- Bret Holmes Baltimore Md

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I Kan't Spell

Monday, August 29, 2005

In the Window of the Tallest Tower

I remember why I don't dream. I don't like the dreams I have.

I woke up and walked to the window. I lit a cigarette and held my shoulders as I looked out over the dying summer night. It was almost 3. The moon was as bright as the sun when combined with street lamps and the illuminating fog that came out of the man holes and gutters as the sewage cooled under the harbor breeze.

It was always her, in my dreams, that woke me and made my stomach explode. I wasn't in love with her anymore. I didn't care much about her or where she was. She ignored me and disregarded my plea for attention and even help. She lost all privileges with me. Unfortunately, I always see her shaking her head in my dreams. I always see her and I cry. I see her strong and confident and see myself as weak and nervous around her. I'm always afraid to look her in the eyes. She's always staring off over my head as if looking for someone else.

I can't even imagine what she must look like now. She would have to be 29, 30 in a couple months. I imagine her eyes are a little more sunken and her waist and breasts have sagged despite her constant exercise habits and strange health focus. She has a great way of being fake happy as long as her agenda stays on track. I can imagine she gets swung around like a woman on a detergent commercial in the middle of a field of daisies while running to her lover's arms. I imagine her life as stale and boring, as it would have been if I had stayed around.

I don't lie to myself about what might have been anymore. It wasn't fairytale. It wasn't some sort of love-at-first-sight meeting. It was a lonely stripper and a young boy who had never really known a beautiful woman. She had a great smile and I wanted to keep it there. I gave everything I had to her and spent every spare moment with her because I was lonely as well. But as I got older, I got strong and she didn't seem as pretty and her words didn't seem honest. We left each other painfully and unnaturally. It was a wound that didn't heal simply because I wouldn't let it. I liked the idea of being martyred and having a story to tell, or a love to preach, that no one could match.

I have found another love since then. I have been moved far greater than she could reach out and touch. She couldn't compare to what I have seen since the last time we knew each other. She would only frown and lay there while I made my way to where I didn't want to go. She would only patronize efforts and keep her eyes fixed where they wanted to go. She would only strive to be something of her own and use whoever was around to get there. She would only fail me in every way.

I know why she is there. She is there because I never got the chance to say "Good luck" or "Good bye". I never got a chance to hug her one last time and brush back the hair from her eyes as she made her way elsewhere. She walked away without saying goodbye. She must have felt it wasn't necessary. She must have still had her own agenda. People never change. She never really existed.

I don't like to dream and now I remember why. I remember that I don't like them. My heart becomes heavy and my stomach cramps. I used to have lovely dreams not so long ago.

"Were you happy then?"
"I was free but I was still very tortured. I just didn't have to face any of the problems because I was off away from everything."

I want to dream about new love and the feel of another's skin. I wish more than almost anything that the feelings I have for another can cover me like a blanket in winter or a hand over your eyes on a birthday just before the cake comes out. I want the tears to be inside me when I wake up. I want them to be saved for someone who deserves them.

"So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten"

Friday, August 26, 2005

Thursdays I Rap

First off - in case you missed I was rapping last night. Yep, I was claiming my Rosedale set and rapping. Yep - rapping.... anyway. I just wanted to say how much I love Ghostface.

Iron Man Starks says "Doin forever shit, like pissin out the window on turnpikes"

Thursday, August 25, 2005

And you wonder where I get it from...

    I believe the word you live in is pathos...the Indian poet Kahil Gilbran says "the waters of joy are only as deep as the well of sorrow" too logical for experience has been that people with high energy (You, Donna, Christine) get lions share of joy....we are also able to command alpha states (i.e. Brave New World) to steal life's gravy----

Kangaroo and Snake

Jesus the Mexican boy
born in a truck on the fourth of July
gave me a card with a lady naked on the back
Barefoot at night on the road
Fireworks blooming above in the sky
I never knew I was given the best one from the deck

He never wanted nothing I remember
Maybe a broken bottle if I had two
Hanging behind his holy even temper
Hiding the more unholy things I do

Jesus the Mexican boy
Gave me a ride on the back of his bike
Out to the fair though I welched on a $5 bet
Drunk on Calliope songs
We met a home-wrecking carnival girl
He's never asked for a favor or the money yet

Jesus the Mexican boy
Born in a truck on the 4th of July
I fell in love with his sister unrepentantly
Fearing he wouldn't approve
We made a lie that was feeble at best
Boarded a train bound for Vegas and married secretly

I never gave him nothing I remember
Maybe a broken bottle if I had two
Hanging behind his holy even temper
Hiding the more unholy things I do

Jesus the Mexican boy
Wearing a long desert trip on his tie
Lo and behold he was standing under the welcome sign
Naked the Judas in me
Fell by the tracks but he lifted me high
Kissing my head like a brother and never asking why

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Birthday Recap

Me and Dana down by the bar yard
Rnadom Happy Bdays
The sabotore baits me
The two amigas roll in armed with...what...balloons
I am overcome by their thoughtfulness
Throwing food
Putting food on faces
Rude stories
Turners to watch the strippers
Crazy drunk guy
We don't touch Jas - that's a rule
Controlled stomp out sessions
Turners has a new juke box that plays everything ever
I asked bumpkin to marry me
Neutral dancing partners
Mean look as Jas exits
How did I spend 230 on my birthday?

Monday, August 22, 2005

Birthday Weekend

I don't think I'll recap or anything because nothing absurdly exciting happened. It was great to see so many people this weekend and especially the ones that I don't get to see that often; namely Danny boy, Nick, Paul, and Zorn. I think we all enjoyed each other's company and continue to prove that bonds of friendship are rarely broken by time or distance.

Today is my birthday and I obviously feel exactly the same as yesterday. I don't expect any calls or pretty presents any more. I don't expect anyone to care and quite frankly I don't need nor want them to. I'm 26 years old today and I have no desire to live through simple pleasantries. I find birthdays and holidays to be rewarding for parents and children. I have no need for them since almost everyday I can celebrate my life. I don't need a circled day on a calendar to do that.

Anyway, thank again to everyone who came out and made it a special weekend for all involved. The laughs were great as always and the feelings of kindred joy are still resonating vibrantly.

Cheers all!

BTW - Paz - Yeah I'm ok - I just think my body had too much local anesthesia and wouldn't cool down. I was fine the next day. For those who don't know - I put my hand through a window and had to get stitches. This caused me to sweat so much on Saturday that it looked I was going to die.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Gray Stables

Words that slide off of mouths covered in grease make no sense to me. I have seen and rolled in your same mud and I have kicked at the same dirt that has found your tears for so long. I can only fake what I know and I only know what is fake. Real kisses come with eyes open. When the sun comes down to find your mouth covered in oil you will feel my hand under your blouse. I'll be looking for your heart. I won't find anything. I never knew where to look anyway.

