the_Network's Kevin Howley now on the Deciblog!

Check out the second entry Kev did for the Deciblog:

http://decibelmagazine.com/Content.aspx?ncid=314618


Our little Digi is movin' on up!

Artist Entry: The_Network guitarist Kevin wants the odds evened, one attention whoring band at a time

No living person on this planet really has it “all together.” That is a statement I’m certain of. We all float around in our lives just barely hiding a complete mess of a human being. Yes, some are better at it than others, but they’re probably the ones that go home and chew on their sofas with tears streaming down their face while blocking out thoughts of suicide and/or homicide. Literally, everyone you see in public are nervous wrecks with vibrating hearts and the darting eyes of a weasel stuck in a bear trap. The know-it-all crust punk, the Abercrombie model, the oh-so hip hipster, the Trekkie, the newly-weds with plastered on smiles, the boss, the manager, the vegan, the hunter, the gym addict, the life of the party, the guitarist of that band, the apathetic bartender, the homeless, the compassionate protester, the driver with “NRA” and “George ‘04” bumper stickers, the soldier, the record label owner, the teacher, the professor, the governor, the senator, the president, the American; all of them are an open wound with a shiny Band Aid struggling to hold on to slippery skin. Whether they know it or not, they don’t have a damn thing “together.” If a person has any sense in their head, they’re a fucking mess. If you have any kind of intelligence, you want to scream blood.

This is the kind of paragraph I’d repeat to myself every day regardless of what kind of life I’d be living. The reality is that I’m going to be 29-years-old in two weeks. I have a bachelor’s degree from the University of New Hampshire and an IQ of 137. I deliver pizza for money and live with my parents so I can devote all my time and energy to playing in the_network. And, yes, I too am a shaky pile of nerves behind an ill made costume of normalcy. If I had tried to start some horrific career right after college or gotten married and had kids or went to graduate school or became a vigilante or a serial killer, I’d still have to repeat the above paragraph to myself every morning. I’d still have to tell myself that life isn’t what you want it to be, life is what it is. This could all be some sickening pre-birthday, soul searching bullshit that would otherwise make me simultaneously laugh and puke, but it is necessary and true. No matter what life choices we make, reality is always going to confront us with situations that will force us to evaluate the entire world and our role in it, so why not do whatever the fuck we want.

Being in a band offers plenty of situations that will force a person to look far too deeply inward. If you’re in a band, you know what I’m talking about. When you’re in a van (the band bought themselves) literally all day only to lug out all your equipment and play in front of five people in the middle of the fucking country, you get to thinking. This is happening every day to bands that are really good. I mean, I think my band is relatively good (if you don’t like your own band, quit) and we’ve played numerous horrible shows with many bands that I know are good. And I guarantee that every shitty show an amazing band plays, there’s some huge tour package with three or four equally well known bands stopping somewhere within a hundred mile radius. This has gone past a minor annoyance to a full-fledged epidemic in the extreme music scene.

Only a few years ago, one or two big bands would actually tour with one or two less well known but great bands, and those smaller bands would get the attention they deserve. Now, it’s a little different. I mean, how many times do we see some tour with The Red Chord, Despised Icon, A Life Once Lost, and Through the Eyes of the Dead? Or maybe The Dillinger Escape Plan, Every Time I Die, Converge, and The Locust? Maybe Since the Flood just decided to help out Full Blown Chaos. (I’m not saying these tours have or are happening, but just using examples with well known bands.) Are A Life Once Lost and The Red Chord still both in dire need of gaining more attention? Is Despised Icon finally getting a break? Is someone going to go to a Dillinger show and just discover Every Time I Die? Fuck no. About ten of these tours happen a year and dozens of smaller ones have to spend weeks just eating gas money. What maniacal capitalists are booking these tours? When did Rockefeller and William Randolph Hearst start booking shows? I’m sure there’s some tiring explanation for all this and maybe I’m being naïve or bitter, but the reality of the situation is worth discussion.

For every sold out show full of kids buying their second or third Suicide Silence shirt across the country, there’s most likely an amazing band like Blues or Graf Orlock playing in front of 10 jaded guys or eight broke kids in some VFW a few miles away. And while Blues is hemorrhaging money on gas and sleeping on top of each other in a Wal-Mart parking lot after eating dry Ramen noodles, fucking Born of Osiris is trying to decide whether to go to Chili’s before or after they get their two rooms at the Holiday Inn. What the fuck happened?

