I’ve always wanted a tree house, always. Dad kept promising, even using it as leverage in chore negotiations: “If you pull every rock out of the ground on our property, we’ll build a tree house.”
Yeah, much like that mythical trip to Australia, the tree house never materialized.
I helped my cousin in trying to build one one summer. It was essentially just a rough sort of lean to, nailed between three trees – no roof or anything. The only fun thing about it was watching my cousin take an 8 foot fall as he sawed right through the plywood he was sitting on.
My friend, Mike Vincent, had an excellent tree fort in his back yard. It was all perfect, right angles, boards placed tight, 80’s hair metal posters hanging on the walls and a trapdoor in the floor. My god, I have a hard on for trap doors! There was a locker in there where Mike kept binoculars, Pringles and an occasional issue of Playboy he had managed to steal from his dad. Mike’s tree house was locked up and considered off limits after he was found doing some heavy petting with Jodi – a girl I had incidentally gone to kindergarten with.
But I never petted her.
Still to this day there is this faint flicker of desire for a tree house. I think I would like to live in one. I mean not like the Swiss Family Robinson tree house at Disneyland or anything – let’s face it, that’s just ostentatious, and frankly who has a huge cement tree anymore. But I would like something tasteful and somewhat spacious with a rope swing and everything in a nice natural wood color. I’m thinking probably two levels, maybe three, with boards nailed into the tree for use as a ladder and the whole thing at least 8-10 feet off the ground.
You know, to avoid bears and stuff.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Angry Is The Night
I had a night stuck full of angry dreams. They mostly involved being harassed by late night street denizens in the run down zone of the city that I always dream of.
I’m not positive what caused the attitude in these dreams, I don’t have that kind of power or knowledge; I can take a few guesses though. Something about the street we live on in that part of the neighborhood draws every angry addict for miles around. It’s possibly some odor in the shrubbery that is undetectable except by the deep unconscious of every screaming, dumpster diving, road sign kicking, yahoo junky in the greater Seattle area. I’m beginning to learn about the cast of characters by their 2am rants.
There’s The Whore. I call her that because she spent one late night yelling to her boyfriend/pimp that she “wasn’t a whore!” over and over again. I don’t know if she was yelling again last night, but one of the dreams involved some skank screaming about how she was going to keep her baby and nobody was going to tell her what to do. I’m attributing it to The Whore, one way or the other.
Not long after waking up from that dream, shaking with anger, I could hear somebody right below my window, surreptitiously shaking a spray paint can. In my sleepy haze I was tempted to grab my grandfather’s B.B. gun and do my best to make that can blow in the tagger’s hand.
Another possible factor in my angry dream marathon was the small cat attempting to get into the bedroom by trying to claw open the door, as well as sticking his snout beneath the crack and mewling like the little hell beast he is. I’m fairly sure this is what was responsible for the dream of me lifting someone off the ground by their hair and daring them, and the bald tough guy that charged up, to make me do something.
I awoke with that tired, clenched muscle feeling of an adrenaline overdose, and the feeling of wanting to beat the living hell out of anyone or anything that even looked at me with anything but love and admiration.
Maybe it’s that Mars is close to the planet – or so the internet rumor tells us, but I don’t know. I can tell you that it’s an aggravating way to start the day.
I’m not positive what caused the attitude in these dreams, I don’t have that kind of power or knowledge; I can take a few guesses though. Something about the street we live on in that part of the neighborhood draws every angry addict for miles around. It’s possibly some odor in the shrubbery that is undetectable except by the deep unconscious of every screaming, dumpster diving, road sign kicking, yahoo junky in the greater Seattle area. I’m beginning to learn about the cast of characters by their 2am rants.
There’s The Whore. I call her that because she spent one late night yelling to her boyfriend/pimp that she “wasn’t a whore!” over and over again. I don’t know if she was yelling again last night, but one of the dreams involved some skank screaming about how she was going to keep her baby and nobody was going to tell her what to do. I’m attributing it to The Whore, one way or the other.
Not long after waking up from that dream, shaking with anger, I could hear somebody right below my window, surreptitiously shaking a spray paint can. In my sleepy haze I was tempted to grab my grandfather’s B.B. gun and do my best to make that can blow in the tagger’s hand.
Another possible factor in my angry dream marathon was the small cat attempting to get into the bedroom by trying to claw open the door, as well as sticking his snout beneath the crack and mewling like the little hell beast he is. I’m fairly sure this is what was responsible for the dream of me lifting someone off the ground by their hair and daring them, and the bald tough guy that charged up, to make me do something.
I awoke with that tired, clenched muscle feeling of an adrenaline overdose, and the feeling of wanting to beat the living hell out of anyone or anything that even looked at me with anything but love and admiration.
Maybe it’s that Mars is close to the planet – or so the internet rumor tells us, but I don’t know. I can tell you that it’s an aggravating way to start the day.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Gala - Apparently Latin for Hurtful Next Morning
We had a “gala” event for The Crucible on Saturday night. What’s included in a “gala” event you ask, where people spend $30 for a ticket that is normally $12-15? We were very much wondering the same thing. I assumed it meant that after the show, we as a cast go out and blow the audience members.
But alas, no; for $30, the audience got free wine and beer and snacks, and if they wanted to, they got to stay after and have a talk back with the cast and director.
So after the audience got to ask questions of this enormous cast, where one of us likened being a judge during the Salem witch trials to being the president of his condo board (!?!), I got drunk.
I started off drinking a beer during the talk back. I then moved on to another beer and to finishing two large glasses of wine that one of the actresses deemed as not so good. A group of us moved on to a local bar –
- this was after three of us were leaving the theater and found a guy passed out in the doorway. This is not strange in an urban setting, but there was something about the guy’s blank and open eyed stare that spoke of something not good. One of the actresses called a local detox clinic where they sent over medical personnel to check on him and get him into a bed.-
-where I proceeded to drink whiskey. Yeah, I’ll do that. That was all fine and well, but as last call crept up on us way too quickly, a theater near by was chosen as a place to go drink away some of the gala leftovers. More beer, more wine…
Now, I’d like to take a moment to say that I have learned my lesson about mixing alcohols; a few times. I’m usually pretty good at not doing it, but occasionally I think that I’m stronger than dirt. It took years, years I say, to learn that me and Jose Cuervo are not friends.
I’ve definitely been drunker than I was on Saturday night, but this turned into one of the top five worst hangovers. I woke up in a bad place come Sunday morning. One of those headaches that just make you queasy and a stomach doing it’s best to rage against the system. But to top that off, I was sweating, insanely. It wasn’t particularly warm, but I was dripping sweat, and trying my damndest to chuck up the ill advised 4 in the morning sojourn to Jack in the Box wasn’t helping. I laid down, shaking and thinking to myself that it was going to be a painful show tonight.
Apparently the god of hangovers felt bad for me, for after a fitful 40 minute nap, I woke up like a new man. I wasn’t going to do jumping jacks or anything, but I realized that I also wasn’t going to have to spend a chunk of the day moaning on the couch and trying to keep down baby sips of Gatorade.
Thank you god of hangovers, this makes 2018 that I owe you.
But alas, no; for $30, the audience got free wine and beer and snacks, and if they wanted to, they got to stay after and have a talk back with the cast and director.
So after the audience got to ask questions of this enormous cast, where one of us likened being a judge during the Salem witch trials to being the president of his condo board (!?!), I got drunk.
I started off drinking a beer during the talk back. I then moved on to another beer and to finishing two large glasses of wine that one of the actresses deemed as not so good. A group of us moved on to a local bar –
- this was after three of us were leaving the theater and found a guy passed out in the doorway. This is not strange in an urban setting, but there was something about the guy’s blank and open eyed stare that spoke of something not good. One of the actresses called a local detox clinic where they sent over medical personnel to check on him and get him into a bed.-
-where I proceeded to drink whiskey. Yeah, I’ll do that. That was all fine and well, but as last call crept up on us way too quickly, a theater near by was chosen as a place to go drink away some of the gala leftovers. More beer, more wine…
Now, I’d like to take a moment to say that I have learned my lesson about mixing alcohols; a few times. I’m usually pretty good at not doing it, but occasionally I think that I’m stronger than dirt. It took years, years I say, to learn that me and Jose Cuervo are not friends.
I’ve definitely been drunker than I was on Saturday night, but this turned into one of the top five worst hangovers. I woke up in a bad place come Sunday morning. One of those headaches that just make you queasy and a stomach doing it’s best to rage against the system. But to top that off, I was sweating, insanely. It wasn’t particularly warm, but I was dripping sweat, and trying my damndest to chuck up the ill advised 4 in the morning sojourn to Jack in the Box wasn’t helping. I laid down, shaking and thinking to myself that it was going to be a painful show tonight.
Apparently the god of hangovers felt bad for me, for after a fitful 40 minute nap, I woke up like a new man. I wasn’t going to do jumping jacks or anything, but I realized that I also wasn’t going to have to spend a chunk of the day moaning on the couch and trying to keep down baby sips of Gatorade.
Thank you god of hangovers, this makes 2018 that I owe you.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Smells Like Summer (1990)
I encounter a large number of smells on my walk to work; the rank and wetly pungent reek of the dumpster outside of The War Room, the briney smell of the sound in the morning that stirs something in my blood – probably the same something that drew my family to the sea and to the Navy, the acrid day-old fire smell of the BBQ joint down in Pioneer Square. But this morning I walked behind someone wearing Fahrenheit, the fragrance.
I haven’t smelled it a lot, but every time I do I am pulled right back into being nineteen and in Europe for the first time. I hooked up with my father during that trip and we tooled around together for awhile.
