I think I'm having reverse culture shock. I don't really know what that means.  It's just weird being back in Texas.  Been gone so long everything is different.  I don't know how, it's just different.  Like, you turn on the news and think "Who the fuck are these people?"  "What?" "Where?" "Is that near here?"
"When the hell did that road get built?"
"That one too?"
"Fuck, I need a map." 
"That barbecue place burned down?"
"Does anybody I still know go to that bar?" 
"They moved the Whataburger!" 
"My old apartment building is gone!"
"When did this shit get all gentrified?"
"When this neighborhood go to hell?"
"Where is everybody?"
"Crap. I gotta make all new friends."
"This was supposed to be more comforting than LA."

That's all I have to say about that.

I got this from CNN.com. I don't know where they got it from.

NEW YORK (AP) -- Of all the names in music, Chantal Kreviazuk may be the least likely to appear in a headline. Though she recently released her own album, the songwriter usually stays behind the scenes to pen hits with artists such as Kelly Clarkson, Gwen Stefani and Avril Lavigne. 

"It's crazy!" exclaimed Grammy-winning songwriter Diane Warren, who has written for artists such as Whitney Houston, Celine Dion and Mary J. Blige. "How can someone look in the mirror and know they didn't do something and their name is on it? For money? For credit? It's a lie."

This being the music industry, money is of course a factor, since the writers of hit songs can earn more than the singer over the long term. But today's singers also press for writing credit because it gives them more of a cachet, presenting them as more of a "real artist" in comparison with a star who doesn't write a note.

"It's a practice that's been going on but now it's really prevalent in every situation," says songwriter Adonis Shropshire, who helped pen the hit "My Boo" for Alicia Keys and Usher, and has worked with Chris Brown, Ciara and others.

Shropshire says that many artists will only allow songwriters to work on an album in return for song credit, and "if they do write, they ask for more publishing than they honestly contributed ... it is the way it is."

The practice has been prevalent for decades. Elvis Presley's manager, Colonel Tom Parker, maneuvered to give the King songwriting credits on early hits like "Love Me Tender" even though he never wrote a word. James Brown was sued by an associate over song credits. Lauryn Hill settled a lawsuit by a group that claimed she improperly took sole production and writing credit on her Grammy-winning album "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill." And Diddy seemed to acknowledge claims that he wasn't really writing his raps in the "Bad Boys for Life" song with the brushoff line: "Don't worry if I write rhymes, I write checks!"

The notion that serious artists have to write their own songs seems to have grown over the past two decades. Today, even the fluffiest of pop acts is credited as having written their own material.

"We as an industry ... don't look at someone who has an incredible voice as an artist, whereas having an incredible voice is artistry," says Jody Gerson, an executive vice president of EMI Music Publishing. "I think people place more of a value on an artist if they write their own songs, it gives them credibility."

Indeed, Lavigne's songwriting abilities have been touted since she broke out as a teen with the hit "Complicated." But how much she contributed to her music has long been scrutinized.

On her first album, Lavigne worked with the writing trio The Matrix, but ditched them on her second album when she felt they were taking too much credit for the songs. "I am a writer, and I won't accept people trying to take that away from me, and anyone who does is ignorant and doesn't know what they're talking about," she defiantly told The Associated Press in 2004.

She connected with Kreviazuk for her sophomore album and the two became close friends. Kreviazuk lauded her songwriting ability in an interview with The AP, also in 2004 -- which made Kreviazuk's comments to Performing Songwriting Magazine all the more curious.

"I mean, Avril, songwriter? Avril doesn't really sit and write songs by herself or anything. Avril will also cross the ethical line, and no one says anything," Kreviazuk -- who was not included on Lavigne's latest album -- told the magazine before retracting her statement. The Matrix later came out to defend Lavigne's songwriting integrity.

Grammy-winning songwriter Dallas Austin says he's had a manager rave about a song Austin wrote all by himself, and then tell him, "We wanna know if we can get a piece of the pie on it because (the artist) wants to feel like she has a part ownership on the song.

