Say Anything
A week between entries. Jesus, that's lame. Fact is, though, that there's really not that much to report. Nothing exciting, anyway.
There was some dumb thing on blogging on the News Hour with Jim Lehrer the other day. I get all conflicted when I hear or read or see reports on weblogging. The stats they throw out boggle the mind — someone starts a new blog every 40 seconds, and there are at least half a million blogs out there, read by more than 10 million people a day. So there's one part of me — the part of me that wants no part of a club that would have me as a member — that wants to mothball this site when I realize that exactly how un-unique I am and how non-novel I am.
But then the needy, egomaniacal side pipes up, reminding me that I've been at this for more than two years now, and goddammit, where's my piece of the pie? How come I have not been recognized for the genius that I am? Why is no one interviewing me for one of these tawdry and stupid stories? And why have I not been plucked from the ranks of the amateurs by Esquire or the Atlantic or the National Enquirer, for fuck's sake? Why will no one pay me to dispense the pearls of wisdom I cast before you swine?
Apparently I have some issues to work through. ßßß
Abandoned to my own meager devices.
I'm roughly 5/8 of the way done with this mammoth freelance writing assignment, which, when completed, will leave me much more time to write about baseball and seeing bands you've never heard of. I'm feeling relieved already. Sort of.
Freelance work is a very particular variety of torture for me. It taps in to all my various (and myriad) neuroses: perfectionism, procrastination, fear of failure, fear of success, and I could continue, but I won't. Freelance work leaves me to my own devices, and my devices are profoundly flawed. (Actually, my devices are dismantled, and their component part are sitting in a jumbled pile on the dirty floor of my id.)
It's like being in school all over again, which is NOT a good thing. For me. As early as grammar school I'd stay up all night in bed, wallowing in my own flop sweat, a tiny eight-year-old bundle of nerves, fretting over a spelling test I would take (and invariably ace) the next day. In high school, from the moment an assignment was given until the night before it was due, I would be unhealthily, unreasonably fixated on it, stressed out beyond all reason. But I'd always wait until the very last minute to begin the assignment, as if I received some strange satisfaction from driving myself beyond the brink of sanity over a goddamn term paper. And who knows? Maybe I did. And yet it never occurred to me to begin the assignment earlier or change my behavior in any way. It was just who I was and what I did.
I like to think I've learned a little in the intervening years, but maybe it's just that the pendulum has swung back the other way. Now I'm a little wacky in the other direction, being slightly too conscientious, turning things in early and often. But my editors don't seem to mind.
Maybe I am getting better. But I doubt it. ßßß
They don't love you like I love you.
Went to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at Bottom of the Hill last night. Made sure to stay home and watch the Simpsons (repeat), Malcolm in the Middle (stupid clip show), and Six Feet Under (excellent, I don't care what anyone says) before we left in order to miss Pleasure Forever, which we did. Luckily. Hard to believe some of those dudes were once in the almighty Angel Hair. Cuz they're boring as fuck.
We caught about half of Icarus Line's set. They seem to have discovered heroin since last time I saw them, cuz while they were as manic and intense as ever, it was like I was listening to them at half-speed. I don't necessarily like listening them, but singer Joe does an amazing Iggy Pop impersonation, and it's always fun to watch guitarist Aaron throw himself around the stage with abandon.
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs seem to be practicing their rock-star chops, from the bus out front (thank you, Interscope!) to the unreasonably long wait for them to take the stage. When they finally did get out there, though, they didn't disappoint. The sound was shitty, which is weird for BOTH — band wasn't loud enough, and the drums sounded like they were in a can. But Karen O., the band's certifiably insane singer/frontwoman/performance artist, didn't allow you much time to nitpick; she just commands your attention in the way that only an ugly/sexy/insane/ridiculously talented singer can. At times invoking the spirits of Patti Smith and Chrissie Hynde (both of whom are still alive, of course, although you wouldn't know it from listening to any recent output of theirs), Karen paced the stage, doused herself with beer, exposed her tits, and performed vocal gymnastics that should not only be impossible but, if possible, should at least be illegal.
Gonna see 'em again tonight, this time at everyone's favorite former brothel, the Great American Music Hall. Apparently the Pattern is supposed to play, but I've been hearing rumors of defections from within their ranks, so we'll see. More information as this story develops. Until then, maintain radio silence, soldier. Over and out. ßßß
What's so good about it?
Nothing, that's what. And why is the day that the (certainly not my) Lord and Savior was nailed up known as "Good Friday"? What's so good about that? Seems that something may have been lost in the translation.