Something to know about my dad: he loves cologne. A lot. Dad went and blew a wad in the duty free shop and Fahrenheit was the fragrance du jour.
Something else to know about my dad: he and I had a very difficult time living in the same house together. Frankly, we would have had a difficult time living in the same city together. This traveling together thing was going to be trial by fire – a subliminal cue that made him buy the Fahrenheit? I doubt it..
I definitely remember specific things about this first trip to Europe that I hope to never lose; driven to tears by the Van Gogh exhibit in Amsterdam, a heavy and dark storm coming in over the North Sea as I stood on a deserted tourist beach in my thin Cure T-shirt, the remnants of a medieval wall that had once surrounded Brussels. I remember a random old man giving me a history lesson of Lucerne (quite possibly the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen) in a Swiss accent so thick that I could only understand every fourth word – but there I was, smiling away like crazy anyway. I remember seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time and being shocked that it really existed, seeing the Mona Lisa and being shocked that that’s all there was to it.
But honestly some of my favorite moments of that trip were grand and historical in nature only to my dad and me. Getting just piss drunk with Dad in the small and charming streets of Alsmeer and being afraid I was going to puke up all that wonderful Grolsch. I remember trading off smokes and having playful arguments over whose turn it was to buy the next pack. I remember what felt like a thousand games of Gin, waiting for trains all over the continent. I remember the gleam in his eye as my dad showed me cities and cathedrals that he had seen and loved in another time. Realizing that it was possible, for a moment, to strip away the father/son crap and spend time together as a couple of guys.
The smell of Fahrenheit is not one of my favorites, it’s not a cologne that I especially like, but the memories are fucking superb.
I haven’t smelled it a lot, but every time I do I am pulled right back into being nineteen and in Europe for the first time. I hooked up with my father during that trip and we tooled around together for awhile.
Something to know about my dad: he loves cologne. A lot. Dad went and blew a wad in the duty free shop and Fahrenheit was the fragrance du jour.
Something else to know about my dad: he and I had a very difficult time living in the same house together. Frankly, we would have had a difficult time living in the same city together. This traveling together thing was going to be trial by fire – a subliminal cue that made him buy the Fahrenheit? I doubt it..
I definitely remember specific things about this first trip to Europe that I hope to never lose; driven to tears by the Van Gogh exhibit in Amsterdam, a heavy and dark storm coming in over the North Sea as I stood on a deserted tourist beach in my thin Cure T-shirt, the remnants of a medieval wall that had once surrounded Brussels. I remember a random old man giving me a history lesson of Lucerne (quite possibly the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen) in a Swiss accent so thick that I could only understand every fourth word – but there I was, smiling away like crazy anyway. I remember seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time and being shocked that it really existed, seeing the Mona Lisa and being shocked that that’s all there was to it.
But honestly some of my favorite moments of that trip were grand and historical in nature only to my dad and me. Getting just piss drunk with Dad in the small and charming streets of Alsmeer and being afraid I was going to puke up all that wonderful Grolsch. I remember trading off smokes and having playful arguments over whose turn it was to buy the next pack. I remember what felt like a thousand games of Gin, waiting for trains all over the continent. I remember the gleam in his eye as my dad showed me cities and cathedrals that he had seen and loved in another time. Realizing that it was possible, for a moment, to strip away the father/son crap and spend time together as a couple of guys.
The smell of Fahrenheit is not one of my favorites, it’s not a cologne that I especially like, but the memories are fucking superb.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Wednesday, I Even Like The Way It's Spelled
Last night was a night off, no rehearsal, no show, no stress. I sat on a stool in the breakfast nook while Biff cut my hair. A Cat Power song from What Would The Community Think was playing and a cool breeze was coming through the window like some sort of fortune teller, bringing news of fall just over the horizon.
I don’t know, there was just something great in how simple it was. I was thinking, “I hope it can always be like this”. No matter what happens, it would be nice to know that there might always be haircuts in the kitchen, the proper music for the mood and the irresistible tug of the promise of the world coming in through the window.
p.s. Here’s a review of The Crucible. If you squint, you can see me in the back right corner…
I don’t know, there was just something great in how simple it was. I was thinking, “I hope it can always be like this”. No matter what happens, it would be nice to know that there might always be haircuts in the kitchen, the proper music for the mood and the irresistible tug of the promise of the world coming in through the window.
p.s. Here’s a review of The Crucible. If you squint, you can see me in the back right corner…
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Mr. Mora, Corner Pocket
I came across a postcard last night that I had written to somebody nearly 10 years ago but never sent. What was on my mind 10 years ago that I felt strongly enough to write about (but never send)? Besides the normal drunken madness, I had a man on my mind that I had forgotten all about.
There is a saloon in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco called the Grant and Green, located (conveniently enough) on the corner of Grant and Green. There’s nothing remarkable about the G&G, bands play there at night, there’s a pool table or two and booze. Oh yeah, and there used to be this guy hovering around named Don Mora.
Don Mora was this self-defined Bukowski type, elder drunken poet, who had a knack for ruining the best laid pool plans by reciting his own work and doing a drunken little dance. It became increasingly unclear for whose benefit these impromptu readings and jigs were for.
I met Don at a time in my life when I was attracting drunken freaks by the boat load. It happened to be at a time when I was reading a lot of Bukowski, not so much for the wonderfully poetic prose, but for documenting the drunken lifestyle I was trying my damnedest to uphold. So the fates combined for me to find Mr. Mora, to find him an entertaining conversationalist – as I was drunk and a terrible pool player.
He recited some of his works, which all seemed to have the words “my almighty pen” in them. He pointed out the oil painting portrait of himself hanging in the Lost and Found Saloon next door. When I flippantly said something along the lines of, ‘we’re limited as mere men Don, but when we strive to be a force of nature, doesn’t that count for something?’ he laughed a drunken laugh, clapped me on the back and said he liked the way I thought.
Don seemed to be this near transparent ghost from the “grand” beat days of North Beach. One of the multitude on the outer orbits of that generation’s stars that continued to live in anonymity and occasionally manage a free drink in the neighborhood’s watering holes. There was a bittersweet air around the man that swam with the dark swarms of failed dreams, but burned with the tenacious intensity of dreams not let go. There was something about the guy that I connected with; a similar soul, a brother from another age.
There is a saloon in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco called the Grant and Green, located (conveniently enough) on the corner of Grant and Green. There’s nothing remarkable about the G&G, bands play there at night, there’s a pool table or two and booze. Oh yeah, and there used to be this guy hovering around named Don Mora.
Don Mora was this self-defined Bukowski type, elder drunken poet, who had a knack for ruining the best laid pool plans by reciting his own work and doing a drunken little dance. It became increasingly unclear for whose benefit these impromptu readings and jigs were for.
I met Don at a time in my life when I was attracting drunken freaks by the boat load. It happened to be at a time when I was reading a lot of Bukowski, not so much for the wonderfully poetic prose, but for documenting the drunken lifestyle I was trying my damnedest to uphold. So the fates combined for me to find Mr. Mora, to find him an entertaining conversationalist – as I was drunk and a terrible pool player.
He recited some of his works, which all seemed to have the words “my almighty pen” in them. He pointed out the oil painting portrait of himself hanging in the Lost and Found Saloon next door. When I flippantly said something along the lines of, ‘we’re limited as mere men Don, but when we strive to be a force of nature, doesn’t that count for something?’ he laughed a drunken laugh, clapped me on the back and said he liked the way I thought.
Don seemed to be this near transparent ghost from the “grand” beat days of North Beach. One of the multitude on the outer orbits of that generation’s stars that continued to live in anonymity and occasionally manage a free drink in the neighborhood’s watering holes. There was a bittersweet air around the man that swam with the dark swarms of failed dreams, but burned with the tenacious intensity of dreams not let go. There was something about the guy that I connected with; a similar soul, a brother from another age.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Bee 826
So somewhere around 2:30 AM, I awoke thinking to myself, “ah! What a great idea for the blog!” I then went to sleep with what I can only assume was a contented smile, knowing I had birthed a great idea, that the cats were out in the living room and quiet, and that I had a number of hours left before I had to wake up again. I remember thinking for a quick moment, “dude, you’re never gonna remember that in the morning”, but I shushed that with a brazenly reassuring, “yeah you are”.
Yeah, I don’t remember.
So I’m gonna go after this posting Guided By Voices (or as some say, Guided By Beers) style: small pieces that, fit together will probably just end up confusing the hell out of a lot of people.
I like flirting. I think it’s the funnest damn thing going. I have the “luxury” of nobody ever taking me seriously, so I don’t run the risk of falling into a sticky trap if things go wrong. I don’t know, there’s this faux danger feeling that comes with flirting, like you’re flying in the face of strenuous social mores, like you’re being a sexy bitch. Plus, it gets you out of the normal, banal getting to know you bullshit.
Why is it that any idea or thought that goes against somebody else’s beliefs is an attack on that person and their beliefs. That says to me that said person feels some sort of weakness in what they believe in, that they need to overcompensate for them. It’s sort of like the little dick theory: guys who spend all their time talking about how big their dicks are, usually have small dicks – drive big and fast cars and carry around replacement phalluses at every opportunity.
Maybe it’s not like the little dick theory at all.
Agent Cooper from Twin Peaks (David Lynch by association) is absolutely right, there’s nothing like good coffee and pie. Any pie will do, but between you and me, it’s gotta be apple. And I will put out a boycott against you if you claim a favorite other than mine.
And seriously, don’t even get me started on people who insist on listing their degrees after their names. Or using ‘Esquire’, fuck Esquire! Though guys putting ‘Master’ in front of their names seems sort of sexy, in a period bondage porn kind of way.
