Rhetorock

Live Like We're Mayan.

2011-12-22T01:19:00.000-08:00

It’s December 21, 2011. The Winter Solstice. A year from today, according to interpretations of an ancient Mayan tablet, the world will end.

It will end in very similar fashion to when it also ended at Y2K and twice already in 2011, according to Harold Camping.

You'd think that the Mayans, with all their alleged prophetic knowledge, would have been able to accurately foretell the catastrophic, mysterious downfall of their own civilization.

Funny thing is, the Mayans aren’t the stupid ones. We are.

The Mayan ‘long-count’ calendar (actually, there are several) doesn’t predict the end of the world. Yes, the 13^th Baktun ends on 12/21/12. However, a time of great celebration is supposed to ensue, not Armageddon. (Armayageddon?) Does your world end every time you celebrate a birthday? It may feel like it has when you wake up the next morning, but in most cases you’re still very much alive.

Furthermore, the Mayans make many references to dates that occur past 2012. Many Mayans are still alive today, and they’re not freaking out about next year. The whole idea was coined by New Age author José Argüelles in 1987. Yup, I’ve been alive longer than this whole 2012 Doomsday thing. Yup, Snoop Dogg has been high for longer than this whole 2012 Doomsday thing.

Once upon a time, I had a good-natured friend named Greta. She bought a tome about the Zodiac, and asked me what my sign was. “Sagittarius,” I said. She proceeded to read me two pages about myself and how my sign interacted with hers, about how I was a natural-born leader, about how I had some inner pain that hadn’t yet been dealt with. She punctuated many a sentence with exclamations of how spot-on the book’s interpretation was.

I let her finish before I casually informed her that I’m actually a Libra.

“Oh,” she muttered, crestfallen, and left the room.

Reminds me of an episode of Criss Angel Mindfreak in which Criss poses as a tarot card reader in Vegas. Once his subjects have been blindfolded, he swaps out the tarot card and instead reads the same paragraph from the cheesiest small-town newspaper horoscope to each person, telling them how they are strong yet have a need to be loved, among other generic, widely applicable truisms. Many of his subjects start crying and tell him that he’s able to see into their soul more than even their loved ones can.

At the end of the episode (and forgive me if my facts are wrong; it’s been awhile since I’ve seen it), he lets people in on his little secret: they’ve been duped.

We all share in this human experience. We all need love; we all have love to give. We all want attention. We all take dumps which often stink.

Mine stink less than yours. I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t have ten pounds of rotting carcass in my colon.

No Chichen Itza for this guy. Although a Mayan city, it sounds quite edible.

Everybody merely wants someone to reinforce what they already believe to be true. Why do the best psychiatrists merely listen? Why do people pay thousands to talk to them? It’s crazy: psychiatrists make more than Bernie Madoff. Well, more than he makes now, anyways.

Everybody wants to be heard. I once read about a guy who made a comfortable living on the streets of Tokyo by charging people money in exchange for letting them yell at him.

Everybody wants a framework to explain why life is the way it is, and someone to blame when things go wrong.

Americans spend $200 million a year on astrology. I am clearly in the wrong profession.

“Pluto is no longer a planet! How else am I supposed to explain the powerful pull on my psyche?”

It cracks me up when people try and quantify human interaction through the use of Zodiac signs. “Ah, he dumped me because I’m a Taurus and he’s a Cancer. It had to be because the Sun was in transit to my natal Saturn, and.. .” Really? You sure? None of this happened because you are a crazy biznatch? Of course not; let’s blame some stars.

I am going to become an astrologer. That way, nothing is ever my fault.

The reason this blog sucks so hard is because I wrote it while there was a stellium, or buildup of planets in Libra.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a mediocre writer with a penchant for tangents, sesquipedalianisms and run-on sentences.

Screw it; maybe I’ll look into gender-specific psychiatry. Men don’t talk, as a general rule, unless it’s about sports. Or women. But, of course, never women’s sports. Über-lame.

I’ll just charge women $200 an hour to complain about their problems. The best part about listening to women is that they don’t even want you to find a solution! Solve their issues, and they have to go to all the trouble of finding new things to complain about.

Or, maybe I’ll just become a doomsday prophet. Mr. Camping may look like a fool now, but at least he looks like a very wealthy fool. Everyone in the Bible Belt will be getting thank-you cards this Christmas.

The best part about Camping’s prediction, and other Christian doomsday predictions, is this: Matthew 24:36 states that no one knows the day or the hour when the world will end. No one except God. Well, God and Harold Camping, that is.

The truth is that the end will come for all of us someday. It won’t come a year from now for most of us, but it may come sooner than that for you. For me. For someone we care about.

As much as I hate to quote yet another American Idol star, there’s truth in Kris Allen’s one and only hit single. “We only got 86,400 seconds in a day to turn it all around or throw it all away….gotta live like we’re dying.”

Let’s also not forget to live like we’re Mayan. In other words, relax. The world is not ending next year.

I HAVE HAD A BABY WITH EVERY SINGLE DEFENDANT IN THE STATE OF OREGON.

2011-12-16T02:34:00.000-08:00

Yesterday sucked.

Six words for you: Jury duty on absolutely no sleep.

I got home around eleven the night before last, and promptly took a sleeping pill and four melatonin pills. And then lay awake in bed for the next seven and a half hours. Diphenhydramine didn't cut it. I should've tried some of diphenhydrayours.

There's a tight-knit community of insomniacs who post to Facebook in the middle of the night. It felt good to be a part of something bigger than myself.

I hate sunrises. Actually, there's nothing wrong with them per se, and I enjoy looking at sunrise pictures in coffee table books and the like just as much as the next guy. Yesterday morning's was actually particularly beautiful. But, it served as a visual aid to reinforce the point that my day was going to be a suckhole. Anytime I see a sunrise, I've either been up way too long or have had to get up way too early. In this morning's case, it was both.

I should be barred from recording songs that are named after natural phenomena that I have almost no firsthand experience with. "Sunrise" is obviously out, and I should probably also hold off on finishing my next hit single, "The Honduran Rain Of Fish."

I showed up to the jury room a fairly fashionable fifteen minutes late. Of course, I got the one remaining empty seat next to the guy with whooping cough. Or consumption; not sure. I don't have much firsthand experience with chronic wasting diseases, either.

There was a painting of a clown riding a carnival horse on the wall, and I wanted to rip it down and set it on fire, and then bawl my eyes out, just to make sure that everyone in the room knew how crappy I felt.

Leave No Childish Happiness Behind.

The State Of Oregon Judicial Department's introductory video, complete with poor acting and the requisite female African-American judge, was first on the agenda. Actually, it was the only thing on the agenda. Then the waiting began. We were informed that we should prepare to be there for the next 9 and a half hours.

If picked for a trial, I would have literally gone to any length to make sure I didn't get selected for a jury.

"Yes, I'm wanted for six felonies in Mozambique. Yes, every single member of my family serves in law enforcement, even my cousin's unborn child. Yes, I have had a baby with every single defendant in the state of Oregon. Yes, I hate white people. Yes, I have IBS. Yes, I dine and dash, and then drink and drive."

If one of those six didn't work, I contemplated faking a seizure. Or feigning Tourette's. Or chanting "Tebow" until they made me leave.

I pay taxes. I vote, even for county commissioners and pointless measures. I've never been on welfare. I even use the self-pay drop boxes when I visit state parks. Most of the time. What do you want from me, Oregon? (Cue Adam Lambert hit single here.)

Yes, I realize that without jurors the justice system wouldn't work fairly. But, there were at least 400 other able people in the waiting room, and it's safe to say that most, if not all, had gotten at least some sleep, and were therefore of more sound mind. Sounder mind? More soundlier mind?

My neighbor's whooping cough took a turn for the worse.

I've wished many times for a rewind button. Something I could press to give me a mulligan, to turn back time. But, a fast-forward button? I would have been sorely tempted to use one.

I must be getting old. I used to pull all-nighters almost every week in college. Not to study, of course, but to have a ten-hour Lord Of The Rings marathon. Or a ten-hour Connect Four marathon (we actually did this). Or, to TP, egg, pee on, or otherwise ‘beautify’ various statues and security vehicles on campus (yup, we actually did this, too).

The aftermath of this all-nighter was different. I was a wreck, probably because I hadn't committed any misdemeanors or other mischievous acts during the night. My left eye was twitching. My head throbbed. My vision was blurred. Would I even have been able to tell if I were having a stroke?

I accidentally broke my juror badge. I think that’s grounds for dismissal from jury duty. If I can’t even be trusted with cheap plastic, how can I be trusted with a verdict?

I also attempted to slip a clerk $20 to let me go early. She wasn’t impressed, and pointed out that she’d be happy to assign me to another room of the courthouse to stand trial for attempting to bribe a government employee.

Six hours later…

My name was finally called, and I was released, my ‘jury duty’ complete. I, like hundreds of other people, had sat in a waiting room and done absolutely nothing, only to be sent home. Even if we only each get a check for $10 plus mileage, this scenario is played out daily in thousands of courtrooms across the nation. I think I’m beginning to see why our government has a budget deficit of $15 trillion.

What is the government doing to combat that deficit? Well, upon stumbling to my car, I found that, in addition to the $17 I’d already paid for parking, I had incurred a $40 parking ticket. My curbside receipt had fallen to the floor of my car.

Back to the courthouse tomorrow.

God bless America.

Fruitcake Merrily On High.

2011-12-06T11:37:00.000-08:00

When did Christmas get all prima donna and demand its own month?

Every other holiday gets merely a single day. In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, but he doesn't even get more than 24 hours and a lame excuse for financial institutions to take the day off? Do you know how hard it was to sail around the earth back when it was flat? This is how we say thanks?

Sure, some of the more prestigious holidays might command a weekend. Halloween stores do open up a couple weeks before Oct. 31, and Irish people find reasons to get drunk year-round, not just on March 17. But, Christmas is still in a class all its own.

Sadly, Yuletide's length enshrouds some other meaningful December holidays in its bloated wreath-shaped shadow. Holidays like Forefathers' Day, December 21, which shouldn't be confused with Four Fathers Day, a celebration of homosexual plural marriage. Holidays like Pepper Pot Day, December 29. And, of course, my personal favorite, December 8...

Take It In The Ear Day. Look it up.

Despite my unabashed affinity for it, I have questions about this holiday. How do I celebrate? What exactly am I supposed to be taking in my ear? And, most importantly, which ear should I take it in?

Perhaps the Christmas season is so long simply because of the lack of ample competition from any other December holiday. Perhaps Christmas helps us forget that Pearl Harbor Day and National Cotton Candy Day fall on the same date, and helps us avoid the inherent bipolar mood swings that this juxtaposition would provoke.

Sure, Christmas is a great holiday, one that billions, young and old, look forward to annually. However, plenty of other holidays encourage family togetherness. Plenty of other holidays encourage wanton spending and lavish consumerism. Furthermore, those individuals, myself included, who point to the birth of Jesus as being a seminal event worthy of extended celebration should be reminded that most scholars agree that Jesus was actually most likely born around September.

This leaves us with two theories as to why we celebrate Christmas in December:

1. The celebration of the birth of Jesus was moved in order to better coincide with the celebration of the Roman winter solstice.

2. Chuck Norris once accidentally sent Jesus a birthday card in December. Jesus was too embarrassed to inform Chuck of his mistake. Thus, we've celebrated Christmas in December ever since.

For the record, I'm not opposed to Christmas claiming the entire month of December. It's kind of a worthless month with nothing else going on. It's the Edsel of months, at least at higher latitudes here in the Northern Hemisphere. And if you're in the Southern Hemisphere, what happens to your Christmas carols this time of year? Do Australian families gather around their air conditioning units and sing "Let It Sun"? Or "Frosty the Foster's"? "Go Tell It In The Outback"? "I Heard The Didgeridoo On Christmas Day"? "Bring A 3-Foot Hunting Knife, Jeanette Isabella"? "Summer Wonderland"?

I could go on.

But, if Yuletide is going to last as long as it does, some changes need to take place, especially when it comes to Christmas music. My first suggestion for improvement? Pass laws that prevent this poor excuse for music, at least the really cheesy kind, from being played until, say, around December 23. Anywhere. Everywhere. I mean, "Santa Baby"? Really? How many rich old sugar daddies did the singer confess her love to in exchange for gifts before she settled for one that doesn't actually exist?

And "Come On A My House"? Really, Rosemary Clooney? In the good ol' days, they used to lock people away for confessing to pedophilia, like you do numerous times in this song. Fortunately, you failed to provide your address, so hopefully not too many children were able to take you up on your creepy offer.

My second suggestion would be to update the woefully antiquated ditty "Twelve Days Of Christmas". If my true love gave me ten lords a-leaping, I would be taken aback, to say the least, although I'm curious to see how long said lords could maintain their jumping routine. The song implicitly promises me that these lords simply don't quit. If I caught a lord taking a break, could I borrow a drumstick from one of the twelve drummers and beat him with it?

Furthermore, since I don't own cattle, what exactly would those eight maids be milking? Does anyone even know what a colly bird is? (Yes, that's the original lyric.) It's time to bring this song back to cultural relevance by replacing these hopelessly superannuated gifts with things that members of today's society would actually be happy to receive: divorce papers, welfare checks, and a 40 of Old E.

The last item actually fits neatly into the song, right where the partridge line used to be. Plus, Old E is conveniently sold everywhere. Who knows where you can purchase a pear tree these days, much less a partridge who would be content remaining in one for an extended period of time.

Come to think of it, we might as well overhaul America's entire repertoire of Christmas carols.

"Winter Wonderland" sucks. It must go.

"What Child Is This"? Duh, it's Jesus. Stupid question. Next.

"I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In"? Good for you, dollard. You're at a port. Lots of ships sail in daily.

"Carol Of The Bells", "Jingle Bells", "Silver Bells" and "I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day" need an instrument change. Bells are annoying at best. I was forced to play in a bell choir with a bunch of nerdy girls for a few months growing up. This was arguably the worst parenting decision my parents ever made.

And, finally, "Ding Dong Merrily On High"? Stupid. But, if we're going to keep it, let's at least give a nod to other dessert snack makers. Hostess has had the corner on this song, and therefore this market, for far too long. I would vote for either "Oatmeal Cream Pie Merrily On High" or "Zebra Cakes Merrily On High", but I'm open to suggestions.

In reality, we should probably vote in the most austere and revered dessert snack of all, that holiday institution, the gift that keeps on giving. Let's go with "Fruitcake Merrily On High". Cut. Print. That's a wrap.

Stop Talking. Start Doing.

2011-11-26T16:26:00.000-08:00

Ah, the dichotomy that is Thanksgiving.

On the one hand, it's the only national holiday, in my opinion, that has retained much of its original, beautiful meaning and purpose, which is, of course, slaughtering turkeys, celebrating obesity, and taking land from indigenous people.

In all seriousness, it's great that we have a day set aside for the sole purpose of giving thanks for the good things in our lives. Although, if you work retail, you really don't have a lot to be thankful for this time of year. And, if you're Canadian, you celebrate a different date altogether in your tireless yet pointless attempt to be viewed as more than just America's hat.

On the other hand, all the warm, fuzzy altruism of Thanksgiving Thursday is quickly swallowed up by the rampant consumerism that is Black Friday. This year, Thanksgiving didn't even get the chance to end peacefully before major sales at numerous nationwide retailers, including Walmart, had already begun. Thankfully, no one was trampled to death in this year's savings scrum. Instead, we saw consumers handling the shopping stress in much more mature, considerate ways: with knives, guns and pepper spray.

God bless America.

I realize that countless individuals have already come to these same conclusions; I'm not breaking any idealogical new ground here. However, never has this inherent dichotomy been more apparent to me than this year.

I, like most Americans, spent my Thanksgiving day awash in self-indulgent gluttony. By three PM, I'd already gorged myself, and a happy little food fetus was growing inside of me. (I will withhold the details of the birth of said child.) I watched two and a half NFL games. I think I got up off the couch a grand total of four times in eight hours.

At nine PM, I was craving orange juice. Trop50, to be exact. Sweetened with stevia. Less sugar. All natural. Cures cancer, mumps and the whooping cough.

Who has the largest selection of orange juice in America? Walmart, that's who. So, forgetting all the ads I'd seen throughout the day about the 10 PM Black Friday Walmart sale kickoff, I drove to the normally unassuming Walmart on Mill Plain in Vancouver, WA.

The fact that I practically had to park across the river in Oregon should've been my first clue. Upon entering, I was greeted by the sight of literally over a thousand people milling around the store like frugal, questionably sentient zombies, some pushing multiple carts, waiting for the clock to strike ten so that they could save $6 on their video games or buy another ridiculously cheap, soon-to-be-obsolete 3D TV, thereby ensuring that their family wouldn't have to interact at all for at least another year.

Pushing my way through hordes of people gathered around a guy who was break dancing in the frozen foods aisle, and through another group gathered around two hopelessly overweight women screaming threats at each other, I grabbed my Trop50, paid, and left.

I couldn't shake the sickened feeling in my stomach. Hundreds of thousands of families across America, spending what little potential quality time they had with each other waiting in line to buy the next thing they didn't need.

I stopped for gas on the way home, at a Texaco that I never go to because it's never all that cheap. But, it was the only station open, so I pulled in and was greeted by a smiling little old lady. Never once complaining about the cold weather or the fact that she was working, alone, on Thanksgiving, she pumped my gas, washed my windshield, and asked me all about how my holiday had been.

As she was washing my rear window, I reached into my wallet and took out a $5.

When she handed me my receipt, I handed her the money. She looked at me funny and reminded me that I'd already paid with my credit card.

"That's for you," I said. "Thanks for smiling. Happy Thanksgiving."

"That's too much," she said. I insisted that she take it, suddenly feeling the weight of my own selfishness.

Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you," she said. "No, thank YOU," I said, and drove off.

As soon as I pulled out of the station and onto Stark Street, I burst into tears, my mind a mess.

