Tune Up #1

(Let me preface this post by saying that I'm playing Roger in REnT up at TriArts Playhouse this month)

Fourth of July. 1pm. 2011. 

"I'd rather be, rather be in rehearsal right now, baby" - Joe Iconis

I've kicked the numbness and the doctors and the squawking boxes of noise that dictate my choices - cuz hey baby - In the end - there ain't nothin' left to believe in but your own abilities.
I'm done anesthetizing myself with a little blue pill.  This sensitive aesthete is ready to to break down your walls.  All i want is to feel.  I'm out for something more than the left side of my head.

The dollar signs in your eyes don't interest me - Kick me out of your house.  I'll be alright.  There ain't nothin' in that set list for me Mr. Wizard.  There ain't nothin' there - and there ain't never gonna be.  That's alright with me - cuz I've got my newfound sense of cosmic interconnectedness -  a living soul with a breathing heart that feels deeply - that loves deeply - that hurts deeply - and rebounds greatly.

All my love to you baby - I've cast off my ectoplasm of doubt - traded in my skin for leather.  Nobody knows how to ride anymore.  Deep-pocketed humans wear cowboy hats & pose for pictures next to horses in their tight Bushwick blue jeans, faking the rest of us into interest.

There's a way to exist outside of the rehearsal room... outside of the song process in my head... I know there is... but besides heading to the Bronx, I haven't found it yet.







I suppose we'll get there soon... get to that place of comfortable existence - where truth is not something to be feared; but is a function of humanity.

------------------Following the path of least resistance hasn't worked for me thus far.  I've had to harness my confrontational nature and cast off some of my righteous indignation for the sake of art.  usually it's the other way around... But sometimes, in the room, I find myself questioning my function.

Are we artists?  Is it pretentious to think of oneself as an artist?  I'm a writer, an actor, a ........ I assume other people's roles.  But am I an artist?  Let's face it - we're entertainers; at the core of our art - our craft - our work - is the fact that what we do is for the benefit of others.  We would be selfish to think that the visceral feeling of the artists on stage or in your stereo or your page is more important or meaningful than the response of our audience.  We entertain - we distract people from the mundane, the meaningless and the physical manifestation of the fear of death. 

And yet - the true artist works for no one but himself - The artist's work is creation - He does not create for money - He does not create even for love - The true artist creates because he HAS to - because the alternative is far too tragic, And because he will die if he doesn't. 

Yet - as entertainers; I've always liked to think that we could have, oh, just a modicum of ambition and hope that through our art, we could change the world. It takes a man with a keen intellect, and an even deeper wealth of love to create art that not only entertains, but changes the world.  Example:

HE got it.  This man put his art above all else.   Creating was second only to breathing - and at times, even breath fell by the wayside in favor of his art.

Larson was modest enough to recognize that he was an entertainer; brazen enough to believe that his brand of entertainment could change the world; and wise enough to know that money is not the be all and end all.

Who cares if he didn't make a dime off his show?  It sucks, but that's not a tragedy.  Not living to get his Pulitzer or Tony; also not a tragedy.  The tragedy is that he never got to see his work come to life on Broadway.  The tragedy, is that his life was aborted, and his child had to be delivered prematurely.  The tragedy, is a father never getting to meet his child...

However, in the midst of sorrow, his death took place in the shadow of new life.  Larson gave his life to protect and nourish his child in utero.  He did not feel this sacrifice a vain or an empty one.  And we will not debate his profound wisdom now.   (thanks Jack B. Sowards)

Everyone who loves his show becomes his child's foster parents - We have all had a small hand in raising Her.  If there's any creative justice in the afterlife, Jon is looking down on his teenager smiling.


no edits, no spell-checks, no read thru,

No so Desperate Times.

p.s. come see the show.


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THE KILLING OF AN OFF-BROADWAY PRODUCER

Desperate Times Short Story Forum Presents:

THE KILLING OF AN OFF-BROADWAY PRODUCER (an excerpt from MUSICAL THEATRE PUNK)

I would shake and cough and twitch in rehearsal. Maybe I gave myself away. The producer didn’t like me. She cut me from THE show. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten myself so emotionally attached.

She was my first victim.

I learned I didn’t like hearing them scream while I sliced them up, so; If I knew things were going to get A) Messy or B) Loud – I took precautions.

