Note to Self:
Quit being such a pussy.
Thank you, drive through.
If you haven't already, please go read last year's Halloween entry. You'll be glad you did. No, wait. I'll be glad you did. It's funny though, promise.
Goddamn, That DJ Made My Day.
Like a lotta white folk, Run DMC was the first rap I ever got. Sure, I liked Rapper's Delight and all, but it was Rock Box that made me go "ahhhhhhhhh!" Russell Simmons' (yes, that lisping guy of HBO fame) deft marriage of hip-hop beat and hard-rock guitar (that would eventually culminate in Run DMC's humungoid crossover cover hit of "Walk This Way" (and would eventually, and unfortunately, lead to the mook-rock nu-metal pox currently upon us)), coupled with Run and DMC's style and flow made lots of bored suburban white kids throw their hands up and say "Ho!" Me included.
King of Rock was even more doper. I religiously bought all Run DMC releases and everything Def Jam put out — LL Cool J's seminal Radio, P.E.'s incendiary Yo! Bum Rush the Show, even Run DMC's subpar "Tougher Than Leather." (Remind me to tell you about the time I went to see the movie of the same name at some theater on Canal St. in New Orleans and was the only cracker up in that piece. Good times. ...)
So those three black-clad, mic-rocking, Adidas-wearing kids from Queens pretty much introduced me and an entire generation to hip-hop. Which may or may not have been a good thing. Without Run DMC, hip-hop as we know it does not exist, but neither does rap-metal (a fucking oxymoron if ever there was one). Was it worth it? Hard to say. It's tricky. R.I.P., Jay. ßßß
It's Not You. It's Me.
It's probably abundantly obvious to you, but I'm just now figuring it out. That I'm getting burned out on this whole blog business, I mean.
It's still fun and all, but I feel like I have sweet fuck all to say most days. What am I gonna do, write another Halloween entry? Already did that. Maybe that's why the average life span of the average weblog is right about a year. Maybe I've already outlived my usefulness by almost 11 months.
On the other hand, I'm probably too opinionated, too stubborn, and too stupid to just quit. So maybe you can help me out. You can always send me suggestions, or just gimme some feedback. What the hell do you think I should do here, people?
Thanks in advance, I guess. Oh, results are here. Word. ßßß
*RING*
Hey, it's me.
Yeah, sorry about that. Things have been ... well, difficult for me lately.
No, no. Nothing like that. It's just that I've been busy and working a lot lately. Oh, and the Giants lost the seventh game of the World Series, and that kinda took the wind outta my sails.
Thanks, I appreciate that. It's OK, though, honest. It's just a game, after all.
Ha ha ha. I know, totally.
Ummmm ... I flew to Pasadena last week?
Work. Met my counterparts in Southern California, which was cool. Almost died on the flight home, though.
Seriously! We were at like 30,000 feet and we started to bank. Then we kept banking, and kept banking, and then we banked some more. It felt like we were gonna fall right outta the sky. Then we righted. It was all over in two or three seconds.
Fuck yeah, I was. And I'm a good flyer, too. Never get scared. But I was fucking terrified, I tell you whut.
No idea. No one ever came on and explained it or anything. It was maddening.
Nope, nothin'. Not even any free drinks.
Nah, that's pretty much it.
Whaddyagonnado, right?
Totally.
Peace. ßßß
Blogger's Block
Here's a conundrum: If a tree falls unheard in a forest and makes no sound, then what kind of noise doesn't it make when I can't be bothered to update? That is to say, if there are more than a million weblogs out there, does it matter if I have nothing to say?
Not having anyting@all to say doesn't seem to stop most people from posting. Then again, one woman's nothing to say might be another man's earth-shattering-type revelation. So who am I to judge? No one, that's who.
Actually, that's not quite true. I am somebody not only because I got linked on MeFi, but also because Rebecca thinks I'm a cool cat. I'm hoping it's not just because I sent her the entire balance of my Paypal account either, but rather that she thinks I'm cool in my own right. Watch out, 'cuz we eat you.