"And I'll say, 'In all fairness, no. ... If you want to work with me at least sit here and put something into it, instead of coming after I've done everything and try and claim percentages on it.' "

Gerson calls the practice unfair but says it's "pretty prevalent in pop and R&B ... I think the way people now divide publishing splits is who was in the room. 'OK ... I changed the word "the" to "a," and I deserve 10 percent of the publishing.' "

Sean Garrett, who has created smashes for Beyonce, Kelis, Fergie and others, says he gave up credit when he was just starting out, which is common for newcomers. "It bothered me but I knew it was just a price that I had to pay to continue my career and stay focused with the big prize," he says.

Ne-Yo, a true singer-songwriter who co-wrote Beyonce's "Irreplaceable," says early in his career he had to deal with the same thing. He says some artists feel they are doing a novice a favor by recording their song -- especially if it becomes a hit -- so they deserve a piece of the royalties.

"If you're an unknown songwriter and you are lucky enough to get on a superstar's album and you know that the song is going to be a single," Ne-Yo says, "and it means if it becomes No. 1 everyone is going to know your name because you wrote it, I think it's worth giving up a piece of publishing ... you are going to make your money back."

Shropshire recalls working with an A-list singer, whom he did not want to name, who wrote two words on a song and ended up getting a large piece of the publishing rights. But he couldn't complain when the song became a hit.

"It didn't really bother me that much. The song came out and it did wonderfully well," he says. "That's just the way the industry works."

That shouldn't be the case, says Warren. Although she had credit taken from her early in her career, she quickly put a stop to it. Later, one major superstar demanded some of Warren's royalties for the privilege of said superstar recording her song. But Warren refused.

"It's like, 'OK, you want some publishing? OK then, give me a piece of the money you're making touring for the next five years for the hit I just wrote you.' "

But now that songwriters like Warren, Garrett and Ne-Yo are established, they rarely find themselves taken advantage of any more.

"I give other people credit where credit is due, like Beyonce really did vocally arrange ('Irreplaceable')," Ne-Yo says. "So for someone to come in and take my credit because they are who they are? That doesn't work for me. I don't care who you are. ... I'm not going to give you something you don't deserve.

Alright Cali,

I'm off to Texas. See ya when I see ya.

That's all I have to say about that.

The old lady, in the building next door, dyes her hair platinum blonde.  It's supposed to camouflage that she's completely gray.  It doesn't camouflage a damned thing.   She's super tan, too.  She looks kind of like Wesley Snipes did in "Demolition Man," except without the muscles, with saggy old lady boobs.

"You're BIRDS kept me awake all night!"
"Nope. Couldn't be. My birds stay inside at night. We got possums around here."
"I heard them singing all night! Very loud! I couldn't sleep."
"Not MY birds."
"I heard YOUR birds."
"That's a mockingbird, you heard."
"A what?"
"A mockingbird."
"No, it sounded like your birds. I know what they sound like."
"Right. It was 'mocking' them. That's what it does."

I've been told the mockingbird sings all night because it's protecting it's nest. I think that's a pretty boneheaded move, even for a bird.  I mean, all it's doing is telling a predator exactly where it's at and where it lives. 

The next night about 10 o'clock the damned bird was belting it out, full force.  When I took out my garbage, I saw the Old Lady Snipes out under the tree staring hard trying to pinpoint him.  I shrugged.  In the back of my mind, I remembered the mockingbird is the State Bird of Texas.  It's against the law to kill 'em there.  The old lady looked really pissed.

What are you gonna do? I mean, it's just a damned bird.  These things happen. I live near a fire house. I didn't know that when I moved in. Everyday several times a day there's sirens. I don't even hear them anymore. 

I've always wound up living near trains, too.  In the early hours, I hear train whistles. They don't wake me up anymore.  It's just one of those things.  Like when you live with someone who has a different schedule.  You instinctively filter out their alarm clock because you know yours goes off at a different time. Even if it's the same room and same alarm clock.  Strange how that works out. 

I didn't even notice the mockingbird until she laid his noise on my birds.  Now, every now and then I'll hear him at night. He's just a background noise, like crickets in the country, or neighbors fucking in an apartment building. 

Last night, he was loud, though.  I guess he was having a shitty night.  I didn't hear him, though. I heard Blondie-Gray.   She was outside loudly talking to two other old folks. They were bitching and pointing at the tree.  I realized they were moaning about the mockingbird.  I went to sleep.

