Jailcell Guffaw

The ability to tell jokes should never come under arrest. One should be able to joke about anything they wish, regardless of who might get offended. They way I see it is this:

A comedian is kind of like a musician. The audience is like a stringed musical instrument. Some sounds come out louder and more clear when the strings have some tension.

To abandon the tension in all of the strings, for fear that someone will get offended, the result would be a poor-sounding song. The comedy would be lost. The art would die.

This is why comedy has to constantly push boundaries – to keep tension in those strings. To keep the art alive. To discover new sounds. And most importantly, to make sure those sounds exist for future generations.

“Dad! Wake up!”

Sometimes I stop and think to myself “What if I had shouted at my father when he was dying on his hospital bed? What if I said ‘Hey! Dad! This is your last chance to wake up and get better! WAKE UP!'”. I know that, at the time of his death, and even the night before his death, I knew the absolute truth: My dad’s body is fucked up beyond recovery. Cancer. Multiple infections. He’s done for. The only task that remains is mercy. So he shall have it and become one with death.

Not even all of the stupid fucking “spiritual” or “energy” stones, my sister brought to his hospital room, could save him. Oh, how I wanted to throw those stupid stones out of his window every time I saw them. I wanted to shake sense into her and her mother. Oh, how I wanted to scream. Of all the wasteful things we do when a loved one is dying. I bet hard that medical advancements would prevail and that my father needed rest, not visitors. The social repercussions is that my brother Pete and I have been branded as “those whom didn’t care”. They don’t understand. It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes I feel guilt, in that I should’ve spent more time with my father in the hospital, but then I keep returning to my remembrance of how messed up he was; how incomprehensible and sporadically responsive or cognitive he was. Such a sad state to see someone who used to represent strength and wit, to become so frail and bewildered.

I don’t feel guilty anymore – just occasionally sad and haunted by what I’ve seen.


I used to sit in the dark with headphones on. I would play “December” by Static-X over and over. The calm, dark, swaying intro would lull me into a sense of sub-conscience. I would think about life, death, the unknown.

“I still feel the cold – of long past days
I knew my worth – put in my place
It’s no surprise – I realized – some time before”

Sometimes I would catch the track before it went to the outro and restart my CD player to loop it all over again. Over, again, I go on my journey into the darkness in my mind thinking about loved ones and my life; what I want, what people want from me, my brother Joe, if I would stay in Salt Lake City or move away to a big city.

Sun shines through haze
I put my thoughts – toward future days”

I wear what I love on my sleeves. Sometimes I’m practically waving a flag sewn with threads of my passions. Most people know I’m a Static-X fan. When the first album came out I picked it up with my friend Breno and drove to my house. We must’ve listened to the hit songs at least a dozen times in the driveway. Breno seemed to like it. But I was in love. This music was hot, heavy, and gritty as hell. It had attitude, style, and flair.

I’ve followed the band for years but never went to a show. That’s the odd thing about me. I’ll listen to a band’s music until each note is etched into my brain but I don’t care to go follow bands around their concerts. Perhaps it’s the crowds that dissuade me. But the funny thing about Static-X is that among my circle of friends I never found anyone who really loved them as I do. So I guess I just enjoyed them in my little corner. My dark room. My psychological ship.

Yesterday Lisa mentioned to me that Wayne Static has died last Saturday. At first I thought she was joking (as she sometimes does, darkly). But once I noticed she was serious I ran to my computer and fired up Google.

[ W a y n e S t a t i c ]

First result: “Wayne Static passes away at 48.”

I was hurt. Angry. Confused. The man I had been following on Twitter and Facebook all these years, the man who was a vegan and enjoyed 4-wheeling in the outdoors with his wife, dies in his sleep the night before a trip to a big tour. It feels like losing a close friend. A man who spoke to my soul through cheap headphones or blown out car speakers.

Here I am, 14 years later since his first album came out, listening to “December” over and over again. This time I have not gone on any voyages. Wayne has. Now he is gone and his lyrics haunt me.

“It’s no surprise, I close my eyes, and close the door.
Feeling so old. Years pass like days
Vastly changing. So many ways.
My eyes perceive – yes I believe… in nothing more”