I'm here at work, patiently crafting the story of our journey to Sundance, a tale that involves Wynona Judd, urban camping in a Mormon stronghold, aggressive I-Spying of "That Guy"s, and the Stephen King-esque horrors of driving through an ice fog. But, since the following request is time sensitive and I don't think I'll have the Saga of Utah finished till later this week, I thought I'd shoot this out now.
We here at Birdmonster are up for a vote to be in regular rotation over at MTVu, the last MTV station where the "M" stands for "music" and not "massive-amounts-of-bros-with-shaved-chests-braying-at-each-other." We'd love it if you could help out and share some love. Like is here.
Thanks. Further, funnier, Utah-y-er subjects shall be discussed post-haste.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Monday, December 15, 2008
What I learned in Elementary School. Both times
Here's what I remember about music in elementary school: In third grade, there was this mousy woman who looked like a cross between Gilda Radner and Rhea Pearlman. She came twice a month with her plug-and-play Casio and we sang "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy" and "Rockin' Robin" and that song about the hole in dear Liza's bucket, dear Liza a hole. They were, in other words, some of the most annoying songs ever written.
Because of this rather unfortunate introduction, making music didn't seem all that fun to me. You can only sing "It's a Small World After All" a dozen or so times before even the most innocent of nine-year-old brains begins pondering the pros and cons of in-class sepuku. Music wasn't something that seemed enjoyable at that point: it was just another lesson. And a sucky one at that.
Time passed. Third grade dissolved into a summer of "Gremlins 2," "Dick Tracy," and "Ghost Dad." I went back to school and embraced such ferociously dweebish pastimes as the Spelling Bee (I stank) and the Science Olympiad (I ruled), while Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag receded in my mind, replaced by more important things like the origin of Spiderman (radioactive spider) and the best teams in "Tecmo Super Bowl" (Bills, 9ers, Bears). Then, near the end of fourth grade, the way I thought about music changed forever. And for that, I owe thanks to a pair of teachers from our local middle school who, like the biblical Noah, brought a pair of every conventional instrument into our elementary classroom.
"Try them out," they offered, doling out the shameful tuba, the effete piccolo, the bitch-ass oboe. And so, for a good hour, the room was filled with the singular noise of ten-year-olds test-driving brass, woodwinds, and string instruments, a sound which reminds one of an elephant with Montezuma's Revenge.
My fixation was the saxophone. This might've had something to do with Lisa Simpson or the Sanborn albums my Dad played at home; I can't be sure. But what I do know is that on that day I realized that people like me can make music themselves. While Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag was a remarkably sterile proceeding---a woman with half a voice playing two-fingered chords while disinterested students half-heartedly sang or whole-heartedly Milli Vanillied their way through various obnoxious ditties----this "band" idea was something wholly different: namely, kids---us---me!---making music. This was a profound realization.
So I played the saxophone. From fifth through eighth grade, from "Hot Cross Buns" to "Theme from Jurassic Park," I played in my school band and I enjoyed it. Then, high school rolled around and the stigma of being a "bando" reared it's ugly head and, tragically, I stopped. I hate that I did. It wasn't as if abstaining from band was enough to evict me from the "Magic: The Gathering" dorktown I then inhabited. I don't even think I thought that it would. It was just that I and all my friends just, well, stopped. It felt like one of the many phases you got through growing up: you're obsessed with something one day and the next it's gone. A few years later, maybe knowing something was missing, I picked up a bass, learned to play by figuring out the songs on MTV (this was, of course, when the "M" stood for something), and have been playing some instrument pretty much every day of my life since.
All this went through my head when we were given the opportunity to participate in the America SCORES program. As an introduction, America SCORES is a national non-profit that, in their words, "develops programs that use the world's most popular sport, soccer, to energize and inspire public school students. All of our programs require that our children use the teamwork they learn on the soccer field to support each other as poets and authors in the classroom. The combination is unique and it works." Which, of course, begs the question: what the hell was Birdmonster doing there? Well, America SCORES sees the logical offshoot of poetry as song writing and, in a few cities, invites musicians to come into the classroom and write a song with the enrolled kids. We were some of those musicians.
So, a few weeks back, three of us Birdmonsters* descended on Bret Harte Elementary. The first thing I remember is one of the kids asking, "Y'all the Jonas Brothers or something?" I had to disappoint him. Basically, it works like this: a band (or, in most cases, a solo artist) goes into an elementary school for a total of three days. The first two days are spent writing a song, the last recording it to tape (it's worth noting here that a good number of the kids we rocked out with were unfamiliar with the concept of a "cassette tape," which made me feel old and sad, especially when I had to restrain myself from beginning the explanation with the words "Back in my day"). And while you usually get six hours total for this, our session was split by gender: boys for an hour, girls for hour, three hours each over the course of three days. In other words: we're not talking about a Leonard Cohen schedule here. We got right down to business.
We began by noting that one of the first rules of writing lyrics is to chose something that's important to you and sing about that. For Elvis Costello, it was the enigmatic "Allison"; for Captain & Tennille, it was muskrats fucking. Our group of girls chose their families and their feelings, while our group of boys chose a tomato plant that lived in the gutter. And if that isn't proof that boys and girls are inherently dissimilar, you need to put down that Judith Butler book.
One of the refreshing things about writing a song with a bunch of nine to eleven-year-olds is that they don't overthink anything. Pete was the first one who articulated that and, looking back, it's one of the things I think I learned here. If a girl wants to sing about purple bananas, she's just gonna scream out "let's sing about purple bananas!" and then, all of a sudden, you're singing about purple bananas. It's that simple. We've always tried to maintain a spirit of improvisation in our band but nothing shows you how structured you really are then when you're doing the same thing with kids trying it for the first time. And indeed, the girls did sing about purple bananas. They sang about riding dolphins into the sea and being among their friends and dancing in their dreams and how cheetahs like playing soccer. In short, they sang about any damn thing they pleased. We came up with a few chords and a melody and, really, that's all there was to it.
As for the boys, I found their tomato plant song weirdly touching. It was called "The Tomato Blues" and it centered, as noted above, on a tomato plant that was growing in the gutter. The lyrics focused on how much they loved that tomato plant, a plant that was run over, crushed, and smushed indiscriminately by vapid motorists. They loved it even though (and, in fact, because) it had been neglected and near destroyed but that it kept persevering. How very American, I say: the story of the loveable underdog. Since it was "The Tomato Blues," we tossed together a simple 12-bar blues thing, then neglected that since the lyrics didn't exactly fit the classic 12-bar format, and settled on a weird bastardization of that and what sounds to me now a little bit like "Black Velvet."
Which is really the meat of thing. We practiced the songs during the second session, learning a cardinal rule of children's music: if you give them a tamborine, they will shake it; if you give them an egg shaker, they will wing it at somebody's head. We recorded on the third day, then, like that pair of musical Noahs I remember fondly, let them hammer away at our banjos, guitars, drums, and harmonicas. And in the end, that's what I hope came out of the three days. Sure, the kids used the teamwork skills they learned in soccer and the writing and peer review skills they learned in their poetry lessons, but what I pray is that a few of them learned how deceptively simple it is to write a song, to play music, to sing about something because you care about it; that music is fun. I was lucky enough to have somebody show me that at a young enough age for it to mean something. Here's to hoping we returned the favor.
(One of the songs and some purty pictures can be found here. I tried linking it proper but my technological skills have atrophied to the point that it took me an hour to get that picture of Lisa the right size. Sad but true).
* Our fourth was in Mexico. Dave traded in the subtle and sweet joys of musical instruction for the more tangible joys of shitloads of tequila.
Because of this rather unfortunate introduction, making music didn't seem all that fun to me. You can only sing "It's a Small World After All" a dozen or so times before even the most innocent of nine-year-old brains begins pondering the pros and cons of in-class sepuku. Music wasn't something that seemed enjoyable at that point: it was just another lesson. And a sucky one at that.
Time passed. Third grade dissolved into a summer of "Gremlins 2," "Dick Tracy," and "Ghost Dad." I went back to school and embraced such ferociously dweebish pastimes as the Spelling Bee (I stank) and the Science Olympiad (I ruled), while Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag receded in my mind, replaced by more important things like the origin of Spiderman (radioactive spider) and the best teams in "Tecmo Super Bowl" (Bills, 9ers, Bears). Then, near the end of fourth grade, the way I thought about music changed forever. And for that, I owe thanks to a pair of teachers from our local middle school who, like the biblical Noah, brought a pair of every conventional instrument into our elementary classroom.
"Try them out," they offered, doling out the shameful tuba, the effete piccolo, the bitch-ass oboe. And so, for a good hour, the room was filled with the singular noise of ten-year-olds test-driving brass, woodwinds, and string instruments, a sound which reminds one of an elephant with Montezuma's Revenge.
My fixation was the saxophone. This might've had something to do with Lisa Simpson or the Sanborn albums my Dad played at home; I can't be sure. But what I do know is that on that day I realized that people like me can make music themselves. While Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag was a remarkably sterile proceeding---a woman with half a voice playing two-fingered chords while disinterested students half-heartedly sang or whole-heartedly Milli Vanillied their way through various obnoxious ditties----this "band" idea was something wholly different: namely, kids---us---me!---making music. This was a profound realization.
So I played the saxophone. From fifth through eighth grade, from "Hot Cross Buns" to "Theme from Jurassic Park," I played in my school band and I enjoyed it. Then, high school rolled around and the stigma of being a "bando" reared it's ugly head and, tragically, I stopped. I hate that I did. It wasn't as if abstaining from band was enough to evict me from the "Magic: The Gathering" dorktown I then inhabited. I don't even think I thought that it would. It was just that I and all my friends just, well, stopped. It felt like one of the many phases you got through growing up: you're obsessed with something one day and the next it's gone. A few years later, maybe knowing something was missing, I picked up a bass, learned to play by figuring out the songs on MTV (this was, of course, when the "M" stood for something), and have been playing some instrument pretty much every day of my life since.
All this went through my head when we were given the opportunity to participate in the America SCORES program. As an introduction, America SCORES is a national non-profit that, in their words, "develops programs that use the world's most popular sport, soccer, to energize and inspire public school students. All of our programs require that our children use the teamwork they learn on the soccer field to support each other as poets and authors in the classroom. The combination is unique and it works." Which, of course, begs the question: what the hell was Birdmonster doing there? Well, America SCORES sees the logical offshoot of poetry as song writing and, in a few cities, invites musicians to come into the classroom and write a song with the enrolled kids. We were some of those musicians.
So, a few weeks back, three of us Birdmonsters* descended on Bret Harte Elementary. The first thing I remember is one of the kids asking, "Y'all the Jonas Brothers or something?" I had to disappoint him. Basically, it works like this: a band (or, in most cases, a solo artist) goes into an elementary school for a total of three days. The first two days are spent writing a song, the last recording it to tape (it's worth noting here that a good number of the kids we rocked out with were unfamiliar with the concept of a "cassette tape," which made me feel old and sad, especially when I had to restrain myself from beginning the explanation with the words "Back in my day"). And while you usually get six hours total for this, our session was split by gender: boys for an hour, girls for hour, three hours each over the course of three days. In other words: we're not talking about a Leonard Cohen schedule here. We got right down to business.
We began by noting that one of the first rules of writing lyrics is to chose something that's important to you and sing about that. For Elvis Costello, it was the enigmatic "Allison"; for Captain & Tennille, it was muskrats fucking. Our group of girls chose their families and their feelings, while our group of boys chose a tomato plant that lived in the gutter. And if that isn't proof that boys and girls are inherently dissimilar, you need to put down that Judith Butler book.
One of the refreshing things about writing a song with a bunch of nine to eleven-year-olds is that they don't overthink anything. Pete was the first one who articulated that and, looking back, it's one of the things I think I learned here. If a girl wants to sing about purple bananas, she's just gonna scream out "let's sing about purple bananas!" and then, all of a sudden, you're singing about purple bananas. It's that simple. We've always tried to maintain a spirit of improvisation in our band but nothing shows you how structured you really are then when you're doing the same thing with kids trying it for the first time. And indeed, the girls did sing about purple bananas. They sang about riding dolphins into the sea and being among their friends and dancing in their dreams and how cheetahs like playing soccer. In short, they sang about any damn thing they pleased. We came up with a few chords and a melody and, really, that's all there was to it.
As for the boys, I found their tomato plant song weirdly touching. It was called "The Tomato Blues" and it centered, as noted above, on a tomato plant that was growing in the gutter. The lyrics focused on how much they loved that tomato plant, a plant that was run over, crushed, and smushed indiscriminately by vapid motorists. They loved it even though (and, in fact, because) it had been neglected and near destroyed but that it kept persevering. How very American, I say: the story of the loveable underdog. Since it was "The Tomato Blues," we tossed together a simple 12-bar blues thing, then neglected that since the lyrics didn't exactly fit the classic 12-bar format, and settled on a weird bastardization of that and what sounds to me now a little bit like "Black Velvet."
Which is really the meat of thing. We practiced the songs during the second session, learning a cardinal rule of children's music: if you give them a tamborine, they will shake it; if you give them an egg shaker, they will wing it at somebody's head. We recorded on the third day, then, like that pair of musical Noahs I remember fondly, let them hammer away at our banjos, guitars, drums, and harmonicas. And in the end, that's what I hope came out of the three days. Sure, the kids used the teamwork skills they learned in soccer and the writing and peer review skills they learned in their poetry lessons, but what I pray is that a few of them learned how deceptively simple it is to write a song, to play music, to sing about something because you care about it; that music is fun. I was lucky enough to have somebody show me that at a young enough age for it to mean something. Here's to hoping we returned the favor.
(One of the songs and some purty pictures can be found here. I tried linking it proper but my technological skills have atrophied to the point that it took me an hour to get that picture of Lisa the right size. Sad but true).
* Our fourth was in Mexico. Dave traded in the subtle and sweet joys of musical instruction for the more tangible joys of shitloads of tequila.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
And now for something completely different. Or, actually, not that different. But it's in a different place, so there's that
Touring always renews our faith in humanity. We're essentially a band of roving hobos (and, really, all hobos are roving hobos. I've learned that there are three brands of homeless people: bums, tramps, and hobos. Bums don't travel and refuse to work (see: San Francisco, Market Street). Tramps travel but also refuse to work. They are not to be confused with traveling college student. Then there are bums: they travel and work. Mostly, I think, they paint fences. That's what I've been led to believe).
Where was I? Hobos. Faith in humanity. Right. We go to towns, we've got no place to stay, we've got no food to eat. Granted, we have money, which I understand can be exchanged for these things, but you get the idea. We simply arrive.
But see, sometimes, people take care of us. They feed us, they put us up, they clothe us in the soft furs of their livestock. One of these people is a man named Kevin. He has a blog called So Much Silence. He also has a lovable but decidedly psychopathic bulldog named Oliver that David often threatens to abscond with.
A while back, he was nice enough to ask me to scribble something for him. And guess what? I done did it. It's about music and I think you'll like it.
Check it out.
Where was I? Hobos. Faith in humanity. Right. We go to towns, we've got no place to stay, we've got no food to eat. Granted, we have money, which I understand can be exchanged for these things, but you get the idea. We simply arrive.
But see, sometimes, people take care of us. They feed us, they put us up, they clothe us in the soft furs of their livestock. One of these people is a man named Kevin. He has a blog called So Much Silence. He also has a lovable but decidedly psychopathic bulldog named Oliver that David often threatens to abscond with.
A while back, he was nice enough to ask me to scribble something for him. And guess what? I done did it. It's about music and I think you'll like it.
Check it out.
Friday, November 07, 2008
In which Birdmonster applauds America, shames California, and goes to Hooters. Everybody wins
Well done, America. A few months ago, you had me worried. Despite the selection of an aggressively ignorant rube as his running mate, Jowls McCain was leading in many major polls and I left for tour fearing unmitigated badness. However, our economy, a leaning Jenga tower when we departed, kept swaying, swayed further, and, while it didn't quite topple, the financial atmosphere last week felt like that Jenga tower but after somebody let a toddler high on Vault Cola and Pixie Stix into the room. Which is to say: precarious.
In the end, some say that Obama was elected because of this uneasy situation. We could argue whether that's true. Personally, I could give a shit; I'm just proud of us.
Of course, it's good to remember that not everyone feels this way. Despite what I thought was a rousing, somber, optimistic speech, the first non-Birdmonster, non-family member analysis I heard was from an obese man filling the candy machines at a rest stop in Pennsylvania. He said to his cohort, "You know how much I hate that guy," barely able to keep the anger from quavering his voice, and then postulated on how long Obama would remain alive. It made me sad. Then I reminded myself he was morbidly overweight and his job was putting Butterfingers in a coin-op vending device in the middle of Amish country and somehow felt happier. Point being: it's good to remind yourself of that. 56 million people disagree with me at this moment and many of them are handling more important things than year old Zagnut bars. But we all get on; we live together, eat in the same restaurants, talk at the same bus stops, and spend our money on each other's products. It's how the whole thing works. I lived in Bush's America for nearly a decade and made it out alive. Now it's Baby Ruth's turn.
What I'm not proud of is California. We voted for Prop Eight. I mean, really? What are we thinking here? It's like walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned: it's embarrassing. In the words of Mark Jackson, NBA commentator extraordinaire: Come on, California. You're better than that.
