Pirate Robots

2009-02-28T07:42:00.000-08:00

Head to the New site piraterobotpress.com! See you there!

2009-02-06T18:54:00.000-08:00

So all is well, but work and school make for rough going sometime. Just finished a new story "Within the Night". Its a depressing look at a man out of control. I like it very much. Its to appear soon, and when it does, a link will be supplied. The isbn for the first book on the piraterobot label has been purchased. "They're Bound to Leave Some Keepsakes" should be published mid to late march. It a collection of short stories by Dan Vaughn. When more happens, you'll be the first to know.

My favorite place to hear music: Stubb's BBQ

2009-01-23T15:17:00.001-08:00

My favorite thing about Stubb's isn't so much the venue aspect of it, but the food you can have while watching good bands play. The best sausage in the state of Texas.

2009-01-19T17:08:00.000-08:00

Well, the printer is on board and the ship has officially begun to move. Books, books, books by midmarch.

2009-01-10T13:25:00.000-08:00

The morning calm, sun dripping over the edge of the roof next door, pearly sunlight between the edges of shingles, butted together like repelling magnets, forced apart by the heat of a thousand mornings like this one. The dog wandered back and forth across the sidewalk, nose to the earth, tail to the sky, searching for the path of her most recent relative, who also searched for a precursor’s path, till the timeline stretched back to wolves and coyotes howling outside the light of campfires and smoldering kills. Her ears popped up and she settled on the spot and released her morning’s urgency into the grass, while I stood and watched the road, the neighborhood, the morning, sunlight.

A car passed and then another, until it became a procession of makes and models, every color of Detroit’s rainbow flowing, bumper to bumper traffic in the neighborhood. One horn went off and set off a symphony of blaring, tinny horns, accompanied with a shaking fist and a screamed obscenity. The procession slowed its pace, as they cars bottlenecked at the stop sign, which only increased the volume until my ears could no longer process the sound, a humming feedback. I looked down at the dog, her squatting down, looking up at me, a tiny speck of sleep cradled in the corner of her eye, ears up. She stood, shook herself and led the way back towards the door.

The sound ceased.

Work would be later in the day, so I sprawled across the couch, cradling the dog, sleepy and dozing on and off, a constant eclipsing of consciousness like a view through a spinning fan blade. I slept.

There may be a pirate in your Ipod soon.

2009-01-08T06:27:00.001-08:00

Hello

2008-12-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

I seriously doubt anyone reads this blog anymore, though in its prime, it had almost no readers. This is just a note to say that the process of writing, publishing, pirateroboting has begun again. See you all soon.

Dan

Ponce De Leon

2008-09-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

When I consider the "end of the world", that fiery meteor that destroys us all, or the superbug flu that infects and drops us one by one, it is not the loss of life that saddens me so much. Granted, my own passing would be a disappointment, or the loss of a loved one would depress, but it is the end of knowledge's path that saddens me most.

I am a collector of things. Began at the age of 7 with my first pack of '87 Topps baseball cards (w/ stick of gum included). Striving to collect each card in the set, I spend a year's allowance only to find that '88 brought a new design, player set, and shiny hologram! And so it progressed, from baseball cards to cds and from music to books, until, as a young adult, I realized that my collection was not of things so much as it was of knowledge. Thoughts were arrayed and displayed, facts filled walls like paintings in an art museum. And each day brought with it a new area for searching, a new shelf to fill, new thoughts to be found, analyzed and preserved.

While my personal death would, of course, end my own goal of factual pursuance, the general goal of enlightened mankind will continue. Science does this as it progresses, new ideas and discoveries are built over the backs of older ones as advances are made. The social sciences, in the same way, drive the collection of knowledge forward, not so much with physical collections, but with thoughts and theories dreamed of only in the mind. Even literature, and the study of it, is a pool of knowledge, focusing less on the discovery of fact and more upon the emotions and experience of humanity. Feeling their way forward, artists drive the knowledge of humanity and its soul forward. Every pursuit of mankind, trivial or monumental, pushes us forward as a race. Legends, statistics, electoral college results, polling data, mythology, religion, ratings, top ten lists, folklore, blank vs. blank, mankind drives the cart of progress forward with each step...

Until that fiery ball, that consumes every atom that has ever been a bit of knowledge, fills the sky.

And with a winking glow the quest ends. No doubt, Ponce De Leon feels the same way about the end of Spanish dominance and expansion. Sadness fills that conquistador's heart, clothed in armor, watching his motherland descending down the ladder of world importance towards Poland or Chile. More heartbreaking is the end of the Roman Catholic Church as the religious center of the world. As Islam and Buddhism tread ever nearer with usurperious thoughts, he bangs his sword against shield and begs for another mission to challenge for faith and glory.

And I too, from my grave, now consumed by fire or worm, will wish to rise and pick up the fallen mantel. To strive to continue pulling progress forward, in flames, spinning out of orbit, pulling the cart forward.

Concerning my absence

2008-09-03T12:29:00.000-07:00

My grandfather died Saturday morning. He had Alzheimer's and, as with all of those that suffer from that ailment, he was long gone in mind before in body. He was a good man, now dead. I don't feel incredibly sad about it, but for this reason I have been out of town, without means or desire to post much. With this in mind, here is a recycled story written about Moby's album, Play, and my brother's death (8 years ago).

Moby's Album Play

I was in my second semester of University. My first had been a disaster of inane proportions. My grades, as follows: C, D, F, F, DP. GPA: .75. I was unmotivated, struggling with a sleeping disorder (sleep apnea), without direction. I had found writing poetry as a means to expression, but, in the process, had also discovered gin rummy (yes, the old ladies card game) with my poet friends. I was expanding and reverting at the same time. One part growing, another part dying. Regardless, this semester would be the single most important and influential in my college career.

I met a new girl, Adri. She was a college girl, a junior, and very bright and funny. She would date me throughout my college experience and eventually be the exwife. Our relationship began with one of those awkward, “Uh, will you go out with me?” moments. This one a little less standard because it was from her to me, through a mutual friend. I was not really into the idea, due to an impending move (which didn’t happen). But I gave in with a little peer pressure.

So I began a long term relationship (5 years), and, in the process, righted my listing educational ship. Adri was pretty pushy about class, so I ended up attending more often, spending less time playing cards. That semester my grades began to climb, to their eventual peak at graduation. I really renewed my focus at this point. I decided to stop slacking and make an effort to pass my classes, and I did. I didn’t fail another class from that point on.

I also began to be more outspoken in my local art scene. I began writing and participating in local spoken word shows. It was weird. I was writing, reading, performing in front of people, and my work was loved by all sorts of audiences. That experience inspired my future writing career. No doubt, this very work is a direct result of praise and support garnered at this period of my life.

So good was beginning to take root in my life. Looking back, the timing of good things happening to me should have, in a pessimistic sort of way, warned me that something terrible was about to happen. It did.

My best friend, from the age of 2 to 21, was my brother, Dave. He was everything that I was not. He was dependable, workmanlike, normal, inclined to tools and workshops, while shying away from the pen and stage. I know that the past always glorifies memories, making them better or brighter. I know that no one is as good-looking or as smart as I remember them. But I am pretty sure my brother was everything that comes to my mind about him. He was a good man. He died that year, 19 years old.

One night he came in from community college (studying to become a lathe operator) complaining that his stomach didn’t feel well. My mother took him to the doctor and he assumed it was nothing more than a flu bug. He recommended rest. By 8 that night, my brother was delirious. My father out of town, my mother unsure what to do, I carried him to the truck. I write carry, but, to be honest, my brother outweighed me. I sort of draped him over my shoulders and half-dragged him to the cab of the truck.

On the way to the emergency room, I kept wondering what was going on. My brothers and I had never suffered any major ailment. We were healthy. None of us broke bones. None of us were ever hospitalized. It was surreal to be in the back of the truck, weaving in and out of traffic, wondering if my brother was going to live or die. At the time, I wrote it off as being melodramatic. How little did I know.