When I woke up at four am. It was quiet outside.  Earlier when I took out the garbage, I only heard crickets and some kid at the stoplight listening to armenian dance music.  Right now, it's quiet outside.  About a half an hour ago, I walked over to the tree.  I thought I heard a rustling but I'm pretty sure it was just the breeze and the leaves. 

I haven't heard a peep out of the old lady.  Of the two, I think I liked the bird better.  I got a feeling she killed it.  In a few days, I'll move to Texas and never see that woman again.  I'd prefer to think that damned mockingbird got tired of her bitching and just moved away, too.  He'd be safe in Texas, I guess.  That's what I hear, anyway. 

That's all I have to say about that.

"Buddy, you're a car wreck waiting to happen. You're heading straight for a brick wall, at a 1000 miles an hour.  Now, you can either crash or you can choose to hit the breaks. What's it gonna be?"

"That depends…. Exactly, how much do I love this brick wall?"

That's all I have to say about that.

So, hell. I just realized, I've got less than three weeks So Cal time.  Damn, where'd it all go?  It's gonna be a little hectic. Finishing up the album. Packing. Moving.  In the interim, I've got a buddy getting married in Dallas next weekend, so I'll lose a few days for that.  It's cool. Hopefully, I can find a place to live when I fly in for the wedding. 

But that's that.  I don't think I'll sleep much.  I haven't been sleeping much. I've been letting myself deteriorate for a bit.  It's just easier to do that and get done what I need done.  When all that's through, I'll rehab a tad.  I promise. 

It's just as good that I'm leaving.  The lady who owns the house I rent is tearing it down at the beginning of the year.  She's gonna build some luxury condos instead.  She'll make millions.  I don't hold it against her. She's had a rough few years...widow with a kid, etc.  Anyway, the city came and posted one of those signs in the yard. It announces the demolition and building plans, so people can file a protest if they want. 

I was outside yesterday, getting something out of my car, when this lady stopped and looked at the sign.
"They're tearing down the house?" She asked.  I explained the situation.
"What are you going to do?" She asked. I told her I was moving to Texas, in a few weeks, so I didn't mind.
"Oh," she answered. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's okay," I said. "I'm from there. It was kind of the plan, anyway."
"Well, that's very sad," she told me. "I'll miss having you around.  It was very nice to have you as a neighbor."  Then she smiled a little sadly and walked away.

She was a very pretty woman.  She had a very quiet demeanor and seemed quite sweet.   AND I had no idea who she was.  There's an apartment building to the east of me. The back of the building faces the side of my house.  It's parking lot borders my driveway.  I figure she lives in that building. We've never met.  I'm sure I may have smiled at her at some point in the last couple of years, if we were to have left at the same time. 

I'm glad she valued me as a neighbor.  For the next, almost, three weeks, I'll be sure to smile and wave, if I ever see her again.

That's all I have to say about that.

Years ago, I got the chicken pox.  So did you, I'm sure.  If you were lucky, you got it as a kid. I didn't.  They say it gets worse the older you are.  I believe them. It was the shittiest week and a half of that year. 

Anyway, I was getting near the end of the worst of it, when I had to go to the pharmacy.  I'd run out of anything to bring down the fever and I was hellafied, miserable.  So, I drove what was supposed to be a couple of blocks.  As it so happens, I was driving south, which put me on the west side of the road.  This is modestly important because that particular road was pretty much the county line border.  This is a stupid fact that becomes important a little later. 

As it turns out, my inspection sticker was expired.  My bad, I accept that. Stupid fucking sticker.  I got pulled over.  You know the rest. Cop was a real cocksucker.  I didn't realize the sticker had expired. I'd been sick.  All the guy had to do was look at me, all pocked and scabby and crazy assed sweaty. But that was neither here nor there.  What was big, was that I was driving with a suspended license. 

That was fucking huge.  The worst part was, I honestly didn't know it.  It was from an old ticket that I thought I'd cleared up but apparently didn't. See, it turns out I'd paid the damned thing late and they issued a warrant for the late. 

