Lyrics

Saxophone Neck, reeds and a New Yorker magazine. And some measuring tape.

Life, my dear, is a fickle friend
he's with you till the sidewalks ends
no doubt about it, that lying thief
always takes my trust and leaves me grief

-or-

Life is like my milk.
I love milk.
But if you buy too much at one time, then it expires.
So I buy only two gallons of milk. (I have a glass of milk with my cereal).
Oh, and I drink life from the carton.

On Tissues:

The best tissues are not Puff's Plus.
Nay - the best tissues are the two-ply proletariats of Kleenex, the workhouse comrades that uplift the whole of peoples to proper nose-blowing. The tissue should be grasped by placing the thumbs firmly on each side of the tissue, with the fingernail about a half-inch from the lining. A satisfying, wholesome nose-blow should be full of texture and volume, and delivered in a single, blasting manner right into the center of the tissue. After the excavation, the thumbs should retract and the main fingers of the hand should be used to draw the center of the tissue down and away from the nostrils, sweeping any stray object into its beautiful two-ply construction. Then the tissue should be examined for any unwanted subjects in the discharge (i.e. chocolate or other foodstuffs) and then discarded.
The problem with the Puff's tissues or any tissue that offers softness is their ability to draw the material from the nasal cavity. In using a soft tissue, these unwanted remain are left to dry and harden, becoming an object of attention for other patrons. Also, the use of a "Plus" tissue leaves the user with a feeling of regret and incompleteness, which I find can never be avoided.
Therefore, the whole of society should revert back to the use of the humble and appropriate two-ply Kleenex brand tissue. It's modesty is punctual and very much useful, more so than the idle, lazy Puffs brand.

Thank you,
a concerned consumer and connoisseur.

Go, Going, Gone

Deodorant, a towel, an upside-down tissue box and some Christmas CDs.

I want to go.
Far AWAY.
To places I have never known, and will never get to know.
I want to wake up every day and get lost, and then find my way. Only to get lost.
I want to struggle with language.
I need to go.
I need to go to Italy, to Europe, to somewhere without America. I want to see the past and the future collide, I don't want to live in the present. Forget tradition and being safe and sorry, I want to be smiling where it is sunny and the water is clear and people don't talk in a language that is easy to speak.
I wish.
I wish I knew what it was like to not be American. I want to be born in England, or Czechoslovakia. Maybe Denmark. Definitely Switzerland. or Belgium.
If only.
I could go.
Be going.
and be
gone.

I am in the bathroom.

Anniversary

An empty bowl of ice cream, parts of a saxophone, a highlighter, and a steel bottle filled up with water from my bathroom.

Hello, Internet.
If feels good to, once again, write on your vast walls, to scribble little memories and splatter stories on the cavernous alleyways that are your body.
I came for the truth, but the truth came for me.
I came for the lies, but the lies came for me.
I came for the love, but love can't set you free.
Just me.

The Anniversary is on this day. I remember it. It seems like a dream. It felt like a dream. In some ways, what happened 10-16 was a dream. A very badly written, teary, sadist-masochist dream. It happened here. In reality, but it doesn't feel that way. I want the past to rewrite itself, to re-right itself.
But it can't. Time is a fragile and broken, out-of-touch deity. It never does what you want it to. Even though it travels in a straight line, it still gets knots.
And you can't untie knots.
He took a fall.
He fractured his skull.
He had a concussion.
And then they said would be okay.
[...] (This is where the knot is)

I arrived at four of five o'clock in the afternoon. It was sunny, that dark dismal dreary doldrum damned day. My uncle dropped me off by the emergency entrance of the hospital, and I began my ascent into the ICU grotto. My journey took through a back entrance. I walked like a ghost, or like a man going to a funeral, and like a man [period] I wore a ragged smile on my face, and I held anxiety in my twittering hands. I found the ICU waiting room - a small labyrinth of cubicle walls - and my mother. Needless to say, she was not completely sure of the situation. Other people sat through the walls around us, craddling their heads in SorrowFearAnger. No one could get cell reception. There was light, and a little of it, but not enough.
None of it was enough. Nothing a doctor could say could fix anything. Doctors are trained to give the worst case scenario so that all hope is crushed. And if they are wrong, then no one is hurt. No their fault really - they get crap for being the bearer's of bad news.
The system told us he was going into surgery. Complications. Blood in the brain. Swelling. Demons. Pressure. Brain, surgery.
We waited in the OperationRoom waiting cell. We met someone who had a brain injury. My mom read magazines. A friend of her's (an ER doctor) called all of Jim's family to tell them what had happened. I wrote down the Lord's Prayer. We felt the SorrowFearAnger.

Then Dr.F----- came and broke the tension. With a double sided sword. As I recall -
"IF he makes through the night, there is a SLIM TO NONE CHANCE that he will ever be the same." Dr.F was 6'5", grey haired, and big. Looking down. Those words dropped like a tree.

if a tree falls in a forest...

but we heard it. it was a gut wrenching noise - have you ever heard a tree fall? So many little things snapping and crackling, they come together in a guttural democracy of cacophony - each little snap is so silent, yet one thousand of them together is enough to deafen the ears of the mighty and destroy the minds of the weak.

some would say we were deafened.

but,
never -
defeated.

the ride home that night was
silence.

My uncle followed us home, and in case my mother had to steal back to the hellspital in the darkness of the night, he would be there to help my brother and I get ready for the day.

There was a phone call that night.

And just like, when you search hard enough to find light in an abyss, just like when you strive to hear mellifluous music in the melancholy melody of life, we felt hope that night.

Simply, a light in the shape of a hand - the four fingers curled peculiarly into the palm, the thumb stretched towards the heaven - a simple, kinetic, universal, godly, loving, symbol. Maybe that's all I needed. That night, my father, after suffering a skull fracture, a concussion, swelling in the brain, and perhaps irreversible damage to the brain stem and maybe even more things that we couldn't even yet comprehend, that father, simply said to us "yes."

I still don't know what it means.

I do not struggle with Adversity - Adversity struggles with me!

I do not bow down to Calamity - I show myself before and Calamity falls on its bloody, broken knees.

And while sometimes I feel that I do not deserve tragedy and strife;

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me."

Psalm 23:4

I hope I don't appear evangelical; I hope not to convert anyone.
I am just a boy walking. and walking. and walking.

Amen,
Sholom,
Sal am,
Peace,

Cameron

Desires (piano)

HN White Alto Sax, Vandoren V16 reed, rolled up Avetts Brother poster.

I want to learn to play lots of instruments. I already have a few under my belt - saxophone, piano, guitar, bass guitar, harmonica, and now I'm learning clarinet. Well, I should say that I know how to play them - I should say that I'm still studying them. I have a really long way to go before I can say I've mastered any one of them.

But I want to talk about piano. I love piano. I love all forms of piano, like saloon style or ragtime, or modern jazz or baroque. I started piano a couple years ago, under the instruction of a man who I knew only as Joel. He was about seventy years old, and he drove around in an old Camaro with his dog, smoking cigarettes and wearing faded blue jeans. He inspired me. Joel was a good teacher, and very disciplined. If he knew I could do something, he wouldn't stop teaching until I had done it. In short, Joel believed in me. He made he love piano, unlike some piano teachers, who just pound classical music and training till the cows come home. He showed me jazz piano, but he always made sure to ground me in classical music as well. In this way, I grew to love and appreciate classical music rather despise. Later, I found that Joel was a child prodigy - he had already played Carnegie Hall at age nine. He played and lived in New York City - he even met and studied with Dave Brubeck and Oscar Peterson. And then, after two or three years under Joel's instruction, he had to leave. Life is so fragile, so delicate. Sometimes I scorn the way that life has in-confidence, the way that it is afraid that it will crumple under the pressure of happiness and enlightenment. Ponder,

Shining Star.

I want that guitar from the antique store. Can't wait for Avetts!

Belief

I believe in certain things.

I believe in music. I believe in the power of tones and sounds and chords and rhythms. I believe in it's ability to heal. I believe in the blues scale. I believe in singing, badly or otherwise. I believe in drum circles. I believe in synthesizers and even DJs. I believe in instruments. I believe in breaking instruments (the power of music compels you, right?). I believe in the twelve-bar blues. I believe in the AABA. I believe in music.

I believe in food. I believe that when food is cooked from scratch with the best ingredients, that it cannot be bad for you. I believe in the power of baking bread. I believe in yeast and warm water. I believe in salt (sparingly) and I believe in black pepper. I believe in red meat, steaks cooked rare. I believe in seafood, even shellfish. I believe in the grill, the oven, and the stovetop. I believe in food.

I believe in exercise. I believe in running till I can't run any more. I believe in swimming till my arms and legs refuse to move. I believe in biking and hiking. I believe in the power of teamwork and sportsmanship. I believe in hard work. I believe in breaking human limits. I believe in exercise.

I believe in something bigger. I believe that He is the same, as Jehovah or Allah or G_D or Buddha or Shiva. I believe that He can see us, and that sometimes He can even interact with us. I believe that sometimes He is just the wind, and that sometimes He is an earthquake or a hurricane. I believe that in some way, shape or form, He loves us. I believe even He cannot control the stream of events in everyone's lives, but He is here to help us. I also believe that theology is a very fast way to distance yourselves from others, and I say these things with the upmost consideration of other doctrines, beliefs, and ways of life.