Jesus had it right. It is so much better to give than to receive.

What if? What if I had spent my Thanksgiving at a homeless shelter or soup kitchen? What if I would've given that lady a $20 instead of thinking about how much I needed the money? What if I had taken the time to call or text some people and let them know how thankful I am for them? What if I would've done anything besides stuff my face and rot my brain on this, the day for giving thanks? And, more importantly, why do I need a federal holiday to remind me to be, for three minutes at a deserted gas station, the kind of person that I
want to be 24/7?

One simple act of giving so little was the best thing that happened to me all day.

Maybe, just maybe, I need to figure a few things out. Stop talking. Start doing.

My Opinions On The Top 20 Rock Albums Of The Last Decade Are Way Better Than Yours

2011-06-27T02:08:00.000-07:00

Rock music, I'm told, is a dying genre.

Purists from every decade and every walk of life will spout veritable tomes on why the music of their day or of their subgenre is superior, and why rock needs to return to its roots, whichever they may be, to avoid vanishing forever.

Well, I'm here to testify that rock is alive and well, that new rock can be good rock, and that it still frees my soul when the boys give me the beat. (I'm quoting Bill Withers here. Sorry, Uncle K.)

I've had a rough day. My parents' home in Michigan, the house that I grew up in, nearly burned to the ground today. Their entire basement was gutted by fire, and literally everything in the house is damaged by smoke. Fortunately, they are safe and sound; unfortunately, their cat Mitey Mite, whom I grew up with, didn't make it.

I've been trying to process this today as I've played an outdoor festival, sung the national anthem at a minor-league basketball game, had band practice, grocery shopped (I was out of spinach and I couldn't go on), and tried to get a million other things done. I didn't even have time to eat, much less think, until around 11 PM.

When my agenda finally lay conquered in some kind of Pyrrhic victory, I pulled over on the side of the road, connected my iPod, tilted my seat back, and did something I hadn't done in awhile. I listened to music. Not to critique; not in the studio; not to learn a love song for someone's wedding; not for writing inspiration. I simply listened, and let it take me where I needed to go.

I simply listened. Broke out some hard rock. Some metalcore. Some indie pop. Some post-alt-art-math-scream-prog-rock (or however it is that Porcupine Tree should be categorized). The point is, I listened to songs that I like.

When I finally finished this cathartic experience and realized that there were frozen foods (or Foods Formerly Known As Frozen) in my trunk, I drove home. I started to analyze just what I'd been listening to. Even though I swear by the music I grew up on, I realized that almost all of what had calmed my soul was rock, and almost all of it had been released within the last decade.

Being a stats geek, I felt the need to quantify, for you, in the form of a list, my Top 20 Rock Albums Of The Last Decade.

I'm talking about cohesive albums here, not releases with one or two great tracks and then a bunch of diarrhea noises as filler. (South Park season 15 reference, in case you missed it. Yup, South Park is still around, too, and actually funnier and more relevant than ever. But that's another blog altogether.)

Please, feel free to let me know which ones I've missed, or just let me know what a moron I am in general. However, keep in mind that my opinions are way better than yours.

I can't shake the feeling that I'm forgetting a very important album.

Whatever. Here they are:

20. System Of A Down: Toxicity
19. Audiovent-- Dirty Sexy Knights In Paris
18. Chevelle-- This Type Of Thinking (Could Do Us In)
17. Jars Of Clay: Who We Are Instead
16. Anberlin-- New Surrender
15. Brand New-- The Devil And God Are Raging Inside Of Me
14. Needtobreathe-- The Heat
13. Hurt-- Vol. 1
12. Incubus-- A Crow Left Of The Murder
11. Lifehouse-- No Name Face
10. Atreyu-- Lead Sails Paper Anchor
9. Thrice-- Vhiessu
8. Porcupine Tree-- Deadwing
7. Muse-- Absolution
6. Chevelle-- Vena Sera
5. Strata-- Strata Presents The End Of The World
4. Chiodos-- Bone Palace Ballet
3. A Perfect Circle-- Thirteenth Step
2. My Chemical Romance-- The Black Parade
1. Thrice-- Beggars

And there you have it. By the way, if you don't own "Beggars", there is something seriously wrong with your head. Get it in your ears.

I honestly don't know if I would be at least partially sane today without these twenty albums. Thanks, rock & roll, for not dying on us just yet.

Patience. Wait For It.

2011-01-27T02:19:00.000-08:00

Patience.

Wish I could hurry up and find some.

I once wrote a song that included the lyric: "I pray for patience, and I need it right this second." Patience is a quality that I'm impatient for. Obviously, I need a South Beach Diet for the soul. 'Wait' and 'weight' are homophones, after all.

It almost seems as though patience is something genetic, something you're either born with or you're not. Like gout.

Actually, I'm not sure if gout is genetic. Since I'm writing this on a flight to Chicago, I can't Google it without paying eleventeen dollars for in-flight wi-fi. Guess I'll have to patiently wait till we land.

I always kind of wanted to get gout, just because I've always wanted to use the sentence "Sorry, my gout is flaring up again" in casual conversation during a fine dining experience. Or, "Pardon me, I'm having a bout with gout." In fact, if I were dictator of anything, I would dictate that all words containing 'out' should be upgraded to 'gout', simply for entertainment purposes.

Goutside Magazine. Goutlet mall. Goutdoor school. Gout in left field. Down and gout. Goutback Steakhouse. Gouter space. The list is endless.

How does a Canadian pronounce "gout", anyway?

I digress.

Thanks for patiently waiting for me to get back on track.

What makes some people casually let the person with fewer items behind them go ahead in the grocery line, while other people freak out while an elderly lady attempts to find her checkbook? The foot tapping, the gum snapping, the exaggerated sighs. The "get a debit card" comment. The "shop at Safeway.com--they deliver" comment.

It's funny how the speed of technology has completely changed our time paradigm. I remember growing up with my parents' lightning-slow dialup internet connection, and actually having to set significant amounts of time aside to check my email. I also had to schedule time when no one else in our family needed to use the phone line. Which, if you know my parents, was practically never.

Hulu? All the episodes of South Park, free on Southparkstudios.com? Crown Point's hilarious YouTube videos (shameless plug)? Forget it.

On a side note, it's ironic that 'patience' and 'patients' are also homophones. When was the last time that you had an in-and-out experience with healthcare? If you're more than 10 minutes late for your appointment, it gets canceled, yet the doctor can keep you waiting, seemingly capriciously, as long as he or she wants.

And, more importantly, why is it that the only magazine that hospitals subscribe to is Cosmopolitan? Thankfully, I have seized this opportunity to learn all 50 secrets that will drive a man wild.

So what is patience, and where can I get some?

It seems that patience is more of a way of life than a spontaneous feeling. A deep-seated contentment that allows the individual who possesses it to be happy, despite, or perhaps because of, the ability to put their agendas and schedules on the back burner. I often feel like patience and productivity can't go hand-in-hand. Truth is, though, it's the times when I'm the least stressed, the times when I am able to stop worrying about everything that I need to accomplish, that I'm able to be the most creative and the most productive.

I just switched seats. The guy beside me (truthfully, I thought he was a woman until a few minutes ago) has had verbal diarrhea for the first hour of the flight, not to mention pepperoni-scented burps. Ironically, I was impatient with the fact that he was impeding my progress on writing this blog.

About patience.

Guess I have a lot to learn.

Mwahahahahahaha!

2010-09-11T03:22:00.000-07:00

Mwahahahahahaha.

Yup, that's the transliteration of my evil laugh as I fly to the Philippines to produce an album and assume creative control of someone else's musical aspirations.

This sadistic desire dates from the days of 'group learning' projects in high school where, much to the delight of the rest of my group, I would often complete the entire assignment myself to make sure it was done, and done right.

I also take charge of my wardrobe. I iron my own shirts, but I don't fold my underwear. Nobody folds my underwear.

This may be news to some of you, but I also like to dominate grapes. I love popping the hapless fruits between my lips so that they snap back against the roof of my mouth, sometimes two or three at a time. In grape-tossing situations, I also prefer to be the 'pitcher', not the 'catcher', despite the large size of my mouth.

It was this desire to call the shots and exercise creative control, while in the studio with my hard rock band Silversafe, that initially led me to record (and produce) my first solo album, and embark on my career as a solo artist. While working on Crown Point's new album in Vancouver, BC, it was this same desire that caused renowned producer Jeff Johnson to, I imagine, want to pat me on the back at times. By 'pat', I mean 'slap', and by 'back' I mean 'face', of course.

Now, for the first time, I've been hired to produce an album. The artist? An up-and-coming singer/songwriter from Guam, Cara Flores.

As a result, I find myself sitting in seat 29G on Korean Air Flight 20, headed for Seoul and ultimately Manila.

I have one word for you. That word, of course, is Gochujang.

Never heard of it? You will. It's the Korean hot pepper paste that, for an afternoon at 35,000 feet, made my mouth very, very happy, salvaging an otherwise blandtastic meal of rice, seaweed soup, some chili pickle concoction, and of course honeydew.

To be honest, Gochujang and honeydew were meant for each other. It was a beautiful thing. Brought tears to my eyes, tears which had much to do with the fact that I emptied the rest of the 20-gram tube on the hapless honeydew before inserting the whole mess in my mouth amid the polite giggles of my seatmate.

Little does she know that I'm only laughing because she smells like baby powder. Did she just have her diaper changed? I have no idea.

Two thumbs up for Korean Air and their extraordinary hospitality, by the way. If I had been blessed with a third thumb, it would be up as well. Honestly the most courteous and helpful flight attendants I've ever seen.

In any case, I couldn't be more excited to work with Cara. Her songs are lyrically-driven and stand on their own with nothing more than a piano and vocal, which always makes a producer's job easier. Little does she know that I'm about to find a way to sneak the words "oily discharge" into every single song.

Who knows? This could be the start of an unexpected career path for me. Long after I've passed the age of commercial viability as an artist, and long after my face has been repeatedly steam-pressed by the ubiquitous Botox iron, I could still be lending my creative input to young artists who are thankfully too young to remember and remind me of the 'other' John Davidson, not to mention the landmark embarrassments of my time: New Coke, Darfur, George W., and, of course, Three Doors Down.

There's an ad in the Korean Air in-flight magazine that declares: "2010-2012: Visit Korea Year."

Here's hoping that these next three years will be one amazing year.

I've slept for four hours in the last 40, and delirium is starting to kick in. We're starting to descend into Seoul, and it's a gloomy day. I was just informed over the loudspeaker that it's 25 degrees Celsius on the ground, which, I'm told, is equivalent to 55 degrees Fahrenheit. Hmm. Probably just the exchange rate.

I've got a two-hour layover in Seoul, and a four-hour flight to Manila, followed by an hour taxi ride to Makati City.

Annyonghi kasayo.

Size Does Matter

2010-08-31T23:46:00.000-07:00

Size does matter.

When it comes to Alaska, everyone knows that everything is bigger. Everything except for the cramped Economy class seat that I'm sitting in on my flight to Anchorage. Nothing but a flimsy armrest is keeping the kind lady seated next to me from oozing into my personal man-space.

However, Juneau that this is the last time I'll be cramped on this trip. Only a Homer doesn't Nome that Alaska is the biggest state in the US, and I'll have plenty of room to roam. Kenai tell you how excited I am to get there? My Haines are all in a wad, and I can't Barrow the suspense. If you don't think Alaska is unbelievable, you are in Denali. I'm looking forward to the State Fair, where you can do everything from admire enormous pumpkins to watch professionals give a bear a body piercing or give a Yakutat. I might have to Wrangell for a place to Sitka at a few events, and hopefully I don't end up near anyone who smells like open Seward. I should probably stop at a store and Ketchikan of Axe Body Spray to take with me, just in case. I don't mean to beat a Deadhorse, but I Kiana can't wait to arrive.

Thus far, this is quite possibly the corniest blog entry I've ever written.

Somebody, please pry this laptop from my hands.

I seem to have digressed from what matters: Size. Length, width, girth: Alaska has it all. One would assume that significant shrinkage would occur due to the cold, but Alaska has managed to retain its original size.

I once saw a t-shirt with the outline of Alaska encompassing the outline of Texas, with the caption "Ain't Texas Cute?"

Did you know that the land area of the city limits and borough of Juneau, Alaska's capital, are larger than Rhode Island and Delaware combined? And that Juneau is only Alaska's third-largest city by area?

You could fit over five Oregons neatly inside Alaska's boundaries.

Sorry, Texas. You got pwned.

I'm actually more excited for our three days off in Alaska than I am for our two Alaska State Fair shows, our radio appearance, and our Anchorage concert. Glaciers, mountains, fjords, and, of course, America's #1 threat, bears!

I'm also pretty excited to share with you the fact that Russell, my bandmate in Crown Point, a grown man of sound mind in his 20s, literally just learned about four hours ago that the plural of "moose" was, in fact, not "meese". True story.

And now, to pressing public health issues: How is it possible that cigarette smoking is banned on domestic flights, while it's perfectly legal to open and consume noxious containers of garlic-ridden potato salad, of questionable freshness, at will? C'mon lady, I'm dying here.

Through a break in the clouds, I can see massive Mt. Fairweather. Our kind flight attendant has just informed us that "it's that magic hour where we get to put away our electronic devices." What are we, twelve? "Jonny, have we cleaned our room?" "Mom, if this is a team effort, you certainly haven't done your part." And magic hour? Does my laptop disappear when I put it in the case? What am I going to see? Rabbits? Unicorns? A bag of mystery cocaine miraculously appear in Paris Hilton's purse?

Alaska, here I come. Something tells me that amidst your unbelievably massive natural beauty, I'll be reminded of how small we really are, yet how much our lives really matter.

Blog Nectar

2010-08-24T11:19:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, the blog nectar was flowing. I wrote every week, or at least a couple times a month; my management was exploring publishing options for my writing, and all was right in the world.

Once upon a time, a Jon Davidson blog entry was something you could count on regularly, like the Old Faithful geyser, Lindsey Lohan getting a DUI, cocaine being found in Lindsey Lohan's car, Lindsey Lohan going to rehab, Lindsey Lohan going to the hospital, et al..

What happened?

Now, blogs seemingly come as infrequently as Lindsey Lohan appearing in a movie, or Lindsey Lohan making a good decision of any kind.

Why am I picking on Ms. Lohan? I don't know. This is old news. Forgive me for not having the time to keep up on the latest brainless she-tabloid fodder.

Well, for those of you who haven't yet switched over to Facebook (only to find out that in a lot of ways [insert Farmville-esque game here] it's just as annoying as MySpace) and followed my status updates, here's a little of what's been going on.

But first, I'd like to thank Ms. White, my junior high English teacher, for cementing in my brain the rules regarding using brackets inside parentheses, as well as creepily and almost daily telling me that I should wear pleated khakis because she was sure I looked so good in them. For the record, it is mathematically impossible to look good in pleated khakis. Then again, Ms. White didn't teach math.

Insert Family Guy digressive vignette here.

As you probably know, I'm in a new band called Crown Point. Last month, we toured to Illinois and back, playing at Cornerstone Festival and breaking down eight times along the way. Over the last couple weeks, we've been recording our debut album in Vancouver, BC with Jeff Johnson, a producer with an affinity for zipper masks (don't ask) who has worked with the likes of Nickelback, Jet Black Stare, Adelita's Way, and Divide The Day. Nickelback's drummer, Daniel Adair, even played drums on one song on the album, much to the chagrin of rock purists and the joy of everyone else who is smiling everywhere.

Did you know that in Pocatello, Idaho, the self-proclaimed Smile Capital of the US, you can be issued a ticket for frowning in public? Look it up. It seems like a vicious cycle to me: you're issued a ticket, causing you to frown even more. At this point, you're issued another ticket, and so on. Hey, who am I to judge the means by which a city creates revenue? Unless it's child prostitution, of course. At that point, I could probably feel good about judging.

I commuted back and forth to Canada so as to not cancel any shows. If Chester's Chicken can feature a smiling cowboy chicken in its logo, who is undoubtedly a) thrilled about the fact that he's about to be cruelly slaughtered and eaten and b) a diehard country music fan, I can call it a commute, okay?

After a couple of weekend tours to eastern Idaho, we're headed to Alaska next week for two shows at the Alaska State Fair. We'll be sharing the bill with Shinedown and Collective Soul, and getting a couple days off to visit Denali and consume an entire hippo-sized gourd.

I'll then be in Portland for two days before flying to the Philippines to produce an album for Cara Flores, an alt/pop/soul artist from Guam.

Then, after another two days in Portland, Crown Point and I are embarking on a 7-week nationwide tour, opening for Tyrone Wells and Andrew Belle. If you haven't checked out Tyrone and Andrew, do yourself a favor, get cozy in your limited-edition Weezer Snuggie, and listen to their music. Tyrone, the former lead singer of Skypark, is signed to Universal Republic and is best known for a couple of Top-20 hits, including "More." If his music doesn't make you think about what really matters, then you most likely don't understand English, which makes the fact that you're managing to read this dramatically undermine your credibility. Andrew has had songs in shows such as Grey's Anatomy and won some VMA Awards.

Chances are, we're playing in your city. Dallas, Austin, Oklahoma City, Houston, Birmingham, Nashville, DC, New York, Philly, Chicago, Indy, St. Louis, Boston, Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Denver, Salt Lake, Boise, Spokane, San Luis Obispo, Portland, LA, Sacramento, San Francisco, Seattle, Wichita. To name a few. I reckon I would love to shoot the breeze with all y'all at a show (sorry, Chester and I have obviously been spending too much time together).

I'm really excited about this tour, mainly because I get to see 35 Tyrone Wells shows for free, but also because Mr. Wells is a class act with a calling, we're playing some great venues, and we'll have a chance to meet a lot of amazing individuals and hit a bunch of cities whose radio stations will be spinning singles off of our new album.

I'll be back home in Portland around November 20. Hopefully, my cat will still remember her daddy.

