Weirder all the time

Deer on cinder blocks. It’s a fucking masterpiece. Looking out my window, the new neighbors flaunted their decorating talents. I wasn’t even sure what I saw was real. Deer on cinder blocks, on red rubber mats. Fucking genius. I only wish I had thought of it first. They had hedges, beautiful hedges, much like normal humans would, but nothing says "Hey neighbor" like plastic deer lawn ornaments on red cement blocks, kept in by a tiny picket fence... so they don’t get away I would guess. These neighbors will be fun.

          The man that moved out will be missed. One day, he knocked on my door during my band practice. What a horrible racket we must have made, but he was a sport. "Come over, I have something for you." I began to follow. "I can only find half of her but if her legs turn up, I’ll let you know." I began to worry. We snaked through the overly boring house, nothing out of the ordinary, and into the basement. He rambled on about up north and his buddy, and some Jacuzzi, and a mannequin they dressed up, and "huh?’ I mumbled as if I just tuned in.

          He picked her up and handed her to me. The upper half of a lie down mannequin. Part of me wondered where part of her was, but was afraid to ask. Never the less, he volunteered the info...  something about a move and packed away, and maybe his wife used her for fire wood. "She’s yours if you like her." "Sure" I said.  "Who wouldn’t." and I carried her upstairs, past the pictures of his grandbabies, and out the front door. My friends watched as I left the mans house with half a naked mannequin, crossing the road in daylight with a rum and coke in one hand, and a naked upper half of a bald chick in the other. As I waited there for the traffic to clear, I took notice; she was the most well endowed mannequin I had ever seen. I had seen a few mind you, even had a couple. This didn’t pop up out of the blue.

          Strangers don’t just knock on doors giving away parts of mannequins, there is a process. I worked with Bill. How he found out about my mannequins, I don’t quite recall, but they were never a guarded secret. So, as he was digging around one day he came about the upper half of the well endowed torso and came knocking. "Strangest thing I ever saw" one of the stringers in the band mumbled. "A sixty year old man giving away body parts, and the happy recipient carrying them across a trafficked street. Wow." mind you; he was out for a smoke break when he witnessed this, and not just any smoke. "Stick around" I said. "It gets weirder all the time."

          Deer on blocks. Man I wasn’t kidding. I choked down the last of my imported absynthe, and swore I wasn’t really seeing the desecration of Bills beautiful shrubs, but when all is said and done, I love the fucking deer. Especially since they went to the great length of keeping their natural habitat of cement blocks, rubber mats, and those cute little plastic fences. Reminds me of some sort of a miniature golf thing, but I see no place to rent the clubs. Besides, no miniature golf coarse is complete with out a windmill. Maybe that’s yet to be unpacked. I think I will go find my putter. Yes sir, it gets weirder all the time.

"**** man! I hit something!" The streets are dark, air is chilled. Just a little thump, but i knew it was a living thing. The kind of thump that’s shrouded in a protective rubbery cover, the way that skin and fur absorbs the crack and lets it out in a gasp. I stopped in the road. Right outside my window was a big Harley-Davidson shaped mailbox with flames on the sides. "Bastards." "Stupid mailboxes and animals running rampant in the streets. What kind of place is this?" I asked. I slid the shifter into park... CLICK. Loud **** car.

I drove a ’75 Monte Carlo. Big and beautiful. Flat black paint, hand painted flames. Maroon interior. Something the devil himself would drive. It weighed about a million pounds and sounded like a train when it came to a stop. I turned down the radio. Thick swirling fenders, a medieval quality bumper, and open headers with occasional flames bursting out. Three hundred and fifty cubic inches of hot flint steel. Through the creased rear window, I could see only a shadow.

I grabbed the cold steel handle and swung the two hundred pound door open with aggravated caution. It tends to bounce back a little, so I was never too eager to plunge my leg into the gap until it came to a spring held rest. The dome light blasted out, and I watched my pupils shrink to dots in the rearview. I hiked my way up and out of the swiveling captains chair and found firm footing on the yellow lines that separate the halves of the asphalt side road. A lifeless lump in the center of my lane.

