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Astroturf (4/19/14) 

Thin green plastic flakes, tightly woven to the hard ground; textile corn rows. They smell like hot shoes, fresh out of an oven from being baked in the afternoon sun. I am kneeling down with my face against the surface of the astroturf, burning hot against my face, scratching me like flimsy exfoliants designed by Picasso. I hear each green fleck of turf bending and flicking like a tiny deck of cards being shuffled by a potato bug in Vegas, brimmed hat around his head, cigarette in his mouth, waiting to send some poor stink bug home with nothing. I wonder why this beautiful outdoor carpeting isn’t used in every front lawn; it never needs maintenance, it stays green all year and it’s perfect for putt-putt golf. I look up, remembering it actually is my turn. A light breeze carries the scent of the hot pretzel stand nearby right up into my nose; hot salted dough, the smooth baked surface of those warm brown knots wrapped in crinkling wax paper…maybe I should forfeit my shot to go get one. I turn back with the thin steel club and begin to forget about the astroturf and start focusing on how I will nail this hole in one.

Anthill (3/20/2014) 

The baby blue noon sky lights up every inch of the yard.  An open patch of dirt in the middle of the grass.  My legs shuffled underneath me, my hand bracing against the coarse fibers of the lawn, speckled pebbles and dirt.  Directly beneath me is an anthill.  Getting as close as I can my eyes are only a few inches away.  I smell the heat radiating off of the ground like the tangy air the radiates from an electric blanket.  The anthill becomes a towering pyramid.  The pharaoh ant commands the others “faster you dogs, the queen is waiting!” Huge boulders stacked upon one another with mathematical precision.  Angular red monsters working in highly coordinated efforts, transporting with utter efficiency almost hovering above the ground, tickling each others faces to pass on messages.  I can hear the faintest scuttling and tapping of feet, like a tiny office of elves punching away keys on typewriters.  Little dollops of residual peanut butter an jelly are stuck to my teeth, sweet pockets of flavor for my show.  I hover over, an unimaginable god to them, what would they think of this god if they became aware of me and my peanut butter and jelly teeth? 

Birds (3/19/2014) 

This one goes out to all of you early birds and all of you bird watchers.  You'll enjoy this. 

Out of the windows and into the labyrinthine backyard with a yawn and a pair of huge black binoculars.  The cold plastic fits awkwardly against the contour of my eye socket.  The crisp mocha aroma of coffee grinds being washed with piping hot water into a mug filters through the hallways and slithers up my nose.  The inside of the house is filled with the silent noises of the early morning.  The melodic buzz of the refrigerator, the phantom creaks of the ceiling, shifting of air as I move from window to window. I look out. The creeping spectrum of dawn slowly stretches and bathes the sky with hues of pastel blues, turquoise, faded pinks.  I can hear the commotion in the trees.  Like a playground full of alien babies, the thousands of birds are singing, squeaking and fluttering about on every branch, furiously pecking at the tiny peach grains in the feeder.  Looking at one another for the briefest of moments.  I hold my breath and steady my hand, trying to focus on a blue jay.  Opening the window, I can taste the grass bejeweled in beads of dew, the adolescent flowers blooming and bursting with color and pollen, firewood.  The wobbling doppler of car engines as they whir by. 

Blizzard (3/17/20 

The entire neighborhood runs and slides and screams and laughs.  An enormous silver blanket is being slowly pulled over the sky, tiny translucent fractals pepper the ground and pile up into a thick white ocean.  I stand at the top of the hill of my backyard, faced with a 45 degree decline ending in a finely engineered ramp of snow, worthy of a Motocross course.  Microbursts of fresh alpine winds sting and awaken the rims of my nostrils, clean and cold.  The whole mob of us, children, parents and even a grandparent or two run around like maniacs, mummified in brightly colored down coats, black nylon pants that zip and whir against the ground, disheveled scarves and messy hair frozen to our faces, chunks of ice clinging hard.  We close our eyes and look up, sweet crystalline of fractal candies wildly dancing and melting on our tongues like diet rock candy.  I feel the under layers of my cotton cacoon clinging with sweat, heat radiating and escaping up and out, the cold trying to come in, a miniature front battles at my collar, the smell of hot freshly dried cotton dryer sheets.  I hold the inner tube as serious as an Olympic bobsledder, run and dive, the light initial bounce, focus and careening towards the ramp, the people watch and hold their breath as I go arial, frozen eight feet off the ground, time almost freezes, bluebirds flying by slow as clouds, hands go up to mouths, my face is wrinkled as hard as a pugs, eyes, squinting and then……….a thud, an icy smooch and I stand up in a patch of briers and hold the inner tube high, a successful landing!

