Writer's Block: Bad Poetry: Liberal Tears

 

Four more years, four more years

 

Wash it down with liberal tears

 

I don't see what I don't hear

 

All I crave is liberal tears

 

Got my own and you've got yours

 

Trump's got his, and fuck the poors

 

What we need is a religious core

 

Dark and dank and kept by whores

 

When the moon is high above

 

And hearts are full with relentless love

 

I will do the bloody deed

 

Pledge my soul to goats and thieves

 

Any price is good to pay

 

To ensure a lack of day

 

If Cthulhu sleeps in seas below

 

Dead as death and twice as low

 

Donald high as starry sky

 

I will not begin to cry and cry

 

For though I do not lack in fears

 

All I want is liberal tears 

 

I give myself in thought and word

 

To a balding, selfish turd

 

Liberal tears, liberal tears

 

All I want are liberal tears

 

The Time is Closing to Prevent a Trump Takeover of our Democracy

 

What a wonderful year to be alive. We live in a world where information can be accessed in seconds. No other society has ever had the tools Americans have today to keep themselves informed and knowledgeable about the world around us. And yet, we're currently suffering through a pandemic that has claimed the lives of over 200,000 Americans and most of the people in my part of Indiana act as though nothing has happened. I had a good friend tell me the other day that he considered the pandemic to be "fake and gay," whatever the fuck that means. This is someone with a college degree from a good private school. Whatever. Where we get our news from really matters these days. Many people have abandoned traditional sources like journalistic outlets for propaganda spinners like Breitbart or straight up bullshit served on Facebook. Whether or not you think we're heading toward an abyss depends on whether you've drank the conservative kool-aid or not.

President Trump has refused to say that he will concede the election. His campaign is apparently"discussing contingency plans to bypass election results and appoint loyal electors in battleground states where Republicans hold the legislative majority," according to this terrifying Atlantic article. No wonder Republicans have spent so much time attempting to delegitimize mail in voting. Now that there's a vacancy on the Supreme Court, I feel very confident in our democracy, don't you? If we have another Bush vs. Gore scenario, a 6-3 conservative majority probably hands Trump the election, no matter how legitimate his argument is.

Many moons ago, Sinclair Lewis argued in It Can't Happen Here that an authoritarian takeover of the United States could, in fact, happen. The modern Republican Party has laid the groundwork, studious searching for loopholes in the Constitution while stacking the Federal Judiciary and brainwashing their base. No matter what happens, I guarantee that November 4 will be a clusterfuck. Whether or not the GOP decides to plunge our country into a doomsday scenario depends on to what degree their base and the political establishment go along with it. I don't have a lot of faith in the reasoning ability of Trumpers. I don't have a lot of faith in the principles of the GOP. I don't see people like my aforementioned friend raising much of a fuzz over a Trump coup. What matters to them is the reinforcement of social conservatism and the preservation of white male Christian superiority. So it's up to the rest of us to not sit on our hands. The time for donating and volunteering is nigh. We have to do what we can. Even writing little articles on a shitty blog like this one is better than doing nothing, or at least that's what I'm telling myself. If the time to protest comes, then protest. I don't want to tell my children that I did nothing.

New Video: Cossacks

 

 

A low-fi beater that's existed for a decade on my hard drive. Ignore the clipping and the falsetto shrieks. It's the beat that matters, that and the rampaging Prussians. The great thing about being a young artist is that you're not afraid to try anything. 

 

Writer's Block: Situational Comedy

 

Stumbled upon this short story I wrote years ago. It's a horror/sitcom parody that's not as clever as it thinks it is, but I enjoyed rereading it, so you might as well. Bonus points if you can spot all the sitcoms referenced!

The Apartment

 

The Zig opens the door and I hear those damn voices again.

 

He’s a funny guy, sure, the Zig. Long-limbed, lanky, dressed in vintage hipster clothing that he dug out of a dumpster somewhere, the crazy bastard. Hair comes up off his skull like he’s been electrocuted. Always smells like alcohol and stale cigars. Has a little scar on his chin, the remnant of a mugging that he won’t talk about unless pretty girls are around. He’s a character, the Zig. And I’m damn tired of it.

 

He gives me a curt nod and starts rifling through my cabinets, pulling out boxes of cereal, finally deciding on Coco-Puffs. He opens the box and stuffs his hand in, his filthy, grease-covered paw. The great jaws munch on processed corn balls, moving from side to side, masticating like a bovine beast. I could kill him right now, the son of a bitch. There is no comprehending how much he owes me in food.

