golden tears
out of desert dry ducts
hit joyous, expectant lips:
naivete pays out huge

(when it does at all)

but misses the sign:
objects may appear closer than they actually are.

David Foster Wallace (1962-2008) Or, Art, The Artist, and Suicide Or, Why I Like Dystopian Art (Or Any Art.) Or, Is Art a Naturally Social Relation?

i had never heard of this guy before tonight when i clicked on a link announcing his death. turns out he killed himself. he was a relatively young - 40's - american author. he seems just brilliant – and was also thought to be so by a great many people. i've read some blog comment sections and people are devastated. of course, the people most likely to post are the people that care the most. but i've read a little about the main themes of his work, a poignant excerpt or two, and a quote on dostoevsky (coincidentally enough since i’ve been reading him lately); and i've become just horribly broken up myself.

it's no secret that i am commited to the belief that the artist can affect change in the larger social structure of which he is a part through reaching individuals on a mass basis (and really defining them as a part of a community). it's of slightly less certainty that my life is committed to this view. but it's as near certain as possible that i believe my life needs to reflect this value in the deepest possible way.

however, it is clear that we, as a people, do not appropriately deal with the artist's contribution. perhaps we are even unequipped and therefore unable to do so. This is really the chief concern. but first: who is the artist? upon asking this, there appears to be an even more prescient question: what does the artist do? what is the artist's contribution? for artists are human beings - first and foremost - and we are defined by our actions, not our professed beliefs. Aristotle said it best: "We are what we repeatedly do." almost at once though, this categorization seems problematic, and i think i am putting the wrong issue at the fore. the first issue is of course: what is art? The rest will follow since they are inevitably, inextricably linked.

[[this is not a new issue. the definition of art has been under attack in private for sometime, but it has reached more mainstream ears and minds with forums such as blogs and youtube, arenas designed for rapid idea dissemination. this was not the first step, though. with the creation, installation, and occupation of the internet, the information age, which had been accelerating for years, brought this new ability to the masses. But in this entire time previous, we had been building towards such freedom, like so many training wheels and tricycles. we rode under our own direction; we steered we decided. we filled our baskets with information, idiosyncrasies, and beliefs - we used our own creative design or we stenciled with the help of a template, knowingly or unknowingly. either way, it was an act of creation; there was a sense of ownership in the idea. we had been learning and growing with these newfound talents - as a culture - for quite some time before the internet came along with its forum for mass individual-to-individual expression. the most relevant consequence here is that the market for ideas became flooded. though nearly everyone will give some form of the now grumbling cliche, "Don't believe everything you read/see/watch (ed - "experience") on the internet"; it is highly unlikely that they consider any contributions they might make as within that subset of suspicious activity.
On the one hand, expertise is now a matter of the person's trust in the source. On the other hand, it seems more pertinent to examine intent: what is the desired end? Does one desire truth - as relative and undefinable a term that there may be? Or does one desire to maintain previously accepted beliefs, some static empty, box of truth that is packed and re-packed, wrapped and re-wrapped? ]]

The point is this: art has gone the way of every other discipline; it did not find itself immune to a flooded marketplace and, perhaps, an undiscerning consumer. the quality of acceptability is broadening with the increase of evaluators, and the definition of art, like most words or concepts, is dynamic but increasingly hard to get a good grasp on- akin to super string theory's progeny of intermittent existence (erm. the string.). here is the massive distinction i have been building towards: art and entertainment. entertainment provides a nicely wrapped happiness box with a note: please take me as i am. art asks something substantive and meaningful - no, it demands it: take me into your mind, mix me around with your reflective experience, and see how i change you. it is clear that this is a two way process. the intent, the willingness, the openness must be there on the part of both creator and receiver.

