I have decided to release the latest WH&R a day early for the Literary Slumber crowd. It's possibly my favorite show to date. The levels need to be fixed a bit, as Sid was noticeable low in the mix down- but otherwise I am very happy with it.
Right click to save, left click to listen in browser -
I went to the courthouse today for my official plea, and I am feeling really good about everything. This'll significantly impact the next however many months of my life... but who is to say that its effect will be negative? Maybe staying here in Nevada with my family for a little longer isn't a bad idea, and the people I'll meet and the experiences I'll have (including those at the courthouse or probation office) along the way will be well worth it. Life is going on all the time, and I won't be here forever. All of our experiences equal who we are. It gets me out, and will result in Kevin Scampoli being an even more well rounded human being.
As a human being 'living' a life, the legal system is something everybody should experience. Considering my upbringing and everything about me as a person- I would have otherwise never have been found sitting in an Arraignment Courtroom A on the bottom floor of a courthouse. I strongly believe that this will be better for me, especially if I handle it as responsibly as I plan to.
This is all a result of being able to wake up and go to sleep. To quote Ron Bennington- "FUCK IT!" There's not enough time to complain.
I have a radio studio, a hilarious radio show, we are partnered with an even funnier radio show- and together we provide the programming for my own radio station. Is this not my dream? I love sitting here laughing at my own bits.
I am an island, like Dr. Cox, like Will Lightman. I dreamt up my perfect woman the other night, with the perfect meeting. I hardly remember it, except that a ladder was involved, so I can't help but assume it was inspired by John Lennon and Yoko Ono.
Idealising is a flaw, now? I found my ideal musician (voice), my ideal comedian (delivery)- I will find my ideal woman. And I will sing this song to her.
Still, I'm an island. So until then I will stomp my feet, sing this song, and make this facial expression...
I return to the court house today. Listen to the new WH&R on Real Kid Radio, or download it Wednesday. The show has nearly replaced this blog- especially since I can't tear up Sylvia Plath books on here.
We Hit & Run had the week of 7/25 off, due to an ill Sid and a studio in need of repairs. HOWEVER, those of you who subscribe to the iTunes podcast, or keep up with the Myspace are treated to some WH&R goodies. Check out this special edition of a podcast to hear a bit gone horribly wrong- resulting in Sid and Kevin making a drastic decision.
The We Hit & Run Podcast special- available here in mp3 format. Click here to subscribe to our iTunes podcast.
So don't confuse why we put you here Or your automation for individuality A notch on my belt is how you shall exist A notch on my bedpost is how you shall exist And no more no less for the common good That's you, american womanhood "
Beginning to end- the most important video on the internet.
I'll hold my child's head underwater If it's a boy, I was joking If it's a daughter, I'll say I did what I did because I had to And if you find my kid later tell her I laughed too "
This isnt a character defamation, the accused actions and lies have all been admitted to, and the parts that are opinion are completely obvious. This is only a character defamation if her actions made it so, Im simply the required messenger.
On the other hand- her words are complete character defamation. Claims of being 'beaten' and 'hit in the face'- utterly untrue and ridiculous. One of us was punched, kicked, and attacked- it wasn't her. Ms. Anti-Violence struck me many times that week, and topped it all off with her flailing screams on the final morning.
We talked about the 'lost wedding ring' (it wasn't), the 'paycheck that wasn't picked up' (it was), the 'miscarriage'(it was an abortion), the many times you physically attacked me, and
Yet I'm the bad guy.
What did I lie about? When did I ever strike you? Was it between waking up at 6am to drive you to your hero of a grandmother's storage room to save your belongings from her drunkardness and blowing over 1500$ on your thrift store habits/pregnancy cravings? Where's my restitution?
And now you say that I attempted to meet you for sex recently? How fucking insane are you? If I ever use the phrase "Get through to our cars"- then please, throw me to the ground twice and strike me upon the head and body and break my goddamn collarbone.
Keep painting the pictures on your public journal- of happy marriages and surviving abuse, they're about as believable as the awful sketches I found on my top shelf, and in turn disposed of. I am every villain from any Samuel L Jackson film- whether it be the oddly-shaped head of S.L.J from Unbreakable, or the afore-mentioned Black Snake Moan abuser (we all know what happened in that theatre). I know the 'truth' behind your happy marriage is written on scattered private journals, and proof of them remains here.
You wanted Angelo to marry you. You wanted Daniel to marry you. ("He said 'I Love You,' This man is a God.") You wanted me to marry you.
You told Angelo -
"I'm impatient and will end up marrying a psycho."
