anyone can beat me up

anyone can beat me up

two little hands, these are my defense

i die so easy but i get my revenge

see my slow motion, watch me spinnin around

little puppy at the pound waitin for you

so please come and pick me up now

anything can fuck me up

anything can fuck me up

two little eyes, these are my pretense

one gives a wink and the other pretends

once you go crazy, where do you go?

are you just going? what is that you know?

you know you have the right to be happy

you know you have the right to be sad

you know that you’re the light at end of your tunnel

be sure of that

anyone can beat me up

anyone can beat me up

two skinny legs, these are meant for kicks

i stand on a thin blade and i jog on a fence

jump in slow motion, watch me flip to the ground

hot lava sucks me down

i’m prayin for you, so please come and pick me up now

anything can fuck me up

anything can fuck me up

two little ears for the birds I hear

i run through the forest till I’m out in the clear

down in the creekbed so quiet and low

i drink a magic potion now i’m startin to grow

you’re free to say this, so please, i’m a giant baby

listening now

you know you have the right to be happy

you know you have the right to be sad

you know that you’re the light at end of your tunnel

be sure of that

kingofthehobos:

“Thanks for beating the shit out of me” - Deadbees (Making friends remix)

Plaid on Plaid.

mississippippi

all set to run, cracked off the alarm

no sense is slow, no sense is a horoscope

twisting off slopes end sly, end back around again, wise

turn back around again twice

tapping the glass, daring the Pleistocene

moving the nouns, stealing the room

I finally found your back

to aim my speech patterns

gonna sail straight down to New Orleans

through the shadows of the trees

of the Mississippippi

gonna sail straight down to New Orleans

through the shadows of the trees

of the Mississippippi

gonna sail straight down to New Orleans

through the shadows of the trees

and someday we’ll know somehow that shit matters

at the school, writing rehearsed retorts

after school, teachers burning our book reports

we’ll disfigure and blame our speech patterns

after class, you’ll try to be nice to me

I’ll pass a letter of bright catastrophes

at least you tried to show me

that all of this matters

when we get old, will you pass it back to me?

well, Nigger Jim will always be black to me

I guess nobody told them then that shit matters

if growing old, you’re turning your back to me

if that’s all I find

to aim my speech patterns

gonna sail straight down to New Orleans

through the shadows of the trees

of the Mississippippi

gonna sail straight down to New Orleans

through the shadows of the trees

of the Mississippippi

gonna sail straight down to New Orleans

through the shadows of the trees

of the Mississippippi

gonna sail straight down to New Orleans

through the shadows of the trees

of the Mississippippi

Thanks. Maybe someday I’ll update it more than a few times a year. Your internet earphones must be dial-up. THE WORST.

pull me in like smoke

it’s probably just a phase

a new boyish obsession

stay up late with me

we’re gonna do what we want

we’re gonna never learn our lesson

you could teach me all your shades

of your brilliant indiscretion

well it’s killing me that I got nothin prove

but don’t get the wrong impression

we could draw our names in the sand

or we could just write ‘help’ instead

and sit on the dock with our feet in the lake

until the helicopter lands

oh baby, I see me and you

on the bright side of the moon

our silhouettes are goin crazy again

they’re booty bumpin to this tune

alone, get alone at last

alone, get along at last

alone, get alone at last

alone, get along at last

you say we’re already home

you say it’s me that you know

you can tell me by now

am I doing it right?

