JRussell's BlogNO!!!!

I look for wires when I'm talking to you

Wednesday Nights Richmond Channel 6 sometime after 11:00
Taint no Barnard Radio, but there's a 7-11 around the corner.

The JRussell spin off will bite your fucking head off.

Trevor Martin Portrait Contest Revival

Let's finish what started so long ago; Cocaine In Motion's answer to Brian Wilson's 'Smile', our own unfinished teenage symphony to god, the Trevor Martin Portrait Contest. Here's one I did while listening "White Light/White Heat" over and over again, so that kinda accounts for most of it.

Let's get this portrait contest fired up.

A Public Nic Fit

So for the most part, the beloved, imitated and healthily derived "JRussell accent" was definitely something that just wasn't passing down in ye olde' Richmond, but I wouldn't blame it on Richmond, "the" accent doesn't seem to have much appeal outside of the Wilson Circuit, CD/Game Exhange, and part of the DCSka.com messageboard scenes, so no matter where I had gone chosen to matriculate (If I actually, you know, had a choice) the goofy tone of my voice would be a social lynching, like saying 'Everyhing Sux' is the best Descendents album. I definitely got the "Do you always talk like that?" and the "You sound Scottish." but nothing is worse than that time Sam and I were changing trains at Gallery Place and two drunk middle aged women accused us using fake British accents so that we could score with them, they also didn't believe we were 18 at the time. Of course we hid from them with the same fear we had on that same platform a year before during the whole "topless black man reaching for a pistol while asking What I'm ash-king is do you hold yo girls? at the timid hispanic couple" before the awesome Pietasters/Shakedowns show at your Black Cat.

Fucking accent.

So down here, I made a couple friends. The fellow Mike that Dizard mentioned in his account of a night down in Richmond. Mike's a good fella in my Thursday night lit. class who always wears a Barsuk Records hoodie. He had wanted to skip class to go to a Hot Cross show which was the next week, and I proved him wrong by showing him one of the screen printed flyers for the show, I rule. Cool guy though, part of the Philly R5 Productions scene, fucker saw Refused back in the day. So this Mike fellow got himself a public access show through a series of jackassery plotted against the infamous public acces personality Gorgeous George. In what appears to be the cliched Wayne's World-esque, bunch of youngsters take over the TV studio and interview homeless people type shows, it looks like I'll end up being the voice over intro man, ala childhood hero, Alan Kalter. I'm stoked, I get to talk funny and be on a show that no will ever see, I rule. Also in the crew for this adventure entitled "Wednesday Night Karate Explosion" are Brandon (who loves halluciegens enough to get the chemical make up of something in shrooms tattoo'd to his upper arm) and this fellow "Big Steve" who lives in greater imitation of Jack Black than I, who wants to book Tenacious D on this public access show, he also wants to win tonight's Monday Night Mayo Eating contest at Stuffy's Subs (below the fantastic Edo's Squid). Last night I was laying down some voice overs for a Star Wars rip off intro over at the media library which has a lot of cool shit, lots of vinyl-to-tape records, a couple vinyl-to-mp3 conversions jams, some kick ass scanners, and some crucial microphones and headphones. The Star Wars thing is a reference to the nemesis, Gorgeous George, he apparently referred to this show as a Star Wars convention. Which I don't take as an insult, we are quite a motley crew and we've had the "Greedo didn't shoot first" debate more than twice.
So about Channel 6 Public Access; we've got the Wednesday 9:30 - 10:30 spot I think. The channel features other hit public access shows as:

Who Dat Is? hosted by You Know Who
Video Hits Latino hosted by Demetrio and Shalia!
Busted Inc. hosted by Bryan & Cecil
What Do I Know? hosted by Aisha
The Karl & Maggie Show hosted by Karl & Maggie (Maggie's a cutie)

I'm already plotting my own Travis Morrison-style solo train wreck if I could pull it off. I figure I could fill an hour a week on a scratchy public acces. You know, an intro where I'm sitting on a couch, a good opening monolague, then a prerecorded bit, I could handle a cooking segment, maybe a guest or a phone call (I'm sure we could turn this into Tiger Radio as much has been to the Barnard Radio Station Saturday Nights) maybe a regular bit where I singing Creedence Clearwater Revival songs. Yeah, that'd be real sweet. Ah this brings me back to the days when I was a youngster and my dad was a camera man for 'Politically Correct Cooking' and that time that old hippie protester was a guest and was missing several fingers from when cops were throwing rocks at him or something, but that man stirred with that wooden spoon as best he could with a collective two and a half fingers. I was once credited as "set director" but all I did was play with legos and eat oatmeal cream pies. But I learned the lingo; if a camera was "hot" that meant that was the live shot, I serious thought that the camera was hot and going to burn the camera man or something.

