New Hampshire comes and goes with predictable results. Between the Stuart Smalley bodyslam and firing his campaign manager, I must admit my distaste with Howard Dean is growing to a point that his fundraising capability can't counter. Initially, my attraction to Dean was in his anti-war stance and innovative Internet-based small-contribution fundraising system. To my estimation, electability in the actual presidential race is all about dollar bills. When faced with the quarter billion warchest of Dubya (none of which has been touched during this Democratic squabbling), he who controls the message in the summer is going to be the victor in 2004. But, with Joe Trippi on the freelance, a Kerry nomination could still pick up Dean's fundraising infrastructure without the Dean campaign's total inability to react to even the most trivial campaign problems. DFA likes to blame the media and the sniping of Democratic rivals for the fall, but I didn't see John Edwards twisting Howard's arm to talk smack about every middle-class mortgage-payer's best friend. We're seeing true political natural selection here; he who fails to adapt gets left in the dust.

In non-political news, with still-unintroduced drummer Mike still recovering from a severe intestinal virus (don't ask), we got a weak practice in last night. Though it's still apparent he's not running on all eight cylinders, we got enough out of him to work on some new changes for the stage show. The ultimate goal is some wicked new surprises to shine up the Shaft bandwagon for a shocking summer. But its the start/stop 4 bar covering development stage that I really love about being in a band, a concept that I have always been enamored with in the first place. We're still getting accustomed to the space and, really, each other, but its still has the potential to be the most exciting time yet in the Shaft's two year history.

At very least I can shut everyone up about calling it a "band."

And with a frozen smile and inside smirk the merchants of tyranny will be sitting in their leather seats around a wide-screen TV smoking Cuban cigars lit from municipal bonds sold to pay for federal shortfalls, all catching the real SuperBowl as it goes down one week early. With sadistic congratulation and good-ol'-boy backslaps, each will sleep safe in the knowledge that their minority control will not be shaken anytime soon, with the disarrayed seekers of truth instead occupied with the incessant sniping and fund diverting of a crowd of too many braves and not enough chiefs. For every empty dollar that they toss away, the war chest of corporate interest grows by two, one by the hand of the rich white man and the other by our own by sacrificing valuable dollars in the battle for the battle, leaving the wounded victor barely able to peep during a summer where every word in every newspaper, on every screen, and in every registered voter's head will be supplied, written, and edited with moolah from the Grandest of Poobahs.

Leaving you and me, again, without our voice in a country not seized from us, but rather plucked in an action so effortless it was like taking candy from a baby.

After a Dean defeat on Monday (thanks to the Kucinich powerplay that you didn't read about in MSNBC) and a Bush State of the Union on Tuesday, to be quite honest I thought the entire week was a total wash.

Fortunately however, an old friend had a pick-me-up in my mailbox. If you haven't yet, send that $10 payable to Christopher Howard for signs.comets from howie&scott. A two-disc magnum opus from the up-until-this-record dynamic duo of acoustic rock, you have the Shaft guarantee for a pair of record that will blow your hair back. I'll have more to say, of course, later... But right now all I can do is listen to Blues or Astroblue? and count the privilege of playing with these gentlemen among the fondest of memories... and tantalizing of futures.

How do we celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, the most Americanest holiday of the year? By genuflecting to four rich white guys of course! I will never cease to be amazed by what I see on the front page.

Now, I'm as pissed as the next Commie about the "prescription drug benefit" which apparently was a benefit for prescription drug makers as opposed to prescription drug consumers. But, seriously, you think The Petition Site is going to attract the attention of Congress?

I've always gotten a bunch of these online petitions things and every single time I'm reminded of junior high school. Rural and reasonably shitty, Medicine Lodge Junior High was a hotbed of grassroots political activity. Whenever The Man tried to raise prices at the candy machine or take away gum and baseball hats or even - Allah be merciful - retain a principal who was quite clearly a dweeb, you could bet that the activists at the ignominously renamed Medicine Lodge Middle School (changed under duress. seriously. we had, like, 2 pages of signatures - college ruled even) had the GI Joe notebooks circulating.

