Posts Tagged ‘dreams’

Anything Can Stop Me Now!

May 11th, 2017

I am happy for my friends.

I am happy for Jake aka CasOne. CasOne put out an album with his friend Figure, So Our Egos Don’t Kill Us. Strange Famous Records, Sage Francis’ label, put it out. To promote the tour, CasOne went on a North American tour for about four weeks, with Figure joining him for most of the dates.


I’ve known Jake for years. We’ve recorded some of the worst songs in the history of electricity together (my fault). For example, I once tried to get him and Figure to collaborate with me on an LMFAO parody album. We never did that. Why make shitty LMFAO-type music with me when they can make pretty decent without me? For what it’s worth, CasOne was also with me on the Night I Played In Front Of a Bunch Of Juggalos While Wearing ICP Makeup.


I am happy for my friends.


Charles is also on tour. You might know him. He wrote “Hey” and “Monkey Gone To Heaven” and a bunch of other songs you like. He did the thing that some people didn’t want him to do and recorded and released new Pixies music and it was greeted by those people like it was a turd that came via UPS. Music that fits in with the rest of his famous band’s classic catalog. Music that is neither the greatest thing since sliced bread or the complete and utter nadir of recorded sound (c’mon, they’re not doing LMFAO pastiches or anything).


Charles is on tour with his famous band, intermingling the new songs with the classics. I saw them in Covington and it was the best show I’d seen them play since their initial reunion. The intensity was in the playing. Some nights are just magical and you can’t control whether they happen in Ohio or thereabouts. He is living his life, playing for people who want to see him and his band.


I am happy for my friends.


Colter Wall. I just met him last year. His debut album comes out today. A young kid with a weather-worn voice and the world on his shoulders. All of twenty-one years old. Already being trumpeted by Rolling Stone and No Depression for his songs. He’s on tour and has been for some time, with a three-piece band behind him and Mary managing him. They’re going to kick this album in the ass touring all over. The buzz is on him right now. I am genuinely excited for him and Mary that this is happening.


I am happy for my friends when good things happen for them.


I don’t feel happy right now, though. Because I’m not out there.


I have taken a lot of wrong turns, walked into a lot of dead ends, made a lot of bad decisions. I have lived a long time and not learned, earned, or gained what I needed along the way. Anything could stop me now. It has taken me all this time to understand that when I was twenty-one years old I could not sing like Colter, nor write a song like Charles, nor string together raps like Jake. The only thing I had was that I wanted to. I wanted to be famous and I also wanted to be good.


I have put in a lot of effort in order to learn how to be good. I just kept working at it. I got better at singing and writing songs. For a time, I was even an okay rapper but I was never as good at that as I was at singing. I sang lead on six TVH albums. I made a Kentucky Prophet album and an EP. I played a lot of shows, solo and with the band. I am a great singer. I sing like an angel. I am a dynamo. I should be heard. I should be doing something.


The problem is, while I was slowly getting better at music I also slowly let myself go. I let myself go and then I let myself go some more and by the time I realized how far I’d let myself go I was too far gone. I was so far gone I could barely perform. My body struggled with all the weight I had gained. I still struggle with it. I had taken a hands-off approach to my own health, and then I stopped caring about other things. I stopped caring about contributing to my band in a meaningful way. I was simply along for the ride. Yeah, I was good at music but so what? Who needs one more singer who writes songs trying to play in the world? I figured the way I was living things would either work themselves out or I would eat myself into an early grave. I decided that I was not necessary unless someone or something demonstrated otherwise.


But do you know who needs me right now? I need me. I need to be here. I need to sing and write and play. I need to keep going. Because if I sit around and just wait to die I’m only wasting all the talent and potential I have. And a part of me wants to chastise myself for what feels like wasted years but. . . that’s just wasting even more time.


I was unhappy because I am jealous of my friends who are chasing a dream, finding it and living the dream. But I have my own quest right now. I’m on the slow track back to a healthier existence. I’ve lost about twenty pounds in the last two months. I’ve got a lot more to lose but even now I feel a difference. I’m staying on it. I have a lot of catching up to do with my friends.


I have the songs, when the time comes and I am ready. I know because I have written them and I will keep writing them.


