I can't get enough of The Flaming Lips. They seem to always produce a smile on my face, though it really isn't that tough to do so nowadays. Happiness has become something of a constant thing here in the desert, even when it's more dry than Mohandas Karamchand's left foot, and hotter than a tiger's temper. Being a member in such a fun band helps a lot too... We make music that doesn't remind me a thing about the writing styles of Wayne Coyne and his fellow mates, but the stuff that falls out of us while being translated somehow into music sure makes my head spin in good directions.

So why The Flaming Lips. Well I was introduced to this photographer Peter Yang today. He's an artist from Texas who tries to stay away from Photoshop, and likes to point his pinhole at cowpokes. That's right, cowpokes. Naturally I was intrigued right away, with my fellow feeling for wanting to be an outlaw/gold miner/sheriff but then I searched through the archives section. I won't try to describe it.

That illustration above is my tribute to some musical idols of mine, as well as a new. Lemme go home and get my Holga...

Thank you Josh Cordner.

Jack

Illustration by: Jack

We fixed our van window this morning. Wait, let me back up. We got a rock thrown through our window! Our first or second day in Vegas, someone decided to lob a good ol' chunk of mother earth into our vehicle. The obect(or common house rock) broke the most impressive piece of stemware I own. We have been driving around with a trash bag on the side of our van ever since. Let me just say, it is uncomfortable enough having to drive a van. Add garbage to the equation, and you're looking at a thorough lesson in humility.


This was three months ago. We were well over the embarrassment, it was the whirring of a thin plastic sheet that had us batty. Jack called to have the replacement appraised. I won't give numbers, but we could have scrapped the van, sold only the windows, and bought a new van. A more appropriate temporary panel was crafted by Keith, from quite possibly the ugliest piece of wood on this or any other earth(I tried to think of something made of wood that I could compare it to, but no).

A little blood, paint, and sunburn later we had a window. Voila! The culprit was never apprehended, but a touch of humor may have them bested. And now for a word from our sponsors Respect The Van!

Eric M

photo by: Eric B.

It's not always easy looking back on the places I've been. If I get too far into my own head I will eventually find something that I don't care to remember.

"Chalk it up to experience," they say.

Hah! I suppose gaining experience from my experiences is the best I can do. It has been a long hard road to this point. So, where am I?

I am twenty three. I am living in Las Vegas. I am playing music every day. I share a van and a room with three other musicians. I go to bed at 5:00 in the morning. I am sitting on a sleeping bag. I feel good sometimes. I feel lost sometimes. I am exercising in the mornings. I eat one or two meals a day. I miss my family and friends. I still don't call them like I should. I am waiting for someone. I talk less than I used to. I am absorbing the sun and new people.

Yeah... so, where am I? Where I choose to be. Where have I been? Beats me. All I know is that our practice space used to look like this. shiver

Eric M.

Photo By: Eric B

I always wanted to be a cowboy. In fact, my great grandfather, along with his sons, constructed a log cabin in the tall mountains of a town called Story, Wyoming. My family and I seem to make our way out there at least once every summer, and it's probalby the closest one can get to touching the outer layers of atmosphere.

Let me compose a classical Story setting. Down the street, there's a store named Waldorf A'Story where it smells like leather and the jingling of spurs accompanies the stomp of boots. A bison ranch is minutes away. The people all say "Howdy," "Youbetcha," and "Garsh." Horses run in a two hundred-acre green field across the street. My Nana still lives there.

So, there's no reason for me not to be a cowboy by now... well, besides the fact that I'm not...

Regardless, when our friend Josh showed up to Easter dinner, Wyoming came with. Donned with a wide brimmed black cowboy hat, a blue bell-bottomed suit, cream colored Gucci slippers, and a mustache that Errol Flynn would be jealous of, he was nothing short of the richest man in all of Story coming to have a meal with us.

To drink a Milwaukee's Best with such a decently clad cowboy, there's nothing of higher quality.

Actually, I think that's his great grandfather who lets Morgan Lane use the pistol... hmm...

Jack

Illustration by: Jack

Video: A scene from Ray Enrights 1950 western - Montana

The smoke from the fire is making my head throb. I am sitting on a stump photoshopping a drawing of a cyborg wolf. Jackie is directly across from me. It's another beautiful night in Las Vegas. Strangely enough, we hear wolves howling somewhere to the south. I can't stop thinking about certain people. Some memories make me laugh softly to myself, others make me shutter for one reason or another. When I look up, the glare from my computer screen has turned Jack into a ghost.
"Are you still here, Jack?"
"I'm here, buddy."
We comfortably sit back into the silence. The wind is playing cruel games with the fire. It reminds of a bully in the swimming pool, only letting up when his victim is out of breath. We dug this pit ourselves, we have also failed coming up with a catch phrase for the cyborg wolf. I heard him tonight, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh Oooooooooo, perhaps.

Eric M.

Illustration by: Eric Morelli

Video by: Les Savy Fav - What Would Wolves Do?