Some of My Best Friends Are in Bands I Hate

100-0026_IMGListen up and put on your hearing goggles:
I know how all you goddamn little kids are always shoving crap into your eyes ears noses and mouths, the Fourth Meals dunked in Red Bull listening to Giraffes while burning nag champa and watching Gossip Girl.  

I know it’s hard to navigate through all the crack raves and pedicure parties. I, too, was a lot younger as a kid. I haven’t always been this smart, talented  and attractive. I didn’t always sweat pale syrup and pee pure sunshine. So I can’t really blame the kids. They just got here. Most fell out of their moms only a few years ago. Everything was already all over the place when they arrived. That’s why goddamn little kids don’t understand that Flock of Seagulls wasn’t cool.

Kids steal.  Kids cheat. Kids lie and hit and sometimes poop their pants. And they’re easy to push down. Kids drink and student drive, shoot up pot, and perform the saddlebacking. Kids are the future but the future isn’t what it used to be so you see the problem.
Youth is a good argument for pre-habilitation— just in case. If every kid was preventatively jailed until sixteen, he’d have a lot more respect for  the cubes we work in to buy him crap to shove into his eyes ears nose and mouth.

Entropy, along with all these new people and no instructions, has made a big mess.  There’s no room for anything any more. Silence has almost been squeezed out.

It’s partly my fault. Like Katrina and bus wraps. (Someone else is responsible for Gary Unmarried. He better watch his back…) I realize I’ve been creating way too much music. Silence has been spread awfully thin. 

How did we get here? Letting the days go by? Or water flowing underground? When exactly did we stop being who we were and start being who we are? And if we’re not careful, our culture will disappear. No child left behind. Like it has several times in the past.
Our perpetual music archeology–the  rearranging, remixing, and sampling—along with the technology rendering everything microscopic and intangible, reducing  existence to its information code, its essence, its digital soul rowing down the bit stream, merrily merrily merrily, life is but a binary dream. Rocks will last forever. Rock won’t.

Something happened around 50,000 years ago that seems to have involved more than just explosions and monkeys. We suddenly transformed from slack-jawed, ape-freaks into tool-making, particle-colliding, song-stealers in a matter of evolutionary “seconds.” So how come I can’t get fried before 10:30 am?

I have stopped making music.  It’s okay. I’ve already played every note there is. I’ve stopped playing music so there’s more left for the kids. It’ll leave a lot more space to stuff full. I’ve gotten pretty good at it: spending most of  my life not playing guitar. Steve Vai,  Yngwie Malmstein,  Charo,  Art Paul Schlosser. Charo’s Spanish classical guitar is quite difficult and complex to not learn, but Art Paul’s stuff is fun and easy to never play. 

So please take this opportunity while there is less music to use all the funds and inspiration gleaned from the MAMAs and  create some noise. This is your chance to let us know if you kissed a girl and liked it, or wear pink pants, or if Jeremy has spoken. 

And that’s where you goddam little kids come in. No matter how far we advance until we are just brains in jars, REMEMBERSomeone has to make the fries. 

So. ’tis summer, create some music in the huge sonic space I’m leaving and do what moms have been begging for since the dawn of time: “Please, play something nice.”

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