I can't wait to keep you posted on the tour, and to hopefully see you at a show.

If I don't get the chance to write another blog entry for awhile, you'll know what happened to the blog nectar.

Tired

2010-06-12T23:57:00.000-07:00

I have something I need to say.

As I type, the profound words of a hit song are running through my head, guiding the content of this blog post.

"Say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say."

Thanks for that, John. At least you probably never forget the words to that one when playing live.

According to my count, he utters the word 'say' exactly 75 times in this song. By all means, waste a few minutes of your life figuring out if I'm right or wrong.

Unlike Mr. Mayer, what I need to say contains at least some subtle variance between clauses.

So what, you ask, do I really need to say?

No, I'm not a homosexual. Sorry, Andrew.

No, I don't have any STDs, or a secret drug problem. I do take Propecia, but never more than the recommended dose. Who knows what would even happen if I did. Tongue hair, anyone?

No, I'm not a closet Republican, I'm not lactose intolerant, I don't know where Waldo is, and no, I'm not pregnant, as far as I know.

Without further ado, here it is: I'm tired.

I'm not talking about sleep. I actually got a pretty restful six and a half hours of sleep last night, and faithfully imbibed my daily regimen of four cups of mediocre black coffee this morning.

No, it's something more than being physically exhausted.

Don't get me wrong: I've been busy. The Friday before last, I released my new solo CD with my band Crown Point at the Doug Fir in Portland. We sold out the show. The night before, my other band Silversafe played with Powerman 5000 to a sold-out Hawthorne Theater. Earlier last week, I made an appearance on
Portland's KGW Channel 8, an in-store appearance at a world-renowned record store, and a live appearance on Portland's biggest rock station, KUFO.

I'm also leaving on tour with Crown Point to Illinois in a couple weeks. 17 dates, two festivals, 10 states. We parted ways with our bassist this last week, so we've been busy getting a replacement up to speed, as well as firming up radio and TV spots, accommodations, and other details for the tour. Not to mention
answering a multitude of fan emails, practicing, and sending out posters to various street teams around the country.

So, needless to say, I haven't been sleeping enough. Mom, if you're reading this, save yourself the trouble of calling. I already know what you're going to say.

It's more than a need for REM, though. It's a need for peace. I feel like my soul is being worn thin.

When I first started playing music, it was something beautiful. Something meaningful, spiritual, cathartic.

While in college, I switched majors six times, and finally settled on Communications, which my guidance counselor assured me would get me a degree in the shortest amount of time. After trying a little of everything (scholastically speaking), I realized that music was the only thing that made me happy, that made me feel fulfilled.

Ever since then, I've been pursuing a dream of being a professional musician. My career started as a part-time drummer in a crappy garage band. I then sang and played guitar and bass for a couple of well-intentioned grunge bands before moving on to an acoustic pop band. I then became the singer and screamer in a metal band. Next, I went solo, then joined an acoustic duo, then formed a pop/rock band.

I've been on twelve lengthy tours, had a tour van break down five times, played in almost every US state and 5 countries, and had two songs on hundreds of FM stations. I've met some amazing people, fans and musicians alike, played with some pretty big names, and sold more records than I ever thought I would. And
I don't regret any of it so far.

Somewhere, though, in all of this, the simple joy of playing music has all but disappeared. Gone the way of Ray Allen's shot in this year's NBA Finals.

It's a business, folks. I am an entrepreneur in one of the world's most cutthroat industries. To ignore the business aspect of a music career is to kiss your aspirations goodbye. No tongue, please.

I haven't written a blog post in awhile. Nor have I written any songs lately. I feel like my proverbial well has run dry. Worse, I'm in an industry where wells are frowned upon, shunned; where everyone is forced to hook up to city water to survive. The same blandly reliable city water that everyone else on your street is
drinking. No wells. No waterfalls. No flash floods. Just a faucet and a knob.

I can't remember the last time that I actually had the chance to sit down somewhere beautiful and play my guitar. And sing. To myself, to God, to whatever varmints might be listening.

I want to rediscover the spark, the passion, the purpose of playing music. Why am I doing it? Why do I spend seventy hours a week on something that doesn't satisfy? Should I be pouring my energies into something else? Or taking a different approach to the music business? Or take some time off? Or keep my
schedule jam-packed in the hopes that things will work themselves out? Time and life are not renewable resources.

I love my bands. I love my fans and friends. I love my manager, my attorney, and especially my PR coordinator. I love being on stage. I love traveling. I love meeting new people every day. I love Russell Stafford. (There, I said it.) Don't get me wrong: there's still plenty that I love about what I do. I simply never wanted it to turn into just another job, albeit one with killer benefits.

This blog post doesn't have a tidy ending. Nor will it make you laugh, unless you're a jerkface. I'm not digging for encouraging messages in return. It's not often easy for me to be vulnerable and admit that I don't have a finger on the pulse of happiness and fulfillment all the time. So, I'm actually writing this for my
own sake. If you're still reading, thanks. Goodnight.

Ricky Martin And A Partridge In A Pear Tree

2010-03-30T12:19:00.000-07:00

Ricky Martin made headlines this week when he formally announced that he is gay.

In other news, the Pope has finally come out and revealed that he is Catholic, and Ron Jeremy is expected to declare that he is of above average endowment later this week.

It's about time, Ricky. You had us all fooled. Or perhaps there is something we don't know about Rebecca De Alba's anatomy.

How is this news? It's as if Yahoo had decided to run an expose on the fact that the Chicago Cubs do, in fact, suck.

I will admit: I still took the time to read the story. On two different websites.

It's mind-boggling to think of how much time I spend on menial activities, like reading said quasi-news stories, or folding my underwear, or attempting to get the ends of a trash bag open so I can line a trash can with it. I estimate that I spend at least 30 profanity-laden seconds per trash-bag change, which happens probably twice a week. That's a minute a week, wasted. Gone. 52 minutes a year. If I live to be 85, I will have spent 73.6 hours, or just over three full days of my life, wrestling with my plastic demons.

I wish I could just get all three of those days out of the way at once. Maybe. That IS a lot of sack to deal with in a short period of time. Perhaps Ricky Martin would be willing to help out.

I slept in today. Got to bed at 1:30, and woke up at 9:45. I honestly cannot recall the last time I had a chance to do that. I can't comprehend the fact that the average American watches six hours of TV a day. Six hours? Since canceling my cable last year, I haven't even watched a total of six hours of TV in 2010. It seems silly to live through imaginary people's lives when you could be living your own.

And don't even get me started on these MySpace and Facebook games. From the comfort of your own profile, you can start a food fight. You can join the mafia. You can buy your friends as pets. You can get poked, groped and fondled. You can even get pooped on. Look it up.

I really don't get it. Is there really nothing better you could be doing with your life? Even Solitaire requires some sort of mental function. Sadly, this inanity is indicative of society at large, and not just of some lunatic fringe. What could possibly be so important that it would keep the typical American from hitting the gym, writing their grandparents, getting an education, being a contributing family member, and pursuing a lasting and rewarding career? SuperPets, that's what. One hundred years ago, kids worked on the farm. Now, they work on Farmville.

In the thirty minutes that I've spent writing this blog, I've gotten invitations to join RockYou Pets, Vegas, StreetRep, Image Lovecheck, SuperHug, Vampires, and MafiaWorld. That's on MySpace alone. On Facebook, during this past half hour, I've gotten a request to join a world war, and have been gifted a zebra, which I am supposed to send back. Let me spell it out for you: If anybody sends me a zebra, or any other large, multicolored ungulate, I'm keeping it. No ifs, ands, or bison, okapi? You'd be lucky if I even returned a wallaby. Most likely, it would be AWOLaby.

While no one would accuse me of being unopinionated on the matter, I'm not saying free time is a bad thing. A total lack of it is enough to drive anyone crazy.

This month has left me teetering dangerously on the brink.

Saturday, I finally got back from a three-week tour to SXSW with my new band, Crown Point. 6,000 miles. 17 shows. Eight states One trailer destroyed. One ring swallowed by an obsessed fan in Colorado Springs. One crack den posing as a live music venue. One unfortunate and ill-advised attempt to pee into the wind on the side of the interstate. Three flights. One spring snowstorm in Cheyenne that shut down I-80.

Two crazy nights in Austin. One Houston show shut down by the fire marshal for being over capacity. One show canceled. Two shows with me on drums. Two 22-hour drives. One Dallas snowstorm. Ten days of checking Weather.com to find that it was 20 degrees warmer in Portland than in Texas where we were. One great merch girl from Boise who worked her butt off and had a snore that could have been construed as sound copyright infringement by Husqvarna Chainsaws. One great manager from Spokane who worked his butt off and snored louder than our merch girl. Six sets of earplugs. 25 sleeping pills (not at one time). 35 energy drinks. 10 shots of espresso. 50 bananas. Three band members slapped by banana peels.

One security guard in Gallup, NM, with a chip on her shoulder. Hundreds of amazing fans and friends in cities everywhere. One fan masquerading as Sammy Hagar. One cab ride home at sunrise in Austin. Two nights sleeping at five-star hotels. Two nights sleeping in a no-star van. Three pairs of guitar strings.

Two live Web streams of our shows. One crazy band from Philadelphia that played car keys, threatened to perform operations on fans, and punched each other. One amazing band from Chicago with killer vox and a hot violin player. One open blues jam band. Two hilarious radio DJs in Cheyenne that not only had us on the air but came to that night's show. One run-in with pretentious employees at Jimmy John's. Two men painted silver on soapboxes.

One flat tire a mile from the KKK capital of America. One pack of wild dogs. Two backwoods mechanics. Three bottles of hot sauce consumed. Two in-store appearances. Eight straight nights of being awake after 5 AM. Seventeen death threats directed at my Verizon mobile broadband card. One nice surprise in Boise. Six bottles of homemade 80 proof Kahlua. Three bottles of cayenne pepper powder for my throat. Six 9V batteries for my wireless mic. Six hours a day spent working on my computer. One camera dropped and broken as a result of an impromptu, vaguely homoerotic gymnastics performance with our publicist in Austin. And a partridge in a pear tree.

Yeah, it was a crazy tour. But if I had an extra thumb, I'd probably give it three thumbs up.

I firmly believe that there is no such thing as luck, whether you're a musician, an entrepreneur, a plumber, a gigolo. The harder you work to put yourself in the right place, the more likely you are to experience what outsiders might categorize as good luck.

There is also no such thing as time wasted. With every minute of your life, you make a decision. You decide how to spend it. We are all getting older, together; the hourglass of time is a relentless foe. It's an endless march of sand, as Thrice puts it. How we spend our time determines who we are becoming.

If your time is spent on yourself, you will end up a selfish person. If your time is spent giving, you will end up a loving individual. If your time is spent rooting for the Detroit Lions, you will probably wish you were dead.

A fan in Idaho came up to me after a show last month and told me that the lyrics of my song "Perfect Cliche" had given her the strength to forgive her dad and to reconcile their relationship. It's easy for me, and arguably for most songwriters and authors, to get lost in self-importance and to think that the words we write are changing lives and touching people. It's rare to actually, tangibly, see that take place.

It's no easy road, spending time on things that matter. Why not put off for tomorrow what we should be doing today? In the words of "Perfect Cliche": "Difficult to try and quell the insurrection of time against the soul. And now you're left with the regret of all that's left undone and unsaid, but who collects on emotional debts anyway? Maybe today, and maybe tomorrow; maybe before your time is taken away. Maybe today you'll break what you've borrowed, or maybe you'll mend it with a perfect cliche."

Time is precious. Spend it wisely.

Haiti: Have It Your Way.

2010-02-02T13:54:00.000-08:00

There are three types of people.

Don't believe anything you've read before. Ever. This is how it breaks down.

First, there are people who don't give a rat's ass. Or any other part of the rat, for that matter. They're especially selfish with rat spleens, which, to be fair, are delicious with a little barbecue sauce.

Self-absorbed, self-sufficient. This group tells Haiti that building their capital city on a faultline was arguably the dumbest decision in history (with the possible exception of giving Flavor Flav his own reality show). They also say things like "God hates French" and have bumper stickers that read "Obama: Not MY president." Reality check: if you live in America, Obama IS your president. Whether you're a Republican or a Democrat, whether you think he's a god or the Antichrist, whether you think beef stroganoff is a food or a herd of masturbating cattle, we don't get to pick who our president is after they've been elected.

Your only options are to deal with it or to pull a Peter Griffin and secede. Or go hunting with Dick Cheney and hope for the worst.

Second, there's a large group of people that sends a check to the Red Cross. Members of this group have three books of "First Class Forever" stamps in their gloveboxes. Their hearts are bigger than their work boots. Actually, they probably don't own a pair. Sorry, ladies, but Gucci Pratos don't count. This group might look for the easiest way to help, but who says easy can't be effective? (Just ask a hooker.) Case in point: U.S. cellphone users have already donated almost $10 million to the American Red Cross via text message in the Haiti earthquake aftermath.

Kids, if you're ever caught texting in class, you now have a killer excuse.

Third, there is a small group of people who are the hands and feet of relief efforts. It's crazy to me to think of being 'on call' for the Red Cross or a similar organization, ready to drop everything at a moment's notice to place oneself in harm's way. Why? Because somebody, somewhere, is suffering.

In case you're wondering, I belong to Grupo Numero Dos.

Yes, I studied Spanish in college. Want to learn a cool phrase? Try this: "Jon Davidson es asombroso. Compre su nuevo álbum." Teach it to all your friends!

Growing up, I thought 'manual labor' was the work involved in changing gears in a stick shift. Since the Haiti earthquake, I, along with Russell Stafford (who I play most of my acoustic shows with), have donated all the proceeds from ticket, album, and merch sales at my shows to the American Red Cross. I'm happy to say we've raised several thousand dollars, but that's just a drop in a Carnie Wilson-sized bucket.

What is an injured, starving Haitian going to do with a dollar bill? Stores are closed, damaged, looted. Dollar bills are low in nutrients, and you can't live off of the blow they invariably contain for all that long.

I would love to be in group 3.

Maybe someday, I keep telling myself. Maybe when the next uber-disaster rolls around. Right now, I have too much on my proverbial plate, and bigger, more accomodating proverbial plates are hard to come by.

I think of the fact that I don't have any formal training in medicine or disaster response, and that my tetanus shot is as out of date as Beyonce's dress at this year's Grammys. I tell myself that I would just be 'in the way'.

I weigh 170 man-pounds. Who or what exactly would I be getting in the way of?

In the case of Haiti, all the money in Halliburton's Cayman Islands account wouldn't make a difference if there was nobody available to administer supplies, to pass out food, to keep order, to give medical care.

Membership in group 3 is coveted, revered. It's more NBA All-Star, less Pro Bowl. It seems to be the most tangible, hands-on way to bring help to the helpless. However, just as there can be no group 2 without a group 3, there can be no group 3 without a group 2. You group 2-timers know who you are. Have you texted "HAITI" to your cellphone provider? Have you rounded off to the nearest dollar at the supermarket? If so, I commend you. If I were wearing a hat, I would tip it. If I were wearing a dress, there's a small chance I'd even curtsey if you asked nicely.

When you're giving, the way that you give becomes almost irrelevant. Don't feel like you're doing less with a cellphone than someone else is doing with a stethoscope and a bag of blood. We may have taken the easy road, but our job is important, too.

The media uproar that arose about cruise ships docking just miles from the Port-au-Prince devastation was completely unwarranted. First of all, the island clearly needs money, and not in the hands of its corrupt government. Tourism provides this. Second, I'd bet my appendix on the fact that most, if not all, of the members of the media that blew this story out of proportion aren't spending their entire day doing something for Haiti.

Really? You boxed up your leftover Triple Bypass..I mean, Triple Big Mac..and airmailed it? You wiped with Red Cross toilet paper? You're skipping the Super Bowl to donate blood? You flew down, snatched up ten Haitian kids, and tried to bring them back?

OK, not funny. And also illegal.

WWJK? Who would Jesus kidnap?

According to a Jan. 27 news report, the Haitian earthquake caused an estimated 250,000 fatalities, and disease, starvation and a lack of medical care will push the death toll even higher.

This means that over 84 times as many people died in Haiti than did in 9/11. Imagine 84 9/11 attacks merged into one cataclysm and you'll get a picture of the suffering and loss that has taken place.

84.

250,000. Most in mass graves.

9/11 was a terrible tragedy, to be sure, and I don't make this comparison to turn it into some inopportune yet minor contretemps. Obviously it wasn't a natural disaster but rather an event caused by humanity, which places it in a different category altogether. However, I'm just trying to enumerate what's taken place in Haiti in a tangible way.

Just because this tragedy is slowly fading from our collective consciousness doesn't mean that all the problems have been solved, needs have been met, or even that all the bodies have been found.

It's been heartwarming to see the generosity of fans at our Red Cross benefit shows who have given and given to help people they've never met. America as a nation has definitely made mistakes, from foreign policy to internal affairs. But let's not overlook the incredible magnanimity of its citizens.

I encourage you to get involved in the way that is best for you. Go to Haiti and help if you can. Or, go donate blood. Or money. Or clothes and goods. Text "HAITI".

The important thing is that you do something. People are counting on you.

This Year: Ten Or Oh-Ten?

2010-01-02T02:34:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year. Or something.

Isn't New Year's kind of ridiculous? First of all, there are way too many different calendars in use, each with their own New Year's date. There's the Gregorian calendar, the Chinese or Xia calendar, the Swimsuit calendar..

Who was this Gregorian guy, anyway? And why should he dictate the one night that most Americans decide to get wasted?

Actually, that's pretty much every night. What country besides the USA celebrates other countries' independence days simply as another excuse to drink?

Did you know that Cinco de Mayo (which is not even Mexico's official independence day) is only officially celebrated in one Mexican state?

Did you know that Mexico has states?

Back to Gregory: apparently, he was a pope. He was the eighth pope named Gregory. In those days, all you had to do if you wanted your son to become Pope was to name him Gregory. Oh yeah, and make sure he was white, and lived in Rome. And looked good in a mitre.

