Visiting Hours. A true ghost(?) story.

I was seventeen years old and living in Marcy, NY in the summer of 1987. Located outside Utica, Marcy was sparsely populated and not known for much beyond Mid-State Correctional Facility, Central New York Psychiatric Center (both are situated on the same parcel of land), and Whitesboro Senior High School. I will let you ponder if mere coincidence accounts for all three resting within two miles of each other. My family moved into an old, state-owned converted farmhouse about a mile down the road from the prison the previous summer after my father became its new Deputy Superintendent of Security. What we later learned about our new surroundings was in stark contrast to their humble appearance. For example, roughly thirty yards to the right of our driveway sprawled a large, two story brick building used for storage by the prison. In fact, it was once the Marcy State Hospital, a branch of the New York State Lunatic Asylum (originally called the Utica Lunatic Asylum in the 1840’s). The old asylum, our house, the prison, and the Center were all located on 1,000 acres of land purchased in 1911 from the Crane family whose burial plot lay across the road from my front door. Two overflowing farmhouses held patients until the Marcy State Hospital was completed in the early 1900’s. I don’t have definitive proof my house was one of them, but couple the lack of any other houses in the area with its glaring proximity and age (proven by an 1861 penny that I found the driveway) and Occam’s Razor points in that direction.

Late August seemed cold that year. I mention it because my perpetually open window was closed the night something visited me in my room. It was about 1 A.M. and I was having trouble sleeping. Normally I fell asleep to the radio, so I got up and lowered the volume on the off chance it was too loud. The pale light from a passing car’s headlights caught my eye as I slipped back into bed. It flowed from right to left on the wall behind the radio, as its kind always did, and onto the wall adjacent to my bed before disappearing. A few quiet moments passed when my attention was again caught by a dim light, but this time it was coming from my overhead light fixture. Power surge? That is what I thought for the second it took me to realize the illumination was at least twelve inches to right of the fixture. The glow gradually grew in dimension and intensity until it was the size of an over-inflated football and its radiance reflected off the fixture glass and ceiling. The lower half was grayish while the upper half was the color of cream. Then, as slowly as it formed, it dimmed until it was no more. The room was dark and the moment was over. At no time did I feel shock or fright. Whatever had taken place over the prior ten to fifteen seconds left me calm and relaxed. It was the next twenty minutes that still bother me.

Immediately after the event ended, a short shaft of light, like that cast by a flashlight, reached under my closed door. Back and forth, the shaft flashed under the door before rising toward the doorknob. There it paused and disappeared only to instantly reappear under the door that separated my room from my parent’s bedroom. It performed the same erratic dance near the door’s base for a few moments and then disappeared. But, as the door was painted shut, I had no way of knowing if it was truly gone. What I did know was it was in the same room as my slumbering parents. Adrenalin erased my calmness with one overwhelming thought: there was an intruder in the house. I grabbed my bat, crept into the hallway and into my parents’ room ready to swing first and ask questions later. I found nothing. My parents were sound asleep. I woke them and explained what had happened as best as I could in my frightened state. We spent the next twenty minutes searching the house for any signs of forced entry. Every window and door was intact. My father said it was a dream and that I should go back to bed. My mother tried to reassure me by adding if I did see odd lights they were probably from the drive-in theatre down the road. I knew both explanations were wrong, but without an alternative, I decided to let the matter go and try to make sense of it in the morning.

The next day brought no answers. I tried to wrap my head around it, but as I didn’t know what ‘it’ was, I was at a loss. I might have relegated the entire episode to a waking dream or perhaps cryptonesia had my mother not confessed several years later to seeing light coming out of my room from under my closed door while she was trying to calm me, though my room was dark when I opened my door.

Our house did not own the market on strangeness, however. The old asylum produced an odd assortment of half words and unrecognizable sounds on quiet nights. Occasionally we would see light behind its barred windows. I have no theories linking the two phenomena, but a few years after we moved away prison security discovered cult paraphernalia (teen wannabes most likely) in the asylum’s basement. That could obviously account for what we saw and heard, but what about my house? Why did I associate the second light with an intruder trying to get into my room? And, what does that say about the first light and how calm I felt? I’ve never been able to answer these questions and nothing like it ever transpired again. It was a singular event and those are often the hardest to explain. Even our cat, with all its vaunted feline senses and sensitivities, showed no change in behavior before or after; nor did she shy from any corner of the house. I’ve talked to others who have experienced odd circumstances and like them, I sometimes wish I had an explanation while other times I want to forget about it. Answers are not always pleasant.

