An open letter to Sufjan Stevens, and to his zombie fans at the Bluebird Theater Friday night

Mr. Stevens,

Thanks for bringing your light-hearted, melodic and intriguing show to Denver. Although your music was very quiet, I heard every note, every one of your soft sighs, your musicians' tiniest mistakes, and even some of the performers' banter usually reserved for the folks on stage.

Under normal circumstances, those sounds would be inaudible. But Friday night at the Bluebird wasn't a normal circumstance, or at least I hope it wasn't. I hope for your sake that people in other venues display a little emotion, and if not dance, at least sway side-to-side or nod their heads to the beat. Maybe your shows in Chicago produce more reaction since those people are likely thrilled you're writing songs about their city. They never stop raving about the place anyway.

I know some shows can get a little scary, especially during moments of mass insanity when the crowd surges toward the stage and you feel like your life and the lives of everyone in the venue are protected only by the forethought of a few powerful people: the concert promoter, the road manager, the security workers, the architect who designed the theater, the engineer who approved the plans, the city safety inspectors who checked all their work, and the emergency workers who rush to everyone's aid when things go terribly wrong.

But your show Friday night was scary for other reasons.

First, it is marvelously unnerving to stand in such close proximity to so many silent people. It's hard to find reasonable comparisons, but libraries, funerals and church services immediately come to mind, even though such similes have been rendered trite with overuse.

Second, your music so mesmerized the audience that I fear not a single member was capable of fleeing the building in the event of a large fire. Hundreds could have died, the lot of carcasses charred to a creepy vestige of the mind-numbingly silent crowd they once comprised -- kind of like those thousands of terra-cotta warrior statues discovered buried in China, only memorialized by fire rather than earth.

Thankfully, that didn't happen.

You remarked on the phenomenon yourself -- that we were a very quiet and attentive audience. It was a kind thing to say, but I think you missed the point. We are actually too cool. We've seen it all before. We simply refuse to get worked up in any way -- no matter how good the music, how well-matched the outfits, or how pretty the female musicians.

Please don't be concerned. We are merely Denverites who don't know joy and who couldn't express it even if we encountered it.

Maybe you could do a little song about us someday.

Regards,

Jk.


To the music lovers at the Bluebird Theater that night:

I'm not angry with you, but I'm very disappointed. First of all, Sufjan's show wasn't so impressive as to steal your voices away (It seemed little quiet to me, and perhaps even a little slow. Maybe it was the altitude, which has affected visiting performers and athletes in the past.) But the show wasn't boring, either. (The ladies were pretty, and Sufjan's not bad looking, either.) In fact, it really wasn't a bad show at all, and none of you left in disgust; further proving my point that you actually enjoyed the show, but were incapable of showing it. Even the Irish construction worker who complained he was tired because awoke at 5 a.m. that day stayed for the duration.

But all of you just stood there, motionless and silent, like extremely cool people who had seen it all before and who refuse to get worked up over some traveling band of easy-going musicians in matching outfits. You glared when I danced, or spoke, or yelled loudly between songs "You could at least move your heads a little!"

You glared when I did anything at all other than cross my arms on my chest and stare silently at the stage alongside you.

In conclusion, you were simply the worst audience I've ever been a part of in my life, except maybe for the ones at Steve Earle shows in Boulder where everyone sits quietly in their chairs and shushes everyone else. Those are pretty bad, even for liberals.


Regards,

Jk.

The Ten Commandments, and their exact opposites

You'd think that a quick Google of The Ten Commandments would instantly yield said commandments, with extensive commentary on their benefits, including cogent arguments against violating them.

But you'd be wrong.

I invite you to check for yourself. In Google, type "The Ten Commandments" (without quotes) and please, e-mail me your results.

Here's what I found:

1) What does God want from us? Should we keep the Ten Commandments?

Excerpts:

"What does it mean to love God 'with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind?' How do we do this? Well, when we say that someone loves money we understand that money is very important to them. They desire to have money and they seek to obtain it. Money is an important part of their lives. To love God is much the same."

[God is like money]

"You may heard [sic] that Jesus came to do away with the commandments, or to "nail the commandments to the cross." Don't believe it! Consider these words from Jesus: 'And, behold, one came and said unto him, Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life? 17. And he said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God: but if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments. 18. He saith unto him, Which? Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness, 19. Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. (Matthew 19:16-19)"

[The narrator struggles with grammar, or maybe suffers from keyboard typos; and Jesus referred to himself in the third person, recalling only seven of the ten commandments.]

2) A company offering inspirational posters in varying sizes, starting at $2.99

3) A compilation of newspaper articles detailing the fracus over ten-commandment monuments in U.S. courthouses.

