Good Things Are Comin' Our Way ...
... You know? They always have.
I began yesterday as I normally do, drinking unconscionable amounts of coffee and pouring out my soul into TextPad. Usually I wake in a panic: what the hell am I going to write about today? Luckily I had pictures of the backpiece to post yesterday, so I was spared the usual ordeal of coming up with something even remotely interesting to share with you, dear reader.
Then it was straight into my term project for class at 6:30. I was about halfway done already, so I had about 8 or so hours to knock out the other half. So what do I do? In between obsessively checking my email every 45 seconds, instant messaging friends and family and surfing the Web, I finally get the fucking thing done. It's far from perfect, but it's done. And so began the string of good things I so richly deserved.
Next I get a call from the prospective employer with whom I interviewed on Friday — an interview I thought I'd completely tanked. Now either I did lots beter than I thought, or they're just desperate, because they offered me a job. A job offer!! Last week I was overjoyed just to have gotten an interview, and here I am with a bona fide job offer. Fanfreakingtastic. I have until tomorrow to let 'em know, and the only reason I haven't accepted already is that I'm still in the running for the gig for which I interviewed on Wednesday. When it rains, apparently, it pours.
Then I go off to classin downtown S.F., where I find a legal street parking spot. Only those of you who have spent time in San Francisco (or Manhattan, maybe) will fully appreciate that. I give my brief presentation on my project, and I'm done with class. One step closer to getting certified, whatever that means.
Then I haul ass back to the East Bay, Berkeley, to be specific, and drive around for what seems like hours before I find a parking spot over there (apparently having expended all my parkng karma earlier that evening). But after I'm parked I make a beeline for Zellerbach Hall, where David Sedaris will be reading. The event's been sold out for six months, but Tracy, in her infinite wisdom, scored us tickets in November. God bless her.
I make point of peeing before I get to my seat, because if anyone is capable of making my piss my pants, it's David Sedaris. I get there just as he launches into his first piece about his brother Paul, AKA "the motherfuckin' Rooster." Hilarity ensues. The clear highlight of the evening was his (alleged) first draft of an introduction to an Ira Glass interview of Fresh Air's Terry Gross, wherein he fondly recalled his introduction to NPR:
"I began listening to NPR in 1977 and, although I was young, I recognized it then for what it was: a conspiracy of Jews."
Comedy gold, folks. Comedy gold.
It's about time some good things came my way. And it's even better that I was here to enjoy 'em. ßßß
Ladders Give, Snakes Take
[Sitting #1 | Sitting #2 | Sitting #3] | Sitting #4]
Another three hours in the books — and on the back. Nine months in the making so far. Probably another year or so until it's finished, especially if I wait five months between appointments again like I did this time. But it wasn't the prospect of suffering excruciating pain that kept me from making the appointment (OK, maybe a little), but it was the lack of disposable income. Cuz I mean, how much more frivolous can one be? When one is unemployed, paying someone ungodly sums of money to adorn your body with ink seems pretty stupid.
But isn't it gorgeous??? Why yes, thank you. I think so too. This was definitely my best appointment so far — I sat like a champ. Three hours, two breaks, and just one bloodcurdling scream. (Those bits way out wide toward the ribs? OUCH.) The banner text is still TBD; I'm still leaning toward "Rise Above," but there's a small contingent of me that's lobbying for "Stay Free," if only to continue the Clash-lyric theme I began with my "Straight to Hell" tattoo on my left forearm. Time will tell.
Random Weekend Images
I present to you Tracy and Felix. That's Felix on the bottom there. He's our friend Anne's Maine Coon Cat who we're taking care of for the weekend. We're both dyed-in-the-wool dog people, but Felix is awfully caninelike for a cat. So he's OK by us. Sadly, you can only see about 40 percent of Tracy's incandescent million-dollar smile. Your loss.
And this picture was just too priceless not to post. Tracy and I went everywhere on Telegraph Avenue yesterday on a fruitless quest for a small black hoodie for me. None was forthcoming. We did, however, find this sweatshirt, perfect in every way save one, for $4.99. After an hour with a seam ripper, though, it was perfect. But we captured the "Princess" moment for posterity. Have a laugh at my expense. I know I did. ßßß
Random Access Memories
It's been more than five months since my last appointment, but this afternoon I will go back under the needle for the fifth sitting on my backpiece. Just because I'm unemployed and living unemployment check to unemployment check, that's no reason I shouldn't be completely irresponsible and drop a couple hundred dollars I don't have on something impractical, right? Uhhh ... right. So think about around 5 PM Pacific time. I will be ashen and bloody. Pictures TK on Monday, prolly.
