1914

If there was one thing the British soldiers weren't used to in this new environment (and there were plenty), it was the smell.

It was an amalgam of blood, human waste, and the various pus-like byproducts of wounds that went untreated. Treatment wasn't really an option; the dead hung around the bottom of the trench, amplifying the stink. One would think that enough days of fighting would develop some kind of immunity in a soldier's nose. One might as well also say that about his eyes, then. And one can never become immune to seeing a stranger's head explode, no matter how many times their handiwork makes it happen.

However, they all collectively wondered if the Germans felt the same way. They seemed wired differently, a foreign make, who's maker seemed to reside pretty far South of sane. The British could imagine them not being affected at all by the profuse stink behind them, ignoring the clawing regret of murder, becoming well-oiled-warminger-machine-things. The British secretly wanted in on this not-feeling-anything game. As long as it clogged the nose too.

Night fell on the soldiers on the last night of their 2nd week in a row of fighting. They slept in their funk hole on ponchos and dirty overcoats and waterproof sheets and bodies, trying not to dream about war, trying to put a damper on the ringing in their ears, trying to ignore their more shaky friends. In other words, they didn't sleep.

The British drew their weapons when the sun rose, breathing heavy sighs in cadence with their loading. They expected to see the tight-jawed soulless enemy pointed and ready for them many yards away, but something else was popping up from the German trench. Something much less threatening. Something white and billowy.

A white flag was waving. It was Christmas day.

Slowly, the soldiers popped out like gophers, mystified by silence and the smell of normal-people air. They approached one another with dangerous-animal caution, recognizing a blatant culture barrier that they didn't plan on crossing. The generals communicated awkwardly, but they both determined that this would be a day of rest, of recreation, of celebration of the birth of Christ. A brief ceasefire for God.

They fraternized like the oldest friends, realizing they could speak just fine in eachother's tongue. With ease, they asked about people and places in eachother's hometown, feeling the warmth of human contact from a few feet away for the first time since the war began. For a few moments, it felt like the war never began; they were all just meeting beforehand, telling eachother "You know we're not aliens, right?". They were getting acquainted. Impromptu patriotic songs were sung at the foot of their trenches, and flying insults were only jeers, never taken to heart.

The patriotic songs floated around, flying towards the risen Son of God and drifting down to the body piles. Peace on Earth, and goodwill to men.

Thoughts on Rock 'n Roll Groups

I'd say the greatest promotion idea for music ever created would have to be rap beefs.

Ja Rule (who was universally recognized as being "not-that-good-at-all") got arrested a while back because he and some friends were plotting the murder of 50 Cent. Now, if he actually died, this would be a very different story...but because he didn't, that makes his attempted murder the best popularity machine out there, along with his 9 battle-wounds. "50 Cent: People are Trying to Kill Him." Attempted murder, arson, assault, break-ins, and other crimes could basically be the work of promoters trying to get an up-and-coming rapper's name out there.

This all may seem terrible, but personally, I wouldn't live in a world where this wasn't true.
Beef is a great example of a watched pot boiling faster than most...even if there is no actual violence. The beef between D12 and Royce Da 5'9" was a series of videotaped insults and diss tracks, along with an appearance at the club Lush where nobody actually got hurt...and somehow, everybody knew every member of D12, no matter how insignificant!

Long story short, I want this to happen with bands.

If bands recorded diss tracks about other 1. wussier, or 2. less-talented bands, that would add a sense of urgency and anticipation to get a new album out. Shows would be more interesting because the band the headliner is feuding with could show up ANY SECOND! Uh oh. I would pay a pretty good amount of money for that moment of tension. Record sales would also go up, because people want to hear the latest diss track, or they want to analyze and critique each band's album to see who's ACTUALLY better and who's all hype. This would also lead to more people paying close attentiont to the music! Even if it is for the wrong reasons. As long as they're doing it, I suppose.

And if there is some physical violence....this may sound callous, but as long as no one dies, WHATEVER. Bands as of late have two different kinds of looks. (These are very generalized.)

1. We'vc never lifted a finger in our lives because our skin gets funny when we sweat and girls would think we no longer smell like an orchard,



or 2. We typically get into fights and more would not be a problem at all, especially if it's with group one.



