Archive for February, 2015

my mom was strict and it’s ok

Posted in Uncategorized on February 26, 2015 by rogerhumanbeing

My mom was strict about my piano lessons. I remember the smooth slippery piano bench. I remember that I couldn’t sit still. Her persistent strong command from cheerful to demanding. It was a homework assignment to me. A lesson after school that I struggled through. I tried to pay attention. I wanted to respond to my own demands of plastic characters answering to my own small wishes. When I was 11, the school music program came after me. Definitely not for my unanswered piano playing. Because I hid whenever I could. I spoke only when I had to. See, there was a world in my head that was far more interesting. I quickly learned that I had a disarming smile, which worked for just about most any situations. Maybe it was my dad’s big band and jazz records playing through the last working dusty speaker in the kitchen that I preferred over bible teachings. Maybe it was Alex Van Halen kicking off Hot For Teacher. When I sheepishly approached my dad for his much needed parent signature to allow me to obtain a pair of drum sticks and a practice pad, I was ready to be turned away. My dad also continually joked about having many other sons to have his own baseball team. God forbid that I wanted to play a wind instrument. I already knew how to count time thanks to my mom, but learning how to hold the sticks was my first challenge. At that time my sunday school teacher was this really cool guy who had played in a lot of prog rock bands. He started teaching me how to play a kit. I remember that he had a huge mirror near the kit, he explained that it was for checking out his form. I never forgot that. He taught me how to play a lot of Rush songs, which really put me ahead in the drum department. I remember one guy in marching band who insisted on playing a drumkit in his socks. I knew even then that it was just for show. Fast forward to me playing drums in Europe in my dress shows…… anyways, they wanted me to play drums for the church. Can you imagine anything more uninteresting? This is NOT WHAT KEITH MOON WOULD DO. Groan. and groan again. I met the odd balls in the church, the skate boarders, the free thinkers, the smarty pants, the handsome boyz. I had my first band, and I had no idea how to play all these drums, but play is what I did. I took no prisoners, and I never looked back. So many stories to tell. I leave you with the origin. How a young hell boy leapt from the furnace of hell. How a young hell boy said, fuck it, I’ve got a better idea. And Rich Freitas said, “are you going to lay all of these drums?” It was a good question. and play them, I did. Or so I thought. East Village, NY, I bombarded you in ’97. I think that it’s been a good thing, yes? So, I miss my mom and her intense teachings. She always wondered if the performances were effected by all of the smoking and madness of the late 90’s in New York. I still do it, mom. I am forever thankful for your teachings. Perhaps part of my drum madness presents part of you, I can only hope.

 

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I have demons

Posted in Uncategorized on February 5, 2015 by rogerhumanbeing

My subconscious seems to want me to fail. (or is it the other way?!) I have demons. I put myself in solitary confinement. The voices say that I must stay. I feed myself through the slit of the door. My fellow prisoners swim through my veins, swift messengers of impending doom. Heart, be aware. Don’t leave me. My imagination is powerful. I can build a whole city in minutes. I can decimate mountains with my much needed joy. I can walk out of this prison just as easily as when I built it. Perspective, don’t leave me. When I get out of solitary confinement I am charming, and I know it. Being charming means a lot of things. It puts a glow around me. This didn’t come from your belief in a higher power. It means that before I ask, I receive. On my end, I seem to lose my grip on whatever I try to give. But I’m not afraid to look at the dirt inside me. I am not dirty based on your belief in a higher power. I work hard. I will die on the job. I’m not done until my work reflects the greatest parts of my character. I am good at what I want to be good at. That’s why when you’re famous your boyfriends and girlfriends will tear you apart in their memoirs for all to read. As if I could be that important! These demons sure are convincing. The one that got away. The many ones. Every person that I’ve been with came with a great story. Everything was interesting, burning, and tormenting. Love and hate mail. If I believe that I will fail, then I sure will. Run to the phone, run away from the phone, the link to your lost love………(WAIT!! THIS WORLD IS DIFFERENT WITHOUT YOU. PLEASE DON’T LEAVE! tears, etc)…….there are phones rarely now but small devices that do everything and nothing to remind you of everything and nothing. I am okay with not fitting anywhere. I do not fit at the holiday dinner table with paper cut out loved ones. But you’ll keep asking questions. And I’ll wonder why you put up with him or her. But to the ones that are true (whatever that is), I say carry on, mofos.