One of my bosses walked into the office today and cheerily announced that T passes were available through this job. How exciting! They take the money directly from our paychecks and buy our passes before taxes, saving us a bit of money and the trouble of running around during non-business hours and trying to find a place that sells the monthly passes. She then announced (in an equally cheerful tone) that we probably shouldn’t plan on applying to buy passes for June because we might not be working here by then. If this wasn’t a backhanded way of putting pressure on me to fill out my forms quicker and with more accuracy, I don’t know what was. Trouble is, my direct boss is swamped under like 8,000 projects and hasn’t gotten back to me all afternoon, so I have nothing to do. As such, my combined directives from above amount to the following: do nothing, but do it with speed and accuracy. I can do that. Just wait for a minute while I grab a cup of coffee.
Right now I feel like the fat guy in the Shawshank Redemption. Remember him? The one who on his first night in the jail cell started blabbering and crying that he didn’t belong, so Hadley took him out of his cell and cracked his skull, killing him? I feel like I’m that fat guy, about to start screaming and crying that I don’t belong in an office, that what in God’s name did I do to deserve this, that how could I be here with all of these people, and office-Hadley will stride out and kill me, not with a baton, but with boring projects. And Anton will be office-Andy Dufresne. He will cost office-Red a whole pack of cigarettes, which would probably be like company tickets to Sox games against Tampa Bay or something.
The only good thing about this job is that my brain is permanently in the “off” position for most of the day, so when I get home I am really motivated to write, compose, and obsess over my music. Sometimes I’m tired when I get home, but coffee can cure that. But perhaps a lower-paying job with more tasks that require a functioning brain would be good, and I think now that the random “your job is not secure” message has come from up above, I’m going to start looking in earnest again.
Another thing going on here at work is that people don’t realize the skill level and intensity level of the band. I tell people, “I have a hip-hop band,” and they respond with one of those “Sure you do” looks. “Poor kid,” they must think, “Working here with me and thinking he’s going to be a musician. Cute.” I will not begin to describe how irritating that is. I’m going to start saying obnoxiously cocky things to people who make these comments, like “I’m probably the best rapper you have ever met,” or “My band is so good that you will wet your pants if you hear us live.” I’ll update the blog when I do.
Anyway, a note on dreams: if I don’t make it in music I’m just going to opt out of society, go somewhere warm and sunny, and write. I have come to the conclusion that it is a lot easier to opt out of society than people think it is, and that I'm going to completely do it one day.
That’s all.
paz
FA
Friday, April 29, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
white boy dispatch funk
A funny thing happened at the Middle East show on Thursday night. A funny, sad thing. I met an unbearably ignorant person. Some people are capable of passing off abject stupidity as one of the hilarious flaws of the world. I recognize the funny things that ignorant people say and do, but the very thought of people living in bubbles of closed-mindedness depresses me to no end. The story:
It’s after the show. Indef-Art’s best show ever, if the crowd response was any indication. Ordinary K dug it. Kastro (aka Slim Pickens) dug it. 33Hz didn’t talk to anyone, so we couldn’t tell whether or not they dug it. We’re all still basking in the afterglow of a performance and crowd turnout that should vastly improve our standing in the Boston music scene. We go outside to cool off, smoke cigarettes (not me), and talk to a kid named Ian who has contacted us about replacing Blake as our bassist. What follows are snippets of our conversation mingled with my running inner commentary.
Evan: We would love to have you in to rehearse. Just learn the songs on the website and we’ll go through those and see how we vibe.
Ian: Do I have to learn “Love Hip-Hop?”
Me: [Thinking Ian is joking]. Not really. It’s like 2 notes.
Ian: …because that song is wack.
[Okay, right off the bat, fuck you, kid. Thanks for coming out. I wrote that song. But, we’re going to see where he takes this.]
Me: [diplomatic] It’s not our best song…
Ian: I mean, it’s your band, so I’ll play it, but I won’t like it.
[Thanks. Good to see you won’t be taking complete control of the group. That’s a relief. This isn’t ignorance yet, just a complete lack of tact. Just wait…]
blah blah blah…
Ian: Yeah, you guys are all right, but I can’t stand it when you go into that white boy funk where you sound like “Dispatch.”
Me: We are white.
[So are you. Also, fuck you.]
Ian: Hip-hop is something that is really close to my heart, and I have a really fixed idea about what it should be. I’ll give you a CD of my old band that had a black MC and you’ll see what I’m talking about.
[Okay, here we go. First of all, the statement that any music is “really close to my heart” is trite to the point that it’s almost a self-parody. Of course it is. So continue. Oh, and you have a CD of your old band to give us to tell us how to improve our band? Your old band that doesn’t exist anymore, hence your desire to join our band? We should be like them? Right now I’m imagining that they were so good that they just had to break up.
Up to now this is all just poor interview skills. This kid couldn’t get a job at McDonald’s if an interview were involved: “Yeah, I mean it’s your restaurant, and I’ll make the Big Macs if you want, but I won’t like it.”]
Time passes… Our jaws drop lower and lower toward the sidewalk.
Ian: Yeah, so I was talking to your old bassist, and I agreed with him that you guys don’t have a lot of credibility because you don’t have a black MC.
[Thump. There it is.
Quick review on the race-based comments that came from Ian: we play “white boy funk;” his old, good band had a black MC, in stark contrast to our band, which he inexplicably still seems to want to join; our band lacks credibility because I fail to possess the skill to change my skin color.
Let me tell you why this is not only ignorance, but out-and-out racism.
The word that my argument is resting on is the word “credibility.” What are we talking about here? Are we talking about skills? Is that it? In the case of what Ian said, we are not. He said that a black MC has more credibility. We’re going to give Ian a little bit of credit and assume that he doesn’t think that every black MC in the world has more skills than me. If this were the case, I would have quit long ago and no one would be coming to my shows.
So if not, skills, what is “credibility?” My interpretation is that “credibility,” in Ian’s mind, is based on his perception of the persona of the black hip-hop male as a tougher, more street-wise, hyper-masculine caricature whose roots in the American imagination reach back to the time of slavery. I had a linemate in junior hockey that spent 3 months in jail for beating someone with a tire iron. Another teammate of mine served a season-long suspension for spearing someone in the face. Would these tough guys raised in the cornfields of southern Ontatio have “credibility” as MCs in Ian’s mind? I think not. They lack the one value upon which our prospective bassist was basing his judgment. Would a black prep schooler (say, Pappa Doc from 8 Mile)? I think so. To blindly assign “credibility” due to race in any profession is a racist agenda. To do so in hip-hop is damaging to the genre.
The very notion of “credibility” in hip-hop music hides behind a thin veil of racism that cuts in all directions. Expectations that black rappers have “credibility” simply perpetuate the harmful stereotype of the black male as an aggressive, tough, street-educated threat to white America. Someone who grants instant credibility to black rappers takes away their right to create their persona from the ground up and harms hip-hop to no end.
Since I started with Indef-Art, the band has run up against more than a few people who vocally and adamantly oppose our approach to hip-hop. More often than not, these people are white people who claim that our music is not “true,” or “real,” or whatever the term du jour is for status quo underground music. I am going to call these people “self-hating white people.” Self-hating white people are all around. More likely than not, they are attracted to historically black forms of music simply because it is good, yet fail to get past their own prejudices and feelings of guilt about “stealing” art forms when they try to play the music. Instead they resort to engaging in competitions to be less white than the next white artist who is attempting to play historically black music. Ian’s scathing comment that we played “white boy funk” contained the implicit statement that he could play funk that was less white than ours. Such a comment is ridiculous. All white people play “white boy funk.” That’s all we can play. Unless we’re talking about a white female, of course, who would play “white girl funk.”
Now, I identify as a self-hating white person in many respects. I feel immense guilt that I have openly racist relatives and friends from back home and that more likely than not my ancestors were involved in the oppression of not only black Americans, but all non-white races. As such, I am a self-hating white person.
