Davin

...the closer to god." While i don't believe in god, per say, I do believe that these curlers are bringing me closer to something pure, and good, and holy. I love curly hair!
This is day 2 with my molecular steam curlers:
( side views )

So I've decided that at this point in time it's very important for me to have big, curly hair. I ordered a set of "molecular steam curlers" off Amazon and they came in the mail today. Here's my hair a few hours later, taken by my shitty webcam.


I am STOKED! (though I don't look it in this photo...)

It's begun. My entertaining empire is taking (occasionally popping, ill-porportioned) shape.

A poodle-lined shelf:


Today's first project, a bear!



This one may be hard to see, but it's a little mouse.



Then my masterpiece of the night- a slightly crooked tiger!!



This is my desk after an evening of exhausting study:



And this is the pile of half-animals, misshapen swords, and discarded creatures of various kinds heaped by my bed:



At one point tonight I was like, "Seriously? It's 2 am on a Saturday night and I'm in my pajamas, alone, slouched over in a chair, drawing eyes on a balloon tiger. Shouldn't I be attending a social engagement or getting laid?" But, strangely- and maybe pathetically- none of those things could have made me happier than doing a pinch twist... or a sausage twist... or any other of the rudimentary techniques that I am now completely not a master of.

Invigorated from my sexy night of balloon sculpting, I decided to research making my own skincare products because I like making things... and I'm shit broke. After reading a lot of recipes and a lot about the properties of various ingredients, I made my own exfoliating facial scrub. I mixed it up in under 3 minutes. The only reason I'm even telling you is that IT WAS AWESOME!!! My skin is positively GLOWING, my pores shrank, I'm not greasy (I have wicked oily skin), and I feel super clean. Here's what I did:

I juiced the half a lime I had sitting in my fridge (lemon would also work though), then mixed enough brown sugar into it to make it a paste. Then, because I thought it would be extra-nice, I threw some rolled oats (not instant- I make oatmeal every morning for breakfast so I have loads of it around) in the food processor and chopped it up, then dumped enough in so that it was still pasty.

I have in a little tub in my ice-cold bathroom, so I think it'll keep at least a week, maybe 2. TRY THIS! And tell me how much you love it!

Also, I'm way late on this but I just started using Pandora and it rules. I made a Pelican station, an all-banjo station, and a Tom Waits/Man Man station. The internet is neeeeeeat.

I've been telling people that "I'm a grown-ass woman" since I was about 19 years old. This phrase was directed at anyone who seemed to operate under the assumption that because I was female, or small, or young, I was not a full-functioning adult. This, of course, was always offensive to me. So, with one eyebrow raised, I would clearly over-pronounce each syllable- I am a GROWN-ass WO-man") as if I was delivering a clever retort to a rude bus boy at afternoon tea with the ladies. All lipgloss and attitude, I looked down on those who looked down on me.

And I'll admit that not a helluva lot has changed- still wearing the same gloss, still got the shitty attitude- but for one thing: I AM actually a grown-ass woman now. There's no debating it, I'm 27 years old. Unfucking real.

Aging, thus far, has bothered me in only the most superficial ways. My ass, as mentioned in the last entry, the little smile crinkles around my eyes, etc. Whatever. But something started this summer, a shift in consciousness, that I can only describe as growing up.

It terrified me.

It happened on tour, we were somewhere in Europe and all of a sudden I felt... disillusioned. With hardcore. ME disillusioned with HARDCORE!

But there it was, my life that I believed in more than anything- riding the van (my second home), setting up the shirts I helped design, setting out the records I helped write, playing the songs that I loved, the inspiration and amazement I felt as people sang those songs with me, meeting kids I hoped would become my dear friends- and it was a joke. It was empty. The shirts were just "merch", the lyrics learned online by those kids the night before- we could have been any band, our show was the same show that happened last week and would happen again next week. It was rehersed. It was the same conversations, the same mosh, the same pot of stew in the back room. I wasn't making any friends. I wasn't doing anything.

Thinking like this made me feel like I was living in someone else's mind. I heard conversations that I always shut out. I felt bitterness that didn't belong to me.

--

When I was 16, I used to carry my favorite records in my backpack when I left home- vinyl, even though I couldn't listen to it- just because they were so dear to me. They were my religion. I liked to look at them, read the liner notes, hanging on every lyric, every image. What did they mean? Why were they chosen?

I read zines that said things like, "be a part of this scene- book shows, play music, do SOMETHING that contributes- don't just buy records" and I did. I saw hardcore as a culture that gave so much to me, because I gave so much to it, because we all did. That was its definitive quality. That's what hardcore was. Participation, appreciation.

This ideal of mine, I realized one day in Europe, was as antiquated as a pager. It's 2009, the age of I-Phone. Don't get me wrong. I love the convenience of downloading. I like being able to find new bands. I was always too poor to buy many records. But we are already disconnected- from the production of our food, the production of our clothes, the jobs we work that do not show us the results of our labor (example: working a cash register all day), and hardcore was a refuge. It was tangible. It was heavy vinyl, photocopies of words written by kids like you or I- one hardcore kid to another- passing along a tidbit of something real, and now that's as abstract and lost as everything else.

Kingdom had been off tour for 2 months and already people were asking if we broke up. Our myspace was a ghost town. It was as if we no longer existed, just because we were taking a little breather after 6 months of solid touring. Do you know that I never even got to see most of my favorite bands, and to this day I still listen to them all the time?

Even worse than the kids are the bands. I've met bands who write songs to "sell" rather than songs they like, design shirts they hate but will make them money, I even heard one of the all around most important dudes in 80's hardcore ask his band members after a show "how many units" they "moved". I wasn't becoming disillusioned, I had just been delusional.

--

I came home thinking that I'd just been on tour too long and the feeling would go away. But it didn't. So, for the first time in my life- I cut hardcore out. I only listened to old folk and country. I didn't go to any shows- I couldn't bear to watch the parody. I started wondering if that's what people meant when they said they'd "grown out of hardcore". It was only because they saw more clearly than I had been.

I moved into my new place, spend absurd amounts of time with my boyfriend, picked back up with my job as a face painter, and started to feel really, really good. Work was making me happy- I mean, I DO actually see the results of my labor, and they're little, sparkling, giggling faces. Any minute with Dave is generally one of the greatest minutes ever spent breathing, and since we live together, and hang out all the time, that led to a lot of lovely minutes. I didn't miss hardcore. At all.

