Return from Oz (part 1)

Photo by Carrie Thomas

I hadn't slept all night when I arrived at LaGuardia Airport at 5am to catch my 7am flight to Kansas City. I arrived 2 hours before the scheduled departure, thinking it would be enough time to make it through security.

I hadn't counted on the fact that coils of people in snakelike lines had wrapped their way around the check-in area and that these people were all waiting for self-check-in.

Self-Check-in by the way is an aspect of airline travel disguised as a means of conveniently and efficiently checking in that is actually just a means of getting around hiring and paying competent, knowledgeable employees to interact with people. God forbid.

I unfortunately had luggage to check. This meant that after self-check-in, I had to fight my way into an angry crowd of people who might as well have been lepers begging for Jesus action. Instead they were all intently focused on one Indian woman with a baby voice who was whispering people's names for the tags that go on their luggage. Of course people were screaming at her to speak louder which just made it harder to hear her inaudible mumblings which could have been "Johnson" or "German" or "Sherman" for that matter.

There were two other women behind the counter typing. What they were typing? Who knows. People were yelling at the two women in outrage of the fact that the only person calling names was our baby voiced Indian woman, god bless her poor ragged soul.

At this moment of sleep deprived confusion, my cellphone rang with a call from my mother. I pick up the phone and very abruptly tell her that I can't talk, I can't hear her over the yelling and that I will have to call her back.

After finally getting my luggage tag, paying $25 because my bag is too heavy and then hauling my own fricking bag to the x-ray area, because apparently I'm a part-time employee for American Airlines, I was ready to get into a 2nd line for security.

This is the only time in my life that I thank god for being born without any pigment to my skin because let's face it, they aren't butt searching blond boys. If you think for a second there isn't racial profiling in our nation's airports, then think again. If your skin is a shade shy of beige, they'll snap on a latex glove and bend your black ass over so fast, you'll be whistling dixie and wondering where your false tooth went before you know what hit ya.

After 2 hours of torturous waiting,herding, prodding, and the always lovely searching of my personal belongings, I was given the privilege of getting onto a crowded plane bound for Kansas City. I call my mother who is now crying because I apparently bit her head off.

This is the beginning of my wondrous Christmas journey to Kansas.
(to be continued)

Santa Baby

Photo byCarrie Thomas

Every year I usually do some sort of holiday performance. This year I sang a song the last two nights to start off Hedda Lettuce's Christmas Show.
On the opening night of the show, I sat on a bench at the west 4th street subway station waiting for the train and listening to Eartha Kitt's rendition of Santa Baby. The next thing I knew someone was behind me whispering into my ear... "It's a small world"

I turned around and felt the blood rush from my head to my stomach. It was my stalker. I will not go into detail as to how this made me feel as it is possible he may read this. I will merely say that the encounter involved my ipod headphones being violently and painfully ripped out of my ears.

After escaping the subway and thinking I could leave the incident behind, I stood at soundcheck unable to remember any of the words to Santa Baby. This is not like me. I instead started the show with Little Altar Boy, my mother's favorite song off The Carpenter's Christmas album.

Last night I am pleased to say that I sang Santa Baby flawlessly,unhindered by the violent subway encounter.
It was a triumph over the power that this man tries to weild. Fear can be a potent weapon. I choose to not give him that power. A soon to be issued restraining order is an equally powerful tool in the battle for self preservation.

Though it has been a rather violent week with fire and stalkers, I feel so blessed this holiday season. I have been given a loving family and a great group of supportive friends. I look to the New Year with anticipation and excitement. Most of all though, I look forward to baking chocolate chip cookies, pouring a tall glass of milk and falling asleep by the fireplace in hopes of catching a glimpse of a fat brightly dressed man who is the ultimate symbol of american greed and commercialism.
As the change drawers in cash registers across the nation jingle like so many bells, I hold my breath, light the yulelog and softly say...

Hurry Down the chimney.....tonight

Photo of Robert German going up in flames courtesy of Carrie Thomas

Yes Virginia,

I did catch on fire.
In response to the "outpouring of concern" I have compiled this frequently asked questions section.
By outpouring of concern I mean 2 emails which were more mildly curious than concerned, but
let's humor my inflated delusions of self worth.

FAQ

Q: Were you burned?
A: First of all, I was not burned. Thank you baby Jesus.

Q: How did you catch on Fire?
A: There were tea candles on a table at waist level. I leaned back and the highly flamable lining of my cordaroy jacket lit up like a hannuka candle.

Q: Were you outraged by the party host's response to the situation?
A: I am constantly and consistently outraged by the lack of compasion many fully functioning human beings exhibit. Yes. Thank you for asking.

Q: Has there been any kind of apology?
A: Yes, in fact I received a very nice apologetic phone call two days after the event ,and the party host offered to replace my jacket. This 360 degree turn in attitude is appreciated but so confusing to my little head which had settled into a state of justifiable outrage. Is it two days late and $300 short? Probably not, I'm going to go with the baby jesus and embrace forgiveness and the new distressed jacket that I'm passing off as a bohemian fashion statement. Though I kind of smell like burnt hair now.

Stop Drop and Roll

Photo by the extraordinary Carrie Thomas

I must have been on fire for a while before i realized what was happening. First of all, when you catch on fire all logic goes out the window. Somewhere in the back of my head was a hippie kindergarten teacher yelling Stop drop and roll. Instead, I casually placed my drink on the table and turned back to look at the flames. It was like it was happening to someone else.

People began beating at my jacket to try and stop the fire. A girl actually yelled "Stop, Drop and roll." I squatted on the floor and threw my jacket off. people began stomping on it to put out the last of the flames. My first thought was that I hoped they weren't stomping on my ipod. I picked up my jacket and stared at the holes and the charred bits of cordaroy, less concerned about my own life or well being than i was with the amount of money that I had spent on the jacket. My mother always used to say that we just can't have nice things. As usual, she was right.

The host of the party came over as I was surveying the wreckage, not to make sure I was ok, but rather to make it clear that he would not be reimbursing me for the damage to my jacket. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead smiled and said. "Oh, I know. Don't worry about it."

My brush with fire became an anecdote that propelled the momentum for the rest of the party. By the way, for those of you who decided to use every form of the word flame...flaming...flamer....Yes, I appreciate your creativity. You are so cleavor, I can barely contain myself. Bruce Springstein's "I'm on fire" started playing on repeat in my head.

I was unable to stop drop and roll my way to silence on that one.

Wisdom from the Homeless (trash talk #1)

Photo by Carrie Thomas

"All this pushin' and shovin'. Just can't tollerate it, no sir. What is this? Rush hour? Can't say I agree with it, all this rushin'. If it ain't huggin', I don't want anything to do with it."

-wise words from a homeless man on the 2 train in brooklyn at 8:45am.

The Rat Race (Critters Part 3)

Coming Soon...

Chloe & Ferdinand (Critters Part 2)

Photo of and by the fancily footedCarrie Thomas

They loved with a passion befitting a trashy romance novel.
Though I was happy for them, it brought out my jealous side, which is never pretty.
Eventually though, I became accustomed to their being around and didn't know how I could live without them.

Chloe was a beauty, the kind of girl who wins the homecoming crown but still has a heart of gold. You want to hate her but you can't. She has great bone structure and will grow old gracefully. Her feathers were whiter than freshly fallen snow with little speckles of brown that said, "hey, I'm Cindy Crawford, I have a beauty mark."

Ferdinand was a dancer. He could puff his chest up with best of them. His tight muscular legs supported a beefy body that somehow floated gracefully above the ground when he would come courting the ladies.

These two exceptional creatures found each other in a city where I'm sure it's hard to find a good pigeon, let alone one with whom you could settle down and raise a family.

The heat in our little apartment on 12th street was always too high, so we kept the window in the kitchen cracked a few inches. I had noticed the birds flying around outside the window, which wasn't that unusual. I didn't notice however that two of them had begun to build a nest on our window sill. It wasn't until I went into the kitchen one morning and saw Chloe, beautiful Chloe sitting on the nest that I realised a pair of lovers had moved in. At first, I would go to the stove, which was right by the window, and Chloe would frantically fly away. She was never gone for long though, fearing her eggs would get too cold.

