I Have a Dream, the Camera I Already Had

I’m sure you’re familiar with my work. Maybe you saw me at work in a strip mall in Mobile, Alabama or a strip mall parking lot in Tulsa, or perhaps in a bowling alley in a strip mall in Ft. Lauderdale. Then there’s my ad, which people seem to remember. Or maybe you received a card featuring one of my photos at Christmas - they do make “purrrfect gifts!” Truth in advertising!

For years now, I’ve been taking “Live Tiger Cub Pictures,” and I’ve built up quite a reputation. Why, if you see a picture of any ordinary family that just also happens to feature a pair of live tiger cubs, that moment was absolutely captured by me.

The idea came to me years ago when I worked as a studio photographer. Something was missing from my life, it just didn’t feel complete or full. One night, I had a dream. There was a camera, a photo studio, and a exotic, newborn, antelope-feasting jungle cat that in no way looked out of place in any family portrait! The very next day, I paid $500 for a tiger cub. The camera I already had.

It’s been 4 years since I started the business, and there are dozens of satisfied customers. But how many photos of little Madison with a tiger cub can you have? Even I know that more than one portrait with a tiger on the ‘fridge is gauche.

That’s why I’m proud to introduce Phase II of my enterprise, making extraordinary portraits that much more extraordinary.

Which is more exciting?

Terrence in his cub scout uniform or Terrence in his cub scout uniform with his friend Lance the Aye-Aye, a nocturnal primate from the mysterious island nation of Madagascar?

Regan in her communion dress or Regan in that same communion dress swaddling a baby mountain gorilla?

The Harrington family in matching red sweaters or a color-coordinated Harrington family encircling an orphaned African elephant?

People will be flinging feces at one another to get a look at these! I mean, anytime you’re cozying up to a tapir, it’s something of a celebration.

Pictures like these still make “purrrfect gifts,” but they’ve got added staying power, sure to occupy prime fridge real estate through 2010. And once you’ve been photographed with a tiger, and again with a tapir, everyone will wonder what you’ll be captured with next.

Call to make your appointment today…

The Hygiene Exhibitionist

I love exhibitionists for the coveted moments of surprise they provide.

I hate them for the same reason.



Topping my hated list is Handy the Hygiene Exhibitionist (pictured), the shadiest of characters, who haunts the streets, subways, and my nightmares with a set of nail clippers and a liberal use policy to match.

I’m not sure what Handy here was up to before I encountered him, we rode together for just one stop, but my guess is he finished blowing out the hair and did a quick touch-up on the fade just as I arrived if the nail clipping is any indication.

Now one night last year I was standing by the door of a 7 train when an elderly man sitting to my right turned his head and threw up on me three times. I paid dearly for that, my trek home cost me a well-worn pair of Chucks, jeans, and boxers. Then there was the emotional toll, a sleepless night followed by my wife’s ceaseless belief that I’d “crapped my pants.” She’ll tell you all about it, incorporating a pretty solid impression of the whimpering my arrival home was accompanied by into the story as well.

Point is I’m a veteran of subterranean travel. I’ve seen and heard plenty of things down there. That certainly wasn’t the first vomit I’d encountered on the subway, but it was the first inside my sneakers. I’d come across countless people peeing on the train, and one special morning I even interrupted a guy with the angriest look on his face in the middle of a fierce game of pocket pool. But being the victim in this vomit incident had me re-thinking subway travel. Still, the sense-assaulting damage of that night was nothing compared to the impact of Handy the Hygiene Exhibitionist’s incessant clipping and snipping.

In the end, the difference between Handy and the old man is intent, or at least I’m hoping it is. One of these men made a conscious decision about his actions.

The subway is a dangerous place, and while the days of Bernie Goetz have long since passed, there’s no denying that nail clippers are the new switchblades.