But where I diverge from Ian is that I will not apologize for my music and steadfastly refuse to subject it to a sliding scale of whiteness. My music is white because I am white. I cannot change that. I am also intelligent, Harvard educated, and a goddamned good MC, and I do not anticipate having to apologize for any of those things at any time during my musical career. My band is similarly unapologetic. Those who don’t like it just can’t keep up. Those who can’t keep up get dusted.
FA
It’s after the show. Indef-Art’s best show ever, if the crowd response was any indication. Ordinary K dug it. Kastro (aka Slim Pickens) dug it. 33Hz didn’t talk to anyone, so we couldn’t tell whether or not they dug it. We’re all still basking in the afterglow of a performance and crowd turnout that should vastly improve our standing in the Boston music scene. We go outside to cool off, smoke cigarettes (not me), and talk to a kid named Ian who has contacted us about replacing Blake as our bassist. What follows are snippets of our conversation mingled with my running inner commentary.
Evan: We would love to have you in to rehearse. Just learn the songs on the website and we’ll go through those and see how we vibe.
Ian: Do I have to learn “Love Hip-Hop?”
Me: [Thinking Ian is joking]. Not really. It’s like 2 notes.
Ian: …because that song is wack.
[Okay, right off the bat, fuck you, kid. Thanks for coming out. I wrote that song. But, we’re going to see where he takes this.]
Me: [diplomatic] It’s not our best song…
Ian: I mean, it’s your band, so I’ll play it, but I won’t like it.
[Thanks. Good to see you won’t be taking complete control of the group. That’s a relief. This isn’t ignorance yet, just a complete lack of tact. Just wait…]
blah blah blah…
Ian: Yeah, you guys are all right, but I can’t stand it when you go into that white boy funk where you sound like “Dispatch.”
Me: We are white.
[So are you. Also, fuck you.]
Ian: Hip-hop is something that is really close to my heart, and I have a really fixed idea about what it should be. I’ll give you a CD of my old band that had a black MC and you’ll see what I’m talking about.
[Okay, here we go. First of all, the statement that any music is “really close to my heart” is trite to the point that it’s almost a self-parody. Of course it is. So continue. Oh, and you have a CD of your old band to give us to tell us how to improve our band? Your old band that doesn’t exist anymore, hence your desire to join our band? We should be like them? Right now I’m imagining that they were so good that they just had to break up.
Up to now this is all just poor interview skills. This kid couldn’t get a job at McDonald’s if an interview were involved: “Yeah, I mean it’s your restaurant, and I’ll make the Big Macs if you want, but I won’t like it.”]
Time passes… Our jaws drop lower and lower toward the sidewalk.
Ian: Yeah, so I was talking to your old bassist, and I agreed with him that you guys don’t have a lot of credibility because you don’t have a black MC.
[Thump. There it is.
Quick review on the race-based comments that came from Ian: we play “white boy funk;” his old, good band had a black MC, in stark contrast to our band, which he inexplicably still seems to want to join; our band lacks credibility because I fail to possess the skill to change my skin color.
Let me tell you why this is not only ignorance, but out-and-out racism.
The word that my argument is resting on is the word “credibility.” What are we talking about here? Are we talking about skills? Is that it? In the case of what Ian said, we are not. He said that a black MC has more credibility. We’re going to give Ian a little bit of credit and assume that he doesn’t think that every black MC in the world has more skills than me. If this were the case, I would have quit long ago and no one would be coming to my shows.
So if not, skills, what is “credibility?” My interpretation is that “credibility,” in Ian’s mind, is based on his perception of the persona of the black hip-hop male as a tougher, more street-wise, hyper-masculine caricature whose roots in the American imagination reach back to the time of slavery. I had a linemate in junior hockey that spent 3 months in jail for beating someone with a tire iron. Another teammate of mine served a season-long suspension for spearing someone in the face. Would these tough guys raised in the cornfields of southern Ontatio have “credibility” as MCs in Ian’s mind? I think not. They lack the one value upon which our prospective bassist was basing his judgment. Would a black prep schooler (say, Pappa Doc from 8 Mile)? I think so. To blindly assign “credibility” due to race in any profession is a racist agenda. To do so in hip-hop is damaging to the genre.
The very notion of “credibility” in hip-hop music hides behind a thin veil of racism that cuts in all directions. Expectations that black rappers have “credibility” simply perpetuate the harmful stereotype of the black male as an aggressive, tough, street-educated threat to white America. Someone who grants instant credibility to black rappers takes away their right to create their persona from the ground up and harms hip-hop to no end.
Since I started with Indef-Art, the band has run up against more than a few people who vocally and adamantly oppose our approach to hip-hop. More often than not, these people are white people who claim that our music is not “true,” or “real,” or whatever the term du jour is for status quo underground music. I am going to call these people “self-hating white people.” Self-hating white people are all around. More likely than not, they are attracted to historically black forms of music simply because it is good, yet fail to get past their own prejudices and feelings of guilt about “stealing” art forms when they try to play the music. Instead they resort to engaging in competitions to be less white than the next white artist who is attempting to play historically black music. Ian’s scathing comment that we played “white boy funk” contained the implicit statement that he could play funk that was less white than ours. Such a comment is ridiculous. All white people play “white boy funk.” That’s all we can play. Unless we’re talking about a white female, of course, who would play “white girl funk.”
Now, I identify as a self-hating white person in many respects. I feel immense guilt that I have openly racist relatives and friends from back home and that more likely than not my ancestors were involved in the oppression of not only black Americans, but all non-white races. As such, I am a self-hating white person.
But where I diverge from Ian is that I will not apologize for my music and steadfastly refuse to subject it to a sliding scale of whiteness. My music is white because I am white. I cannot change that. I am also intelligent, Harvard educated, and a goddamned good MC, and I do not anticipate having to apologize for any of those things at any time during my musical career. My band is similarly unapologetic. Those who don’t like it just can’t keep up. Those who can’t keep up get dusted.
FA
Monday, April 18, 2005
no discipline
Now i'm just posting everything. But that's what interests me: everything. At some point I'll get back to a more streamlined approach, but until I get some actual assigments here at work, the filter is off.
This is awesome. Read:
A Plan for the Improvement of English Spelling
by Mark Twain
For example, in Year 1 that useless letter "c" would be dropped to be replased either by "k" or "s", and likewise "x" would no longer be part of the alphabet. The only kase in which "c" would be retained would be the "ch" formation, which will be dealt with later. Year 2 might reform "w" spelling, so that "which" and "one" would take the same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish "y" replasing it with "i" and Iear 4 might fiks the "g/j" anomali wonse and for all. Jenerally, then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doing awai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6-12 or so modifaiing vowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants. Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandant letez "c", "y" and "x" -- bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov ould doderez -- tu riplais "ch", "sh", and "th" rispektivli. Fainali, xen, aafte sam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling in ius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.
This is awesome. Read:
A Plan for the Improvement of English Spelling
by Mark Twain
For example, in Year 1 that useless letter "c" would be dropped to be replased either by "k" or "s", and likewise "x" would no longer be part of the alphabet. The only kase in which "c" would be retained would be the "ch" formation, which will be dealt with later. Year 2 might reform "w" spelling, so that "which" and "one" would take the same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish "y" replasing it with "i" and Iear 4 might fiks the "g/j" anomali wonse and for all. Jenerally, then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doing awai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6-12 or so modifaiing vowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants. Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandant letez "c", "y" and "x" -- bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov ould doderez -- tu riplais "ch", "sh", and "th" rispektivli. Fainali, xen, aafte sam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling in ius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.
rhyme sketch
This isn't lined up to be in any particular song yet, but I'm sure it will make it in somewhere. Just posting for posting's sake.
You're the garden variety
I'm the rabbit in the cabbage patch
Eating with the big dogs while you're hanging with the average cats
Stranger fiction after facts
Laugh when you start acting bad
Put you in a glass jar
Recreate your habitat
Something like that.
Also, this line will probably be inserted at some point:
I only come in single serves
They sell you in a Value Pack.
Also, I like this line:
My band is like "what"
Yours is like "pardon me"
Your style is something bite-sized
Mine is really hard to eat
Where will all of these semi-brilliant brainstorms go? Let's put it to a vote:
A: In a song.
B: Not in a song.