In two days, he went from well to dead. My last conversation with him was that night, in the ER. I told him to get better and put a blanket over his feet. I walked out, figuring he would be fine. 48 hours later, I rushed from his ICU bed side, too afraid to watch his heartbeat stop. I cry even now, 6 years later, when I write, speak, or even think about my brother’s death. It seemed senseless, almost unfair, to take someone so young, so full of promise, someone who wanted nothing more than to be normal, average.

In all the tumult, in all the clamor, one album supplied peace. Moby’s Play. Listening to “Porcelain,” as I write this, I remember how calming it was to listen to an album full of predictable beats, gospel samples, and Moby’s gentle voice. As a genre, dance music or whatever people call his style of music, is low on my hierarchy of taste. However, this album is well-done, well-polished, and contains some of my favorite “calming” tracks. “Everloving” was that first breath after I had sobbed for an hour. “Natural Blues” and “Bodyrock” pushed me to put aside the pillow and pick up my textbooks. Play was a bed to sleep in, a trainer to push one more rep, a friend to listen to.

Such a Tease

2008-08-27T08:07:00.000-07:00

Busy busy busy.

Pirate robots has been working on lining up the first title to be produced and I am thrilled to announce that a name of some importance locally, as well as elsewhere, has been brought into the piraterobot fold. More to follow...

and that my friends, was a teaser.

A stanza of something unfinished

2008-08-16T21:51:00.000-07:00

The flies swarm in clouds

Moses-vs.-Pharaoh-like,

Rubbing, bumping and grinding

Against their like kind.

They flit and hover,

Then land among the refuse

To vomit up putrid young,

Maggots,

Their larvae,

To feed,

And grow,

And take flight.

Tonight Tonight

2008-08-12T15:27:00.003-07:00

Ambrosia, across the street from the Main st. Library, in McAllen.
Open Mic Night 8pm.

A Mass-Murderer's Daily Wish List

2008-08-08T08:51:00.000-07:00

Number 162 was faceless.

His Pt Cruiser,

A hideous maroon color,

Was parked too close

And, sardine-like,

I was forced to peel my way

Out of my car tin.

58, 74, and 93

just wouldn’t shut up.

1 was my dog,

whining to go out,

far too early this morning

her bladder ignoring

the three taps of the snooze button.

31 through 55 were all work-related,

like a postal worker’s job-well-done,

I mowed them down

From behind my counter-barricade

And laughed when the authorities

Never received the call.

288 was a slow silent one.

She kept giving me the eye,

Like my face was an annoying anomaly,

Her lids were closed in her final moment.

210 was an auto-fatality,

road rage victim,

their rap music so loud

they never heard

the squeal of my tires

crossing two lanes of traffic

to bring to an end

their joy-ride.

11 was the newscaster,

12 soon followed,

though it was just the voice-over.

13, 14, 15, and 16 were Journey.

Don’t stop believing.

17 came a little later in the day,

my bike ride prolonged

by a slow-moving pedestrian,

left to rot

on the roadside.

199 and 200 were a cute couple,

but they had it coming,

no one should be that happy,

especially around me.

291 was the last,

in the courtyard of the complex,

drunk and happy,

singing loudly,

and then dead.

Don't Say I Never Did Anything For You

2008-08-02T08:18:00.000-07:00

After my last post about memories of the last 3 years, I was asked to explain some of the events mentioned, so for you that are interested...

Master Pirate Robot, it looks like you had quite a roller coaster of a time these past three years. What religions did you change from and to? How bad did that disease get? How was your first strip club experience?

Let me answer those in chronological order, rather than spatial:

While working as a teacher in Donna I went through some of the roughest patches of my life. My parents moved to East Texas, leaving me without family within a 1/2 day's drive. It was lonely, but not impossible, to manage. However, to compound this situation, my wife of a year, who will remain nameless, finally got fed up with the state of our marriage and did something about it.

I will not, nor should I, place blame in the divorce. It seems to me that all divorces (or breakups of any sort for that matter) are about people becoming dissatisfied with their partner and deciding that a change needs to be made. Whether the fault lies with one or the other doesn't really matter. Either way, someone is tired of the other person to the point that staying married, or dating, or sleeping together, or working together, you name it, is no longer an option. In my marriage, my ex wife was the one who brought things to a head and got the papers signed, outside of that, I won't blame either of us.

Divorced and living alone, eating became my only solace. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't one of those guys that gets carted around on a forklift, but I wasn't far from it. I was pushing towards 360, the heaviest I would get in my entire life. I was miserable and food gave me a little bit of happiness. Much like heroine gives happiness, I imagine. So not only was I divorced, living alone and miserable, I compounded things by adding close to 30 pounds of fat to my already heavy frame.

I moved in with a friend, Joseph, into his Edinburg apartment and life looked up for a little while, but that was short lived. Hours spent playing video games, hunting for used cds, and surfing internet porn weren't filling the void, so to speak. It was during this time that I made my first trip to a strip club, the Longhorn Saloon.

Now the Longhorn Saloon is a "classy joint". And by "classy" I mean, don't even think of taking a date there unless she works there and you are dropping her off for the evening pole shift. And if you date strippers, let's be honest, you probably aren't reading this anyway. But back to the Saloon: Old, stuffing-exploded-out chairs, overpriced drinks, bad lighting, and a worn-out PA matched a run down exterior and pot hole-filled parking lot. Digs like this only attracted the most desperate of dancers. These women were like vampires, the sun was their greatest enemy.

Why my friends and I loved this place is hard to remember. At the end of the day we would look up with our straining eyes from hours of video games and file out, like zombies in search of braaaiiinnnssss, pile into the car, and ride down University Avenue. There, we would pitch the 5 dollar cover fee over the counter, pass by the bar for a beer, then cluster around a table (not too close! we're not perverts!) laughing and hooting for each performer as they shook like bowls of jelly in need of stronger Tupperware.

One night, Joseph and I had rounded up a larger group than normal and money and liquor, incidentally, was flowing more freely. Ronnie was pulled onto the stage by a rather large "cowgirl" wearing not much more than red leather, fringed chaps. She proceeded to give him the treatment on stage while we cheered, as if he were with Angelina Jolie and not an overstuffed Annie Oakley. Ronnie was game, beer in one hand, pole in the either, he smiled and let her earn the money we threw at the stage.

Several dancers later, a stripper, Lili, approached our table asking if any of wanted lap dances. It's odd when this happens, first of all, because the stripper is topless. For most men, the view of a naked breast automatically lowers the IQ from college grad to drooling hungry baby and the ability to make a reasonable financial decision becomes a game of blindfolded-darts in the back room of your head. I can think of only twice in my life that I have said no to a topless woman, once in this very bar, this night. So she passed by and went to her usual corner of the bar, waiting for her next shift on the stage.

I noticed Charlie following her to her seat and figured he was looking for a private dance, so my attention shifted back to the stage. There is some voyeurism in watching a friend get a lap dance. In principle, you are watching your friend have sex with a naked woman. Sure, his member never makes an appearance (or he's going to jail) but the stripper's job is to sell the idea, and, honestly, most of them have the act down. Watching Charlie have sex with a stripper was not on my scavenger hunt list. Well, not that night, anyway.

I looked up at, well, I mentioned them and the effects before, naked breasts. Lili was standing over me.

"Your friend bought you a dance." She spoke with a rough whisper. I guess it was supposed to sound sexy, but, instead, it sounded as if she had just finished off her third pack of lucky strikes. I looked around for an inhaler but no one was offering.

I will be honest, I was scared. It's sort of like losing your virginity all over again. Terrified you will make a mistake and do it wrong, wondering what it will feel like and how you will feel about it tomorrow by the light of day. Yes, this red-blooded, heterosexual male was terrified of the naked woman that wanted to sit in his chair, with him still in it.