Select Visions of a Moribund State

Teen pregnancy. The mindless slaughter of marine mammals. Environmental ruin. Foreign accents. Nuclear Armageddon. Pretty atypical poetry topics, and they’re all covered in Visions of a Moribund State.

I wrote the book as a sophomore in high school, and I know that because that’s when I learned the word “moribund.” It’s also the last time I used it.

It didn’t help that like all treasures, Visions was lost for a while. When rediscovered, it followed the course of all great literature and remained largely overlooked by the publishing industry. Thankfully, that’s about to change.

Someone with the fortitude to publish a book of prose as biting as this has finally stepped forward, and in anticipation of its release I’ve recorded an audio book featuring five excerpts from the full Moribund collection.

Rimbaud, Bukowski, Ginsberg, they’ve got nothing on this stuff. Take a moment, step out of your day, and bear witness to Select Visions of a Moribund State.

Forbidding Omen or Teen Billionaire?

It’s an incredibly good thing I am not a superstitious person because yesterday, out of nowhere, an Olsen twin dressed in black crossed my path.

Based on the hair I’m pretty sure it was Mary-Kate. She made a dash from a parked, black SUV into a building lobby, beelining right past me. On second thought, and basing it again on the hair, it may have been Ashley. But one thing I know for sure is, an Olsen twin dressed in black crossed my path.

Now an Olsen twin in black means different things in different cultures. In Britain or Japan, an occurrence like this is considered good luck. In Scotland, an Olsen Twin dressed in black on your front porch brings prosperity. For Italians, if an Olsen Twin in black sneezes, it’s a good omen to all who hear it. But in the Netherlands, an Olsen Twin dressed this way is not allowed in rooms where private family discussions are underway, and the Irish believe that if you in some way harm an Olsen twin wearing black, you’re in for seventeen years of bad luck.

Here in the U.S. where this incident occurred, it’s considered bad luck for an Olsen twin in black to cross your path, just as it is for one dressed in white to cross your path at night.

Personally, I can’t believe that in this day and age we still believe in superstitions like this. Why does an Olsen twin in black have to mean bad luck? Can’t it just be an easy, elegant look? Sometimes a girl doesn't need anything more than the basics, or maybe she just hasn’t done the laundry in a while. I just wish that as a society we'd move beyond such Medieval ways of thinking about a put together Olsen twin.

Mr. Mister Fan Fiction

Let’s come to an agreement. In the mid-‘80s, there were few bands as atmospheric – and poppy – as Mr. Mister.

You can come up with a list to refute this fact, but it’ll be short, and I’m sorry, the bands you’ve selected are just not atmospheric or poppy enough.

Often derided as a less rocking Toto, it’s an unfair comparison. Mr. Mister never did feel the rains of Africa, but their layered sound was as thick as the fog that followed the downpour.

Mr. Mister dominated the airwaves in a way Howard Jones and his hair could not. Sure they didn’t dominate it as many times as he did, but when they dominated, they dominated. Emphasize that last “dominated” when you re-read the sentence.

A group of session musicians on the L.A. scene, Mr. Mister formed when their egos could no longer stand the confinement of an album’s liner notes, I’m guessing, and they were lead, and bassed, by one Richard Page.

As the vocalist-slash-bassist, Richard himself wasn’t necessarily responsible for the band’s signature sound, but like all frontmen, he was certainly responsible for their image, career goals, and rise to success.

The role also made him responsible for their downfall.

When Mr. Mister was in their prime, I was a few years shy of frontman age, but it’s easy for a boy to dream and even easier to look back and wonder what I would have done as the lead singer of Mr. Mister.

Now I say this with all due respect to Mr. Page. The guy was no one hit wonderbread, but at some point, the atmosphere got a little too thin to support life. Mr. Mister could never be more vital than their sophomore effort Welcome to the Real World, an ironic title in hindsight as they’d soon come face to face with it. Soaring waves of synth can only keep you aloft for so long.

So who’s to say where the band would have gone if I was fronting it?