Letting him die of the Black Plague would probably diminish his chances of ascending to the papacy, as well, so keeping your son in good health was a must.

I digress.

Anyway, Gregory XIII introduced his namesake calendar in 1582 by way of papal bull. This holy cow spread the word regarding the new calendar, goring and trampling those who dared not to adopt it.
Regardless of what Wikipedia says, a papal bull is not another word for a decree. It's a very angry animal that will literally rip your heathen face off.

Gregory's calendar replaced that of Julius Caesar. Rather than feel disenfranchised, Julius quickly realized that his future was in the orange fruit smoothie business, and the rest is history.

With Gregorian New Years come New Year's Resolutions. They suck. What makes otherwise sane individuals think that they'll somehow be imbued with all the self-control that they couldn't muster the year before? I wonder how long the average New Year's resolution lasts. Probably not even as long as Kevin
Federline's career.

Why do we as humans lack self-discipline? I speak for myself here: I'm brimming with good intentions, yet my actions and choices consistently fall short of the mark that my heart and mind have set. A famous author once said: "For what I want to do I do not do."

New Year's seems to be just another quick-fix solution, another South Beach Diet, another HydroxyCut. In reality, it's just another day: according to the Julian calendar, January 1 is actually December 21, so clearly the day itself has no exceeding importance. As P.O.D. put it, "Every day is a new day..so I learn from
my mistakes."

That's the key, I think: not trying to flip a switch. We can't become totally different people overnight; change and growth take time. If we continuously learn from our shortcomings and learn to love just a little bit better, we'll accomplish in time what a thousand different well-intentioned New Year's Resolutions never could.

One last question of utmost importance has been weighing on my mind.

Should we refer to this year as 'Ten' or 'Oh-Ten'?

Obviously, last year was 'Oh-Nine.' So it would seem logical that we would continue to use the last two digits of the year to refer to the year shorthandedly.

'Ten,' though, just doesn't flow. It seems more appropriate when used in reference to my pant size in women's jeans. Don't judge me.

However, although 'Oh-Ten' is still technically equitable, it just doesn't make sense. Nobody says 'Oh-Oh-Nine'. Unless they stutter.

If Gandhi were alive right now, my first, and arguably only, important question to him would be: "How did you abbreviate 1910?" I'm sure that he would non-violently resist the use of any inferior abbreviations.

I guess we'll never know.

Mountain Biking The Amish Way

2009-12-04T15:21:00.000-08:00

I just finished an epic mountain bike ride.

Five clear Portland December days in a row are about as rare as an old British guy with all his teeth. Like, actually still in his mouth. I knew I had to take advantage of the dry singletrack for perhaps the last time in '09.
As a result of the clear skies, though, it's been ridiculously cold the last week or so. As I write, the temperature outside is 37 degrees Fahrenheit. All of my fans in South Dakota and Saskatchewan are laughing as they read this.

However, once you factor in the wind chill, and the east wind blowing in from the Columbia Gorge, and Oregon's extremely high barometric Berscheid factor...

OK, I'm just a wuss. There's no such thing as the Berscheid factor. Yet.

In any case, I knew it was best to bundle up before heading out to face such bleak conditions. I glanced at myself in the mirror before walking out the door.

Brown North Face fleece. Black snowboarding gloves. The svelte fuzzy grey beanie-under-red-bike-helmet combo.

Khaki shorts. White tube socks. Blue thermal underwear. Long johns, if you please.

Anytime I can write 'long' and 'john' in the same phrase, I will.

I was a walking (well, riding) fashion faux pas. For a guy who refuses to brush his teeth with a toothbrush that doesn't match his shirt, this outfit was the Titanic on a collision course with the iceberg of Goodwill. I was tempted to ride there and literally donate everything I was wearing. However, naked bike rides aren't even that much fun during the summer, and we all know what cold weather does to the male anatomy. No more long john.

However, as pneumonia also isn't on my bucket list, I wasn't too concerned with how I looked as I rode the trails of Powell Butte. It was a great ride, by the way. I only saw one other foolhardy biker on the trail, and he looked even more ridiculous than I did. So, of course, I laughed at him.

I will gladly sacrifice style anyday for the sake of something I love. So will most people, I think. Did those businessmen I was watching the Oregon-Oregon State game with last night really, firmly believe that those Beavers neckties were the perfect match for their light blue Oxford shirts?

Actually, sadly, they probably did.

As I was pedaling down 174th St. to get to the trailhead, I passed an Amish man in a horse and buggy. Well, more of a pony and buggy. This would've been a commonplace sight in Indiana where I grew up, but I'm pretty sure this guy was a long way from home. Still, he waved and smiled as I blew past him on my Trek 8700 carbon-fiber 27-speed mountain bike.

I could take him head-to-head anyday.

All you strapping young Amish lads can take that as a direct challenge. Ponies only, though, please.

Do you know the reason why Amish men shave their mustaches? Contrary to popular belief, it's not because they are enamored with Abraham Lincoln. On the contrary, it's because the mustache is, in their minds, an emblem of war and the military, involvement in which they are morally opposed to. Personally, I think that beards without mustaches look pretty weird. They look even weirder if the wearer also has a unibrow, but that's a whole different story.

At least the Amish can compensate for their emasculating lack of a flavor saver with those uber-pimp top hats.

And by knowing that tourism brings in a cool $30,000 annually, per capita, to many Amish towns.

The Amish have actually had a long history of sacrifice for the sake of what they love and believe. The Amish people originated in 16th century Switzerland out of the Anabaptist movement. Anabaptists believed that everyone should be able to choose what they believe for themselves. Although they had all been baptized as infants, they practiced rebaptism as adults, once the individual was old enough to make his or her own decisions. For this, they were oppressed and sometimes killed, yet they clung to their beliefs.

While I certainly don't champion all of Amish ideology, they must be doing something right. Their simple, hardworking lifestyle, free from most of the pressures and strictures of modern American society, attracts many new converts every year, and their numbers continue to grow across North America.

Due in large part, I trust, to those uber-pimp top hats.

This really could be the first blog ever written that encompasses both mountain biking and Amish. I'm not sure how I got here. I guess, though, that it all comes full circle: the Amish can and do indeed ride bikes. They've even developed a line of uber-pimp top hat bike helmets.

I have no idea if this is true.

I do, however, think it would be fun to be Amish for a day. Hopefully not on a day where a lot of manual labor was getting done. My management contract contains a strict anti-barn-building clause.

It's crazy to me how much of society views the Amish culture in a negative light. People have taken to pelting Amish carriages with rocks. This ended tragically in the case of one six-month-old North Carolina Amish girl who was struck in the head by a rock and died from her injuries. Another Canadian Amish woman also required thousands of dollars of reconstructive surgery after being hit in the face by a beer bottle from a passing car.

Just because we as a society view another culture or group as weird doesn't give us the right to trample on their rights. Amish people are among the most peaceful, most family-oriented, most hardworking people in existence. And they certainly aren't the backwards, ignorant individuals that Hollywood and TV often portray them as. They don't view all technology as evil, but simply look at each new technological advance in an objective light to see if it will bring their families and community together, or drag them further apart.

I'm not sure how I ended up on this pro-Amish soapbox. I honestly can't say that I even know any Amish people. However, I admire their commitment to what they believe, and admire their sense of community and harmony. I admire the fact that they've willingly sacrificed many of the so-called 'comforts' that we enjoy in order to preserve the things that are most important to them.

Would I want to be Amish? No way. Is there something to be learned from their way of life? Most definitely.

Would even a polite young Amish girl laugh at what I'm still wearing as I write this? By all means.

Here's A Tip, Oprah

2009-10-17T13:25:00.001-07:00

By now, if you're in the service industry, you've heard about Oprah's recession-busting advice.

No, it has nothing to do with wise investment, or passing on that 52" plasma. Or cooking up your own crack rather than going out and buying that high-grade coke.

Her advice? It's simple. Don't tip.

Continue to go out to eat as often as you'd like, and spend as much as you'd like. But tipping? So 2007.

When in doubt, ask yourself: what would Oprah tip? WWOT?

Never mind that servers in many states make well below minimum wage from their employers. Somewhere around $2.13 an hour, last I checked. Never mind that servers are taxed by the IRS on their total sales, whether they make tips on those sales or not. Never mind that servers must also tip out bartenders and hosts, and sometimes bussers and cooks, out of what they make on a given evening.

Never mind that if the US decided to legislate a mandated minimum wage for the service industry, restaurants would be forced to raise food and beverage prices dramatically to compensate for all the additional payroll costs.

I think it's great that someone has finally spoken up and said "enough is enough." Servers should make less money, and Oprah should make more. Nothing does one's heart more good than to take money from the working poor simply because Oprah said so.

It's almost the holiday season! Homeless servers can still have Christmas trees; they just have to leave them where they found them, in the city park. Oh, and they can't decorate them, either. Presents? Well, finding that half-eaten donut in the trash is kind of like a present from a stranger. Wrap it up in Big Mac paper, and you've got yourself a regular Christmas!

What's that? You celebrate Hanukkah? You're going to have a harder time finding latkes, those traditional potato pancakes, in the dumpster. Would french fries count?

Look what you've done, Oprah.

There was a time when Oprah worked for a living. A time when she brushed her own teeth, wiped her own butt.

Now, there are people for that.

That's why her advice, to me, seems so paradoxical. Once upon a time, Oprah was pregnant at age 14. Once upon a time, Oprah was a local news co-anchor in Baltimore. Once upon a time, her last name was Winfrey. Oprah singlehandedly created the overarching media empire she presides over today. It seems that private jets, the highest-rated show in history, and gracing the cover of your eponymous magazine every month have a way of smashing those early memories into a Million Little Pieces.

I've heard it said: Every time you don't tip, God kills a kitten.

Oprah HATES kittens. When was the last time you saw one on the cover of her magazine?

She also owns at least nine houses, including a 42-acre oceanview estate in California, purchased solely with all the money she's saved on gratuity over the years.

It's so simple! Don't tip. Buy a mansion. Gain 400 pounds.

Let me clarify two things: First, this blog is not meant to be an exercise in Oprah-bashing. While her statement on tipping showed incredible ignorance and callousness, she has done a lot of philanthropic good with the wealth she has amassed. Oprah's Angel Network has raised over $51 million for underprivileged individuals. She personally donates more of her own money to charity than any other show-business celebrity in America. Fact.

Second, I'm not suggesting that you tip 30 percent across the board whether you felt you were adequately serviced or not. Without getting into specific numbers and percentages, though, I do believe that a good tip is always appropriate, unless the server gave you herpes during the course of dinner.

Listen to Oprah. She has a lot of good things to say.

But ignore, if you will, her advice on tipping. Not to mention her advice on weight loss.

People in the service industry work hard for a living, and few outside of the industry really understand the ins and outs of sub-$3 hourly wages, tipping out, and overtaxation. Servers and bartenders survive on tips. Just the tip. Just for a second..just to see how it feels.

Here's a tip, Oprah: I'd advise you to stay silent on issues you don't fully understand. And furthermore, I wouldn't eat out for awhile, unless you genuinely enjoy the taste of spit.

Loss

2009-10-02T00:24:00.000-07:00

I lost my microphone.

It's an Audix OM7. Nothing special, but it's a pretty good mic. It's Absolut, but not quite Belvedere. Pippen, but not quite Jordan. Dog, but not quite cat. Nonetheless, it's my mic, and I love the way it sounds.

I lost it at a festival in Portland ten days ago. Taken by another band? Perhaps. Why a singer would would want to make out with a black piece of
man-plastic that has been all up on another dude's lips is beyond me. To me, my microphone is like my earwax: meant for my mouth, and my mouth only.

Just for the record, I don't actually eat my earwax. I broke that habit six weeks ago.

In any case, I've been forced to use my backup EV microphone at my last three shows. Making the switch has been like switching from wearing underwear to wearing bubble wrap: it still works, but it's kind of noisy at inopportune times.

I've sent out emails to every staff member at the festival, every sound person, every other band. I've even put up "Missing" signs on area telephone poles, and I roam the streets at night calling its name.

I have a sinking feeling it's not coming home.

My devastating loss, coupled with some other pressing matters involving aspects of my career that are beyond my control, was weighing on my mind as I checked my email yesterday afternoon. I was bombarded with the news of a second, 6.8 magnitude earthquake that had just occurred in Padang, in the wake of yesterday's first quake. 467 people are dead, and thousands are trapped beyond fallen buildings. Come on, world, I'm trying to have a pity party here. Who invited Indonesia?

I have to be honest: nothing puts a missing microphone on the back burner like the tale of a mother desperately searching for her missing 12-year-old daughter, using her bare hands to pull apart the wreckage. The woman told TVOne that her daughter's face and voice kept appearing in her mind constantly throughout the night.

A couple months ago, I wrote a song called "Sound Of Your Voice" for my next album. I've lost way too many people that I love, including an uncle to cancer a couple years ago and a college friend to suicide last year. My fondest memories of the loved ones I've lost often involve the sound of their voices: they way they laughed, the way they said their trademark jokes and phrases.

A line from the song's first verse: "Silence is waiting, reiterating that life and loss are one."

Somewhere in between the story of the earthquakes and that of Tuesday's killer tsunami, I stopped thinking about my microphone. Sure, I'm bummed about it. But in the grand scheme, it's a pretty nominal thing to lose.

It's as if the server forgot the artichokes on my pizza. Do I love artichokes? You bet. Will I stand up on a table in the middle of the restaurant, rip my shirt, and fling soup spoons at the server? Definitely. Will I drench a hapless onlooker at a nearby table with Cabernet because THEY got artichokes? Of course!

Did that really happen? I probably shouldn't say.

But in the end, artichokes or no artichokes, I can still sleep at night. Even if it's in jail.

Everyone I know has misplaced something at least once. I have a friend who lost a shoe in Vegas somehow, and another who to this day doesn't know where two of her teeth are. I realized recently that I've been keeping the spare set of keys for my car in my car. Not my best work.

And let's not even get into those parents who keep their otherwise healthy children on leashes.

It's tempting to regard trivial loss as more than it is. Microphones can be replaced. Children cannot.

Some questions don't have easy answers.

Reach out to someone who has lost someone or something important. Spend some time with them. Say a prayer, give a hug. Ask them what you can do to help them make it through.

In the midst of loss, help someone gain a lasting friendship.

The Rubik's Cube That Could Change The World

2009-09-14T01:27:00.000-07:00

I've never written a blog entry from an airplane before. I failed to bring any reading material whatsoever to Vancouver, BC with me. The copy of the Horizon Airlines magazine in the seat in front of me has a soggy, crumb-filled bottom.

Not unlike my great aunt Betty.

So, here I sit, joining some sort of epistolary version of the Mile High Club.

I'm sitting in seat 8D, directly adjacent to the right wing's propellor. Those things are louder than a baby getting circumcised, which could actually be happening somewhere else on the plane for all I know. Fortunately, the props are blocking out the sound of the greasy chick's iPod from across the aisle. The screen says she's rocking out to some Paris Hilton.

The 8-year old kid sitting next to me just finished a Rubik's Cube competition in Vancouver. He got a nineteen-second solve time on a regular cube, and I just watched him solve a 5x5 cube in about three minutes. Pretty amazing. As you might guess, he sports a pocket protector, is a total dork, will die a virgin, and will probably end up making some incredible technological or scientific discovery that will change the world.

Ah, Horizon Airlines. Free Jones Soda and Oktoberfest. Why must your flights be so short?

On my flight up to BC yesterday, I sat next to James Curley, the former CEO of Salomon Sporting Goods and the current president of Portland-based Keen Shoes. He's a super chill guy, and a closet musician himself. He invited me up to his brother's downtown penthouse last night, but unfortunately we were mixing my new single, "Easier Said Than Done," in the studio until after 1 am.

I also almost got invited to party with Taylor Swift. Unfortunately, Kanye ran up and grabbed her phone right as she was about to give me a call.

What is it about the spotlight that people crave? Attention is a good thing; everyone wants to be noticed, and everyone wants to be heard. It's a basic human trait that we all share.

Not all of us are cut out to be the Voice Of Our Generation, though. Not JT. And certainly not Taylor Swift. Who wanted to listen to her genuine, heartfelt acceptance speech at the VMA's anyway?

What is it about celebrities that makes our culture hold their every word, their every viewpoint, in such high regard?

Any idea what the top story on Yahoo.com three days ago was?

Yeah, that's right. 9/11 was three days ago. Probably some tribute to brave Americans, right?

Wrong. This is much bigger than remembrance, much bigger than a couple of silly towers and some dead people.

Paris Hilton's wisdom has been immortalized in the renowned Oxford Book Of Quotations! Her quote? "Dress cute wherever you go, life is too short to blend in."

Don't think for a minute, though, that Paris doesn't know what it's like to suffer, much like the victims of 9/11. In the words of her mega-hit "Jailhouse Baby," there's a crazy world at war, right outside of her front door...like a public enemy...all those lonely nights of terror...

What did Paris have to say about being featured in such a distinguished book alongside the likes of Confucius, Martin Luther King Jr., and Stephen Hawking? "So cool that I have a quote in the dictionary," she wrote. ZOMG, girl, that is, like, so cool, LMFAO!

What's next, Paris for President? At the Palms chilling with a martini. Paris For President. Your commander in bikini!

Fittingly, Oxford opted to print her epic quotation with incorrect punctuation. You guessed it--that should be a semicolon, not a comma, in between clauses.

Why do we as a culture care so much about what pop icons do and say, even pop icons who have reduced themselves to laughingstocks, much like Kanye and Paris? Why do we care so little about people who are doing things that really matter? If it isn't entertainment-related, it gets filtered directly into the Spam folder of our brains.

Someone just auctioned off Paris Hilton's boarding pass from a flight to Fiji for $205.00. What is that lucky buyer going to do with it? Pay their mortgage? Feed their kids? "Put a little more ketchup on it, little Jimmy. No dessert till you're finished!"