Saw The Ring today. Naomi Watts is fucking awesome in every way, even if she is dating that immense tool, Heath Ledger. And how is this guy (from Abandon) not that guy? I thought they were the same guy.
Amazing Things I Learned on Salon Today
You've been warned. ßßß
I Am Trying to Break Your Heart
They may not be trying to break my heart, but so far they're succeeding. My Giants, I mean. After Russ Ortiz imploded on the mound during the first inning last night, giving up something like six straight hits before getting a single out, the Giants clawed their way back in, eventually taking a 9-7 lead.
But alas, they could not hold on. This kid? Dubbed "K-Rod"? Fucking filthy stuff. Unhittable. 5 and 0 in the postseason. And he's 20 years old. Twenty. Even Barry's late-inning tape-measure homer couldn't stem the tide. Angels win, 11-10.
And this is what scares me: the Angels have lost the first game and won the second game of every playoff series so far. Hopefully the Giants will not go out the same way. I mean, hell, they're lucky to have gotten the split in Anaheim, after all. Anyway, I do realize that precious few of you actually care about baseball, and even fewer about the fate of the San Francisco Giants. But after all, this site is all about me, so if you don't like it, you can always lump it. Always.
In other non-baseball-related happenings, Supercast is no more. Out of Supercast's ashes has risen The Scheme (don't get your hopes up, cuz the site don't exist yet). We got a lineup: Me on bass, Peter Martin (ex-Lifetime, Jets to Brazil, and San Geronimo) on one guitar, Todd Tomlinson (ex-Drowningman and San Geronimo) on drums, Denny Donovan (ex-Drowningman) on other guitar, and Simon Brody (ex-Drowningman too) on vocals.
But even though it's 60 percent former Drowningmen, we're not (that) metal, and we're definitely not mathy. More like if the Doves' tour bus drove head-on into Into Another's backyard during a barbecue where Richie and the boys were listening to "Freedom Rock" on 11. Something like that, right? Right. Something for everyone. Bring the whole family. Lock up your daughters' pets. The Scheme is coming. ßßß
An Open Letter to Mcsweeney's (and Guest Editor Paul Maliszewski in Particular) re. Issue No. 8
People:
I know that you are all busy counting your money, having sex with movie stars, and writing books, but please. Howabout a little quality control here?
While you've billed Issue No. 8 as "fiction, essays, letters, and interviews that explore the sometimes-fuzzy boundary between fiction and fact," it was far more successful at exploring the not-at-all-fuzzy boundary between just plain boring and abjectly self-indulgent.
This just in: essays about literary hoaxes are profoundly unexciting, and essays about literary hoaxes about Nabokov are barely of interest to Nabokov scholars, and of no interest at all to the general reading public. Pretend encyclopedia entries must make their creators feel very clever indeed, but the joke is lost on the rest of us (if I may speak for the rest of us). And please screen your Guest Editors for unresolved crushes on Harold Pinter and Franz Kafka unless you want entire issues of your usually excellent magazine filled with studied but boring and derivative Pinter-y and Kafka-esque short stories.
That's all I got, I guess. On the plus side, the cover was totally cool, and "The Kauders Case" by Aleksandar Hemon was the best thing I've read in ages, but still. More killer, less filler, y'all. Hope No. 9 heralds a return to form.
Peace out,
ian ßßß
Stuck in the Middle with You
We survived a trip to Ohio and a 20th high school reunion. It all went off without a hitch. Hell, I didn't even get singled out at the airport for special screening, strip-search, or retinal scanning. And I always get strip-searched.
As much as I love the various coasts of our great nation, I find it edifying to visit the vast middle of the country every now and again. If only because it reminds me how great the coasts are.
Case in point: the Friday night high school football game. Me personally? I could never, ever live in a place where the big social event of the week is watching the local high school team (the Lemon-Monroe Hornets, in this case) get the living shit kicked out of it. Call me a cosmopolitan snob, call me urbane or effete or intolerant if you will, because I am. But if the highlight of your week is watching your alma mater play football (badly) while you relive your high school glory days, you have my condolences. Because, frankly, you're dead. You just don't know it yet.
