “buying the ticket and taking the ride”, as it were. Raul Duke is driving me to the knife’s point of the horizon in a red convertible at 104 miles an hour. All I can do to keep my sanity is hold on to what I know will never fade, my constant desire for alcohol induced orgies and the legend of America’s most notorious tall tale, Hunter S. Thompson.
For days, I’ve been contemplating how to begin this epic I call, “A Wicked Life, A Twisted Style” My desk is covered with post-it notes, one reads, “You’re over thinking it!” another, “Jesus man, start the damn paper”. Unfortunately, the best idea I have is starting from where Hunter’s own epic began; Louisville, Kentucky on July 18th in the year 1937. Hunter S. Thompson was the first son of Jack Robert, a veteran of the First World War, and Virginia Davidson Ray, a secretary and librarian. Not surprisingly, Hunter was a bit different from the rest of the children in his neighborhood. In Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson, his wife of seventeen years, Sandy Thompson writes, “He was angry. He was charming. He was a lot of trouble.” (3) Many who knew Hunter personally during his childhood echo her account of him. His taste for theatricality and danger circulated around Louisville. He created a reputation for himself as a maverick. People flocked to him because of his natural charm and the promise of an exciting, yet usually dangerous and criminal experience.
In July of 1952, Hunter’s father passed away, leaving his mother to raise Hunter and his two younger brothers, Davison and James. Virginia Ray turned to drinking and so did Hunter. Hunter’s harmless pranks and theatrics graduated to full-blown criminal activity. Amazingly, Hunter charmed the system time and time again, only getting probation. In high school, Hunter socialized with the sons and daughters of Louisville’s elite. His networking skills allowed him to take the law with a grain of salt. He knew he was invincible. He knew he could talk his way out of anything. The Athenaum, a prestigious literary club in Louisville accepted Hunter as a member. Members of the Athenaum either loved Hunter or hated him. They believed his antics reflected poorly upon the club. After typing Fitzgerald and Hemmingway novels word by word , as he said, “ to get the feel of how it is to write those words”, Hunter wrote a third-place winning essay titled Open Letter to the Youth of Our Nation, it began, “Young people of America, awake from your slumber of indolence and harken to the call of the future!”.
Hunter’s own future would be in jeopardy. A wild night of drinking and mischief ended in the arrest of Hunter and three of his closest friends. The other boys dodged criminal charges thanks to their influential parents. However, Hunter was on probation and his middle class background couldn’t save him from ninety days in jail. Hunter didn’t graduate from high school instead, he bargained with the judge to shorten his sentence, in return, Hunter would join the United States Air Force. His military career then ended in an early dismissal. Apparently, the Air Force didn’t appreciate a mock press-release Hunter published on base.
The following decedent years of Hunter’s life resulted in: many jobs lost because of his distaste for authority and his unpredictable behavior, two wives, a son named Juan Fitzgerald Thompson, a countless number of personal assistants, a run for Sheriff in Aspen, Colorado, a thirty-year relationship with Rolling Stone Magazine, a rocky relationship with his editors, hundreds of published articles, thousands of 3am phone calls, and a career that produced essays, letters, novels and non-fiction that all boast his unique style and character.
Wow, I can’t believe I’ve made it this far. My eyes are bleeding ink, my fingers are swollen, and my bottle of rum is half-empty. I can see in the reflection of my computer screen a clock that reads 1am. I’m tired, but this silliness must continue. Jumping ship would be a selfish act of ignorance. The momentum must build into a fiery comet of ugly metaphors and tasteless language. I must continue.
When I first picked up The Rum Diary, I expected to be dazzled by the Hunter Thompson I knew from his Fear and Loathing days. I wanted to be thrown into a disturbing and frightening drug filled adventure peppered with expletives, fantastic displays of weirdness, and the occasional whiff of the unbelievable. What I found was the developing seed of Gonzo Journalism. The Rum Diary is Hunter’s first attempt at taking his personal experience and knitting it into an interesting narrative that engages the reader with sharp tongue and wacky sense of humor. Although it lacks some of the spunk of his later works, The Rum Diary is a great place to begin looking at what makes Hunter S. Thompson tick.
Paul Kemp is Hunter’s main character in the book. Paul moves to San Juan, Puerto Rico to work for a small newspaper as a journalist. During his stay, Paul surrounds himself with a cast of characters hell bent on self-destruction. The book lacks any sort of stable plot, it’s a fact. But, what The Rum Diary lacks in plot it makes up for in the development of very personal, very realistic characters. It also gives me a sense of continuous sunshine, I feel as if I’m sitting on the beach right beside Paul Kemp drinking rum when I turn the pages of Hunter’s novel.
Hunter’s style stems from injecting himself into his stories. Paul Kemp is a perfect example. Hunter moved to San Juan when he was 22 years old to work for a small newspaper. The Rum Diary is a fictionalization of his experience. Writing fiction allows Hunter to play with realism and fantasy in ways seemingly impossible with any other genre. In one passage, after Paul Kemp steps onto Puerto Rican soil, he reflects:
“I had a flash of something I hadn’t felt since my first months in Europe – a mixture of ignorance and a loose, “what the hell” kind of confidence that comes on a man when the wind picks up and he begins to move in a hard straight line toward an unknown horizon.”(11)


