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
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
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.
All it takes is just one look and I'm in pain.
I want to be the one who's always on his brain.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
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
Sunday, August 27, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, August 21, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, August 14, 2006
#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.
Please keep sending your requests for Marlboro man.
myspace
1- 877-33-SIRIUS EXT. 106
Friday, August 11, 2006
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
or call 1- 877-33-SIRIUS EXT. 106
Marlboro Man can also be heard on Last Call with Jeremy Hovies.
(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.
Friday, August 04, 2006
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
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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.
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
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