And that leads me to ask you:

What do you believe in?

Thoughts

Five. Phone. Pick. Vicarious Viking.

God. I really screwed it up. I am just now realizing my shit-crap mistake. Usually I remember mistakes and shudder, smile, roll my eyes, and pass on, but this mistake is too far-fetched for a traditional rememberance. I'm just too damn creepy. It could have happened. I need the courage. Honestly, I missed my quota. Ponder, lately.

Ok. I hope you have seen the new Pizza Hut commercial. The one about "the Edge". It makes me want to strangle someone, for instance the young child in question or the particular commercial writer. Yarg! Pizza is NOT about the toppings, adolescent fool! Pizza is about the crust. If you knew your pizza history, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Pizza evolved from an herbed flatbread thousands of years ago, a flatbread baked on the hearth, underneath the fire. The word 'focaccia,' (an Italian cornbread that is very similar to pizza) actually derives from a Latin stem that means ashcake. Before 1890, pizza was often a flatbread with with onions, anchovies, or tomatoes on top. Then Pizza Margherita was introduced in honor of Queen Margherita (not the alcoholic beverage). Pizza Margherita was topped with simply sliced tomatoes, and mozzarella cheese (for the first time ever)! The point of this tangent is that pizza is about the crust, not the toppings. Before one masters pizza, one must master the dough. Ponder, "herbed" is probably not a word.

Night you all.
Vosotros.
Hey, when in Spain!

Blogger Returns

Quantum of Solace, Burn After Reading, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and The Truman Show.

So. Hello again. We haven't spoken in a while; my name is Cameron. You are the world-wide Web. It was nice catching up. Let's get to business.

I went on a pilgrimage. It opened my eyes. They were shut; now they are receptive. I realise the power of silence. Before I had acknowledged it, but now I understand and embrace it. People are too loud. I wish people could slow down, and just go to the library or go for a walk or read a book. Instead we are trapped in our cars and schedules. We do it to ourselves. We should stop. Busy-ness is overrated. I'm not encouraging idleness, just contemplation. Have you ever just laid down in the grass for no reason? Have you ever meditated? Have you ever just sat and thought? Sometimes the answers to these questions are "no." Then I tell them they were rhetorical questions, and they needn't answer. But nonetheless, everyone should try to slow down. Ponder, 2(3+2) = 10.

I like making things from scratch. I shun pre-made pizza crusts and pre-mixed ingredients because that is cheating. One time, I made tomato ketchup just for a barbecue sauce. It was cool. Did you know that tomato ketchup or catsup evolved from a Chinese fish-based condiment called ketsiap. It was adapted by English sailors and eventually brought to America. Different varieties ensued, such as mushroom ketchup, but in the 19th century it was tomatoes that gain their rightful place as the ketchup base. I like to say that I made everything. When I do New-York pizza, I always make my own sauce and my own dough. I don't have a cow to make the cheese, but I always choose the mozzarella blocks so I can cut it myself. I started an herb garden. Basil is so awesome and aromatic. Best herb. And then oregano. Marjoram. Ever heard of it? It's a cousin of oregano. I think spinach and basil are related. Anyways, when things are made from scratch, then they are usually healthier. At least in my kitchen, because I don't own high fructose corn syrup. Corn products, and pork products, are bad for your body because it doesn't really know what to do with them. Besides, Coca-Cola made without high fructose is better for you and it tastes better. If you want some, order it from Mexico. They make it without that corn-crap. Europe also shuns corn syrup. But they are just smarter than America. The food industry in America has a monopoly over the business. They completely control food in America. So fight back! Become a locavore (one who uses local ingredients and such) and make food from scratch. Ponder, pizza neopolitan.

I don't like people who pretend like there smart. Yes, it's possible. They will just repeat things smart people say, or just know one fact and simply reprocess that fact. Sometimes they will read things out loud. I'm at a museum, and this anti-smartsy is going through an exhibit and he just says "Oh yeah, there's the 'Landlocked stage' and then 'Continental shift and motion' with 'Shallow Seas'", reading off the titles of some of the micro-articles. I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure all of us can read. Thanks for making a fool of yourself though. It was fun. Let's do this again sometime.

Oh well. In heart, everyone means good. Whether for themselves or otherwise, they all strive to get attention in some way. No one means to come off as a moron. It just happens. Speaking of the word "moron," John Malkovich manages to say the word nearly a million times in the movie Burn After Reading. It was funny, but I want to see The Big Lebowski. Ponder, why the hell did Brad Pitt have to die?

Cool, cats.
Chill.
Sleep.
Tightly.

Cameron.

March is National Toaster Month

Stella By Starlight

Real Book, failed CD burn, note on water-stained paper, and tiny-cheap headphones.

I am terrified of talking on the phone. I don't know why. I just freeze up, and for some reason I just want to email instead. Sometimes I beg for the answering machine. But today I faced my fears, and now I have a gig. Good deal. In retrospect, it seems my fear was irrational. I guess, the phone is a commitment. You can leave an email or a text message, but if someone calls you, you can't just up and leave. I'm scared of commitment. That's why I don't have a girl. That and I'm part creeper. But I fear that I may not be committed. Or that she may not be committed. But in the end, I will figure it out. Ponder, eh.

I am Episcopalian. I love the Episcopal Church. We have freedom, and instead of just handing you a set of beliefs and rules and curriculum, we have questions. What does God mean to you? Why? If you disagree with this person, that's fine. Let's go have some drinks. We still have wine, and it tastes pretty good. There is such a variety of people, and we all love each other. We accept gays and lesbians, and they are some of the most awesome members of our congregation. The Anglican sect (Episcopal is the American Anglican) is the second largest in the world, next to Catholicism. Speaking of religion, I heard an interesting point - sometimes the people who doubt a religion also know more than the average church-goer. Because if you doubt, you think. If you have "faith," then sometimes that means you are just a blind follower. I encourage you to think about your own morals and ethics and beliefs and question them. C.S. Lewis, who wrote the Chronicles of Narnia, was originally a scientist. His goal was to prove that God didn't exist, but instead he ended up embracing Christianity. You might be thinking "'Deus ex machina' much, pal" but I want you to think about who you are and what you believe. Ponder, and also with you.

I hate bugs. And bug bites.
Go to sleep.
Good night.

Band Camp

Thoughts and Things I learned from Band Camp.

I flew there, on a plane. Being in a big airport is confusing and enlightening. So many people, of all shades and hues, different clothing and different faces and different smiles. Overhead, the announcements ring like Big Brother or Fahrenheit 451 in sweet strange tones. People walking, machines talking and the old-people cart beeping out of time. Sandwich inflation is rampant; water costs money; this is airport.

The plane is also interesting. I still don't know why I can't listen to my iPod during takeoff or landing. People coughing. The air hostess shows us how to save ourselves. We barely listen. Fasten our seat belts, get ready for takeoff. In the air in no time. Fly through and above the water mountains and finally I can listen to music. Not a long flight, but we still get soda. I just sight-read some music. I did not sleep. This is airplane.

Family. Gasp. Some are incredible. Others are talkative, and some discourse on matters that never seemed important. They are still not important. I'm sorry that you had to stay extra hour at work. I don't really care. Token grandfather popcorn. A board game with dice. Luck is always involved, but strategy never takes back seat. The drive to the university was cool. My aunt and uncle bought me dried apples at the Trader Joe's.

Camp. Making new friends. Always hard, the first day. An unfamiliar place, with faces and smells and sights to boot. At least the lobby had a piano. Found old friends. Made new ones. Played music. I auditioned and was placed into the top wind ensemble, second chair to someone who had never played tenor before. It angered me, but it was an angsty teenage anger, the kind that comes from jealousy and hate. I practiced hard. I auditioned for jazz band. I am a horrible sight reader, but my improv turned out well. I don't think the auditioner dug my sound, and I was second chair tenor in the second band. With my bravado and general enthusiasm and jazz style I convinced everyone I was first tenor. Ha. I love music.

Jazz music is free. I cannot emphasize this enough. It is not something that should be controlled or forced. It should flow, light from light, true jazz from true jazz. Jazz is improvisation; Jazz is personal expression and telling a story without using any words. Jazz should not be arranged and caged, like in the sense of middle school jazz bands, where there aren't any solos at all. To them, jazz is just notes on a page, placed and played. Oh boy! Gee willickers! By golly, jazz is swell and kosher! Huge vibrato, big claps, smiles and snaps on one and three. I'm sorry, but this is not the case. Jazz is heavy. If you can't say "I'm angry" or "I love you" in words, Jazz can say all that and a bag of chips. The salt and vinegar kind. Something that takes class and taste, acquired and always different. To those seek to contain jazz with tangible notes on a piece of paper and destroy the solo, I despise you. To those who seek to bring jazz into it's true setting, the unknown and the ever-changing, I admire you. Jazz ponder.

