The Right Songs Part One: Tomorrow’s Modern Thom Yorke

thomyorketomorrow’s modern boxes TODAY!

Hey, I am Ben Donley – marketing, media and SEO guru for DreamTaxi and for Loudsmith – If you need help with branding, optimization, consulting, or becoming a viral sensation, let me know…Otherwise, just read this and become a music feeler like me –

My ears have not been trained by Juilliard and I couldn’t tell you what makes up a great opera or an excellent bassoon solo – But, I have very strong feelings about “the right music” for the right moments in life – How the right songs can propel a crucial moment towards a desired end – How the right songs can lift you up from a deep depression – How the right songs can actually make working out on a stupid elliptical seem meaningful and cool (I look like a total moron on most workout equipment, by the way – but I feel like a total badass if I am rising and falling and sweating to anything by Alt-J – the other day I hit three miles and after watching my life flash before my eyes, I saw Matilda and she told me she liked ALL my freckles…)

Anyway, you know what I am talking about when it comes to intentionally feeling your way into or out of a situation via a musical rocket ship – Drop some Noah and the Whale, First Days of Spring, on yourself when you are sensing that you are the only one in the world who has totally blown it in the most important things and suddenly you are not alone – you are both on his ark and in the belly of that whale – down, but not out!

Slide into a double of Tame Impala shot with Let it Happen and Elephant and try to keep yourself from feeling better than what the world tells you that you must –

(Throw on some Taylor Dayne and just lie down in traffic – that’s the right music to be run over to or better yet, the wrong music for anything good.)

Okay, so we have established my taste patterns and how they tie into emotions – I’ll hit you with more in future days and you can feel free to add your 25 cents

(by the way, I think the saying, “my two cents” is funny and most appropriate nowadays – everyone seems to have an opinion they want to share/feel compelled to share and no matter how wise they think their post, tweet, spoken word, etc. is – it’s only worth two cents – boom – “yes, human, you just put your two cents in, and it was worth exactly that – thanks for stealing a part of my life with your two pennies of opinion.)

But that’s just my two cents – You, on the other hand, can give your take on this subject and it will actually be worth a quarter, which can still buy you a bouncy ball, a sticky hand, or a decent size piece of chewable round sugar –

Enough filler – let’s get to a right song that you might not be aware of – It’s called “Nose Grows Some” and it is a song on Thom Yorke’s latest solo project called, Tomorrow’s Modern Boxes.  First of all, this entire cd is mega underrated – If you don’t own it to play as background for your parties that feature opium-laced martinis and baklava-filled pinatas, then you are doing yourself and your guests a serious disservice – The whole cd is worthy of at least that – own it – allow it to seep into your pores – give it license to push out every memory of Taylor Swift, Rihanna, and Beyonce (et.al).  Why?  Because Thom Yorke ain’t going take kindly to having to share room in your life with death-pop like that – “All you single ladies, get your umbrellas, shake them off, and GET OUT!!!”

Now, to the song, “Nose Grows Some.”

It’s specifically the right song for writers who have writers block because it acts as a shovel for stuck-ness.

For any other non-writer, it will make you feel like you are being slowly jackhammered upwards while being embraced by a really handsome/pretty alien visitor that has pillow-top mattresses for hands – And if that sounds good to you, then put it on repeat.  You will feel energized and asleep at the same time.

No anal probes either, which a plus for me because I just am not a fan of colonoscopies, enemas, or prison time activity…

So, that is it – Listen to “Nose Grows Some” and tell me what you it makes you feel – Weigh in today before the firecrackers pop your fingers off…

Photo on 7-2-15 at 5.11 PM A barista is stalking me – can you see them?

Worst Feelings in the World: Bored

Bored, baby?
Bored, baby?

“I’m so bored.  Just give me something different.”

I know what I got may be good, but I know it all too well.  I’ve seen it all one thousand times straight and even if the grass on the other side is spray painted with pesticide blue, I want to leave this tasty grass I’ve been standing on for years and get un-bored.  I may regret it.  I will regret it.  All the biographies let me know that it’s better to be bored with the good you got than to dump it for some new feelings.

But, I don’t do well with boredom.  And I don’t do well with boardrooms.  I think those are synonyms.

When I feel bored, I make terrible decisions.  Don’t you?

When I feel bored, the options that enter my mind are ones that promise excitement and fun and risk – They are marketed as Neil Peart percussion players on my dopamine receptors – YYZ knocking me into a new world.  They give me a buzz just thinking about how they can slay my boredom – even if its just for a few months, days, hours or even minutes.