If either of these guys fight, fine! Group 1 needs a good fight, and group 2 is used to it. It's flawless. This is really what I hope will happen to mainstream rock music, because then you'd find me tuning into the radio everyday, hoping that hopping to every venue will be like watching The Warriors.

That's enough Bear Hair for today.

My First Taste of Racial Discrimination

The first day I was judged because of my skin color was a day like any other. Up until the racism part. I was desperate for work, and I was willing to receive a verbal thrashing from some strangers who I figured would hate my tiny little guts...so I stepped into the Korean Dry Cleaners ready for action.

The place was rife with cleanliness, and I felt weird intruding on it. I was dressed like a bro who was 10 minutes late for the big dance and had to make hasty decisions. An old Korean man and woman were in the back, making good clean love to the suits on the racks, and I desperately wanted to get in on this.

The conversation went down like so...

I repeated my statement more loudly, assuming she was hard of hearing....she turned away and shook her head, smiling. Feeling like a cow in a McDonalds, I crept out on tip-toed-hooves; trying to be an ambassador for white people was a terrible idea.

Employment is a bear right now. Kankoku is "Korea" in Japanese.

JOBS I'VE WANTED AND HAVE NEVER PURSUED EVER:

1. Whale Autopsy Giver

2. Pinball Machine Voiceover Freelancer

3. Pyrokinetic World Leader

4. Killer Whale and Penguin Counselor

5. Weak People Botherer

6. Brothel Representative

7. Bear Builder

8. Fish Baffler

9. Senator Kisser

10. Food Fighter

(11. Cat stevens)

Turns out Food Fighters are a real thing; I learned this from the television. I'm currently watching "Man vs. Food" on the Travel Channel, and I'm sick of seeing eerie similarities to my life on it. I always end up seeing something called the "GARBAGE DELUXE BURGER" from some place called Farty's and find myself saying things like "Oh wow, that seems delicious." I want to go "This is disgusting," but those are words my tongue won't form. I am a garbage disposal that breathes. It's kind of fun, as long as people respect what you do.

All of the above continues to make me a bad white people representative. So, out of penance, here's Jim Vondruska's half-Korean sister owning me with hairclips. More Bear Hair soon.

Welcome to Bear Hair

I can't stand most bloggers. They're opinions on music and porn aren't as interesting as they imagine; I'm not really captivated by reviews like "The singer really reminds me of -insert guy with extensions here-", or "The entire '93 Chicago Bulls and porn don't mix." Which we all know they do.

I'm starting a blog that will probably be just as nauseating.

If nobody reads it, I'll still use it for thought-storage purposes, because sometimes my mind is a bush full of mating birds. My brain has a lot of nooks I never go in because they're filled with crap my exes bought at emotional flea markets, and I really need an electronic Salvation Army to donate it to. I guess.

I'm on my friend Danny Radovanovic's couch at 7:30 in the morning, listening to this shit and writing this shit, trying to convey that I'm a mess through humor. The weird thing is, in my book, that's okay. If I'm not laughing, everything's okay if someone else is. And that's really what Bear Hair is all about, I guess. In Mike Birbiglia's words, my "Secret Public Journal" is for my air-ventilation and your enjoyment.

I'm also gonna keep track of what I'm doing musically, from "Yeah-this-is-a-flawless-idea" to "Wow-this-is-a-flaw-full-idea." A flawful idea. For example, right now, I'm writing a musical. Here's what it's about:

"A really grouchy obese man has his wife and kid leave him, due to the fact that he used to be merely a jolly fat guy and changed dramatically. Shocked by this, he continues his sedentary life of eating and continues playing the part of town pariah. His obesity leads him to be declared handicapped, and his doctor assigns him a dietitian and trainer that he needs to listen to....or it's over.

He reluctantly goes on their diet and exercise program. He HATES it. Until one day, he loses his first inch off of his belly; he walks the streets and has a strange feeling of being one inch closer to everyone, and he absolutely loves it. He tells his dietitian and trainer, and they become his "therapists," so to speak, on his long journey to get closer (physically and emotionally) to everyone he alienated in the past. Its called FAT CHANCE."

That's the latest project. Everything else is just typical rock'nroll tunes.

I'm done combing through my bear hair this morning. Keep reading if this was in any way awesome to you.