 

"Howdy, neighbor," he says, in between mouthfuls. "You hearing voices again?"

 

Of course he knows. He hears them as well.

 

"What the hell do you do for a living?" I ask. "Are you broke? Do you not have any money for food?"

 

He gives me an idiot’s grin, brown mush visible in between his teeth. "You’re a jokester, you know that? I can’t tell when you’re serious."

 

"What the hell do you want, Zig?" I ask, exasperated. I am sitting on the couch in my boxer shorts, the television spewing voices and strange colors. I suddenly realize that I have no idea what I am watching.

 

"You’re one hell of a straight man, I’ll give you that," says the Zig. "Listen, do you got a baseball bat I can borrow? Maybe a hockey stick? A golf club will do."

 

"A baseball bat? For what?’

 

The Zig shrugs, and then opens a cabinet, retrieves a bowl, and fills it with cereal. "I got a softball game."

 

"They’ll let you use a hockey stick?" I ask.

 

"Yeah, it doesn’t matter what you use," replies the Zig. He walks across my carpet in his dirty boots and peers out the window. "Hey, that looks like Rudolph’s car."

 

"Oh Christ," I sigh. These people just show up, unannounced. They are drawn to me through some secret form of gravity, hovering around my center like space debris stolen from discarded galaxies. I don’t know how to be rid of them.

 

"He looks a little distressed," says the Zig. "Must be women problems."

 

"He should be arrested by the police," I reply, staring forlornly at the tracks the Zig has left on my carpet. I don’t know how he gets his boots so dirty. We live in the concrete jungle, for Christ’s sake.

 

"How’s Lani doing?" asks the Zig, picking his nose.

 

"Say her name again and I’ll bet she turns up at the door," I say. He says it again, and sure enough, we hear a knock. The Zig opens the door and Lani saunters in, a brunette beauty with perfectly symmetrical features and not an ounce of spare flesh on her supple frame. She’s gorgeous, this woman. Too perfect. I don’t know why she has any interest in me. "Hey," she says, walking over to me and giving me a peck on the cheek. "How come you haven’t answered my calls?"

 

"I don’t know," I say. I truly don’t: Lani and I’s relationship is one of the many facets of my life that I cannot make sense of. Those voices sound off again, a chorus of laughter. Sometimes I feel as though I have thought bubbles above my head when I speak.

 

"You got a crowbar?" asks the Zig. Lani looks at me, befuddled, and shakes her head no.

 

"I’ll have to ask Bukowski," says the Zig.

 

"Yes, go bother him. But be sure not to bring him over here." Bukowski is an obese mailman, a real rat bastard, the kind of fatso that has chocolate wrappers stuck to his trousers.

 

"Oh sure, neighbor. You know he really likes you," says the Zig.

 

"I don’t give a shit," I say.

 

"I won’t tell him you said that," says the Zig, ducking out of the room. I can hear him thundering down the hall, not an ounce of subtlety in his ponderous steps.

 

"He's a real character," says Lani, sitting down next to me. Her hair looks surreal in the bright light. I have never seen this woman with a blemish, a zit, a sunspot. Sometimes I think she stepped off a factory line, preassembled, put-together by preternatural hands.

 

"You better leave. You don’t want to be here when Rudolph shows up."

 

"I love Rudolph!" says Lani. "He’s so good-looking. And so well-dressed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but a suit."

 

"I am almost positive that he is a serial killer," I say.

 

"You’re a funny guy, you know that?" she says, kissing me. Her lips feel like paper wings. I don’t know what I did to deserve this.

 

"Hey, no smooching while I'm around, unless you're gonna share!" says Rudolph, waltzing into the room. He has on a grey suit with a pink undershirt and big brass cufflinks that he taps against my doorway. His hair is perfect, his visage sculpted from the latest magazine ad, all smiles and smooth skin. His teeth radiate whiteness like bleached bones. As he enters, the room is filled with the scent of peppermints and a certain indescribable musk.

 

"Lani, baby, how's it going?" he asks, sliding in next to us. He has no sense of space, this terrifying man. Being this close to him is like sitting next to a rabid panther.

 

"I'm officially a Kindergarten teacher!" says Lani, launching herself from the couch and jumping up and down. "My first class is tomorrow."