There was a moment after my tongue let go of the taste of neverland that I wanted to die. I wanted to just evaporate. I didn't want go on breathing air that didn't taste like that. I let go of the feeling inside of me and watched it drop into the ground. I found myself alone doubting and wondering what life would be like if I had just tried. I walked around in a haze of pain not knowing if it was real or if I was just fantasizing about what life should be. Life should be that. Life should be what we dream it already is.

I walked home from a place where I was welcomed and side glanced. I don't like to be looked at as though I'm going to explode. I don't like the fact that I can't hide my emotions. I can't fake being happy or well or not embarrassed. "Yes yes yes I broke a window. Yes I was drunk. Yes yes yes I know. Yes I ate something and no I don't want any blow." I can't walk around in the same cloud that everyone walks in. I walk home and I walk away because I can't stand to see the way some people look at me. It's like I can feel their eyes feeling sorry for me and I can see their hearts not caring enough to even find out why. As long as I stay happy and insane everything is ok, but as soon as my life erupts into a moment of stupidity I find myself chained to the pole in the backyard. I'm out there just shivering hoping someone will throw me a warm bone.

I wanted to see anything to make me stay. I saw everything that made me not like life. I saw anger and hesitation and all I wanted was a friend. All I wanted was a finger on my neck from a warm lover. There are sayings that slip out of my mouth that I'll never get back. There are moments of downward eyes and drooped shoulders that speak more volumes of love and hate than any fist or tit. I take hold of all that you drop and show it to you when you wonder why.

Hey Jezebel, where do you think you are running to? Why do you love your name so much and what's wrong with your shoes that you walk like no one can see you? You were born to be my window to the world. You are a tight rope in the wind that hangs the laundry of those living the life you want. You can scream "wait" until the sun comes circle 10 times. You can pound your fist on the door wanting me to come down. All I want is for you to find a way. Who's seen Jezebel? She's not to blame. Her name made her gone before I had a chance to say that she is the only shape I pray to. She was waving on that wire. She was last seen chasing the scarf of a lover that she wanted. She was last seen chasing the sun. I hope when she catches it that she burns it.

Friday, August 19, 2005

From Fest

This is the email I just received - Scharf will not be going into the dunk tank - - nope - - that would be a bad moment for me - - - and way to photocentric for the rest of people

    Alrighty then........The 26th birthday is set.

    I will be picking up the dunk-tank with the owner of Sliders tomorrow morning. All are welcome to attend and enter the tank. Don't be caught at home with your pud in hand.....come witness some of the best heckling in town. Tell your roommate you urinated in his listerine or something classic. Scharf - don't even think about backing out.....this f'er cost me 250 so you will be the main attraction.

    I'll be entering as well. Taps will be flowing as will the grill from 3pm -6pm for a small monetary donation.

    Don't give me any crap about too short of notice. Hop in your Cutlas Sierra and head down.

    3 - 6 block party at Sliders across from Stadiums.

    Rain or Shine - See you there

    Pass this along to anyone I may have missed.

    Call with any questions 410-375-xxxx


Sounds like a Saturday alright...

Booze + Hugs = Trouble

No real post. Just wanted to say that you are all crazy and I love it. It was a really good evening until creepy Mike showed up - I mean what did that guy do to make everyone leave - lol. Anyway - we can all laugh about it today. yeah...

Anyway - apparently we are procuring a dunk tank for tomorrow's Jenkfest. Lovely.

Bye - have a nice weekend -

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

A Dedication to the Greatest Movie Ever:: Rad!

Excuse me ladies and gentlemen; may I have you attention please? Thank you. Thank you. I would like to expose you to the greatest movie ever made. It's a story of strength, perseverance, love, and of course bike dance offs. It's an epic cinematic experience only known as Rad!.

The story of Rad cannot be summed in only words. You have to really feel, see, and even smell the movie. You have to know what Uncle Becky's seat smells like. You have to feel Cru taking it to the limit while singing "Moving like lightening..."

A quintessential think piece for the mid 80's generation 'coke'. A real testament to the fine art that came out of postmodern meth addict 70's and delivered us into a time surrounded by halter tops, bangs the size of a squirrel sitting on your head, and bike's with little foot holders so you can dance on them.

The cast is second to none and the acting is unparalleled among any other 1986 gem movie. Including Top Gun, Karate Kid Part 2, and Back to School with Rodney Dangerfield. Rad truly compliments and shines just as bright amongst such illustrious star movies.

I digress though about my love for Rad. Allow me to give you a plot over view and story timeline.

Leading the cast is legendary actor Bill "Billy the Kid" Allen. A loner rebel that loves his bike more than his soul and goes by the name Cru Jones.

The movie starts out as all-great movies do, a song montage ala Caddy Shack and the aforementioned Top Gun. Cru Jones and his buddies Alfie and Jack delivering papers and performing amazing spinning and peddling and going fast tricks as they zoom down hills and over trash trucks. There is a moment when you feel as though Cru is really racing towards his eternal flame. He's chasing his dream as he delivers papers.

At the time of Cru's bike tour you see the entry of Mr. Timmer played by Ray Walston, of Mr. Hand fame in Fast Time at Ridgemont High.

"Aloha Mr. Hand. Aloha Spicoli". He knocks over Mr. Timmers beverage and proceeds to not apologize. He's such a rebellious lad. He arrives home after his paper route and a quick run from a motorcycle cop through the largest Lumber yard ever made.

He arrives home greeted by his mother played by the one time promising actress Talia Shire. Talia of course made her fame as being Adrian in the Rocky quintupuly. "You can't win Rocky!" Well apparently she was wrong all those times and also wrong with Cru. Her tough love of wanting Cru to study geometry and take the difficult and taxing SATs was reminiscent of meek diseased moth ball jacket wearing character of Adrian. If only uncle Pauly would have been there to "blast her teeth out" maybe Cru wouldn't have such an arduous rode ahead of him. If he could only somehow find a way to do BMX racing and take the SATs his life would be complete. But as we know, once you ride a bike for money or competition you are no longer eligible for the SATs.

You can't win Cru. He's gonna kill you!

Cru will defy her though and follow his dream. That afternoon a parade is thrown for the world's best BMX riders. They have come to the small town of Shirebrookwoodsureeve to descend on a track built not for mortals. A track that could only been ridden by the undead; HELLTRACK!

The track itself was built in hell. Actually it was built in space hell. It defies gravity and offers fresh coffee and other tasty treats from America's favorite chain food 24 hour a day service store; 7-11.

As the parade comes through town Cru is in awe. And with this awe comes a chance meeting with the love of his life, Aunt Becky. And by Aunt Beck I of course mean the famous and lovely well known world renowned Lifetime channel actor known as Lori Loughlin.

