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Many Logs Disguised as One
Many Logs Disguised as One
28 November 2012
Australian X
We all know
X and their classic albums Los Angeles
and Wild Gift along with the legacy
they carved as Southern California Punk troubadours.
Does anyone you know have X-Aspirations? An album from Australia by the band of the same name that a friend of mine grabbed in a mad dash five minutes before Vinyl Solution in Huntington Beach closed, one night?
Well, "Australian X," who's debut album holds a candle to any album in the golden age of punk, inspired acts from around the globe to adopt a similar approach to achieve punk status in a speedy fashion with regional spins on classic album titles:
Social Distortion (Iran), Mohammed's Little Monster
The Jam (Greece), In the Citadel
Black Flag (Iraq), My Jihad
Circle Jerks (Germany), Wunderbar
Stiff Little Fingers (Ukraine), Irradiated Material
The Clash (Cuba), Havana Calling
The Cramps (China), Songs The Buddha Taught Us
TSOL (Navajo Nation), Rain Dance With Me
Bad Brains (Amish), Rock for Candlelight
Many more bands tried this but failed when bands like FEAR intimidated all "copycats and wannabes," as dubbed by singer Lee Ving, with threats of copyright infringement penalties and lawsuits.
It makes me wonder what a modern day punk band like World Burns to Death, a band who proclaims "NO COPYRIGHTS. FUCK THAT" on their records, would do if an Israeli WBTD released The Sucking of Iron Dome.
Does anyone you know have X-Aspirations? An album from Australia by the band of the same name that a friend of mine grabbed in a mad dash five minutes before Vinyl Solution in Huntington Beach closed, one night?
Well, "Australian X," who's debut album holds a candle to any album in the golden age of punk, inspired acts from around the globe to adopt a similar approach to achieve punk status in a speedy fashion with regional spins on classic album titles:
Social Distortion (Iran), Mohammed's Little Monster
The Jam (Greece), In the Citadel
Black Flag (Iraq), My Jihad
Circle Jerks (Germany), Wunderbar
Stiff Little Fingers (Ukraine), Irradiated Material
The Clash (Cuba), Havana Calling
The Cramps (China), Songs The Buddha Taught Us
TSOL (Navajo Nation), Rain Dance With Me
Bad Brains (Amish), Rock for Candlelight
Many more bands tried this but failed when bands like FEAR intimidated all "copycats and wannabes," as dubbed by singer Lee Ving, with threats of copyright infringement penalties and lawsuits.
It makes me wonder what a modern day punk band like World Burns to Death, a band who proclaims "NO COPYRIGHTS. FUCK THAT" on their records, would do if an Israeli WBTD released The Sucking of Iron Dome.
8 22 12
Prepare for The Grind
The next few months will
be busy. I have a new record, Digital
Demons & Black Luck to promote. The Kettle Drivers will play as many
shows possible at every bar, club, event, roast, bbq, potluck, and mitzvah as
we can, in front of as many people we can. Hopefully, we can rid ourselves of
1000 CDs very soon. The 7 boxes in my living room morphs into an eyesore
everyday. We hope this record will help move What a Thrill that takes up a corner of my office. What do I need
more room for? More records, of course.
We are already in the
midst of recording a new LP comprised, mainly, of Shane's songs. It's very
exciting. I'm ready to hit the studio and finish tracking.
Gary, who directed our
music video and has collaborated with us on many projects, has hired us to
score his new web series.
The whirlwind of shows
that includes our Songwriter residency at The World Famous Shanghai'd Room in
Huntington Beach, recording, and score will keep us busy until the end of the
year. It's welcome. Why? Cuz otherwise, I watch Netflix and drink beer every
night instead of work.
My hip injury bothers me
this morning. I know, I'll do what all 25-year-old-going-on -79 do: eat yogurt,
fresh fruit and granola for breakfast. If I'm not the oldest 79 year old, who is?
I listen to records that predate Macintosh computers, go for walks early in the
morning and read the newspaper rather than Maxim.
Soon, I'll have to ask for help with my computer.
Does anyone else fear
losing touch with technology? It makes me quiver. To think that I will stare at
some gadget or touch screen with frustration, confusion and ill will while a
young man with spiky hair walks me through the process of retrieving my
Facebook password stinks. Facebook will be long gone and spiky hair will not only
meet his wife online, but never interact with her unless absolutely necessary.
Spiky hair and his wife will have no sexual contact as Internet porn and
masturbation surpasses everything erotic.
"We're self
sufficient," he says. I agree so we can move on. I'm old and hate
conversation.
West Nile is back. If you
subscribe to Peak Oil, Ancient Aliens, or The League of Shadows, you won't be
surprised to hear that our civilization is being threatened. Whether we slurp and
chug all or our resources until they run out, leaving us in the dark, wondering
why we had to drive to Rite Aid all those years instead of saving gas, lowering
the risk for a heart-attack and curb carbon emissions by walking instead, or
the ancient beings who brought life to this planet and catapulted human
technology, engineering and modern society by leaps and bounds, West Nile might
be the doom that brings us to our knees and has us reassess what we're doing
with life on earth.
But not if it's Monday and
my Apple stock starts trading. Please, give us some time to let our bank accounts
swell.
My girlfriend asked me if
I really believe in Ancient Aliens.
"No, but it's
entertaining as fuck."
Off to the kitchen for
breakfast, then the day job and a set at The World Famous Shanghai'd Room.
-Greg
06 07 12
An email from my dad. The formatting is off and I don't feel like editing it now (or ever).
One Person’s Rejection of Religion
I suppose my first doubts about the Catholic Religion, specifically, and
religion, in general, began when my parents insisted on enrolling me and my
older brother into a Catholic School. This was when I was in the 4th Grade
of school.
Being placed in an environment that put me “up close and personal” with
priests and nuns only served to open the door of doubt concerning the
Catholic Religion. I found that priests and nuns were simply human beings
with many of the frailties, short-comings, idiosyncrasies, and prejudices
that all human beings possess. Fortunately, my family’s move to a new
neighborhood took me out of the Catholic School environment after just one
year and back into the Public School System. However, the door of doubt
was then ajar and would open wider with the passage of time.