the artist transmits their subjective experience, the sum of their perceptions and reflections, in whatever form possible. this subjectivity is not a limitation; in fact, my usage here is not necessarily indicative of the artist's intent at all. [the artist may acknowledge that their work is an embracing of subjectivity. or, they may maintain that their work is a groping towards, or perhaps even a reflection of, objective reality. i argue that these are two sides of the same coin. but this merely belies the fact that i believe there is no real, objective reality out there. we can have truth, but only on our own terms. we are not reaching out and grabbing something that wouldn't be there without us; it is contingent on us - our mind, our senses, our memory, our reason. so, in reality, these "opposing" sides are expressing the same idea but with different underlying assumptions. one accepts the situation, the other strives toward a perfect one. either way, though, they both concern themselves with ideas that they believe to be manifestly universal. this is an odd thing, to say that the subjectivist believes himself to be creating ] it is representative of my belief that all we have is subjective experience, whether the writer is embracing it fully as in the case of a Henry Miller, putting a moderately subtle filter on reality in Fitzgerald's work, or creating whole new characters as Hemingway strived towards. so, whether the writer wrote word for word from conversations that actually happened, or whether the writer never used a single autobiographical word or event, is not actually relevant; this is: that the artist creates through a lens and this lens is the product of a person from a certain socio-historical time, a certain set of genes, a certain set of environmental conditions. when the artist creates, these ideas are necessarily the result of different conceptions of love, justice, beauty et al. but this does not mean that everyone's conceptions are different. it just means that each individual had a different life experience which informed them. and the degree to which they are particulars to generals we all share in, the smaller the difference between those two concepts, and the depth to which it makes us delve into our own experience is the barometer for art.

i believe in the power of the artist - not because of their ability to concoct direct polemics to the head (polemic-on: apply directly to one's mind) - but as a mediator of the most troubling parts of human experience, the oil in water of ethereal feelings. these are the emotions that many struggle to put into words for themselves (for myriad reasons), and much of the time are not even talked about. i like to characterize this as The Lacking - the feeling of a void without the ability/willingess to cognize it further if in fact it can ever be fully known! i think we'd need a person from a different paradigm altogether - different conditioning, different values - in order to evaluate what the fuck is going on. They of course would be bringing their own preconceived notions to the table, as well, but perhaps they stand the best chance from the outside looking in. of course all we have is ourselves. we don't have that luxury. and im torn on the implications: does this mean we can never see It? and i don't mean objective reality. i don't mean that at all. When we have the capability of freedom, how can we deal with the problem of being the (somewhat) natural outgrowth of our particular time and place; of the conditioning that was necessarily a part of that age; of picking up our own brush and painting freely. How able are we to recognize our own plight?

If we go by ourselves as the measure of plight understanding, the answer is typically disappointing. Millions upon millions have read salinger and Huxley, and yet we still live in an inane, phony filled world. Is this the result of a rational rejection or a lack of understanding? I do not know. I do know, however, that many artists commit suicide, and I can’t help but wonder how much guilt resides on our doorstep. The artist seems driven to create as an ethical existential imperative, despite whatever foreknowledge they may have as to the improbability of impact.

does it not seem as tho the artist is predisposed to suicide? especially within our society? despite the fact that it can't help but create capable, feeling human beings unable to stifle transmission? the social structure seems even more likely to produce individuals who are incapable/unwilling to deal with these universal feelings, and this is why suicide seems almost inevitable. The need to transmit, and stay firm in one’s standards, outweighs the pressure to conform to dissonant surrounding standards. The artist has chosen a life of meaning and this does not mean happiness. But it does not preclude it either. Happiness derived from meaning is superior to any other happiness. Meaning is the product of the sum of one’s actions. It is our character. It is not the product of any singular item. In the Greek vein, happiness is the result of living well.

Why do I suggest that the artist commits suicide because of this lack of reception? Though the art springs from a particular mind, there seems to be a inherently social facet to artistic creation, a reaching out. For we are not individuals in isolated pods, as much as we are trying to fit ourselves into that definition.

Perhaps the most important point is left for me to make at the end of this rambling string: the artist chooses to deal with the responsibility of consciousness, of thinking, head on. At least to a point, then seemingly the disappointment, the lack of effect, the lack of actual change or meaning, overwhelms the ability to rationalize one’s actions as “the best I could do.”

I’m going to end with a little bit of a speech David Foster Wallace gave a few years back. I can’t help but feel him alluding to some of the issues I’ve touched on here, especially the problems of incompatible standards, no change, and no meaning. Further, I sense a stress to have the courage of one’s convictions, thereby reducing the social nature of it and maybe a large chunk of the tension. But I could be way off.