I didn't know about the warrant because I'd moved and the notice never came to me. When I missed that court date, they issued another warrant for Failure to Appear.  When I didn't get that notice either another one ensued AND they suspended my license.  I didn't get that notice either.  For some fucking reason, they don't allow that shit to be forwarded.

Anyway, the cop didn't care I was sick. So, I got hauled in.  When I got there, the other cops got pissed at him for bringing me in because I looked batshit communicable. When I tried to make my phone call, the answering machine messed up.  Because they didn't want me around them in my condition, they didn't let me try again.  They were in a real hurry to splash some bleach on the phone. So, they put me in a cell.  A cell on the ass end of an empty corridor because they figured I was contagious.  They didn't give me a blanket either for the same reason.  That was the last I saw of anyone for a very long time.  I froze my ass off in that cell with no heat, no mattress, no blanket, no phone, no one else on that side of the building, barefoot, in shorts and a t-shirt with a 103 fever. 

This is one of those rare times I'm thankful that I have an ex-wife.  She was the one who noticed I was missing.  She made a few calls and figured out I'd been arrested.  That was the easy part.  The hard part was figuring out where the hell I was.

See, as I mentioned before, I was on the edge of the county line. The original jurisdiction was in a city about 40 miles away.  The county guys didn't have anyone to transport me because they didn't want to get sick. The city police didn't want to send anyone to get me. They didn't want me, anyway.  Even if they had, the arresting station didn't bother to write down exactly where they had placed me. 

My ex couldn't have me bailed out, either. Not just because they had lost me but because she needed a bonds person from the original city to post me from there, as that was where the court date should be. 

Eventually, when she found a bondsman who would do it. Well, I was still lost. And that was that.  No medicine. No doctor. No food. No drink. No way out. To make a long story, less long, they figured out that I had to be at the station closest to my old house. AND, when the fuckhead who put me away, in the hole, finally came back on shift, he got around to remembering where the hell I was.  Though not immediately. 

A day, or so, later, at about  3 a.m., they showed me the exit.  They didn't bother to tell anybody they were letting me out. They locked the door behind me and didn't let me call anyone to come get me. 

Fuckers. Dirty fuckers. 

That's all I have to say about that.

So, there was this moment, a few months ago, doubled over on the floor, bleeding internally, realizing that, maybe, my decision pretend I was feeling okay, in front of everybody else, wasn't a good idea, where I started bargaining. 

"You get me out of this and I'm gonna make some real damned changes in my life. I'm gonna quit drinking, maybe. I'm gonna sleep some. I'm gonna eat right. AND, I'm gonna make sure I love everybody and take the time to make them know I mean it.  That's as close to a swear as I'm gonna get over this.  Nothing but doctor's orders, baby.  Take two and call everybody in the morning."

Things change, though, and priorities fade.  You realize that it's damn hard to get through a lot of life without a drink to make things bearable.  You get impatient with people.  And, by the time you've gained back most of the 15 pounds you lost over ten days of hellish sick, you realize how not easy it is to change most of what makes you "you."

That's just the size of it.

So, anyway, when I got a letter in the mail, the other day, ordering me a CT scan.  All these flashed before my eyes while I registered my "What-the-fuck?!"

I called my doctor and asked what was going on.  I mentioned that after my last round of tests, sonagrams and what not, that I was under the impression I was good.  It's been two months.  This had to be a mistake, right?
"Did you not get the letter?" She asked.

"Uh, no.  What letter?"
"The letter I wrote…" She gathered her thoughts.  "I know I wrote a letter.  Have you checked your mail?"

"Yeah," I told her. "That's when I got this thing," referring to the CT Scan order.

"Oh." She said.

She then went into some very vague descriptions about my liver and how she'd checked with a specialist and they thought it would be best to run a batter of tests before telling me anymore.  She ended with the words, "I'm not trying to "intentionally" be vague." Which cleared up a helluva lot.

So, there I was in the kitchen later.  Talking to God, the universe, nature, anything that would listen… "Lookit, you get me through this okay and I'll…."

I went to the bathroom, removed a splinter that had gotten stuck under my nail, that had been bothering the fuck out of me for a week, and thought better of things. "You get me out of this alright and we'll call it even for making me drink those damned barium milkshakes."

That's all I've got say about that.