From the time of leaving the Catholic School environment, until I began
furthering my education at the University of California, Los Angeles
(UCLA), my indoctrination (i.e. “brain-washing”) continued by the local
Catholic Parish Churches where we lived and by my parents who were from
a long, long line of Catholics.
__
At UCLA, I encountered skepticism in Comparative Religion classes,
discussions with friends, fraternity brothers, as well as casual acquaintances,
plus a vast collection of books written by sage authors.
I vividly remember two books from that time of my life: “Generation of
Vipers” by Phillip Wylie and “Letters from the Earth” by Mark Twain
(I highly recommend both books and especially the Twain book). The two
books were like a powerful left jab and right cross to my skull, in which my
brain was encased. Both books scoffed at religion.
Then too, there was a quote from the British Philosopher, Bertrand Russell
which flung the door of doubt open in my mind regarding religion. The
door was still only slightly ajar despite the Catholic “brain-washing”
referred to above. (The quote is paraphrased here as follows: “The belief
in God lost whatever rationality it once possessed, when it was revealed that
the planet Earth is NOT the center of the universe.” The revelation in the
paraphrased quote was made by the astronomer Copernicus in the Sixteenth
Century, in the year 1543 just prior to his death.)
Incidentally, philosophy can be described as the study of questions that
cannot be answered; whereas religion can be described as the study of
answers that cannot be questioned.
In 1960, after earning a Bachelor’s Degree, with a major in Mathematics
and a minor in Spanish, from UCLA, I led a relatively religion free life in
America. My extended family (including aunts, uncles and cousins) all tried
to rein me back into the Catholic fold -- to no avail. One year during this
period my Mother asked me what I was going to give up for Lent. I replied,
jokingly, “I’m giving up the Church.” She was not amused. As an aside,
my older brother eventually gave up Catholicism, but he became a Mormon
(Out of the frying pan; into the fire?). He has always shied away from any
discussion with me about religion.
In 1966, a serendipitous opportunity took me to South East Asia. And on
St. Patrick’s Day morning of that year, I found myself descending towards
Ton Son Nhut Airport in Saigon, South Vietnam -- WHERE A WAR
WAS RAGING! I glanced out the window of the US MATS Boeing 707
transporting new troops to the war (along with me and 3 other civilian
contractors to the US Navy who were hired, along with several more
contactors to follow, to implement an inventory control system for the Navy
in Saigon). The glance out the window revealed a brightly lit sky in the early
morning darkness (about 0300 hours) due to phosphorous flares floating
downward on very small parachutes towards the tarmac.
The flares were to reveal the location or locations from where “Charlie”
(the endearing term the American Military assigned to the communist Viet
Cong) was firing tracer bullets at the 707. I watched, aghast, at the tracers
flying by the plane.
__
That was my introduction to South East Asia where I would live and work
until 1975. Not all of the time was spent in Buddhist South Vietnam. I also
lived and worked for at least a year in Buddhist Thailand, Former British
Colony Singapore, Muslim Malaysia, Muslim Indonesia, and British Colony
Hong Kong where I commuted to Manila in the Catholic Philippines. St.
Patrick’s Day is now when I celebrate my being “Born Again” into an
utterly total new life.
A strange and interesting thing (albeit somewhat humorous, to me),
occurred in Saigon when an Irish American (most likely Catholic) computer
programmer had his girl-friend riding pillion, side saddle, in back of him
on his motorcycle. She was from the Catholic Philippines, and when they
went into a curve in front of the beautiful Catholic Cathedral in Saigon, she
released the arm with which she was holding on to the motorcycle driver
in order to make the sign of the cross. She was thrown off the motorcycle
as they went into the curve, and, fortunately, not seriously injured, but
banged up pretty good. I couldn’t help but feel that the “God” of these
two Catholics had somehow let them down when the Filipina was in mid-
reverence (making the sign of the cross), and in front of one of “His”
Cathedral’s. I wondered if “He” was maybe busy attending to some
American Professional Football team praying to their “God” that their
field-goal kicker would make the kick and win the game in the waning
seconds of Over Time (prayer IS a common expression of desperation).
After 1975, I also worked for a year in Muslim Iran and two and one-half
years in Muslim Saudi Arabia. I have been in Buddhist Thailand once again
since 1999 to the present. The point being that I have been exposed to and
have had a close look at many religions. In summation, if there’s one thing
that stands out in my mind, it’s the fact that Christian Missionaries, no
matter where they go, DO EXTREMELY WELL IN SEEKING OUT AND
DESTROYING FUN!
In 1983, when I got back to Orange County to resume stateside living, I
found that many Americans were embracing the likes of Oral Roberts,
Jimmy Swaggert, Jerry Falwell and other religious Christian nuts. All of
these nuts were religious in an annoying “holier than thou” way.
One afternoon, I heard a woman discussing religion on talk radio. She
really impressed me with her knowledge of comparative religion. She was
the President of American Atheists. I checked her and the organization out,
and actually joined. (Do you know what you get if you cross a Jehovah’s
Witness with an atheist? Someone who rings your doorbell for no apparent
reason.)
One of the first things Ms O’Hair required new recruits to do was to read
The Bible from cover to cover. “After all,” she would say, “you’ve
got to know your enemy!” Well, I tried very hard to read The Bible from
cover to cover, but I just could not quite manage to complete it.
What I found, after a fairly thorough reading was cruelty, atrocities,
contradictions, and asinine stories (c.a.c.a.).
Yes, asinine and absurd stories like Jonah making his home in some large
fish’s abdomen, Lot’s wife being turned into a pillar of a substance that is
now a popular table condiment, the Sun and Moon standing still for Joshua
at the battle for Gibeon; and, the most absurd of all, Noah as well as pairs
of all the animals on earth -- MILLIONS OF THEM! -- riding out an
earth covering deluge in a rickety, WOODEN BOAT built by a simple
farmer.
I left The American Atheists when Madelyn Murray O’Hair seemed to be
assuming the role of the “Pope of Atheism” (respect for authority has never
been my long suit). I still respected her vast (as opposed
to -- half-vast?) knowledge until she was murdered in 1995. Her murderer
chopped her into pieces and buried her near Austin, Texas.