I looked around for a bit. God forbid the owner of the fluffy has-been could be witnessing this disaster. There in a bedroom window, little Suzy looks out and sees fluffy get mowed down by the devils chariot in the middle of the night. I don’t notice any spectators as of yet, but the loud purr of my fuel sucking four-barrel screams to me to work quickly. "I could leave." I muttered. Why do I need to put a face to this carcass anyhow? Curiosity kicked my **** in that battle.

It would be a thirty or forty foot walk back to the furry shadow in the road. Plenty of time for me to change my mind if need be. Then I thought of little Suzy, on her way to the bus stop discovering that fluffy was murdered in the night whilst she dreamt of sugarplums and Santa Claus. That sort of **** could scar a child. I must remove the animal. Thank god its an animal, and not little Suzy herself. "If the damn kids are playing in the road at three in the morning, its their own fault" I spouted off to no one.

It wasn’t a kid, it had fur. I got closer, yet farther. A distance created by my mind no doubt. Tunnel vision. "Christ, I’ll pass out right here in the road. That will do the poor girl nicely in the morning." the red glow of my taillights spread across the creature. Along with the light dripping off the moon, I could make out its shape.

Right in the center of the lane, clipped by my axel pig for sure. Damn boat only clears by a few inches. It was probably out foraging, or off to an important date. It certainly hadn’t planned on some jackass in a Monte Carlo to come barreling down on it in the darkness. I can’t even think about the thing rotting away in some ditch, covered in maggots and ants. Cold and stiff by dawn, I’m certain of that.... poor fluffy.

"Here fluffy. Where are you boy?" weeks of that I’m sure. Maybe I should leave it here, to get rid of the wonder and Suzy can get on with her life. Get a guinea pig or something, and for chrissake, keep the damn thing out of the streets. No, I need to clean this up. I’m close enough now to make it out. White cottontail, body grey in color. Silly rabbit, streets are for cars. It’s a wild bunny. Was a wild bunny... a bit re-shapen now.

Blight. There’s a Drug dealer across the street, beating dogs and women at all hours of the night, and my wonderful city has cited me for blight. An immobile or unlicensed vehicle parked neatly in my driveway, and a tire stored neatly at the back of the property. Second thoughts about cutting that last tax check. I was a bit behind, I must admit, but in my defense, I have caught up. 4500 dollars over the course of a few months. Blight. What a ****. Apparently those tax dollars went right to work and put a foot soldier on the loose in my neighborhood. I think they should start making my payments if they want to tell me what to keep in my yard, much less in my driveway.

        "Shovel your walk or you won’t get your mail." Fine with me. Mother nature dropped it off, she can pick it up. When she does, resume delivery. Then I come home to a cleanly shoveled walk and a bill from the city. That wasn’t the arrangement you pigs.

        "Mow your lawn or we will mow it for you." Can’t you just stay on the goddamn sidewalk? There’s no snow in the summer, and not nearly enough oxygen producing plants left in this fuel-burning world. In a town full of drug houses, hookers, and homeless, they are worried about length of my grass, snow on my walks, and the placement of my spare tire. I tried to throw it away, but they gave it back. Make up your mind already. Goddamn communists. I think I’ll bring it down to the porch of the city building and let them move the wretched thing after all. The foul beasts will probably trip over it, walking ’round with their nose held high. Surprised they hit this side of the tracks in the first place.

        What the hell is it gonna take for these people to realize, you shouldn’t put lipstick on a pig? There are far bigger problems to focus on in this city before the tire in the yard actually becomes an issue. What about the boarded up building across the street? What about the junkies begging for money when I walk to my car? "Cool City?" It’s a cold city. Empty storefronts, and a system that makes it beneficial to keep it that way. This city will never progress as long as someone in Bloomfield hills owns a closed down building to take a loss for tax purposes. What kind of system makes that right? The kind that believes it’s the fault of my tire, clotting up the whole works.  

        Most of the old corruption had moved out of the city council and made room for the new corruption, and by god, I hope they prove me wrong.  Will even that be enough? Start with tax incentives for filling those empty businesses, and penalties for empty and dilapidated buildings. Encourage those that are sitting on that real-estate to get it filled or get rid of it to someone who will. An empty downtown only encourages others to move elsewhere. Then, and this is no small feat, but if someone doesn’t fix the tax quandary, even I will be following the convoy out of the city. Its way to TAXING to live IN the city, and they don’t tell you where to keep your tire out in Ruby. Finally, the Plaza...