She got on my lap and began to grind on my lap, going through the motions as I had seen her do with so many other men that filled the bar that night. But as an actress, she was good. No doubt, from the hours and hours of practice. As I've said before, they have to make it look convincing and, in more ways than one, she was a pro.Two things come to mind about that lap dance:

The stripper smell. Strippers have a particular smell. We discussed it that night at the table after she had moved on stage. Its the smell of baby oil and body spray. I would say its a nice smell, but its too slutty to be called nice. So instead, call it a sexy smell, but if I ever came home to my wife smelling like that, I would be worried as to where she was while I was at work. I have no doubt they have vats of the stuff out back of strip clubs, maybe the girls bathe in it, I don't know. But Lili smelled like every stripper I have ever been within smelling distance of and that smell was all over my shirt, worn like a badge for two days.
I was going to start this point by saying, "Not to be graphic, but...", but then realized that I am already writing this piece about my first experience in a strip club so what's the point of a statement like that. During her dance, Lili referred to my member as... drumroll here..."a turkey leg". I have called my man parts many ridiculous names, beginning with peepee at the age of 4 and ending with man parts at the age of 29, but turkey leg actually made me, and the table full of voyeuristic perverts (friends), burst into laughter, regardless of the fact that a stripper was draped across my chair.

After the lap dance, we left the Longhorn Saloon and picked up McDonald's on the way home. It was dollar Big Mac night and I had some singles left in my wallet. We kept laughing about having a turkey leg instead of a Big Mac, though in retrospect, that certainly placed shadows on our heterosexuality. Lili's smell lingered on my shirt and until laundry day my room had that slight smell of something afoot. Like something dirty had just happened minutes before, but I had just missed it. I was divorced, living alone, overweight, and miserable, in a room reeking of baby oil and bodywash, tired.

My apologies for the length. About halfway through, I realized that this story had a mind of its own. I will respond to the two other questions in follow up posts.

Persistence of Old Email

2008-08-01T06:32:00.000-07:00

Memory is a funny thing, especially when facilitated by old email.

I was digging through my old gmail files, maybe the best thing about gmail, how it organizes everything into categories. It's like having a personal assistant who specializes in sorting email and chats. Amazing. Anyway, I was digging through old ones and found some that made me think about where I have been in the last three years.

Consider that in those last three years I have:

changed religions (twice)
loved (to various degrees) 4 different women
remarried
almost died (from the same disease that killed my younger brother)
published 2 poetry chapbooks
made two major roadtrips (1544.08 and 1547.90 miles respectively) solo
reformed and disbanded a band
started 4 blogs (though 3 are dead now)
moved 5 times
worked 4 different jobs
started and quit smoking
quit drinking
attended my first strip club
signed up for and not attended grad school (twice)
been through a Hurricane (Dolly)

What an awesome time it has been. Memory glosses over the more negative aspect of the time while maximizing the fun. Happy 3 years, everyone. What have you been up to in that time?

Hurricane Blues

2008-07-28T18:54:00.001-07:00

Power was out for 3 days after Hurricane Dolly rolled out. Still getting life back in order. Will post soon. I promise. Hope everyone is safe.

Moonbeans Spoken Word

2008-07-18T18:42:00.001-07:00

Good show tonight. Almost read short stories entirely. Trying to test out which stories will make the upcoming chapbook of short stories. Am trying to devise a name for the book. If you have any ideas for a book title feel free to comment it. You will be given credit in the book. Enough for now. Best wishes to all.

Footloose

2008-07-15T19:14:00.001-07:00

My brother and I were close friends, best actually.

David was two years younger than I. He lacked a little in the smarts category while young. But, then again, he was younger, so maybe that explains some of the insane activities I, his older, read wiser, brother, encouraged him to participate in. What he lacked in brains, he made up for with guts.

My dad was intimidating. Still is. Gruff voice, quick belt whippings, stress levels through the roof most of the time, he was the picture of tough love. He came home from work at night, drained and wore out, usually destined for my parents’ bedroom where he would lounge for a couple of hours in his briefs, reading a book, before going to bed. Little time was laid aside for us boys, even less for stupid questions or unrealistic requests. Never stopped my brother.

Most of the time, the idea would be born out of my conniving mind. Dropped into conversation without pomp, I would let it fester in my brother’s mind before suggesting that he go ask Dad. My mother was a waste of time on this front because her response (and get out of jail free card) was always, “Ask your father”.

I would stand in the back of the hall, just outside our bedroom door and peer down the hall to where my brother stood, tapping on my parents’door. Barely higher than the doorknob, his knocks just loud enough to echo back towards my hiding spot, I quivered with fear and excitement, waiting for the deep bass of my father’s voice to confirm the fearful thoughts of negativity filling my mind. It was always a “No”, or maybe that is just time magnifying one or two times into a universal. Regardless of the truth, it never deterred David from taking the bait the next time. And the baiting and suckering continued from asking favors of my father to wild dares in the neighborhood.

Our neighborhood was like every other one in Chandler and Chandler was just like every other town in the area: Run down and tired little towns, clustered outside of Evansville, Indiana. The people were redneck, untouched by higher education or hygiene. Our town reflected its population: poor, stubborn to change, and smelling of manure.

Down the hill from our house, stood a house similar to every house on our block. It stood on the corner of 5^th Street and Miller. Brown brick with matching brown siding, the façade didn’t reflect the terror inflicted by that house in the minds and dreams of my brother and I.

It may be that all children do what we did: create a boogie man (or in our case, a boogie house. Which, when put in those terms, hardly seems scary.) We needed something to be interesting. Something to pass our time of summer boredom. Something to keep us wary and on our toes when the sun began to wear away our anti nap resolve. Something to dominate our nighttime stories. Something to fear.

As I pedaled up the block one day, a large black car was parked outside the house. Two days later, in a story retold for the neighbors that we played baseball with, the car was a hearse and there was an organ that played, without a player! And though I had made up the lies to amuse my friends and myself, that night, clutching the covers over my head, they became just as real as my name or anything else in my world. There was a hearse down the road! And that organ was playing a funeral song! Oh Jesus!

That summer the terror-filled stories about that corner house grew to the point of absurdity. First it was just a mortuary, then a hangout for witches, soon after a den of vampires, until finally the stories grew so large that they became laughable. Our fear had stretched and stretched, until, at some point, we realized that the stories were no longer working. Rather than scaring us, they had become boring. Like so many things in my childhood, the usefulness of an item was passed and it began to gather dust in memory.

In front of that “haunted” house stood a tremendous fir tree, at least 10 feet in diameter. It towered above the entire lawn, killing most of the grass with its shadow. If the house was indeed our boogie house, than that tree was our chicken dance.

Chicken involves two moving vehicles competing against each other to see who will swerve first to avoid collision. For us, chicken was a bike and that tree. Down the hill, we would peddle as fast as possible on a collision course with that massive fir, than swerve and brake at the last moment, sending up dirt and tufts of our neighbor’s yard, then peddle like hell to get away from the creepy shadow that loomed in front of the haunted house.

Andy, Robby, Stephen, and I spent every afternoon trying to be the least chicken, barely escaping the pointy branches of the tree. Sweat would sting our eyes as we gritted our teeth and prepared for the crash to come, but each time, just before impact, we would swing aside and avoid destruction. My brother watched us, listening to us egg him on. We laughed at him, pushed him, eventually shrugged off his lack of a deathwish, calling him a wimp. At that, a nerve was struck, he put his feet on his rusty pedals, took a deep breath, and told us to get out of his way.

My brother’s bike lacked brakes.

Whether or not this fact slipped my mind or I just ignored it, I cannot say, some 20 years later after the fact. I do know, however, that my brother careened down that hill without reservation. Across Stephen’s yard, past the driveway that would leave a scar on my hand from a similar stunt, blurring in the distance, he hurtled into the yard that would be his landing pad. His wheel turned. His feet attempted to lock back onto his brakes that did not exist. And into that fir, bike and all, he flew.

It took my older brother, Ben, to pick him out of the tree. Dave was bleeding from his leg, but beaming with pride.

“Did you see that!”

And we all stood there, staring as he was carried up the hill to the house. Yes, we did see that. My brother had not only won the game of chicken in a way that none of us could top, but also conquered the boogie house. Bloodied and bruised, he had faced the worst the house, the tree, and momentum could throw at him, and emerged victorious.

A White Flag of Surrender

2008-07-10T14:28:00.000-07:00

Right after the terroristic attacks of 9/11 there was this phrase or tagline used by almost everyone: "if you do/don't do that, that means the terrorists have won." The sentiment behind the statement meaning that changing our way of life because of the events of sept. 11 would be a sign to Bin Laden that he had affected us.