Well, somebody married a psycho, that's for sure.
The only explanation I can fathom for you continuing to believe the claim that I struck you on that morning- is that you truly do not remember, just as you told me you didn't. This wasn't a game, it wasn't about winning and losing- it's about what happened, and the difference between reality and your molded mythical boxing story.
"Get your things, dont come back." "I'll be back after the orientation to get my stuff." "If you come here I'll call the cops." "Good, maybe they will take Anchor out of this mess."
That's when you sprung from the couch and attacked me. And yes, you did strike my mother as she held your screaming, frightened child- who was experiencing yet another spastic-freak-out from his mother. You did throw a black shoe that barely missed all three of us and bounced off the door. You were screaming in a rage, and you did kick and punch me.
I did not kick, punch, or throw anything at you. I didn't even raise my voice.
There's a reason why I was greeted by "Come in, I know my sister is a psycho." And there's a reason our OB-GYN recommended you to a psychiatrist, and there's a reason behind the scars on your legs and your unbelievably fake-sounding cry.
I'm sick of pretending that the aborted fetus was mine, when it was weeks older than the night we met. I'm sick of pretending that you weren't talking to Michael on the porch when you thought I was asleep, the night before you fucked up again.I'm sick of pretending you didn't cheat on that weekend we broke up, when your vag' had dilated at least 3 inches by the time we got back together. And I'm sick of you pretending you are a victim.
Perhaps, most of all, I'm sick of you pretending you're a writer. You didn't even know what a sonnet was before I met you. Your journals and poems are cliche jargon, wordy for the sake of being wordy, pure nonsense. Your writing would be better suited under the pen of your gothic sister.
Here's an example of a Storm-written sentence, completed off the top of my head:
"The rain drops contained no emotion, and plunged into the dirt without a care for the night's eyes."
I gave you too much credit with that line break. Pre-teenage, black eye-liner poetry.
There was a time during the first month of the relationship, right after I heard about the 'knocked up' situation, where I replayed a quote from Scrubs over and over in my head in order to respond to the baffled world's question:
"She's pregnant? She wants to marry you? What're you going to do?" "I guess I just have to spend the rest of my life with her."
When I made that answer, I was a defeated man. When I plead guilty yesterday morning, I was given a second chance. You're finally out of my life.
There are two statements I live by,
I would rather be found guilty knowing I didn't do it, than get off having done it.
A year and a half of probation is well worth not marrying you.
As far as an unhappy relationship, only one of us had to ask this question:
"Why doesn't my vagina make you cum anymore?"
My answer to that question was a lie, by the way.
I'm glad you're happy with how you look, and convinced yourself you're the 'skinniest you've ever been'. My father honestly asked the question, "Is that your's?"
Your marriage is a result of you two having a conversation about me, because you were on my side of town. And now, you're married to some 30 year old attempting to raise an overweight, neglected kid (the kid and the 30 year old appear to be the same age). Nice life.
Stay out of mine, you're the biggest three mistakes I ever made.
I'll be burning my Sylvia Plath books on the next We Hit & Run.
You're a woman, not a winner. That's important in the courtroom, ms 'women dont have rights'.
If you got something to say, say it here. Your journal is nonexistent.
As young as the station is, it appears as though a variation of Real Kid Radio will end up on California FM radio and Las Vegas AM radio sooner than later. This has nothing to do with my prior hopes of moving to Los Angeles- as that idea is no longer in the works.
Don't start me talkin', I could talk all night. Oliver's Army is here to stay.
Direct Link to the We Hit & Run Century Club show - click here!
We Hit & Run will release two versions of their show every week, every Wednesday. There will be a shortened, Podcast release that will be widely available to download by anybody on the internet- meanwhile, the original, uncut episode will air exclusively on Real Kid Radio.
Sid and I recorded the century club edition of We Hit & Run last night, I do not have a direct link yet- but you can hear it on Real Kid Radio (along with ample amounts of Jim & Them).
So don't let them force-feed you, and come on over to Real Kid Radio.
The Greatest Daddy-Daughter combo that television ever let go.
There are few feelings as nauseating as picking up the pink and white pile of Clark Country legal papers. They contain everything from foreign signatures to her handwriting to "Five Years Months" written as our relationship length- the correction was still overestimated. Just reading an order as simple as "Stay out of trouble, and make your court appearance" seems overwhelmingly difficult- as if some cosmic occurrence or lack of gas will cause me to miss that one appointment, in turn causing me to miss food that isn't proudly referred to as "Chow."