you can read it aloud

in the reach of your light

you can sing me a song

you can see me a sight

disappear whispering

become clear in the light

walk away, walk around

walk to me, pull me down

pull me out, take it off

pull me in, pull me down

push me off, walk away

as I’m hovering round

turn around, not away

grab ahold, pull me down

yeah, pull me down

well tell me bout the time

there was a pretty good night

to sit beside the lake

and drink in the light

tremble like a leaf

then burn like a fire

twist up in embers

disappear in the sky

you say we’re already home

you might think so

but you don’t know

these little dreams that we broke

you might think so

we don’t know

you say it’s me that you know

you might think so

but you don’t know

At some point, I have to accept that I make pop music. And that it is not popular. I’ve put off releasing “Snafu”, because I want to make it a really solid album that I can be proud of. It started off as an idea to do a short, wordy album that I was going to release in December, but at some point, I caught the song-writing bug, and it spiraled out of control into a big, intricate project. After over a year of recording, I have heap of songs to choose from, some of them unfinished. It’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever done alone, and I’ll be a little disappointed when (most likely) only about 200 people ever hear it. The songs were recorded by a person (who is me) who has just moved to a very big city and is very overwhelmed and alone. Said person struggles with bipolar disorder and insomnia and trying to make (or well, KEEP) friends, and might have a silly little drinking problem to boot. Will our protagonist overcome his obstacles? Or continue building and reinventing obstacles to overcome? Only time will tell, as I’m too stubborn to give myself a second deadline as of yet.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that the world’s about to end. My dog’s afraid of squirrels, they will leave her skeleton in a furry cloud of tails that twirl as black tornadoes spin. Yes, I’m completely certain that the world’s about to end. A man leans on the wrong button in a stupid accident, then we’re all plus-size models, but only as silhouettes. It’s true, I have no doubt the world is ending this weekend. A meteor hits the earth and brings the dinosaurs back again, and the tree house isn’t safe anymore. There’s only one place that is, there, on the merry-go-round. And hey, no one asked you to leave. Oh, what a relief it is to be wrong when sincerity’s replaced with shame. Black hole, eye of storm, eye of animal untamed. I’ve never believed in something so strong the wind wouldn’t blow it away. Black shore, bloody fish staring beautiful and strange. I wanna believe in something so strong smashing waves wouldn’t wash it away. Black eye, bloody sky bleeding freezing drops of rain. I wanna believe in something so strong all the dark couldn’t hide it away. Black teeth, bloody mouth seeking something nice to say. So part your lips, open your mouth. Watch the fireflies come flying out. See swirling lights out in the open. The greatest shame is never hoping. So part your lips, open your mouth, watch the fireflies come flying out. You always thought that they’d be locusts. You always thought the plague. You always kept your focus in the darkest place.

April 1st, 2009 11:53 P.M. St. Christopher’s Inn, at the bar, Hammersmith, London
Riot in the city. Theatrics. Anarchists, hippies, spectators. Police getting pelted with glass bottles, cans, baby powder. Trashcans flying through the air, crashing down, spilling out. Dread-locked freaks banging on overturned street cones, pounding bank windows like tribal drums. I sat next to a bonfire in the middle of Chamomile Street and warmed up with a circle of activists while hungry photographers clicked rapidly, some of them clearly marked as “MEDIA”. All of this happening on streets that were virtually empty the night prior.

We met with Carl and his friends at 7PM in front of Liverpool Station. They had already been at the protest. Activists were taking policeman’s hats and tossing them in the air, those goofy British police hats.

Immediately I knew the atmosphere around The City had shifted. We were perhaps a mile from the action when we arrived from the inn to meet the Swedes, but the street was full of freaks. Garbage was piled up, empty booze containers and cigarette butts all around the formerly classy Liverpool Station. A lone female McDonald’s employee faithfully swept the steps which were far enough from  the proximity of McDonald’s to be a different person’s problem. The air reeked of “problem”.

We enthusiastically greeted the Swedes and made our way South to the real action. Riot police wouldn’t let us into “The Climate Camp,” a group of activists boxed in by lines and lines of yellow-vested storm troopers. People stood in the streets, the occasional police car or pedestrian vehicle grudging through the freaks. Not being able to enter “The Climate Camp” made me want in immediately. We walked around the block, trying to sneak in the back. After a few futile attempts to wriggle through the Storm Troopers, we headed a bit further south.