There’s enough fans, attention, and, unfortunately, money to go around. All I’m saying is: let’s even the playing field. If the extreme music scene is going to be built up with the same capitalist attention paid to a game of Jenga, then it is time for the tower to crumble all over the fucking kitchen table. All I’m saying is give me one day when I don’t have to repeat the first paragraph of this rant to myself. Give me one day where I don’t have to force myself to look through everyone’s bullshit façade. Give me one day where I can tell myself that everyone around me is happy, well-rounded, and honest so I can get a gun and blow my fucking brains out.

Artist Entry: The_Network guitarist Kevin and a tale of a televangelist's demise

Bishop Kent Manning

by, Kevin Howley

A dead heart shrieks so loudly in the ER. In Bishop Kent Manning’s case, his lifeless heart was loud enough to bring him back from the dead. The EKG meter hummed steadily until the Bishop’s eyes blasted open, then continued with a rhythmic beeping. The EKG produced the beat of an appalling soundtrack. The cracking and scraping of bone, the slurping noise of blood, the whiz of cold machinery, and the muffled voices of doctors and nurses plundered horribly over the metronome of the EKG meter. His torso seemed a detached heap of metal and blood; an excavation site where he had the best view. Whether he was in shock or drugged, he felt no pain. His only real feeling was the trembling of his skull and he’d occasionally taste iron tickling the back of his throat. He was road kill; meat and bone being tenderized for consumption or a calf being packaged for distribution. His guts were exposed and his blood was decorating the ER staff. He had all the strength of a gnat smeared across a windshield and the only pain he felt stemmed from an echoing voice somewhere in his wiggling head.

“There is no God,” he heard.

Even while he could see a smashed bullet being plucked from his midsection, his only worry was that damn voice. He never remembered thinking that God didn’t exist and attributed the voice to the trauma he was experiencing. Even when his father died, when he’d watch the slaughtering of farm animals, when he’d cover his face in makeup for the television camera, when he was taking a shit, when he drove, when he slept, and especially when he counted money, he never doubted the existence of God. As he tried to ignore the voice, he heard someone mutter, “spinal anesthesia,” and he fell asleep.

“Bishop,” a voice called to him.

His mind fumbled to wake up.

“Kent! Wake the fuck up!” the voice continued.

He did wake up and tried to recognize the voice. Kent was in a hospital bed and sitting in a chair next to him was a stranger.

“Oh, right…my face,” the stranger said. “You’ve never seen me.”

“Who are you?” Kent asked.

“Well, when you rob a bank, Kent, the last thing you need is some shithead with a decent memory seeing your face so you usually wear a mask,” the stranger said. “I wore a mask when we met. I wore a mask when I shot you!” the stranger laughed.

Fractions of memories began to add up in Kent’s head and he remembered the voice. He remembered being in the bank when someone with a mask came in to rob the place. Kent tried to think of something substantial to say but could only whispered, “You.”

“Yea,” the stranger said. “Me.” The stranger continued, “Imagine my surprise when I’m just trying to get some money from some bank and I see Bishop Kent Manning, that annoying fuck from TV, standing directly in front of me. I remember thinking that, if anything were to go wrong, at least I’d have a well known hostage to take. But then you tried that charming “on-air” type of shit with me and, I gotta tell ya, Kent, it irritated the fuck out of me. And then you just had to break down like such a little bitch in front of me. It made me sick. I had to kill you, y’know?”

Kent’s eyes began to drip as his memory improved. Kent remembered speaking to this man and exactly what he had told him. Then he remembered, “There is no God,” and sobbed.

“Yes!” the stranger said. “Just like that. It’s fucking disgusting, Kent.”

Kent tried to stop crying. He was always so good at conveying such confidence on television. When he was in front of the camera, while the phones rang, and while the funds kept rising, he was God. He thought of his church; the 26,000 members of Bishop Kent Manning’s “Rising Tide” Congregation. Then he thought of what he had told this masked stranger in the bank.