Okay, I was just reading about this new "Creation Museum" that's opening in Kentucky.  It's kind of the natural backlash to most museum's that deal with things like "science." 

See, these people don't agree with evolution. That's fine, if you want to do that. Talk about it in church and try not to be surprised when your kids flunk high school biology.  BUT, I've got a problem when you create a "science" out of it. See, the point is "faith" and "science" are anti-thetical.  If you create a science of faith, then you do away with, well, the whole "faith" part. And vice-versa. 

But that's neither here nor there.  Apparently, since dinosaur fossils blow a big hole in strict creationism these people have elected to have dinosaurs in their museum, running around the Garden of Eden and stowing away on Noah's Ark. 

(Allow a second for your theological "What the fuck?" question.)

Now, it's been a while since I've read my bible BUT it has been read. A few times beginning to end.  What I don't remember are any dinosaurs. Correct me if I'm wrong.

Off the top of my head, I remember oxen, snakes, pigs, horses, eagles, lambs, rams, whales, fish, toads, camels, bulls, calves (even golden ones)... I seem to remember the jawbone of an ass making for a damned fine weapon.  What I don't recall is the fucking T-Rex.  Am I right in forgetting that?

But sure enough, this museum is going all out with the animatronic dino's just so they can claim evolution doesn't hold up.  Which makes this not exactly science and not exactly religion.  It's "Science Religion" which to me sounds a lot like science fiction.  And if that's where this thing is headed, maybe it won't be so bad.  I mean, if they add an exhibit where Moses parts the Red Sea with a fucking Light Saber.... Dude! I am sooo there.

That's all I have to say about that.

So, I used to have this conversation all the time.  You know, about LA and what not and missing Texas and stuff.  There's this thing about Texas, where it's just in your blood.  You can go anywhere in the world... you can even love going anywhere in the world... Texas just stays in your blood.  I don't know how to describe it but I know that, in my life, the only other people I've met, who've expressed the same thing were New Yorkers.  So, if you're from New York, you know what I'm talking about. 

Anyway, I used to do this thing all the time, where I'd write or say that I was gonna just drop everything and go back to Texas.  You know, that's where all my friends and my family and what not are.  That's where the drinks are cheap and I can get some good barbecue. Because good barbecue and ice cold beer are damned hard to beat.  Unless, you got some good Tex-Mex and an ice cold beer.  I haven't found either west of say Phoenix.  But that's just a matter of personal taste. 

Anyway, I stopped saying I was going back for a long time because I didn't want to be one of those people who always said it and never did it.  That gets old after a while. 

Well, here's the deal.  I'm winding down my long California summer.  It's been coming for a while and you know, I hate to see it go but I gotta hit the road. 

As I've mentioned before, I'm working on the new album.  It looks like it'll be called "The Jonestown Revival."  It'll be done by the end of June.  In July, I'm coming back to Texas. 

I'm gonna miss some good people that I've met here.  I'm gonna be glad to never see some others again.  That's kind of a wash, though. I'm gonna be happy to see some people again back in Dallas.  There'll be others who's faces I never wanted to see again.  I guess what comes around goes around.

I originally had a much more coherent and meaning explanation in mind.  So it goes.

So, yeah. That's it.  It is now written. Let it be so.  Amen.  Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt... not too much anyway. 

That's all I have to say about that.

So, the update and stuff....

Well, I started the new album a little while back.  Then I put it off for a couple of months.  So, that was that. 

Actually, in the last couple of weeks I've done a lot of work on it.  Brian Irwin is producing again.  We've kind of hit a groove.  Things are jelling, like Dr. Shoals. 

I mentioned before that this one is gonna be a little different from the last.  A little darker and heavier and what not.  That much is true.  It kind of picks up where Brimstone and In the Dirt left off.  It's a bigger sounding thing.  It's gonna be a quantum leap forward, sonically.  There's also a different attitude toward the thing as a whole. 

I've been experimenting with different guitar sounds. The last one was mostly done with my Les Paul.  This one, so far, uses my SG, a nice heavy '62 Les Paul, a little bit of Tele, a few different acoustics and some 60's era hollow bodys.  There's some nice, big, guitar and bass sounds. 