After much, much study I have become what I call an “anti-theist” with
leanings toward Buddhism and definitely away from the Abrahamic
religions (Christianity, Islam, and Judaism).
Buddhists don’t cause wars nor advocate hatred of the beliefs of others. In
Buddhism, there is no teaching of a Supreme Being policing the Universe.
I will end this treatise with some miscellaneous musings regarding religion:
-There’s not a lot of difference between organized religion and organized
crime. At least the Mafia is honest enough to admit that it’s only in it for
the money.
-Once indoctrinated, one can never quite quit the Catholic Religion. In that
respect it’s very much like the Mafia -- or Amway.
__
-“Joy in the Universe, and keen curiosity about it all -- that has been my
religion.” –John Burroughs
-We are all part of something much bigger than ourselves!
We are microcosms of a macrocosm.
-Are you aware of your infinitesimal place in the cosmos?
-Life is a strange and wonderful carnival of experiential delights.
__
-One of my favorite quotes by Madelyn Murray O’Hair is as follows:
“Religion has caused more misery to all of mankind in every stage of human
history than any other single idea.
-People are not born to hate. They are bred to hate. This is very evident in
The Middle East where Arab children are taught from an early age to hate
Jews and vice versa.
-“Yahweh” of the Hebrew Bible (The Torah) was a warrior God, savagely
tribal, deeply insecure about his status and willing to commit mass murder
to show off his powers.
-Christians were guilty of unspeakably terrible atrocities during the Spanish
Inquisition.
--When it comes to credibility, Islam’s was shot as a result of the 911
disaster of 2001 in America’s New York! And their credibility sinks lower
with the almost daily suicide bombings in “hot spots” around the world.
-Heaven is religion’s ultimate bribery!
-Hell is religion’s ultimate blackmail!
13 May 2012
Nutshell
Yesterday, we celebrated the one year anniversary of What a Thrill, The Kettle Drivers' debut
LP with a Songwriter Jamboree and BBQ. Thanks to my mom for providing food on
Mother's Day weekend and songwriters Ryan Ratfield, Shane Thompson, Three Gun
Standoff and Jeb Lipson, I'd say it was a HIT. Andrew Brown built a sturdy
stage and there were no leftovers to sit in my fridge for weeks and stink-up my
kitchen.
Since What a Thrills'' release, well, shit, it's been a busy year!
Since January, alone, I've managed to work more days yet make less cash. How is this possible?! Well, I have health care, ladies and gentlemen, and staying healthy is a bitch. But, preventative measures are less costly than treatment.
This is why you support Russia's threat of a preemptive strike on missle-defense sites in Eastern Europe.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/04/world/europe/russian-general-threatens-pre-emptive-attacks-on-missile-defense-sites.html
The world needs nuclear war. If there's anything Mahmoud Ahmadinejad teaches, it's that Nukes are the answer and the same grey linen suit is comfy when you sit at the top of the Middle East Political food chain.
Our Music Video is finished, Digital Demons is ready to be mastered then pressed and we dropped in on Jeb Lipson at Big Scary Tree Studios to record 4 songs.
Back January, Gary Jones and Shane Thompson championed the idea for the "Ronald Raygun" music video. By the end of the month I was on-set with the band and crew that comprised of close friends and up-and-coming artists. Gary (Dir.), Matt Farkash (DP), Davey (Grip), Mike Jones (Grip), Amanda, Nicole and extras helped us shoot for two days.
Then we waited. Schedules took over. The Kettle Drivers, Shane and I play about 2 to 6 times per month. Between the band, solo gigs, sound gigs, workshops, school, day-jobs, writing sessions and living a normal life of video games, over eating and LOST, our plates are full.
A few months later, Shane, Carlen and I were back on-location with Gary, Matt and Rick Aguilar as our GRIP for the day. We finished exterior shots at Avalon Bar, an alley behind Hurley International, and around Costa Mesa.
All shooting days were very early and either after a late night of gigging or leading up to. But it was worth it. Gary delivered the final cut to us early and we are stoked.
It couldn't have come at a better time. Seeing as we are about to release Digital Demons & Black Luck on CD, the release of the "Ronald Raygun" as a Music Video and FREE download makes June a very fruitful month for us.
That isn't to say May was not. We had a fun interview with www.life-is-awesome.net and received another great review from the kind people at www.MusicinPress.com
An interview and review along with the first sessions for a new LP. Each Kettle Driver is involved plus our good friend Brett Peloquin, but this will not be a Kettle Drivers record. It is too far, style-wise, from The Kettle Drivers' genre - Fuzzsoul, Guitar Instrumental.
Big Scary Tree has been home to our tracking sessions since 2006 when I saw an ad on Craigslist boasting vintage guitars and analog recording.
I don't recall where my obsession with recording analog stems from. I can't really recall why I make records either. I just do.
That's a whole conversation in itself.
No matter how busy, how different, how straight or how bizarre, we hit the studio every few months to lay our ideas down to tape. Or, in the case of Digital Demons, Pro Tools.
GRROSSSSSS.
No, it's not. I just prefer 2".
With that said, the whole point of this was to provide a short narrative of the last few months that included the revival of my Podcast. It doesn't feel like I did idea justice. I'll sum it up like this:
2012 thus far - Digital Demons & Black Luck CD, Ronald Raygun Music Video, 5 episodes of The Swindletone Podcast and a new LP in the works.
Oh, plus a successful Songwriter BBQ and new Songwriter residency at Bar Hookup on the first and third Thursday of each month.
Should we do politics?
Naaah.
Stay tuned.
-Greg
Since What a Thrills'' release, well, shit, it's been a busy year!
Since January, alone, I've managed to work more days yet make less cash. How is this possible?! Well, I have health care, ladies and gentlemen, and staying healthy is a bitch. But, preventative measures are less costly than treatment.
This is why you support Russia's threat of a preemptive strike on missle-defense sites in Eastern Europe.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/04/world/europe/russian-general-threatens-pre-emptive-attacks-on-missile-defense-sites.html
The world needs nuclear war. If there's anything Mahmoud Ahmadinejad teaches, it's that Nukes are the answer and the same grey linen suit is comfy when you sit at the top of the Middle East Political food chain.
Our Music Video is finished, Digital Demons is ready to be mastered then pressed and we dropped in on Jeb Lipson at Big Scary Tree Studios to record 4 songs.