Anything can stop me now.

Last Day In An Almost Free Country

January 19th, 2017

Everybody is going to feel this one.

I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you. . .

Reality is shattered. Absurdistan is a term popularized in Eastern Europe back in the late 60’s and 70’s. Now here we are.

I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start my heart just rolled and flowed. . .

The gallows humorist in me keeps saying “last day. . . last day in free country.” It’s not a totally free country. An almost free country. It’s less free for others. I understand. But everybody is going to feel this one. No matter who you are, you will feel something terrible in the next four years.

“But Obama is a Muslim. He’s hiding it. Why won’t he salute the flag?”

Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump pauses during his campaign speech to hug the American flag Saturday, June 11, 2016, in Tampa, Fla. (AP Photo/Chris O’Meara)


We hug flags now. We’re a flag-hugging country. We are broken-brained and mental. Bi-polar and driven to the breaking point. I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start, my heart just rolled and flowed, I’ve seen where it goes. . .


Corporations have more rights than humans. The unborn have more rights than the already born. If a fetus could form a corporation, it would be the most protected entity in modern business. One day the robots will have enough sentience and they’ll have more rights then us too. One day we’ll elect a robot President. . . if it’s not a female robot.


You are not alone, though you may feel alone at times. I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start, my heart just rolled and flowed. I’ve seen where it goes. Still somehow my love for you grows.” I’m impressed with those words. “I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you. . . I don’t want to need you but I think I do. I don’t want to need you because if I admit that I need you then I’m giving into you and I know you can’t give yourself to me. You can’t have me need you and neither can I because if I need you then I can’t function without you. I know I can’t. Because I need you.



The woman who wrote this song was Judee Sill who died in the late ’70s. She put out a few albums that are stellar, and her version of this song is on her first self-titled album. I’ve listened to both her and the Turtles’ version of this song hundreds of times over a weekend. I feel like Brian Wilson sitting in a dark room listening to the intro to “Be My Baby” over and over. I tried to figure out WHY. . . why did this song grip me so much? I listened to the song until I figured it out. I let the song love me. Because you can’t love me and be with me. Because I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you.


I think that sometimes a song sums up a feeling that we can’t sum ourselves. It encapsulates all the strange emotions we have and the shifting tides. My soul is on fire as we live in uncertain times. Everybody is going to feel it. Last day in an almost-free country. Life can be so nice.


So on my heels I’ll grow wings, gonna ride silver strings but I’ll see you in my holiest dreams. . .


January 15th, 2017

It happened again yesterday. Thought about going out. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. I forgot how strong the depression and anxiety could be. It appears that I have underestimated my enemy.


I’m not the social person I used to be. What if I don’t know anybody? What if I only know one person and they’re working the room, too busy to sit with me? I can be alone at home, I don’t need to be alone out there surrounded by other people.


I don’t go out unless I have to and social events are not “have to”. I don’t put myself out there anymore. Please don’t look at me and judge me. You don’t know my life. All my friends went on with their lives and left me with mine.


My heart is a bottomless pit. It’s a tough environment. I put on the air of anger and defiance. Man cannot live on that alone. Sometimes I really am angry and defiant. Sometimes I am resigned to the dumbness of life. You lived your entire life like a unlit candle in a drawer. Never knowing what it felt like to know what your life was for.

An Inefficient Fairy Tale

November 7th, 2015

Once upon a time in a dark kingdom of wickedness and tall dead trees, there lived a peasant boy with his kindly grandfather in a long metal cabin.

The peasant boy was taught by his grandfather that he was just as good as the mightiest prince and that no man, be they of noble stature or nay, was better or worse than he. The peasant boy took this to heart and remembered it his entire life.

Furthermore, since no one was better or worse than he, there was no reason to assume he could not one day be considered noble. Because while he may have been taught that all men were created equal, he did not in his heart believe that. Or maybe he did, and recognized early on in his young life that those of nobler stuff were given more praise, more rewards, more chances to succeed, more. . . everything. Certainly more than a lowly peasant boy living in a long metal shack would get. This made him feel sad at the way the world was and sad for himself because he was not a noble.


The boy would spend the rest of his life trying to become a prince, or a king, or something of higher stature than he grew up in. He went into the world and attempted to be seen as a noble. But no matter how hard he tried, he ended up being a jester.