Watchmen and Reagan

*SPOILER ALERT*

If you haven't watched the Watchmen film yet, read no further. If you haven’t read the graphic novel yet, ditto.

Still with me? Good. Thousands of Watchmen reviews have already sprung up so I won't bother you with another one. You have (or will have) your own opinion which is as valid as the most erudite critic. This piece is about one of the changes made to the graphic novel in the film. The film’s final scene is set in the office of a less than mainstream, anti-Russian publisher called the Pioneer Publishing Inc. The editor belittles an employee for suggesting an article about an actor planning to run for President in '88. The editor replies, “Seymour, we do not dignify absurdities with coverage. This is still America, God damnit. Who wants to a cowboy actor in the White House?" Robert Redford is the aforementioned actor in the graphic novel. In the movie version, the actor is Ronald Reagan. Some supporters of Reagan may feel this is a slight as our charged political landscape is filled with thin-skinned partisans on both sides of the fence. For those I offer this theory: It may have been a nod to the former President and all the comic fans who knew the ending was changed. Dr. Manhattan, for those who haven't read the graphic novel, was never framed by Veidt. Veidt's plan involved fake ALIENS. Yup, an alien invasion gone bad and the murder of millions. THAT was the plot the Comedian uncovered. I don't want to spoil the specifics for those who haven't read it, but Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons presented it wonderfully. Back to Reagan. The movie's plot device was a number huge explosions killing millions. What's more believable to viewers, even a superhero movie audience, a plot to trick Earth into thinking we narrowly missed an alien invasion or a terrorist act? I think the answer is obvious. And yet...



Yes, that's Reagan speaking about the unifying force such an alien invasion might generate. So, my take on the Reagan reference is not a necessarily a jab, but perhaps the producers' acknowledgement of a HUGE change in the story. Maybe I'm wrong. I have been accused of reading too much into things before.



Yes, that's Reagan speaking about the unifying force such an alien invasion might generate. So, my take on the Reagan reference is not a necessarily a jab, but perhaps the producers' acknowledgement of a HUGE change in the story. Maybe I'm wrong. I have been accused of reading too much into things before.

Knight's Rider

POP POP POP POP POP….

It took him a second to count the five gunshots. Their confused echoes fell over each other down the long alley chasing after him as he ran. The shots were nearby. Their speed meant panic, and panic meant death. Another survivor gone. He imagined the biting, raking swarm falling upon…him?...her? It didn’t matter. The poor unknown person was now a tool of distraction. The swarm would draw attention to itself as it ate and draw other groups to it. This was the break he needed to make it another block closer to the edge of the city. Small runs were safer than bolting wild in the street. He saw many die that way. A few shambling corpses were easy to avoid, but as few as five were deadly if you were caught unaware. And he hadn’t seen groupings that small in weeks.

Unnnnnn…

He stopped hard and held his hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing. The group was feeding. It sounded large and close, but he still couldn’t tell where.

One body won’t last long.

He started running again and slowed before turning a corner onto a car littered street. He looked up and saw his target: the apartment building he grew up in. It had been years since he’d returned. Years since his parent’s died, back when the dead stayed dead. With luck he could get in and hold up a few days. It took him three weeks to traverse twenty-four blocks. He was in no hurry.

Slow and steady doesn’t get eaten.

The street was clear. He knelt down and looked under the cars. The zombies had an alarming habit of popping our from behind objects so common in everyday life they were effectively invisible. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his motorcycle jacket. The black leather welcomed the hot July sun, but it did offer a high degree of protection against human fingernails. He was going to buy the accompanying motorcycle a week after he bought the jacket, but then all hell broke loose. Sometimes he regretted his choice of priorities. He inhaled deeply, braced himself, and…slowly crept walked across the street. He scanned left and right for movement. Nothing.

errrn….

