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about

This is your brain on dogs.

credits

released December 21, 2015

All music, lyrics, and album artwork written, performed, engineered, produced, and designed by Cannonball Statman in Brooklyn, NY, on the 6th, 20th, and 30th of November, 2015.

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Track Name: Year of the Almond Plum
In a gated, wealthy West Coast labyrinth,
I went for a walk with an old friend of mine;
the world was strange. The sun set.
I was ten years old, my face in dirt.
The trees were different;
I danced. Birth into death,
pregnant architecture,
and a bizarre, withering old capitalist
(and his chihuahua)
screamed in my direction:
"My name is Rupert Murdoch! Get off my lawn!"

I said:
"Hey, man; I mean, rotting, oozing castrated fecal matter,
I'll give 22 years to you,
bash my skull into the wall for you,
shoot myself out of a cannon for you,
write a thousand songs for you,
I'm gonna give it all to you!
Come a little bit closer;
let's get together!
Now you're gonna give it all to me!"

Ripped blue jean
on the Burlington scene,
and the psychedelic monk screams:
"Haul your ass over to Eugene!
Order in the court! Order in the court!"

The Wiccan crust punk flirting with the Ganesh figurine;
ooh, I really wanna do an eight-armed elephant!
Come on over to the new town,
where everyone is getting down;
you're the man with the blue glue gun,
fiery-eyed under the Winter sun,
and this machine is breaking you down.
You're trapped inside of the neon clown.

I'm standing outside the Sidewalk Cafe on Avenue A.
My friends Killy and Rebecca just wandered inside,
when out of the sky falls the backpack I wore
when I was ten years old, and the world was different;
and up to me comes a great big philosopher stoner
eight times the size of Jon Berger,
grabs my backpack,
grabs me by the throat, and screams:
"Don't you fucking fuck with me!
I'll give 22 years to you,
bash my skull into the wall for you,
shoot myself out of a cannon for you,
write a thousand songs for you,
I'm gonna give it all to you!
Come a little bit closer;
let's get together!
Now you're gonna give it all to me!"

The Wiccan crust punk flirting with the Ganesh figurine;
yeah, who the hell would wanna do an eight-armed elephant?!
And who would wanna move to the new town,
where everyone is getting down?
You're the man with the blue glue gun,
fiery-eyed under the Winter sun,
and this machine is breaking you down;
it's time to pull the plug on the neon clown.

To the initiated imbecile mind,
I've watched a world prepare to die;
through infinite filth, greed, and stupid,
the living flesh rewired!
Track Name: I'm in Love!
I'm in love with everything that moves,
but everything is trying to move me;
that's why I'm always dizzy, sad, and angry.
Track Name: My Mind is Cold, and I am Everybody
A patient on ward 13 South at May Rèves hospital center told me
that in the Fall of 2007, our world was taken hostage,
by an evil being from another dimension.
I nodded, and stared into his exposed stomach,
which quaked in fear of his dissociated mind.

Ward 13 South is an adult psychiatric unit; I was given pills
of various shapes and sizes, with the presumed intention of
adjusting the temperature of my mind to a state of maximum warmth.
When the pills proved ineffective, I turned in a 72 hour letter
to the director of the hospital. I was promptly discharged,
and it was advised that I have no further contact
with anyone I'd met on the unit;
what happens on 13 South stays on 13 South!

Through their many failed attempts to adjust the temperature of my mind,
the doctors on ward 13 South proved themselves to be both weak and incompetent,
as human beings and medical professionals.
And though my mind remains at a steady temperature of 12 degrees Farenheit,
far lower than that of the average American,
I was often noted for the warm presence I brought to the otherwise
cold and clinical environment of the unit.

In the hours leading up to my discharge, I borrowed a No.2 pencil
from the nurse's station;
and in an empty space, on the wall
in the four-bedded room I'd called a home the past ten days, I wrote:

"I have reached the other side, and the grass is no greener
than from within the confines of your prison!
My mind is cold, and I am somebody!"