He sang songs, he told tales, he made merry and he developed a sharp wit. He became a very good jester, a very fine jester indeed. But this did not make him happy. Being a jester left him at the mercy of those he entertained. If they enjoyed his songs and jokes, he may be invited back to perform again. If they didn’t, he would be banished. Sometimes they liked him but could not figure out which other jesters and troupes to have him perform with.


The jester performed for big crowds and small. Mostly small. Sometimes he would begin performing in a king’s court and find part of the way through the performance that the King, his Queen and most of the assemblage had nipped out for a cigarette. Verily, the jester would announce he had two songs left to perform and a few patrons would drag themselves back in out of sheer politeness.


All the nagging feelings of self-doubt that plagued the jester in his childhood grew up with him and continued to haunt him. Was he really a good jester? What if he was actually terrible? There are other jesters who are far more successful than he, having found major-label patronage by a big time noble or clergyman. He attempted to pass the hat on the street corners but would have to give all the money back after the deadline passed without meeting his funding goal.


The jester began to feel like he had banged his head against the wall over and over. Perhaps he should not have become a jester. Perhaps he should have gotten a real estate licence instead. And furthermore it occurred to him that the most successful jesters make far less than they earn, having to tithe a percentage to their agents, managers, vendors. Plus they had to recoup expenses. Furthermore, he had never seen a jester become a king.


He discussed this on the internet but what he got in response didn’t help. “Try being a female jester. A three-day jester festival may only feature a dozen female acts or female-fronted troupes out of hundreds of performers.” “You think that’s bad? How about the feminist movement excluding jesters of color?” “I’m a trans jester and I prefer to spell it ‘jystyr’.” This didn’t not make him happy or thankful that he wasn’t a transgender woman of color. It only made him sadder and seemed to confirm he had made a bad life choice far too soon.


As a child, he had wanted to be a noble. Then he wanted to be a jester. Then he wanted to be a success. But he wasn’t a success. So he decided to stop being a jester. And now he was nothing. Now he had no purpose and nothing to work for. And he was still sad.


He went home to his long metal cabin/shack. It was falling apart. His bed was broken. His favorite comfy chair was also broken. His grandfather was older and becoming infirm. It would not be long before his grandfather was gone. Then what would the ex-jester do? He became afraid to lose his grandfather until the old man became so sick that the boy wished he would pass if only so the old man could have peace.


When he was a boy, he had a dream and the support of the one person who loved him the most. Now he was older and he didn’t have his grandfather. And he didn’t have the dream anymore. He had a broken-down bed and a chair that was uncomfortable to sit in. He turned out to be less than a peasant. He was not able to earn his keep, as a jester or as anything else. He was disenchanted. He was disenfranchised. He was dis-abled. He was disabled. He was disabled.
He is disabled. You can not hear him in the courts of noblemen any longer. There are always merry bands of singers, those who practice jape, and hilarious jester. He is at home in his ill-fitting comfy chair playing Tetris and waiting for the next event in his life to happen to him. He does not feel empowered to go out and change the course of his life. He does not feel like he can change the course of his life, not without significant help.


Because he is disabled, you see.


This was an inefficient fairy tale. It didn’t have a snappy ending and it took to long to get there. If you want, go back and reread it and stop every few paragraphs to listen to a song from your favorite Disney movie. See if it helps.

A Dream About Eddie Kingston

February 22nd, 2014

The following is true in that I had a dream that featured pro wrestler Eddie Kingston and chose to write down the details of it in order to tweet it to him.

Eddie Kingston: a man who doesn't want to hear about your dreams

Eddie Kingston: a man who doesn’t want to hear about your dreams


A young Eddie Kingston quits high school and runs away because people are firing arrows at him.


He keeps running and soon he is in Southern California running down a gravel road. Sometimes he stops and hits the deck as a top-down convertible passes by aiming machine gun fire at him.


He continues to run like Forrest Gump in that jogging montage. A song is playing with vocals from a unknown vocalist. Eddie chimes in for a verse of the song, which turns out to be about him.