I dialed the public defender's office today, didn't breathe or blink until the ninth ring. Now, I wait for the call back.
I can't wait until this is behind me.
Also- I got my damaged phone replaced, and my contacts were cleared. What a great feeling. I'm starting over.
I have always been a self-proclaimed king of pillow-talk - never really a big 'dirty talker' though. I keep it positive, there's loads of laughter. The Simpsons references ('This shirt is chafing me...'), the subtle hints for moisture ('It's like a desert in here...')- the stories are mythical, my personality and its sense of humor run a muck between the sheets. I'll never forget the time my Simpsons reference was taken literally:
Oh man, now my pants are chafing me..." 'Well, then why don't you just loosen them?"
Quite a bit of time was spent explaining the episode where Bart's older crush (voiced by that one woman from Roseanne) and Bart's bully were on the Simpson couch, and the bully was conning the clothes off of himself to steal bases with Roseanne actress voice, a lot more time than was spent selfishly thrusting.
I'm never more comfortable than in a sexual situation. There was a night in Massachusetts where I sung the entirety of Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' holding a woman on top of me, severely limiting my vocal abilities. One of the major highlights of my teenage years- the 'relationship' barely lasted a month.
The overnight gig is treading along nicely. It is the ideal job for having visitors, a very independent occupation where you do your work and head out. I love a job where a girlfriend can visit and you can finish your work as if there was never a distraction.
Since moving to Vegas, one of the major highlights has to be the nights spent attending karaoke at the House Of Blues. Every Monday night at the Mandalay Bay's HOB, a live band hosts a night of karaoke- a set list containing the typical Cure and the expected Billy Idol, along with some obscurer Michael Jackson songs. We've gone maybe three or four times, but the memories themselves are timeless-
Riggy performing and horrifying the crowd during his visit
Ant Saunders being Anthony Saunders
Drinking Jack N' Coke two at a time
Being rejected by married women
Being the only witness to Brian Garcia's obtaining of a phone number
And by far, the best of all...
There was one night we may have drank more than any of the other occasions (the 'two at a time' night, with two simultaneous straws cyphering Jack). On this night, when karaoke closed its curtains, our group was disbanded into smaller groups throughout the Mandalay Bay. One such group contained Myself, Brian Garcia, and my brother Jim. For whatever intoxicated reason, Jim decided that a funny bit would be to continuously taunt Brian, get into his face, and challenge him to a 'throw down' in the middle of the poker area. Hilarity ensued, as Brian's responses were limited to 'Yeah, okay' and 'Whatever Jim' as he attempted to act oblivious to the continuous harassment performed publicly at high volumes (with hundreds of eyes looking on). My whole gimmick during this scene was to play the middle man, with the 'He'll do it, Brian' and the 'I got your back Garcia if he does anything' comments interjected between Jim's threats.
Do something Garcia. I'll fuck you up right here, man!"
Face-to-face, face-in-face, definitely one of the greatest events I'll ever experience in a casino.
It seems as though Sid & I will finally be kicking off our podcast within' the next week- or at least recording the first show. We finally got a kick-ass studio in the house, so the equipment is here, it's just a matter of getting the long missing Sid to make the trip. Once it's recorded, its world-wide premiere will be posted on this blog. Stay updated through Literary Slumber. If you want to hear a selection of radio production pieces I've made in the past, feel free to visit the Real Kid Radio myspace, or listen to Jim & Them (Episode 7 really shows the quality of the new recording setup).
Music: E.C. playing Patsy Cline, as he is suffering from the mumps. (see below)
I drink my beer with a shot glass. I don't think it's a habit I'll ever break, I'll never be willing to. I will, however, have to pick up a key-chain stop-watch, that way I'll be ready when an occasion of drinking is presented. The Power Hour has become an addiction, to the point where I can't tolerate the taste of beer without yelling the phrase 'slam time' every sixty seconds. Being an accomplished, published poet- I think I can form a pun for 'slam time' causing it to be the queue for a beer shot followed by a Shakespeare one-liner.
- "SLAM TIME!" - "(shot of Red Dog)" - " But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger."
Genius, though I can't think of a partner who could keep up through an entire hour- or even a tall can's worth of quotations.
I've been consumed by the stock market. I speak and type in symbols. I correct the term 'Google' with 'GOOG', and Apple with 'AAPL' (the latter confuses people). I even occasionally correct the term 'Google' with 'HEY ASSHOLE THAT STOCK IS OVER 500, WHEN DO YOU THINK IT WILL SPLIT? YOU DONT KNOW WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT? FUCK OFF. HEY THAT GUY...'. It never ends.