“Oh yea,” the stranger went on. “First you tried to get on my good side. You told me how barely any of the money you raise actually goes to helping anyone. And that, in fact, most of the money you raise goes to repossessing the homes of your “flock.” You were going on and on about how people are such sheep; how they need someone to do their thinking for them. You were so pleased with yourself while telling me how these old widows shell out their children’s inheritance to you. You told me about your fake bank accounts and all the political candidates who get most of the money. You told me how easy it would be for you to give me so much money to let you live. You said that you and I are alike. And, honestly Kent, I wasn’t going to kill anyone, but here’s this huge televangelist in front of me just pouring on the bullshit. I mean, I’m just a criminal. No grey area. You’re just so fucking fake. And when I raised my gun, damn did the blubbering start,” the stranger laughed. “Oh, it was too much. I really didn’t care about how much money you could give me. I wanted to shoot you. So I did. But, hey, now that you survived, I kinda want that fucking money, Kent.”

“There is no God,” Kent’s mind repeated.

With that echoing voice proclaiming so persuasively, Kent couldn’t find a way to perform. Even though he was a cheat and a criminal, he always did believe in God. Now, Kent was empty. He just couldn’t perform. Hell, he even tried to picture the face of a widow he’d taken money from. The proud Bishop. He meant nothing.

“There is no God,” repeated.

“So, y’know, keep your mouth shut and heal up,” the stranger said.

Kent’s stomach dropped and his throat swelled.

“When you’re all better, we’ll take a nice walk to the bank together,” the stranger said. “I shouldn’t have to bore either of us with details of what would happen if you tell anyone about me,” he continued. “I mean, your church and audience members, the politicians, the oh-so faithful, they’ll be so disappointed, Kent.” The stranger smirked. He had such sharp features. Kent was sure that there was something in the Bible about this, but he couldn’t recall anything.

“So, yea, I’ll be visiting every day until you’re better,” the stranger said as he got up from the chair and headed for the door.

Kent’s eyes swam as they followed the stranger from the chair to the door. He thought back to that loud EKG meter and the shriek that woke him. If God was not responsible for these events, who was? How do atheists deal with such situations? How does anyone deal with anything? He had never had so many questions and each one felt like a dull nail being driven into his forehead. He thought that the hate of the world must have been in that bullet. A fat tear dropped from his cheek when he looked up at the stranger opening the door to leave his room.

“Don’t look so down, bucko,” the stranger said. “You’re alive aren’t you?”

With that, the stranger was gone and Kent was alone, really alone. He looked around his room and everything seemed to exist without purpose. The walls of his room, the window, the bed; everything was meaningless. He looked down at the IV in his arm and wondered why he should be kept alive. He wondered who kept him alive. He felt that a great deception had been taking place with no author or benefactor. He then removed the IV and, with all his strength, got out of bed. His head throbbed as he looked left to right. He walked towards the window and opened it. The warmth of the sun met a strong breeze and blanketed his body in euphoria.

“I feel,” he thought.

He looked out the window. He looked down the 16 stories at all those people walking around with their own thoughts and ideas. The door to his hospital room opened and he hurled himself out of the window. From behind him, he heard an unearthly scream and, as the concrete launched skyward to meet him, “There is no God,” flashed in his mind.

A dead heart shrieks so loudly in the ER. In Bishop Kent Manning’s case, his lifeless heart was loud enough to bring him back from the dead…

Artist Entry: the_Network guitarist Kevin and a trip down DWI memory lane

This guy's been drunk before? You're kidding!

Jesus Christ, I had a lot of good times drinking and driving in my day. From about the ages of 20 to 24, one of my favorite activities was getting behind the wheel on a sunny day, cracking a 40 oz. King Cobra or Colt 45, putting on some fucking Coalesce, Converge, Red Chord, or Deadwater Drowning, and just seeing what would happen. I’d usually have some equally morally corrupt buddy in shotgun packing bowls of weed and rewinding sick breakdowns while I turned the cockpit of my '96 Jeep Cherokee into a CBGB’s show. We’d be furiously checking our pagers for responses from young girls from rusty families wasting their time at one or more of the numerous parties around town while guzzling malt liquor in a fog of THC and turning the CD player up until the plastic speaker coverings shivered in terror.

Maybe I’d be just getting out of class, getting out of work, or we’d be leaving band practice. Whatever the situation was; beer, high speed, drugs, sex, violence, and the hardest of hardcore were on the menu. Perhaps I’d have some naïve girlfriend with me. The time I was pounding a 40 oz, heading to KFC, getting some serious oral attention from a lovely young blonde, and listening to BIG L rhyme, “I put my nut sack…back where your lungs at, lil’ ho,” was a memorable one. The moment was made even more poetic when I heard a muffled giggle from beneath the steering wheel rise up over the head-bopping DJ Premier beat.