Obviously, I don’t look anything like Richard Page, and that’s a good thing, because if Richard himself had looked a little farther up the charts, he’d see that he looked exactly like Sting. Both were frontmen with short blond hair (and wait, is that a tail in the back there?) who also played bass.

Key to continued Mr. Mister success #1: Look the part better than those already looking the part.

So looking different is inherently taken care of, but what about the bass? In addition to vocals, I’d also handle all bagpiping responsibilities. Yes, I would be the vocalist-slash-lead piper. Audiences and critics alike would marvel at not only my lyrical wizardry, but at my astounding lung capacity and elbow stamina as well. No other frontman has ever been able to work the crowd in such a way, and had I made it happen in the anything goes ‘80s, you can bet there would be at least three bands at Coachella doing it now.

Key to continued Mr. Mister success #2: Be the absolute best atmospheric pop band you can be, then add bagpipes.

As for the body of work, we’ll have to assume I’d have written all the same hits as Richard Page had. “Broken Wings” lured listeners to the band, but it was “Kyrie” that kept them wanting more. In Greek the word me means “Lord have mercy” but unfortunately for Richard, he overlooked its Latin meaning, “all downhill from here.” Not knowing either language, I’d have written the song based on the one foreign language I know as well as a native three year old, French, where “Kyrie” means “Career.”

Key to continued Mr. Mister success #3: There’s no need to prove you’re so smart and/or a former altar boy, but choose your words wisely.

A lot of other amazing things happen to my Mr. Mister, but to save a little something for our episode of Behind the Music, I’ll just mention some highlights. There was the globe- circling, 92-date, sold-out arena tour with The Hooters. A thrilling experience to be sure, especially for the fans, but admittedly tough on the piping elbow. We finally surpassed both the Police and Toto in the Billboard charts, thanks to a redefined “Kyrie,” and Welcome to the Real World ultimately went quadruple platinum. But such highs were also accompanied by incredible lows. In a moment I’ve come to regret, one influenced largely by our management company, we licensed our image to The Meade Corporation for use on a variety of school supplies. At the time, I remember how excited I was to outsell Duran Duran in pencil sharpeners 3.7 to 1.

Page’s Mr. Mister called it a day before the end of the decade, just as my Mr. Mister had done. His bandmates returned to a life in the shadows, writing hits for Madonna, recording with XTC, Whitesnake, Tori Amos, and, in perhaps the greatest post-Mr. Mister endeavor, serving as musical director for Kenny Loggins. Huh? It happened.

How did I end it? Here’s the untold story of how my fictional Mr. Mister called it a day. I’m the only one who knew, until now…

It was a Tuesday, August 1989. I was in the candy aisle of a Kroeger’s supermarket. With a pound bag of Twizzlers in my hand, I turned to catch an image of my face on a thermos. Was this why I'd played the bagpipes every day since I was 7? Would I ever learn to fly again, learn to live so free?

I was an artist, but I’d become corrupted, allowing myself - and my music - to be turned into a commodity. I left the supermarket that afternoon, pound bag of Twizzlers on the seat next to me, and drove. I didn't call the other guys in the band, just left L.A. and every Mr. Mister Trapper Keeper, Mr. Mister pillowcase, and 12” doll in my likeness behind. I became pop music’s Salinger or Pynchon, never to be seen in the spotlight again.

Just like the real Richard Page…

Key to continued Mr. Mister success #4: Make sure your music is good enough to do the speaking for you – even 20 years later.

An Open Letter to the Things in my Apartment

This recognition is long overdue, and only dawned on me last night.

I’d like to thank my couch for being comfortable, plush, and still incredibly cozy after almost a year of near daily, no hourly, use. You have provided me with a wonderful place to sit, sleep, eat dinner, greet the morning, and hold a conversation. I know I ask a lot of you, and you come through every time.

Besides, where else can I watch re-runs of Seventh Heaven and wonder where my life is going? Certainly not in a chair! We’ve been through a lot together, and I think it's time I say “thanks.”

