I guess I’m the newest horse in the stable. The editors haven’t posted any of my work yet. I live with my parents in a town with a population of 57. Seriously. I work odd jobs so I can buy records and kill time until I go back to grad school. I don’t have a car and nearest shows are two hours away. What I post here will have to creative.

For fun I make noise tapes. Recently, one of my CDR’s got reviewed on another website. The reviewer chalked the ‘very noticeable’ tape splices to poor editing. Some people just miss the point. That being said, overall, the review as very fair and I should email him and say thanks. I borrow my mom’s car and drive a half hour to the library where they have one computer with a scanner, Photoshop, CD burner, and a copy machine. That’s the office for my crap noise tape/CDR label.

This year I saved up a bunch of those tins that AOL discs come in. I painted them and lined them with colored felt and put mix CDs in them for my friends as Christmas presents. There is this horde of poor kids, that probably come from fucked up homes, who just live at the library and play online roleplaying games. It’s probably better that they are there and not out becoming teenage alcoholics or oxycontin junkies. Anyway, I’m mixing one of these Xmas present CDs and my headphones come loose and Kevin Drumm just explodes in every direction. I let it roar for about six seconds. Then all these teenage boys with greasy hair and sweatpants say the word ‘noise’ and chuckle in a dead on Beavis and Butthead manner. Actually, I guess it wasn’t that different than a normal noise show.

On the way home from the library, I often stop and visit my elderly grandfather. The other day he had my grandmother dig his old 8 track player out of the closet. It’s just this box that unfolds to become two speakers that you plug into the wall, and the 8 track gets shoved into the side of one of the speakers (actually a really incredible piece of industrial design). After his stroke, granddad seemed to have trouble remembering that Johnny Cash’s Live at Folsom Prison was one of the greatest albums in the history of American music. I skillfully talked him out of any Kenny Rogers, and compromised with Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner. So my grandmother is in the next room cutting carrots as I sit on a loveseat, and my grandfather in a wheelchair, not saying a word with the Christmas tree glowing in the background listening to what could be (with the exception of Lawrence Welk) corniest music in the history of America. Like a good episode of Northern Exposure, here’s a perfect place to fade out.

I feel like I’m out of the loop. The writer in the void. Todd hates me already. Until next time…