Good evening,
I am somebody.

Talked to the tourist lost on the bridge; I told him he wasn't that lost.
Talked to the man who inherited the world, and I told him he wasn't that rich.
He tore up my portrait of Nurse Ratched, and I kicked him in his thigh,
and he screamed, and I laughed, like the wicked, wicked witch. Yeah!

Talked to the man who was trapped within the walls of a prison, hidden underground, said
"When your mind is cold, you are somebody."
When your mind is cold, you are somebody.
You can be everybody;
and I'd like to thank you for having me tonight,
but when your mind is cold, you'll thank me. Yeah!

Will you excuse me?! I'm just trying to find the bridge!
The Brooklyn Bridge! Where's that confounded bridge?!
Track Name: Garden
Got up; it was late in the evening.
Put on my shoes, and took a walk;
I was thinking about a story that had yet to be written.
I don't remember exactly how I met you,
but there was something wrong with your hair;
it was getting in the way of something,
and you didn't like it.
We walked into the park;
it was raining.

Someone I know is hoping I can follow you.
Someone I know is hoping I can follow you,
and I don't know how I know this,
but at the end of the day, it's always sort of raining;
pieces and pieces, they fall from the sky.
At the end of the day, it's always sort of raining;
if you've seen it before, you know it doesn't lie.

We were walking, it was somewhat past midnight;
we could hear people singing (screaming) from afar.
We stopped talking; I heard a footstep.
Of course I heard it; it was you, all along.
Walked into a house, with a door, and a letter
from the city, telling me they didn't really care;
folded it up, and let you inside to my house,
and you said
"there's nothing! There's nothing really there!"

Talked, and we talked until it was morning;
you said you were starting to like my house.
We stopped talking, and you left, and you said goodbye;
I don't think I ever saw you again.
Got up; it was late in the evening.
I put on my shoes; took a walk.
I was thinking about a dream I had;
it must've been reality.

I like to keep tracks in the snow.
I like to keep my tracks in the snow,
but they always shovel up snow,
and the gardens are green again.
Track Name: Snow Globe
We live in different time zones. We take the same train
to see the mailman; he lives between us.
You live on the other side of the town we live in.
It likes to snow on my side; I like to talk to your side,
but I don't talk to you, because you don't talk back.

Something really amazing is going on in my life that I can't describe in words;
I can't describe in words.

We live in different time zones. We get up on the same days;
see the same big, bright sun, but it isn't setting.
We pick the same apples from a different place;
they have a different taste, depending on where you eat them.

Would you like to take a ride to the other side of town?
Track Name: Boulder City, NV
She writes books; floats,
like cigarette smoke.
Dreams of love;
dreams of always burning.
She's in flames,
but there's no one there to see;
takes pictures of the night
to remember her,
when she's all gone.
Hold on; she is drowning
in Boulder City.

She will scream;
she can't ever sleep at night.
She will dream
of a friend she's never seen;
they're in love,
and they dream together.
So alone, but
together, they would
never be afraid
to start a fire.
Hold on; she is drowning
in Boulder City.

Hold on to me;
I'm the one you can hold on to.
Hold on to me;
there ain't nowhere you can't go.
And I know true friends will follow,
if they know where to go.
And I know, wherever you are,
you're really not that far away.
Hold on; I am drowning
in Boulder City.
Track Name: Manhattan, I am a Sheep
In Manhattan, there is a beautiful view,
longing to escape a troubled past of euphemisms and vivid nightmares;
the professor took me to the beautiful view, and said "goodbye"
like a coward.

They showed him the view, and he was pleased;
I saw the view from the room with no windows.
What madness drew us to this room?
Philadelphia, a man by many numbers.
I know those who've stayed in the view;
come back with frightening new eyes.
When gold became a useless cover, my eyes
were opened for awhile.
Now, I can't even think about it,
because I dream every night
(even when I can't sleep),
because reality can only open your eyes so far
before the gold returns once more,
ready to blind you with yet another beautiful view;
and soon there is no truth in sight,
just the way you like it.