Vote now, America, or forever hold your peace.
no track. at work.
out
FA
p.s. I have submitted for the next issue of Nutria Magazine (www.nutriamag.com) and should get a piece or two published. Go to their site and sign up for a subscription. It's a quality read. Also look for my review of El Pus in an upcoming issue of Skope Magazine (if they ever send me the goddamned CD).
You're the garden variety
I'm the rabbit in the cabbage patch
Eating with the big dogs while you're hanging with the average cats
Stranger fiction after facts
Laugh when you start acting bad
Put you in a glass jar
Recreate your habitat
Something like that.
Also, this line will probably be inserted at some point:
I only come in single serves
They sell you in a Value Pack.
Also, I like this line:
My band is like "what"
Yours is like "pardon me"
Your style is something bite-sized
Mine is really hard to eat
Where will all of these semi-brilliant brainstorms go? Let's put it to a vote:
A: In a song.
B: Not in a song.
Vote now, America, or forever hold your peace.
no track. at work.
out
FA
p.s. I have submitted for the next issue of Nutria Magazine (www.nutriamag.com) and should get a piece or two published. Go to their site and sign up for a subscription. It's a quality read. Also look for my review of El Pus in an upcoming issue of Skope Magazine (if they ever send me the goddamned CD).
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Brilliant Minds
Read this story. Apparently some MIT kids got on the docket of an academic conference with a paper that the made from a program that randomly strings words together. Here is the paper generator.
I have nothing more to say about this. It is brilliant. I could spend some time and write a scathing indictment of the academic community, but those have been done.
Working on some songs right now. They won't be done by the time the Middle East show rolls around (come to that mess! click here to get tix on Ticketmaster), but they will be good.
Much thanks to Benny B, The Will Champlin Band, and Slanted House for getting us linked up. They are all linked from our website, so give them a visit. All talented folk. Hopefully others will follow suit and get us linked soon. I'll be doing a mini-revision of the website soon, so keep visiting.
no track. silence.
outski
F.A.
I have nothing more to say about this. It is brilliant. I could spend some time and write a scathing indictment of the academic community, but those have been done.
Working on some songs right now. They won't be done by the time the Middle East show rolls around (come to that mess! click here to get tix on Ticketmaster), but they will be good.
Much thanks to Benny B, The Will Champlin Band, and Slanted House for getting us linked up. They are all linked from our website, so give them a visit. All talented folk. Hopefully others will follow suit and get us linked soon. I'll be doing a mini-revision of the website soon, so keep visiting.
no track. silence.
outski
F.A.
short story
Dear All:
What follows is a rough draft of a short story I am attempting to write. Your readership is appreciated, your comments are welcome.
I always thought that my life would make a good movie. Not the entire thing, of course, just some of the more exciting parts. It’s not like I was ever in a car chase, or had ever been in a really big fistfight or something like that. I hadn’t even fought in any wars. By the time I was out of college the first war in Iraq was already over, and I really wasn’t ever much of the volunteering type. But I always thought I would have made a good character in a film about a young punk kid who was drafted into service and then did something really rebellious, like lipped off to his commanding officer on the first day of basic training or something. Or maybe I would have participated in the senseless slaughter of a small subsistence farming village, not in Iraq, but in some little town in Syria or something where the government had sent troops but no one really knew about it. Then I would be haunted by the memory of what I did for the rest of my life, even though I was just a scared kid when I did it.
Whatever the case, I always saw myself as a good movie character, and now in my older age I still do. Sometimes, when I’m all dressed in my suit and tie and overcoat and walking to the bus stop on the way to work and I have my headphones on to a really rocking song I can just see myself in the middle of some great flick. Especially like when it’s raining and I have my newspaper under my jacket, I can just see myself walking up the steps of the bus in slow motion while some guitar is wailing in the background and just unloading bullets on everyone on the bus, and in slow motion the bullets bust through the headline of some presidential scandal or war or something that was on the paper I was carrying, and the people at the film are at once awed and horrified by the actions of this modern-day hero, because in the film I’m just a normal guy who had to stand up for something. I would imagine that a bunch of people get up and leave during the festival showing and that creates the publicity that makes the movie take off. Or there are those sunny days when I go to the back of the bus, open the window, take a deep breath and imagine that it’s the end of some instant classic where the character that I’m playing is getting on a bus to God-knows-where only to get away from the lady that had torn up his heart for the length of the feature. He still loves her and he always will, but he’s happy to be going because that’s what he has to do and that’s what people are supposed to do in these sorts of situations. My girlfriend now is a nice chick and doesn’t deserve that kind of stuff, but I can still imagine how liberating it might feel.
I remember reading once in a column on the internet that Tom Hanks’ performance in Turner and Hooch was his best work. To be able to pull off a movie – and pull it off as well as Tom Hanks does – where a dog is your supporting actor is a pretty damn tough thing to do. I have a dog. It’s a part golden retriever, part-pug. Ugly as sin, but I like it. Some sleeping golden bitch must’ve been jumped by a sneaky pug and not even have woken up and the little-dick bastard still knocked her up. I call him Turner, even though that was Tom Hanks’ name in the movie. I think it’s a clever turn-around, but most people don’t get it.
Believe it or not, my favorite movie scene of all time is from Turner and Hooch, when Tom Hanks is being held up inside of his car and the villain is holding a gun to his head and ordering him to drive and Tom just puts on his seatbelt and guns the car right into a pole, killing the shit out of the guy with the gun. Hooch was tied up or something while this was going on. The best thing about this scene is what a good idea it is. What kind of kidnapper remembers to put his seatbelt on, and if he’s got a gun to your head, what chance do you really have of getting out alive if you do what he says? Common wisdom dictates that you shouldn’t even get in the car in the first place. That was Tom’s first mistake. Then most of those guys probably just kill you after they’re done doing whatever it is they do to you, so you might as well go out with something kick-ass like that. Anyway, I have a variation on that scene where the guy is holding the gun to my head and I’m just driving along all calm and stuff and I say, “Do you swim?” and the crook is all like, “What? Just keep driving.” I keep my eyes on the road and calmly repeat the question. “Do you swim?” By now he is getting really agitated and he is jabbing the gun against my temple, not noticing that I have put my seatbelt on and that I am slowly increasing the speed of the car. “What the fuck!” he yells at me. “Stop asking stupid fucking questions and drive!” But by then I’m right where I want to be. I yank the steering wheel to the right and careen into a tree right on the edge of a cliff. The crook slams through the windshield, rolls off the hood of the car, and completely falls off the cliff and into a raging river below. I get out of the car, bloodied and bruised but able to walk, just in time to see his body surface below. “I asked you if you swam, motherfucker,” I say as I turn around and start walking back to the road. I have always thought that that would be a good movie scene, but maybe it’s so close to Tom Hanks’ story that someone would notice.
My friend Blain is a story editor for a reality television show on cable. Let me rephrase that. The show isn’t on air yet. It’s a pilot show where these three rich brothers walk around and hit on girls. There doesn’t seem to be much more to it, but the producers for the channel that Blain works at seem to think it’s really going to do well. In my opinion, the only thing that separates the three brothers in the show from regular people is the fact that they have money. But I guess that’s enough.
Anyway, I went in to work with Blain one day to help him edit down some tapes that he had gotten back. It was depressing. Five takes of a scene in a diner. The waiter took their order five goddamned times. And it was still as interesting as watching one dog sniff another one’s ass; that is to say, maybe I’ll watch it go on if I’m outside on a sunny day, but there’s no way I’m sitting through commercials to see what happens next. Four hours of these douchebags walking around and talking about things. What were they talking about? Getting tail, mostly, because that’s the point of the show. But other than that, nothing. No politics, no education, no books. In hindsight, it may have been even more depressing to have to watch those guys make attempts at intellectual conversation. Still, it would have been nice to seem them at least pay respect to the fact that higher pursuits exist.
That’s the problem with reality television. It’s too real. It’s boring. Know why I would never allow someone to make a reality show out of my life? Because I would be running the risk of realizing that my life is as boring as everyone else’s. What if my life to a soundtrack is nothing more than random music played over some meaningless mundanity, and not even mundanity for art’s sake but just plain-Jane mundanity? Everyone who submits themselves to being filmed in reality television runs the risk of discovering their inherent normalcy, and that’s as scary as anything, because once you get packed into a snowball, you can’t go back to being a snowflake.
