Among the creative people of the world, there are many who dare to crossover. Those who try their hands at genres within the arts that they were not instructed on, or gained their fame in. Just think of actors like J.Lo or William Shatner who have made music albums, while inversely musicians such as LL Cool J or Roger Daltrey have appeared in movies. When celebrities do a crossover, it’s essentially a crapshoot in terms of marketing. While the general public knows the name of the performer immediately, it is difficult to accept a celebrity doing something different.

For those of us fortunate enough to be devoid of fame, we can try any and everything we want within the creative hemispheres, and suffer all the same. How gratifying! Nevertheless, the creative area that I have no formal training or experience is music. I love hearing music, and am constantly surrounded by it no matter what I am doing. But when it comes to actually composing or playing the music, I have mostly avoided it for lack of natural talent and coordination. My encounters with playing are limited to three months of saxophone lessons in fourth grade, and a brief stint of singing terribly in a tenth grade rock band, to which I got kicked out of at the end of the summer. Of course, I know wholeheartedly that I did not apply myself in either case. But redemption was always waiting for me.

By admitting that I am a writer and artist first, that puts a big scarlet C for crossover on my chest when it comes to me producing a podcast of semi-melodic tracks. But brand me all you want— producing compositions of words and sounds was as fun as new Christmas toys. For all of the tweaking and timing issues and triple takes that it took to make it happen, I highly recommend it to any creative soul looking for something fun and challenging to do.

- – - – - – - – - -
Magic Junk Radio 1 is a creative fusion of spoken word, samples, sounds, and beats. I didn’t play any instruments, but you’re welcome to pretend I did. MJR 1 has no aspirations other than amusement and an occasional foot tap. At 17 and a half minutes, it’s a fast food podcast. But I’m perfectly content with that. Clog your arteries and enjoy.

INSTRUCTIONS: Right-click this link to download the full podcast in MP3 format, which will play in any iPod or MP3 music player. Left click and the MP3 will begin playing in a new web browser window (unless you haven’t updated in a while.)

To download the tracks individually, click any of the links below.
Content of Tables
Intro Music – 0:51
Welcome – 1:18
Identifying the Train People – 4:53
Interlude 1 – 1:12
Serico’s Wake Up Call (from The Art of Getting Bent) – 2:02
Not Going Gently – 1:51
Interlude 2 – 1:14
Magically Delicious – 1:40
Mushroom Cloud – 1:52
Farewell – 0:37

Magic Junk Radio RSS

Don’t be afraid to help. In fact, be a person that Smokey the Bear’s literature loving cousin Scripty would give a merit badge to.

Help stop The Art of Getting Bent, a novel by M. Sahm, from burning in the fiery doldrums of Amazon.com obscurity. Currently, as of August 26, Amazon is ranking TAGB at #248,909 in Books… but this is simply cruel of them. Help show the online industry giant that there is still hope left in the literary dreams of a small publishing house and a first time novelist. Your support is invaluable to us.

Remember, only you can prevent novel fires. Or the acidic dusts and airborne chemicals of time. Only you can keep the Unsung Fu warehouse storage facility from being used to house someone’s old furniture. Nobody wants that. Because old couches are smelly.

This message has been brought to you by the Foundation for Shameless Self-Promotion. We appreciate your gracious acceptance for our self-depreciating humor. Thank you.

Alternate Designation: She Put The Octane In My Engine And I Rode Her All Day

- – - – - – - – - –
It’s before 7am and even the sun has not bothered to get its lazy ass up. I lean on my kitchen counter to prepare the morning’s cup of “322″ elixir. Three shots espresso, two shots Kahlua, two shots dark rum, a fist full of granola and the other ice cubes. Blend? No, liquefy. I love how the ice crunches in my blender like numbers in an accountant’s wet dream. Fifteen seconds and I spell relief, but I’m not awake yet, so I just sound it out phonetically.

Now the ingestion. Pound it like not only is there no tomorrow, but like today is ending right now unless this concoction is dancing with the enzymes in the next five seconds. I suppose I could sip, but I think the violent motion wakes me up just as much as the drink itself.

It’s a virus that spreads through the host, and there’s nothing like the caffeine jitters to shake up a random thought for creative use. So good I get a ringing in my ears, as if a smoke alarm is playing Earth Wind & Fire underwater. This routine is the beginning of my daily psychosis, my creative chainsaw to hack through everyday life.