[L]earning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about quote the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.

the hallway is Bright,
but an anviled feather.
it keeps you proud and right
but you're a horse wrapped in pleather

a gross abomination.
a stain.
sincerity? (pssh)
you're an atheist bishop

dogma the world 'round
the answer is money?
does a voice need money?
or just an open mind?

you can't break the mirror
so don't even try
you should hear your terror
as you lie, lie, lie.

the king's dead
but everyone's keen for the crown
the thrill fills your head
but you're just a clown

i hate pretension, you cry
but it's just a lie
a silly mask
one puts to mind like lips to flask

a douche by any other name
i wouldn't blame
but spitting in one's own face
deserves a special place

words, words, words, words
without action
you're a lord
with no army.

a whisper

everyone is
catering to everyone else,
losing their own needs,
leaving nobody's fulfilled

from the civic centers,
from the church,
and from the den,
come golden shower edicts

but justice and truth
hail from infinite mothers
tradition is a dirty word
a black, obscuring, deafening eye

a girl sauntered in a sea of sprinters,
but the mob ate her whole:
i lost sight of her
and so did she.

kickin' cans down an alley
with you in my mind
reminds of fall's false hope
ill never get to the end

because i start over
rehashing, drawing diagrams
performing vivisections on our hearts
but minds can't know other minds

there used to be a pharmacy round the corner
we once sat together at the counter and nervously sipped malts
but once might as well be zero
should be zero, should have left it to the bum's 8 ball

should we think about shoulds?
and coulds and why nots and what the fucks?
how else would ought become is?
change is not a four letter word

a decade later and the heat from your voice still warms
whenever i fall away.
memories that brought salty despair in my youth,
now sing soaring arias as i look over at your sleeping body.

Mud's Allure

he looked out the window,
chin on the ledge,
arms spread out, fingers interlocked, beneath.

his expression was advanced:
it pondered.

he looked out the window
at a girl with a book,
under a tree,
admiring a boy in the mud.

he squinted to see
what he could already.

there must be something missing

he sat underneath an adjacent tree,
book open and eyes to the page;
she never once looked over

except to say, "That's my favorite book."

Incomprehensible

the day the bombs fell
i was inside coloring

stay in the lines
stay in the lines
my mother called from the kitchen
but my ears were burning
from the fire engulfing our home

i could not put it on the fridge and i cannot understand why.

On Tragedy (Or Was It, Triumph?)

melted ice enveloping
it’s 95 outside
I’m wearing a poncho
in a glacial cavern

savage water smacks my face
I turn to see what’s gaining on me
and I’m a bug in a toilet
spinning round -------out of control
the invisible hand presses the lever again

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Eyes Open Wide (, Dear):
rapidly blinking,
darting into every crevice of previously negated space,
curating exhibits,
---------→funding studies on←----------
his [solitary] faith:
peoplelovehatereasoncommunityconsciousnessanevolutionaryedict

(he spits it out
like everyone else
he’s a marketer

illegitimate means in responsible hands;
brought to you by the ‘greater good’.)

Adventures in Gardening (Or, Experiments in Symbolism)

your laughter is a trumpet of approval
on my sorry, punctured soul
and echoes [] in unison []
with my own, miles away

your words flow like the Ganges
and [] deposit in my mind [] :
caressing, soothing, refining;
a sincerely philanthropic mindsmith

your hands conduct me
[] a train on its rails []
to a vaguely known
but long-worshipped destination

{there’s others!}
(they say)
I don’t see them…
but I must believe they exist
{(you’re too far to know)well(close enough to sense)}

but your mind alone
wears the crown
[] [[my mind alone]]needs yours []
(Necessary)---(and stifled)---burdens and demands

{(my mind paints a picture
stitched from the
[.] [.] [.] [.] [.]~41,086 moments-----
(~)25,393 one and a half second clips-----
embodying the time
[]
my eyes
and mind
have known yours(!)
[])[][][])}[][][][][][])}

[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [.] [.] [.] [.]
exclamation point.

blindfolded--i walk
around a knife store
--deserted and archaic
sometimes i dont know why i'm here

no.
many times i dont know why i'm here
[[[[all the time]]]]

it's a lonely trip
(no one's made it in years)

a butter knife would be
the refreshing, cool side of the pillow

anticipate once and limbs are lost
i'm here; i have no choice
but i can't reach out.

The Kids Don't Stand a Chance

the walls are closing in
but the brightest light shines:
the old crowd is leaving
and the kids are taking over.

I see her mouth and hands everywhere;
like a joker in the deck
it knows no boundaries
and finds a home with everyone.