        Pull your head out of your **** on this already. I am all for a kickin new plaza, but its a border… To another country. It should be just a little harder to get to Canada, than, say, Lowe’s. If this project splits Port Huron, and makes it harder to get from uptown to downtown than from p-town to Sarnia, you guys are idiots. We already have a Gazillion Ontarians working over here while we are experiencing one of the lowest employment rates in...Well, forever. Dare we go there and work as a waiter? Impossible. As it should be. I don’t mind bouncing over once in a while, but it’s another country. It shouldn’t be easier than going to the mall. We’re killing our own town with this thing. Maybe that’s just my bitterness talking, as they have kicked me out, for good, as I understand.

        Anyone want to buy a tire?

                                                                    Robby x

Happy asadachi

        Happy asadachi to you. If you know what that means it’s a bloody miracle. Not that you’re smart, but that I converted all those squiggly looking Japanese pictures into an English reading word correctly, that would be amazing. I’m beside myself. I found out I weigh 31 pounds on the moon, and 74 pounds on mars. I was really hoping for a bit less. Maybe a bit more, I’m not sure, buy as the saying goes, "evil deeds won’t do themselves", so, rum and coke all around.

        My life seems to be sponsored by the Captain these days. A good nights sleep starts around 8:00 am, and is usually followed by Tylenol, well, and a little more Captain. Controlled chaos. Maybe a xanax now and again for the spikes of frenzy, and of coarse, the unmentionables. But that’s what keeps my edge so damn dull. Simply the natural side effects of chronic boredom. I heard that somewhere.

        I was in Vegas, keeping my relatively skitzometric self out of trouble and just kind of taking things in. I sat there in the Luxor, the pyramid. I had heard that an amazing amount of people leap to their death inside this hotel every year, and god, why not. It’s fucking beautiful.

        I was looking down from the top floor, and the people were just scurrying about like ants down there. A scene depressing in and of itself. Now add copious amounts of alcohol, drug, coupled with gambling losses, and hell, maybe you married Brittany Spears the night before. Dammit, the jump looks inviting. Not for me though, not yet. I still had lots to drink. Nearly a full yard of margarita, not to mention, a fridge full of rum back home. Maybe next trip? After all, I’m still too fat on the moon, or was it skinny? **** it, drink up.

        Gotta go see a juggling bartender about a refill before the polar bear ballet. You really can do anything in Vegas. Dancing bears, midget choirs, hooker menus in front of Circus Circus. What a valid excuse for American excess.

        Back at home it’s 9pm. I’m hard pressed to find something other than karaoke or bowling after 9pm in good ’ole Port Huron. The bureaucrats, the good ’ole boys club, city board, whatever your favorite term for "devil" is, has managed to kick the life out of the city every time someone tries to resuscitate it. Now they have successfully chased off a hockey team over the price of nachos and a soda, and McMorran sets empty again.

        Your apathy allows these beasts to keep suckling the teats of the city until the milk runs dry. Wake up before we are just another Flint or Detroit. This little port city border town could actually be something. Topple these pigs! At this rate the good ’ole boys on the city council will be the only ones left to turn out the lights when this necropoliptic city gives up on us.

        Every week should be boat night. That used to be like Mardi Gras till the stuffed shirts sucked the fun out of even that. Now it’s pigs on parade. Balduchis carries less bacon. Cruise-less cruise night? When did we, as a society forget how to have fun? I beg of you, climb up on your roof, take your clothes off and bark at the mailman!

Ammunition for thought

Here I am again. Sitting up, late at night, and sometimes even as the sun rises, with a nickel-plated .45 pressed firmly against my temple. I’m trying to recall the mission. Why am I here? What should I be doing to move foreword in this monotone existence? Oh yes, "make a mark". I always thought that was the answer. Leave some remembrance on society. What kind of mark and why? Those questions and the like still reluctantly pull my finger away from the trigger of the loaded, cold steel brain replacement.