And then there are the deep-seated systemic problems with the middle of the country. The ingrained prejudice, f'r'instance. And I don't mean only the racial prejudice (which is alive and well, you'll be disturbed (I hope) to know), but the prejudgment of anyone and anything even slightly out of the norm. In great swaths of this country, people actually strive for conformity! I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. They go out of their way to appear to gloss over any dissimilarities between them and their fellow man by watching NASCAR, voting Republican, and performing other equally ludicrous acts that no one in their right mind would do. (If I had a nickel for every Dale Earnhardt #3 sticker we saw in Ohio and Kentucky, I'd have a stranglehold on the world nickel supply, lemme tell you.)
So I know that a great number of you, specifically those of you who reside somewhere other than a major metroplolitan area, think I'm an asshole. And I'm OK with that. Because it's the diversity of this fucked-up, miscegenated, grotesque country that makes it what it is. Although I'm not sure exactly what that is. ßßß
Baby, if You've Ever Wondered ...
Wondered what ever became of me, me and the little lady flew to Cincinnati (and then drove Middletown) to attend her high school reunion. In the meantime, please direct all your wishes and prayers and unused parking karma to helping the Giants win their series against the Cardinals of St. Louis.
Phase 2 of Operation Take Over the World by Playing the Loudest Rock Music Ever Conceived begins tonight. The new singer and guitarist (Simon and Denny, respectively, both formerly of Drowningman) of our still as-yet-unnamed musical endeavor (the one formerly known as Supercast) have arrived in San Francisco, and we'll set about making rock 'n' roll history when we have our first practice tonight. And you'll be able to say you were there! After a fashion. ßßß
Thank You, Baby Jesus!!
Yes indeed, the Baby Jesus (with a little help from Barry Bonds and the Giants pitching staff) saw to it that the evil tomahawk-choppers got what they deserved.
Tracy and I watched every minute of last night's game (except when we were covering our eyes because we couldn't bear to look). We lived and died with every pitch. It was hell. It was heaven. It was playoff baseball, dammit.
But check out this typically megalomaniacal post-game quote from Giants' superstar Barry Bonds: "I'll be happy once I win the World Series."
Ummmm ... Barry? Last I checked, baseball was a team sport, and the St. Louis Cardinals are scheduled to play against the Giants, not just against you. Thanks, and good luck.
And then we drove into the city to see The (International) Noise Conspiracy. Again we found rock star parking directly in front of the club, but unlike Saturday night, no ill befell the car.
This was a much different T(I)NC than the one we saw a year or so ago with the Hives and Rocket from the Crypt. In the intervening year, the aforementioned Hives have blown the fuck up on MTV and "alternative rock" radio (a misnomer if ever there was one). Dennis and his international noise comrades haven't softened their firm socialist stance, but the hair is longer (Dennis is simultaneously sporting a mullet and suffering from male pattern baldness — not a good look at all) and the music is more accessible and — dare I say — more Hives-like.
And hey, more power to 'em. These kids have paid their dues in various bands, and if they can make a living making music while using the music-industrial complex to advance their progressive agenda, my hats off to 'em. Bring the ass and the brain will follow. Or something. ßßß
I Laughed, I Cried, I Called the Cops and Changed the Tire
It's funny. The old me would've probably just started swinging. And the old me probably would've ended up arrested (if I was lucky) or stabbed (if I was unlucky). And it all worked out fine. See, what happened was this:
Me and the wife had tickets to the 11 pm show of Mr. Show Live: Hooray for America at the Warfield Theatre on Saturday night. The Warfield is a majestic old theatre located in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco, an area that features more junkies, transsexual hustlers, and other assorted miscreants per square mile than anywhere else I've ever been.
So we roll out to the city and we're driving around the area looking for a place to park the Miata (her car, for the record). We're driving up Turk, along the back side of the theatre, when I spy a perfect spot. There a sign taped to the parking meter that clearly reads "No Parking Between 9 AM and 10 PM." I look at the clock. It's 10:05. Looks like we got the rock-star parking. Sweet.