The time Deadwater Drowning got me arrested on my birthday was glorious. A bunch of us underachieving, know-it-alls went to see Dave Attell at the Hampton Beach Casino on one of my birthdays (who’s counting?) and decided to pre-game in the parking lot with the Deadwater Drowning CD cranked beyond ridiculous levels while passing around enough hard liquor to give John Bonham’s corpse a chubby. I think the cops could hear Nate Johnson screaming, “You…You’re waking up…to…do…this…all over again!!” along with five or six boozed up knuckle heads all the way from the station and, rightfully so, the cops approached our car with that “Are you fucking kidding me?” look on their faces. It was an arrest of comical proportions. We were told to pay a small fine and released just in time to see Dave Attell take the stage. (As you can see, BMA has played a viral role in my life since its inception and I’ve been grateful ever since.)

So yea, I’d constantly find myself in and out of those types of situations, and I’d experience it all with a hearty laugh and a hazy mind. And yea, I’d get pulled over. I mastered the art of cop communication and was able to evade the long menacing arm of the law for quite some time. I had all the essentials in my cockpit; cologne, gum, a respectable right-wing talk radio show on a preset station, various hiding places throughout the dashboard, and the devastating puppy dog eyes and smile of a young kid who “really meant well.” I had all the field tests down. I could touch my nose with my eyes closed, recite the alphabet backwards convincingly enough, and walk in a straight enough line. I even had a whole persuasive rap about my distrust of breathalyzers; how they’d pick up on acidic drinks like juice and how they’d get you because of cough medicine or mouthwash. I actually had two cops tell me, “Well, we know you’re drunk but can’t prove it. Get outta here.” Oh yea, I was on point. I was charming snakes, swimming with sharks, walking a beer-soaked tight rope, and then I actually slowed down.

Around the ages of 25 to 27, I greatly reduced my participation in what was once such a hallowed activity of mine. It was getting risky and my living situation didn’t really enable or even require such abrasive actions. I even thought to myself, “Wow, I made it through all that ridiculous shit without getting a DWI.” Dozens of people I knew with far less dedication to the craft were piling up DWI’s and there I was, with a fairly clean record and slowing down. I thought I’d made it. I saw no D’s, W’s, or I’s on the horizon. And then, in May of last year, during what could honestly be considered one of my most innocent of attempts, the police badges rained down.

We played a show two and a half hours north of our “jamspot” in Vermont. The venue wasn’t even a bar. We went to a restaurant/pub across the street for some food and drinks. I had about five beers and a shot or two of Jack then headed over to the venue. We hung out drinking water and waiting to play. We played and any buzz I may have developed was sweated out. We had already enacted the “no drinking in the van” law by then so I had about three hours to completely sober up on the ride back. We got back to the "jamspot" around 2:30 a.m. and I felt as if I hadn’t had anything to drink. In past situations, when I did feel a bit tipsy, I’d sleep it off in the "jamspot" for a few hours before driving home. This time, however, I felt fine enough to drive home without incident. I even thought that if I did get pulled over, the cops wouldn’t even think I had been drinking. So around 3 a.m., we all left in our individual cars out of the parking lot. Unfortunately, I was last in line and right when I pulled out, I saw the cop across the street pull behind me.

At this time of night, I knew I’d be getting pulled over. They got me over to the side of the road. Upon their approach, I realized that it was two officers I had never seen around town (we’ve gotten to know most of them well). Their attitudes and body language lead me to believe that they were planning on arresting me right when they saw me leave the parking lot. I did all the field tests perfectly and was beyond cooperative. Even when they tried to get under my skin, I cooperated like they were family. They asked about the breathalyzer, I gave me spiel, and they weren’t having it. I knew that even though I hadn’t had anything to drink in over five hours, the breathalyzer could still nail me. These cops were out for blood. I’ve had experience in this type of situation and, trust me, these guys were fucking pricks. I saw them getting frustrated as I continually performed the field tests perfectly. I did their little Vaudeville act a little too well. Fed up, one cop said, “You’re under arrest.” I remained disgustingly cooperative until a very good friend of mine picked me up at the station around 4:30 am.

After a year with no license, trial postponements, varying employment, understanding friends, money thrown at a lawyer, and too many headaches, my trial is in two weeks on June 5. I have no idea what’s going to happen and I’m not looking forward to it. The only positive thing I can get out of this whole thing is by asking, “Where the fuck were you guys four or five years ago?!”

