The Blue Corn Moon

A perfect day for a rant. . . . .

This mother fucking song right here.

MOTHER FUCKER

Ok. Let's focus on the positive first:

1. The melody is gorgeous. Bravo, Alan Menken.

Okay. Now that that's over with . . .


This song has pissed me off to no end from day mother fucking one. Mainly because the lyrics are douchey as fuck. Thanks Stephen Schwartz.

Here's some highlights of this abortion:

You have a section that repeats "people" three times and "you never knew" twice.

The first line repeats "land" twice.

Pocahontas asks her new arian friend if he can "sing with all the voices of the mountain" and "paint with all the colors of the wind". BITCH, CAN YOU?? I will hand you a god damn paint brush right now, and turn a fan on, and watch you paint JACK SHIT on a blank canvas. Also, mountains don't sing. You know what usually makes sound on mountains? WIND!! You know what can be used to make colors??? DIRT FROM, OH, LETS SAY A MOUNTAIN!!! SING WITH THE VOICES OF THE WIND, AND PAINT WITH ALL THE COLORS OF THE MOUNTAINS YOU DUMB FUCKING BITCH!!!!@!@!@#$!@@%!$^!$#^@#@!!#

This shit was painted entirely with paint made from dirt. http://www.craftster.org/forum/index.php?topic=339392.0

Pocahontas says "heron and the otter are my friends" . . . . .You fucking sadist, Pocahontas. Otters eat heron, and heron try to eat baby otters. There is a very graphic video, which I won't post here, of a mother otter defending her babies from a full grown heron. This angry ass mother otter holds the heron down, WHILE IT'S STILL ALIVE, and chews on the mother fucker's back while it cries out in pain. Eventually, the otter is joined by its husband, and finishes the job by DROWNING THE HERON. They chew it alive, and drown it. What a horrible fucking death.
Essentially, Pocahontas lets this shit happen. They're your fucking friends Pokes. They're your friends. Stop your friends from murdering your other friends in the most graphic manner possible. Holy shit. Pocahontas: You are a cunt. Here's the link if anyone wants to see it. Not for the faint of heart: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSc_JE0q46I

Pocahontas says "have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon?" I've heard a wolf cry to the moon, yes. But a BLUE CORN moon? Fuck no bitch. You need some fucking glasses, or a stronger fire, or a seeing eye heron to show you that the moon looks pretty white in a clear sky. OH WAIT. YOU CAN'T GET A SEEING EYE HERON, BECAUSE YOUR FRIEND THE OTTER SHREDDED IT'S BACK UP, THEN DROWNED IT. Looks like you're going to see a spotty ass moon for the rest of your days. Or at least until you get smallpox.

SEE BITCH. IT'S WHITE

One of the last lines is "you can own the earth and still, all you'll own is earth until . . " Ok. Even though it's repetitive, it still sounds pretty good. I'll give you that one Schwartz.

Speaking of, WHAT THE FUCK STEPHEN??!?!? It's not like you haven't made good things before. Thank you for Godspell and Hunchback and Pippin and other things, but your lyrics for Colors of the Wind sound like a Hufflepuff wrote them after doing a line of cocaine sniffed off the dick of a Basilisk covered in Polyjuice potion. Pour one out for J.K.

http://beckywicks.com/jk-rowling-wants-a-treehouse-then-a-treehouse-she-shall-have/

And the worst fucking line in musical history:

"Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grins?"

He's a fucking grinning bobcat. He's grinning. . .. because he's a mother fucking grinning bobcat.

This shit send me in such a fucking rage, I barely know what to do with myself.

Do you walk into a clock business, and ask "what you doing with that clock?" The mother fucker works on clocks. He's fixing a fucking clock. What the fuck else would he be doing? Looking for his lost foreskin?

Same thing with this harmless fucking bobcat, just trying to get his grin game on. Then you're dumb, blue corn moon seein', dead heron friend havin', dirt song hearing, air color seeing ass walks up to him and says "DERPDERP!!! Y U GRIN??!?!?"

God damnit Pocahontas. I would watch that bobcat eat you. Like you did with your otter friend, which I can only assume you conspired to kill off your heron friend, I will sit on the river bank, repeating words over and over, as that bobcat rips your throat out, fucks it, and uses your throat cavity as a womb with which to grow more grinning bobcats.

Cannibal the Musical. Watch it.

Alright. Rant over.

Move along now. And have a happy 4th. Make sure to watch USA vs Japan tomorrow at 7 PM EST/4 PM PST. They're representing our country. Watch them.

Defeating Resistance

I turn on my computer. This can take a bit, so I go get water and coffee. The two liquids that I'm convinced are made from the blood of Christ.

I open my browser.

