Slutsy Tipsy as reference to life concerns

Every bit of life's experience can hold answers to unsolved puzzles. It's a matter of vision, sight, insight.

In this case, we take the example of Love/Hate's classic rock song "Slutsy Tipsy". At first it appears to be a hedonistic ode to the male-based passion fantasies, culturally gender-biased power-trips and intoxicated nonsense blathered-out by the mushroom/booze/opiatic frontman Jizzy Pearl.
But, upon closer inspection, with the poetic proweress of literature in our corner, we can see a much deeper meaning:

"you thought you'd blow my mind"
-Regards the inherent ignorance of the premature mind. At the same time this stanza reconciles the need for an awakening, a violent and forceful one.

"you thought you'd suck my thumb"
-Describes the recognition of simulated and overtly-sexual innuendo as a means of intimidating and seducing this premature mind. The media acknowledges sex and sexual imagery as a pure force of ensnaring the attention of a pre-awakened state. The sex-content works in an almost sedative manner by distracting an individual from higher causes with the instinctual, animalistic urge to merely propigate it's own genetic matter. This particular stanza cunningly points towards the infantile state of this seduced individual by referencing the child-like past time of thumb-sucking.

"you thought you'd be
sweet a little slutsy tipsy"
-In which the author realizes the ease in which an individual can simulate the sense of connecting with others by merely lowering their inhibitions and servicing the instinctual needs of another. The persoanal needs of the individual remain undiscovered while a satisfaction-like euphoria of feeling necessary presides the consciousness.

"you thought you'd buy some beer"
-On the path towards awakening, the indulgences of the common man are cheap and plentiful. The easy access and potetent numbing of the beer high is staggeringly effective in dumbing-down our culture in much the same way that the indians where wiped out with the aid of whiskey. The natives, while in this desensitized state, where easily tricked out of their land and eventually executed by means of diseased blankets. In this same manner, one can only assume the beer-buzz in reference will only lead towards a similarly negative fate.

"you thought you'd crucify me"
-The fear of religion and religious consequences ironically hinders the spiritual path. The ways of others simply do not mend the gap sought to be healed by true self-recognition. The rewards of consciousness and a true awakening of the soul are not in knowing the answers, but in finding them.

"you thought you'd be
sweet a little slutsy tipsy
sweet a little slutsy tipsy"
-In which the original chorus, as it stresses it's meaning by repeating itself twice, re-occurs as a cyclical draw towards the wrong path. This persistance tells of the worlds unrelenting attack on our individualism and how it compounds itself with each returning strike. The path towards rightiousness is harder than any other and will be booby-trapped with seemingly logical pitfalls and self-serving rewards of no consequence.

"you won't be alone
it's warm inside"
-As a last effort to hold one back, the life of commonality is pitched as being full of others "just like you". Warmth and comfort are temptations hard to pass by. The spirit must have strength and conviction in order to realize that these comforts are only temporary at best.

"love is a special thing"
The final words reveal that Love is ultimately a unique and worthy prize in this quest towards awakening the individual's spirit and feeling the freedom of unshackling the cultural bindings that work to keep our dreams unrealised.

As you can see this simple song holds vast reward for those willing to trust it's meaning as being more than what it initially appears.

Next time we will explore Who, exactly, was shaking Tom Keifer, and you may be suprised to find out the answer.

Rock and Rolled Heel & Arena Arch

My feet hurt from a combination of driving and standing in front of great music.

Sunday:

The Mars Volta-

I Imagine the drama unfolded as thus: Omar A Rodriguez-Lopez pulls up his just-under-the-waist, red courderoy flairs (you know, the ones that have a matched sleeveless vest) and runs a callused hand through 12 inches of woolen head shrubbery in a nervous stroke that momentarily looses the hand from sight up to the middle of the fore-arm. He's nervous because the sound man from the headliner is never all that receptive about fielding vocational critiques from the opening band.

The problem is that he couldn't hear himself on stage the night before. . . or the night before that, either. You'd think a double stack of orange Jimi Hendrix Vintage Cabinets would be hard to loose in the mix. You'd think that triple-miking the rig would insure that loosing said tone in the mix would be thrice-harder.