And when you end up running from boredom and into arms of the new, you find that they typically deliver a solid drum solo for your neural needs.  But then, the rush ends and the buzz dies and you find yourself wishing you had the good stuff you left behind.

And the problem is that no matter how hard you try to get that old stuff back, you might not be able to.  Go ahead and give yourself a hall pass from your normal and find that you have been expelled forever – bang on that old boring door because at least you could count on what was inside, but ain’t nobody gonna let you back in.  You got the blue grass in your teeth, sucker!

Trade in a spouse for a fling or your boring job for a start-up zing or your tequila for some oxycontin ping-pong songs, and boom, boom, pow – then casket.  Just a matter of time.

Boredom sucks.  I hate the way it feels. But I have to say from experiences (of old) that boredom is a much better feeling than the regret that comes from wishing you had never made major change decisions when you were bored…

That’s the lesson here:  Don’t make big change decisions when you feel bored.

Another lesson is this:  Learn to appreciate boredom – then when you get to go to Six Flags, it will be really fun – even the long lines and the sweltering heat will be fun.

Another smack to your head is this:  Stop being so easily bored.  Boredom comes quickly to the spoiled and entitled.

That’s that.  Just riffing and writing on a Wednesday lunchtime – my cure for boredom.

(I’ll play one hundred hours of Crossy Road and WWF later.  Don’t you worry about me and my bad feelings – unless you see me at a $25 slot machine in Reno.  Then please call my wife and my mommy.  Or just chloroform me and stick me on a Greyhound bus back to the greenish grass I have already.)

Thanks in advance.

By the way, what’s the worst move you have made out of boredom?

Biggest regret?

What’s your current cure?

Are you a spoiled, entitled, and easily bored brat like me?

May the best feelings find you today – at little or no cost to your soul.

In the meantime, read me and share my blogs so I can become famous and change my name to Beezus, move to Tokyo, eat raw fish, and turn myself into an anime creature.

Also, check out my SEO and marketing skills and hire me if you want to spend your money wisely…on a wise guy…

Worst Feelings in the World: Rejected

Send in your resumes for one thousand jobs and get one interview request from Farmer’s Insurance who want you to try commission sales only which sets you up for thousands of other rejections from people who duck and cover when they see you coming with your term life pitch and your whole life “gifts.”

Send out one thousand friend requests and get one acceptance – once again – from Farmer’s Insurance who excitedly congratulates you on trying to build your social media sphere of influence.

Tweet brilliantly about hundreds of topics a hungry and stupid culture usually lap up like lap dogs swilling champagne, but nobody retweets because they wanted more grumpy cat and you gave them happy dachshunds.

Put up a cool new profile pic on linked in and nobody even notices –

Join every dating site and drop some witty words on top of an honest explanation of your world – add boss-dom pics – Wink and flirt, but only the site administrators write back with suggestions about how you might want to prepare for the life of a rejected human.

Do your best to be accepted by someone – anyone – anything – anywhere – but every time you try to gain friendships or even acquaintance relationships, you get nothing but nothing.

Even your selfie sends out secret texts to other selfies begging to be released from your world –

I have feared rejection for my entire life, but as I age and age and age past any levels of potential coolness, I’m starting to reject rejection like a crappy replacement kidney.  Getting acceptance is way too hard – You have to look right or smell right or make people laugh or stop eating your nose mucous at stop lights – forget it –

I’ve accepted the fullness of rejection – I laugh at it – It doesn’t control me anymore like it did when I was Kanye – when I became Caitlyn –

I am me and if you want to set me aside for whatever reason, good for you.  I don’t need your love.  I don’t need to be at your party or at your party’s after-party.  I don’t need a hug.  I am a rock and I am an island.  A rock feels no pain.  And an island never cries.

I’m kidding.  I need all of you on the planet to think I am a badass – a creative, hilarious force of skin and bone – an unrejectable dance partner at the club – a perfect centerpiece for your life –

To quote Sally Field poorly:  “Love me.  Really love me.”

And if you don’t, prepare for my random attacks.  Reject a man long enough and he either goes away or he comes at you with Sharknado force. It’s your choice.

Accept me or die.  I sharpen my teeth and load my compound bow just in case you decide to make me into the nobody I feel like.

Now to be serious, I am interested:  How has rejection and the fear of rejection made you into the person that you are?  Are you desperate for acceptance?  Why?  Do you really think that other people and other organizations and cats deserve all of your effort to get their non-rejection?