 

"You're a teacher?" I ask, my face melting into a frown of disbelief. Again I hear the eruption of maniacal voices, echoing like a choir of mental patients. Both Lani and Rudolph stare at each other expectantly, letting the voices fill the dead air.

 

"Uh, yeah. Where you been, Vince?" asks Rudolph. "This guy. It's like he doesn't know what's going on. You stoned, brotha? You on drugs?"

 

"Well we did do a lot of marijuana in college," says Lani, grabbing hold of my arm and drawing it to her bosom.

 

"Now let's focus for moment. You know you're my best friend, Vince. My brother from a different mother." Rudolph's grin takes on another dimension, growing from ear to ear like a Glasgow smile. "I'm afraid the worst may have happened. My endless procession of girlfriends has come to a close. I've found her. The angel. The bearer of my seed. The one."

 

"True love?" asks Lani, her eyebrows rising like birds of prey.

 

"She has all the qualifications. She likes laser tag. Rock climbing. Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. She drinks, she swears, she fights with the boys. Has a body that just doesn't quit, if you know what I'm saying." He raises his right hand expectantly, and I cower, fearing the touch of those bloody fingers.

 

"She's really all that?" asks Lani.

 

"Plus I knocked her up," replies Rudolph.

 

"Oh Jesus," I say. "The coming of the antichrist."

 

"Are you going to marry her?" asks Lani.

 

"That's why I need your advice," states Rudolph. "Sure, she's perfect. But I can't make a decision alone. I'm incapable of it. Here we are, thirty-something adults, and we're as close as children. The pressure of the group is palpable. I can't ignore it. I yearn for your approval. Where the hell is Ziggler?"

 

"Yo," says the Zig. Bukowski is next to him, mustard stains on his postal uniform. Together they grip an iron bar, its end sharpened like a spear.

 

"Bukowski," I say.

 

"Vincent," says Bukowski.

 

"Rudolph has a crisis that he would like the group to consider," says Lani. She explains the situation to them as they listen expectantly. I examine my apartment, noticing that it is laid out strangely. It is one wide room, similar to a stage, and the far wall is a black void devoid of detail. Has it always been like this? I feel as though there is something on the other side of that wall, an audience, perhaps, or maybe an enormous eye, something watching, waiting, playing my life like a cassette tape. Eventually the machine will eat all of these manufactured scripted moments. I look up at the ceiling and see words forming, words that are relevant to the situation at hand. Ever since I started ignoring them, things have gone to hell.

 

"I foresee little Rudolphs, dressed like midget businessmen, wining and dining the ladies," says the Zig. Bukowski munches on my cereal, not even opening the box, just chewing on the cardboard corners like a dog. "Don't do that!" says the Zig, smacking his head. The voices sing and my eyes start to flutter.

 

"Maybe we should put her through a test, just to make sure she's the right one," suggests Lani.

 

"A gauntlet!" says Rudolph. "I always wanted to run my own gauntlet."

 

"We gotta see if she's worthy to carry your seed," says the Zig.

 

"It is decided. The prospective Mrs. Rudolph shall run the gauntlet," declares Lani.

 

"What sort of horrors do you all have in mind?" I whisper.

 

"Sticks and stones and broken bones," snorts Bukowski. "What else?"

 

"There has never been anything else," says Rudolph, his eyes glazing over.

 

"Good job following the script," says the Zig, bending over me and whispering in my ear. He winks as he pulls away, confirming all of my suspicions. They're in on it, all of them. I am an actor; this is a stage; our words are not our own. They take me in their arms and drag me down the stairs, the voices finding amusement in my plight as my legs stiffen, my body having become like a corpse. We pile into a cab, and no one even speaks to the driver: he knows where to go, the course having been determined long ago. 

 

The Bar

 

We sit in our booth at Maloney's, an overpriced beer in front of me, Lani draped over my shoulders like an animal skin, the Zig and Bukowski munching peanuts, absorbed in their task, as though it is a very serious matter. We haven't quite gotten the name of this girl out of Rudolph—she may be a Susan or a Sarah, we're not sure—and while we await her arrival, the womanizing fool prowls the bar, offering free psychoanalysis to pretty girls, introducing himself as Dr. Niles Frasier, a master of Freudian theory. One of them bites, an unrealistically good-looking blonde, and the good doctor reads her palm and asks for her astrological sign, summoning the voices, which follow us everywhere. I maintain a dazed stare, not following the conversation, just waiting, drinking, trying to swallow the cup that was given to me. I never asked for this role, for these friends, for an audience. I'm not sure if I've ever asked for anything.