Finally, going back a couple weeks in postings, I would like to end with a picture of my favorite tattoo:
Yeah, I don’t remember.
So I’m gonna go after this posting Guided By Voices (or as some say, Guided By Beers) style: small pieces that, fit together will probably just end up confusing the hell out of a lot of people.
I like flirting. I think it’s the funnest damn thing going. I have the “luxury” of nobody ever taking me seriously, so I don’t run the risk of falling into a sticky trap if things go wrong. I don’t know, there’s this faux danger feeling that comes with flirting, like you’re flying in the face of strenuous social mores, like you’re being a sexy bitch. Plus, it gets you out of the normal, banal getting to know you bullshit.
Why is it that any idea or thought that goes against somebody else’s beliefs is an attack on that person and their beliefs. That says to me that said person feels some sort of weakness in what they believe in, that they need to overcompensate for them. It’s sort of like the little dick theory: guys who spend all their time talking about how big their dicks are, usually have small dicks – drive big and fast cars and carry around replacement phalluses at every opportunity.
Maybe it’s not like the little dick theory at all.
Agent Cooper from Twin Peaks (David Lynch by association) is absolutely right, there’s nothing like good coffee and pie. Any pie will do, but between you and me, it’s gotta be apple. And I will put out a boycott against you if you claim a favorite other than mine.
And seriously, don’t even get me started on people who insist on listing their degrees after their names. Or using ‘Esquire’, fuck Esquire! Though guys putting ‘Master’ in front of their names seems sort of sexy, in a period bondage porn kind of way.
Finally, going back a couple weeks in postings, I would like to end with a picture of my favorite tattoo:
Monday, August 22, 2005
Yeah, I Know, Mondays Suck For Everyone
I was going to write about the opening of the grand show #2 here in Seattle, and I will a bit, but…
We opened The Crucible last week. It’s a tough show that leaves me freaking wrecked by the end of it (and hopefully the audience finds it that way as well). My fellow actors in this show are nothing short of amazing, and if you for some reason find yourself in the Seattle area during the next two weekends, I would highly recommend seeing it.
But today, Monday, has been one of those mornings that, while amazingly aggravating to me, others may find funny, so here you go:
I am working some overtime today, and was supposed to be in at 7 am. Apparently this typing numbnuts set his alarm, but neglected to turn it on. So on awaking at 7:09, I had that “Oh shit” moment of absolute panic as I ran to the bathroom for the bare essentials and threw on whatever was laying on the bedroom floor.
Oh, and let me just say that current employer really looks down upon being late. I was told back when I was a temp, by a supervisor, that it is sometimes better to just call in sick than to show up late.
At this point the plan to walk to work was decided against. I managed to hit every possible red light getting out of Capitol Hill, and a few lights that the red light fairies had apparently put up in the night while I slept. I then found a freeway jammed with what I can only assume were tourists from some sort of Brigadoon where freeways don’t exist and the only prerequisite for driving is an apparent 5 ½ minute driving lesson that relies heavily on the brake pedal.
Oh, and trucks. Big trucks. Big, slow moving trucks.
I pulled a daring Dukes of Hazard style crossing to avoid getting stuck behind a train (the shocks of our Honda-cum-General Lee are probably emotionally scarred at best) only to find that all parking near the building (usually somewhat available near 7 am) was taken.
Hauling ass to the offsite parking lot, I battled more big trucks and lane closures and managed to spill 3 day old coffee all over myself getting out of the car while watching a shuttle drive away. I then waited 15 minutes for the next shuttle when I could have walked there in 20.
And then, just to top it off, I overheard some awful USC grad behind me say the words, “I think this season I’ll watch college games and just TiVo pro.” I cannot explain why, but the combination of words and tone there put in the mood punch something but hard.
It has put me in one of those moods where I don’t really want to talk to anybody, I just want to sit quietly and do my work, for fear of hearing the words “alarm clock” or “Monday” or “TiVo”
We opened The Crucible last week. It’s a tough show that leaves me freaking wrecked by the end of it (and hopefully the audience finds it that way as well). My fellow actors in this show are nothing short of amazing, and if you for some reason find yourself in the Seattle area during the next two weekends, I would highly recommend seeing it.
But today, Monday, has been one of those mornings that, while amazingly aggravating to me, others may find funny, so here you go:
I am working some overtime today, and was supposed to be in at 7 am. Apparently this typing numbnuts set his alarm, but neglected to turn it on. So on awaking at 7:09, I had that “Oh shit” moment of absolute panic as I ran to the bathroom for the bare essentials and threw on whatever was laying on the bedroom floor.
Oh, and let me just say that current employer really looks down upon being late. I was told back when I was a temp, by a supervisor, that it is sometimes better to just call in sick than to show up late.
At this point the plan to walk to work was decided against. I managed to hit every possible red light getting out of Capitol Hill, and a few lights that the red light fairies had apparently put up in the night while I slept. I then found a freeway jammed with what I can only assume were tourists from some sort of Brigadoon where freeways don’t exist and the only prerequisite for driving is an apparent 5 ½ minute driving lesson that relies heavily on the brake pedal.
Oh, and trucks. Big trucks. Big, slow moving trucks.
I pulled a daring Dukes of Hazard style crossing to avoid getting stuck behind a train (the shocks of our Honda-cum-General Lee are probably emotionally scarred at best) only to find that all parking near the building (usually somewhat available near 7 am) was taken.
Hauling ass to the offsite parking lot, I battled more big trucks and lane closures and managed to spill 3 day old coffee all over myself getting out of the car while watching a shuttle drive away. I then waited 15 minutes for the next shuttle when I could have walked there in 20.
And then, just to top it off, I overheard some awful USC grad behind me say the words, “I think this season I’ll watch college games and just TiVo pro.” I cannot explain why, but the combination of words and tone there put in the mood punch something but hard.
It has put me in one of those moods where I don’t really want to talk to anybody, I just want to sit quietly and do my work, for fear of hearing the words “alarm clock” or “Monday” or “TiVo”
Friday, August 19, 2005
"I'm Really Sorry To Hear About That"
Imagine:
A young man, late twenties/early thirties, named Jeff Messenger, crossing within a crosswalk on a curvy road in unincorporated Snohomish County. As Jeff is near halfway across, he is struck by the side view mirror of a passing sunburst orange van. The connection is hard enough to send Jeff flying.
Jeff pops right into the mouth of a nearby well like a schoolyard basketball player’s wet dream. Nothing but Annette Funicello fills his mind as he smacks the back of his head along the inside of the wet bricks. He hits the cold, dark, well water, reeking of minerals, with a thunderous splash that echoes off the walls. Almost as soon as he is back up to the surface is quickly pulled back under and thrust through a complex plumbing system, made entirely of vinyl and nagahide.
He is flushed out into an enormous cave where he is greeted by a small group of wide eyed young men and women. He is introduced to the one who seemed to be the leader of the group. Interestingly enough, he is named Geoff as well (but, as you can see, spelled differently). The only thing that Jeff can think to say is:
“Zorro was Annette Funicello’s favorite show.”
Mr. Messenger learns that he has found himself among a community of people who have all been struck by sunburst orange vans and knocked into the well. And here they sit, attempting to develop the technology that will bring the automotive tyrants down.
Something about the concussion Jeff received on his fall mixes facts from the original Mickey Mouse Club transmissions and his Great Aunt’s recipe for snickerdoodles. It turns out to be exactly the knowledge that this group needs. Soon, all hell will break loose.
-This is the sort of thing that I’m thinking about while customers are yapping on and on with their inane complaints…
A young man, late twenties/early thirties, named Jeff Messenger, crossing within a crosswalk on a curvy road in unincorporated Snohomish County. As Jeff is near halfway across, he is struck by the side view mirror of a passing sunburst orange van. The connection is hard enough to send Jeff flying.
Jeff pops right into the mouth of a nearby well like a schoolyard basketball player’s wet dream. Nothing but Annette Funicello fills his mind as he smacks the back of his head along the inside of the wet bricks. He hits the cold, dark, well water, reeking of minerals, with a thunderous splash that echoes off the walls. Almost as soon as he is back up to the surface is quickly pulled back under and thrust through a complex plumbing system, made entirely of vinyl and nagahide.
He is flushed out into an enormous cave where he is greeted by a small group of wide eyed young men and women. He is introduced to the one who seemed to be the leader of the group. Interestingly enough, he is named Geoff as well (but, as you can see, spelled differently). The only thing that Jeff can think to say is:
“Zorro was Annette Funicello’s favorite show.”
Mr. Messenger learns that he has found himself among a community of people who have all been struck by sunburst orange vans and knocked into the well. And here they sit, attempting to develop the technology that will bring the automotive tyrants down.
Something about the concussion Jeff received on his fall mixes facts from the original Mickey Mouse Club transmissions and his Great Aunt’s recipe for snickerdoodles. It turns out to be exactly the knowledge that this group needs. Soon, all hell will break loose.
-This is the sort of thing that I’m thinking about while customers are yapping on and on with their inane complaints…
Thursday, August 18, 2005
On A Fire Escape, In Seattle
We had dress rehearsal for The Crucible last night. It’s been a long and fairly tough schedule, and I’ll tell you true, I’m pretty beat. Excited, but beat.
We are performing in a theater that is in the Oddfellow’s Hall, a fantastic old building here in Seattle. During Act I, which I do not appear in, I went out to the fire escape on the top floor. It’s one of those old fashioned, iron fire escapes that I have always associated with city buildings, and always felt a little jipped that I never lived in a building with one.
I could see so many trees throughout the neighborhood. I could see the scattered clouds struck red by the sun heading down. I could see a sliver of Puget Sound and smell the perfect aquamarine color of the breeze coming in off of it.