Eventually, we came to an understanding that I was not going to bother them. In fact, I quite enjoyed the company. I would cook my breakfast and chat with Chloe. I'm sure she appreciated the chit-chat with Ferdinand off foraging for food. Of course one day, Chloe was gone and Ferdinand was sitting at the nest, and I must admit that we didn't have a lot to talk about.

As spring began to thaw the winter, three of the ugliest little creatures you've ever seen busted out of that nest. Let me just say that there is nothing more awkward looking than a baby pigeon. However, over time these gnarly little munchkins grew fuzzle which began to form into feathers and they were adorable.

It was about a week until the pigeons would fly. They were testing their wings. Unfortunately this was the week when we had to move out of the apartment on 12th street and into the place on 3rd avenue. I decided to have a conversation with the girl who was moving into the place to make sure she let the pigeons live.

It was a sad day, when I found out from a downstairs neighbor that the nest had disappeared and the window had closed as soon as the girl moved into the apartment.

My heart went out to Ferdinand and Chloe. I had grown so fond of them. I had watched all of their dedication, love and hard work. It hurts my soul to realize the cruelty that resides in the human heart. A woman's hand ruined in moments what had taken months to build without a second thought. We often refer to animals as savages. Most animals only kill to survive or to protect themselves. Men kill without need, without regard and without reverence for the beauty that each life holds, whether it be an Iraqi child or a baby bird.

Critters

Photo by the gorgeous & Talented
Carrie Thomas

When I was in the 4th grade, my parents were called into my gradeschool to deal with the backlash of my hyperactivity. I had apparently become a distraction to the other students by making strange noises. Most of these students were probably so harmed by my noisemaking that they were unable to acheive success beyond the dead-end jobs they found in that small Oklahoma town.

I take full responsibility for their failure.

Of course my life of audio pollution didn't end in the 4th grade. I am a serial noise maker. I have always been fascinated and oddly connected to animals and as such have found the need to communicate with them. I used to spend hours in my apartment on 5th avenue in Brooklyn watching the pigeons dancing on the adjacent rooftop,studying their sounds and later calling them to me, much like a siren, though
I meant no harm.

The gravity of my noisemaking became undeniably apparent on a trip to Boston to visit Chan Chuy Yi or Chewy as I liked to call her back in the day when we lived in our first roach infested apartment,and I worked 80 hours a week for an entire summer.

We were walking through Boston Common when I decided that I wanted to chat with the squirrels. I started my little clicking/nibbly noises and it made chewy smile. Squirrels began coming towards us from all directions, not two or three but at least a dozen. Soon,We were surrounded by squirrels and they were closing in. I'm not sure what I was saying to them exactly, but it must have been quit intriguing.

Chewy clutched my arm and ordered me to stop.
I wonder what would have happened if I had kept talking to the squirrels.

Two nights ago, I was walking on Montague street at 1 in the morning, guitar in tow. I stumbled upon a churchyard where two rats were having a very intense conversation. I stopped and listened for a while. Sometimes, you have to have conversations with the critters or at least pay attention to what they have to say.

We all have to get along in this world, and I hope that by doing my part, the critters feel a human connection. I'd rather introduce myself to the rats and be on speaking terms than meet them in a dark alley when they're having a bad day. It's best to establish a cordial relationship from the get-go. Don't think for a second that rats don't talk by the way, if you piss one of them off, you are in serious trouble.

Mr. Carpentier

I am pleased to announce that instead of going into a post-turkey coma, I finished a new song, Mr. Carpentier.
I am super excited about this little tune as it is inspired by an amazing friend.

I will be introducing it to the world at my next show on Dec. 7th.

My alter-ego

Occasionally when the mood strikes me and I feel posessed, I embrace my alter-ego.
It is in these moments that I cannot resist the urge to climb atop a piano.



Sometimes it's good to let loose and get the demons out.

The Song: Tori Amos' Ode to the Banana King(part 1)
The Singer: Robert German
On the Piano: Jeff Cubeta
Location: The D-Lounge, Union Square, NYC
Video produced by: Bizarre Farm
Courtesy of Brian Maschka and the Snake Oil Show

A Shout "Out"

This week, Lovetastic.com re-released a podcast from December of last year when I sat down with founder, Ryan Norbauer to discuss everything from religion and polution to the then untitled album I was recording.

Included are alternate and demo versions of songs that are on the album.

I greatly admire what Ryan is doing with this site. There should be more things like this out there
If you're a man of the "man-on-man" persuasion not looking to disco til your dick falls off, then you should pay this site a visit.

Listen

Coffee or Tea?

Photo by the very talented Carrie Thomas

I stumble groggy and confused, bumping into and tripping over things, the result of 6 months without two consecutive nights of decent sleep. I find myself taking cat naps on the train, unaware of my surroundings and not really caring if I am mugged or assaulted just as long as I can get a little bit of rest between frantic efforts to accomplish something. What is this something? Is it worth the toll that it is taking on me?

I switched from coffee to tea in an effort to ease the jittering hyperactivity that I tend to induce when overcompensating for that which can not be replaced, regular deep sleep.

I'm writing sad songs and eating massive amounts of bacon. Last night I devoured half a package of lower sodium bacon, not a choice, but rather the only thing the deli had at 2:00 in the morning on the way home from my gig. It was given to me like a fresh newborn wrapped in a glistening plastic skin. It tasted oddly saltier than regular bacon which made me think I might be losing my mind.

Crazy people obsess about things like global warming and conspiracy theories. Sometimes I think they are spouting the jumbled truth, and we are too caught up in our desensitized little lives to smell the coffee, the roses, or the shit that is stuck to our shoes.

I've become very concerned with the world and its demise, marked today by temperatures so warm you could wear shorts. People have decided that they will wear their thick woolen coats and vests simply because it is November and not because they are necessary. This is part of their denial that the Earth is frying away on the fossil fuel griddle.

At every deli where I buy food wrapped in plastic shoved in a plastic bag, I am greeted with fistfulls of disposable plastic forks wrapped in plastic. I try to refuse them, but deli workers are confused and offended when you don't take as much plastic as your arms can carry. After using or not using this plastic, I throw it in a garbage bin lined with more plastic.

I feel caught up in the momentum of the Earth's destruction and unable to stop it.
I also feel oh so tired. Now what do I do? The question is whether I have coffee or tea. Either way, it will be served in a disposable cup with a plastic top and I will eventually throw it into a plastic bag and jitter my way on to my next act of global annihilation.

Follow Me Home/Knock on My Door-Lyrics

Follow Me Home

I was dressed to the nines,
it was a quarter to five.
You were standing on the platform waiting for the train to arrive.
When I saw your pretty face I had to grab the pole to brace my fall.
She touched her nose then touched the pole.
I think this pole has touched it all.
Two more stops then I'll be home,
climb up the stairs
turn out the light
crawl into bed
and fall asleep alone
or
You could follow me home, boy.
I said You could follow me home.
If you'd like to get to know me just a little bit more,
You just gotta knock on my door.

Knock on my door
and I will come.
You've just gotta ask
and I'll give you some.
You don't need money, honey.
This little ride's for free.
Knock on my door and I'll slip you the key.

Pull down your pants
and pull down the shade.
We'll call it a night
when some love's been made.

Fuck me so hard that the neighbors complain
and the cops have to tear us apart.
Knock on my door and I'll give you my heart.

The morning will break
and the sun will rise
and I'll wipe the sleep
from your clear blue eyes.

and I'll start your day in a way
that just couldn't feel better to me.
I'll knock on your door and You'll slip me the key.

Today is the day!

Buy it at CDBABY!

Download it from iTunes!

...................................As you probably know, I've been working on a little album called Sirens of Brooklyn. I'm excited to announce that today is the official release. All proceeds from the sale of this album go towards feeding a little independent musician, aka, me. So, hopefully you will buy it and get all your friends to buy it so I don't have to get Sally Struthers to do a really sad commercial for me. I can't actually afford Sally Struthers, so you should probably just buy the album.