Paul Kemp is a representation of Hunter S. Thompson living in Puerto Rico. I’m willing to bet the other characters in The Rum Diary are dramatizations of Hunter’s friends and coworkers. Hunter pulls pieces of those around him and constructs characters that feel as if they exist some where other than inside the writing. Making the writing edgy and theatrical is what’s important to Hunter. Adding quirks and flaws to his characters is key. But, The Rum Diary reads like the wind blows in Puerto Rico, lazily with overtones of relaxation and bliss. Hunter has not yet become the dark and twisted theatrical writer so many of us know.
The theatricality of The Rum Diary is mild in comparison to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. If you want to experience a disgusting drug binge that puts anything written since to absolute shame, read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Unfortunately, the book is popular in many smoked filled living rooms only because of the drug related material. Anybody who has ever taken part in anything remotely related to drug use has read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and I promise, the only thing those druggies can say about it is, “Dude, that book is freaking sweet. I wish I could do that many drugs and survive.”
The really amazing thing about Fear and Loathing is, as a reader, I don’t know whether or not to believe it. Is it fiction? Is it non-fiction? What the hell do I make of it? Where does reality stop and fiction begin? Thompson has no problem letting us in on his wild journey to find the American dream, but he never gives us any hints to whether or not his journey really happened.. He starts his travels by listing his drugs of choice like a Greek epic:
“We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers…and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.”(4)

