Member Since: 4/9/2006
Band Members: me & my friends.
Influences:
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"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstacy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off... They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating." -Pearl S. Buck
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“Every religion is true one way or another. It is true when understood metaphorically. But when it gets stuck in its own metaphors, interpreting them as facts, then you are in trouble.†-Joseph Campbell
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“Art is only a means to life, to the life more abundant. It is not in itself the life more abundant. It merely points the way, something which is overlooked not only by the public, but very often by the artist himself. In becoming an end it defeats itself. †–Henry Miller
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“Well, Art is Art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water. And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now you tell me what you know. †–Groucho Marx
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Sounds Like: Superstylish English guy Nigel Morrison stops by our table and he's wearing a flower in the lapel of his Paul Smith jacket. But he can't stay long since he has to meet other British friends, Ian and Lucy, at Delmonico's. Seconds after he walks away, I hear someone sneer, "Nigel. A pate animal." Someone else: "Did you know that caveman got more fiber than we do?" "Who's handling the Fisher account?" "Screw that. What about the Shepard thing? The Shepard account?" "Is that David Monrowe? What a burnout." "Oh brother." "For christ sakes." ". . . lean and mean . . ." "What's in it for me?" "The Shepard play or the Shepard account?" "Rich people with cheap stereos." "No, girls who can hold their liquor." ". . . total lightweight . . ." "Need a light? Nice matches." "What's in it for me?" "yup yup yup yup yup yup . . ." I think it's me who says, "I have to return some vidoetapes." Someone has already taken out a Minolta cellular phone and called for a car, and then, when I'm not really listening, watching instead someone who looks remarkably like Marcus Halberstam paying a check, someone asks, simply, not in relation to anything, "Why?" and though I'm very proud that I have cold blood and that I can keep my nerve and do what I'm supposed to do, I catch something, then realize it: Why? and automatically answering, out of the blue, for no reason, just opening my mouth, words coming out, summarizing for the idiots: "Well, though I know I should have done that instead of not doing it, I'm twenty-seven for Christ sake and this is, uh, how life presents itself in a bar or in a club in New York, maybe anywhere, at the end of he century and how people, you know, me, behave, and this is what being Patrick means to me, I guess, so, well, yup, uh . . ." and this is followed by a sigh, then a slight shrug and another sigh, and above one of the doors covered by red velvet drapes in Harry's is a sign and on the sign in letters that match the drapes' color are the words THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.