I would rather have someone write my story. Let someone take some artistic license with it. None of this who-stole-my-peanut-butter? drivel. Even the Tom Hanks story would suck on reality television. I would wake up from the crash, either with a broken nose from the steering wheel or two searing eyefuls of chemicals from the airbag, dripping blood and sniveling like a little girl (let’s just assume that the cameraman lives), crawl out of my mangled car, probably puke at the sight of the dead crook, curl up on the ground, and wait for the police to come. Then I would have to put up with at least a cursory homicide investigation, even though no jury would ever convict me. Afterward I would have to live with the thought that I killed a man, even if it was in self-defense. It’s a far cry from ripping off a snappy tagline and cutting to a swank restaurant scene with a beautiful lady. That’s why I want to be in a movie. It’s easy. Pain is painted on, reality is suspended, three-minute training montages get me ready for the big fight, and everything turns out well in the end, with no regrets. Now that’s life.
What follows is a rough draft of a short story I am attempting to write. Your readership is appreciated, your comments are welcome.
I always thought that my life would make a good movie. Not the entire thing, of course, just some of the more exciting parts. It’s not like I was ever in a car chase, or had ever been in a really big fistfight or something like that. I hadn’t even fought in any wars. By the time I was out of college the first war in Iraq was already over, and I really wasn’t ever much of the volunteering type. But I always thought I would have made a good character in a film about a young punk kid who was drafted into service and then did something really rebellious, like lipped off to his commanding officer on the first day of basic training or something. Or maybe I would have participated in the senseless slaughter of a small subsistence farming village, not in Iraq, but in some little town in Syria or something where the government had sent troops but no one really knew about it. Then I would be haunted by the memory of what I did for the rest of my life, even though I was just a scared kid when I did it.
Whatever the case, I always saw myself as a good movie character, and now in my older age I still do. Sometimes, when I’m all dressed in my suit and tie and overcoat and walking to the bus stop on the way to work and I have my headphones on to a really rocking song I can just see myself in the middle of some great flick. Especially like when it’s raining and I have my newspaper under my jacket, I can just see myself walking up the steps of the bus in slow motion while some guitar is wailing in the background and just unloading bullets on everyone on the bus, and in slow motion the bullets bust through the headline of some presidential scandal or war or something that was on the paper I was carrying, and the people at the film are at once awed and horrified by the actions of this modern-day hero, because in the film I’m just a normal guy who had to stand up for something. I would imagine that a bunch of people get up and leave during the festival showing and that creates the publicity that makes the movie take off. Or there are those sunny days when I go to the back of the bus, open the window, take a deep breath and imagine that it’s the end of some instant classic where the character that I’m playing is getting on a bus to God-knows-where only to get away from the lady that had torn up his heart for the length of the feature. He still loves her and he always will, but he’s happy to be going because that’s what he has to do and that’s what people are supposed to do in these sorts of situations. My girlfriend now is a nice chick and doesn’t deserve that kind of stuff, but I can still imagine how liberating it might feel.
I remember reading once in a column on the internet that Tom Hanks’ performance in Turner and Hooch was his best work. To be able to pull off a movie – and pull it off as well as Tom Hanks does – where a dog is your supporting actor is a pretty damn tough thing to do. I have a dog. It’s a part golden retriever, part-pug. Ugly as sin, but I like it. Some sleeping golden bitch must’ve been jumped by a sneaky pug and not even have woken up and the little-dick bastard still knocked her up. I call him Turner, even though that was Tom Hanks’ name in the movie. I think it’s a clever turn-around, but most people don’t get it.
Believe it or not, my favorite movie scene of all time is from Turner and Hooch, when Tom Hanks is being held up inside of his car and the villain is holding a gun to his head and ordering him to drive and Tom just puts on his seatbelt and guns the car right into a pole, killing the shit out of the guy with the gun. Hooch was tied up or something while this was going on. The best thing about this scene is what a good idea it is. What kind of kidnapper remembers to put his seatbelt on, and if he’s got a gun to your head, what chance do you really have of getting out alive if you do what he says? Common wisdom dictates that you shouldn’t even get in the car in the first place. That was Tom’s first mistake. Then most of those guys probably just kill you after they’re done doing whatever it is they do to you, so you might as well go out with something kick-ass like that. Anyway, I have a variation on that scene where the guy is holding the gun to my head and I’m just driving along all calm and stuff and I say, “Do you swim?” and the crook is all like, “What? Just keep driving.” I keep my eyes on the road and calmly repeat the question. “Do you swim?” By now he is getting really agitated and he is jabbing the gun against my temple, not noticing that I have put my seatbelt on and that I am slowly increasing the speed of the car. “What the fuck!” he yells at me. “Stop asking stupid fucking questions and drive!” But by then I’m right where I want to be. I yank the steering wheel to the right and careen into a tree right on the edge of a cliff. The crook slams through the windshield, rolls off the hood of the car, and completely falls off the cliff and into a raging river below. I get out of the car, bloodied and bruised but able to walk, just in time to see his body surface below. “I asked you if you swam, motherfucker,” I say as I turn around and start walking back to the road. I have always thought that that would be a good movie scene, but maybe it’s so close to Tom Hanks’ story that someone would notice.
My friend Blain is a story editor for a reality television show on cable. Let me rephrase that. The show isn’t on air yet. It’s a pilot show where these three rich brothers walk around and hit on girls. There doesn’t seem to be much more to it, but the producers for the channel that Blain works at seem to think it’s really going to do well. In my opinion, the only thing that separates the three brothers in the show from regular people is the fact that they have money. But I guess that’s enough.
Anyway, I went in to work with Blain one day to help him edit down some tapes that he had gotten back. It was depressing. Five takes of a scene in a diner. The waiter took their order five goddamned times. And it was still as interesting as watching one dog sniff another one’s ass; that is to say, maybe I’ll watch it go on if I’m outside on a sunny day, but there’s no way I’m sitting through commercials to see what happens next. Four hours of these douchebags walking around and talking about things. What were they talking about? Getting tail, mostly, because that’s the point of the show. But other than that, nothing. No politics, no education, no books. In hindsight, it may have been even more depressing to have to watch those guys make attempts at intellectual conversation. Still, it would have been nice to seem them at least pay respect to the fact that higher pursuits exist.
That’s the problem with reality television. It’s too real. It’s boring. Know why I would never allow someone to make a reality show out of my life? Because I would be running the risk of realizing that my life is as boring as everyone else’s. What if my life to a soundtrack is nothing more than random music played over some meaningless mundanity, and not even mundanity for art’s sake but just plain-Jane mundanity? Everyone who submits themselves to being filmed in reality television runs the risk of discovering their inherent normalcy, and that’s as scary as anything, because once you get packed into a snowball, you can’t go back to being a snowflake.
I would rather have someone write my story. Let someone take some artistic license with it. None of this who-stole-my-peanut-butter? drivel. Even the Tom Hanks story would suck on reality television. I would wake up from the crash, either with a broken nose from the steering wheel or two searing eyefuls of chemicals from the airbag, dripping blood and sniveling like a little girl (let’s just assume that the cameraman lives), crawl out of my mangled car, probably puke at the sight of the dead crook, curl up on the ground, and wait for the police to come. Then I would have to put up with at least a cursory homicide investigation, even though no jury would ever convict me. Afterward I would have to live with the thought that I killed a man, even if it was in self-defense. It’s a far cry from ripping off a snappy tagline and cutting to a swank restaurant scene with a beautiful lady. That’s why I want to be in a movie. It’s easy. Pain is painted on, reality is suspended, three-minute training montages get me ready for the big fight, and everything turns out well in the end, with no regrets. Now that’s life.
back to plug a song
Lo Que Paso, Paso - by Daddy Yankee
This guy is amazing. Blowing up Latin America right now. The piano line is the sickness. Get it.
paz
Padre Abram
This guy is amazing. Blowing up Latin America right now. The piano line is the sickness. Get it.
paz
Padre Abram
Thursday, April 14, 2005
thursday is a day
Yo
It's the Father, logging in from the mundane at my new job at [company name classified]. Life at [company name classified] is somewhat boring right now. I'm filing things and learning how to do the same hour-long task that I will be doing all summer long. Sounds fun, doesn't it? No. I have no idea why you would think that.
