Piss In A Champagne Bottle!
In altering the look of the site, Blogger also saw fit to eat all of my links, including the guestbook. However, as you'll notice, I've reposted some of those links, and added one or two new ones. Enjoy the eye candy/sore.
Hey, here's something new... if you want to drop me a line, send one over to shawnwilliston@gmail.com ...I've signed up to their special offer, which is (as far as I know) only available to Bloggers. At any rate, I'd like to see how it fares, so you can send me a note there. Who knows? I may make it my first choice if it's as cool as they say it is.
More to come...
April 21, 2004
April 14, 2004
AMERICAN OIL
Written 15 minutes ago
I started out wanting to write a nice, easy going acoustic song (having given up on the metal album, I've started striving for the more realistic homemade acoustic album idea). Anyway, I was thinking of making it some sort of love song, when suddenly I found myself thinking about the ongoing saga in Iraq. After a while, I imagined what it would be like for two lovers to be torn apart by war. THEN, I imagined what it would be like for those lovers as civilians, torn apart by a random American attack, the male figure in the story losing his wife to some stray shrapnel, or what have you. Finally, I imagined what it would be like to suddenly lose Carrie, and it kind of wrote itself from there. So, what originally was to be a love song for Carrie turned into a sociopolitical, anti-war love song (indirectly) for Carrie. How the hell does my mind work, anyway?
(As a footnote, the first draft had a third verse, rather than the closing refrain you see below. In the verse, the male vows to avenge his loss. However, after writing it, I decided that posting it may bring me dangerously close to being assassinated by the secret service. Besides, I prefer it left as a touching eulogy, rather than a scathing tirade.)
Our borders blurred into sandstorm lines
And scattered with one breath
It’s best to stay here for a while
Since here is all that’s left
Memories will take you far away
But in the end you still don’t move
A gust from the west brought a hail of fire
But the cinders seemed to soothe
And when I put my arm around you
I think you must have perceived my dread
And when I asked if we could get out of here
I can’t say I was surprised
When “no” was all you said…
I caught a whiff of American oil
Just before the salvo began
So I crossed my heart and hoped to live
Then I was driven into the sand
Coming up for air, I saw you kneeling there
Waving your burning flag
I felt our hearts entwine on that front line
Just before your limbs started to sag
And when I put my arms around you
You gazed at me like you were already dead
And when I told you that we would find a way together
I saw those tears in your eyes
When “no” was all you said…
As the day gives way to eternal night
May you find peace on the other side…
Written 15 minutes ago
I started out wanting to write a nice, easy going acoustic song (having given up on the metal album, I've started striving for the more realistic homemade acoustic album idea). Anyway, I was thinking of making it some sort of love song, when suddenly I found myself thinking about the ongoing saga in Iraq. After a while, I imagined what it would be like for two lovers to be torn apart by war. THEN, I imagined what it would be like for those lovers as civilians, torn apart by a random American attack, the male figure in the story losing his wife to some stray shrapnel, or what have you. Finally, I imagined what it would be like to suddenly lose Carrie, and it kind of wrote itself from there. So, what originally was to be a love song for Carrie turned into a sociopolitical, anti-war love song (indirectly) for Carrie. How the hell does my mind work, anyway?
(As a footnote, the first draft had a third verse, rather than the closing refrain you see below. In the verse, the male vows to avenge his loss. However, after writing it, I decided that posting it may bring me dangerously close to being assassinated by the secret service. Besides, I prefer it left as a touching eulogy, rather than a scathing tirade.)
Our borders blurred into sandstorm lines
And scattered with one breath
It’s best to stay here for a while
Since here is all that’s left
Memories will take you far away
But in the end you still don’t move
A gust from the west brought a hail of fire
But the cinders seemed to soothe
And when I put my arm around you
I think you must have perceived my dread
And when I asked if we could get out of here
I can’t say I was surprised
When “no” was all you said…
I caught a whiff of American oil
Just before the salvo began
So I crossed my heart and hoped to live
Then I was driven into the sand
Coming up for air, I saw you kneeling there
Waving your burning flag
I felt our hearts entwine on that front line
Just before your limbs started to sag
And when I put my arms around you
You gazed at me like you were already dead
And when I told you that we would find a way together
I saw those tears in your eyes
When “no” was all you said…
As the day gives way to eternal night
May you find peace on the other side…
April 12, 2004
A CLUE!
So, I'm surfing the net tonight, and I decide to pop over here to see if anyone's signed my guestbook. And, lo and behold, there's an anonymous post, and a cryptic one at that. All it says is, "78 days..."
Weird. I'm trying to figure out what it could possibly mean. I did the math from today's date, and 78 days from now is Tuesday, June 29. The date only means two things to me. It's a) the one year anniversary of seeing the mighty Pearl Jam live, and b) the projected release date for The Tragically Hip's new album.
Maybe it's something else entirely. I don't think it's anyone's birthday that I know, and I'm not sure of any major events happening on that day. At any rate, it's a good head scratcher, and I do so enjoy scratching my head. More clues, please!