I truly don't understand. I've tried. I've listened to the arguments for denying gay folks the right to marry. One is that gay marriage violates some deeply held religious tenet. Well, fine. But we separate church and state here. Nobody's not saying gays have to be married in your church. Your church is your deal: eat communion, wear a yarmulke, do the Cabbage Patch. But in America it's supposed to be about equal rights, right?
Then there are those who say, hey, gays can have "civil unions." We must protect the sanctity of marriage, meaning marriage as defined as a union between a man and a woman. On which I call "bullshit." This is just another way of saying "A rose by any other name is still a rose." Which is also bullshit. A rose by any other name isn't a rose anymore, it's a rose by another name. I'm confusing myself, but bear with me. Let's say I called someone's religion a "cult" or a "superstition." That's done with intent and with purpose, that purpose being to ridicule the thing; to set it apart; to demean it. And while the religion remains as true and vital to the practitioner of it, to those calling it a "superstition," sooner or later it becomes something lower, something more akin to throwing spilt salt over your shoulder than to the path of spiritual enlightenment. That's how words work.
So shame on you California. We actually voted to take away people's rights. That's pathetic. The Supreme Court will rebuke us in the next generation.
Meanwhile, in a less political vein, I have two things making me happy today. One is that on the compass in the van, there's a "W." That's right. We're going home. I couldn't be happier about that. My bed, my house, whatever it is I call my shabby, duct-taped semblance of a life back home is rushing towards us at a brisk 67 mph. I can't wait. And also, I can't afford it. I look forward to demeaning myself in some hilarious way for money during the Christmas season. Maybe I'll get a job at Baby GAP.
The other thing making me happy? We went to Hooters. There were hooters. And chicken sandwiches. And Allen Iverson on the Pistons. It was the confluence of many wonders. I'd never been to a Hooters before and, first off, was surprised by the clientele. I expected the five or six tables of single, fugly looking dudes with wing sauce on their bibs, but what I didn't expect were the families: Mom, Dad, and their two daughters; an elderly couple sharing curly fries, a dad with six elementary aged boys in tow. I think that last dad was planning on taking those kids to a cock fight afterwards.
Anyway, a bizarrely unbizarre experience. If that means anything.
A few band related shenanigans before I go. First off: we had a ball in Ohio at Case Western, thanks in no small part to our showmates, Ha Ha Tonka. They're incredibly enjoyable, fun Ozark-natives who do four-part harmonies and are as lovably country as that sounds. But not "walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned" country. I needed to clear that up. Past that, we've got a show in Oklahoma City tomorrow, had a radio thing in Missouri today (it went smashingly and we'll share when we get the tapes), and another radio thing in New Mexico a few days from now and...well...that's it. Then that "W" on the compass means something: not just going home but being home. I can't quite believe that yet. I don't think I will until I'm on the couch, drinking a Tecate, looking for a job as a Christmas tree cutter-downer. For now: roll on Zach. Drive.
In the end, some say that Obama was elected because of this uneasy situation. We could argue whether that's true. Personally, I could give a shit; I'm just proud of us.
Of course, it's good to remember that not everyone feels this way. Despite what I thought was a rousing, somber, optimistic speech, the first non-Birdmonster, non-family member analysis I heard was from an obese man filling the candy machines at a rest stop in Pennsylvania. He said to his cohort, "You know how much I hate that guy," barely able to keep the anger from quavering his voice, and then postulated on how long Obama would remain alive. It made me sad. Then I reminded myself he was morbidly overweight and his job was putting Butterfingers in a coin-op vending device in the middle of Amish country and somehow felt happier. Point being: it's good to remind yourself of that. 56 million people disagree with me at this moment and many of them are handling more important things than year old Zagnut bars. But we all get on; we live together, eat in the same restaurants, talk at the same bus stops, and spend our money on each other's products. It's how the whole thing works. I lived in Bush's America for nearly a decade and made it out alive. Now it's Baby Ruth's turn.
What I'm not proud of is California. We voted for Prop Eight. I mean, really? What are we thinking here? It's like walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned: it's embarrassing. In the words of Mark Jackson, NBA commentator extraordinaire: Come on, California. You're better than that.
I truly don't understand. I've tried. I've listened to the arguments for denying gay folks the right to marry. One is that gay marriage violates some deeply held religious tenet. Well, fine. But we separate church and state here. Nobody's not saying gays have to be married in your church. Your church is your deal: eat communion, wear a yarmulke, do the Cabbage Patch. But in America it's supposed to be about equal rights, right?
Then there are those who say, hey, gays can have "civil unions." We must protect the sanctity of marriage, meaning marriage as defined as a union between a man and a woman. On which I call "bullshit." This is just another way of saying "A rose by any other name is still a rose." Which is also bullshit. A rose by any other name isn't a rose anymore, it's a rose by another name. I'm confusing myself, but bear with me. Let's say I called someone's religion a "cult" or a "superstition." That's done with intent and with purpose, that purpose being to ridicule the thing; to set it apart; to demean it. And while the religion remains as true and vital to the practitioner of it, to those calling it a "superstition," sooner or later it becomes something lower, something more akin to throwing spilt salt over your shoulder than to the path of spiritual enlightenment. That's how words work.
So shame on you California. We actually voted to take away people's rights. That's pathetic. The Supreme Court will rebuke us in the next generation.
Meanwhile, in a less political vein, I have two things making me happy today. One is that on the compass in the van, there's a "W." That's right. We're going home. I couldn't be happier about that. My bed, my house, whatever it is I call my shabby, duct-taped semblance of a life back home is rushing towards us at a brisk 67 mph. I can't wait. And also, I can't afford it. I look forward to demeaning myself in some hilarious way for money during the Christmas season. Maybe I'll get a job at Baby GAP.
The other thing making me happy? We went to Hooters. There were hooters. And chicken sandwiches. And Allen Iverson on the Pistons. It was the confluence of many wonders. I'd never been to a Hooters before and, first off, was surprised by the clientele. I expected the five or six tables of single, fugly looking dudes with wing sauce on their bibs, but what I didn't expect were the families: Mom, Dad, and their two daughters; an elderly couple sharing curly fries, a dad with six elementary aged boys in tow. I think that last dad was planning on taking those kids to a cock fight afterwards.
Anyway, a bizarrely unbizarre experience. If that means anything.
A few band related shenanigans before I go. First off: we had a ball in Ohio at Case Western, thanks in no small part to our showmates, Ha Ha Tonka. They're incredibly enjoyable, fun Ozark-natives who do four-part harmonies and are as lovably country as that sounds. But not "walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned" country. I needed to clear that up. Past that, we've got a show in Oklahoma City tomorrow, had a radio thing in Missouri today (it went smashingly and we'll share when we get the tapes), and another radio thing in New Mexico a few days from now and...well...that's it. Then that "W" on the compass means something: not just going home but being home. I can't quite believe that yet. I don't think I will until I'm on the couch, drinking a Tecate, looking for a job as a Christmas tree cutter-downer. For now: roll on Zach. Drive.
Monday, November 03, 2008
In which Birdmonster half-asses Halloween, full-asses New York City, and feels a faint sense of nostalgia and foreboding
Look: you're nervous. Me too. Tomorrow, 'Merica chooses between Jowls McCain and Ears Obama. I'll be out here on the East Coast, absentee ballot safely mailed, three hours ahead of my home state and the usual experience of going to sleep thinking a Democrat won and waking up to apologizing newsmen and a fistful of Zoloft. I will not be sleeping well.
Part of me simply wants to avoid the television all together---the silly race to call states first, the color-coded, kindergarten-easy way they analyze the election, the panels of eighteen well-groomed say-nothings yammering at ever increasing volumes: it's tiresome, really. But I know I'll watch. There's no way I don't. I'll be on Pete's parents' couch with a bottle of Rossi, slowly drinking my way to a proud and inclusive optimism or a dejected, ethereal sadness. I'm sure many of you will be there with me. Though not on the couch in Pete's folk's house. It only seats three.
Since every iota of mass media, individual conversation, and, yes, even your bowel movement (I saw Palin in mine this morning) will be revolving around the upcoming election, let's give ourselves a break. I know our exploits are far less important but, you know, in a way, it's good to be a bit frivolous in times like these; you can only vote once and, no matter how much TV you watch, only one of those guys is winning. Take deep breath. Watch a crappy movie. Read the next few paragraphs. I promise very little will have changed by the time you're done.
----------------------
Last we spoke, we had been rejected by Canada and I had mistaken John Goodman in King Ralph for John Candy in Canadian Bacon. I hope you can forgive me.
We spent our two forced days off like we spend most of our time: sitting in a van that, despite our best efforts, is smelling more like a junior high locker room daily. We made it to Boston on time and didn't get rejected at the "Are You Wearing Yankee Apparel?" checkpoint and, like Lee Greenwood, felt proud to be an American. After all, there's nothing like spiteful rejection to make you love what you've got.
And here's the thing about Boston: they drive worse than New Yorkers. Pete brought this to my attention and, after an afternoon of getting cut-off by Celtic-bumper-stickered pick-ups and an evening of people refusing to wait in toll lines because they're better people than us, I thoroughly agree. It's like this: in New York, everyone's so aggressive that they expect you to be aggressive too so, deep down inside, they've got their guard up, their palm poised anxiously above the horn. In Boston, everyone drives with a sense of entitlement. They cut you off but they don't expect you to do the same. Of course, both Boston and New York pale in comparison to LA, where driving is not a priority when you're behind the wheel. I've seen people text messaging with one hand while mascara-ing with the other. I wish that was a joke.
We played Boston on Halloween and I bought my costume a good three hours before the show in a Goodwill thrift store that was resembled something out of Los Angeles in late April of 1992. For those who are curious, I asked the Rumble Strips what Halloween is like in England. They said that, basically, it's celebrated but not with the tenacity and vigor it is out here in the States. Furthermore, in Britain the emphasis is on being positively creepy while out here it's just on dressing up. Which is to say, in America, you could dress up like Elton John or a koala or a hot dog, whereas in the U.K., you'd have to be Bleeding-Out-The-Eyes Elton John or a koala with rabies or a hot dog.
At any rate, my costume sucked. I found some nurse scrub pants and a muumuu with pelicans on it and sort of looked like a skinny Dr. Moreau. It was embarrassing. The show was good as Boston shows tend to be and I gave my muumuu to an old friend who never really wanted it in the first place.
Then: New York. What a phenomenal place to end our stint with the Strips. They're still there, in fact, recording their second album beginning today. But New York was a blast. We saw some old friends, family, and, apparently, Jimmy Fallon. We played a fine set at a gorgeous venue. We ate pizza while a probably-homeless man regaled us with Beastie Boys verses. It was one of those days that was fabulous but no fun to write about since, well, who wants to hear a guy revel in his joy? Stories of Canadian-infused suffering are far funnier. Even I know that.
So, before I go, a few important things:
First, to the Rumble Strips: Godspeed, boys. You are a ridiculously tight, completely enjoyable live band. We loved our near-month with you and will be salivating while you record the second disc. Strangely, we've heard most of the songs already, which is an experience afforded to very few people. Thanks for dragging us along through America with y'all.
Second, to our van: thanks for not exploding. Three thousand miles to go, big guy. I know you've got it in you.
Third, to our friends, girlfriends, and family back home: we miss you immensely and smell terribly. Take us back in a week or two, please.
Lastly, we're heading back across the US of A starting National Election Hangover Day. We'll post the days on our website (though I do know the next thing is Cleveland on the 5th at Case Western University) and hope to see anyone we missed on the way out. And back. And out again. We really have to route these things better.
Part of me simply wants to avoid the television all together---the silly race to call states first, the color-coded, kindergarten-easy way they analyze the election, the panels of eighteen well-groomed say-nothings yammering at ever increasing volumes: it's tiresome, really. But I know I'll watch. There's no way I don't. I'll be on Pete's parents' couch with a bottle of Rossi, slowly drinking my way to a proud and inclusive optimism or a dejected, ethereal sadness. I'm sure many of you will be there with me. Though not on the couch in Pete's folk's house. It only seats three.
Since every iota of mass media, individual conversation, and, yes, even your bowel movement (I saw Palin in mine this morning) will be revolving around the upcoming election, let's give ourselves a break. I know our exploits are far less important but, you know, in a way, it's good to be a bit frivolous in times like these; you can only vote once and, no matter how much TV you watch, only one of those guys is winning. Take deep breath. Watch a crappy movie. Read the next few paragraphs. I promise very little will have changed by the time you're done.
----------------------
Last we spoke, we had been rejected by Canada and I had mistaken John Goodman in King Ralph for John Candy in Canadian Bacon. I hope you can forgive me.
We spent our two forced days off like we spend most of our time: sitting in a van that, despite our best efforts, is smelling more like a junior high locker room daily. We made it to Boston on time and didn't get rejected at the "Are You Wearing Yankee Apparel?" checkpoint and, like Lee Greenwood, felt proud to be an American. After all, there's nothing like spiteful rejection to make you love what you've got.
And here's the thing about Boston: they drive worse than New Yorkers. Pete brought this to my attention and, after an afternoon of getting cut-off by Celtic-bumper-stickered pick-ups and an evening of people refusing to wait in toll lines because they're better people than us, I thoroughly agree. It's like this: in New York, everyone's so aggressive that they expect you to be aggressive too so, deep down inside, they've got their guard up, their palm poised anxiously above the horn. In Boston, everyone drives with a sense of entitlement. They cut you off but they don't expect you to do the same. Of course, both Boston and New York pale in comparison to LA, where driving is not a priority when you're behind the wheel. I've seen people text messaging with one hand while mascara-ing with the other. I wish that was a joke.
We played Boston on Halloween and I bought my costume a good three hours before the show in a Goodwill thrift store that was resembled something out of Los Angeles in late April of 1992. For those who are curious, I asked the Rumble Strips what Halloween is like in England. They said that, basically, it's celebrated but not with the tenacity and vigor it is out here in the States. Furthermore, in Britain the emphasis is on being positively creepy while out here it's just on dressing up. Which is to say, in America, you could dress up like Elton John or a koala or a hot dog, whereas in the U.K., you'd have to be Bleeding-Out-The-Eyes Elton John or a koala with rabies or a hot dog.
At any rate, my costume sucked. I found some nurse scrub pants and a muumuu with pelicans on it and sort of looked like a skinny Dr. Moreau. It was embarrassing. The show was good as Boston shows tend to be and I gave my muumuu to an old friend who never really wanted it in the first place.
Then: New York. What a phenomenal place to end our stint with the Strips. They're still there, in fact, recording their second album beginning today. But New York was a blast. We saw some old friends, family, and, apparently, Jimmy Fallon. We played a fine set at a gorgeous venue. We ate pizza while a probably-homeless man regaled us with Beastie Boys verses. It was one of those days that was fabulous but no fun to write about since, well, who wants to hear a guy revel in his joy? Stories of Canadian-infused suffering are far funnier. Even I know that.
So, before I go, a few important things:
First, to the Rumble Strips: Godspeed, boys. You are a ridiculously tight, completely enjoyable live band. We loved our near-month with you and will be salivating while you record the second disc. Strangely, we've heard most of the songs already, which is an experience afforded to very few people. Thanks for dragging us along through America with y'all.
Second, to our van: thanks for not exploding. Three thousand miles to go, big guy. I know you've got it in you.
Third, to our friends, girlfriends, and family back home: we miss you immensely and smell terribly. Take us back in a week or two, please.
Lastly, we're heading back across the US of A starting National Election Hangover Day. We'll post the days on our website (though I do know the next thing is Cleveland on the 5th at Case Western University) and hope to see anyone we missed on the way out. And back. And out again. We really have to route these things better.
Friday, October 31, 2008
In which Birdmonster turns Canadian lemons into a contest - with fabulous prizes
Canada, that land of Michael Moore's wettest dreams and birthplace of the only sport to make prominent use of brooms (apologies to Quiddich), hates it some Birdmonster. As chronicled recently, we were yet again shut out of the country we share our northern border for reasons that can be best described as "arbitrary" and "asinine."
The whole ordeal (in addition to a similarly infuriating adventure two years back) has turned me off to the whole country. I'd rather vacation in Bosnia.
But we also realize that perhaps unlucky circumstances have conspired against us. Maybe we're being unfair. So, in the interest of further knowledge and a better understanding of a country that is, to quote the great philosopher E-40, "on my shit list, my rest in piss list," we thought we could get your input.
Here's what we want: your Canada stories, whether they're from the 11th circle of hell known as the Windsor border crossing or, conversely, yarns that redeem the place, should such things exist. We, the jury, will gather evidence and present what we feel is the best (read: most amusing) anecdote over on the blog, plus send that fantastic human some free signed stuff for setting the record straight.
So, which is it? Canada: the land of stability, hockey, and antlered mammals. Or Canada: grotesque hockey-loving freedom-haters? You make the call.
Please send your stories in to: birdmonstercontests@gmail.com - contest deadline Sunday, 11/9/08, and we'll post the winning entry on our blog the week of on 11/10/08.
The whole ordeal (in addition to a similarly infuriating adventure two years back) has turned me off to the whole country. I'd rather vacation in Bosnia.
But we also realize that perhaps unlucky circumstances have conspired against us. Maybe we're being unfair. So, in the interest of further knowledge and a better understanding of a country that is, to quote the great philosopher E-40, "on my shit list, my rest in piss list," we thought we could get your input.
Here's what we want: your Canada stories, whether they're from the 11th circle of hell known as the Windsor border crossing or, conversely, yarns that redeem the place, should such things exist. We, the jury, will gather evidence and present what we feel is the best (read: most amusing) anecdote over on the blog, plus send that fantastic human some free signed stuff for setting the record straight.