Of course, I’ve never actually done this little routine. But I like to pretend I do. That my morning cup of coffee will taste celestial if I honestly believe it will bring me to a higher level, to make my brain Hulk out. Cue the metamorphic music, and Lou Ferrigno steps into my skull and growls and pushes running tractors backward and produces me some righteous art and writing. Dig it, sucka.

- – - – - – - – - –
If only it were that easy. We all know what our optimal creative state is, and yet we acknowledge that it’s hard to get into that zone. Sure, things like a good breakfast or some strong coffee or good herbs (I mean the vitamin form, my ganja toking friends out there) will get us into the groove, but it means nothing without the mental mindset.

The ability to concentrate when you’re not worrying about getting laid off, about where your kids are, about where your loved one is, or if you’ll ever even find a loved one. I see so much distraction in the world that I could become a professional distracter. Get a yellow page ad, 800 number, monogrammed pens. Just hire me and I will help you miss the rest of your life in glorious obfuscation. But I’m not having that shit. And neither should you.

Knowing that you’re wasting your creative talent is like walking a block downwind of a slow moving garbage truck. You could stop smelling the stench if only you’d just take off in a sprint to get ahead of it.

Additionally, you could read all of the self-help books in the world and it won’t mean a stir-fried cat’s ass if you don’t have the will to apply theories to life. You might be wondering: am I trying to motivate you? Nope, I leave that to the people trying to make money off of others’ desperation. I’m merely putting the writing in the sky. You can sit on your beach chair and get back to working on a nice tan. Have a fruity mixed drink with a little umbrella.

Because if you’re happy with the way you roll your creative style out, then by all means, share your methods of preparation here. But if you’re not, then take a couple moments to think what you need to do to kick-start your creative chainsaw— be it a cup of coffee, magic elixir, gamma rays, or ultimately the basic conscious decision to do what you want without distraction.

I’m often stating how I prefer riding the train to driving, since I can sleep, read, write, and still get to my destination with minimal problems. A recent incident made my opinion even stronger. After twelve years of nearly flawless driving (meaning no accidents and no traffic violations), I received my first speeding ticket on a questionable infraction this past month. While I cannot get too detailed for security reasons, let me explain the utter bullshit of the situation.

I was driving on a two lane highway with a speed limit of 65 mph. Traffic was moderately heavy, and I was in the right lane behind a tractor trailer. We were approaching a large hill and the truck was doing 65. On road trips like this, I usually cruise between 70 and 75. Yes, I know that’s already speeding, but let’s be honest— that is the speed at which traffic usually flows on a major 65 mph highway. Anyone who drives more than once a year knows that.

So I check my rearview and see a group of cars and SUV’s gaining in the passing lane. Before those cars pass me, I decide to pass the truck and accelerate. As I just get around the truck coming down the hill, there was a state trooper waiting at the bottom. He throws his sirens on and pulls me over.

Never in my life have I been victim of a speed trap as ridiculous as this. Pulled over for speeding while passing another vehicle! When I saw the cop at the bottom of the hill, I looked at my speedometer and was doing 7-8 miles less than what the officer told me I was doing. I told him I was passing the tractor trailer and he claimed the truck was going faster than 65 as well. I knew there was no way.

It’s days like this that I wish I understood the mechanics of how a radar gun could clock me and the truck at the speeds the officer indicated. Was it because we were coming downhill at the time? I don’t know. All I know is I was making sure I wasn’t creating a traffic buildup. Had I stayed behind the truck, the mass of traffic would have passed me, and I would have had to wait to get around. Had I passed at only a small increase, all of the traffic in the passing lane would have been up my ass, creating road rage in others because I was halting the flow of traffic.

I’ve never been in an accident, partially because I’m lucky in terms of statistics, but more because of the fact that I watch what other cars do and how they react. I feel I handled the situation in the best way possible for all parties concerned that were on the road. Was I planning on maintaining the passing speed? No, I wanted to get in front of the truck and cruise the rest of the way to my destination. Would I plead guilty if I was caught doing that same cruising speed in the open without any vehicles around me? Yes.