4) A Canadian website with the following caveat: We do not promote our own religious beliefs. We can't because we are a multi-faith group. We try to explain the full diversity of religious belief in North America, from Asatru to Zoroastrianism, including Christianity, Hinduism, Wicca, Universism, and others.

5) This site -- operated by a non-denominational bible-based church in Rawlins, Wyoming -- which (finally) sorts this mess out.

So here the commandments are, according to www.therain.org. I've taken the liberty to include their opposites as well, in hopes of avoiding confusion.

1) Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
Anticommandment: thou shall have thousands of gods before me, and after me, and over me, and under me. In fact, thou shalt not have me as a god at all...

2) Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image. (this seems to be a double-negative, but then again, maybe it's not. It's hard to tell, but I'll do my best)
Anticommandment: Thou SHALL make unto thee MANY graven images, especially ones made from wood or stone

3) Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain.
Anticommandment: In the presence of the LORD thy God, thou most certainly shalt cuss like a clap-smacked sailor in Southeast Asia. And thou shall blame the LORD thy God for the burning in thy loins.

4) Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Anticommandment: Fuck like a whore on Saturday, cussing the LORD thy God's name the whole time thusly: Oh GOD! OHH GOD! OHHH GOD!

5) Honor thy father and thy mother.
Anticommandment: Steal thy parents' car and drive it to thy girlfriend's abode, fuck her in her parents' bed, crash the car into thy neighbor's tree while driving home

6) Thou shalt not kill.
Anticommandment: Kill, kill, kill, especially the Muslims and Pagans

7) Thou shalt not commit adultery.
Anticommandment: Oh yes, thou shalt!

8) Thou shalt not steal.
Anticommandment: Whatever...

9) Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
Anticommandment: Thou shalt secretly witness thy neighbors have sex, then claim thou didn't.

10) Thou shalt not covet anything that is thy neighbour's.
Anticommandment: Thou shalt covet thy neighbour's buttocks above thy life.

Endless goodbyes

Is there anything worse than saying goodbye? If there is, for christsakes, don't tell me about it. I fucking hate that (I love Viva Burrito, I love clean sheets, etc. There's an earlier post that explains this whole Viva Burrito thing...)

Even if I haven't seen some dude in years, there's still the possibility that I'll bump into him somewhere, so long as he still lives here. But if he moves, that's pretty much it, isn't it? Well, maybe not, but it still feels that way.

See ya, Judd. Have fun in Australia w/ your new wife. I'll be here, in Denver, doing whatever it is I do. You know where to reach me...

I love Viva Burrito.
I love clean sheets.
I love reading on the toilet 'til my legs fall asleep.
It goes on like that...

Jk.

Lovely list, day one.

* I love Viva burrito, specifically the carnitas tacos they sell, as well the pickled jalepenos and carrots that come in plastic bags sealed with knot.
* I love clean sheets.
* taking my time on the toilet, basically reading 'til my legs fall asleep.
* The Moffat Tunnel East Portal, and all the stuff that's nearby.
* Dolmades
* This particular newspaper column
* Two Tecates in a can, without lime.
* The banged-up Martin D-1 guitar I have at home, with good strings tuned down nearly a full step. Along those lines, I like the little callouses I have on the fingertips of my left hand -- they signal that I'm playing enough.

Days and days of silence, followed by a split-second's sweet, soothing noise

Actually, it was the other way around -- the soothing noise is the drudgery of work, the silence was an entire week's worth of Texas right here in Colorado. Good to see you, buddy. Hope you get back soon.

Changes are coming, friends. They come slowly, and in the tiniest of increments, almost imperceptible increments, hardly worth noting. But they're a-comin' none-the-less. Take, for instance, the gloomy cloud of gloom that's been rubbing its balls on my soul for the past few years. Soon, that fuckmist will be heading down the road to bother someone else.

Yes, I can tell. It's coming soon. Or rather, it will be going soon.

To help it along, I'm doing tricksy little things to break it down.

I make lists.

Lists of things I like. Little likeable things that brighten those less likeable moments of the day, like earlier when I was on the phone, talking to a friend, making loud retard sounds (duuuuueeeeeeeeerrr!) and moving my hand in that way that retards do (severely bent wrist, slapping against the chest) while just barely outside my realm of awareness (behind me, to the right, on the other side of a parked car) a REAL LIFE RETARDED LADY in a wheelchair was being loaded into a van with the aid of a helper. She and her helper looked right at me, the helper with something like derision, the retarded woman with interest or maybe the excitement one feels when one recognizes a peer. (By the way, I was only attempting to describe to my friend on the other end of the line how "retarded" I would be if I tried to play the guitar left-handed like Jimi Hendrix or Elizabeth Cotten. See?)

Anyway, I blew it. I was, at least for the moment, a walking pee stick.

So, I recite my list of little lovies.