Isn't it funny how people can have
such a striking resemblance to one and other?
When I saw you out of the corner of my eye,
I could swear you were someone else;
and at once, we were all the same,
with deep thoughts of deeper explorations
into the far corners of the human eye,
where everything is new,
and everyone is there.
It's a strange world.

And some people just wanna play acoustic guitar
on a mattress of dying dreams,
and die into a beautiful view;
I don't know what I want.
Some people live in the 1920s,
with love for women in the backseats of cars,
into the bottomless pit
at the edges of the Earth.
It's a strange world.

In Manhattan, there is a beautiful view,
in the professor's eyes,
as he jogs
from room to room.

At night, in Skyscraper, New York,
a bullet rings through the air;
through landscapes of dirt,
and panoramas of lazy eyes.
There is something else,
behind these walls
and doors,
leading into breakfast at night,
in Skyscraper, New York.

A party emerges in Skyscraper, New York;
the lonely lounge club singer becomes physically demented.
But the man behind the wall was dying,
in a room of saturated blues and cigarette smoke
illuminated by black and white camera flashes
from photographers in tuxedoes at night,
in Skyscraper, New York.

A hospital at night, in Skyscraper, New York
is fluorescent greens and whitened walls;
a man in a gown loses all character inside of him
at the sight of a syringe,
but manages to remain calm in front of doctors
campaigning for the next parade of infants
to march in their doors, at night,
in Skyscraper, New York.

He died on the street, last night in Skyscraper, New York,
fueled by the messages on the billboards
starring signs of the apocalypse,
and silver screen dreams of a last chance
at the road to fame,
through the back entrance at the theater
where the rocket ship went off,
and the ashes of Hi8 video tapes
of the crash sent everyone back to bed;
a memorable moment in the days of
looking out the window into a golden sky.
He was no more;
his soul sinking into the stained cement,
the raindrops in the mud,
the friends with mouths wide open,
the bluest sky from the oceans of his entire life,
at night in Skyscraper, New York.

Hey Cannonball, it's me;
hey there.
We used to spend every day together;
we used to spend all the time, together.
And I've been watching you.
I've been listening to your answering machine; you sound.
You sound so.
You sound so
nice;
and I'm looking for the ghosts
inside of your room.
I'm just looking for the ghosts;
should've kept my eyes damn well shut.

It's one final nail in the coffin;
it's one moral line in the mud.
It's one final nail; let me in?
It's one moral line; in!
I carry you! You carry me,
and you're a sheep, and I'm a sheep,
and I am watching myself.

I am watching myself walk.
I am watching myself, and I am walking down South
on Avenue A, between 3rd and 2nd.
I am walking away from myself,
and I am watching myself walking down South
on Avenue A, between 3rd and 2nd,
from between 4th and 3rd,
and there is this strange pair of tourists,
walking up North on Avenue A, between 2nd and 3rd,
shouting "spend a year with a
serendipitous scorpion magic dentist;
he'll tear out all your teeth!"

And I am watching myself walking down South
on Avenue A, between 2nd and Houston,
from between 4th and 3rd, and I am walking away from myself,
and there is this strange pair of tourists,
walking up North on Avenue A, between 3rd and 4th,
and one of them shouts "where's 2A?"

And I am watching myself, and I am walking down South
on Avenue A, between 2nd and Houston,
from between 4th and 3rd,
and there is this strange pair of tourists,
walking up North on Avenue A, between 3rd and 4th,
and one of them asks me "where's 2A?"

It's behind you.
It's "I carry you", and "you carry me".
It's one final nail.
It's one moral line.

Hey you; I got your message,
and I'm calling, to tell you I'm over you.