The Frontier Brothers in New York

I'll say it again like I said it last night - I miss my gun. I'm listening to With A Little Help From My Friends radio show coming out of U penn, a creation of my friend Jillian and a girl named Rosie. New York is great. We've been here a week. My blogging has been slack, many moments I have looked at my feet moving or something like that and thought that I should blog. Or maybe have a camera to my eyes like in that Prodigy song, Smack My Bitch Up. I haven't been smacking any though, just enjoying their company respectfully.

Two out of the four shows we played in New York, we opened for a comedy troupe called FUCT. I was a bit drunk off of their keg beer (free) and all I could say was, I fucking loved it! I fucking loved it!

I'll post a link to their website. www.fuct.com

The show features many naked people and nakedness in various forms. The opening video for the website is a poor example. (Update 1/3/09 website link is incorrect) What I saw was uncircumcised penises stuffed back between people's butt cheeks. Great stuff.

Then we had a space party at The Lightyear Saloon.

That is Emily.

That was good punch.

Manifesto #1 - Preface

Mysteries of the Planet Kürr:

An Introduction to the Customs and People of the 8th planet
Orbiting the Great Star (Betelgeuse)

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.”
- H.P. Lovecraft

Preface

Hello, my name is Marshall Galactic and it’s been a long time coming. I have put off the monumental effort of chronicling our journey for quite a long time. Though I have examined the circumstances in my own brain and thought hard about my past, the history of The Frontier Brothers, and the reasons surrounding our exodus, I have been hesitant to put the truth to paper. Almost as if all the sour memories were photographs lain aside a long time ago in a chest under the stairs, and to seek them out would bring such a flood of memories and smells and pangs of nostalgia it would be best not to even bother. But as a creature who enjoys hoarding things like paper, clothes, dishes, books, chairs, blankets, amplifiers, and more of the sort, it’s with a masochistic sort of pleasure that I open up my mind and spill all the shit and dust and broken implements back into the world of men.

Also, I need to justify myself. Not only myself, but the “mythos” of The Frontier Brothers as it is currently understood. I worry about things like that. Literary types who scoff at anything outside their comfort zone. Reluctantly, I offer this true story to the sun of popular stupidity. But I do so also with courage. The quote I have placed under the title describes my sentiment pretty accurately. The story of The Frontier Brothers has that kind of affect. It’s frightening. You don’t want to believe, you don’t want TFB to murder your santa claus innocence and expose you to the wider world, making you mad, scattering your natural perceptions.

That’s why it’s rock music. Before you read this piece, please understand that I am not a scientist. The ways that I describe my world, in relation to technology and it’s cultural oddities, are to be understood as the observations of a casual and often distracted observer. Just as most people on Earth barely understand the devices that light their homes, drive them around, and make their shit disappear, I don’t pretend to fully understand the fantastic technology of the 8th planet. But I’ll do my best.

Before you stands the first volume in a series I plan to continue. This, however, is my virgin effort. Enjoy, please. Enjoy it like I enjoy your women and your alcohol, and you will not become bored.

BETWEEN OUR PERIODICAL TOUR UPDATES I WILL BE POSTING EXCERPTS FROM A WORK I PRODUCED :

                  Mysteries of the Planet Kürr:
An Introduction to the Customs and People of the 8th planet
            Orbiting the Great Star (Betelgeuse)

Each post dedicated to this spanning reflection of on our history will be labeled "Manifesto" 1,2,3, and 4. 

The Tour Continues

We landed in Savannah and last night, Charleston. We got paid money for those gigs, about 300 dollars for each. Savannah was nice, but with the exception of Addie, I have a hard time communicating with people there. The past tours, both times at the breakfast table the morning after the show, I was silent. The girls and even the guys seem unreachable by conventional means, like they are faraway and I have to strain my voice and brain and expressions to make noises and interact. Nothing I say makes them laugh, even the go-to anecdotes that I recycle sometimes, the real quality ones. Nice people. Against my calls they're equipped with supernatural ear muffs. And I'm not talking about flirting. Just typical speech. Everything else is great though. The tree limbs are hung with green ornaments, long drab green moss; the trees have scarves on them and they hang into the street and you can touch them as you walk underneath. The people dance at our shows; they support us, provide us with good beer and good accommodations. All any band could ask for. But speaking for myself - still, there remains a devil between us.