Today, after watching gas prices go up again, closer to 4 dollars, I gave up. I went out and bought a bike. So I'm not sure if Bin Laden had anything to do with the price of oil going out the roof or if maybe it was just some other Saudi. So to whoever did this to me, you have won.

Sweet Music

2008-07-06T19:05:00.000-07:00

While sitting outside Barnes and Noble, watching the world fade away, I was talking with Carl about the perils of aging. Specifically as it relates to what time I have to waste on goals and, because of the scarcity of time, the narrowing of goals.

3 years ago, music was my number one priority. I was collecting like crazy, adding cds daily into my large collection of music. I wanted to find the missing singles and unpublished bootlegs for my favorite bands. Thinking back to it, I really invested a huge portion of my time in that pursuit.

Now, reading and writing dominate my focus time away from work. Music is fading in its importance and I find myself faking interest in conversations with coworkers while they describe a new band they are going to Austin to see. That thought has become laughable to me, driving to another city to watch a band play for an hour. Not because its such an insane idea, but because, to me, NOW, its seems like a waste of time. I could list the number of bands I would drive to Austin to see on one hand and three of those no longer exist as bands: 1. CCR, 2. The Who, 3. Radiohead, 4. The Ramones, 5. Pedro the Lion.

Literature, the pursuit of writing, these seem lasting and time worthy now. I cannot speak for everyone else, and, to be clear, I don't want to. This is a personal decision. A personal trimming of the schedule. A personal re-arrangement of importance. Please continue on.

(the photo is not of my records. simply a photo found online to illustrate my itunes collection.)

Giving Thanks

2008-07-03T07:10:00.001-07:00

Very rarely in life do we have a chance to thank the people who really influenced us. I take that back, we have plenty of chances, we just always assume there will be a more appropriate time, where the nauseating sting of sentiment will not be overrun with sarcasm and mockery. Often, the perfect moment never comes, and those people, so deserving of recognition and acknowledgment, never receive the thanks, praise, and love you wanted to give them. So this post will be that moment for two dear friends and mentors of mine, Te Norman and Ken Buckman.

I began my philosophy minor accidentally when adding Ken Buckman's Social Philosophy class my freshman year. It was rough going for me, untrained and unready for the rigors of a philosophy class built on the premise of, gasp, thinking, and my brother's death that semester only made my problems worse. I dropped Ken's class, promising that I would add it next semester. And, unlike most promises made to professors, I went back and took that class. It changed my life.

Ken's method of teaching pushes the students to think for themselves, to question their approaches to life and society, to weigh right and wrong and, more importantly, why they think something is right or wrong. I tend to think of Ken as a modern Socrates, answering every question with one of his own, leading the horse to the water but leaving the final decision and work for the horse.

He was a mentor to me in a roundabout way. I was not as close then, nor am I now, as I would have liked, because Ken was crushed often by waves of adoring students. And rightfully so, he was deserving of accolades and respect, an honorable man. I would stand in line at his office to discuss some thought weighing on my mind, but, too often, when I finally reached my goal, I would become distracted by his easy going manner and wander off into a discussion of Vince Coleman, the St. Louis Arch, or some other meaningless subject, soon forgotten after exiting.

It was this inability to connect in a deeper way that drew me to his wife's, Te Norman, office. I realize this may come across as insulting to Te, but the facts are the facts and the friendship that resulted is no insult to either of us.

Te is a great professor of her own right. She is the embodiment of a powerful woman: headstrong, fiercely independent, knowledgeable and wise. Prior to knowing Te, my concept of a feminist was limited to the rantings of Rush Limbaugh. It was only in getting to know her that I realized the importance of equality, not only in word, but also in action and reality.

I took two classes with her, Logic and Intro to Phil., and I have recommended her classes to many of my friends. Funny, her reputation as a professor is incredibly accurate. "She's tough." Te will make you think in her classes. She will force you find the flaws in your logic (no pun intended) and face your own mistakes. As a friend, she dealt with me, over and over again, with grace and instruction that I cannot explain nor did I warrant.

One day while in her office, discussing Simone De Beauvoir and her theories on equality, Te recommended reading The Second Sex. I was interested and she went online to check the prices on a used book website. I told her I would rush home and bid on it. Te instead bought the book outright. Thinking she had plucked my aim from before my eyes, I laughed and called her a thief. Two weeks later, visiting her office, I found the book, wrapped and given to me, signed "the thief". In my entire collection of books, I hold that one as one of my favorites.

Neither Te or Ken are dead. As far as I know, they are nowhere near that. They continue to educate at their respective schools. They are heroes of mine. And friends. I do not think, even for a second, that without them, I would be what I am today. Thank you, dearest friends, I am in your debt.

So Thom Yorke, Voltaire, and Dan Vaughn walk into a bar...

2008-07-03T06:54:00.000-07:00

Heard that one before? Oh...

While this website is generally focused on literary issues, please take a moment and watch some of the videos in the Radiohead video contest. Like most people, In Rainbows impressed the hell out of me. These videos do it proud. And if you haven't heard this album, kick yourself in the ass and go buy it!

On other fronts, I just wrapped up Voltaire's Candide. For a book written before the formation of the US, it was surprisingly fresh and enjoyable from a modern eye. Voltaire hammers the major institutions of his day (monarchy, the church, complacency) with sarcasm and wit. Why I hadn't read this sometime before, I do not know, but I hardily recommend it.

Like to know what Dan Vaughn is reading all the time? Join Goodreads, its a great way to share the books you are reading and what you think about your past consumptions with the people you care (or don't care) about.

Now that I look back over this, I did give a lot of links. Eh, all good stuff, I won't apologize.

Oh, the Joys of a Dying Art

2008-06-30T18:24:00.000-07:00

Look at me shudder, twitch,

Flick, and sputter.

I am the death throes of a dying art.

My words are the last will and testament

Of a feeble, worn out,

Bedsore ridden invalid,

Once so powerful and effective

That gods bent their ears

To the ground

To hear the shuffle of its feet.

My lineage is 50, 75,

Even a hundred years

Distant.

My family tree,

Varied in race,

But not in calling,

Fills 27-book encyclopedias.

While the future comes

In HD,

My past has colors so old

That an 8 piece crayon set

Could complete its color-by-numbers.

Oh, the joys of a dying art.

Before the order of things reversed,

People gathered to hear

When the bard spoke.

There was money to be made

In this poetry racket.

Kids actually wanted to be us

And parents hoped their offspring

Would be creative enough

To excel in verse.

No longer.

Now, we are laughed at,

Our title a snickered joke,

A caricature of past greatness,

Reviled now,

And ignored.

But, I,

I do not ignore what I see,

Because while my calling

May be dying,

The symptoms of disease,

The smell of rot

Lingers in the air

Seeping from the carcass

We call culture.

A prophet is not without honor,

But in his own country.

And so,

I am a prophet,

But I am no John the Baptist.

There is no Messiah

In our future.

No one to clean up the mess,

This tower to heaven,

We built with our own hands.

No hope of a savior

To cover the sins of our generation.

The bloodstains lie across our palms,

Tire tracks from

The scene of the crime.

I bear the mantel of Jeremiah

And fire is coming.

Destruction will rain

From the skies

And our straw houses,

Built to last a moment

Will be consumed.

God, Nature, Entropy,

The Holy Trinity,

The Almighty Consumers.

Oh, the joys of a dying art.

I, the wild eyed crazy

On the corner,

“The End of the World!”

“Run”

You buy my book for a buck

And hope that my yelling

Will quiet down long enough

For your coffee to cool.

But I,

AM BOILING.

My burner is set on high,

And these words keep coming,

Elements heated,

Shaking and twitching,

Ready to overflow this container

And set this room on fire.

Oh, the joys of a dying art.

The New Dan Vaughn Book is HERE!

2008-06-27T08:36:00.003-07:00

A single poem, 13 pages long, dedicated to a man misunderstood by a son.

1 dollar for in towners. 2 dollars for out-of-towners.

Contact me at withknivesout@gmail.com for orders.

A Book for a Buck?

2008-06-25T08:53:00.001-07:00

In the works.

