Some Simple Symbols to Sample
Meditating on the idea of meditating, I realized how much I like to meditate. Does a nap count as meditation? (Mmm siesta!) When I'm drawing these twisted, squiggly worlds, it takes me to a groovy place in my psyche where everything is growing, whirling and supernatural. It's a sea-monkey world of infinite possibilities. I started this drawing in an Alex Grey workshop last summer. I'm still working on it because I never know when to quit.

Let the Man Dance!

I watched with fascination as the scene on the dance floor unfolded before my eyes. I was watching The Barons (whose picture is on the left) play and enjoying their show from various angles of the room at Mojo 13. (That's the hip little dive-bar-gone-punk-rock venue that has brought music to my ears for a couple of months now.) I found myself standing by a sitting mustachioed man in a plain white T-shirt drinking his beer and secretly smoking a cigarette (despite Delaware's recent ban). He was friendly enough to make small talk with me as we both watched the band rip through their set. Appearing to be around my age, which is a rising 39, he motioned to the low-key audience that stood about 20 feet back from the foot-high stage. He mentioned the fact that the 50-odd people were relatively motionless even though the band was kicking out some high-speed, world-class punk rock. "They're barely bopping their heads," I replied.

Although the music drowned out the conversation where we stood five feet from the corner of the stage, I heard him say he had some history with punk rock. He shouted, "Dare me to show ..." The rest was overpowered by The Barons' raucous assault and the damaged cilia in my right ear. He gave me a mischievous grin and flew from his seat, bouncing around the wide open space on the dance floor in front of the stage while the band continued to tear it up. In old-school pogo style, he bounced on his feet about six time, with a bottle of beer sloshing in one hand and his cigarette glowing in the other. (A regular seizureman!) On about his seventh bounce, one of the larger, younger fellows in the front row, apparently annoyed by this older concertgoer's recklessness, gave him a hearty shove that literally decked the bouncing man. In a flash, he hit the wooden floor hard with his head and back. His cigarette flared up in a big puff of smoke and sparks, and his beer gurgled onto the floor. Stunned by this sudden turn of events, he lay motionless for several seconds, staring dumbfoundedly at the ceiling.

When he regained his wits, he looked to the man who had flattened him with an inquisitive but forgiving look and reached up his hand with man-to-man, mosh pit camaraderie. I was disheartened to see the initial disgust and denial on the face of the fellow who had provided the bouncing dancer with the flattening blow. Perhaps he had been splashed by the beer, or disapproved of his cigarette, but the extended hesitation before he begrudgingly hoisted his fellow music fan to his feet spoke huge volumes about the unnecessary chasm between people who have more in common than differences, and the missed opportunities for shared fun, dancing and music. My heart went out to the guy who had the bravado to pogo in the face of the complacent audience, and I was disappointed by his defeat at their hands. Dancing was unofficially banished for the night at the moment his head hit the floor, never to reappear for the rest of the evening.

Once the bouncing man was back on his feet, he made his way to the bar in the next room. Minutes later, he was nowhere to be seen again, undoubtedly sporting a hefty new lump on the back of his noggin.

Then I remembered a strange thing: There was a similar incident earlier in the evening on the dance floor that had passed right by me until I found I had something else to compare it to.

While watching the speedcore intensity of Prone to Violence, a band (whose picture is below) that reminds me of FEAR on speed (with a much better guitar player), two lively fellows stepped onto the dance floor between the audience's standing and the band's thrashing, and individually banged their heads frantically while stomping around trying to spark a mosh. Their acts of controlled aggressive behavior went barely noticed by the audience and subsided after the song ended. Since I was holding a pint of fresh draft, I was happy that the belly-butting and body flinging didn't spill a drop. Although this first move to charge up the dance floor at Mojo 13 with some activity failed to produce more than two sweaty rowdies, it was a valiant try. (Better luck next time my seizureman brethren.) Shortly after the band finished its set, I noticed one of the headbangers standing outside of the club chatting with his friends. Although he seemed to be pleasantly conversing, a fresh spattering of blood was strewn across the front of his T-shirt. Could he have been the first victim of the anti-dance vigilantes?

Perhaps I have it all wrong and this bloggy talk of rigged elections and dubious excuses for war has my mind swirling in a conspiratorial blur. But, beyond their mutual affection for dancing at punk rock shows, I noticed another commonality between the two victims of pain I witnessed that night: Both wore plain white T-shirts. Hmmm. Was it the dancing that singled them out for injury, or could it have been their logolessness?

Do you have the strength to buck convention? Do you have the courage to go undefined while all the rest sport emblems to mark their identities? Are you brave enough to dance while others stand still? It was only a few months ago when I saw an innovative skinhead at Bankshots (another Wilmington live music venue) dare to add karate kicks to slam dancing as his own personal statement, so don't believe it when the timid tell you that Delawareans don't dance.

Good luck fellow seizuremen and seizurewomen. May the pogo be with you.