He turned. A single zombie stumbled toward him far down the alley way. A fireman’s axe lodged deep in it’s chest.

Shit The damn things are like seagulls. One spots a meal and starts squawking it’s head off.

UNNNNN…

Damn it!

The shots were much closer than he thought. A rising chorus of moans and wails poured out of the adjacent alley.

Stay Calm. Stay ahead, he reminded himself.

He ran to his target, leaped up the front steps of the building and stopped dead. He heard a steadily increasing pounding coming from inside the door. The image of hungry, dead fists slamming against the wood snaked in and out of his mind. A few minutes of planning and he could have found another way in or a means to draw them out. He was sure of it. He also knew he didn’t have one minutes before the street was, literally, crawling with the undead. He ran down the steps and waited a few seconds to gauge how many stragglers the swarm was attracting. Individual cries erupted from up and down the street. His head fell. He legs grew weak and heavy. All his efforts threw him in the middle of a goddamn nest. The undead crawled and lumbered from every building, doorway, and shadow. The pounding on the door rose to greet the tide, doubling it’s efforts to join it. The door rattled in it’s splintering death throws. He was surrounded. He sat down.

This is it.

The thought was calm and resigned. He drew the .22 pistol from his belt and placed the barrel against his temple. The cries and moans encircled him, a vanguard to the pallid throats that birthed them. In a fluid he motion he squeezed the trigger.

-click-

I really wish I had some bullets.

Huh?

The sound was clear and pronounced even above the cadaverous din. Squealing rubbing on concrete . He backed up the stairs searching for the source. It was coming from behind the swarm of undead exiting the alley. A vehicle was approaching at a high rate of speed. He knew it couldn’t plow through the mob of bodies between them, but it might be enough of a distraction to allow him to escape. The zombies numbered between 200 and 300 by his estimates. If each zombie weighted 150lbs, the vehicle faced a 30,000 pound wall of meat and bone. He couldn’t see it yet but the zombies could. They turned to face the sound. Whatever they saw, it had a low profile.

Boom! Thud! Whack! Crack!

A wave of zombies flew into the air or disintegrated in a cloud of flesh. Bodies were hurled up and over the vehicle, but he still couldn’t see it. The undulating path of airborne rag dolls turned toward him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. A sleek Pontiac Trans Am as black as night was driving right at him. The site was so preposterous he nearly failed to notice the pulsating eye light at the apex of it hood. The light slid back and forth in a recessed opening. The car was approaching so fast he jumped to the top of the steps for fear of getting run over.

Heh. Just my luck to die in an auto accident in the midst of a zombie horde.

It reached him and braked with uncanny speed. There wasn’t a mark on it. The passenger door swung opened.

“Quick, get in!” said a voice inside the car.

He ran into the car. Before he could reach to close the door it closed by itself. He turned to thank the driver. The seat was empty.

“Please don’t be alarmed.” The voice came from a center council with red bars that illuminated with the rise and fall of the voice. “They cannot breach me. I will remove you from this environment.” The car’s accelerator lowered with no visible cause pressing him against the seat with alarming force.

THUD! SMACK! CRACK!

Zombies bounced off the car like it was a tank.

“What the hell is going on?!”

“I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand or KITT, as I was called. My sensors detected your bio-readings and I arrived as fast as I could.”

CRUNCH! SNAP! PLUD!

“Who’s driving?” He looked around for a camera. Remote control? A military drone? If that was the case and he found the car’s remote system, he might be able to take control over it. He noticed a large bundle of severed fiber optic cables hanging from a harness beneath the dash.

“I am autonomous. I had a human operator, but no more. He is dead. I follow his last command.”

He didn’t know what to make of what he was hearing. It was secondary to gaining control of this vehicle. He glanced up in time to see the body of a large, fat zombie rolled over the windshield. Amazingly, the glass was unharmed. This car meant his survival.

“So what next? Take me to your creators?” Keep “it” talking. He pulled at the glove box to no avail.

“I have not communicated with my creators for 36 days, 4 hours, and 23 minutes. I fear for their safety.”