I wanted to make sure this woman suffered.. I wanted her to feel the pain of my rejection. I knew this was impossible. She could never feel the way I felt. How could she objectively see what she had done to me? She couldn’t. But at least I could still torture and kill her.

I stuffed her mouth full of crumpled up Playbills and Gaff taped her mouth shut. The tears were pouring down her wrinkled old face now. I didn’t like hearing her plead – it tugged at my conscience.

I had seen an ad on late night tv for the 'Butcher’s Boy Blade', a knife so sharp that it could "CUT THROUGH BONE" (according to the ad) so I decided to test it out on sweet cheeks over here.

I drew myself closer and closer to her face – shooting her with my eyes, drawing out the moment of anticipation as much as I could before I started smacking her around. It was fun toying with her. She couldn’t speak, but her eyes begged me to let her go.

I raised my blade high in the air and brought it down with swift vengeance. She shrieked like a banshee and blood spewed everywhere; but that’s what tarps and gags are for.

I picked up her hand and started smacking it against her face.

“Hey. Quit hittin’ yerself. Quit hittin’ yerself.” Hah.

I cut her up and down her wrinkled shriveled body. She bled. She cried.

“Slice, slice, snicker snack. Here’s a blade across your back.” I sliced her diagonally from shoulder blade to hip; and she bled.

For the next few minutes my victim drifted in and out of consciousness. And I realized I had a rehearsal to get to.

She was trying to say something.

“What? I’m sorry I can’t hear you with your mouth gagged like that.” I ripped off the gaff tape, along with her bottom lip.

“Please” she cried “I’m sorry. Please don’t!”

Sweat and blood poured from the old woman’s head. She had pissed herself several times already and the room was starting to smell.

“You’re sorry?” I joked “Really? You’re sorry.”

“I was wrong. I should have –“

“Yes you were wrong. Oh so very wrong. And now you’re sorry…” I let out a sarcastic sigh. “Let me hear you say you’re sorry again.”

“I’m sorry!” she screamed through blood and tears.

“Not good enough.” I plunged the blade into her chest and carved out her heart; making sure she lived long enough to watch it stop, beating.

I made a plan to burn her remains.

Ah Rehearsal.

I feel a pop in my brain; then a loud pinging sound. It grows louder by the second – Black blood courses through my veins – I feel my head pulsing. The pain gets worse. My left arms goes numb and my feet start to burn. I grind my teeth from side to side and wish for a new stomach. Someone get this monster out of my head.


It’s a low sky out tonight; Foggy and bitter, like a head-cold.



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Home Alone with my Friends

Desperate Times Prose Series Presents:

Home Alone With My Friends

My blue friend makes me nervous

My white friend makes me still

My brown friend makes me dizzy

my green friend makes me chill

My blonde friend changed her hair - and now it's something dark;

like my soul on a Sunday night, chewing idea tree bark.


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Rock N' Roll Sucide

Desperate Times A SONG A DAY(ish) Series Presents: Rock N' Roll Suicide

We here at Desperate Times have and always will present You, the reader, only the most truthful emotional explosions.

Along those lines, we bring you our humble cover of Rock N' Roll Suicide off of David Bowie's album Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Done with just Desperate Times and the guitar... and a little distorted piano... and a few minutes of Garage Band. Enjoy another blurry video.



Maybe tomorrow I'll make a proper music video. Or maybe not.


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Shameless Self-Promotion: A Song a Day(ish)

In an act of shameless self-promotion I've decided to post some clips of me performing. I'm going to try and post a new song every day... Most of 'em will be covers, but it'll also give You (the reader/listener/viewer) a chance to check out some tracks from Lithe As A Cat; my as of yet to be released debut album.

First up:
Haddonfield, 15 Years Later
Music and Lyrics by Joe Iconis - Live at the Beechman Theatre 1/28/11



Tomorrow: Track 1 off of Lithe as a Cat; Ballad Of the End of The World



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Desperate Times Presents: Prose from the Wasteland

Before the Dark

Data on the screen and in my head
Neither have wisdom
and I'm filled with dread

My heart is a colander; emptying out my love; holding on to my pain
The screen snows flickers
I've learned it's refrain

No more for my room
full up is my kitchen

The oven burns
The heart churns

The screen shorts out -
the sound is gone

The embers have grown
A faulty extinguisher am I
A faulty human.

