So you see, left to my own devices I'm not terribly awfully chatty, but now for this latest brief splash into the arbitrary rain puddle that is infinity, I have something to gab about. With that I thusly SHUT UP AND SHALL HAVE YOU LISTEN WITH YOUR EYEBALLS!!!!
Been singing my whole cotton-picking life, and, over the last sort of decade, I've been working on-and-off from the ground up on lyrics/poetry writing, singing, and composing, expecting it to take no real direction. Then I suddenly went all Sarah Connor all over it and decided that fate is what we make for ourselves, and mostly just that I was sick of this stuff merely sitting unappreciated on my hard-drive. So take THAT, Skynet.
[[And you TOO, Weyland-Yutani Corporation, I hear you snickering back there.]]
The work I've shared has turned the heads/ears of Kevin Manthei (composer for Invader ZIM and everything else you can think of from movies to video games) and many other notable audiophile friends along the way, ever much so that I decided, in all of my regrettably finite power, I should at last take the matter of creating an album into my own wee little (mad-scientist-esque?) hands. The whole project has been a blast; the work is retail-quality, I did my research and am responsible for all the printing of the CD's and booklets. These aren't cheap----the disks are actually printed and finalized and exported in WAV and jjeeeeeeuust the WORKS, man. I'd tell you all about the intricate process, I really would, but then I'd have to travel to the future, of COURSE resulting in my permanent disfigurement and subsequent conversion into a cyborg assassin, finally to have to travel all the way back to the past in a DeLorean JUST to kill YOU. That's just...that's asking too much of anybody.
ANYWAY, the CD's, they're the bees' knees. Soon, yes, I'll begin the obscure and delightfully intricate waltz (because ballroom dancing is CLASSY, yeah?) of contacting record labels; you know, casually kicking their doors down with my giant metal-plated riot-gear biker boots and tossing friendly Molotov cocktails in through the windows while scream-singing at them at the top my lungs. You have to really stand out these days, you understand-----wearing a white t-shirt and a funny hat and bringing your own acoustic guitar in one hand with overpriced coffee in the other just doesn't CUT it anymore. Or at least, it shouldn't.
Until I am the real deal, not just some bizarre, half-cocked deal, enjoy my disks being NOT a thousand dollars, but in fact, only a fraction of that, a 100th to be exact,(oh, look! I made you do MATH!!) and where the only store in town that carries ‘em is the local CD Warehouse in Springfield, MO. Actually, I have to give credit here, it was the store owner whose question was the straw that broke the camel's back.....the gentleman asks me, "Thanks for letting me listen to your work, could we carry a few copies of your CD?" To which I replied, "Uhhh....well, YEAH, I can DO that?! Thanks guys!!"
Toodles now, and other such fiddle-faddle. Indubitably.