[company name classified] is a decent place to work. We have this cool coffee machine that makes a cup of coffee in like 20 seconds. I can't even describe how it works. And since I have no rational explanation for how it works, I have concluded that it works by magic. Yes, somehow [company name classified] has harnessed the power of magic and put it to coffee making to somehow increase productivity. Also, I'm typing on the IBM version of an Apple IIC right now. I cannot imagine anything but magic keeping this thing in running condition.
I signed a confidentiality agreement with [company name classified] and I'm freaked out by news reports of bloggers getting fired for writing about work, so I will always refer to [company name classified] as [company name classified].
Press, buzz, and push will all be in effect for the Middle East show starting tonight. Watch for the flyers with Blake's tains on them around your hood. In a related story that as of yet has no ending, Blake's membership in the band is in limbo right now. We're waiting for a decision from him and window-shopping for other bassists right now. Here's hoping that he sticks around.
Never raise a fist but for in solidarity,
Send my message forth with conviction and with clarity.
paz
F. Abraham
It's the Father, logging in from the mundane at my new job at [company name classified]. Life at [company name classified] is somewhat boring right now. I'm filing things and learning how to do the same hour-long task that I will be doing all summer long. Sounds fun, doesn't it? No. I have no idea why you would think that.
[company name classified] is a decent place to work. We have this cool coffee machine that makes a cup of coffee in like 20 seconds. I can't even describe how it works. And since I have no rational explanation for how it works, I have concluded that it works by magic. Yes, somehow [company name classified] has harnessed the power of magic and put it to coffee making to somehow increase productivity. Also, I'm typing on the IBM version of an Apple IIC right now. I cannot imagine anything but magic keeping this thing in running condition.
I signed a confidentiality agreement with [company name classified] and I'm freaked out by news reports of bloggers getting fired for writing about work, so I will always refer to [company name classified] as [company name classified].
Press, buzz, and push will all be in effect for the Middle East show starting tonight. Watch for the flyers with Blake's tains on them around your hood. In a related story that as of yet has no ending, Blake's membership in the band is in limbo right now. We're waiting for a decision from him and window-shopping for other bassists right now. Here's hoping that he sticks around.
Never raise a fist but for in solidarity,
Send my message forth with conviction and with clarity.
paz
F. Abraham
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
post penn state
Aaaaaah, back to the grind and insanity that is my existence in Boston. What a great getaway it was to escape into the rural Pennsylvania countryside. As Rick has already filled you in on the majority of what went on, I need not explain that it was eventful. I think that it was more hectic for some of the members than others. For me, it was somewhat relaxing and refreshing to get out of Boston. Brandon and Rick however, were like fish out of water. Quick example; Mark, who was so kind to let us crash at his hunting retreat, was trying to build a fire. He asks Brandon and Ian to help out and gather wood. Ian, being from a rural area like me, knew exactly what to do, as if it wasn't common sense. Brandon on the other hand, frantically trying to rip branches off trees and god knows what else, becomes very frustrated. Then, seeing Ian pick something off the ground (which was a dry stick), starts ripping vines or some shit off the ground and complaining. It would seem as though our good friend Bifida had never stood on anything but concrete in his entire life. Rick was another matter. He was simply scared shitless and crawled under a table (sounds impossible, I know) and cried for 3 hours. Mr. Plantains just rolled around in the dirt for a while. To his credit, however, he did shower after the first day. What the other guys (Rick, Blake, Ian) missed out on while they were busy being shitty and hungover at a dirty frat house was Mark's mom's 25 course breakfast of home cooked, country heaven. We had ENORMOUS omlettes, peppercorn bacon, whole grain toast, pot after pot of coffee and OJ, chocolate mouse cake and blueberry pie. OH MY GOD. Let me tell you, it was the greatest thing ever. Then, on the way back, most likely a result of the enormous breakfast, we stopped at a rest stop in Conneticut and blew it up with a group poop. So that is my condensed version of the trip considering that Rick already covered most f it. Anyway, we are gonna rock the face off of Ground Zero on Friday and get everyone out to the Middle East for our big debut there. Thanks a bunch to all the guys at Acacia for having us out and hopefully we can stop through on a tour next fall. Oh yeah, PSU girls are SOOOO HOT. I especially liked the part when these two bangin honeys got on stage, arm around either side of me and we all sang The General. Not really a hip-hop moment, but a moment nonetheless. Okay, I'm done. See you guys at the ME.
-King of all Louis'
track: some dude playing guitar down the hall from the studio office
-King of all Louis'
track: some dude playing guitar down the hall from the studio office
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Our Weekend at Penn. St
about 12:30 on sunday night, what a long strange trip it's been.
Day 1
We started with a bang by Evan missing every exit on the way down there. Bifita is blaring metal into my skull. Blake is in the other car with evan, abe, and Ian, working on his debating skills and drilling people on what they should like, petitioning to rename the United States "Blakes World". Scenerio #1) Person 1: Hey man, what do you think about that up and coming band "The Indefinite article" cause i think they're exhilerating! Person 2: MMMM, Yes, me too, exhilerating! By the time we reached New York, Brandons brain turned back on (after about a 2 hour cortex zone-out session) and he continued to burn CD's. Mark was in the back talking like meat-wad from aqua teen hunger force for about an hour. We stopped in at a rest stop for food and bathroom usage. I brought my big gay blue cooler in with me and Even wanted a bite of my sloppy roast beef sandwich, he was quickly denied. Tains wandered off to do who knows what, and where after mowing down a double cheeseburger from McDonalds, Ian did his usual routine, walked around like Iccabod Crain for a while, then smoked a family of 4 out of a house and home, Brandon ate something rediculous, i think it was a hotdog wrapped in some kind of pretzel casing with cheeze Whiz on it, Mark sat back and watched the Barnum & Indefinite article circus perform, followed by me releasing the wrath of hell, and my internal organs in the great town of shits-ville New York. Back on the road, evan missed an exit or 2, and before we knew it, arrived at Mark's house, which he called "his camp", which i didn't clearly understand until I walked into the house and had flashbacks of the movie pet cemetery 8. We drank 2 cases of Yueng Ling, played pool, made a camp fire, told ghost and alien stories cause the camp was scary as hell, but so sweet at the same time. Blake furiously continued his poor, yet fiery attempts of trying to make us realize that if we believe and agree with everything that he says it will be a perfect universe, and then the party showed up. 2 of marks friends, 1 male, 1 female, and by the way, you couldn't see a trace of paint on their car because it was completely covered in mud, and they wanted to take us "muddin'". So Blake, (already muddy), Mark, and Ian went with male and female and drove through a river. Sounds like some good ole' "muddin'" to me. Evan, Abe, brandon and I stayed back at the cemetery and played pool. The crew came back, and we were all done, so we decided to go to sleep. If you thought the night was over, you're an idiot. Blake stole my bed, i went ape shit and stole evan's bed, evan tackled me, punching me in the ribs, one shot to the jaw, i retreated to the couch, but i would not go quietly into the night. I diligently bombarded evan and blake, bringing to the forefront how much of a little bitch evan is, and how small animals were dropping dead outside from the stench blake had brewing, and i threw in that Brandons a mongoloid, and also how Abe couldn't understand anything that we were talking about because it wasn't written in a book. Finally, there was quiet.
