Iconoclast Groundlessness of Disbelief

I was challenged by my friend Ryan Via Facebook to post 7 great songs in 7 days and nominate a new person every day to do the same. Today I chose the song I Like You Less Than Apple Pie by ICONOCLAST from the Groundlessness of Disbelief 7". This song is from Ebullition #8 and the following mini-bio is from: http://www.ebullition.com/catalog8.html Iconoclast was the only band on Ebullition that was ever released because of a demo that was received in the mail. The Iconoclast demo sounded a lot like Rorschach. It was very impressive and it warranted a release on Ebullition. When they recorded these 4 songs their sound had developed into something much more complex and unique. Even better than their great demo. A classic early '90s hardcore record from a band that existed side by side with East Coast legends like Rorschach, Born Against, Merel and Current. This 7" will not be repressed. Once it is sold out then it will be gone forever. (Don't Even Try, Fool, that shit has been long sold out). What significance does this song hold for me your brainless, narcissistic-ass is probably not inquiring? The lyrics, which are very clearly understandable if listened to, are simple, heart felt, and easy to relate to. In the early nineties when Mr. McClard in his infinite wisdom chose to release this e.p. his intention was to reach those that were like-minded and I like to believe he was successful. More so than anything what this record signifies for me is a bond with three other men, Timothy James Roybal, Nick Paul, and Shaun Herrera, aka Perseverance from Pueblo Colorado. Those 3 men, along with Rich Amnesty, opened my eyes to a whole different perspective of Hardcore. We felt it and we felt it deeply and truly. If you ever had a chance to see it, you know, and fuck every last asshole that has anything different to say. It set me on a more more thoughtful, and unfortunately, at times, elitist POV, In a way paving the way for the music snob I have become. Rock was so full of a disgusting wankery that this early, "Emo Hardcore," "Sceamo" to some, rendered impotent. It wasn't that these bands possessed the genius of Randy Rhodes or Eddy Van Halen, nothing close to that. It was the fact that they did it with unparalleled emotion. Sure, Eddy could hammer-on for miles, but that will never equal the emotional impact 90's Hardcore had on me and my peers. I make no apologies. I am Hardcore, for life. If you have opposition to that stance than most likely I will like you less... You can listen to the song here:

https://youtu.be/erjCm4CGFbc

The Sunny Life of a Homeless North Denver Mexican Post Idiot's Apocolypse or The Fuck up.

I'm sitting down on the weather beaten picnic table a couple blocks from where I spend 8 hours every weekday pushing textile ink through a screen for those so inclined to play such interesting games as Lacrosse, Hockey, Field Hockey, and let's not forget the ever popular Squash. I'd never heard of the sport prior to working in this particular sweatshop. Uncultured you scoff? Maybe, but mostly I just don't give a fuck about sports. I digress. I'm sitting down to the table when I notice it; the smeared dirt on my knee. First I smile, then my conscience kicks in sounding like a disappointed parent or teacher, my face shifts expressions and contorts causing the muscles being utilized in my face to feel as though they are slowly being pulled to their capacity. Their painful protest reminding me I haven't eaten in a few days and the closest thing to water I've put my pipe tooting chapped lips to is cheap beer. This is my body warning the apathetic asshole manning the central processing unit in my cranial housing unit soon my body will begin final exercises to disengage this vessel permanently. I think of my father and I crack open the tab on the tall can of cheap poison and take several anxious swallows. As some of you more intuitive individuals may have so skillfully deduced, I'm a drug abuser/addict, I drink myself into drunkenness, sometimes, if finances permit, I buy methamphetamine, better known as crystal meth, go fast, Tina, glass, and the list goes on. It isn't an everyday addition, but it is enough to stress my finances and keep me marking time, preventing me from making any real progress in my life. In addition to these chemical dependencies, I have a sex and pornography addiction. This I believe to have been brought on by my early discovery of hardcore pornography and being molested at a very young age. I actually look fondly upon that time. It excited me in a way that I have never been able to achieve again. Being a man of education and a student of life and the streets, I realize how preposterous this psychosis must sound, but if I am to be truthful, than I must be accurate in my telling of my sordid tale. I realize that this will come as a shock, or not, to those of you that have known me decades. Others will have an easier time as I have, at brief moments, tried to confess this turmoil by which I feel enslaved. I am not a monster, most certainly an animal. I am an animal of great intelligence that learned to feed my primal desire rather than stifle it. This all brings me back to the filthy smudge crossing the top of my leg...

The Sunny Life of a Homeless North Denver Mexican Post Idiot's Apocolypse or The Fuck up.