I also learned that using the word "gay" instead of "stupid" is in essence idiotic. No, really that idea can not be gay. Any jokes, for that matter, that insert the word "gay" are completely foolish. Gay people are often much cooler than straight people. On a side note (with zest of sarcasm) Fox News should go screw itself.

Anyways,

enjoy life. Don't postpone it. Let is happen. Nothing good comes from holding things back. Except the Hoover Dam.

I want to be Chet Baker.

On Food.

Money clip, unknown (adjustable) strap, iTouch, and hand grip workout thingy. 

Food, in short, is amazing. The fact that we humans can take random plants and animals and add heat and flavor is awesome. And there are so many foods already! French (very rich, buttery. I'm told something about snails). Italian (uses oregano, basil, excellent herbs and spices, and pasta is shown in many dishes, and of course the Neapolitan pizza). Spanish (spicier Italian? Cilantro/coriander). Mexican (Spicy, uses cilantro and other herbs as well). Continental (Steak and potatoes, surf and turf, etc.). Creole (Crawfish, anyone?). BBQ - many subdivision across US. Argentine (lots of meat). Japanese (use of Hibachi grills, Teriyaki, sushi). Chinese (use of wok, stir-fry, and NOT chinese fortune cookies, an American invention). Thai (emphasis on balance of meals, bitter, sweet, salty, sour, etc. Also in food types - meat and greens, always). Pizza (New York, New England, Chicago, Argentine, Sicilian, Neapolitan, Californian, Tex-Mex). Seafood (see continental, except replace expensive steak for expensive lobster). Greek (gyros and souvlaki - so good). And there are so many more types!

Pizza Dough -

I have been working pizza dough for five years now - and I have come really close to capturing a beautiful dough recipe. Dough is actually really easy to make; the trick is how long you knead it. For a stretchier, more New York style dough, you must add less yeast, a little more flour, and knead a lot longer. Here is a good recipe you can jump off of - 

4 cups flour (preferable bread flour), extra for flouring the cutting board

1 3/4 cups of warm water 

1 packet of yeast (or about 2 1/4 teaspoons)

1 tablespoon salt 

1 tablespoon sugar 

2 tablespoons olive oil (extra for bowl and cookie sheet)

To begin, mix the packet of yeast and sugar in the warm water. Pour the flour and the salt into a large bowl and form a well in the middle, pushing the flour to the sides of the bowl. Add the olive oil and then add the yeast-sugar mixture and begin stirring. Stir until a dough ball forms, and if the dough is really dry, add a little more water. Plop the dough ball on a cutting board dusted with some of the extra flour, and knead for 12 minutes (if you don't know how to knead, go on youtube.com). But the flour in a bowl brushed in olive oil and let rise for about an hour or until doubled in size. Preheat the oven to 500 degrees and brush a cookie sheet with olive oil. Cut the dough ball in half, and roll it into a circle on the sheet, and add toppings. I usually add mozzarella and tomato sauce. I'll do the tomato sauce recipe next time. Thank you!

Cook

So, summer has started but I'm really bored. It feels like I have nothing to do, when in reality, there is so much I must be doing. I need to start my summer reading, do all of my AP assignments, I need to practice the saxophone religiously and I wanted to run every day. Not quite. I will discipline myself. Tomorrow. Procrastination! The best nation in the world. Ponder, eh, I'll do it tomorrow. 

"Summertime"

A&W Root Beer, Canadian magazine for kids, banana, tissues, lucky "Babies 'r' Us" pen. 

Thoughts:

So this school year has ended. The crush ended. I was basically shunned out of the group I hung out with most of the year. God! They made me feel like I was some un-charismatic fool in shallow waters. If they swam with me, boy, would they drown. I could swim circles around those tools. Oh, well. Now I can hang around with the jazz and art children.  I actually want to hang out with people this summer. But I also want to practice saxophone everyday, so... eh = Jam! Ponder, Chiltins.

Practical Jokes that Shaped History:

Defenestration of Prague: So, two Bohemian officials push this important guy from the Holy Roman Empire out a window into a pile of dung! Resulted in the Thirty Years' War, in which Catholic France fights with the Protestants, and Spain/HRE start to decline in power...

Charles II: Flees to France (from England) dressed as a woman! Oliver Cromwell, the Protectorate. Ha, good one.

Battle of Poltava: Peter the Great (Russia) defeats Swedish generals, captures them, and then invites them to dinner just to tell them that they basically screwed themselves over. That Peter... Swedish decline from a great power in the Baltic. Peter - what a hoot!

French Revolution: National Convention! Just kidding. Directory. Nope! Fooling around - Consulate! We've gotten you again - now we are an Empire! Metternich - "Enough stupidity, France. Man up and be a damn Monarchy again. Do the French ever make up their minds? *cough 1830 and 1848*" 

Imperialism: Dr. Livingstone and similar explorers strap a shocking device to the palm of their hand to make tribesmen believe they were actually magical. A couple decades and some machine guns later, Africa is just a great big cake. 

W: We misunderestimated his strategedy - eh he he eh?

Soaps:

"So, let me get this straight - Kelly slept with Kevin, but then Kevin had herpes (which he got in Guatemala) and they weren't protected. So then Kelly was seeing Ashley's brother Derrick, who had gone out with Mary?"

"No, Mary's lawyer - Derrick had supposedly being suing Mary for something having to do with lots of margarine, but then Derrick dumped her for his cousin."

"Oh no, honey - Derrick went out with his second cousin, who is actually also Lauren's third cousin."

"And Lauren was that girl who babysat Carol's baby when Carol had that affair with Tim."

"No, affair with Tom, married to Tim. Then Tim tried to commit suicide, but was saved and he hooked up with one of the nurses in rehab."

"Right, and that nurse is related to Tony, the guy we met in Italy."

"No, that it his evil twin brother."

"Oh."

"And that person is me." Pulls coat jacket away to reveal gun. "And I want Andy's funeral/wedding money that he got from his cousin in Jamaica!"

Ponder, silly silly people. 

The End

Sour Patch, Blue Dew, Rubiks Cube, and a metronome.

Mean Things to do to Cashiers:

Lady with the Bad Hair = "That's funny... I could have sworn I saw that weasel on your head this morning. On the side of the ride. Dead."

Lady with Facial Hair = Buy lots of shaving cream. And razors. 

Nothing much to say. Done with school for the summer. Done with her. I don't know what will happen next year. I don't know. I'm just watching Seinfeld. Hoping something will happen. 

Secrets

Chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, red felt-tip pen, real book, "Jukebox Romeo's" 

I really need a good band name, and today in English I was thinking of some pretty good ones - 

The Acoustick Blue

The Boom Acoustick

The Acousticks

Acousticism

Acoustic Candy

The Acoustic Postcards

Acoustick Street 

Acoustick Killers

San Acoustic

The Battle Acousticks

or Jukebox Romeo's

Secrets-

Secretly, I am a capitalist and a liberal. I want to become rich and roam the world and retire early and eat abroad. I want to wake up in Japan and go to bed in Paris, to have breakfast in New Orleans and dinner in London. I want to wear fancy clothes and be a beautiful richie with money and privilege. I want to live life to the complete fullest and never regret a thing. I want to fall head over heels in love, and never look back. I want to be exotic and domestic, and I want to be a father and a friend and a husband too. I just want to truly live. Isn't that all anyone wants? Ponder, locavore.

Night time is the right time

to be with the one you love. 

The Real Book

An Otto Link, used tissues, scraps of paper, and an empty Coca-Cola.

Love Colossus:

When love

comes to town

don't look up

and don't look down

cause he don't wait

for no one at all

ain't "love" nobody

not big or not small

cause he lives on depression

thrives from failed expression

and then the succession 

of another profession

so if songs don't slow him

ain't nothing will

Love rules supreme

He lives and he kills

quitters never win

and cheaters never lose

winners never love

because all winners are fools

there are the few

who love is but a joke

just like free cookies

or fat-free coke

but love will win supreme

he always does anyways

he might look upon you

but if only for a day

Ponder, love supreme = saxophone colossus.

Not much to say. Should have gone to the party. Stuck at home on the computer, pretending that I have work to do. Instead, why don't I go out and have fun? She was there. Damn, never mind. But Buddy wasn't there, so he wouldn't have made any really awkward hints ("Ah, like ___ last night?" "No, Buddy, please - I only make love to fine women, not little boys. You wouldn't know"). 

What I look for in the Opposite Sex:

Physically:

Legs

Symmetrical face

good eyes

Slim

Hair doesn't matter

Skin doesn't matter

I'm like one-twentieth Swedish, so some Scandinavian lineage would be nice (no particular reason).

Mentally:

Nice, but also a little bitchy

Mature

Smart

Kind

Funny (because I am not)

Strong

Able to realise that the only place that I truly make sense is in my brain.

Ponder, single for life.

Book and Set: Time = nothing/everything!

How to get thinner, fitter, smarter, happier, sexier, stronger, nicer and richer! Just send lots and lots of cash to my house! (If you don't pass this message to another twenty people in twenty minutes, voodoo witches will send a zombified Abraham Lincoln to wrestle you to a bloody corpse, forced forever to roam the world with only the words "four score and seven years" to speak), Residence Hall Linens? Talladega Nights, and my acoustic.