In other news, apart from leaving the house to get ink injected into my skin, I'm on self-imposed house arrest so I'll actually work on my term project for my tech-writing class. I see now why they call it a term project: I should have been working on it throughout the term, not waiting until four days before it's due to even start it. Ahh, well. I've had other fish to fry, as it were, I guess.
In other other news, The Hills Have Eyes now have T-shirts! Yes, we are officially a band now. They look something like this, a little design I came up with (with some help from the U.S. Geological Survey, from whom I swiped the image). Send $100 in money orders or well-concealed cash for each shirt (I know that sounds like a lot, but I have to fund this tattoo addiction somehow).
In other other other news, the coffee is finally starting to kick in. I think I just might make it. ßßß
Good Things Come to Those Who Wait?
Ouch.
I just did some quick math and realized that as of the end of this week, I will have been out of work for three months exactly. Three months! I can't remember the last time I haven't worked at something for three months, be it school or actual employment. Nope, since taking my first summer job in a bait shop at 15 (and you wonder why I'm a vegan??), I've been doing something between 9 and 5.
Of course I have been working during this fallow period, with two contract jobs under my belt and the potential of more on the way, but it's just weird not to have that structure. It's also weird to have sent out an untold, incalculable number of résumés and not got even a canned rejection letter in response. Until this week, when I actually scored two interviews.
I now get as excited about getting an interview as I used to get about actually getting a job offer — that's how much the job market has changed out here. So having two interviews in one week (one yesterday, that I think went rather well, and one today) is, like, a major coup. And as much as I want to return to the ranks of the employed and resume my role as a productive member of society, there's a rather large part of me that is content to sit on my ass and continue depositing these unemployment checks, y'know?
But wish me luck anyways. Just in case. ßßß
Cop-Out Entry of the Week, Part Deux
Here are some photos I took (and two that Todd took) from our recent recording jaunt to Seattle. Click the little one to make it big. Turn the pictures over to read the desriptions on the back.
Thank you, and goodnight. ßßß
Cop-Out Entry of the Week
Another weekend in the books. Another Monday. Another morning with nothing to write about. Too much work and too little play makes for a dull-ass weblog.
Hence today's cop-out entry, wherein I tell you to go elsewhere to get your jollies. Start with rabbit blog (love that ka-razy domain name), the only blog I've discovered in ages that is actually worth reading. Self-absorbed in a painful, poignant, and ultimately cathartic way. And she's funny as hell and a gifted writer. So dig it.
Also hot off the griddle is Raising Hell, a site/'zine about parenting. Now I am not, nor do I ever intend to be a parent, but considering the folks who are involved, it's bound not to suck.
Duty calls. Work and life. Keep it real. ßßß
Nothing to See Here
Survived the trip to Sacratomato, got my Del Taco on, and watched the River Cats fall 10-4 to the Las Vegas 51s. All in all, not a half-bad way to spend an afternoon.
Today, however, is a drastically different story. Up at 7, on the computer, conducting interviews, writing proposals, following up on job leads, answering email, blah, blah, blah. Yes, it beats working, but I'd much rather be sitting in the sun at a mediocre baseball game. But such is life.
This weekend looks to be less than stellar, what with lots of work in store and no shows or other entertainment on the horizon. I still wanna get out to see Panic Room, despite the lukewarm reception it's received so far. It's David Fincher, after all, and therefore it can't be all bad.
But the weather is sposeta be good, and in between work assignments, there will be ample time to get reacquainted with my lovely wife, so I'm definitely looking forward to that. Absence has certainly made the heart grow fonder and all that, so maybe a low-key weekend is exactly what the doctor ordered. Yeah. OK, enough procrastination. Time to get crackin'. Over and out. ßßß
Baseball? You Bet!
Today me and a buddy are making a pilgrimage to a Bay Area baseball mecca: the Saramento River Cats' Raley Field. This will mark my first trip to Raley, but from what I gather it's a little gem of a ballpark, like a mini Jacobs Field. The River Cats, the Oakland A's AAA farm team, will take on the dreaded Las Vegas 51s. First pitch at 12:05. Be there.
Apart from Raley Field, Sacramento's only other redeeming quality is its high concentration of Del Taco franchises. The Bay Area has yet to be blessed with a single Del Taco restaurant, so every trip to the greater Sacto. area is an opportunity to indulge in the finest Mexican fast food known to man (with the possible exception of Taco Time, but those franchises are even fewer and farther between).