Chorus of Hebrew Slaves

I have completed most of the recording on Unplug,
a new track for my next album.

When I went to play the song through iTunes the title
"Chorus of Hebrew Slaves" came up for it.
This is oddly appropriate. You'll just have to wait a while to find out why.

Tomorrow

Tune in to Radio Crystal Blue
This Sunday, Nov. 12th at 7pm.
They will be playing music
from my soon-to-be-released album
Sirens of Brooklyn.

Don't forget.
The album comes out on Tuesday Nov. 14th.
Every copy purchased is another meal I can eat and well, I like to eat.

Listen to the show

Tonight on WOR Radio

Tune in at 2am EST to hear me on the nationally syndicated Joey Reynold's show on WOR Radio, 710 HD broadcasting from New York City. You can listen online, on 710 AM or 710 HD if you have a receiver.
Listen to the show!


...................................

Do Ask. Do Tell.

The tide has turned and the democrats have taken control of the legislative branch of my country.

Upon hearing this news I immediately went out and bought a goat, not just any goat but a young and very energetic goat. If you are going to commit to living your life with another, it is best to find one that can make it through the long haul. I never thought this unholy union would be possible. The Republicans repeatedly said, "hey, well if we allow gay marriage, then what next? People will marry goats."

I have anticipated this next and natural step by purchasing Theodore, the best goat you could ever imagine. Though I know we will have to fight long and hard before people will accept our union, in the end I know that it will have been a worthwhile struggle.

Also, I have joined the army. Many of you may be familiar with the Don't Ask Don't tell policy. maybe you don't remember, but this policy was passed under president clinton, a democrat president. I am very pleased that soon we will implement the do ask and do tell policy. I'm holding tightly to Theodore until that day arrives.

The 1 and the 9

Lemon Scented is #1
on Bear Radio's top 10 requested songs.

Marlboro Man is #9
on the same countdown.

Thank You to bear Radio for playing the songs.

You can listen and request the songs by going to
bearradio.net

The Cellphone is the New Cigarette

Photo by Carrie Thomas

In case you hadn't noticed, smoking has gone out of fashion. Once a tool of actors at the dawn of the silver screen , a symbol of rebellion and a post-coital requisite, the cigarette has reached a level of appeal formerly reserved for asbestos and radio-active sludge.

I was speaking last evening with my good friend, Jason, about this very subject. He was lamenting the loss of his smoking friends to their non-smoking lifestyles, me included.

When I first moved to New York a trip to a bar meant smoke filled rooms that brought your eyes to tears and left your clothes smelling like an old man's smoking jacket. When the city passed a smoking ban in bars, the smoky atmosphere was replaced by an odd smell that can only be described as cleaning products used to cover up the smell of stale smoke. For a while, this chemical smell lingured. Now, I don't really notice any smell at all upon entering a bar.

Cigarettes, though thoroughly demonized served a purpose. This purpose was to create an illusion of busy-ness. People want something to fiddle with, suck on and flick to keep from staring at a blank wall letting others see how utterly alone and purposeless they fear they look.

Cigarettes are also a barrier. People fear close contact and interaction. A cigarette is a distraction, a reason to pause in a conversation and think of a witty retort while taking a long deep drag.

Obviously this void had to be filled. Thank god that angels decended from the heavens bearing cellphones, sidekicks and treos. These gifts have allowed for constant contact, something so necessary for human existence. Why carry on a conversation with someone when you can pretend you're listening while text messaging? Are we more connected? I think the answer is no. We are all disconnecting from each other. We are plugging in and unplugging from reality.

Ask yourself the question....How long can you go without grabbing your little device to check your messages, send a text, or pretend you're busy? How long can you go without taking a deep drag?

Yes, the cellphone is the new cigarette.

#16 on Sirius OutQ

Open Wide(Track 2) on my debut album Sirens of Brooklyn is #16 on the Sirius OutQ Hot 20!

Send an email to jhovies@siriusradio.com requesting the song to be played.

You can hear the song on his show, Last Call with Jermey Hovies
Tuesday-Saturday 1am-7am Eastern on Sirius Satellite radio channel 106.

Radio Crystal Blue

This Sunday, October 29th on the 7pm live show
Radio Crystal Blue will be playing music
from my soon-to-be-released album
Sirens of Brooklyn

Listen to the show

Fall

For me, the fall is burnt wood and apples. These are two things that fill my mind when the leaves begin to turn and the air becomes crisp.

There is one other thing that is indescribable. The best way to explain it is the smell of snow. Tiny particles of water freeze in the air and fly up your nostrils and it smells like kissing a snowman. They are so small that they can't be seen by the naked eye, but you can feel them.

These things are here. Though I love them, I know that they bring the cruel and ungiving tongue of winter. It makes me want to flee to the south and do a show.

I recently did an interview with a very nice man named Russ in Texas. We talked for over an hour about the album, the world and all sorts of things. I accidentally locked myself in the airshaft on the 23rd floor of a 24 story building, which is where the whole phone call took place.

I miss my family. Lately I have found myself in a very emotional place, very open. The fall does this to me. It is the dark and the cold that seep into the skin and the soul. I've heard of people in scandinavian countries going into rooms with ultraviolet light as a therapy for their sadness. This makes me wonder, are people happier in California?

Some News and Thank You's

Some News. I recently did an interview with .... which will be featured in the December issue of Genre Magazine.

On Nov. 6th, I will be sitting down with Josh and Sarah for some conversation and to play a couple of songs live in the studio for the HereTV! Podcast.


Thank you:

-to the people at Homopod radio who have featured my music and have put 7 of my songs into rotation.

-to Duane Wells for writing a review of my album that almost made me cry. I couldn't possibly ever ask for a better review.

-to Bear Radio for featuring 2 of my songs.

Extra Extra Read all about it

The first review for Sirens of Brooklyn has been posted.
I am a little bit smiley to say the least.
Read the Review

F**K is a 4 letter word

Folk is a 4 letter word, often inspiring shivers of pain to ride up the spines of would be music listeners. We all squint in terror waiting for the F bomb to explode. The shrapnel can be devestating and often takes the form of a long haired hippy dippy woman who wants to tell you all about an erotic experience with a birch tree in wyoming during her cross country voyage to the Michigan Women's Festival.

My music is often categorized as folk, not something with which I fully agree.

However, some of the best songwriters I know are self proclaimed or labeled by default as folk merely because they play an acoustic guitar, have intelligent lyrics and don't work with crazy dirty electro beats and that insane vocal filter that removes all human qualities from the voice.

This pigeon does not fit in your hole.

Folk however is A O K with moi.

Violent Touch

I had the good fortune of being roommates with a girl who was studying massage at the Swedish institute. The only problem is that every time she would massage me I would scream and laugh to the point of needing to be gagged. It's not that the massage didn't feel good. It is just that the sensations were too intense to process in a manner which didn't sound like a tickle torture tantrum.

For better or worse I have always been sensitive to touch.
Yesterday, a woman rammed a briefcase into my shin and kept walking as if it never happened. I couldn't really fathom that she was unable feel the throbbing pain pulsating in my leg. How someone can hit a person so hard with a briefcase and keep walking amazes me.

Recently a friend poked me very hard in an extremely tender part of my body without realizing it had happened. It sent shocks of pain up through my stomach and raised the finest hairs on my body to razor sharp attention. For a moment I felt like I could vomit. When I pointed it out, I was told that I was not poked in my tender parts. The dismissal of my pain brought my emotional tenderness to the surface. I feel so open, exposed and raw at times.

Violent touch awakens memories from the past,
small words to deaf ears,
things I don't talk about.

These things didn't happen to me.

Robert Recommends

Robert German and Carrie Thomas in Coney Island. Photo by Carrie Thomas.

I would like to take this moment to discuss some things I am in love with right now.

first off, The Dresden Dolls!
Self-described as Brechtian Punk Cabaret, they fuse the sounds of British punk and German Cabaret with electrifying live shows that hump your ears like hardcore early Tori Amos. Yes, someone needs to towel off that piano bench at the end of the night.

