Monday, December 01, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
4715 Rainbow Blvd
Mission, KS 66205
Friday, October 24th @ 7:00 PM
$6 at the door
The Pitch did a story on the show at the Crosstown Station. There is also a pretty good review of the album that was in INK a couple weeks ago.
For those of you who came out to the last two Klangs shows thanks a lot here is a link to more pics from that weekend.
Monday, September 15, 2008
the klangs official cd release and debut performance with namelessnumberheadman
kansas city, mo 64108
$7 at the door
the klangs with the khrusty brothers
kansas city, mo 64108
$8 at the door
Read more about the band here
Or about my involvement here
Watch this epic YouTube video prologue
Friday, September 05, 2008
They are in a contest this month and I want them to win so go here and vote. It takes a little bit because you have to create a Login but it is so worth it.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Fruits of the Spirit
She is unconditional.
Agape with thick black hair;
Extending gracious embraces.
A laugh so infectious the night smiles.
Humoring through hardships with serious content,
Her strength so obvious.
Like a river, tumbling perfectly still.
Making treaties with her eyes,
Cultivating harmony with her soft hands.
An artist of longsuffering,
She knows time will come.
Waiting; her dreams dance with a divine tomorrow.
Even to strangers her warmth is magnetic.
Tenderly striving to remain without enemy,
Her words serve souls.
Her reputation precedes her.
Virtuous in every way; Proverbially.
Like all of creation, she is good.
Always is her way of life.
Steadfast like a pillar, never letting down.
Loyalty as staunch as armies.
Holding hands at her hero’s bedside
Hymns on her lips and in her face
Gently her spirit caresses the pain.
Denying self she follows Him.
Bearing cross daily; arduously effortless.
Composed, she forms fruitful family.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Hey all. I just wanted to let you in on a little project I have been working on. My buddy Greg Lafollettte wrote a concept album as his musical alter-ego from the Khrusty Brothers. It is called Khorky Custer Khrusty Presents The Klangs. He asked me to collaborate with him in writing a stage show / performance art piece to accompany the live concert. It is going to be super sweet. This is the promotional video we made. I ran the camera, Tony Droge is the dancer. Please share it with your friends.
I have never been in a band before since I am completely musically retarded so this is probably the closest I will ever come. I am also hype because my good buddy Nick is playing bass for The Klangs.
We have concerts coming up:
September 13 at the Bottleneck in Lawrence
September 19 at the Brick
September 20 at Crosstown Station
Friday, July 18, 2008
In a field where pumpkins grow for seed
And rumpled rainbows hide in trees
There is a special kind of vine
That grows a pumpkin-man combined
One such rare phenomenon
Is Private Fredrick Ray Gourdman
His orange and vertically creviced face
Is the only sign of his pumpkin race
Partly pumpkin but mostly man
Fred sits on his father; his mother in hand
Staring at the creamy Autumn Sky
Contemplating days gone by
Fredrick Gourdman left this land
A prodigal sort of pumpkin man
Looking for fun and fortune and fame
He picked himself and hopped on a train
He took right to gambling, women and booze
And it seemed like the pumpkin man couldn’t lose
Soon he had squandered all he’d acquired
Burning through money like a bank vault on fire
Hopeless and Penniless Fred was alone
But had too much pride to try and go home
He met an Army recruiter in a local bar
And a couple drinks later he was headed for war
The war they were fighting required a lot
Of men on the frontlines where the battle was hot
So Private Fredrick Gourdman was stationed
In the trenches of a far off pumpkin-less nation
Although quite accustomed to living in dirt
The horrible violence, bloodshed and hurt
Weighed on the soul of the innocent squash
The vertical valleys of his face were awash
With blood, sweat and tears. As the battle raged on,
All he could think of was the stillness of dawn
And purplish morning soft on the rinds
Of his father and mother whom he’d left behind.
Growing for seed just wasn’t for Fred
But war was as empty and he’d end up as dead
So like the center of a palindrome
The battlefield started his journey back home
He hopped off a train in the pumpkin field
Under a velvet hat he concealed
His face but his father knew just who it was
And before Fred could explain all of his flaws
The old pumpkin tore lose from the vine
Rolling fast toward the railroad line
In a gesture of love uniquely Gourd-ish
He forced Fred to sit on his side in forgiveness
Reunited they sit a family again
In spite of a world of war and sin
In a country field growing for seed
Partly pumpkin but partly human indeed
I want to thank my beautiful and witty wife Melissa for coming up with the idea for this one. I tend to steal her ideas without giving her credit all the time and just wanted to set the record straight about this one.