So I plead not guilty to the ticket and sent it in. I received a court notice for a trial. I then sent that letter back stating that I could not make the trial, since the little town court was four hours away from where I live (and they were open a total of 8 hours the whole week on Tuesdays and Thursdays only!). Knowing I could not beat the officer’s testimony if I did not show up, I requested a plea bargain. To my chagrin, I was granted one, on the basis of my good record, and after some more paperwork exchanges, the traffic violation was dropped by several points.

The catch, of course, was that the fine stayed the same. It ended up costing me a little more than $200. Ouch. For a middle-class artist, that’s a nice chunk of change. But I realize that this all was an experience that shows me that most tickets are driven as much by public safety as they are by the need to make quotas to pay for bloated state police salaries.

So tell me, is accelerating to pass a crime? Let me know what you think.

Alternate Designation: Failure Gonna Put Mo Hair On Ya Chest, Boy

- – - – - – - – - -
Of the three fluorescent lights in my work cubicle, one buzzes noisily. When an Info-Tech guy sits at my computer to install new software, they usually ask, “Doesn’t that buzzing drive you crazy, man?”

I start to laugh inside. Well, maybe it’s more like the chuckle of a sinister villain waiting for his plans to come to fruition. You see, I already know I’m crazy. But not like your Uncle Nick who sawed his car in half because his team missed the playoffs. No, my crazy is self-inflicted, a detachment from reality that most creative folks know all too well. Because reality says: the odds are stacked against you succeeding on a creative level. No matter what the field is—music, writing, painting, illustrating—we will most likely fail to live up to our expectations. I am presently part of that statistic, but I have come to accept this as unavoidable. To which I laugh again.

People throw around the cliché ‘glutton for punishment’ when it comes to those who try many creative endeavors without success. But this is only said because of our endless quest for fame and money. The two determinants of success convolute our collective arts, our whole creative process. They cause the natural inclination in people to try and market everything, so we can buy luxury cars, mansions, platinum toasters, have our face whored out on Spin and People. Because who the hell wants to dwell behind a desk plugged into a computer all day, working for a company that could replace us tomorrow?

While our culture caters only the creative success stories, that’s no reason to see it as defeating. It is the process and the production which should be the focus. We should be just detached enough from reality to keep being imaginative in our daily routines. No matter how many times it burns us. That is creative psychosis. That is why I ride into the cardboard sunset backdrop that’s staple-gunned to the wall. Because I can always get up and search for that real sunset.

- – - – - – - – - -
All things aside, I might sit in this cubicle until I retire. Or have a heart attack. Or get abducted by aliens. Whatever comes first. It’s just commute, work, commute, repent and repeat. But that’s the system. We gotta pay the bills and try to live comfortably. Realizing creative psychosis is not an overnight decision. It might take years in the work world to truly know that fulfillment won’t come through wishes, dreams, adherence to a self-help system, or even through hard work. While we know it’s always coming, opportunity has no set schedule.

The imagination that we fall in love with as children is the same one that has lets us down. I know I’m not afraid to admit it. People try to sugarcoat, to deny their failures, when there’s more knowledge in such than any record contract or book advance you could ever get. If my creative life continues like it has for another thirty years, then I’ll have an ego that looks like an old country screen door. Just a wiry spring keeping me from falling off the damn hinges. But as long as it holds on, then it’s fine.

In the end, nothing is conclusive enough to pledge full allegiance to, but I’d like to continue to expand this hypothesis. After all, I may just get lucky one day. Meanwhile, I know all of our failures will never kill us… unless it was a fission experiment that transmogrified you into extra-tasty-crispy chicken, but I digress. If you’re reading this, then you’re still alive to try something new, succeed, fail, whatever.

In truth, the process is never anything worst than annoying. Just like that buzzing fluorescent light. To which I answer the IT Guy’s question, “Nah, I deal with it.”

I will remember the evening of August 11, 2005 for one thing. Be it an iron lung or a gas mask filled with poison, that one infinitesimal thing will henceforth be known as a turning point for me, my art, and my novels. It was a private matter to which I cannot elaborate on a public forum… but rest assured that the effects will be felt down the line for many months to come.

NOTE: This is a sequel to my previous post: Identifying the Train People.

Ever think you could execute your morning routine blindfolded? That the repetition is engrained into your cerebral cortex like the mark of a library stamp? That you could fight off ninjas and still get everything done in time to catch the ever glorious AM train? Yes, it’s time to commute in again.