The Continuing Confusion of Jerry and James.

Jerry and James got to the party exactly twenty minutes late (fashionably, of course). They just buzzed right in, and Jerry immediately got to work on a particularly beautiful geranium. James stumbled over to the pollen bar and ordered two shots of nectar (this was in vain, because Jerry had already begun to engage the geranium sensually). James watched in disbelief for nearly twenty seconds before he quickly flew over to Jerry, who has actually quite busy. "Jerry," James approached, "We are bees. Not butterflies."

"Well l-look what the spider dr-drug in," said Jerry, already inebriated, and actually very busy.

"Honestly, I didn't know it was possible to get drunk so fast," James countered. He sighed. "Look at you, sir. What have you become? Barely out of the larvae stage. Can't even terrorize the Fat Ones? What are you, some kind of plant whore, a botanical slut (if you will)?"

"Th-that's not what you're mother s-said last n-night?!" Jerry spewed, stumbling into the side of the pot, so discombobulated that he didn't know how to fly. Without further ado, Jerry's drunken motions threw him off the earthen balcony, and into the water that plant was sitting in. 

"So," said the geranium, with a hint of lust in her voice, "Doing anything tonight?"

End.

What can I say? I hvae a way of dsetyoring wrods!

Good night, kind sir.

On Dreams

Three packs of Swiss Rolls, Kleenex, Otto Link, and Tiny City.

Dreams are interesting, to say the least. Why does the human mind create dreams? To entertain? My dreams, that is, my subconscious dreams and my en-dormio dreams are entertaining. Last night, I was playing frisbee with my old red frisbee, and every time I threw it, it would hit one of my teachers in the back. We (every one from school) were standing outside, on a really muddy beach by Lake Norman. After I accidentally pegged Mr. Hoffman, I was driving on a boat. I saw a dolphin. And then my foot wasn't on the gas (boats don't even have gas pedals). Then I saw a pod of dolphins. Then the boat was spinning out of control. Then I woke up. Before that I was working at Home Depot/Best Buy. And just before I was working I was a customer. 

Dreams, like the aspirations and goals are also curious. Motivation. Is that what drives the human race? Motivation x money = greed (humanity). Not always. "I have a dream." Perhaps the sublime motivates us. I love the sublime. Sometimes it inspires me more than anything else. The overwhelming power of nature. Sometimes I can't stand it when too many things are going on, too many people are talking, especially lately. I have been very angry lately. 

I talked to her. I apologized. And just like that, it was over. I had a dream. And yes, it was both. Motivation. What motivated me to pursue such a dream? Loneliness. Feelings of sadness, fatigue, perhaps anger and definitely confusion. How could I have been so blind? Every night in bed I would just lay there and think about it. I would dream about it in that sense. I tried to make sense of everything when really, nothing is real. Nothing makes sense. Two plus two is four, but those numbers and figures seem detached. If I had been told that two plus two equals five my whole life I would've believed it too. Tabula Rasa. Nothing is real. And I thought skepticism was a bad thing (Hume). Ponder, Lock locke my mind. 

As I said, it is done. I said my sorry. She pointed out that I was just a creeper. I thought on this. I guess that always happens to me. I fancy a woman and all the sudden, I can't talk to her. I can't be what I should be; I can't function. Immediately I separate myself and suddenly she becomes a whole different person, I become a different person. I'm trying to re-introduce myself to her now - old Cam, silly Cam, why-the-hell-not Cam. That is who I was before. Carefree. Easygoing, fun, helpful, joking. I just wish she would remember me as that person, and not as an adult. I've had to live like an adult for the last couple of months now, and life beyond adolescence is not what it seems. Taxes. Bills. Life. Death.

I've thought a lot about what it means to be alive. At status quo, you are already dead. Your days are numbered, my friend. The numbers may be changing, but they are still there. If you are not dead, you are dying. If you are alive, then call me, and let's party. So to live is to shun these numbers, these sheets of information that life gives you to keep. To live is to forget conformity and do things that defy gravity and entropy. To live is destroy defeat, and never look down even to tie your own shoes. If your shoes become untied, kick them into the air and see who can the shoes the farthest. If the ground itself gives way, learn how to fly. To live is forget and forgive, to die is live. Dying is living is death is life is living. Ponder,

Good Night, really good dreams.

Shimmer and Shine Shine Shine

Crush Grape Soda (sneaked), "Blues Up and Down" (Gene Ammons blues solo, 250 bpm), a new 'tude, Jazz Saxophone Etudes. 

Evolution of a Relationship (via answering machine messages)

*beep* Hey guuurl, wats up?

*beep* Um... hey? .... yeah.

*beep* If you need my notes, just call me.

*beep* Your welcome for letting you use all my notes.

*beep* Silence? Two people can play at that game.

*beep* Go to hell. And burn in it.

*beep* Sorry. I'm just sorry.

*beep* *end of messages*

ponder, over.

The Saga of Kevin.

Kevin, Kev, Kevin. Kevin graduated from high school in '12, and decided to pursue a career in music. He moved to NYC (was not kidnapped) and became under the tutelage of a strange man known as "VW", an eclectic but kind teacher. Kevin learned many lessons from VW, until VW was busted for possession of illegal chewing bubblegum (smuggled in from the Democratic French Federal Republic). Kevin, who was at VW's shack when the arrest went down, fled the premise but was caught by a cop. The cop looked strangely like Kevin, and in fact was Kevin's long lost twin. Kevin quickly tackled his terrible twin and tossed him into a gutter, taking his twin's uniform and identification. For the next three months, Kevin successfully posed as his twin and worked as a policeman in NYC, also playing in clubs and culturing various cheeses and fine wines. He even got "cop of the month", as well as Cheese Culturer of the Year! Kevin was on his evening rounds one night when he pulled over a fine-looking woman, and it was love at first sight. Kevin and his elopee drove to his friend's Cook's flat to get married (as Cook was an ordained minister) and eloped to Arizona. There, they lived in harmony until Kevin's lover left him for some guy named Earnest. Kevin, deeply depressed, forfeited his job at the Country Club's jazz band position for a janitorial job at a local convent. It was there he reunited with his child-lover Emily. They re-hit it off immediately and secretly began seeing each other. When the Mother Superior, Agnes, found out about their secret love, she destroyed Kevin and Emily with a dull-bladed letter opener. The joke was on Agnes, as Kevin and Emilys' love was so pure they were sent to sweet sweet Heaven, while Agnes ended up going to fiery Hell. There, Kevin played bass in the Gospel Angel Praise Band while Emily taught the fine sport of tennis to little cherubs. The lived happily ever after. Ponder, Kevin.

I was thinking the other day (this happens to me a lot). I thought about how everyone in the world has their own story. Six billion people (6000 million) (100,000 x 600,000) all working and living and breathing together under one sun, one moon, and one sky. We are all human. Some are white. Some are black. Some are big. Some small. Some freckled. Some with lots of moles. Some that are rich. Some that are poor. Some that are Christian, some that are Jewish, some that are Muslim. We are all human. We all have the same sun, the same moon, the same earth and the same wind. We are connected, whether we like it or not. We should bond together, to fight a much more daunting evil than each other - climate change and primates (or insects). Ponder, 6,000,000,000. 

I'm getting over her. People told me that she only likes jerks. I can't be mean. I just wish she would stop being beautiful. Whatever. We used to be friends, but now we are nothing. I don't know; I need all the friends I can get right now. I wish I could just talk to her face-to-face, but we both know that nothing will be between us besides a huge, dismal gap. I don't need counseling, just the knowledge that it's finally done. Ponder, over. 

Night. Nghit. Nhigt. Thgin!

I am.

Oh! I. When the Saints Go Marching In. G seven flat nine flat thirteen. Harmonic Minor Scale. Melodic Harmonic Scale. Dorian Melodic Harmonic Scale. John Jacob Jingle-Heimer Smith. 

I am free

So don't think about me

I am free

so don't think bout me

I am free

You didn't want me, so leave me be.

I really want to form a band. A trio. Acoustic/Electric Guitar, Bass, Drums (w/ cool percush). Late Beatles/ Ben Harper/ Jack Johnson/ Flight of the Conchords/ Ron Sexsmith/ Gnarls Barkley/ Marc Broussard/ meets Avett Bro's / Al Green/ 10,000 maniacs. It will happen. Now I need a band name... Ponder, tri-o.

The Tubaphone. The sound that dominated the post-Modern polka scene during the late 20th century. Invented by blind and deaf Bosnian politician, popularly known as "WWIII" because of his harsh political tactics, which include throwing temper-tantrums and taking candy from babies to get what he wants. The instrument itself is quite an anomaly. It is made from a single brass tube, twisted into the shape of a pretzel (which is actually Roman in origin). The Tubaphone was used in polka chart-topping hits like "Don't Stop Polka-ing," "Smoke on the Polka," "Polka Shop," and "Polkanizer." This instrument has revolutionized the polka industry. Ponder, Chris....

Good night.

Sleep tight.

Don't fright.

Don't let bugs bite.

Or pigs. Swine flu is still rampant!