1) I love those carnitas tacos they sell at Viva Burrito on Leetsdale.
2) I love clean sheets.
3) I love not having a real job, although the money sucks. (normally, I'd have start over as a result of that secondary negative point, but this is really just for demonstration purposes.)
4) I love crunchy peanut butter.
5) etc.

These are all dinky things that I love. Nothing big, nothing important. Nothing to get anyone's dander up.

Baby steps.

With baby steps, I will rehabilitate my damaged sense of joy -- the sense of joy that has been mutilated by the last decade, probably due to the fact that I am surprisingly unprepared for adult life. I seem to get dumber the older I get, and if that's the way it has to be, then I accept that. There's a strange beauty in dumbness. Dumbness is the new smartness.

This will succeed, even if it takes decades.

Jk.

This kind of hubris is normally reserved for people who have jobs

But before I get to the meat of this matter, let me detail my day:

- Awoke at 8:30 a.m.
- Showered, shaved, but did not shit (saved that for later, when the clock would be ticking)
- Arrived at my "clients'" office about 9:30 a.m.
- Shat (while reading Stuff Magazine)
- Changed a few file names, did some research, checked some e-mail, made some phone calls.
- Made a prank technical document. Left it in the printer for others to find.
- Left my "clients'" office about 4:30 p.m.
- Conducted a fruitless Internet search for a free download of Paris Hilton sex video.
- One beer by 5:30 p.m., vodka martini by 6:30 p.m., an hour of guitar, Jack and Coke by 8:30 p.m.
- Begged two beers from a man I once viewed as my economic inferior.
- Begged another from a former colleague (one I like to consider a protege, although he certainly would argue with that)
- A quick -- but drunk -- drive home...

Now, on to the meat of the matter (late, but true):

You fucking British fags have failed us all here in the United States! How could you let this happen? We clearly can't handle this quagmire ourselves, yet you re-elect Blair? It was within your grasp; you could have changed history, but you blew it.

As much as I hate to, I am forced to urge our ignorant, hot-headed leaders to anhililate your pitiful island and wipe all traces of your faded empire from the face of the earth. Only then will you see how horrible a people you have become. You are, in a nutshell, the biggest pussies on the planet! Even more so than the French. It's obvious your pubs have taken a toll on your balls, and I'd love to meet a dozen or two of you in a dark alley. You're Big Show; No Results.

Here's what your idiotic media has to say about it (and believe me, it's taken me a long time to come to this hateful conclusion):

BBC:
We asked Mr. Uncle Sam, an American professor of political science who has sworn his allegiance to the Bush regime what he thinks about the Iraq situation: Professor, isn't it true that President Bush lied to the world and led the United States into a horrible war that killed thousands, if not millions of people?

Professor Sam:
No it's not true. In fact, we saved the planet, including Europe, from Saddam's huge stockpile of weapons of mass destruction.

BBC:
But investigators have not turned up a single weapon. Are you saying you're a liar and a bastard, or are you saying you're an American Pig with the culinary awareness of a butt slug?

Professor:
Neither. I'm saying the world is a better place because of U.S. action, and President Bush, both houses of Congress, the American people, the U.N., most of the Western and Eastern hemispheres, and soon, the U.S. Judicial Branch, know you can't do a God-damned thing about it.

BBC:
Right. That was Ethan Donnely reporting from Washington. Clearly demonstrating a widening rift in American policy on the Iraq war...

Me:
You can say what you want about the U.S. media, but at least when they question the Bush cronies, they have a few hard fucking facts to back their position rather than a bunch of bullshit hyperbole!

Me, again:
God help us all, for we're all a bunch of failures. And suck it, UK! (That's not bullshit hyperbole. I'll nuke you if you to disagree.)

For the very first time, I think I understand handguns

Late tonight, or early this morning, there was a racket outside my door; rap, rap, rapping outside my chamber door. Two men, arguing at first over respect, or mutal fear, or hyperbole, began to show signs of desperation. Sensing this, or maybe just fearing it, I took the time to pull on some pants, as I didn't want to call the authorities, only to stand in the street later in my skivvies recounting the details of the fracus to investigators.

A third man, perhaps worried that the noise caused by the first two might attract unwanted attention to the situation, decided that swift, steadfast, violent action was the only calming recourse available to him at the moment. He tackled the first man in a very manly way, bent his ear to his victim and uttered what can only be assumed was some sort of threat.

The second man, the one who wasn't tackled, took the opportunity to repeatedly kick the prostrate body of the first. This was my second clue that things were quickly spinning out of control. I dialed 9-1-1, and was connected to the Englewood Police.

Immediately, I recounted my version of the ongoing event to the operator, who then asked what race the three men were (black, white, hispanic, aluetian, samoan, polynesian, aboriginal). How the fuck would I know? It was dark, they were fighting near one of those mercury-halogen streetlights that makes everyone look like the flesh on their skulls is dying and they're slowly transforming into orange zombies. I think I said some were dark-skinned, and for all I know, they could've been Italians.

