All I know is that I don't know.
All I know is that I don't know nuthin'.

Links and whatnot

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oh my god
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Saturday, May 14, 2011
Know what sucks? Facebook's "notes" function. I had a completely rad post started, and then... well, I don't know what happened, but, fuck. I was on a roll, man! The words were coming, not as fast as they used to, but, fast enough. I actually had time to edit my thoughts, which is unusual for a blog post. I'll use the autocorrect for spelling, but that's about it.

So, I was writing about music, and how it changed my life.

Let's get the dredger out and bring up some uncomfortable memories, shall we?

Let's go back to high school, to begin with.

I remember seeing how many times I could get called "faggot" in one day. I remember blueballs. I remember heady nights in the McDonald's parking lot. I remember passion -- the passion of youth, the idea that, dammit, you could change the world just by being a smartass.

I remember when rock and roll changed my life.

I don't remember when, exactly, my soul was bought and paid for by rocknroll, but it was, sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

Do you remember rock and roll radio? Do you remember radio?

I miss radio. I miss (and missed, truth be told) when DJs picked their own playlists based on what they liked, and what was good, dammit. Not based on market share or target demographics, but on good music. "Here's something I found, and I want to share it with you. Do you like it? I hope you do, because I think it's awesome." That's how I ran my radio show during four years of college, and, when I got into the "real world", well, man. I didn't like it. And depression ain't pretty.

Many years ago, 104.1 The Point out of Lincoln, NE, had a show on Sunday nights called "The Cutting Edge". This was before "alternative" music. This was before Warped and Lollapalloza. This was before mallpunk and emo, this was after punk and New Wave, this was concurrent with shoegaze. This was the heyday of The Cure, Siouxie and The Banshees, Jane's Addiction, R.E.M., The Happy Mondays, The Lemonheads, The Violent Femmes, this was just before Matthew Sweet dropped "Girlfriend", this was a WONDERFUL time for music. And I was there.

In 8th grade.

I, unlike some of you, didn't have a cool older sibling or cousin to hip me to this stuff -- I had to discover it on my own. I'm glad that I did. I have an amazing bullshit detector when it comes to music.

I was never one of the "cool" kids. I was never hated outright (as far as I know), but... well, I'm probably preaching to the choir at this point. I was in choir and orchestra in Junior High (that's right -- I'm so old I predate Middle School), Forensics, Show Choir (Limited Ability reprazent!) and Orchestra in High School.

I played the violin. I wish I still had mine (it imploded and broke my heart, but that's a story for another day). My teacher was Steve Lawlor. He was very creative guy, and encouraged this creativity for concerts. Heard a song that you want to play? Let's make it happen.

My friend David Norris and another student, Mark Byars (if I recall correctly) were going to perform a song called "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" by a band that I had never heard of. They Might Be Giants.

Dave loaned me a cassette of theirs, called, oddly enough, "They Might Be Giants".

I never looked back.

I had never heard anything like them before. Yes, it was pop, but it wasn't Top-40. I didn't appreciate The Beatles or The Beach Boys at this point in my life (having a deaf father has its drawbacks), but, I knew that THIS was SOMETHING.

I think I am done writing now, because I really have nothing else to say, apart from, dammit, I love They Might Be Giants, and always will.

Sunday, March 06, 2011
So, yeah. It's been a long, long time since I've done this.

No, no, no. It's not you... I mean, it is you, because you're... damn. You're fine. Seriously, look at you. With that hair and... wow.

You... you're here with me. You're listening. All the guys out there and... I'm overthinking this. I really am. You're here, I'm here, and... OK. I don't know what you're expecting, but, I want to take my time. I need to get warmed up.


Alright. I haven't blogged in the better part of two years. You really haven't been missing anything. I'm still a dude. I still use two spaces in between sentences, even though typographers say that one space is all that you need, what with the advances in some sort of typeface, I can't remember if it's monotype or whatever. I learned how to type with two spaces, and, dammit, Ima keep doing that.

I still work. Some days more than others. I had a DUI. None of these stories are interesting.


I have had girlfriends. For real. Like, we held hands and everything. EVERYTHING.

These relationships didn't last. To quote Matthew Sweet, "Nothing lasts." To quote Chinua Achebe, "Things fall apart."