He also encounters his nemesis Bart Taylor, the greatest BMX rider ever. Bart is played by Bart Conner, who oddly enough would not work in the 80's unless his first name was allow to be the same. It has been said he would not respond to any name other than Bart and thus was forced to always have his character named Bart. This limited his roles to western bad guys, bad boy friends, and dubious arrogant BMX riders. He also found himself on an episode of Different Strokes and Highway to Heaven. He was an accomplished actor who obviously gave Cru the right support.

"What you talkin about Bart?"

This is where the movie uses it's God given power of transcending plot to throw us into a strange timespin. Apparently, all the BMX riders get invited to the local highschool dance and decide to do choreographed dances in the costumes that the Sleestack used to wear.

Despite the lapse of tangible reality that this scene lacks there is the saving grace of the movie. Aunt Beck and Cru decide to Bike Dance. I'll let the image speak for itself.

The rest of the movie is inconsequential compared to the bike dancing. Cru wins the race, gets the girl, kills his mom, has sex with Bart and finally rises from HELLTRACK in a Jesusesque hover move that takes him to the stars.

Post Rad lives faired poorly for most of the actors involved. Cru turned to porn wrestling:
and all other characters committed ritual suicide after realizing they could never again make such a stellar movie.

In closing I would like for all of you to sign the RAD to DVD petition. Thank you and I hope you enjoyed.

Tune of the Day + #75

Your 'tune of the day' today comes from the Drive By Truckers. It is a song from the Baltimore Artscape festival that I attended a couple weeks ago. The sound quality is pretty good. This song is a mix of Charlie Daniels and Neil Young which means - it's good. I think you'll like it.

Drive By Truckers - Daddy's Cup

A sidenote - last night I played poker at Turner's and Jonathan Ogden was there. That my friends is a large man. We invited him to play poker and he kindly refused. He was there with two hot white girls and some weird phone thing in his ear that all the cool people seem to have these days. Well anyway - he's a big bitch. I said hello and wished him luck on the season.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Bret's Jam of the Day

I'm going to start doing my best to put up one song per day that you guys may like. I usually find about one song a day and listen to it about 400 times in one day. I never really get tired of it until the sun goes down and then I more than likely won't listen to it anymore - but anyway - I like them - usually they are like weird covers, or new poppy songs -

With this first one - I know I'm behind the times a tad because I heard it for the first time back in Feb. driving from DC and almost swirved off the road in disgust that a great band (one guy) like the Postal Service would cover a Phil Collins tune -
But alas - - it grew on me - - and since I'm a little sad and thinking about girls and you know poor people stuff - it's a good tune to pull up with - - -

Postal Service - Against All Odds (from Wicker Park)

Little Miracle

Just wanted to say that I had a good time this weekend to all the people that hung out. I was a little loud, and a little over the top. But remember that self-deprication cures all acts of arrogance. At least it puts medicine on the wounds anyway. It's really wonderful going out at night and seeing 20 people that you know and that you can pull up with. It's getting to be dangerous but really good as well. Cheers to you all!

ps - thanks for not taking pictures of me
pss - thanks for dancing a little (just a little) on Saturday.
psss - El Provolona wasn't too bad and I know where I'm gettying sausage from now on.


Paragraphs Between Ryan and What I Wish was a Bottle of Bourban

You and I aren't anything like what we see. We just have a common understanding of what it's like to want something more but the inability to capitalize. This leaves bankrupt vacant faces of doubt and anguish.
There was a cliff near by where his feet had made their final little print in the sand. The dust was orange and the clay was white from left tire tracks or wolves lying around pawing at the ground to get warm at night. Weeds straddled the cliff 5 feet above the ridge but maybe another 8 feet down to the first cut in the steep wall. He walked to the edge with some purpose and looked down. He talked out loud like he normally did when left in a spot where he had time to think about what he loved the most; women.

"What? I mean come on what do you want from? I asked you once and then you fucked me. Yeah, yeah, yeah I know you are God and all and even if this is nonsense just all made to make myself feel better I should not be cursing at you - but I mean - fuck you. Fuck you in the ear. The leash that I've been lead by rattles too loud on the concrete for me to sneak up on any sheep. The eyes I've been blessed with have no peripheral ability. Well, anyway..."

He leaned back and cleared his throat into his mouth and spit as far and hard as he could over the chasm. He saw it no more than the horizon was high. The murder blood red skyline was laughing back with its beauty. That rainbow sherbet unthawed piece of sky, explained to be beautiful by everyone except those that wanted to see sky, laughed back at the gesture in it's own way.

In the corner of the room when he got back to the house there sat a rocking chair with a country plaid pillow on top of an afghan. He threw his denim tag along shirt over the railing of the bed situated in the middle of the room. He sat down and panned the mantle. He panned the birthday cards that weren't there and the family portraits and pictures of girls smiling that were turned the opposite way. He put his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. He cracked his neck to the right and straightened his back while opening his eyes, shutting them, and then opening them wider and wider again. Leaning down he could smell the night before on his clothes and he could hear the canned laughter in his head while he thought about his own actions.

He reached across the table for a pack of cigarettes and the bottle of George Dickel Coutnry Sour Mash. He twisted the top off the bottle the same way you flip a quarter. It was with ease and some sort of childlike whimsical purpose. Grabbing the glass from the end of the table he had to stretch and felt his back muscles pull at his spine and he groaned. He blew in the glass and poured the whisley half way to the brim. He stuck his nose into the glass an inhaled. Cocking his head to the side he lit his cigarette with one eye closed to block out the sulpher. Shaking the match dead to the gorun and he swirled his drink once and looked vacantly at the mantle. He did a toast to the only picture not turned around. The photo of his father seemed to wink back at him as he took down the glass in one burning gulp of what felt like trust and snake piss blended together.
Love is about as tender as a pumice stone when held in your hand. You throw the brittle porous stone at walls and hope it doesn't break. Pumice will withstand only so many attempts before you wither off enough little pieces that you run out to some cheap 3rd rate salon to find another stone. You bring that one home and say, "This is the one that I will cherish and keep and love. This one is mine." This one was yours until the first time you dropped it and a little piece chipped off the side. After that first piece you looked at it with imperfection and a desire to find a new one.
God, I wish I could make her smile with the idea that she was safe and loved. She won't ever do that though. She'll smile at fleeting ideas of attraction and she'll question herself until she hates me. There is just no space in a little room for any more souvenirs. I don't keep ticket stubs anymore and I don't take pictures. I don't want t-shirts from the beach or anything with a date on it. I have no desire to be involved in anything memorable because I just can't fit anything else in the little room. I can't possibly make room for anything more than a key to slide back and forth from that which is locked in and that which is locked out.
You can have all that you promised back. You can take it all back with you because I don't think I believe you any more. Your little trails of similar intimate responses to strangers are the same responses you give me. Your whimsical desire to be anything but what you are is the making of a life of pain. Your inability to satisfy even one of my desires or seriously consider any of my intentions excites me to be vulnerable and then violently jealous and spiteful. Allow yourself the ability to move freely and then see where it is you land.
He started writing all these poems and great lines and I was like "You fucking bastard. Now I have to start writing as well." I read it and looked around and just kept thinking that he was a son of a bitch for being that good. Because all my words are like "Please kill me now" and there's the other one that's like "I dated this chick and she fucked me up. Now please kill me." and there is the other one that goes like this "I'm really sad because of this chick and now I'm drunk. Please kill me." I mean I don't even have the glasses to be artistically accepted as a retard. I wear Brooks Brothers polos for fuck's sake. I hate that you are more talented than me more than just about anything. It's so hard to respect what you fail to achieve and know you could.