I had pretty much decided that I was done with Kingdom. I had nothing left to give, and no one to give it to anyway. I wasn't going to waste my time. But then. Something happened, something that shifted my consciousness yet again.

I got a message on myspace from a kid who was at the last show we played this summer. It was a huge fest- we played the first day, hung out in Belgium the second day, then watched bands (and I did spoken word!) the third day. Reagan Youth played, and, despite their original singer being dead, I still about lost my mind during their set. I threw my arms around the kids next to me. I danced. I sang along.

Then when I "realized" that hardcore was now a farse, I forgot about the whole experience. When I got back to the States, my Reagan Youth records sat untouched by the player.

Then, I got this message. He said that he liked my band, and liked hardcore, but that he never really got what it was about... until he stood next to me during Reagan Youth. You're in a band, you watch a band, you buy a record, you make a record, you write a zine, you read a zine, I give, I take, he gives, he takes, and that's what it's about.

I wasn't as antiquated as I thought.

I responded to his message, and threw Reagan Youth's "Volume 2" on the turn table.

My mind melted pleasantly to the song "Heavy Metal Shuffle" and I wondered how on earth I had gone so long without it. I reflected on Reagan Youth's set in Belgium, how in watching them I had felt connected to the past of hardcore, how I had marveled at they way those songs had shaped the sound and attitude of a culture, which had in turn helped shaped me. There they were, in the 40's or maybe even 50's, without pomp, without misplaced pride, without "buy our merch!", without slick new designs, without anything more than what they truly were.

I was changed again. The future, the profiteers, the hype, and itunes be damned, hardcore lives. In memory, in reality- however rare it may be, in that kid on myspace, in me.

I realized that THIS is what it is to be a grown-ass woman. It's not (just) defying the world around you. It's not turning your back on your past and calling that 180 "adulthood". It's not growing out of something, it's about growing into something- into someone: yourself. And it's about defying yourself- when you feel jaded, when you feel hopeless, when you feel apathetic. You gotta raise that eyebrow inward, and be a grown up.

After coming full circle through my Disillusioned Summer, I realized I also had other grown-ass concerns that had gone unaddressed. See, I've grown up idolizing unemployed squatters. I take one shit job after another so that I can live the punk rock life I like to live. Having a job you like isn't punk. It's just not. But the fact is, that not only do I love and believe in hardcore, but I love and believe in my work. So I'm embracing the fact that I am a professional face painter. This is not just my job, but a "career" I'm choosing, however much I agree that "wage slavery is still slavery". Now I'm wise enough to know that, if you're going to be a slave in some form (doing sleep studies, working at health food stores, or painting faces), you should choose the opressive work you at least kind of like (or maybe love.) So in the interest of my career and my future, I ordered a balloon pump. I'm about to study both the art of balloon twisting and miming.


Growning up is about admitting truths to yourself that you may not be comfortable with, such as: Hardcore, for the most part, is a joke. Or: I, for one, do not want another shit cafe job. I will continue to write songs I love, and I will continue to entertain at children's events. In fact, my new goal (outside of Kingdom's new 7" and side project Reagan Youth-esque punk band) is to to be the queen of the balloon, with an all-balloon fruit-hat on my head. This is who I am. I will no longer deny it. Meet my new idol:



Today I inflated my first balloon. I was ecstatic. The reason I even wrote this is to tell you about that one balloon. I don't know how to twist yet, but I ran around the house with the 2 foot long blue ballon on my nose like a giant elephant trunk, yelling "I AM GOING TO BE THE BEST BALLOON TWISTER EVERRRRRR!"

So this is growing up. Hardcore shows and balloon animals. I'm a grown-ass woman, for real. And I have a random European hardcore kid and Reagan Youth to thank.

My choice to become vegan had nothing to do with my physical wellbeing. I do not give two shits if what I'm eating will have a negative effect on me- my waistline, my skin, my whatever. For years, I have eaten fried food twice a day and at least one package and/or box of candy (usually one box of Runts.) As long as no one is needlessly suffering when I stuff my mouth, the only limits I have are my palete and unfortunately NOT bottomless stomach.

(To be fair and accurate- I was raised by a VERY health-conscious Dad. The idea of a "balance meal" is so ingrained in me that I couldn't leave a dark, leafy green off my plate if I tried. And yes Dad, I'm drinking 8 glasses of water a day! I also love vegetables. Again, not health related, I just think they're fantastic.)

I've always thought of my self as a Super Vegan. (BTW- have you all seen that blog by the same name? It rules! I love it! SUPER VEGAN!) I've always thought that because I am vegan, and because I am active (again- not because I necessarily cared to be, I just don't like cars so I've always biked for transportation) that I while I would, inevitably, age, I would do so only in mind, and be preserved physically at age 21.

Dudes. I was wrong.

Oooooh this body is achin'. I'm soooo stiff. My insides feel like they were greased with old lard. I'm tired all the time. And my ass is significantly less perky than it was 5 years ago. I'm realizing, like we all do, that I just a person- a person with above-average health, but still, shit takes its toll, and I don't wanna see what happens in 5 more years.

So. I'm putting down the fries. I'm over 7 cups of coffee a day. Next week I start (gasp!) YOGA. And next week I'm doing the Master Cleanse, with Dave as my fasting partner.

I guess it's a bonus that it's really, really easy to be vegan and in great health. This will, however, be the first time that being vegan has involved any self control whatsoever. I don't WANT to eat animals. It's not hard for me not to. But I do want candy. I want cheesesteaks, and an entire box of cookies in one sitting, and wafflewiches, and 3 am dinners in bed. And not doing that, being cruelty-free toward my intestines and immune system and resting heart rate, THAT'S going to take real fucking discipline.

Ok. So I posted a bit about my house problems before. Well, it reached a boiling point a few days ago. Here's what happened:

As you know, our heat wasn't working. We told the rental agency, who told the landlord, who said he was coming to our house between 2-4 pm with a contractor a couple days later. When 4 passed by with no sign of them, we gave the rental office a call. They told us that the landlord was there chatting with them, he was running late, and he'd be over by 5. Oh, ok... that was annoying, but we'd waited all day, what was another 40 minutes, right?

20 minutes later I got a call from the rental office. "Uh yes, the landlord is not coming over. He just told us that he won't fix anything in the house and if you don't like you can just move out." I said, "What?! I can't live without heat!" She said, "I know." I continued, "The landlord is crazy!" She agreed. I said, "We have to get this fixed!" And she said, and I quote,

"Don't complain to me. Just think about what you want to do."