From this point on, the story becomes a drug-filled date with indescribable amounts of sin and treachery that pours from the finger tips of the Good Doctor. The largest difference between the Paul Kemp of The Rum Diary and the Raul Duke, Hunter’s character in Fear and Loathing, is the pure excess in which Duke participates. Hunter transformed from a humble journalist in Puerto Rico to a drug riddled sensation riding the success of The Hells Angels. “The Vegas Book”, as Hunter calls it, opened the door for true Gonzo Journalism. Once again Hunter has managed to capture a time in place in his history. In Fear and Loathing he has splattered his history with paints of violence, drugs and booze to a level that even Timothy Leary couldn’t comprehend. In a letter to his editor, Jann Wenner, Hunter wrote, “we are dealing with a classic of irresponsible gibberish.”
What the language did in The Rum Diary was to relax me with long sentences, and an almost “swaying in the breeze” type structure. In Fear and Loathing, thanks to Hunter’s use of outrageous situations and sentences that change length from tiny to lengthy full page lists, I become almost neurotic. Fear and Loathing gives me this feeling of impending doom. It’s a great read, but it is capable of giving me nightmares of hellish vibrancy.
Finally, I have come to the final stage of Hunter’s transformation. Early Hunter was a modest writer with a wild streak between the lines. Gonzo Hunter was a fame driven monster of a man capable of taking enormous amounts of anything into his body without the slightest side affect. The Hunter of the late 80’s was a cynical man, always questioning the establishment. His writing became his personal commentary on current events.
Generation of Swine is a collection of essays from the mid to late 80’s. Most of the writing is political in nature but Hunter also touches on the corpulent glamour and the infestation of corruption in American society. It is some of Hunter’s most honest and cerebral writing.
Generation of Swine showcases a Hunter S. Thompson who has been torn apart by years of substance abuse but whose mind is as sharp as ever. He still sprinkles his writing with words like, “hideous” and phrases like, “rife with madness” but they are more calculated. Now, the real Hunter is writing, not his persona Raul Duke. Throughout the essays Hunter takes heavy jabs at George Bush Sr. and Ronald Reagan. However, in his last essay in the collection titled A New Dumb, he comments on the Democratic party failing miserably in the election. He writes, “Sixteen years is plenty of time for even dumb people to learn just about anything they need to”(310). Hunter keeps his writing terribly honest.
What struck me most about Generation of Swine was the author’s note. He mentions trying most of his life to get away from journalism but somehow, he always returns to his typewriter. He calls journalism, “a habit worse than heroine”. Only Hunter S. Thompson could say something like that with the sincerity of a pastor. At last, the single phrase of Hunter Thompson’s in any of his writing that I believe comes closest to explaining his unique gift is from Generation of Swine. He says in the author’s note, “I love the wild power of the language and the purity of the madness that governs it and makes it music.” Hunter S. Thompson opened one of his final books with the single phrase that encompasses everything that he had worked for his entire life. That phrase still gives me chills to this day.
My rum is gone. It has been gone for two hours and my hangover is taking hold. For the past several sentences -- my words are being typed with a single finger. I seem to have lost my other nine digits someplace between exhaustion and insomnia. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold myself up in this cheap ass computer chair. I’m wearing sunglasses now, the screen has gotten to me. I can no longer go on with this sorry excuse of an essay. It must end.
The Good Doctor’s style changed over time from clever and sharp tongued to wild and dangerous to finally, cynical and calculated. In every one of Hunter’s books, Hunter is the star. No wonder Hunter lived the way he did. Without constant material coming in through his dramatic antics, Hunter S. Thompson would have been starved for material. But, he never fails to drop a little wisdom between the lines. While reading Thompson I find myself wondering, why didn’t this man ever try his hand at philosophy? In closing, I would like to leave you with a quote from Johnny Depp in Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson, “Hunter was a genius who revolutionized writing in the same way that Marlon Brando did with acting, as significant, essential, and valuable as Dylan, Kerouac, and the Stones.” Mission Accomplished.

Works Cited

Thompson, Hunter S. Fear and Loathing in Last Vegas. New York: Random House, 1971.
Thompson, Hunter S. Generation of Swine. New York: Random House, 1988.
Thompson, Hunter S. The Rum Diary. New York: Simon and Schuster Paperbacks, 1998.
Wenner, Jann S., and Corey Seymour, eds. Gonzo: the Life of Hunter S. Thompson. New York: Little Brown and Company, 2007.

The dust begins to settle.  Volunteers wearing tie-dye t-shirts and bandanna masks clean up after a long night.  The time is 9:00am and over a hundred people gather for a massive yoga session to clean the air and get ready for another twisted day at the Bonnaroo Arts and Music Festival in Manchester, Tennessee.

            Bonnaroo, or as many lovingly call it, “The Roo”, is a four day long piece of artistic heaven on a 700 acre horse farm.  It’s filled with music, theatre, visual art and film.  During its four day life cycle, Bonnaroo caters to upwards of 80,000 fans, 80 plus bands, a handful of stand-up comics and film makers from around the globe.  In other words, it’s a 96 hour long wet dream for anybody interested in being swallowed up by activism, culture, counter-culture and, the unconditional love only the hippy spirit can bring.

            Bonnaroo is very very eco-friendly.  Recycling bins are everywhere, venders run on bio-diesel, and an entire stage powered by solar energy houses musical performances.  So for you environmentalists out there, Bonnaroo takes the environment seriously.  In 2005 Clean Vibes, a environmentalist group, recycled 56 percent of the waste from Bonnaroo.  For the rest of you, try not to spray copious amounts of aerosols into the air during your stay, it’s rude.

            As an attendee of the event, I can tell you from experience this is one weekend nobody should miss.  This year’s line-up includes: Pearl Jam, Metallica, Jack Johnson, Chris Rock, Robert Plant with Allison Krauss, Willie Nelson, B.B King, Sigur Ros and, The Raconteurs.  To say it’s exciting is a disgusting understatement.  Bonnaroo is freaking awesome.  Bonnaroo is what the world would be like if John Lennon had his way.  I swear, I have had a mental hard on for weeks.