Jazzed in My Pants

Tree man? Elvish guitar ballads, junk music and urban Dairy Queen.

Wow. Just, wow. I am, and always was, a fool. Of course they were joking! Ha ha! Joking about weed is just like joking about brain injuries and cancer. Life is a joke; is it not? Life is a joke like "the chicken crossed the road" is a joke. It's not, just a monicker for hell and sadness. Did I know that you, ---- had known about my blog? Probably. I don't know. I think that's clever. I know you hate me. Obviously. I'm not blind. Just a fool. But seriously - get over yourself. Look in a fucking mirror. Yeah, get over yourself is right. Sure, I'm not handsome or beautiful, but no one is. Truly the only thing I will miss is our friendship. Yes. Cliche (that means common). But then you got too big for your skinny little britches and really? Whatever. I knew it was never going to amount to anything. I'm just a dreamer like that. You're probably giggling right now about how stupid I am. Stop. Please. And go burn in Hell.

Thanks, 

The Management.

Anyways, Symposium was so awesome! The Elven song was so cool! Chitlins Con Carne was cookin', P-gang was rockin' the house, and Gatch was so sweetly distorted. Why is the Chicken so hard? Cause we don't practice. We should. Ponder, 4 choruses?

Bueno Noche, folks.

On the Impurities of Busking Discrimination

My baby, saxophone, Lucille Carmen. Phone, tissues, lots of CD R discs. 

Do you know how hard it is to obtain a Busker's Permit? Let me tell you. It is hard. You have to appear in front some sort of Council and pay lots of money. Neither of which I have (where I am going to find a Council?). And then they may take away your permit. Its like Fascism all over again. The government takes your permit and then enlists you in the army. And my own city does not appreciate our kind. How dare they! Bankers... Ponder, permits.

um. She knew! Obviously. I have now come to terms with reality. Again. How many times shall this world reject me? Lots, let me tell you. At least I got into band camp. Maybe that's why?

Ponder, 4 weeks till Band Camp!

A Funk Song:

Jack is the preacher's son

He is quite the son of a gun

Jack is the preacher's son

And he's only begun

That was Not A Funk Song.

Symposium is tomorrow! I can't wait. I really want to play "When the Saints Go Marching In" and really 'soul' it up. It's the last one of the year, but next year it will be even more awesome. 

Really bored and not productive blog post, but here we go:

The Life and Times of Emily:

Emily, after graduating high school, got a job at the local Bojangles. She worked diligently and eventually moved up to the position of manager at age 23. But she grew tired of her tasty work and packed her bags, moving to the prairie to start a new life. Pretty soon, she met a beautiful farmer named Gary,  a man of large stature and kind eyes. Gary was deeply in love, as was Emily. They eloped to Las Vegas to get married in matching Elvis costumes, and moved to Florida to clean assisted living communities. For years, they loved each other in the Southern Floridian sun. Suddenly, Gary was called away to serve in the Third World War (2029-present), after a skirmish had erupted in the Balkans (again). Emily stayed at home and turned her sorrows to the grand sport of Tennis, and adopted the ways the Tennis Mom. She forfeited her existing car for a Minivan, and refurbished her wardrobe with skorts and Underarmour. It was not long before the transformation was complete, and Emily would never change. She was at a tennis match when the Barackian Third Continental Army called to confirm Gary's death. She never looked back. On the eve of her fiftieth birthday, Emily realised the sin of her obsession and recognized the error of her ways. She became a nun, moving to Sister Mary's Holy Convent of Arizona, an arid but hospitable location. It was there that she was re-introduced to her child-lover, Kevin. He worked there as a janitor, working the day shift and then going to jazz gigs at night as a bassist. They immediately re-engaged, and Emily was secretly for some time when the Mother Superior, Agnes, found out. In an ecclesiastical frenzy (claiming it to be the wrath of Jesus Himself) Agnes fell upon Kevin and Emily with a letter opener. Kevin and Emily were canonized recently as Martyrs of Love, Kevin the Patron Saint of Bassists and Emily the Patron Saint of Tennis Mothers (ironically, Emily was agnostic!). They live is Suite I-IIm-V7 on the Holy Boulevard of the Lord's Good Assisted Living Community (LGALC, or "Heaven"). Ponder, there is a good life story.

I thought I was out of touch with the life stories, but I still got it!

Good night folks.

26 Ways To Kill A Man With A Lemon

Water, Saxophone (yes), Dolly Parton Bluegrass, and Pen.

Today = Satire:

World, hang your head in sorrow. I don't know if you have been watching your own news, but the Good Green Earth has been betrayed by one of it's own. Miss California has fake breasts! Upon hearing this new, many of the masses shed a melancholic tear, for surely their God has left them. How can such a sinful, shameful crime occur in such a beautiful, lemon-drop and/or lollipop world? It cannot! World, please proceed to mourn. In fact, make light of this story on every single day of every single week. Follow in the footsteps of the glorious and fantastical Fox News. Let their beacon of stupidity shine out for all the nimrods of the Good Green Earth to follow. Unite for the dignity of all beauty pageants ever! In other news, a baby cat was born today with two different eye colors. This incredible phenomenon has caught the minds and hearts of Good Americans everywhere. Also, the economy is in the crapper and we are losing thousands of millions of dollars. 

America, stay classy! Ponder, don't even want to. 

I think it would be really cool to have some farm animal follow me around. Mary had her lamb. That girl had that one pig. And I, adding to the glorious tradition of platonic adolescent-farm animal love, will have a rooster. His name will be "Owl". He will follow me around, and perhaps a cute little diddy will be written about him. Perhaps he will meet a spider and they will make really awesome web-signs to tell the world how awesome he is. Whatever the matter, after about an hour and thirty minutes of fun-filled platonic adventure, he will have to be killed an eaten. The barbecue sauce, please. Ponder, 2 times 4 is 8 chicken breasts.

Twenty-Six Ways To Kill A Man With A Lemon.

I read a New Yorker comic recently:

Two men. At a bar. The one on the left is in a business suit, the one on the right in a leather vest, sunglasses equipped with a shady bald head. The man on the left says  "When life gives me lemons, I know 26 ways to kill a man with a lemon." I was like "ha ha!" 

1. -obviously- Skirt the lemon juice in the eyes of victim until he drops dead (may require more than one lemon).

4. Hurl seed at victims jugular, hoping the seed hits and splits the vein open. 

7. Attach lemon to thumb, use to poke the victim in the eye.

16. Find a stick. Spear the lemon with the stick and beat the victim using the stick as a blunt object.

20. Cook a fish with a slice of lemon on top. Then feed the entree to the victim and hope he/she chokes on the lemon slice.

26. Forget about the lemon and attempt to make friends with victim. Have life adventures, share bromance and become brothers-by-matching-tattoo. While the victim is getting his picture taken by the bridge, throw the lemon at victim so as to knock he/she off balance and into the rive. Preferably San Francisco. Then mourn loss. Then buy another lemon. 

Paper:Rock::Sun:Moon

Ray-Ban Wayfarers, Cell Phone, and Volvo Sedan Car Keys.

Thinking of things

Don't throw things out of swing

A ding-a-ling sin

So don't betray your own kin

As in the kindle

the flame

the big fat name and the big fat game

that brings

a ding-a-ling

out of swing.

Another reason to shun organized sports. The yelling. What is with the yelling? Just because someone wants to practically scream a kidney into my face doesn't mean I want to go faster. "You can do it" is fine. "Finish tired" is even better. Or just tell me my damn split, and skip the politics. If I want to pass that guy, I will pass him. Jeez luweez! Ponder, four laps and sixteen hundreds yards.

It's almost like she doesn't even know. She probably knows - she has to know by now. It's been like a couple months since I told the first person. I just want to know what she thinks. Scratch that, I know she almost hates me. I just want to know if I can do anything about it. It's probably because I'm not funny. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I'm just awkward. Most of the time ignored. As I have said before, the words that come out of my mouth would be much more funny coming from anyone else. What ever. Ponder, ugh.

Yet another song for _ _ _ _

This one is called "Ballad for Marie"

This girl that I knew

She did bid me adieu

and her name was Marie

I met her one night

I said "dear you look fine"

That girl Marie, made me free

Pretty soon I was hooked

just one single look

could make my whole day

Marie was so good-lookin'

Made sure that life was cookin'

but good things, never last

O Marie

How easy it would be

to forget the things between us

O Marie

Was is you or was it me?

that caused all this angry fuss

As I wore thin

I knew it would end

As she moved on, I grew bitter

The blondes w/ blue eyes

don't go for quiet guys

just the ones who are bigger and quicker

End quota. I was inspired in part by the rhyming scheme of "Rocky Racoon" and sample part of the chord changes of "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." Ponder, four songs.

Miles

Nutini, Barkley, Talking Heads, and 10K Maniacs.

Tonite, I write:

Love 

is like

a flower

it's beautiful and clean

Love

is like 

rain

heard but never seen

Life 

is like

a cage match

it's going to hurt in the morning

Life 

is like

road signs

Always the "danger! warning!"