I have not been able to enjoy Taco Bell (and I use "enjoy" very loosely here) since I was introduced to the vastly superior Del Taco a few years back in Southern California. Plus, Del T. doesn't do anything stupid like put nonfat dry milk powder in their tortillas like Taco Bell does, thereby blowing it for their vegan patrons. Plus, Del Taco has french fries and Mr. Pibb. And Del Scorcho hot sauce. And it just doesn't get any better than that.
OK, so between Tuesday's trip to the Grocery Outlet and today's musings on the merits of Mexican fast food, I think my white trash is showing. What's next, NASCAR? Not bloody likely. Be right back. Gotta go watch some PBS or eat some watercress sandwiches or something. Wish me luck. ßßß
How Can It Be Wrong (If It Feels So Right)?
Last night I had occasion to indulge one of my strangest proclivities: shopping at the Grocery Outlet.
Now the Grocery Outlet, AKA the Used Food Store, is where old, strange consumer goods go to die. They have everything from on-the-verge -of-expiration carrot juice ($1.49 a quart) to store-brand Extra-Strength Tylenol from stores that haven't existed in a decade ($1.49 for 100 caplets) to leftover Thanksgiving centerpieces (no idea how much those were — too depressing).
Anyone in marketing or advertising or packaging design should be required to spend copious amounts of time at the Used Food Store to learn how not to do things. Case in point: Your generic version of Pam. DO NOT call it, for instance, in gigantic black letters, "Food Release." This sounds a lot less like a non-stick cooking spray and a lot more like a laxative. I mean, I'm just sayin'. ...
But none of this dampens my enthusiasm for the Grocery Outlet; in fact, it only increases it. I love finding amazing deals on discontinued product lines (I haven't paid retail for shampoo or a toothbrush in years) and strange and wonderful canned goods (pigeon peas, $.99 a can). The deals at the Used Food Store put the Big Store (AKA Costco, Price Club, et al.) to shame.
And to Tracy's great credit, she humors my Grocery Outlet kink. It's hard for her to even set foot in a place like that, she says, on account of having shopped there exclusively as a kid. Her folks had to feed four, and then five, kids, on a rural pastor's salary, so they had to make every dollar count. So on some level, she's still stigmatized, I guess. But not me. I mean, if getting amazing deals on Flame-Grilled Gardenburgers ($5.99 for 15 patties, compare at $8.99!) is wrong, I don't wanna be right. ßßß
I'm Back, I'm Black, I'm Better Then Ever
OK, well I'm back at any rate.
The trip to Seattle was gruelling, brutal, and tons of fun, and we came back with a great-sounding demo. I'm still way too close to the whole process to view it with any kind of detached and critical eye, but I do know that I cannot remember ever laughing so much or working so hard in a 5-day span. And the shit sounds amazing. Don't know that I'd do it again, but I'm glad we did it, and that it's done.
And I survived yesterday, which consisted of running all over creation, returning vans, interviewing journalists for this contract gig, going to tech-comm class, all on next to no sleep and very little food. So it's all downhill from here, kids. Today is gonna be all about me. Sleeping in til 10 (check), going to the gym, laying about, going to band practice if I feel like it, and generally recuperating from the abuse I've heaped on my body the past few days.
OK, I'm done whining. The sun is out, and there are 364 days until my next income-tax payment is due. Life is grand. ßßß
Here I am. Rock you like a proverbial hurricane.
Somehow my list of Shit to Do Before I Leave for Seattle keeps getting longer, even as I check stuff off of it. How the hell does that work? Hardly seems fair.
On the plus side, though, it does look like I'll have a job when I return — sort of. I'm 97 percent sure I got the contract gig I alluded to on Wednesday, which is grand, but is adding to my overall stress level, which is less grand. Drive 12 or 15 hours up to Seattle, rock out for three days, drive 12 or 15 hours back, quick-change into my Internet consultant disguise, and start work early the next morning. Jesus, what a weird life. Really good, but also really weird.
OK, so while I am outta town making the rock, you may be wondering what you will do during the time you usually read blawg. But never fear. There is a year-plus worth of old shit for you to read. Also, may I suggest some of the fantastical weblogs and other media organs in the right sidebar?
All right, all right, if that's not good enough for you, you might consider wasting hours here, at The Smoking Gun's Backstage Pass area, which includes contract riders from more than 130 musical acts. I guarantee you will laugh, or your money back.
And lastly, but certainly not leastly, please read this amazing treatise by the very man I will be recording with this weekend, the inimitable Jack Endino. It is entitled "How to Overproduce a Rock Record," and if you don't laugh out loud and spit stuff on your monitor and keyboard as you read it, then you either have no sense of humor, or have never been in a band. Comedy gold, people.