I haven’t looked
and the walls are gone
there are new ones
but i can’t see what I don’t know exists.

she probably won’t be home for a while,
if ever,
but the door is unlocked
and I calmly sit, reading.

Problems of Consciousness Pt. 2

chaos breeds chaos
a virus
replicating and mutating
into a malignant, convoluted swamp

a scientist in his own life:
poking; prodding;
himself; his environment;
his mind, a rat in a cage

solipsism and narcissism,
sedation and apathy
the resplendent ego
under attack, taking up arms

the two ton death machine cruises
a driver stares blankly ahead:
abdicating, shirking, and dissolving;
the knot is untied and the rope burned

Problems of Consciousness Pt. 1

what will they do together?
what could they do together?
who should they have become?
how useful is a question with no answer?

his dreams and reality blur
while his lens widens
he wants to see the rainbow
but the sorrow grows and faith in good people crumbles

the questions bombard and pile up
future work for a better self
uncertainty and insecurity nullify
loneliness and apathy live where passion once did

he blooms in winter
and his heart is frozen solid
he lacks the will
to find his mind’s heat

there’s a car with no driver
a home with moldy beams
disaster is inevitable
with heroism vaccinated.

(A Misguided) Ode to Dominique Francon (h/t: Dostoevsky)

he shut the door on his own greatness
when she never walked through,
and stowed himself away,
threw away the key

her decision to stay and not leap
is not a puddle splash by a curb;
it is a 50 foot wave
on a honeymoon.

I can’t have her,
well, the world can’t have me.
a whore in its service,
I win because my slavery is chosen

as long as we’re winning somewhere
we’re winning everywhere
the colors of victory, however shallowly obtained,
run deepest in the desperate and withered

a short reflection on 'heroes'

i don't want to be brash but i feel like this is an important moment in my life...i have so many thoughts going through my head right now...but im just going to let them stir around amongst each other and ferment for a while...they're not going anywhere...


i'll say this: i don't think i have any supernatural powers, but i have always felt different and...oddly important...as though i had a purpose that was greater than comprehension would fully allow...maybe its narcissism...but i dont think it is...ive always felt like a hero...not necessarily triumphant and mostly tragic...and maybe its just the natural human tendency to view one's own life through a narrative lens...but i dont think it is...i feel like i am finally, for the first time ever, accepting the responsibility of being Steven Lazaroff. i have looked at it as my responsibility to help advance our species along the evolutionary continuum..for a few years now. and maybe that's not a revolutionary purpose. perhaps many people contribute to such progress. but im no longer shirking my responsibility. i've always believed in the power of Aristotle's, Gutenberg's, and Einstein's, that is to say, the power of the individual to dramatically advance human thought and cultural evolution, and it is time for my life to reflect this.

i'm not sure which part of me is greater: the hero or the coward? but i actually think that is a false dichotomy. i, or we, rather, can be both...from one moment to the next...oscillating back and forth..into and out of nothingness..into and out of Being...from weak willed to strong willed...we are heroic beings all. we are heroic in the sense that we naturally carry both traits within us, but are locked in perpetual conflict attempting to surmount the coward in dramatic self-overcoming and thus leapfrog past the average, past the fence sitters and into Being, into the God potential within us all. we are human beings and our heroism finds itself in its own struggle to exist past the limitations of mind and body, past our finitude.

"We ought not to follow the proverb writers, and 'think human, since you are human', or 'think mortal, since you are mortal'. Rather, as far as we can, we ought to be pro-immortal, and go to all lengths to live a life that expresses our supreme element; for however much this element may lack in bulk, by much more it surpasses everything in power and value (Aristotle, Ethics, 1177b34-1178a3)."

Titles Inhibit Me Right Now and Separate Entries Scare Me for the Foreseeable Future

swimming through jagged waters never felt like this before
the undertow is peaceful
but my body won't let my mind succumb to plummet
to acknowledge a judge's decision
in favor of mind over body

a coup
a coup
a coup that can't happen
because the people wear masks of red, blue, green
and on and on and on…

I don't know where I'm going
I don't know where I've been
I don't know who I've known
The mirror has gone to static
And programming will resume
As soon as I...