Cuz, they don’t sucka!

Wake up and embrace thy unattractiveness, thy rejectability, thy out of touchness –

Better to be earth-rejected than to be a worldly fame seeker – Too much maintenance on that side of the game.

Read the Bible and become a Jesus alien who phones home regularly – There’s only one acceptance that counts.  I got that in my front pocket and I know it will spend forever!

And yet, there are still many days I wish I was Rihanna…

and nights when I think about doing some MCAT prep to gain some instant acceptance in the medical world – Doctor Who?  Doctor ME!!!

Then I realize that Rihanna is a woman and that the MCAT is too hard –

What shall I do with myself?  I won’t reject me no matter what – I’m all that I’ve got sometimes.

Ever feel like this???  You want to join my Fight Club so I can stop punching myself in the face?

rihannawho

Useless – Worst Feelings in the World Stream

I’ll apologize for how useless the following stream is now so I won’t have to later – Sorry –

How I tried to be so useful even to the point of being invaluable but then I hit a wall or two at 900 mph and find I am useless – Maybe not useless in an eternal sense – Maybe not useless to ducks I throw bread to – maybe not useless as a future organ donor or as a future cadaver for medical school students who need a body to practice on – but useless to this culture in the here and now.  I cannot do anything to help anyone else.  I’m not technologically savvy or at least I am losing ground with each passing e-second.  I don’t know CPR.  I refuse to do public Heimlich maneuvers.  I cannot act, sing, be handsome, or effectively hunt down ISIS members.  I could lie on my resume and maybe convince someone that I am good for something, but I know the lazy parts of my insides and how the daily shortcutting will lead them to know I am good for nothing.

To be good for nothing – To be useless – is quite common I know.  The majority of people are useless but that doesn’t help me feel better.

So, I’ll sit here in this coffeehouse look around and get the happy legal jitters while staving off the bitterness – watch people trying to make deals on realty, essential oils, skinny wraps, and affiliate marketing traps – view the youngsters who still think they have potential to be useful trying to study up and become someone special – give thanks I’m not doing damage to people like i used to – and wait until the rest of my hair falls out.

Sidenote:  i wonder if there are pieces of my hair that think about how useless they have been – how useless they are – Is that why some of them jump off of my head and to their deaths?

bald Stop hair suicide!!!  Encourage your hair daily…

And check out Mesus – my latest book – if you get the chance and if you have the desire to discover deeper levels of odd uselessness.

Worst Feelings in the World: The Lonely

eleanor

You got the Lonely???

the lonely lady that I sat down behind as a lonely man at the cafeteria was truly lonely – I could feel it like a major wake bursting back at me as I scraped away the coconut filling from my meringue and its evil grain-made crust – the line workers must not have heard anything funny from their orderers for months because mine simply lost it when I told them that I dip everything into my side of ranch dressing except for the dessert – never complain about your job – now or ever – and don’t judge anybody – the pain and loss and struggle and cruel pancake stacks of life people are force-fed by rainy day forks and knives is too high and too syrup’ed with glue so it sticks in the throat and throttles the stomach – the vast majority is under Dresden bombing struggle – under hard falling but blunt as hell French Revolution guillotines – oui – no – be kind – cuz the lonely is a binding deal…

Streams of unconscious-ness: The Skinny Bowl

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Skinny Bowling

Listening to wham and awaiting a Wednesday night bowling league after spending the afternoon trying to evade science spectrum contagion – alone – my mate is home studying – but I was lucky enough to receive an extra black human hair in my natural beef gravy at Furrs just a little while ago – that’s gotta be the reason for the queasy as I write my check for $30 – Skinny jeans with borrowed shoes and a borrowed ball and an open sore on my bowling thumb – I’m sure that will become part of my medical chart at some point – bowling thumb staph – Go soak that opposable in a pitcher of watered down beer STAT – laptop in a bowling alley – an old bowling alley – if my computer had a family to write home to, I bet it would tell them to send it taxi cab money for it to get home – It will let Siri know what bad neighborhoods I’ve brought it into – probably add this experience to its blog – send in its own error report to Mr. Jobs cold corpse – or maybe my big gigabyte mac likes being part of a subculture other than sucking in the bandwidth of my typical caffeinated crew – Wednesday night bowling – I’m 42 – natural movement from 35 year old hipster in bars sipping whiskeys, slugging crafts, and then slamming Irish car bombs to this – wood floors and sobriety with salt of the earth people carrying around their ball bags with wrists covered in high-technology – why not? The other life served me manslaughter on a daily tray – this might tear my jeans if I kick my leg out like the professionals – But I can always get new jeans…

Now Read This – From my Novella “Mesus”

Not too many people have time for a big book anymore.