Back January, Gary Jones and Shane Thompson championed the idea for the "Ronald Raygun" music video. By the end of the month I was on-set with the band and crew that comprised of close friends and up-and-coming artists. Gary (Dir.), Matt Farkash (DP), Davey (Grip), Mike Jones (Grip), Amanda, Nicole and extras helped us shoot for two days.
Then we waited. Schedules took over. The Kettle Drivers, Shane and I play about 2 to 6 times per month. Between the band, solo gigs, sound gigs, workshops, school, day-jobs, writing sessions and living a normal life of video games, over eating and LOST, our plates are full.
A few months later, Shane, Carlen and I were back on-location with Gary, Matt and Rick Aguilar as our GRIP for the day. We finished exterior shots at Avalon Bar, an alley behind Hurley International, and around Costa Mesa.
All shooting days were very early and either after a late night of gigging or leading up to. But it was worth it. Gary delivered the final cut to us early and we are stoked.
It couldn't have come at a better time. Seeing as we are about to release Digital Demons & Black Luck on CD, the release of the "Ronald Raygun" as a Music Video and FREE download makes June a very fruitful month for us.
That isn't to say May was not. We had a fun interview with www.life-is-awesome.net and received another great review from the kind people at www.MusicinPress.com
An interview and review along with the first sessions for a new LP. Each Kettle Driver is involved plus our good friend Brett Peloquin, but this will not be a Kettle Drivers record. It is too far, style-wise, from The Kettle Drivers' genre - Fuzzsoul, Guitar Instrumental.
Big Scary Tree has been home to our tracking sessions since 2006 when I saw an ad on Craigslist boasting vintage guitars and analog recording.
I don't recall where my obsession with recording analog stems from. I can't really recall why I make records either. I just do.
That's a whole conversation in itself.
No matter how busy, how different, how straight or how bizarre, we hit the studio every few months to lay our ideas down to tape. Or, in the case of Digital Demons, Pro Tools.
GRROSSSSSS.
No, it's not. I just prefer 2".
With that said, the whole point of this was to provide a short narrative of the last few months that included the revival of my Podcast. It doesn't feel like I did idea justice. I'll sum it up like this:
2012 thus far - Digital Demons & Black Luck CD, Ronald Raygun Music Video, 5 episodes of The Swindletone Podcast and a new LP in the works.
Oh, plus a successful Songwriter BBQ and new Songwriter residency at Bar Hookup on the first and third Thursday of each month.
Should we do politics?
Naaah.
Stay tuned.
-Greg
Docs to Watch
December 14 2011
Below is an incomplete yet abundant list of documentaries that I've watched in the past few years. I forget a lot but luckily my library account and Netflix keep a list for me. Here's what I've come up with, so far.
Cave of Forgotten Dreams
A Man Named Pearl
Into the Abyss
Fire in Babylon
Incident at Loch Ness
Dark Days
Valentino
My Best Fiend
The Bridge
Capturing the Friedmans
The Staircase
The Tillman Story
Gasland
Paradise Lost
Comedian
Murderball
IMAX: Mountain Gorilla
Super Size Me
The Greatest Movie Ever Sold
Super High Me
Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden
Roger and Me
Bowling for Columbine
Farenheit 9/11
Sicko
Capitalism: A Love Story
*Any Michael Moore, or Morgan Spurlock, really
Nat Geo: Solitary Confinement
Hell on Wheels
Vice Guide to Travel
I Am Trying to Break Your Heart
Lemmy: 49% Motherfucker, 51% Son of a Bitch
Pulling John
Buck
Mugabe and the White African
Gates of Heaven
Thin Blue Line
Mr Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr.
The Fog of War
The Invention of Dr. Nakamats
60 Spins Around the Sun
The Rise and Fall of WCW
Beyond the Mat
Exit Through the Gift Shop
Nat Geo: The Human Body
I Think We're Alone Now
Nat Geo: The Photographers
O.J. Monster or Myth
Oceans
Nat Geo: Most Amazing Moments
Dear Zachary
Conan O'Brien Can't Stop
Ayn Rand: In Her Own Words
LoudQUIETLoud: A Film About The Pixies
Fearless Freaks
Ape to Man
The Human Family Tree
The Pyramid Code
Witch Hunt
The Botany of Desire
American Meth
Mission of Burma Story: Not a Photograph
I Need That Record!
When We Were Kings
180 Degrees South
Awful Normal
Waste Land
Blind Spot
Buena Vista Social Club
The King of Kong
Chasing Ghosts
The Parking Lot Movie
Collapse
Cropsey
Vice Guide to Travel: Guide to North Korea
Overnight
Homo Sapiens 1900
Skid Row
Unmistaken Child
The Weather Underground
Born Rich
South of the Border
The Phoenix Lights
Beef
Modify
Alex Grey: The Chapel of Sacred Mirrors
Objectified
The Union: Business Behind Getting High
Death by Design
We Live in Public
You're Gonna Miss Me
The September Issue
Harlan Ellison: Dreams With Sharp Teeth
Tyson
Bukowski: Born Into This
Hearts of Darkness
Festival Express
Man on Wire
--> A Man Named Pearl
Into the Abyss
Fire in Babylon
Incident at Loch Ness
Dark Days
Valentino
My Best Fiend
The Bridge
Capturing the Friedmans
The Staircase
The Tillman Story
Gasland
Paradise Lost
Comedian
Murderball
IMAX: Mountain Gorilla
Super Size Me
The Greatest Movie Ever Sold
Super High Me
Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden
Roger and Me
Bowling for Columbine
Farenheit 9/11
Sicko
Capitalism: A Love Story
*Any Michael Moore, or Morgan Spurlock, really
Nat Geo: Solitary Confinement
Hell on Wheels
Vice Guide to Travel
I Am Trying to Break Your Heart
Lemmy: 49% Motherfucker, 51% Son of a Bitch
Pulling John
Buck
Mugabe and the White African
Gates of Heaven
Thin Blue Line
Mr Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr.