Tracy kills the ignition and a little Spike Lee-lookin' dude rolls up with a flashlight and starts hollering at us that we can't park there. "But the sign says no parking 'til 10," Tracy rejoins. Dude sticks his face right in the driver's-side window and yells "NO PARKING!" I guess he was trying to intimidate us. It didn't work.
So we figure out that the guy is employed by the Warfield to watch the gear trucks out back. I'm not sure if his job description included harassing patrons, but he was especially good at that. He kept yelling, threatening to tow our car, etc., to the point where we were worried for the safety of the little Miata. I spied a squad car across the street, so I walk over and asked one of the officers to make sure if it was cool if we park there. He walked over, read the sign, and ruled in our favor. Bam. Told Spike Lee to can it, and that if our car got towed, the Warfield would have to pay and he'd be sorry. Thanks, officer.
We didn't even make it around the corner when Tracy's spider-sense kicked in. "I'm really worried about the car, and I know I'm not going to be able to enjoy the show if I'm stressed out about the car."
"No prollem," I say. "Let's move it." We walk back to the car. Elapsed time from leaving car to returning to car: roughly three minutes. When we reach car, I hear the inimitable hissing of a slashed tire.
"You dirty motherfucker," I say to the tire-slashing "security" guy. "I can't believe you slashed our fucking tire."
"What'd you call me?" he says.
"You heard me," I said. And this is where it gets weird.
Instead of me flying into a rage and attacking the guy, I calmly reached into my pocket, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed 911. But before the dispatcher could even get someone to the scene, the original cops from earlier drove by. I flagged 'em down and told 'em what happened.
The cops patted the guy down and found a Leatherman, the blade of which matched the hole in the tire perfectly. Problem is, no one saw him do it (or at least no one would admit to having seen him do it), so the cops couldn't arrest him for it. But in the meantime the cops located the guy's boss (himself an off-duty cop) and ran his ID. The boss told him to turn in his pass and his radio and fired him on the spot. And as luck would have it, the guy also had an outstanding warrant. Looks like he'd be going to jail after all.
So I changed the tire (which was an adventure in itself, because the wheel lock broke, but I got it done eventually) and watched the perpetrator get hauled off to jail. So while maybe he didn't exactly got all the comeuppance he deserved, he got some. And had we not returned to the car right when we did, he woulda got clean away with it. But he didn't. And I didn't get arrested or stabbed — just some skinned knuckles from changing the tire. And we got to see the show, which was pretty much the funniest thing ever. So for the cost of $75 (the cost of a new tire), a moderate amount of inconvenience, and some flesh off my knuckles, I got to watch the wheels of justice turn in a strange and circuitous fashion, and I got a great story to tell. ßßß
Click here for another perspective on the whole story.
I Would Prefer Not To
The day was October 4, 1985. I had just turned 17, and was away from home for the very first time. OK, not the very first time — I mean, I went to camp and junk, but this was my very first attempt at Living On My Own. I was failing miserably.
I was 1,000 miles away from home in one of the stranger places on the planet to attend an institution of higher learning. I was also hopeless, helplessly chemically dependent.
I tried to quit, honest. I tried everything I knew how to do, without success. I didn't even really want to stop getting loaded, frankly, but I knew I couldn't continue to do it either. Suicide was looking pretty attractive, but I was too ascared. I chose to pursue an even scarier option: asking for help.
Luckily, it worked. That was 17 years ago today, and I have not used any mind-altering chemicals (other than those specifically prescribed by a doctor specifically according to that doctor's orders) since. Which means that I have been "clean 'n sober" (God, I hate that fucking phrase) for as long as I was old when I sobered up. Which is a weird place to be. Having quit drinking when I was 17, I never drank in a bar, never (legally) purchased alcohol, and never came home on a Friday evening after a particularly tough workweek to throw back a couple of beers or smoke a joint to unwind. Nope, never.