My second love is BAM, Brooklyn's much hipper answer to Lincoln center. I highly recommend the movie screenings at the Rose Cinema. I was able to catch, David Lynch's Lost Highway, and let me just say that it was both perplexing and emotionally penetrating on the big screen.

Much more than an art-house cinema haven, this purveyor of cutting edge theatrical, musical, and dance performance makes Brooklyn's burgeoning art scene puff it's chest in defiance of Manhattanite elitist attitudes. No, You don't need to cross the bridge to consume some culture when it's just a leisurely stroll from the epicenter of South Brooklyn.

Clap Your Ass Say Yeah

I went into the studio this weekend to work on Unplug.
I added hang clapping, but needed a deeper clapping sound, so
had to drop my pants and smack my ass into the microphone for the desired effect.
I'm sure I could have gone into the street and found a random "professional" clapper,
but this was so much more interesting and produced the desired effect.

After the studio I went to an international sausage party. I kid you not. There were sausages of the world all lined up with little descriptions and the flag of their home countries. There was also a selection of mustards of the world which just made the night that much better. In the backyard were bluegrass musicians jamming. Chris, Marc, and I all went back and added our own special harmonies to the songs. It was a foot tapping good time.

After that, we dropped by a potluck dinner and had a taste of the best pulled pork in the universe.

Yes, my life revolves around food. Clap your ass, say yeah.

Full Moon

I was riding the F train from Manhattan to Brookyn last night when a crazy man got on the train. He was a harmless nutter butter,randomly yelling phrases or advice that made no sense. The one that stuck was "You can't smoke reefer on the train. You have to go on the platform for that."




I may have fallen a bit behind on advances in the penal code, but I think you probably can't smoke reefer on the platform either.

Regardless, this man was somewhat entertaining. He started yelling stuff about food, which of course caused me to feel immediate bond. He knows the way to my heart.

Just when I had gotten used to the rants of one crazy, a second crazy man stumbled into the train car clutching a photograph of Paris Hilton he had obviously ripped from the pages of a tabloid. He was yelling something something very important and totally garbled. I appreciated his passion, but still have no idea what he was saying.

It's so typical that I would end up being the meat in a crazy sandwich during the full moon, when I should be squatting in the woods naked writing poetry to the goddess, beating a drum with my pagan sisters. Oh my pagan sisters, take me into your loving bossoms.

Photograph by my lovely sister by choice Carrie Thomas

When I'm feeling like an outsider, strange and bizarre to everyone around me, I find comfort in those who make me feel as dull as dishwater. I pale in comparison to Salad Fingers.

Digital Whiplash

Somewhere in Brooklyn I am sitting at a coffee shop on my laptop computer wirelessly connected, oh so connected to the information super highway. Next to me is a girl also on her laptop next to a guy on his laptop next a girl on her laptop and so on and so forth into infinity. It's quite possible that the girl by the door is in a chatroom sharing her bunt cake recipe with the guy in the back on his laptop next to the bathroom.

I have never been one to fear or loathe technology. I generally embrace it, but there is something horribly wrong with the world. We are collectively losing our ability to interact face to face. Never in our history as a civilization have we had so many ways to connect with people. We have cellphones, smartphones, webcams, laptops, email, and even smoke signals.

For some reason though, we're all disconnecting. we are plugging in and tuning out the world. We are all suffering from attention deficite disorder, obsessively checking email and flipping between open computer windows, television shows, podcasts, and text messages. We sit across from each other checking our cellphones, responding to texts sent, and maybe even actually talking about how much of a boring time we're having, planning our exit via the digital escape hatch.

Is it just me or is everyone suddenly so busy that they can't return a phonecall, email or smoke signal? Are we on overload? No one can focus. We don't even have the patience for commercials. We DVR and fastforward through them or we simply download the show from Itunes and watch it on our video ipod as we surf the transit system, happy that we don't have to make eye contact with another human being.

I am a hypocrite. I am blogging about this when we should be having a face to face conversation.

I need to step away for a minute and unplug.

Photo by Carrie Thomas

3 trains of thought

There are times in which I want to lead a more glamorous life than I do, and when it comes down to it, I'm not incapable of being glamorous. It's just that the effort required to sparkle and shine like a new penny, is more than I am willing to muster.

The closest I got to glamour this weekend was being perched on top of a piano singing Tina Turner's Private Dancer, a song which is near and dear to my heart. My sister and I used to have this classic album on vinyl. We would sing at the top of our lungs into hairbrushes and dance around the house. Why my mother ever thought this was a good idea, I'll never know.

After the Kitt and Kaboodle show, I went out with my friend Jason and his hubby Simon. We found ourselves in a crowded bar full of attractive well groomed individuals, yet I was bored out of my mind. I found that all I really wanted was to be able to interact with my friends without having to endure the combined chattering of so many people. I guess also, when you're walking through the meat market and you don't have cold cuts on your shopping list, it all just looks so raw and unseasoned.


On Saturday went back into the studio for the first time since running the final mixes for sirens of Brooklyn. I recorded the first track for my next album, title still to be decided. The result was kind of peculiar and baeutiful. This track is very much rooted in the African Spritual with my mind glued to the rejection of technology. How contradictory to then write about it in a blog. Yes, I know, my first album hasn't even been released and I'm onto the next thing. This new project, which is floating around in my head will include some songs which aren't even written yet.

Some of my other songs have been giving me grief. I didn't allow them to be on Sirens and they're getting nervous about not making the cut this time. I have assured them that they will have their days in the sun. I may have to appease a few of the more nagging ones by letting them have their b-side glory on a possible EP. My lips are sealed though. I'm not going to say what's coming next. There are three trains of thought going on right now. It's almost impossible to say which will pull into the station first.

chanteur de charme

I have always wanted to sing on top of a piano. I want to be a chanteur de charme, with long curly eyelashes,tails and a tie. I want to pierce through the cloud of smoke with Greta Garbo eyes and make you squirm in your seat. I want to make you uncomfortably clink the ice in your glass and hope with a sense of futility that a cocktail waitress will save you with a shot of something to numb the chills riding up your spine,making every hair on your body stand at razor sharp attention.

So, yes, I got to sing on top of a piano and kick my pink converse high tops. The great thing is that it was all fun for a good cause. I did two Kitt and Kaboodle shows over the weekend for the Anti Violence Project. The first was in Union Square, the 2nd was in my beloved Brooklyn.

Though it felt wonderful to be involved with both nights, i must say that the Brooklyn event was the real cream in the coffee for me. Cattyshack was packed with performers and audience alike, all with a sense of palpable purpose. The event started with a self defense demonstration by a group of park slope ladies. I practiced attack moves on Kaboodle, which felt quite invigorating. I think maybe I would like to have my own Mr. Miyagi to train me in the "wax on/wax off" ways of the world.

I do after-all have twig arms and though it has been a while since my stalker has threatened me with bodily harm, I still find myself noticing menacing possibilities in the shadows. It's so strange, when I think back to the day I had to file the police report as the threats became more and more frequent laced with bits of information that would only be known by someone who was actually watching me.

I can joke about it at times. It inspired a song called Big From Down Here. Though it isn't on Sirens of Brooklyn, it does look like it will make its way onto the next album. In reality, it is a scary thing to be threatened with violence.

To everyone who came out to support the Anti-Violence Project events: A big Heartfelt Thanks!
We raised a lot of money and had the time of our lives.

Tonight I will be on top of the piano again at the D-Lounge
9pm
101 E. 15th street
Below the Daryl Roth Theatre

I eat my feet

The filter that once kept the slush of inappropriate, ill-advised comments from leaking out of my mouth has officially broken.

I had known for some time that it was not operating at optimum levels, but it wasn't until I started actually answering questions very politely posed by reporters that I came to grasp the real severity of the situation.

The last time this happened I went on a five minute tyrade about how important bacon is to my daily existence. This time, well, I think I actually said that when I "came out" it was like someone tied a gay rocket to my back and shot me out of the closet.

I eat my feet, or I least I should eat them.

Though You'll have to wait until December, to survey for yourself the damage that hits the newstands.

Unfulfilled Fantasies

I stumble through life hungry and slightly unfulfilled at times. It is human nature to fantasize with an intensity that bombards the senses, leaving one wet with desire. I am no different. I crave and I hunger and lust with my heart. I have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head or in this case bagels.