So, which is it? Canada: the land of stability, hockey, and antlered mammals. Or Canada: grotesque hockey-loving freedom-haters? You make the call.
Please send your stories in to: birdmonstercontests@gmail.com - contest deadline Sunday, 11/9/08, and we'll post the winning entry on our blog the week of on 11/10/08.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
In which Birdmonster returns to Canada, or at least its border. Then the suckiness began
Amongst the record-defying majesty of dolphinboy, the pre-prepubescent gymnasts of the host nation, and the perfunctory ass-whoopings of American Basketball, I rediscovered my fondness for the Olympics this past summer. There's something incredibly fascinating about the fittest people from every cranny of the globe competing in events as patently bogus as trampolining. And, like many people, I found myself not only rooting for my home nation but for plucky athletes from Monaco, Guam, and unpronounceable former-Soviet Republics. That, I think, what the Olympics are supposed to be about: spirited competition on the one hand, global tolerance and unity and other hippie-type shit on the other. I wasn't rooting against anyone, certainly. After all, most Olympic athletes recede into the shadowy obscurity of Home Depot after spending two weeks competing and screwing and subsisting solely on McDonald's. So I cheered for everyone. I felt good. I was a Citizen Of The World. Not anymore though. From now on, I root against Canada.
You heard that Canada? From now on, when a Canadian diver bellyflops after losing her equilibrium on the high-dive, I laugh. When the Canadian hockey team plays Russia, I root for Ivan Drago's man-spawn. John Candy? I just threw King Ralph out the window of the van. I defenestrate you, King Ralph. SCTV? Forget it. You're gone. And don't bring up Alex Trebek. He and I are no longer speaking. Not until he brings back the mustache, at the very least.
See my fine northern neighbors, it's not that I hate you. In fact, I've enjoyed the company of nearly all the Canadians I've ever met. I like Neil Young. I like the Arcade Fire. And syrup. I like that too. But the people who work your borders? The English language, colorful as it is, cannot fully express our sickened anger. Words like "hateful," "petty," and "punchable" come to mind. So does "anus-brained."
A couple years back, we had a dust-up with the Border Patrol in Windsor. (I've linked it here and found rereading it weirdly cathartic). Long story short is that we ran into a spiteful, bitesized powertripper who, after identifying the Cheeto detritus on the floor of our Chevy as weed, tore the van apart in hopes of finding some way of fucking us over. He succeeded in that we didn't declare our merch at a window of a man who couldn't speak English and never asked us about any commercial goods at all and could therefore claim we were "accidental smugglers" and attempt to legally extort about a thousand dollars from a band that was playing for dinner, drinks, and hotel money. Ever since, he's been my first round selection in the "People I'd Pay Good Money To Watch Eat Shit" draft.
Today, we met his sister. If not his biological sister, his spiritual sister. If not that, his wife, and if so, their children will destroy us all.
It went like this:
We drove across the 96, across crossed not across? the Bridge to Canada, and we got up to that first window where the English Mangler began our travails last time around. I was driving; we were prepared.
"What's your purpose in Canada?" he asked. "To play music," we replied. "Do you have any firearms?" he wondered. "Of course not," we answered. "What's in the van?" he ventured. "Instruments," we told him. "And merch! For the love of God, we have merch." He smiled. He looked like Victor Krumm from Harry Potter 4 but in the end, he was on our side.
Next up were the customs agents, cohorts of the vile little fuck who sent us away during our last attempt to breach the Canadian border. They brought "the dog" who barked wildly. While agents were scurrying through our van looking for pretzels and puffy cheese things that looked like narcotics, we chatted up the other three agents who stood around getting paid. We learned that once, when Keith Richards was rolled for heroin in Toronto, part of his sentence was community service by way of a benefit show at the very place we were supposed to play that night. We sat by calmly while a female agent looked through my bag that contained a motley collection of Stephen King books, canned ham, and Cracker Barrel car games. We smiled. We joked. We reveled in our shared humanity. Sure, they destroyed the interior of our van looking for our phantom booty, but they found nothing. After all, we'd spent twenty minutes vacuuming the van out a Citgo for just such a contingency. We were, as I said, prepared.
These agents gave us a couple forms, made us pack up our van, and sent us Immigration. We were riding high. "This band is unstoppable!" I thought. I smiled. Almost done. This here's the easy part.
Then we met Her.
I use this word to denote only the gender of the anus-brained bitch-beast who would have been edited out of an especially absurd Kafka novel. In fact, it all begins with novels. Knowing from experience that the Canadian border crossing can be an interminable affair, we'd all brought the books we were reading into the building, having read all the Canadian Border Patrol pamphlets ever printed last time we were detained. Literature in hand, we walked into her lair.
It went like this:
"Is there a reason you have those books?" she asked. Not "hello" or "can I see your paperwork?" but "Is there a reason you have those books?" Asked it, in fact, in the tone of a woman who's spent the last six years fighting a malt liquor hangover.
We looked at each other. "So that we've got something to read while we wait," we said.
"You don't need those. Take them to your car."
"Can't we just take them to the waiting room so we---"
"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!"
This was going poorly.
"TAKE THEM TO YOUR VEHICLE."
In hindsight, I wished I would've peed on her through that space they push documents through. That would have at least given her a reason to treat us like shit. If you've heard the expression that someone obviously "woke up on the wrong side of the bed," it's definitely apt here. Except, she probably doesn't sleep in a bed. She probably sleeps in a cave littered with baby skulls.
But I didn't pee on her. None of us did. Instead, we split up, sending some back to the car to deposit the hated read-y-things and while the rest of us pushed her our passports.
Basically, what you need to picture here is this: there are three rooms. On the right is Customs, the left Immigration, and in the middle is a plastic holding pen where the sad victims of bureaucracy wait to be yelled at by anus-brained bitch-beasts. After dropping off our books and passports, we all gathered there, noted the defeated souls around us, and felt a keen sense of foreboding. After about five minutes, Dave noticed she never took our immigration papers and went back in to give it to her. From my vantage point, everything was muffled talking and gesticulating. Dave came back and informed us she hadn't started processing anything because she was, quote, waiting for us to get rid of our books. Now, that makes sense! Thanks, sug.
So we waited. We waited and didn't read since books are illegal in Canada. I contemplated "upper decking" the place---which consists of taking a crap in the upper chamber of a toilet, the part that doesn't flush---but then discovered their toilets didn't have tanks on top. Of course, I had to ask permission to even use the bathroom, which was at first denied because I asked the people at Customs (a full eight of them sitting there doing nothing) who said that they couldn't buzz me in, regardless of the sign that said "ASK CUSTOM AGENT TO BUZZ YOU IN." Immigration, he informed me, had to let me shit. I laughed. I shat. I rejoined my bandmates in the plastic holding pen.
"Birdmonster," she called through the intercom. Dave went in.
Here it's important to know about the two types of clubs, as far as the Canadian Border Patrol is concerned. One are exempt clubs---clubs that sell tickets, host shows regularly, and, if they are small enough, do not require work permits to come play. The other are non-exempt clubs, clubs which, from the government's view, are really just bars that sometime have shows and that you do need a visa to play. Make sense? I didn't think so. We were informed that the club in Toronto was exempt while the one in Montreal was not.
"Well, we played that club last time without a permit," we said. She didn't care. She looked up the club on the internet and she didn't think so. "Which website?" we asked. She didn't remember. "Our tourmates went through two hours ago with identical paperwork," we offered. We were informed that they didn't. Of course, they did. Of course, reality has little power in a place such as thing. We offered to cancel the Montreal show; Anus-Brain said she wouldn't believe us. We tried calling some clandestine Canadian organization that determines which clubs are exempt; they were closed. We showed her our contract and our paperwork that said the club was exempt; she refused to believe these legitimacy of said papers. We called our booker and the club, begging for help.The club (the Zoobizarre in Montreal, for the record) tried to be helpful.
"I could fax her our Myspace page," he suggested.
"Eh?"
"Well, that's what I did with the Rumble Strips. They can see our schedule and our size and that we have a whole bunch of shows and that we qualify as exempt."
Now, that's an idea...I guess.
So we got the fax number and the fax arrived. Bitchdevil looked at it intently, the tiny obese gerbil of her brain spinning itself to exhaustion. She summoned us once again. Pete, at this point, had been crowned our "Spokesperson," because she refused to speak to all of us, apparently worried about burdening us with her brilliance more than once, so Pete alone went in and absorbed the brunt of the jackassery.
It went like this:
While the fax she received, the contract we showed her, and the exemption paperwork she was given suggested that everything we'd said was Gospel, the ineffable website she couldn't remember claimed otherwise. These competing verdicts boggled Anus-brain's mind. She decided that our situation should be deemed "confusing" and that in a "confusing" situation, she was allowed to do, well, whatever the fuck she wanted to. Which, in case you're playing along at home, was kicking us the hell out.
Of course, Pete asked for her supervisor. After acting extremely put-out by the suggestion that she may not have acted in good faith, she let us speak to a woman who was simply a more polite flavor of worthlessness. She told us that since she wasn't there during our first conversation with Anus-Brain (a feat which would have required omnipotence), she couldn't necessarily overrule a verdict based on an arbitrary, still unknowable website, which made about as much sense as everything else had up till this point. We were then "asked" to sign a form which said we were "allowed" to leave a country we never actually fully made it into. We tried to stall for a call back from our booker or some other deus ex machina but were told that if we waited around after being asked to leave we'd be detained---in other words, if we didn't leave, they wouldn't let us leave.
So we left. We came back to America, where the beer is cold, where the S'barro's is barely warm, and where we can travel to and fro without being subjected to the sort of logic that would confuse Lewis Carroll. We canceled Toronto and Montreal, not because we wanted to, but because Canada hates us and everything we stand for. The question is: do we, like Jesus of Nazareth, turn the other cheek? Or do we, like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, nurse an unhealthy grudge that will eventually drive us to grimacing vengeance?
I think we'll sleep on it.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Newport KY show cancelled...sadness
Due to a sore throat of our lovely tourmates' troubadour, tonight's show
in Newport/Cincy has been cancelled. We're scrambling for a new spot
and, if successful, we shall let you know.
in Newport/Cincy has been cancelled. We're scrambling for a new spot
and, if successful, we shall let you know.
Sincerest apologies,
birdmonster
Sunday, October 26, 2008
In which Birdmonster recounts various adventures, mocks mythical heroes, and bets something, yet wins nothing
I know this much: a stupid bet deserves a stupid wager. I also know that nothing stops a stupid argument like a stupid bet. Children, instinctively, know this. "Wanna bet?" was a favorite rejoinder in my monkey bar days and, if the kid I heard at Cracker Barrel this morning is any indication, the phrase remains popular in the kiddy vernacular, alongside "Your mom!" and the golden oldie "I don't shut up, I grow up, and when I see your face, I throw up."
It should go without saying that, yes, we get into silly arguments. And when we do, we bet lotto tickets. It's like betting for a chance to gamble. Actually, it's exactly like that. And there's the outside chance that you'll become a thousandaire, when, in reality, you're basically wiping your ass with a dollar. Everybody wins. Even the Wisconsin school system.
Me? I'm a roll. I won a scratcher a while ago betting Dave that Palin wouldn't drop out of the race. Then we doubled down on whether she'd debate in the first place. And the scratch off I've got in my lap at this very moment? Won off Peter for insisting that Darth Vader said "When we last met, I was but a learner; now I am the mastah." That might be exact, but Pete swore it was "student" and not "learner" while I remembered it was George Lucas and not someone who had a passing familiarity with conversational English. Easy money, in other words.
I'm telling you this because I'm bored. Oh so bored. And because I'm saving the lotto ticket for the end of this blog. That's what passes for excitement in my life. Sad, I know. I'm sorry for dragging you down with me. At least it's warm down here. Warm and smelly.
But I digress. Or rather, I haven't started saying anything of import at all. Either way. Where were we last? I believe it was California. That was a bizarre trip, honestly---not bad in any way, being that its the home state for three of us and contains the hometown for all of us---but because we went home in the middle of a tour. This was a first. The layover in San Francisco was barely twenty-four hours but it was incredibly rejuvenating. I ate food from places called "kitchens." I slept on a bed that didn't feel stuffed with hooker cadavers. I woke up to something other than "Housekeeping!"
Plus, I picked up my absentee voter envelope. I hear there's someone named "Alabama" running for President, which makes me pretty excited. Also, I'm apparently supposed to know four different people who deserve a seat on the San Francisco Community College Board, which is a lot like asking me to choose the four people with the coolest name. Rodel Rodis? You've got my vote. In fact, I'm just voting for you four times. I'm writing you in for President too. Sorry, "Alabama." You lose!
Of course, since California, we've gone back to the East Coast. In between, we enjoyed the Pacific Northwest, which was completely gorgeous in mid October, all red leaves and fog---the hills looked like they were on fire, and---well, to be fair, we're not on the East Coast yet. For some reason, my brain lumps Chicago and Minneapolis in with Boston and Philadelphia. It's wrong, I know. We're in the midwest, have been since our hellish Seattle to Minnesota drive. Yeah. That's 1800 some-odd miles. You know that guy who ran a Marathon from Marathon to deliver a message back in the "olden days"? He's a bitch. I'd like to see him drive ten hours a day on a diet of Olive Garden and McDonald's.
Things have happened, of course. We got joshingly heckled by a pair of self-described "repugnant queens" in Portland---one of whom liked "Gummo," which, really, when somebody tells you that, walk backwards slowly but never take your eyes off their hands. We tried to eat at a Red Lobster before discovering that we were actually too poor for Red Lobster, then wept ourselves to sleep. We played a gamut of fantastic clubs, though the Doug Fir in Portland and the Casbah in San Diego are my personal favorites---the former of the pair is very "Twin Peaks-y" according to everyone else in the band who has, you know, seen "Twin Peaks." To me it looked like a creepy futuristic log cabin. Maybe those things are one in the same. I do not know.
I feel boring though. Really boring. I'm basically rotting in the van as we speak. My brain isn't working anymore. But wait! I've got this lotto ticket. It's called "Krazy Eights." Ok...scratching. Not an eight. Not an eight. Mayb---nope, that's a nine.
That's what we call an "anti-climax." I'm going to slink into the back seat and try to recover from my Gunslinger withdrawals with a new book. Have a fine Sunday.
It should go without saying that, yes, we get into silly arguments. And when we do, we bet lotto tickets. It's like betting for a chance to gamble. Actually, it's exactly like that. And there's the outside chance that you'll become a thousandaire, when, in reality, you're basically wiping your ass with a dollar. Everybody wins. Even the Wisconsin school system.
Me? I'm a roll. I won a scratcher a while ago betting Dave that Palin wouldn't drop out of the race. Then we doubled down on whether she'd debate in the first place. And the scratch off I've got in my lap at this very moment? Won off Peter for insisting that Darth Vader said "When we last met, I was but a learner; now I am the mastah." That might be exact, but Pete swore it was "student" and not "learner" while I remembered it was George Lucas and not someone who had a passing familiarity with conversational English. Easy money, in other words.
I'm telling you this because I'm bored. Oh so bored. And because I'm saving the lotto ticket for the end of this blog. That's what passes for excitement in my life. Sad, I know. I'm sorry for dragging you down with me. At least it's warm down here. Warm and smelly.
But I digress. Or rather, I haven't started saying anything of import at all. Either way. Where were we last? I believe it was California. That was a bizarre trip, honestly---not bad in any way, being that its the home state for three of us and contains the hometown for all of us---but because we went home in the middle of a tour. This was a first. The layover in San Francisco was barely twenty-four hours but it was incredibly rejuvenating. I ate food from places called "kitchens." I slept on a bed that didn't feel stuffed with hooker cadavers. I woke up to something other than "Housekeeping!"
Plus, I picked up my absentee voter envelope. I hear there's someone named "Alabama" running for President, which makes me pretty excited. Also, I'm apparently supposed to know four different people who deserve a seat on the San Francisco Community College Board, which is a lot like asking me to choose the four people with the coolest name. Rodel Rodis? You've got my vote. In fact, I'm just voting for you four times. I'm writing you in for President too. Sorry, "Alabama." You lose!
Of course, since California, we've gone back to the East Coast. In between, we enjoyed the Pacific Northwest, which was completely gorgeous in mid October, all red leaves and fog---the hills looked like they were on fire, and---well, to be fair, we're not on the East Coast yet. For some reason, my brain lumps Chicago and Minneapolis in with Boston and Philadelphia. It's wrong, I know. We're in the midwest, have been since our hellish Seattle to Minnesota drive. Yeah. That's 1800 some-odd miles. You know that guy who ran a Marathon from Marathon to deliver a message back in the "olden days"? He's a bitch. I'd like to see him drive ten hours a day on a diet of Olive Garden and McDonald's.
Things have happened, of course. We got joshingly heckled by a pair of self-described "repugnant queens" in Portland---one of whom liked "Gummo," which, really, when somebody tells you that, walk backwards slowly but never take your eyes off their hands. We tried to eat at a Red Lobster before discovering that we were actually too poor for Red Lobster, then wept ourselves to sleep. We played a gamut of fantastic clubs, though the Doug Fir in Portland and the Casbah in San Diego are my personal favorites---the former of the pair is very "Twin Peaks-y" according to everyone else in the band who has, you know, seen "Twin Peaks." To me it looked like a creepy futuristic log cabin. Maybe those things are one in the same. I do not know.