The Fog of War
The Invention of Dr. Nakamats
60 Spins Around the Sun
The Rise and Fall of WCW
Beyond the Mat
Exit Through the Gift Shop
Nat Geo: The Human Body
I Think We're Alone Now
Nat Geo: The Photographers
O.J. Monster or Myth
Oceans
Nat Geo: Most Amazing Moments
Dear Zachary
Conan O'Brien Can't Stop
Ayn Rand: In Her Own Words
LoudQUIETLoud: A Film About The Pixies
Fearless Freaks
Ape to Man
The Human Family Tree
The Pyramid Code
Witch Hunt
The Botany of Desire
American Meth
Mission of Burma Story: Not a Photograph
I Need That Record!
When We Were Kings
180 Degrees South
Awful Normal
Waste Land
Blind Spot
Buena Vista Social Club
The King of Kong
Chasing Ghosts
The Parking Lot Movie
Collapse
Cropsey
Vice Guide to Travel: Guide to North Korea
Overnight
Homo Sapiens 1900
Skid Row
Unmistaken Child
The Weather Underground
Born Rich
South of the Border
The Phoenix Lights
Beef
Modify
Alex Grey: The Chapel of Sacred Mirrors
Objectified
The Union: Business Behind Getting High
Death by Design
We Live in Public
You're Gonna Miss Me
The September Issue
Harlan Ellison: Dreams With Sharp Teeth
Tyson
Bukowski: Born Into This
Hearts of Darkness
Festival Express
Man on Wire
Bug
December 13, 2011
At work, I feel tired. Did I sleep wrong? Am I eating wrong?
No.
It's just a tired, rainy, cold day. I wear my big jacket to keep warm and avoid working too hard. See, when I work hard, I sweat. I phone it in, today.
In the loading area, I pull books out of grey bins and process them, all while earbuds blast music in my brain. Today it's The New Pornographers, Electric Version; Sufjan Stevens', Illinois; Yo La Tengo, And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out.
A few hours pass. I take a bathroom break, eat a banana, chum it up with some coworkers.
2pm. I sneeze. Suddenly, I'm not tired.
After a lunch break, I plow through more bins then receive a text.
Eric: hey man, do U like Dinosar Jr. ?
Me: ya, a lot. They're playing tonight but I'm at work.
It dawns on me. Luck is on my side.
Me: Don't tell me ur DJing and I can get in, haha
Eric: true! Ull make it man, doors at 8 N there is an opener.
Me: feck. Let me see if I can get off. Just go to will call?
Eric: Will call, got 2 tix.
My mind melts. I do this often for gigs. This is no bar show, it's Dinosaur Jr. who will play BUG in its entirety plus an interview with Henry Rollins at the Segerstrom Center for the Arts.
I push up a cart and get a plan together.
From my work area, I pick up the phone.
Daniel picks up from Customer Service and places me on hold.
Later.
"Thank you for holding, this is Daniel speaking."
"Danny boy, hey. Is it possible for me to leave at 730. Someone just offered me an awesome concert ticket"
I hold my breath, close my eyes. I'm tense.
"Sure."
"Okay cool." I say while I try to keep my composure.
"Just change your timesheet."
It pays to bee part-time and a loyal employee for 6 years.
The texts fly. I phone some people who might be interested.
But they drop like flies.
Shane, no response. Finally when I call him a third time and he picks up, I ask, "Did you get my texts?"
Shane says, "Yeah, uhhh, I won't be around."
He's so passive. He starts to explain himself but I don't care. All I need is an yes or no. I cut him off.
"Okay, talk to you later," then shut my phone off. I do not wait for him to say goodbye.
Kris Kirk has plans. He's out.
Andrew Brown has a Kenya meeting. He's out.
Steve doesn't pick up. The next day I learn that he was on a run.
I text my girlfriend who I think is at Disneyland.
She's home.
It's 7pm and I move from the loading area to Customer Service. I open my email and type between helping guests.
I send her an invite.
She accepts.
I find my phone. Eric has given the extra ticket away. He didn't want it to go to waste.
I pack up at 7:30 and hit the road, where I call Nicole.
"Hey babe, Eric gave away the extra ticket. Bad timing. He's going to see if he can get another one. I'll call you back."
A few exits until her house. I'm dying to hear back from Eric.
One exit away, I get the news.
Eric: I worked my magic. She's in.
STOKED.
I pull up to Nicole's apartment then head to Segerstrom for Dinosaur Jr.
Inside, a Segerstrom employee straps a wristband on me.
Too tight, as usual.
Eric pats me on the back and says, "One sec."
He walks to Will Call and arranges my pick up.
Eric tells me about soundcheck. "Dude, J. has three full stacks. Three! And just like, one Fender as a monitor. He probably plays so loud because he can't hear anymore. It's loud. Really fucking loud."
"That's awesome," I say.
"I gotta get to work."
"Thanks for the tickets, I say and Eric leaves.
I grab the tickets from the Will Call window.
"They didn't ask for ID," I tell Nicole.
As the usher scans our tickets, I scan the crowded lobby. Guests buy drinks but this isn't a bar atmosphere. It smells nice and the tile is clean.
Two merch tables. Eric spins over the PA and a projector highlights upcoming events.
Nicole asks, in a demanding tone "Are you going to buy me a drink?"
Why ask, if you expect an answer is the expression that I wear.
"My body is a temple tonight," I reply.
Later, at the concessions window, I order.
"Two Heinekins, please."
Nicole gets round two. I pay for a cookie but grab a brownie.
The opening band is okay. Pierced Arrow.
I feel like having a conversation so we move from the main room to the lobby.
The bathroom is downstairs which is hell on my legs. I stand all day at work. In eight hours I only sit an hour and a half.
We sit on the outskirts of the main floor. Segerstrom is very nice. Great lighting, great sound, a balcony and its cleanly.
Even The House of Blues has a tint, a sheen of grit. It's rock 'n' roll and welcome. Was Segerstrom up to code for Dinosaur Jr.?
When I saw Wolfmother at The Wiltern, years ago, I thought the same thing. A watched them and thought, a band this loud might collapse this building.
I didn't mind. I tell myself I wouldn't mind going deaf to MC5 or Motorhead.
Henry Rollins took the stage and asked for some lights on the stage.
He wears a G-Shock watch, like me.
"Dinosaur Jr. asked me to interview them on some select dates when they play Bug."
