Happy New Year everyone! I am very honored to speak for everyone here in wishing you the very very best in the year to come. Did you make any resolutions? I didn’t. I do however have a bunch of exciting news I’m about to share with you in point form.
Our very good friend and band mate Brady sent this one in. Enjoy.
In recognizing equality, we invariably accept some level of responsibility to that those we consider equal. Injustice cannot morally or even logically be committed against one’s perceived equal; to do so would undermine the integrity of one’s own self. Not every individual will be able to maintain this sober of a perspective all the time, so it is a concept enshrined in legal and social systems.
With each new social system, we have gradually extended equality to more and more people. Some 4,000 years ago, it was not uncommon to consider a neighbouring band to be unequal or to or, more bluntly, less human than one’s own. As bands turned to tribes turned to cities turned to kingdoms turned to states, the notion of equality spread between larger and larger groups of people. Though the British Empire was systematically racist and heavily stratified, the Brits generally believed themselves to have equal basic human rights. With this came a sense of responsibility for one another on a larger level: the idea of a nation. (more…)
I’ve recently come upon something that really scared me. While stumbling with my girlfriend through a semi-soap opera/drama series that I don’t really care to divulge, a medical condition was brought up called B.I.I.D or Body Integrity Identity Disorder. Basically the disorder entails a person to have a deep rooted belief that a particular limb on their body should literally not be there. The person pictures themselves as an amputee and will never be ‘whole’ (I use the term loosely) until they are. At first I figured this was a farce, some situation invented by the low brow writers involved with this television show. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Upon further research I uncovered something that made my skin crawl. First I started with the B.I.I.D home page, where there was more than enough information to not only make me a believer of this terrible condition, but to make me consider myself very well informed.
“Sure,” you may say, “but how many people really suffer from this madness?” Well let me tell you. In 2003 the Third Annual Body Integrity Identity Disorder “Stepping Into The Future” conference was held at Columbia College in New York. The very first speaker Dr. Micheal First spoke about the 52 patients he alone has dealt with in his career as a Professor of Clinical Psychiatry at the New York State Psychiatric Institute. This guy is legit; he also coined the term B.I.I.D. This disease is not new; prior to Dr. Right B.I.I.D was referred to as ‘apotemnophilla’ or the sexual desire to be an amputee. Now don’t jump to any conclusions; sufferers of B.I.I.D will readily tell you that this has nothing to do with pleasure or sexuality, more so it is a desire to be whole, to be who you really see yourself as and that is something I feel like I can understand. Many more sufferers of B.I.I.D will tell you that they’re desire is no more strange than a sex change and when it comes down to it, I agree. In our modern world it seems people are finding it harder and harder to really be themselves. The main problem with this disorder is that no doctor in North America will preform an amputation on a perfectly healthy limb. This leaves the sufferer with a huge dilemma: what can you possibly do when your obsession can never be fulfilled? You have a few options: live with your disorder and try and cope with the constant pain in the back of your head nagging at you that things just are not as they should be, try and find some sort of doctor off the beaten track who will preform surgery on you off the radar, or, the most unfortunate of all, preform your own surgery. The last option is by far the most gruesome, although botched medical surgery can also be fatal or at least extremely painful. In my studies I found stories of victims laying themselves out on train tracks to remove legs, men getting drunk and sawing off their hands and, more often, people doing enough damage to their desired limb so that a doctor has no choice but to remove it for them (possibly by crushing it with a set of weights, ugh). So if people are so willing to do such terrible harm to themselves to get what they seem to need, why are we stopping them? Unfortunately I believe this is a case of where to draw the line. What is to stop a doctor from giving a man gills because he wants to be a fish? (Please, save the South Park references for another time.) I also believe that soon enough, most likely in the near future, this will be as normal as a man becoming a woman and vice versa. The victim is choosing their fate, picking their burden and they are prepared, or so they say, to live with it. Who are we to stop them?