I feel boring though. Really boring. I'm basically rotting in the van as we speak. My brain isn't working anymore. But wait! I've got this lotto ticket. It's called "Krazy Eights." Ok...scratching. Not an eight. Not an eight. Mayb---nope, that's a nine.
That's what we call an "anti-climax." I'm going to slink into the back seat and try to recover from my Gunslinger withdrawals with a new book. Have a fine Sunday.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
In which Birdmonster gets all fashionable, smiles at New Orleans, and finally finishes "The Gunslinger," thus giving me my life back
Some people are Abercrombie folks; others prefer H&M; still others opt for Nordstrom's or Salvation Army or, God forbid, Big Dogs. We've all got our own personal style, in other words, from the hipster who looks like she walked out a Pat Benetar video to the one-eyed cowboy with a taste for Wranglers and Carhart. But see, Fashion is fickle. What's cool now will be dreadfully lame in a month. That, when added to the simple fact of my overwhelming poorness, keeps me steered clear of trends like Crocs or those tribal earrings that are leaving an entire generation with saggy lobes their children will laugh at. So, call it "classy" or "chickenshit," I've tended to opt for the American Uniform: jeans, t-shirt, and some ratty sneakers. It's simple, it's easy, and, hell, we get free shirts at radio stations and via merch trades. What I'm saying is I don't really buy clothes anymore. I simply don't need to.
Unless I'm at The Thing.
On the surface, The Thing is an impressive gas station on the 10, a gas station which boasts advertisements for two hundred miles in both directions, billboards which would surely infuriate Abbey's Monkey Wrench Gang but which fill me with childlike joy and anticipation. The Thing, longtime readers might remember, is the first place our new van made it to after Patrick Stewart, our erstwhile lemon, died on the way to Phoenix. It's a magical place where you can pay 75 cents to see "The Thing" (a thing that doesn't even warrant capitalization, sadly) and spend much more on useless bric a brac to burden your friends and relatives with. Merry Christmas Dad: I got you a plastic die-cast gila monster. Thanks for sending me to college.
But the Thing is also all about Fashion. Last time around I got a shirt with glitter on it and what I thought was a unicorn. Upon closer inspection, it had no horn, which made it what I believe zoologists call a "horse." This time? Way more super awesome. It's a shirt with a giant tiger jumping at you, ready to tear your face off. But wait! If you turn around you see the tiger's ass and tail. Eat my shit Versace.
By the time we made it to Arizona, we were in the Tour Zone. Which is to say: used to spending eight hours sedentary in a van reading the Gunslinger (I've finished now, by the by), used to eating McDonald's at the last possible moment, used to stumbling out into a different climate each time we stop, used to playing music every evening. That first week is always a bit surreal---it takes a while for it to sink in that you're actually going to spend the next month and a half rolling across America. Part of me never believes it. By now, that part of me is dead. I left him in Pennsylvania so he could vote in a swing state. And also so he could hang out by the Rocky statue. I know what does me.
What I'm saying is that the shows themselves have all been, well, they've all been good. Not to toot our own horn, but by the time everyone's mentally settled into the aforesaid Tour Zone, we simply play better*. It's not just us, either. Every band we've ever played with gets better playing every night, simply by the serendipity of enjoyable repetition. It's like a good basketball team: you can throw Karl Malone and Gary Payton or the Lakers but without the time to gel, they end up losing to the Pistons. Just writing that makes me happy. And not simply because 'Sheed is involved, though, admittedly, that's at least 51% of the thing.
Last we chatted, we were just rolling into New Orleans and I was hoping that it resembled the vacation I took there not the ill-fated, mildewy hotel, aftermath of Katrina NOLA we visited as a band. And you know what? It was some place in between. Closer, certainly, to the lively and bizarre New Orleans of 2004 I vaguely remembered through a brandy milk punch induced haze. We played the House of Blues, which is a nice enough room and a venue kind enough to dole out meal tickets to the bands playing, but, really, do you want to be eating out a House of Blues in New Fucking Orleans? I don't. I want my fresh oysters, my proper gumbo. Eating at a House of Blues in New Orleans is like playing nickel slots at the Bellagio: you can do it, sure, but don't expect me not to heckle you.
In a spasm of indefatigable genius, we decided to go from the west to the east to the west to the east to the west coast this tour. Brilliant, I'm aware, but the refreshing postscript of this plan was that we were able to come home to California smack dab in the middle of the thing. I wrote that story, but really, we're already quite up there in paragraphs. Tomorrow, then. We're covering the entirety of North Dakota then, so I should have a minute or, say, seven hundred.
* Toot, toot.
Unless I'm at The Thing.
On the surface, The Thing is an impressive gas station on the 10, a gas station which boasts advertisements for two hundred miles in both directions, billboards which would surely infuriate Abbey's Monkey Wrench Gang but which fill me with childlike joy and anticipation. The Thing, longtime readers might remember, is the first place our new van made it to after Patrick Stewart, our erstwhile lemon, died on the way to Phoenix. It's a magical place where you can pay 75 cents to see "The Thing" (a thing that doesn't even warrant capitalization, sadly) and spend much more on useless bric a brac to burden your friends and relatives with. Merry Christmas Dad: I got you a plastic die-cast gila monster. Thanks for sending me to college.
But the Thing is also all about Fashion. Last time around I got a shirt with glitter on it and what I thought was a unicorn. Upon closer inspection, it had no horn, which made it what I believe zoologists call a "horse." This time? Way more super awesome. It's a shirt with a giant tiger jumping at you, ready to tear your face off. But wait! If you turn around you see the tiger's ass and tail. Eat my shit Versace.
By the time we made it to Arizona, we were in the Tour Zone. Which is to say: used to spending eight hours sedentary in a van reading the Gunslinger (I've finished now, by the by), used to eating McDonald's at the last possible moment, used to stumbling out into a different climate each time we stop, used to playing music every evening. That first week is always a bit surreal---it takes a while for it to sink in that you're actually going to spend the next month and a half rolling across America. Part of me never believes it. By now, that part of me is dead. I left him in Pennsylvania so he could vote in a swing state. And also so he could hang out by the Rocky statue. I know what does me.
What I'm saying is that the shows themselves have all been, well, they've all been good. Not to toot our own horn, but by the time everyone's mentally settled into the aforesaid Tour Zone, we simply play better*. It's not just us, either. Every band we've ever played with gets better playing every night, simply by the serendipity of enjoyable repetition. It's like a good basketball team: you can throw Karl Malone and Gary Payton or the Lakers but without the time to gel, they end up losing to the Pistons. Just writing that makes me happy. And not simply because 'Sheed is involved, though, admittedly, that's at least 51% of the thing.
Last we chatted, we were just rolling into New Orleans and I was hoping that it resembled the vacation I took there not the ill-fated, mildewy hotel, aftermath of Katrina NOLA we visited as a band. And you know what? It was some place in between. Closer, certainly, to the lively and bizarre New Orleans of 2004 I vaguely remembered through a brandy milk punch induced haze. We played the House of Blues, which is a nice enough room and a venue kind enough to dole out meal tickets to the bands playing, but, really, do you want to be eating out a House of Blues in New Fucking Orleans? I don't. I want my fresh oysters, my proper gumbo. Eating at a House of Blues in New Orleans is like playing nickel slots at the Bellagio: you can do it, sure, but don't expect me not to heckle you.
In a spasm of indefatigable genius, we decided to go from the west to the east to the west to the east to the west coast this tour. Brilliant, I'm aware, but the refreshing postscript of this plan was that we were able to come home to California smack dab in the middle of the thing. I wrote that story, but really, we're already quite up there in paragraphs. Tomorrow, then. We're covering the entirety of North Dakota then, so I should have a minute or, say, seven hundred.
* Toot, toot.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
In which Birdmonster trades in Georgia, plays in Florida, and now is wallowing in a smelly smellhole in Loisianna
There's something off-putting about seeing a man drink while he's behind the wheel of a truck. It's like watching somebody build a home without blueprints or eat a bran muffin on the toilet: it's not just ignorant, it's aggressively idiotic.
We ran into one such man at a Penzoil in Adel, Georgia. We chatted him up. He wasn't driving at that time, but he looked like he was on mission to spend his off-day swerving through the streets of that tiny Southern town, careening off lamp posts, mailboxes, and Piggly Wigglys. That said, he was a happy drunk. He fingered us as a band with the greatest of ease and demanded a CD. We said, sure, but even with the "getting blotto in the driver's seat discount," it was still going to cost him ten bucks. Cashless, he offered to pay for a sixth of our oil change, which the Penzoil man agreed to, and, voila: some weird, three person pseudo-barter was enacted. It was like Burning Man, except there were no hairy armpitted womyn on mushrooms.
While we were testing the principles of a trade-based economy, we also have noticed the real economy is a clusterfuck of colossal proportions. Yes, yes: bad shit and heaps of it. The whole situation is unraveling so fast that we, men without newspapers, internet, or a coherent idea of which weekday it is, have been left behind. I'm so incredibly ignorant of how all this works that I'll refrain from analysis: just hope everyone out there is keeping their head up and investing in the only tried and true commodity left on the planet: Birdmonster t-shirts. Stockpile them while you can.
Right now, the South's unfolding into a kudzu-choked straight-away outside of Louisiana. The old-man beards of Spanish moss are fading behind us and New Orleans, in all it's culinary and musical splendor awaits us. I was lucky enough to visit this singular city before Katrina with my girl on what I used to call a "vacation" and now call a "ludicrous pipe dream" and it was one of the best trips I'd ever taken: all beignets and shellfish and alligator tours lead by toothless swamp men with half-fingers, courtesy of the aforesaid reptiles, men apparently ignorant of the lessons of the grown-up man-boys Peter Pan and Happy Gillmore. By which I mean the lessons of Captain Hook and Chubbs. By which I mean: dude was chewed up. I'm really curious to see how the city is now. The band visited back a year or two ago, in the fairly recent aftermath of that destructive hurricane (our hotel still had the entire bottom floor closed due to mildew from flooding) and, as has been reported many times (in many waaaaaays) the city was uncharacteristically somber; slower. Quieter. It's a beautiful, unique, singular city---in fact, the only city which smells so much of rum and upchucked rum that you could call beautiful. No offense Isla Vista and Chico: y'all are ugly. I'm optimistic; I've heard I have every right to be.
Speaking of optimism, I had little of it heading into Orlando. If I associate a city with a mouse and a duck with no pants, a creative yet horrible despot, and general humid mugginess, I tend to approach with caution. But you know what? Shut my mouth. Orlando was great. The club was a little leaky and there were no drink tickets (a veritable sin of omission), but the crowd was great, and, well, sometimes places just surprise you. Orlando was one of those. Hats off to that.
But man, oh man, does it rain in Florida. They've got these things they call "white outs," where the rain comes with such force that you can literally not see through it. And since it's humid as all get out and up in the high 80s, getting across the parking lot to your car is like taking a shower with your shoes on then stepping into a sauna. In other words: unpleasant.
Alright. The Gunslinger book I'm reading is demanding my attention. Be still, my pet. I'm coming.
We ran into one such man at a Penzoil in Adel, Georgia. We chatted him up. He wasn't driving at that time, but he looked like he was on mission to spend his off-day swerving through the streets of that tiny Southern town, careening off lamp posts, mailboxes, and Piggly Wigglys. That said, he was a happy drunk. He fingered us as a band with the greatest of ease and demanded a CD. We said, sure, but even with the "getting blotto in the driver's seat discount," it was still going to cost him ten bucks. Cashless, he offered to pay for a sixth of our oil change, which the Penzoil man agreed to, and, voila: some weird, three person pseudo-barter was enacted. It was like Burning Man, except there were no hairy armpitted womyn on mushrooms.
While we were testing the principles of a trade-based economy, we also have noticed the real economy is a clusterfuck of colossal proportions. Yes, yes: bad shit and heaps of it. The whole situation is unraveling so fast that we, men without newspapers, internet, or a coherent idea of which weekday it is, have been left behind. I'm so incredibly ignorant of how all this works that I'll refrain from analysis: just hope everyone out there is keeping their head up and investing in the only tried and true commodity left on the planet: Birdmonster t-shirts. Stockpile them while you can.
Right now, the South's unfolding into a kudzu-choked straight-away outside of Louisiana. The old-man beards of Spanish moss are fading behind us and New Orleans, in all it's culinary and musical splendor awaits us. I was lucky enough to visit this singular city before Katrina with my girl on what I used to call a "vacation" and now call a "ludicrous pipe dream" and it was one of the best trips I'd ever taken: all beignets and shellfish and alligator tours lead by toothless swamp men with half-fingers, courtesy of the aforesaid reptiles, men apparently ignorant of the lessons of the grown-up man-boys Peter Pan and Happy Gillmore. By which I mean the lessons of Captain Hook and Chubbs. By which I mean: dude was chewed up. I'm really curious to see how the city is now. The band visited back a year or two ago, in the fairly recent aftermath of that destructive hurricane (our hotel still had the entire bottom floor closed due to mildew from flooding) and, as has been reported many times (in many waaaaaays) the city was uncharacteristically somber; slower. Quieter. It's a beautiful, unique, singular city---in fact, the only city which smells so much of rum and upchucked rum that you could call beautiful. No offense Isla Vista and Chico: y'all are ugly. I'm optimistic; I've heard I have every right to be.
Speaking of optimism, I had little of it heading into Orlando. If I associate a city with a mouse and a duck with no pants, a creative yet horrible despot, and general humid mugginess, I tend to approach with caution. But you know what? Shut my mouth. Orlando was great. The club was a little leaky and there were no drink tickets (a veritable sin of omission), but the crowd was great, and, well, sometimes places just surprise you. Orlando was one of those. Hats off to that.
But man, oh man, does it rain in Florida. They've got these things they call "white outs," where the rain comes with such force that you can literally not see through it. And since it's humid as all get out and up in the high 80s, getting across the parking lot to your car is like taking a shower with your shoes on then stepping into a sauna. In other words: unpleasant.
Alright. The Gunslinger book I'm reading is demanding my attention. Be still, my pet. I'm coming.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
In which Birdmonster recalls great cinema of the motel room, meets its tourmates, and edges closer to the brilliant, ineffable beauty that is Rocky
- We've seen some bad movies on tour. Anacondas 2: Search for the Blood Orchid sticks out in my mind as a particularly egregious offender, though Crackerjack 3 sucked in a uniquely derivative way. I think I watched You, Me, and Dupree, in a theatre no less, but I've bowel movements that were more memorable. David and I share the distinction, I think, of being the only two people alive who watched both Cheerleader Ninjas and Killer Tongue on the same day. My parents: so proud.
Point is: we seek out bad movies and they, in turn, seek us out. If you've had occasion to turn on the television at two thirty a.m., you know what I'm talking about. There are no Citizen Kanes in the small hours of the morning, no Platoons or Dog Day Afternoons.There is, however, Ice Cube on a motorcycle. Or Mark Madsen squinting at something. Or Cuba Gooding Jr. co-starring opposite Skeet Ulrich. And somewhere, an angel is crying.
My favorite bad movie I've seen this tour doesn't quite hold a candle to Chill Factor, the aforementioned apex of the Skeet Ulrich experience, but it sucked enjoyably. It was called 300. It's original title, I believe, was Naked Men Stabbing Each Other In Slo-Mo, but Warner Brothers thought that was too long.
If you haven't seen 300, don't. But if it finds you, as it found us, you should definitely watch it. From this movie I learned there are three modes of conversation: screaming, yelling, and hollering. I learned that McNulty from "The Wire" should fire his agent. I also learned that killing hella fools is a hilarious good time. These are the important lessons of our times.
- First things second: We're not playing Atlanta tonight. We did not cancel this. It, like 300, simply happened to us. Sorry to all you Georgians who were planning on coming. And that includes the Georgians fighting the Russians half a world away. Though, if history has taught me anything, it's that you never go to war against the Russians. Unless you're Rocky.
- Speaking of Rocky, we played in Philadelphia a few nights back, which, as you should know, is the land of Rocky. We even had sausages one morning that came from the butcher Rocky visits in the first movie. Or so we were told. I didn't press the issue because I'd rather not quite know for sure. A world in which I eat the food of Rocky is a world I want to be a part of. And this is where you remind me that Rocky's not real. And then I remind you he has a statue in Philly and you don't. Neener, neener.
- That Philly show, beyond bringing us closer to the radiant sun of Rocky Balboa, introduced us to our tourmates for the rest of October: the Rumble Strips. I've seen them three times now, there, in D.C., and last evening in North Carolina and, well, they ooze kick assitude. It's hard to describe the music---bands like "Dexy's Midnight Runners" and "The Band" are often referenced---but the end result is something unique, fun, and incredibly catchy. Incredibly nice guys too. Oh, and there's a trumpet. And a really shoddy acoustic guitar. These things please me.
- I saw a road killed rat in the back of the club in D.C. and it made me happy and a little homesick, which is to say, I've reached a point in my life where rat splatter fills me with joy. I'm not sure what to think about this.
- Beyond the euphoria-inducing collection of rodent carcasses, D.C. was phenomenal. And you know what? It always is. We've played there on Labor Days, Memorial Days, Sundays, and all the other manner of non-concert-going days and each time we've had a boisterous, enthusiastic, lovable crowd. It's been my personal favorite so far. Thanks to everyone in (McCain time) "Warshington" who came out, sang, danced, and sent us shots to play songs we hadn't played in over half a year. I've already circled D.C. on our next tour, which of course exists only in my mind. We're opening for Daft Punk and Jethro Tull.