Also The Pitch wrote a great article last may about the importance of this piece by Jess. Check it out for more info on the artist.
I also want to give some love to the winning poet named Lou. He won with a piece inspired by Alex Hay's sculpture Paper Bag, and it was awesome. He did it at a reading earlier this month and you can check it out on YouTube here.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
shameless self promotion
Thursday, Jul 17, 2008
Poetry Slam and Jam
Sparks! Out Loud Alive with Poet Bob Holman
6 — 9 pm
Bloch Building and Atkins Auditorium
Bob Holman, founder of Bowery Poetry Club in New York City, joins Glenn North, poet-in residence at the American Jazz Museum, and a host of Kansas City writers for a dynamic evening of spoken-word poetry inspired by works in the featured exhibition.
I was commissioned to be one of the "host of Kansas City writers" and will be doing a brand new work inspired by one of the paintings in this exhibition. It is a surprise so see if you can guess which one they assigned me. This is very exciting and I would love to see you all there. And bring your friends because it is free.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Last month Melissa and I were a part of the greatest music video extravaganza on the face of the earth. Or at least the greatest music video ever shot at the Hy-vee in Independence, MO; Buckets of Babes. Look close and you will see that both my wife and I are indeed babes. This song was written and preformed by my two bestest friends Nick and Dane. They recorded it in their house over the span of 3 months. The gang vocals at the end were captured after one Monday Night Dinner in their attic, and feature me among others singing in an angry falsetto. They named their band loversofthewomen because they are very much ladies men of the first order. Enjoy. Email it to your friends and maybe it will be the next viral video sensation.
If you do the facebook watch it here. Also check out the sweet pics of me on there. I make a pretty dang good looking woman.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I posted another one of her videos here. Here and here are some other write-ups about my cool cousins.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Somewhere West of Cabo
Is a member of the Belgian CIA
This bureaucratic killer
Lives on a beach front villa
With a parrot that happens to be gay
Dirk, as his friends call him
Loves to smoke and drink and swim
While Doc, the bird, likes to read Walt Whitman.
The two of them get rowdy
Since their official mission’s cloudy
But they are basically a pair of Flemish Hitmen
Dirk and Doc the duo
Went to the local postal depot
To pick up a top secret Belgian Order
The swimmer opened up the Fed-Ex
And read a detailed dialectic
On why they had to kill a news reporter
Never one to argue
Doc was ready for the kung-fu
Since gay parrots tend to lean toward violence
Being lazy more than cautious
Dirk thought it an odd office
To dispose of for Belguims royal highness
Still they traveled up the Baja
Over rocks that once were lava
To find the nearest local journalist
The breeze blew in off the pacific
And since their task was not specific
They meandered toward a store through the mist
The proprietor was stout
With his stomach hanging out
Of the front of his once white v-neck shirt
Doc flew onto the counter
And asked the 300 pounder
If he had any News reporter dirt
Ironically he knew one
So he said into Dirk's gun
He lived around the corner from his mom
The rotund one gave directions
To the pair of well armed Belgians
So they would know right where to place the bomb
Once they set the booby trap
And started to go back
They saw the newsman near the window in his kitchen
Dirk and Doc had in their day
Always killed and walked away
That's why they were the best two Belgian Hitmen
But the pure innocent face
Of the stranger in that place
Who'd done nothing to the King but write the news
Made the swimmer shed a tear
The bird then called him queer
And pushed the button to explode the public muse
Dirk drank a mocha java
While Doc munched a juicy guava
As the man and bird went back home to their beach
They sent a postcard to their boss
About the media's loss
Dirk smoked and drank and swam then went to sleep.
The moon shone in the skylight
As Doc pearched up for the night
Another blood stain on his parrot soul
Without that one reporter
Belguim may regain its order
But Flemish Freedom will always have its toll.
Friday, April 04, 2008
I saw a preview for this on Channel 1 today. Also check out David Wilson's site.
It is a documentary about the legacy of slavery in America. I am excited to illegally download it as soon as it airs on MSNBC on April 11th.
Monday, March 24, 2008
At a circus in the south of France
Where muscled men wear Lycra pants
The act that walks the high tight rope
Is Roger the African antelope.
