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Today is the second day of my “Pay What You Want” art experiment. John in Liberty, Mo sent $50 and inspired me to draw this double face beast called TriEye. Many thanks John. If you are interested in getting your own piece of art, go to http://iamwammo.com and become a part of the scene. I have also received $10, $5 & $3.50 requests. Hmmm, we’ll see…

I received my first “pay what you want” art request over the weekend. Thank you, David in Lewisville, Tx. His donation of $52.36 inspired this clay piece, Swirl with Eyes. The indentations on the swirl are from my washboard. A little musical touch to a surreal sculpture. All art requests and viewings can be made at http://iamwammo.com

I spent the morning painting while my wife went to the birthing center to get checked out by our midwife. We’re both crossing our fingers that we have a problem free delivery and don’t need to get involved with going to a hospital. I hope we can pull off a water birth. It doesn’t always work, sometimes the mother has to stand or sit or squat or get on all fours. The “normal” birthing position (woman on her back with her legs up, doctor catching) is set up for the doctor’s ease, not the mother’s. Anyway, I don’t want to get on a soapbox about midwifery vs. hospital care. I’m sure there are plenty of websites out there that explain things better.
Later today, I’ll be working on my ’65 Imperial. Gotta put a new valve cover gasket in. Whoo hoo! Don’t that sound like fun? But first Traci and I are getting my next eblast ready. It should go out later today. Not getting the eblast? Wanna get the eblast? Sign up at http://iamwammo.com

My wife and I have a friend in Pittsburgh, who started a facebook pool — like a football pool, where you pay ten bucks and guess when our baby’s gonna be born. The closest person to the time and date of my daughter’s birth splits the cash with the baby. From what I understand, this is a fairly common occurrence up in yankee land, which is reflected by the fact that almost everyone who has signed up for the pool has been from the east coast. Some of our southern friends and family have been aghast, as if we’re somehow selling our child to the highest bidder. It’s really funny that in these days when you can instantly chat with anyone in the world, read the news or watch the TV of any country, there still are little pockets of local culture and custom that have yet to be absorbed into the global blob. I guess that’s why I never order grits, hushpuppies or biscuits and gravy north of the Mason/Dixon line or why it’s hard to find good italian food down this-a-way. And if I’m in a state doesn’t actually touch Mexico, I’m very wary of going to the local mexican restaurant. There are always exceptions but most of the time, this rule works well. Traci once took me to a “mexican” place in Pittsburgh and I was horrified. Remember the end of Goodfellas, when Ray Liotta ends up with “egg noodles and ketchup?” Same story.

Here’s an exception, if you’re ever in Salt Lake City, there’s a great mexican joint called The Red Iguana. They have seven different kinds of mole sauce (that’s MOH-lay for you yankees out there.) Awesome place. As long as I’m on this tangent, there’s something else that puzzles me. How the hell does Taco Bell thrive in Austin? There are taco stands and authentic mexican places that sell amazing food for cheap on every main street in this town yet every time I drive past the Bell, the drive-through is jammed with soulless lemmings. I swear to God they put something addictive in their food. We even have real mexican fast food joints like Taco Cabana that don’t do as well as Taco Hell — I mean Bell. Anyway, I started out talking about the baby pool and ended up railing on corporate culture. Such is life. Now I’m going to go to the kitchen and make eggs mexicana w/ fresh tortillas. Stick that in your bell.

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Tonight I combed my hair emo style, baked a quiche and watched a documentary about Jimi Hendrix, all while drinking PBR. If that ain’t livin’, I don’t know what is.

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No one says the words “rock and roll” like David Lee Roth. When Dave says it, he makes you feel like you’re a sixteen year old boy and he’s introducing you to a hot nineteen year old chick who’s gonna hang out, swap wise cracks, pour a couple shots, spark a joint and if you play your cards cool enough, fuck your brains out. Steve Perry ain’t gonna say rock and roll like that. Perry Farrell ain’t gonna say rock and roll like that. Not Bono. Not Steven Tyler. Not Mick Jagger or David Bowie or the guy from Slipknot or Henry Rollins or Robert Plant. Nobody makes those three words sound dangerous and fun like Diamond Dave. Rock and roll could use a new strutting peacock, someone who has that, “I’m young, I’m good looking, I’m talented, I’m trouble and you will adore me” vibe. Prince gave off that vibe, as did Hendrix, Bowie, Jagger, Lennon, Iggy, Morrison and a host of others. Somewhere in a stripmall in Doucheville, USA, there’s a new rock god brewing, stewing and waiting to pop. Bring it on kid, we need you.