I want to give a shout out to Bergen Bagels in Brooklyn. Their bagels have been such a comfort to me at times, soft and sweet with just the right amount of fluffiness and the perfect amount of chewiness. I find myself daydreaming and salivating, just thinking about a garlic bagel with scallion cream cheese. Oh god, this is the real deal, scallions cut into pieces and mixed in with the rich creamy goodness.....And the garlic, oh it's perfectly toasted so that it melts in your mouth like candy.

I was on my way into the city, as we Brooklynites refer to Manhattan. I love this seperatist attitude. Technically Brooklyn is the city just as much as Manhattan, but we like to wear shirts that proudly display "I heart Brooklyn" and such.

I decided to stop by my little bagel love shack and pick up my garlic scallion breathe bomb. I watched, delighted as the woman helping me used a long knife to pull the bagel down from the shelf and flung it into her hand. My eyes followed the blade as it sliced through the outer chewy layer of bread revealing its tender center. I almost lost my shit when she started to smear the cream cheese all over the bagel, so generous, she gave with both hands.

I had ordered coffee as well and became distracted from the process when she went to get my coffee. She came back and slid the coffee into a brown paper bag with my bagel. I paid. I smiled. I left and got on the subway to head into "the city."

So we now live in a police state. You can't get on a train in New York without seeing 6 police officers pretending that they're going to search your bags. When they actually do search bags, it's someone who looks middle eastern. Oh no, that's not racial profiling. We are so a tolerant free country with no discrimination. By the way, last time I checked there was this little thing in the constitution. It's called the fourth amendment. Here's a refresher.

Amendment IV


The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

We might as well take that part of the constitution and use it as toilet paper at this point.

Well, anyway they also passed this horrible coffee law, which I feel has seriously traumatized me. It is illegal to have an open container of coffee on the subway. Now I have to hunker down and sneak sips like a crack whore.

I got on the train and decided that I would not open my bag of garlic goodness, because let's face it, once the garlic bomb is dropped, there will be no more love for me on the 3 train. I contemplated opening the coffee, but I really wasn't interested in being padded down and rubber glove butt raped by the po po just so I could get my 100% Columbian fix.

So, I instead drifted into a fantasy. I could picture how I would open the bag, placing the coffee beside me, slowly unwrapping the bagel...You get the picture.

So I finally got to my destination and sat down. I began to live out my fantasy, placing the coffee next to me, slowly unwrapping the bagel...And there it was. Inside the wax paper that should have been cradling my garlic love lump was nothing other than a plain bagel sliced down the middle with not so much as a drop of cream cheese. I was heartbroken, horrified, scared, and dizzy.

I immediately called 411 and got the number to the bagel shop. I called them and told them of my traumatic experience and convinced them to write my name on the register with a note saying that they owe me a garlic bagel with scallion cream cheese, which is only right. I am officially neurotic. I immediately contacted the lovely Carrie Thomas, a fellow foody and the only person who could truly understand the hurt,pain, and emptiness I was feeling inside. As always she was a rock in stormy waters.

I did indeed go back to Bergen Bagels and fulfill my fantasy, and they did make good on their promise of replacing my bagel. I have a stomach fool of stank and all is right with the world.

Photo by Carrie Thomas

I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies

I stand outside in the waiting room, pacing anxiously, looking at the digital readout on my cellphone for the time.
How much longer until the baby arrives? I bite at my nails, well the nails on my left hand, the ones that hold down the strings. The nails on my right hand never get the attention that my teeth showers on the left one. This is due to the simple fact that I don't use guitar picks, but instead abuse the fingers of my right hand, hammering them against the strings of my guitar. Half of me is a crazy old hermet, living in a cave with overgrown fingernails. The other half is a nail biter, with jagged nails gnawed down to the quick.

I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies, but whether I'm ready or not, my baby is about to be born. If I hadn't quit smoking, with the knowledge that nicotine had a powerful hold on my body, I would have a cigar in my pocket, ready to smoke with my pals as I recieve their congratulatory pats on my back. Instead, I nervously pace, ocassionally checking tracking numbers, with the knowledge that my first album is on a truck somewhere in Brooklyn.

As soon as the nurse comes to get me, I will send you photos of my baby. You can tell me how cute she is, even if you really think her face is wrinkled and misproportioned. You can even tell me her face is wrinkled and misproportioned. Regardless of your thoughts my baby is coming and I will love her and I will give you a picture for your wallet. Do with it what you will.

Mupples

The word mupples was coined a few years back by my then roommate, Piia, The Finnish Wonder.

Mupples=Male+Couple.

This weekend was one of absolute laziness, I must admit. Remnants of the tropical storm had fluttered their way up to Brooklyn bringing sideways rain and turning umbrellas wrong side out. My umbrella was beat to begin with, and was laid to rest late Friday night very unceremoniously.

I spent Friday through Sunday mostly just curled up on the sofa watching mindless television. This is a strange departure for me as I really don't watch TV much at all except for the show, Lost, which was injected into my veins like dirty heroin last fall, afflicting me with an instant addiction. It's return to television in October will mean that I will get my weekly fix and stop the shaking in my hands.

On Sunday, I decided to venture out into the world, which had turned from apocalyptic to rather pleasant. However, a strange wind was blowing through Brooklyn. As I walked down the street, I kept passing couples. Let me correct that. I kept passing Mupples. Some of them were hand in hand. Some of them just sort of skipping along. All of them looked medicated with happy pills or some sort of potent love tonic.

I wanted to be happy for these frolicking couples, but they only served as living reminders of my singlehood, which seems to have settled in like a pair of old jeans that maintain the shape of my ass even after they've been thrown in the laundry hamper.

I passed the bus stop and noticed that the bus was coming, so I decided to get on it. I had no destination. I rarely ride the bus because I feel that it is a portal into a strange world which smells and tastes of something of which I just can't quite comprehend. It scares me. If there are vampires in Brooklyn, I think they ride the bus.

Three stops into my busride a gentleman got on. I knew him, yet we had never spoken. It's strange how you can see a person repeatedly yet you never say hello. I knew that he had to recognize me as well. We are familiar strangers, an odd urban phenomenon that would never fly in a small town.

I used to see him walking his dog. I would see him go into his apartment, which was one block away from mine. I always felt sad when I would see him, because he looked sad and his dog was very old and could barely walk. I knew that the dog would die soon. At some point, I guess the dog did die, because I didn't see him walking it anymore.

I feel that it had a profound effect on him because I noticed that it coincided with his appearance at the gym. He was working with a personal trainer, very intent on some sort of fitness goal, I thought. Next came subtle changes. The grey hair he had atop his head changed to dark brown. His clothing changed from loose fitting outdated garments to tighter and trendier threads to showcase his developing muscles.

I think the death of his dog made him feel old and alone. He decided to turn back the clock in little ways. Of course this is all speculation, coming from a passive stalker.

It had been months since I had seen this familiar stranger. He sat there on the bus with his dry cleaning neatly folded over his lap, the grey hair emerging at the roots, the muscular frame softer than the last time we had met but not said hello. I think that he has forgotten his mortality again. How many dogs must die for him to stick with his gym regiment and the regular maintenance required when one commits to coloring one's hair?

We got off the bus at the same stop and walked in opposite directions, not saying goodbye. I walked past more mupples, feeling that there is some factory pumping them out in twos. I stop myself. Have I become bitter?

It is then that I notice a young boy feeding McDonald's French Fries to a squirrel and realize that the world has gone terribly awry and I might as well just eat package after package of bacon and embrace the fact that I am not part of a mupple and that ultimately, that is a choice.

I am single. I accept it and embrace it. I sit at restaurants alone like a mysterious European professor, obviously wearing tweed. I talk to myself. I take bubble baths and listen to lesbian folk music. One day I will own many cats and have stacks of newspapers. Eventually, I will stop shaving and take up whittling. I will learn the banjo and lose some teeth. I will lose touch with the world and become what many call crotchety. I will make my own loose fitting clothing out of burlap sacks and rock on a porch with cracked planks, which I will never take the time to repair. I will reject technology and be the last person to send paper letters as everything becomes wireless. Above all things though, I will maintain my sanity.
We must all have romantic notions.

