Check song out here.
Adventures in Zoochosis
I hold out for consensus. Give the masses the benefit of the doubt. Insist the democratic process will bear this population out. I think my only fear of death is that it may not be the end. That we may be eternal beings and must do all of this again. Oh please lord let no such thing be true. Though I suspect that if I slink back to my enclosure — safe and warm and adequately lit. Sufficiently plumbed and ventilated — well, let’s just say I would not shake a stick. And if pressed, I’ll admit: I’m ecstatic about the enrichment programs implemented to extend our captive lifespans. I’m excited to see what our keepers have planned! Perhaps a bigger cage? Longer chains? Some compelling novel reasons to remain? “Dad are we gonna die?” Yes son, both you and I…but maybe not today. Boys, I’ve bowed to the keepers whip for so damn long I think the sad truth is this enclosure is where your old man belongs. But you, your hearts are pure, so when operant conditioners come to break you in I’ll sink my squandered teeth. You grab your little brother’s hand run like the wind. And if I’m not there, don’t look back. Just go. I don’t give a fuck about the enrichment programs implemented to extend our captive lifespans. Motherfucker gonna get a load of what I got planned.
Check song and lyrics out here.
Dear Ron MacLean. Dear Coach’s Corner. I’m writing in order for someone to explain to my niece the distinction between these mandatory pre-game group rites of submission and the rallies at Nuremburg. Specifically the function the ritual serves in conjunction with what everybody knows is in the end a kid’s game. I’m just appealing to your sense of fair play when I say she’s puzzled by the incessant pressure for her to not defy the collective will, and yellow ribboned lapels, as the soldiers inexplicably rappel down from the arena rafters (which, if not so insane, would be grounds for screaming laughter). Dear Ron MacLean, I wouldn’t bother with these questions if I didn’t sense some spiritual connection. We may not be the same but it’s not like we’re from different planets: we both love this game so much we can hardly fucking stand it. Alberta-born and prairie-raised. Seems like there ain’t a sheet of ice north of Fargo I ain’t played. From Penhold to the Gatineau, every fond memory of childhood that I know is somehow connected to the culture of this game. I can’t just let it go. But I guess it comes down to what kind of world you want to live in, and if diversity is disagreement, and disagreement is treason, well don’t be surprised if we find ourselves reaping a strange and bitter fruit that sad old man beside you keeps feeding to young minds as virtue. It takes a village to raise a child but just a flag to raze the children until they’re nothing more than ballast for fulfilling a madman’s dream of a paradise where complexity is reduced to black and white. How do I protect her from this cult of death?
It takes a village to raise a child, a flag to raze the children. – Chris Hannah