When Nights Were Young

2008-06-22T18:51:00.000-07:00

Joseph and I sat on the couch thinking about what we could do with my new found toy. The shipment from Dell had come in, and now a new computer was sprawled across our dining room table. While ordering it, I noticed I had some extra wiggle room with credit line so I tossed in a digital camera to boot.

We were both pretty un-photogenic guys: both of us slopped across the couch, playing FIFA. Joseph was wearing the same jeans and tshirt compilation that he had sported for the last 3 days, minus his waiting shifts. His 5 year old Celtics shirt was chewed by animals, holed by any number of objects in the apartment, and in need of a dumpster burial. To complete the look Joseph had chosen ill-fitting and stained jeans, not washed since last Saturday, but worn each and every day up to, and including, this Friday.

I was Joseph’s Tweedledee. My green button up dress shirt was stained in three places, missing a button and hung on to my overstuffed body like a tomato’s freshly boiled skin. My weight had ballooned to its highest point and the difficulty was not in finding clothes, but rather finding clothes that fit…in a flattering way. My pants’ crotch was nearer my knees than my actual crotch and the belt had been lost in a morning’s straining to stretch the last hole one last time.

Nothing about us warranted a picture. Nothing at all.

England won, three-nil, and we both stretched and turned off the ps2. There is a tiredness that comes with being lazy. A feeling of emptiness that extends from the base of your throat to the bottom of your knees: that “I have done nothing at all today” thought that embodies itself in aching muscles, atrophying from the lack of movement. I yawned loudly, fell back on the couch and asked Joseph what he wanted to do.

I knew his answer before he even spoke.

“Let’s go to Hastings.”

Over the last three months, Joseph and I had spent every other night in that music/movies/book store, wandering the aisles, mostly hunting for porn magazines some other brave non-customer had opened before we arrived. Joseph had decided it was the only place he wanted to go, and no matter what the stated destination was for the evening’s drive, we would always find ourselves outside Hastings.

I stood up slowly, and reached for my keys. As my hand closed around them, my mind finally wrapped itself around what to use the camera for.

“You know what we should do with this camera? Make a blog. Take pictures of our trips each night, then post them up! I bet people would read that!”

Joseph was enthusiastic, at first. He was always that way: complicit during the planning of every plan, predictably absent during the application phase. He pointed out that our friends alone would make it fun, as crazy as they were “everyone would want to see pictures of what we do!”

We left the house in a blur, energized from our stupor by this new plan. Several quick calls were made to friends, urging them to join us at Hastings. “It will be fun” was the phrase of the night. Anything requiring that much encouragement at its inception should have been spotted for a quick-dying thought.

Undaunted, we flew down 10^th street, catching green lights at every intersection. I thought how strange it was at the time, almost as if some higher power was pushing us on in our quest for this picture blog. This was it. It must be. This was the idea that would add some meaning to the nights spent wishing for something to do. This was it.

Parked down the side of the store, we stormed in, armed with my camera and a thousand “funny” ideas for pictures. It seemed our phone calls were ineffective encouragement and our invitation had only been rsvped by one guest. Manny had made the trip from Mission to see what fire needed to be put out, while also checking the used cd bins for some good music.

At first, the pictures were impromptu. The shots read like the stills of a madman’s camera. Each shot was blurring and in motion, without real focus or thought. Even posed pictures lacked expertise and within minutes, the pictures went from being the passion of the moment to the annoying chore someone had to do. “You take the picture!” Wandering around the store, dolls were posed in suggestive positions, Joseph found a porno magazine to hold up for inspection, and several thumbs up shots from Manny were added to our jumbled camera’s worth of a night.

The photo blog died three minutes before exiting the store. Joseph turned and looked at me and, without saying a word, I began deleting the pictures that held so much promise moments before. Each picture that vanished from the camera was a burden removed from our backs. The spontaneity of our excursion began to return where a scripted, stilted, unnatural program had dominated our thoughts.

Driving home that night, we laughed at the stupidity of planning something like that in one evening. The camera was tossed in the back seat, unused for the rest of the evening and most of the following months. Joseph and I stared out across the road, leaving one town behind with our plans, heading towards another with nothing to do. Geniuses several hours earlier, now fools with music blaring out the windows to the South Texas night.

A show...This Tuesday Night

2008-06-22T18:23:00.000-07:00

There is a poetry night at Art Expressions. Begins at 7pm. Art Expressions is located in 301 N. Main St., Suite 2, on the corner of Main and Cedar, just North of Archer Park in the Art District of McAllen.

I will be bringing the thunder.

Customers, Sitcoms, and Life Ratings

2008-06-16T19:23:00.001-07:00

I have a couple of customers where I work that are at the store every single day. There is the creepy guy who wanders around and never buys anything (some claim he is a swinger trolling for conquests, but I am beginning to doubt). There is Chinese Flower Power, a little old man who always buys green tea with exact change. Another of my favorites is the old guy with a mustache who talks just like Willie Nelson, it's got to the point that I actually have conversations with him just to listen to his voice. If only he would break out with Mama Don't Let Your Boys Grow Up to Be Cowboys, that would be worth a thousand hot teas.

I imagine that we are all characters on a sitcom. Who is the star? Maybe its an off the wall show and the creepy guy is actually the one everyone is circulating around. It would be a little boring, granted, with so little dialog, but maybe he has a really funny narrator's voice going on the whole thing. Most of us imagine that we are the stars of the shows. It makes sense, we are in our heads all the time, so that must make us the important ones. But maybe our shows are the soon to be canceled ones: the ones who jumped the shark after the 13th or 14th season and now no one cares about the lead character or if he will get laid tonight or maybe even if he died.

Does life cancel us when we are no longer relevant to a viewing population? I think of my own life and how my ratings have gone up and down.

1st to 10th seasons: 10 viewers
10th to 17th: 25 viewers
18th season: (love enters) 26 viewers
19th - 23rd: 60 viewers
24th - 27th: 10 viewers
28th: 35 viewers
29th: 7 - 10 viewers

If I were a tv show I would be canceled. My peak years have passed. Even now, viewers are fading from my life as I become less and less interesting to them.

Will life cancel me? Or will I suffer away on UPN for another 50 seasons?

The Captain

2008-06-16T19:17:00.001-07:00

The Cap'n sits across the stern,
a fishbone toothpick clutched
within his claw.
He surveys his domain,
Davey Jones' Locker,
a watery who's who of the sea.

From Notes on a Fishbowl

A Thank You Letter to My Father Too Late

2008-06-04T16:34:00.000-07:00

To my father,

Dad to my brothers and I,

Husband to my mother,

Man of the house,

The alpha male,

The bearer of seed.

I cannot defend my actions

As my habits have overrun

Their banks

And are now a flood,

Spreading across the plain:

A lifestyle.

From afar

And next door,

You have frowned

At the cresting waves

Beating at the foundation

Of the house,

Built with your own hands,

Meant to last a lifetime,

Now,

Mildew creeps up the walls

And cracks form between joints,

All is not well

In this happy home.

So a defense

I will not attempt,

For there is none.

You tilled my land

Before my hand

Could steady the plow.

Too young to fend for myself,

You wrapped me

In a father’s love

And kept me

From the harshness of winter.

Your hand was not soft,

Though,

Often your correction

Made your love

Easy to forget,

Like a medicine sweetened,

Fooling no child

With its color or taste.

You did not spare the rod,

Fearing the spoiling.

You pushed, prodded, poked,

Forced me along

Without my approval or consent.

You did this for me,

For this,

I thank you.

But the hardness of your hand

Was softened by the look in your eyes.

I lived for those words

Of praise.

A new talent mastered,

A magical phrase learned,

A directive followed,

You spoke kindly.

Not as often as I wished,

Nor as much as I needed,

But not as few as I remember.

The rage of the storm

Steals the birdsong

From the treetops

And replaces it

With the breaking of branches.

My childhood was one of fire.

My childhood was one of water.

Fitting that my birth

Mirrored the elements.

Burning with shame,

Cooled with love.

Flaming with anger,

Soothed with praise.

Fire and water,

My father.

For these two,

I thank you.

At 14,

Wandering the streets of the capitol,

You could not understand

My desolate longing,

My empty soul,

My hollowed chest,

My vacuum of mind.