I felt this profound loneliness suddenly. Not a maudlin, nobody loves me, pity-fest loneliness, but just this still, sort of bittersweet isolation. I thought of the people I had lost in my life, the people I had left behind, the people I had only known briefly-for moments-but that had made such an impact. There was this stoic sadness that held in its cold and strong hands this burst of joy.
It made me think of the people I still have, my loved ones, the ones that overflow love and make the world a more amazing place by simply… being… there.
I was overcome by this perfect balance of emotion; a wondrous blending of sadness and bitterness and joy and elation, and calm assurance in the blinding face of a life that already seems so full and long and varied. It was like a meal, an utterly perfect meal.
Thank you everybody for being amazing at your best, and amazing at your not-so-best. Thanks for sharing yourselves, and thanks for sitting through this fairly cheesy post.
We are performing in a theater that is in the Oddfellow’s Hall, a fantastic old building here in Seattle. During Act I, which I do not appear in, I went out to the fire escape on the top floor. It’s one of those old fashioned, iron fire escapes that I have always associated with city buildings, and always felt a little jipped that I never lived in a building with one.
I could see so many trees throughout the neighborhood. I could see the scattered clouds struck red by the sun heading down. I could see a sliver of Puget Sound and smell the perfect aquamarine color of the breeze coming in off of it.
I felt this profound loneliness suddenly. Not a maudlin, nobody loves me, pity-fest loneliness, but just this still, sort of bittersweet isolation. I thought of the people I had lost in my life, the people I had left behind, the people I had only known briefly-for moments-but that had made such an impact. There was this stoic sadness that held in its cold and strong hands this burst of joy.
It made me think of the people I still have, my loved ones, the ones that overflow love and make the world a more amazing place by simply… being… there.
I was overcome by this perfect balance of emotion; a wondrous blending of sadness and bitterness and joy and elation, and calm assurance in the blinding face of a life that already seems so full and long and varied. It was like a meal, an utterly perfect meal.
Thank you everybody for being amazing at your best, and amazing at your not-so-best. Thanks for sharing yourselves, and thanks for sitting through this fairly cheesy post.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Greta May, Led Astray
Thinking about the Hand Grenade, a drink that comes in a hand grenade shaped, plastic cup, comes with its own sidewalk spokesthing:
and tastes like it were made of Everclear and Lik-M-Aid got me thinking about drink inventions.
My lovely and talented friend Greta May –
And I’m going to wreck my own flow here by stating that to post all I wanted to about Greta May would crash Blogger but good. We’re going to have to take it piece by loving piece, as always.
-attempted to create her own drink. I don’t remember what it was called (a Greta Breeze, or a Greta Fizz or something) and I don’t remember what was in it, except that it was loaded down with grenadine.
You see, Greta likes red. Greta May loves red. If red were physical and remotely phallic shaped, Greta May would have crazy, jungle sex with it. Hence the grenadine. Hence the following story:
A group of us were celebrating Reggie’s birthday at a whorehouse hotel/biker bar-restaurant. We were trashed. We had raided the place’s extremely well stocked beer locker like Vikings on a drunken mission. The bar maid was kicking us out of the place at closing time and I kindly asked if we could finish our drinks out back on their porch as we were staying in the hotel that used to be a brothel. She willingly agreed and to much drunken noise we made our way out back.
When I turned around, I found Greta May heading towards me with a fresh beverage in her hands. She was excited as I could tell from the demonic sparkle in her alcohol blurry eyes.
“Look what I found on the bar!” She shouted to me in a stage whisper.
“That’s great Greta, what is it.”
And with a priceless smile she looked me in the face and stated proudly:
“I don’t know, but it’s red!”
The next morning was not a pretty one for a lot of people at that party. Greta woke up in fantastic spirits until it sharply dawned on her that she was still drunk. All in one moment the world became an ugly, painful place for her.
I didn’t ask, but I’m pretty sure I could guess the color of her sickness.
and tastes like it were made of Everclear and Lik-M-Aid got me thinking about drink inventions.
My lovely and talented friend Greta May –
And I’m going to wreck my own flow here by stating that to post all I wanted to about Greta May would crash Blogger but good. We’re going to have to take it piece by loving piece, as always.
-attempted to create her own drink. I don’t remember what it was called (a Greta Breeze, or a Greta Fizz or something) and I don’t remember what was in it, except that it was loaded down with grenadine.
You see, Greta likes red. Greta May loves red. If red were physical and remotely phallic shaped, Greta May would have crazy, jungle sex with it. Hence the grenadine. Hence the following story:
A group of us were celebrating Reggie’s birthday at a whorehouse hotel/biker bar-restaurant. We were trashed. We had raided the place’s extremely well stocked beer locker like Vikings on a drunken mission. The bar maid was kicking us out of the place at closing time and I kindly asked if we could finish our drinks out back on their porch as we were staying in the hotel that used to be a brothel. She willingly agreed and to much drunken noise we made our way out back.
When I turned around, I found Greta May heading towards me with a fresh beverage in her hands. She was excited as I could tell from the demonic sparkle in her alcohol blurry eyes.
“Look what I found on the bar!” She shouted to me in a stage whisper.
“That’s great Greta, what is it.”
And with a priceless smile she looked me in the face and stated proudly:
“I don’t know, but it’s red!”
The next morning was not a pretty one for a lot of people at that party. Greta woke up in fantastic spirits until it sharply dawned on her that she was still drunk. All in one moment the world became an ugly, painful place for her.
I didn’t ask, but I’m pretty sure I could guess the color of her sickness.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Oh, You. Tee-Hee
I was lucky enough to be asked to work a convention by my employer many years back. Let me rephrase that… My job paid for me to go to New Orleans and get properly fucked up in exchange for standing around a booth for 8 hours.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the “pleasure” to work a convention of any sort, but it’s kind of a sad affair when you get right down to it. It’s mostly guys, socially awkward, middle aged guys. Sales guys with bad hair and some sort of chip on their shoulder… They come to a town to peddle their crap and pretend they’re worldly by getting thoroughly pissed in the local “Margaritaville” or whatever tacky and crappy theme bar exists in its vacuous place.
And no, I’m not any better. My first night out in the French Quarter I had a Hand Grenade (if you’ve never had one, I cautiously advise it (Lik-M-Aid and Everclear baby, Lik-M-Aid and Everclear), 3 Hurricanes and one shot of Jagermeister administered to me by an adorable young woman with a test tube in her mouth. Was I drunk? Well, if drunk means thinking that I could work a full day after an hour and a half of sleep and 86 ounces of high octane alcohol sitting in my belly, then yes, I was drunk.
Rest assured that the following day was an ugly one. But none of this is the point. The point is that at the convention itself, many of the hundreds of supplier booths there were attention grabbing devices such flashing lights, balloon creatures that jumped around and booth floozies.
Booth floozies are model type women, usually scantily clad, that stand outside the booths to attract these sad and lonely men in with the hopes that if they show any interest in the products, that these healthy young lasses will blow them behind the convention center.
As I stumbled past a plethora of them, a gaggle of booth floozies if you will, hung-over like a kangaroo mouse hit with a tranquilizer dart meant for a rhino, trying my hardest to keep my burning bile down as I blindly searched out a truly shitty cup of coffee, these ladies did not even give me a sympathetic smile. I mean they’ll practically lap dance a 50 year old, mole covered, board operator from an AM station in Casper Wyoming, but not even a knowing nod towards a seriously self-abused yours truly.
That’s fine, that’s not my problem, that’s not my issue. I don’t even particularly have an issue with B.F.’s themselves, I mean if you’re able to make a healthy living by being pretty and having a nice rack, absolutely, more power to you. My problem is these moronic, idiot guys who fall for such a dipshit ploy. I mean these women should have the word “Obvious” stretched across their ample tits. Seriously, it gives me the creeps that there are many guys at conventions all over the country, all the time, who feign interest in some cheesy company’s crappy gear in order to spend some time near a pretty woman.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the “pleasure” to work a convention of any sort, but it’s kind of a sad affair when you get right down to it. It’s mostly guys, socially awkward, middle aged guys. Sales guys with bad hair and some sort of chip on their shoulder… They come to a town to peddle their crap and pretend they’re worldly by getting thoroughly pissed in the local “Margaritaville” or whatever tacky and crappy theme bar exists in its vacuous place.
And no, I’m not any better. My first night out in the French Quarter I had a Hand Grenade (if you’ve never had one, I cautiously advise it (Lik-M-Aid and Everclear baby, Lik-M-Aid and Everclear), 3 Hurricanes and one shot of Jagermeister administered to me by an adorable young woman with a test tube in her mouth. Was I drunk? Well, if drunk means thinking that I could work a full day after an hour and a half of sleep and 86 ounces of high octane alcohol sitting in my belly, then yes, I was drunk.
Rest assured that the following day was an ugly one. But none of this is the point. The point is that at the convention itself, many of the hundreds of supplier booths there were attention grabbing devices such flashing lights, balloon creatures that jumped around and booth floozies.
Booth floozies are model type women, usually scantily clad, that stand outside the booths to attract these sad and lonely men in with the hopes that if they show any interest in the products, that these healthy young lasses will blow them behind the convention center.
As I stumbled past a plethora of them, a gaggle of booth floozies if you will, hung-over like a kangaroo mouse hit with a tranquilizer dart meant for a rhino, trying my hardest to keep my burning bile down as I blindly searched out a truly shitty cup of coffee, these ladies did not even give me a sympathetic smile. I mean they’ll practically lap dance a 50 year old, mole covered, board operator from an AM station in Casper Wyoming, but not even a knowing nod towards a seriously self-abused yours truly.
