Twelve-Time Winner

Was it my two black eyes

that convinced the judges,

or my infected tattoo?

The symbol of a band called We Can't Lose

who broke up at their very first show.

Caught by the cops

wearing only a t-shirt,

beating up my daughter's boyfriend.

That's when I knew

for one more year

I'd be a winner again.

Chorus:

Maybe this could be your year.

Things have really been going your way.

Crack cocaine and lortabs,

and a skirt you shouldn't wear at your age.

Your daughter's picture on the cover

with the caption Just Busted.

By all rights, you oughtta win.

But I'm a twelve-time winner.

Odds are that this year

I'll be a winner again.

Was it the smashed car windshield

the brought home the trophy?

Was it my broken fist?

The father of my children beat the father of my children

in the parking lot after church.

High on quaaludes,

I drove home sideways,

then started peeling off my skin.

That's when I knew

for one more year

I'd be a winner again.

Life's Such a Joy

I killed Jake the royal stallion

and painted the castle walls with his blood.

I lifted high his mangled foreleg

and crushed the nursery master's skull.

Life's such a joy

When a healthy boy can find his release

I cut my ties

and let my happy legs

walk off with my feet.

I tried to fill the need in my stomock

by making a soup of the master's brains.

To burn off some of the strength this gave me,

I opened a few of my mother's veins.

Life's such a joy

When a healthy boy can find his release

I cut my ties

and let my happy legs

walk off with my feet.

I kissed mom and bid the subjects good wishes

then set their miserable hovels alight.

I played my flute and clicked my heels

and gaily escaped under cover of night.

Life's such a joy

When a healthy boy can find his release

I cut my ties

and let my happy legs

walk off with my feet.

I Hate Our Freedom (recorded)

Here's the song.

So it only took six years, but isn't it worth the wait? No? Well, ok then.

The Stuff I Like

I like angry hippies.
Free of grease.
Gunnin' for peace.
I like
organized religion,
apocalyptic vision,
orgasmic frisson.

Smokin' in my Prius
Dancin' in my leather chaps.
Eatin' soy cheeses.
Praisin' Jesus.
Finding a job
and giving a hand.

I like happy Christian conservatives,
secure in tradition,
a cancer in remission.
I like
confident whitey,
keepin' yards tidy,
no need to act mighty.

Smokin' in my Prius
Dancin' in my leather chaps.
Eatin' soy cheeses.
Praisin' Jesus.
Finding a job
and giving a hand.

I like the Nation of Islam
Bluegrass Jam.
Hey, y'all, goddamn.
I love
bomb-throwing peaceniks,
inclusive rednecks,
sharing their safe sex.

Smokin' in my Prius
Dancin' in my leather chaps.
Eatin' soy cheeses.
Praisin' Jesus.
Finding a job
and giving a hand.

A shaven Chewbacca
chewing tobacco.
Pavin' to Mecca,
drinkin' prosecco,
datin' Rebeccah.
He's our court jester.

Recorded in one take.

Duct Tape and a Contractor Bag

Duct tape for my window pane.
Duct tape to keep out the rain.
Duct tape where I poked a vein.
Duct tape and a contractor bag.

Duct tape and a contractor bag
to clean up all the fun I've had.
It could be worse
than this state of bad
if not for
duct tape and a contractor bag.

One bag for my Miller cans.
One bag for my dreams and plans.
One bag full of hobo hands.
Duct tape and a contractor bag.

Duct tape and a contractor bag
to clean up all the fun I've had.
It could be worse
than this state of bad
if not for
duct tape and a contractor bag.

Thanks for All the Crap.

Dashing from the plane.
Hiding presents from the rain.
Paying for a cab.
To carry all this crap.

Sitting on the couch.
Pick out a kid to play the elf.
Starting to unwrap.
Piles of Christmas crap.

We don't have to talk to each other.
Brother, we don't have to talk at all.
We don't have to talk to each other.
It's Christmas time...
Thanks for all the crap.