My writings reek of constant incompetence and oft find their way to a shelf long before they are finished. My music overflows with disappointment and despair, having never possessed talent long enough to convey my minds song to a legitimate copy for the masses to indulge. My art is mostly spawned of ideas much too odd to publish, or simply bad "cover tunes" of something I may have seen in life prior. Every night, around this time, my nickel-plated friend and I speak of this in great detail.

A lot of these so-called successes seem to be self-proclaimed. The fact is, "rock" is dead. The days where you could write from the heart and sell it to the sheep are gone. Too many musicians are a sculpture put together by a multi million dollar record company, according to charts and graphs about what is hot, and what will sell. The foul irritants no longer want real and relatable. Now they scream for mind numbing beats with catchy drives and repetitive grooves. Bob Dylan and Tom Waits would be lucky to headline a sushi shop or a bookstore these days if not for the faithful masses with a memory for what was great. They could pass for posh and trendy, but no movement would rage behind their words, that’s for sure. Poetry is no longer the art of pouring a story into a rhyme, but placing ramblings in a versed sequence of unrelated events.

Man,

Fish,

Taiwanese dreams.

Once I lost a shoe.

Posh see?

This is today. The continual quest for something else that no one has done has led a vast ocean of lemmings into a society clamoring for a brilliant idea. Mr. Edgar Allen Poe would adapt to writing hallmark cards with all his childish wit in rhyme. it sickens me to see the laziness and emptiness filling the heads of penguins, eager to pick up and run around this rock, one after another, because the one in front did. Millions follow, and not one asks, "Why are we running?"

Don’t mistake my hatred for complacency. The fact is, i am one voice, and a loud, opinionated one at that, self righteous to no extent, and quite a disappointment to myself. The barrel of the gun has now accepted my body temperature as its own. Part of me. It all seems too easy. The flick of a finger, a few well placed flashbacks, a burial, and finally an end to this shivering boredom. Go to work. Pay the bills. Pay your taxes. Consume. Such an ill faded version of what the "great entity" had intended. Someone out there is rich because you do what you do, and for some strange distorted acceptance, it isn’t you. I work. I eat. I pay taxes. I even donate to charities, and try to do my part to save the world. I do not reap the rewards of my ventures, and sadly, for some karmic imbalance, I never will. Someone once said: "what price: freedom?" what price indeed?

First we must define freedom. Is anyone ever truly free? My answer is yes, but not for the reasons you naturally assume. If I walk away today, from life itself, and the obligations therein, would I be free? No work, lest my own whittling of time. No bills, as corporate and credit America eat the losses. No taxes, as a homeless vagabond. if you are willing to give up all that this omnipresent society has demanded for your own personal enjoyment, and take on the true adventure of life, there is your freedom. Even then it is limited.

A lion kills in the Sahara for more than one reason. Food of coarse, but also to show or display strength, and protect the pride. The lion kills another’s cubs to eliminate competition to his bloodline. Hitler the lion. A snake kills out of self-defense, and hunger. A baboon kills out of curiosity, as well as all of the above. This is true freedom.

In 1993, while picking up the pieces of the gulf war, I rummaged through the market streets of Saudi Arabia. A loud call came from above. A shrill scream, loud and piercing. A mighty baboon atop a three story building descended the side with meticulously crafted swoops and swings and came to rest in a dumpster. With the wildly entertaining sounds of a baboon catfight, the baboon rose triumphantly out of the now quiet dumpster with a cat in his grasp. A snap of his wrist and the cat’s body fell limp. The victorious beast placed the cat in his fanged jaws and resumed his place on the perch from whence he came. He then shared the spoils of his carnage as pieces of cat rained down from above in a magnificent display of dominance. This too is freedom. Freedom is chaos, chaos without guilt. So once again, what price: freedom?

The shiny, now fingerprinted firearm grows heavy. Reeling through the Rolodex in my mind, I find myself searching for an excuse. Not an excuse to pull the trigger. Quite the contrary; an excuse not to. So far the only thing that puts the unfired beauty back into the case night after night is a feeling of unfinished projects. With all progress on these being trapped on a treadmill, sticking in time, I don’t know how long this will be an acceptable excuse.