Photo by the lovely Carrie Thomas

My sentiments exactly

Next time you are having your bag searched by the police at the subway turnstyle or having your lighter and bottle of water taken away from you at the airport while you're being padded down, remember these words.

"Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both."- Benjamin Franklin

Nerdy Boy

There's a nerdy boy who finds his joy is buried in a book.

All it takes is just one look and I'm in pain.

I want to be the one who's always on his brain.

Science has failed us

I awoke this week to the unsettling news that Pluto is no longer a planet. It had in fact been demoted to dwarf planet. This came at the same time that I found out I had slipped from number 4 to number 10 on the Sirius Countdown.

As you can well imagine, It was a devastating day, more for the fall of pluto than my position on the countdown, but the combination of the two sent me into a downward spiral from which I am just now recovering.

I was barely able to eat my BLT last night as thoughts of pluto's demise still reverberated through my confused head. How could they do this to us? Why did I feel so empty, so cold inside? Apparently, Pluto had provided a comfort to which a value could not be assigned, much like bacon.

I began to go through the stages of loss. Anger, denial....
bargaining. I was ready to do anything to make it all go away....To make the world right again.

As my fellow American's stuff their faces with fast food fatness, overeating to obese results, Pluto has somehow slipped through our fat fingers into the abyss, the victim of our need for bigger, better, and bolder.

Are we all going to sit back, complacent? Is this really the end?

The world no longer makes sense. You can't take hand sanitizer on a plane, but snakes on a plane? Sure.

Pluto's not a planet? Why???? Why???? Why???? Pass the bacon, please.

photo used with the kind permission of the multitalented, Carrie Thomas

The Loading Dock

Last night I sat on the loading dock of an abandoned factory in Gowanus and played guitar for a few hours. I seriously thought that I had found a street where no person would tread. Oh, how I was wrong. First I was approached by two guys in their early twenties who quite likely are punks. One told me what an awesome ax I had and I politely replied, "Thank You."

An hour later, I saw a group of people approaching as I played. I thought they were all dressed in red, but I shook my head and thought maybe I was imagining it. In fact a group of people all dressed in nothing but red clothing; vests, top hats, ties, etc. approached, quite real.

It was a circus of red. Suddenly they all stopped simultaneously like an army of robots and one of them spoke, quite possibly the leader. He said "Do you know how to get to the smith and 9th subway stop?"


I replied "oh, well, um walk down there, take a left, walk to 9th street, take a right, cross the bridge, and You're there."

They all politely smiled like a church camp group and said "thank you."

When it started raining, I decided to pack up my guitar and head to the Snakes on a Plane party I had been slightly dreading. I didn't know how fun a snakes on a plane party with random people who for some reason all worked at Star magazine could be. Those snakes on a plane fanatics know how to party.

Personally, I must say, do I really need more reasons to fear flying? Why do we have to throw in motherfucking snakes? I'm already scared out of my mind and you have to add snakes into the mix. It's not fair.

The Cruelty of 13

They say that 13 is an unlucky number. For some reason, it is a number that seems to always pester me. I had to work very hard to get around there being 13 tracks on my album, because 13 is just what it wanted to be. I reached into my bag of tricks to fix that one.

I was 13 years old when I lost my virginity. I was so in love with J. He was 6'4" tall and far too developed for his age(14). I had a secret crush on him and would steal glances when I thought no one was looking. I guess he was looking more than I realized because it was he that approached me. It was he that invited me to his grandmother's house to help him with his math homework. I lost my virginity in his grandmother's laundry room up against the washing machine. I know, it sounds like some sort of slutty pulp story, but it was not.

I was in love with him. I just wanted to hold his hand, kiss him, and have his adopted chinese babies. He was determined that he was straight. He would go on a date with a girl and tell me that things were over between us, that I should never contact him. I was crushed repeatedly by J. Yet I was always there when he came back around. Mind you, this was in a town of 1,000 people in Kansas. We were a dirty little secret.

13 was such a hard age. I was very very skinny and scrawny. I was always reading or singing or listening to classical music. I was overly sensetive and could cry at the drop of a hat. The brutality of 13 year old boys is the fiercest you may ever encounter. They look for any sign of weekness and they feed on it.

There was not a single day that I did not walk down the hallway to hear the word fagggot thrown at me, spat on me, or kicked against my shins.

I hit rock bottom at 13 when I contemplated murder. The torture had grown to such an extent that I was torn between two choices, murder of self(suicide) and murder of M.

M. led the verbal and physical assaults against me. I began contemplating killing him. I know. It sounds horrifying. You couldn't possibly be as horrified as I was at the time. I decided that first I would speak to M and try to reason with him. I had to try every alternative before doing something so unforiveable.

I approached him one day.
I asked him to please just leave me alone. I stressed that I didn't do anything to deserve the way he was treating me. I asked him why.

His response was that I was a faggot. That was the why.

As reasoning did not work, my next step was to speak with the principal. I told him how unbearable the torture had become. I told him that I dreaded going to school every day. He told me that doing anything about it would only make it worse and that I was a little old to be a tattle tale.

My final resort was to talk to my parents, but I was too embarassed to even tell them what people were saying. I couldn't talk to them.

My mother was going to nursing school nights in a town about an hour away. My father had feared for her safety so had purchased a hand gun for her protection.

There was a cabinet over the kitchen sink, the highest cabinet in the room. In it was the scotch my father would occasionally drink when my sister and I were in bed and the gun my father had purchased for my mother.

I was in the house alone one afternoon. I climbed up on top of the sink and reached into the cabinet pulling out the gun. I just stared at it for minutes. I thought about what would happen if I shot M. I thought about the fact that I was 13. Would they try me as an adult? For a few moments I was sitting on the witness stand explaining that it was self defense, that I was being tortured and slowly killed from the inside. I had no choice. Then I saw M's Mother, crying, staring at me with such anger and loss. I knew at that moment that I couldn't murder another human being. I didn't have it in me.

I put the gun in my mouth and held the trigger. I saw my mother, walking in to the house, finding my body in the kitchen floor. I saw grief like I had never imagined. I pulled the gun out of my mouth and put it back in the cabinet.

From that point forward I decided that I would let them hurt me. I would take their anger and their insecurity into me. I would feel it surge through my body. I would let the tears flow down my face. I would let them tease me for crying. I would just let it happen. There was no choice. I never stopped crying. I never became numb. I spent the next three years taking in their rage and letting it out in the form of tears and poems. The poems slowly turned to songs.

At age 16 I petitioned the board of education to let me graduate from high school early. I had been taking classes through correspondence to fulfill the credits I needed to graduate. I had been planning my escape. When my request was granted, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and a lifting of so much weight. Yes, 13 is a cruel number indeed.

Just a note: I feel that the work of organizations that provide a supportive environment for GLBT youth is so important. I didn't have that support when I was growing up, and I know that it would have helped me so much if I had.

Here is a list of organizations that provide that much needed support.

#1 on Sirius OutQ!!!

Marlboro Man is #1 on Sirius OutQ!!!

Thank you so much to everyone who has been requesting the song and sending
the very sweet messages. From the bottom of my heart, I can't tell you all how much I appreciate it.

OutQ is Channel 106 on Sirius Satellite Radio.
The host of the hot 20 countdown and Last Call is Jeremy Hovies.

Some of you have sent requests to purchase my music. At this time, the only available item is the limited edition Marlboro Man single, and the only way you can get it is by purchasing Brokeback Mountain or Queer as Folk Season 5 on DVD.

The debut full-length album, Sirens of Brooklyn, will be available to the general public on November 14th.
Members of the Robert German E-List are able to purchase copies of the album a couple of weeks in advance.

Be the first to hear the sirens!

Please keep sending your requests for Marlboro man.
email
myspace
1- 877-33-SIRIUS EXT. 106

Still #2

Marlboro Man is holding steady at Number 2 on The Sirius OutQ Hot20!!!
(for the 2nd week in a row)
sooo close to number 1 that it hurts.