Oh, ok. I'll just go ahead and NOT complain to the single person on this earth that I am SUPPOSED to "complain" to about how my house should be in liveable condition. And because my landlord has decided that being a landlord is hard and he doesn't like doing it (despite our legally binding contract called a LEASE that he signed, thus obligating him to fix things and us to live in this house for 12 months), I'll just move out. You can just keep the security. Money's nothing to me. In fact, since the heat's been broken I've been burning 100 dollar bills to keep warm.

Anyway. I get a call 2 days later saying, with no further explanation, that the landlord and a contractor will be coming over the next day to fix our heat. And, remarkably, they do. The landlord however, probably afraid (with good reason) that he will get ripped a new asshole by one of the furious tenants, meets the contractor outside, gives him the key, and leaves.

Now everything this fixed. No word on the foreclosure, but I'm attending a Tenant Action meeting on Monday to see what I can do about finding out.

This situation is completely insane of course, but more than just pissing me off and taking up my time with trips to realty office (where they know me by name and dislike me immensely), more than making me unsure if I should unpack in case I have to move out (making this house more like a hotel than my own space... I don't have a single thing on the wall yet), it's shook me. Because my landlord, I now realize, is not sane. And he's not insane in the way that he's an insane asshole with no regard for other people, but like, he's bipolar, or schizophrenic, and unpredictable, and maybe dangerous, and he hates me. And this is terrifying, because he has keys to my house.

I didn't realize I was thinking about this at all. But I started getting jumpy when I heard loud noises outside. I'd run to the window to check if it was the landlord breaking in. Before I knew it, all noises became unnerving. Car doors. People talking. Leaves rustling. I was asking Dave to get up to check noises in the night, waking up at least twice before morning. I started to convince myself during that just-woke-up-but-falling-back-asleep stage that the landlord was in the basement, or climbing on the roof.

It's bad. And in the last couple of days since the heat got fixed it gotten a little better, but I'm still nervous.

I'm also PMSing, so despite my new amazing knee-high boots that I got tonight, I'm furious with everything. How the bathroom floor is always dusty, even if I sweep it. How the day passed too fast. How Dave took a long shower when I had wanted to take one first, since I worked all day and had to wake up early to work again. How I hate that god damn pine cat litter. How I hate that the crystal litter is so fucking expensive. I have cramps, and assholes are partying outside my house. And on that note, I'm going to bed.

so, it's been awhile. probably months. sorry for that.

i had an exhausting and bizarre spring/summer (a lot of which can be read about on this tour blog), then after all that touring was over, dave and i went to barcelona to visit my friend julio for a week. i ate many avocados and saw naked men at a beach in the middle of the city. tried not to stare and failed.

we came back to the states sept 10 for the first time in nearly 3 months. cultural diversity! salsa that isn't actually just sugared ketchup! people harassing me on the street! nutritional yeast! AMERICA! SHIT YEAH!

since the lease at my last house ended the day we flew to europe, all of our things were in storage. from the airport we had no place to go, so we crashed with out friend christmas out in the suburbs while we house hunted.

an italian airline lost my luggage and i was forced to wear the same black shirt and acid wash jeans, reek of b.o., and brush my teeth with a tiny toothbrush given to me by a german hotel for an entire week. every time i brushed my teeth bristles would fall out in my mouth, and every time i lifted my arm i would notice that my personal smell had evolved, and at one point almost smelled like a delicious sandwich.

after a week in the burbs, we found a super sick house in south philly, signed a lease, and had until october 1st to kill before we could move in. we went up to new england to see our respective parents.

upon moving in to this "huge 3 bdrm house with jacuzzi tub!" which originally we had thought was WAY too nice for people like us to live in, quickly realized it was not. in fact, it wasn't even in living condition. but dave and i had no where else to go. so we lived here, while...

-the landlord left his things in almost every room, leaving us with just enough room to leave our boxes in the kitchen/living room, and lay my bed (sans frame) down on the floor. our roommate's room was completely taken up by a giant pool table, and he had to stay with a friend. these things stayed in our house for 8 days. when he finally got movers to come, they broke his pool table- but only after they smashed it into our ceiling (leaving a huge hole), which he told me was not "his problem".

-the advertised jacuzzi tub was missing a part, rendering it unusable

-the gas company came to turn on our gas, and left a few minutes later, telling us that when we didn't have a gas leak, grounded the line, and unclogged the chimney... THEN we could have gas. we lived without heat, a stove, and hot water for a week. i took 1 shower, where i washed each body part separately with a cup of cold water. i am such a wuss that dave had to take over rinsing me, because i couldn't bring myself to dump the ice water down my soapy back. we went broke eating out.

-there's a knock on the door. it's the water company, coming to turn off our water. "but i've only lived here a week, i haven't even got a water bill!" i yelled as i stood on my stoop in my pajamas. "says here you owe $424.95... and if you don't pay me half right now i'm cutting your water." i cry right there in front of the water guy and my neighbors because i'm broke and need to be able to shower and cook and drink, and have to call my dad to pay my landlord's old unpaid water bill.

after the landlord procrastinated on MAJOR repairs, he decides not to do them at all, telling the real estate agency that we rented our house from that the house needs no repairs and we're "just exaggerating". i take photos and videos of the OVEN WITH NO OVEN RACKS, the MOLDY CEILING, the ROTTING DOOR, and the HOLE IN THE CEILING. they gasp in horror, and tell me to hire a contractor and deduct the cost- just like that water bill, from the rent.

i got a notice last week that the house is being foreclosed.

rent is due in 2 days, i don't even know if i have to pay any at this point.

anyway. the face painting season ended today and i went out in a blaze of neon colors and glitter.

i'm going to NYC tomorrow for my friend andrea's birthday where i'll dress up as a bat and go out with loads of people from richmond to dance. i haven't made my costume yet. this right here is me putting it off.

dave and i are starting a new band which is about to have its first practice. it's going to be punk, inspired by reagan youth's 2nd record, with melodic oi-influenced vocals. i'm so excited.

time to rinse the henna out of my hair, and get to making bat wings. hope everyone is well....

i've been keeping a tour blog that takes up the time i would have written here. so, if you'd like to keep up with me over the summer- add this!