 

"Who wants to go home when you can sit at a bar?" asks Lani. "Babe, why aren’t you drinking your beer?"

 

"It tastes like pond scum," I reply. The Zig looks up from his peanuts and shakes his head. "You never used to say things like that," he says.

 

"So? Can’t people change?" I ask.

 

"Only the extras change," says the Zig. He gestures around us at the multitude tastefully sipping their drinks and keeping their conversational volume at a pleasant level. "The regulars never change. Character development is something that only happens in fiction. Take Bukowski for example. He’s a fat slab, Bukowski is. He drinks too much, like all of us. When he’s at work, he dumps half of his mail in random dumpsters. That’s just who he is, ol’ Bukowski. He was made that way. He is the progeny of fat slobs who drank too much, and if he manages to have any kids, the cycle will start all over. You think you can escape the circumstances of your being? You want to have an ontological argument on this program, in front of this audience?" He nods at the far wall, another black void. "This is a light-hearted show, Vic."

 

"You’re a goddamn lunatic," says Bukowski, taking a plastic-wrapped sandwich out of his pocket.

 

"No one understands the Zig. That’s part of his charm," says Lani.

 

"I understand him. I understand him perfectly," I say. Rudolph is still chatting up the blonde, his white teeth flashing like a switchblade. These women mean nothing to him. He is an empty vessel, a creature without a soul.

 

"That pry bar, what are you going to do with it?" I ask the Zig.

 

"I’m going to use it during the gauntlet," he says.

 

"But you didn’t know about the gauntlet when you wanted to find it."

 

"Look, I’ve seen the script. I know where this is heading. Or, at least I used to," he says. "You keep trying to steer us off course. It ain’t happening, my friend. It can’t be done."

 

"Will you guys shut up? I think that’s her," says Lani. She points to Rudolph, who has abandoned the blonde to embrace a women dressed in yellow. He takes her hand and brings her to us.

 

"Let me introduce Shelly Pickler," says Rudolph. "Shelly, these are my closest friends. I have known them since time immemorial. This is Vincent Vargas, my best friend. He is an architect, believe it or not. This is his girlfriend, Lani O'Hara. These other two are Ziggler and Bukowski. They don’t have first names. At least, I don’t know them. Do you want anything to drink?"

 

"Yeah. Go get me a beer," says Shelly.

 

"What kind?"

 

"Whatever’s most expensive," says Shelly. "I thought I had you trained."

 

"See! She’s got spunk! Throws a mean right hook as well. I’ll get you your drink, honey."

 

"Hurry up," says Shelly. She sits next to me, pushing us down. We eye her like a pack of wolves, and she returns our stares, her eyes green, her mouth tensed and poised as though prepared to hurl a racial slur.

 

"You smell nice," says the Zig.

 

"You look like a creep," says Shelly. "You look like you should be panhandling in front of a record store. And you,"—she turns to Bukowski—"I think I saw you dumping a bag of envelopes on Thirty-Second Street. You held two hot dogs in one hand. They disappeared like they had never been."

 

"What do you do for a living?" asks Lani.

 

"I don’t know, Barbie, what do you do?" asks Shelly. "I’m a zookeeper or something. Every once in a while I hold up picket signs protesting some injustice or whatever. I’ve got a nice apartment despite my nebulous career. One has to wonder where I find the money."

 

"Whoring?" asks the Zig.

 

"Yeah. Looks like someone peeked ahead. Wouldn’t do that regularly if I were you. You might find your role being played by someone else." Shelly smiles, her vicious mouth barely curving upward.

 

"That’s not going to happen," says the Zig. "Unfortunately, I’m irreplaceable."

 

"I wish you guys wouldn’t talk about roles," says Lani. "It makes me uncomfortable."

 

"That’s because you’re in denial," says Shelly. "You can’t deal with reality. You haven’t the slightest idea what reality is."

 

"This one’s a keeper," says Bukowski.

 

"What would possess you to date Rudolph?" I ask.

 

"You act like I want to. Like I’m a real person or something. You two were made for each other," she says, pointing at Lani and me. "Two ostriches with their heads in the sand. I know what’s in store for me. I know about the pry bar, about the gauntlet. Do I care? What can I do to stop it?"

