Down at the Rock 'n' Roll Club
Four rock shows (one as a performer and three more as a spectator) in five nights. You think I'd be too old for this. And you'd be right.
The Soundtrack of Our Lives was first up in the rotation on Wednesday, and they were every bit as good as I needed them to be, and then some. Not only do they write amazing, hook-laden, hard-rockin' jams, but they put on one of the best shows I've ever had the privelege of witnessing. They'll be bringing their very own brand of viking rock to the masses on Conan tomorrow, Tuesday the 26th. Don't miss it, suckas. Set your TiVo thing now.
Next up on Thursday were J.R. Ewing and Pretty Girls Make Graves. They had a helluvan act to follow, but acquitted themselves OK-like. J.R. Ewing would have been 100 times better if the show had been held in some kid's basement instead of in a cavernous rock club, and if they didn't have Augustus Gloop on guitar. I thought there were rules against that sort of thing (#25 and 26). Pretty Girls rocked, but the singer still needs to go back to rock school and learn how to front a band. Thank God for the drummer and bassist, who brought all the rock that the singer girl didn't.
Friday night was Add N to (X) who, after a $15 cover and two interminably long and boring performances by opening acts, straight broke shit. I've never seen a more punk rock performance — and it was perpetrated by dudes with MiniMoogs and theremins and vocoders and other decidedly non-punk-rock gear. It was a total freakout. Sadly, Ann Shenton, the lone Yank in the group, was not in attendance, as, according to Barry Smith, she had "gone nutting", which I'm gonna assume is Britspeak for lost her mind. Too bad, so sad, but it didn't stop the rest of them from creating a swirling vortex on bleeps and bloops and noise and cacophony and suchlike. All you electronic bedroom-studio dilettantes need to rekkanize.
So that was my week. What's your excuse? ßßß
If You Ignore Them, They Will Come.
I used to check my stats compulsively every day.
Then I stopped looking and caring.
Now my traffic is up, like, 50 percent from the last time I checked. I update less often, and when I do it's lame and boring. Is that what the people want? Cuz shit, boy, I coulda done that a looooooooong time ago.
I ate a whole roasted jalapeno pepper at lunch that was so spicy that it made my ears ache. Seriously? I'm no pussy when it comes to spicy-hot stuff. I lived in New Orleans long enough to develop a cast-iron stomach. So I figure a roasted jalapeno is a piece of cake. I down it in two bites, and after a few seconds the full realization of my folly hits me in the mouth like a metal fist wrapped in aluminum foil. It hurt and it hurt and it kept hurting.
I could barely eat, because the pressure of the food in my mouth was too painful. Then my ears started aching, like ears do if they're exposed to the cold for too long. A dull ache that throws off your balance and makes you slightly queasy.
Of course, time and water heal all wounds, and I was eventually OK. Can you believe that a mere 5 or 10 thousand Scoville heat units laid me out like that? I can't.
I must be losing my edge. ßßß
Is That Freedom Rock?
The Hills Have Eyes played at Kimo's, everyone's favorite Tenderloin drag bar, on Monday. Although we were plagued with our usual complement of technical difficulties — intermittent P.A., busted mic, broken guitar string, and hellish on-stage mix, the gig was an unqualified success for one reason: someone called the cops because we were too loud.
I've never been in a band that was too loud before, and I daresay it felt great. The manager of the club didn't appreciate having to deal with the cops, and apparently the booking agent was overheard saying, "I had no idea they were so loud!" at one point. Well, who did you think you were booking, toots? We are Freedom Rock. Turn us up.
Me and the wife watched Kids in the Hall: Same Guys, New Dresses last night. It's a documentary about those Kids and their 2000 reunion tour, and a must-see for anyone who enjoyed the show, or comedy in general. But if what the camera recorded was really what went down (and they didn't stage stuff for the sake of the film), then it's clear that Scott Thompson is out of his fucking mind.