That’s fine, that’s not my problem, that’s not my issue. I don’t even particularly have an issue with B.F.’s themselves, I mean if you’re able to make a healthy living by being pretty and having a nice rack, absolutely, more power to you. My problem is these moronic, idiot guys who fall for such a dipshit ploy. I mean these women should have the word “Obvious” stretched across their ample tits. Seriously, it gives me the creeps that there are many guys at conventions all over the country, all the time, who feign interest in some cheesy company’s crappy gear in order to spend some time near a pretty woman.
Monday, August 15, 2005
"What Was That Song I Had Stuck In My Head The Other Day That Was Driving Me Crazy?"
Okay, as I’m wont to do, I’m throwing out a theory that I have done absolutely no research towards proving. That it hasn’t been proven may make it a corollary, I don’t remember… Mr. Vakili, my high school Trig teacher would be disappointed. But I will not let the fact that it hasn’t been proven stop me from proclaiming it out to the world, as I do become nearly sexually aroused by my own thought processes.
When a song gets stuck in your head, there may be a geographic connection to it. That is to say, when I get a song stuck in my head at work, quite often something at work has triggered it. And as it happens to me, well then it holds true for everybody.
For instance, I used to constantly get the song “Cut Your Hair” by Pavement stuck in my head. Not bad as far as lodged songs go, but when I began to realize that the song had been there for about twenty minutes and that it happened nearly everyday, I started wondering why that song. As it turns out, there was somebody working there with the last name Correia, which sounded remarkably like the way Stephen Malkmus sang the word “career”. This solved the riddle, but did not stop the song.
At my current job, I found that the song “London” by The Smiths was falling in and not leaving. Why? Because there was somebody nearby with a computer that made that squealing modem sound which sounds exactly the feedback burst at the beginning of “London”. The same feedback burst that a bunch of us in high school used as an alarm to wake us up early for a ski trip. Again mystery solved, but frankly the song didn’t stick around that much. The Smiths just don’t have the kind of brain glue it takes to absolutely drive you crazy.
What does, you ask?
The "Sanford and Son Theme" seems to be a curse to nearly everybody. It constantly gets stuck in my head, but I dig it, so it doesn’t bother me. The other day at work, Pimpin’ Joe here couldn’t let it go. Just as he was forgetting it, the girl behind him launched it again. In retaliation he planted the "Spiderman Theme".
Other songs that can be used against your friends and neighbors are:
1) "I Dream of Jeannie Theme"
2) "The Girl From Ipanema"
3) "Shiny Happy People" by REM
4) The "CHiP’s Theme"
You do get extra points (to be redeemed at some later Asshole-off, complete with a C-list celebrity raffle and booth floozies) for planting a song with different lyrics, such as using the following lyrics as sung to the "CHiP’s Theme":
“I love presents!
Presents are all that I do love!”
Okay, well I think I just proved my geographic/stuck head music theory is just a fluke in the lodged song mystery. But I think I have managed to show how you can torture others by planting insidious songs. When someone complains about having a song stuck in their head I often inform/threaten them that I can remove it for them (I generally go with the "Sanford and Son" at this point, but sometimes I throw in a "Flipper Theme"). Mercedes says that humming "The Girl From Ipanema" will eradicate songs from your head.
No wait, that’s her cure for hiccups…
Oh and one more song that is a good head sticker… Black Sabbath’s "Iron Man". I constantly have it my head, but it’s more of a smooth jazz, loungy version. So not right.
When a song gets stuck in your head, there may be a geographic connection to it. That is to say, when I get a song stuck in my head at work, quite often something at work has triggered it. And as it happens to me, well then it holds true for everybody.
For instance, I used to constantly get the song “Cut Your Hair” by Pavement stuck in my head. Not bad as far as lodged songs go, but when I began to realize that the song had been there for about twenty minutes and that it happened nearly everyday, I started wondering why that song. As it turns out, there was somebody working there with the last name Correia, which sounded remarkably like the way Stephen Malkmus sang the word “career”. This solved the riddle, but did not stop the song.
At my current job, I found that the song “London” by The Smiths was falling in and not leaving. Why? Because there was somebody nearby with a computer that made that squealing modem sound which sounds exactly the feedback burst at the beginning of “London”. The same feedback burst that a bunch of us in high school used as an alarm to wake us up early for a ski trip. Again mystery solved, but frankly the song didn’t stick around that much. The Smiths just don’t have the kind of brain glue it takes to absolutely drive you crazy.
What does, you ask?
The "Sanford and Son Theme" seems to be a curse to nearly everybody. It constantly gets stuck in my head, but I dig it, so it doesn’t bother me. The other day at work, Pimpin’ Joe here couldn’t let it go. Just as he was forgetting it, the girl behind him launched it again. In retaliation he planted the "Spiderman Theme".
Other songs that can be used against your friends and neighbors are:
1) "I Dream of Jeannie Theme"
2) "The Girl From Ipanema"
3) "Shiny Happy People" by REM
4) The "CHiP’s Theme"
You do get extra points (to be redeemed at some later Asshole-off, complete with a C-list celebrity raffle and booth floozies) for planting a song with different lyrics, such as using the following lyrics as sung to the "CHiP’s Theme":
“I love presents!
Presents are all that I do love!”
Okay, well I think I just proved my geographic/stuck head music theory is just a fluke in the lodged song mystery. But I think I have managed to show how you can torture others by planting insidious songs. When someone complains about having a song stuck in their head I often inform/threaten them that I can remove it for them (I generally go with the "Sanford and Son" at this point, but sometimes I throw in a "Flipper Theme"). Mercedes says that humming "The Girl From Ipanema" will eradicate songs from your head.
No wait, that’s her cure for hiccups…
Oh and one more song that is a good head sticker… Black Sabbath’s "Iron Man". I constantly have it my head, but it’s more of a smooth jazz, loungy version. So not right.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Saxomophone
Yeah, it’s true, I was in band in high school. I was a band geek, a bando, I was loved by flautists and hated by nearly everybody else. For reasoning I’ve never quite understood, everyone outside of band hated the people in band. I was able to infiltrate other groups as well, like the honors students (who everybody hated), the drama geeks (who everybody hated) and for a short time the stoners (I was never really accepted as I didn’t have the prerequisite long hair and Led Zeppelin T-shirts, but everyone who didn’t score off the stoners hated them).
So for the most part, bando’s kept to themselves as all the other cliques were busy hating each other and us. I don’t know if it’s because we were such an insular group, but the band members all seemed to take on roles depending on their instruments. I don’t know if this happens in other bands around the country, but I’m sure there are those of you out there that can tell me. I’m not mentioning any names, but I’m talking to you… Your dirty little secret is out.
1) Woodwinds: The woodwind players (flutes and clarinets for those of you bando deficient folks) were mostly girls and an occasional thin, fey boy. I still feel sorry for the few brave boys who played flute. I mean, it’s bad enough to be berated for being in band in the first place, but a male flautist has his manhood questioned on a daily basis. The woodwinds were mostly quiet, mostly smart and mostly painfully shy. Some of them came off as total ice queens with frigid, sharp, puritan faces. While they seemed like ice queens, you sort of got the idea that if you got them a little tipsy at a party they’d… Well they’d slap you in the face for being crude, inform you that they’d just been pretending to drink and storm out to call their mother. Did their quiet and meek personalities move them to play the quiet yet beautifully subtle instruments in the band? Or did their choice of instruments mold their personalities? Something to consider… Not really.
2) Saxophones: I played sax. Bill Pullman, speaking of his sax player role in Lost Highway said something to the effect of: women have a strange relationship with sax players. I mean sax man? Sex man? When they’re playing, they look like they’re doing something sexual with that instrument. I always had the theory that playing the sax for many years would make my lips strong and make me a good kisser, but you’ll have to ask others if that’s the case. Anyway, as Mr. Jones, the much maligned teacher said, “saxophones are bastard instruments. They’re a bastardization of a brass instrument and a woodwind instrument”. Apropos of this, the collection of sax players was a mixed up group. We had stoners, crazy sports fanatic uber geek, a young, black man seriously struggling in a VERY white community (including his parents), a lot of disparate personalities that didn’t really mesh with anyone, sometimes even with each other.
3) Brass (Trumpets): The trumpet players were the quarterbacks of the band. They always seemed cooler than all of us, and made loud obnoxious jokes that always got laughs. As instruments, they also always got to play either the lead melody, or the punchiest back up to the lead. Maybe because of the inherent power in their position in the band, they were always pretty accepting of everybody else and when you got under the cool guy/class clown veneer, generally pretty sweet.
4) Brass (Trombone/Tuba): The bass brass players were always a little bit off, a little too intense one way or the other. They would mostly either be intensely quiet (with those eyes that spoke of serial killer futures), or intensely loud, as if they were trying too hard to make themselves seen. Maybe it came from always having to sit in the back of the band, so close to the drummers.
5) Drums: The drummers were a different breed. The drummers hated having to be associated with the rest of the band and as such were their own unit, the DRUM LINE. Rarely did the drummers intermingle with the other bandos. The drummers were the poetry reading, leather jacket wearing rebels in those cheesy high school movies – except they didn’t read poetry or wear leather jackets, they banged on shit.
But for all the different types of people we all were, we managed to get along together fairly well, managed to form a little family that protected us from all of the hatred that’s sadly slung around in high school. The drama queens were always trying to outperform each other too much to assemble a strong front. And the honors students spent way too much time competing over who was smarter and who was going to the better university. Maybe it’s because in band, the point was always to be able to play together to create something larger and more beautiful. There’s no need to hate that.