Friendships are made and broken in this world nearly as easily as minutes roll off the clock. True friends come and go so often that the term "true" is taken too lightly, and applied too easily. a true friend would help at a time like this. Not someone to talk one out of doing this, but maybe to help aim, or do the dirty deed. I don’t know what lies after all this mortal bullshit, but popular opinion says "suicide=hell" and who am I to argue with popular opinion. A good catholic friend could fire the shot, say three Hail-Mary’s and be to grandmas for breakfast. There is no court of appeals for a suicidist, I am fairly sure of that.

My ramblings pour out in writing, be it music, poetry, or ratings such as this, one thing is certain, I’m much too advanced to live in the past, and highly incapable of living in the present. These tools I have never received. One of my favorite truth-sayers died this year. The late, great Hunter S. Thompson. He said suicide is not so much a death wish, as it is a pragmatic, logical alternative to boredom and suffering. He is as creative and misunderstood in death as he was in life. It saddens me.

Back into the case for now my shiny little friend. For now I will attempt to sleep, and tomorrow, long after the everyday rhythms come to an end, we will continue our little dance once again, well into the sunrise. After a coat of polish and a rubdown, I will feel the cold tip on my skin, hoping only for a nervous twitch to end the conversation.

Hell please bus driver.

       It’s been a while since I sat down at this fat little word spewing beast, and I am most assured that nothing good will come of it even now. The hell with it. The hell with all of them. My fingers do their worst as the keys are helplessly folding under their absolute power. If only I had something to write about.

       Politics bore me. The fat pigs on Capitol Hill pilot their warfare while raking in the money and oil, all the while stomping on the bruised and bleating backs of the blue collar American. Dragging their bloody little foot prints to their lofty ranches and summer houses, having wine and cigars with sheiks and princes, meanwhile, back here in reality, I sit back and watch that stupid oaf nearly capsize off the stage on national TV after thanking a nation of Australians for their "Austrian" hospitality. I’m not sure how, but it has to be an insult of sort. Sometimes I wonder how that stuttering imp dresses himself, and him, with the reins to the largest country in the free world.

       Diabolical Dick was off shooting old men and birds in the face while we are in the midst of a world wide manhunt for a 6’6" Muslim terrorist on dialysis, only five years after we bombed and occupied the wrong country. Are we a nation full of buffoons, or just a nation willing to follow buffoons? They got their gas prices up to three something a gallon. "Mission accomplished" as the sign once read.

       We have a republican party full of bad ideas, and a democratic party full of no ideas, and we’re all waiting for some guy in a blue suit with a red cape and external underwear to bail us out of this hell painted oblivion we dug ourselves into. I’ve seen him. Even he’s given up. Traded in his big embroidered "S" for a bottle of five o’clock vodka and he’s pushing a cart somewhere near Taco Bell on the north end. The economy has done him a solid too.

       No jobs, no money, no plan. Global warming is supposed to be a bad thing. I voted yes on global warming. A good tropical climate is about the only thing that can bring back my property value. These bureaucrats and their rectum hats, burring us all one citizen at a time. Hell, one nation at a time, under god. What god would stand for this?

       Healthcare we can’t afford, laws we can’t follow, food we wouldn’t eat if we knew what they were feeding us. It’s ok though. Corporate America is getting richer all the time. Moved all their businesses to Mexico, Taiwan, and china where 17 cents a day will get you a bright eyed seven year old to poison your dog food and cover your toys in toxic paint. We’ll buy ’em though, if we had money.

Pickled Dreggs

Leonardo Davinci once said 95% of the human race produces nothing but excrement. Leo was obviously in the other 5% with the painting, inventing, sculpting, war machines, backwards writing, coding, ect. He clearly produced waste, but it was certainly not his top priority. I like to think I don’t just spend my time shitting around "wasting" away, but I have done nothing near the Mona Lisa, or mapping the biology of the human body. What have you been up to?

        Many of you are reading this right now with an argumentative state exploring the options of what you do. You go to work, make dinner for your kids, feed the dogs, and even find time to vote. Real stand up contributors to society. Stephen King writes a book before breakfast nearly every day. Einstein explained time travel before we ever went to space. George Washington founded a democracy, with help from friends of course.