And he did.
Some moments was like pulling teeth. Not bad though, it's who these guys are. Questions were answered with one or two words, sometimes.
Lou spoke the most. Murph had his input too. But J. would answer a loaded question with little enthusiasm.
Hank asked, "This album was a shining moment for you. With the first two albums leading to this, Bug was definitely monumental for Dinosaur Jr. How was it received. Were more people at the gigs, did you receive more airplay, were there more opportunities to tour?"
J replied, "It was great."
Everyone laughed but there was respect in the air.
After the interview, the stools were cleared and the crowd was ready.
Dinosaur Jr. takes the stage as I stand dead center, three people away from the stage.
After two songs they announce they are warming up before they play Bug.
I know.
Not much banter between songs and no songs connect. They play, LOUD, then cut things off abruptly. It keeps the energy from surging.
Some crowd members are bouncing in place like I am. The set is awesome for me. Lou and Murph are so locked-in. A grenade couldn't stop penetrate that rhythm section.
J soars over the top with blistering leads and his characteristic "I'm bummed but not dead" vocal style.
Ever moment in the set was killer. A three song encore followed an extended version of "Why Don't You Like Me?"
After the show, I looked for Davey from Suedehead, who I ran into earlier. Hopefully we finish our EP that he engineered so we can give him a copy. I thanked Eric again and went to find Nicole, who split in the middle of the set to sleep in my truck.
I had moving blankets in the cab, luckily. It was a cold night.
Every sonice moment I looked forward to form Bug happened LIVE in front of my face.
Favorite moment on the album and live: bass line on "Let it Ride."
See Dinosaur Jr. and thank me, afteward.
-->
Watch With Your Ears and Listen With Your Eyes
--> November 30, 2011 -->
-->
Quickly, I should address my romance with France and my attempt to listen to 100 albums in as many days.
Last week, I had a brief romance with a documentary called Hell on Wheels, based on the Tour de France. Then, two nights ago, I watched Hugo.
My girlfriend says, "I don't cream my pants for Scorsese like you do."
She doesn't. But I'd rather cream my pants for a great director than The Real Housewives.
Scorsese "warned" that Hugo is a family movie. A far step from smashing made-men in doors, Hugo follows a boy who winds clocks in a Paris railway station and also serves as a salute to early cinema and the work of George Melies.
I could have seen this movie and enjoyed it without knowing Marty directed. However, I am instantly drawn to his work.
That said, as an audience member, treat this "family" film like you did The Adventure of Tom Sawyer.
From the preface:
Although my book is intended mainly for the en- tertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.
Scorsese's first attempt at 3D might be ignored over the final Twilight movie and the out of touch, dated Muppets, but the transition is seamless. Marty is such a talent that his heart, soul, and master craftsmanship is worthy of a nomination for best picture.
Not a heart wrenching tear jerker, topsy turvy rollercoaster of emotions or violent window into the world of a disturbed underworld but a wonderfully woven period piece of truth, adventure and history.
My romance with France ends this week with news that my good friend Lauren and her French beau Leo will return to the States after an extension of Leo's tourist visa.
Now some music.
Very briefly, I will say that in an attempt to fight the infection of contemporary music head-on, I will listen to all 100 of Rolling Stones' Top Albums Since 2000.
It's been 3 days and I am at number 95 but skipped one or two and will continue to do so, as I have heard many albums on the list.
I had to skip around when I could not locate some albums in our collection at work.
Leonard Cohen, The Hold Steady, TV on the Radio, The Streets and The Strokes have graced my speakers. I skipped Wilco's Sky Blue Sky as I've listened and played along to it too many times.
A few standouts. I throw great songs into a playlist on Spotify.
Favorites so far: Leonard Cohen for being Leonard Cohen and The Streets for being engaging and silly British rap.
More to come as I continue with the list.
November 29, 2011
Last week, I watched a few documentaries, worthy of pushing on others, like Mormons pushing their fairy tales on the public.
I cycle, on and off and would love to make it a regular part of my routine, but I have a nagging injury that stops me from fulfilling this goal.
No worries, I live vicariously through documentaries and film.
Hell on Wheels, a French documentary that follows a German team through the Tour De France. Believe me, you've never seen a sport this grueling, documented this beautifully. Qualifying stages, time trials, mountain ascents, downhills, spills, thrills, broken collar bones and intimate massages all over three weeks throughout France.
The most physically demanding sports contest there is, it's like running a marathon everyday for nearly a month.
History of the tour, that dates back to 1903, shines a light on the commoners, miners, workers, who competed in the initial games on unpaved roads, minus gears and modern technology that makes cycling like slicing through air on two wheels like a hot knife trough hot butter.
I bet guys buy Lance Armstrong's bike all the time. They walk in, tell the Performance Bike employee, "I want the Lance model." They sell it to him for way too much and he tears up PCH with his ego. Still, I bet I can out pedal him on the uphill from Dover to Jamboree. You can't buy Lance's body, you dope.
The tour has pushed cycling and athletes further than any contest. Too important of a race to ease out of, riders ride with injuries for weeks until completion. It's not just heart, it's respect for the tour.
With cinematic prowess to capture the beauty of the tour (check out the slow, sweeping moments during time trials) Hell on Wheels is great for fans of cycling, the commuter and wannabe Lance Armstrongs.
From a grueling contest and a long line of champions, to a silly sport with a king who reigned for 25 years.
Pulling John showcases two up-and-coming arm wrestling contenders and the reigning John Brzenk, who, from the age of 22 until the early 2000's, was undefeated in Arm Wrestling around the world.
In America, the height of arm wrestling popularity came with Sylvester Stallone's Over the Top, which featured Brzenk after he won the Over the Top contest. Brzenk earned a role in the movie and international fame.
Arm wrestling is not funded by the government in America. But in Russia and a few countries around the world, it is.
I can't say I watched something downright, laugh out loud funny, because some scenes had me yelling, screaming and at the edge of my seat. Some matches are so thrilling that I stopped playback, rewinded, gathered people in the room and forced them to watch.
Does it inspire me to arm wrestle like Hell on Wheels does to cycle more?
I just ordered a new freewheel for my bike in between thoughts.
No.