While I’m at it, I’d also like to publicly thank a few other fixtures in my apartment.

To my desk, you keep staying messy. If I cleared you off, I’d never know where whatever’s piled on you is. You’re my go to piece of furniture when I’m looking for something that involves paper, my wallet, or the computer. Your sturdiness is admirable, and our relationship is very special to me. You know you’re the only thing I slide my legs under 'round the place.

Fridge, I hope you keep things as cool in the future as you’ve done in the past. I trust you to keep my mediocre tasting homemade chili around long enough for me to finish it, not to mention free of stomach-wrenching bacteria. And where else could I overlook a pint of milk until it’s turned into a tofu-like solid? What other appliance would let me do that? And if I haven’t said it before, you just look damn great there in the corner. I’m proud of you, fridgey.

Razor blade, you are a miracle worker. I know I only break you out every few days, but each time I’ve reached for you, you’ve never failed to deliver. Sure we’ve had a few mishaps, but you’re a sharp sliver of metal, blood comes with the territory. I know its nothing personal, and it adds a welcoming element of danger to my personal hygiene regimen. I get it, and I love you for it.

I’m praising all of you because, and this is hard to admit, I’ve taken you for granted.

No, don’t cry, however that’s possible, shhhhh, no no, I’m sorry, this is about me. I should have said something sooner but I didn’t because I thought you knew how I felt about you. You have worked ceaselessly, flawlessly performing your jobs hour after hour, day after day. In hindsight, I see how thoughtless I’ve been and I just want you to know that I appreciate everything you do.

Now I hate to make an example of something here in the apartment, but Microsoft Xbox 360, I need to call you out. I know most of the other things in the place are probably jealous of how much time you and I have spent together – we have had some adventures! - but I’ve logged even more time on the couch you share the room with and only one of you is continually in the mail for repair.

Of course Xbox, you’re a complicated piece of machinery, one infinitely more complex than the razor, couch or desk. But like them, you have one purpose, and since you’re regularly incapable of doing what you’re supposed to, you’ve just become a MicroPainInTheAss, no different than your customer service reps who attempt to diagnose the problem, parrot everything I say by prefacing it with “If I understand you correctly….” then take 3 to 10 business days to examine the issue, call back, and ultimately ask that I send you their way. At least while I wait there’s chili in the fridge, a couch to read on, and an iMac on the desk to order a PS3 if I want.

Things in my apartment, all of you, thank you for your service. I promise to never again take you for granted.

Microsoft and Xbox, I promise I will never bring another one of you into my home again.

"Glass Pigeons Raining Down on my City Tonight"

Jon Friedman asked if I’d contribute an essay to a book he was editing. This was a thrilling surprise, and as quickly as I could, wrote a piece about a 7” single I’d released.

A week after I'd submitted it, Jon asked if I’d instead write something about my show Inside Joke.

Jon hosts The Rejection Show, an amazing affair that celebrates work that’s been left behind. His book, Rejected, Tales of the Failed, Dumped, and Canceled, is something I am proud to be included in, and this is a leaner version of the essay that was rejected from the pages of Rejected.

“Glass Pigeons Raining Down on my City Tonight”

In the event that you haven’t written a landmark of alternative music, I’ll do my best to describe it...

My landmark, “Indeed” backed with "Noah's Arcs," a 7” single I released on the SpiFFinG label in late 1993. Packed in a fabric sleeve with a silk-screened cover, the initial pressing of 300 copies quickly sold out or was given away, I forget which, but they probably sold out….

The lyrics came quickly, a stream of consciousness gush that I wrote confidently, in pen, and left unchanged. And the music, entirely in the key of “E,” was as pure and straightforward as could be. Like mountain snow, it needed no explanation, a pristine arrangement of ringing, twanging guitar. The first time I played the song on a 12-string acoustic guitar – the spray-on hair of the instrument world, adding layers of body to an otherwise thin sound – it was clear the two parts couldn’t exist without one another. I imagined it was like sex – whatever that was, but surely I’d soon find out – and the process of creating a hit was as innate to me as digestion. It happened, without thought, and the results were irrefutable.