So for the most part, bando’s kept to themselves as all the other cliques were busy hating each other and us. I don’t know if it’s because we were such an insular group, but the band members all seemed to take on roles depending on their instruments. I don’t know if this happens in other bands around the country, but I’m sure there are those of you out there that can tell me. I’m not mentioning any names, but I’m talking to you… Your dirty little secret is out.
1) Woodwinds: The woodwind players (flutes and clarinets for those of you bando deficient folks) were mostly girls and an occasional thin, fey boy. I still feel sorry for the few brave boys who played flute. I mean, it’s bad enough to be berated for being in band in the first place, but a male flautist has his manhood questioned on a daily basis. The woodwinds were mostly quiet, mostly smart and mostly painfully shy. Some of them came off as total ice queens with frigid, sharp, puritan faces. While they seemed like ice queens, you sort of got the idea that if you got them a little tipsy at a party they’d… Well they’d slap you in the face for being crude, inform you that they’d just been pretending to drink and storm out to call their mother. Did their quiet and meek personalities move them to play the quiet yet beautifully subtle instruments in the band? Or did their choice of instruments mold their personalities? Something to consider… Not really.
2) Saxophones: I played sax. Bill Pullman, speaking of his sax player role in Lost Highway said something to the effect of: women have a strange relationship with sax players. I mean sax man? Sex man? When they’re playing, they look like they’re doing something sexual with that instrument. I always had the theory that playing the sax for many years would make my lips strong and make me a good kisser, but you’ll have to ask others if that’s the case. Anyway, as Mr. Jones, the much maligned teacher said, “saxophones are bastard instruments. They’re a bastardization of a brass instrument and a woodwind instrument”. Apropos of this, the collection of sax players was a mixed up group. We had stoners, crazy sports fanatic uber geek, a young, black man seriously struggling in a VERY white community (including his parents), a lot of disparate personalities that didn’t really mesh with anyone, sometimes even with each other.
3) Brass (Trumpets): The trumpet players were the quarterbacks of the band. They always seemed cooler than all of us, and made loud obnoxious jokes that always got laughs. As instruments, they also always got to play either the lead melody, or the punchiest back up to the lead. Maybe because of the inherent power in their position in the band, they were always pretty accepting of everybody else and when you got under the cool guy/class clown veneer, generally pretty sweet.
4) Brass (Trombone/Tuba): The bass brass players were always a little bit off, a little too intense one way or the other. They would mostly either be intensely quiet (with those eyes that spoke of serial killer futures), or intensely loud, as if they were trying too hard to make themselves seen. Maybe it came from always having to sit in the back of the band, so close to the drummers.
5) Drums: The drummers were a different breed. The drummers hated having to be associated with the rest of the band and as such were their own unit, the DRUM LINE. Rarely did the drummers intermingle with the other bandos. The drummers were the poetry reading, leather jacket wearing rebels in those cheesy high school movies – except they didn’t read poetry or wear leather jackets, they banged on shit.
But for all the different types of people we all were, we managed to get along together fairly well, managed to form a little family that protected us from all of the hatred that’s sadly slung around in high school. The drama queens were always trying to outperform each other too much to assemble a strong front. And the honors students spent way too much time competing over who was smarter and who was going to the better university. Maybe it’s because in band, the point was always to be able to play together to create something larger and more beautiful. There’s no need to hate that.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Fractured
When I was a kid, my dad was really obsessed with my not being gay. He used to tell me, “if you come home with an earring, I’ll call you sonny boy!” After realizing that I found this more humorous than threatening, he changed his tactics. After the barber would give me a lollypop, Dad would slap them out of my mouth because of the implied fellatio involved. Same went for popsicles, the licking sent him into a shuddering rage.
But even before that, he would sneak into my 5 year old room, kneel down near my sleeping head and whisper over and over again, “be a man… be a man…”
As a child, I would constantly get colds, and as such often had problems hearing. Instead of “be a man”, I heard, “be a band”.
Responding to this conditioning, when I was six my mind split into a folk three piece that covered The Carpenters. When I tried to do three part harmonies, it would just fall flat though. I never felt like my band belonged in my body.
In my early teens I became a hard rock, power ballad band. There was a guitarist, a singer, a bass player and a drummer. Eventually the singer and guitarist had a falling out; the singer, according to the guitarist, was a fucking egomaniac and the guitarist, according to the singer, was spending too much time with his girl. Meanwhile, the bass player was developing a drinking problem. The rest of the band tried their best, but he really needed to help himself. The drummer was a cool, laid back cat; I miss him.
Somewhere near college I split big time and became a big band jazz combo. That horn section was smokin’ but man they stayed up late. The clarinet player was flirting with the exact sort of “alternative lifestyle” that my dad would have disapproved of and sax number two was doing a lot of drugs. And frankly, everybody hated the leader, resented him getting all the praise and glory. It was a trying and confusing time.
Lately, I’ve pared myself down to a one man singer/guitarist. He does occasionally jam with others though, and manages to blow off the roof.
But even before that, he would sneak into my 5 year old room, kneel down near my sleeping head and whisper over and over again, “be a man… be a man…”
As a child, I would constantly get colds, and as such often had problems hearing. Instead of “be a man”, I heard, “be a band”.
Responding to this conditioning, when I was six my mind split into a folk three piece that covered The Carpenters. When I tried to do three part harmonies, it would just fall flat though. I never felt like my band belonged in my body.
In my early teens I became a hard rock, power ballad band. There was a guitarist, a singer, a bass player and a drummer. Eventually the singer and guitarist had a falling out; the singer, according to the guitarist, was a fucking egomaniac and the guitarist, according to the singer, was spending too much time with his girl. Meanwhile, the bass player was developing a drinking problem. The rest of the band tried their best, but he really needed to help himself. The drummer was a cool, laid back cat; I miss him.
Somewhere near college I split big time and became a big band jazz combo. That horn section was smokin’ but man they stayed up late. The clarinet player was flirting with the exact sort of “alternative lifestyle” that my dad would have disapproved of and sax number two was doing a lot of drugs. And frankly, everybody hated the leader, resented him getting all the praise and glory. It was a trying and confusing time.
Lately, I’ve pared myself down to a one man singer/guitarist. He does occasionally jam with others though, and manages to blow off the roof.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Stsop Ym Daer, Yllib Ni Rewop Si Ereht
I used to be super intrigued by subliminal messaging. Well, and sort of still am. The idea that messages were secretly put into songs and advertisements that our brain would pick up but we wouldn’t consciously recognize gave me this fearful little thrill. And not just subliminal messages, but hidden little messages and meanings on album covers and movies also.
I remember one stormy night when a bunch of us were staying at Owl’s place when we were kids. We sat around on a stormy night talking about sneaky rock and roll devil imagery and back-masking. I think Owl’s mom may have brought it up. I’ve just realized at some point I will probably have to dedicate an entire posting to Owl.
Anyway, we talked about a Rolling Stones album (I think Goat’s Head Soup) that had a picture on the inside of the album cover of a still from The Exorcist. And then there was this scene in The Exorcist where there was like a spooky skull hidden inside a cloud of breath that comes out of one of the characters. It’s shit like that that gives me the creeps a little bit, and I LOVE it!
The whole Abbey Road cover and “Paul is dead” thing got me going again.
See each of the band members is dressed for a role here; John is the preacher, Ringo the pallbearer, George the grave digger and Paul is dead. He has no shoes because he doesn’t need them… Because he’s dead! His right leg is forward while everybody else has their left leg forward… Because he’s dead! Okay I don’t necessarily get that one, but it’s weird… And if you could see the license plate on that VW in the background it says 28IF. Paul would be 28 IF he was alive, but he’s not… Because he’s dead!
And on the back of the cover, near the plate that says “Abbey Road”, you can see the bullet holes that killed him. And what I just recently found out, the back-masking trick that started the whole thing, the backwards voice that utters, “Paul is dead” is apparently on the song “I’m So Tired” from the White Album. It’s possibly my favorite Beatles song.
Creepy! <-In long, drawn out, low voice)
When I started hearing about bands putting backwards satanic messages on their albums, oh man the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I dove in completely. Someone told me that on “Stairway to Heaven”, if you play it backwards, you can hear like “there is power in Satan” and something about a toolshed for sad Satan. There is a backwards bit at the beginning of “Empty Spaces” by Pink Floyd on The Wall that says:
“Congratulations! You have just discovered the secret message. Please send your answer to Old Pink, care of the funny farm, Chalfont.”
This gets mildly spooky if you realize that they’re talking about former Pink Floyd lead guitarist/singer Syd Barrett who indeed went crazy.
But I think my favorite back-masking might be on a song called “Cry of the Vatos” by Oingo Boingo. The song is a percussion and horn piece for the most part with what I thought was just weird vocal noise, but when you play it backwards:
“Praise God brothers and sisters.
Accept Jesus into your heart and you will saved.
You will receive everlasting life.
Listen to me, I've sinned, I know.”
Truly spooky…
I remember one stormy night when a bunch of us were staying at Owl’s place when we were kids. We sat around on a stormy night talking about sneaky rock and roll devil imagery and back-masking. I think Owl’s mom may have brought it up. I’ve just realized at some point I will probably have to dedicate an entire posting to Owl.
Anyway, we talked about a Rolling Stones album (I think Goat’s Head Soup) that had a picture on the inside of the album cover of a still from The Exorcist. And then there was this scene in The Exorcist where there was like a spooky skull hidden inside a cloud of breath that comes out of one of the characters. It’s shit like that that gives me the creeps a little bit, and I LOVE it!
The whole Abbey Road cover and “Paul is dead” thing got me going again.