- Our next stop is Orlando, a town that, like Anaheim, is awash in Goofy, Snow White, Bambi, and all the other animated scamps created by that lovableNazi-sympathizer animator, Walt Disney. I'm curious to see what kind of hotel we find there. Part of me thinks it will have race-car beds. I don't know why. We hope to see you there, but only, I realize, after you've ridden the Matterhorn a few dozen times. We wouldn't have it any other way.
Point is: we seek out bad movies and they, in turn, seek us out. If you've had occasion to turn on the television at two thirty a.m., you know what I'm talking about. There are no Citizen Kanes in the small hours of the morning, no Platoons or Dog Day Afternoons.There is, however, Ice Cube on a motorcycle. Or Mark Madsen squinting at something. Or Cuba Gooding Jr. co-starring opposite Skeet Ulrich. And somewhere, an angel is crying.
My favorite bad movie I've seen this tour doesn't quite hold a candle to Chill Factor, the aforementioned apex of the Skeet Ulrich experience, but it sucked enjoyably. It was called 300. It's original title, I believe, was Naked Men Stabbing Each Other In Slo-Mo, but Warner Brothers thought that was too long.
If you haven't seen 300, don't. But if it finds you, as it found us, you should definitely watch it. From this movie I learned there are three modes of conversation: screaming, yelling, and hollering. I learned that McNulty from "The Wire" should fire his agent. I also learned that killing hella fools is a hilarious good time. These are the important lessons of our times.
- First things second: We're not playing Atlanta tonight. We did not cancel this. It, like 300, simply happened to us. Sorry to all you Georgians who were planning on coming. And that includes the Georgians fighting the Russians half a world away. Though, if history has taught me anything, it's that you never go to war against the Russians. Unless you're Rocky.
- Speaking of Rocky, we played in Philadelphia a few nights back, which, as you should know, is the land of Rocky. We even had sausages one morning that came from the butcher Rocky visits in the first movie. Or so we were told. I didn't press the issue because I'd rather not quite know for sure. A world in which I eat the food of Rocky is a world I want to be a part of. And this is where you remind me that Rocky's not real. And then I remind you he has a statue in Philly and you don't. Neener, neener.
- That Philly show, beyond bringing us closer to the radiant sun of Rocky Balboa, introduced us to our tourmates for the rest of October: the Rumble Strips. I've seen them three times now, there, in D.C., and last evening in North Carolina and, well, they ooze kick assitude. It's hard to describe the music---bands like "Dexy's Midnight Runners" and "The Band" are often referenced---but the end result is something unique, fun, and incredibly catchy. Incredibly nice guys too. Oh, and there's a trumpet. And a really shoddy acoustic guitar. These things please me.
- I saw a road killed rat in the back of the club in D.C. and it made me happy and a little homesick, which is to say, I've reached a point in my life where rat splatter fills me with joy. I'm not sure what to think about this.
- Beyond the euphoria-inducing collection of rodent carcasses, D.C. was phenomenal. And you know what? It always is. We've played there on Labor Days, Memorial Days, Sundays, and all the other manner of non-concert-going days and each time we've had a boisterous, enthusiastic, lovable crowd. It's been my personal favorite so far. Thanks to everyone in (McCain time) "Warshington" who came out, sang, danced, and sent us shots to play songs we hadn't played in over half a year. I've already circled D.C. on our next tour, which of course exists only in my mind. We're opening for Daft Punk and Jethro Tull.
- Our next stop is Orlando, a town that, like Anaheim, is awash in Goofy, Snow White, Bambi, and all the other animated scamps created by that lovable
Saturday, October 04, 2008
In which Birdmonster rolls through Virginia, plays with precocious teenagers, and ponders the myth and majesty of Bob Barker
When I was in college and even poorer than I am now, I went with a large group of people to "The Price Is Right," hoping to secure a car, a vacation, or at least a poorly made gazebo. Before the show, everybody stands in one of those snaking lines like they have at Disneyland, waiting for their chance to interview with the dour gentlemen who choose the contestants for that day's show. Being that I was nineteen going on thirteen, and being that my enthusiasm level was somewhat below the caffeinated cocker-spaniel level required for Price Is Right contestants, I was passed over. Of course, you don't know this beforehand, so you spend the entire filming in a state of rabid anxiousness while old midwesterners with Bob Barker on their shirt get chosen, and, subsequently groped by the man silkscreened to their bellies. It's very post-modern.
There are two great things about Price Is Right. At least, there were. First off, there was Bob. Retired now after fifteen decades of hosting, Bob Barker was the consummate emcee. He told lame but enjoyable jokes during the commercial breaks, never missed a beat, and admonished everyone to have their dog's balls removed. He was also a decidedly dirty old man. I recall one occasion, where, during a commercial break, Bob was chatting up a particular group of ladies with customized shirts saying things like "Pick Me, Bob!" or "We Love You Bob!" These were not what you'd call attractive womens, especially if you were Bob Barker, an octogenarian who spends most of his days surrounded by ninety-pound Barbies. This did not stop Bob. He walked over to them during the break, and, into that weird, skinny, candy-apple microphone he used to have, said "Nice shirt, honey."
"Thank you Bob! THANK YOU! WE LOVE YOU!" she responded.
"Why don't you" (and here he laughed in a disturbingly Cheney-ian way), "take it off and throw it over here."
And he continued flirting with her all show. And not just her. Pretty much every woman in a ten row radius of the stage. It was like going to Hooters with your Grandpa and watching him pinch asses and "drop" chicken wings.
The second great thing about the Price Is Right is screaming. On the more staid gameshows like, say, Jeopardy or the one with no whammies, you aren't allowed to yell the answers at the contestants. Not on Price Is Right. No, no. Here, you can shout anything you want: "Seven Hundred Fifty!" "Forty five Rupees!" "Man's Search For Meaning!" It helps if you've had some Brandy milk punch for breakfast.
I mention this because at the beginning of every tour, we play Price Is Right with our overall mileage. Guesses are made, scratch-off lotto tickets are bet, prognostications are recorded. This time around, the estimates range from eleven thousand miles to seventeen thousand, one hundred and eleven, the last being mine. In the past few days, however, we've all reconsidered. I think my guess, ludicrously high on its face, is now dangerously low. We've gone 3,300 miles already. We've been gone for a week. Barely. And, in total, we're doing west coast to east coast to west coast to east coast back home to the west. Which is to say, if we were on Price Is Right, I'd probably win, though, as they tell you when you're sitting down: "Men are discouraged from hugging Bob Barker." I wonder if Drew Carey is as squeamish a homophobe.
Since we spoke last, we've enjoyed Virginia, both in Charlottesville and Fredericksburg. We were pre-empted in Charlottesville by the Sarah Palin Show, which we missed, but that's okay: I'm dumb enough already. I don't need the extra help. Charlottesville is a gorgeous old city, all bricks and trees and pedestrians, and our showmates, Bird Lips, were both tall and excellent in equal measure. They're a folk duo (keys and twelve-string) that sounds nothing like you're assuming. Our best to them.
And then we went to Fredericksburg, VA. Fredericksburg is just one of those places, which is to say, a place we happened upon, fell in love with, and hope to come back to every time we're on the East Coast. This was our second time there and we played in a 222 year old bookstore, one which has a truly inconvenient post in the middle of the "stage" but one which sounds surprisingly great. It's got a strange, cozy, D.I.Y. aura to it and the kids that come are really, really fun people to have at a show. They sing along, they clap along, they hoot constantly. And you know what? We've played with three bands from Fredericksburg and they've all been amazing. When I was 16, I was playing horrible metal cheese in my family room. These kids are writing catchy pop songs and playing the shit out of them. So, if you're in the area and you ever see "Rocky's Revival," "Carlos I'm Pregnant", or "Tereu Tereu" at a show, do yourself a favor: go see them. They will blow your mind.
Tonight: Philly. We meet the Rumble Strips. I will make an ass of myself. I look forward to it all.
There are two great things about Price Is Right. At least, there were. First off, there was Bob. Retired now after fifteen decades of hosting, Bob Barker was the consummate emcee. He told lame but enjoyable jokes during the commercial breaks, never missed a beat, and admonished everyone to have their dog's balls removed. He was also a decidedly dirty old man. I recall one occasion, where, during a commercial break, Bob was chatting up a particular group of ladies with customized shirts saying things like "Pick Me, Bob!" or "We Love You Bob!" These were not what you'd call attractive womens, especially if you were Bob Barker, an octogenarian who spends most of his days surrounded by ninety-pound Barbies. This did not stop Bob. He walked over to them during the break, and, into that weird, skinny, candy-apple microphone he used to have, said "Nice shirt, honey."
"Thank you Bob! THANK YOU! WE LOVE YOU!" she responded.
"Why don't you" (and here he laughed in a disturbingly Cheney-ian way), "take it off and throw it over here."
And he continued flirting with her all show. And not just her. Pretty much every woman in a ten row radius of the stage. It was like going to Hooters with your Grandpa and watching him pinch asses and "drop" chicken wings.
The second great thing about the Price Is Right is screaming. On the more staid gameshows like, say, Jeopardy or the one with no whammies, you aren't allowed to yell the answers at the contestants. Not on Price Is Right. No, no. Here, you can shout anything you want: "Seven Hundred Fifty!" "Forty five Rupees!" "Man's Search For Meaning!" It helps if you've had some Brandy milk punch for breakfast.
I mention this because at the beginning of every tour, we play Price Is Right with our overall mileage. Guesses are made, scratch-off lotto tickets are bet, prognostications are recorded. This time around, the estimates range from eleven thousand miles to seventeen thousand, one hundred and eleven, the last being mine. In the past few days, however, we've all reconsidered. I think my guess, ludicrously high on its face, is now dangerously low. We've gone 3,300 miles already. We've been gone for a week. Barely. And, in total, we're doing west coast to east coast to west coast to east coast back home to the west. Which is to say, if we were on Price Is Right, I'd probably win, though, as they tell you when you're sitting down: "Men are discouraged from hugging Bob Barker." I wonder if Drew Carey is as squeamish a homophobe.
Since we spoke last, we've enjoyed Virginia, both in Charlottesville and Fredericksburg. We were pre-empted in Charlottesville by the Sarah Palin Show, which we missed, but that's okay: I'm dumb enough already. I don't need the extra help. Charlottesville is a gorgeous old city, all bricks and trees and pedestrians, and our showmates, Bird Lips, were both tall and excellent in equal measure. They're a folk duo (keys and twelve-string) that sounds nothing like you're assuming. Our best to them.
And then we went to Fredericksburg, VA. Fredericksburg is just one of those places, which is to say, a place we happened upon, fell in love with, and hope to come back to every time we're on the East Coast. This was our second time there and we played in a 222 year old bookstore, one which has a truly inconvenient post in the middle of the "stage" but one which sounds surprisingly great. It's got a strange, cozy, D.I.Y. aura to it and the kids that come are really, really fun people to have at a show. They sing along, they clap along, they hoot constantly. And you know what? We've played with three bands from Fredericksburg and they've all been amazing. When I was 16, I was playing horrible metal cheese in my family room. These kids are writing catchy pop songs and playing the shit out of them. So, if you're in the area and you ever see "Rocky's Revival," "Carlos I'm Pregnant", or "Tereu Tereu" at a show, do yourself a favor: go see them. They will blow your mind.
Tonight: Philly. We meet the Rumble Strips. I will make an ass of myself. I look forward to it all.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
In which Birdmonster accidentally descends into filth yet escapes, unscathed
When you spend twelve hours a day in a van, you feel a certain solidarity with the truckers of America: you eat at the same Subways, drink the same cocaine-strength, coffee, and get hit on by the same crusty, wizened wait staff. Also: muscle atrophy. It's a glorious life.
Recently, however, I've learned a few things about truck drivers that live underneath the cliches of fatal corpulence, "accidental" thefts, and the gargling of meth-amphetamines. Both have roots in a fundamental politeness that is most often overlooked when pondering the American trucker. First, there's a secret language of headlights, hazards, and brake lights on the road. Second, they love blowing each other.
While both are intrinsically linked in a rugged system of do unto others etiquitte, it's important to stress that both are not done simultaneously. The first is, as I noted, a special vernacular on the highway: when a trucker passes another and has gotten far enough ahead to make going back into the slow lane safe, the passed trucker will flash his brights two or three times. Duly informed that he's safely ahead, the trucker in front will enter the same lane and put his hazards on for a few seconds in gesture of thanks. It's like Miss Manners, if Miss Manners was an hyper-obese teamster. I've taken to doing it myself and, when a trucker flashes the hazards back as thanksgiving, it's almost like falling in love all over again.
Then there's the other thing. There's a liquor store up the street from me where I purchase my Tecate, Rice Krispies, and Peter Pan peanut butter. Near the cash register, there's a rack with surprisingly filthy porno on it. Words like "cockmeat" are bandied about. I mention this because trucker graffiti makes that porno stand seem like a commercial for plug-in potpourri. The thing is, the graffiti is explicit: meet me in this stall at this time on this day and I'll...do things to you that would make John Waters blush. Trucker graffiti is the exact opposite of the Victorian novel. Unless I missed that Bronte novel called "Wuthering Testicles on Your Chin."
I figured that the wall-scrawlings I saw in Wyoming would be the filth-nastiest thing I saw on tour. Or, failing that, at least a couple days. And then we went to brunch in Denver.
See, there's this diner in Denver called the "Bump and Grind." During the working week, it's your typical diner. Think a hipper version of Denny's. On the weekends, however, they do something they call the "Petticoat Brunch." Nothing changes, really, except the waiters. And they change in a very specific way: they cross dress. Badly. Really badly. Really, really badly.
I'd describe our "waitress," but like the man says, a picture is worth a thousand words:
Yeah. Exactly. If trucker graffiti can make John Waters blush, the Petticoat Brunch would make Caligula faint. It's not the sort of place you take your children, that is, unless you want your child to get pegged with a bean-bag shaped like a boob. Or, say, have a gentleman put cream in your coffee in a manner that could be heavily undersold as "suggestive."
But the thing is, I was almost crying by the end. It was one of the most thoroughly enjoyable eating experiences I've ever had. Our shim waiter-ess was hilarious, my egg roulade scrumptious. My cheeks hurt from constant laughter. If you live in Denver, you need to spend one weekend at the Bump and Grind. You will not regret it.
Much.
Of course, the tour has not been a carnival of disturbing male sexuality. No, no. We've put down 2,400 miles in a few days and played both Denver and Omaha. In Denver, we played at a Sunday barbeque that was decidedly Country flavored. I broke my bass (a near tradition) and we got to stomp ourboots sneakers and twang it out for a night. A few old friends made the night special and, for a kick-off show, I couldn't expect anything better than friendly faces.
On the way to Omaha, we listened to both Springsteen's "Nebraska" and that Counting Crows song "Omaha"---it's like being in Lodi. Sometimes you just have to. It was our first time in Omaha and I didn't break my other bass. That's good. Also good: the show. Not much to talk about there except our first Omaha-seasoned evening made us want to return over and over again. Not to go to Boys Town, but to, you know, play music. Had to make sure that you didn't think I was going to go on Sally Jessie and end up being spittled upon by a cue-bald failed Marine.
And now? Well, now I'm detoxing from a dinner of ham on Wonderbread, smothered in fries and that cheese sauce you put on nachos at the ballpark. My blood is turning to oil. It's great. I think I'm going to go hibernate.
Recently, however, I've learned a few things about truck drivers that live underneath the cliches of fatal corpulence, "accidental" thefts, and the gargling of meth-amphetamines. Both have roots in a fundamental politeness that is most often overlooked when pondering the American trucker. First, there's a secret language of headlights, hazards, and brake lights on the road. Second, they love blowing each other.
While both are intrinsically linked in a rugged system of do unto others etiquitte, it's important to stress that both are not done simultaneously. The first is, as I noted, a special vernacular on the highway: when a trucker passes another and has gotten far enough ahead to make going back into the slow lane safe, the passed trucker will flash his brights two or three times. Duly informed that he's safely ahead, the trucker in front will enter the same lane and put his hazards on for a few seconds in gesture of thanks. It's like Miss Manners, if Miss Manners was an hyper-obese teamster. I've taken to doing it myself and, when a trucker flashes the hazards back as thanksgiving, it's almost like falling in love all over again.
Then there's the other thing. There's a liquor store up the street from me where I purchase my Tecate, Rice Krispies, and Peter Pan peanut butter. Near the cash register, there's a rack with surprisingly filthy porno on it. Words like "cockmeat" are bandied about. I mention this because trucker graffiti makes that porno stand seem like a commercial for plug-in potpourri. The thing is, the graffiti is explicit: meet me in this stall at this time on this day and I'll...do things to you that would make John Waters blush. Trucker graffiti is the exact opposite of the Victorian novel. Unless I missed that Bronte novel called "Wuthering Testicles on Your Chin."
I figured that the wall-scrawlings I saw in Wyoming would be the filth-nastiest thing I saw on tour. Or, failing that, at least a couple days. And then we went to brunch in Denver.
See, there's this diner in Denver called the "Bump and Grind." During the working week, it's your typical diner. Think a hipper version of Denny's. On the weekends, however, they do something they call the "Petticoat Brunch." Nothing changes, really, except the waiters. And they change in a very specific way: they cross dress. Badly. Really badly. Really, really badly.