I see the fire burning up the curtains
I focus on the screen
I can not move, but to breathe in the smoke

My chest contracts and I cough
I gag and wheeze and contort,
but I still see the Data on the screen

The room grew bright


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Desperate Times Presents: Prose from the Wasteland

The Light

"Send me solace!" He cried; naked and alone - he walked - in the dark
- not knowing where he was - or how his legs were suddenly functioning

His miraculously cured paralysis did not astound him as much as the destruction laid out before him.

The skyline was gone.

Only rubble and rock, dust and ash remained.

He walked...

The clouds rained scarlet tears - He sought shelter and wept; and decided that he would gladly trade his newfound mobility for the world he knew

The air reaked of sulfur

The Old Man's chest pounded and he grimaced

The man fell; and he watched his knee cry the same scarlet tears as the clouds

The man walked on.

The man called out to any that would listen;

"Am I not worth being heard?!" He cursed his maker.

Sulfur seemed to filled his lungs... the Man could not breathe.

The man fell a second time; and remembered cigarettes.
Coffee; the Man remembered the smell. He remembered donuts.
The man remembered his life and cried.

"I miss you"

And a voice seemed to acknowledge his declaration.
The Old Man sighed and wished for light.
He knelt and closed his eyes.
The sun came out - and as the radiation burned away his skin and muscle tissue, the man smiled his last.


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On the closing of the Scottsboro Boys (100th Post)

There is naught but a fortnight left till the winds blow hard and high
Till the song the hearts of men beat strong
Till the song of war picks up again
Till the long of the moon shines on the darkest sun cloud sky
Till the brightness of soul fills the heads of men
Till women shriek and the crows in the fields disappear for the sound marching near; beckons to the animals to flee – to flee!
For the war is coming
The war is coming; and there is nothing we can do to stop it

Wolf vs. Vulture

Desperate Times Presents: An Evening Rant

Remember when Facebook used to feel like a safe place; a place where you could rant, bitch, kvetch etc. with abandon, without fear of repercussion or consequence? No, you don't? Then you were born in the 90's. Back in it's infancy, Facebook sublimated my anger and rage - I could rant about the futility of existence without fear of someone emailing me, or "messaging me" about every little unnerving Status Update.

It used to be a fun tool; Facebook. You could (and still can) use this tool to manipulate your fantasy of what you think others will think about your random thoughts; wantings - ravings - ecstasies - wins - losses - Who Cares? I don't know. I guess I care. I have a bunch of "friends" - over 500. I don't see more than a dozen of them in a given week.

Facebook has given losers everywhere at least one friend

The problem with this manipulation (whether conscious or not) is in the execution.

I just had a very invasive Facebook experience involving an inter-loping vulture. I'm no dead meat - but this experience left me feeling chewed and swallowed. Without going in to specifics (for fear of reprisal) This particular Vulture felt the need to insert itself, uninvited in to my Wolfpack (life). The vulture felt the need to critique the Facebook Manipulation of my life that I had created, to the point that this Wolf could bear it no longer. This Wolf never expressed anything (to his knowledge) to the Vulture that the Vulture could ever misconstrue as a close, personal comment, remark or invitation in to the Wolf's existence.

This is no ordinary Vulture. This Vulture is strange, because it doesn't feed off rotting carcasses. This Vulture feeds off the living. In fact, this Vulture is more like a Vampire, or a Valkyrie. Vampire. Vulture.

When is it ever ok for a Vulture to talk to a Wolf anyway? We don't even speak the same animal language. Point being - This Wolf never wanted any contact with the Vulture.

This Wolf had seen this Vulture feed off of other members of his Wolfpack before. Luckily they had extricated themselves from the Vulture's fangs before it was too late.

This Vulture was/is a Facebook Junkie.

I dunno - I blocked the bird.

I felt stalked by this bird... and I'm a Wolf.

The madness has to end somewhere. I think the road out of madness leads out off facebook as well. That being said, the inverse is equally true.

In the end - I let the Vulture have it - I tore the bird to shreds with my vicious Wolf jaws. Blood in the snow - dripping as I walked away. The Vulture lived to fight another day.

The Wolf unfriended and blocked the Vulture and he hopes that his Wolf Pack will not suffer any repercussions.