Homeboy spends a good third of the 85 minute movie trying to incorporate a Sony Aibo robot dog into his act (specifically into one of his already painful Buddy Cole monologues), but the dog is simply not having it. It won't sleep when he tells it to, it won't behave when disciplined, and it sure as shit won't do as it's told for its "performance." Now why Scott thought that A. this would be funny, or 2. the stupid fucking dog warranted as much time and energy as he lavished upon it are beyond me. There's a priceless scene in which the entire rest of the troupe and the crew are leaving the theater to go somewhere, and Scott is determined to stay behind and put the dog to sleep. Otherwise it won't be able to perform at the next show. People keep trying to get him to come along, but he snaps at them as he gets more and more agitated because the (robot) dog refuses to go to sleep.
Are you fucking kidding me? you might ask. I wish I were, dear reader. But I seen it with my own two eyes. Apparently he never heard the old adage about not working with children or animals. Even robotic ones. ßßß
Best Overheard Conversation of the Week
Two coworkers chatting by my desk.
Coworker the First: You see the new Missy Elliott video?
Coworker the Second: No, is it good?
Coworker the First: Well, she lost 56 pounds.
Coworker the Second: Wow, really??
Coworker the First: Yeah. Now she looks like Eddie Griffin.
Me: HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA.
I got busted for eavesdropping, but it was sooooooooooo worth it. ... ßßß
Hate/Love/Hate
So I used to have this love/hate relationship with Cameron Crowe. Not the man himself, actually, but his oeuvre, his body of work, his canon. Like I used to really like exactly one-half of every one of his movies, and then the other half would suck big dicks.
Take Say Anything, for example. Amazing performances from John Cusack, Lili Taylor, and even Ione Skye. Certain scenes are indelibly etched on the brainpans of everyone around or about my age: Lloyd explaining kick-boxing and his aversion to buying, selling, and processing to Diane's family; Saturday night at the Gas 'N' Sip; and I don't know anyone who can hear Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" without pantomiming holding up a radio à la Lloyd's serenade of Diane. Amazing.
Then everything goes straight to hell. Why the fuck would I care Diane's creepy dad goes to jail for fleecing old people? What just happened to my teen movie?
Kinda the same thing with Singles. A few funny vignettes, some great lines, no real plot to speak of, Eddie Vedder's acting debut. ... a mixed bag at best, but entertaining. And again, sort of, with Jerry Maguire, a chick-flick deviously disguised as a sports film, thereby making it palatable for male chauvinists everywhere. C'mon, don't lie; you know you liked it. I mean, it had its moments, little four-eyed fuck notwithstanding.
Through the miracle of the digital versatile disc and Netflix, I've seen the two latest Crowe movies, which have both sucked unbelievable amounts of ass. Apart from the few and far between scenes featuring the incandescent Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lester Bangs and the quirky and kinda wonderful performances by Billy Crudup and Jason Lee, that movie was hateful. Cameron Crowe was so obviously IN LOVE with that little kid qua the young Cameron Crowe. He didn't realize that those of us who aren't Cameron Crowe might not be content with gazing at the young Cameron Crowe. That we might require things like a plot, or sympathetic characters, or some explanation as to why he included that whole stupid beginning part about his broken home. Prolly never occurred to him, I guess.
And then there's Vanilla Sky. What can I say about this movie, apart from that it is easily the worst movie I've seen in years? (And this is coming from a man who's seen The Sweetest Thing, The Smokers, and Corky Romano recently.) A preposterous premise plus ridiculously over-the-top performances by Cruise et al. plus a running time that's too long by half all add up to an excruciating movie-viewing experience. Hard to believe that this is the same dude who penned what may be my very favoritest movie of all time.
Come back to us, Cameron. Don't go out like John Hughes. America needs you, now more than ever. ßßß
Welcome, Winter Weight
You seem to have found me again. Curse you.
Did you know I have no thyroid gland? It's true! Sort of. I have no functioning thyroid gland.