Friday, August 12, 2005

10 Months

He walked in with that fuckin hair. Always with the hair, this kid. Mr. Paul Zuk of Baltimore County fame walked into my local watering hole last night and grabbed my drink before I even noticed who it was. I looked up and saw this snickering awkward look that was met by a deep head nod, a chuckle and eventually one of the best hugs I have given or received in a very long time.

"Well tell us about him."
"Jeez - that's not that easy."

You want to hear about tumultuous beginnings and false starts then I could tell you the story of Paul up to when I saw him last. He tells me that now things are much different, smoother, better balanced and secure. He lets me know that his son is growing fast and that he loves his wife. He has a new job that he enjoys more and now finds solace and peace in the fact that he no longer drinks hard liquor or smokes.

But, if I were really going to define him to everyone, I wouldn't really know where to start. You want a definition of a sporadic enigmatic you need to look no further than the Napoleonic figure that used to never be more than 5 feet away from me on any given Sunday afternoon or Saturday night. He's not perfect by any means, but his imperfections make him humble and his humility in the shadows of the bravado that he wears on his shirt like a badge is rarely shown. But, if you are lucky enough to see the respect and love he has for his friends you will understand how the words loyalty and trust come together to make a perfect harmonic sound.

The stories I have with this kid are only matched by the stories that he has with his other friends. I love stories and I hold them in very high regard when it comes to appreciating and defining your life. I believe that a man with good stories is a good man indeed. He has so many stories with so many people because we all trust him and he goes down any path you do simply because he's not afraid and he loves you.

It did my heart wonders to see one of my best friends last night. It made me very happy to watch that asshole walk into my bar and tell me how great his life was. Hopefully it'll be more like 10 days rather than 10 months the next time I see him.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

More Bullshit from the Stupid Post a Secret Site

For those of you who don't know I detest a whole bunch of things. The things I most detest revolve around anything being fake, phony, or just plain pathetic. This goddamned post-a-secret blog that people seem to love never ceases to burn my acorns. Here are some lovely sad-bastard fuckin post cards from around the world.

"Me too" - what Me Too? Me Too I can't draw or Me too I have a yeast infection or Me too I have only 2 fingers on my left hand as well. I mean what the fuck is this? Secrets are bad enough without the secret being a secret you shallow slob. How did this thing make the cut. I'm going to paste a turd to a post card and send it in with the caption "I hope". Everyone will be so amazed.

Oh I bet you are a blast in the sack. You have to be the quintessential fucking craptastic soccer mom of the world. First off, why is this a secret and who the hell cares about impressing the other soccer mom tastics about wanting another kid. This one is so pathetic that I can only imagine a 400 pound woman in a brown moo moo sucking down Newport Kings while watching re-runs of Family Feud on the Gameshow Network.

I'm scared of being fucked in the ass by a huge rubber dick. I'm also scared of being thrown off a building and landing on table of running chain saws made out of rubber foam. Is this really a secret? I mean is someone sitting around saying "I really love cockroaches climbing into my mouth."

My Mom also failed to teach me how to spell or be legible in any way. I also like the picture on the card well chosen for your nutball ass. Hey psst - moron - all parents use their kids as pawns it's the only thing that keeps them sane. Stop being such a pussy and move on.

First off who uses a key to use the bathroom? And second what key doesn't have a backup to a public bathroom? If this is a secret that deserves it's own graphic then I have about 5000 secrets to submit including. I enjoy leaving the toilet seat up. I never eat the last cookie. I litter. I spit on the street. I look at girl's asses while I walk. Jackoff...

Oh cry me a river Dorothy. Imagine for a second if your parents had been poor. How would that have settled with you? Not only would they have ignored you because you were a latent homosexual failure that got cut from JV track and field but they also would have been unable to buy your way into Brown. Ya fuck ya...

I don't dig German food or English food or Irish food and uhh Scottish food sucks ass as well. You know what else sucks - when your country of birth is best known for spicy cheese and meat fried on dough. Learn to deal with you dipshit.

What the fuck does this means? I only feel like I'm happy when I'm swimming. Is this a bulimia thing? I'm so confused by this moronic fucking post that I'll just leave it alone and walk away.

Is this your attempt to get laid dude? I can picture the scene now:
Flower guy: "Hey I uhh put a postcard on about you."
Clerk: "Oh my god really. That's so awesome..."
Hours pass - clerk sees secret -
Clerk:"Oh my god that was soo sooo soo soo sweet."
Flower Guy - "Thanks it was nothing."

10 minutes later he's lowering the gene pool again by sliding his sly little sperm past the goalie of some pay less shoe store floozy.

Put "dipshit with an identity crisis" and stop bitching about it. Who the fuck cares?

Yeah I bet you keep doing this until you wink at some guy who follows you to your house and beats the living fucking shit out of you because he is an underground nazi or some weird fascist. Keep winking at straight guys to make yourself feel better and watch you be missing some teeth with a failed eye socket in no time. Moron...

Hey - baby - madam - Umm - shut up.

First off you should probably take up another hobby besides drawing. These look like rejected Simpson's characters. Secondly, if you and your big foot friend really look like this you should more than likely stop running around naked before someone shoots you with a tranquilizer dart and mounts you on their wall.

I can't really say anything. This is hilarious.

The Most Vivid Dream I Have Ever Had

Let me start by saying once again, that I don't have a ton of dreams. My dreams usually happen because I eat something late night or I am in a strange place for the first time. Since they so rarely happen they feel like symphonies to me when I wake up. I never wake up with more energy then I do when I have dreams.

Here it is - Feel free to say whatever you want.
I don't know how it started but I am in Pennsylvania in the middle of a flood. This isn't like small town, National Guard, let's help some people out flood. This was Revelations type shit. From what I remember there were waves cresting and broadening all around me. First off, how did I know I was in Pennsylvania, because my Pennsylvanian relatives were all around me. As I was wading and bobbing in these filthy, valley infested waters with trees, dirt, trash, and dead animals floating all around me I see my Grandfather coming in a small-motorized boat. He is strong again and grabs me by one arm and rips me into the boat.