I am Jack's momentary sense of relief.

Stupid social network.

I'm going back to the woods.

The Philosopher Pistol

Desperate Times Presents:

The Philosopher Pistol (Part !)

There doesn't see to be any artillery sir?
But there Must be artillery!
How can we fight a Goddamn Bloody War without Goddamn Bloody artillery?!

The general was fuming at this point and i was glad to get out of the room before the winds of politics swept in a foul thunderstorm. I left with my charge, ahead of the supply boy and with my pistol in hand. I thought this quite amusing. I'm not one to carry my pistol in my hand, but my experience in the General's office; being handed my first real assignment on my own, had my heart pumping. Perhaps I pulled my sidearm out of it's holster, who knows how or why these things happen. I promptly re-holstered my weapon and set off on my journey.

I slept for a night on the beach - i took in the smell of the sand, the sound of the water lapping against the earth, like matter smacking against time. I thought about time slowly falling away in to a deep well hole in New England; only to be retrieved by a man who once sold his daughter to a Street Performer for September 1968. Time couldn't be easily caught, or held on to for that matter. And after the Street Performer intercepted time, it quickly got away from him. Never to be caught again.

I walked a desert road for a time. I felt like a man on a mission, but what mission, I did not know. I held my gun up above me as I walked. The reflection of the Sun against my pistol warmed my soul the way the company of another human being never could. I guess it was my manner. My way. I'd never been one for company. Strangers sure. But I'd never kept company well and I wasn't about to start now. That's why i left. To get away from everyone; To find out - after all my awful misdeeds and sins, he trail of tears and broken lives I've left behind me; who I really am.

So I walk along the trodden trail - the only trail a man who's low can know.
I sing my song to no avail, for on my path, if I choose to sing it's for no one
I choose to sing to no one.

Send me a mountain to climb to the top and jump off and explode and then fly in to hell and do battle with satan - and crucify Christ - let them whip me and rape me and burn me and hate me.

Next Time on Desperate times Presents - PART 2

Been such a long time...

It's been over a month, so i decided I'd throw up some videos that you can easily get by searching on Youtube, but hopefully you'll com here and pad my site hit count.

Here's me singing The Vagabond at the Joe Iconis Rock and Roll Jamboree at Joe's Pub on July 17th. Enjoy.



A week after the Jamboree I sang for my friend Eric March (who I've been performing with since we were both 11) at the Laurie Beechman Theatre at his show entitled "Eric March presents: Eric and Friends present: 9 New Songs 3 Old Songs and One Cover." It was hilarious. Here are a couple of clips.





See ya'll soon - Oh! I'm in a show on September 6th as part of "Effable Arts" 20-Something 20-Somethings - original songs - lots of attractive damaged people - it's in Manhattan so save the date!!! More info to follow -

keep on keepin' on

Guest Poet: Kristyn Brown

Desperate Times Guest Artist Series Volume II: Kristyn Brown
Today on Desperate Times, we feature one the soon to be most well known philosophers on the planet, Miss Kristyn Brown. Currently studying in Belgium to get her Masters degree in Philosophy, she has been gracious enough to share some of her current work with us.


1. How not to cry:

Think only of what you’ve got

Not what is missing

Feel the way you are

Sitting in a coffee shop

Don’t think the word alone

That would be thinking what you’ve not got



Don’t want to talk

Or be satisfied with talking to yourself

You are a great conversationalist anyway

Lucky you, you are now having a great conversation

At least



Think about the sun or the clouds

Or the stool or the hanging photos of Brooklyn Bridge

Or the flashing game machine in the corner

Or the Bruce Springsteen’s voice, the fuzzy speaker in the corner

The racked yellow and blue patio chairs



Think of all the things around you

Make sure they stay in sight

Make sure it is a stool you are sitting on;

How is that game played; When did he write this song;

Who was on the bridge that day; What is he doing right now; Is he warm;

Is he tuffling under the sheets; Is the sailboat wind chime catching the sun

No, no! too far!



Don’t let the stool disappear!



Write a poem

Nothing is ending

You’re just waiting



03/20/09



2. Dear God: Response Requested



Dear God,

[10:00:08 AM] Kristyn Brown says: Please excuse the following blasphemy (I will assume you have because I am not yet aware of any smiting).