You mocked,

You shamed,

You stood,

Watched,

But did not,

Could not understand.

Had your heart never been broken?

Had you never felt alone with your family?

Had angst never filled your heart?

Your coldness

Chilled me.

The icy grip of embarrassment,

The absolute rejection of emotion,

For that pain,

And the lesson learned,

I thank you.

I sometimes think of you

As the Almighty.

Your perfection is too much

For this mortal,

And I squirm beneath

Your all-powerful thumb,

That gaze that will not leave me,

Light or dark, night or day.

God is love,

But your love has a price,

An expectation

Of achievement.

And maybe my failures

In Dallas,

Among so many other God(father)-fearers,

Encapsulated by my own choice,

Felt to you like an insult,

A parting jab

As the door closed.

Little do you know,

That through all that idiocy,

The demerits,

The penalties,

The probations,

I still feared you.

That day,

Waking up to you,

In my room,

Your eyes full of,

Only You know what,

Staring at me.

I could say nothing,

I, a man of unclean lips,

I, a sinner without hope of grace,

I, your son.

And I chose my friend,

Of my own name

And ilk,

Over your advice.

I have no apology

Up to the task

Of making that wrong

Right.

Yet,

You drove away,

Left me in that place,

Knowing I would fail.

And for that confidence in my failure,

I thank you.

When David died,

My deity became a man.

I watched you cry

For the first time that day.

I wondered,

Would you have mourned the same

For me

Had I traded places

With my brother?

Him to your side,

Me, in the grave?

For your tears,

I thank you.

My degree

Meant little to you,

Sometimes I think

Not a thing.

You disregard

My knowledge,

Trading it instead

For the words of pundits,

The talking heads

Who lack minds.

You do not question their words,

Nor their motives,

But for me,

The cynical eye remains

All-seeing.

For that eye,

I thank you.

And now,

Once divorced,

Twice married.

Fired once,

Too often quit,

Having wondered this county

In search of love

And finally found it,

Without a calling,

Without a single unshaken thought,

Without anything but my mind,

I offer to you

This song,

These pages,

This single thought:

My father,

I thank you.

Upcoming show, Moonbean's. On the 10th. 730.

An Homage to Orwell

2008-05-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

Last night, I wrapped up George Orwell's Homage to Catalonia in a last minute and sleep destroying push. While this blog is no book report blog, though the idea of such a thing sounds pretty awesome, I would like to discuss the book and what I liked and disliked about Orwell's account of the Spanish Civil War.

Much is made of the Spanish Civil War, due to the conflict between socialism and fascism (as well as the romancing of the war, thanks to Hemingway and other members of the "Lost Generation"). What I loved about this book was its almost newsreporter approach to the war and the factions involved. Just the facts, Ma'am. Rather than filling the book with broad tales from every front, Orwell focuses on what he went through, and no one else. He mentions several times that he is biased, he had chosen a side, but, in mentioning that, you notice in the book that he is careful to not push propaganda without concrete evidence. He even treats his enemies in the book with much fairness, lacking the poisoned view of the "loser."

This was the first time reading Orwell's non-fiction (I never actually finished Down and Out in Paris and London) and I find his approach fresh and modern. Coming from a book almost 70 years old this fact was a little surprising. Most impressive was his description of being shot in the neck by a sniper.

"Roughly speaking it was the sensation of being at the centre of an explosion. There seemed to be a loud bang and a blinding flash of light all round me, and I felt a tremendous shock—no pain, only a violent shock, such as you get from an electric terminal; with it a sense of utter weakness, a feeling of being stricken and shrivelled up to nothing. The sand-bags in front of me receded into immense distance. I fancy you would feel much the same if you were struck by lightning. I knew immediately that I was hit, but because of the seeming bang and flash I thought it was a rifle nearby that had gone off accidentally and shot me. All this happened in a space of time much less than a second. The next moment my knees crumpled up and I was falling, my head hitting the ground with a violent bang which, to my relief, did not hurt. I had a numb, dazed feeling, a consciousness of being very badly hurt, but no pain in the ordinary sense...

... They laid me down again while somebody fetched a stretcher. As soon as I knew that the bullet had gone clean through my neck I took it for granted that I was done for. I had never heard of a man or an animal getting a bullet through the middle of the neck and surviving it. The blood was dribbling out of the comer of my mouth. ‘The artery’s gone,’ I thought. I wondered how long you last when your carotid artery is cut; not many minutes, presumably. Everything was very blurry. There must have been about two minutes during which I assumed that I was killed. And that too was interesting—I mean it is interesting to know what your thoughts would be at such a time. My first thought, conventionally enough, was for my wife. My second was a violent resentment at having to leave this world which, when all is said and done, suits me so well. I had time to feel this very vividly. The stupid mischance infuriated me. The meaninglessness of it! To be bumped off, not even in battle, but in this stale comer of the trenches, thanks to a moment’s carelessness! I thought, too, of the man who had shot me—wondered what he was like, whether he was a Spaniard or a foreigner, whether he knew he had got me, and so forth. I could not feel any resentment against him. I reflected that as he was a Fascist I would have killed him if I could, but that if he had been taken prisoner and brought before me at this moment I would merely have congratulated him on his good shooting. It may be, though, that if you were really dying your thoughts would be quite different."

I realize that posting such a long quote from the book may dull some people, but read the text. It's such an honest and interesting approach to being shot and dying. To me, it seems as though the book was written recently, considering his style. He is very self-aware, very modern.

Orwell takes the time throughout the book to discuss the politics of the Civil War, but breaks these discussions into chapter long chunks, so the casual reader could skip them if uninterested. Chapter 5 begins with this comment:

"At the beginning I had ignored the political side of the war, and it was only about this time that it began to force itself upon my attention. If you are not interested in the horrors of party politics, please skip; I am trying to keep the political parts of this narrative in separate chapters for precisely that purpose. But at the same time it would be quite impossible to write about the Spanish war from a purely military angle. It was above all things a political war."

Again, this approach makes the book's readability skyrocket. I found even his description of Spanish party politics interesting, though I can understand the warning.

Through and through, Homage to Catalonia was an excellent read. I cannot recommend it any higher or more strongly. It is Orwell raw. He describes a war, often misremembered if remembered at all, with every detail from the front to the politics behind. It is painted in colors that sing in the imagination of the reader. A fantastic work from a fantastic writer.

Coffee Culture vs. Vacation

2008-05-26T18:57:00.000-07:00

During the course of a transaction today at work, a gentleman asked me why I wouldn't move to Austin. I thought carefully and responded: "I don't think I could put up with the coffee culture."

Coffee Culture is something Carl and I have been discussing lately, and I find myself working that thought into other conversations on an almost daily basis. I used to call the idea by a different name, "coffee snob", but it seems to be infecting more and more people.

Coffee Culture has emerged in the last decade from the trendy shops that specialize in coffee and nothing else. Its the "skinny latte, sub soy, no whip" kind of people. Its the "caramel machiado, extra caramel, add a dopio" kind of people. Its the person that walks into a coffee shop and asks what "roasts" we have brewed that day. As if this person flew in from Columbia and wants to taste the beans to guarantee flavor. Its the idea that drives us to call a large a venti and a small a tall. When did a cup of coffee turn into this?

I know coffee (not enough to be expert, just enough to work with it). I love coffee. I love serving it, drinking it, smelling it all day. I love the smell of espresso beans when I pour them in to the machine. What I do not love is ignorance, especially when it hides beneath a thin veil of arrogance. This applies not just to coffee but to anything. I respect people with real opinions, built off knowledge. I think what irritates me most is that Coffee Culture has made everyone an expert on coffee. And that expertise, that body of knowledge, is one inch thick. And one inch doesn't hold much weight.

I love it when an old man walks up to the counter and orders a small cup of coffee, black. Makes me feel good to know that they aren't all dead, gobbled up by the fashion and trendiness of coffee culture. Give me a cup of coffee, room for a cream. Oh, and make it a "medium".

On other fronts, the end of this week brings vacation to the house of Vaughn. The wife and I will be out of town till next Wednesday or so. So if you see a silver Civic pass you on the Interstate, my wife must be driving, cause I am an old man behind the wheel.

