Kara Thrace's Secret Death Wish 1/2/09 @ 169 Bar

She has a tragic flaw and I'd like to share it with you all...

Come to 169 Bar January 2nd to continue the New Year celebration and rock out with:

KARA THRACE'S SECRET DEATH WISH: a fast paced musical journey through the mind of the most murderously courageous, insubordinately bloody, deviously sexy viper pilot in the universe. There will be guitars, harmonicas, maniacal shouting, an out of tune piano, hot chicks making out (byohc), and maybe even a hand drum. What more could you ask for?!

What better place to celebrate the season than at a dive bar on the lower east side with me and a bunch of people you barely know? Exactly, sounds amazing right? Musical Odyssey through deviously sexy viper pilot’s mind, good tunes, good people you don’t know... you get all of this for only six dollars! Now, I know what you’re thinking... You’re thinking: "Holy Shit Jared, I just got massively screwed by a credit default swap gone horribly wrong and six bucks is a lot of money right now... with six bucks I could get like, six cup o’ noodles, or purchase three and a half shares of AIG." Friends, we all know that society is going to collapse under the weight of a failing economy. I say there’s nothing we can do about it but go out guns a’ blazin.

However, I’m here to assure you that you will have an awesome kick ass time, and if you are not satisfied with the show, I will happily hold up the bar and refund your money.

$6 cover 169 Bar, 169 East Broadway, Lower East Side - take the F train to east Broadway... E B’way/Rutgers St.

Headshot

Jared Ponders

Jared filled with Angst

Genius Talent Soul Men

Jared Weiss Songbook Series: Part 1 (in our ongoing series)

Genius Talent Soul Men: Music & Lyrics by Eric March

Performed by Jared Weiss, Eric March and The Secret Cylon Club @ Ars Nova's A.N.T. FEST 11/17/08

To love is to suffer

Love is death, love is suffering. To love is to suffer. To be happy is to love, is to suffer. Then to be happy is to suffer. Then Happiness is suffering. But suffering is being unhappy, then being unhappy is to love, is to suffer, is to be happy. Love is dead and Love is dead. Love fades; what a terrible prospect. When love fades, I can get excited about death. It'll be a great way to cut down on my expenses. To err is to be human. To cause pain is to be human. Pain is suffering, and if suffering is unhappiness then to cause pain is to love. It follows that to 'human' is to love, is to suffer, is to be pained, is to be unhappy is to die. So why not just cut to the chase. Why not simply kill oneself and be done with it all? Murder is immoral; suicide is immoral. However, if morality is subjective and subjectivity is objective, who is to define immorality? Humans? Death? Death defines immorality. Human beings are death. Love is death. To kill oneself is to love too much. TO kill oneself is to cause suffering. To cause suffering is to be happy. TO be happy is to suffer is to be free. But now, death has consumed all my love. Trapped. Trapped forever in a circle of pain and love and death. Death - can you hear me Death? I hope you're in pain. But seriously, all I ask is that you have A.M. radio in the afterlife.

Songs About Real Life Thanks You

Thank you thank you thank you to the 99 or so people who packed Ars Nova to see Songs About Real Life!!! (co-written with my good friend mR. Eric March). I'm amazed you all came and hope you will continue to show the love that was so evident last Monday night. As soon as I get the cd from Ars Nova, I'll throw up some tracks from the show. And as soon as I get out of my coma I'm sure the show will have glorious rebirth. Till then, enjoy my twisted prose.

Happy Thanksgiving (Alice)

God is mute

What is this feeling?

It's the feeling that God is there, but doesn't care enough to save me.

I'm overcome by the need to destroy something beautiful to attain perfection. I want something beautiful inside me. My soul, once bright with hope, is now a black vacuum, sucking in more poison, breaking down my insides, tearing apart my organs one by one. I can't stop it. I can't get these thoughts out. Walking used to help. Helping used to help.

As I walk, I feel a sense of uneasiness, like the right side of my head is about to burst from the weight of too many spotted mornings, too many dark sunrises, too much anger and frustration, thinking I'm not going to live through the night.

Perpetually waiting for tomorrow, my soul is stagnant. My body becomes a cesspool of broken promises, lies, a breeding ground for bitterness, anger and hate. Jaded by power, circumstance and mistrust, I turn to old habits. Without the will to wake up, I walk through life with a chipped shoulder and broken spine. God help me.

I can't focus on now. I turn off and decide to wait, wait until tomorrow to switch on. Get these voices out of my head and these monkeys off my back. God help the man who helps me, for that man is a fool to promote catastrophe.

My friends said I could live for myself and I didn't believe them. I believed in myself and I was spit upon. I believed in them and I was slapped around. Left bloodied and constantly dying, I stopped believing, and my dreams crucified me.

Love no one and you won't get hurt.

I don't know if I really believe that. I'm not quite sure what I believe in anymore. Maybe God is listening, maybe he isn't. Either way, I need a sign. I need a break. If he's there, I need to see him.

Winter Part I

My vision has been obscured by melancholy horror
Familiar walls, begin to crumble

I don’t feel his love,
Far past the end of my nose, I see not what is in front of me; I only see the end
I don’t feel his love. I fear there is none for him to send.

In my alternate existence, I am an elderly Lutheran Minister named Jan Nyvquist. I have a small, but still shrinking congregation on an island called Threnody, off the northern coast of Gotland, Sweden.

PART I

Saturday afternoon had never inspired such spiritual rebellion. I was sitting in my grandfather’s rocking chair, smoking my pipe as was my usual custom, when I suddenly came to the sad realization that I could no longer hear God. Not after this last storm. It had been a downright awful winter. Firewood was scarce. My hearing had been damaged after a bout of pneumonia. It had been a dreadfully devastating winter. It had been a lonely winter. Once again in my grandfather’s old rocking chair, I fumble through my pockets, looking for a key. What happened to this key? Did it ever exist? I couldn’t remember what this key unlocked. It must not exist. I looked at my pipe, long and hard, and decided that what was gnawing away at me was the thought that at some point, this key did exist. However, I couldn’t be sure if this key existed solely in my unconscious, or if there was indeed some tangible manifestation of my imagination that upon deposit in to my pocket had immediately, magically disappeared. The sudden realization of so many possibilities hit me hard. I increase my fumbling.
Finally, I pull out a book of matches. The Cigarettes lived in the desk drawer. After five unsuccessful, frustrating attempts, I finally succeed in lighting a cigarette. I take a long inhale and an even longer exhale.
The snow falls swiftly and surely outside. It falls fast, hard, like my beating heart, on the prowl for company. Cigarette in hand, I stand and walk toward the bay window. I’m not holding my cigarette. I’m holding His cigarette. Midway to the window, I drop his cigarette. We watch together as it dies slowly on the floor. We have the same look on our faces. It is the look of a man who has just been made aware of the fact that he has been watching things die slowly for an eternity.

NEXT PART II: HELGA FUGLESANG