Object Write - Cotton Candy (3/13/2014)  

The hockey game is neck and neck between the Bruins and the Capitals, but my only concern is decorating my face with cotton candy.  I become a maniacal candy-hybrid Santa Clause.  Airy pink fluff, melting and beading against my face, my dad and his work friends cackle at my deranged creativity.  I take bites of my sticky beard, sugary sweet dissolving fibers in my mouth.  The stadium is a cacophony of smells, stale hoppy bitter beer spilled in sticky layers on the ground, the sour B.O. from the obese man below, the salty hot popcorn.  For a kid on an adventure with his brother and his dad, this is probably the loudest one yet.  The rattling of the plexiglass body checks, like angry timpani hits, the oooohs and aaaaahs of 20,000 die-hard fans, laughter and a thousand conversations I don’t understand, like a walled pond filled with squawking geese.  The uncomfortable strangely angled seats wobble and the spring loaded support pushes me slightly forward even though I want to recline.  I stand and sit as frequently as an old sunday congregation in a Catholic church, lifting my feet to pull them from the sticky film of spilled soda  on the dirty grey concrete floor. 

Object Write of the Day, Fireflies.  

Since we're actually only 4 months away from arguably the greatest month in MD, this is for all of you who have caught fireflies before, this is what my experience was like:

Firefly (3/4/2014)

All the kids in the neighborhood scramble with their mason jars. The parents smile and coach them from the unfinished wood porch, “theres one!”. Giggles and screams and the symphony of crickets playing arepetitive pulsing concerto. Cool dew covered grass tickles my feet, the occasional bump of a molehill, or a patch of weeds. Hopping and jumping and reading for those little lemon-lime stars blinking in morse code to one another, probably saying “help, these crazy giants are taking me”. It’s a frenzy of innocent summer fun in our next door neighbors well groomed front yard, dusk dissolving into a freshly swept night sky, littered with the grandfathers of these little blinking bugs. They smell bitter, sour earthy. Sips of coca-cola in between our search parties keeps us amped and jittery, the bubbling sweet bite of dark artificially colored syrup. We race to see who can fill our mason jar up first, sporadic clinks and chimey thuds of clumsy hands dropping them onto the lawn. The porch decorated with beer and strange conversations only adults would understand, the harmonious laughter of good jokes. No better times in life than the natural phenomena of late June in Maryland, surrounding by your friends and family. 

This one came out great.....let me know if you have done this!

97.7 The Rocket! 

If you've never heard me before and you just listened to 97.7 and then googled my name, you're in the right place!  Feel free to check out my blogThe Lyric Snob (a humorous take on bad lyrics of Top 40's music) or browse the pics and music on my website.  Feel free to drop a comment and if you really like what you heard, check out my band, The Piranhas we're going to need to help of the people of Southern MD to win a HUGE battle of the bands at Hard Rock Cafe and potentially go to Rome to perform for 40,000 people!  Like our Facebook page and we'll keep you updated on how to help Southern MD represent all the way in Rome, Italy!

For those of you that know me already:

I'll be the featured artist on The Rocket with Ripley today about 5:25 PM!  Tune in to 97.7fm or click this link to hear it streaming The Rocket

Also The Phoenix features me and many of the local artists of Southern MD on a daily basis!  Tune in with John Hunt and the staff of the Phoenix radio!

Dylan Galvin and The Piranhas are going to Regionals! 

Last night my band, The Piranhas, and I played a show at Hard Rock Cafe in D.C. We won the first round!  We are now heading to Hard Rock, DC once again on March 7th.  6:30 - 9:30.  The winner of the next round goes to the nationals!  Let's round up the people of Southern MD and kill this thing!

The Maryland Music Awards 

The Maryland Music Award Nominations have begun, an organization that helps support local musicians and raise money for children with cancer!!

Dylan Galvin for "Songwriter of the Year" and The Piranhas for "Best Cover Band":


I appreciate all the help and love!!

The Lyric Snob (Grenade by Bruno Mars) 

Grenade Well, Bruno Mars is a GREAT performer, a GREAT singer and has one of the most killin’ bands of any pop artist….ever. If you saw his halftime show, it's quite evident the man is talented. Lyrics on the other hand, are not his strong point. I said that I would go after “Gorilla” this week, but unfortunately there are more pressing matters. Since I completely forgot about “Grenade” I have to apologize and together we need to immediately tear this song apart. Let’s begin…. What are things that really make a song good? The answers are almost endless and subjective, however, much like a good painting or movie or book you can’t just take a dump on a blank canvas and call it a masterpiece. There are rules to what makes something good that the artist must be aware of, and then utilize, or tastefully break them. The lyrics to this song indicate Bruno has definitely spent more time honing his performance chops and his productions value than his actual lyrics.