Especially one about a suicidal billionaire.

So I am going to give it to you fast.

My name is Mat Clarke.

My story begins and almost ends on a fluffy pink mat in a guest bathroom in the entryway of my palatial estate. A squirt of Rembrandt Extra-Whitening Toothpaste is gathered and gnarled as an uncomfortable stain near my feet. Dashes of glittery tooth crystals and the smell of mildewed monogrammed towelettes saddle my senses.

Everything is right. But everything is wrong.

I’m rich and well-fed. I’m married to a woman who can still wear her wedding shower lingerie without high-thigh, crinkly-wrinkly skin ruining the effect. I’m nicely positioned in highest employment beyond the cubicled masses in a top floor Feng Shui office, complete with miniature bubbling brooks, dimming switches for the lights, a small refrigerator full of ginseng-laced waters and cabinets containing health biscuits with modern art works etched into their sides.

I am equipped with every lightweight and durable technological device known to man. I have a well-diversified portfolio with more money in banks than several combined small country GNP’s. I have a handicap of 1 to 4 depending on size of trees, depth of bunkers, and number of water hazards, a dog that never barks, a car that always starts, a glow-in-the-dark Universal Remote Control that never gets lost, an air purifier that destroys all dust before it can float into my airspace, memberships to every club, bestselling books, and magazine covers with my name and face on them.

Tony Robbins attends my seminars.

Bill Gates cleans my 2010 Windows.

Donald Trump is my apprentice.

I just might be the man.

I own 65 percent of the American dream.

I am at the top of the rope.

I am the king of the atmosphere.

But I am ready to die.

RICHARD CORY

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

– Edwin Arlington Robinson –

***

Do you remember that poem about Richard Cory?

He is my hero at the moment.

He was a world winner like me.

A success who was envied all around.

Then one day, out of nowhere, he went home and defaulted the match he was winning. He did the unthinkable. He took himself out. He threw in the towel even with his competitor unconscious and bleeding on the mat.

He ripped the rug out from everyone.

He went to his house and to his room, and with one squeeze of a forefinger made a hot piece of metal travel too fast for his head to block.

Game over.

And with his one last breath, Richard Cory left his last thought on the wall for everyone out there on the street to read:

“YOU DID NOT KNOW ME—NOT EVEN I DID”

Years ago, a girl at my university had Mr. Cory’s poem in her pocket the day she died.

I will never forget her – she was the crimson freckled type with liquid paper skin and connect-the-red-dots from head to toe. A most amazing and striking creature, I thought. I can still see her there, standing in the middle of the student center. Flow skirt and a peachy shirt with a whale in the top corner. Thin arms. Not Karen Carpenter shrinkers, but nice little rollouts with holdable hands at the bottoms. And she had good knees and proper calves. I memorized this eye frolic and pasted her firmly onto my pituitary for a later night remembrance rendezvous. And I figured I would approach her at some point when she stopped doing what she was doing.

Unfortunately, the end of what she was doing was the end of the end.

How did she fall into my view?

She had xeroxed her suicide note and was handing out the copies on warm, hopeful spring days to everyone who came by.

Dear Frat Boys and Sorority Sisters and all you other 24,498 registered undergrad strangers, now read this:

“Take a flyer.”

“I am an activist for my own cause.”

“Save me.”

The words were right there, but hardly anyone read them. In fact, I was probably the only one who gave it more than a glance. Everyone else did what everyone always does with lime-green campus handouts passed out by unknown humans. They took them as a courtesy, wadded them up quickly and placed them in an appropriate trash receptacle moments away from her.

She saw what they were doing but kept up her attempts for eight hours.   Then at about 5:00 p.m., she asked some guy to hold the stack of remaining suicide warnings. She took four steps aside like she was about to sneeze and then nonchalantly removed a small pistol from her purse and quickly proceeded to blow the freckles right off her head. Next to the nearest trashcan, which held hundreds of her crumpled cries for help, whatever she had just been thinking rushed out, splashed down, bubbled up, and stained the concrete.

It was a furious moment, and I despised her for it. It floored me at the time. I had not expected it. I had read her note and figured it to either be a joke, a sorority dare, or some morbid social experiment.