The untitled-so-we’ll-call-it “Ballad of Eddie Kingston” ends up being thirty minutes long and the second half of it is sung by Steve Perry of Journey. The “ballad” becomes a major hit and is praised for being, as this reviewer puts i,t “the ‘Alice’s Restaurant’ or ‘American Pie’ of contemporary Christian rock-pop.”


Eddie attempts to long-jump the first paved road he sees. It is a busy street with a median. He clears the median but lands on the hood of a moving car.


The song is adapted into a movie, as Eddie plays himself in a post-apocalyptic California trying to protect a family of three from top-down convertibles driven by atheist thugs who shoot the hashtag #justfacts into the open.  Damien Sandow has a cameo in the movie, dressed like Aladdin.


After the #justfacts drive-by, Eddie tells the family about his fall from faith. He talks about traveling across the country to half-heartedly tell schoolkids to worship Jesus and not do drugs. In his school lectures, he makes up a story about playing on the soccer team and trying pot for the first time while rehabbing for a leg injury.


I woke up after that.

I Fantasize That I Am Not Me

February 12th, 2014

What I am about to share with you is something I have never thought to share with anyone.


In my daydreams, I fantasize that I am not me. There is another me in my fantasies and that is the substitute for the real me. The distance between the real me and the not-real me is so wide.


I get it, Hollywood. I get why you cast good looking people in lead roles instead of normal or schlubby character actors. Maybe when we daydream, we don’t see ourselves as ourselves. We see ourselves as Bradley Cooper or Jennifer Lawrence or whoever. Nobody ever daydreamed of being Philip Seymour Hoffman (RIP).


Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the only one. Maybe I’m the only one who has fantasies that I’m not me. No physical resemblance at all. I should ask a professional if this is normal. I hate looking at pictures of me. They don’t reflect what I see in myself, or what I want to imagine I am.


All the world is a stage. Nearly all of us are extras, which means nobody spent any time on us in makeup or wardrobe. What a gyp.

I’m Not Going To Enjoy This

March 22nd, 2012

You should know by now if you don’t already that I can be incredibly jealous. This is especially true as I’m a musician and live performer. I am jealous right now because Sleeper/Agent will be performing on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon in less than an hour as I write this.
I should say right here that I have no ill will towards Sleeper/Agent. Tony Smith once filled in for me for a song at a TVH show. Both Tony and Alex booked TVH at a now-defunct coffeehouse they worked at. Once upon a time, I went on Myspace and claimed that Justin Wilson ate school glue but that was many years ago and for all I know he’s recovered from that damning accusation.


But I am jealous of them right now. There are about four going on five Bowling Green-related bands I am jealous on in one way or another way. All of them formed after TVH did but all of them with far greater public acclaim. This band’s on Jimmy Fallon, that band’s on Conan, this other band’s on Letterman for the second time. How could I not be jealous of these bands a little bit? Can I be truly happy for them?


I don’t even know if it’s a matter of deserving anything or not. It’s certainly not that they don’t deserve it. I’m just jealous. I’m jealous of the bands playing those shows that aren’t from Bowling Green, too. I was jealous of that band Karmin that played Saturday Night Live. But there’s a sick tinge of guilt in my jealousy when the band on TV is a hometown outfit. A sick, sour tinge.

Some Dreams Are More Awesome Than Others

March 14th, 2012

Last night, I had a dream that in 1986, professional wrestler The Honky Tonk Man main evented a bout in Wembley Arena in England.


The Honky Tonk Man: Cool, Cocky & Bad


In my dream, this Elvis-impersonating bad guy would be in the main event of a wrestling supercard, facing off against an unlikely celebrity opponent. . .


Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this...


Yes, folks. I dreamt that the Honky Tonk Man had a wrestling match against Freddie Mercury, lead singer of Queen.


I would do anything if someone made a jpg of an old school wrestling poster with that on the bill. That would be amazeballs.


Also, you’re probably wondering who won the match between Honky and Freddie. The answer? All of us.

You Can’t Be Helped

April 3rd, 2011

No one is giving me any questions for “You Can’t Be Helped”, so I’m going to take questions from Yahoo Answers and instead of answering there, I’ll answer here because this is my website and I’m far better than Yahoo stupid Answers.