Help take mamma's pain away and

email a request for the song to be played.

or call 1- 877-33-SIRIUS EXT. 106


Marlboro Man can also be heard on Last Call with Jeremy Hovies.

Lightning and Unicycles

Last night I had trouble falling asleep.

I was restless.


I decided to climb up onto the roof with my guitar and watch the lightning. Yes, I know, this doesn't sound like the brightest idea. I made an assessment of surrounding building heights and decided that the risk was acceptable.

There's something serene for me about Brooklyn rooftops after midnight. There is a peace that I can't explain. I am able to look out over the city and take in all of my thoughts with a clarity that I can't seem to find on the street level, with my feet planted on the ground and the daylight punishing my concentration.

I had my moleskine notebook with me in case some flash of lyrical inspiration struck before the lighting had a chance. Remember when we wrote things on paper? Before you became an addict of the digital world, I think you felt more fulfilled.
Text messages, email, phone calls, myspace, instant messenger...
Now that you have all these ways to get in touch with everyone, Do you feel more connected? If you stick your finger in a USB port, will you explode with the tingle of love?

Enough digital age philosophy...

So, My bicycle, oh god. I had it chained up in front of my friend Marc's apartment. I went by to say hi and he proudly boasted "I've been keeping an eye on your bicycle for you."

He pointed to a bike in front of us that I had never seen in my life. I said "well, Thanks a lot, but that's my bicycle." I turned around to point my finger at a bicycle with a missing back tire that looked like it had been the victim of a hate crime. I burst into laughter. It was too funny. I suppose I should have been devastated, but hey, what could I really do about it at that point? I must find the time this week to buy a new back tire. ugh.

Photo Credit--Carrie Thomas

Be the first to hear the Sirens

On November 14th,

my Album, Sirens of Brooklyn, featuring 12 original songs written, produced, sung and strummed by yours truly will be available for purchase.

As a special thank you, a limited number of advance copies will be sold only to members of my E-List along with some extra goodies that aren't available to the general public.

Sign up now!

Photo-Carrie Thomas
Graphic design- Joe Velasquez

Bobby McFerrin, Forgive Me!

For I know not what I say...
















After a cup of tea with Sgt. Pepper, I of course stumbled to the trainyard where I was followed and photographed by the paparazi, which as you can see angered me.

The Next Magazine Article

This Friday, August 4th, be sure to grab your copy of Next Magazine.

I did an interview with Next Editor in chief, Greg T. Angelo, which will grace its pages.

I'm tickled pink like a pot belly pig...and Yes, there may be mention of my bacon problem, which is apparently attracting media attention.

I feel almost like an ambassador for other bacon addicts. It is my privilege to speak out on an issue that I know affects so many people. I hope that my work will help many of you to come out of the shadows and speak openly about your experiences with overindulgence in pork products. With greasy hands and swollen hearts, we can face this battle together.

#2 on the Chart

Marlboro Man is Number 2 on The Sirius OutQ Hot20!!!

sooo close to number 1 that it hurts. haha...a good kinda hurt though.

Help take mamma's pain away and

email a request for the song to be played.

or call 1- 877-33-SIRIUS EXT. 106


Marlboro Man can also be heard on Last Call with Jeremy Hovies.

The Curse of Dracula

Last night I had a very surreal Brooklyn evening.

I was invited by my friend, Jake to attend a screening in prospect park of 'Dracula' with live underscore performed by the Kronos Quartet composed by Phillip Glass.

The great things about these screenings is that people bring blankets and food and have little picnics while watching the show. We were sitting, eating sandwiches and berries with Slavic Soul Party serenading.
I somehow chose the part of the blanket that had been thrown on top of a pile of twigs, which have quite possibly forever damaged my tender parts.

My favorite thing about this version of dracula is that it was back before special effects, so you know that the bats were tied to a string on a twig and there's some guy whose job it is to bounce them up and down to make it look like they are flying...Absolute brilliance.

{cut to Dracula's Castle}

It started thundering and lightning in the movie. It also started thundering and lightning in the park. ooh, cool. I think a lot of people were stoned and like...Far out, man...Which I mean, hey, it was pretty cool. I on the other hand was looking up at the tree we were sitting under, wondering how long it would be before a bolt of lightning would split it right down the middle.

I decided to leave during the part of the movie where the characters are on a ship bound for England during a terrifying squall and was about 3/4 of the way out of the bandshell area when the torrential downpour in the park coincided with the movie and they stopped the film. Of course I wasn't all the way out, so I was suddenly in a crowd of hundreds of people trying to evacuate and avoid electrocution.

It was so weird to see so many people huddled together in the rain, running out of the park.
I ended up under an awning between 8th and 7th avenues on 9th street with a small group of people, waiting for the rain to let up. I feel like we were united for a few moments by the magic of real life and cinema colliding perfectly. We had all bonded in some weird way. We had similar stories, but wanted to make sure that our individual voices could be heard. I overheard a girl telling her friend that she had seen a bolt of lightning crash down a block away from the park.

The rain eventually let up. As I passed the bars, I noticed that most of them were so full that the people were spilling out into the streets. I guess when you find yourself bonding with so many people over lightning, rain, and the curse of Dracula, you want the connection to keep on living....to live forever.

Photo Credit- of course it's the lovely Carrie Thomas

#4

Oh my goodness. Marlboro Man is Number 4 on The Sirius OutQ Hot20!!!

Can I get a hip hip to bump and grind with my hooray?

Email a request for the song to be played.

My Water Just Broke

I have finished recording the album!!!

I feel proud of myself having written, performed, produced, and financed every track on the album. It really does feel like a piece of me and an accomplishment.

There were times when I didn't know what to do with songs, whether to keep them, rework them, or scrap them altogether. There are songs that didn't make the album. Something like 20 tracks were recorded in various forms in the process. B-Sides?

What I found most interesting when going through the tracks was that 4 of them including the title track hadn't even been written when I started recording the album.

(Sirens of Brooklyn, Follow Me Home, Fishnet Sailor and Before You go)

It felt so strange running the final mixes, to be commiting to something so final. I don't ever really consider anything final. It can always be reworked, improved, expanded or condensed.

Next up...mastering and artwork....
I've chosen photos from a selection of shots taken by the very talented Carrie Thomas.

Graphic design is being done by the Joe Velasquez who I worked with on the website.

I've been warned of post-pardom depression. I must keep myself busy and tend to the baby when it comes.

Now, I can feel the contractions taking over my body like convulsions...back to giving birth.

Photo Credit- Carrie Thomas

Please Request Marlboro Man

Get your friends to request it. Get your friends' friends to request it.
Send emails, send smoke signals, messages in bottles. Pillage plunder beg borrow and steal.,,,well, I can't condone any of those behaviors, but a few simple requests would make my day, week, and Chinese new year.

Marlboro Man is currently #10 on the chart this week!!!

The song is also being played on
Last Call with Jeremy Hovies.

Show Your support!
Email a request for the song to be played.

Sirius OutQ is channel 106 on Sirius satellite Radio.
You can get a 3 day free trial of sirius outq at their website to listen online

Bacon Rehab

Can someone please do some research and let me know if the Betty Ford Clinic has a bacon ward?

I ate an entire package of bacon yesterday.
It started with an innocent sandwich on a pita consisting of avocado, bacon, tomato, and mayo.

The other half of the package of bacon kept calling to me though. Three hours later, I marked my downward spiral and possible inclusion into the heart attack hall of fame when I made a bacon and mayo sandwich on pita bread that I fried in the bacon fat. (See previous post regarding my butter problem)

Who eats an entire package of bacon?...not to mention like 3 tablespoons of Mayo.

Photo taken by Carrie Thomas in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn

Marlboro Man is #10 on the chart this week!!!

The song is also being played on
Last Call with Jeremy Hovies.

Show Your support!
Email a request for the song to be played.

Sirius OutQ is channel 106 on Sirius Sattelite Radio.
You can get a 3 day free trial of sirius outq at their website to listen online

Foot Duet

Carrie Thomas has very photogenic feet. They have been photographed in every boro and have even crossed state lines to strutt their stuff. These feet get around people. So, when I was walking with Carrie and she asked me to place my feet next to hers to snap the above photo, I was honored.