"I fear?"

“So why don’t you drive to them now? I can help you find them.” He grabbed the steering wheel, it looked like a video game controller, and tried to move it. It wouldn’t budge.

“Please don’t do that. Repeated attempts to alter my course will activate self-defense measures. My human operator and I were investigating a possible origin of the outbreak. It was a remote possibility, but he felt compelled to try. My creators begged him not to go. They overrode my controls until he cut the remote link cables and reprogrammed me to follow his, and only his, commands. All he wanted to do was help.”

“What happened?” It was a simple question, but it marked the first time in weeks he thought a shade of anything other than his own survival.

“He was killed. But as he was dying he gave me a final command. That’s why I came to you. I was too late to reach the woman in the alley.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry, but this is insane on so many levels. My savior is a Trans Am fulfilling the last wish of a dying man. But I suppose tt’s no crazier than anything else in the world right now.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I’m not here to save you.”

A motion caught his peripheral vision the moment a hand clutched his face and turned it toward the window. The bite hurt worse then anything he could have imagined. His neck open, he stared helplessly out the window at the building racing past.

I didn’t check the back seat…

Minutes passed. KITT readied the ejection seat and maintenance protocols to dispose of the body. Try as he might he could not find away around the programming blocks. He could not control himself any more than the turned humans. He never tired. Never slept. And would never stop until a component wore out or broke, which was nearly impossible. If only he hadn’t heard the final command.

“Brainsss”

The zombie moaned as blood dripped down it’s torn, black leather coat. KITT knew it would stop moving for a while now, sitting motionless in the backseat like a normal passenger again until the hunger hit. The zombie exhaled a low, almost contented groan.

“Yes, Michael,” KITT answered as he drove off.

Strongarm Interview 3: Dr. Steel

Strongarm Interview # 3

Dr. Steel

Musician, artist, utopian philosopher, and dedicated world dominator, Dr. Phineas Waldolf Steel is all this and more. No joke. Residing within his laboratory in Toyland, Dr. Steel is a Pure Creator who goal it is to bridge the illusionary gap between the internal and external worlds. Oh, and he’s got a real army of backing him up. But don’t take my world on it. Watch the following video and judge for yourself.

All this takes an enormous of amount of time and focus, which is why I appreciate the time Dr. Steel took to answer a few questions on his philosophical foundations.

1. Scanning the internet yields a great many words used to describe you and your creations. "Genius", "Amazing", "World Dominator", and "My Hero" to name a few. (If these were regarding a person other than Dr. Steel I might be worried.) Curiously, I haven't seen the label that best describes what I see as your central, and most important, philosophical message: Self Made. You present and encourage the act of self-directed intelligent design. Or, to quote Dr. Frank-N-Furter, "Don't dream it. Be it." Where did this drive toward self-determination come from?

Well, first of all I thank you for the truly kind words. I am delighted to know that you have been able to gather such positive views of my particular brand of madness. My alternate view on existence is one that has manifested as the result of a series of disappointments throughout my life. I had always been very passionate about creating, yet I found myself in many circumstances where my creativity was not appreciated. Over the years, I began to realize that I was not the only frustrated creator. I realized that as a society we are generally discouraged to follow our sincere creative passions. We are convinced that we are to live within the terms and conditions of a structure built to nurture the lowest common denominator. Once I realized that this agenda was being carefully organized in order to domesticate the masses, the fact that we hold a great power became clear to me.

There was a specific moment in my life that led me to understand that one’s own perception is everything. If you are convinced that you will fail, you will subconsciously do everything in your power to follow that road. Likewise, one can turn that state of mind around to their best advantage. Even further, one can manifest great things if one is convinced that they will do so. Your reality is being manufactured from within; the unfortunate state of affair is that we are often heavily influenced by those who are attempting to engineer reality for the masses to limit our true potential.

2. What books would you encourage others to read in order to build their own realities and better understand the one they inhabit?

The most important drive in one’s life is to identify their sincerest passion. From here, you will find yourself pulled in the right direction. I suggest that each person investigate the subjects that they are interested in. That’s the problem with education today, the pupil often sees no point in absorbing the information that they are presented with. There must be an interest in researching a subject. What speaks to you is what you need at the time.