 

"It won’t be that bad," says the Zig.

 

"You’re a born liar. A greasy hipster doofus. You have less of a self than anyone here, except maybe Rudolph. He’s pure evil, you know. I assume that’s why you’re friends with him." 

 

Rudolph comes over with Shelly’s beer and squeezes onto the other side of the bench. He flutters his eyes at her, a twitch at the left corner of his mouth.

 

"You keeping them entertained, my dear? She’s something, ain’t she, guys? Do you all approve?" I watch as they nod their heads in unison. I stare at my glass, trying to will it to refill itself.

 

"Your best friend over there is in denial," says Shelly. "About the essential truths of this life."

 

"He’s that good of an actor," says Rudolph. "He’s so good he’s forgotten that he’s acting. He’s starting to wonder about the laugh track, the silly bastard. The Zig was telling him about the script and he got a eureka look like he just discovered nuclear fusion."

 

"But we’re supposed to pretend!" protests Lani. "You guys aren’t playing along!"

 

"Yeah we are, babe," says Rudolph. "I think it’s time. You ready, honey?’

 

"Go fuck yourself," says Shelly.

 

"I love this place, you know," says Rudolph. "It’s like a second home to me. Frank behind the bar knows me like I know the back of my hand. Sometimes I think about a way out. I know, I know, what a surprise, happy-go-lucky Rudolph occasionally thinks about kicking the bucket. ‘But he’s so vivacious,’ they say. ‘He’s so full of life.’ But what is life, my friends? In the eyes of some, it is situational comedy. It’s a dark comedy, sure, but humor is subjective. We can’t properly define humor, just like we can’t define life. My materialistic, womanizing ways are worth a chuckle or two. But it’s a horror that I live through, I’ll have you all know. I don’t want to do the things I do. I am compelled. I have no control over my actions. The only right I truly possess is the right to expire. The right to push up daises. The right to sleep with the fishes. Then I come here and look at Frank’s smiling face and I find the will to continue. To persevere. To drink and forget about my strife."

 

"You’re stalling," says Shelly. "Let’s get this shit over with."

 

"As the lady says. J’ai fini. Let’s bounce." We exit the bar and hail a taxi, the pit growing deeper in my stomach with every machination, with every uttered word. Maybe I am too good of an actor. But I don’t want to be an actor. I don’t want to be Pinocchio. I want to be a man without strings.

 

The Gauntlet

 

"I hope she doesn’t pass," says the Zig.

 

We stand before the river, watching it ooze away from the city, its waters the color of motor oil, thick like congealed blood. The group is huddled around Shelly, their hands entwined, their lips moving in unison, chanting a song that no one wants to hear. The smell of the river is putrid, a mix of human excrement and road kill. My part has been played, as has the Zig’s. We are but observers now.

 

"Any particular reason?" I ask.

 

"The cyclical nature of being," says the Zig. He takes a cigar out of his pocket, a Cuban that he bartered from the Embassy. The Zig has friends in high and low places. He is a people person.

 

"What point does the group have if another member is inducted?" he asks. "What is the point of Rudolph? He was made for boozing and whoring. That suit that he wears, it’s a skin, you know. He never takes it off. He can’t. How would you interpret such behavior?"

 

"Surely he takes it off," I say.

 

"Not as far as I can tell. What I’m trying to say, Vince, is that he is a defined creature. He was built for a specific purpose, just like a wrench or a hammer. He can’t do anything but what he was made to do. You can’t turn a bolt with a hammer, you know. This principle applies to all of us. Bukowski is an incompetent fat slob. Lani is all looks and no brains. I’m an unhinged "hipster goof," or whatever Shelly said. We’ve all had our roles written for us, and we must play them."

 

"So we’re all a bunch of walking troupes, is what you’re saying," I reply.

 

"Yep," says the Zig. The circle closes around Shelly, who we cannot see. Leaning against a sugar maple is the iron bar, rusty with flakes of red. You can hear the frogs down by the river; they reverberate like a living machine.

 

"But who writes these parts?" I ask the Zig.

 

"Does it really matter? You’re not in a position to request a rewrite. I don’t think anyone is."

 

"You’re making me feel helpless," I admit.

 

"Sorry, buddy. I just speak the truth."

 

"Do you? So what’s happening in that circle was meant to be? Or is it somehow my fault? You’ve hinted as much." There’s a rock at my feet, jagged, made of fossilized shells. "What’s happening down there by the river doesn’t seem the fit the rest of the material."