xkingdomx.blogspot.com

i'll be updating every couple days, or i'll try anyway. internet is scarce here in eastern europe. hope you're all having a sweet summer!

i got a new computer. it's a little notebook laptop that weighs 3 pounds, and enables me to have internet at home, and hopefully access with some frequency while on the road.

i went to nyc last weekend to hang with some friends. while in china town (fresh off the bus) i purchased a big black shiny purse with a big black shiny bow on it. it's delightful, and the first purse i've searched out and taken seriously because it seriously looks so stupid that i can't help but love it. i also got rhinestoned sunglasses. like, loooooads of rhinestones. even in a beater and acid wash jeans, i look mad glamorous. kind of.

hearing that someone i've known for the last 10 years just murdered an 18 year old girl in a vile manner has left me tossing at night and getting random waves of nausea during the day.

i got a text the other day from a dude that books shows in the area saying that my name came up after some metal show with the promoters/tour managers/bands, and one of the dudes in one of the bands was like... wait. that girl totally took photos of my cock. and i totally did, like 8 years ago. weird thing is, the day before i got a random text asking me if i had taken that dude's n00dz, i had unearthed them (along with other naked people, old family photos, and embarrassing middle school pics) from under my bed (including one hilarious photo of that guy in the buff, cradling my old cat when he was a kitten) and wondered what ever happened to him and if he was still playing music (his old band was sick. i have not yet heard his new band, but i hear they rule and are quite popular amongst metalheads and crust kids.) am i supposed to take this as some sort of sign?

also! speaking of signs. at work the other day i was reading "queen of the oddballs" and right when someone in the book starts to sing "happy birthday to you", some people behind me started singing "happy birthday to you." like literally when my eyes hit the "H", and the tune started in my head as i read along. it was eery. what if these coincidences mean something. dick birthday maybe? it's lost on me. the universe will have to be more direct.

face painting is still an entertaining profession.

i've been cooking indian food which is way less intimidating than i've always thought it would be.

i'm planning to write an essay about the hardships of being a vegan chubby chaser.

ok bedtime.

ps- thank you all for reading that last essay... i'll respond to your comments tomorrow when i'm awake and can give it all proper attention!

The Incredible Screaming Chick

We've just arrived at a graffiti-covered and toilet-scented venue in a small town in Illinois. A member of the opening christian metalcore band , a 30-something year old with thinning black hair, nods in greeting at our guitarist who has walked in first, then starts to nod at me, but stops, his eyebrows raised. "Heyyyy... are you that screamer chick?" This question- while being both unwittingly sexist and entirely stupid, is mostly just confusing and annoying- follows me and my band, in some form or another, where ever tour takes us.

I ponder the bible thumper's question momentarily- what exactly is he asking me? If I sing in my band? Well, that's easy. The answer is yes. Next, is my singing actually screaming that I, like all hardcore kids, call "singing" because referring to it as "screaming" would be nu metal as shit? Yes, but this man is unaware of the unspoken taboo. And lastly, am I a girl while doing all that? Um... yes? I follow the first parts of the question easily and arrive a perfect answer to give him: "Yes am I a 'screamer'." But at the last I've hit a snag. Is he unsure if I'm a "chick"? I mean, I may be an A-cup, but my tiny bones, curvy hips, and, well, general girlishness show, quite instantly and obviously that I am, indeed, a lady. Well... lady by birth, asshole by the grace of god. Hallelujah. I've found my answer:

"Yeah, I am. It's like this weeeeird side show act we bring on tour. The incredible screaming chick!"

The awe, outrage, shock, lust, admiration, and hate that is directed at me for being born with internal genitals but still actively involved in hardcore is, well... bizarre really. It's based very little on who I am, and very much on what I am. See, the fact that it is me specifically who gets this slew of emotions directed her way is not actually specific to me as a person, I could literally be any other girl and get the same results- so I have trouble both taking it personally when it's bad, and being flattered when it's good. I'm just the one who got the job. (Or rather, spent years assembling a band, then endless days and nights booking tours, promoting, and playing.) But despite that it's not personal, it is. Because personally, I'm a girl. And personally, I'm a hardcore kid. So what can can I do? Day after day I wake up with a big ol' cunt between my legs, and year after year, I keep Gorilla Biscuit's album "Start Today" on hand.

Now before I get in too deep, I need to you tell something: Women are people. We make up the majority of the world's population, ranking in at a triumphant 51% percent. From Macedonia to Philadelphia- babes, skirts, dames, and all ta-ta-ed individuals are doing all sorts of ordinary and extraordinary things. Somehow sitting on the toilet to pee comfortably did not prevent us from cultivating interests and personalities all of our very own! Oh, but there are a lot of stupid women. But this part slips past most people- there are also a lot of stupid men. So let's just go ahead and forget them all. That still leaves millions, nay- billions, of interesting folks of all genders. Now, some of these people are musicians. Some of them like to play heavy music. And very few of them like to play hardcore- I, like many girls in that minority- am one of them.

"Many girls?" your eyebrows furrow as you scoff to yourself. "There are not 'many' girls playing in hardcore bands." I'm sorry to inform you, but you are wrong. The majority of bands are made of up of dudes, obviously, but there are hundreds of hardcore bands with real-deal vagina owners in them. On the last tour we did, every few nights we'd play with a band where the guitarist, or bassist, or drummer, or vocalist was female. From local bands to smaller touring bands, they were there, authentic hardcore kids just doin' what they love. Just because you've only heard of Undying's second singer and Most Precious Blood's guitarist, doesn't mean that's all there is.

The Words
Something I hate more than anything else is seeing a band described as "female-fronted hardcore." Is the gender of the vocalist relevant? Perhaps in opera, folk, or country it would be- but not in hardcore. Allow me to illustrate. I recently saw people on the internet discussing my band's new record. Very few words were used discussing my gender as it relates to my vocals, with just a few people mentioned that "a girl sings for this band but you can't tell", a few claiming I was "a monster", and one person said that he had booked us for a show in Texas and hadn't known until we showed up for the show months later that I was even a girl. So, obviously, my tits have not affected my pitch of my vocals. So why, I ask you, do we get listed as "female-fronted hardcore" when it obviously does not effect our sound at all. Is it for complete disclosure? I'm also half Jewish. Shall we mention that as well?

It also sucks for the rest of the dudes to have all our music summed up and dismissed by my uterus. You know, they aren't just backing musicians- they are as much a part of our songs as I am- they write the riffs and beats, and they perform not behind me, but beside and with me. We call it "being in a band".