Artist Entry: the_Network guitarist Kevin and the truth behind the boob tube

“Where the press is free, and every man able to read, all is safe.” –Thomas Jefferson. 1817

News.

News is what happened or will happen, right? Well, no, it isn’t. News is what someone says it happened or will happen. A healthy democracy is dependent on a well informed citizenry. That is a regularly agreed upon statement among objective people. When we, as citizens, are aware of what is going on in our country and the rest of the world, we’re in a better position to decide what we want from our leaders. The problem is that power hungry people know this as well. The Russians tried to control behavior, the U.S. government wants to control opinion, and the U.S. mass media rarely hesitate to give them a hand. So we need news and we get news, but who’s giving it to us and what’s their motivation? Who pulls the strings at our news sources? In order to answer these questions, one must first look at who’s in charge.

Let’s look at television. Basically, all networks (besides my band) are owned by a handful of huge conglomerates with billions of dollars and plenty of international interests. (*The following companies own far more channels than what is listed, but I’ll mention only their news outlets and Comedy Central.) AOL/Time Warner owns CNN, Headline News, and 37.5 % of Comedy Central. General Electric owns NBC, CNBC, 50% of MSNBC (w/ Microsoft), has stakes in regional news channels, and NBC and CNBC in Europe and Asia. Viacom owns CBS and 50% of Comedy Central. Disney owns ABC. News Corporation owns Fox and the Fox News Channel. Bertelsmann owns almost all of the channels in Europe. Those companies, along with Sony, Vivendi, and AT&T, basically own everything you see on TV. (*Google “The Big Ten” to see the ridiculous amount of crap these conglomerates own.) Many of the above mentioned stations share interests in a variety of channels, newspapers, radio stations, magazines, etc. Personally, I get sick thinking of how much they own. I own some guitar stuff, some jeans, and whatever t-shirts bands are nice enough to give me (hint hint).

This kind of ownership can greatly affect a news channel’s output. For example, NBC’s “Today Show” deleted a reference to the General Electric Company from a report on shoddy products that was televised November 30, 1989. NBC is a subsidiary of RCA, which is owned by General Electric. Also, GE has secured millions of dollars in defense and military contracts, earning itself a place among notorious war profiteering companies. With this in mind, how critical of U.S. military interventions are NBC, CNBC, and MSNBC really going to be? Many of the above mentioned companies’ CEO’s are staunch conservatives and have interests in other organizations that benefit from war. For example, CBS has board members from the Amoco Corporation and NBC shares board members with J.P. Morgan & Company. J.P. Morgan & Co. helps manage $290 billion of the Sabah family’s money in Kuwait. Perhaps that could help explain why the U.S. Government ignored Saddam Hussein’s atrocities until he invaded Kuwait, a huge U.S. cash cow.

This is why the overused “liberal media” label just kills me. Conservatives love to look at journalists and call the company they work for “liberal.” You know, those Volvo-driving, latte-drinking, tree-hugging liberals controlling the media. How many times have you heard conservative talk show hosts blaming the “liberal media” for making Bush look like an idiot? (A fucking one-year-old could do that.) Even Bill Clinton whined to Rolling Stone that he did not get “one damn bit of credit from the knee-jerk liberal press.” And of course, George W. Bush complained that the media “are biased against conservative thought.” If the U.S. mainstream media were biased against conservative thought, they wouldn’t exist!

Follow the dollars, find the problem. You want the news? A few people are getting rich controlling vital information and millions of people are getting dumb listening to what billionaires want them to. I mean, 1% of the U.S. population owns 50% of the stocks! I could go on and on and probably will in my next few blogs. So, if you’re bored by thinking, don’t tune in here, tune into your television.

*Yea, I used some sources for this blog, but this isn’t college, so I ain’t citing shit.

ALTERNATIVE NEWS SITES

Fairness and Accuracy in reporting: www.fair.org

Independent Media: www.indymedia.org

Public Citizen: www.citizen.org

Non-Violence Web: www.nonviolence.org

Voices in the Wilderness: www.nonviolence.org/vitw

School of the Americas Watch: www.soaw.org

Global Exchange: www.globalexchange.org

Earth Justice Legal Defense Fund: www.earthjustice.org

World Trade Observer: www.worldtradeobserver.org

Online Anarchist Community: www.infoshop.org

Missionary Service News Agency: www.misna.org

The Emperor’s New Clothes: www.tenc.net

Third World Newsreel: www.twn.org

One World.Net: www.oneworld.net

Third World Network: www.twnside.org.sg/

“April 16”: www.a16.org

Side note from Moderator: If you want to see who owns what, check out the Web site for the Columbia Journalism Review.