Do I feel deprived? Very occasionally, usually when I'm wallowing in self-pity. But more often than not I approach it from this perspective: I was born with a license to drink and use drugs. I abused that license in more ways than I care to recall, and I lost my license. And I know from my continuing obsessive-compulsive-addictive behavior in other areas of my life that I ain't changed a whit. I don't do anything halfway. Nope, it's all or nothing, and I have no reason to believe that it'd be any different with booze or drugs or anything else. So I opt not to.
Seventeen years. Boggles the mind, I tell you. Boggles the freaking mind.
I was told once that Sean was one of the funniest people out there. Turns out they were right. Here's the proof.
The only thing weirder than this site is this poll on that site.
Please root for my Giants this weekend. Even if you don't care about baseball, or the Giants, or anything, I can give you several good reasons to humor me and pull for the Giants, or at least root against the Braves:
I'm pretty sure about that last one. I think I remember reading it in Entertainment Weekly. Or the Weekly World News. ßßß
Big Thangs, Baby
Write about underemployment, get slammed with work? Is that how it's gonna be? OK, fine. Now I'm on to your little game. Let's try a little Br'er Rabit/Bugs Bunny-style reverse psychology. (He's not in the stove! Oh, so he's in the stove, ehh? Would I throw a lighted match in there if my friend Rocky was in there?)
Woe is me. I'm so freaking busy all of the sudden that I don't know what to do. (A little aside: Earlier today I came up with the perfect title for Joey Lawrence's tell-all biography: "Tales of WHOA! The Joey Lawrence Story." Whaddya think? Pretty sweet, huh? Don't steal it either, or you'll burn.)
On the real, though, the pendulum has swung back to busy. I got regular work, freelance work, electronics work, band work ... all of which is awesome, but time is getting tight. Like I said, I'm building this thing, which is like a preamp/booster for guitar. Today I went and collected all the parts I need from here, and I will start building that bitch tonight. I think the enclosure I got is way too small, though, but we'll see. I'm stoked. Let the geekery begin!
Also exciting is the band stuff on the horizon. The band currently known as Supercast (but probably called something else soon enough) is finally getting a singer. And a second guitarist, too. We're importing two dudes, namely Simon Brody and Denny Donovan, erstwhile of Drowningman. Denny got here last night, and Simon's due out here any day (he's driving, the poor bastard). Anyhoo, soon we will have a band. An actual band. We've got an album's worth of material and a surplus of rock 'roll attitude, and we're ready to rip. It'll be nice to actually reap some benefit from the long hours of writing and rehearsing, i.e., playing shows, recording, touring, and possibly, some day, God willing, making a living from playing music. So stay tuned. ßßß
Rocktober!
It's October already, fer fook's sake. Can you believe this? Whither went my summer, motherfuckers?!? It was Memorial Day like, when? A coupla weeks back? I seem to have some recollection of a Labor Day in there too, but in between there was nothing. Sweet fuck all. And now it's October. Halloween and daylight savings time are looming. Then Thanksgiving, and we're just a hop and a skip away from Christmas and a small step to New Year's.
Is it just my advanced age that's making time speed up like this? Like, when I was seven, a day comprised 1/2555th of my time on earth. Now it's something on the order of 1/12410th of my time here. In my own personal temporal economy, every day I spend alive cheapens the value of the next day. It becomes shorter, less valuable, less significant.
Jesus, that's fucking depressing.
On to happier things, then. Like playoff baseball!
As of this writing, the Oakland A's are leading the hapless Twins 3-nil (D'oh! The Twins just scored, and it's 3-1. Maybe they have some haps after all.), and the Giants begin their series against the Braves tomorrow. I'm not harboring any delusions of another Bay Bridge series, but I've got high hopes for the Athletics (although the not-at-all-hapless Twins are threatening again). They've got three bona fide stud starters, a hammer in the bullpen, and the Man Who Should Be MVP. Who knows, though? With the dreaded Diamondbacks losing the heart and soul of their lineup to injury, if my Giants can get over on the Braves, they just may have a shot.
You'll be happy to know that Hudson got out of that second-inning jam and that it's still 3-1. Unless you're this guy, of course, or some other Twin-City sympathizer.
War Giants. War A's. War Bay Bridge Series. And I am out! ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