In other musical news, it seems that The Hills Have Eyes may be rising from the ashes. Not so much like a phoenix, but more like a Will Ferrell's Mustafa in Austin Powers. Yes. Charred and scarred and badly burned, just like that. Good times.
Anyhoo, Ryan and I hooked up this past week and made some overtures in the rock direction. We'll see how things turn out, and I will alert your presence to appropriate links to audio files as they appear. Whenever that might be.
Other than that, I got not much of anything. This morning a personal trainer friend of mine showed me some new ass-kicking (literally) deadlifts, and my ass is sore. "So so' you couldn't touch it with a powda puff," as my lovely Southern-born wife might say. Arrrrrghhh. He'p me, Lord, he'p me, Jesus.
Start with Jesus and end with Jesus, I always say. No Jesus, know peace. Know Jesus, no peace.
That's right, right? Right. ßßß
Objects in motion stay in motion. Those that ain't don't.
One more reason not to write: Joust. Nothing like a good ol' game of Joust to remind me of being 14 and spending endless drunken Saturday nights at the arcade. Oh, good times, people. Good times.
Of course, for every inaction, there is equal and opposite action. So I am presented with one more reason to write, namely that my San Francisco Giants are 12-1 and currently own the best record in the majors. Oh hell yeah.
Me and the missus went to the game on Friday night to see them trounce the hated Dodgers, and we'll be going tonight to (we hope) run their record to 13-1. And better even than that is the fact that we'll be making a pilgrimage to Wrigley Field to see our Giants take on the Cubs at the friendly confines in July. I could not possibly be more stoked.
The Scheme rocked Bottom of the Hill this past Sunday with Thrice. Riley and co. are just about the nicest bunch of O.C. bro's — I mean, boys — you'd ever wanna meet. So if they come to your town, make sure to come out and represent and give them all your money. Tell 'em I sent you. And that the Angels suck.
xox,
ian ßßß
Nothing More Than Feelings
I have had no coffee today. That might explain why I feel like crawling out of my fucking skin right now. If it wasn't for ye olde iPod, I'd probably be going completely postal.
As it stands, though, I'm just profoundly uncomfortable. And maybe it's not the coffee (or lack of same). I used to think that emotional pain or discomfort or angst or however the hell you want to refer to it meant that I was doing something wrong. Like if I felt like shit, then I wasn't working hard enough at something or that a vengeful God was punishing me or I was just a failure. This is, of course, perfectly understandable for a recovering chemically dependent person: feelings are an enemy to be avoided at all costs. Feel anxious? Scared? Happy? Angry? Depth-charge it with booze or cough syrup or percodan or model glue or a ball-peen hammer. Problem solved.
But it's only recently that I've figured out that feelings can actually be helpful. There's, like, information in there if you look. Put your hand on a hot stove and it will hurt like hell. Makes most people remove their hands from the stove before any serious and lasting damage is done. Same with emotional pain, I guess. Get in a situation that really sucks and keeps you awake at night and makes you curl up in the fetal position? Hey, buddy, that might be a sign that the situation might be less than optimal. But when one is in the habit of avoiding one's feelings (Habit? I turned it into a fucking art form, motherfucker), one does not have the benefit of this info.
Maybe I'm an idiot for not having figured this all out sooner. Maybe normal people are born with this knowledge. But I've never been accused of being normal. ßßß
Maintain Radio Silence
Work. War. Baseball. All these things are keeping me from updating this freaking site on a semiregular basis. Bah, I say. Bah.
We went to see Sigur Ros last night. Jesus, was that underwhelming. And to think we coulda been watching The Soundtrack of Our Lives instead. What a drag.
Tonight, however, will be a different story altogether. We're going to laugh our sizable asses to Patton Oswalt, close personal friend Greg Behrendt, and other funnymen at Cobb's. I can't fucking wait.
Remember: When you laugh, the world laughs with you. When you cry, people think you're being a pussy. ßßß
War All the Time
War all the time. Work in between. Baseball and war after work. And music when there's no war or work or baseball. Giants are undefeated, 3-0, as of this writing. This may be my last opportunity to say that truthfully this season. But they are scheduled for a three-game set against the Brewers, so who knows? They could finish up week 1 6-0. One never knows.
Me and Tracy made up some live jams in the backyard studio last night. We're called Plath, and we sound like the bastard offspring of the White Stripes, Chicks on Speed, Mates of State, and Add N to (X). No actual audio files to debut just yet, but soon. Maybe.
This has probably already landed in your in-box, but if not, check it. It's funny. Not "ha ha" funny. More like, "Oh, fuck, we're doomed" funny. ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