Artist Entry: the_Network guitarist Kevin calls on his spidey sense

Real name/persona: Kevin Howley, guitarist, the_Network
Alias: Spiderdude
Location: Crusty alley, Birmingham, AL
Toxicity level: Moderate - High

One minute I’m swinging through a cityscape as Spiderman and the next I’m looking at the charred innards of some old car on a street in Baton Rouge.

For the past two nights, I’ve slept gloriously and indulged myself through a variety of dreams. Last night, in the van, I was Spiderman. I shot black webbing and nabbed plenty of bad guys.

A dream is kind of like a child’s testimony in a custody hearing; it’s full of emotion but the details lack certain things. For instance, my Spiderman suit wasn’t as cool as it is in the movies. I looked more like the Spider-men we saw in front of the Chinese Theater in Hollywood; my suit was all baggy and the definitive muscle structure was missing -- I might have even had a fanny pack full of tourists’ dollar bills. The foreboding black spider logo that is supposed to cover my chest hung to above my belly button and the intimidating white eyes sagged around my cheeks. So I looked ridiculous but I was asleep -- And I’d hang upside down in the town square in a bikini if it meant I’d be asleep.

Then I was awake.

I crawled out of the hot van and walked up to the house we played at last night. A guy inside told me that a transformer fell from a power line onto a car a few hours ago and that the two erupted in a fiery steeple of metal and smoke.

Next, I’m staring at the black skeleton of some little car from the '90s (I don’t know anything about cars). The wheels are literally singed into the ground and the inside looks like an ashtray near the last call at a Florida bar.

For some reason, I imagined bone, teeth, hair, and all types of roasted viscera entwined inside and scared myself. I’m glad that no one was in that car, or that the transformer didn’t fall on our van with Tim and I inside.

An alarm clock is bad enough to wake up to, but a burning face? Fuck that. That transformer sounds like a Decepticon to me.

So last night, we played at some guy’s house in Baton Rouge, LA and the night before we played with Converge, The Red Chord, Genghis Tron, and Coliseum at Club Red 7 in Austin, TX.

The Austin show was one of those amazing shows that reminds me why I live this ridiculous life style. I had never seen Converge or The Red Chord outside of New England before. That’s three bands --the_Network being the third-- from right around Boston tearing it up all the way down in Texas.

And tear it up we did. When Guy asked the crowd if they like Boston, hundreds of mouths screamed back with a uniform, “Yeaaaaaaaa!” The whole night was surreal.

On that night, we were in Austin surrounded by hundreds of people at a huge venue with a sound guy, light guy, employees, bars, bartenders, janitors, etc., and the next night we’re playing next to a kitchen where some kid’s pouring himself coffee while I’m plugging my amp in.

Sweat is the same whether under the expensive, professionally setup lights of a big venue, or the neon of those annoying kitchen lights -- and the excitement is no different either.

There’s tour for you:

you’re Spiderman,

you wake up,

you’re one of hundreds,

you sleep,

you’re sharing a small space in a living room,

you wake up,

and you’re looking at a car someone once cherished after a power line’s transformer treated it like napalm.

Artist Entry: the_Network guitarist Kevin and "Murderfest" shenanigans

If I’m to be writing in this forum for some considerable time, I think that it’s fitting I let the reader know a little bit about myself. Yes, there’s the “me” that can be summed up like any obituary:

Kevin Howley.
Dead.
Lived to laugh, play music, learn, enjoy the company of friends, and deeply loved his family.
Played guitar for the_Network.
Left nothing behind.

Yea, anyone can be put into a written description of under twenty words, and usually are, but what sick pricks out there reading the obituaries? The text is just far too dull. I need a good story to get to know something about a person. I need something real, funny, and with truth to it. If I’m going to meet someone, I don’t want to be in the cheap seats. No, I want the grand, $20 tour. You better give me a reason to care about your next spoken or written word. You better give me scripture.

So think of this as Kevin 1.11

Of course I’ll get into the fact that I was kicked out of the Murderfest at The Knitting Factory in Hollywood yesterday, but let’s start at the beginning.