 My recent bed time habits might have something to do with a pocketed away, dangerous loneliness. In regards to v day, Brett expressed a weak disappointment with his current circumstances - like when I mentioned I had forgotten that we were playing that very hallowed day he said "fuck that, depressing," but with no force. He presented the words with an effort close to a sigh. I countered. I said I was glad some fattened bitch wasn't at my throat, Marshall! Get me some flowers and some chocolates with little nuts in the center! I'm mean and getting fatter - - - some strawberry flavored ones!  

As the night wore on and I reflect on my behavior today, the bed ritual makes sense. I hit on some girl the entire band had already taken some sort of pass at. She was really friendly, a friend of a friend. And she was already with someone. I persevered. Shameful actions - ruinous, offensive, and senseless behavior, all because a void in my brain wants my arms to encircle something soft that loves me; a hole dwells there between my two hands and shoulders, cavernous. Likewise, in my brain a sink hole continues to widen. Just now, it became apparent to me why I do it. I can't go to sleep in my own bed without an extra pillow to hold onto. I must have one to doze off. I must. No need to explain that symbol. It rings true and my hypothesis has been drafted and the tour continues, miles of driving.

Tour #1 - Faulty Drainage

For some reason, every place we've stayed in has faulty drainage. Throughout every shower my feet have waded in a cesspool of my own body garbage, so that by the end, the cleanliness of my feet is questionable. Afterwards, I scrub the bottoms and tops of my feet clean. Sometimes I add an antiseptic. In New Orleans, we observed a neighborhood parade, a brass and wind and percussion band. Later, we were served by a transexual mexican waitress for hire, decked with large breasts and a collar that disguised her male neck. She was a great waitress. 

I've been a lonely bug in a big barren wilderness. The people are dry. They come and go. Chris Darden set up a lot in Charleston. Kendelle might not be so complicated, but more a desperate and kind soul lost in unfortunate consequences, which have nothing to do with that soul. A good one. 

In Atlanta, the doorman almost kicked me out. He claimed that planets were defined by their gravitational attraction. Only that. Magma cores had no significance. I disagreed. The theory of relativity tells us that any object pierces a unique portion of space time, a disruption: so that anyone's comb, perhaps their swimming pool pulls on a faraway nova and expands and stars and even the dying ones long ago extinct and black in black space erodes some dip in space time--- That is gravity. He disagreed. The three hundred pound islander sat up in a frenzy---he threatened to kick me out of the place. Of course, I had three Sparks in the car. Things were fine. Nevertheless, I was concerned. This large man thought anything with gravity must be orbited. Foolish. A thong panty or a bird's guano is so much a gravitational force. (Though negligible beside the rotating mass of earth and jupiter and objects floating from time and place and universe throughout time.)

And tonight, in battle with another band, a weak force. The weakest triumphed. They played late. It's a late town. 

I got a group of love letters from a girl I loved. What a woman. Then again. I read the passages steph wrote and never sent: beautiful things; she is a great writer, I never gave her that big compliment. But oh she is my love and I can't wait to return to watch a bloody movie and have decent beers and love each other once again, tenderly and light, light of being. 

Many more women will come, each will a distinct spark like they were the first ones. And all of them I will cherish in their singular noise, their air of that night.

I can love all of them, but none like Kelly, who anywhere will be her beautiful self, believing, at least to me. 

And the lady in New York, a columbia woman, good and right like clean soil, the heat that I need and I want. I can't wait. My greensboro Woman.