*Credit to Sissy Vaughn for the coffee cup painting. Yet unnamed, as far as I know.*

Concerning technology

2008-05-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how technology (or the lack thereof) can take all the wind out of your sails. My internet is down for the next week or so, and hat slows any progress on the blog, myspace or anything else. For this, I apologize.

There is a spoken word show coming up on the 10th of next month. I hope you all can make it out. It's at Moonbeans, the best coffee shop in the Valley.

There will be a guest writer on Piraterobots very soon, Randy Monty will be working with me on a poetry series that I think you all will find very interesting.

In other news, I am working on illustrating a book of short stories, I think my work will be ... interesting. Not sure what to think of my own visual art.

Reading a fascinating book by George Orwell: Homage to Catalonia . God, I love Orwell. More about that later.

Enough for now, please comment if you read, if only to say, "Dan, I read this."

Most Everyone Else

2008-05-17T12:54:00.001-07:00

I just realized,
while looking to my right,
across the room
through the patio door
and out over the courtyard
in my dingy apartment complex,
that everyone wants
to be Chuck Klosterman.

And that's ok,
for most of them
writing a witty line
comparing the Rolling Stones
to Bob Dylan
or The Black Eyed Peas
and then tying it to a bad
love relationship they had
while in college
will be the best thing
they will ever put to paper.

Kant and Today

2008-05-16T06:46:00.000-07:00

Before you read the rest of this post, please check this link:

http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/05/15/internet.suicide/index.html

Let it soak in.

Little more.

Ok,

Before I get to the adults in this case, I have to point out that, though she is a young woman and easily swayed by an internet hoax, how does a girl hang herself over insults? The logic of a teenager is flawed by youth, I am aware, but are the youth of our nation so weak, so immature, so easily hurt, that an online asshole (AFTER ONLY TWO WEEKS OF CONTACT!!!) can basically talk them into hanging themselves? In the past, people were getting married at 14 and 15. Kids had jobs as early as 8 or 9 (yes, child labor laws ending that. rightfully so). There were social structures that served to guide the children better. Now, who knows?

Please don't think that I am blowing off depression or other serious mental illness. Kids with these condition should be in counseling or getting medicine to treat their illnesses. "Meier's mother, Tina Meier, told CNN in November that her daughter had self-esteem issues and had struggled with depression since childhood." Was she getting treatment? Was she in counseling? Maybe her mother should have seen this sort of thing coming, if her daughter was so fragile, and prevented her from being on myspace.

To the dipshit insane person that tried to get this girl to kill herself. Is she fucking insane? What other defense could she offer? She's an adult that apparently has so much free time that she can sit around online and either:

"A federal indictment accuses Lori Drew, 49, of O'Fallon, Missouri, of using the social networking Web site MySpace.com to pose as a 16-year-old boy and feign romantic interest in the girl."

OR

"Authorities have previously said that Drew set up the account to find out what Meier, who lived in her neighborhood, was saying about her daughter."

Is either one of these reasons valid? Who has this much time? I have barely enough time to check my myspace and make it to work on most days, but this lady lacks any goal in life other than torturing a child in her neighborhood?

I look at our society and wonder what in the world we are doing. Where are we headed? Adults acting like children. Children do adult things. No one seems to focus on responsibility, respect, or honor. We are an empty society, hollowed out by empty, meaningless baubles, that dominate our attention and desire. When will this change?

I hope this woman, who got on myspace to hurt a child who's only fault was apparently not liking another girl at her school, goes to jail for the rest of her life. I wish the world would pay attention to this case, to see where we are headed, to change their lives, to shift our societal paradigms. I am not an overly religious person. I don't want this post to be seen as decrying the depravity of our culture.

Instead, I think of the Categorical Imperative, designed by Emmanuel Kant: "Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law." We should be basing our decisions on a similar principle. Would the world be better if everyone acted the way I am acting now? Do my actions serve as an example to the world?

Instead selfishness and immaturity dominate the adults of our species. So, I don't hold out much hope. And hope will not bring this little girl back.

My Life in Music: Artistic Adolescence (part 11)

2008-05-15T06:23:00.000-07:00

This originally appeared here but that blog is no more. In case you missed them, I wanted to share one. There were, as you may have guessed, 11 parts to this series, where I discussed music and my life and the connections to specific albums. If you enjoy this one, let me know.

After being turned down by Carla, I left Idaho in the middle of the night. I made it to Salt Lake City and called Robert, a friend of mine in Edinburg. He answered the phone, almost crying already. We discussed our problems with women and after many tears and sobs, agreed that friendships have to sustain us when women will not. I hung up the phone that night, sitting in a truck stop on the outskirts of the state capital and decided to drive to Edinburg and return to my old life. What I had run from before was unimportant now; friendships, easily lost, outweighed the rest of my troubles.

I slept fitfully in the car that night, unsure of what I was doing. But as the sun broke across the highway, I knew it was time for me to go home. Not to my parents’ home. My home. So south I drove, through Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and the heart of Texas: 1,700 miles. When the wheels finally stopped turning, I sat outside of my old apartment, unsure of what my present held. I had an agreement from my friends to allow me couch surf, but, beyond that, I had no job, no home, and all my belongings were in East Texas with my parents.

I adjusted slowly upon returning. I ended up with a waiting job at Mama Mia’s Pizzeria, which, according to the menu, is home of the best Chicago style pizza outside of the Windy City. Robert was the manager there and vouched for me. So an instant, albeit small, cash flow began, fixing the most pressing problem. However, my need for companionship was only growing worse. I spent many nights on the phone, curled into a ball, crying, trying to talk Carla into changing her mind, holding out hope, deluding myself and her at times. I was lonely, empty, back where I was just days after the divorce.

Relationships are where my self-esteem come from. I don’t doubt that would be looked down upon by most professionals and non-professionals alike. It’s a shitty way to live, counting on another person to make you feel good about yourself. In a solid, compatible, relationship, I am the happiest man you will ever meet. Single, I am hapless and miserable. I need love, or at least someone to pretend to love me. With that desire in mind, I began one of the oddest progressions of my life: going from single to married in 3.5 months.

One day, while browsing in the local bookstore, I ran into an old crush of mine, Miriam. She was smart and funny, though a little too “partying” for my tastes. The last time I had seen her, there had been some attraction on both parts, but, due to her ongoing relationship with her boyfriend, we had agreed to part ways. Today, she was single. We began flirting, smoking together during her breaks from work, discussing whatever was on her mind, and, during that time outside the store, we decided to give dating a try.

My birthday was two days after we started dating. Miriam insisted on a party, of course. She made the guest list, decided who was bringing what, picked the clothes I would wear. I just went along with it all. I hadn’t really celebrated a birthday since my divorce, hadn’t seen the need to.

That night, the guests arrived at the house. I knew one of them. Sissy Williams. She was a girl I used to talk to, some eight years before, during my coffee shop, writing poetry, acting bohemian days. We sat on the steps of the apartment, Sissy and I, and discussed the need for co-dependence in some people. I remember it like a well-shot scene from a movie. The way the light danced in her hair, her eyes sparkling, her voice so serious yet ever willing to laugh, the way she looked at me. I developed a crush on her that night.

Five days later, Miriam broke up with me to return to her ex. That night, Sissy leaned across two cheeseburgers in a Whataburger booth and kissed me. Two weeks later she told me she was going to see someone else. The night after that, we were dating. Two months beyond, lying in her bed, discussing the day over the tops of our books, she asked me to marry her. One second later, I said yes.

Looking back, it all seems like a movie, and maybe it was. I can’t explain the series of events. I don’t understand how it all worked out. It seemed scripted. No doubt, that is why Explosions in the Sky’s album The Earth is not a Cold Dead Place fit so perfectly into that period of my life. We didn’t need music that made us think, we had each other to think about. We needed a soundtrack, that album was it. It has no lyrics, it doesn’t need any. We wrote the lyrics each night, lying in each other's arms. Our lines came easily, unforced, like great actors, without a script.

Explosions in the Sky. The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place. Temporary Residence Limited, 2003.

