I’m a giant fucking production. At minimum, it takes me 8 pills and one injection to get ready to eat, which means it costs about $70 for me to even think about having dinner. (luckily I have insurance right now, so I’m not paying that directly). If I ever had to pay $70 for a meal, I’d crap myself in protest. Even if I decided not to eat today, it still costs roughly $60 for me to wake up. Sure, I could wake up and not do my pulmozyme, but it’s not worth it. Continue reading
Here’s my main CF related problem right now: I’m sick enough to not want to go to work, but not sick enough to justify it to myself. I don’t earn a lot of sick time, so I don’t want to waste it on lungs that feel like they’re coated in a layer of dried pancake batter (wet cement or GTFO). I could get a leave that would enable me to call out using vacation time, but I burn a lot of that on doctor’s appointments anyway—I have three within the next month. I could probably work out a deal where I call out unpaid, but I have $700 worth of medical bills on my desk from those doctor’s appointments I used my vacation time on. There’s nothing Earth shattering happening right now, just a bunch of shit I don’t feel like dealing with. Maybe it’d be easier if I could breathe. Continue reading
I meant to write a ton of pieces for Halloween, but making the “Genetic Decree” song/video took much longer than expected. So instead, enjoy this handy guide to all the Halloween crap I’ve made over the years. Continue reading
The last few times I’ve seen Alice Cooper, he’s been opening for another act. An appropriate reaction would be “Why?”, but watch Alice open a show and it becomes clear: He’s hungry. He loves to hide under other people’s beds—Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson and Motley Crue—and drag their assembled masses into his nightmare for a little while.
The nightmare has had to adapt a lot over the years. Alice doesn’t receive the same “chameleon” praise afforded to Bowie because although Alice has changed throughout the years, he remains distinctly himself, acting not like a chameleon, but as a snake, shedding his skin, wrapping around your neck, squeezing just hard enough to scare you.
Thinking that I might have been too harsh on it in it’s initial release, I recently rewatched Halloween Resurrection. I was hoping it would be entertainingly bad; instead, it was so bad that my tv doesn’t turn on anymore. I have to assume my TV would rather die than have to display that movie again, even if it was just to see if the commentary track had an apology on it.
Most songs about disease don’t reflect the experience of the disease. Instead, they’re packed full of maudlin sentiments designed to drop a tear from your eye on the car ride home from the supermarket. I can’t speak for all diseases, but neither one of mine came with a soaring string section.
Sure, there’s a bittersweet beauty to the frailty of life, but in an age where people cry at beer commercials, that button is too easy to push. It’s time for a new approach.
Cystic Fibrosis makes it possible to drown in your own mucus. If you get sick enough, they harvest lungs from the dead to replace yours. Cystic Fibrosis is brutal. It requires brutal music.
So, here’s a death metal song I wrote about CF (technically, it’s blackened death thrash, but let’s not split hairs here). Even if you don’t like Death Metal, you should watch the video, because I made a lot of people—Producer and Arbiter of Taste Bekka Wrynn, Director Walter Forbes and Script Doctor/Key Grip Thomas Forbes—work on it for nothing but pizza rolls. Plus, you can see me stab myself!
You can download the track at https://allhallowsevil.bandcamp.com/track/genetic-decree. It’s a pay what you want download. Anything you can throw in the hat would really help out.
In a sentence, Frank is the story of a struggling song writer—in the sense that he’s never written a song—who ends up living in a cabin with a band led by a man who never takes off his papier-mâché head. Continue reading