I'd describe our "waitress," but like the man says, a picture is worth a thousand words:
Yeah. Exactly. If trucker graffiti can make John Waters blush, the Petticoat Brunch would make Caligula faint. It's not the sort of place you take your children, that is, unless you want your child to get pegged with a bean-bag shaped like a boob. Or, say, have a gentleman put cream in your coffee in a manner that could be heavily undersold as "suggestive."
But the thing is, I was almost crying by the end. It was one of the most thoroughly enjoyable eating experiences I've ever had. Our shim waiter-ess was hilarious, my egg roulade scrumptious. My cheeks hurt from constant laughter. If you live in Denver, you need to spend one weekend at the Bump and Grind. You will not regret it.
Much.
Of course, the tour has not been a carnival of disturbing male sexuality. No, no. We've put down 2,400 miles in a few days and played both Denver and Omaha. In Denver, we played at a Sunday barbeque that was decidedly Country flavored. I broke my bass (a near tradition) and we got to stomp our
On the way to Omaha, we listened to both Springsteen's "Nebraska" and that Counting Crows song "Omaha"---it's like being in Lodi. Sometimes you just have to. It was our first time in Omaha and I didn't break my other bass. That's good. Also good: the show. Not much to talk about there except our first Omaha-seasoned evening made us want to return over and over again. Not to go to Boys Town, but to, you know, play music. Had to make sure that you didn't think I was going to go on Sally Jessie and end up being spittled upon by a cue-bald failed Marine.
And now? Well, now I'm detoxing from a dinner of ham on Wonderbread, smothered in fries and that cheese sauce you put on nachos at the ballpark. My blood is turning to oil. It's great. I think I'm going to go hibernate.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Well, sure. But I still love the "Secret of N.I.H.M."
I'm always conflicted before a long tour. While most of me is overjoyed at the prospect of trundling across America with my three closest friends, playing music nightly, and clogging our arteries with all manner of regional grease, there's that other part that hyperventilates over the loose ends and responsibilities I'm leaving behind. Have I saved enough money for rent? Why hasn't my absentee ballot come? Should I get that fungal bloom behind my ear checked out? These are the important issues.
And so I began the perfunctory week-before-tour last Friday. Uncharacteristically, I'd made a list of to-do's, a two page list filled brim high with errand running, duct tape instrument surgery, van maintenance, and preemptive boozing. And of course, there are contingencies: an old friend inviting me out for a going away lunch, for example. Or a sudden onset of Stephen King addiction. Or a Kurt Russell movie on T.V. Or, say, a bunch of rats in your kitchen.
That last one can really ruin your plans.
It started on Sunday. Which is to say, we noticed it on Sunday. A gnawed apple behind the oven, the scuttling of vermin feet, tiny turds on the hardwood floor. We responded with violent alacrity: cleared the counter of produce, cleaned the kitchen with Michael-Jackson-strength bleach, purchased rat traps. We caught one instantaneously and, after allowing ourselves the hallucination that maybe we only had a rat, a second one came and made our problem plural.
Ew.
Now, if you've been in a similar situation, you're familiar with the emotions that come with rat/mouse/roach/guy-who-won't-get-off-the-effing-couch infestation: a sense of invasion, anger, and straight ickiness. Or, if you're of a more philosophical bent, perhaps a knowledge of your own fragile mortality. To put it another way: you never know when a spring-loaded trap is going to fly down and crush your brains.
However you feel about it, it's unpleasant. For us four Birdmonsters though, it's a prelude to what we can expect out of our motels this tour. No. That's not fair. It's what we can expect out of non-chain-motels. Because, while being a San Franciscan means you're supposed to hate chain stores because they gut the community, displace small businesses, and take money out of neighborhoods, touring has proven to me the overall greatness of chain motels. The gecko we found under the covers in Florida? Not a chain. The possible-blood-stain on the bathroom door in Oregon? Not a chain. The decapitated hooker under the bed? You get the idea.
But it does, in it's own weird way, highlight what touring is about. If I was at home, I'd be engaged in an epic battle of wills with a legions of vermin, simultaneously grossed out and bonding with my roommates over small triumphs like squished rat heads. Instead, I'll be in a new town every night, bonding with my bandmates over small triumphs like making it to soundcheck on time and selling the last XXL yellow Birdmonster shirt. What I'm saying is that the whole affairs reminded me how much different bar/van/hotel life really is that normal life. The things you deal with at home, even the mundane ones like making your bed or going grocery shopping, simply do not exist on the road, replaced instead with stripping your bed of the herpes-infected comforter and deciding which fast food you'll be choking down at this particular rest stop. It's not better or worse, per se. Just different. And, of course, incredibly fun.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get my Pied Piper on.
And so I began the perfunctory week-before-tour last Friday. Uncharacteristically, I'd made a list of to-do's, a two page list filled brim high with errand running, duct tape instrument surgery, van maintenance, and preemptive boozing. And of course, there are contingencies: an old friend inviting me out for a going away lunch, for example. Or a sudden onset of Stephen King addiction. Or a Kurt Russell movie on T.V. Or, say, a bunch of rats in your kitchen.
That last one can really ruin your plans.
It started on Sunday. Which is to say, we noticed it on Sunday. A gnawed apple behind the oven, the scuttling of vermin feet, tiny turds on the hardwood floor. We responded with violent alacrity: cleared the counter of produce, cleaned the kitchen with Michael-Jackson-strength bleach, purchased rat traps. We caught one instantaneously and, after allowing ourselves the hallucination that maybe we only had a rat, a second one came and made our problem plural.
Ew.
Now, if you've been in a similar situation, you're familiar with the emotions that come with rat/mouse/roach/guy-who-won't-get-off-the-effing-couch infestation: a sense of invasion, anger, and straight ickiness. Or, if you're of a more philosophical bent, perhaps a knowledge of your own fragile mortality. To put it another way: you never know when a spring-loaded trap is going to fly down and crush your brains.
However you feel about it, it's unpleasant. For us four Birdmonsters though, it's a prelude to what we can expect out of our motels this tour. No. That's not fair. It's what we can expect out of non-chain-motels. Because, while being a San Franciscan means you're supposed to hate chain stores because they gut the community, displace small businesses, and take money out of neighborhoods, touring has proven to me the overall greatness of chain motels. The gecko we found under the covers in Florida? Not a chain. The possible-blood-stain on the bathroom door in Oregon? Not a chain. The decapitated hooker under the bed? You get the idea.
But it does, in it's own weird way, highlight what touring is about. If I was at home, I'd be engaged in an epic battle of wills with a legions of vermin, simultaneously grossed out and bonding with my roommates over small triumphs like squished rat heads. Instead, I'll be in a new town every night, bonding with my bandmates over small triumphs like making it to soundcheck on time and selling the last XXL yellow Birdmonster shirt. What I'm saying is that the whole affairs reminded me how much different bar/van/hotel life really is that normal life. The things you deal with at home, even the mundane ones like making your bed or going grocery shopping, simply do not exist on the road, replaced instead with stripping your bed of the herpes-infected comforter and deciding which fast food you'll be choking down at this particular rest stop. It's not better or worse, per se. Just different. And, of course, incredibly fun.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get my Pied Piper on.
Friday, September 19, 2008
On parenting, video-making, and the continued persistence of all things Rocky. Well, more about the first two things.
Lately I've been surrounded by bad parenting. Not from my parents, per se (though they did send me a letter bomb and the shriveled body of my childhood fish "Mr. Gillsworthy" last week), but from parents at large. First, there was the couple who brought their baby to "The Dark Knight," the parenting equivalent of Operation "Just Cause" (which, for clarification, was when the US Army played "Welcome to the Jungle" as loud and as constantly as possible to frustrate Manuel Noriega into surrender back in '89. It worked. Guns 'N' Roses then ran for Senate and lost to Paul Anka.) Then there was the set of parents I heard exchanging all sorts of vibrant language while bottle-feeding their pair of children; I'm no expert on child-rearing, certainly, but I doubt a conversation comprised largely of racial epithets, blue language, and multiple synonyms for male genitalia is setting up baby for success. Though, if the ever do a celebrity roast at his preschool, he could emcee.
Then, there was last weekend's plane flight. See, we were flying to Seattle to do an honest-to-God video and I had the good fortune of getting the "screaming baby seat," a seat nearly as coveted as the exit row or the one behind first class with the extra leg room my dad calls "Poor Man's First Class." It was supposed to be like this: Mom & baby in 23A, Dad in 23C, me in 23B. But nobody wanted that, so I did what any normal human would do: let the happy parents sit together by trading seats with Dad, that way, he could enjoy the miracle that is child rearing while I could finish the Stephen King book I'd just started*. Everybody wins, right?
Wrong.
About 15 minutes before we're taxiing, baby starts crying. No big deal. This is to be expected. What's not to be expected is Dad's knee-jerk reaction: "This is why I didn't want kids." I hope he remembers that for the baby's next birthday: "Blow out the candles, my little mistake. I wish I could take a mulligan on your whole existence, yes I do! yes I do!"
Of course, Dad's surly commentary did not calm baby. No, no. This baby was angry and it needed to let everyone know about it. So it cried: cried through taxiing, cried through the intelligence-insulting "here's how a seatbelt works" speech, cried through chapters 6-10, cried through the take-off. Indeed, kept crying long enough to hear one last gem from Dad. Mom had to fetch some more fake-milk from her purse and so, handed little baby off to Dad, who, by way of greeting said "Shut up, you goddamn baby."
If I'd had a few beers in me, I probably would have said something. I would have tried to be cutting, incisive, didactic, and flippant. But it was 2 in the afternoon and I was tragically sober so I went back to reading about the gunslinger while trying to explode Dad's head with telepathic brain-ju-ju. When we landed, I called the Bellagio and put $50 on an "impending divorce" / "maternal custody" quinella. They're shit odds, but sometimes you gotta bet the chalk.
We were flying to Seattle, like I mentioned, to film a video for a track on the new album. Since still photographs make me moderately nervous (I'm afraid they're steal my soul), the idea of film had petrified me into a state agoraphobic inertness. But this had the possibility of being something truly fun, so I ditched my fake psychosis and flew to Seattle. And you know what? It was. It was fun, I mean. Strike this paragraph from your memory.
Without spoiling any of the surprise for when it's actually completed and because lists are the crutch of writers who no longer feel like writing transitions or being vaguely linear, I've decided to do a brief list about what I learned while filming our video. Onwards:
- There was a twelve-year old kid in our video. We liked him. When I was twelve, life centered around "Magic: the Gathering," video games, soccer, and trying to drink as many cans of soda as I could before my heart erupted from my ribcage. I was a sad, sad, child. This kid, less than half my age, had already achieved one of my life's goals: to be an extra in a zombie movie. Regular readers will know that my acting career is to encompass only one faze: a complete cornering of all wizard-related roles when I'm 70 and older. I'll be growing that beard starting two decades before, smoking cigarettes to sag my face into a look of wizened genius, and wearing only sparkly muu-muus. However, I've also always wanted to be devoured alive on camera, preferably in some low-budget C-movie and preferably by a zombie eating either my innards while I lie on a table yelling in mock-agony. Anyway, the kid in our video had his brains eaten in exactly one such movie. I wish my childhood had been less dorky and more zombie.
- There was also an old dude in our video. We liked him. I almost told him my wizard idea, but I didn't want him to take it. I know I've got a good forty-plus years until this plan goes into action, but you can't go blabbing it to real actors. That's like telling a joke to Carlos Mencia; you know he's stealing that shit.
- Part of the conceit of the video involved a family room and it's eventually plant-related destruction. Now, since we couldn't afford Michael Bay or ILM, we were allowed to, you know, actually destroy an entire room. That was great. Nothing brings people together like building things, unless that something is breaking things. Unfortunately, we had to fly home before the room was completely and utterly razed. And, in a way, that's good. It'll be new and exciting to me when I see it. The gentleman who built the room was also the point man for it's controlled demise and I kept thinking about that Simpsons where Bart sees his future, employed as a wrecking ball operator and says "I can't believe they pay me for this." I just thought I'd share that.
- In fact, everyone on the set was great. And I'm not just saying that. When you're in a situation that's new to you, vaguely intimidating, and under a serious time-crunch, it takes a whole crew of good folks to get it done and get it done well. We had that. It's a luxury to a band that's been to bars where they've had to do their own sound or restaurants where they've had to make their own salads.** So thanks to one and all.
- We had maybe 5 hours of off-time in Seattle and we managed to watch the beginning of Rocky III and the end of Rocky II, which proves a thesis from the last post: Rocky is always on TV always no matter what. That's comforting to me.
Lastly, and not related to anything video-y or horrible-parenting-y, we leave for tour in seven days. I'm nervous and overjoyed simultaneously. This also means copious bloggery because, you know, I'll actually be doing something instead of, say, spending a half-day critiquing Rocky IV. I'm happy about this development.
----------------
* Its been a while for me and Stephen and I foolishly chose the "Dark Tower" series, an 8,000 some-odd page epic which has addicted me like only a heroin-crack-nicotine muffin could. At least I know how I'll be spending my free time for the foreseeable future.
** I hate salad bars, by the way. As if a sneeze-shield can make me forget about the guy in overalls who just fingered his ass-crack before going thumb-first into the Jello. I'd like my food prepared behind closed doors where I can't see that stuff happening.
Then, there was last weekend's plane flight. See, we were flying to Seattle to do an honest-to-God video and I had the good fortune of getting the "screaming baby seat," a seat nearly as coveted as the exit row or the one behind first class with the extra leg room my dad calls "Poor Man's First Class." It was supposed to be like this: Mom & baby in 23A, Dad in 23C, me in 23B. But nobody wanted that, so I did what any normal human would do: let the happy parents sit together by trading seats with Dad, that way, he could enjoy the miracle that is child rearing while I could finish the Stephen King book I'd just started*. Everybody wins, right?
Wrong.
About 15 minutes before we're taxiing, baby starts crying. No big deal. This is to be expected. What's not to be expected is Dad's knee-jerk reaction: "This is why I didn't want kids." I hope he remembers that for the baby's next birthday: "Blow out the candles, my little mistake. I wish I could take a mulligan on your whole existence, yes I do! yes I do!"
Of course, Dad's surly commentary did not calm baby. No, no. This baby was angry and it needed to let everyone know about it. So it cried: cried through taxiing, cried through the intelligence-insulting "here's how a seatbelt works" speech, cried through chapters 6-10, cried through the take-off. Indeed, kept crying long enough to hear one last gem from Dad. Mom had to fetch some more fake-milk from her purse and so, handed little baby off to Dad, who, by way of greeting said "Shut up, you goddamn baby."
If I'd had a few beers in me, I probably would have said something. I would have tried to be cutting, incisive, didactic, and flippant. But it was 2 in the afternoon and I was tragically sober so I went back to reading about the gunslinger while trying to explode Dad's head with telepathic brain-ju-ju. When we landed, I called the Bellagio and put $50 on an "impending divorce" / "maternal custody" quinella. They're shit odds, but sometimes you gotta bet the chalk.
We were flying to Seattle, like I mentioned, to film a video for a track on the new album. Since still photographs make me moderately nervous (I'm afraid they're steal my soul), the idea of film had petrified me into a state agoraphobic inertness. But this had the possibility of being something truly fun, so I ditched my fake psychosis and flew to Seattle. And you know what? It was. It was fun, I mean. Strike this paragraph from your memory.
Without spoiling any of the surprise for when it's actually completed and because lists are the crutch of writers who no longer feel like writing transitions or being vaguely linear, I've decided to do a brief list about what I learned while filming our video. Onwards:
- There was a twelve-year old kid in our video. We liked him. When I was twelve, life centered around "Magic: the Gathering," video games, soccer, and trying to drink as many cans of soda as I could before my heart erupted from my ribcage. I was a sad, sad, child. This kid, less than half my age, had already achieved one of my life's goals: to be an extra in a zombie movie. Regular readers will know that my acting career is to encompass only one faze: a complete cornering of all wizard-related roles when I'm 70 and older. I'll be growing that beard starting two decades before, smoking cigarettes to sag my face into a look of wizened genius, and wearing only sparkly muu-muus. However, I've also always wanted to be devoured alive on camera, preferably in some low-budget C-movie and preferably by a zombie eating either my innards while I lie on a table yelling in mock-agony. Anyway, the kid in our video had his brains eaten in exactly one such movie. I wish my childhood had been less dorky and more zombie.
- There was also an old dude in our video. We liked him. I almost told him my wizard idea, but I didn't want him to take it. I know I've got a good forty-plus years until this plan goes into action, but you can't go blabbing it to real actors. That's like telling a joke to Carlos Mencia; you know he's stealing that shit.
- Part of the conceit of the video involved a family room and it's eventually plant-related destruction. Now, since we couldn't afford Michael Bay or ILM, we were allowed to, you know, actually destroy an entire room. That was great. Nothing brings people together like building things, unless that something is breaking things. Unfortunately, we had to fly home before the room was completely and utterly razed. And, in a way, that's good. It'll be new and exciting to me when I see it. The gentleman who built the room was also the point man for it's controlled demise and I kept thinking about that Simpsons where Bart sees his future, employed as a wrecking ball operator and says "I can't believe they pay me for this." I just thought I'd share that.
- In fact, everyone on the set was great. And I'm not just saying that. When you're in a situation that's new to you, vaguely intimidating, and under a serious time-crunch, it takes a whole crew of good folks to get it done and get it done well. We had that. It's a luxury to a band that's been to bars where they've had to do their own sound or restaurants where they've had to make their own salads.** So thanks to one and all.