The cops shortly came, but not before I poked my head out the front door and yelled at the little Vin Diesels.

"Hey!"

I can't remember what they did, one might have non-verbally challenged me. It was hard to tell.

"The cops are on their way!"

I know at least one of them heard that. He looked up and seemed to acknowledge what I said. But by then, the fuzz was rolling. Five of them appeared -- maybe more -- lights a-spinnin' and a-blazin', but no sirens thankfully. Wouldn't want to wake any of the neighbors who should have already been awake with all the goddamned noise. More on that later.

Timidly, yet with conviction, I stepped out on the porch. One officer strolled up and pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. "You the one who called?"

I nodded, and felt a sudden, puzzling urge to cry right there on the porch. It occurred to me at that moment that I was fucking scared of these three ne'er-do-wells and their rambunctious behavior. I think I still am.

Yes, I told him, I called 9-1-1.

"What happened?"

"Two guys were fighting, then a third one came and jumped one, wait, the two guys were arguing, not fighting, and the third one came in and jumped the second guy, then the first guy started kicking him on the ground. Right there, in that yard across the street. Those three guys... there's one in a gray shirt, and another in a gray shirt, and one in a..."

I was babbling. Fucking terrified. They're Chicago thugs, probably south-side, or east-side, or south-central, or wherever the fucking thugs come from in that damned city. I remember one of them saying something to that effect: This ain't Chicago, bro! THUMP, right to the ribs!

Like that seemed to matter. Are Chicago cops slow or something? Overloaded with work? Are they selective? Or do they only respond to crimes reported by criminals? I didn't know. I have never tangled with the Chicago PD, nor have I relied on their services. But this I know: here in Denver (or Englewood), when a guy calls the cops on a fight, the smackdown is imminent.

The officer then asked if I wanted to use my name "on the report."

I said I only wanted to call the incident in, because it seemed pretty violent. Like maybe someone could get hurt.

The officer replaced the notebook in his breast pocket. Told me he understood, that a lot of people didn't want to give their names for fear of retribution, that he wouldn't ask any more questions. And he didn't. He walked back to the ruckus and dissappeared amid the activity and flashing lights. I didn't get his name. I didn't think to look.

That's when I noticed that not a single neighbor had even poked a head out their window. Not even the young couple who owned the yard where the fight took place. They have an infant to care for, and they didn't bother to even call. And the tough Irish guy next to them -- the one with the big, tough Irish son who's always talking in grandiloquent roughhouse-style and who seems invincible -- even he stayed in the house. The argument and fight took place within 30 feet of his bedroom. My neighbors to the north: nothing. To the south: nothing. Two houses south, where all the police cars converged with their lights and screeching radios: nothing. There are fucking children living around here, neighbors! Maybe just one of you proud parents could show some balls for your kids?

The officer left me with the uneasy feeling that I really screwed the cops that night. That the only way these guys were going to jail -- and not back to their rooms a half-a-block away, all coked, boozed or methed up, after I publicly challenged them and stood like a preacher on my porch as the cops ran criminal histories and otherwise had their way with them -- was if I answered Mr. Officer's questions correctly. And I didn't.

Not to worry. Surely, I thought, the cops will be cleaning the whole mess up and shipping these young toughs to the hooscow tonight to ponder their errant ways. But I was wrong. The thugs might have even cheered as the squad of officers released them back to the streets. Right there, across from my house, where A., my dog and our new kitten were sleeping. To the thugs' credit, they haven't fire-bombed my house or hassled me in any other way, at least not yet.

To the officer:

What am I, a fucking lawyer? Do you think we all know criminal law from memory? When, exactly, did you learn the law? At crime school, in Fighting Johnny Law 101? Did I really fuck this up, or did you simply avoid some paperwork tonight? I don't know, officer, because I am not a fucking cop!

Do you know how to spell or avoid double negatives? Do you know the weight of any lag bolt between three and five inches long? Do you know which wire to connect to ground on slave dimmer for a living room ceiling fan? Do you know which over-the-counter children's medicines are toxic when mixed?

Should I have known something that I didn't, and should I have challenged you about it? Should I have said, "officer, I'm sure you know your job, but are you saying that by not giving my name, all the information I provided was useless? Isn't fighting assault? I told you they were fighting, but none of them were arrested. Were they play-fighting? Was that one guy play-kicking the other one in the ribs while the third play-held him to the ground with a pretend headlock?

These questions of mine have no answer. But this one does:

Should I move to Chicago? I think maybe I should, because at least I know those three dudes aren't there now.

What our seven-week-old kitten, Jack Kerouac, has to say about current affairs:

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Jack Kerouac, AKA: dorkchop