It would not be long before I moved out of my parents’ house.

Of the three songs I’d written as a solo artist, “Indeed” stood out, though it stood out only slightly more than “Noah’s Arcs,” the single’s eventual b-side. “Indeed” was loaded with intricate turns of phrase, the lyrics filling a listeners mind with vivid imagery – a beach-front grave, pockets filled with sand, a conversation between a dog and man, a bakery. And the refrain was as catchy as crabs:

Glass pigeons raining down on my city tonight….
Indeed…
Indeed…
Indeed…
Indeed…

Listening to it again, I realize it’s about possibilities and opportunities, a song of hope wrapped tightly in angst, the emotional equivalent of silk in music. It was irresistible.

I was once in a band. We split up. I went solo, a musician by default. With an inability to play bass, drums, guitar, piano, keyboards, harmonica, or bagpipes, there was only one position where my lack of experience could be mistaken as being up to the task, the only place where inability might actually be helpful - right out front at the edge of the stage as a lead vocalist. In fairness though, I had listened to thousands of songs by this point, perhaps 11,000 of them, a few of which were routinely referred to as hits in their respective genres, and many more that were not quite hits but still stood out above the rest. Plus, I’d sung along to a lot of them, and that’s what mattered. And I was a noted teen poet.

With “Indeed’ recorded, pressed, and on its way to a number of college radio stations and select publications, my brother Matthew and I flew to London to support a friend’s band for a few shows. Making things even more amazing, Matt would join me onstage playing the mandolin. He was talented, as he’d just learned to hold the thing 3 days before we’d left. Unfortunately for the Euro audiences, pneumonia derailed the entire affair on a side trip to Paris, depriving anyone of hearing the four songs I’d prepared, and that my brother would improvise. But despite a tour that ended before it even began, I returned home with 5 less copies of “Indeed” than I’d left with. And waiting for me was my first review.

From Splatter Effect, Jan. 1994, as penned by Dennis Sweeney:

Tartan Keats “Indeed” 7”
Two tremendously dull songs with pointless lyrics from an embarrassingly wearisome Anglo-Saxon guy and his guitar (no rhythm section). Music such as this that, years ago, might have been filed in the Sensitive Troubadour section now sounds no different than Stone Temple Pilots Unplugged. I’m guessing that Mr. Keats (how dare he use that surname!) intended his vague, non-sequitor verse to convey a sense of modernistic uncertainty and disenchantment, but instead, it just meanders incomprehensibly like the leftover crumpled pages from a groggy night of barely successful Exquisite Corpse. Insomniacs may be interested in this release though because each single contains a sleep-inducing excerpt from Tartan Keats’ long-awaited novel. To tell you the truth, I’m nodding off just thinking about it….zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

If I read that correctly, and I remember thinking it could have just been the fluid in my lungs throwing me off, Sweeney wasn’t liking it.

Stone Temple Pilots? They weren’t a band that released 7”s, there was no possible way I could sound anything like them! Plus, “Indeed” was a song about opportunity and possibility. If there was modernistic uncertainty and disenchantment in there, it wasn’t on purpose, though both are acceptable subjects for a hit song, just have a listen to Husker Dü’s “Makes No Sense At All”.

I cut the review from the magazine and glued it to a sheet of paper scrawling “A prophetic madman is at least amusing” beneath it. This is sadly true.

‘Zines in Britain with circulation numbers in the high double digits were uniformly behind the single, and with college ending for me, I was moving to Ireland. By this time I’d added a fifth song to my canon, “Freshwater,” written by Jake Brockman and recorded for his band BOM, an amazing ambient dub outfit out of Liverpool, and their Bom Bom Shevaya CD. It would also be re-recorded for my second single, a split 7”.