There was a four-way intersection, and down at the west end of the road was a particularly rebellious group in front of a line of troopers (the crowd seemed to be following the police at this point). It was a small group, but boisterous, seeking conflict. We joined in out of curiosity and in about 10 minutes there was a massive crowd hissing and jostling, dissing and posturing. Our group had gradually migrated further from the boundary: the intersecting vector between riot control and the crowd. Restless for more entertainment, friction, we moved forward again.

I passed a body lying on the sidewalk and stopped. A pale body on its back and not moving, a crowd of about 5 surrounding it, looking down. In 5 seconds there was a crowd of 10 surrounding it, snapping photos hungrily—feasting on flesh. I stepped up (shamefully grasping my camera in my coat pocket) to see if he was breathing. The middle-aged body was. Its arms and legs sprawled helplessly out like a starfish. Breathing slightly. Moving along.

Glass bottles began flying. A cloud of smoke appeared in front of the riot troops. Tear gas? Panic began brewing. Police shoving people, loud clanging and shattering sounds flooding the street, moving like a human river now and pulsing with fear and confusion, moving in unison like a school of fish. A large bottle full of clear liquid, looking very much like Moltov cocktail flies at the officers.

A huge clang. And now a trashcan flying through the air and several glass bottles. A cloud of smoke appeared from directly in front of the police again. Screaming. The whole crowd ripples like a lake. The people closest turn and run and likewise everyone does, all at once a waterfall of fearful expectation: rubber bullets? Tear gas? Glass bottles explode against buildings and a stampede ensues, ending abruptly but still hesitant, wary, backing off slowly, some people back-peddling to see what happens next: which freak needs attention the most? Which cop is the most hateful? Who will set the bar higher?

About half an hour after his collapse, an ambulance finally squeezed its way through the crowd, but the man on the ground was dead. As the ambulance hauled his corpse away, spectators pelted the ambulance with bottles.

At 7:45 activists are climbing streetlights. Bottles of wine, hard alcohol (Captain Morgan, really?) and all manner of liquor magically appear in peoples’ hands. A helicopter hovers above, the new crews are timid. It feels like something awful could happen any time, as an endless parade of police and riot troops descend like vindictive marching band geeks on a bizarrely polite raid of a city completely taken over by youth, disenchanted by war, capitalism, greed, indifference: and who could blame us for that? But silly humanity, smashing and polluting to protest smashing and polluting. Oh, the pain. Oh, the humour. It’s 5 till 2. The bar is closing. Bye.

April 2nd, 2009 8:17 A.M. St. Christopher’s Inn, Hammersmith, London
The Barely Breathing Starfish Man was pronounced dead on the news just minutes ago. I wonder how everyone’s photos turned out. They didn’t identify the man, but said that he died in the Bishop’s Gate area of “natural causes not related to the protest or police involvement.” Make of that what you will, I guess.

Authors Note: Later in the day (on April 2nd), I gave my testimony of the man’s death to a member of the media. He wanted more than I could give him.

My ancestors are from Finland, a magical place in the Arctic Circle that experiences 22 hours of straight miracle daylight in the summer, and high suicide rates and alcoholism in the winter…which never ends there. I live in Chicago, and when people here complain that it’s cold, I smile and wink and say: “Here are some facts about my home country, Finland.”

• Race in Finland: 99% White, 1% Bluish-White
• Amount of Cow’s Blood Eaten or Drank in Finland: Many Cows Worth of Blood
• How People Kill/Catch Fish in Finland: 15% with Rod & Reel, 15% with Nets, 30% with Crippling Depression, 10% with Alcoholism, 4% with Skull-Hammers, 2% with Speed Metal. (Though many of the fish hop out of the water onto the shore, just to fucking end it, you know?)
• Top Selling Liquors in Finland: 1. Captain Morgan…2. Reljenskalotteen Durggle…3. Mead…4. Ether…5. Fishen Vodken
• Birth Rate and Death Rate in Finland: Nearly Equal.

Which of these facts is the MOST TRUE? The last one. If anyone has any questions about Finland, I’m the best person to ask.