Have you heard of Daniel Nocera? Me neither. He's the MIT chemist at the forefront of developing a new method for making hydrogen fuel from water. Within a few years, we could be meeting global energy needs from a few smaller bodies of water.

What about Somaly Mam? She's a Cambodian who escaped from a horrific decade of sexual slavery and torture in a brothel in Phnom Penh. She has started a nonprofit organization that works with police to raid brothels and liberate women from a terrible and unspeakable existence. She has already helped more than 4000 women escape and find their lives again. She's had to endure the kidnap and rape of her own 14-year old daughter by brothel owners bent on
deterring her work.

I'd like to give TIME Magazine mad super-fly props for their issue featuring the 100 most influential people in the world. Rather than filling the pages with Paris and Kanye, they've brought to light the stories of people around the globe who are doing things that truly matter, things that make a tangible difference in the lives of real people. Think those 4,000 former sex slaves would find the words to Kanye's "Therapy" or Paris' "Human Sacrifice" touching?

You know a celebrity or two. You know a hero. That teacher who inspired you to learn. That parent who loves you unconditionally no matter how many times you screamed and slammed your door growing up. That friend who brought you over that mint chocolate chip ice cream when the love of your life broke your heart and let you cry all the tears that you had. People doing things to better our environment, our society, our health, our souls.

Maybe we should listen to what these people have to say.

Falling In Love

2009-08-19T17:28:00.000-07:00

I'm falling in love.

But first, some shameless promotion.

I’ll be playing TomFest this Friday. TomFest, in its 14th year, is one of the Northwest’s premier music festivals, and this year’s roster features artists such as As I Lay Dying, Haste The Day, Brian “HEAD” Welch from Korn, and many more. I’m playing on the Flatbed Stage at 3:30 sharp. The Festival is located at the Lacamas Conference Center in Camas, WA.

I’m also playing the following festivals within the next couple months:

Reality Rocks Music Festival (Hillsboro, OR) August 29
Huckleberry Festival (Mt. Hood Village, OR) August 30
Portland VegFest (Portland, OR) September 19
Ellensburg Film Festival (Ellensburg, WA) October 3
Orion Music Festival (Park City, UT) January 14

Visit my MySpace page for a complete tour schedule.

Back to the reason you're reading. I am, indeed, falling in love. Not with a person, not with avocado ice cream (which IS delicious, I might add). No, I'm falling in love with a country. A promised land flowing with poutine and maple syrup. Tim Hortons on every corner. The Great Canadian Oil Change. Extreme Pita. Some of the best mountains on earth. Giggle Creek Mini Golf in Chilliwack. Chilliwackos. Loonies. Toonies. Boonies. What's not to love about Canada, eh?

Recording at Greenhouse has been great. Jeff Johnson and Chris Holmes have been out of their minds so far. Can't wait for you (and myself) to hear the finished product. It's gonna be gelato. Everything up till now will seem like lightly freezer-burned sorbet.

On an interesting sidenote, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, after a dinner of seal meat, misspelled Iqaluit, the capital of the province Nunavut, adding an extra 'u'. Unfortunately, this new spelling means an 'unwiped butt' in the Inuktitut language.

Way to make an ass out of an entire city, sir.

But it doesn't make me love your country any less.

Taylor Swift, Why Are You Stalking Me?

2009-07-21T14:09:00.001-07:00

Taylor Swift, why are you stalking me?

I'm playing in Cheyenne this Thursday night. 7 PM. So are you.

I'm playing in Rapid City this Friday night. So are you.

Coincidence? I doubt it.

I had my shows booked first.

So what if I'm the reason for the teardrops on your guitar? Get over it. I'm sorry, but I already have plans for after the show. Don't make this awkward.

For those of you who already have tickets to see Taylor, go have fun. And don't bring me up in conversation with her.

For those of you who don't, I'd love to see you at one of my free shows. Synergy Cafe in Cheyenne, 445 Lounge and Borders Books & Music in Rapid City.
I'll also be making on-air appearances at KIGN 101.9 in Cheyenne and KXMZ 102.7 in Rapid City.

In other news, I went to King Soopers in Colorado Springs, Colorado, to buy some shampoo, some conditioner, and some body wash. Yeah, occasionally
I have to stay in some motels that lack amenities. (I won't name any names, but they'll leave the light on for ya. But you probably have to pay extra.) Unless you count a stale bar of soap as an amenity.

In any case, I hit the jackpot: Suave 3 in 1! Bam! It's a shampoo, a conditioner, and a body wash, all in one inexpensive milky blue fluid. Apparently, it also doubles as a motor oil and a baby food.

Disclaimers: I've never made Taylor Swift cry. And, I'm pretty sure she's not actually stalking me. Also, please don't feed Suave 3 in 1 or any other bath products to your infant.

Dear Dad..

2009-06-21T13:38:00.001-07:00

I can't actually address this blog post to my dad, because I'm pretty sure he never checks my blog.

Also, he's in Romania for a month. This is good and bad news: Bad because I don't actually get to talk to him on Father's Day, but good because I have a little extra time to send something to his home in Michigan and still have him think the gift was on time. I think he's still waiting for last year's Father's Day gift too, but I'm not sure.

I refuse to buy ties for Father's Day. I think the tie industry is being kept afloat year after year by countless thousands of unimaginative American drones who are convinced that their dad wants, even needs, yet another garish American flag tie. You know you're guilty. (It's also kept afloat by cheap slave labor overseas, but I'll save that for another blog post.)

Now, Father's Day ties come with a personal touch. Several online retailers are offering ties with the photo of your choice printed on them. Your picture, his picture, a picture of Ron Jeremy..the choice is yours. Whatever you do, don't send him a tie with a cartoon of the prophet Muhammad on it.

In all seriousness, I've been blessed with a world-class dad. He's one of the most patient, intelligent, funny, wise, faith-filled, well-balanced people I've ever met. We've climbed at least one mountain together every year since I was old enough to carry a backpack (which, in my family, was around the age of fourteen months).

The best thing about my dad is that he never tried to make my decisions for me. He taught me right and wrong through the way he lived.

I admire the way he's always been so real, so transparent.

I've seen him cry when one of our pets died.

I've seen him scream when our brand-new Ping-Pong table flew off the top of our van and smashed onto the pavement of I-80.

I've been demolished by him on the tennis court. He'll still be kicking my butt from a wheelchair in 30 years.

I've seen him, year after year, simply love my mom, my sister, and me in a remarkable way.

Good dads are hard to come by. If you are fortunate enough to have one, make sure he knows it this Father's Day. Do something meaningful for him, something more than buying that necktie.

If there's someone in your life who has been a father figure, who has ably filled in for the dad who wasn't there, I encourage you to do the same for him and let him know that he's made a difference in your life.

In the words of that timeless commercial:

Dad, you're my dad, and I love you man! This blog's for you.

Spellbound

2009-05-27T03:57:00.000-07:00

Why is it that I can't go to a single restaurant without finding some kind of spelling error on the menu?

Tonight, at a fine establishment in Vancouver, WA, I was pleased to find a "Pomagranite Martini" for only $7. Yup, it's made with real bits of igneous rocks, so you know it's good.

There's a well-known and well-liked music venue in Portland named The Guffalo Bap (names have been changed to protect the ignorant) that has a sign on its wall that reads "LIVE MUISIC."

All I'm saying is that if you're a music venue, master the spelling of the word 'music.' No one asked you to spell "didgeridoo."

The inability to spell is widespread. But say 'nay' to the naysayers who would have you believe that it's a phenomenon being propagated by texting and pop culture.

It's long been a scourge blighting our country, right up there with poverty, war, and Texas.

Even the venerable U.S. Constitution contains a few misspelled words. Pennsylvania, for instance, is spelled Pensylvania. You can't just take n's out of words arbitrarily and expect to be viewed as a credible source. I don't want to live in Orego. Sounds like an herb. Would you listen to my music if my name were Jo? What if the second track on my CD were called "It Won't Be Log"? What does that even mean? A prediction of loose stool?

Of course, not everyone is a great speller. That's why God created spell-checking software. If you can't spell, no problem. Find a faceless machine who can. Even Bill Gates himself is famously quoted as saying: "I'm a terrible speller. Fortunately, my musk and good looks have gotten me everywhere."

(Bill Gates never actually said this.)

It's interesting to live in a society where the average schmuck can't spell 'intelligence', but can spell 'Kardashian'.

By the way, do you know what 'schmuck' means in Yiddish? Google it.

Just for the record, I don't judge people for misspelled words in text messages, considering the message was probably sent while driving, going to the bathroom, and reading my blog simultaneously. But when I read a book or magazine that's riddled with mistakes, it tends to lose credibility in my mind. Kind of like when former Vice Presidents insist that torturing people is a good idea. (Yeah, I had to slip at least one political line in this otherwise inane blog post somewhere.)

I think the real problem lies in the name 'spelling bee.' Kids quickly associate these with a cute, fuzzy, yellow-and-black insect. Think Honey Nut Cheerios. Childish. Thus, they lose interest. Why not the 'spelling wasp'? Faster. More dangerous.

It's 4 AM. I climbed Mt. Hood this morning, and I've been up for almost 40 hours straight. I wish I had a really witty closing line. I don't. Deal with it.

Ignorance: Not Always Bliss.

2009-05-01T15:38:00.000-07:00

Swine flu.

It's everywhere.

At least it won't be in Egypt anytime soon. As you've probably heard, the Egyptian government ordered the slaughter of all 300,000 pigs in the country.

Unfortunately, they failed to Google 'swine flu.' Had they, they would've realized that swine flu is currently being transmitted from human to human. You're not gonna get it from swine at this point. Not by eating a pig, dancing with a pig, or even cuddling with a pig a little bit, provided you call them back later in the week.

Ignorance, it seems, is not always bliss, especially for these 300,000 swine, and for the farmers whose livelihood depended on them.

The World Organization for Animal Health says that "there is no evidence of infection in pigs, nor of humans acquiring infection directly from pigs.'' This hasn't stopped China, Russia, Ukraine, and other nations from banning pork exports from Mexico. Why would you import pork (impork?) from Mexico, anyway? Unless, of course, there are illegal drugs hidden somewhere inside.

Then there's the case of mistaken mushrooms. Several years ago, a Colorado newspaper published photos of Paddy-Straw mushrooms in their Food section, encouraging people to use them in certain recipes. Several of their readers went out and found some Paddy-Straws, ate them, and died. Apparently, the newspaper had mistakenly published photos of the similar-looking, yet highly toxic, Death Cap mushroom. I'm sure the newspaper staff was encouraged, at least, to know that people still read the paper.

I thought about this as I was eating a mushroom rice bowl at Portland's newest high-rise dining establishment, Departure, the other day. These mushrooms were delicious, but the Death Caps probably were, too. At least I hope so: it would suck to have a crappy last meal right before the nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, and diarrhea set in.

Ever think about the etymology of certain words? Like 'mushroom'. What does it mean? That there's room for mush inside of them? Or is it named after a mythical room to which mothers send their boisterous children to eat their mush when they've misbehaved? Then there's the word 'cockpit.' I don't think I even want to know.

I digress.

The moral of all this is simple: ignorance is not always bliss. Our global society is so quick to take action that we often fail to fully comprehend what's going on. The invasion of Iraq would be a prime example of this, as would the deadly yet FDA-approved drug Ketek from 2005. Sometimes, in a rush to make things right, we end up doing the wrong things.

Let's just hope that the next deadly influenza strain isn't dubbed 'baby flu.'

Fight Cancer. Headbang For Health.

2009-04-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

Cancer is a capricious killer.

It holds no regard for age, gender, race, or geographical location.

Practically everyone I know has a loved one who has died of cancer.

My uncle Bob passed away a couple years ago from malignant melanoma that metastasized.

I've had precancerous moles removed from my back.

Sure, we eat our antioxidants, we wear our sunblock, we quit smoking, we even stop re-using plastic bottles, in the hopes that we don't become a statistic. But is that all that we can do?

In 2008, there were 19,230 new cancer cases reported in Oregon alone. 7,450 people in Oregon died of cancer last year. In the US, 565,000 people died from cancer in 2008. To put this in perspective, that's just higher than the population of Portland, and just less than the population of Seattle. That's an astonishing figure.

Let's say Portland gets wiped out this year. Whether through a terrorist attack, through a natural disaster, or through some other means, the entire population of America's 30th largest city is destroyed.

Think that would make the news? You bet.

However, cancer is almost taken for granted. It flies under the radar, a killer to be sure, but one that's accepted as a tragic mainstay of society. We're all immortal until it's our turn.

It's time to do something. Not just for ourselves, but for society as a whole.

The American Cancer Society has been fighting the good fight for years. I love this quote on their website:

"Eleven million cancer survivors will celebrate birthdays this year. That's a sign of progress, proof that a world with more birthdays is possible. Together we'll get well, stay well, find cures, and fight back."

I've been privileged to play at numerous Relay For Life events over the past few years, and dedicated each performance to my uncle Bob. This Wednesday, my band Silversafe and I, as well as Portland indie band Tea For Julie, will be playing a benefit show for the American Cancer Society. The show will be held at Hawthorne Theater, which is located at 3862 SE Hawthorne Blvd in Southeast Portland. Tickets are $8 at the door, and all proceeds from the door as well as from merchandise sales will benefit the American Cancer Society.

This is bigger than music, bigger than entertainment. It's about saving and improving thousands of lives. Sure, you could write a check and put in the mail. I encourage you to do this, too. But here's a chance for you to rock out in the process, to headbang for health. Yes, headbanging is perfectly non-carcinogenic, and the American Chiropractic Association thanks me for promoting it.

I'll also be playing at several other Relay For Life events around Portland this summer, including the June 27 Relay in Oregon City.

This is not an arbitrary cause that I've elected to attach myself to. Another uncle of mine was recently diagnosed with cancer. My grandma is a brain tumor survivor. My sister has already had a cancerous lesion removed from her foot.

For anyone whose lives have felt cancer's icy touch, whether upon themselves or one they love, do something about it! Get involved. Volunteer your time. Participate in events. Donate. I urge you not to wait around for someone else to make a difference.

As for me, I'll be headbanging. For health. I hope you join me.

Water Balloons Over Baghdad?

2009-04-13T01:15:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, as I watched some kids run rampant through their lawn in search of those ubiquitous pastel candy-filled Easter eggs, I reached for a bag of Hershey's Kisses. The same candy that was inside the eggs, the same candy the kids were going crazy for. I was a grown-up, though, and I got to eat as much candy as I wanted without even having to look for it.

I got to thinking: when was the last time I hunted for Easter eggs? Was I eight? Nine?

Granted, I've had some fun hiding eggs for various kids over the years. What kid would ever think to look in the toilet? In the litter box? I was just trying to help these kids curtail their sugar intake, after all.

So why don't we adults hunt for Easter eggs anymore? Perhaps the eggs wouldn't meet any need in our life, and the hunt wouldn't fit into our schedule. "If these Easter eggs don't come with 370 HD channels, a lottery ticket, and a weight-loss pill, then I'm not gonna waste my time looking."

What is it about growing older that makes us unable to experience the joy we once found in simple things? Why does everything have to have a reason? When did childish fun lose its appeal? Why don't we adults have pillow fights? Or play freeze tag? Or 'doctor?' Okay, perhaps we still play doctor, but simply call it something else.

Instead, we adults spend our time slaving away at jobs we never wanted, saving up for the vacation that never turns out the way we hoped it would. We fight wars, we fight at home, we fight at work. What if every disagreement were settled with water guns? What if every war were waged with Super Soakers? What if these deranged individuals I can't stop hearing about on the news stormed into churches and retirement homes and schools and office buildings, twin CPS 4100s in hand, and opened fire, simply drenching hordes of innocent people? What if CNN was full of reports of American planes dropping thousands of water balloons upon unsuspecting Baghdad?

If children ruled the world..

I'm not trying to trivialize the world's problems. I'm just saying that maybe if we learned to stop once in awhile, put away our 401k's and our Blackberries, and enjoyed an Easter egg hunt, the world might be a better place.

Life: It's Way Too Short.

2009-03-28T17:18:00.001-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, as I headed home through the last gasps of rush-hour traffic on I-84 East in Portland, I popped in a Thrice CD. Yeah, I know. CDs are so 2002, but I haven't caved in to the XM oligarchy yet.

Halfway through rocking out to "Image Of The Invisible," a semi pulled into the fast lane. Into the exact spot that my car had been occupying until I slammed on the brakes and veered onto the shoulder. I stopped on the side of the freeway for a minute to hyperventilate.

At 5:45 AM this morning, I woke up suddenly to a stabbing pain in my chest. I couldn't breathe. I checked my pulse; it was normal. I've lost two family members to heart attacks, so I knew the symptoms, and I knew I wasn't having one.

I grabbed my laptop and went to WebMD.com. 14 seemingly life-threatening conditions matched my symptoms, and I was instructed to call 911.

I didn't.

My mind was full of thoughts of my own mortality. Somehow I knew that this pain would subside, but these two incidents left me thinking about my last day of life. What if this were it? How had I spent my time? Had I made anyone else's life better, or just my own?

Whatever your religious affiliation, or lack thereof, you cannot help but agree that life is precious. At 26, I've already lost six high school and college friends. Three to car accidents, three to suicide. I've been to ten funerals in my life. I tried singing at one of them, but couldn't get through the song without breaking down in tears.

What am I doing with these days and years that I still have?

I don't want to be remembered as just another entertainer, a guy with a good voice who put on a good show.

I want to leave a legacy; to use my time wisely; to contribute to the good of mankind. To have my music make a palpable difference in people's lives. To make them happy, to make them think about what's important. I want to break the cycle of self-gratification and use my talents for other people.

Am I tangibly putting these thoughts into practice? Am I living up to these ideals? Sometimes, but not often. It's so much easier to take the other route. In the words of a song you might recognize: "I can't buy a minute; maybe you'll get it figured out on your own."