Now, not everyone sees eye to eye with me on the "female-fronted" tip. For example: I was on my band's myspace account, responding to requests to play kid's birthday parties half-way across the country ("My Mom said it was ok!"), denying spam comments, and accepting friend requests. Thanks to myspace's new technology, you can now add a personalized note to every friend request you send. A European band left a few words with their add- "Female-fronted hardcore from Belgium." I accepted the request, and then sent them a message.

I said that I found it a bit tokenizing to parade the gender of their singer around. A dude wrote back saying it was for extra attention, that as we all know, small bands need all the help they can get. I replied that music should be able to carry itself, and that when they have to resort to flaunting the sex of their female member, it makes them seem cheap. He came back by saying that my band exploits straight edge by being an outwardly straight edge band. Hmmmm. I, sensing his mounting frustration and offense (and ignoring it), told him that straight edge is something we, as a band, stand for- it's one of the reasons we exist and it inextricably linked to every one of our songs, whereas the fallopian tubes of his singer were not linked to theirs. He snapped back that I wouldn't understand, so stop bitching. I wrote back explaining that I most definitely did understand- as I am a girl singing in a hardcore band- "You wouldn't know," I told him, "because it didn't think it was necessary to mention it, since I'm just a person, and we're just a band." He then told me to have a nice a day.

There are those who also say that by putting "female fronted" on a flyer, it makes other girls feel welcome and included at a show. I feel very split on this point. Most of me thinks that hardcore shouldn't change anything to seem more welcoming to anybody- especially at the price of shining a spotlight on those who would rather not be shined upon. I also don't care if hardcore is inviting, period. It's bad enough that the internet opened it up to loads of people who never would have given a shit if they had to mail order records and read thank you lists in cds to find out about new bands- but to make hardcore warm and fuzzy ("females welcome!") so that MORE people wouldn't ordinarily get into it, get into it, is exactly the opposite of what I'd like to see happen.

Hardcore is not for everyone. It's is an aggressive scene, and thus, it tends to appeal more to dudes. Aggression- like many traits, is a mostly socialized thing. Most girls have their aggression scared right out of them at an early age (I see it every day- I work with kids. "You are a GIRL! Stop FIGHTING! That's what BOYS do! Sit quiet, be a LADY!") so it only makes sense that by the time they're of show going age, they have little interest in what we do. It's not the the scene doesn't make space for girls, it's just that many girls, once occupying that space catch a stage diver to the face and quickly vacate. Whatever. Love it or leave it.

Buuuuut, at the same time, I also understand the point. Not every girl can feel at home at a Blood For Blood show. Even a girl that realllllly likes hardcore may become a bit daunted in the face of 200 and 300 pound men pounding each other around her. It's hard to relate to those guys. But in seeing another girl playing the music she digs, she sees herself, and then she feels at home. I get that. I also get that she may not come to the show if she's never heard of the the bands playing, but seeing "female fronted" may spark an interest. Nonetheless, for all that it may do, I find that pinning a pink "It's a Girl!" pin to every band with one in it to be belittling. Because if it isn't about the sound of the band, then it almost insinuates that a women doing something is unique, or special, which it is not. Having something you do be celebrated or promoted for the sole reason that that you're doing it while being female- as if you've overcome a huge obstacle or impairment- is slighting. And having your efforts applauded whether or not you suck, because you made the effort while being female, is ludicrous. So let's just stop doing it.

The Kids
When I got into hardcore, it was tough guy that really grabbed me. And years later, it's tough guy that sustains my simple soul. 100 Demons, Bulldoze, Hatebreed, 25 Ta Life, Shattered Realm. So naturally, that's the scene I've been a part of, and naturally, that's the kind of music I like to play. Tough guy hardcore is considered to be ignorant music and appeals to a slim and rugged margin of hardcore kids. Generally these kids are lower class, they come from rough upbringings, many are used to violence, self sufficiency, and relying on friends when there is no one else. These things are reflected lyrically in the music and set a certain... vibe... at the shows. Some people question how someone of my stature (I weigh in at a colossal 110 pounds and a towering 5 foot, 3 inches), and gender (total babe) can find anything to connect to in those people, and that music. Assumptions, you know? See, I grew up lower class, homeless as times, depending on friends to help me out, and violence to protect me while I took care of myself. The ferocity, the independence, and loyalty expressed in those songs resonates with me. So perhaps my affinity with the genre is not so simple, and perhaps, given where most those involved come from- the lyrics are not so ignorant as one may think. (The breakdowns though- there's just no excuse for those.) Knowing that, you can understand how perplexed I become when, in interviews, I'm asked questions like, "Do you have any problems with the blatantly pro-masculine approach to much of the "tough guy" hardcore that your own band could be compared to?" (That's a real question I was asked.) My answer?

I resent the assumption that because I am female I am not part of that scene, and because it is violent and angry and aggressive it is "pro-masculine". Just because those traits are usually considered male, does not make them male, and by saying they are completely displaces women like me.

Another thing I find as amusing as I find maddening, is the stereotype that other hardcore kids- especially the diy and hardcore/punk types- have of "tough guys". At dirty basement shows kids in Seven Generation shirts nod nonchalantly toward whatever band we're on tour with and asks how that's going. As if we don't pick our tourmates. They say things like "I'm surprised they'd tour with a band like you.", which is in part because we're are a vegan and political band (which does not usually bode well in the heavy hardcore scene), but in most because I have a pussy. They think that "tough guy" hardcore dudes are all terribly sexist and say things like "no clit in the pit" and "girls don't belong in hardcore." They tell me they are surprised that they would even support us. Well shucks!

These kids are usually good intentioned. They book fun shows, they cook for us, they hang out, they party. But they always put "female vocals!" under our name on the flyer, and they always tell me that they told every girl they know- even the ones that don't like hardcore- to come check us out. Why do they do that? So those girls can come, continue to not like hardcore, but get to waste a night of their lives watching our sweaty asses jump around, my sweaty ass happening to be that of a girls? These kids also love to book us with other bands that have female members, no matter how bad a match for the show that band may be. It's as if they want to corral every subcultural musical female into one dirty basement to show how incredible diverse their scene is. I know that behind the blunder there is a good intention, perhaps to make the women at the show feel represented, perhaps for the women in the band to feel supported. But the truth is, when we play with shows like those, I don't feel supported, I feel ridiculed, because "female" is not a genre. I highly doubt that any band we get compared to- Madball, Donnybrook, or Sick Of It All- would ever find themselves on the same bill with riot grrrl band.