I had watched her from about thirty feet away for three hours to see which one it would end up being.

And also to find out what she was all about.

And, yes, wondering how I could get her to go out with me.

She was my type.

I have always been drawn to ghostly frowning women with strange pigmentations.

I had thought we could meet and then hang out.

We could share our discontent over dinner.

I’d slip her some of my anti-depressant.

Crush it up in her salad next to the croutons.

Make life worth living for a few minutes at least.

Escape the mad cow disease memories.

We could go to my dorm and pretend to be in a 1960s love bungalow.

But it never happened.

She pulled the rug out from under me.

“Dear Passerby,

I am going to end my life today

I am lost

I am in the dark

I am alone

I need someone to help me locate myself

This is my cry for help

It is as loud as I get

Notice me now or you will notice me soon enough.

Love,

Taylor”

A full day of begging on paper and then BANG — there she lay.

I still own a copy of her flyer.

I laminated it.

I keep it as a bookmark for my Hemingway novels.

That Taylor ruined my weekend plans.

“So damn selfish.”

That’s what I had first thought.

But now I am thankful.

I love her even more for her brash early departure.

She is added inspiration for my afternoon’s plan.

***

This afternoon, I read Taylor, and I read Cory.

Right Hand and Left Hand.

I am quiet, ready, and noteless.

All is in order.

I sent my wife, Brianna, out for an all-day, 100% pure organic spa treatment, and I sent the housekeeping staff home early with a large tip. (I know it will be a tough clean-up as they scrub away my dried blood and veinage from the expensive marble. I do hope to keep most of my spill on this pink mat, but I am not sure how far I will spew once the lacerations are complete.)

I am sitting here criss-cross applesauce and cramping on the floor with a creative method in mind for my unhappy ending. I have a stomach full of chicken noodles, hot broth, and six children’s aspirin to slow everything down a bit. In my right hand I have the jagged edge of a soup can lid, which I am going to use to chop, slice and rip through wrists and tendons.

A soup can lid.

Have you ever really looked at a soup can lid right after it comes off of the can opener?

It is a menacing monster.

When it hits my skin, it is going to be painful – worse than a paper cut for sure.

I actually know this for a fact.

I once stepped on a soup can lid during a game of hide and seek. I jumped barefoot into a neighbor’s trash bin and landed hard on the lid’s buckteeth. It nearly cut the front part of my foot off. I let out a yelp like a soccer- shoe spanked dog. It’s something I never forgot. I stored that astronomical pain memory away for future reference and for a rainy day like this one.

A soup can lid – it will be the perfect weapon to take me out of this world. More creative than a razor blade and more painful than pills or a pistol.

And that’s what I want: I want creativity, and I want pain.

I’m not sure why exactly. I have never been known as a creative type, and I hate pain more than I hate Golden Girls re-runs.

I guess I am trying to complete in death what I could not handle in life.

Not to mention that publicly my favorite artist is Warhol.

This will be my way of paying tribute: eating Campbell’s soup as a final meal and then using its famous container edges to rip open my palette skin – dripping arterial paint onto my bathroom’s canvas. That’s a masterpiece Andy would applaud, even though Andy is dead and cannot applaud, and even though really, I privately think Andy Warhol is a complete hack.

Anyway, I have been considering this entire death scenario for months, and I have had grand ideas about what it will all be like. Visions and Pictures and Fantasies.

The Fantasy I held in my head of the imminent “death moment” up until yesterday was blood and soup and white tooth crystals and mildewed towelette smells and me pressuring the wound calmly. Just smiling and admiring the final bloody waterfall cascading from within me. The emptying of my heart. Simply watching with great interest the slideshow of all my days passing before me as if they were highlights from ESPN plays of the week. Pleased that life was finally coming to a controlled end.

But, as I sit here and the light from my designer light bulbs bounces off the metal soup lid, I am getting a different picture. A more realistic picture. Not Visions and Pictures and Fantasies, but Reality. The Reality of my “death moment” will almost surely be blood and soup and white tooth crystals and mildewed towelette smells and my screaming at full vocal cord wattage about the severity of the pain and flipping around with fear as my small, forgettable lifeboat tips too quickly into whatever fiery hell might await. My possibly looking through my cabinets for the extra large bandaids or at least some duct tape. Possibly dialing 911 and yelling at them to hurry over.

“I’ve had a soup can accident.”

Probably lying there kicking the wall and the toilet. Finally feeling and even thinking:  Wait, i have one more thing…

“Wait, I have one more thing.”