The boat nestles down the cresting valley waves and putts along a weeded gully. It is he and I and we have our heads down in the boat. There are poachers all around killing people for their boats and supplies. I think to myself (yes in my dream) that this must have been going on for a long time for the looting to have started. Looting is a bi-product of a stunned situation gone stale and a reverberation of action known to go unchecked can be constituted freely. As we traverse the stream and sometimes river I see my Uncle and people I have played baseball with in the past. They are all in boats. They are being killed or killing.

The boat my Grandfather and I are in comes to dock in a front yard of what appears to be a good friend of his. There are hundreds of cars in the front yard and back yard. They are handing out guns with ammunition. People are clamoring over amenities and food. There is no fighting but there is a pensive line waiting to see what will be available to them. At the head of the line when I finally get there is a conglomeration of women. They looked like women I have known but I couldn't make them out or remember their names. They handed me bullets and tuna fish in a can. They kept referring to the raffle and that the revolution would start tonight.

I was then on the back of a pick up truck drinking a cold beer with my Uncle and Grandfather. We were watching this massive field of refugees waiting for something. They were aligning themselves into a bowl shaped audience around the back of a red van. An MC jumped to the stage and it was Mel Brooks. He was surrounded by 4 ninjas in full black clothing covering everything but their eyes. They had their swords drawn and Mel was making fun of them. A band played next to them. They were playing Franz Ferdinand covers and jumping off the back of trucks and into puddles. The MC quieted everyone with his hands.

"For the exodus we will need to start selecting who gets what vehicle. All of your names have been placed into a hat and based on how many questions you answer correctly, that will determine what you make your escape from hell in or on as may be the case. We have everything from a plane and helicopter to horses and dune buggies. You will each receive..."

Just then a man leapt to the stage trying to grasp at the key bowl held in Mel's hand. He was slit in half by one of the ninjas. The crowd came to a hush and I got up to use the bathroom in the weeds.

"...before I was so rudely interrupted. You will each receive three questions. You will have the choice between question ranked 1 to 5 each time for a maximum total of 15 points. The first 20 people with 15 points fly on the airplane with me to Xanadu. Are you ready TO SEE WHO LIVES!!!"

I yanwed as I was peeing. The first name was called and I remember not even watching. I remember hearing over the loud speaker that the question was about the 69' Mets and how many homeruns Ron Swoboda had. The person answered incorrectly and made a lunge at the keys only to be sliced in half. The next name was being called: "Will Bret Holmes please come to the stage."

My eyebrows raised and my throat clenched up. I was moving in slow motion. I couldn't talk or breathe. I was having trouble being alive. I then gained composure a little and forced a smile on my face. I felt it appropriate to look jovial or excited on my way to the back of the red van that Mel was perched on top of with his microphone. I jested at one of the ninjas pretending to grab at the keys. He drew his sword and sliced off the top part of my ear. I went to a knee and clenched my fists. A nameless faceless old baseball teammate grabbed me and tackled me. He whispered in my ear, "I have the answers. Bet 5 on each one and take the plane out of here." I calmed down.

I looked out at my Grandfather and wondered when he would get his chance. Just then the band started playing Run Run Run by the Velvet Underground and the crowd cheered. There was an emphatic cheering from the women as I could hear their high pitched squeels when my name was called again saying "Here comes the first question." The women swooned in the audience and many of them ran forward toward me with their hands out wanting to grab me but were restrained by the Ninja's blazing swords.

My throat closed up again. My eyes welled with tears and I was moving in slow motion as the question was asked.

"Name 8 Oriole's on the 1970 World Series Champion team"
I stumbled to my feet and as if having the worst soar throat in history I mumbled out, "Palmer, Brooks, Frank, Boog, Cueller, Flanny, Blair, The Blade..." I couldn't think of the catcher or another pitcher. I was frozen. One of the ninjas lifted a card that read "0". I winced and punched the side of thje van knocking one of the ninjas off. I stepped forward when he fell on the ground near me.

"Cut me again fucko and I'll stick that fuckin sword up your ass. Come at me and I'll kill you." Just then I remember that I had a gun. I had the gun my Grandfather and I had gotten when I got here. Mel Brooks looks shocked and scared when I took it out. He dove to the back of the van. I noticed that the crowd was running. I thought to myself that I was a God with a gun. I then felt the weather turn freezing cold and everything in back of me seemed to be black. The woman who owned the house grabbed me and dragged me to the ground.

I then looked up and saw the heavens open. It was blacker than the shadows caste by a tree in late afternoon. Out of the sky came what looked like spirits but they were some sort of strange weather anomaly. The stalks of hollowed white clouds flicked over my head freezing my damp hair. I stood up in the middle of the storm and took off my shirt and screamed at the blackness. Mel Brooks had long since thrown the keys to the vehicles into the air and people were crawling to clamor for a key. I walked over and saw a key chain that was brown leather and round. It was the same as the one I had in real life. I looked up and my Grandfather and Uncle were standing there just as oblivious to the elements as I was. Their hair was frozen and they were being pelted by the weather as well. They looked serious and determined to walk out of there with me. I showed them the key and walked towards a large red truck with duel back tired and a gigantic grill. You needed a step to get in to the front. My Uncle grabbed the keys and shoved me in the back.

"Hold on you worthless little bastard."

I cowered down and waited and as we drove my Uncle and Grandfather talked about Wyoming and the West and how they heard that the great flood had not breeched the Rockies but had somehow come partly over this side of the Appalachians.

"Generations of farmers are ruined."
"You'll never be able to raise a family in the east again."

I played with my fingers making shadow puppets on the back paneling of the truck. The sun being tossed at different angles making it difficult to both hide my nilly playing from these two men and still be able to master the art of making a decent bunny rabbit.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Why Do the Weak Always Want to Lead the Revolution?

A couple months ago I went to the HFSestival here in Baltimore. For those of you who don't know what that is, it is just a huge concert with crappy bands in a big arena charging 6$ for a beer. Besides that, what these venues attract is the bottom of the revolution builders. The one's with the inability to touch anyone by any sort of influential medium and instead decided to press the flesh politician style.

What do they sell?

Well in this particular case and for this particular post they were asking for donations and giving away bumper stickers that said something to the effect of, "Stop bitching and start the revolution." Well now isn't that clever. Here they are, outside of the most commercialized event to hit the city in years handing out stickers that claim for the sugar watered babies to declare their allegiance towards a higher power. They want the people to think. They want the people to fight for something. What that something is, anyone could guess. It could be "save the squirrel day" or "Trees are our friends" or even "Down with GWB". Who cares. The point of this interaction was to persuade. Yes? So why then did I walk away? Why did one looking for the answer walk? Why did I walk away from these people in disgust and more importantly why did I decided to give them money for a CD that I am currently listening?