Conversely, and hilariously, we are much more accepted by the "tough guy" scene. Never are we listed as anything but "ny style hardcore" on fliers of their shows. Every night, kids ask when we're printing jersies, and if we go up to 3 and 4xl shirts. We are seen and treated as any other band. They, contrary to what the basement scene may think, are generally are open to talk about politics and social issues. The reason they don't talk to the basement kids about politics and social issues is that they don't relate to over-privilege kids in dirty patchwork clothes who pass quick judgement on the thug looking dudes with the neck tattoos, then act self righteous and preach rather than discuss their ideas. Generally, I feel the same way. Only I won't fight you over it. But these kids appreciate the music. They don't care who is making it, whether they have vaginas between their legs or cacti, as long as you're real about what you do. This is another reason I love this kind of hardcore so much- it's refreshingly unpretentious.

One day I was chatting with a friend from the band Blood Stands Still (a band I has once been warned to avoid because they would beat me up on for the sole reason of being a chick! Lions and tigers and thugs.... oh my!) and he randomly brought up when magazines like AP run pieces like 'The 10 hottest girls in metal'- about the mock support of women in extreme music, where musician's talent is ignored because they were born female, and how terribly unfair and frustrating it all is. "They're just musicians. I mean, by reducing them to a centerfold don't you think they miss the point?" He said this all as if I had never considered it. Yeah dude, I do think they've missed the point.

Kind of like a lot of punk kids, who love to ask me if I like Bikini Kill. They are always surprised when I do not. I like to tell them that I also do not like the Indigo Girls, or modern country music. "What are your biggest female inspirations within punk and hardcore?" is a frequent interview question, and I never have an answer. My favorite hardcore and punk bands do not contain any women. I tell the interviewer that I am inspired by people of all genders, but within hardcore, it just happens to be entirely men. Pick another aspect of life and there is a woman who's inspired me. The principal that people can be inspired by other people without regard to gender, color, sexuality, or creed seems so painfully rudimentary to me that I feel silly saying it, but I say it every time, and every time I get an "ahhhh" and nod of new understanding.

I get another funny question, funny only because it's a question about a question, rather than an actual question. "People must ask you about Walls Of Jericho all the time, huh?" No, actually, they don't. People just ask me if people have asked me. What do these people think these other people are even asking me about? If I know that there is a girl in that band? Yes, I know the singer is female. If I've heard them? Yes, I've heard them. I even bought one of their early records when I was 16 or so and jammed on it for awhile- not because I felt a sisterly connection, but because it was pretty sick. Was I inspired by her? At the time I first heard of Walls of Jericho, I was already singing for terrible metalcore band. I found my way to hardcore all by myself, and didn't need a role model of the same gender to get involved in it. Next question about a question?

The Trembling X
Something has happened to me over the last couple years that makes me very uncomfortable as a feminist. I found myself so ticked off by the all random questions and all the strange comparisons and weird assumptions, that I distanced myself from anything female. I just didn't want to be lumped in, to somehow get my gender more assigned to me than it already is.

I want to be what I am- a hardcore kid. I want my gender to be insignificant. I want my lyrics discussed, not my choice to not shave my armpits (despite that I know of very few male frontmen who shave theirs.) I want our record reviews to discuss the amazing guitar solo in the 9th song, not that reviewer saw us play when I had dread locks, and short hair, and pigtails, and whateverthefuckelse. (We joke about our friends' band getting reviewed in the same manner. "I saw Rhinoceros when the singer was clean shaven, I saw him with a beard, I saw him that time he made a bet with his roommate not to cut his hair and it got really shaggy and hipster-ish looking...")

I found myself cringing when more girls sangalong for us than the other bands playing, afraid that we'll be written off as a "girl-band", and not seen as what we actually are (a band). This was happening more, and more- and I started to like I was gender-traitor, like I was ashamed of who I am. But none of this was done out of shame, or a hatred of other females, or out of feeling threatened by other girls, or anything else it may sound like- but rather, it was done as backwards way of maintaining my sense of self outside of my sex organs.

Hardcore for me, from my very first show, was an escape. A place away from the outside world, free of its pressures and judgements- a place where a girl like me: a girl trying to meet a quota of "femininity" that she couldn't reach and still be herself (as well as a half-Jew in a town of militant anti-Semites, and a frustrated poor kid with a single parent trying his best, and not always successfully, to make ends meet) - could shed it all and just be a "hardcore kid". It doesn't matter who you are in the pile on, it just matters that you pile on. In part, the scene appealed to me because I could be more than my gender (and half non-practicing religion, and problems), or less, or just- human. And it felt amazing.

But things change. And hardcore is different now. And I was desperate to keep that feeling of transcendence, so I pushed as far away I could from anything female. One night, I even hesitated to give a girl the mic.

I gazed out of the window as we drove through the dusty flatlands of Texas. I thought of my shout out during a show in Ohio where we had played with Walls Of Jericho. "This goes out out to all the male-fronted bands playing tonight. It's really cool to see diversity at a show, and I know it makes my guys feel more comfortable. They're brave dudes, breaking the molds..." I met Candace, the singer of Walls Of Jericho, that night and it was an awkward hello. Like a mutual, ok, ok, I've heard of you. Cool, good set, later, this is weird. By all means we could be friends, should even be friends (we have a ton in common), but we are two girl singers for hardcore and/or metal bands of some notoriety (in our case, a little- in her case, a lot.) Her band and mine are already lumped into the same anti-genre: "female", despite that our bands and our voices sounds nothing alike. Search my band on youtube, hers comes up, too. So our friendship, once known, would cement our "likeness" in the minds of people, and I just couldn't bear the thought. I avoided her for the rest of the show.

The van pulled into a rented hall in Oklahoma. One girl moshed our whole set. She moshed for every band's set, so it was cool, I thought, she wasn't just into us for me. But after our set, she approached me outside. There were tears in her eyes and not an ounce of self consciousness as she spoke with pure, honest emotion. She told me that my band was more than just a band to her. That our songs were more than songs. That she loved hardcore more than anything, that it was her whole life, but people doubted her sincerity, and even told her that wasn't really straight edge... because she was a girl. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. Her X-ed up hands shook. She said that after hearing us, and seeing us play, she felt a renewed sense of belonging. She found solace in hardcore, and she found reassurance in me.