But just before I hopped the flight to Dublin, Dave Thompson, one of the finest writers at Alternative Press, weighed in on “Indeed,” saying:

All hail the band whose single comes in an authentic tartan picture sleeve. Then run howling from a voice which escaped from a growl-ridden folk club, with acoustic guitars and buckets of echo. Indeed. “Noah’s Arcs” offers more of the same, except now the guitars are electric, plugged with Sonic Youth discordance, and this whole thing is so bizarre it’s impossible to actually dislike it.

That would have been the perfect place to stop, but Dave took it one line further.

It’s just hard to listen to, that’s all.

Hit songs, by definition, are not hard to listen to, essentially the way they become hit songs in the first place. “Indeed” wasn’t turning out to be the masterpiece I’d imagined.

In Dublin, I took up busking - a nifty word for playing music anywhere people would rather not hear it - on Grafton Street, where adorable Irish girls wearing traditional outfits perform adorable traditional dances for tourists and their tourist wallets. As always, I was right where I should be.

I set up near a Dunkin Donuts, about 40 feet from a kid with flaming red hair who played Oasis covers on a 3-string guitar. He was brilliant. My guitar, with all six strings, was plugged into a small amp and I’d create sound collages for these same tourists. After converting the Irish pound into American dollars, I would typically earn roughly $1.37 on a good day, and that was mostly from the staff at Dunkin Donuts as thanks for leaving. My student loans would be paid down in no time at all.

As the British press were pretty keen on my music, I figured the Irish press would be as well. People I was staying with caught this review before I did, written by a fellow named Biggley:

Tartan Keats is an American who now lives in Dublin. He’s a solo artist with just a guitar and himself and at times reminded me of the singer from The Stunning which is why I got a bit of a shock when I heart it first and why I still can’t get into the A-side “INDEED” but after a good few listens I have come to like the B-side “NOAH’S ARCS” which is heavier and a bit more left of centre and no so ‘Irish rock’ sounding. Not much more to be said really except that the tartan cover is pretty cool!

I’d never heard of The Stunning, and there was no mention of the Stone Temple Pilots, so I’d chalked it up as a win.

I wrote two more songs while in Ireland but my time there was coming to a close. I was headed back to NY when Hot Press, the Irish equivalent of Rolling Stone, finally caught up with me. I was confident they’d see the merit of my work as it was the one magazine I picked up every week. A new issue was on the stands in the airport that day of my flight home. I cracked it open just as we accelerated down the runway. And to my surprise, there it was…

Tartan Keats is American, but he’s relocated to Dublin and has apparently released two singles, one a double A-side with UK guitar band Reverb. The other, “Indeed,” is in the “me and a guitar and fuck all else” vein. With that style, the songs have to be strong enough to support the artist and “Indeed” falls short by about, ooh, a million runways laid end to end. Meanwhile, “Freshwater” gives the distinct impression that Mr. Keats overdosed on The Velvet Underground, the song being a stream of consciousness monologue with music whinging along in the background. Reverb are English and “The Man…” is a catchy poppy guitar-driven exercise. Their press release describes them as “the universal afterbirth” and who are we to argue?

“’Indeed’ falls short by about, ooh, a million runways laid end to end” as I’m hurtling down the runway. The review couldn’t have been more timely or fitting a eulogy for my time in Dublin.

Years pass, the guitars are packed and stashed in the back of the closet, and I come across a copy of “Indeed” on eBay. When the auction ended – successfully – the winning bidder paid $0.01 for this little artifact, plus $2.50 for shipping. I'm sure Dennis Sweeney would say they overpaid.

In the event you don’t know what it feels like to find your single selling for a penny on eBay, I’ll do my best to describe it…

Your turn for a listen!
Play the single for yourself and leave a review in the comments section.

“Indeed”
“Noah's Arcs”