Images and video are coming in from the wreckage
And here on the ground we're feeling the tension
But a detached mist hovers
We can't get at it
We don't even try

The tension isn't tension:
It's a force sweeping through
leaving nothing but complacency
in its wake
in its wake
we're at our own wake and don't know it
__________________________________

in a fog at dusk
the day we met has broad shoulders
big enough to blindly bully the unseen
adaptation's the game
i remember It and nothing else
[must forget, must forget]

O, fragmentary knowledge?
Where's the black box
The Black Box!
A holy grail we'll never know,
Should never strive for

the whole has been without lotion in the sun
there's a bottle in hand
but I'm worn out
I stagger on:
appreciative to my legs
and deploring my mind.

i'm back at the wreckage
ive forgotten my suit
the only armor i have is a paintbrush
and every shade of the rainbow

with my eyes closed, i paint
i remember:
your light gave me sight.
and i'm not worried anymore.

but i open my eyes:
[TICK, TOCK--TICK, TOCK...]
my pockets are lined with watches ticking
further
further
further
further from the moment
than it ever felt possible
when the moment was born
________________________________

i can't shake my shadow
he's a slob
and i'm a simple mirror
inseparable from him

the sirens blare
the searchlights scan
the megaphone imposes
drained of expression:
look but don't touch.

in my room, I shudder as my shoulders slump
first the right
then the left
then my legs
I goose step in time with my shadow's rhythm
And wander from swamp to swamp
_____________________________________________

It's always better on the inside
But who stays there too long?
i have plumbed the depths in isolation
only to find others content to surface fish

some say a once a month dive wont do it
you have to live there
but what is There?

There doesn't exist
And it's all in my mind
the depths are the surface too
And it's all in my mind

Wanton disregard
I soldier on with my oxygen and mask
Reality blurs but the surface is suicide

Epidemic!
Epidemic!
Epidemic!
Face the day, it's only a switch away
The newsie philosopher shouts to the faceless mob
As they christen their new baby
But there's no one home;
Please leave a message at the beep.
Get back to you in a century or two.

Untitled 3

A bat in the cave will keep the doctor away,
Or so Billy says.
He says that:
Looking in the mirror and laughing is
Pre-emptive warfare
Against enemies yet unknown,
yet to be discovered by the
24 hour news cycle in my head,
the tabloids plundering my ship,
mining its weakest points for the benefit
of some unknown tension
for some unknown bow
for a very known archer.

Possible experience is
Too Big.
The path of a whole life isn’t a box of cereal
But the difference is evasive, she said
And with a bitterly pitter-pattering heart
this realization numbed him.

A bed in flux,
Flashing in and out of existence,
In homage to the many clothes worn:
A pause button for perspective,
I desperately seek
As Zooming through monotony,
I look at the black sky overhead,
wondering is it a vulture or virus
A vulture it is and I turn up the stereo,
Another casualty of the ambiguous scapegoat,
Fate.

‘Argh’,
the day away in wakeful slumber
and fumble around Truth’s prickly, slippery bra strap tomorrow:
this moment is a tyranny upon my soul,
and I’m trapped in their
randomly interlocking concentric circles
that form vast Ven Diagram webs-
welcoming to both Pollock and Buddha.

Looking out at my miserable empire,
I feel like Alexander should have felt.
Anxious,
Bewildered,
Unprepared.

Habit is Reason’s mischievous little brother,
And the trick is to not ask,
“Who is my mother?”,
But, rather,
“How do I keep Jimmy clean?”

Untitled 2

months have passed, a commercial break to some,
but in my war torn mind,
an eternity of infinitesimal moments
oscillating back and forth into existence and
factions sit at the ready with spears made with

a blade as sharp and piercing
as I have become since the last night;

some wood mindlessly shaped,
while I lay in stupor, in wait
for the time of a season that will never come,
for flowers to return
and triumphantly bloom in pitch black;

one long piece of rope made from my own skin:
a mirror to re-mind the mind
of vanity’s allure,
and the strength of superficial certain uncertainties,
amid feeble uncertain certainties
thought by men in 2-story red brick houses,
simple structures with manicured lawns,
too proud to know the difference between
an apple and the apple.

Untitled 1

theres a space in the light of hindsight
that winds and acquiesces
with the shuffling feet and
darting, pensive eyes
of the man struggling for perspective:

understanding beyond words,
across mountain ranges,
from peak to trough
he lives as a man, finally

or, rather,
will finally live when the god within
accepts his fate as creator and destroyer:
a paradox only afforded the partially divine.