            Now, lets talk about the festival.  Expect a long line to get in, I’m talking two hours of waiting in a river of cars watching monks, hippies, deadheads, and vagabonds walk on by with backpacks full of who knows what.  Tip: If anybody tries to sell you baked goods, they (the goods) will be intoxicating. Buyer digression advised.

            After passing through the car inspection (no glass, fireworks, illegal substances, or weapons allowed) a totally “cool” looking fellow handed me a guidebook, a wristband, and two trash bags for recycling.  After my induction, I found a campground.  Setting up camp was easy.  Tip: remember a mallet; the Tennessee ground can be stubborn. I had all the freedom in the world.  Think freshman year in a campground with a constant supply of live music and 80,000 neighbors.  It was overwhelming at first. By day three, I was riding a free-spirited wave of groovy, rainbow colored love.

            I walked to “Centeroo” when my feet felt like it.  The walk can get long but it’s worth it.  That’s where the music and the art happens on eleven stages.  Yes, I said eleven stages.  That doesn’t include the countless number of buskers.  Everywhere I turned; there was an outward display of the human spirit.  The main acts are nice but I spent a lot my time paying homage to the guitarists, dancers, drummers and, mimes that pepper the festival.

Always expect to see unexpected things.  Naked parades of musicians and dancers are common.  At Bonnaroo being different is encouraged.  Forget Hollister shirts and Pacific Sun shorts and, designer sunglasses.  Wear costumes!  Paint your face!  Get naked!  I promise it will be ok.  Nobody will judge you.  Nobody cares!  Cut loose and get in touch with your primal side.  It feels good.  It’s liberating.  It’s sublime.  It’s nirvana.  It’s ecstasy

The music started at noon and didn’t stop until four in the morning.  Unfortunately, most of the artists played condensed sets.  Play lists lasted an hour and a half at most.  I wasn’t surprised when my favorite band didn’t have a trippy light show, it was all about the music.  The light shows were for main acts and the late night performances.  Most of my favorite bands played during the day in scorching hot temperatures.  I found nice spots under trees, sat back and listened to any band I wanted to.  A new band played every 45 minutes.  I saw many impromptu jam sessions.  Nothing was more satisfying than Ben Harper playing Dazed and Confused with John Paul Jones.  It was great hearing the signature bass line rocked by the bassist himself.  Between sets, I took my time browsing the shops and talking to anybody who looked interesting.  I also showered in the infamous mushroom fountain.  It was beautiful in all its phallic glory.

Let me take a moment here to address an important issue.  Drugs.  Bonnaroo does not condone or allow any illegal substances at the event.  Period.  But believe me, drugs are there.  Feel free to experience the festival any way you feel fit.  Pick your poison but be responsible.  The last thing anybody wants is to be in the midst of a drug-induced freak-out during the biggest concert of the weekend.  Trust me.  I know.  I’m still recovering.

Bonnaroo after dark was crawling with topless fairies, jesters, fire dancers, glow-stickers, x-fiends and, fifty man drum circles worshiping the gods of music.  The night is a circus.  I couldn’t count how many bizarre things passed in front of my eyes.  I couldn’t count how many people had their souls rattled by the silent disco or the Ferris wheel that seemed to touch the clouds.  Bonnaroo really came to life at night.  We were all at a party with a guest list of 80,000 and everybody knew it.  The night made me realize how big Bonnaroo really is.  During The Police I turned around and saw a sea of people a quarter mile deep.  Rolling Stone Magazine named it, “one of the 50 moments that changed the history of rock and roll.”  Rolling Stone wasn’t kidding.

The ticket price ($250) becomes irrelevant after experiencing the festival.  Social norms and stereotypes become irrelevant.  The fact that your roommate doesn’t do dishes becomes irrelevant.  Bonnaroo changes people for the better.  It gives a warming sense of community.  It truly is a beautiful thing to experience.  Bonnaroo makes people aware of a global community that strives for peace and equality.  Bonnaroo is a catalyst for political and social change.  Bonnaroo is activism.  Bonnaroo is about coming together for four days a year to encourage the rest of the world to come together 365 days a year.  Bonnaroo is Mecca.  So make a pilgrimage to Manchester, Tennessee on June 12^th.  I hope to see you there.  Coming Soon:  The Music Festival Survival Guide.