I turn on Spotify. Seriously considering a subscription with how much I use that shit. I start up Benny Sing's album "Benny...At Home". On the cover, the artist sits at a table in his home, looking off to the side with a spoon or something in his mouth. If I had to guess, I would say he used it to stir his coffee, which sits in front of him. He has an unkept kitchen counter behind him, and clothes or something in the foreground. He looks unkept, as if he just woke up.

To me, this is what the creative process beginnings look like. Unkept. Unruly. Untethered. With coffee. Also, the music screams of a man who knows what his sound is. Benny Sings doesn't make someone else's music. He makes his. And nobody else makes his music either. Give it a listen, and see what I mean.

I light a candle. Even if it's the middle of the day. Why? Because in my head, that's object manifestation of meditation. And what is the creative process, if not an active meditation? A stream of consciousness meant to attain a higher state of being. The candle gets lit.

My cat, Raisin, interrupts me several times. This is not a true interruption as it's only for love. Love is never an interruption. She is still Satan, but a very beautiful, loving Satan.

I even get interrupted by my wife, who is wondering why the fuck I'm awake at 8 am on a day off. She tries to convince me to come back to bed. It's a weak attempt, but only because she is tired. All I have to say is "I'm writing" and she says "Ok". That's that. I love her.

And then, I write.

Steven Pressfield wrote an AMAZING book called "The War of Art" he describes his own ritual that precedes his creative process. I never truly understood it's effect until now. He also talks about listening to that voice inside you, telling you to do something. The thing that keeps that voice from working is called Resistance. It can manifest as many things, but no matter what form it takes, it is extremely destructive. Overcoming Resistance is one of the hardest things a creative can ever do, but it is also the most rewarding. 

Here's the key for me: Not only is overcoming resistance rewarding to yourself, but it is ultimately rewarding for the world. The world NEEDS your creativity. Depriving this planet of your art, be it science or painting or building cars, hurts you and everyone on this planet.

Here's the final paragraph of The War of Art:

Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It's a gift to the world and every being in it. Don't cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you've got.

I had trouble understanding this for a long time. Doesn't the actor do their art, at least in the smallest part, for the attention? Don't get me wrong. Acting is awesome, and it tells stories in ways that can change the world and shift people's spirits. Still, let's be real. Actors have an attention whore selling their wares in the red light district of their souls.

I'm sitting here writing, post ritual, realizing that there is a part of me that wants your attention. Of course. Duh. But that is so insignificant to the feeling I get from writing. It's not important. It never enters the equation. I HAVE to write. I denied this for a long time.

(this next part seems like a brag, but I promise you it's not. I'm not the next great american novelist. I just know what I need to do now. Stop reading your own agenda into my shit. Fucker.)

The universe wanted me to write! I can't tell you how many times I would get "you should be a stand up comedian" or "you should write" or "you should have a blog" or "you're really creative". All of those things sounded impossible. I mean. . . . why would someone want to read my shit? I'm not good enough.

Read that again. That is Resistance talking: Why would someone want to read my shit? I'm not good enough.

FUCK. THAT.

Resistance thinks it knows how good you are, which is never good enough. The truth is, whether you think your good or not is completely irrelevant. It's not your job to judge your own art. It's what your heart and head want, nay, NEED to do that is important. The world will be filled with people who think you're shit, and there will be people who think you're great. That is also irrelevant. What matters is that you embrace what the voice deep inside you desires.

Little did I know, my voice needed to write.

So, I get my water and coffee. I light my candle. I participate in the first activity of my life that I truly feel deserves a ritual. I cry as I write this. Because it's beautiful. I'm crushing Resistance today. For the first time. Truly.

HOLY FUCK!!! BLOG!!!

Here it is. My blog.

I'm not a great writer, nor have I ever claimed to be. But, after much pressure from my wife, I have started this blog.

A couple disclaimers before we get into the meaty bits:

1. Do not read or subscribe to this blog if you are easily offended, or have parents that don't want your precious innocence besmirched.

If I'm going to have a blog, it sure as hell isn't going to be censored by my subconscious or you. So, don't stick around if you're gonna get all upety about anything, you baby faced little fuck.

2. There will be nerdery!!! 
I don't intend for this to be a nerd blog. I'm not going to write solely about Star Wars and D&D, but, as this blog is about me, these extremely nerdy subjects will find their way into my posts.

This is your chance to back out now . . . .

Ok. If you're still around, look at the picture below of Christopher Lee (r.i.p.) as Saruman with a guitar. Keep looking. KEEP LOOKING.

EL MANIFESTO DE JAY!!

I've had a long history of writing rants on Facebook. They've usually revolved around my in the moment reactions to social indecencies in the world around me on the street, on the subway, out of my window, at movie theatres, etc.

The time has come to make a central location for these rants. No longer will they be lost in the fucktardery of Facebook, awaiting your thumb swipe of ignorance.

Here they be. For your viewing pleasure.

I intend to put my Facebookian updates here, as well as write an article when it strikes my fancy. I may also repost old Facebook updates of mine. . .for content.

Welcome, and fuck you.