XXXXXX

I hear that rain, pounding on the roof like a machine gun shooting a drumset. My fingers reek of cheap cheesy bread and greasy wings, my eyes red from pollen, my feet swollen from the morning's run. I roll into bed, throw the covers over my aching bones and turn out the light, reaching out to silence the lamp's loud rays. good night.

-------

Life isn't fair, so get used to it. 

ffjjjffjjffjjffjjffjjffjjffjj

Dear Pillow:

Many nights have passed

without you, alas:

my efforts of sleep have been fruitless

I have nightmares of whales and chocolate desks

Awakedness never leaves me

Sleep never receives me

O, But now! I found you upon my bead.

A big featherful rock to rest my head

Never again shall I go sleepless

Dear Pillow, God Bless.

When Sunny gets Blue

Spoon, kind-of-stolen tuner, and little guitar.

I have an AP exam coming up. In AP European History. I really, really loved that course! My teacher was amazing, and everyone was really tight and we all helped each other out. It was almost like the Paris Commune, only we didn't each dogs (or each other). Whatever. Ponder, 80 questions in 55 minutes, 1 DBQ, and 2 FRQs. 

I wrote another song for her. I can't believe it; sometimes I think she is my muse. She probably is. Irony is so stupid.

I wish love would come to me

I wish my love was meant to be

When I look to you 

even when the sky is grey

I'd lighten up

and you'd brighten up my day

Chorus: You're the bounce in my step

the apple in my eye

My moon and my stars

The tears that I cry

Your hair of gold

and your eyes of deep blue

Your face like the sky

If only I could sing to you

I wish love 

would come to me

I wish my love

was meant to be

chorus

For you I'd do

most anything

Like run to Mars

or go to Smoothie King

I'll make dinner

and lunch and breakfast too

I'll write a song

and I'll sing it just for you 

Chorus

I'd follow you

To where the sea meets the sky

And I will love

and that ain't a lie

Remember that war isn't glorious

and life is ugly

love is beautiful

but it don't like me

I wish love 

would come to me

I wish my love

was meant to be

Outro.

Thats all I got.

Let your dreams run wild. Only in your head though.

The Ultimate Third Wheel

The Beatles Anthology, more Kleenexi, empty G2 bottle, and sax!

"Before you accuse me 

Take a look at yourself

Before you accuse me

Take a look at yourself

You say I'm spending money on other women

You taking money from someone else." - EC

I am, what some might say, the Ultimate Third Wheel. A perfect example of a third wheel is like most Flight of the Conchords episodes, in which Jemaine or Bret sit in on each others dates. Sometimes, they have both gone out with the girl. Extremely awkward! But I am unique in that I am able to "third wheel" an entire group! This surprising and rare talent has really been cultivated by a decrease in overall charisma and increase in maturity. Unfortunately, I find myself increasingly deserting my own group. Most of the time, it's not even my fault, but prior commitments. It seems that anything I say is out of place whereas said by another mouth it would very funny. 

Some people will get it

and others won't

I used to have it

but now I don't

Lordy! Ponder... that's what she said? See, awkward!

Oh well.

Hey Hey! Macaya!

good night...

Cowboy Boots and Suspenders

Junk Club, portable home phone, Bb Real Book, Derek Trucks Band.

It's not over... dammit. It's hard just to forget about her. I see her every day, and I just can't let go of her. I don't think it ever started. Sometimes I think she doesn't even know I exist. I know she knows I'm alive, but it feels weird. She is just too beautiful... What can I ever do to get her? How could I keep her? I'm not funny, I'm not too handsome, I'm smart and musical, but nowadays girls don't go for the jazz musicians. I'm athletic - but then again, the things that matter in real life don't matter in high school. She is just too beautiful...

Ponder, never.

I had ribs last night, and I didn't get the Swine Flu.

A wadded up tissue, tissue box with pears on it, kaleidoscope eyes.

Ultimate Wrestling: The Ultimate Test of Stupidity!

Are they really serious? Do men really dress up in tights and underwear and wrestle each other for sport? 

Of course, the competitions are completely real. When you look at the script, it clearly notes that any wrestling and all fighting is completely real. Thats what makes Ultimate Wrestling the most glorious sport of all! Ponder, Dirty Dan, the reigning champion!

Cancer sucks. I really hate cancer.

Go to sleep, now.

And the rain keeps...

One gold mouthpiece, card, calculator, and big coca cola. Now I'm ready.

Disclaimer: I have never ever smoked weed.

It's over. I am free. It feels good to say, now that it is over. At least, I think it's over. For her it's just beginning:

"So hanging out with him is going to be the best thing that ever happened to her, like she is going to be totally bad-ass."

"Well, I think that she shouldn't do it the first time with him. Her first time should be with me and lauren."

"Seriously, this is going to be the best thing that will happen to her, 'cause she needs some bad-ass in her life."

"Yeah, totally."

Well, guess what boys and girls? They were talking about smoking weed! Because weed can only make you cooler. Everyone knows that being a pothead is really cool and fun and safe! Well, guess what? Turns out I was wrong. Sorry! Bad-asses don't smoke pot. Dumb-asses do! Because weed is what smart people call a "gateway drug". First, you smoke a couple joints. You get high with your friends. But then you crave weed, and weed becomes your parasite and your everything('it won't happen to me!' - yes it will). Next thing you know, you are addicted, really "a dick." You skip practice, you skip school. You steal money. You buy heroine and crack cocaine. Crack kills, and so weed kills. Weed, cocaine, and then you die. Is that really what you want? Is that really cool? I heard somewhere that smoking is "slow suicide." So if you're going to commit suicide someday, why don't you start right now? 

A message from people who don't smoke pot.

And that is why it is over. I will do everything in my power to prevent this sin and this shame and this crime from happening, but what happens, happens. Remember: Life is ugly. Love is beautiful. People will always lie. If her life gets ruined, it's not my fault. It is their fault, her friends and her peers and those around her who decide that they will take the reins of her life. Good luck, and God Bless!

Cook,

I am addicted to Grape Soda

Grape Soda, Groundhog Day, Muddy Waters, The Beatles and I. 

Life is shit. Nature is beautiful, and love and music is beautiful, but life is just unfair. I'm convinced that things don't happen for a reason. Things happen and people happen and places happen and shit happens. Just when things are the worst they can be, they can get even worse. And is that were religion comes in? Touchy, I know. Ponder 1 2 2 1.

Um, _ _ _ _ 

sweet dreams?

The Cold War: People talking about blowing themselves up

Headphones, A George Washington, two Jeffersons, and a Lincoln, wine butter steaks and a tenor saxophone. 

Hell! Just to say her name would suffice.

Every time I throw the dice,

the sky spits and earth jitters

life isn't pie and apple fritters.

And yet her name

it is so simple

four letters

two of them the same

two consonants  and two vowels

her stare making me sweat (two towels)

she sneers at me

I don't know why

she really must hate my guts. 

I guess,

Life isn't apple fritters and life ain't apple pie.

5 4 5 (13)

Breaking News:

Fidel Castro has been associated with the country-western band "Cowboy Boots and Beef Jerky" in an attempt to hide from his classical-flavored cousin, Raul. Apparently Castro has been sitting in as the band's temporary cow bell player. "I had no clue," said Rusty, the lead singer. "We all thought he was okay because of the facial hair." Rusty and the rest of the band have been taken into custody of CIA and are being interrogated right now. Hopefully this incident will serve as a vehicle to stop the horrible and destructive country-western music genre and perhaps Communism. Only time will tell...

Nothing more.

Cool,

Cook

I would drive you, but I'm morally against the idea of Dogs

A golden pen, a red pen, a book about pizza and making it, and a CD guide to a keyboard.

Today, I saw a HUGE fish jump out of the lake. It was AWESOME. The reason we are SOCIALIST is that SOCIALISTS are TRULY for GERMANY and WE are for GERMANY so WE are SOCIALIST. Ponder, AP Euro homework.

Playing the saxophone. Chords and stuff. Scales. The improvisation, the real jazz, like Wynton Marsalis says. People tell me they liked jazz because you can play whatever you want and its easier to play jazz. Sorry my friend, but this is not TRUE! Its hard to explain, but making up melodic lines and harmonies on the fly is harder than just reading them off a page. The music is hard also, glissando gals. You can't just play the notes on the page, you've got to play the music, the soul and vibe to it. You don't play a blues with separated notes. You don't play a bebop with slurred notes. If you want to play the music, learn the emotion and people and the places. New Orleans means Second Line. New York means swing. "Chameleon" means funk; "Night Train" means blues; "Night in Tunisia" means latin. Coltrane means loud; Webster means soft. Parker means fast; Duke means slow. The reason these musicians became so good is because they understood and respected the old order, the form and traditional aspect and sound. Only when you understand the past will you make the future. Ponder, jazz minutes.

homework,

home is

work

is 

not

fun but

it is my job

life is my job

and its better to work extra hours.

The Show must go on.

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, 'One Single Fire', empty Wayfarer's case, apostrophe.

Forgotten Sports Heroes and Heroines:

L'mar Oswald, State University Lacrosse team Captain, 1969.