Hello everyone, I am thinking about writing a public journal of sorts which will hopefully culminate into a full Non-fiction/fiction account of who I am and who I be post 09/11/2001. For everyone of us involved in some capacity with these writings, whether you lived in close proximity to me or you're just unlucky enough to be reading all this, this was when the world, our world blew up in our little safe faces. Well, fuck you, go cry about it to somebody that wants to hear it. This is my crying zone and if I have to balls to be honest with myself and with you, I just might be a little bit lighter in the friend zone and undoubtedly there will be the one or ten of you who says, yeah, I had a feeling, because that is who you are and what you do and I love you anyway. Let me get my head in order and take that deep fucking breath, you do it too, we're all going to need it.

New Sherman to the Fucking Sea l.p., "The Lost Army," available now

Hello to anyone that might accidentally come across this page. My band, Sherman to the Fucking Sea has a new album out. Go to the provided link and download it. Thanks.

http://shermantothefuckingsea.bandcamp.com/album/the-lost-army

The Way Spielberg Has Left Me Feeling Lately

Close, like these four walls leaving my tongue tasting white.

I see you in deep hues of fiery yellows and brilliant orange,

shadows that leave me midnight cold and crispy blue.

Burning, our sanctuary smelled so safe before the smoke,

like the wood in our house, their house, when it was new.

I see you, in photographs, living just right,

I just know you're laughing at me, as you feign love electronically.

I will mail my pleas, because it’s what I always do.

That is how we love now.

Tutorial work

More Art...

Completed January 2010

Completed January 2010

Burned and Pegged

A peice done regarding control.

Bound

Another in the series.

Fuckhole

This is work I have completed as part of a series.

The White Whale of Colfax

THE WHITE WHALE OF COLFAX



The great glowing and awkward box,

skimming the streets like a clumsy whale,

the vulcanized rubber of the tires,

making out with the curbside,

its gates opening and flooding the sidewalk with fluorescent light.

The light washes over my face,

swallowing me,

pulling me into its belly.

Heavy eyes greet me,

hinting at days of rickety fatigue,

hanging on like dry wood shutters,

rusting on ancient hinges.

I stare down the pathway,

seats like the great beast's rib cage

line the pathway to everyday stories

of men and women

broken like sandy skin and

eyes that reflect

the red and blue of the city’s pulse at night,

shiny like glass,

holding back a deluge of truth.

They hang, slumped in their sockets,

floating in a haze of swill and courage,

but for clarity and purpose.

A girl with vacant eyes,

pictures on her skin,

screaming in black and gray.

She sits, contrasting old wise eyes,

Shiny and tight,

they keep the smile wide.

“Be here, be now. Be here, be now,”

a distant mantra in my head.

I ring the bell,

the driver blazes past new cars

built for other lives

than most taking this ride.

Good Bands to Love

Universal Order of Armageddon



John Henry West



Swing Kids



Iconoclast

Night and Day

This began as a doodle and became this.

Phun with Photoshop!

This is a little something I created in Photoshop CS3. I am learning to do quite a bit of new things other than photo corrction. Enjoy.

Harbored by Garden Variety

Garden Variety

Taking a cue from my good friend Wrongstring over at acoatofredpaintinhell.com, I have decided to drop a little known early '90s gem on you all. Those of you that are so fucking hip, you may want to stop reading now as you already undoubtedly know of Garden Variety and their great contribution to indie music and it's ascent to the watered down, girl pants, eye-linered, fruitastic, mainstream atrocity it has become. Not their fault in the least, in fact, GV were quite possibly one of the most over looked punk bands of the 90s. By no means was this band laying new foundations, merely, building upon foundations set by the likes of the Descendants, Jawbreaker and Fugazi.
Garden Variety hailed from Long Island, NY. It's members, Anthony Roman (vocals, bass), Anthony Rizzo (guitar), and Joe Gorelick (drums, vocals), went on to contribute to such notable bands as Blue Tip, Hell No, and Radio 4. The music has been described as straight forward punk, but it is so much more than that. Today the music would easily get lost amongst a sea of the sheen and pristine bands that have aped this style. I think what always stood out to me about this band was it's guitar work. At first it might come off as a din of sloppy chording, and most likely that may be all it ever really was, but I fell in love with the noisy structuring of the guitar. The bass and drums piloted this machine and Roman's vocals were strained, painful, and true. His angst was sincere and that made what he was screaming feel all that more crucial and important.
I had the pleasure of seeing this band twice, both times with another very under-appreciated band, Into Another. This era in indie music was and is one of my favorites. Every band I was getting into seemed as though they were on the verge of breaking through to some new level of musicianship. Of course some did and others just faded away to be forgotten. Some should never be forgotten and GV are definitely one of those bands. Didn't everything feel that way back then? "I wish that I met you when I was seventeen, I would know all the answers to your mysteries, I could tell the stories about us in the past, And how the days of winter didn't last."-Winter, By Garden Variety

I urge you to look for their two albums, Self Titled;1993 (Gern Blandsten), and Knocking the Skill Level;1994(Cargo)