But it's a fun doc. Even more so with a bottle of wine. The whole bottle.
Lastly, Buck. A doc about a horse trainer. A former childhood rope-trick star who, at the hands of his father, endured massive amounts of abuse alongside with his brother only to grow up to be the greatest horse trainer in the world, giving clinics all around the country.
Soft spoke but wise, Buck learned under another great horse trainer who picked up the trade from a great trainer above him.
Buck inspired The Horse Whisperer where he proved that show-horses are still no match for Buck's stallions.
One day, during the shoot, with Robert Redford at the helm and Scarlett Johansen in the stable, it took eight hours before Buck recommended that they use his horse instead of trying over and over with a show-horse for two shots.
Buck insisted, took his horse aside for 20 minutes, and voila. Within a few minutes, Buck's horse stamped his feet a bit then nuzzled Scar Jo.
"Oh no, your horse isn't a show horse. He won't work off his mark or know cues."
"Fuck you" could have been what Buck was thinking, but he's refined and patient.
Never, has he stuck a horse, like trainers often do. He can tame the wildest horse just by "feel" and patience.
That is, if it's trainable. One horse, abused, neglected is put down after it bites a trainers' face. Buck assesses the horse, it's owner and unveils truths about both that only Buck could know.
Another doc, off the beaten path, but compelling and entertaining.
Next time: Rolling Stone's top 100 Albums since 2000 and Hugo
Ciao,
Greg
9 October 2011
-->
Jon
I tried to write about Jon as fiction, but I can't.
Fuck it.
In kindergarten, I found the only bicycle in the yard. Like a duck to a female duck, cycling was easy. Laps and laps around the schoolyard at Taft elementary.
When I got home, I found my mom and said, "I learned how to ride a bike."
This became a ritual in my family. No guidance, no support. I take interest in something without their knowledge, learn it, master it then tell them later.
So, after I mastered the schoolyard bike, mom tells me that there is a bike in the patio I can dig up and ride around the neighborhood.
"As long as it's before dark," she warns.
I run to the back, slide the screen door open, dive into a pile of junk, and emerge with a two wheeled demon.
A two wheeled pink demon.
PINK.
When Jon moved to town, he became friends with the neighborhood kids as I whizzed around. His first question about me was, "Who's the guy who rides the girl bike?"
From that point on, we were close.
Sleepovers, walks to school, walks home, the mall, basketball, football, whatever sport was in season.
One day, Jon built a model rocket. At the hobby store, the Asian cashier had to sell us the glue that wouldn't get you high.
Jon and I walked to school around 4pm. We spot Daniel.
"I have to get home, I can't watch you guys shoot the rocket," says Daniel.
"Dude, it's a rocket! C'mon!" I say.
He's in. Backpack and all.
In the field, we set up the tripod, guide-rod and control then set the rocket in place.
Fifteen feet away, the light on the controller flashes. We count down.
..10
..9
..8
..7
..6
..5
..4
..3
...2
Jon hits and holds the button.
Nothing.
Daniel complains, "Hey, I have to go home. Why didn't it work?"
Another countdown.
..10
..9
Nothing.
Daniel splits. "I gotta go home!" as he runs away, backpack shifting side to side.
Jon and I don't know what to do. We need to see a blast off!
"Check the batteries in the controller," I say.
"If I put them in wrong, the light wouldn't be on."
"Oh."
He checks them anyway.
One was backwards. Jon flips it around, slides in back in, slides and snaps the case shut.
The light turns on BRIGHT, shoots through our retinas and triggers the excitement again.
..3
..2
..1
BLAST OFF. A loud hiss, white smoke and a black residue on the tripod.
Jon looks up. The rocket is high in the sky.
POOF.
The chute pops out of the nose.
During PE, I never ran fast around the field. When it came time to retrieve the rocket, I ran like Forrest Gump.
We find the rocket, launch it a few more times then call it a day.
Daniel sees me through his window as I walk into the neighborhood.
He knew.
I wink, shoot him with my fake gun, then blow the smoke away from my finger.
Bang Bang.
14 September 2011
-->
Doggy Dog World
Helen walked up to the front door of my day-job. It's 10am, I'm riding a caffeine buzz and HUSTLIN'.
She ties her dog to a support beam, walks inside. Helen pulls some books from her backpack.
I say, "Will you be here long?"
"Good morning. Just dropping off books."
"Okay. You have a great looking dog. He can't be tied up, outside, but I know you're just popping in."
"Oh really? Yeah. Okay."
Her dog is 6 years old. She rescued him when he was a pup. Suddenly, I remember that only an hour ago, on my way to work, that some dogs were almost slaughtered at 17th Street and Newport Blvd.
8:40am, I sip my coffee and drive to work, puzzled by the guests on Peter Tilden's radio show.
Polygamists. One man, three wives, twenty-four children.
"We're just making ends meet, getting our story out there." He's published a book.
I approach 17th street, a busy street that I race to cross only to stop because some ninny in front of me won't blow a yellow light.
I'm front row, feet away from cars that rush across the Boulevard to their office jobs and Dunkin' Donuts coffee.
Southbound, second lane, to my left, a puffy dog on a leash.
WHAT THE FUCK?
This puzzled dog is IN THE STREET. A black Ford Ranger stops in the intersection. An Expedition stops behind him.
The dog looks around, it's leash twirls behind it. Cars are coming.
"HOLY SHIT," I exclaim to myself.
What should I do? Should I get out and snatch him? He's 300 feet away.
"HOLY SHIT."
Cars stop.
Where's the owner? Where's the humanity? Where's MY humanity?
Green Light.
I let off the brake.
A man appears in the street.
Then, ANOTHER DOG.
Looks like they're brothers. Both on leashes. Neither held by the white haired owner in the Tommy Bahama shirt.
I cross the intersection. He grabs one, then the other. I see his Porche, stopped in the middle of the street, door open. A woman in a black dress with big hips walks toward him.
Slaughter averted.
I sip my coffee, finish my drive, and turn up Peter Tilden who wraps up his show then throws it to Larry Elder.
After this, I remember another doggy dog incident on the 710, as I sat in the backseat of a friend's car on the way to Amoeba.
Northbound, 710 Freeway, en route to Hollywood. 10 minutes earlier, Ben yelled in horror from the front seat.