For more information on Body Integrity Identity Disorder please visit the B.I.I.D information home pages here and here.
I’m sorry if this has sickened/disturbed/horrified/saddened/bored you.
-lionsteeth
Will Oldham of Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy fame played the secondary role in a remake of Kanye West’s video for “Can’t Tell Me Nothing”. The video also features funny man Zach Galifianakis of the Hangover masterpiece. Now, I hate Kanye West with a passion, even more so than 99% of the people I dislike already. He’s a stain on modern society, a running joke, snorting hollywood sized lines of ego daily. Kanye stands for most everything that is wrong with music today, as he pretends to be cutting edge and “pioneering” trends.. birthing something that makes me puke: the popularization of Auto-Tune.
However if one good thing has come from Kanye West it is this music video. Set in a rural farm town, two ‘brothers’ (Oldham and Galifianakis) mouth along to the words with a sluggish mid-western town gusto. Flashy club scenes are non-existant and the only females in this video are a group of milk churning maids. Tune out Kanye’s idiot image flashing through your mind and pretend these words are really coming from Galifianakis. Also watch at the 3:40 mark when Oldham makes a tractor his love toy.
PS.
I just read Kanye West will be serving 50 hours of community service for beating a paparazzi photographer in an airport last year. I hope Kanye looks good in an orange jumpsuit.
-lionsteeth
It’s not called the grind for no reason. Every one of us out there has had to work a job they hated, day in day out, until you feel as if your soul has be ground up into a messy pulp. If you haven’t ever experienced this this feeling then I offer you a simultaneous “congratulations” and “fuck off”, you are either so lucky or so filthy rich.
I just finished George Orwell’s “Down and Out in Paris and London”. The book is a chronicle of the time Orwell spent in poverty while living in Paris, working as a dishwasher (plongeur), and in London, living as a tramp. Containing some fine social commentary, the book is an examination of poverty and injustice existing in the midst of metropolis. After leaving Paris, he theorizes on the significance of his work there, which was low paying with long hours, physically demanding, and completely useless:
“It does not matter whether his work is needed or not, because work in itself is good – for slaves at least…The mob (the thought runs) are such low animals that they would be dangerous if they had leisure; it is safer to keep them too busy to think…Fear of the mob is a superstitious fear. It is based on the idea that there is some mysterious, fundamental difference between rich and poor. But in reality the mass of rich and poor people are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit…Since there is no difference between the mass of rich and poor, there is no question of setting the mob loose. The mob is in fact loose now, and – in the shape of rich men – is using its power to set up enormous treadmills of boredom.”
Word up George. You said it.
Here’s a few songs to help get you through the grind. You’ll like them whether you are rich or poor, promise.
There is a man biking down Springer St. His bicycle is brown and the word Peugot is written on the cross bar. He is wearing headphones, white ones, and if you were doubled up on the handlebars you could here this coming from them,
I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail,
yes i would, if i could, i surely would
I’d rather be a hammer than a nail,
yes i would, if i only could, i surely would
Joseph, that was the cyclist’s name, turned left on to Harmony Ave. At the same time Darrell Johnston turned left from Harmony Ave to Springer St.
“Jesus Christ!” came, almost inaudible, muffled by the sound of his heart pounding and the heavy wind that seemed to blow with all of its force at his ears alone. There were leaves and sunlight in his face, trees and sky too. Someone was leaning over him going fucking ballistic. There was a small crowd gathered, curiosity and smirks. Everything was real casual on the outside of the invisible barricade. Joseph didn’t like a commotion so he stood up. That face, the ballistic one, stopped for a moment and just stared. Joseph picked up his bike and moved onto the destination, wrestling someone’s hand off of his arm.
His headphones were in his ears still, but they were plugged into nothing. If you were in his backpack you could hear the following:
Heavy breathing, very distant sirens, pedaling, a hum of voices, distant sirens, “Sir!”, sirens, “Sir!”, pedaling.
“Jesus Christ!” said Leo as he sat down, “What happened to you?”