See each of the band members is dressed for a role here; John is the preacher, Ringo the pallbearer, George the grave digger and Paul is dead. He has no shoes because he doesn’t need them… Because he’s dead! His right leg is forward while everybody else has their left leg forward… Because he’s dead! Okay I don’t necessarily get that one, but it’s weird… And if you could see the license plate on that VW in the background it says 28IF. Paul would be 28 IF he was alive, but he’s not… Because he’s dead!
And on the back of the cover, near the plate that says “Abbey Road”, you can see the bullet holes that killed him. And what I just recently found out, the back-masking trick that started the whole thing, the backwards voice that utters, “Paul is dead” is apparently on the song “I’m So Tired” from the White Album. It’s possibly my favorite Beatles song.
Creepy! <-In long, drawn out, low voice)
When I started hearing about bands putting backwards satanic messages on their albums, oh man the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I dove in completely. Someone told me that on “Stairway to Heaven”, if you play it backwards, you can hear like “there is power in Satan” and something about a toolshed for sad Satan. There is a backwards bit at the beginning of “Empty Spaces” by Pink Floyd on The Wall that says:
“Congratulations! You have just discovered the secret message. Please send your answer to Old Pink, care of the funny farm, Chalfont.”
This gets mildly spooky if you realize that they’re talking about former Pink Floyd lead guitarist/singer Syd Barrett who indeed went crazy.
But I think my favorite back-masking might be on a song called “Cry of the Vatos” by Oingo Boingo. The song is a percussion and horn piece for the most part with what I thought was just weird vocal noise, but when you play it backwards:
“Praise God brothers and sisters.
Accept Jesus into your heart and you will saved.
You will receive everlasting life.
Listen to me, I've sinned, I know.”
Truly spooky…
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Best Intentions
I accidentally overheard a radio playing Shiny Happy People by R.E.M (and just typing the name brought the fucking tune back into my head) and got to thinking about songwriter’s intentions.
Surely Michael Stipe and the boys didn’t intend for people to go on a bloodlust rampage, destroying everything in sight and then committing hari-kari with a sharpened toilet plunger, but that’s what I want to do when I hear that song. I’m pretty positive that R.E.M. did not want me to take out everyone inside a Briaz like a retarded hunter in a chicken coop.
I remember listening to Revolution 9 on The Beatles’ White Album while driving a lonely stretch of California road late, late at night. There’s a brief burst of a voice that I swear sounded like, “You’re gonna die!” and that was followed by maniacal laughter. It spooked me in a heavy, heavy way. If I remember correctly, I pulled over to have a cigarette and chill out – as I might have been a little high at the time… I remember thinking, “surely The Beatles didn’t mean to freak my shit out.”
But they probably did. That John was a fucker.
And this made me remember sitting around a second hand kitchen table in Southern California, listening to the above mentioned White Album and feeling the come on of some blotter acid. Revolution 9 began playing when Dave asked, “what the hell is this?”
“This is the song that drove Charlie Manson over the edge,” I replied.
And with the perfect slump and ‘now I’m fucked’ look on his face, Dave simply said, “great!”
I laughed for like 15 minutes.
Surely Michael Stipe and the boys didn’t intend for people to go on a bloodlust rampage, destroying everything in sight and then committing hari-kari with a sharpened toilet plunger, but that’s what I want to do when I hear that song. I’m pretty positive that R.E.M. did not want me to take out everyone inside a Briaz like a retarded hunter in a chicken coop.
I remember listening to Revolution 9 on The Beatles’ White Album while driving a lonely stretch of California road late, late at night. There’s a brief burst of a voice that I swear sounded like, “You’re gonna die!” and that was followed by maniacal laughter. It spooked me in a heavy, heavy way. If I remember correctly, I pulled over to have a cigarette and chill out – as I might have been a little high at the time… I remember thinking, “surely The Beatles didn’t mean to freak my shit out.”
But they probably did. That John was a fucker.
And this made me remember sitting around a second hand kitchen table in Southern California, listening to the above mentioned White Album and feeling the come on of some blotter acid. Revolution 9 began playing when Dave asked, “what the hell is this?”
“This is the song that drove Charlie Manson over the edge,” I replied.
And with the perfect slump and ‘now I’m fucked’ look on his face, Dave simply said, “great!”
I laughed for like 15 minutes.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Chez Slappy, Friday Night
Tatiana the Pitiless sat at an intimate table, nervously pulling on her fingers. She was behaving like a school girl, and while that made her angry in normal work conditions, she was sort of reveling in the happy nervousness of a first date.
Zack the Crusher took another sip of wine. He seemed just as nervous as she felt and she thought it was adorable. Here was a guy who spent the better part of days removing heads with fairly blunt swords, and a little conversation over dinner was throwing him off.
“Um,” he started. “You look good all dressed up and outside of that metal Amazon outfit.”
“Thanks,” she said coquettishly. She loved the feel of her silky red dress that clung tightly to her body. Not so tightly that it gave away the steel spikes she had hidden in strategic places around her waist. “I gotta tell you, I’m really happy that Eric the Ugly set us up like this. I’ve been wanting to get to know you outside of the Arena.”
Zack nodded, smiling. “Tommy the Petty Guilt Tripper was going to ask you out I think, but that mountain lion attack at the show on Thursday pretty much put a stop to his dating for awhile.”
Tatiana laughed with that boisterous sound that was more often than not the signal for bloody death to her opponents. Then she took another dainty bite of her Chicken Caesar.
“Are you sure you don’t want a little something more to eat?” Zack asked.
“No,” Tatiana said with a sigh. “I sort of messed up my stomach when I ate that opponent’s ear this afternoon. What about you though? I figured a bold gladiator like you would eat more than a side of steamed asparagus.”
“The trainer said I’ve been looking a little fat, getting a little slow. He said I was breathing really hard after spearing that little bald weasel the other day. Remember him?”
“Yeah, that was a good hit.”
“Plus,” he looked down at his lap for a moment, blushing slightly. Tatiana loved it. “I sort of cheated and ate a little before we got here. I had a big shrimp cocktail and a Sparks.”
“A sparks?”
“Yeah, it’s like caffeinated sugar beer. The best of everything.”
Tatiana let loose another of her death laughs, but this time a chunk of parmesan encrusted grilled chicken was in her mouth. The meat got lodged in her throat and she began to choke. Zack, being confused, and frankly not all that bright, began to bellow madly; he threw his head to the ceiling and his arms straight out to his sides.
There was a group of 3 restaurant workers over to the right of the table. After a moment, a young man burst from the group and trotted to the table. Zack, in his confused state, turned towards the small young man and punched him quickly and efficiently in the throat, quickly and efficiently knocking the man out. Zack put his foot on the fallen waiter and bellowed once more. Tatiana once again began laughing wildly, forcing the stuck chicken out of her gullet.
The restaurant manager, standing off to the right of the table, turned to his sommelier with a sly smile.
“When gladiators date,” he said. “I always send in the rookie.”
Zack the Crusher took another sip of wine. He seemed just as nervous as she felt and she thought it was adorable. Here was a guy who spent the better part of days removing heads with fairly blunt swords, and a little conversation over dinner was throwing him off.
“Um,” he started. “You look good all dressed up and outside of that metal Amazon outfit.”
“Thanks,” she said coquettishly. She loved the feel of her silky red dress that clung tightly to her body. Not so tightly that it gave away the steel spikes she had hidden in strategic places around her waist. “I gotta tell you, I’m really happy that Eric the Ugly set us up like this. I’ve been wanting to get to know you outside of the Arena.”
Zack nodded, smiling. “Tommy the Petty Guilt Tripper was going to ask you out I think, but that mountain lion attack at the show on Thursday pretty much put a stop to his dating for awhile.”
Tatiana laughed with that boisterous sound that was more often than not the signal for bloody death to her opponents. Then she took another dainty bite of her Chicken Caesar.
“Are you sure you don’t want a little something more to eat?” Zack asked.
“No,” Tatiana said with a sigh. “I sort of messed up my stomach when I ate that opponent’s ear this afternoon. What about you though? I figured a bold gladiator like you would eat more than a side of steamed asparagus.”
“The trainer said I’ve been looking a little fat, getting a little slow. He said I was breathing really hard after spearing that little bald weasel the other day. Remember him?”
“Yeah, that was a good hit.”
“Plus,” he looked down at his lap for a moment, blushing slightly. Tatiana loved it. “I sort of cheated and ate a little before we got here. I had a big shrimp cocktail and a Sparks.”
“A sparks?”
“Yeah, it’s like caffeinated sugar beer. The best of everything.”
Tatiana let loose another of her death laughs, but this time a chunk of parmesan encrusted grilled chicken was in her mouth. The meat got lodged in her throat and she began to choke. Zack, being confused, and frankly not all that bright, began to bellow madly; he threw his head to the ceiling and his arms straight out to his sides.
There was a group of 3 restaurant workers over to the right of the table. After a moment, a young man burst from the group and trotted to the table. Zack, in his confused state, turned towards the small young man and punched him quickly and efficiently in the throat, quickly and efficiently knocking the man out. Zack put his foot on the fallen waiter and bellowed once more. Tatiana once again began laughing wildly, forcing the stuck chicken out of her gullet.
The restaurant manager, standing off to the right of the table, turned to his sommelier with a sly smile.
“When gladiators date,” he said. “I always send in the rookie.”
Saturday, August 06, 2005
A Quick One While He's Away
As an extra special Saturday edition… And because I realize I’ve been pretty verbose in these postings lately, I give you my three favorite punchlines:
1) Know it? Hell I wrote it!
2) Because she heard there was a guy in there, hung like this.
3) Ya got any duck food?