The controversial disqualification of Oswald in the final round of the National College Lacrosse Association Tournament heralded a new age of using media and film for referee purposes. L'mar stepped out the designated bounds while throwing a scoring goal, confused between the soccer bounds and the lacrosse bounds. This resulted in the only tie is NCLAT history, and Oswald, disgusted with his loss, descended into a world of drugs. He eventually settled in a Bay City monastery. 

Latifah Thompson, Olympic Gold medalist in 40 and 100 stair competition, 1960.

A stair star, Thompson lost her status as the premier stair athlete after a painful and humiliating tumble down the stairs after one of her races. This resulted in the immediate removal of the stair event from the Olympics.

Otto von Margo, 300 lb Olympic Gold medalist in the 3200 run, 1916.

Despite of his size, 8' 5" Otto von Margo, a monster of a man, destroyed all odds and became the best distance runner of the World War One. It is said the he only took one hundred steps during the race. He was drafted into the German army in 1917 to boost morale as the German Goliath. Ironically, he was gunned down by a French midget, Henri Napoleon (distant cousin of Louis Napoleon's son) who was recorded to have said "Can you run two miles from this?"

Morgan "Sugar" Callihan, National champion (1st place) in the 1600 walk, 1970.

Callihan shocked the world with his unusual and painfully powerful new technique. Rather that walk like a normal person, "Sugar" used his power hips and arms to propel him threw the competition. He walked an incredible 7:30, the world record in the 1600 walk today. Callihan can be still be seen walking today, and has actually walked across the country four times. After his bout as champion, he formed the National Group of Avid Walkers and Middle Distance Skippers (NGoAWaMDS). 

No poetry.

good night.

Its Poetry Month, so go poetry yourself.

iPod cords (lots of them), granola bars with chocolate, a powerade bottle cap, belt buckle and notepad (dusty). 

love is like a box chocolates

really expensive 

and you don't even know what you are buying

Clouds - 

clouds,

you are so big

in the sky 

lots of cotton candy

floating on wind

passing me by

sometimes you are fast

other times you are slow

sometimes is rains

and sometimes it snows.

if only i were like you

and went where the wind takes me

maybe i could listen you 

and maybe you could tell me your secrets and i could tell you mine

i bet clouds have good secrets

but i don't.

ha - blogged, in my pants.

i'm out of memories. 

Don't break my elephant, bitches.

nine new CDs, little guitar, blues harp, six packs of american swiss rolls. there were no survivors.

poetry is motion.

like the ocean has motion.

forced by the moon

tides and waves

boats and ships

and cargo and people and animals

move

by 

motion.

stars sing.

if you listen.

(quietly)

they WILL

tell you their secrets

like when 

and why

sometimes where

but never what

thats part of the game that you play

with 

the stars

lying on

your back 

on the cold concrete

and wind is mellowing through the bits of sand about you 

with the sweet fragrance of the sky mingling with you

(you're not very good at small talk)

but all the same it feels good

it is warm but not

it is cold,   but not

in between 

mellow

melodies

mingle

meeting

mellow

fellows

yet

you

yearn

you

yak

in between.

and then the sky

there are many stars

you try to count

you can only make it to ten,

but you know there are more

maybe twenty!

you see the stars in pairs

it looks they are all happy

up their hanging around upstairs

some twinkle and flirt with you

but you know there is another star

out there in the dark and blue

the sky like an ocean of cliche

so many things i could say

but if i did say them to you

i don't know what you would do

yell or scream of just be plain mean

and i could talk i would

but i can't

so we still aren't understood. 

As night embraces

and the sun paces

for more time on this earth

the fire in the hearth

and some hearts of flame

some of cold winter and same old same

I pray for you.

Secularzilla!

Water, 52 lb keyboard, thoughts on why its "lb," and Sugarhill Gang.

Which side is Godzilla on? The good guys or the bad guys? I remember the moth battled him, and the moth was good. Then there was that anime show and Godzilla was battling robots. But then there was that movie and Godzilla was having babies AND killing people. Those Japanese - Allies the Axis? Really? Ponder, 3 weeks till AP exams.

Dear _ _ _ _

I've messed up. Big time. The situation peaked before I could make a move. Now I'm just an awkward late bloomer, and out of place. You make me crazy - I just can't talk or be myself around her. Its like one look from you just destroys my ground. And now I'm bitter and angsty and you hate me and I hate you but I still like you. World Wide Web, show me the way! Ponder, too late.

Jazz club. Next year!

stuff i think we should cover

-Monk tunes - Blue Monk, Monk's Point

-Rollins - St. Thomas, Doxy, Tenor Madness

-Silver - Jungle Juice, Sister Sadie

-Duke - Sent. mood, NOT CARAVAN, don't get around much

Chitlins con Carne - Burell?

Cool.

Folks, 

good --

night

Perky. Dr, Perky.

Hohner. Yes Man!

Nerds! a cellular that actually calls people, bookmark le saxophone, and maybe twenty CDs (they like to change their minds a lot. Its a democracy, what can you do[nothing]).  

Hello - let us start over. You are a person I am fond of. I am person, just like you. I am crazy, and most of the time intact. Three parts of my life - crazy, intactilocity, and my brain.

Let me tell you about my brain. Imagine a room, toilet white with one door. It is primarily yellow, but it is actually blue (the door)[yeeehah!]. There is one chair in the room, with four legs, connected with two bars. The chair is black, like burned wood is black. There is a man in the chair. He is wearing a sombrero and poncho. He has a wispy mexi-stache and he is not smiling, but he is still content. He is holding two tambourines, that have the insignia of a saxophone on them. When he shakes these tambourines, no sound is made. When he shakes these tambourines, he smiles. When they are not shaking, he does not smile. 

That was my brain. Let me tell you more about my body. I have two ears, eyes, nostrils, arms, legs, feet, thumbs. I have one nose, belly button. Let me tell you about my eyes. They are blue!

I like music. I like it. I like playing it, listening to it, watching it, smelling it. I even try to eat it sometimes! [Disregard previous statement]. When I was young, I like cows. Then I liked horses. Then I wanted to be a cowboy. Then I liked dolphins. Then the Japanese invaded. Then I liked music. Here we are.

I can imagine you have questions - no you don't! The government will tell you what to think, and the Duce is the leader always! Big Brother is the most amazing! The Great Leader-San is all important! Now you do not have any questions.

It seems like I am rambling, but I am not. There is an illogical flow of ideas, and maybe someday I will show you my illogic. If we could friends?

Signed Sincerely,

The Cook

Post Scriptum 

Walk up to the counter, and tell that _______ that I want a ______ with _______ , _______ - giggle - 

Good _______ 

I had souvlaki, and I liked it.

A saxophone cleaning utensil, huge box of kleenex (two-ply, non cushy kind), an empty wallet, three quarters, one dime and nickel, and two pennies. and an unopened christmas c.d.

I haven't talked about music in a while. I just read a book of Wynton Marsalis' - "Jazz in the Bittersweet Blues of Life." It is a keeper (too bad I borrowed it from the library). It reminded me of why I love music so much. [Good] Music has substance - you can almost touch, feel it, smell it. Like the difference between being in a blues bar in Chicago, with a faint tinge of cigarette smoke and alcohol, and being in a classical music hall, which smells like nice wine and a certain woody timbre. Like the streets of New York versus the fields of the prairie. And music has life and vivacity, whether its the blues or rock n roll or baroque or hip-hop or anything. Music is the product of human struggle - Mozart had syphilis, and Eric Clapton was addicted to cocaine (he also had been tricked to think that his mom was actually his sister). And music has humor - Sonny Rollins was playing a gig the night before Easter. At the stroke of midnight, he played an Easter hymn, right smack-dab in the middle of his solo. Music is connection, music is love, music is hate, music is emotion, passion, all that stuff. Sometimes, I think that music could save the world. Ponder, one four five.

I like to thing that soul in jazz is like calories in food. The more, the better. All this "lite" crap and smooth "Kenny G" jazz is killing good food and jazz. Tis a shame. Ponder, 0 calories!

Metaphysical poetry: [subtexting] [explicit]

Your love is like a refrigerator.

I want to put my goodies in it.

Good night, 

Grapes!

Excellent: Broken equipment, heart, and tissues (for allergies to things). 

Damn this angst! My life works in strange ways, by the doctrine of "Murphy's Law". Anything that can go wrong, will. Coincidentally, the only funny inside jokes occur when I'm not around. The things that I say without any laughs are hilarious in coming from anyone else. I'm nice, I try to help people out, and I respect people, yet no one wants to be near me. I get good grades, I'm a decent athlete and I play more instruments than you have fingers on your right hand, yet thats "just Cam." Cam held the door, oh, thats  "just Cam." He lent me his curve packet and AP Euro book.  "Just 'f'ing Cam." I tired of being "just Cam." Ponder, fifty fifty five five.

Egads. Just the other day I remembered that smell. That clean, yet filthy scent that penetrated me for so long. The hospital. It smelled thin, like a piece of paper thrown into a puddle after a dreary day. It smelled clean, the way that surgical tools and coffins are clean. It smelled like butterflies in your stomach, like bad memories and swallowing toothpaste. So clean it could make someone throw up, but they would have to get a mop and water to clean it up so as not to disturb the frail, sickly peace. Ponder, six hours in white, clean hell.