There've been a few guidelines I've been writing down and keeping in mind. Chief among them: "I want this to sound like Hell." "You know, you can't go wrong with thunder." "I gonna take a piss and get another beer...." "Hey! Can I hear that track where I knocked the mic over? Maybe we can use that thud."

Anyway, we should be done with all the tracking and rough mixes in a couple of weeks. Then I'll take a couple of weeks to figure out some shit and we should have it done by the middle of June.  Which is important because I've got a Big Announcement coming up for summer.  I'll get into that much later. 

That's all I have to say about that.

Okay,
I lost my cell phone. I don't know where.  I think maybe at The Oinkster.  Who knows.
Anyway, if I'm supposed to have your cell number please send it to me, so I can put you back in my list.  That way I can call you when I get shit faced and bored at 3:30 am PST.

Thanks.
-mat

That's all I have to say about that.

I just read Kurt Vonnegut is dead. It's a sad moment for me. I've always loved his writing. I had tickets to see him in a couple of months.  It's been a dream to have him sign my rare first edition of "Sirens of Titan."  It's a prized possession of mine.  Now it's destined to be incomplete.

If only he'd lived another couple of months.  I guess that's the story of everybody's life, huh?

"If I were  a younger man, I would  write a history of human stupidity; and I would climb to the top of Mount McCabe  and  lie  down  on  my  back with my history  for a  pillow; and  I would  take from the ground  some of  the blue-white  poison that  makes statues  of  men;  and  I  would  make  a statue of myself,  lying on  my back,  grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at You Know Who"-Vonnegut from Cat's Cradle

That's all I have to say about that.

You ever notice how much cheap hotels and hospitals smell alike?  Maybe it's just me.

So, I think I've detailed before just how much I hate flying. It's not so bad now. I think a lot of that has to do with NOT flying out of D-FW all the time. I've been told that place has a problem with "wind shears." Which is really Mother Nature trying to crash the plane.  It's not paranoia when the universe is really trying to kill you. 

Anyway, I had to fly out of LAX, this time.  Continental, to be exact.  It wasn't so good. It was nothing personal.  Worst stewardesses I've ever seen in my life. Now, I know society, as we're used to it, has settled into some shithole standards of basic manners.  But still, there should be something of a better expectation from people who are paid to kiss ass.  I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm not being dismissive but it is a service industry.  These hags were like something out of MacBeth.  Just sitting around at the front, all leather-faced and goat-toothed, cackling and gossiping about the passengers. There's nothing worse than a bad attitude, stretching the polyester, well past its prime.  Another year and they'll be pulling the Red Eye  on Airtran.

I never saw a Continental stewardess I wanted to fuck.

The landing wasn't too bad.  The ride from the airport was okay.  Lots of pollution for a late drive.  Buses popping out billows of smoke.  Cinderblock walls with razor wire lining the streets.  Graffiti of a mostly political ilk.  The car pulled up and stopped outside a thick, solid iron gate/door.  Looked like a helluva compound. The driver honked and out ambled a not-so-bright looking guy swinging around a tactical shotgun like it was a fly swatter. It didn't seem fair to me. I didn't have a gun, why the hell did I get this guy for a doorman?  The driver said a few words, the guy looked at me then pulled the gate.  The iron clanked shut after we drove in.  That was the best my trip got.

A few days later. One funeral. A couple of hot dogs. About 40 cups of coffee and me doubled-over at three am in the morning.  Puke and blood, like something straight out of Bukowski.

There's nothing like a Bio-Lab in a foreign country to let you know you've had a bad week.

Via Translator: The tests came back negative. You don't have amoebas.

Me: Well, that's good, right?

Via Translator: Amoebas they can cure like that (Snaps). 

Me: Then what's wrong with me?

Via Translator: Bleeding ulcer, maybe. 

Me: Look, I'm flying back to the states in the morning. Can't I just deal with this then?   

Via Translator: No. The doctor wants to treat you, now.

(Some head shaking, nose scratching, shuffling)

Me: Aw, hell then.

The flight attendants on the return trip were very nice.

That's all I have to say about that.

Alright, I gotta leave town and country for a bit.  You know how it goes.

I'll check in when I get back.

That's all I have to say about that.