WOOHAA, Day 2, (this could take a while)
I woke up with a dis-located hip and all i could think about was how hard the Boroque line in monster was gonna be, especially if my brainstem was severed. The boys followed suit, and it was like a pack of sloths trying to get from Montevideo to Mexico City. blake showered? (Random) We hit the road to Penn St. around 11:30-12:00ish. We arrived to the frat house and the most stereotypical frat guys emerged from the house. Good guys, they had the pledges of the frat set us up with anything we wanted, beer, food, badussy, a small child for Ian and his matted down hair and pedophile aviator sunglasses, a pair of scissors and a wheelbarrow of assorted candy for Blake, a brain for Brandon, a book with no words in it for Abe to try and figure out what the plot of the story was, and a bottle of advil for me to attempt to chip away at the cadillac sized hangover i had.......in a pair tree. This place was MASSIVE. It's the largest fraternity on the East coast. Cactus Ballbag and the neutered cock-spaniels opened for us and I wanted to castrate my own junk. It may as well have been a "WHAM" cover band. It was finally time for us to do our thing, the thing we came to do that has taken us this much time and effort to do, play kickass rock-hop. We started into the set, finished the set, and still had 4 hrs to play. The crowd, about 800-1000 strong was not an easy one to amuse, It was like they all had severe ADD, (much like someone i know Brandon). We started into the hip-hop set, opened with G'z and Hustla's by Snoop and played for a little over an hour. It got better because the majority of the crowd who were listening were diggin' what we were dishin'. Set break. 2.5 hrs left to play. The crowd was ready, we started into Reflexive Identity Theft and about a minute into the song, we lost all power to the PA system, some drunk turd tripped over the mixing board power cord. We got over it, replayed R.I.T. and continued the set start to finished, good set. 1.5 hrs. left to play, and we have but 1 rehearsed song left to play and it's the humpty dance. This was basically when all hell broke loose. People started requesting pearl Jam, Sublime, Yanni, John Tesh, the grateful dead, and so on and so forth. We then had to do the only thing that we knew how to do to keep this show going, and that was to bring up DJ Double A to the stage. He said he could freestyle, so the band layed down a groove, and DJ Double A began naming every single person in the world that he knew of, and didn't even say 2 words that came close to rhyming with eachother. He walked around the stage and requested more guitar and held the mic up to the guitar as if there was sound blaring out of the neck of the guitar. I finally took the mic from him after about 7 minutes of pure nonsensical buffoonery and did the only rehearsed rap that i knew. I know I know, you guys reading this are like, "man, that rap is getting so old, and he actually thinks he's good at rapping" but look at it this way, it was 100 times better than DJ. double dickhead. People started swarming the stage and requesting shit that we didn't know, so we wen't ahead and played humpty and I loved every second of it. The show ended, we got paid, packed our gear and went to a Diner near by. Evan was really Jonesin a hot open faced roast beef with gravy and potatos, i rocked the turkey sandwich, brandon got everything AND a french onion soup, and i forget the rest, who cares, really. We went back to the frat, evan, abe brandon and Mark dipped out and blake, Ian and I went out partying. We met up with my friend Matt Delaney from home who lived nearby and I sang Karaoke (Sweet Home Alabama) to a butt load of parents who were attending "parents night" at the fraternity. While i was inside lulling the fine young frat and sorority kids and their fossil-like parents as Ian put it, Blake was throwing the Mack down on one of the pledges mothers. This lady was insane, and funny at the same time, she was telling Blake how she blew 7 grams of the cocaine on the way to this thing, and the woman was straight up lookin' a wreck. She said that her daughter and Blake would be perfect for eachother, and then she told us that her daughter has been in the hospital for three years with severe manic depression. Blake, this girl sounds perfect for you, all you have to do is keep her alive by not letting her slice a main artery. The mother started geeking because she thought her son saw her throwing the mack on our stallion Blake here, and we left. NEXT. Rolled to another party where there was this cat who looked like Wesselley Willis just roaming around the house. Yes, he looked like a 250 pound paranoid schizophrenic African American. All it took was a half an hour, and some kid, who was apparently Wesselley's best friend, as he called him, beat the paranoia and living piss out of him. SOME KID THOUGHT BLAKE, (OF ALL PEOPLE), WAS A NARC, hah, the kid sketched out and left. We got interrogated by the PO-PO because someone was throwing beer bottles at houses and we told them we had no clue who it was. The special ed who was throwing bottles was right next to me the whole time he was doing it. so we went back to the diner for a cheesesteak, a real cheesesteak, and then went back the car that was parked in the frat's back yard and tried to get some shut eye. We nearly froze to death. When i thought I was about to go into shock, i hustled out of my car on a stealth mission to get inside the frat. I climbed in through a window that happened to be open and opened the back door for Ian and Blake. I took three comforters and 4 pillows off of some dudes bed and we slept on 3 executive style couches, leather and shit, comfy. As usual, i got down to my boxers cause i cant sleep with pants on for some reason, and I slept like a baby on that saturday night/sunday morning. To the owner of the pillow and comforter that Blake slept in, if you read this, im sorry.
Day 3
I played a little piano on the baby grand that they had in the room we slept in when i got up, and afterwords we went and raided subway. We drove home, we luckily took the long way home, because we stopped at a roy rogers/gas station that had a bus load of hasidic jews. words cant really describe how badly off put my day was after that. We all B-Lined it back to beantown and relieved 7 upset stomachs.
April 10, 2005
Richard Rhythms
P.S. What in God Muffins does Marklar mean. Code for car Mark, Brandon and Rick or some shit like that? Evan, please enter a popularity contest.
Day 1
We started with a bang by Evan missing every exit on the way down there. Bifita is blaring metal into my skull. Blake is in the other car with evan, abe, and Ian, working on his debating skills and drilling people on what they should like, petitioning to rename the United States "Blakes World". Scenerio #1) Person 1: Hey man, what do you think about that up and coming band "The Indefinite article" cause i think they're exhilerating! Person 2: MMMM, Yes, me too, exhilerating! By the time we reached New York, Brandons brain turned back on (after about a 2 hour cortex zone-out session) and he continued to burn CD's. Mark was in the back talking like meat-wad from aqua teen hunger force for about an hour. We stopped in at a rest stop for food and bathroom usage. I brought my big gay blue cooler in with me and Even wanted a bite of my sloppy roast beef sandwich, he was quickly denied. Tains wandered off to do who knows what, and where after mowing down a double cheeseburger from McDonalds, Ian did his usual routine, walked around like Iccabod Crain for a while, then smoked a family of 4 out of a house and home, Brandon ate something rediculous, i think it was a hotdog wrapped in some kind of pretzel casing with cheeze Whiz on it, Mark sat back and watched the Barnum & Indefinite article circus perform, followed by me releasing the wrath of hell, and my internal organs in the great town of shits-ville New York. Back on the road, evan missed an exit or 2, and before we knew it, arrived at Mark's house, which he called "his camp", which i didn't clearly understand until I walked into the house and had flashbacks of the movie pet cemetery 8. We drank 2 cases of Yueng Ling, played pool, made a camp fire, told ghost and alien stories cause the camp was scary as hell, but so sweet at the same time. Blake furiously continued his poor, yet fiery attempts of trying to make us realize that if we believe and agree with everything that he says it will be a perfect universe, and then the party showed up. 2 of marks friends, 1 male, 1 female, and by the way, you couldn't see a trace of paint on their car because it was completely covered in mud, and they wanted to take us "muddin'". So Blake, (already muddy), Mark, and Ian went with male and female and drove through a river. Sounds like some good ole' "muddin'" to me. Evan, Abe, brandon and I stayed back at the cemetery and played pool. The crew came back, and we were all done, so we decided to go to sleep. If you thought the night was over, you're an idiot. Blake stole my bed, i went ape shit and stole evan's bed, evan tackled me, punching me in the ribs, one shot to the jaw, i retreated to the couch, but i would not go quietly into the night. I diligently bombarded evan and blake, bringing to the forefront how much of a little bitch evan is, and how small animals were dropping dead outside from the stench blake had brewing, and i threw in that Brandons a mongoloid, and also how Abe couldn't understand anything that we were talking about because it wasn't written in a book. Finally, there was quiet.