 

"Our parts are being written by an amateur. Some idiot kid doodling on a notebook. But you should just say what appears above your head instead of questioning it. I’ve been messing with you, Vic. Like I said, I’ve seen the script. You have too, you’ve just forgotten. Look, I’m a little tired of talking about this. Should we see what happened to Shelly?"

 

"But who am I, Zig? What role do I have in the group?" I nearly scream at him.

 

"You’re the doubting Thomas," says the Zig, walking away from me. I crouch down, picking up the rock. It is heavy; it feels like a tombstone. The Zig is fragile, with hollow bones. The volume of the frogs increases like a pounding heartbeat. I’ve closed the distance when Rudolph approaches us, his head down, his suit jacket on his shoulder, sleeves rolled up.

 

"She didn’t make it," he says, shaking his head.

 

"So it goes," says the Zig.

 

"What’s Vince doing with that rock?" asks Rudolph. I freeze, the rock raised above my head. They both look at me with glazed eyes. In the background the river pops with the sound of something heavy being thrown into it. I can see Lani sitting on the bank, her knees drawn up close to her, Bukowski at her side like a minion. I seem to be at a crossroads of sorts, a pivotal moment, one of those abrupt shifts that the Zig doesn’t seem to think are possible. He’s a bastard, the Zig. A walking contradiction. Plus, he eats all of my food. 

 

"Looks like he’s acting out of character," says the Zig with a smile. "Or is he?"

 

"There’s nothing more useless than an armchair philosopher," I say, as the rock flies through the air. In the brief second of its flight, I feel exonerated like a prisoner set free. I wonder if this feeling is an illusion. The voices find all of this terribly amusing.

Weightlifting: Pec Strain

 

I've had pec inflammation for months, ever since benching 315 way back in the spring. I've trained through it, given it a break, went on strong anti-inflammatories, but the pain has persisted, and after two trips to the doctor, I think I just need a break. My left lat seems to be involved somehow; stopping all pulling along with pressing has finally decreased my inflammation. I'm thinking it's my pec tendon, but hell, what do I know? It's an insidious, chronic ache that comes and goes. Never hurts during the night or when I wake up; movement of my left arm is what starts it. Anyways, I've decided to focus on my squat while giving this injury time to heal. What I've been able to do for my upper body is the following:

Curls

Lateral raises

Triceps kickbacks

And that's it. Even overhead pressing seems to irritate it. For my squat training, I'm doing quite the variety, including front squats, low-bar squats, paused high bar squats, partial squats (very fun, due to the high weights involved), and zercher lockouts, the latter of which seem to carry over to the deadlift without loading my left lat (lats are involved in the deadlift; I think I strained my left one rack pulling 525 lbs). I'm thirty-five years old, and although I likely have many years of productive training left, the approach of middle-age is likely affecting my recovery. I can't drink a case of beer and train through an adductor strain like I might have ten years ago. It sucks that my bench progress has to stall, but I really can't afford a torn pec tendon, which would put me out of action for months while also costing a pretty penny. You can't progress without pushing yourself, but serious injuries are not worth it. Just something to keep in mind.

Writer's Block: Apocalypse

 

Traffic stops as they come

Flags waving in the back of trucks

Signs stuck to the sides of vans

The sociopathic grin photoshopped to manikin status

They celebrate the facade

The fake god they have built

Out of a narcissist's husk.

White pale faces,

Women and men shaped like pears

Standing on the side of the highway

Hooting and hollering at the dumbness on display

What a glorious celebration of stupidity

What a backwards march toward oblivion

Shooting fireworks off in the daylight

Cops stopping traffic to force us to behold

The righteous devotion to idolatry.

For the sake of all of us

I hope these people do not get what they deserve. 

New Music Video: Evil Masterpiece

 

Evil Masterpiece was recorded sometime in the early 2010s using Propellerhead Reason version 4.0 and a shitty keyboard (I really have no decent gear, except my strat and my Epiphone blues custom). It was one of my initial experiments in electronic music. I recorded a whole album's worth of material in this vein, which I entitled Winter Trees. This shit ain't rock 'n' roll, but I dig it, and I hope others do as well. Nine Inch Nails, the Knife, 80's synth pop, and ambient music have always been a big influence on my stuff. Guitars are pretty rad, but so are keyboards and computers.