Evidence of My Social Scaffold

Evan Loritsch, Mark Jaeshke and I went to the woods with a camera and a guitar.



There is going to be one of these for every track on Bear Hair, and then some.

http://www.myspace.com/anthonyjaysandersmusic

Taffy Apple Lifestyle People

I'd like to start off by saying that I dressed myself for both of these pictures.

Cougar vs. Human will probably knock out a few good songs this Valentine's Day weekend; I'm headed towards Iowa on a Greyhound Bus. The last time I did that, I talked for 30 minutes to some strangers about how awful Arby's is. This time, I'll bring a bag lunch. And a gun.

I wrote some new lyrics for us. I wrote them all with the intention of hearing them come out of Jennie's mouth, and the full-fledged arrangement of these songs sound fantastic in my head. Knowing Jennie, they'll pan out nicely.

We've only recorded a few demos on her computer, and I'm trying to figure out how to post them up here, like some sort of Sixeyes-esque mp3 blog. I think I'll do that once we record some more, so I'm not giving away....everything we have.

I have plenty of gift ideas for Valentine's Day. Some have called me a God amongst mere men with things like this. Some have called me Dad. Others have called me Cain, inheritor of the land. My mom calls me Audrey or Abby on accident. Here's what I'm getting Jennie:

Did you read that? It has a strong sense for playing! Thanks, Japan.

Danny and I have been hanging out at Isabel Kasheshian's house far too much, and Sub-Ground Sound is becoming real, real talk. For anyone reading this, I probably mentioned something called Starved Artists....that idea's been tweaked ever since we started hanging with two hip-hop/spoken-word-oriented guys with similar plans called The Illestrators. They are also called Aris Theotokatos and Chris Olivares.

Have you ever seen Step Brothers? It's like Prestige Worldwide, except with less boats.

Picking our roster of artists requires a lot of caution. Right now, it's only musicians/rappers and slam poets or writers affiliated with spoken word. However, Aris and Chris have expanded our vision a LOT. Here's the rough draft of the website....once we get our About Us on there, our intentions will seem a lot less scattered. It'll look cool once we get our friends to hook us up with decent web designs.

http://www.subgroundsound.com/

Yeah, it's a real URL.

Today is the superbowl. Wherever I go, I'm probably going for the food. I wish this wasn't usually the case, but it almost ALWAYS is. I'm going to go shower and smell like not-bad.

Developments in Ticklefights

Greetings from beyond the grave. The above is a picture drawn by my filthy-minded cartoon-drawing friend Nick Dimoulis, based on my musical Fat Chance.

Nick Dimoulis and I shared a math class, along with Spiros Leukopoulos and George Odicho. We spent most of the time playing movie/TV Pictionary, but we noticed that Nick could draw exceptionally gross, body-related things.

One day, he looked back at me with a notebook propped up on his desk, urging me to look at it. It was a graphic drawing of a woman giving birth to PeeWee Herman. I had to supress my laugh, clog my tears, and cross my legs.

Fat Chance, the plotline I detailed in the very first post, is finally being fully realized through collaboration with my friend Tim McPherrin. Few things could make me happier than this! Once the weather gets Springish and the script is absolutely number-one-super-ready, the filming will begin. The cast is mainly made up of friends. Actually, entirely of friends. Justin Nicholson plays three people, all with antiquated jobs:

1. Town Cryer,
2. Milkman,
3. Cholera-Cure Delivery Boy.

I can hear you not laughing right now. It's cool, I think it's hilarious.

Other Journies in Rock and Roll

Bear Hair beard, growing thick from the eyes, the roof of my mouth and ears, and I feel like I've had it for this-many-dog-years; lately I've been 2, tomorrow I'll feel 82, feeling like my head bluetoothed youth. Skin thickens and blood cells reach Heinz heights, watching my sketch-artist-composite pegged onto a LiteBrite; God bless my shiny architect. Zoom out to the marionettes. Number 2 will hold my Village hostage and the role switches every single time I enter and exit a room, and I won't control me any time soon.

The salt of my tears once did wonders for my acne, but it just soaks into the spiny facial ivy when I start ignoring hygiene, I've developed junglemusk; childish monster drawing with long hair and thick tusks. TUSK from the back, TUSK from the cheek, TUSK from the forehead, 3 more wherever nature wanted. Dear Grace: I'm feeling like the Lady in the Fireplace, caught like the Doctor in the cytoplasm of Time/Space. And like him, I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and you never came. I waited and you never came. I waited and you never came. I waited and you never came. I waited and you never came.

Thinks he's got her figured out.
I'm dying if he does,
because there's no service and some network cable's unplugged.
I'm waiting on my twin bed,
my feet can touch the floor,
bear hair beard drapes on my chest,
and I'm crawling on all fours;
I waited and you never came.

Some things are best left not discussed


I promise it gets more hopeful than that. This is the first track from Bear Hair, a rap called "The Beginnings of a Beard." I'm getting gradually less-bad at recording, and doing it from home gives me the special privelage of eating crab rangoon while I lay down fresh beatz.

My friends Kayla Koch and Joanne Kim are collaborating on the cover art because they are very, very sweet/talented people. However, I have my own ideas:



Alright, that's enough for one post. I've gotta shower and get ready for work. So, now that my computer-availability-time isn't sporadic and weird, I'm actually gonna be using this more often. I have to please the TENS and TENS of readers.

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.