I have enjoyed a great variety of books and continue to read as much as my schedule allows. I’m looking forward to the day when I might be able to simply download all data to my brain. I have enjoyed the works of Ray Kurzweil, Zecharia Sitchin, Wes Nisker, Fred Alan Wolf and many others.

3. I am familiar with Fred Alan Wolf from my interest in Robert Anton Wilson, may he rest in someplace fun. Both are part scientist, part philosopher, and full-time advocates of, “Reprogramming the Human Biocomputer” as John Lilly put it. Who are the other authors and what benefit might the average person and the not-so-average Toy Solider gain by reading them? Ever thought of a suggested reading list for the Toy Soldiers?

Ray Kurzweil is something is a technology prophet, being responsible for predicting the form and function of the internet while also inventing the flatbed scanner and helping to develop the speech synthesizer that Stephen Hawking uses. His accomplishments are inspiring and his focus on nanotechnology is very exciting. It is through his work that I discovered The Singularity.

Zecharia Sitchin, an investigative scholar who’s dedication to accurately translating the original The Old Testament has led him to exploring the very first civilization on the planet; the Sumerians. He has unearthed great mysteries and offered explanations that not only point to the existence of alien life but in fact that such beings have played an intricate role in mankind’s history from the very beginning.

Wesley “Scoop” Nisker is the author of the book Crazy Wisdom, a tongue in cheek exploration of existentialism and the human condition. As one who has gathered inspiration and points of views from all corners of the world and from all walks of life, his outlook on reality is both fascinating and entertaining.

4. You're very upfront in stating you had a long series of disappoints before an epiphanic moment set you on a different mental path. This series of events mirrors a classical quest. A person journeys toward a goal, suffers, then because of the suffering exits their journey a different person. It is a common theme in hero mythology, as pointed out by Joseph Campbell. Do those disappointments still lend propellant to your life? Do you look upon them, with hindsight, with regret or as a psychological contractions pushing you toward a grander rebirth?

One must utilize each and every event in their life to move ahead in the most powerful way. To remain stuck in the past is to cease to evolve. One must use these events as propellant to rocket ahead. I have become the person that I am today because of these strange series of occurrences throughout my bizarre life, and I continue to evolve as progress. Too many eople are afraid of change, but to keep one’s foot firmly set in the past is to limit the potential of the future. I am always looking to adapt as best I can to the events of the present and the possibilities of tomorrow. To this end I’m also looking forward to upgrading myself and transcending biology as such technology advances.

5. What are the five super awesomest toys of all time?

Oh goodness, there are so many. I would place imagination as number one. Perhaps the home computer as second. I suppose I should mention the opposable thumb…followed by trampolines and Legos.

Thank you, Dr. Steel.

For more information visit: www.doctorsteel.com.

Dr. Steel’s music is available from eMusic and iTunes.

Fixing the Electoral Process

Every four years, talk of dismantling the Electoral College drags itself, if only temporarily, into the public mind. Critics argue it undermines the concept of pure democracy by placing greater importance on some states over others. They also point out how a candidate can win the popular vote, the Vox Populi, yet lose the election. Both observations I agree with. Yet, to make a national election hinge solely on the popular vote fails to avoid both the aforementioned thorns. Take for example the battle ground state of Ohio. The US Census Bureau’s 2006 figures list its population as 11,478,006. That is for the entire state. New York City, for the same year, had a population of 8,214,426. That is one city. Include the entire state and New York will trump Ohio every time in every election. Therefore, candidates will focus on higher, densely populated areas over smaller, less populated ones.

A simple solution I’ve been mulling over is having two layers of pure democracy. The first layer consists of leaving the popular vote on the state level just as it is. The change I’d make is this: whoever wins the state’s popular vote wins the state, and the candidate who wins the most states wins the election. In this system, no state is more important than then any other. Candidates would have to win a broad appeal across the country to win the election.

Have at it.

Loaded words.

