TTMAB

To the McCloud River—not a lot of fishing action in the first half of the day–unless you fish with worms.

  
So it was easier to simply be a vagrant around the silent town and play my cigar-box guitar. 

And then-go back and see if that River isn’t going to cooperate.

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It’s clear to me: Yoda is Rey’s father

So how’s that for clickbait?

Yoda_SWSB

Lord only knows what this syntax-muddling lothario has gotten himself into in 900 years.

Okay . . . sorry.  But give me a minute, and maybe that theory could limp out of this conjectural waste of time without falling down. And I don’t care how many prequels or substandard, retrograde loopbacks you make–you’re never going to be able to nail down the predilections of a 900 year old muppet–no matter how hard you try.  And Yoda did manage to imply his shelf-life was still viable at 900. Chances are, the guy that could levitate an X-wing out of the swamp at that age probably had a few randy exploits a couple centuries back.

Say what you will, but Star Wars, The Force Awakens has engendered enough heresay, speculation, cogitation, contemplation, and aggravation to last any ONE of us a lifetime.  And I’m about to toss in with my own. And no, I don’t care if it’s already been posited by someone–because the overstuffed, crowdsourced, en masse glut of possibilities has probably exhausted every possible genetic algorithm concerning Rey.  I’m just here to get traffic.  Chill out, man.

Okay, I’ll drop the Yoda-tryst thing. It’s stupid. And the idea that the diminutive Jedi was involved in ANY procreative act also engenders a mental picture of Statler and Waldorf heckling him during the courtship from a Death Star balcony.

And yes, I am writing this being fully cognizant of the fact that JJ Abrams managed to tell a kid that Rey’s parents were not featured in Episode VII–thus supposedly evaporating the first reflexive theory that Luke Skywalker is Rey’s father.

But I’m not convinced that his statement actually commits the obliterative act. And yes, if you follow the link, you will see that Abrams ultimately walked the statements back–most likely at the barrel of executive guns.

He did in fact say that her “parents” were not in the film, and I think that might give him a bit of wiggle room on the plurality–since the question “are either of Rey’s parents in the film?” was not asked.  Dedicated audiences of serial cable TV can tell you–these guys play fast and loose with the truth all time.

Then, one day I saw this:

does-the-star-wars-the-force-awakens-opening-crawl-give-away-skywalker-family-secrets-767856

Anyone notice something interesting, assuming that Leia has only one brother?

That’s right. Commas are missing.

In a world in  which the grammar Nazis are hiding in the towers, ready to take on even the most cohesive argument over a syntax error–this is pretty extraordinary.  For those that don’t see it, I’ll help you by writing it the way it should read, if Luke is the only sibling with which to contend with here:

With the support of the REPUBLIC, general Leia Organa leads a brave RESISTANCE. She is desperate to find her brother, Luke, and gain his help in restoring peace and justice to the galaxy.

rey_bb_8_star_wars_the_force_awakens-wallpaper-1024x768The commas are in bold lettering.

Now I don’t believe for a minute that this was an accident.  In a world in which every single frame of footage is poured over endlessly–this little slip wasn’t about to go unnoticed.  It just simply can’t be.

But that doesn’t mean we aren’t being trolled.  And if we are, I am happy. Because I happen to love trolling.

So here’s my theory.  Rey is a niece to Luke–the child of a sibling that carries the usual, overabundance of ad hoc pretentious to pseudo-necromancy as well as traumatic, flashback-inducing relationships with heirloom light sabers.

For the first few days the film was viewed, the idea of Rey being Luke’s child was almost a sacrosanct fact.  But sheer boredom, and the narcissistic need (including mine) to hash out more and more plausible story arcs made that theory boring real quick.

One thing is for sure: we could all find ourselves prostrate at the foot of Occam’s Razor.  Rey could very well turn out to simply be that: Luke’s kid.

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Crowdfunding redux

IMG_6346A few weeks ago, I was standing outside, in  a break area at work, tossing in my harmonies to the rhetorical cantata that was going on at the moment.  My co-worker, Bill, mentioned that before he moved to my area, he used to cater food to Hollywood celebrities–and I mean A-List celebrities.

I’m always keen to listen to the war stories from people who have stood in proximity to such writhing gorgons of narcissism.  And Bill has no shortage of recollections from these tempestuous, maladjusted  dandies.

This particular day, he happened to talk about how many celebrities he knew that spent atrocious amounts of money on their animals.

This–was of course the perfect launch point for me–because if there’s something I love to make fun of, it’s the disproportionate devaluing of human life against the backdrop of anything that isn’t.  Bunch of nihilistic, rudderless ships.

