Why'd You Have To Be The Knife?

I know that I'm all but dead in the blogging world, but maybe that's a good thing. I have spent the last six weeks or so since my last post doing a lot of thinking, drinking, and running, both figuratively and literally. You can't tread water or wallow for too long, or else everyone starts to get bored with you, and no one will buy you drinks. Thanks to all that have let me bend their ear and a big soy un cabron what up to all my friends currently going through the exact same shit.I love you. I really, really do.


The one constant though, is that my new ipod (tdawg ipod 3.0) is already on the blink and being sent back for maintenance.

Ah, this charmed life.












I just landed my first voice over gig since college and am totally psyched to say that I'm the voice of Crown Royal, which is kind of ironic, seeing as how I can't stand the stuff. If ever Maker's Mark finds itself needing a pitch man, tell them to come knocking.
Although, truth be told, no one could do it better than my man.





























I would like to take a chance and commend all the wonderful writers and musicians I have been listening to while I have been holed up in Greenpoint recently.
As always, no one does it quite like Dulli, and Ryan Adams does it just like everyone else, but way more fucked up. And by everyone, I mean everyone. Hank, Morrissey, Black Flag, Westerberg. Oh, you are an A1 asshole, dude, but you cut to the core like the best of them. I have rediscovered Raymond Carver, fittingly, and devoured the oeuvre of Chuck Klosterman, who may do the whole pop culture pundit slacker take better than anyone on any of those VH1 talking head shows. The new Cormac McCarthy book rocks, and I'm making my way through Knut Hamsun, the apologist. I even read that James Frey book, totally ironically, the day the scandal about him broke. Sometimes, it all makes sense. Be it fiction memoir or a really bad dream, I will say this about that book: in terms of the feelings of addiction, he nails it. The fits, the fears, the fever dreams, the blunt hunger that lives in you that you have no control over. It's heartbreaking and soulwrenching. True, the story is total shit, but the stuff underneath the narrative fucking rocks.



This is how I feel most days. That may be a sign that it's time to move on.







In one other related note, and I know Adam will disagree with me on this, I just saw this play and it fucking floored me.
It may have to do with my current state of mind more than anything, but Adam Rapp's take on a love triangle is so dark and scary and alternately hilarious and poignant, that I forgive it's tidy ending. It was nice to also see straight up naturalism for a change, no wall breaking and such. The sloppiness of the character's speeches, the rawness of the dialogue, the authentic feel of the the character's devestation,was all completely brilliant. And I'm sure it will be a movie starring Heath Ledger and Joquian Phoenix. But that's okay too.

And finally, and this is long overdue, I want to show you what Texan pride looks like, circa 2006.

It doesn't feel like it right now, but there's a lot to live for.