I was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism a few years back. Basically my metabolism was running at about three times the rate it should have been. I was the world's least efficient organism ever — I'd consume what should have been enough calories for an entire day and I'd burn 'em up within an hour. I was like a human gas-guzzler, a flesh-and-blood Ford Excursion.
I let it go untreated for several years. Any why would I treat it? The anti-thyroid medicine, tapazole, was fucking nasty and toxic and made me feel like hell. Plus I could eat everything I wanted (and often did) and maintain my svelte 155-pound physique. Of course I was a sickly, flabby 155 pounds, if that makes sense, onaccounta my body couldn't actually retain any muscle mass, but that was beside the point. And there was the mania, the pounding pulse, the hand tremors, the sleeplessness, the exhaustion, but I didn't care. I was living the dream: eating everything in sight and staying rail-thin.
You see, I'd been a fat little fucker growing up. I come from a long line of endomorphs, and in grammar school I was a round, milk-drinking, husky-jeans wearing moppet. And kids being the cruel creatures that they are, they teased me incessantly (or at least it seemed like it at the time). So I quickly developed a complex about it, which quickly morphed into body dysmorphia, which made me worry unduly and unnecessarily about my weight. So if you tell me that I can eat like a pig and still stay skinny and all I have to do is put up with a few adverse effects, a goiter that made me look like a male bullfrog in heat, the possibility of my eyes bugging out like Marty Feldman, and the chance of a thyroid storm, I'll say "Where do I sign?!?"
Eventually, as it sometimes does, reason prevailed. Tracy was worried that I'd die of said storm, and my endocrinologist said she was probably right. So I killed my thyroid. With radioactive iodine. It was pretty cool.
It took a while — like six months — but my thyroid finally gave up the ghost. I ballooned up to 205. Eventually we got my meds worked out, and I hover in the 180's now. My metabolism is more or less back to normal (or as normal as anything about me can be). So no more free pass at the buffet table ... but no more heart palpitations or imminent thyroid storms either. Which is nice.
So I get to wrestle with my BDD again, which, if nothing else, is building character. And I have to work hard at maintaining my body weight, which I am managing with a strict vegan diet and religious gym attendance. But then the cold weather comes around and all I wanna do is hibernate and cook stew and bake things and stay in bed, none of which are conducive to an Adonis-like physique. And so I get on the scale in the morning and have a momentary freak-out. Which, again, in the scheme of things is hardly worth complaining about, which I why I don't, much. If that's as bad as it gets today, I'm one lucky cracker. ßßß
Chortling in My Joy
So I'm bored at work (which is redundant, to some degree), working on a mind-bendingly boring letter, chatting with Lina, who is back in school and working on some god-awful paper about the Inferno, the Canterbury Tales, Beowulf, and some other shit. So, I guess it could always be worse. What follows is an only slightly edited version of part of our conversation.
Ian87sf: you ever hafta memorize the opening lines of the Canterbury Tales?
Lina: fuck that noise
Ian87sf: In Aprile and the shoures sote whatever the fuck
Ian87sf: then 'jabberwocky' comes in and ruins everything
Ian87sf: twas brillig and the slithey toves did gire and gimble in the wabe
Ian87sf: all mimsey were the borogroves and the momeraths outgrabe
Ian87sf: <--- steel trap
Lina: i hate medieval lit
Lina: and you are queer
Ian87sf: seriously
Lina: xoxo
Ian87sf: biggest dork i know
Lina: TOTALLY
Ian87sf: i should go hang out and play wargames w/ the dudes at Endgame
Lina: :-P
Lina: dungeons and dragons
Ian87sf: move into my mom's basement
Ian87sf: grow a beard and pack on 110 pounds
Ian87sf: get in line for LOTR II
And ... scene. ßßß
All Caught Up
That rare and fleeting and oh-so-welcome of having done everything I have to do. It happens so rarely that I must remember to cherish it, embrace it, appreciate it, take a big swig of it and slosh it around in my mouth and let it drip down my chin.