First off, this CD, oh boy, let me tell ya, nothing says revolution like whale Indian chanting with Tom Toms and some sort of Riche Havens Woodstock sing a long. The CD basically just talks about the undermining of life by higher powers. It speaks of apathy the same way Radiohead sings of indulgent laziness. It's not only depressing but frightening, melancholy, and boring.

Why is it the weak that want to revolutionize? This music is weak. Their ploy to get me to join or contribute was weak. There were no teeth in their actions. They acted like hobos begging for a little change to live in their imaginary dream "change the world" world. Basically, that is what I did by purchasing this cd. I gave them charity so that they could continue their pursuit of failure. They will fail and I will have detrimentally contributed not only to their extended failure but also to their extended daydream that may harm them when it is time to break from their pathetic dream.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to change the world but why is it always the pained and sickly? Why is it the artist that has little talent? Is it the sacrifice of the material security and losing that security, if you decide to dedicate yourself to something upstream, that scares the strong away from the revolution? The weak will inherent nothing, unless the strong decide to keep them as pets. And you may say that you are a revolutionary and that you want change. I seriously doubt any of you really do and if you did I would be willing to bet that you were weak as well.

It's always the diseased and beaten that want to change the world. It's never the mediocre well-to-do. It's always some college student that got treated wrong or treated like a God for some idea. They are the one's deflating the strong from wanting to join.

"You say 'strong' as if money or talent or family = strength. Well I don't agree." Please off a counter argument based on holistic elements and I'll gladly prove you to be a whore to your own imagination.

This is the CD I am listening to that came from these sad woodland creatures. I have no idea what their cause was but their message of "Stop Bitching and Start the Revolution" seemed to resonate somehow. Say you may be saying, "Why are you picking on these people if it resonated?" Well why the fuck not. What way do I have to keep in contact with them after my CD purchase and 5 minute lecture? Do I have a website? No. Do I have a mailer? No. And even those are just awful meaningless ways of getting people motivated. This makes me realize more and more that my 20$ went to allowing the weak become possibly weaker. They learned nothing from our encounter. I gave them no feedback and they offered me no outlet other than a CD with fucking chanting on it.

Does anyone have an example of a strong revolution being waged? Does anyone know of anything that a budding revolutionary might want to take pride in? Is their an organization out there with the balls and the muscle to fight head on instead of handing out bumper stickers and cds in a parking lot full of drunken idiots? Is the idea of a revolution supposed to be the weak against the strong? And most importantly do we as Americans or as exploited and raped humans really consider ourselves weak? Do we have no power besides running around and cowering in the street looking for the scraps falling off the table?

Trying to Write

"You know you are really good at throwing pottery at cars."

This weekend - post the Friday night fling of exotic all around worldly pleasures and good times. The crew of derelicts from Turner's (and I) actually made it out on the town together. How that happened, one can only speculate, but nothing says fun like Ruth Christ at midnight followed by Ryleigh's at 4 am. Huh? What? I remember texting people to tell them I went to Atlantic City so no one would assume that I wouldn't be talking like a fish for the next day. There was no way I was taking callers after that evening.

Anyway - given my text message lie - I procured two whole days of alone time. There was no one in my house. I wanted to try to write and I did. I wrote - well - at least I drew outlines and tried to write. It didn't work.

What do you mean it didn't work?

Well umm - nothing really came out of me that was worth ever pursuing. It was just empty. I did however manage to emmulate a great deal of cartoons and sitcoms in my writing. I never really managed to pound out anything that could be considered a basis. I looked back over some poems I had written and short stories that I started and then proceed to burn them on the roof deck and watch the firey pages fall to the street like diving WWII shot down aircraft; quite liberating if nothing else.

Maybe it was my surroundings that weren't condusive to writing. Maybe I only really write well when I'm drunk or horny. Who the hell even knows if I write well at all. I don't and the people around me are too nice to say anything anyway. So, whatever, anyway - there once was a man from Nantucket.

Brief interludes of insanity are what make the world a tolerable place for me. If it wasn't for my spatially adept brain that can take any situation and make levity out of it, I'm pretty sure I would either be dead by now, or filthy rich. Oh well - there's always love.

Anyway - seclusion was good. Not having any one around was ok for a little while. Every one of them come back this evening and it looks like it'll be more of me trying to cater to something I still don't understand.

Friday, August 05, 2005


For you people who wouldn't shut the fuck up. There is a new one up.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Tenacious D

My love for the "D" has recently been resurrected due to the boots that I found online. They are fucking awesome. This is my fave D tune!

"City Hall"

All you people up there in City Hall,
You're fuckin' it up for the people that's in the streets.
This is a song for the people in the streets,
Not the people City Hall.
All you motherfuckers in the streets it's time to rise up,
Come along children and fuckin' rise!

Lots of times when me and KG are watchin'
All the fuckin' shit that goes down at City Hall,
We get the feeling we should fuck shit up,
Yeah we should fuckin' start a riot.
A Riot!

We have 'em screaming in the streets,
we have 'em tippin' over shit and breakin' fuckin' windows of small businesses,
and settin' fuckin' fires!
and settin' fuckin' fires!
and settin' fuckin' fires!

And then after the smoke is cleared,
and the rubble has been swept away,
me and KG will peek out our heads.
We've been watching the riots on a monitor twenty floors below sea level,
from a bunker.

We did it Rage-Kage, we beat the bastards of City Hall!
[laughs] But now what will we do?
We must rebuild. But who will lead us in the rebuilding process?
Man, it's got to be someone with the know-how
and the elbow grease to lead us to a new land.
No, not me and KG, we don't have the cognitive capacity to lead...
Alright, we'll do it!

We'll lead as Two Kings,
We'll lead as Two Kings.
Ahhhaaa (Two Kings, we'll lead as Two Kings)
Ah-ha ah-how,
We'll lead as Two Kings.

The first decree is to legalize marijuana.
The tyranny and the bullshit's gone on too long.
You old fuckin' shrivs who blocked it's legalization,
you're banished from the land!

We'll lead as Two Kings,
We'll lead as Two Kings.
Ahhhaaa (Two Kings, we'll lead as Two Kings)
Ah-ha ah-how,
Lead as Two Kings.

The second decree: no more pollution, no more car exhaust,
or ocean dumpage. From now on, we will travel in tubes!

We'll lead as Two Kings, oh, yeah,
We'll fuckin' lead as Two Kings.

Get the scientists working on the tube technology, immediately.
(Tube technology.) Chop, chop, let's go.

Third decree: no more... rich people: and poor people.
From now on, we will all be the same... ummm, I dunno,
I gotta think about that...