The AM Train. Chugga chugga chugga screech. Five minutes late everyday, but 93% On Time according to the surveys. The AM Train. A twenty five year old sardine can with bad ventilation, that hasn’t been replaced because my suburban line does not generate enough revenue. I step on anyway, iPodded and sunglassed, and look for a slab of vinyl to become a napping corpse on.

Of course, like the PM Train, there is an ever-present cast of fellow travelers that I’ve come to assign an artificial identity to. I must do this. There is no choice. I’m exceedingly weary of engaging in any boring conversation that perfect strangers could possibly have, and worse yet— I so enjoy making up names. It makes seeing these people as entertaining as a city droner can be.

Each morning starts by standing on the platform next to a couple I’ve coined the American Gothic duo. Like the famous painting by Grant Wood that they resemble, the two both stand very rigid, and never talk. For some reason, they also sit apart at times. The man often dabs his upper lip with a handkerchief, and I get the feeling his pitchfork is not far away.

Upon getting on the train, I often cross paths with a woman I call Ozzy Chick. She’s in her early 30’s, wears tinted round glasses, and parts her reddish-black hair down the center. While I’ve yet to see her bite any heads off of birds, she does have this weird fashion sense… it’s like every style of bad wallpaper you could imagine in an 70’s kitchen, I’ve coined it ‘corporate nauseous’.

Once everyone has sat down, a man in his late 40’s will walk up and down the aisle as if he’s looking for a seat. But even if there are open ones, he won’t sit. He has a kind of lurch as he walks, and he wears these awful looking striped polos that make the Izod gator bite its own tail. Yet he reminds me of a flaky doctor I’ve met once, and so I’ve coined him Dr. Strange. While he bears no resemblance to the Marvel Comics character, the name fits.

While I usually point out the peculiar people on my train, one thing I’ve taken note of is the evolution of pregnant women. Most are regulars who one day appear to be slightly heavier (hey, it happens to the best of us). A month or two later, it becomes evident why. Then after a few more months of full tilt belly, they just disappear. A few months go by, and the women return as if nothing ever happened. While the maternity leave is obvious, it is amusing to watch strangers evolve while I’ve been hovering in my isolated Dantonian limbo.

As we near the metropolis, it is then that I consider role reversal. That if I have a tag for these people I see every morning, then therefore they probably have a tag for me. What could it be? Angry Looking Young Man? iPod Guy? The Gent with the Mirror Shades and Swiss Messenger Bag? I certainly don’t look like an artist or a writer (if such a stereotype exists, although I’ve been told I don’t look like those anyway.) But then, I think I got it— the Fast Walker. Yes I confess, I am compelled to get the hell out of Grand Central the second I arrive.

Why you ask? Surely you know if you’ve ever walked into Grand Central at 8:45 in the morning. It’s like that scene from The Empire Strikes Back when Han Solo pilots the Millennium Falcon into an asteroid field— giant rocks flying everywhere, Chewbacca growling, C-3PO screaming like a big wussy, and damn I need a cup of coffee.

And when the doors open, I spin a list of songs and find the hardest beat, and swerve through the human asteroids like a drunk driver with a lead foot. Although it works like magic, since people seem to avoid your path when they see that you’re moving like a madman on a mission. If I walk slow like strolling to Sunday jazz, then I will inevitably get stuck behind a couple walking side by side, pacing like its not rush hour. But no, they want to be snails that are not in need of coffee. I digress, and speed by the bomb sniffing dog towards Madison Avenue.

You could melt all this data together and conclude I hate commuting, but I don’t. Really. I swear on my pipe dream of success. Commuting’s like a big sociological lab experiment, and I get to be the Watcher. I’ve seen actual fist fights, soap opera-esque arguments, you name it. I find it’s part of the urban experience, and for that, I enjoy it. Maybe one day, I’ll live in the city and walk to work, but that’s a post for another day.

How do you get to work? Let me know what you think the ‘ideal’ commute is.

I cannot help how my imagination runs. I was reading someone’s post on Blogcritics about the new Burger King sandwich, the Ultimate Double Whopper. Along the way, he used the adjective “man-sized”, and I just felt compelled to create a true composite image of what such a sandwich would be like.

Throw in a little Jaws pop culture and you have the image below. Better watch those calories.