- We had maybe 5 hours of off-time in Seattle and we managed to watch the beginning of Rocky III and the end of Rocky II, which proves a thesis from the last post: Rocky is always on TV always no matter what. That's comforting to me.
Lastly, and not related to anything video-y or horrible-parenting-y, we leave for tour in seven days. I'm nervous and overjoyed simultaneously. This also means copious bloggery because, you know, I'll actually be doing something instead of, say, spending a half-day critiquing Rocky IV. I'm happy about this development.
----------------
* Its been a while for me and Stephen and I foolishly chose the "Dark Tower" series, an 8,000 some-odd page epic which has addicted me like only a heroin-crack-nicotine muffin could. At least I know how I'll be spending my free time for the foreseeable future.
** I hate salad bars, by the way. As if a sneeze-shield can make me forget about the guy in overalls who just fingered his ass-crack before going thumb-first into the Jello. I'd like my food prepared behind closed doors where I can't see that stuff happening.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
This Is What We Talk About When We Talk About the Internet
Technology, it has been said, is neither good nor evil; it's the people that make it that way. Essentially, nothing says it with more subtle class than the shirt Richard Kiel wears at the end of Happy Gilmore: "Guns Don't Kill People; I Kill People." Ah, Happy Gilmore, forever the bringer of wisdom.
But don't take Mr Larson's word for it. Let's discuss. The fork allowed the European aristocracy to avoid eating only with knives, which presumably cut down on hideous facial scarring, but also kept clumsy white folks from using chop sticks. The advent of radio provided instantaneous news, serial dramas, and music in every home before it became the province of xenophobic race-baiters, wacky drivetime douche bags, and Hoobastank. Or take robotics, the surest symbol of technological advancement, which allowed for lightning quick production of taquitos while the robots themselves simultaneous plot our Terminator-inspired genocide.
And then there's the internet. At its best, it's a massive amalgamation of a library, a jukebox, an international news stand, an atlas, a high school reunion, the postal service, the yellow pages, your phone and TV, and the only way you can order a Ped Egg without staying awake in an insomniac stupor waiting patiently for the one eight hundred number. On the other hand, the internet teems with emoticons, misinformation, accidentally horrifying image searches, neurotic abbreviators, look-at-me! contrarians, and videos publicizing David Hasselhoff's alcoholic beef hankerings. In other words, "The Internet doesn't kill people; LOLCATS kill people."
Now, while our band's mealtime conversations are usually confined to arguments about Robert Downey Jr., the general scuzziness of our current eatery, and what style of bowel movement today's fast food will bring, one afternoon in Clovis, we found ourselves talking seriously about Old Man Internet. I worried aloud, not unlike many toothless Luddites before me, that as the internet becomes more ubiquitous, it has the potential to actually make people's memory worse. If you had the internet, say, in your home, your car, on your phone, belt, shirt, and Dr. Seuss underoos, what's the point of committing facts to memory? I'm not saying we'll lose our memories completely, but, to put it another way, when's the last time you did long division? Sure, maybe you still remember how, but, meh, there are calculators everywhere.
And let's be clear. I'm not claiming that the internet will be to blame when we devolve into a race of android mole people, masturbating furiously at our computers, our t-shirts streaked with Cheeto resin. The robots will get us long before that, anyhow. I'm just saying the internet has already made memory less valuable. Personally, I resort to online driving directions with Pavlovian regularity, trust the Interwebs to solve most of my factual arguments, and have looked up the same goddamn Hollandaise recipe fifty times. My descent into slurry-brained curmudgeonitude speeds ever onward. So, since the internet will eventually replace my brain, there seems only one thing to do: make it a better place.
Which, of course, brings us to Rocky IV.
See, twenty-three years after it was released in the theatre, Rocky IV remains a benchmark of popular culture, male bonding, and horrible man-kimonos. In fact, if you have cable, you're probably watching Rocky IV right now. Since I live significantly below the poverty line, I do not have this thing you call cable but I do in fact have the Rocky box set, and I keep Rocky IV playing on a continuous loop in my squalid hobbit hole.
Now, in case you haven't seen it (and, really: may God have mercy on your soul), Rocky IV is yet another retelling of the David and Goliath fable, this time around with a decidedly Cold War flavoring. Our Goliath is Dolph Lundgren, a thespian who would later star in Masters of the Universe, Universal Soldier, and Fat Slags. Here, Dolph is Ivan Drago, the impossibly burly Russian colossus who fustigates Apollo Creed to death, which thereby obligates Rocky to avenge Apollo by abandoning his child, flying to the Soviet Union, and getting all Italian Stallion on Drago's face. Rocky's plucky performance wins over the once hostile Soviet crowd, brings out the individualist in Drago, and brings fake-Gorbichov to his feet with the stirring "If I can change...and you can change...everyone can change!" speech. To put that in perspective, it'd be like if they made a movie about the 1940 Olympics and a Jewish pole vaulter made Hitler cry. In fact, let me write that one down.
While Rocky IV is brilliant in many ways, part of me believes that Sly wrote Rocky IV on a cocktail napkin while watching the Miracle on Ice. See, Rocky IV doesn't really have much dialog. Or a script. Or what I believe you movie snobs call "scenes." No, Rocky IV is more of a delicately constructed series of montages, flashbacks, montages, screaming, and montages. Which brings us full circle, to making the internet a better place. "How so?" you might ask. Well, if we're considering Rocky IV the apex of horrible-awesomeness, I think its important to map out just what makes this movie as horribly-awesome as it is. My theory is that it goes beyond the not-all-that-touching death of Apollo Creed, beyond the fact that a man-sized 80's robot has more dialogue than the central villain, beyond the Cold War posturing, the thoroughly questionable fashion decisions, the sheer 1985-ness of it all. What makes Rocky IV truly unique is the near-complete lack of original footage, dialog, and actual on-screen happenings. Rocky IV is so badgood because it isn't actually a movie: it's a clip show.
So, with that premise, I set out to watch Rocky IV for the six hundredth time. These are my findings:
(Spoilers abound, but, really, if I've still got you by now, I'll assume you've seen Rocky IV. Or you're incredibly bored. I'm not picky.)
-------------------------
0:00:00-0:00:45: Perhaps the greatest opening credit sequence in all cinema history: two boxing gloves, one upholstered to look like an American flag, the other a Soviet hammer & sickle, float around for thirty seconds then slam into each other and explode all over your face. That's called "foreshadowing." Cut immediately to Mr. T screaming.
0:00:46-0:03:29: Forty-six seconds in and we're already flashing back. The rest of our credits are a montaged rehash of Mr. T. tenderizing Rocky to the tune of "Eye of the Tiger," followed by Stallone's "improbable" comeback. But wait! Then we're treated to the entire last scene of Rocky III, which might be amusing had I not watched Rocky III last night. Did I mention I don't have a job?
0:03:30-0:14:21: Our first spell of new footage not entirely comprised of boxing apparel explodinating everywhere is actually a rather long one. I begin to rethink my hypothesis. Our new footage does contain Rocky's son slow-dancing with a robot, which is weird and wrong.
0:14:22-0:14:50: Honorable mention to this scene, where Rocky and Apollo actually watch Rocky II during Rocky IV. It's like the play "The Murder of Gonzago" within Hamlet, except with waaay better dialogue.
0:14:51- 0:23:09: Apollo agrees toget pummeled to death on live TV fight an "exhibition" match against Drago. Paulie calls a Russian "Comrade Bigmouth." I seriously consider playing online Boggle instead of watching the rest of this movie.
0:23:10- 0:25:44: Nothing says streamlined plotting like a two and a half minute James Brown performance, especially when James makes no attempt to lip sync into the microphone. The song? "Living in America." It's about how awesome it is to live in America. The vast amount of well-endowed dancing ladies provides ample proof.
0:25:45 - 0:40:54: After saying "Man, I feel born again" and "I feel so alive," Apollo promptly dies. "What started out as a joke," says one of the ring-side commentators, "has turned into a disaster." I feel the same way about spending four hours writing about Rocky IV.
0:40:55 -0:45:12: With Apollo dead, Rocky decides to mourn by driving around at high speeds, ignoring the road with criminal negligence, and sinking into a four minute, hallucinatory montage. Here, we're treated to flashbacks from not only Rocky I, II, and III, but Rocky IV as well, which is ponderous, since we're watching it...right now. That's called "padding." Stallone also remembers the most infamous scene in all Rockydom, a scene so badgood, it has been captured on YouTube for constant consumption:
(There's so much to love here, even beyond the horribly awkward dry-humping-in-the-crashing-waves-y-ness of it all. Personally, I enjoy how Carl Weathers is obviously jogging while Stallone sprints with the a look somewhere between "pained" and "I'm having an aneurysm.")
0:47:58 -0:48:41 & 49:44 - 50:30: Rocky flies to Russia, which is of course introduced via Survivor-scored montage. "Can any nation stand alone?" they ponder, in song. The answer, we learn, is sort of. But only if that nation has Rocky. AMERICA!!!!
0:55:02 -0:58:11: No Rocky movie is complete without the obligatory "Training Montage." While Drago trains on ultra-hyper-mega-futuristic weight machines, Rocky lifts big ass logs over his head and grunts. It's a pleasant reminder of the days when Americans were frightened by Soviet technological might. Whereas now, we're just scared of Putin. I call that progress.
0:58:12 - 59:21: Rocky's vigorous training has transmogrified him into a hipster. He's sporting a "I'm in Russia now" beard and women's pants. Apparently Adrian has arrived, but since she's horrible and shrewlike, we will ignore this development.
59:22 -1:03:31: And we're back to the training montage, which comes in at a staggering six minutes, eighteen seconds. I'm glad too, because that full minute of dialog had me exhausted.
1:03:32 - 1:07:59: Finally, it's fight time. I'm not sure when, but Rocky shaved his beard, which makes him less likely to ride his fixed-gear to a PBR happy hour.
1:08:00- 1:09:17: After the fighters enter the ring, we get a minute more of padding in the Russian national anthem. Why Drago is on the flag is never fully explained.
1:11:02-1:16:05: During the years in which all the Rockys are set, the World Boxing Association declared blocking illegal. Rocky begins the fight with his patented "deflect punches with face" strategy before he opens a cut over Drago's eye with a mean right cross.
1:16:06- 1:19:45: After two real rounds, we spend the next twelve in full-on montage mode. Rocky takes enough punishment that he'll have to retire in Rocky V due to overwhelming brain trauma...that is, until that movie sucked really hard and they made Rocky VI and he fought again and then they made made money with that so now there's going to be a Rocky VII, in which Rocky fights incontinence and Lou Gehrig's disease.
1:19:46 - 1:26:39: Rocky wins, to the surprise of absolutely no one. The final shot is indicative of Stallone's subtle impressionism: Balboa, bloodied, triumphant, draped in the American flag, cheered on by thousands of once-hostile Russians. And fade out.
First: the dry facts. Counting the spinning gloves and the post-modern "watching Rocky II within Rocky IV" scene, a full twenty-three minutes and twenty-six seconds of Rocky IV's anorexic 86 minute running time is entirely composed of montages, flashbacks, extended musical performances, and a shocking lack of anything approaching a plot. That's 27 percent of the movie, a total that, not unlike Cal Ripken's record for consecutive games played, will simply never be equaled.
But a funny thing happened on my way to the end of Rocky IV: I realized that its inherent awesomeness has little to do with the obvious lack of actual movieness and more with its bizarre, uncontainable spirit. I'm probably a sucker, but I love Rocky. I love the fact he speaks like a mentally disabled teamster; I love that he wears a man-kimino; I love that he's always the underdog. When Rocky VII comes out (and God willing, it shall), I don't even care what Rocky's doing: making pancakes, fighting hobos, convalescing, whatever. Whatever it is, you can be damn sure no one will believe in him, that he'll only have himself to lean on, and, in the end, he'll whoop that pancake's ass.
So, did we make the internet a better place? Doubtful. But I rediscovered my long dormant love of Rocky IV. It's like that friend who lets you make fun of him, doesn't take it personally, and continues surprising you, even when he shouldn't. And, in case anyone wants to know exactly how long the Rocky driving montage is, I've got them covered.
But don't take Mr Larson's word for it. Let's discuss. The fork allowed the European aristocracy to avoid eating only with knives, which presumably cut down on hideous facial scarring, but also kept clumsy white folks from using chop sticks. The advent of radio provided instantaneous news, serial dramas, and music in every home before it became the province of xenophobic race-baiters, wacky drivetime douche bags, and Hoobastank. Or take robotics, the surest symbol of technological advancement, which allowed for lightning quick production of taquitos while the robots themselves simultaneous plot our Terminator-inspired genocide.
And then there's the internet. At its best, it's a massive amalgamation of a library, a jukebox, an international news stand, an atlas, a high school reunion, the postal service, the yellow pages, your phone and TV, and the only way you can order a Ped Egg without staying awake in an insomniac stupor waiting patiently for the one eight hundred number. On the other hand, the internet teems with emoticons, misinformation, accidentally horrifying image searches, neurotic abbreviators, look-at-me! contrarians, and videos publicizing David Hasselhoff's alcoholic beef hankerings. In other words, "The Internet doesn't kill people; LOLCATS kill people."
Now, while our band's mealtime conversations are usually confined to arguments about Robert Downey Jr., the general scuzziness of our current eatery, and what style of bowel movement today's fast food will bring, one afternoon in Clovis, we found ourselves talking seriously about Old Man Internet. I worried aloud, not unlike many toothless Luddites before me, that as the internet becomes more ubiquitous, it has the potential to actually make people's memory worse. If you had the internet, say, in your home, your car, on your phone, belt, shirt, and Dr. Seuss underoos, what's the point of committing facts to memory? I'm not saying we'll lose our memories completely, but, to put it another way, when's the last time you did long division? Sure, maybe you still remember how, but, meh, there are calculators everywhere.
And let's be clear. I'm not claiming that the internet will be to blame when we devolve into a race of android mole people, masturbating furiously at our computers, our t-shirts streaked with Cheeto resin. The robots will get us long before that, anyhow. I'm just saying the internet has already made memory less valuable. Personally, I resort to online driving directions with Pavlovian regularity, trust the Interwebs to solve most of my factual arguments, and have looked up the same goddamn Hollandaise recipe fifty times. My descent into slurry-brained curmudgeonitude speeds ever onward. So, since the internet will eventually replace my brain, there seems only one thing to do: make it a better place.
Which, of course, brings us to Rocky IV.
See, twenty-three years after it was released in the theatre, Rocky IV remains a benchmark of popular culture, male bonding, and horrible man-kimonos. In fact, if you have cable, you're probably watching Rocky IV right now. Since I live significantly below the poverty line, I do not have this thing you call cable but I do in fact have the Rocky box set, and I keep Rocky IV playing on a continuous loop in my squalid hobbit hole.
Now, in case you haven't seen it (and, really: may God have mercy on your soul), Rocky IV is yet another retelling of the David and Goliath fable, this time around with a decidedly Cold War flavoring. Our Goliath is Dolph Lundgren, a thespian who would later star in Masters of the Universe, Universal Soldier, and Fat Slags. Here, Dolph is Ivan Drago, the impossibly burly Russian colossus who fustigates Apollo Creed to death, which thereby obligates Rocky to avenge Apollo by abandoning his child, flying to the Soviet Union, and getting all Italian Stallion on Drago's face. Rocky's plucky performance wins over the once hostile Soviet crowd, brings out the individualist in Drago, and brings fake-Gorbichov to his feet with the stirring "If I can change...and you can change...everyone can change!" speech. To put that in perspective, it'd be like if they made a movie about the 1940 Olympics and a Jewish pole vaulter made Hitler cry. In fact, let me write that one down.
While Rocky IV is brilliant in many ways, part of me believes that Sly wrote Rocky IV on a cocktail napkin while watching the Miracle on Ice. See, Rocky IV doesn't really have much dialog. Or a script. Or what I believe you movie snobs call "scenes." No, Rocky IV is more of a delicately constructed series of montages, flashbacks, montages, screaming, and montages. Which brings us full circle, to making the internet a better place. "How so?" you might ask. Well, if we're considering Rocky IV the apex of horrible-awesomeness, I think its important to map out just what makes this movie as horribly-awesome as it is. My theory is that it goes beyond the not-all-that-touching death of Apollo Creed, beyond the fact that a man-sized 80's robot has more dialogue than the central villain, beyond the Cold War posturing, the thoroughly questionable fashion decisions, the sheer 1985-ness of it all. What makes Rocky IV truly unique is the near-complete lack of original footage, dialog, and actual on-screen happenings. Rocky IV is so badgood because it isn't actually a movie: it's a clip show.
So, with that premise, I set out to watch Rocky IV for the six hundredth time. These are my findings:
(Spoilers abound, but, really, if I've still got you by now, I'll assume you've seen Rocky IV. Or you're incredibly bored. I'm not picky.)
-------------------------
0:00:00-0:00:45: Perhaps the greatest opening credit sequence in all cinema history: two boxing gloves, one upholstered to look like an American flag, the other a Soviet hammer & sickle, float around for thirty seconds then slam into each other and explode all over your face. That's called "foreshadowing." Cut immediately to Mr. T screaming.
0:00:46-0:03:29: Forty-six seconds in and we're already flashing back. The rest of our credits are a montaged rehash of Mr. T. tenderizing Rocky to the tune of "Eye of the Tiger," followed by Stallone's "improbable" comeback. But wait! Then we're treated to the entire last scene of Rocky III, which might be amusing had I not watched Rocky III last night. Did I mention I don't have a job?