We'll lead as Two Kings
Ah yeah, ah yeahhhahahaha.
Ha-ha-ho-hee, ha-ha-ho-hee-ha-ha-ho-ho-ho-ho.

[JB:] Oh my God.
[KG:] Ahh... What?
[JB:] Dude, the red phone is flashing.
[KG:] Oh, yeah.
[JB:] Let me scoop that up. Hello? Two Kings.
[KG:] Who is it?
[JB:] What?! No! No fucking way!
[KG:] What?
[JB:] Rage, there's a potato famine in Idaho, you gotta go down there!
[KG:] Oh my God... what?
[JB:] Dude, I gotta stay here!
[KG:] Why do I have to go?
[JB:] Please! Please!
[KG:] Oh, God, okay.
[JB:] Awesome... is he gone? Alright, emergency meeting of Parliament.
All right Parliament, I know this is fucked up,
but Rage, he can't be King anymore.
Dudes, he's encroaching on my decrees!
Seriously, let's make him "Duke," a kick ass "Duke."
Or "leader formerly known as King," but-- uh-oh he's comin' back...

We'll lead as Two Kings, oh yes
we'll really lead as Two Kings.

[KG:] Uh, dude?
[JB:] Rage.
[KG:] I went all over Idaho...
[JB:] Yeah?
[KG:] Uh, plenty of potatoes everywhere.
[JB:] What? There was no famine?
[KG:] Yeah, there was no famine, no.
[JB:] Dude.
[KG:] I don't know what's uh...
[JB:] A toast...
[KG:] A toast...
[JB:] Long live the "D."
[KG:] Long live the "D."
[clinking of glasses]
[JB:] Long live me. I'm sorry, I poisoned your wine.
[KG:] What?
[JB:] For the good of the land.
[KG:] You p-- I poisoned yours... huh heh, as well.
[JB/KG:] Noooooooooo!!!!!

City, city, city, city, city, city, shitty.
Shitty, city, shitty, shitty, city, city, shitty.
Hall, hall, hall, hall, hall, hall, hall, hall.

People inside me are askin' me to smoke up City Hall,
'Cause no one here is talkin'.
People inside me are askin' me to blow up City Hall,
'Cause no one here is rockin'.

People inside me are askin' me to blow up City Hall,
'Cause everyone is Rock-'em Sock-'em Robots.
Everyone is Rock-'em Sock-'em Robots.
Everyone is Rock-'em Sock-'em GO! OH!

Doug Needs to Type More

I always imagine Doug getting head when I talk to him online and I always save my best online dialogue for him because just once - - just once I would like him to respond back in a timely manner. LOL - - -

bretbliam: what are you doin out of bed this early
bretbliam: or...have you yet to roll into it?
backwardsromance: yet to roll in, been up since noon yesterday
bretbliam: and for what reason do we attribute this
bretbliam: it better be fuckin or writin?
bretbliam: anything else and I'm sending Neal Pollock over to your house with Iggy Pop and an ice pick to make violent stabs at your manhood
backwardsromance: finished a vonnegut book and i'm about halfway through a bret easton ellis
bretbliam: i have something for you to read
bretbliam: this neal pollock book is fun
backwardsromance: who's he?
bretbliam: i dont know some new rock critic that burst on the scene not to long ago
bretbliam: hes just getting a lot of pub
bretbliam: riding the same wave as sedaris
bretbliam: you know the one that goes WAY up and then sort of just turns into mist
bretbliam: like doesnt even crash or whatever it just sort of yawns away
backwardsromance: yeah, kinda

--->>>> 15 minutes go by - nothing

Bullet Points of Dislike

- People using minimalist photography to show the beauty of things. It's a fucking toothpick! Just because you ZOOM in on it to show it's granular natural geometry doesn't make it art. You fuckin boring bastard. Take a picture of someone throwing up toothpicks. Now, that's fuckin art.

- People who use quotes from mainstream bullshit artist like John Mayer or Nickelback in their away messages to convey how sad they are about the world. What's next, are you going to call up Susan Sarandon and Jeff Bridges to tour across America saving those in need with people who have actually never seen Susan Sarandon or Jeff Bridges?
If I see one more of these:
"To see you when I wake up
Is a gift I didn't think could be real.
To know that you feel the same as I do
Is a three-fold, Utopian dream.
You do something to me that I can't explain.
So would I be out of line if I said,
"I miss you"?"
I mean what the fuck. You can't write any better than that? If you can't then you deserved to have your emotion amputated from you at an early age so as not to pass on your ill-artistic abilities and lack of passion to the rest of the world. Go watch Vh1's I love the 80's, already.

- People in general and this malaise of desiring the average. "I was looking at houses in Catonsville." People say this to me with a straight fucking face. What the fuck happened to the world? What the fuck happened to people? Anyway...

- Homeless people. If you are homeless and I give you a dollar. It is in your best interest to remember me. If you don't I will more than likely not give you a dollar again if you give me the same sad bastard schtick.

- The lack of any 3rd rate foreign or Indie movies in video stores. This is sorta my fault I guess but goddamnit - I mean Million Dollar Baby was fucking horrible. HORRIBLE! The next Karate kid learns to box - My Blood My Darling - chair broken neck - FUCKIN KILL HER ALREADY you mean old prick! Anyway - I want more selection. Maybe something fun like a guy who likes to fuck squirrels with bottles of Rubbetussin and rubber gloves. Now THAT'S an expose'

- And speaking of movies. Any movie that uses voice overs and narration to convey holes in the plot or emotions make me just want o to fuckin puke. If you are that bad of a story teller that you need to explain to me that the character was sad or any other emotion or color than you need to go back - look at the script - and reqrite that motherfucker.

- Anybody I have known for more than 5 years. What happened to you people? I mean seriously. What the fuck happened to you people? Houses, wives, cars, bullshit computer jobs and sales positions as reasons to feel happy. I mean - I'm in this category with you but at least I still have a breath I want to take before I plunge myself into clipping coupons and wrapping up turkey sandwiches for lunch the next day at 9 pm at night and then running to the couch to see the latest episode of Blow Out or Lost while avoiding my girlfriend or wife whom I have grown to hate. Anyway...if that's you... I can't talk to you anymore. I love ya. But, I can't talk to you anymore. I won't do it. I won't fake it anymore. I will not pretend to be happy for you unless I know for a fact you have a golden soul. But no no no no no - your aspirations of mediocrity make me want to puke and my own failures make it impossible to look at you and smile. So...yeah...bye.

Look I'm not salty. I'm not. I just get bored and tired of things quickly. Unfortunately, what I am seeing at this age is really disturbing. I see people explaining that they are having a good weekend in the middle of a good weekend and are gathering chips to cash in on a really boring bad life full of cook outs and fishing trips. I'm seeing a whole lot of boring around me - - - I just overflowed a little today. Have a good day...