        When you wake up in the morning, write a constitution, read a novel, philosophize. Don’t eat your oatmeal and race off to work. Stop and plan a monumentous rise to something extra, something wonderful. Just do something. Pick a candidate, carry a sign, be a candidate. Write a song. Invent a shoe. Fly a kite. Go out there and put your name in the history books.

        Stop being part of the slow demolition of this planet and be a part of the cure. Take a look through the past at all the names on the wall. The standouts that changed history weren’t all for the better. They did, however, have one thing in common. They thought they were doing their thing for the right reason. Hell even Hitler thought he was doing the world a favor. He took a risk, and failed, but got his name on that everlasting wall of time.

        By no means am I recommending genocide to anyone, but we can’t all paint the sisteen chapel either. Build a statue of liberty, carve a mount Rushmore, discover a cavern. Just get off your couch shaped **** and make a charge toward greatness. How can anyone stand this mundane alarm, snooze, alarm, shower, oats, newspaper, work, dinner, reruns, bed, repeat existence? I am growing weary of apathy, and if this society were anymore dead, we would be pickled.

        A brave man once said, "Everything that can be invented has already been invented." That was Charles Duel in 1899, and he was an idiot. He was also the director of the U.S. patent office. Oh the look on his face when the patent came through for a space shuttle, a VCR, a satellite, a DVD player, an mp3 player, a cell phone. Point being, next time someone tries to squash your dream with the age old "don’t you think if it could be done, someone would have thought of it by now?" Give them a smile, and say yes Charles, I do suppose you’re right, and get back to work on the super conductive matter disconbobulator. I really need one of those.  ~Robby X

CITY OF PORT HURON

It appears I have miscalculated a good many things, including that if you don’t owe federal or state, you don’t owe city taxes. It also appears I am broke and live in the worst city in the mitten, and state in the union for such a case. By the new calculations, it would appear that I owe this terrible town for living here, and will see to it that I no longer do come the next joyous tax season. I only nearly caught up with my house taxes, and now I’ve learned that the kind advice from a treasurer cost me another $310 for a late payment on that. So, with the "income" taxes now assessed at $1320.00 and the $310 for the home, and I am certain there will be late fees for this as well, it appears I need to work out a payment plan on my already tattered budget.                        

Sincerely oppressed,

The human animal

The human animal never ceases to amaze me. The belief in god and science is, for lack of a better term, forgiving at best. The fact that a scientist can take one skull and call it the missing link between humans and apes, all the while ignoring the possibilities of simple deformities, is astounding. If it were Joseph Carey Merrick’s (elephant man) skull would they claim we were descendent of a pachyderm?

            Christianity is even more baffling for many different reasons. Take the cross/crucifix for example. It was the method used to kill Christ. If he were put to death today, people would be running around with silver electric chairs, or syringes on their necklaces. What’s worse, what if the Romans got a hold of him with some of their cruder methods, like the pear, or impalement? Just strikes me as odd to pray to the very thing that suffered your messiah.

            Back to the ever trustworthy science…  A pterodactyl had hollow bones like a bird, wing structure like that of a bat, so it’s a reptile? For those of you keeping track, it most closely resembles a mammal, but that would contradict the timeline of the evolutionary theory. Mind you, IT IS A THEORY. From fractions of bones, they insist they were flying reptiles. I guess the feathers were nowhere to be found.

            They can tell by how deep a fossil lays as to how old it is, yet in Egypt they surface daily. Didn’t you see that t-rex walking by the pyramid yesterday?  I guess we have been living with them and didn’t even know it. Carbon dating is only as accurate as our ability to measure it. First, you must assume that carbon has always had the same rate of decay (despite climate, atmosphere, ect.) then you must have carbon left in the sample. (Most fossils have been replaced by calcium, i.e. petrified wood.) Since it’s a system to base a science on, why cant they carbon date oil? It is still carbon based. So, for the sake of an argument, we can assume carbon dating is accurate up to about 600 years, as we have proven that with only small imperfections.