Never judge anyone. Don't listen to anyone. Believe what you perceive. Never care. The biggest mistake one can make is never making mistakes.

A video describing the best case scenario:

I actually don't know why cave fish are blind.

Crappy Harmonica, Otto Link case, and cool acousticity, plus pencils.

Good answers to questions:

Where is the bathroom?

Yes.

Do you understand me?

Usually on the left.

Why are you such an idiot?

That would be another yes.

Why did your parents let you live?

Sometimes, I do like to listen to folk music.

Its funny how people know things that other people don't but who should know. For example, my friend who doesn't believe in God (the Jakethiest) pointed out that Jobs was totally owned by God. The irony is killing me, but I will survive, I usually do. Ponder, Old Testament!

Names for my son:

Amos Bartholemew Chuckwood Darius Gaius Julius Verus Maximinis L'Chante Ezekiel Jebidiah Jeremiah Haysooz Peter (1) Jimi E-rich Norris Mortimer Pizarro Harley Woodrow Kink Earnest Atticus Hannibal Bruce Lester Coltrane Alexander the Great  Peter (2) Margo Otto Zandy Roscoe Castro Stalin. Ponder, 35 names!

Nighty nite noit.

more

blah blah

[clean] - inner cameron

forget to mention that she is so damn beautiful, smart, talented. I probably shouldn't be posting this on the world wide web, but mistakes are a beautiful thing. Ponder, indefinitely. 

Night of the Living dead aliens, from hell

pink floyd poster, stupid pencils, empty coke bottle, and buckwheat zydeco.

horror movies are a joke. And easy. You just make some people have sex then kill them all, bloodily. and the pavement is never wet. Ponder, good morning.

[explicit] - inner cameron.

heres the deal. the scoop. daily herald. i like this chick, except she hates my guts. what do i do? i be nice. hold the door. carry her books, the shit. problem is, i don't get nothing. she thinks i'm immature. [self indulgent] bullshit. if only she knew how screwed up i am inside. my soul is shivering. the things that i go through that maybe no one i know will ever go through, go through. if only she knew, maybe bitch would cut me some slack. damn. ponder, 12 13 14.

good night.

sleep tight.

don't fright

you might be alright

don't know bout myself

Lucky So and So

Excellent coca - cola float with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, two boxes of popcorn and cake.

Damn! I have never been in a car that has run out of gas. Until tonight. It wasn't that bad, waiting on the side of the road like a couple of homicidal hitch hikers. _ Bump _ piccadilly. Ponder, in the car for thirty minutes.

Exceptions: Life is full of struggle. A person who goes throughout life perfectly is a prick - the only way to truly enjoy life is to laugh at past struggle and challenge struggle to come. I may have had a terrible run, but I respect that and realise the work ahead of me. Ponder, 30 minute jog.

Now, I bid you good night

good night 

good night...

Army of Starving Arabians

iPod cord, iPod, and a beautiful saxophone with guitars.

Not only is there the word activate, but there is also the word "inactivate," to make something inactive. I feel kind of like that - inactivated, in my dormant stage. If I don't vent soon, I will explode, like a volcano, only not as cool and certainly not as deadly. At least the to people around me. So many things bubbling up inside me. I feel like I have to been strong, for my situation - if I show any sign of weakness, a huge dolphin will erupt and destroy me. Until then, I am strong, you damn dolphin. Ponder, infinitely.

I think that every song is about love, in some way. Just like every story in humanity is about struggle. I challenge you - find a story that is without struggle. If you do that, then you get nothing. Except a discontented glare that you wont even see. But do it! Ponder, the cube root of sixteen to the fourth power. 

Lover

what do i seek?

from thee?

a little love?

which maybe...

wont it work out?

if i work on it?

and you forget the past?

and especially the last bit...

as i look?

creepily and longingly?

from afar?

if only i could agree...

Cool cats - jus chill an get back to me in when that morning light peeks 'bove the treetops and you feel tired.

Life

Baby monitor, trash on desk, and Sonny Rollins.

Life is a funny thing. Just kidding, life sucks. Life will smack you, tempt you, smite you, and in the end, when its had its laughs, it will leave you to die. The trick to life is to fight (first rule of life - don't talk about life). Just when you think your down and out, no one is your anything, those are the moments that define you. Nothing happens for a reason - what you do is the solution, the cure, the answer. If someone went throughout life with everything perfect, that would be a boring life. Life is the pursuit of happiness, the pursuit of all things good, the pursuit of love and light and joy. Just when you think you have it the worst, someone has is worser. And whatever you do, don't give up. Keep fighting till your last breathing moment, and never let life take that away from you. Ponder, life.

Part Of A Song:

As I gaze lazily 

at my sounding alarm

Its you I think about

I hope you are charmed

Because your my dove

from up above

What is this love

That I can't explain 

Open Sesame, Bitch.

Three tablespoons angst, one teaspoon of love, and two cups of sadness.

I don't know what it is, but I'm in it. Its hard to explain, but I don't want to explain it to anyone. Ponder, 2 time four divided by dos.

Maybe tonight.

Those People

An iPod Touch, angry in loco parentis (wherever that is), and fishnets?

I am afraid my family is turning into THOSE kind of people. The kind that walk around in work- out clothes, preaching God's good works to people in simple evangelical song, and most digustingly, stock their fridges with diet sodas, the scourge of a nation. I believe that diet sodas are the crutch of modern society, like how the Roman Empire crumbled on account of people going to the baths all the time. Ponder, the amount of diet soda some white people can drink.

Things on Cameron's song notepad:

the bread is drowning in the wine

let my numbness fade away

dancing in the sweet sunshine

Drip drip drip drip (in triplets)

The rain keeps falling

from the sky black as tar

Dark as my heart

Rain stop falling (?)

Mud on my soul

my heart black as coal

your love i love missing

smokes my pure heart

If the heart is a muscle,

then Im sore for you.

Good night you all.

Yoda and the Funk

A little guitar, an empty pen, and some big headphones (bigger than the guitar, and fuller than the pen).

I saw this Yoda quote today. I will write it down:

Try not.

Do, or do not.

There is no try.

- Yoda

As I recall, he then picked up a grain silo with his force and lifted it at Count Dooku. 

Ponder, Coyote chases Roadrunner.

Angst Interlude Sonnet:

I threw this chair

at a golden seal

"You dare?" he

said before the lobster meal.

I gobbled my lobster, 

with the anger in my eyes

"Hey there" he said

"Let us move to the pies"

He ignored me,

like most sea creature do

(except crustaceans, 

they don't have a clue)

And thats why we had lobster.

Ponder, Agagah.

Another one died. My friend from so many summers past, the last person who I thought would die. Yet, life is so fragile and so sudden. Thats one thing I have learned. Life is bulls raging through a china shop, each piece of porcelain a delicate life, so easy and fragile to be lost.

Ponder, infinitely. 

Goot noch

Stories from the Block

Three Goodwill finds, 50 Cd's, and two speakers.

The following stories are fictional.

Alex was literally sweating. His hands were wreathing, his heart pounding, his eyes darting, to and fro from the clock to the door. Every so often he would take a glance at his watch, or look to the receptionist. She would throw back a lazy glare, as if to say "Relax, hon." But he couldn't relax. Today was the day - he couldn't wait. Alex had been training for years, waiting, wishing, training for this moment. Not a second had gone by that he didn't think about this day, this pivotal, precious day. As the kids ran by, Alex couldn't help but notice the smudges they left on the ground. His hand felt under his chair, and, just as he had thought, there was gum there. And fresh, from the texture. Alex's nose strained to smell even the faintest glimmer of Pinesol - nothing. He could wipe the dust from the window, the grime from the sinks and the dirt from the tile below. Alex could make some changes, here, and in his heart of hearts, he knew he could be doing some bigger, like a stadium or a hospital. Only time would tell.

The receptionist waved Alex from his stupor. "Ready hon?" she squealed.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he muttered, and he walked through the door and sat at the chair in front of the principal's desk.

"Hello there... Alex," said the principal, "I see you want to become a janitor here."

The END!!

Good Night.

Pillow Slams, part 1.

New Yorker Cartoons, an acoustic guitar and a piano award.

Graced by glorious down and soft to the touch
thou art what I sleep with, for thee I owe much
To fertilize my dreams
On which my head leans,
My pillow.

Soft and luscious,
flight and flaky
go dreams,
and do take me
far away,
where heaven lies,
a place of ice cream
and butterflies
I ride upon,
thy golden mount
From the beginning
of the sheeps I count,
to the end
The alarm I flount.
My Pillow.

Oh my majesty,
where doth thine magic lie?
In thy bindings,
or the feathers that used to fly?
I will ponder
in that hazy mindscape
It will be much fonder
If I wake up late.
My pillow.

O! Alarm, do go away.
Day by day and play by play,
Thou entice me into bed,
onto which I smash my head
into thine sweet embrace
I must confess - I like the lacey-lace.
My sexy pillow.

I doth bid thee a good night. Sleep tight, no bed bugs bite, no fright, no Visa checking account plight.
Good Night.