The first I had in a long, long while... We meshed so well on an emotional level. She was smart, witty, everything I thought I wanted. We meshed so well that we were both scared of our first date. It was a good kind of fear, and things went well. Until her ex showed back up. They are engaged now. I really am not angry about this. (Rebound #1)

The second... As pretty as the day is long. Smart, friendly, charming...

(Knee Play #1: iTunes Genius


How do you go from "Search and Destroy" by The Stooges to "Girlfriend" by Matthew Sweet?

When I want to hear The Stooges, I am clearly angry about something, and they provide catharsis. If I am angry about something, angry enough to write bullshit on the internet, do you really think it doesn't involve a female?

*Philip Glass Music*)

Great sex. Really great sex.

What? Oh, yeah. She was... She's a very sweet girl. Easy to love. Except if she'd been drinking. In which case, she was terriffic to fuck. But disconcerting.

Lovely girl, great sex. And, also, (Rebound #2)


This brings me to (Rebound #3).

Lovely girl. Smart, redheaded. Outgoing.

I, however, am gullible. "I don't even want just sex. I want to be myself for a while," she said. "That's fine," said I. "I don't want to be a rebound."


Y'all can see where this is going. She's a liar (but also young and hot) and I am a guy.

If, for no other reason, than the fact that that I am writing about this.

(Knee Play #2

Yeah, Pantera. You came in at EXACTLY the right time.

"Walk". Fuck. Yes.

What's metal and full of holes?
Dimebag Darrel.

I am a terrible person.

Is that why you're not elbow-deep in pussy tonight?



Is it?

Assert yourself. Karaoke doesn't get you laid, no matter how good you sound.

Does it get you a girlfriend?

Maybe at the prison talent show.

*Philip Glass Music*)

Know what?

Cuz I don't.

In summary:

  1. I am a gigantic nerd.
  2. I like the girls.
  3. I am incredibly easy to cockblock, provided you are younger, thinnner, more assertive, and more handsome than I am.
  4. iTunes Genius mixes are kind of stupid.
  5. I am kind of stupid.
Know what else, though? Rancid doesn't care if I'm a 33 year old. Rancid still thinks that I'm 15, and that punk rock is the be-all-end-all of rawknroll. It kind of is.


I have no idea if this is a long update, or a short one, or, frankly, if any of the links to the left even work anymore.

What do I know?

Did you read the title of this blog?

All I know is that I don't know. All I know is that I don't know nothin'.

Get some knowledge.

I still love rawknroll. I'd put another dime in the jukebox if you'd like me to. Would you like what I play? I doubt it. Even if it rawks, you probably haven't heard of it or heard it before.

However, if you're here, and you're reading this, and you are putting up with my stupid bullshit whining about my dick not getting sucked, then maybe you'd dig what I play.


Who the hell is this guy? This "Grant Bennett". Is he a mystery, wrapped inside an enigima, covered in hair?


So, you take this thin skinned bullshit person who wears hair as a shield and listens to music that most people don't like, someone who doesn't believe in God but has sold his soul to rawknroll, and what do you get?

Nothing worth your time.

(Knee Play #3

Wow. That's negative.

Well, yeah. He feels that way right now. Poor guy got cockblocked. He wanted his weenus in the mouth, if not the vagina, of a pretty girl. He got a hug, at best. And it was one of those "Hey! Good to see you!" hugs, not one of those "Yeah, those are my tits pressing into your chest. *wink*" hugs.

So? He's old. He lives with is parents. What did he think would happen?

He's an optimist.


No, he really is. He started crying the other night listening to a Mr. Rogers song.

Sounds like a homo to me.

Not really. I mean, yeah, kind of. But, not touching weeners gay.

Seriously? A Mr. Rogers song made him cry?

He was drunk as hell.

*Philip Glass Music*)

... and sometimes there just aren't enough rocks."


There are times when I wish that, as The Apostle Dre taught, bitches were not shit in the Eyes of the Lord.

There are times when I am awesome, witty, confident and handsome.

The times when I am not hurt.

Thursday, October 08, 2009

Here's the situation.

My parents are away on a week's vacation, and... they left the keys to their brand-new Porche. Would they mind? Hmmm... well, of course not!

I'll just take it for a little spin, and maybe show it off to a couple of friends. I'll just cruise around the neighborhood. Well, maybe I shouldn't... Yeah, of course I should.