But, as one lanky half of the face of TMV, O.A.R-L steps up to Sound Guy a states his piece:

"If the kids can't hear my guitar, how will they know that I'm not one of those Two-Minute-Guitar-Solo-Heros. The solo is the soul of the tune, the nervous system and the vessels. The pituitary gland, lymph node and spleen of the groove lies in those hammer-ons and pull-offs. It's what they came to see. . . I mean, besides System of a Down. You'd be doing the crowd a great service if you turned me up, just a bit at first, then lot's. If they wanted to hear the bass player we'd put him in the band photos."

Sound Guy displays, professionally, the face they taught him at tech school. The one that appears concerned and sympathetic to the needs and desires of the talent. He assures Omar A Rodriguez-Lopez that the people will hear him play tonight. They will all hear him, indeed. His guitar will be remembered as the loudest guitar in the land and the soul of his songs will pierce the porous fiber of the crowd's soul's fix for solos that not only start the song but finish it too.

System of a Down:

This little Armenian plays bass,
this little Armenian plays drums.
This little Amrenian plays guitar,
This little Armenian screams, "WEE WEE WEE FUCK YOU PIG" all the way home.

Not a dry thigh in my pants at this show.

Rasputina:

I felt like a completely fanatic lunatic when I picked up the new Radical Recital cd and said, "Recorded at Mr. Smalls Funhouse in Pittsburgh? That was a really good show". I've officially seen them more than Tool. More than anybody. I see them on stage and they look familiar, like people I know from somewhere. I think the drummer recognizes me.

Last night, before the show, I spotted him wearing a t-shirt that said, "I have the biggest dick in the band". Heard two new songs and a medley of tunes from the upcoming rock opera, all of which he sings on, along with the girls, to add a new dimension to their songs.

You just can't beat a ten foot spread between yourself and the Cello Society.

Dicktionary

Ran across this on a completely unrelated message board (seriously) and thought you'd all enjoy it's thoroughness:

Re: What is the translation of BUKAKKE ?? Posted by: Bukkake on 9/18/2005
Bukkake is the noun form of the Japanese verb bukkakeru (打っ掛ける, to dash [water]), and means simply "splash" or "dash". The compound verb can be decomposed into two verbs: butsu (ぶつ) and kakeru (掛ける). Butsu literally means to hit, but in this usage it appears to be an intensive prefix as in buttamageru (ぶったまげる, "completely astonished") or butchigiri (ぶっちぎり, "overwhelming win"). Kakeru in this context means to shower or pour. The word bukkake is often used in Japanese to describe pouring out water (or other liquids) with sufficient momentum to cause splashing. Indeed, bukkake is more commonly used in Japan to describe a type of dish where the toppings are poured on top of noodles, as in bukkake-udon and bukkake-soba. Here the word presumably refers to the act of splashing fresh semen on a woman's face.

. . . I always wondered myself. . .

Oh yeah:

Neil Gaiman's new book is out tomorrow (9/20) Anansi Boys, it's pretty much American Gods Part II. I know I'll be picking up my copy.

Disgustingly-wet kisses in inappropriate places,
-M

Hey Blog

Sorry I haven't been around, Blog. It's not that I haven't felt like talking, Blog, but life has kept me pretty busy. I know I've seen you around, Blog. I've kinda waved without saying "Hi", but that's only 'cuz I figured we're tight enough for that sorta thing. You understand Blog, don't you?

The busy-ness most recently had taken the form of a five day long Performance Art Symposium. Artists, performers and creative minds from all over the country met, here in our small town, to create an environment of like-minded individuals and actual contemporaries, for once. The semi-southern-mountain air of desolate, working-class, just-do-enough-to-get-by attitude was replaced by a lightenin' bolt of New York meets Los Angeles + the rare spots in-between of energized individuals in search of breaking the routine.

And that's what I took most from this symposium:

Artists break habit.

This breaking of habit allows for something incredible:

The opportunity for Novelty!

Holly Hughes talked about suing the U.S. Government. If you've ever wanted a first-hand account of stepping up to the Supreme Court and fighting for your right to dispense "pornography", holly's your gal. Barbara T. Smith was the maternal figure of the week, who was present when the performance art-shit hit the fan way back in the day. She was the core of all the movements. She was one of the first to decide that art was not just a painting or a sculpture or a pot but any action that broke the routines of our daily lives. She was the one who explained to me that no matter where you are at, no matter who sees you (if you are even seen at all); the smallest break in routine allows for a global change towards a more unique and spontanious Earth. I can't do her ideas justice just yet, but she has effected me greatly and I thank her.