Up in the air he prances along
In his metallic colored circus thong
Juggling fruit and maintaining his balance
Displaying his unique set of talents
The fruit that Roger juggles most
Are the hard yet fuzzy cantaloupes
Indeed these melons are his true love
And one can see it as he saunters above
He’s never dropped one fruit from on high
It’s almost romantic enough to cry
But antelopes can’t elope with cantaloupes
At least not according to the Pope
So he loved his melons in singleness
Until along came a bearded temptress.
Shelly was Swedish; from a mountain town
A descendant of hairy gypsy clowns
Her hair was blond and her skin was fair
And soft, where not covered in hair.
France may be full of hairy women
But Roger had never paid attention
Shelly was different and downright delightful
As she clowned about on her unicycle.
She went on stage with the Lycra men
As they groped each other she would spin
One day while performing in the center ring
He saw Shelly backstage practicing.
Suddenly all of his Cantaloupes fell
Was this diva from the depths of hell,
Sent to separate mammal and melon?
It seemed his heart was in complete rebellion
Roger was torn. Whom did he love more?
Was it Shelly or Cantaloupes that he adored?
He’d always been true to the love in his life
Not once contemplating a non-cantaloupe wife
As the fruit flesh laid naked in a pulpy mass
Roger fell off the wire on his thong wearing ass
The bearded girl came, fiercely pedaling
On her unicycle to the frightening scene
Roger looked up at the Swedish clown
Her eyes glittered as she gazed down
Her Nordic voice echoed in his African ear
What she was whispering wasn’t quite clear
The circus crowd had completely quieted.
The wind blew through her beard as she softly alighted
Shelly bent down toward his antelope face
And offered a mournful Swedish embrace
There before God and muscled men in mid-grope
She too declared her love for cantaloupe
Hearing her deepest fruit adoration
Healed all of Rogers painful sensations
He now knew how to solve his deepest love problem
He had to do something before life could stop him
Right there at the circus he bent down on two knees
Asking “Will you marry an antelope . . . please?”
She kissed him in that magical setting
And agreed to a cross species fruit-centric wedding
The crowd erupted with cantaloupe pride
The two lovers kissed and the muscled men cried
Because they were both willing to take a chance
They lived happily ever after in the south of France.
+ + =
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Expansive emptiness; overcast skies
Somewhere beneath you, a rumble quite slowly
A beast with ambiguous eyes
Torrents exploding so grayish and black
Towering over your head
Look for Leviathans dark empty eyes
And it’s gone.
Princess in a tempest with dragons.
Follow it down to the floor of the ocean
Where underfed mermen eat navy supplies
Everyone weeps as you sink past the old ships
Full of bones that will never be dry
Newspaper rainstorms fill the horizon
Waiting to take you away
Escape from both faces; fierce as forever
And you’re gone.
Princess in a tempest with dragons.
Picture yourself after sea storms have settled
A sun in greyscale telling weatherman lies
Suddenly deep from the ocean around you
The beast with ambiguous eyes
Princess in a tempest with dragons.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Sunday, January 06, 2008
I go to mail my mustache to my roommate in Mamoon
But the fellow at the window is an overweight raccoon
He tells me that my mustache can not go in the mail
And that those caught mailing mustaches are always put in jail
Now I am in a pickle since my roommate is expecting
To receive a mustache cause he's into hair collecting
I tell the fat raccoon that I still have to mail my mustache
And if he doesn't let me then I'll kick his chubby coon-ass
He tells me that the government has banned all facial hair
Because it can be used as an instrument of terror
I ask to speak to someone who does not eat out of trash cans
Then the raccoon slaps me with his clunky tiny hands
Momentarily I stand there with my blond mustache in silence
There is nothing left to do except resort to violence
I pull out all my throwing stars and heave them at his face
He ducks behind the counter with a figure skaters grace
Then out from all the ceiling tiles dropping like grenades
Come plumpish woodland creatures to the massive mailcoon's aid
A woodchuck with a double chin karate chops my spine
While a scrappy plus size squirrel bites me on my thin behind
A turtle that was spilling out the edges of his shell
Teams up with a beaver that was shaped just like a bell
They make a sort of catapult with the beavers tail
Flinging the portly turtle at my illegal mustache mail.
The package flies into the air above the raccoons head
My dreams of mailing mustaches all but almost dead
Just then I see my parcels exact trajectory
Sends it through the slot marked Mamoon quite luckily
And all the obese creatures from the forest of the fat
Can't fit through the slot to get my mustache package back.
Triumphantly I scoff at the overweight raccoon
As he wonders to himself why my roommate's in Mamoon.