The yellow lighting outside the venue shown down on the crying straight edge girl in the Terror shirt. I listened to her confess her insecurities and her hardships and her praises. I watched her fingers tremble. I knew exactly how she felt. Going against my nature completely, I interrupted her speech and hugged her close. My eyes welled up with tears.

She was at our show the next night, and moshed for every band- including mine, and sang along for every band- including mine, and after the show we shot the shit about music, and hair, and whateverthefuckelse. She hadn't distanced herself from things female, but supported them in the exact same manner she supported everything else she liked. And that was it. Just like that, I felt comfortable with my gender in the context of hardcore for the first time in a long time, because while my sex organs aren't everything as some people would make them out to be, they are something. I had started to feel like I had to make myself into a new gender- not girl, obviously not boy... just me. But I realized that I could exist in my own personal version of femininity- one that I've cultivated out here on the fringes of society, in basement shows and rented church halls, with dreadlocks, and short hair, and pigtails- with Gorilla Biscuits' "Start Today" on hand.

A couple weeks after I met that girl in Oklahoma, we went to see Earth Crisis play on a day off. And who was there, but Candace, from Walls Of Jericho (this is actually not surprising, they were on tour together.) I was no longer warded off by her female pheromones, no longer afraid of what would happen if we became friends. I would talk to her that night, just like I would talk to a number of new and old friends- male, and female- and in the exact same manner, with the exact same purpose- just to chill. She and I chatted up a storm, that is... until the firestorm was unleashed, and I ran off to get atop the pile on. I felt the pressures of life shed as I headed for the mic. And as I screamed along to words I knew so well, I felt more than my gender, or less... I felt, human. I felt like a hardcore kid.

I am a screamer chick. My band just put out its first full length, and before it went to press we had to choose 3 bands to compare ourselves to that to that would be printed as an advertising point on the cover (kinda lame, I know). We passed the new record around the van to our tourmates, Bishop, and had them each listen through. The 3 bands they came up with were Madball, Crowbar, and Earth Crisis. None of these bands have ladies in them. But we've been thinking. Since people are so dead-set on having girls on one side and boys on the other, we'll just give in. We'll be a girl-band. And we'll site our true influences- which are really only my influences, which was obviously only other women, and my band will go along with it since they are just my backing musicians. Kingdom- vegan straight edge hardcore for fans of: Michelle Obama, Amelia Airheart, and Cindy Lauper. Makes sense, right?

(The End)

that's what being home without internet does to one's blog. for me to get on to this world wide web, i had to pack my (very slow) laptop into my backback and bike across town, buy a cup of coffee, and use hours of my precious day off to answer stupid emails and an endless stream of myspace messages from near or complete strangers asking if kingdom would like to take them along for our entire 2 month euro tour, for free.

it's hot here and today i'm in a tube top. the backpack i had to wear caused my back to sweat so profusely that my shirt is now faded black in the front and a deep, vaguely salty black on the backside, thus ruining what was previously a fairly cute outfit.

my dad asks how i can bear to be without internet. avoiding situations like this, is how i bear. (that, and owning a phone to keep in touch, a phone book to give me important information, cookbooks for recipes, and records for music. it's all fairly new technology, this flies right over most people's heads)

we got home from tour late the night of may 4th and i've spent the time since working 5 days a week (as a face painter, as always) and trying to become a better cook. red and green coconut curries, soyrizo burritos, pizza, sweet potato pies.

dave and i have been seeing each other for nearly 3 months now, which is crazy. crazy that he's my best friend, that he's my bandmate, that he's my roommate, and that now, for lack of a better word, he's my "boyfriend". i never would have expected it, and everyone i tell warns me of the trouble it could cause, but trouble's never been much a concern for me. for now it's travel plans and treats and snuggling and movie watching and hand-holding all over the city that, after being gone for so long, i'm seeing through new, excited eyes.

our tickets for the european tour are bought, and after a 2 month long tour though all of eastern and western europe- including greece, macadonia, and russia- dave and i are staying and additional 12 days with the tentative plan to split our time between madrid and barcelona, spain. he's fluent in spanish and i'm going to the library monday to get a language learning tape.

i've been reading a lot- fairy tales, roald dahl, fantasy, history. my dreams have been amazing lately- i'm sure in no small part due to reading about teleportation and enchanted creatures. 2 nights ago i jumped into a volcano and splashed, full clothed but somehow still comfortable into lava-warmed water, then emerged to see that the volcano was full of bicycles- from sleek road bikes to old cruisers in mint condition, and i could pick any one i wanted to ride the jungle trail out of the volcano. i keep dreaming about warm, breezy nights- spinning in fields of flowers until i fall over, the smell of lilacs as dizzying as my twirling; riding my bike down a hill, no handed, while wearing a beautiful dress, my hair whipping around behind me- swimming in a lake as a plane blows me backward, moving with the wind to climb a flat-faced clif, then being held against it, 200 feet in the air, by the current from the plane- warm, and misty.

but of course there's stress. i have debt, and i'm still going to the doctor over my polycystic ovarian blahblahblah and i have no insurance so i pay out of pocket, and pippi got a terrible UTI and i'm medicating her twice a day which she hates, and her vet bill was also out of pocket, and we have to print merch (out of pocket), and my lease ends the day we go to europe so i have to move my stuff into storage (which hopefully doesn't cost too much) and find someone to watch pippi and ella for 2 1/2 months (rent a car to get them there, and leave them with 2 1/2 months of supplies), then somehow find a place to live while i'm in europe, and have enough money when i get back to move into it, and get the cats from whereever they are. and i only have 4 more weeks of work to get all that money. and even though i've worked 2 exhausting weeks, i haven't seen a paycheck yet, so i'm living off tips. buttttttttt.... freaking out isn't going to change my situation, so i relax in my new cute blue skirt, rooibos tea in hand (i'm quitting coffee). i remind myself that things always work out. and if they don't, i think from time to time, won't THAT be an adventure?