I went off on a comedic tangent, saying, “I don’t care if my dog has cirrhosis, Daisy IS NOT GETTING A LIVER TRANSPLANT!”

Got huge laughs, it did.

The next day, our toy poodle rips her cruciate ligament.

$1,600.00 later, she’s on pain meds, and has a surgical scar the size of the San Andreas Fault.

I knew I was going to look stupid when I brought this up.  Not to mention the wholesale stigma and shame that will accompany the fact that my dog will most likely become an addict, and start shaking down other feral castaways for their Norcos.

After wiping about eight dozen helpings of hypocritical egg off my face, one of my co-worlkers suggested we “crowd-fund” the surgery.

And I could have.  My video editing skills and narrative abilities could have funded an entire dog transplant; cue the low strains of a cello .  . . haunting light-bokeh transitions between shots of daisy clamoring for actualization while struggling to her water dish . . . the contemplative memories of the children, reminiscing under bright ambient lights with a pitch black background, and speaking to an implied interviewer in the periphery.  Wrap it up with a little sepia overlay and a grungy adjustment layer, and believe me–you will lose your mind over a little animal and its hardships!

It didn’t take any talent to make Blackfish. We are always rooting for animals. Truth is, I could have made YOU–pay for my dog’s knee replacement. And you would have gladly ponied up the cash by the time I was done picking your emotional pockets.

But I had mercy.

It’s when I try to crowd fund something pertaining to a human being that things start to get a little hairy.  And I am a human being.

Which is going to cost me.

 

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Thinking of a crowdfunding venture

  
Making a record isn’t cheap. If you’re doing most of it yourself, it is cheaper.

But I need to get the thing polished, mixed, and produced at the end.
Not to mention, get myself to South America for a few days.
More on this when I’m not writing on my work break . . .

  

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And now–yet another project in the works

When i decided on the moniker for this blog, it wasn’t exactly a task rendered under flippant conditions. Even if the title, “Master of None” seems as if it comes out of the same comedic genepool of,”are you working hard, or hardly working?” as a riposte.

But really, I had no other way to chronicle the seemingly schizophrenic turns my artistic pursuits take–it’s nice to be perceived as “good” at a ton of different and diverse endeavors, but it does come with a price: dilution.

I am going to use as my counter example, AC/DC guitarist, Angus Young.  There’s a guy that is good at one thing: flailing about the fretboard of his burgundy, classic Gibson SG, playing three chords, and the five notes of the Pentatonic Minor scale.

But oh, can that man play those five notes like no one else. And while you will not hear the refrains of their blockbuster album, Back in Black playing in my house, the incandescent fretwork on that record was one of the flashpoints that inspired me to keep playing when I picked up the guitar at age 13.

Angus probably can’t sing a note.  For all I know, that five-foot anorexic is still wearing the same costume he was wearing 30 years ago.

He’s probably not sitting in front of an iMac, rendering 3d auto-cad images with spectral maps, or cogitation the Drake Equation.

Angus Young is most likely not trying to formulate  a trajectoral thesis of why his song, Highway to Hell went from pseudo-satanic anthemic proselytizing to a comedic, fist-pumping musical cameo in endless cinematic moments in a single generation.

Nope. Angus is probably sitting in New Zealand, making sure he’s playing those five notes like a champ. And maybe cashing royalty checks from the buyers who think his handling of three chords and five notes, 17 studio albums, 4 live albums, and 11 video albums is pretty swell.

Last time you checked in here, I was caterwauling about my magic act.  Well, I did it.  Now, I’m bored with that for now.

I’m never bored with writing, but sometimes my writing  energy winds up being focused within the non-blogging needs–my magic act required a lot of writing–and memorizing.

Then, of course was all my carping and whining about writing a book. Or . . . books.  So I got caught up in this cruel whirling-dervish of a cycle where I spent more time talking about a book I wanted to write, than actually writing it.

Now, I’m back to music (which in all fairness, I never do ignore).  But the difference is this: I’ve always wanted to make a record.  Not a bunch of cover-tunes, or an over processed run-up of other people’s songs.

I’ve wanted to write my own record. And now, I’m doing it.  Every last song will have been written by me (I think). But the cool part is, I won’t be the only one playing on it.  I will be the primary singer, but, as this thing starts to gain traction at the demo/songwriting level, I’ve got some wonderful, talented, and at times famous friends that all say they will help me by showing up to sing, play, or whatever.

I won’t say directly who they are right now, but if you’ve followed me for any length of time, I can say a lot with one word:

Brazil.