I'm determined to deny my lyrics the right to become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

SXSW 2009: Cliff Note Edition

2009-03-24T13:33:00.001-07:00

I spent parts of the last seven days in Austin, Texas, for SXSW 2009. I played four shows, met hundreds of people, went to tens of concerts and parties. A comprehensive blog post would end up being about as long as Ron Jeremy's, uh, career. Instead, I'll just focus on one day: Friday.

Tyler, Mandy and I woke up early for the second day in a row. 9:30 really gets to ya after awhile. We took the bus down to the Four Seasons hotel where the BMI Breakfast was taking place. I'm not even a member of BMI; ASCAP is my PRO, but their breakfast didn't offer free mimosas. We ate with some advertising executives and a couple of pompous, obese attorneys.

I was asked to do a TV interview with ME Television's All Access Live. I was scheduled for 4:30, so I hung around the TV studios all day. ME Television not only provided free drinks, but also live, televised, intimate concerts featuring artists from Kanye West to Portland's own M. Ward. 4:30 rolled around, and suddenly Miguel, the VJ who was slated to interview me, ran out of the room to take a phone call. Metallica's management was on the phone. My interview had to be pushed back to 5:45. I can think of worse things than getting your TV interview bumped for Metallica. Maybe next year it'll be the other way around. I did have some friends offer to punk Metallica for taking my slot. Be careful, Mikey. Lars is a pretty bad dude.

In the meantime, I went out to a wine tasting bus that had pulled up, where members of the San Francisco band Scissors For Lefty, who just got off a tour with Smashing Pumpkins, were holding an impromptu jam session. I chipped in with an acoustic version of "To Forget."

Friday night found me at the Vintage Lounge, one of Austin's most upscale venues. Tyler and Simon from The Slants rounded out my band, and we rocked that classy house. After my set, we stuck around for The Massacoustics, a two-piece pop band from Boston featuring one guy playing both drums and bass simultaneously, as well as patting his head and rubbing his stomach.

All in all, my first SXSW was a memorable experience. From Sammy Hagar to Lone Star to Zone Bars to Peter, Bjorn and John, it's definitely a week neither I nor my liver will soon forget.

Spring Tour Days 13 & 14: Spokane & Eugene

2009-03-17T18:10:00.001-07:00

As I write this, I'm sitting in Denver International Airport, on my way to Austin to play four shows at SXSW. I'm staring out at a beautiful sunset juxtaposed with the barren landscape of eastern Colorado, and something about this view is stirring my soul. It's just a small glimpse of peace amidst these nonstop last few weeks.

DAY 13

Last Friday, I woke up early to drive to Spokane for a photoshoot. Spencer of Dummy Boy Records Dummy Boy Records set me up with Patrick Brown-Hayes, a photography and design guru, to take the pictures. I received a touch of eye makeup courtesy of Leah at Nordstrom, and we were ready to go. During the course of the shoot, I changed outfits several times, and Pat, for comedic effect or blackmail, kept shooting. If and when these pictures surface on the internet, I'd like to make it clear that I am not responsible for their content. Except for the one on the bridge over Spokane Falls.

That night, I played a show at Mootsy's downtown. The show was booked last-minute and as a result wasn't afforded a lot of promotion; nevertheless, I played for an hour and then hit the road for Portland.

At 3 AM, I had to pull over and take a nap at a rest area somewhere on I-84. At 4:30 AM, I ate an Egg McMuffin for the first time in ten years. If it weren't for ketchup, no one would order those rubbery things.

DAY 14

Ah, day 14. Saturday found me driving the last of the 5300 miles of my spring tour to Eugene to play at Luckey's. Played some pool before the show, and was reminded of why I'm not a professional pool player.

My boys in The Misery Science played after me. These guys will be playing a stripped-down acoustic set with me at Macadam's in Portland March 28. Check 'em.

My flight to Austin is boarding. I gotta cut this one short. Truncate it. Castrate it. Amputate it.

I'll write more from SXSW!

Spring Tour Days 11 & 12: Billings and Bozeman

2009-03-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

DAY 11

There's not a lot going on between Rapid City and Billings, Montana. There's snow, for one. You'll also find Gillette, Wyoming, or the Razor City as its seventeen residents affectionately call it. I stopped there for a quick car wash to get the mud off of my undercarriage. Chicks generally don't dig soiled undercarriages.

You'll also encounter a slew of billboards. My favorite one was for a local auto body shop. Underneath the name of the shop, which I can't remember, was the following: "24 HOUR TOE SERVICE." I can only hope that this was a misprint, although who knows what kind of freaky fetishes these northeast Wyoming residents get into to pass the time during those desolate winter months. Honestly, after weeks on the road, my toes could've used a good servicing. Don't judge me! Unfortunately, I was running behind schedule.

After an interview with KPLN 106.7 FM The Planet, Billings' top AC station, I headed to Bones Brewing, a year-old venue boasting a great stage and a dinosaur theme, including beer taps with velociraptor claws on them. I played for an hour, then ended up going out to a dive bar with some fans I'd just met. This dive, the 90 Club, had a bartender named Jesus. Unfortunately for the 90 Club's liquor costs, this Jesus wasn't able to turn water into, well, much of anything. He was a pretty nice guy, though, but the advantage still goes to my man JC.

DAY 12

Rapid City, Billings, Bozeman.

Everywhere I went, people would tell me how it had just been sixty degrees a couple days prior, and how the 12-degree weather shouldn't scare me out of coming back. In Bozeman, the thermometer finally rose above the freezing point. It's funny how on a day that's warmer than the days preceding it, people will do warm-weather stuff, even when it's still 45 degrees out. All of Bozeman's bikers, skaters, and joggers wearing those short, swishy shorts came out to play.
45 degrees is not warm enough to justify those shorts. Come to think of it, no temperature is warm enough to justify those shorts.

I stopped in at the studios of 95.1 KMMS The Moose, Bozeman's premier adult rock station, for an interview with the esteemed Kim Rossi. I ended up playing "Going Home" live on the air, and did about a fifteen-minute interview with Kim. I didn't even swear. You're welcome, FCC.

Kim was awesome. She regaled me with tales of the famous people that had graced her studio, including Hootie, Toad the Wet Sprocket, and more. Her wall was laden with autographs of famous musicians, and she offered to let me sign it. You know you've arrived when you start signing walls. We talked for a few minutes more, and I took off. Unfortunately, I forgot to sign the wall! Kim, if you're reading this, forge my signature, please! It's just a bunch of squiggles with a dot on top towards the right.

After kicking it at the Leaf & Bean and browsing a 25 cent T-shirt bin at a thrift shop, I ended up hitting up the Bozeman Mall to buy some T-shirts. Rockstars don't do laundry; they buy new shirts. Or just don't wear them at all. Anthony Kiedis, if only you could get that guy from Bowling For Soup to follow your lead.

Thursday night found me at the Filling Station, opening for hardworking local band Ten Foot Tall and 80 Proof. After discussing the relative merits of taking a mannequin on the road with you as opposed to an actual roadie with Ten Foot Tall's frontman Kris Clone, I took the stage and played my little heart out. Ten Foot Tall played an energetic set, blending country and classic rock sounds seamlessly.

I had a hotel room waiting for me in Missoula. I got to it around 4:30 AM.

Spring Tour Days 9 & 10: Winona, MN and Rapid City, SD

2009-03-14T14:28:00.000-07:00

Why does the change in Daylight Savings Time always happen on the most inopportune evenings? I think that we should just keep on gaining an hour twice a year, and never lose one, until our noon becomes midnight and our society is plunged into a swirling cesspool of confusion, misscheduling, and ruin.

In any case, I arrived in the bustling town of Caledonia, MN, around 2 AM after a day of driving on three hours' sleep. I crashed on the couch of Amanda, a fan I'd never met. Kudos to her for opening her home to me, and for grabbing friends and driving an hour to make it to my show the following evening. No kudos to her cat, who was in heat. Her yowling woke me up at 5 am. I threw a shoe at her, and missed. Not one to miss a golden opportunity, she proceeded to hump the shoe and caterwaul even louder.

DAY 9

I woke up early on Monday morning to drive to Decorah, IA, to the studios of 100.5 KDEC to record an ArtistDirect program with Jeni Grouws. The program is slated to air March 20 at 8:15 AM CST. Not only is Jeni the station manager, but she's a DJ and a talented musician. She also took me to lunch and tricked me into letting her pay. Support KDEC, folks. Their people rock, and they might even buy you lunch. But let's keep it nice and altruistic.

I stayed to chat a little too long, and found myself running late for my next radio interview in Winona, MN. My GPS unit thought it would be funny to take me on twenty miles of dirt roads. Dirt is the new asphalt, though, so I was hitting corners at sixty MPH. There wasn't a speed limit posted. Come to think of it, there weren't any signs at all.

Coming around one particularly sharp corner, I was surprised to see none other than an Amish guy and his buggy. He was a little more surprised to see me, though; I had airbags, and he didn't. Unless he'd recently been on an episode of Pimp My Buggy and gotten that thing tricked out. Wouldn't that be pimp? Lower it down, get some spinners, put a hood ornament on your horse.. Too bad nobody in his family would have been able to watch the episode.

Thankfully, we missed each other. The horse reared up a bit, and I swerved off the road. No harm, no foul. I wasn't looking forward to picking beard out of my grill. Although from what I hear (ok, maybe from what I saw in the movie Sex Drive), the Amish are so nice that he probably would've picked it out for me before being carried by four strapping young lads to the hospital.

I arrived at the studios of KAGE 95.3 FM in Winona only about five minutes late. Did an on-air interview with DJ Steve Walker, and grabbed my guitar and played "Going Home" and "Moribund Refrain" unplugged on-air. Steve is a hilarious guy who is more knowledgeable about a wide variety of music than pretty much anyone except for perhaps Weird Al.

Monday night, I played at the Draught Haus in Winona. First, I slept on a futon in a back room for an hour, then played three hours of music for everyone's aural pleasure. Dan, a fan who had chosen to spend his birthday at my show, got sung to and later joined me on stage for an impromptu rendition of Tonic's "If You Could Only See." Met some great people, and practically sold out of my women's merchandise.

DAY 10

I'm not gonna lie: Day 10 was rough. What should've been eight hours of driving alone turned into eleven due to a freak Minnesota ice storm. I guess no amount of cold weather is 'freak' in Minnesota, but in any case, traffic on I-90 westbound slowed to a crawl. To make matters worse, I couldn't find my case of CDs, so I was forced to listen to either the sound of my own voice or old-school country stations playing their typical Tuesday afternoon "Best of Charlie Daniels Hour" shows.

I had a lot of time to think. What makes me want to drive eleven hours alone to play in Rapid City, SD? What good is it going to do me, my career, or anyone? Of course, I already knew the answer to my own question: playing music is what I love doing most, and every rose has its thorn. (Those would make great song lyrics!) The musician's lifestyle is definitely not always one big, glamourous party. That's not what I'm about, anyway. My goal is simply to write and sing music from my heart that makes people think, smile, cry, love.

I made it to the 445 Lounge in Rapid City a half hour after the show was supposed to start. After loading in my entire PA in subzero temperatures, I had to run my hands under warm water for a few before I could even play. The weather kept a lot of fans at home, but though the crowd wasn't huge, they were awesome. Arguably some of the nicest people I'd met the entire tour. Plenty of girly raspberry and peach flavored shots to go around. Tastes like estrogen! Gary, the hardworking manager/promoter, took me on a scenic late-night tour of the city after the show, and then put me up in the Radisson Hotel. I ate some carrots and called it a night around 3:30 AM.

Spring Tour Days 5, 6, 7 and 8: Des Moines, Chicago, and Michigan

2009-03-12T14:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm fully aware that I've been slacking on blogging. However, with all the time I've saved, I'm pleased to announce that my hair has been looking AMAZING.

Actually, I've been pretty much driving five hours a day, doing a radio interview every afternoon, and then playing a show every night. No excuses, though. It just seems that whenever I type while driving, the quality of one of the two activities tends to suffer.

Day 5 was supposed to be a driving day. Yes, Krista Herring, I play a lot of shows in the town of "Driving Day." Dinnertime found us in Des Moines, Iowa, craving some sushi. We Googled "sushi in Des Moines" and found Appare. We started talking to the Chris, the bartender, and found out that he was having a few musician friends come in for an acoustic jam later that evening. The promise of unlimited sake bombs bribed us into staying. I just happened to have a full PA in the back of my SUV. Everyone couldn't have been nicer! Ken, the manager, even broke out a couple songs of his own. It was a much-needed, low-key respite from the pressure of constant PR. We crashed at Chris' place, watched some Family Guy, slept a couple hours, and hit the road at 8 am.

Thursday night found me at The Spot. This place lived up to its name: fine dining, an upstairs bar, pool, and live music, courtesy of me. Great crowd, great times. I had fans drive three hours to see this show. I could've pointed out that I'd driven six to get there. But hey, I was getting paid to sing, not complain. I'm still looking for a job opportunity that will pay me to complain.

Friday and Saturday, I played at Andrews University, my alma mater. Friday night, after a live interview with CM Radio, I played a few songs at Fusion in front of almost a thousand people. Crashed with my parents. They didn't even make me take out the garbage. How things have changed.

Saturday, I kicked it with my college friends Matt and Leah, who had driven down from Lansing for the show. Shared the bill with a couple of talented local musicians, Michaela Lawrence and Jaci and Andrew Perrin. Saw some old friends, made some new fans. It's still great to sing and have my parents in the audience. It's also great that they're not the only ones in the audience anymore. :)

I apologize for not providing the amount of detail you've come to expect and demand from my blog posts. My memory is hazy. It's been 5 days, 1,493 miles, and one close encounter with an Amish guy since Saturday night.

Spring Tour Days 3 & 4: Cheyenne & Kearney

2009-03-04T13:33:00.000-08:00

DAY 3

Wyoming is a pretty big state. Crazy to think that its biggest city, Cheyenne, is smaller than Gresham, the suburb of Portland that I call home. No disrespect intended, though. What other state boasts Devil's Postpile, the Grand Tetons, and a one-to-one antelope-to-cowboy ratio? None, that's who.

While on the road, Mandy ate her first kumquat.

After six and a half hours of pure, unadulterated Wyoming, Mandy and I arrived in Cheyenne. I made a quick stop at the 101.9 KING FM studios downtown to say hey to Grateful Mike and Hot Rodd Todd, the DJs who had aired a Jon Davidson interview the day before. They'd also been busy spinning my record and plugging my show. I said hello to Cheyenne on-air right before they played "Sunrise" again. People of Cheyenne, listen to 101.9 KING FM or we will brawl.

I didn't know what to expect from a Monday night show in Cheyenne, but the show at Scooter's more than exceeded my expectations. It's all about the people, man. Upon arrival, I realized that my mic stand was broken. A guy in the audience, Kevin, pulled out his cell phone and started making calls. "We don't have a Guitar Center, but Wal-Mart sells everything," he explained.

Grateful Mike and Hot Rodd Todd even brought their bad selves down to the show. Those guys are hilarious.

Towards the end of the night, I was joined on stage by my first ever pool stick backing band. These two guys rocked these pool sticks harder than the world has ever seen. They swore they'd make the drive to Kearney to do it all over again tonight. I'm not trying to doubt their committment, but I'm not holding my breath.

What would a trip to Cheyenne be without the drunk guy yelling something about how his only Portland experience involved him burning his lips on a crack pipe?

Around midnight, we packed it up and headed to our hotel room in Fort Collins. Cheyenne, I'll be back. Y'all rock.

DAY 4

After five grueling hours of cow-stench, we arrived at The Roman in Kearney. Cool venue, but no mandatory toga policy. Disappointing.

I shared the stage with Ryan O'Connor, a local hip-hop artist, and his band The Beat Continuum Project. Organic, acoustic hip-hop. Great stuff. We even did an impromptu collab on a couple of Incubus covers at the end of the show. Not the biggest crowd, but a reality check: it's a Tuesday night in small-town Nebraska. Ryan put us up at his place, and went the extra mile to make sure we felt at home.

Chicago bound, baby! I'm loving this wireless nationwide web access; I'm writing this blog post from I-80 eastbound in Iowa. So much is going on: trying to get everything in line for SXSW, still setting up radio appearances as I go (Mandy just scored me one in Decorah, IA, on the return leg of the tour), and taking care of getting some stickers and download cards printed.

Spring Tour Days 1 & 2: Boise & Pocatello

2009-03-01T23:16:00.001-08:00

Boise has quickly become one of my favorite cities to play in. Its growing, eclectic music scene reminds me of Portland's in a lot of ways. Plus, my favorite serpent, Rose, calls Boise home.

Upon arrival at our friend Geri's house Thursday night, though, I was saddened to find that Rose had shed. Not just one big, sleek snakeskin, the kind you mount above the fireplace, but small, dangling peelings. It looked like she'd been left out in the sun for too long. Snakes and sun don't mix; don't believe what you see on that there silly Discovery Channel. This snake could've used a healthy coat of Banana Boat.

You're saying you never mounted snakeskins?

Friday, I made an in-store appearance at one of Boise's four Hastings entertainment superstores, where my CD is for sale. Store manager Don went above and beyond: helped us load and unload gear, hooked me up with a discount on some necklaces, and let me spraypaint my name and website all over the store's sign. Well, two out of three ain't bad.

That evening, I played at The Bouquet in downtown Boise. Shared the bill with a great local band, Soul Serene. My boy Brock showed up with a swarthy beard, and told me a heroic tale of how his beard had literally saved an infant's life. After a little shakin' it at Neurolux, we called it a night.

Saturday morning, Mandy and I hit the road for Pocatello. I made an in-store appearance at the locally owned Budget Tapes and Records at 4 PM. Props to a new fan, Gina, for coming out and bringing people even though she was deathly ill with the plague. Saturday night, I played at Portneuf Valley Brewery. Great crowd, great brews, great staff. A gentleman bought my CD before I even started playing. He didn't even try to get his money back after the show was over! Great success. Turns out, his name is Greg, and he's not only a fellow musician but also an aspiring guitar builder. Generally, people named Greg rock. Except for you, Greg Scott. You know what you did.