I love you all, and will see you some time next week. Keep it real. ßßß
Quick and Dirty
Damn, I have an assload of stuff to do before I leave for Seattle on Wednesday, so I'm'a keep this really brief.
The Hills Have Eyes et al. show yesterday was totally amazing, not because THHE were so great (although we were pretty damn good, if I do say so myself), but because Champions of Sound were completely amazing and like only the most coolest people ever. It was an honor to share the stage with former members of Helmet and Quicksand, not to mention former supermodel Sybil Buck, and they were just so freaking cool and down to earth.
I didn't actually talk to Chris Traynor, the Helmet dude — guess I was just a little starstruck. The guy just got off tour with Bush, fercryinoutloud. Also rad were The Art of Safecracking from L.A., who I expect to be signed and huge any day now. Think Fugazi plus ATD-I meets Palm Desert stoner rawk. Good shit.
Speaking of good shit, my Giants are 6 and 0. What next? Peace in the Middle East? Seemed about as likely a week ago. The world should be ending soon, as the Giants coming out of the gate undefeated is a sure sign of impending apocalypse. Hopefully the end won't come until after I get to record with Jack Endino. Then I can die a happy man. ßßß
Three Strange Days
I don't really subscribe to the "things happen in threes" doctrine, but here are three good things that have happened of late:
We leave late Wednesday, drive overnight to Seattle, record Thrusday, Friday, and Saturday, and drive back Sunday. So that means no Blawg for a few days next week, unless I get a hold of a laptop with wireless modem or shanghai Jack's computer or find an Internet cafe in the greater Seattle area, which I guess isn't that much of a stretch. Most likely, though, I'll be back on the 15th and regale you with all my various misadventures then.
Go Giants. Go job. Go Jack.
P.S.: The other band, The Hills Have Eyes, plays this Sunday afternoon at The Pound. Champions of Sound, the support act, features Sergio Vega of Quicksand, Chris Traynor of Helmet, and supermodel Sybil Buck. Should be a gas. We go on early — like 3:30 or 4 — so don't be late. See you there. ßßß
Baseball Been Very, Very Good to Me
This just in: Barry Bonds is good.
Two games. Two wins. Four home runs off four different Dodger pitchers. Not bad for two day's work, huh? (If you're curious, Barry is currently on pace to hit 324 home runs this season.)
God, do I love baseball, and I can't even begin to tell you why. Non-baseball people tell me the game is boring and hard to follow, and they're right. And yet. Still I find myself sucked in, wasting entire afternoons watching White Sox vs. Devil Rays contests on WGN. I honestly cannot explain the game's appeal to my own satisfaction.
Perhaps baseball strikes a perfect balance between presence and absence, thoughfulness and thoughtlessness. That is to say, you gotta pay attention, sorta, and the more attention you pay the more you get out of a game, but the game also allows you to just check out. Watching baseball on television (which sounds like torture to many, but is heaven to me) is probably as close as I get to meditation. Immersing myself in the game, turning off the brain, doing some Zen-type thing.
So I will probably be musing about baseball a lot on these pages between now and September — especially if Barry and the Giants continue to look as good as they have over the past two days. I'll apologize in advance to those of you who are bored stiff by the game, but if you've never tried it, commit to a game on TV. Get a big ol' glass of lemonade and park your ass in front of the TV and devote a few hours to it. Think of it as an anthropological experiment.
Better yet, find a minor-league baseball team in your area and go to a game. One of my fondest baseball-related memories is going to a Charleston Rainbows game with my brother a few years back. I don't remember a thing about the actual game, but I do remember the concessionaires walking around toting washtubs full of ice and beer and the incessant heckling of the fat umpire by the fans in front of us ("Eat another Snicker bar, Bo!" they shouted almost continually and inexplicably). It was like entering another era, like going back in time. I'm getting carried away now, which is just further evidence of my addiction.
Who knows? If you build it, they just might come. Hell, it's worth a shot. ßßß
Melting Clocks and Andalusian Dogs
Yesterday's Surreal Moment came courtesy of Chauncey Bailey and the Soulbeat African International Television Network.
Now unless you live in the Greater San Francisco Bay Area and have seen the genius that is Soulbeat, this will take some explaining. Imagine, if you will, an Afrocentric television station run entirely out of someone's spare bedroom, the production values of which make the average local-market used car commercial look like a Super Bowl ad. Basically, Soulbeat is the best unintentional comedy program going.