I know that I haven't written anything for ages.

Since I've last blogged, there seems to have been a sea change in mass communication. Not in the principles of communication, but in the communication with the masses. Twitter, for example. Most of what I would want to blog about can now be fit into 140 characters. And, you can follow my tweets about my bowel movements if you want to. I'm RawkStah on Twitter. (Note: There are no tweets about my BMs. Even though they have been FANTASTIC lately.)

Blogs are now for lengthy rants, raves, and suchandsuch. And, boy howdy, do I think that I have one for you today!

Senator Mike Johanns (R-NE), tacitly supports rape.

I don't just go around saying that people support rape for no reason. So, when I say that someone tacitly supports rape, I have some information to back me up.

Sen. Al Franken (isn't that a strange thing to see in print?) introduced an amendment to the 2010 Military Appropriations Bill that would forbid subcontractors from introducing clauses in their employment contracts that would prevent employees from taking legal action against co-workers or their employers. Like, if one were gang-raped.

Let's say you get gang-raped. By co-workers. In Iraq. While working for a security company.

Let's say that you then return to America. Let's say that you could identify your rapists.

Now, let's say that you want to press charges against your attackers. But, upon reviewing your employment contract, you discover that the best you can hope for is arbitration, and, hopefully, an out-of-court cash settlement.

Wouldn't that just be a bitch?

Sadly, it has happened. Many, many times.

Sen. Al Franken introduced an amendment to make sure that bullshit like that doesn't happen any more.

Seems like a good idea to me. How about we make sure that we don't do business with companies that prohibit their employees from reporting crimes. Makes sense, don'it?

30 people voted against this amendment.

30 Republicans.

Including Sen. Mike Johanns (R-NE).

Thirty Senators tacitly support Rape.

Let that sink in for a bit. I'll wait. In fact, Ima have a cigarette while you read that.



Thirty. Senators. Are. More. Concerned. With. Profit. Than. Rape.

I am so incensed by this notion that I am literally shaking. Now, impotent rage is an emotion that I am well acquainted with. There is very little that I can do to change the world. I can try to make it better one person at a time.

(Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.

Thanks to my friend Tara Kuipers for that quote)

Impotent rage. Yeah. I am entirely against Capital Punishment, but, I know that Nebraska will never, ever get rid of it. I will keep trying to prohibit it, but, I know it will never happen. It is not, to paraphrase Eric Bogosian, like pounding nails into the floor with my forehead. If I can just get one person to change their mind, I will be happy.

But, how in the hell do you go up against a system that has 3/4 of one political party that tacitly supports rape?

What hope does health care reform have when 3/4 of Republicans tacitly support rape? How in fuck does one vote against an amendment that supports victims rights?

Times like this make me want to make Debaser. If I haven't already told you about that film, well, it's for another time.

I'm done ranting for now. But, never let it be forgotten that Sen. Mike Johanns (R-NE) tacitly supports rape.

Go forth, and listen to some rocknroll.

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Thursday, February 26, 2009
I want to write beat.

I want to write Beat.

I want to reclaim the passion of discovery.

I want to learn to read again.

This. This writing is not beat. Not Beat.

I can't give up punctuation. I can't give up CAPITALIZATION. I can't write, transcribe, internalize, externalize, symbolize, hypothesize, synthesize bebop.

I sold my soul to rocknroll. Four beats, three chords, sometimes harmony, sometimes screams, all passion, all feeling, all accessible.

No edits, no...

"Don't you realize you can't be saved? If you can't feel fear you've gone insane."

I want to reclaim my heritage (?) I want to be 151617 again. To feel that passion, that unbridled unrefined unclear unfocused energy emotion extascy! To be punk again. (were you ever?)

Getting old is a young man's game. It takes strength to become what you are destined to be. (By the age of 50, every man has the face he deserves.)

I don't know what I want. I do, but I lack the cojones to make it happen. I lack the drive. I lack the passion.

Yet, somehow it's ok, cuz I'm listening to Queen right now.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

This, and this. This is what it is like to be me.

If anyone was interested.

Sunday, December 21, 2008
Unnecessary headset mics piss me off. What is wrong with a normal
lavalier, you douchebags?

Sunday, December 14, 2008
Hey, all.