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Don’t you hate those days where you feel like you’ve been running as fast as you can but your feet won’t touch the ground? It’s like those dreams where you run away from danger but you don’t get anywhere. Today was like that. A giant frustrating waste of time and energy with no accomplishment or positive outcome. It makes me want to pick up a bat and just start smashing shit. Remember that scene in Fight Club when Ed Norton and Brad Pitt are walking down the street with a couple of baseball bats, fucking up cars for no reason? That’s what I feel like doing. Destroying things for my own selfish catharsis. When I was in high school my art teacher took me aside at the end of one semester and let me smash a bunch of the ceramics that nobody wanted. It felt so fucking great. What a release. I breezed through my exams with very little tension after that. I made a habit of smashing ceramics with him after every term. Later in life, I did a performance art piece at the Cannibal Club where I smashed plates while singing “Theme from The Love Boat.” I guess what I’m saying is I feel like I should go to Goodwill and buy a bunch of plates, take them into an alley and smash them one by one against a wall. Of course, I’d have to bring a broom and a trash can. To leave a mess behind would be just as frustrating.

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I sold two paintings from my website. This is very exciting news. Painting has always been a very personal creative outlet for me. I’ve been painting acrylic on canvas off and on since I was 16, almost as long as I’ve been making music. I sold a few canvases in high school and college. Scrawled on walls during my punk rock days. I painted an intense, party themed mural for the “Loud Suite” at the 21st St. Co-op, back in the 80s. Some “co-op official” thought it was inappropriate and painted over it just two days after I had completed it. That was a drag. I spent three months painting a mural on the ceiling of a girlfriend’s living room but she painted over it after we broke up. Then all my paints and brushes were stolen along with a bunch of music gear when my warehouse space was broken into. So finally, I have come full circle. I’m painting canvases again and somebody bought two. This means a lot to me. It means that someone out there has said, “I believe in your vision, I believe in your legacy and I think your work will increase in value.” It’s an amazing feeling. It’s different than when someone says, “I love your song.” Don’t get me wrong, that always feels good too. However, when I write a song, especially a song that speaks plainly and isn’t thick with metaphor (like Winning The War On Drugs for example,) I know that most of the people who hear it will at least come close to understanding what I am trying to say. A painting will speak to everyone who sees it differently. You may like it, you may hate it, you may feel indifferent, confused or elated but what you feel is totally yours. You can check out my paintings at http://iamwammo.com/artwork/

Life is crazy busy, crazy fun, crazy sad. Every breath takes us one step closer to the grave. "He who is not busy being born is busy dying." 


I'm hungry. There is cereal in my future.

Had a great 4th of July weekend. My wife and I went out to a film director's compound, where lots of fun, sun, swimming, food, beer and a private fireworks display ensued. The compound is the perfect big kid's fantasy. The whole downstairs of the main building is a game room with ping pong, pool, darts and fooseball. A small arcade with video games and pinball machines. An intimate screening room with two rows of theater seats, a row of couches and a giant beanbag chair for the kids to sit on. And my favorite room, a tiny little Turkish loveden/spacepod/nap/sex room with speakers in the ceiling. Traci and I walked around the grounds, people were zipping all over the place in go carts with roll bars.  We walked out onto the baseball field (you heard me) and there was the director, happily throwing his kids into a slip and slide tunnel that was part of a huge inflatable space pillow/water slide. 


It's funny, I typed the director's name when I started to write this but I immediately felt like a name dropping sleezeball. I'm sure if you know anything about my glorious film career, you can figure out who it is. I'll tell you one thing about this guy, he has lived the way he wanted to live, done the stuff he wanted to do, made a very comfortable living and has remained a modest, positive, generous, good ol' boy. Something for us all to aspire toward. My favorite image of him took place just before the fireworks. All of the guests are spread out on blankets and towels on HIS baseball field and he's walking around from group to group with a box of ice cream sandwiches in his hand, offering the box up and asking everyone, "Ice cream sandwich? Ice cream sandwich?"
In other news, I saw my daughter's face in a sonogram yesterday. There's a mindfuck for ya. My mom has this overbearing, nosy-ass friend that my siblings and I had to put up with for years. Let's call her Doris. When I talked to my sister on the phone last night, she asked me what the baby's face looked like in the sonogram and I said, "She looks like a cross between Chucky and Doris." I thought my sister was going to fall down. I haven't heard her laugh that hard in quite a while. So now, the baby's new nickname is Chuck D.


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