“I fell off my bike, it’s nothing.”
“You’re bleeding Josie, people are like fucking concerned … Jesus, even that guy’s worried about you.” Leo pointed at an obese man with a 9 clock shadow, a moustache and pants that were too short.
Joseph laughed, “He even looks like he smells.”
“Like loneliness and menthol cigarettes.”
The waitress walked over, a plain girl with one redeeming feature.
“Nice rack,” said Leo.
“Quiet! She’s coming.”
“Hello welcome to Terry’s Diner, I’m Lacey. How can I… Oh my God! Are you ok?!”
“He’s fine, just bring us two coffee’s and some wet naps.”
“Are you sure? His nose looks crooked.”
“Yes , just get the coffee.”
Joseph checked himself out for the first time since the accident in the window behind his head. His nose was definitely broken, and his shirt was covered in blood. For the first time he noticed the pain. His left arm, his chest, both ankles and his left knee all hurt. What hurt most of all though, was his head. It was both all at once a dull ache and a sharp pain. Now that he noticed it, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t before. It was the worst pain he had ever felt.
“You have any Codeine?” Joseph said and tried to muster a chuckle.
“Yup.”
“Wait. Really?”
“Yeah. Here.”
Joseph took 4 with a gulp of coffee that had apparently arrived. He was shaking.
“Go easy on those, they aren’t cheap.”
“Yes they are,” Joseph didn’t actually know this he just knew Leo was cheap, “When did the Coffee get here?”
“While you were caught up in the horror that is your face. I think your nose is broken dude.”
Joseph was too busy wet napping his wounds to notice his friend’s concern. The lemon made his cuts sting, which distracted from the pain in his head.
“Are we all set fellas?” asked the waitress.
“I’ll get the special. Bacon, over easy, white toast.”
“I’ll do the same,” said Joseph.
“Okee dokee,” chirped the waitress and skipped off with the menus.
“Wait!” yelled Joseph. The Waitress stopped and realed around with a look that said “What the fuck do you want?”
“What the fuck do you want?” she said.
“I’ll get a couple shots of Jack, you want anything Leo?” Leo shook his head and gave him a look. “Better make it three.”
Their napkins were on their plates. They hadn’t said anything throughout the meal except when Joseph ordered two more shots. Joseph could barely feel anything, he leant back in his seat and lit a cigarette. It seemed to him that the cherry was hotter than the sun and that it was going to light his body on fire. He kept smoking, and he kept getting hotter.
“You don’t look so good,” said Leo with as much concern as he could muster.
The words hit Joseph like a truck, he put his cigarette out in the remains of his breakfast. He didn’t look good – He looked awful. He was sweating, and his chest was heaving. The pain in his head had come back and with it he experienced:
Severe nausea, dizziness, blurred vision and drowsyness.
Leo stood up, “Shit! I”m late for work! Is it alright if you cover breakfast, I don’t have cash and I don’t have time for debit?”
Joseph just looked at him and swallowed some phlegm that had gathered in his throat.
“Thanks Jo,” said Leo and started off. When he got to the door he stopped,
“You should really get to a hospital,” he said and disappeared outside.
Joseph looked at his half finished breakfast garnished with the butted Peter Jackson and his nausea hit him. He managed to stand up and stumble to the men’s room. He fell into the last stall vomiting so hard the blood vessels in his temples almost burst, and then he blacked out.
Joseph woke up on the floor in a pile of sick. The lights hurt his eyes and his head was throbbing, but he managed to get to the sink and clean himself up. He had to hold on to things to walk, and he made his way back to his seat using chairs and tables as crutches, watching his feet the whole time. He sat down unsure of what time it was, his table hadn’t been cleared but it had gotten dark. There was no one else in the restaurant, he couldn’t even see any staff.
He heard a shuffling to his left and there sat the man with the poor fitting pants hunched over his plate.