En route to Salt Lake City after the show, I found out that "Going Home" was the song of the week on the Second Shift with Alan Kabel on Portland's top country station, 99.5 The Wolf. Several fans just wrote me and said I should go the Keith Urban route. I get rock airplay on stations in 42 states, but one country station plays me and everyone thinks I should make a drastic career change. So, I'm doing it. "Beautifully Bittersweet" will now be called "Beautiful Buckwheat Pancakes," and I'll just add a "Till I Get My New Tractor" to the end of the title of "It Won't Be Long". Any other song suggestions?

I'd Be Paris Hilton.

2009-02-25T01:48:00.000-08:00

If I had an STD for every time someone hears my name and says, "Oh yeah, you have the same name as John Davidson that I grew up watching on TV," I'd be Paris Hilton. Yes, I've heard of him. Yes, though a musician, I'm not primarily a drummer, and thus I've mustered the brain cells to deduce that even though our first names are an "H" apart, they are essentially the same name. Did I pick my own name? No. Should I adopt a stage name? Since my first choice, Circling A Rotten Corpse, has already been taken by a band in Iowa, I'm left with a bunch of second-rate options. I'll stick with what I've got, thanks. People Of The 70's, I apologize for the confusion.

There's also a kind-looking gentleman named Jon Davidson who is very concerned with your health, and you can learn more about him and spirulina at jondavidson.com.

Reminds me of when I used to be nonplussed when strangers would tell me that I look like Matt Damon. This all turned around for me one day when, blithely waiting in a checkout line at Safeway, I glanced at the cover of People. Matt Damon, it turns out, had just been crowned "Sexiest Man Alive." On that day, in that inauspicious grocery store, I learned to embrace the comparisons.

Truth be told, it's late, and I'm tired. No one is world-class sexy at 2:30 AM after staring at a computer screen for hours. I've been working pretty much day and night tying up loose ends for my upcoming tour. Two days till showtime.

I know I haven't blogged in awhile, and for those of you who use my blogs as bathroom reading material, the long wait is over. Make yourselves comfortable.

I'm really looking forward to my Boise show this Friday. Fact: Boise has become one of my favorite towns to play in, and I'm especially looking forward to seeing Rose, my favorite reptile. I'll be doing an in-store appearance at a Hastings on Boise Ave. and then playing at The Bouquet at 9 PM.

In other news, I've broken into the Country format here in Portland, OR! The Wolf, KWJJ 99.5 FM, Portland's top country station, has recently added "Going Home" to their rotation. I've now been played on the largest hard rock, largest alternative, largest college, and largest country stations in town. I don't know of any other artists that are hitting all these formats. If you know of any others, don't tell me. I want to feel special, dang it. Thanks to Demetri at 99.
5 for making it happen.

My singles are still spinning and charting at stations in 38 states and provinces, including #1 again last week at WUMM 90.5 in Machias, ME, and #23 at WYBF 89.1 The Burn in Radnor, PA.

I've also secured four slots at SXSW and its adjacent festivals. Check my MySpace page for all the juicy details. Oh, so juicy.

I'll attempt to post blogs for each show of my upcoming tour like I did for my CD release tour in October. No promises, folks, but I'll do my best. Check my schedule.
Come to a show. Do something memorable (but not criminal). Get a mention in my blog.

Rock!

Now Playing On Stations In 37 States & Provinces!

2009-02-10T14:02:00.000-08:00

More and more stations are jumping on the Jon Davidson bandwagon!

What's the etymology of the term 'bandwagon,' anyway? These days, bands have tour buses, not little red Radio Flyers. The moral of this story, I think, is that it would've sucked to be a rockstar back in the 18th century, between the band wagons, the lack of electricity, and the ridiculous man-skirts. No thanks.

I digress. As usual.

In any case, my latest CMJ radio report is in, and my singles "Beautifully Bittersweet," "Going Home," and "Hermit Crab" are now playing on radio stations in 37 US states and Canadian provinces!

I'd like to give a shout out to the stations that have really gotten behind my music.
I charted at #3 on the Radio 200 chart last week on KNWD 91.7 in Nachitoches, LA! I'm charting at #28 on WAIH 90.3 in Potsdam, NY, #28 on WLOY 1620 AM in Baltimore, MD, and #23 on WIIT 88.9 in Chicago, IL.

I'm charting at #1 on the Radio 200 chart at WUMM 90.5 in Machias, ME!

CILU 102.7, in Thunder Bay, Ontario, has my music in heavy rotation, as do WKKL 90.7 in West Barnstable, MA, WUTS 91.3 in Sewanee, TN, and WSUP in Platteville, WI.

Here's a comprehensive list of stations spinning my music right now. Scroll down and find one near you, and call in and request my music! Thank you so much for your support. You are my metaphorical jockstrap.

ALASKA

KHNS 102.3 and 91.9 Haines, AK 907.766.2020

ARKANSAS

KCAC 89.5 East Camden, AR

CALIFORNIA

KCRH 89.9 Hayward, CA

KGAR 93.3 Lemoore, CA

KSSU 1580 AM Sacramento, CA

WPMD 1700 AM Norwalk, CA 562.860.2451 Ext. 2628

KYHY 92.5 Burbank, CA

COLORADO

KDNK 88.1 Carbondale, CO 970.963.0139

KOTO 105.5 Telluride, CO 970.728.4333

KURA 98.9 Ouray, CO

KVDU Denver, CO 303.871.2451

KSRX 93.9 Greeley, CO

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

WGTB 92.3 Washington, DC 202.687.WGTB

WVAU 101.7 Washington, DC

FLORIDA

WBUL 1620 AM Tampa, FL 813.974.WBUL

WKPX 88.5 Sunrise, FL

HAWAII

KKCR 92.7 Hanalei, HI 808.826.7771

IDAHO

KBSU 90.3 Boise, ID

ILLINOIS

WAUG 97.9 Rock Island, IL 309.794.7512

WIIT 88.9 Chicago, IL 312.567.3088

WLCA 89.9 Godfrey, IL

WLTL 88.1 La Grange, IL 708.482.9585

WMCR Monmouth, IL

WMXM 88.9 Lake Forest, IL

WRSE 88.7 Elmhurst, IL

WUIC Chicago, IL 312.413.2191

INDIANA

WBKE 89.5 North Manchester, IN

WCYT 91.1 Fort Wayne, IN 260.431.2911

WISU 89.7 Terre Haute, IN 812.237.FM90

IOWA

KALA 105.5 Davenport, IA 563.333.6216

KLCR Dubuque, IA

KUNI 90.9 Cedar Falls, IA

KWAR 89.9 Waverly, IA 319.352.8306

KWLC 1240 AM Decorah, IA 563.387.1240

LOUISIANA

KNSU 91.5 Thibodaux, LA 985.448.KNSU

KNWD 91.7 Natchitoches, LA 318.357.5693

KLPI 89.1 Ruston, LA 318.257.3689

KRVS 88.7 Lafayette, LA 337.482.5787

MANITOBA

CJUM 101.5 Winnipeg, MB
204.269.8636

MASSACHUSETTS

WTBU 89.3 Boston, MA 617.353.6400

WCHC 88.1 Worcester, MA 508.793.2474

WKKL 90.7 West Barnstable, MA 508.375.4030

WSCW 94.9 Worcester, MA 508.929.8512

MAINE

WHSN 89.3 Bangor, ME 207.941.7116

WMEB 91.9 Orono, ME 207.581.BEEF

WMPG 104.1 Portland, ME 207.780.4909

WUMM 90.5 Machias, ME

WUMF 100.1 Farmington, ME 207.778.7353

MARYLAND

WLOY 1620 AM Baltimore, MD 410.617.5313

MICHIGAN

WHFR 89.3 Dearborn, MI 313.845.9676

WPHS 89.1 Warren, MI

WSDP 88.1 Canton, MI

MINNESOTA

KAGE 95.3 Winona, MN 800.584.6782

KFAI 90.3 Minneapolis, MN 612.341.0980

KMSU 89.7 Mankato, MN

KFAI 106.7 St. Paul, MN 612.341.0980

MISSISSIPPI

WUSM 88.5 Hattiesburg, MS 601.266.9876

MISSOURI

KMNR 89.7 Rolla, MO 573.341.4272

MONTANA

KDWG 90.9 Dillon, MT

NEWFOUNDLAND

CHMR 93.5 St. Johns NF 709.737.7935

NEW JERSEY

WPSC 88.7 Wayne, NJ 973.720.2738

NEW YORK

WAIH 90.3 Potsdam, NY 315.267.2511

WDWN 89.1 Auburn, NY 315.253.0449

WEOS 89.7 Geneva, NY

WFNY Farmingdale, NY

WKWZ 88.5 Svosset, NY

WMVL 88.1 Purchase, NY 914.323.3204

WSIA 88.9 Staten Island, NY 718.982.3060

WSJU Jamaica, NY 718.990.6126

WDYN 100.1 Rochester, NY 585.621.6270

WNYU 89.1 New York, NY 212.998.1818

OHIO

WCBE 90.5 Columbus, OH 614.821.9223

WDUB 91.1 Granville, OH 740.587.9382

OKLAHOMA

KRSC 91.3 Claremore, OK

KXZY Stillwater, OK 405.744.8274

ONTARIO

CILU 102.7 Thunder Bay, ON 807.343.8881

OREGON

KUFO 101.1 Portland, OR 800.344.KUFO

KNRK 94.7 Portland, OR 800.777.0947

KRXF 92.7 Bend, OR

KDUP 1580 AM Portland, OR 503-943-7121

KEOL 91.7 La Grande, OR 541.962.3333

KMHC Gresham, OR

KPSU 1450 AM Portland, OR 503.725.5945

KWVA 88.1 Eugene, OR 541.346.0645

PENNSYLVANIA

WARC 90.3 Meadville, PA 814.332.5275

WCUC 91.7 Clarion, PA

WEXP 1600 AM Philadelphia, PA 215.951.1369

WMUH 91.7 Allentown, PA

WQHS 730 AM Philadelphia, PA 215.898.3500

WPPJ 670 AM Pittsburgh, PA

WRKC 88.5 Wilkes-Barre, PA

WSFX 105.5 Nanticoke, PA 570.740.0635

WSYC 88.7 Shippensburg, PA 717.477.1480

WYBF 89.1 Radnor, PA 610.902.8453

WVMM 90.7 Grantham, PA 717.796.5351

WXVU 89.1 Villanova, PA

RHODE ISLAND

WXIN 90.7 Providence, RI

SOUTH CAROLINA

WSBF 88.1 Clemson, SC 864.656.WSBF

TENNESSEE

WUTS 91.3 Sewanee, TN

TEXAS

KSAU 90.1 Nacogdoches, TX 936.468.4000

KSYM 90.1 San Antonio, TX 210.486.KSYM

KTRL 100.7 Stephenville, TX

KTSW 89.9 San Marcos, TX 512.245.3485

KUIW San Antonio, TX 210.805.KUIW

UTAH

KWCR 88.1 Ogden, UT

VIRGINIA

WMLU 91.3 Farmville, VA 434.395.2475

WASHINGTON

KSUB 89.1 Seattle, WA

KAOS 89.3 Olympia, WA 360.867.KAOS

WISCOSIN

KUWS 91.3 Superior, WI 800.300.8530

WSRI 96.7 Eau Claire, WI

WSUP Platteville, WI 608.342.1291

WFRW 88.7 River Falls, WI

WWSP Stevens Point, WI 715.346.2696

If you listen to a station that isn't playing me, and you'd like them to be, contact their music or program director and pass my name along.

A Guy Fell Off The Stage (And Other Tales Of The 2009 PMAs)

2009-01-30T13:16:00.000-08:00

I attended the 2009 Portland Music Awards last night. Held at Portland's legendary Crystal Ballroom, the PMAs, fashioned after the Grammy Awards, highlight the best in local talent.

Outside the Crystal, I did a couple interviews, even admitting that I was a PMA virgin on camera. I was assured that the first time is always the best.

While I was on camera, my friends kept grabbing at me. For a minute, I thought they were excited to be touching a local celebrity. I soon found out that I was holding all their tickets, and they were freezing. What's it take for a guy to get his ego stroked around here?

The ceremony lasted for just over two hours, and featured numerous live performances punctuated by local celebrities' presentation of the awards themselves.

Once again, I was awed at the amount of talented musicians that Portland boasts. From the arena rock of Floater to Mel Brown's legendary jazz beats and everything in between, I was reminded again of why I'm so proud to be a part of the Portland music scene.

That's a picture of Floater up there.

As many of you know, I was nominated for the Best Male Artist Of The Year award. Keegan Smith deservedly won the award. Aninside source told me that I'd finished second in the voting and given Keegan a run for his money.

I'd like to give a round of e-plause to all of this year's winners and nominees, and congratulate Portland for being "America's best-kept secret," as Mel Brown put it. I've played in 35 states and almost every major metropolitan area in the US, and never encountered a music scene quite as rich and diverse as Portland's. My apologies to those two folk singers reading this in the little town of Eau Claire, MI, where I grew up. You have angelic voices, and all six of your teeth are beautiful.

I digress. The highlight of the evening was clearly when a local TV personality fell off the stage. I mean, this guy literally just ate some floor off of stage right. It was awesome. Be sure to check out the show on Comcast On Demand when it becomes available, if only for this.

I live for that stuff.

Thanks again to everyone who voted, and to everyone who worked hard to make the second edition of the PMAs bigger and better than the first.

In non-PMA-related news, my music is being featured on this week's DarkCompass podcast. Since 2004, DarkCompass has been one of the UK's top indie music podcasts. Show them some love. Or I will fight you.

I also charted at #23 on WIIT 88.9's Radio 200 chart this week! If you're in the Chicago area, feel free to request some Jon Davidson by emailing the Music Director at md.wiit@iit.edu or by calling the station at 312.567.3088. Or by picketing outside the studio with giant cut-out Jon Davidson head signs.

I'm playing in Bellingham this Saturday night. Green Frog. 902 N State St. 9 PM. I'm also going to Temperedcast's CD release show at the Showbox Market in Seattle tonight. 7 PM.

Why? Because they rock.

It's Business Time.

2009-01-25T14:05:00.001-08:00

What have I been up to?

I would hate for the answers to that question to bore you. Business time, that' s what time it is. I'm down to just my socks; that's why they call them business socks. It's business time.

This blog post is strictly business-related. To keep it from getting stale, I will utilize an old fortune-cookie reading technique.

More and more radio stations are spinning my music! This week, my music was added to the rotation at WAIH 90.3 FM in Potsdam, NY. Call (315)267.2511 to request me. In bed.

My music was also added by WUMM 90.5 and 90.7 FM in Machias, Maine. I charted at #1, ahead of some artists you may have heard of, like Maroon 5. Call (207)255.1371 to request some Jon Davidson!

Two weeks ago, I signed a management and booking deal with The Show Media. Joe Gingerella, my new booking agent and manager, has worked with such artists as Blink 182 and Alien Ant Farm. In bed.

Joe has already landed me two performance slots at SXSW, one of the nation's largest music festivals, on March 20 and 21. The festival and conference is located in Austin, TX. I'll be playing solo. In bed.

Somehow, that seemed a lot funnier when I was in high school. Grow up, Davidson.

I also signed a non-exclusive contract with Future Shock Records for the release of a remix of "Hermit Crab," remixed by Spain's Iris Dee Jay. You can hear the remix on her MySpace page! Give this chick some props. She rocks!

I ALSO signed a five-song publishing deal with Dummy Boy Publishing, LLC. They chose to publish "Beautifully Bittersweet," "It Won't Be Long," "Hermit Crab," "What Can I Say," and "Sunrise."

Thanks for reading, listening, and supporting. Stay classy!

I'm In Love With A Python, And Other Stories

2009-01-19T23:37:00.000-08:00

I'm in love with a python named Rose.

There, I said it. I ain't skerred.

She slithers, she sheds her skin like a tube sock. What's not to love? Plus, she's the perfect accessory to many outfits. With scales of tan, black, and brown, it's easy to throw her around your neck for that finishing touch. Where do you think the name 'boa' came from, anyway?

I met Rose while on tour in Boise, ID, this last weekend. Geri Lynn, a friend/fan/hairstylist extraordinaire who graciously let us crash at her place, calls Rose her own.

I'd never really held a snake before. I think I might have pet one or two at those dumb petting zoos that your parents take you to as a child. You can stick your hand through a hole and pet a goat, but all you really want to do is grab it by the horns and take it for a wild joyride on the icy back roads of Michigan. No? You never wanted to do that? I was a weird kid.

After my show at the Terrapin Station on Friday, and after a little dancing at Tom Grainey's, it was all Rose from then on out.

I need a snake. The only deterrent, for me, is having to feed those poor little hapless mice to it. Not only do I feel bad for the mouse, but it's kind of emasculating to tell a snake that that's the biggest thing it's capable of taking on. Something bigger, like a sloth, might be more of a challenge.

Enough snake talk. This last mini-tour rocked. Wednesday found me in Spokane, WA, at Empyrean, sharing a bill with Shane Evans and Bridget Vogel, two incredible acoustic musicians.

Thursday morning, after a long, sleepless night, I headed over to the studios of 103.1 KCDA to tape a show for the Local Lounge with Matt Loi.

Damn, it sucked. Never OD on sleeping pills before going on the radio. I couldn't finish a thought to save JFK's life. Matt Loi is a patient man with a lot of editing to do.

Thursday night, I played in Richland, WA, with local hard rock band Folding In. They played a rocking acoustic set. Think Days Of The New on illegal substances.

While in Richland, I met with Spencer Andrews, president of Dummy Boy Records, who had driven three hours to watch my show. I signed a new management deal, as well as an associated booking deal with The Show Media and Joey Gingerella.