I tell the one where you stole my concert tickets.
Tell the one where we locked you in a box.
Sister tells the one where I totally wrecked her car.
On purpose. Because I'm a douche bag.
Thanks.
Thanks for all the crap.

We don't have to talk to each other.
We don't have to talk at all.
We don't have to talk to each other.
It's Christmas time...
Thanks for all the crap.

Paying for a cab.
Dashing to the plane.

Makin' It

I'm a nut, baby.
You're loose a screw.
Before you bolt,
I've got a project made for two.

We'll be makin it, baby.
As best we can.
We'll be makin' it, baby.
Makin' it ourselves.
Makin' it by hand.

I've got a ball-peen hammer.
Baby, I've got wood.
You let the glue flow,
we'll stick stuff together,
nail it good.

We'll be makin it, baby.
As best we can.
We'll be makin' it, baby.
Makin' it ourselves.
Makin' it by hand.

I'm a mighty, musky man but I've
come apart at the seams.
Preacher says, "talk to the carpenter"
but I'm hammered butt joint to beam.

Things fall apart,
rust and come undone.
Carpentry and plumbing
serve both uncouth and bon ton.

I choose uncouth.

I'm a nut, baby.
You're loose a screw.
Before you bolt,
I've got a project made for two.

We'll be makin it, baby.
As best we can.
We'll be makin' it, baby.
Makin' it ourselves.
Makin' it by hand.

Makin' it, baby.

Box

Think maybe I'll make a box.
I think I'd like to make things out of wood.
But then maybe
I should think
about
the folks who make that wood.

Are the underage?
Do they get fair wage?
Lunch breaks?
And an HR guy who knows
how
to manage their 401ks?

Oh, man. I want to help them out.
Really I could really do the proletariat good.
And then maybe
they'd be grateful
and they'd give me the gift of wood.

Are they underage?
Do they get a fair wage?
Lunch breaks?
And an HR guy who knows
how
to manage their 401ks?

New Recording: Bring Me an Egg, Sweet Jesus

Listen to it if you must.

Bring Me An Egg, Sweet Jesus

The green grass grew up early this year.
In fact, it never left.
I might believe in climate change
if in faith I was bereft.
Now, Christ he comes in bunny form--
I'm clear on all the facts,
as clear as the sky, as clear as my
mangled, rhymed syntax.

So,
Bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.
Come invisibly, in bunny shape.
Sweet candies you hide
in the hole in your side.
Reach in.
Reach in.
And bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.

I always vote Republican.
The way the bible says.
And I'll root for the Jews in Jerusalem
up until the end of days.
Jesus is furry when he wants to be--
that's just the way things are.
And he'll smite the Jews when he wants to too,
and the followers of Ishtar.

So,
Bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.
Come invisibly, in bunny shape.
Sweet candies you hide
in the hole in your side.
Reach in.
Reach in.
And bring me an egg, sweet Jesus.

Umlaut

I need to correct a few of my pseudodeutsch spellings, but here's a glorious blast from the genius Dzhrew. He came up with the idea & wrote some of it, then we recorded it together at his place, manye yearse agoe.

Umlaut

Fraulein mit der Reichstag glockenspiel
lederhosen strasse waffen macht.
Fraulein ist kaputen bundesbank.
Liebchen fraulein schnitzel: auch, mein gott!

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Ubersturmbam fraulein kraftwerk kopf
Leibe Hansel Gretel ubermensch
Kinder kinder kinder kinder nicht mach schnell
Und der kinder kinder kinder achtung kunst gestalt.

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Fraulein mit gedanken avtobahn
sauerkraut verboten. Guten tak!
Schweinhund ist geshundheit und kaput
und das underwasserreichenmachenwagonboot.

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Weinerschnitzel bratwurst luftballon,
Wagner, Goethe, Hegel, Otto von Bismark,
Pilsner heute panzerfallen schnauzer raus
und der teufel trinken richtich avtomat.

Umlaut umlaut umlaut umlaut...

Jagermeister avtobiken damen und herren,
krakhmacher, Postdamer, gummi bearen.
Scheisse mit der cuckooclocken heimlichpest.
Nachten musick machen auf Oktoberfest.