It's been awhile since I last blogged. I mean, legitimately blogged. Hard-core BLOGGED. Just opened up my head and vomited out all the bad noise, the bad blood, the hopes and fears, the laughs and tears, the junks and rears.

And, I apologize.

I apologize for many, many things.

First of all, I apologize for writing like Alcoholic Lange-Kubick. I am truly sorry for writing in sentence fragments. I know that I am better than that. I apologize for writing like I think. I apologize for speaking with poor grammar. In my defense, however, I am not surrounded by the New Brahmans. My work environment isn't exactly conducive to... well, however the fuck those guys spoke.

Secondly, I apologize for not having blogged. I work, on average, 12 hours a day as a waiter. After work, I want to relax. By "relax", I mean "drink several beers". By "drink several beers", I mean "Wow. I need to go home and pass out."

This is not conducive to writing. Unless you're Ernest Hemingway. Or, when mixed with amphetamines, Jack Kerouac. I am neither. I don't have that sort of talent, drive, or addiction.

(BTW: "Lover's Rock" by The Clash could be covered by Ween without anyone batting an eye.)

Thirdly, I apologize for not leading that interesting of a life of late. "Yeah, fucker. The life of a small-market radio DJ with no skill in softball was SO engrossing," you're thinking (if you've been with me from the beginning, that is. If you haven't, I invite you to read my archives which include such bits as: "I suck at softball", "I am bored and lonely", "I think I am a disappointment to everyone" and, everyone's favorite, "Why don't girls like me?").

SO, that out of the way, here's this update. I don't know if I'm dropping science on y'all, I don't know if you care, hell, I don't even know if anyone apart from Dav is even reading this. (Thank you, Dav. Knowing that someone periodically checks this shit out does mean a lot.)

I am tired. In nearly every sense of the word. Physically, mentally and emotionally.

(True story: I answered the phone one day. I'd been working 14-hour days for around 6 weeks. The co-owner of the restaurant asks how I'm doing. I reply that I'm tired. She asks, "Why?")

I am tired. I can not trust my memories because there is cross-talk between my dreams and reality. I know for a fact that DoubleWide, the acapella octet I was in in college was not in the hallway at the Ed Sullivan Theatre waiting for a cue to perform during the commercial break of "The Late Show with David Letterman", but, I remember it happening.

I am tired. I wait tables. I am OK at it. I make decent money. But, every day is exactly the same. I show up, I set up, I do my thing, I set up, I do my thing, I go to the bar, I come home, I lather, I rinse, and I repeat.

I am tired. Several weeks or months ago, (and, honestly, it's tough to tell sometimes) I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. A million-dollar idea.

I had found a way for people to have their privacy invaded, like it, and pay money for the privilege.

One of my favorite books of all time is 1984 by George Orwell. I can't rightly explain why, except that the textural details of the book always stood out for me. The dull razors, the metallic gin, the overcast sky (would it be the color of a TV tuned to a dead station? I think that it would be.) The "branding" of the book is absolutely phenomenal. Orwell's skill at drawing you into the world, the "immersion" that the book presents always struck me. It, along with Flowers for Algernon, is one of the books that I was compelled to liberate from my Junior High.

My million-dollar idea was this: Victory Bars. All of the alcohol would be Victory brand. Victory Gin. Victory Bourbon. Victory Beer. Everything would be slightly greasy. The atmosphere would be drama-free, but slightly uncomfortable. The bartender would give you booze, but not conversation. The customers would be aloof. And then, you would get a text message.

"Look straight ahead."

"Go to the bathroom, NOW."

"Order a top-shelf gin and tonic."

Why on earth would you get a text message like that? Because, in the backbar, there are White Hat crackers/hackers/phreaks who have opened up your cell phone.

By performing the action you were texted, you give tacit agreement to participate in the ARG that Victory Bars, a subsidiary of JohnnyCorp, is hosting. The bar customers? Many of them are plants. Actors, playing a role. The "police"? Same thing. The bartender? He/she would be the GM/DM. The one calling the shots, finding the "marks" who might be interested in playing, who might want to pretend they are part of an underground resistance movement against a totalitarian government.

This plan would work for a week, tops.

And, this, ladies and gentlemen, is what being tired results in: really dumb ideas that sound good until you take a nap.

Good night!

Comments by: YACCS