No matter what happens to be on, whether it's "The End Time Prophetic Movement with Minister Barbara Roussell and Company," "Jimmie's Primetime Live" (I could write an entire column on this phenomenon; another morning perhaps), or "Farrakhan Speaks" (ditto), Soulbeat is always good for a laugh.
So, back to yesterday AM. I'm at the gym. I had just finished my workout — 50 minutes of high-intensity cardio stuff, mastering stairs and recumbent cycling, 851 calories expended — and returned to the locker room. The TV in my row, which is usually tuned to ESPN or CNNfn or MSNBC or some other acronymical station is, inexplicably, tuned to Soulbeat. I start to chuckle. Chauncey Bailey, news director and anchorman, is delivering the news of the day in his preposterous faux baritone, and I turn to the only other dude in my locker row to begin lampooning the Soulbeat. Only the dude appears transfixed by the program. And bears a striking resemblance to the guy on the TV. Holy shit, I'm watching Chauncey Bailey watch himself on TV.
OK, I can get my head around this. Mr. Bailey is watching the broadcast while he gets ready to work out, making mental notes, maybe, on his performance. I shake my head slightly and hit the showers.
When I come back, though, 10 or 15 minutes later, he's still there, still transfixed. This has now officially crossed the line from professional interest in one's performance on into narcissism. Creepy. But it gets better.
A commercial comes on. Now as unintentionally funny as Soulbeat's actual programming is, the commercials are even moreso. Their advertisers are invariably Afrocentric boutiques, soul food restaurants, or ambulance-chasing attorneys, and the commercials are complete amateur hour. Good stuff.
OK, so this commercial comes on, and I'm getting dressed and not really paying attention, but Chauncey is getting agitated. He gets out his cellphone and makes a call — to Soulbeat African International Television Network World Headquarters, I'm guessing. I can only hear his side of the conversation, but it goes something like this.
Chauncey: "Who filmed this commercial?"
Voice on the Other End: " ... "
Chauncey: "Well, they look white!"
Voice on the Other End: " ... "
Chauncey: "Just fix it!"
Click.
I swear, people, I could not make this stuff up. Fact trumps fiction every time. ßßß
Hella Cool
The Hellacopters rocked my world last night. I'm still puzzled about the role of Sweden as the torchbearer of real rock 'n' roll (in fact, I mused on this topic in my third-ever blawg entry, then again here), but you can't argue with the performance that the Hellacopters delivered at Slim's last night.
Somehow these Swedes can strike ridiculous rock 'n' roll poses and break into guitar-hero histrionics without ever looking goofy. It must be their unabashed passion for the rock. You never get the feeling that they're insulating themselves in irony, which is what their Stateside couterparts seem to do; I've seen Americans do the Pete Townshend windmill and play their axes behind their heads, but they're winking at you at the same time, just so you know that they know that this is all a big joke you're being let in on.
Not so with the Swedes. Maybe that's why the Hellacopters and and the Hives and the Soundtrack of Our Lives (who owned South by Southwest apparently, and will be blowing up over here very soon) are our last, best hope for saving the soul of rock 'n' roll. I mean, it took kids from London and Liverpool to turn us Americans on to the brilliance of American blues singers during the British invasion, so maybe it's no coincidence that both the (International) Noise Conspiracy and the Hellacopters do Stooges covers. Perhaps it will take a bunch of pasty Socialists to introduce us to the genius who is living in our midst.
Rock on, my Nordic brothers. ßßß
Spring Forward
Today is April Fool's Day, which is the harbinger of a couple of things. To wit: one week until Daylight Savings Time, the unbridled joy of which will be undercut a week later by Tax Day. Ouch. What Ben Franklin giveth, the IRS taketh away. Sad but true.
I am convinced that I suffer from SAD (seasonal affective disorder), AKA winter depression, so I look forward to the impending time change like a kid looks forward to a birthday. It's like a present that Congress gives me to make up for taking all my money away in the form of income taxes. (Can you tell I'm just a little bitter about the whole tax thing?)
The SAD thing, though, is no joke. Every winter I get all melancholy and go into hibernation mode. All I want to do is make soup and lay on the couch. The year that I lived in England, where sunshine is about as rare as orthodontia, I was plunged into a pit of despair that no amount of soup or sleep could rectify. So I take my DST seriously.
On some deep psychological level, to me, the time-change means spring. Rebirth. The beach. Baseball season. Summer vacation. First kisses at twilight, just a little drunk, the world full of possibilities.
Happy April Fool's Day. ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