But mostly, I want them on there because I know they’ll treat my songs with respect.  There is a possibility that I could literally have different players on nearly every song. It’s a concept record, and I’ll elaborate more on that later.

I’ll let this hang there for now:

 

 

 

 

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And on Friday . . .

. . . And the morning of his crucifixion, the chief priests came together, formulated a plan, and took a handcuffed Savior to be turned over to Pilate.

Pilate understood that the entire proceedings were borne about by political conflict and interpersonal jealousy. As he sat down in the position of judgement, Pilate received a message from his Wife, who told him she had been given a dream of his innocence, and that he should immediately recuse himself from any proceedings against an innocent man.
Pilate must’ve assumed throwing the verdict to mob rule would exonerate him against the infamy of Barrabus—there was just no way the crowd was going to call for the blood of a man who had done nothing.

Crucify him! They screamed.

Pilate, attempting to reverse the mindset of the crowd with a verdict that possibly horrified even him, asked them, “What has this man done?”

CRU-CI-FY HIM!

Taking a pitcher of water, Pilate attempted to baptize his own weaknesses and guilt and remit them to the will of the crowd. It was too late. Pilate washed his hands and said “his blood be upon you.”

And in a reactionary moment that would reverberate in ways of which they had no idea, the crowd yelled back, “let his blood be upon us, and upon our children as well.”

And so it was.

He was taken and tied to a post. He was flogged with the excoriating blades buried in the ends of the cat of nine tails, each stroke burying itself into his flesh, and with a twist of the handle—tore him open to bleed. thirty-nine times he was flayed open, flinging blood and flesh in every direction.

He was taken to a great hall,and paraded in front of giant host of people. They stripped him naked, and layed upon him a scarlet cloak—one that the soldiers themselves sometimes wore, to mock his deluded notions of kingship on earth.

Forming a crown of Judean thorns, they pounded it down upon his head, and placed a makeshift scepter in his hand—all for the purpose of mocking him and cat-calling him–this–KING OF THE JEWS!

Spitting upon him and pounding on his crown with the scepter, they finally wearied of their own devices; he was stripped yet again, placed back into his own clothes, and marched off to be crucified—each brutal disrobement re-opening the wounds that had been drying against the fabric.

And along the Via Dolorosa he was taken. Step by every painful step, he was mocked, jeered, spat upon and cajoled. Hs face was smitten with closed fists, and his beard torn out by the roots.

Finally, they arrived at a place known as Golgotha, or “The Place Of The Skull.” offering him vinegar mixed with herbs, he turned his head and said nothing . . . .

Blow after blow, hammer-fall after hammer-fall, they nailed him to the cross—one of the most excruciating ways to die. They pounded those three nails until all adversaries of tendon and bone stood aside.

And then they dropped him into that hole with a thud.

The crowd below hissed and mocked, blasphemed and upbrqdided the King of kings, as an indifferent cadre of Roman soldiers gambled for the clothes of this shredded, bleeding, naked and barely recognizable man above them.

Passers-by yelled “You’re going to rebuild a temple in three days? You can’t even save yourself!” Laughing as they walked by.

The scribes and pharisees belittled him aloud, wondering how one who claimed communion with God would be unable to free himself from his predicament, making their own belief contingent on him doing so. And they laughed as well

And yet, a centurion was heard to say “surely this was truly the Son of God.”

Suddenly, he was heard to cry out “Eli Eli la masa bachthani!” Interpreted to mean “my God, My God, what have you forsaken me?”

Some thought he called for Elijah. others had no idea . . . confusion and angst abounded.

Then, in a surprising and jolting moment—one the circumvented Roman tradition of breaking the legs of the crucified, he was heard to say “Father, in your hands I commend my spirit, “ followed by “It—IS—FINISHED.”

And that was it. The plan was galvanized for the ages. The blood would cover an eternity’s multitude of sins. The physically-impossible rending of the veil in the temple was a moment nearly unnoticed against the tumultuous backdrop of earthquakes, darkness, subterranean thunders, and the Ultimate specter of the dead—walking out of their graves to testify to the truth.

Those three nails were more than a commodity. They were the hooks upon which all of eternity hung in the balance.

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Local Celebrity Status: Moderate

IMG_1485It would seem that a local magazine, Enjoy, got some notion that my constantly-evolving diversity would be interesting, so they did a story on me.

As a pre-emptive measure, I’d like to say to those that actually take the time to read the piece, that Emma and Clara are not my “Stepdaughters,” but simply my daughters. beyond that, I can live with the rest of it.

Probably not a lot of surprises for those that know me, and for those that don’t . . . well, this may solidify a lack of desire.

Not to be redundant, but . . . Enjoy.

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