I’m the type of person that, when sober, washes his hands and douses them in hand sanitizer and, when drunk, pisses with the predictability of a volcano. I try to stay happy, in shape, well read, friendly, hard working, concerned about global issues, understanding, on time. I try to develop meaningful relationships, be creative, spend time with my family, stay up to date on current events, have my own, well-informed opinion, and be articulate.

I’m proud of graduating from college, playing in a band, and I hate to hurt people emotionally or physically and can’t stand feeling like a burden to anyone. I try to think things through. I look on the bright side. I want to catch the worm. I want to be pleasing to all five senses. I want to be the dead center of a tornado of inequality. I want to light up the place. You know what I mean. I want to be fucking NORMAL.

Yes, I’ve been diagnosed with insomnia. I’m currently awaiting a DWI trial. I’ve hurt people. I’ve let people down. I’ve been a burden. I learn everything the hard way. I’ve felt like the sun doesn’t rise. I’ve broken down. I’ve had to apologize. I’ve done and incurred damage. I have to pay for a smashed window in Santa Cruz. I’ve wished for better times. I’ve felt as if every star in the sky was staring at me. I’ve felt safe. I’ve felt like the whole world was a shaded spot under a tree made just for me. I’ve screwed up. I have, and will continue, to live in a constant state of learning. Through ups and downs, I’m taking notes. I’m not going to cheat; I’m going to study.

And as I expect scripture, I’m certainly willing to deliver it.

Yesterday, the band I play guitar in, the_Network, was booked at the Murderfest in Hollywood. Napalm Death headlined. Today is the Day, Trap Them, Cattle Decapitation and many others were on the bill.

Yesterday’s show was the reason we’ve been on the road for a week and won’t be home for another. I’d been looking forward to this show for months. Our set time was 4:35 pm on the main stage and we arrived at the venue around 10:45 am. With that knowledge, I began synthesizing a drinking formula (I enjoy a few chardonnay’s before performing, what of it?).

My plan was to eat something and wait until 1:00 pm to have my first beer. Then, I’d have two beers an hour until we took the stage. I also factored in that I’d take three shots of Jack Daniels at various points throughout the allotted time.

2 beers + 1 whiskey+ 2 beers + 1 whiskey+ 2 beers + 1 whiskey+ 1 beer = 3 hours and 35 minutes.

I hypothesized that this amount of alcohol would give me a solid buzz with which to play with but that the amount would also be significantly sweated and rocked out of my body while performing, and thus lessen the alcohol’s effects for the rest of the day. (Like I said, I like to think things out.)

The time came, and I went to the bar. Our vocalist, Mikey Bones, also went to get a glass of water. I used a credit card to open a tab and ordered a Bud Light. The bartender gave me my beer, Bones his water, and then asked us if we’d like a shot as he began pouring three shots of whiskey.

A new variable.

I took the shot down and began work on the formula. Things started well. Ryan and Brian from Trap Them showed up and I had to buy them shots--them being from New Hampshire and all. It was during this that I might have slipped another shot past the formula. The numbers began shifting and losing their shape in my mind.

I had to get away from the bar for a bit. I had a beer with me when I realized that Today is the Day had shown up and that I could probably go kill some time talking to Steve Austin. He was in the back room reserved for the headlining bands but I was somehow allowed in. Him and I chatted it up over a few bowls of weed.

More variables.

So much extraneous data began clogging the mechanics of my skull and the formula was becoming harder and harder to hold on to. So, around 3:30, I stupidly thought to myself, “Wow, I should probably take a shot or two before we play.”

I woke up in the van seven hours later.

From the rest of the night on, I was to play Sherlock Holmes in the film adaptation of “What the Fuck Happened to Kev?” Based on witness reports and some dreamy images in my mind, I believe the story went thusly:

“Kevin Howley, age 28, NH resident, went to buy a bottled water around 4:15pm and was told that the waters cost $1. Upon hearing this information, the suspect then threw a sign indicating the water’s price off of the bar. He was escorted outside while the bartender accessed the situation inside. He then tried to push his way through the employees outside in order to get to the stage. He was again leisurely escorted outside. He remained cooperative but complained vocally when accused of trying to punch somebody. It was approximately 5:00 pm when he gave up hope of getting back into the venue and retreated to the van.”

Bones had to cover my $61 bar tab, my band had to play missing a member, and I completely screwed up something I had been looking forward to for a long time. Again, I was stupid. But here I am, taking notes while apologizing to the_Network. They’re my best friends. I think they know I’m a good guy, and now I hope you do too.