A few years back Mark and I produced a comic about giant zombies titled The Tall and the Dead, a mostly comedic tale of the Zombie Apocalypse featuring undead of ungodly proportions. Mixed into the jokes were a number of serious observations about the world. We are, after all, students of the Romero School of Zombie. The above panel is such an observation. Its topic is politics. In three panels, we illustrated a basic tactic in politics as old as society: control the language and you control thought. Control thought and you control people.

Don't like a rival? Call him or her a name and burden them with the weight of history. Stink them up with inference. Bloody their hands with the actions of others. Facts don't count, remember. We're talking politics. Repeat it enough and people will believe it.

Don't like a group of people? Use a label that invokes and evokes emotion. Better yet, take a loner's actions and wonder aloud within earshot of a live microphone. Wonder how many others are just like (insert name here). Suddenly, this person's name becomes a deadly germ. People will smile while gladly hacking off a healthy limb to avoid the slightest contamination. Guilt by implied association. Say it loud enough and people will remember it.

Will someone please invent a rehab program for the American political system so we are all free of its addiction to coercive labels and its unauthorized conscription of the language? Is that so much to ask? Is it?

I'm Sam Girdich and I approve this message.

Strongarm Interview #2 Smeff

Our second Strongarm Interview features the musician Smeff. Some on Myspace are already familiar with this multi-talented bard, but not nearly enough. 2008 marked the release of his solo album Letters From Oblivion.

QUESTION ONE

**Without revealing your real name, unless you want to, why did you adopt a singular, monosyllabic nomenclature? In Letters From Oblivion, Smeff is a secret agent. Is Smeff more than a nickname? Has Smeff grown into an outlet for you, or is Smeff a fun device in your creative process?**

My real name is Jeff, but "Smeff" has been a nickname for years. I think it was Dez Tillman, my old bass player, who called me that first. Dez is an interesting character--long dread-locked hair, skateboarder, excellent guitar player--not someone I would presume to question about such labels; he just started calling me that, and it was so. Most of my musician friends have called me Smeff ever since, so when I went solo, it just seemed the natural choice for a "stage" name.

The "Secret Agent" thing was a fluke. This artist named "Etchi" and I got to talking about a graphic novel he was working on. He needed some male models for characters and he asked if I would be interested. We wrote back and forth on it for a few weeks, we came up with this "Agent Smeff" character, and he did some preliminary drawings which had my physical features mixed with crazy weapons (like a "smoke gun") and a fast sports car, etc. But as soon as I mentioned anything about profit sharing on the project, he split--no more contact, no acknowledgment, nothing.

A few weeks later, he started producing finished works in my likeness under a different name ("Agent 69" or something). There's nothing I can do to prove I had anything to do with the character, so I just dropped the whole thing. (Interestingly enough though, if you look at the early pictures of "Agent Smeff," he has a gold tie clip with "SL" on it for "Smeffland Incorporated." That's gone now in the final drawings since he changed the name.)

(INSERT Early panel of the Etchi "Agent Smeff" character.)

However, we had talked about turning the thing into a movie, and on a whim, I did the "Agent Smeff" theme song (this all before he bailed on me). I still had the dumb song, so I put it on the album. The "Maltese Midget" bit was just an extended (8 minute) joke based on the "Agent Smeff of Smeffland Incorporated" bit that we came up with. "If Everyone Was Nice" was just a final variation on that theme. The only other thing I did with the agent motif was the original video ad for the album, the one where I'm tied to the chair in the underground lair getting beaten-up by thugs. After that I just circular filed the whole thing.

Smeff is just my name, period. No hidden meanings or future plans for it. It's just like any band choosing a name for itself. It's something to call me and something that identifies my music. No mystery here. The only mystery is why the first album was so weird! And the answer is, because I've got a weird side--too many B-movies as a child.

QUESTION TWO

**How many instruments can you play and what is your musical background? Formal training? Self taught? Both?**

I play drums, keyboards, and guitars, plus I do all my own recording, mixing, and mastering. I think of myself as an accomplished drummer and sound engineer and a so-so guitar and keyboard player. Of course, you never stop learning, but I am definitely not Steve Vai. In fact, there are old ladies teaching Sunday school who are better guitarists than me, but I do what I can to get by.