Dreaming and drifting baby! This blogworld freaks me out! Some of those folks out there are blowing my mind with their super smarts and sweet ass jobs typing away at the cosmos. Tickity tacking with their brains laid bare and their giant naked egos swaying in the breeze. I was trying to follow some of the gaming banter and the Lost clues, but wowza! Reading the personal diary stuff of families and common folk warms my heart, and I am proud of that Chasing Ghosts vet. He has nothing but love for our boys overseas and works to get more support for veterans from their president, as Bush rarely mentions them in speeches and all that. I almost warmed up to his perspective completely, and all of his heart, but I say we end that fiasco as fast as possible to save our sons. We can try to democratize those people when our regime starts to set a better example. It's embarrassing what we do overseas. What's this about the CIA and secret torture chambers in Romania and Poland? Did we expect any less? I need some good tunes from Rowan University's student radio station, Rowan Radio, to clear these images from my head.

I noticed folks talking about that great article by Robert F. Kennedy Jr. in the new Rolling Stone. What a great piece of journalism! I saw that some folks took shots at his belief in exit polls, but I say those same experts and statistics should be well regarded. We all knew there was funny business going on with the past couple of elections, but it wasn't ha ha. It was that peculiar stench kind of funny that reminds you why surrealism says so much. We're in Dali days baby. Things are dripping and exploding in the strangest of places. The article's illustration by Matt Mahurin was sad, spooky and ominous. Kennedy says that the 2004 election was so fraught with fraud that we are truly hailing to the wrong chief. I believe every word of it.

By the way, that DVD by The Residents is called Icky Flix. I hear they have a Web site at www.residents.com, but I haven't been there yet. I'll report back once these seizures subside.

That's Dusty (below) from The Barons singing about beer (as usual). If you are near Wilmington on Friday, June 9th, be sure to catch them at Mojo 13 with Tube Dutch. Both bands feature former members of Marcus Hook, so you know they rock the Kasbah!

(Ee-gad! I am so lame about writing regularly, but I'm trying to improve because I dig getting those responses from out in the blogosphere. I appreciated that comment from Boston about dreading the sound of chainsaws in the neighborhood. Mmmm support!)

Not only do I love trees, but music makes me feel all tingly as well. I was watching a new DVD by The Residents (those men and women wearing the big eyeballs as heads) I picked up at the New Castle County Library (here in Wilmington, Delaware) and I was inspired to work toward adding more random imagery in my life. The video, which is a collection of all many of their older and somewhat newer video pieces, was sometimes hard to watch, other times it was downright captivating. When it got redundant, I pushed the search button. My favorite part was at the beginning when the band (although art ensemble is probably a better word) was dressed in hoods made out of what look like newspapers, in a room covered completely with newspapers, and they bounced around like spastic, hooded, drum-beating machines. What a trip! I saw The Residents perform a few years ago in Amsterdam at the Milky Way (also called the Melkvekt, or some such Dutch translation), and it was awesome. I am so glad I finally saw them perform live because I never really got into their CDs and records that have come out over the years. Once I saw them live, I realized why they have continued to be a phenomenon. They are actually a theater troupe that plays music on guitars, drums and synthesizers, while acting out their songs, usually hidden beneath bizarre masks and costumes. Their songs are actually wonderful stories that come together when the theater portion ties up all the stray images bouncing around in their freaky, sometimes-spoken tunes. Anyway, I was amazed that Delaware's libraries are carrying such subversive stuff. The Residents' one-minute movies on the DVD were also quite freakish and somewhat provocative. They make me want to pull out the video camera and compose some of my own wacky undulations!

OK, there's more than trees growing in my mind these days. I am truly digging the new club up the street in Claymont. Mojo 13. Nice digs. What was once called Sneaky Pete's and The Brandywine Tavern before that and what is often refered to as Nick's or some other personalized moniker, is now a tavern that features regular live bands and even all-ages shows for kids on weekend days. What a timely rise to the occasion! After the Barn Door closed a year or two back, live music has been hard to come by in Wilmington, even though there are some interesting places featuring live, original bands on a regular basis, such as Bank Shots and whatnot, but they are a little farther away, and Mojo 13 is within walking distance. Perhaps I might even pull out my electric scooter and zip over there for a drink tonight! It's a peaceful ride home too, on Philadelphia Pike, with the Delaware River shining on one side and Bellevue State Park rustling on the other. Some of the bands I've seen at Mojo 13 have been excellent. Tube Dutch from around Baltimore. The Barons from Claymont. Even Toothless George from Philly was great for about 5 songs while playing with a spur-of-the-minute ensemble. And the Bionic Crayons (or is it Bionic Crayon) were a breath of fresh air. How about those Coffin Lids! They rocked the house! OK, that's what I've got to say for now about the place. I'm hoping to see Eph Tradition there on Saturday. Hopefully DJ will perform his famous beer bong stunts! Watch out front row! I've heard they are playing with a Philly band called Bitchslicer. Sounds spooky. My guess is that it's NOT a punk rock girl band of cutters, and perhaps a death metal band from Philly, but I could be wrong.

To quote a famous song by Absense of Authority, "It's only a spasm momma, I can't help it. I'm Seizureman."