Well, have you?
Have you felt your knees buckle, your body crumble?
Harry Houdini died from a punch in the gut. No escaping that.
Well, have you?
Have you felt your knees buckle, your body crumble?
Harry Houdini died from a punch in the gut. No escaping that.
I’ve been working on our next gig poster, for our show at the Deluxe November 27th…
Here’s what I’ve got so far, as usual, it might be finished, it might not…



Some Coldplay cases are more blatant than others. Some seem like they should be obvious, yet no evidence has yet been produced.
Now, I’m a product of the preceeding reputation of my generation—
ie, I’m a slacker. I’m a big fan of finding the evidence, already wrapped up in a neat little package.
But this one has somehow flown under the radar…
This one has been bugging me longer than Coldplay’s ripping off (insert band here)…
So I did it myself, just for you…and my own pompous sense of self-satisfaction. (I just gave myself a high-five, incidentally)
I’m neither a sound nor video editor by any stretch of the imagination, but I think this gets the proof out on the table, as clear and obvious as if it were a made-for-TV court room drama starring the once great Eric Roberts…
So without further adieu, I present Coldplay Case: Dream Killers…
Aw, snap. You just got Coldplayed, Killers…


My body was still vibrating from two little white pills with the silhouette of a dove stamped on each of them, which I had digested shortly after entering an underground dance club specializing in “Jungle” music—and ecstasy. Youth made me indestructible, and a little stupid. Yes, if my friends jumped off Tower Bridge, I probably would too.
I left straight from the clubs onto a train headed south from Victoria Station as the sun rose and an army of half-stoned kids staggered from the dark of the club into the light of the city morning.
London’s mornings smelled different than those of St. Louis. Sure, you could still smell bus and car fumes, but something was different.
They didn’t smell like American bus fumes.
People still went to bakeries for their bread in London, and a stroll down any city street on any morning bore the smell of rising dough, mixed in somehow, with hops and barley.
The buzz of the city was somehow peaceful.
Maybe it was because I had just gone nine hours without a cigarette, and my two-pack-a-day lungs were finally visiting flavor country.
Whatever the reason, I felt no jet lag, and I felt no culture shock—just a strange level of comfort in my surroundings that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Stan and I stuck out like the American tourists we were as we entered the general London populace from underground.
They say New York is about two years behind London in fashion and trend; St. Louis is about five years behind New York.
As we trekked through the city in search of our youth hostile, backpacks on, we inadvertently became the great American cliché; running away to Europe to find ourselves like so many wide-eyed, sorely optimistic twenty-somethings had before.

Fourteen years ago today my best friend and I landed in London. We had just moved there with little plan and less money. It had to be done, as we liked to say:
It would be rude not to.
I was determined to make it over there. I didn’t tell anybody I was even going, so they couldn’t try to talk me out of it. Rationale is different when you’re twenty-one.
Moving over there was, perhaps, the best decision I ever made. It shaped the person I am now.
So I figured I’d post this one again, even though it can be found lurking in the archives…It’s the start of a short work of fiction loosely based on the experience…some moments more closely than others, but I’ll never tell you which…I figured I’d repost it, as I revisit, and attempt to find a plot and an end…
So here we go, Post Cards from the Indestructable Boy…Volume 1…
More to come…


In honor of the holiday, one of my favorites…
New posts are coming…It’s just a matter of determining where I’ll be posting them…
Rest assured, there are plenty of useless, mildly disturbing, somewhat touching and potentially entertaining things waiting for you just around the corner—like an unknown assailant with a tube sock full of quarters…

If it were actually like this, I might have enjoyed it a bit more…

He lead our country through civil war. He is the great emancipator, and considered the greatest American President by historians.
And now, 200 years after his birth, he is a (Gothic/Americana) rock star.
In honor of Abraham Lincoln’s 200th birthday, my band, Strawfoot, has taken Lincoln’s words and turned them into a dark song about a man slowly going mad.
Lincoln was a complicated man, he fought a lot of demons. He was also a phenomenal poet.
One of his poems in particular, But Here’s an Object More of Dread really jumped out at me. It was simultaneously ominous and beautiful. It was perfect for Strawfoot.
But Here’s an Object More of Dread was written by Lincoln in 1846, upon returning to his childhood home.
In a letter to close friend, William Johnston, Lincoln wrote:

Included in the letter was the poem But Here’s an Object More of Dread. This being his 200th birthday, it seemed only fitting to bring his poem to life, and put it on our upcoming CD, How We Prospered.
Here it is…I hope we did it justice…the video is just a bunch of our promo shots thrown together to accompany the music…all of the band photography was taken by Marshall Gibson…He’s one of the best at what he does…
I’m no film maker…so if you can do better, please, by all means have at it…we’ll even email you the MP3…
Our CD will be available Halloween.