            At this point, I wouldn’t be overstepping if I said science is more than half speculation. I guess it boils down to which faith you want to follow. I’ve read the bible, at least, most of it. All the good parts, for sure. I’ve had tons of science classes. I BELIEVE IN RUM. I believe that if I cut myself, I will bleed. I believe if you build it, they will come, they’ll see what it is, and then something else will grab their attention. After the initial rush, you will be alone with it. I believe new sneakers and grape Kool-Aid in the wrong hands cause death.

            I believe if Christ were real and he came back, the Christians would be the first to crucify him again for heresy. Motorcycles do feel like freedom, but the payments feel like chastity. I believe everyone has a soul, but no one knows what to do with it. I believe that if there is a hell, it’s already full, so we can all rest easy and make our world a better place. Just in case there’s room for one more, I’ll still send out a prayer every night, but with all the rappers and athletes god is tending to on a regular basis, I’m sure it goes unheard. I will watch "Discovery" tonight to make sure I didn’t miss an important link to when we bled from a rock, and I’ll toast you all… science, god, the Kool-Aid cult, and John Stewart for making my world an entertaining place to drop into.

The Violent Sleepers…

This band has all the elements to get really big. Fast. It’s a bit hard to describe their style of music, as it is all original. It’s as unusual and diverse as the three band members who’ve created the songs “Tightrope”, “World Inside”, “Crosscontinuity”, and many others. Starting out industrial, then veering toward alternative, the band has influences that span an immense number of genre’s. Robby X, the lead singer that started the Violent Sleepers says “I wanted to make music. I wanted something dark and erotic that you can dance, trance and trip to.” I would say that about sums it up, however, from the haunting lyrics, to the hard-hitting bass-lines, this stuff is NEW. Here is something different.

Robby X, Jon Fret, and Wraith are the foundation of the Violent Sleepers. Joined by an occasional floating guitarist, these are the guys that make it all happen. What’s in a name? Who are these guys? Let’s start with the violent sleeper himself, Robby X. The band name, Violent Sleepers, came from the odd accidental of him beating the crap out of things, including himself, while sleeping soundly. Hmmmm… he is the eccentric, eclectic, and least talkative band member. Oh, did I mention he’s the lead singer? Robby X materializes just in time to spin his bleak writings into something we can all pretty much relate to, and then quickly crawls back into a dark and silent shell.

Jon Fret is a shockingly talented drummer/keyboardist/guitarist/anything-he-feels-like-ist. He is funny, and has amazing stage presence. During “Tightrope” and an eerie, sexually charged remake of “Lullaby”, watch Jon play the keys with his left hand, while his right keeps the beats on the drum set. It’s impressive to say the least. He also sings back-up vocals, and does a bit of stand-up, when it suits him. When is that you ask? Only Jon knows for sure. Did I mention his favorite bands? He loves Tool, and of coarse, the Bee Gees?

Wraith being last, but most certainly not least, plays bass guitar. The Violent Sleepers wouldn’t be who they are or sound like they do without his creative genius. He writes as much of the music as he plays. Wraith creates the driving, mesmerizing bass lines to most all the songs. He can play anything you put in front of him, but it did take him almost a whole week to learn 3 full Primus albums. Les Claypool…  wow. He’s a bit quiet, but not shy. Give him a reason for conversation, and he’s an engaging, charming individual with a quick wit and great sense of humor. Did I mention that he’s only 16 yrs. Old?

On May 12^th, the Violent Sleepers will be playing a show at Club Enigma in downtown Port Huron. Also playing will be One Day At A Time, The Acrobat, 3DW, and Idopa. I know you’ve heard all the “don’t miss…” the “must see…” and the “be there…” in every ad, all your lives. From Salad Shooters, to Monster Trucks, it’s all been pitched. Well, here is a rather jaded, unbiased person telling you all something. I’ve heard these guys. Every now and then a person is lucky enough to catch a real talent up close and personal. Later, a year or so down the road, you get to say “I saw that band in a bar in (fill in your city)”. That’s when everyone says “Wow”. You can say “Look they signed my T-shirt.” Next time you’ll be fighting in line at Ticketmaster!

Check them out on www.myspace.com/violentsleepers