Shit, I just thought of something I have to do. Told you it was fleeting.
I played something called a violin uke this weekend, which is apparently some kind of guitar-zither. It makes the most awesome and eerie otherworldly noises. I am now obsessed with getting one. Luckily they seem fairly common and fairly cheap.
Speaking of awesome and eerie and otherworldly, I tried to get tickets to see Sigur Ros in San Francisco later this month, but the only tickets left were in like Row RR in the upper balcony. Screw that, folks.
I don't care how amazing Sigur Ros are (and don't get me wrong, they're freaking amazing) or how life-changing attending a Sigur Ros show is. There's no way I could go to a show and sit 8,000 rows away from the band. Especially when the tickets are $25.00 with a $7.50 convenience fee. Fuck that shit.
Luckily there are mad, crazy other good shows coming up. We see Neko Case tomorrow night, Soundtrack of Our Lives in a little over a week, Add N to (X) a coupla days after that ... feast or famine 'round these parts, currently entering full-on feast mode.
If you haven't yet, go see Bowling for Columbine, listen to The Last Broadcast, and read Mark Morford and the Night Cabbie. That is all. ßßß
Oh, the Humanity! (No. 2 in a Series)
Ladies and gentlemen, against my better judgment, I bring you me at age 15.
OK, OK, whenever you stop laughing I'll try to explain myself. The year was 1983, and I was a mere 15 years old. I think I'm entitled to a few youthful indiscretions, don't you? Namely,
I think the funniest (both "ha ha" and "hmmm ..." funny) is that I look almost the same today, sans 'stache and with a slightly different style mullet. Hoooooo, boy. Hope you enjoyed that as much as I enjoyed sharing it with you.
Oh, and don't miss the first incredibly embarrassing entry in this series. ßßß
Because Stuff Won't Stop Sucking: The Suckies
Although Ian stopped cataloging things that sucked and things that ruled in blawg's sidebar in the summer of 2002 because it was a huge pain in the ass, some stuff continued to suck. That was the inspiration for the Suckies, the ad hoc award given whenever things reach a critical mass of suck. Like today.
And the Award Goes To:
I didn't chicken out (at least not consciously) on posting the ridiculous picture of me at age 15. I just forgot it. Riiiiiiiiiiiight. That's what happened. I forgot it. ... ßßß
Tune in Tomorrow to See What Happens!
When we last left our hero, he was feeling sorry for himself and bemoaning the loss of Jam Master Jay.
When we last left our hero, he was sitting at his desk on the ninth floor of this building, staring blankly at his computer screen, wondering what the hell, if anything, he had to say.
When we last left our hero, his stomach was churning like a turbulent tropical ocean, onaccounta he topped off his lunch of tofu burger and spice cupcakes with several boxes of 'Heads of the lemon and cherry variety. (Remember when Cherryheads used to be called Cherry Clan and even Cherry Chan Clan before that? That was just wrong, people.)
When we last left our hero he was desperately trying to write lyrics to a new song. Lyrics that didn't sound contrived or trite or stupid or hackneyed. This is not easy, people. Just ask that Puddle of Mudd dude.
When we last left our hero, his gorgeous Apple iPod took him from Atari Teenage Riot to Hank Williams to Rainer Maria to the Smiths to Aesop Rock to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Life is good.
When we last left our hero, he was downloading manuals for his latest pedal purchase, the Line 6 Modulation Modeler.
When we last left our hero, he was focusing all his considerable psychokinetic powers on moving the hands on the clock forward so he could leave early. When that failed, he considered trying that thing from Superman II where Superman turned the earth backwards to turn back time, but forward instead, like a personal spring forward, only in the fall. But it seemed like too much work, so that idea was quickly abandoned.
Tune in tomorrow to see if he follows through on his idea to post the newly unearthed and horribly embarrassing picture of our hero at age 15 with a permed mullet, cheesy mustache, Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt, and flying-V bass. Oh, the horra. ... ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