The stock market is a gambler's dream. It offers a risk-free opportunity to gain free money. Sure, a true gambler will put hundreds on XM (XMSR) or WWE (WWE) and throw caution to the bloody wind- but a smart gambler will put thousands on AT&T (T) or Microsoft (MSFT) and walk away with free cash. It's a gambling game of patience, and it could put your children through college, or fund a reasonably size (and named) yacht. I'll be leading more towards the yacht at this stage in my life. I'm not a family man these days, those hours are behind me, or years-ahead-of-the-stock-market-in-front-of-me.
I am beginning to feel that annual football fever. It is the time where the Fantasy Football hype begins, the video games get released, and the stat projections run wild. I have never been more confident in any team like I am in this year's New England Patriots. C'mon... Brady, Moss, Maroney, Bruschi, Colvin... don't even look at me if you don't this team already has the Lombardi Trophy in their team-basement.
I've always been a Cowboys man first, a Pats guy second. This year, I am officially a Patriots supporter mainly. New England is my homeland, Tom Brady is the man I love. It is about time I face the facts- the Cowboys are my preteen team, back in the days where I only knew the names 'Emmitt Smith' and 'Barry Sanders' (and wasn't foolish enough to put Barry first). At this mature age, where I am a winner of eight thousand dollars in football gambling cash, the New England Patriots are my NFL passion, there isn't a team I would dream about putting first. Long story short... DYNASTY.
Plus, the 2K series is back. This is the most tingly of all news. We football fans have been trapped in the Madden universe for the last three years, and we finally have the greatest engine in football gaming to purchase. Despite the fact that EA has stolen the NFL license, and that we won't have up-to-date NFL rosters in the game, All Pro Football 2k8 will undoubtedly be the best sports game of the last thirty six months. Don't get me wrong, as a subscriber of GamezNFlix, I will most definitely spend many hours at the helm of Madden NFL '08, as well as NCAA Football '08- however, my undying love and support will forever lie in the controller of the 2k football series, the greatest of all pigskin developers.
I am a lover of all things delicate, whether it be baby dolls, their pacifiers, or the retail shelves that hold them. Most of all, this list includes... YOU.
[Ron Howard's Arrested Development narration voice.] Now that, my friends, is how you write using the English language. [/Ron Howard's Arrested Development narration voice.]
Oh, and for you fans of that overrated Napoleon Dynamite film, watch the real, original Napoleon Dynamite below:
And while we are on the subject that is America's & Britain's Greatest Voice, Pen, Hat, Glasses and Nose... I will leave you with a performance of his featuring Emmylou Harris. I dedicate it to anyone who is taking me to court at the year's moment.
The first time I ever heard Joe Jackson's voice was on the morning of June 22, 2004. I was in the intoxicating state between asleep and awake, dreaming some sort of nonsense involving a genderless person singing and strutting through the apartment I was living in at the time.
Always something breaking us in two
I had fallen asleep early in the morning with the television blaring VH1 Classics's 2xTuesday.
The fantasy seemed to extend for minutes, growing more and more vivid with each lyric. I woke up, sat up, only to see Joe Jackson sitting at a piano performing the song that had just haunted my dreamworld.
I immediately hopped onto the Elvis Costello Fans forum (I was the frequent 'troublemaker' on there at the time) and began my research, and in turn the downloading.
As with every article containing either man- Joe Jackson is constantly graded on a scale to Elvis Costello (and both to Graham Parker, though more or less the other way around), simply because the two of them got their start through the New Wave/Punk British invasion of the late 70's. Despite catching their break through the same movement, there is absolutely nothing similar about the two once we hit 1981- EC went off into the world of Country & Western with Almost Blue, then on to the incomparable Imperial Bedroom as Joe Jackson peaked with Night & Day then began his ambitiously eclectic mediocre years.
I must confess, I've always considered Beat Crazy and Get Happy!! a brotherly pair of sibling albums.
Night & Day.
Today, each are in excellent voice, and their pens have only gotten bolder. You can make a case that the greatest songs written by either man were composed post 2000 (Take It Like A Man - Joe Jackson, Episode Of Blonde, Bedlam - Elvis Costello) , proving that the two of them still have more to offer than the infinite number of young musicians they've inspired today (Daryl Palumbo being a possible exception).
Elvis has his Imposters, Joe Jackson has his Joe Jackson Band. We, as listeners, have songs that can create, dictate, and fabricate characters that gyrate in our deep, dreaming sleep.