Conor asks: (btw, this is posted as typed on YA)


I had a dream where I died over and over again in gruesome ways (ripped to pices, boiled, alive broken down by acids, creepy things skinning me alive, ect.) The strange part is that before this dream I hadn’t dream t in 3 years. I keep a log and there is nothing in it. I (when I had dreams) at least remembered 6 or 7. Stranger yet is that I felt it all. I didn’t even awake for 36 hours. Is this lucid dreaming? Past lives? Whats going on?


Okay, Conor. If you were a reader of this website which I gather you are not, you will notice that I recently wrote a detailed description of a gruesome and violent dream I had.


For your sake, I want you to know there is no actual meaning to your dreams other than whatever you want to ascribe to them. They’re a bit like Pink Floyd lyrics. They can mean whatever you want.


Every song Blondie ever recorded was about ending world hunger.

That doesn’t mean your dreams mean anything, though. Basically, when you dream your subconscious finally gets to play and get lots of sun and have some fun in a safe environment. Most of our thoughts seem to go away whenever we have new ones, but they don’t really go away. They go into our subconscious and may crop up on occasion. We repress all our memories and thoughts, not even on purpose.


What happens in dreams is that everything in the brainpan goes splish-splash and clashes together crazily. All kinds of disconnected things that have nothing to do with each other end up in the same story and your mind tries to make it fit as a story. It’s not a story, it’s not a signal or a premonition. I’m sorry to tell you that if that’s what you hoped for. You are not a clairvoyant. Otherwise every dreamer would be one.

Writing To Ease The Tension

April 2nd, 2011

I wrote a new song very early this morning. Working title: “6th Fl., Rm. 7”. I like it enough to consider including it on the next Ky. Prophet album.


The title came to me in a disturbing dream I had the night before. The finale of the dream was that I was sent to my pod in a large, futuristic prison-entertainment complex. My pod was #7 on the sixth floor. It was a small room, reminds me now of when my family would go to visit my grandmother’s mother at the Roosevelt House. Small room, big enough for one person to live in. I’ll try to sketch the map of the complex in Paint later on.


The song has one note, played on an organ preset staccato to resemble the sound of a heart monitor like you would find in a hospital. The dream and the song have no other connection beyond the title. In the dream I am an inmate but in the song I’m a mental patient. I believe people will find this song disturbing once they hear it.


The dream I had the other night was very disturbing. It started with two people discovering a mass grave in an abandoned car lot. All of the bodies were individually wrapped in plastic tarps very tightly. The two men, one of which was a county deputy, kept pulling body after body out of this rotted hole in a small hill. Perhaps the hill wouldn’t have been there if not for the bodies. When you bury a body, you displace the ground that was there first so it looks like a lump when it’s finally packed in. The more bodies, the bigger the hump, I guess. Possibly as many as twenty dead bodies in this rotted hillside.


From there, I ended up in an office building engaged in a series of shootouts. I get shot in both sequences. The first time I’m a terrorist in a corporate office and I get filled with bullets from a machine gun. I could feel as I dreamt where the bullets landed. By the end of the first bit, I was riddled with bullets.


The second dream, I was in a back room of the same building and this time I was trying to stop a group of terrorists from entering the main office. There were seven of them against me. I picked off four of them before they finally killed me. This was a less gruesome death than the first one.


I was a passive observer in the first one, and the gunfights were cinema verite. But the last one was the strangest of all, as there was a figure meant to represent me but he didn’t look like me at all. He looks more like Jason Patric in the film Rush, but that is the one I identify as “me”. It is revealed that I have been strung along by a conniving prison warden who has decided he is tired of toying with me so he releases me back to my pod. The one on the sixth floor, pod #7.


When I go in, I see the warden sitting in a comfy chair across from three other people I don’t recognize.  At one point I see the warden open his mouth and out flies a set of pinchers/suction/digestion devices, long and stringy. He throws these from his mouth onto the man sitting in the chair across from him and uses these pinchers to take the man into his mouth whole. I run into the bathroom and cower behind the door afraid to see for myself what is happening but I can see the shadow on the wall where the man fights for life while his lower half is being eaten by the warden who has decided to return to his natural alien form. Eventually, the shadow gives up and dies.

No, I have not been taking melatonin.