*** Oh and one more thing. Working with people with accents. I can't understand your fucking ass. I know I am a loser when 80% of the people I work have an accent that makes me go "what the fuck are you talking about?" 50 times a day. And this dig is met by smiles and the same fucking sentence again in a some gutteral Bagledishian accent that allows them to roll every letter into a g or an r. ahhh...

Monday, August 01, 2005

Women's Liberation in 1953

Where's your mother and where is your father? Two little children are locked in the cupboard. Out in the real world walking on the high wire. What would you give to just fly away and be safe in the moon? Oh to be in the moon with a fishing pole dipping into the sea of space. Your smile is like a window to the world I want. It's a good day to die. At least it will be after I am with you.

"Did you convince yourself that it was ok? Did you lay it all out on the table like China to your heart's feast? Huh? Well, answer me. I said answer me stupid girl. "
"Uhh I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know? Did the metaphor fly by you? Am I too mean? Are you scared? You should be."
She ran out the door and slapped the wooden blanks of the screen door like she was hittin the fire alarm in a burning house. The door snapped back like all good country back porch screen doors should. It stammered twice and shook to a stop. I pressed my face against the mesh so that my forehead could be seen from the outside. I watched her run through the cotton field that was being saturated with late September sunflowers that had blown down from seeds on the farm above ours.

"Run little girl! Run til you can't run no more and then run some more. Run til you fall down and can't remember where you from."

I could hear her breathe as if she were running away from a cotton gin eating her dress. I could feel her heart beat in my palm. She wouldn't be back in time for supper. She'll sit up on that hill til it's dark and she thinks I be asleep. I'll make her some chicken with pig jelly so she won't have to wake me up with her banging in the kitchen. I'll leave it on the table with a sunflower and my denims that need sewin for tomorrow's work.

The poor always have that look to them. They have that high greasy forehead that sticks out a little and is littered by the occasional acne spot. They have that slouched posture that reeks of Nintendo and Cheetos. The poor little greasy faced girls have their hair in pony tails and their jeans too tight as their go-all-the-way up legs are all that they might be proud of. But to the smellers of the poor we just see it as another badge. There is always this sense of heavy molesting clouds that surround their bodies. Like walking dead sacks of hot oil. The passion, the fights, the fucking and the tears are all there. But it's more like hot oil flung into a vat of friendly water. It boils it up and lets it down. It curdles to hard and then sits and smells. It smells of poverty and disease. It let's you down in your soul and you sniff up your nose and turn your head. You remember what you once read in a Hesse book; "You only hate what you don't like about yourself." You shrug and smell your shoulders and check your hair. You jingle the keys in your pocket and make sure that you look just like everyone else that has two 20's to rub together.

We touched hands like two birds touch wings. Quickly and sensitively our fingers dangled on each other's extensions. There was a sense of sweat and slippery touching. The same way you feel when you have someone naked under your weight and there is still kissing and examination of someone's hair and eyes. The heat of someone else's skin pushed against yours as you breathe into each other's rhythm is better than most any feeling. There are soft parts and hard parts that mesh together to create a perfect balance of body and bone. Two birds touching wings are courting. They make love as they fall to the ground. They make love even before they touched wings. They made love a thousand times by just looking at each other. They made love in their own minds while their eyes darted with intentions so passion driven that they couldn't keep their fingers touching. There was simply too much electricity. There was simply no room for sweat and love in the time it took to dive to the earth.

Favorites List
Pandora Song List
Amazon Wish List
Revolutionary Wealth - Tofflers
Brian Jones

Things Making Me Smile
The City
Listening - [out of 5]
Benjy Ferree - 4.8
The Thermals 3.1
David Gray 3.8

Like the guy with the beard? YES - like the guy with the beers. What? Yep

Bands That I Check Schedules For
Badly Drawn Boy
Belle and Sebastian
Benjy Ferree
The Black Keys
Drive By Truckers
The Eels
Kimya Dawson
Mark Hopkins Band
Iron and Wine
Mates of State
Ted Leo
Two if By Sea

Places I Rock in the Flesh
9:30 Club
Black Cat
Electric Factory
The Knitting Factory
The Otto Bar
Recher Theatre

Places I Eat/Drink in the Flesh
Bishop's Collar
Cross Street Market
Hull Street
Joun Gak
Mick O'Shea's
No Way Jose
The Irish Pub
The Waterfront Hotel

My Greatest Hits (that's so lame)

The time I almost killed a child
July 4th in Korea
Excerpts from Demian
Why I screen phone calls
Bret's Death Metal Report
A conversation at a cocktail party
A conversation at breakfast
So you think you are a Baltimorian
A conversation about a girl singer
Observations from a bar
Observations of strippers
Tech Language
Why I love Oasis
I would go to war
"You Son of a Bitch" An Open Letter to Tom Friend
Dance to Your Ocean
Dream Ranch
When men become pussies
Jason Whitlock is a racist propaganda promoter
Pitchfork takes music snobbery to new level
The Cosmic Clash of the Red Sox and Cubs
The Hatred that is Runts Candy
Starting corporate line-up
Google Bio
Do you know me? List 1 / List 2 / List 3
The Night I Burned Philly Down
So You Want to be a Booze Hound
She Said it was Free
Funniest Corporate Story Ever
Striped Shirts and the Fucks that Wear Them
Death Peddle
Pieces of Morning
Oasis Album Revew
The Art of Tipping
Starting Fires With Grass Stains
Bret's Federal Hill Food Review
Sexcapades and your Picture on the Internet
Stupid Secrets
Stupid Secrets the Return

Contact Me

Stuff I Swing By From Time to Time

Indie Video Archive
Large Hearted Boy
Important Records
Oasis News
Pitch Fork Media
Reptilian Records
Scenestars MP3 Blogs
Sound Garden Baltimore

Shotgun Apparel
Warrior Clothing

Angry Little Girls
Atom Films
Eye Envision
Homestar Runner
Kill Frog
Junior Varsity Meat Market

Baltimore City Paper
The Baltimore Sun
Calvert Hall
Degroen's Brewers
ESL Cafe
Fantasy Sports
Korean Herald
Villa Julie College Baseball
W3 Schools

06/01/2003 - 07/01/2003
07/01/2003 - 08/01/2003
08/01/2003 - 09/01/2003
09/01/2003 - 10/01/2003
10/01/2003 - 11/01/2003
11/01/2003 - 12/01/2003
12/01/2003 - 01/01/2004
01/01/2004 - 02/01/2004
04/01/2004 - 05/01/2004
05/01/2004 - 06/01/2004
06/01/2004 - 07/01/2004
07/01/2004 - 08/01/2004
08/01/2004 - 09/01/2004
09/01/2004 - 10/01/2004
10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004
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