The Intersection of Art

2008-05-11T19:23:00.000-07:00

Lately I have been thinking alot about the intersection of arts. Where one blends into the other. Where music and pictures combine to form something new. Where illustration slurs together with words to make some other creation. Is it a new piece because of the combination? Or just two contrasting or combining pieces together?

The first time I head the song "Needle in the Hay" by Elliot Smith was while watching the Wes Anderson directed film The Royal Tenenbaums. In the particular scene in which the song plays, Richie, one of the characters of the film, decides to kill himself due to his love of his sister. The song, which is good, and the acting, which is also good, blend together to form a powerful picture of suicide. It blew me away. See for yourself:

Now is this a new piece of art or just Luke Wilson's acting, Wes Anderson's directing, and Elliot Smith's song mixed together? I understand the concept of movie as art, but consider the combination of illustrator and writer.

Imagine reading Hunter S. Thompson's writing without the illustrations of Ralph Steadman. Steadman's art is just as crazy as Thompson's ideas, and the combination of the two takes the reader into a twisted world which might have gone unvisited without the dual engineered train.

These thoughts have been weighing heavily on my mind as I consider ways to promote my work into other avenues of art. Considering how art is changed as it touches other veins is an interesting and unending discussion. I look forward to new thoughts... from you.

Raspa Stand

2008-05-10T17:11:00.001-07:00

Raspa Stand

When we were kids,
we didn't call them raspas.
They went by names like
snowcones, shaved ice, slushies,
whiter names for
chunks of frozen water
that came in
a hundred different colors.

We laughed at each other,
so far away from today
and this place,
when we got a brain freeze,
or when the sides of our mouths
got stained grape
or cherry
or chamoy red.

And the smiles then
were just as pearly
as the ones I saw today,
deep south Texas.
So hot
but so refreshed
with sugar coated ice
in dying light of the sun.

Poetry in Motion Cubed

2008-05-08T07:08:00.000-07:00

The Word

The word is movement,
the flow evident.
It spills across pages,
ink into words
that s-t-r-e-t-c-h into phrases
that fit together,
jenga block style,
to form a teetering sentence.
And that sentence,
when combined with another
and another
and another
becomes a paragraph
a stanza
an essay
a poem
a living/breathing piece of art.

Waiting for the Train

The words are like passengers
fighting to fit into the last train
that will carry them
from this mind
to the paper or screen
and into yours.
Some Yell (Fuck, Goddamnit)
Some Scream (Activisim, Social Injustice)
Some Stroll quietly (Poetry, Art)
Some Squeeze in (The, A, And)
to fill the spaces between
the biggies (Enlightenment, Anthropomorphism).
They are all hoping
for a one way trip
from me to you,
but not all will make the doors
before they swing close
before the train begins to huff
and puff
blowing away their hopes
of lighting your mind.

The Brain Station

This brain is a station
filled with trains
some wrecks,
some fine-polished,
some steadfast.

The wrecks loiter in the background,
once proud and strong,
they pulled their weight
and others' too.

The fine-polished gleam in the lightbulb's light.
They shine like stars
in a country night sky.
Some destined to exploded
others to years of work.

The steadfast are dirty, soot-covered, but powerful.
They pull in and out,
conductors pulling the whistle chain
while long lines of cars follow behind.

This brain is a station,
where trains go in and out.

Lunch Mix

2008-05-05T11:10:00.000-07:00

I came home to a mix cd
and a bagged pb&j sandwich.
The mix cd had a smiley face
with freckles on it
"for cheering."

The sandwich was eaten
as the cd spun around,
releasing the sound
of 15 different artists
destined to make me smile.

As the break ended,
and work was resumed,
the cd returned to rest
and I smiled.

Cab Calloway

2008-05-04T10:22:00.000-07:00

Cab Calloway

Make 'em blow that thing,

CC!

Pull the strings

And flip the switches,

You,

The man behind the curtain,

You,

The conductor.

Swing it,

CC!

Protest without a frown.

But a grin

From sea to shining teeth,

With hair flailing the wind,

Knees bent,

Flashing eyes,

Driving this train into the ground,

Method in your musical madness.

Carl Vestweber

2008-05-01T19:15:00.000-07:00

I am primarily a poet when it comes to art, but I really want people to also find artwork that I appreciate. This is my personal soap box, so from its lid I will scream the praise of those who are deserving. So ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Carl Vestweber.

I have always described Carl's work as whimsical, but maybe that isn't fair. That would imply that it's not important or serious. His work certainly steers towards the fantastical and the absurd. His approach to color (primarily through watercolor) is beautiful yet fragile, as if touching the work would shatter it into a million pieces.

Of course, one of Carl's mainstays is his robot art, which (as you may have guessed by the name of my blog) is near and dear to my heart. Even these cold, lifeless creatures show a warmth that no automaton could express. They are robots with emotions and needs. Robots that search for love and beauty, seeking better lives and inspiration for their imagination. They are Carl's robots,
unlike any of other that I have ever seen.

I realize that I am a writer and sometimes when I critique art, I irritate even the most critical of artists. I am brash and uncaring with my judgment of artists and their work. For the record, Carl usually stands against my harsh approach. His art, his heart, his vision are a light for the region I live within. Without his work and words, I have often considered giving up on my poetry and spoken word performances. Carl Vestweber, the absurd dances with beauty and is not marred.

To contact Carl about his work, to thank him for being such a kick ass guy, or to give him youtube clips from the big lebowski, here is his myspace:

http://www.myspace.com/insectsandpeppermints

Mo Willems and Other Thoughts

2008-05-01T10:35:00.000-07:00

Word of the Day: Sinecure.

Headed back to work this morning, after three days of back rest. The morning has been uneventful. We had two school tours come through so I read my favorite children's book to them "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus" by Mo Willems. The illustrations and story are perfect for kids. They love it.

Pictures should compliment the text, not distract. I often think that illustrators have a hard job, trying not to overpower the story.

I've been working on writing more, after some time of not writing. Work was really busy and I have no doubt that it will continue, maybe I can just manage my time a bit better, making writing a higher priority. Should be a spoken word coming up. Definitely one at Moonbean's. I just need to call them up and schedule.

All of you waiting for books: just a little more time. Money is tight, but books will go out in the next week. It will happen.

I Watched Allen Ginsberg and Wished

2008-04-29T10:39:00.000-07:00

(this poem is incomplete)

I Watched Allen Ginsberg and Wished

I watched Allen Ginsberg,
Mouth screwed to one side
Like a car with a headlight
Out,
His words
Straining through lips
No longer functioning
At 100%.

He worked his way
Through "Howl"
As pictures of
Kerouac, Cassidy, Burroughs
Flashed,
and I cried.

Not for the best minds
My generation,
Nor for the long-ago
Passing of the bard.

I cried for the dying embers
In my chest.
I cried for the darkness
Tightening over my eyes.
I cried for the dusty land
Yeilding no crop.
I cried, for these strength-sapped
Legs that could not carry
The length if the journey,
Watching my homeland perish.

He of withered eye
And lip,
But not of mind.
And I?
Youth courses through
These veins
Not yet thirty.

Is it true,
They no longer make them
Like they used to?
Or do I just lack the fire
That stoked steam into the engines
Of the previous models?

L'Olonnais The Notorious

2008-04-29T07:56:00.001-07:00

L'Olonnais The Notorious (d. 1667)

He eats the hearts
And plucks the eyes,
The monster too scary
For his own crew.
He hides among the dead
With sand and blood
Across his eyes,
His face a death mask
On Holloween.
When death is the treat
But his trick
Is survival.

This poem will appear in the upcoming collection Pirate Eulogies

Jean Bontemps

2008-04-29T07:40:00.000-07:00

Jean Bontemps (d. 1572)

His head in Santo Domingo,
His body in Curacao,
His heart in France,
His spirit in the waves.
A corsair without airs,
Despised for religion's sake
He attacked the walls
Of the seven hills
With thirty men.
Laid to rest
With an arrow in his throat.

This poem will appear in the upcoming collection Pirate Eulogies

2008-04-29T06:49:00.000-07:00

Word of the Day: Sciolism

Fucked up my back, but still kicking. Called into work, gonna try and rest it back to health. Writing some new poetry, will post new stuff today.