“Excuse me sir, do you know what time it is?” The man didn’t stir, so Joseph repeated a bit louder,
“Sir, do you know what time it is?” The man continued eating.
“HELLO! SIR! CAN YOU FUCKING HERE ME?! WHAT FUCKING TIME IS IT?!”
The man turned his head towards Joseph. His face had changed he was wearing a black and red mexican wrestling mask, with a gold venetian mask over it. He simply stared, unblinking, at Joseph.
“Hi there, do you know where everyone is?”
The man did not respond.
“Sir. Are you deaf? What the fuck is going on?”
Yet the man only stared, unblinking. The pain in Joseph’s head was getting worse, much worse than it had been before.
He was feeling nauseous.
His breathing was getting quicker and deeper.
He was panicking.
“Jesus Christ call a fucking ambulance you fucking spook!” he yelled at the masked face. His vision was getting blurrier and he could just make out the white and gold venetian mask that stared at him. Just before everything went black the man started to sing,
I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail,
yes i would, if i could, i surely would
I’d rather be a hammer than a nail,
yes i would, if i only could, i surely would.
The End
This is Wild!
In 2006, a lady drew the face of a man for her psychiatrist, she apparently had been seeing him a lot in reoccurring dreams, and in more than one occasion gave her advice on personal problems. She swears that she had never met the man before in her life.
The psychiatrist forgets about the picture and it ends up sitting on his desk forgotten for a few days, until another patient recognizes the face as a man who he had often seen in his dreams. He also says he has never met the man in his life.
The psychiatrist decides to send the picture around to his colleagues to show to patients who have reoccurring dreams. Within a few months, four patients reported that they had also seen the man frequently in their dreams. All the patients refer to him as THIS MAN.
Three years later over 2000 people across the world have reported the same man making appearances in their dreams. As of now, no common traits can be linked between patients who have reported sightings. Also, no living man has been recognized as the man from the picture.
I absolutely love this story, it is the perfect amount of weird and creepy to get me obsessing over it. It would be amazing if we can find anyone we know who as also seen this man.
You can check out thisman.org for some more info and also check out the original drawings that some of the patients had made.
-iceonthetrail
I would never consider myself one to be well informed on the blog community. I’ve only ever written in a small ‘blogspot’ once or twice in my life and never have had the enthusiasm to keep it maintained. In this lull of my own creative internet input I have turned to other blogs for entertainment and information. This is when I discovered what I’m calling the death of the modern day music blog. It wasn’t always like this, at least I don’t believe so. The only way, and still the primary way I personally find out about bands seems to be out of date, mindless browsing Myspace pages, reading the local community arts paper, listening to every band on a record label I know I like, online and collage radio stations. I find this style of research to be almost extinct. Today it’s all music blogs, and the music blogs of today don’t tell you why something is good, the just tell you that it is. ‘Listen to us, this is cool, capeesh?’. Not only do they tell what’s cool, it is completely static. For an art form as subjective as music no one should be able to tell you what is ‘good’. I’m going to come right out and throw out a taboo site I have a problem with, Pitchfork media. I have no problem with these people, they are very good at finding new and exciting acts that have literally no fan base and sky rocketing them to indie super stardom. I have found many bands I know really enjoy from that site. No I have no problem with Pitchfork, I do have a problem however, with the mass of Pitchfork middle men. These sites take bands and review them like they found them all by their little old selves. They have no reason to like this music besides the fact that the underground god of new music told them to.
Now I’m done with this rant, but I want to say that with this blog, we (the Bluegrassish Team)are dedicated to bringing you completely one sided opinions on everything we see, do and hear. We will review, rate and discuss not only the music we like, the books we read, good breakfasts we’ve eaten, buses we’ve sat on, trails we walked but literally life itself. There is no 0-10 scale. I’m sure you can gather how we feel about the topic from the first 3 sentences. We will debate our own conversations and that in its self will be up for debate. We are so very dedicated to the promotion of bands who deserve to be promoted, locally to internationally.
-Liontsteeth