Easy come, easy go
That's just how you live, oh
Take, take, take it all
But you never give
Should've known you was trouble
From the first kiss
Had your eyes wide open
Why were they open?

Ok, you’ve got a selfish woman on you hand, I’m with you so far and oh….wait, you lost me. Her eyes were open from the first kiss? Um…question? Dear Bruno: How did you know HER eyes were open, unless YOUR eyes were open as well? Did you get retinal implants? Someone call Tom Cruise! Let’s do a sequel to Minority Report featuring Bruno Mars! Also why would a woman’s eyes being open when she kissed you be an indicator of her being trouble? Some people like to see the other person as they kiss them, unless this is their expression:

Gave you all I had
And you tossed it in the trash
You tossed it in the trash, you did
To give me all your love is all I ever asked
'Cause what you don't understand is...

“Tossed it in the trash” - not the most original lyric. One pretty significant aspect of a good songwriter is that they generally try to make an original song that avoid cliches and presents fresh and original material that draws from their own experiences. There are many ways to dive more into the actual experience and give an original take on the way that she “tossed your love in the trash” but with this pants shitting-ly bad chorus coming up, ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat.

I'd catch a grenade for you (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Throw my hand on a blade for you (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I'd jump in front of a train for you (yeah, yeah, yeah)
You know I'd do anything for you (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Oh, I would go through all this pain
Take a bullet straight through my brain
Yes, I would die for you, baby
But you won't do the same

Well let’s start with line one: You’d catch a grenade for her? Well, unless you are dating someone who has a condition where she needs to stay 50 feet away, both of them are going be blown to pieces, so good luck with both splattering everywhere. Also, I understand the sentiment, “I’d do anything for you, even if I got hurt”, but dude, are you taking her on a date in a war-torn part of Iraq?

Next: What effing situation requires you to throw your hand on a blade in order to save someone? “No baby don’t touch that knife, here let me impale my hand with it, just to make sure you are extra safe!” And if the point wouldn't be to save her, just slice your hand off with a knife to show your love, then I would love to hear a hypothetical situation where THIS genius move would win over anyone's heart. Van Gogh kind of tried something like this a while back, it didn't work so well.... here's THAT freakish story.

Jump in front of a train for you? Hmm….again, WHY!?!?! The only situation I can think of where jumping in front of a train would actually save someone’s life would be if you were Hancock and were basically an indestructible god, in which case you would also be killing pretty much everyone in the front car of the train instead of the girl, you selfish douche bag.

No, no, no, no
Black, black, black and blue
Beat me 'til I'm numb
Tell the devil I said "Hey" when you get back to where you're from
Mad woman, bad woman
That's just what you are
Yeah, you'll smile in my face then rip the brakes out my car

“Mad woman, bad woman” - Eh…..here are some examples of how some great songwriters of the past have said “this woman sucks” but much, much better than mad woman, bad woman. (Im pretty Dr. Suess has actually come up with something a little deeper than this line)

“She’s a black magic woman” - Peter Green “Black Magic Woman”

“I said, baby, do you have no shame? She just looked at me, uncomprehendingly, like cows at a passing train” - Don Henley, “If Dirt Were Dollars”

“Flea brain, got a hole in her head. If she wasn't good looking, she'd be better off dead” - Gene Vincent, “Flea Brain”

And back to Bruno; maybe “you’ll smile TO my face”…because “smiling in my face” paints a Hannibal-esque picture of cutting open someones face and popping your head inside and smiling. How else would you smile “in” someone’s face? Ok, ok, Bruno, you have had dealt with enough. Go sell another 10,000,000 albums while a bunch of intent bloggers make fun of your lyrics.

And now, the best part. Be prepared to sing this OUT LOUD. Don’t hum it, don’t think it. Seriously, give it your ALL. NATIONAL ANTHEM STYLE. It doesn’t matter if you are at Panera Bread or at PAX river base wasting your boss’ time by being on Facebook and reading this instead of prevent terrorist threats. Sing this aloud. Ready? Keep the original melody to the chorus and sing the following words. Loud and proud. Your day will be amazing.

I’d give myself AIDS for ya
Inject some poo in my veins for ya
I would rape David Spade for ya
You know I’d eat dirty tape for ya
Take a Dremel right into my ain
Make out with Susan Boyle’s va-jain
Yeah I would die for you baby
Why won’t you clean my doody stains?

Now that you’ve just lost your job and scared the old lady sitting next to you, write your own horrifying and ridiculous words to this chorus in the comments below!

Next Post: The post will be up to you!! Whatever song or artist get’s the most responses from YOU, the readers, I will write unmercifully about. So who is it gonna be? Black Eyed Peas? Lady Gaga? The Beibs? You pick. I’m only going for the artist that indisputably gets the most posts about so think hard!