Morblivious: 1. The state of disappointment you feel when you announce that someone famous has died, only to find that everyone already knows.
2. Any inappropriate state (be it relief, amusement, disregard or anything that isn’t proper social mourning) one might feel at learning of another’s death.
–Dan Kilian
It’s all false. Disney alums working their choreography and belting their lungs out through Autotune over someone else’s beat. The heavy metal bands might as well be playing jazz scales, their perfected rumblings as rebellious as a glass of chocolate milk, a heavy sludge manufactured angst. Punk rock is on Broadway. Dance music screams emptiness (why don’t they ever sample metal?) while freak folk agitates for the bathtub. The indie kids have gone so twee she envisions a string of tour dates cancelled due to nosebleeds. Rap’s a commercial for something she doesn’t want to buy, a bunch of neo-Toms trying to be street for a bunch of white eleven year old boys.
She gets what she can, from random sources. A mix, a commercial, a soundtrack, someone she heard on the street, the library. It’s all swirling in the mix.
At the thrift store she saw The Ks Can’t Get It Together sitting in with a bunch of CDs for $1.99. “I’m an old man’s fantasy,” she thought, and shoplifted it.
“I swear you’ll like it” I promise.
“Why?”
“Because it’s about the songs, but it’s not too tired, too sweet or too cynical to rock.”
“It sounds like an old punk band.”
“It does now. It changes. We mix it up.”
“It sounds old fashioned.”
“You’re starting to like old stuff now. I saw Leon Redbone on your iPod.”
“I don’t even know who he is, or how he got there. He’s false.”
“Maybe, but he’s fun. Check this stuff out.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re false.”
“I think you’re fictional.”
“Fuck off.”
“Look, just give it a listen. These are worthwhile songs. I might be ‘false’ but these songs aren’t. I really believe in them.”
“Well I don’t know if that’s what I’m looking for.”
“Just listen to them, or I’ll just write it that you did.”
“Okay.”
So she listened to the album, and she actually liked it. She liked the songs, and when she gets depressed about how false and fictional it all is, she can still hum one of the songs. I’m not really sure what else she’s listening to, but I made sure she got into The Beatles, and some Micachu and the Shapes. I mean, it can’t all be oldie oldie stuff. She’s a kid. She’s a figment. But she’s got some fire, and she’s got some good songs, hook or crook.
Together we navigated an ad for The Ks record. I wish it could have been more real. I hope it gets more real.
–Dan Kilian
You can here the song here: Why_I_Look_at_Girls_on_the_Train
Am C Am F
Perhaps this face will be my lover’s A flash of light will strike me down
C F Am F
Where you been hiding? Ooh you’re so clever. Been looking for you all over town
G# C F
Am I looking too hard? Maybe I’m looking too hard
E G C D#
But what if I find the face?
F G# C Bb
What if I find the face of my true love?
F G# C D#
What if I find the face of my true love?
E G C
What if I see your face?
Am C Am F
How could I not? I’ve got to know If you’re even out there, and you feel the same
C F Am F
How will I tell? Will it really show? And if I know, will I have the courage to stake my claim?
G# C F
Am I trying too hard? Maybe I’m trying too hard
E G C D#
But what if I find the face?
F G# C Bb
What if I find the face of my true love?
F G# C D#
What if I find the face of my true love?
E G C
What if I see your face?
F G#
Lot of people in this world Can’t meet everyone
C F
But what if there’s only one? You my only one?
INSTRUMENTAL
E G C D#
F G# C Bb
F G# C D#
E G C
F G# C D#
What if I find the face of my true love?
F G# C Bb
What if I find the face of my true love?
F G# C D#
What if I find the face of my true love?
F G# C Bb
What if I find the face of my true love?
E G C
What if I see your face?
–Dan Kilian
–Song performed by The Ks
Editor’s note: This story about a man who blew himself up at a party with an improvised rocket was recently brought to our attention, and it reminded Steve of a dream…
Coincidentally, I had a dream last night that a group of astronauts-in-training (rocket men, so to speak) where hanging out in Mom’s back yard. They had somehow helped my wife, Nancy, maybe even saved her life, so I was grateful to them and we were giving them food and drink. They began building a dam out of dirt and leaves and this caused flooding into the next door neighbor’s yard. There was still plenty of water in our yard as well, and all sorts of latent aquatic life started blooming out of the soil, including a tadpole that had already sprung one leg and stubby little arms.
This was cause for celebration, so I broke out some of my brother John’s home-made fireworks. One was just a jar of gunpowder with a wick punched through the screw-on lid. The other was a rectangular metal can of butane (for filling fancy lighters) which was labeled “Rossignol.” The can had been emptied out and filled with gunpowder, match-heads, etc. – much like the Michigan guy’s home-made rocket.
I took the thing out to where the astronauts were and lit the wick. There must have been some fluid left in the can that had saturated the wick, because the end of the wick immediately popped like a firecracker, scaring me. I ran to hide behind the big tree next to the deck, and everyone starting mocking me. What was left of the wick was burning normally, and it looked like it had about 30 seconds to go. The astronauts, being cocky military types, were clowning around, standing right next to it, laughing at my cowardice.
The thing detonated, sending fragments of metal all over the rear yard. The concussion was deafening. John took some metal splinters to the face and his arm, which protected his eyes – not too bad. There was a red mist of blood and fat in the air. One of the astronauts had lost all the skin and muscle on his forearm, leaving his hand intact. He was in shock, making motions in the air like he was folding laundry.