WOOHAA, Day 2, (this could take a while)
I woke up with a dis-located hip and all i could think about was how hard the Boroque line in monster was gonna be, especially if my brainstem was severed. The boys followed suit, and it was like a pack of sloths trying to get from Montevideo to Mexico City. blake showered? (Random) We hit the road to Penn St. around 11:30-12:00ish. We arrived to the frat house and the most stereotypical frat guys emerged from the house. Good guys, they had the pledges of the frat set us up with anything we wanted, beer, food, badussy, a small child for Ian and his matted down hair and pedophile aviator sunglasses, a pair of scissors and a wheelbarrow of assorted candy for Blake, a brain for Brandon, a book with no words in it for Abe to try and figure out what the plot of the story was, and a bottle of advil for me to attempt to chip away at the cadillac sized hangover i had.......in a pair tree. This place was MASSIVE. It's the largest fraternity on the East coast. Cactus Ballbag and the neutered cock-spaniels opened for us and I wanted to castrate my own junk. It may as well have been a "WHAM" cover band. It was finally time for us to do our thing, the thing we came to do that has taken us this much time and effort to do, play kickass rock-hop. We started into the set, finished the set, and still had 4 hrs to play. The crowd, about 800-1000 strong was not an easy one to amuse, It was like they all had severe ADD, (much like someone i know Brandon). We started into the hip-hop set, opened with G'z and Hustla's by Snoop and played for a little over an hour. It got better because the majority of the crowd who were listening were diggin' what we were dishin'. Set break. 2.5 hrs left to play. The crowd was ready, we started into Reflexive Identity Theft and about a minute into the song, we lost all power to the PA system, some drunk turd tripped over the mixing board power cord. We got over it, replayed R.I.T. and continued the set start to finished, good set. 1.5 hrs. left to play, and we have but 1 rehearsed song left to play and it's the humpty dance. This was basically when all hell broke loose. People started requesting pearl Jam, Sublime, Yanni, John Tesh, the grateful dead, and so on and so forth. We then had to do the only thing that we knew how to do to keep this show going, and that was to bring up DJ Double A to the stage. He said he could freestyle, so the band layed down a groove, and DJ Double A began naming every single person in the world that he knew of, and didn't even say 2 words that came close to rhyming with eachother. He walked around the stage and requested more guitar and held the mic up to the guitar as if there was sound blaring out of the neck of the guitar. I finally took the mic from him after about 7 minutes of pure nonsensical buffoonery and did the only rehearsed rap that i knew. I know I know, you guys reading this are like, "man, that rap is getting so old, and he actually thinks he's good at rapping" but look at it this way, it was 100 times better than DJ. double dickhead. People started swarming the stage and requesting shit that we didn't know, so we wen't ahead and played humpty and I loved every second of it. The show ended, we got paid, packed our gear and went to a Diner near by. Evan was really Jonesin a hot open faced roast beef with gravy and potatos, i rocked the turkey sandwich, brandon got everything AND a french onion soup, and i forget the rest, who cares, really. We went back to the frat, evan, abe brandon and Mark dipped out and blake, Ian and I went out partying. We met up with my friend Matt Delaney from home who lived nearby and I sang Karaoke (Sweet Home Alabama) to a butt load of parents who were attending "parents night" at the fraternity. While i was inside lulling the fine young frat and sorority kids and their fossil-like parents as Ian put it, Blake was throwing the Mack down on one of the pledges mothers. This lady was insane, and funny at the same time, she was telling Blake how she blew 7 grams of the cocaine on the way to this thing, and the woman was straight up lookin' a wreck. She said that her daughter and Blake would be perfect for eachother, and then she told us that her daughter has been in the hospital for three years with severe manic depression. Blake, this girl sounds perfect for you, all you have to do is keep her alive by not letting her slice a main artery. The mother started geeking because she thought her son saw her throwing the mack on our stallion Blake here, and we left. NEXT. Rolled to another party where there was this cat who looked like Wesselley Willis just roaming around the house. Yes, he looked like a 250 pound paranoid schizophrenic African American. All it took was a half an hour, and some kid, who was apparently Wesselley's best friend, as he called him, beat the paranoia and living piss out of him. SOME KID THOUGHT BLAKE, (OF ALL PEOPLE), WAS A NARC, hah, the kid sketched out and left. We got interrogated by the PO-PO because someone was throwing beer bottles at houses and we told them we had no clue who it was. The special ed who was throwing bottles was right next to me the whole time he was doing it. so we went back to the diner for a cheesesteak, a real cheesesteak, and then went back the car that was parked in the frat's back yard and tried to get some shut eye. We nearly froze to death. When i thought I was about to go into shock, i hustled out of my car on a stealth mission to get inside the frat. I climbed in through a window that happened to be open and opened the back door for Ian and Blake. I took three comforters and 4 pillows off of some dudes bed and we slept on 3 executive style couches, leather and shit, comfy. As usual, i got down to my boxers cause i cant sleep with pants on for some reason, and I slept like a baby on that saturday night/sunday morning. To the owner of the pillow and comforter that Blake slept in, if you read this, im sorry.
Day 3
I played a little piano on the baby grand that they had in the room we slept in when i got up, and afterwords we went and raided subway. We drove home, we luckily took the long way home, because we stopped at a roy rogers/gas station that had a bus load of hasidic jews. words cant really describe how badly off put my day was after that. We all B-Lined it back to beantown and relieved 7 upset stomachs.
April 10, 2005
Richard Rhythms
P.S. What in God Muffins does Marklar mean. Code for car Mark, Brandon and Rick or some shit like that? Evan, please enter a popularity contest.
Friday, April 08, 2005
pre penn state
We are about to embark on the longest road trip this band has yet to endure. Penn State is quite aways from Boston and things are already looking a little wierd. The rental agency fucked me over and neglected to rent me a car due to the fact that my credit card is attached to a checking account. Even though the limit is more than enough. So.....FUCK Enterprise Rent-A-Car and that stupid bitch at the counter. Anyway, so I am driving down with my shitty peice and won't be able to get it fixed until next week. Yeah so.....nothing really funny or interesting to say, just venting about Rent-A-Shit. Wish us luck. If I post something on Monday that means we made it back alive and in one peice.
Track: Go To Sleep (Little Man Being Erased); Radiohead
Track: Go To Sleep (Little Man Being Erased); Radiohead
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Mattresses are somewhat related to Boston hip-hop
For various reasons, cheif of which was some gross miscommunication between me and my divorced and bickering parents, I needed a mattress, so I went shopping for one at a mattress shop near my house in Allston. When I realized that I was dangerously close to being ripped off because of my abject ignorance about coils, turns per coil, and various degrees of tempur-pedicness, I did my research. Then I went back to the same mattress shop, and my salesman was one of the frontmen from Lifted (I forget his name because I forget everyone's name). It was at once cool and weird. Also his hand was all swollen because he had broken it the night before. If it was in a fight, he totally kicked the other guy's ass because the rest of his was unscathed. We are supposed to be colleagues on the Boston hip-hop scene (although they are way more established than we are), and there we were talking warranties, deliveries, and weight-to-movement ratios. Just goes to show that the mundane crosses paths with the fantastic every now and again.
Lifted is a sweet band. I should get a discount on a mattress because I think that.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Track: No track. I'm in a computer lab.
out
Father A.
Lifted is a sweet band. I should get a discount on a mattress because I think that.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Track: No track. I'm in a computer lab.
out
Father A.
Shut your face, Johnny Damon
What follows is a real-life quote I found in the Boston Metro today and my real-life reaction to it:
"It's an unfortunate thing, but the Pope was very awesome for the world."
- Johnny Damon, speaking with reporters on the passing of Pope John Paul II
[stunned silence]
[continued stunned silence]
I'm going to add that I saw a sound byte of former Los Angeles Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda lauding the Pope as "a tough guy" because he traveled to over 150 countries.
[silence]
And apparently fought his way through them.
Okay, enough with the pauses-for-effect and time for analysis (ignoring the long and research-heavy topic of whether Catholicism during the late Pope's reign was or was not "very awesome for the world"). Shallow version: baseball players should not be allowed to comment on things other than baseball. Deep version:
Apparently something has convinced Johnny Damon that his voice is necessary - or worse, requisite - in the public forum. Something has also convinced him that his life and career - both barely half over - are worth being recorded in an autobiography. And last, something has made Johnny Damon believe that being an "idiot" should be a sought-after form of human existence. I think that my position on these three issues is quite clear.