Roo 08

Well, Roo ’08 has come and gone.

I’ll be honest. Roo is my child. And I am Roo’s surrogate mother: I was pregnant with enthusiasm for half a year and then came together with my fellow surrogates and some select artists to birth a wonderful 4 day music festival in rural Tennessee. Roo is equal parts idea and concrete substance; each and every Rooer brings their concept of Roo, lives it, and creates a reality completely unfamiliar to not only the standard concert scene but the world at large. Within the nearly 600 acres covering the grounds, eclectic is the driving theme as human beings of all kinds unite to enjoy genre after genre of music. From MGMT’s psychedelic pop tunes to Tiesto’s driving beats to Pearl Jam’s grungy classic rock to the hip hop of Lupe Fiasco and Talib Kweli, there was definitely something for each person’s niche. However, Rooers are generally niche-less people. We can’t be easily wrapped up in a nice little box with a bow. We can’t be defined by one category of music or philosophy. The only definition that fits is a vague one: we are all authentic and open human beings that choose to brave the perpetual 90 degree heat and sunshine (and occasional sustained torrential downpour) of Manchester, Tennessee.

Choice is key because of all the different modern luxuries given up in favor of a simpler lifestyle. For most Rooers, a shower only happens on Monday and the trip to the portajohn is spent pondering what kind of Pollockesque combination of “stuff” they will find adorning the inside of their modern day hot box, like the container you see POW’s in, roasting away in the heat. Or the 30-40 minute walk that many face from campsite to Centeroo, where all the music goes down. These experiences that tax both the mind and body are chosen in favor of the overall experience that involves the music, of course, but also the opportunity to live in a 4 day Utopia, a 4 day test-run of a prototypical society where the freedom to act and think as one deems desirable exists with an a priori acceptance of The Other in a synthesized, unified manner. It is a freedom to be who it is you want to be - so long as it with a consenting partner and/or not harmful to any one else's passage to do the same. This takes place in two arenas: authority and peer. On the one hand, freedom is derived from a tiny, pretty much non-existent, authority presence within both Centeroo and the outside camping and vending areas; and on the other: virtually sight unseen faith in a human being based on the truth value of the very general proposition: you both made the same choice

Acts Seen
Thursday
Grand Ole Party
MGMT
Battles
Vampire Weekend

Friday
The Fiery Furnaces
Teagan and Sara
The Raconteurs
Rilo Kiley
Chris Rock
Metallica
My Morning Jacket
Tiesto

Saturday
Gogol Bordello
Mastodon
BB King
Jack Johnson
Pearl Jam
Sigur Ros

Sunday
Robert Randolph
Harrybu McCage
Aimee Mann
BSS

Best Sets
1. MGMT - From the very start the crowd was riled up to see these guys with at least 4 pre-show applauses attempting to eeke the guys on stage earlier. They didn't disappoint in the least and absolutely ripped through the first 5-6 songs. The guy on lead guitar really has a lot more area to roam in the live setting, and , overall, the band just brought a whole lot of energy.

2. BSS

3. MMJ

4. PJ

5. Metallica

6. Fiery Furnaces

7. Chris Rock

8. Aimee Mann

9. Sigur Ros

10. Harrybu McCage

Best Song
Kids/Of Moons, Birds, and Monsters/Time to Pretend - MGMT

One Big Holiday/Wordless Chorus/Lay Low - MMJ

'Black'- PJ

kc accidental/fire eye' boy/anthems - BSS

Save Me/Wise Up/Aimee Mann

Nothing Else Matters/The Unforgiven - Metallica

There was this one Fiery Furnace song that I loved but don't know the title to at this pt. Same goes for GOP.