Others, Others others where ever present and around making me think. Anthony Wills Jr., stayed at our house. His piece "Happiness in Schitzophrenia" was especially powerful inside the old auditorium of the Ridges (some good pictures here), the abandoned Asylum that sits on the hilltop along side our town. It was almost as if the ghosts of the deseased mental patients from the unmarked graveyard out back attended and nodded in approval. Besides that it was just good to have an old friend in town.

Well, that's enough for now, Blog, wouldn't wanna take up too much of your time after being so distant for so long.

Bye, Blog

A Recap:

So you may remember me freaking-out about the Woven Hand show I saw. Here's a link to some video of an in-store performance they did in May at some indie record store in Boulder, Colorado:

Woven Hand

And for you purists, some even older footage from the same site:

16 Horsepower


Enjoy!

My Magic Kingdom

DUCTS!!! Every one big enough to encircle my thigh. Could you even imagine what's in these things? All sources seem to point towards our house being at least 50 years old. The basement is just this pieced-together jumble of "modern" conveniences. I'm sure whoever does the plumbing in this town got recruited because sixty-five years ago his grandfather was the only man in town with running water and the townsfolk figured (figgerd) he was born into the position (no doubt with a silver cascade of duct-work in his mouth).





. . . and then,

We pan across the room and get a load of the fucking utility sink:



What kinda' three-stooges-shit was going on when this was rigged-up (note the arrant duct)? I mean, don't even bother with the paint job (which runs through the whole basement), just look at the combinations of pipe material and superflous angles.

At least the basement is big. We spend alot of time down there. It currently houses:

Box Storage

Utility Sink

Drawing Studio

Bassists' Corner

Weight Bench and Accesories

Glass Container Storage

Projection Wall

Slide Photo Set-Up

and so much more. . .

This little Piggy

Nothing like meeting new people!



Dressing nice is fun and it lets people know that you respect your personal appearance. First impressions are so important. All night long I kept getting into these really great conversations and then suddenly remember that I was wearing a pig mask. No one else really dressed up or anything. But maybe that's what makes a black flower braided into your face so special.

Why do women talk to me when I look like this? I'd love to think it's because they dig guys in creepy masks, but the world is never that perfect a place. . .

New Blood

The summer's over here. The students have swarmed the town. I forget that they seem younger every year. Fresher.

I went out for cocktails with the new grads in Missy's department last night. It's been a while since I've been in public, all tequilla'd-up. Having nothing to do with the college, I occupy a rather precarious niche in the grand scheme of things. I know about all the politics, relationships, under-workings, over-workings, plans, pleas, ins, outs, scandels, law-suits, candidates for promotions and demotions among various other puzzle pieces. The students, faculty, administration and laborers all talk to me like I'm part of their group, so I maybe even have a better scope of things than anyone would like to admit. Compile all that on top of the fact that I have no responsibility to any of these people either occupationally or power-play-wise and it makes for a rather fun situation. I get to bear whatever tidings I choose and that particular position comes with a certain amount of distrust and admiration. No one wants to be censored by their position in life, but most people have to respect their colleagues in order to tolerate the day. As Mike says, you gotta be able to look the day in the face and hold your vomit.

So. . .

I got invited to a party this Sunday. The theme is Black and White Clothes that you wouldn't wear anywhere else. I'm thinking white lab-coat (which I haven't worn since I went to the Opera!) some big-ass-black-boots, a super special pair of black boxer briefs that has a skull patch sewn over the crotch and a freshly spray-painted pig mask. I'm sure I've got some black and white stripey socks around here somewhere. . .



. . . and you can be sure I'll be talking to everyone about everything. Spying around in a pig mask. Maybe tucking notes deep into the lab coat, just to keep things straight. Should be a good time.

Space is not that far away. . .

20 kilometers up. That's what the scientists say.

Know what I say?

About 97% of white men should never, under any circumstances, dance with their arms up in the air. Call me rascist, I don't care, but black guys can get away with this grooved-down sorta thing where the step, step, step. . . and have their hands up, even over their shoulders, and it looks so laid-back and natural. It's got this vibe that thet are being non-threateningly territorial about their personal space. They own it and you're invited if you wanna dance and have a good time.

White guys doing that just looks like they watch too much MTV and should maybe go chest high with the hands, at most, if they're really really feeling it.