That is the expression and bedHEAD of a man that is either dead serious about the drum tracks he is laying down today for “Latchkey Kid” and “Recess” with Frank Reina, or the face of a serial killer: you decide. (for the record, I’m going with dead serious) Either way, you are the winner. (maybe) Let us not forget that some maniacs (for example, Charles Manson) were/are fantastic songwriters. (seriously, he has been touted by Neil Young as a badass, amongst other notables) I hear that Adolph Hitler was quite the skilled artist as well—I have yet to see his work with my own eyes, so I’m not sure where to place his art in my own opinion; I’m still having a hard time getting around the Holocaust—which poses an excellent question: Is it possible to separate the art from the artist? What do you think? Can you truly appreciate the creative output of a megalomaniac? (you might already without realizing it)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZoZPl_AYn0

I guess technically, this bedHEAD is from September 25th 2009, however, look at that amazing hair! The first thing that jumps out at me is the part in the middle that could have only truly come into fruition with the teamwork of my head and the use of several pillows to try to keep the sunlight out of my eyes. It looks like I grew up in the central valley of California (which I did) and a cow licked the back of my head—and I was seriously inclined to film a youtube video looking like that? What on Earth was I thinking? (furthermore, what am I doing drawing attention to it now?) I could have taken a shower first, or tried to doll myself up a bit before playing that song: but no, I just rolled out of bed and went to town. So, with this being said, don’t watch this video for the music, watch it for the hair and laugh (I do every single time that I decide to press play on this video).

PS

I lick my lips for a brief second before I play this song. (must have been morning mouth/cotton mouth—because that seems kind of loud)

In more recent news (as of August 14th 2010), we have drums and percussion action on “Recess” courtesy of the ultra-talented Frank Reina! Can’t wait for you to hear it.

Recess M02 by Mike Vitale

Recess
Words and Music by Mike Vitale

You remind me of recess
Recess when I was eight
Playing in the school yard
With a little girl named Kate

I raced her on the monkey bars
Then she chased me to the gate
I tagged her at the log cabin
A point which we’d debate

And then she told me I had cooties
As she kissed me on the cheek
And then ran amongst the other girls
Before I had a chance to speak

Familiarity’s a revolving door
And round and round I spin
But I’d gladly trade the exit for you girl
If you’d only let me in

You remind of eighth grade
Riding on a Grey Hound bus
Taking some trip to an amusement park
All one thousand of us

She boarded the coach with quite a fuss
And then plopped down next to me
Initiated the strangest conversation
That had ever yet happened between two teens

And then she told me I was stupid
And punched me in the junk
And then sat amongst the other girls
That populate the bus

Familiarity’s a revolving door
And round and round I spin
But I’d gladly trade the exit for you, girl
If you’d only let me in

A cup of whatever together, girl
Or maybe just the time of day
Whatever I can get is good
And good is hearing what you have to say

Crushes are a revolving door
And round and round I spin
I guess I could see my way out girl
But I’m wishing you’d invite me in

I want to be upfront with you about the way I’ve felt lately, and I know that you feel the same way I do considering how close we are (both figuratively and physically). I need you to know that the decisions you make have a profound effect on my happiness and general comfort level—and I must say, your decisions lately have inevitably led to a great deal of discomfort and unhappiness on my part, hence this letter.

You see, it all started with your latest purchase: a pair of briefs… underwear, at the local designer clothing store. For years now, you have done right by me, taking great care in purchasing what I like: boxer briefs. Generally, and in my humble opinion, I think you look far more attractive in them; they are loose and casual, comfortable and dynamic in their flow and adhesiveness—I feel quite at home in them.

Now, I am all about self-exploration (I mean, come on, we’ve had our fair share of creative shenanigans together—you remember that time with the rubber bands?), and I certainly want you to try new things, or in this particular case, retry new old things that you used to do 20 to 25 years ago when you didn’t have a choice (Christmas was always socks and Fruit of the Loom briefs from mom and dad—hi mom and dad), but I digress.