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=320364378680

poor pete.

all across the country. they're each maybe 5-10 seconds long but they'll give you an idea of what i've been seeing!

loony-tunes style cacti everywhere in... new mexico?



new orleans:





lubbock, texas:






Cajun Pickle Chips (this was made for Kingdom's blog too):





odessa, texas:

this: (part 2!!)



we played 2 shows in 1 night tonight. i was so greasy after. tomorrow marks the 2 monthiversary of my great escape from an exboyfriend and i plan to celebrate. we're going to the biggest whole foods in america and i am going to eat a knish. yesterday in odessa, texas a friend of the promoter had vegan pizzas made for us (he worked at a pizza joint) and the cheese was made out of macadamia nuts and fresh basil. it was neon green and delicious.

i'm reaaaaaaally tired. goodnight.

looky what me and dave made:

over... (me and dave at laguna beach)


and over... (me and coffee at laguna beach)


and over... (kingdom + the wrath in riverside, california)


and every time i think it can't get better, it does: (taste of life- vegan soul food- hollywood, ca)



currently the only things bumming me out are:

-missing pippi and ella
-having no money
-not getting to vegas to see my grandma

BUT

-i will see pippi and ella a few weeks
-when i also go back to work to make money
-and with that money, i can see my grandma


however unstressful those semi-problems are, this one does stress me: i am, however, sprouting a garden of zits on my face right on the part that lays dave's chest when we sleep. acne at 26 = :(

trying not to hurl:



(in murrieta, california)

the roads my life takes me down sometimes.



explosive shows in tiny towns... vegan cookies coast to coast... mid-west snowstorms- some with lightening, some with coyotes... fights with hilarious outcomes (des moines: a car-key thief got his hair cut by an angry mustachioed man, then stole the scissors from the avenging barber and screamed "I'LL CUT YOU", but instead got kicked out and his lost hair hung as a curiosity on the punkhouse wall)... awkward situations (touring with an ex boyfriend's band) and hilarious rumors (i was told just today that according to a kentucky message board i had sex with a bunch of dudes at once... and they were all high on ACID! i'd like to know if we used protection, and if not, if i got high off their lsd-laced cum, and if so, is that an edge break? if anyone reading this has the inside scoop, do tell- i'll stop Xing up immediately!)... authentic mexican food trucks that are all vegan (portland, oregon)... vegan bakeries... vegan diners... vegan all-you-can-eat thai buffets... vegan fast food... gambling in reno (and winning $8!)... seeing rad bands all the time (the wrath, trapped under ice, death AD, headhunter, wolfcity, run with the hunted, thrive)

i keep thinking, "i'm almost 27 years old, i'm living in a rental van, and i have been wearing these socks for 3 days..." and trying to see any bad part of that, but i just don't.

give me an unpredictable road that rarely leads to a washer and dryer, pack me in bug-splattered van with 3 fools who speak a language comprised of inside jokes, feed me half cooked ramen in a gas station coffee cup, let me sleep on floors till my back is so full of knots i can hardly stand, give me a dented, spit-covered mic so i can scream at a bunch of friend and strangers the most meaningful words i can think of, and in the midst of that let me realize quite suddenly that i am absolutely head over heels for my best friend, and at about that same time, let him realize the same thing about me.

(corny video i took on my camera at a rest stop... yesterday? two days ago?)



oh, the roads my life takes me down sometimes.

xkingdomx.blogspot.com

this is where i'm writing tour updates

ps. skittles are vegan now

ok. so i'm very tired right now but this is my last night in maine and thus my last night with internet when i want it, so here's a little update.

first off. i got my blood drawn. it was a fucking nightmare, as expected. and it literally started with a nightmare. the night before the blood draw, i had a wretched dream about it. i went to the doctor's office, only my doctor wasn't there. i was instead greeted by a young woman with straight blond hair, worn parted down the middle and pulled back into a bun. she told me she was a student and that i was going to be her first patient ever. once seated with my arm out, ready to get lanced, i about lost my mind with fear and told my new student doctor that i was in no fucking way getting my blood drawn from my arm. i asked her if she could just take the blood from my jugular, and she agreed. i tilted my head back and braced myself- all courage in me summoned for this most terrifying occasion- and i was knocked out of the chair by i girl i sort of knew 3 years ago, who was desperate to her blood drawn first.

then my dad woke me up.

when i saw the doctor's office my whole body started to sweat. dave, who is usually making fun of me, squeezed my hand and told me i was the strongest person he'd ever known. it was sweet. and i felt momentarily charged by the statement. "you know? i AM pretty strong..." i thought, and went over various injuries in my mind and how little i was bothered by them. but then we walked into the office.

"davin?"

i had told my dad and dave about my dream, so we all gasped when we saw who called me.

it was a young, blond woman with bone straight hair, parted down the middle, pulled into a bun. "i'm a student nurse practitioner and blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" there were words at the end but i certainly didn't hear them. my body didn't sweat, it poured. "you are not taking my blood." i stated... then... added... "...right?" and she laughed. no no no, she was just there to watch.

oh... ha. ha. ha.

fast forward to that crinkly paper on the weird reclining hospital bed and the doctor falling over laughing as i frantically babbled at her about my jugular dream. we talked, we laughed, and i finally calmed down. then the nurse told me to grab her hand and squeeze. why on earth, i asked her, would i do a thing like that? "to distract you..."

"distract me from what?... ohhh... oh my god right now? RIGHT NOW??"

and then the tears came. not delicately. or subtly. but wildly. shaking, sobbing, nose running, infantile tears.

"honey, does it hurt?"

"wahhh sniff sniff nooooooooo... i just hate it! wahhh wahhhh wahhh oh my god i'm so embarrassed.... wahhhhhh wahhhhh wahhhhhhhh i'm not a maple tree, i shouldn't be getting tapped.... wahhhhh wahhhh!!!"

then it was over. and we talked, and laughed, and i- with runny mascara- calmed down.

then today i went back for my results. and this is where it gets good.

my thyroid? good. iron? perfect. blood count? on point. no deficiencies were detected at all. everything looked good.

"so... what? i'm just losing hair for no reason?"

well... no. not exactly. they also checked my hormone levels, and i am low in.... are you ready for this?

testosterone.

i am such a fucking girl it's making me sick.

of course it's more complicated that. my low levels of testosterone mixed with my hair loss, irregular period, and recent bout of acne (at 26! ugh!) all points to polycystic ovarian syndrome. so i gotta pick up some meds tomorrow and see what happens in a couple months.

this is me a couple days ago: ( in portland, big photo )

oh and ps. me and dave just posted a new song off the new kingdom record at www.myspace.com/xkingdomx

it's called "broken teeth" (i posted the lyrics in here awhile back)