I was in Paradise today.

I was supposed to be in Paradise today.

It seemed to be very much like this is what Paradise was to be, or once was.



But was I?

Surely, you would know.



All the bounties, all the riches, radiant flowers with the lofting smells of heaven

Sun- the gavitational, succumbing,

Closing my eyes simply to turn to it

What was that feeling today... of closed eyes, only a thin beating shield between that sun and my mind?

I tried to think it today, but I could not find the words.



Anyway, back to this Paradise thing.

It seemed like,

for all the ancient reasons, for all the scraped paintings and pictures handed down by pallets and brushes;

For all descriptions of release and redemption, for all the forgottenness, the unhistorical, the never has there been of the grinding of everyday axewheels;

The, Oh, how I love the God, the Sun, the Paradise which is all I know!

That, in Paradise, I was.



But something today, even while it was happening something seemed strangely unParadisely; seemed missing.

Not a note from the bird’s harmonious oaths and odes ricocheting off of one another;

Not the perfect hovering of the shallowest pool water upon its depths;

Not a tile missing from the lusciously captured sahara sand smoothed over into perfect squares beneath my feet;

Not any dimming of the Sun because the clouds swept graciously around it like ladies of the court around their queen, careful not to cross the boundary from picturesque to annoyance.



And now the Sun has set and my thoughts, my heart, my feelings recount the day.

This paradise today seems missing something, missing a lime like the Sangria standing vigilant beside me.

And now that the people have gone inside, hiding from the soft chill that runs along behind the Sun, a pigeon sweeps down and rests beside the pool, wetting his beak.

Now, these misbegotten doves, dirty as they are, bathe in the golden fountains and gilded pools.



Was it Paradise I saw today?

Or is this Paradise now?

Surely, you would know.



Love,

Kristyn



[10:30:29 AM] Kristyn Brown says: ps. Sorry for the cigarette ashes I left on the hard, disinterested sahara tiles.



07/04/09



3. I Place the Cards



I place the cards in order

Smoking a cigarette

And the flag ship of my mind sails off

somewhere far beyond this oak table

threes on fours on fives

and queens on kings

kings on aces

I start making a phone call

But would rather not hear the endless ringing

That I know will not stop, there will be no other end

So I put the phone down on the table, still ringing, but not in my ears

And I place the cards

Twos on threes on fours

And fives on sixes

Next Week - audio files!!!!

I am Flight

Desperate Times Prose: Volume XI

I am Flight

Perchance to fly
to soar above the clouds
to slice through the maelstrom of human rage
to rise above the confusion

I pick up my left foot
the ground remains
I pick up my fright foot, it disappears
the ground disappears

I am become the angel of light beholding the glory of eternal futility
I am become a moment in time's pocket
I am flight

I remember, briefly
I must be dreaming
day begins to break and I walk the path between dreams and consciousness.

Consciousness resumes
I can't remember how to fly
In theory, I can recall how it's done,
Lift the left foot - Good
Halfway there now

"Lift the right foot," I tell myself...
Try Harder
...but it is no use, my foot remains firmly planted on the ground...

I recall my dream
I picture myself soaring through the stratosphere
higher and higher, out in to space
I pause and look to contemplate Earth
I see pain and suffering, and beauty; trying so desperately to be noticed
I notice,
I am calm
I am zen
I am flight.

Did I really remember how to fly in my dream?
Or did I just dream that I remembered?

2/24/09 - Lonesome Hobo's Poetry

From the stolen diary of a Lonesome Hobo lying in Washington Square Park

I am a Lonesome Hobo who threw away his wealth
I squandered love on someone else, forgot about myself

I am the tightrope walker, just before he falls
I looked for my love in the crowd and noticed she was gone

I clothe myself in garbage, material and fake
The tattered shreds reflect my heart, scared in disarray

I cast you in my movie, you said you loved the script
You changed the lines without me knowing, boy do I feel jipped

Today I shoot the camera, I hide behind the lens
I wish that could do or say that which would make amends

Meet me in the park sometime, beneath our fav'rite tree
The place you swore undying love and gave your heart to me

I would sing you a folk song, about life that never ends
But I'd rather share my heart with you, than remain as simply friends.

I'm told I must stop rhyming, that my lines are played and cheap
The most beautiful, profundities, in my mind I'll keep