In Boise, Mandy and I both got new 'dos, and devoured some amazing vegan orange 'chicken' at Mai Thai downtown. Then we headed back to Portland.

Goodbye, Rose.

I'll be back in Boise February 27.

Too Many Voices. Not Enough Ears.

2009-01-11T02:35:00.000-08:00

It's 2:40 AM.

Usually, I'd be catching my second wind. I think I'm getting old.

Speaking of old, I just noticed that my MySpace blog page states that I am female and 105 years old. I have no idea how to change this. (The fact that I'm an old centenarian hag, that is.)

I'm tired.

Tired in a way that transcends drowsiness. Tired of all the selling.

Everyone is selling something. Usually, it's oneself. It happens on an interpersonal level, every day, in everyone's life. We all want to be noticed, valued, loved. And so we sell ourselves. I'm not talking about selling oneself for money, although you hookers out there will identify with that. I'm talking about proving ourselves, getting people to notice, getting people to buy into what we're trying to be. It happens in the workplace. We sell ourselves, pushing our own agendas to get a raise, a promotion. A lunch break.

I do it too. In this crazy music business, it seems impossible to get ahead without selling yourself, unless you can pay the right people to sell you. All I really want to do is to write and play music, to travel, to meet people. It never turns out to be that simple. In the ever-burgeoning music scene, every artist, every band, is striving to sell themselves on what they have that's different. That's new. That will change your life. A chord, a rhyme, an image, a tattoo, a haircut, an interactive CD/DVD, a downloadable album that you can pick your price for.

There are too many voices, and not enough ears.

But the voices rarely take this into consideration. Instead, they babble on.

I wish I had a million fans, three platinum albums, and the last name "Pickler." I'd even take two out of those three. It's so easy to fall into the trap of wanting more, and to forget to be grateful for the people I know, the shows I've played, the fans who have connected with a lyric I've written. To be grateful for a show in Cave Junction, OR last week, in the middle of nowhere, in a dive bar, that by all of the standards of the industry was a worthless show, but where I met some amazing, giving, hilarious people with stories to tell.

Who am I? I'm a guy with a voice and a guitar. One of tens of thousands of such guys. Millions, maybe. How should I sell myself to separate my voice from the rest? I don't know. I wish I didn't have to figure it out.

I'm tired.

Here's Why You Should Vote For Me For Male Artist Of The Year.

2009-01-09T18:50:00.000-08:00

I've compiled a comprehensive list of why you should vote for me for Best Male Artist Of The Year. Here it is.

1. Because I'm your father, and I said so.
2. If you don't vote for me, the terrorists win.
3. Every time you vote for me, God kills a kitten.
4. I am Spartacus.
5. If you don't vote for me, I'll take your mother, Dorothy Mantooth, out for a nice seafood dinner and never call her again.
6. Because I would really appreciate it, and the award would be great exposure, a great resume piece and a boost to my career. Plus, I'm really, really ridiculously good looking.

VOTE. THANKS!

Many of you have asked me who else I voted for (and, accordingly, who else they should vote for).
Here's my ballot:

Pioneer Award: Alex Steiniger
Legends Award: Elliot Smith
Album OTY: "Slanted Eyes, Slanted Hearts" by The Slants
Band OTY: The Slants
Male Artist: Anyone but that Jon Davidson douche
Female Artist: Storm Large
Best New Artist: Acoustic Minds
Best Radio Station: KUFO
Best Large Venue: Roseland
Best Medium Venue: Hawthorne
Best Small Venue: Macadam's
Best Live Performance, Local: Keegan Smith

To be honest, I don't know a lot about local country, world, blues, or jazz music, so as to avoid tainting an otherwise democratic process, I abstained from voting in these categories.

By the way, if you've got some time in my hands, check out my (relatively new) profile on OurStage. "Beautifully Bittersweet" is ranked #37 on the Alt/Rock chart this month. Join my fan club, rate my music and help push me to number 1! I wouldn't mind playing Bumbershoot..

Also, check out my boys in The Slants! They're a Portland-based dance/rock band extraordinaire. Not only should you vote for them for the 2009 PMAs, but you should buy every single piece of merchandise they offer. Or I will fight you.

Portland's Best Male Artist? I Need Your Vote!

2009-01-03T10:37:00.000-08:00

The 2009 Portland Music Awards nominations are over, folks. I've been nominated for the Best Male Artist award! I need your help to receive this honor and secure this piece of hardware.

Yes, my name is misspelled on the ballot. But don't think for a second you're supporting rampant illiteracy by voting for "John" Davidson. You can vote 5 times from a single IP address. Please vote for other well-deserving artists in other categories, too, like Acoustic Minds for Best New Artist or Keegan Smith for Best Live Performance. But not, of course, for Best Male Artist. :) Voting closes Jan. 20, and the winners will be announced at the Portland Music Awards ceremony Jan. 29!

Click HERE to vote.

So after ringing in the New Year with a Spanish countdown, I played in San Luis Obispo Thursday and Monterey Friday. I'm really living it up in a Motel 6 right now. I oozed downstairs for some coffee, only to be informed that this Motel 6 stops serving coffee at 10. TEN!! What kind of fatuous crackophile is actually awake to consume coffee before that God-forsaken hour? Yes, that was a rhetorical question.

Furthermore, they don't sell toothbrushes in the vending machine; the only toiletries available are combs. So, I bought the comb and made do. Don't ask.

On to the Grants Pass, OR, area tonight. Making a small-town stop in Cave Junction. This name makes no sense. If there were actually a junction of caves, wouldn't they simply be considered one larger cave? Not necessarily, I guess. We humans still have both the large and small colons, which are joined in most people.

Man, I really could've used that coffee.

Thankful

2008-12-24T14:11:00.000-08:00

Whatever your religious or societal views, it's hard to ignore the fact that this time of year is a season of giving. Why we sometimes wait all year to give perfunctory gifts or say perfunctory thanks is a mystery to me. At least we do it at all, I suppose.

I've spent a lot of time with myself over the years (practically every waking second), and I've come to realize, much to my chagrin, that I don't say thanks enough for what's given to me.

On this Christmas Eve, I want to say thanks. To you. Thanks for reading this blog entry. Thanks for buying CDs, for coming to a show, for taking the time to write and let me know that one of my songs means something to you. Thanks even for downloading my music illegally and sharing it with a friend.

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to do what I love doing most. Without you, I would be strumming my acoustic guitar in the basement. Forever. I've been blown away by the kindness I've experienced from club owners, from radio DJs, from fans, from fellow musicians. From you.

I can't wait to make music for as long as I can. No, I don't aspire to be one of those aging rockstars who has to have an ambulance waiting backstage. I won't say any names, Mick Jagger. But I do look forward to playing more shows, writing more songs, and building more friendships with people along the way.

I hope that this Christmas, this Hanukkah, this Kwanzaa...rocks.

"It Won't Be Long" Remix Is Done!:

2008-12-22T17:22:00.000-08:00

Portland has gotten rocked with snow. To make matters worse, idiocy is running rampant. An alleged professional just referred to an anemometer as a "windometer" on Portland's Channel 8. Furthermore, the station's coverage of the storm is called "Arctic Blast." Reminds me of a menthol-flavored colon cleanser.

Here's a picture of my car, I think.

Klubjumpers, the club gurus who have remixed songs for such artists as Mariah Carey and the Black Eyed Peas, just finished their take on my song, "It Won't Be Long. " I just posted the shorter radio edit of the remix on my MySpace page today! Give it a spin and let me know what you think.

Some A&R people from Universal are listening to the track and considering an EP deal! Klubjumpers are also confident the song will chart on Billboard! Good news! How many more exclamation points can I use! In one! Paragraph!

Also, have a look at the demo for the full-length feature film, "Twisted Redemption," that will feature my song, "What Can I Say?"

As always, please vote for me for the 2009 Portland Music Awards! Voting closes January 1.

Snow.

2008-12-20T12:27:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling really groggy right now. Slept in today and woke up to a bunch of new snow and the news that all of my plans for the day had been canceled. I'm brewing some organic dark roast coffee right now, and just the smell of it is perking me up, but also mocking me because my coffee maker doesn't have a steal-a-cup feature.

I played in Portland at a small, chic wine bar last night. Despite blizzard conditions, a small yet loyal following made it out to Vicinato to listen to two hours of me. Vicinato rocks.

Throughout the night, whenever I asked for anything, somebody put it in my mouth. Anything. I asked for water and got beer. Asked for a taste of caprese and got a skewer. I could get used to this.

I kicked off my "Write My Song" contest last night. I played a song I'm writing, and asked the audience to write down a title and what the song should be about. I'll be posting a video online this weekend. I'm gonna pick one title and theme, and write the lyrics based on that. If I pick your idea, you get a free Jon Davidson T-shirt, or a free CD. Your pick.

Stop reading this lame blog and go vote for me for the 2009 Portland Music Awards!

Good News

2008-12-16T01:43:00.000-08:00

I have eight pieces of good news. Here they are, in no particular order of prominence.

1. I listened to the unfinished remix of "It Won't Be Long" last night. Played it for some fans and friends. It rocks!! Klubjumpers should be done with it this next week. And, they're confident it will chart on Billboard. Billboard!

2. Jon Davidson T-shirts, tanks, and hoodies are on the way! James Fletcher, design guru with THELABDESIGN, finished the design over the weekend. They're being printed in Georgia (the state, not the war-torn country) and will be available by January. Soon I won't have to wear my "Hello, My Name Is" sticky nametag anymore.

3. I ate either eight or nine bananas today.

4. I didn't go to the studio today to work on "Never A Metaphor," a new track. While this could be construed as bad news, it also meant that I got to sleep in till 11:30 and have breakfast in bed.

5. People from all over the world have written me to tell me they voted for me for the 2009 Portland Music Awards! It's cool that a chick I don't know in Japan took the initiative to not only vote for me but to get her whole Economics class to vote for me too!

6. It is 22 degrees here in Portland, and there's snow on the ground. I hate snow. 21 years in Michigan is enough to instill anyone with hatred for most kinds of white, powdery substances. Good news, though: I can feel the cold, which means I still don't have leprosy.

I wonder if the words "leprosy" and "leopard" have the same etymology. "Leotard," even. I digress.

7. I freaking love my job! I can't wait to play at Vicinato Wine Bar in Portland this Friday. I'm so grateful for everyone who comes to my shows, buys my CDs, and gives me the opportunity to do what I love doing.

8. Christmas is almost here! Which means that I'll only have to listen to "Jingle Bell Rock" sixty-seven more times this year.

Stuff Your Stocking.

2008-12-14T18:20:00.000-08:00

So if you're anything like me, you haven't even started your Christmas shopping yet. Getting your leftover 2007 wrapping paper out of the closet doesn't count, unfortunately.

Why not give the gift that keeps on giving? I'm referring, of course, to my new album, Perfect Cliche.

From now until Christmas eve, you can get it for only $5. 99 when you buy two from CDBaby. This deal is not available anywhere or anytime else. else. Heck, I can't even buy one for that cheap.

Click HERE to buy the album!

While you're online, swing over to the 2009 Portland Music Awards website and vote for me and my album. You won't save any money, but you can make a difference in my music career. If that doesn't make you smile, get someone to tickle you.

I Need 20 Seconds Of Your Time. Por favor.

2008-12-13T02:29:00.000-08:00

It's not too late for you to vote for me.

We're talking the 2009 Portland Music Awards here, folks.

Click HERE to vote. You can type in my name for the "Best New Artist" and "Best Male Artist Of The Year" categories, and type in my new album, Perfect Cliche, for "Album Of The Year.".

Don't stop there! I'd love to be voted Portland's best music venue, as well.

That makes no sense.

Anyway, thanks for voting!

Some fans have been asking what I've been listening to lately. You NEED to check out my man Russell Stafford's 6-song EP, Between U & I. "Cheap Wine" will not get outta my head.

Played an unusual, but packed, show with my rock band Silversafe at the Vancouver Mall today. Rekindled my love for Honey Nut Cheerios today as well.

It's been a good day.

Jon Davidson On Billboard?

2008-12-06T14:18:00.000-08:00

So I need an alter ego. Since Sasha Fierce is already taken, and I can't be Puff Daddy in England, and I also can't cop Joe Satriani or his songs (Coldplay beat me to it), I need a new name. Why, you ask? Well, Klubjumpers, the remix gurus who have worked with artists such as Madonna, BEP, J-Lo and Mariah Carey, are remixing some Jon Davidson.

That's right, "It Won't Be Long" is going house. And the boys of Klubjumpers are confident they can get it charted on Billboard.

Something about "Jon Davidson" just screams singer/songwriter. J-Dizzle? Too old-school. J Love Potion Machine? Too PG-13. JD Home Slice Smack Dawg Frito Lay? Too.. well..

In any case, the remix will be available on iTunes and on my MySpace page before Christmas.

While you wait, pick up a free ringtone of "Hermit Crab" or "Beautifully Bittersweet", exclusively on my MySpace page!

What Is A Buffalo Gap Anyway?

2008-12-05T14:54:00.000-08:00

According to Buffalo Gap's website, Buffalo Gap is a dot on the map in South Dakota. According to urbandictionary.com, it's anything from a drinking game to a display of authority. Add a 'gap' to these definitions, and they become completely nonsensical. Maybe even dirty. The website even offers a grammatically-correct sentence containing nothing but seven different uses of the word 'buffalo.' You should definitely check out the definitions of 'buffalhoe' and 'buffaleep.' They're buffalicious!

Focus, Jon. Focus.

I played at Buffalo Gap in Portland last night. One of PDX's most intimate venues, the Gap boasts a slanted ceiling and a great crowd. Forty-five minutes of Jon Davidson is never enough (for me, at least).

Russell Stafford played after me, with an acoustic band featuring three acoustic guitars and an acoustic bass. He pulled off a simmering cover of Muse's "Hysteria." Stafford, originally from Sydney, Australia, is a top-flight singer/songwriter now based out of Portland. Grab his new album, Between U & I, today. Or else.

Dirty Little Fingers closed the show with some down-and-dirty bluesy jamming. A little stand-up bass goes a long way.

Thanks for coming to the show, y'all! I'll see you Portlanders at Vicinato Wine Bar on the 19th.

Release

2008-12-03T18:55:00.000-08:00

This last Saturday, I celebrated the release of my new album, Perfect Cliche, at Macadam's in Portland. I wasn't celebrating alone. One employee said that my show brought the largest Macadam's crowd he'd seen in years.

Issues with the sound system delayed the start of the show by a few minutes. C'est la vie, monsieur. (I don't speak French, so don't ask for any more than that. They should change the name of the language to Freedom, anyway.)

Chris Merrill, frontman for the eponymous Portland pop/rock band, kicked the show off with a sweaty, gritty, solo acoustic rock set. Merrill has one of the best voices in the Northwest, period. If it were possible, I would have babies with his voice. In the most heterosexual way possible.

I took the stage, along with Matt Tjostlovson on hand drums and Tony Ramal on vocals, shortly after ten, and played for an hour and a half.

Yeah, I know I was wearing the same shirt as I did for my album photoshoot. That was planned.

After the show, Mandy and my parents (who had flown in from Michigan) conspired to get me a cake with the CD cover on the front! Despite clearly stating my intentions to eat my own frosted head, Matt got ahold of it. I hate him. After signing some autographs on CDs, posters, and backs, we took the party on down the road.

I can't say thanks enough to everyone who made my CD release show amazing. My Portland fans simply rock.

Don't miss my free show at The Buffalo Gap with Russ Stafford tomorrow night!

Rhode Island

2008-11-26T12:08:00.001-08:00

The verdict is in. For five years, I've been a smug Northwesterner, convinced that Oregon is the greatest place on earth. Mountains? Got 'em. Ocean? Check. Desert? The deepest canyon in the US? The biggest group of high waterfalls in America? World's largest Sitka spruce? Check, check, check, check. The most microbrews and adult entertainment locations per capita? The least polluted air in the country? Need I go on?

So what's changed? Well, after last weekend's mini-tour of the Northeast, I'm still convinced that Oregon rocks.

Where am I going with this? Well, even though I didn't get to see all of New England, I did notice more than a few similarities between the Northeast and Northwest. Not only does natural beauty abound, but the people simply rock.

I spent Saturday night in a motel in Concord, NH, then drove to Providence Sunday morning. I spent some time exploring the city's parks. Providence has a lot of geese. I also made an appearance at a college radio station.

Sunday night found me at the Celtic Pub in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, just minutes from downtown Providence. I played for a small yet receptive audience; I couldn't help cracking some Olive Garden jokes to all the servers present who had just gotten off work. I sang a couple of impromtu duets with Caitlin Callahan, a talented local musician. After wrapping up the show, I still had some more left in me, which I unleashed upon a neighborhood karaoke bar.

After three hours of sleep, I hopped on a plane for Portland. A flight attendant asked me to serenade all of first class. I declined. A large, well-meaning woman who was sitting in my row talked my ear off about how great Portland is and all the things that I needed to see when I got back. What part of "I live in Portland" don't you understand, lady? If you are reading this, ma'am, I'm sorry for putting in my earplugs while you were still talking.

#34 On MySpace Music Charts!

2008-11-22T21:08:00.000-08:00

As of today, I'm ranked #34 on MySpace Music's Unsigned Artists Chart! Visit my MySpace page, listen to my music, add it to your profile--I've got the #33 spot squarely in my sights. Look out, Ingrid Michaelson. :)

To all my fans, old and new: You rock!

Played just outside of Concord, New Hampshire, last night, at Ground Zero. Quickly found out the town is pronounced "Conquered." And here I was thinking grapes all along. Played a 30-minute set and shared the stage with a chick band from Connecticut, an alt/rock band from down the road, and a solo metal guitarist called the Imaginary Friends Club Band, complete with a t-rex and penguin on stage. On to Pawtucket, Rhode Island, tonight!