Obvious photo credit to Carrie Thomas.

Shoes were a present from my father. How cool is he?

$6,535.00

I was on my way to Creamy Goodness Studio to work on
'Hiding From Your Pain' for the album when I saw a folded check on the ground. I picked up this signed check to discover that it was written in the amount of $6535.00 and written from a Ms. B to a Mr. D (same last name.)

Along with the address on the check was a phone number, so I decided to call and let Ms. B know that I had found the check, but there was no answer, so I put it in my pocket and decided I would mail it to the woman who had written it.

2 Days Later...

I was in a coffee shop in Manhattan working on the copy for the inside of the album when my friend Laura messaged me and asked if I wanted to have lunch. She was craving falafels and so I said that we should go to Momoun's, which is my favorite place to have a falafel in New York. A falafel and humus sandwich was $2.50 when I moved here 8 years ago and the price is still $2.50. It is the perfect food for a starving musician.

As Laura and I were sitting eating our Falafels, I realized that I still had the check on me, and I was only a few blocks away from the address listed. I told Laura all about it and we decided that we would find the address and deliver the check back to its original owner.

We found the address with some assistance from an NYU map. We told the doorman that we had a delivery for Ms. B. He called up to the apartment and gave my name and had a puzzled look on his face. So, I told him that I was delivering a check that I had found. We were told to wait and that someone was coming down to see us.

I was practicing the act of balancing my guitar. If a floor is level it will stand up on its own, which always entertains me for some odd reason. The elevator opened and a gentleman who appeared to be in his mid-thirties approached me.

"Are you Robert?"

"Yes. Hi. I found this check in the street and I wanted to return it."

(I handed him the check.)

"where did you find this?"

"Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn"

"You came all the way from Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn?"

"No. Well, I was going to mail it. I called but nobody answered. we were having lunch in the neighborhood, so I thought I would just drop it by.
Are you Mr. D?"

"No, um. That's my brother. Wow, um. Thanks. um."

There was something strange in the look on his face. He had no idea this check existed until I handed it to him. The wheels were turning in my head. Was Ms. B is wife? Was She his mother? Maybe his brother was having an affair with his wife and she was paying him off to keep him from telling the brother about their forbidden love. Maybe the mother who had been stingy with the brother's requests for money was generously sending $6,535.00 checks to Mr. D. What would become of this situation? Laura and I discussed as we walked away. She suggested that this saga was not done. We would hear about someone being murdered on the news.

She thinks that she had met the brother before. She thinks that we will see him again. Fate has some bizarre design. It wasn't chance that Laura craved a Falafel. It wasn't chance that I suggested a place near the address. There is something strange and fatalistic that has begun. I fear it has a tragic end.

Oh god, this is the story of my life. I try to do something right or what I think is the right thing and then it leads to some horrible outcome. ugh.

Photo by Carrie Thomas

Last Night at Albatross

Last night I went to Albatross in Queens with the talented mister Jeff Cubeta to give the world a sneak peak at Kitt & Kaboodle, a little project we've been working on. The audience was so supportive and wonderful and there have been lots of sweet kudos on astorians.com

We met the Barbarians, a radical burlesque troupe, who were both thought provoking and entertaining.

At times I feel like art is being pushed out of New York as it has become more and more gentrified and homogonized. It was great to see the spirit of old new york alive with performance art, burlesque, drag, and singing from the soul.


There will be a performance by

Kitt and Kaboodle
on Saturday July 22nd
at the Cattyshack in Brooklyn
249 4th avenue between President and Carroll

to benefit the Last Licks Softball Team.

$15=all you can eat BBQ and beer and all of the fun

$10=all you can eat BBQ and 2 for 1 drinks

$5=See the show and 2 for 1 drinks

It's raining in New York

Today

The rain is falling in New York. The sky has opened its eyes to let its tears flow free. I feel a bit like a vagabond. I went to the photo lab to drop off negatives for the album when the rain started. I had my guitar and my laptop in my pack, so I became a prisoner underneath a dark blue awning.

I called my ex to get a weather forecast, but he was no use. He had no news on whether this was a quick shower or the beginning of monsoon season.

I have never been umbrella appropriate. I carry an umbrella when it doesn't rain and I never have one when the floodgates are open. I don't usually check the weather myself. I like to be surprised. It seems that when I do check it, the forecast is incorrect and I'm surprised regardless.

I skipped from awning to awning for a while before finding refuge in a coffee shop with high speed wireless internet.
So, here I sit, typing away, watching the people running through the streets, soaked to the bone, squealing and shivering.

Water amazes me. It seems so simple yet it can destroy cities, rot wooden houses, carve canyons, cool a hot forehead, and wash away the filth. I love the air after the rain. It's cool and fresh just waiting to be polluted.

The rain is letting up and soon I will catch a train to Queens where I will be rehearsing with Jeff. We're doing a show on Saturday, which will be our first musical collaboration. I'm excited to be doing some jazz standards in addition to my original material. It's fun to sing those old songs.

A quick apology to a few of you who have gotten delayed email responses from me. My internet connection has been spotty at best for the last couple of days and I've resorted to sending smoke signals. I am after all a member of the Choctaw Indian tribe, your fun fact for the day.

Photography by Carrie Thomas

Lucky 13

For the 5th straight week, Marlboro Man made is on
Sirius OutQ's Hot 20 List.

This week, I have the honor of holding the lucky 13 position.

Strangely enough, this news came on a day when I had 1313 friends on myspace. I also broke a mirror and walked under a ladder just as a black cat crossed my path. Good things are obviously on their way.

The song is also being played on Last Call with Jeremy Hovies.

Show Your support!
Email a request for the song to be played.

Sirius OutQ is channel 106 on Sirius Sattelite Radio.
You can get a 3 day free trial of sirius outq at their website to listen online

The Marlboro Man needs your help

My song Marlboro Man has been charting on Sirius Satellite Radio's OutQ hot 20 for the last 4 weeks, steadily climbing until...

A tiny tear trickled from my good eye this week when I received the news that I had slipped from number 11 to number 16.

Show your support by sending an email requesting the song.

You can hear it played on Last Call with Jeremy Hovies.

Big Thanks to J-ho!

Return to Coney Island

I don't know what it is, but I can't seem to stay away from Coney Island. It holds so much magic and mystery.

Recently, Carrie and I returned to our beloved island to take some more pictures for the album as deadlines loom.

We paid a visit to our good mermaid friend and found a few new mermaids who were kind enough to lets us capture their images on film. Carrie sent me off to look for a pirate because the one I found was not handsome enough while she snapped shots of the horses on the carousel.

We walked out onto the piers and watched the men fishing, the fish flapping madly on the wooden planks begging to be thrown back into the water, gasping their last breaths of very dry air.

We both saw the rocks and the sirens called us towards them. Unfortunately we were greeted by a sign telling us that the rocks were off limits. I decided that this could not be, so I went to the lifeguard stand and spoke to the three lifeguards there asking them very kindly to let me use the rocks. They had no problem, but for some reason told me that I needed to take my clothes off if I wanted to have my picture taken there.

I did remove my tie and button down and sported my wife-beater(please don't be offended by this term used to describe a tank top style undershirt) If you've seen the show cops, then you know the origin of the phrase.

As carrie snapped shots, I noticed a woman sitting in the sand under a black umbrella. I had to have it, if only for a moment. As we took pictures, the lifeguards were yelling that I needed to remove another layer. There was no one swimming so their boredom had turned a bit pervie it seemed.

Carrie went over to ask the woman if we could steel some alone time with her umbrella and to our delight she obliged, though she told us that it was broken. Carrie worked her pixie fingers across the handle and the umbrella was miraculously repaired. She does have magic hands....ooh, John you are a lucky boy. haha :)

All in all, the Sirens of Brooklyn were with us today.

I made my prayers in the water fountain and made amends with an old friend.

Thank you Coney Island for giving us your kisses carried by the salty air.

Image used with the kind permission of photographer,Carrie Thomas