Christmas Makes Me Sick

I'm surprised I never posted this. It dates back to just before I started the blog, I think. Here 'tis:

Christmas Makes Me Sick

This time every year, Santa comes down the flue.
Meanwhile, just to be parallel, I contract the flu.
Santa hands out presents every Christmastime.
Me, I deliver germs and coughs and buckets of nasal slime, 'cause

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.
I'm full of Christmas goo.

Gonna live in a Christmas bubble,
a festive plastic home.
I won't let Santa in unless he disinfects his gnomes.
Please don't bring me presents.
In fact, don't come at all.
I'm fine here alone in my plastic home drinking germ-proof alcohol, cause

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.
I'm coughing up fondue.

Asian! Avian! Spanish! Fun!
It's killed more than World War I.
The grippe, the croup, the hacking cough,
knocking half of Europe off.
Russian, swine and Hong Kong hit.
Thank you, antigenic shift.
Nature wracks its fiendish brains
to deck the halls with new flu strains.

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.

New Recording: My Baby Hates Christmas

Click here to get your own player.

New Recording, Old Technology: Bein' the Man Blues

I finished my first viable cigar box guitar last night and celebrated by recording a quick Bein' the Man Blues.

The Left Stomock is almost a year old now. The year's output consists of 17 song lyrics, about 13 of which exist as some sort of recorded monstrosity. This leads us to say, "Khosighingda aghrighing bolmisa, tavuz yeyixtin khorkhma."

Gutcasting

Can't get enough of that precious, precious gut? Subscribe to the Stomock gutcast at http://capnstomock.podomatic.com/. It's like a feeding tube delivering pure flavor (flavour, even) from our guts directly to yours.

It's Not Russia

Centralizing power,
waging war against secession
via rampant nostalgia
for imperial aggression.

Amid currency crises,
and regional depressions,
conspicuous consumption
of material posessions.

Baby, times are hard
in the land that was the land of the Tsars,
so the past looks better
than it ever really was.

But, baby, it's not Russia... it's us.

An aging population starts
to think about birth rates,
the future of the nation
if it fails to procreate.

Riots...
breaking out on the fringes.
Growing concern
about alcohol binges.

Baby, times are hard
in the land that was the land of the Tsars,
so the past looks better
than it ever really was.

But, baby, it's not Russia... it's us.

Written & recorded in one shot this evening, without bothering to tune my guitar, divert from my usual guitar strumming mode & progression, or change from the default echo patch on my vocal processor. Enjoy.

Updates

Well, the 7-days-7-songs experiment blew chunks. We can blame my mom for having a blood clot halfway through, but in all honesty I had a creative clot before that. Neither was fatal, thankfully. Mom's back home... back at work, even. Yeesh, mom.

Here's a new draft of Why Am I Here? thanks to Righthand Stomock Bryan, who added bass, backing vocals, and groovy guitar floaters.

Speaking of the Righthand Stomock, here's one of the songs he recorded last week: Toe Jam of the Devil. As its subject matter would suggest, it's sublime.

Day 4 Status

Three songs written, one recorded, another with a rough guitar track down (that may or may not work in the light of mornin'). So I'm one lyric and 2.25 recordings behind schedule on day four.

Onward pagan soldiers.

Recording 1: Why Am I Still Here?

Day three: two songs written, one recorded to my low standards.

Why Am I Here?

Got titles you want made into songs? Post 'em in the comments.

Song 2: A Foundation in the Blues

I'm not much of a rebel.
I don't own no blue suede shoes.
I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.

I don't know much about drugs.
Sex scares me through and through.
I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.

Doo-wop won't admit me.
I can't ride the New Wave.
I'm more Elmo than Emo.
And Christian Rock makes me feel unsaved.
I can't afford the Grunge wardrobe.
The same thing goes for Goth.
I'd try to ride on the Jam Rock line,
but I know I'd just want off.

I've never choked on vomit,
despite all the chunks I blew.
I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.

I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.