Even famous intellectuals are not asked to weigh in on all subjects. When they do, their expertise is often brought into question. So why should Johnny Damon now become the arbiter of all that is awesome, to whatever degree, for the world? He shouldn't.
Here's the greater point: just because people are listening doesn't mean one has to speak. If I ever become famous enough so as to have the opportunity to speak my voice and be widely heard, I hope that I will exercise the self-restraint necessary to maintain at least a facade of respectability.
This post has nothing to do with hip-hop.
track playing: George Clinton, Aint Nuthin' But A Jam, Y'all
"It's an unfortunate thing, but the Pope was very awesome for the world."
- Johnny Damon, speaking with reporters on the passing of Pope John Paul II
[stunned silence]
[continued stunned silence]
I'm going to add that I saw a sound byte of former Los Angeles Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda lauding the Pope as "a tough guy" because he traveled to over 150 countries.
[silence]
And apparently fought his way through them.
Okay, enough with the pauses-for-effect and time for analysis (ignoring the long and research-heavy topic of whether Catholicism during the late Pope's reign was or was not "very awesome for the world"). Shallow version: baseball players should not be allowed to comment on things other than baseball. Deep version:
Apparently something has convinced Johnny Damon that his voice is necessary - or worse, requisite - in the public forum. Something has also convinced him that his life and career - both barely half over - are worth being recorded in an autobiography. And last, something has made Johnny Damon believe that being an "idiot" should be a sought-after form of human existence. I think that my position on these three issues is quite clear.
Even famous intellectuals are not asked to weigh in on all subjects. When they do, their expertise is often brought into question. So why should Johnny Damon now become the arbiter of all that is awesome, to whatever degree, for the world? He shouldn't.
Here's the greater point: just because people are listening doesn't mean one has to speak. If I ever become famous enough so as to have the opportunity to speak my voice and be widely heard, I hope that I will exercise the self-restraint necessary to maintain at least a facade of respectability.
This post has nothing to do with hip-hop.
track playing: George Clinton, Aint Nuthin' But A Jam, Y'all
Monday, April 04, 2005
All Loud on The Midwstern Front
So here I am, partially moved into my new place in Allston (which is conveniently located within a 5 minute walk to the rehearsal facilities), waiting for my job at the publishing company to start on the 11th. Between then we have a show at the All-Asia and another one at Penn State. Penn State. Which is far. Also, we have been encouraged to learn cover songs by the people who are hiring us out to play for FIVE HOURS. Five hours. Which is (are?) long. And they have suggested that we learn the following songs. My comments follow each suggestion:
TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT - no.
NUMA NUMA - OZONE - also no.
JAY-Z – CAN I GET A FUCK YOU - yes, very soon, if you keep this up.
GAME – THIS IS HOW WE DO - the possibilities for this one are endless, but i'm going to leave it alone, for fear of being shot in the leg once i achieve success.
FAINT – LINKIN PARK (OR ANY SONG) - no.
INCUBUS - see above.
311 - okay, this might work. we kind of sound like them. but i can't sing. so evan or rick are gonna have to learn this.
GREENDAY - ouch.
ROLLING STONES - i would love to. but i don't think we could do them justice.
OUTKAST - these are one of those band that i rank up there with the beatles and michael jackson. you just can't cover them.
SUBLIME - i just threw up in my mouth
ANY ACOUSTIC RAP SONGS - reasonable.
3-6 MAFIA – ASS N TITTIES - i will hurt anyone who requests this.
KAFFI - i think they means "raffi." i wil gladly sing "wheels on the bus."
BEATLES - see "outkast"
OASIS - see "sublime"
WEEZER - rivers cuomo is a great name.
DMB - if anyone even mentions these guys to me i'll beat them with a mic stand.
PEARL JAM - see "dmb"
BETTER THAN EZRA – 'GOOD', 'DESPERATELY WANTING' - shoot me.
STP – 'INTERSTATE LOVE SONG' - shoot them.
I feel like we may have been mistaken for a cover band. A cover band is something that we are not. It's still going to be a great time, and Rick will most likely play a 45-minute solo set of Elton John songs (he really can. It's absolutely amazing). We will be covering some Snoop Dogg tunes and "The Humpty Dance." I would also go for "Just a Friend" by Biz Markie. If someone requests "Ice Ice Baby" I will be scheduling return trips to Pennsylvania to face assault charges.
I'm going to start a little tradition here on the blog. Every time a blogger signs off we're going to post the name and artist of the track we're listening to. Just so you know, if you care. Or even if you don't care. I'm writing in a lot of sentence fragments today.
Track: La Paga, by Juanes.
out
Father Abraham
TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT - no.
NUMA NUMA - OZONE - also no.
JAY-Z – CAN I GET A FUCK YOU - yes, very soon, if you keep this up.
GAME – THIS IS HOW WE DO - the possibilities for this one are endless, but i'm going to leave it alone, for fear of being shot in the leg once i achieve success.
FAINT – LINKIN PARK (OR ANY SONG) - no.
INCUBUS - see above.
311 - okay, this might work. we kind of sound like them. but i can't sing. so evan or rick are gonna have to learn this.
GREENDAY - ouch.
ROLLING STONES - i would love to. but i don't think we could do them justice.
OUTKAST - these are one of those band that i rank up there with the beatles and michael jackson. you just can't cover them.
SUBLIME - i just threw up in my mouth
ANY ACOUSTIC RAP SONGS - reasonable.
3-6 MAFIA – ASS N TITTIES - i will hurt anyone who requests this.
KAFFI - i think they means "raffi." i wil gladly sing "wheels on the bus."
BEATLES - see "outkast"
OASIS - see "sublime"
WEEZER - rivers cuomo is a great name.
DMB - if anyone even mentions these guys to me i'll beat them with a mic stand.
PEARL JAM - see "dmb"
BETTER THAN EZRA – 'GOOD', 'DESPERATELY WANTING' - shoot me.
STP – 'INTERSTATE LOVE SONG' - shoot them.
I feel like we may have been mistaken for a cover band. A cover band is something that we are not. It's still going to be a great time, and Rick will most likely play a 45-minute solo set of Elton John songs (he really can. It's absolutely amazing). We will be covering some Snoop Dogg tunes and "The Humpty Dance." I would also go for "Just a Friend" by Biz Markie. If someone requests "Ice Ice Baby" I will be scheduling return trips to Pennsylvania to face assault charges.
I'm going to start a little tradition here on the blog. Every time a blogger signs off we're going to post the name and artist of the track we're listening to. Just so you know, if you care. Or even if you don't care. I'm writing in a lot of sentence fragments today.
Track: La Paga, by Juanes.
out
Father Abraham
Friday, April 01, 2005
Western Front
Alright...for the first time I'm putting an entry in this thing. The show at the Western Front was fuckin dope. We played very well and we had the crowed bumpin! It was pretty sick that we ended up bringing in about as many people during our set than the other 3 had combined. Everyone else that played were nasty, I was real into it. The Western Front is a nice fuckin venue, and it's certainly good that the owner and bartender were really into us and put us down in the "good book". Hopefully some more shows will surface from that...
Anyways, like always there were a some rediculous events that took place getting to the gig. For example...Rick, lost as usual, with my dumb ass in the front seat pretending that I know my way around Cambridge, ended up somehow finding the venue but decided turn and proceed down a one way street...not realizing until oncoming traffic was in our face. I wouldn't say that this was anywhere close to as rediculous as anything that happend during the Stratton adventure, but that one will definately go down as a classic for me.
Alright I'm done with this retarded shit, I'm going to sleep
-Brandon
Anyways, like always there were a some rediculous events that took place getting to the gig. For example...Rick, lost as usual, with my dumb ass in the front seat pretending that I know my way around Cambridge, ended up somehow finding the venue but decided turn and proceed down a one way street...not realizing until oncoming traffic was in our face. I wouldn't say that this was anywhere close to as rediculous as anything that happend during the Stratton adventure, but that one will definately go down as a classic for me.
Alright I'm done with this retarded shit, I'm going to sleep
-Brandon
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