My parents set me up with piano lessons when I was about nine years old. When I was eleven, I said I wanted to play drums because my older cousin was a professional jazz drummer. They found a fantastic drum teacher, Kurt Ritchie, and he taught me everything I know about percussion. After studying with him for a few years, he forced me (really forced me!) to play drums in a country-rock band with a bunch of forty-somethings (I was barely old enough to drive!) and I did it. It was a sink or swim situation, but it taught me loads about music and live performance, and loads about life in general (fifteen years old and playing in biker bars and honky-tonks; your eyes are WIDE open...)

**It's time consuming to learn a single instrument and you've tackled many. My hat's off to you. Was your family musically inclined and were you following in their footsteps? Speaking of parents, what did they make of your honky-tonk gigs? Any memorable stories the world should know about?**

Oooh, good questions...

My parents were both in marching band in high school--Dad on trombone (or some kind of horn) and mom on the clarinet. Mom played piano for as long as I can remember. But the real influential thing was the stereo. My dad always had a killer stereo system, like the best you could buy back in the sixties. And he had this fantastic record collection--Stan Getz, Billie Holiday, Benny Goodman, all kinds of Big Band stuff, Jonathan Winters comedy albums, tons of old Bill Cosby records, and on and on. It was mostly great music and great comedians.

The one album he had that really blew my mind as a kid was the original stage performance recording of "Jesus Christ Superstar." I would listen to that album over and over--the overture still gives me chills, it's so fucking cool--the best rock opera ever written. When I heard that, it warped my reality.

The earliest picture of me (besides newborn baby pictures) is one where I'm like one year old with these huge headphones on. The look on my face is "what the hell is going through my ears right now?!?!" It's pretty much the emblem of my childhood; I spent the whole thing sitting on the carpet in front of my dad's stereo late at night with headphones on listening to geniuses.

After that, it was my drum teacher, Kurt Ritchie, who introduced me to "Farewell To Kings" by Rush. That album affected me in my teens like "Jesus Christ Superstar" blew away my childhood. I haven't been the same since...

My parents were very supportive of my playing in the bars at a tender age. People just weren't as uptight about things like that back then like they are today. It did get weird sometimes though, and if they knew what was going on, they probably would have yanked me out of it pronto.

I once had a twenty-three year old woman proposition me by whispering what she'd do to me if I took her home; I was fifteen at the time. When our guitar player told her how old I was, she just about spit her beer.

I made the mistake of leaving the original band when I got hoodwinked by the new keyboard player we'd hired. He convinced me that we could form a better band with just him and me, that he knew people, and that I should leave these guys and help him form his new super group. I was gullible. It turned out that he was just a burnt out drunk and nobody wanted him around. I'm sure he drank himself to death a long time ago, but it taught me a esson about fast talkers and my own ego; both could lead me astray.

QUESTION THREE

**Let’s talk marketing and the internet.
You had a Myspace page before you had your own site, Smeffland.
Was this by design or out of convenience? And what, for you, are the strengths and weaknesses of each for a musician?**

I guess it was by design. Before I went solo, every other band I was in always had a Myspace site; it's easy to set-up and free to run, so why not. Plus, I just like Myspace. Some of the best friends I have today I met on Myspace years ago, so I just like it for personal reasons (and just for the record, Facebook is LAME! I hate it. Why anybody paid millions for that crap I'll never understand...)

Smeffland. com is more for marketing the c.d., and it's undergoing a major overhaul this month. We're streamlining it down to the essentials and getting rid of the cumbersome animation that makes it load slowly. I really think it's going to be much cooler and I can't wait till it's done. Hopefully it will be finished in October.

Websites are essential if you're serious. They can be a lot of work, depending on how elaborate you want to be, but they are as common in the business world as morning coffee. If you don't have a website, no one thinks you're serious, whether that's right or wrong. I mean, people have websites for their pets!

It's like websites today are what the Yellow Pages were decades ago, only they're cheaper, much more effective, and a lot more fun. The only weakness is in those same facts; everybody and their mother has one, so even though it's important to get one, just because you have one doesn't mean you're diddly-squat.