So, I'm surfing the net tonight, and I decide to pop over here to see if anyone's signed my guestbook. And, lo and behold, there's an anonymous post, and a cryptic one at that. All it says is, "78 days..."
Weird. I'm trying to figure out what it could possibly mean. I did the math from today's date, and 78 days from now is Tuesday, June 29. The date only means two things to me. It's a) the one year anniversary of seeing the mighty Pearl Jam live, and b) the projected release date for The Tragically Hip's new album.
Maybe it's something else entirely. I don't think it's anyone's birthday that I know, and I'm not sure of any major events happening on that day. At any rate, it's a good head scratcher, and I do so enjoy scratching my head. More clues, please!
April 5, 2004
Seven Seconds Late (Doing What You've Done)
Written April 4, 2004
I'm not a famous artist. But, if I was, I'd be feeling pretty violated these days, with all the hubbub over what words you can or can't say, and what acts you can or can't do. I'd hate to think that a single word from my mouth, or one strategically placed wardrobe malfunction, could blackball me for life. It's time to put an end to all the censorship and supposed "moral cleansing" that's being forced upon us. It's time to own up to the fact that, no matter how much we isolate them, our children are going to learn swear words, see members of the opposite sex nude, and watch hundreds of people die on television. The longer we allow the suppression of free speech, the longer we suffocate ourselves as free-thinking individuals. If the world ever does become the set of '7th Heaven' (as the proponents of the Great Silencing would have it), I'll be sitting up in an old oak tree, smoking a cigarette and jacking my stack to a glossy Jessica Biel 8x10, screaming at the poor, petrified souls below to get the fuck out of my drop zone.
You, the advocates of the verbal embargo
You, who won’t be satisfied until we’re all muted
Parade your troubled children as a product of our credo
Outlaw anyone who’d have the gall to disprove it
But we have the facts, and the facts say you’re all frantic
Desperate for excuses to deflect all the blame
Preaching your morals, but you’ve twisted the semantics
Nervous whispers echoed on the tape delay
Freedom becomes folklore
The narrative controlled
Worthless and predictable
But the airtime still gets sold
The constitution is non-verbatim
Because speech just isn’t free
So when I gag your mouth and tell you it’s decreed
I’m just doing what you've done to me
You, the spotless family, the moral minority
You, the ones who’ve never had to beg forgiveness
The holier than thou routine is boring me
If God hates imperfection, everybody’s on his shit list
We have the facts, and the facts say you’re all liars
Peddling integrity to cover up your sins
You’re drowning yourself in spite of the fire
The water’s getting hotter, everybody jump in
Acceptance becomes folklore
We’re all heathens in your eyes
So blasphemous, so evil
We’ll never be glorified
The bible is non-verbatim
Because we don’t feel esteemed
So when I denounce you and curse the air you breathe
I’m just doing what you’ve done to me
Written April 4, 2004
I'm not a famous artist. But, if I was, I'd be feeling pretty violated these days, with all the hubbub over what words you can or can't say, and what acts you can or can't do. I'd hate to think that a single word from my mouth, or one strategically placed wardrobe malfunction, could blackball me for life. It's time to put an end to all the censorship and supposed "moral cleansing" that's being forced upon us. It's time to own up to the fact that, no matter how much we isolate them, our children are going to learn swear words, see members of the opposite sex nude, and watch hundreds of people die on television. The longer we allow the suppression of free speech, the longer we suffocate ourselves as free-thinking individuals. If the world ever does become the set of '7th Heaven' (as the proponents of the Great Silencing would have it), I'll be sitting up in an old oak tree, smoking a cigarette and jacking my stack to a glossy Jessica Biel 8x10, screaming at the poor, petrified souls below to get the fuck out of my drop zone.
You, the advocates of the verbal embargo
You, who won’t be satisfied until we’re all muted
Parade your troubled children as a product of our credo
Outlaw anyone who’d have the gall to disprove it
But we have the facts, and the facts say you’re all frantic
Desperate for excuses to deflect all the blame
Preaching your morals, but you’ve twisted the semantics
Nervous whispers echoed on the tape delay
Freedom becomes folklore
The narrative controlled
Worthless and predictable
But the airtime still gets sold
The constitution is non-verbatim
Because speech just isn’t free
So when I gag your mouth and tell you it’s decreed
I’m just doing what you've done to me
You, the spotless family, the moral minority
You, the ones who’ve never had to beg forgiveness
The holier than thou routine is boring me
If God hates imperfection, everybody’s on his shit list
We have the facts, and the facts say you’re all liars
Peddling integrity to cover up your sins
You’re drowning yourself in spite of the fire
The water’s getting hotter, everybody jump in
Acceptance becomes folklore
We’re all heathens in your eyes
So blasphemous, so evil
We’ll never be glorified
The bible is non-verbatim
Because we don’t feel esteemed
So when I denounce you and curse the air you breathe
I’m just doing what you’ve done to me
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