Hope you’re all having (had) a fantabulous weekend.
1) Know it? Hell I wrote it!
2) Because she heard there was a guy in there, hung like this.
3) Ya got any duck food?
Hope you’re all having (had) a fantabulous weekend.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Shut Up & Play Your Guitar
Where I sit now at work, I’m surrounded by guitar geeks. 4 guys who have spent the better part of today discussing guitar makers and hardware and what brands were pieces of shit and which guitars turned into pieces of shit once they started being made in Korea. All sorts of technical, fanboy terms were being thrown around in a coffee fueled geek-off frenzy.
One of them actually said this: “I have no love for Strats post ‘64”.
Now hey, I like guitars. I LOVE guitars. I think they’re hyper sexy machines. I myself have one of these:
It’s one of the sexiest freaking things going. Seriously, look at it! But the gearhead, way-too-much-useless-information, “look at me and how much more I know than you” mentality drives me fucking apeshit!
These same guys would use their college degree vocabulary to mock car freaks for doing the same thing. I don’t know why this pisses me off so much, but it does.
Okay, here it is.
Some of the best, most amazing music I’ve ever heard has come from beater, pawn shop guitars. And yeah, a more expensive, better designed guitar will sound better in anybody’s hands; but a true artist can take the limitations and make something amazing and completely new. Or they can skate right on over those limitations like they never existed.
And I have come to terms with the fact I will never be a stellar guitar player, I can manage a few notes but I just don’t have that thing that makes some people geniuses. But for all of the hardware specifications, and odd numbered stringed guitars, and the fact that they know what year a guitar was made by what kind of dots are on the fret board… 40 Year Old Fanboy is still playing in lame bar bands and talking about when he hung out with Mudhoney.
Yeah and shut up, I know – if they had been talking surreal film makers I would have sprained something jumping into that conversation.
One of them actually said this: “I have no love for Strats post ‘64”.
Now hey, I like guitars. I LOVE guitars. I think they’re hyper sexy machines. I myself have one of these:
It’s one of the sexiest freaking things going. Seriously, look at it! But the gearhead, way-too-much-useless-information, “look at me and how much more I know than you” mentality drives me fucking apeshit!
These same guys would use their college degree vocabulary to mock car freaks for doing the same thing. I don’t know why this pisses me off so much, but it does.
Okay, here it is.
Some of the best, most amazing music I’ve ever heard has come from beater, pawn shop guitars. And yeah, a more expensive, better designed guitar will sound better in anybody’s hands; but a true artist can take the limitations and make something amazing and completely new. Or they can skate right on over those limitations like they never existed.
And I have come to terms with the fact I will never be a stellar guitar player, I can manage a few notes but I just don’t have that thing that makes some people geniuses. But for all of the hardware specifications, and odd numbered stringed guitars, and the fact that they know what year a guitar was made by what kind of dots are on the fret board… 40 Year Old Fanboy is still playing in lame bar bands and talking about when he hung out with Mudhoney.
Yeah and shut up, I know – if they had been talking surreal film makers I would have sprained something jumping into that conversation.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Mad Leo Love and Curse of the Dad
I’m feeling the guilt of fulfilling the prophecy of the absentee husband that my father was. My dad was rarely around when we were kids, he traveled a lot for work. And even when he wasn’t traveling he spent a huge amount of time at the office. I told myself that was not the life I wanted for myself, I would not want to put my wife or kids through that.
Well, today is Biff’s Birthday and I’m going to miss it. I’ve got another killer Thursday where I’m pulling an 11 hour day at work, going straight from work to rehearsal for show #2, and then going straight from rehearsal to a performance of show #1.
I’ve been spending a lot of time away from home doing the whole play thing. Biff’s been really supportive, but there’s my dad’s voice in the background saying, “see, you can’t hide from it! Hahahaha!”
Actually, dad doesn’t laugh like that, so I’m not sure who is hacking in there and cackling.
Anyway, Happy Birthday Biffy! I love you a lot. If any of you see a hot little number cruising the streets of Seattle today tell her to have a good one, she deserves it – she’s a super lady.
And be sure to spank her a little too – she likes it.
Well, today is Biff’s Birthday and I’m going to miss it. I’ve got another killer Thursday where I’m pulling an 11 hour day at work, going straight from work to rehearsal for show #2, and then going straight from rehearsal to a performance of show #1.
I’ve been spending a lot of time away from home doing the whole play thing. Biff’s been really supportive, but there’s my dad’s voice in the background saying, “see, you can’t hide from it! Hahahaha!”
Actually, dad doesn’t laugh like that, so I’m not sure who is hacking in there and cackling.
Anyway, Happy Birthday Biffy! I love you a lot. If any of you see a hot little number cruising the streets of Seattle today tell her to have a good one, she deserves it – she’s a super lady.
And be sure to spank her a little too – she likes it.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
The Dating Wars
I was listening to Rachel talk about getting back into the Thunderdome that is dating. She mentioned that she got really comfortable just wearing jeans and drinking beers
– this is a completely unnecessary break, but typing that sentence just above started this déjà vu type, misfired memory connection thing. It was like I had had the same conversation before. Crazy. Anyway, we rejoin Billy Cleans His Plate, uninterrupted –
at the bar and stuff, and now she was a little concerned with having to be all girly. I mentioned that since I had moved here to Seattle, I was shocked at how done up women got when they went out. A lot of makeup, a lot.
It reminds me of flying into Dallas and upon the captain announcing that we would be landing momentarily, all of the women with big hair began breaking out their compacts and make up, just to add to the 2 inches of cosmetic skin already there.
I told Rachel that I’ve never really been into women wearing so much freaking makeup, that it freaks me out a little bit. She said:
“Yeah, but your from the Bay Area. Guys here say the same thing, but the women they stare at? The ones with all the makeup. The ones they ask out for dates? The ones with all the makeup.”
I wish I could stand up for my fellow sex, but I have to admit that generally speaking, guys are dumb. I began to realize that guys are just as easily duped into what society deems is beautiful as girls are into forcing themselves into unhealthy body images. I began to realize that for the most part, guys date ladies that will make them seem more impressive because they bagged the girls that look most like the ones on TV and in Maxim.
And who are these guys trying to impress? Other guys.
– this is a completely unnecessary break, but typing that sentence just above started this déjà vu type, misfired memory connection thing. It was like I had had the same conversation before. Crazy. Anyway, we rejoin Billy Cleans His Plate, uninterrupted –
at the bar and stuff, and now she was a little concerned with having to be all girly. I mentioned that since I had moved here to Seattle, I was shocked at how done up women got when they went out. A lot of makeup, a lot.
It reminds me of flying into Dallas and upon the captain announcing that we would be landing momentarily, all of the women with big hair began breaking out their compacts and make up, just to add to the 2 inches of cosmetic skin already there.
I told Rachel that I’ve never really been into women wearing so much freaking makeup, that it freaks me out a little bit. She said:
“Yeah, but your from the Bay Area. Guys here say the same thing, but the women they stare at? The ones with all the makeup. The ones they ask out for dates? The ones with all the makeup.”
I wish I could stand up for my fellow sex, but I have to admit that generally speaking, guys are dumb. I began to realize that guys are just as easily duped into what society deems is beautiful as girls are into forcing themselves into unhealthy body images. I began to realize that for the most part, guys date ladies that will make them seem more impressive because they bagged the girls that look most like the ones on TV and in Maxim.
And who are these guys trying to impress? Other guys.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Lightning Bolts Shooting In and Out of My Lumbar
I’m cranky. I managed to throw out my back and it hurts like a bitch. I’m not sure what I did exactly, only I went in to Saturday night’s show thrilled with the anticipation of performing – thrilled more with the coming opportunity to drink myself silly with Jenny and Michael – and I left with a throbbing pain in my lower back.
Why does this suck? Well aside from the blinding pain whenever I move a certain way, it makes me feel stupid and old. And I’ve been trying to fight off that useless ‘I’m feeling old’ voice that sings in a raspy falsetto in that cabaret of the mind where all my fears sit and drink fancy and expensive cocktails, in fancy and expensive cocktail glasses, until they’re feeling bold enough to attack. It also sucks that I couldn’t give my all on Sunday during the Panda Girl visit, which would normally involve a choreographed dance routine and lots of deep knee bends.
I did get to spend a lot of time drinking and talking with Jenny, which is always good no matter what sort of crippling bodily pain is going on. We had one of those sort of frightening moments when I realized that I could see the sun coming up with the dawn and quickly skidaddled off to bed like semi-drunken vampires.
While the pain area is getting smaller, my back still freaking hurts. I’m spending a lot of time on the phone today grunting and moaning. It’s a sexy ass Tuesday for Billy’s customers. Oh yeah…
Why does this suck? Well aside from the blinding pain whenever I move a certain way, it makes me feel stupid and old. And I’ve been trying to fight off that useless ‘I’m feeling old’ voice that sings in a raspy falsetto in that cabaret of the mind where all my fears sit and drink fancy and expensive cocktails, in fancy and expensive cocktail glasses, until they’re feeling bold enough to attack. It also sucks that I couldn’t give my all on Sunday during the Panda Girl visit, which would normally involve a choreographed dance routine and lots of deep knee bends.
I did get to spend a lot of time drinking and talking with Jenny, which is always good no matter what sort of crippling bodily pain is going on. We had one of those sort of frightening moments when I realized that I could see the sun coming up with the dawn and quickly skidaddled off to bed like semi-drunken vampires.
While the pain area is getting smaller, my back still freaking hurts. I’m spending a lot of time on the phone today grunting and moaning. It’s a sexy ass Tuesday for Billy’s customers. Oh yeah…
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