“Guess he won’t be going to the Moon,” I said, and woke up.
–Steve Kilian
He tried to go around the corner but the King wouldn’t talk to the deuce, pawn takes Queen, he had a three high straight but he didn’t have enough money to cover the bet so he went around the corner but someone had robbed the ATM. He tried to solve the mystery. He wrapped the letters around and he realized it was his good friend MAT. He wrapped the letters around and he realized it wasn’t an ATM it was a POST office box. He wrapped the letters around again and realized that it wasn’t a POST office box it was a STOP sign. Someone had robbed a stop sign. He wondered how that could physically happen, what the stop sign had to be stolen and he looked around and he saw that anarchy had broken out. He went around the corner and there was little Jack Horner why had someone sung that song? Someone had surely done something wrong and it’s all an allegory for British corruption, but the rhyme outlived the story so it’s just something for kids to wrap their minds around in meaningless pleasure of parallel sounds. We hope you enjoy our little rhymes tonight, which may have already outlived their meaning. For all I know I’m rhyming one line with a word in the middle of the verse. For all I know this is all an illusion, and there is no large crowd cheering me on I’m just a madman in a karaoke bar playing ROCK BAND or I might not even be singing I might be a madman holding up a stop sign to cover his gambling debts. He came back around the corner and threw his wad of cash on the table called with his Queen King Ace (OF CLUBS!) 2 3 and he won but they shot him in the head.
–Dan Kilian
Editor’s Note: This was the program from our kick ass show last Saturday at The Ace of Clubs. Who are we? The Ks!
Well-furred, healed, made whole by my handlers, I lurch forth on all fours. Lights flash, candles to the bonfire above. The crowd settles a bit, not quite to a hush, not respecting me.
Did they think that I’d forget my treatment?
Did they think that I’d forget the sweet copper taste of their flesh?
Did they think for a moment that we wouldn’t burrow beneath their skyscrapers and tunnels, under pilings and vaults, around electrical feeders and gas mains?
Soon we will feed. Soon it will spread across the city, across the country, across the continent. The shadow will blanket the globe.
–Steve Kilian
Editor’s note: This isn’t really live. It’s Monday. But for that vibrant visceral feel of immediacy, we’re writing in sparkling new PRESENT TENSE!
Great bath. Missed the intro. Evidently Lady Gaga and Elton John got all dirty but I am clean.
Actually maybe the bath was too long. Sometimes that makes me really thirsty.
Drinking ginger ale.
Punk rock always sounds better song by a bombastic Broadway choir. Who wants to be an American Idiot?
Beyonce has her own military. Lady can sing and dance, if not simultaneously. Nice recording.
Don’t feel like cooking. Bath really took something out of me.
Pink awkwardly disrobes and spins in a hammock above the crowd. Now she’s dipped in a bath, and spraying the audience with her moisture. Is anyone going to sing live?
Lean hot pockets. Is there any lower type of food? Drinking milk.
Will. I. Am is costumed like a metal-dipped cowardly lion. With some martial wear as well. What’s it like to the two guys in the Black-Eyed Peas who aren’t Will.I.Am and Fergie?
Drinking orange juice.
Jamie Fox is all military too. Granted, it’s revolutionary war style, but what the hell? Making racist social connections in my head, paranoidly seeing a soul music endorsement of War-mode Obama. Who is worse, the militants or me? Definitely me.
Bunch of musical acts. The boring ones who just sing and don’t bring armies that explode. Or interesting songs either.
Bunch of stars almost manage, through sheer star-power and over-singing, to bring Michael Jackson’s mawkish ballad about the Earth up to the level of horrible.
Blind opera guy and Mary J.Blige almost manage, through sheer star-power and over-singing, to bring Simon and Garfunkle’s gorgeous ballad about troubled water down to the level of horrible.
Got to go to the bathroom.
Good to see Eminem, getting a little sick of Lil Wayne, and there’s that other guy who does something.
I guess the Grammy voters have a lot of twelve year old daughters. Que stale Kanye jokes. At least he makes an awards show interesting.
Got to go to the bathroom.
3:00 a.m. Got to go to the bathroom.
4:00 a.m. Got to go to the bathroom.
–Dan Kilian
Thankspology
Gratitude combined with apology. Often delivered by neurotic people with self-esteem problems. “Thanks for coming to my party. Sorry it was so lame,” Sheila thankspologized.
Apolfiance
An admission of culpability delivered with backhanded attacks on others. “I’m sorry if you were so stupid as to have your feelings hurt!” Dan said apolfiantly.
Editor’s note: Apolfiance? Not Defology? Keep looking.
Degrets
Secretly happy conflict. He sent his degrets that he could not attend the Baroque music fest.
Regright
Sort of like guilty schadenfreude.
I’d like to thankspologize to you for your reading this post.
–Dan Kilian
I Dan of The Ks am playing a solo acoustic show tonight after the Spectacles at Pianos upstairs. 9 p.m. Lulow and Stanton.
I’m not advertising it because The Ks have a show on Saturday (9 p.m. at the Ace of Clubs). But I’m excited. Some members of The Ks are going to play as well. Going to play some songs no one’s heard in a while.
Enjoy the President’s State of the Union.
Love,
Dan
klogtheblog