Even after our repeated attempts to impeach the gym instructor failed, we still kept chanting our mantra that the pen was mightier than the sword. It's good to see some folks tapping into that pre-adolescent fantasy world for political inspiration. Maybe along the way they'll hit their local caucus.

After finally dethawing following the freeze, the band got around to moving into our new space yesterday. Sound Principles in Johnston provided the hookup, and though it is a closet, it's still the best rehearsal space we've seen in our month long quest to find a place to jam. In a complex shared by several other names on the local scene, Paul seems to be running a tight ship with a restoration project that actually has visible results (in stark contrast to my apartment, which appears appears entirely mythical). Security's tight, soundproofing nonflammable, and a PA straight from one of the best PA guys in Rhode Island; the limiting factor on our rock is now entirely in our hands.

After practice, I got out to the big WaterFire volunteer end-of-the-year party, which, in true WaterFire fashion, was held several weeks after it was supposed to. In a last minute fit of insanity, Tree roped me into instructing a small program on how to swing dance, for which I have no earthly qualification. In fact, I considered in nigh an insult for a Kansas boy to tell any one from the East Coast how to cut rug, but apparently this concern was lost to the interests of expediency.

By far the most humorous moment of the night came when I was having a cocktail with the salsa instructors who were to immediately follow my presentation.

A particularly attractive Latino dancer saddles up next to me and says, "So, how long have you been teaching?"

"Oh, about T-minus 15 minutes."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nevermind."

awkward silence.

Valiantly trying to save the conversation, she asks, "Where do you teach?"

"Um... Nowhere."

"Ohhh," she says with a consoling voice, "the market has been tough on everybody this year."

Fighting a chortle, "Yeah it has."

"Well, here's my card. Send me your resume next week and I'll see if we can get you some private lessons."

Funny, I didn't see her extend the offer again after the lesson.

Taking a look back at the archives, it seems that I have been a bit remiss in my duties of effusing the comedic genius of Rhode Island's biggest rockstar, Mark Carter. I got a small crew together to head down to the Custom House to get my play on, but more importantly to get my latest fix of the Brass Dog. As mentioned before, Mark went a capella yet again with a big barrel of toys, this time breaking out the Cowboys and Indians for an action figure reenactment of Rocky Raccoon.

After some forceful persuasion, I have become the self-appointed vice president of Mark Carter's official fan club, titled "The Funky Bunch." More to come on this community of aficionados of all things Mark, perhaps with decoder rings and membership cards. At very least perhaps it will inspire him to go out to more clubs for bigger sets, or introduce him to more people. Even as I write I know that the absolute genius of this particular form of comedy is still completely lost, Mark being an act that can't simply be described, but rather experienced. I can tell you, Scottie and Jess were about as skeptical as they come, but when that goofy man opens his mouth to sing, everyone becomes a believer.

Humidity control in my apartment has become my personal domestic crusade. A grand hubris in the vain attempt of environmental moisture control, bending the very nature of Rhode Island winter to my humid will. Humidity control is really important with instruments in the house, but I think this particular issue has gone beyond that. It's not just about my babies anymore; it's about me and God.

Several weeks ago I purchased a humidifier classed to properly moisturize an aircraft hanger, thinking overkill might be the way to go in my Armory District apartment. With Victorian windows that might actually be from the Victorian age and questionable insulation, I think I may very well be attempting to humidify the entire city block. The humidifier is large and I keep it reasonably well fed, but recently a plunge down to interminable depths of discomfort in the low twenties has upped the ante on a battle that I was at very least able to stalemate.

To react I have purchased a high performance filter for the humidifer, gotten an additional cheap one operational, and put all that shrinkwrap stuff on my windows in an attempt to stave off the stale, icy breath of the reaper on my precious instruments and for once this entire goddamned winter not wake up with a mouth that feels like has been lined with saltwater leeches. So far the battle goes poorly, but I am not finished.