Most Nostalgic Song
Black - PJ

Nothing Else Matters/The Unforgiven - Metallica

You are My Sunshine - BB King

Best Guitar Work
Kirk Hammett
MGMT Dude
Mike McCready
Jack White

Most Delicious Food
Chicken Gyros
Seasoned Curly Fries
Chicken on a stick
Jumbo Corn Dog

Beverage of Choice
Lemonade


Best Performer
GOP lead singer/drummer - dual duty in which neither one suffers


Best Cover
Crazy Mary/Love Reign O'er ME/Watchtower - PJ
Hot Fun - MMJ

Parent of the Year Award
At many points through out the weekend, I noticed children attending with their parents. They were of various ages - ranging from 10 year olds approaching adolescence to one girl who I swear couldn't be more than 3 years old, probably less. The parents were of different types as well: a dreadlocked young woman to remarkably average looking and "non-revolutionary". This is notable because on first blush I think many people would judge these parents as irresponsible, perhaps even many who do attend Roo themselves. I'm not sure entirely what the thought is but I think many would intuitively think that the Roo is an inappropriate place for a child. I couldn't disagree more. If as a parent you are trying to raise a child that is independent, accepting of others and cares about other human beings genuinely, is open to new experiences and possibilities, and appreciates good music, then there is no better place to take family vacations than roo. Why?? Manchester, Tennessee is a place where people gather annually to share 4 days brimming with these shared values on display on stage, in the food lines, in the audience, in the campgrounds, everywhere. This was a long intro for what is a simple story. During the end of the Raconteurs set, we were standing towards the back of the field. I believe we waiting for one of our group to return from the bathroom. I saw a mother dancing with her kids - perhaps, 3 and 5 or 4 and 6- and it was the most beautiful thing I saw all weekend. The three of them seemed so in the moment that I couldn't help imagining what a childhood filled with these types of moment would be like. I should say that I am a firm believer in environment influencing a person's development especially a very young person. The contrast between my own childhood and this somewhat hypothetical one is interesting because I think the vacations one takes has a strong influence on a person's conception of how time should be spent and the nature of success. The big vacations in my life were always to Disney World, and it seems to me the type of place that implants falsehoods rather than brings one closer to reality. Yeah, there are fun times to be had there and presumably time is spent with other human beings, but the general theme is one of inanity. You're there to make a break from reality; the names are written all over the place. Fantasyland. Magic Kingdom. Some takes us to the future: Tomorrowland. Some bring us lands and animals that are originate far away: Animal Kingdom. Some bring the allure of the ever-present modern obsession of the movies: MGM-Studios. Some bring countries straight over the ocean right to use in a nicely wrapped, contained package. Some bring us to exotic locations: the Polynesian Resort. You get the picture. The point is that the target is sensual pleasure and ignorant blissfulness: a place where everything is rose-colored and hope springs eternal. For what, who knows? I think the message is that anything can happen at Disney World. It limits the hope of fulfillment to within its confines. That's the definition of planned obsolescence. You gotta keep refilling the Disney inputs. At Bonnaroo, the specifics of seeing shows can of course only be repeated by going there again, but I don't think the enjoyment is limited to the 4 days spent there. More importantly, I think Bonnaroo is capable of a much more substantive and long-lasting change within a human being. The areas of a human being's "soul" (for lack of a better word) that are firing during a Roo trip are much different than Disney. It all goes back to the question of what is the best type of happiness which is of course a much bigger discussion than I want to get into here. But I will say that a kid that goes to Bonnaroo frequently during their childhood will be more likely


Best Story Premise Conceived
So, before the Grand 'Ole Party show, I noticed a middle-aged dude who was there all by his lonesome. He looked rather normal - no tie-dyed shirt, long hair, bushy beard, or other notable stereotype. And I saw him interact with a few young girls; they were probably 18 or 20. So, the story goes like this: Man has corporate gig with the suburban life - kids, nice house, a dog, the whole sha-bang. He encounters mid-life crisis in which he realizes the complete lack of fulfillment he has found in this life. How empty of joy. The desperate feeling that every standard he acted in accordance with was designed by someone else with the goal of controlling him. So, he walks around with this feeling in the pit of his stomach for sometime, not knowing how he could nuture it or how to even approach it. He comes across an article in a magazine that talks about Bonnaroo, the annual music festival blah blah blah - he decides this might be just the thing. He goes there - not really knowing anything except its a "liberal place" where people go to get away from modern society and enjoy some music. The real arc of the story is that he meets a young girl there - early 20's max. He makes a stunningly brilliant but stillopening remark. She laughs him off. She watches him as he rocks, seeing his earnestness, and after the show she bites the bullet, sidling up to him on the walk out, making small talk initially. the gist of the story is that they explore love, political and social philosophy, art and drugs. kind of like american beauty crossed with woodstock but with less of an unhappy ending. and no kevin spacey. probably a younger protagonist..