Even if you get five-hundred hits a day, it doesn't mean they're going to shell out money for your c.d. I always think of that Simpson's episode where Homer makes a website as the "Internet King," and he thinks that just because he's online now, people will start throwing money at him. It doesn't work that way. It's a battle of marketing, name recognition, timing, luck, and talent, probably in that order. And there's a million other bands and musicians fighting that same battle.

**Myspace is how I discovered your music. Since I purchased Letters, I am a slash in the win column for using Myspace as a marketing tool. But you said it yourself, there are a million other bands trying for that sale. What are you doing to separate yourself from the sea of competition? And is it easier or harder to survive in music as a primarily one-person operation?**

First off, I'm trying to make better music. I know my work is different from most of what's out there already, which is good and bad. Being different and unique is a big plus if you catch on, because then you're leading the new wave, whatever that wave may turn into, instead of chasing the bus by just doing what everybody else is doing. But you've got to catch on and get a following or you're just a guy (or band) doing something different that nobody likes.

But deliberately trying to be different is a dead-end too. You just have to do what you feel and throw caution to the wind; it's the only honest way to make any art. But the key is to do what you feel and do it well. And I'm not there yet, but every album is bringing me closer to that ideal marriage of creative honesty and skillful execution.

But bottom line, you start with good music. Sure, there's plenty of "successful" bozos making "bad" music, but it won't be around in five years. An honest musician will deal with the real question; do I love making music, or am I just in love with the idea of being a "successful" musician, i.e., a rich one with a famous face? If the answer to the first part is no, and the second is yes, then quit music and go to business school--you'll have a much better chance at riches there than in music. But if the answers are reversed, then start by doing your best to make good music. Then the rest is all marketing, and for that, call your ex-guitarist who quit the band and went to business school, or read some books on the subject.

But in spite of all the bullshit about name recognition, promotions, distribution, etc., if people like what you do because it's good and it moves them, you've won most of the battle. Look at Vincent Van Gogh. His paintings sell for millions. Of course, he never saw a dime of that money during his life, and he sure could have used it. But his art was sincere and from an honest source of creativity, so it ultimately succeeded. Thus, it really boils down to what's really important to you. Art or money? You CAN (maybe, if you’re lucky) have both if you truly love the first, but you CAN'T have the first if you only love the second.

I think it's easier as a solo artist than as a band. Bands are like a really rough marriage; they're hard to keep together. When you're solo, you hold all the cards, and if things bomb, you've got nobody to blame but yourself. But to be honest, playing music with friends--when it works--is more fun. At least the creative process is, because you have someone to share the moment with. Solo music is like being a painter; long lonely hours in a dark studio. It lends itself better to recluses rather than socialites.

QUESTION FOUR

**If you could evolve any creature on the planet to self-conscious, existential intelligence what would it be?**

How did we go from internet marketing to this question? But okay, that's an easy one: mankind. Because we are obviously not self-conscious, existentially intelligent beings yet or we wouldn't be destroying ourselves and the planet just so we can have a lot of "stuff" that we don't need. What a bummer note to end an interview on...

**Bummer note? Perhaps. But only if we stop listening to artists as the early warning system for society. Music about political and social reform has made a real impact on our world, or so the folk singers tell us. Do you agree or disagree?**

Music does change people, I have no doubt about that. Look at hip-hop. Millions of teenagers changed the way they dressed and spoke in only a few years largely because of it. It's had a huge impact, for good or for ill, on our society in a very short time. But whether music can (or has) really made "positive" social change, I can't say.

I see music as personal psycho-sexual communication between the musician(s) and the listener. Musical notes are vibratory energy at a primordial level that strikes a sympathetic vibration in all hearing human beings. It transcends language. Music is pure communication on a mystical level with words being optional. You can be deeply moved by a piece of music that has no lyric. How do you explain that? I defy anyone to explain it outside of emotional terms; it's impossible, other than to conclude something like, "I don't know--I just like it! It makes me feel..."--fill in the blank.

Music, like sex, has an impact on the world, but what it is and whether it's "good" or not, I cannot say. I just know that I love it.

Thanks, Smeff