No, not finished by a damn sight.

Tim Burton stepped up and knocked one out of the park with Big Fish. A cast more quality that imagination, direction that proved dark can still mean fun, and the biggest whopper of Burton's career, the film is good either for a group of Burton filmlovers or private dates alike.

With all the holiday hubbub starting to die down, the focus on rocking is starting to find a blistering f-stop of clarity. We got some new people aboard, and we'll be introducing them in short order. Rehearsals have started and *gasp* it looks like this might actually mean that Arturo Got The Shaft *is* a band. I'll keep you on the QT and very hush-hush.

When shopping for a new car, one has to wonder if the constant deluge of highly hyped and carefully chosen language that renders one's brain into a mass of malleable putty that can be the semi-artistic plaything that can be molded to the whims of a child is a disaster of capitalism and the natural lexicon or a dastard conspiracy bent on bringing the American consumer under an iron heel of frenetic purchasing. Either option has an attraction value as low as the Third Thursday in 2004 Special No-Limit Hold 'Em Sales Event.

Gus Van Sant (who, incidently, is not an old folk singer, but a RISD alum) moonlighted a pretty strong indie film Elephant that I caught over at the Cable Car the other night. In order of importance, the theater and the movie.

This place is as perfect as theaters come for a date. Brainy and cozy with a full service coffee shop, it effortlessly supplanted my former favorite film shack by a factor of 2. The big selling point is right on the cup of choice mocha: it is the theatre with the couches. Big spacious comfortable couches make this a true couples only skate, and comfortable to boot. Screen is not so big and the sound is not so hot, but I don't think anyone is going to be checking out Return of the King at this independent film only spot.

For all its creature comforts, nothing was going to make that movie cushy. What I expected from the chilling trailer was kind of an expose on the life of a troubled geek; obviously required viewing for any Shaft fan. What it turned out to be however was more of a still shot of a single lunch hour at every American high school. Subtlety was the order of the day with cinemographic choices that complement the thesis with only the barest perceptibility. Quiet at times, chaotic at others, the film shows jocks and nerds with surprising even-handedness before its Columbine like conclusion. No strange theme music, no big explosions, no harrowing conclusion.

A living, breathing, disgusting tragedy.

In case you were wondering, Rhode Island is warmer than the Midwest.

In other news, all the boys down at the ranch are shitting themselves over the new Offspring record as heralding The Offspring's return to old school punk. I, obviously, asked them if they even listened to the single. They, similarly, asked me if I heard them fucking my mom last night.

The weird twist between turn-of-the-century Bon Jovi and porn organ aside, the record is pretty lackluster. Weighing in at just a minute over the half-hour mark, it has all the physical characteristics of a punk record, but none of the content. "The Worst Hangover Ever" and "Da Hui" are pathetic grabs at the novelty song money they jacked on Americana with "Pretty Fly" and "Why Don't You Get A Job?" Few serious attempts at punk rock rebellion succeed, with "Long Way Home" and "Neocon" sounding like the half-hearted hipsterism of a 60's Berkeley law school graduate fresh from his celebrity criminal defense practice paycheck. The only glimmer of blue spark to be had on the entire disc is the clever 30's-era homage "When You're in Prison" and the "The Kids Aren't Alright"-esque true punk accelerator "Lightning Rod."

When the new Offspring record comes along that defines the new Offspring, I'll be the first to sing its praises, but that record is not Splinter and it only serves to wonder if its ever coming.

Happy New Year.

Mine was spent allowing Providence to reclaim its position as my favorite city in the United States with its Bright Night. The obvious star (or rockstar, that is) of the night was the infamous Custom House Tavern regular Mark Carter, whose CD The Brass Dog you simply have to pick up. Bohemian Rhapsody never sounded so good.