Thursday, December 29, 2005

The Continuing Saga of Sam and Vanessa, Part IV

By his count, Sam hadn't slept in four days, but then again, he wasn't really sure. Four days ago had been a lazy Sunday, and he had gotten up for about 20 minutes early in the morning to eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes and then had gone back to sleep for like five more hours, which was almost a quarter of a day. Whatever the case, he hadn't slept since Sunday, which was four days ago. Maybe that was a better way to put it.

By his count, Sam hadn't slept since Sunday, but then again, who the hell counts things like that? There has to be a number in there somewhere when you say something like "By his count." You couldn't say, "By his count, Sam's last car was green," could you? No. You could say, "By his count, Sam had driven the green car roughly forty thousand miles before it broke down," which would be a better sentence to boot on account of the extra exposition it allowed.

Sam was exhausted and confused. The plot seemed to be moving nowhere, and all because of semantics.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

The Continuing Saga of Sam and Vanessa, Part III

Sam smiled at Vanessa. They were finally home.

"We're finally home," he said, unaware that a narrative voice had already explained the situation. He couldn't have been talking to Vanessa; she had her headphones on. Sam had been stating the exposition of the story for some time now, in a vain effort to add some profundity to a journey that had turned out to be quite hackneyed. Vanessa was growing quite tired of him.

As Sam's weary legs brought him to the threshold of the apartment building, he stopped himself. What, really, was home?

"What, really, is home?" Sam asked Vanessa. His act had even begun to grow thin with the narrator.

"What do you mean?" asked Vanessa, lifting her headphones up for a brief moment.

"I mean, we have been gone for seven months now, and this just doesn't feel right."

"You're right," said Vanessa. "That's because you live across the street."

Home, sweet home.

Friday, December 16, 2005

The Continuing Saga of Sam and Vanessa, Part II

"Vanessa!" said Sam, in that way that only Sam could say it - that is, from Sam to Vanessa. "Vanessa!"

"Yes, dear?" The tears welled up in her eyes. Her eyes felt like gigantic wells, wells from which Sam had freed the trapped child of her childhood. "Yes?"

"Vanessa," Sam said again, though not as loudly, since he already had her attention. "Vanessa." Vanessa couldn't help but laugh at how Sam was prone to repeating things. Even at times like these, he had those little idiosyncracies. The kind of idiosyncracies that just made you react in some manner. "Vanessa." He did it again.

"Oh, Sam," said Vanessa, "You didn't have to say it. I'm the one that's Vanessa."

Sam curled the right side of his mouth up in a vain attempt to smile. Vanessa smiled along with him. Perhaps the stroke wasn't as bad as the doctor had said it was. Perhaps they had a fighting chance.

The Continuing Saga of Sam and Vanessa

I am writing a serial novel, to an extent. It's kind of a new concept. I'll be writing dramatic scenes that you, the reader, will be charged with putting in a cohesive and sensible order. Go for it.


Sam stared blankly at Vanessa. Her gaze seemed to pierce right into his very insides. Yet once it arrived inside of him, it just bounced around for a while and died. For Sam was empty inside.

"Maybe it's all the drugs," said Vanessa.

"Go fix me a milkshake," said Sam. His voice quivered as his eyes narrowed to return her glare. "A milkshake with drugs."

And just like that, the tables had turned.

We are done mixing the album, yes we are, yes we are

High holy hell. Let me tell you what we finished doing the last night at 2am: mixing the album.

That's not a very interesting story. But guess what's next? Mastering.


After that? Packaging.


Then? Selling, getting rich, and shooting videos with hordes of scantily clad women.


Actually our one, "shake ya ass" song, which was entitled "Shake Ya Ass (Girl, You Know How To Do It Appropriately, Now Let Me See Some of Them Expertly Choreographed Dance Moves, Especially the One Where You Hump the Floor Suggestively)" did not make it onto the album. We're going to have to make do with our avant-garde, unbelievably fast nerd-hop for now.

Which brings me to another thing. I listen to our music, and then I listen to other hip-hop music, and I find that the main distinction between us and everyone else is that we play our music at like 200 bpm faster than anyone on the planet. As it is, the album is around 30 minutes long; it could easily have been 40 minutes long and slower.

For those of you who give a flying swear word, here are the tracks that are going on the album, in no particular order:

Out of Control
Break the Monotone
Gut Feeling
Lives of Bliss
We're All Thugs
Man Down
You Might Wanna

Yes, I know, that leaves out Robin Hood Democracy and Monster, both of which never made it out of the basics session. Not to worry. These seven songs are so good that you will lose control of your bodily functions. In fact, I highly recommend that the first time you listen to these songs, you do so in the bathtub. Or on a tarp.

If you're missing any favorite tracks, please consider the high potential of the second album, tentatively entitled "Carve Me Up a Grammy, Bitch":

Robin Hood Democracy
Suicide Waltz
You Can't Go Home Again
I Am (maybe)
Reflexive Identity Theft (maybe)
Sitting on the Dock of the Bay
La Marseillaise

Some of these are lies.

We're basically waiting for our album artist, Rachel Maguire, to finish the art, and then we'll be ready to rock and/or roll. Check her stuff out here. She is fantastic.

One more thing: when the album is out, please blog about us. Link to our myspace account and our website (soon to be redesigned), tell your friends, make them buy what we made. It sounds delicious.


Friday, December 09, 2005


A poem about my friend, Charles Wood:

How much wood could a woodchuck, Chuck, if a woodchuck could, Chuck Wood?
As much wood as a wood, Chuck, could, if a woodchuck could, Chuck Wood.