0:03:30-0:14:21: Our first spell of new footage not entirely comprised of boxing apparel explodinating everywhere is actually a rather long one. I begin to rethink my hypothesis. Our new footage does contain Rocky's son slow-dancing with a robot, which is weird and wrong.
0:14:22-0:14:50: Honorable mention to this scene, where Rocky and Apollo actually watch Rocky II during Rocky IV. It's like the play "The Murder of Gonzago" within Hamlet, except with waaay better dialogue.
0:14:51- 0:23:09: Apollo agrees to
0:23:10- 0:25:44: Nothing says streamlined plotting like a two and a half minute James Brown performance, especially when James makes no attempt to lip sync into the microphone. The song? "Living in America." It's about how awesome it is to live in America. The vast amount of well-endowed dancing ladies provides ample proof.
0:25:45 - 0:40:54: After saying "Man, I feel born again" and "I feel so alive," Apollo promptly dies. "What started out as a joke," says one of the ring-side commentators, "has turned into a disaster." I feel the same way about spending four hours writing about Rocky IV.
0:40:55 -0:45:12: With Apollo dead, Rocky decides to mourn by driving around at high speeds, ignoring the road with criminal negligence, and sinking into a four minute, hallucinatory montage. Here, we're treated to flashbacks from not only Rocky I, II, and III, but Rocky IV as well, which is ponderous, since we're watching it...right now. That's called "padding." Stallone also remembers the most infamous scene in all Rockydom, a scene so badgood, it has been captured on YouTube for constant consumption:
(There's so much to love here, even beyond the horribly awkward dry-humping-in-the-crashing-waves-y-ness of it all. Personally, I enjoy how Carl Weathers is obviously jogging while Stallone sprints with the a look somewhere between "pained" and "I'm having an aneurysm.")
0:47:58 -0:48:41 & 49:44 - 50:30: Rocky flies to Russia, which is of course introduced via Survivor-scored montage. "Can any nation stand alone?" they ponder, in song. The answer, we learn, is sort of. But only if that nation has Rocky. AMERICA!!!!
0:55:02 -0:58:11: No Rocky movie is complete without the obligatory "Training Montage." While Drago trains on ultra-hyper-mega-futuristic weight machines, Rocky lifts big ass logs over his head and grunts. It's a pleasant reminder of the days when Americans were frightened by Soviet technological might. Whereas now, we're just scared of Putin. I call that progress.
0:58:12 - 59:21: Rocky's vigorous training has transmogrified him into a hipster. He's sporting a "I'm in Russia now" beard and women's pants. Apparently Adrian has arrived, but since she's horrible and shrewlike, we will ignore this development.
59:22 -1:03:31: And we're back to the training montage, which comes in at a staggering six minutes, eighteen seconds. I'm glad too, because that full minute of dialog had me exhausted.
1:03:32 - 1:07:59: Finally, it's fight time. I'm not sure when, but Rocky shaved his beard, which makes him less likely to ride his fixed-gear to a PBR happy hour.
1:08:00- 1:09:17: After the fighters enter the ring, we get a minute more of padding in the Russian national anthem. Why Drago is on the flag is never fully explained.
1:11:02-1:16:05: During the years in which all the Rockys are set, the World Boxing Association declared blocking illegal. Rocky begins the fight with his patented "deflect punches with face" strategy before he opens a cut over Drago's eye with a mean right cross.
1:16:06- 1:19:45: After two real rounds, we spend the next twelve in full-on montage mode. Rocky takes enough punishment that he'll have to retire in Rocky V due to overwhelming brain trauma...that is, until that movie sucked really hard and they made Rocky VI and he fought again and then they made made money with that so now there's going to be a Rocky VII, in which Rocky fights incontinence and Lou Gehrig's disease.
1:19:46 - 1:26:39: Rocky wins, to the surprise of absolutely no one. The final shot is indicative of Stallone's subtle impressionism: Balboa, bloodied, triumphant, draped in the American flag, cheered on by thousands of once-hostile Russians. And fade out.
First: the dry facts. Counting the spinning gloves and the post-modern "watching Rocky II within Rocky IV" scene, a full twenty-three minutes and twenty-six seconds of Rocky IV's anorexic 86 minute running time is entirely composed of montages, flashbacks, extended musical performances, and a shocking lack of anything approaching a plot. That's 27 percent of the movie, a total that, not unlike Cal Ripken's record for consecutive games played, will simply never be equaled.
But a funny thing happened on my way to the end of Rocky IV: I realized that its inherent awesomeness has little to do with the obvious lack of actual movieness and more with its bizarre, uncontainable spirit. I'm probably a sucker, but I love Rocky. I love the fact he speaks like a mentally disabled teamster; I love that he wears a man-kimino; I love that he's always the underdog. When Rocky VII comes out (and God willing, it shall), I don't even care what Rocky's doing: making pancakes, fighting hobos, convalescing, whatever. Whatever it is, you can be damn sure no one will believe in him, that he'll only have himself to lean on, and, in the end, he'll whoop that pancake's ass.
So, did we make the internet a better place? Doubtful. But I rediscovered my long dormant love of Rocky IV. It's like that friend who lets you make fun of him, doesn't take it personally, and continues surprising you, even when he shouldn't. And, in case anyone wants to know exactly how long the Rocky driving montage is, I've got them covered.
Monday, September 08, 2008
My Football Experiment
Despite a total lack of knowledge, mental investment, and simple giving-a-shit-ness, a good friend of mine goaded me into joining his Fantasy Football League. My ignorance was exposed during our draft, when I selected a guy with a season-ending hernia in the fifth round, to the delight of everyone who paid some modicum of attention to the NFL. It's a safe bet that if you select a guy whose intestines have fallen into his ballsack, you're probably going to lose.
Knowing this, I still decided to give football another try yesterday. Because, you see, like most red-blooded American males, I'll watch a football game, but unlike most, I'm not really that interested. I prefer the hectic artistry of basketball, the sweaty Victorian ridiculousness of tennis, the divine boredom of baseball. Football is forty seconds of replays, screaming, and some robot dancing over a Chevy ad, followed by three seconds of action, followed by more replays, screaming, and robots doing "The Lawnmower" next to a Ford ad. Rinse, lather, repeat.
But still, I'd decided to follow along. Because, really, all fantasy football is is an excuse to send vulgar, expletive-laden emails to your friends while they're at work. I can get behind that. Indeed, I don't need an excuse to do so, though sometimes, I like having a reason. And what better reason than feigning knowledge about a sport I tolerate from afar?
So I sat down to watch. I figured, maybe there's something I'm missing. On a fundamental level, sumo-sized ubermenches running into each other at dramatic speeds then going to the sidelines to breath oxygen out of tubes is funny. So is constant and excessive celebration. I imagine wide receivers at home, putting the salad fork in the correct place, then performing an elaborate, three minute jig.
But, actually, now that I think of it, that's my problem with football: it seems so...joyless. Everything feels scripted and stilted. Teams have massive playbooks and quarterbacks have radios in their helmets and everything's so painfully thought out that the moments for improvisation are slimmer than in other sports. I want to be wowed by fantastical athleticism rather than clock management. I want reaction, not action. And while I realize that football allows for some impressive displays of speed, acrobatics, and bludgeoning splendor, it so often devolves into failed play after failed play after commercial break after commercial break that I have trouble sitting still for an entire half. I start with the best intentions before suddenly, poof, I'm playing online boggle.
So yes: I failed. I failed Sunday, thinking that maybe, like broccoli or jazz, football would be something I understood and enjoyed as I got older. It didn't. I'm sure I'll end up watching the Superbowl like every other human on planet America, but it will be as a mere bookend to yesterday's failure of understanding. You can't like everything, even if you try.
Knowing this, I still decided to give football another try yesterday. Because, you see, like most red-blooded American males, I'll watch a football game, but unlike most, I'm not really that interested. I prefer the hectic artistry of basketball, the sweaty Victorian ridiculousness of tennis, the divine boredom of baseball. Football is forty seconds of replays, screaming, and some robot dancing over a Chevy ad, followed by three seconds of action, followed by more replays, screaming, and robots doing "The Lawnmower" next to a Ford ad. Rinse, lather, repeat.
But still, I'd decided to follow along. Because, really, all fantasy football is is an excuse to send vulgar, expletive-laden emails to your friends while they're at work. I can get behind that. Indeed, I don't need an excuse to do so, though sometimes, I like having a reason. And what better reason than feigning knowledge about a sport I tolerate from afar?
So I sat down to watch. I figured, maybe there's something I'm missing. On a fundamental level, sumo-sized ubermenches running into each other at dramatic speeds then going to the sidelines to breath oxygen out of tubes is funny. So is constant and excessive celebration. I imagine wide receivers at home, putting the salad fork in the correct place, then performing an elaborate, three minute jig.
But, actually, now that I think of it, that's my problem with football: it seems so...joyless. Everything feels scripted and stilted. Teams have massive playbooks and quarterbacks have radios in their helmets and everything's so painfully thought out that the moments for improvisation are slimmer than in other sports. I want to be wowed by fantastical athleticism rather than clock management. I want reaction, not action. And while I realize that football allows for some impressive displays of speed, acrobatics, and bludgeoning splendor, it so often devolves into failed play after failed play after commercial break after commercial break that I have trouble sitting still for an entire half. I start with the best intentions before suddenly, poof, I'm playing online boggle.
So yes: I failed. I failed Sunday, thinking that maybe, like broccoli or jazz, football would be something I understood and enjoyed as I got older. It didn't. I'm sure I'll end up watching the Superbowl like every other human on planet America, but it will be as a mere bookend to yesterday's failure of understanding. You can't like everything, even if you try.
Friday, September 05, 2008
A smorgasbord of factiods gleaned on an incredibly brief "tour," at the coffee shop, and at home on my ass
- Growing up in San Diego, there were pretty much two places to see shows. One was the Casbah, a venue we've played extensively, loved exclusively, and which is in possession of one of the premier Ms. PacMan machines in the continiguous United States. The other was Soma, a club named after a fake drug which became a real drug and which, at the time, served an exclusive dinner of SoCal "punk" rock. The Casbah was where I always wanted to go, but, being not yet of boozing age, I was barred from entrance; Soma frightened me and smelled sort of like cheese.*
The result of this unfavorable dilemma was myriad drives to Los Angeles for shows. And largely, these shows were at the Troubadour. I was lucky enough to see At the Drive-In in their hey day, Q and Not U with and without their bassist. I saw System of a Down there, back when they were sufficiently small and I was sufficiently stupid enough to crowd the stage at a System of a Down show. I remember spending half the time in awe of spastic, supreme rocking and the other half dodging the steel-toed Doc Martins of crowd-surfing chronic depressives.
So in a way, finally playing the Troubadour early this past week was a kind of bizarre home-coming. And I must say: sheer greatness. The staff is as professional (and skilled) as they come, the sound is ear-shatteringly fantastic, and the dude at the door filled our parking meter out of the kindness of his heart. Also, they put a door on the shitter. Bravo: "A plus."
- I watched the Republican National Convention last night in a state of mind best described as somewhere between "cautious pessimism" and "outright dread." And while I'll spare you the political commentary, I will mention one thing. There was a guy in the crowd with a sign that read, simply, "Mavrick."
Now, I'll admit I'm not the most diligent of editors. This blog has been rife with misspellings, accidental syntax errors, and the ramblings of a half-drunk banjo-entusiast at three in the mornings. But if you're going to make a sign in support of your candidate and if your sign has only one word on it, you should probably do a quick spell check on that sign. In fact, you don't even need to use a dictionary (long the tool of the high-minded liberal elite, anyhow). Just check that spelling against that surprisingly re-watchable Mel Gibson movie or that tragic Dallas-based NBA franchise**. There's an "e" in there somewhere, unless McCain is so maverick-y that he refuses to even spell the word right. If that's the case, he's going to be a mean Prosdent of Merica.
- It's nice having a new album. We've been pimping "No Midnight" for over 800 midnights now and actually holding a CD in my hand made me beam. Not so coincidentally, I put a link over there on the right if you want to buy one. I tried to do that as un-shamelessly as possible but I see I've failed.
- While enjoying a bagel at and some Sea and Cake album I couldn't quite place at the corner coffee shop today, a guy came in with a parrot on his shoulder. I was disappointed when he did not pay for his latte in gold doubloons. In fact, he was about the most unassuming guy I've ever seen: cargo shorts, skate shoes, plain t-shirt, that one haircut every barber does whether you ask for it or not; and yet, he had a parrot. I was very confused. At first I thought: maybe this parrot is his conscience and to be without it for even a second would mean a descent into an ethical morass. Then I remembered we're talking about a species of animals who believes it's nighttime when you throw a scarf over their cage. So I just sat there staring until he left, hoping the bird would poo on his shoulder. It did not happen.
- I meant to put this up last week but the complete and total lack of reliable internet access kept it under wraps. We done made a little video. Hope you enjoy:
- After a mere three days of eating Taco Bell, Burger Shack, Rubio's, and Froster's Freeze, my arteries and brain are clogged. After forty or fifty some-odd days of the same, I may be dead. If so, I'd like my tombstone read: "He Died As He Lived, Surrounded By Poison Cheeseburgers." Thank you.
- Speaking of worthy thank yous: Thanks to anyone who braved the Great American Music Hall at the ungodly hour of 8 p.m. That's the earliest we've played since we did an acoustic set at St. Jude's Home For Enfeebled and Insomniac Geriatrics. A few stalwart folks showed up at nine, asked when we were playing, then almost punched me in the eye. To those folks: apologies. Except for the man who expressed his disdain in the following sentence: "I'd be angrier if I wasn't stoned." That cracked me up.
--------------------
* The original Soma, that is. I hear there's a new one I have to visit, but the fragrance will surely be an improvement. Unless they went from "gouda-stench" to "eau de open sewer."
** Go Warriors
The result of this unfavorable dilemma was myriad drives to Los Angeles for shows. And largely, these shows were at the Troubadour. I was lucky enough to see At the Drive-In in their hey day, Q and Not U with and without their bassist. I saw System of a Down there, back when they were sufficiently small and I was sufficiently stupid enough to crowd the stage at a System of a Down show. I remember spending half the time in awe of spastic, supreme rocking and the other half dodging the steel-toed Doc Martins of crowd-surfing chronic depressives.
So in a way, finally playing the Troubadour early this past week was a kind of bizarre home-coming. And I must say: sheer greatness. The staff is as professional (and skilled) as they come, the sound is ear-shatteringly fantastic, and the dude at the door filled our parking meter out of the kindness of his heart. Also, they put a door on the shitter. Bravo: "A plus."
- I watched the Republican National Convention last night in a state of mind best described as somewhere between "cautious pessimism" and "outright dread." And while I'll spare you the political commentary, I will mention one thing. There was a guy in the crowd with a sign that read, simply, "Mavrick."
Now, I'll admit I'm not the most diligent of editors. This blog has been rife with misspellings, accidental syntax errors, and the ramblings of a half-drunk banjo-entusiast at three in the mornings. But if you're going to make a sign in support of your candidate and if your sign has only one word on it, you should probably do a quick spell check on that sign. In fact, you don't even need to use a dictionary (long the tool of the high-minded liberal elite, anyhow). Just check that spelling against that surprisingly re-watchable Mel Gibson movie or that tragic Dallas-based NBA franchise**. There's an "e" in there somewhere, unless McCain is so maverick-y that he refuses to even spell the word right. If that's the case, he's going to be a mean Prosdent of Merica.
- It's nice having a new album. We've been pimping "No Midnight" for over 800 midnights now and actually holding a CD in my hand made me beam. Not so coincidentally, I put a link over there on the right if you want to buy one. I tried to do that as un-shamelessly as possible but I see I've failed.
- While enjoying a bagel at and some Sea and Cake album I couldn't quite place at the corner coffee shop today, a guy came in with a parrot on his shoulder. I was disappointed when he did not pay for his latte in gold doubloons. In fact, he was about the most unassuming guy I've ever seen: cargo shorts, skate shoes, plain t-shirt, that one haircut every barber does whether you ask for it or not; and yet, he had a parrot. I was very confused. At first I thought: maybe this parrot is his conscience and to be without it for even a second would mean a descent into an ethical morass. Then I remembered we're talking about a species of animals who believes it's nighttime when you throw a scarf over their cage. So I just sat there staring until he left, hoping the bird would poo on his shoulder. It did not happen.
- I meant to put this up last week but the complete and total lack of reliable internet access kept it under wraps. We done made a little video. Hope you enjoy:
- After a mere three days of eating Taco Bell, Burger Shack, Rubio's, and Froster's Freeze, my arteries and brain are clogged. After forty or fifty some-odd days of the same, I may be dead. If so, I'd like my tombstone read: "He Died As He Lived, Surrounded By Poison Cheeseburgers." Thank you.
- Speaking of worthy thank yous: Thanks to anyone who braved the Great American Music Hall at the ungodly hour of 8 p.m. That's the earliest we've played since we did an acoustic set at St. Jude's Home For Enfeebled and Insomniac Geriatrics. A few stalwart folks showed up at nine, asked when we were playing, then almost punched me in the eye. To those folks: apologies. Except for the man who expressed his disdain in the following sentence: "I'd be angrier if I wasn't stoned." That cracked me up.
--------------------
* The original Soma, that is. I hear there's a new one I have to visit, but the fragrance will surely be an improvement. Unless they went from "gouda-stench" to "eau de open sewer."
** Go Warriors
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