Look, I was fine when you came home with the first pair of brand new designer briefs from the store a week or two ago, but then (as if to add insult to injury) just a few days ago, YOU-BOUGHT-TWO-MORE-PAIR! What on Earth were you thinking? I’m getting the sweats and chills just thinking about it—it’s like I’m stuck with this decision in much the same manner as I am your leg, and I don’t like it! It’s like my creativity and general comfort level suffocates, as the borders of your briefs draw closer and closer to me with every wash and dry cycle—those 100% cotton abominations of nature! YOU… should be ashamed! That wedgie you are feeling right now up your fault line is no fault of mine and you know it—think of the cocoa brown stains that could happen if you weren’t thorough! What would a lady friend think of that? Neither of us wants or needs another dry spell. Answer me!

[deep breath] I’m sorry…

I need to know: is it something I did or said? Look, I love you… and I want you to be happy. Talk to me; we can work this out. I just want everything (specifically, our underwear) to be more like how it used to be—when the things between us were fresh, more boxer-brief-like, and consensual.

Sincerely,

Your Testicles

Now, see? That’s more like it! I’m obviously well on my way to accepting my inherent primate nature by embracing this facial hair—no need to deny that sort of thing (however, it is coming off in about 2 minutes, as soon as I finish typing this). So, I’m writing this new song with that idea in mind (not shaving, but the primate part). It’s easy to forget that we’re all just a bunch of civilized apes living in our primate hives we call towns or cities, ruling a little blue planet spinning roughly 93 million miles from a ball of fire that populates a galaxy of well over 100 billion stars—and then to make things even crazier, the milky way galaxy is one of a billion in a constantly expanding universe; just like my bedHEAD, a constantly expanding universe of hair that Stephen Hawking will one day write a book about using quantum and theoretical physics to try and transcend the equivocal evidence that I am, in fact, a tool—a clever primate tool with high speed fiber optic technology, but nonetheless, still just an evolved tool with very wispy hair this morning.

Sometimes I get lucky, and I don’t wake up looking like a complete douche. This would probably be one of those ideal mornings that I really wish was the case everyday; you know what I mean? Maybe I meet a nice girl (a beautiful and sweet lady who woos me with her conversation and intelligence) and she ends up staying the night because we talk and talk and lose track of time, and when I wake up the next morning next to her, I worry about morning breath and how my hair looks—and not out of vanity mind you, it’s just because I really like her and don’t want to scare her away with the things that I don’t have control over, namely, the way I was born.

Good morning. It’s been a little while, but I thought this morning’s bedHEAD was worthy of an update. It sort of reminds me of the prom in high school—you know the drill. Boy meets girl. Boy asks girl out to the prom… and when he arrives at said girl’s house, he makes a fool of himself to girl’s mom and dad, and then finally (after many an awkward silence from dad) sees her gracefully walk down the house steps in a beautiful dress that she spent weeks shopping for. He then presents to her a beautiful corsage to wrap around her wrist—my bedHEAD this morning, I dare say, looks like that corsage. Who knew my bedHEAD would look so beautiful around her wrist and would compliment her dress so well?

This is a picture of me when I was about 2.5 years old. Compare and Contrast this with my Bed Head from this morning.

Good morning sunshine!

I dare say that my bed head looks “cute” this morning, like a newborn who has just acquired his/her first head of hair. My mom tells me that when I was an infant, my hair used to be curly (and blond) just like how I woke up this morning (minus the blond)—who knew that one could be born again. I will try to dig up a baby picture at some point to post on here and see if I can further exemplify my mom’s perspective.

I was up until 4:00 AM last night creating some strangely fascinating ambient abstract expressionist music last night on my iPhone—I coined it “01.19.10 (Today).” Sometimes, when my mind is in overdrive, nothing cures the nerves better than just setting a few things in motion and seeing where it takes you. I felt young and fresh in the wee hours of the morning—perhaps it lent nicely in a subconscious way to the newborn hair that my mom used to run her fingers through lovingly, when my hands were no bigger than a silver dollar, and I was fragile.

Good morning everyone! I woke up with a special gift in my chest. I think my 3:00 AM walk in the rain Saturday night (that lent to some wonderful Bed Head) may have also invited some mucus over for the semi-annual water skiing competition happening in my lungs right now. I’m trying to distinguish whether that last cough was from the water skier or the triple axel power boat pulling him/her.

All illness aside, I needed to share this with you. In some social circles, people might actually style their hair in this manner. Me? I just wake up this way.

Hypothetically speaking, what would we call this hair style? I’m open for suggestions. The Flock of Seagulls had the “waterfall coif.”