Pubic access show, hoorah!

What Can You Focus On?

Nothing at all?
Counting is in.

Plaid Sleeves of Deja Vu

same old same old.

I have created a routine for myself. I am almost completely empty. Everything that once made me function are now like cold beads of water on a hot foil bouncing around as they evaporate. It’s not even an issue of fault. If I did this to myself, or the establishment made easy to do or did it for me. Enduring mindless activities to put on the show during daylight that I’m actually doing something, just so I can fall asleep, but the rest of the day I’m not doing very much that is more rewarding than sleeping. Fantasies of art that could be made, the noise that could be moving, remembering kisses and counting the number of nights until New Year’s Eve; I’m thinking, but how thoughtful am I? A loner sure seems full of potential. I’ve become so void, so quickly. Growing a beard doesn’t make growing up any easier. If I keep eating this way, I’m going to die sooner. If I stop eating, it will somehow make my ass fatter. The talkative cock tease from Little Rock said so, she could be right. I’m napping through it all. Not even in the inebriated sense, that’s just not happening. I’m giving nothing and it doesn’t bother me that I’m getting nothing out of it. Just let me know when its 11:00 so I can watch ‘Family Guy’. Shit, brother, I don’t even have nosebleeds any more.

“Absorbing their versions of what life's about. Spoon fed the world through a filter that caters to money and fills us with doubt.... and there's so much more to see than the world through TV. Numb from the boredom you can't feel the whip across your back. Always look through the same window of course you'll have the same view. It's lights camera action take us and tell us what to do. What to see what to think what to wear what to do with our lives. Millions of channels to fashion reigns out of our eyes. To walk back and forth in a box and bind myself with golden chains (is not freedom)” *

I’m caught up grasping to the proverbial DC flag, clenching on to the symbols that make the memories dance; Wilson hallways, paying too much for a farecard but having a souvenir, Dischord records, shiny burrito wrappers, CD/Game Exchange stickers and regulars and freebies, circle pits and wall of death(s) where I know everyone in the crowd. The cold breeze through a sweaty t-shirt, post-concert. That walk home from Tenleytown to house or Columbia Heights to the other house at 2 in the morning. I can’t wait to see Q and Not U again, and so forth. Lets look at archived Fort Reno schedules, who’s playing at the Warehouse Next Door, fuck it, lets do a road trip to Baltimore, Ottobar, lesbian diner and shit. My cell phone that’s used most of the time in the commonwealth of Virginia is a 202 area code and I’d have it no other way. Caught up in all these, diluting the worthlessness of the now, unbutton these plaid sleeves of déjà vu, oh no, oh fuck no. This was so predictable.

“However, because of it I can only hope you have an easier time adjusting in the first months of college than I did. In my case, I found myself grasping onto everything I remembered of the last months and the summer of my senior year. I remembered them fondly for the most part because they were the best times of my life, even the unexpected attendance to that Melt Banana show in July. I did it so much that I felt I couldn't get my head out of the past enough to enjoy myself in the present. Maybe you don't act exactly like this, but if you do, be careful because you can really dig yourself deep into some emotional turmoil.”**

Oh fuck. Its two drummers, but the same beat. Talk about potential for a groove, but no drummers: same beat. The possibilities are exponential, but here I am, two drummers, exact same beat. I thought somehow what Lindsay mentioned ‘round New Year’s last year wouldn’t be my deal, wouldn’t be throw of my dice. But man, was she right? What else is fucking me up like this is? If I wasn’t gripping my experience, if I didn’t compare the rest of America to the kids back home (who for most part aren’t even back home) I’d be there having a good time over in common room of the world watching ‘Wife Swapping’, buying fake vintage shirts for way too much, maybe getting part of hair bleached, not all of it, just a little patch, you know, then I could put some shit in it from a plastic bottle with a really nice text layout, and it’ll make me look like I could care about my looks, even though its very important to me. Sounds promising. It really looks like I’m socially inept. I can’t blend with the masses. They don’t like the way I talk. Sarcasm isn’t an icebreaker. Like, I’m a real loner now. But at least now, I’m a comfortable with the whole loner thing. Once I get my bike down here, I’ll be all over the place. Then I’ll buy one of them $4 pick up trucks. Then I’ll feel my own heart beating out the simple the joy of living and I’ll wonder how I ever was that kind. I don’t want $3,000 rims and a ridiculous bass, Cologne and thinly trimmed, stupid fucking facial hair. When it seems like that’s the shit that counts in this world, I want live in the library or pull a Jane Goodall. I know I need to get “real”, I sure hope “real” something better that this outlook. I’m still taking this nap. ***

* From the 1905 song ‘Control’.
** Lindsay M. gave these words in reference to my winded summary of 2003. Boy, was she right. She’s rad though, so maybe I can be rad, work at a Lebanese restaurant next summer.
*** While it would be easy to believe that a lot this is some drug-induced, almost strung out banter, I assure it totally isn’t. I haven't cracked in to that at all, although it seems like a readily available option, I haven’t resorted to any drugs or binge drinking that seems to socialize the “other side”. While I would indeed love to be some type Hunter S. Thompson-esque dirge where talking to myself in quick paranoid sentences better fits the mold, I figure it would only make things a lot harder. Despite my fantasies indulge in some hopeless romantic bender to end all benders where I find myself (much to my own surprise) flunking out of my courses and working at a Record and Tape Exchange in Camden (sound familiar?) that I do indeed to need to finish college, what with the soft job market and all.

Plural of Cortez

Which one is the real C. Morales?

Michigan Fuckers Heed

Getting Serious here, cats. Getting bike punk political here, cept one of them cheseburger-eatin', left his bike in DC kind of political, but I listen to 1905 and Zegota. I also own a bandana.

We all know that voting is important, at least the idealists and the delusion ones do, but since I hope you're all voting this time and since it seems like half of this crowd now lives in Michigan I'd like to clue you in on the Michigan absentee ballot. It's a tricky little bastard. It's all off-center. Motherfuckers. Looks a little like this:

So it seems like a vote for Kerry is actually a vote for Bush. Oh no. Keep that shit in mind, make sure the line connects kids. Use those toned Connect Four muscles well when casting your vote. Don't be fooled, although we'll probably all get fooled in the end.

It litters our hearts.

Word on the Street

you kids remember Art-o-matic, yes?

When it took over what we called "the old Hechinger's building", what our parents called "where the old Sears was, you feeble-minded shithead". Back in 2000 when most of us were 14 except for Tom who was 11, this was something horrifying yet intriguing like a museum of cartoon pornography or one of those "new" ice blenda mocha drinks. We stepped into that concrete wigwam and saw wild art. The Goons played. That's what I remember.

Then it happened again. Two years later. This time crosstown, highlighting the New Southeast, where 8 year-olds roam in violent gangs riding Razor scooters and sell fake ecstasy to dumbass ravers trying to find Foamqueer dance night at Nation, although the ravers refer to it as "Nations". An old EPA building was hollowed out and allowed free-range for "artists" like a day old chili-dog bouncing around the stomach of the Budha. I went to that rendition with my father, traversing the maze-like exhibits, finding the artists desperate enough to give out chicken wings so you could look at their stack of transistor radios with some yarn unifying them. There was tons of cool shit, by the end of it, I had a good time, and learned the most important lesson of art; you can seriously pass off anything as art in that context. It wasn't all flowers and 8x10 glossies for all of us at the Art-o-Matic that year. The experience inspired a sonnet from the ugly, murderous and furiously jaded side of gone-but-not-forgotten CiM blogger John 'Ma$e' Lichman. Ask him for the first couple chapters of 'Wousabi Ignited' and you'll get a fantastic tale set at the Art-o-Matic involving bohemes and the proverbial spiced ham of every emo boy before it got all trendy.

So word on the street this year, that the DC art-mind-fuck-orgy known as Art-o-Matic will indeed happen this year, taking over the the building we all used to known as the Capital Children's Museum. Totally fucking rad. I can't wait. Yeah. The old Children's Museum, where I would go to Mexico town for its hot chocolate and the tortillas produced in a small hut CHIP-BY-FUCKING-CHIP. Then were the medallions of yarn in hot wax, too many children were injured in the process and the whole section was scrapped sometime during my teen-years, but what do you expect when you give kids hot wax, a hammer, and a four inch fucking nail? Ah the Children's museum. The old Animation sector near the old buble lounge where the air was full of as much soap as it was carbon-dioxide. I hear they're moving the Children's museum somewhere else, but where?