"UGHH!! Did you see that dog? On the side of the road, it was all fucked up."
I sit there, imagine a mangled dog on the side of the road, then get back to day dreaming. A few minutes later, more screams from the front seats. I look up, German Shepherd's walk onto the freeway.
Casually, they enter the paths of cars traveling 70 miles per hour.
SMACK.
Ever seen a dog spin through the air like a boomerang? It's a shitty feeling.
Luckily, this didn't happen today. Luckily, I went about my day without anything flying through the air like a boomerang that isn't a boomerang.
She ties her dog to a support beam, walks inside. Helen pulls some books from her backpack.
I say, "Will you be here long?"
"Good morning. Just dropping off books."
"Okay. You have a great looking dog. He can't be tied up, outside, but I know you're just popping in."
"Oh really? Yeah. Okay."
Her dog is 6 years old. She rescued him when he was a pup. Suddenly, I remember that only an hour ago, on my way to work, that some dogs were almost slaughtered at 17th Street and Newport Blvd.
8:40am, I sip my coffee and drive to work, puzzled by the guests on Peter Tilden's radio show.
Polygamists. One man, three wives, twenty-four children.
"We're just making ends meet, getting our story out there." He's published a book.
I approach 17th street, a busy street that I race to cross only to stop because some ninny in front of me won't blow a yellow light.
I'm front row, feet away from cars that rush across the Boulevard to their office jobs and Dunkin' Donuts coffee.
Southbound, second lane, to my left, a puffy dog on a leash.
WHAT THE FUCK?
This puzzled dog is IN THE STREET. A black Ford Ranger stops in the intersection. An Expedition stops behind him.
The dog looks around, it's leash twirls behind it. Cars are coming.
"HOLY SHIT," I exclaim to myself.
What should I do? Should I get out and snatch him? He's 300 feet away.
"HOLY SHIT."
Cars stop.
Where's the owner? Where's the humanity? Where's MY humanity?
Green Light.
I let off the brake.
A man appears in the street.
Then, ANOTHER DOG.
Looks like they're brothers. Both on leashes. Neither held by the white haired owner in the Tommy Bahama shirt.
I cross the intersection. He grabs one, then the other. I see his Porche, stopped in the middle of the street, door open. A woman in a black dress with big hips walks toward him.
Slaughter averted.
I sip my coffee, finish my drive, and turn up Peter Tilden who wraps up his show then throws it to Larry Elder.
After this, I remember another doggy dog incident on the 710, as I sat in the backseat of a friend's car on the way to Amoeba.
Northbound, 710 Freeway, en route to Hollywood. 10 minutes earlier, Ben yelled in horror from the front seat.
"UGHH!! Did you see that dog? On the side of the road, it was all fucked up."
I sit there, imagine a mangled dog on the side of the road, then get back to day dreaming. A few minutes later, more screams from the front seats. I look up, German Shepherd's walk onto the freeway.
Casually, they enter the paths of cars traveling 70 miles per hour.
SMACK.
Ever seen a dog spin through the air like a boomerang? It's a shitty feeling.
Luckily, this didn't happen today. Luckily, I went about my day without anything flying through the air like a boomerang that isn't a boomerang.
10 September 2011
The Master and His Apprentice
Shane started strumming his guitar and moved away from the drums, a few years ago. He's pretty focused on being the next Dave Grohl, but he's got a few things to learn about the craft of electric guitar.
Before I start my tirade as a guitar snob, I must give Shane credit as being the most gifted, promising musician who lives within an earshot of me. The thin wall that separates his room from mine is pierced by his guitar and voice every night. Before that, he mastered the drums. There isn't any style he cannot play. From Power Violence and Poison Idea, Black Flag, 80s inspired punk, to Jazz, Rock and Soul, Shane's range is amazing. Yet, he can focus.
Fuck fusion.
Shane is one of the few musicians who can play straight. Sure, you're bored, you want to be the front man and being stuck behind the drums is a drag. Guess what, THAT'S YOUR JOB. Decide what to be and go be it.
So, here's Shane, bored behind the skins, craving more of the limelight. He picks up a guitar, opens his beak and squawk's out some awesome songs. He's a craftsman. Great part writing. Great flare. Great vocal lines. Interesting storytelling. Wondrous persona.
He mainly strums his acoustic. Now, it's time for him to go electric.
A few years ago, I decided to switch to Telecaster, focus on adapting my style to the guitar and to take cues from Tele players like James Burton, Roy Buchannan, Jim Campilongo, Robbie Robertson and Steve Cropper.
Of course, my style was already that of 80s punk and the influence remains to this day. Also, I pulled from 60s and 70s guys in the Wrecking Crew like Jerry Cole and Jack Nitzsche then gravitated toward blues players and guitar legends like Mike Bloomfield, Albert King and David Gilmour.
I draw from many players, as many do. But mainly consider myself a Telecaster man.
It's time for Shane to choose. When he does, I will teach him all of my tricks, should he want to learn them.
Tricks and technique that guitar players lack, these days.
Mainly, your hands.
Your hands are your tone and style. Screw pedals. Use your hands, man!
Use that volume knob and tone to shape your sound! They're right there!
Play your guitar. And I mean PLAY. If you need this amp, this guitar, with these things and this and that and blah and blah...you DON'T want to play. So don't.
I'm fired up.
Pedals? Who needs 'em? Oh, I do. But not more than a couple. Live, yes, I run 4 or 5 but only need 2 or 3. Fuzz, boosts, and delay. I got bored and threw in a EHX Sound Freeze, but leave it at home most of the time.
On most songs, I just use my guitar, knobs and the amp. It's all you need.
Shane stood in the garage, the other day, playing a strat through the rig I have set up.
Homebrew Big D, MXR Carbon Copy and my '65 Fender Princeton Reverb.
Simply, huh? Guess how he sounded. GREAT. It was simple, it was clean, he wasn't going crazy and didn't need this pedal and that pedal and these strings and some crazy pick. NO!
He wanted to play, so he did.
I told him to turn his volume knob down, just a tad. He did, and the brightness of his strat became more clear.
Shane will learn more about guitar and I can't wait to teach him.
If only we were blacksmiths.
9 September 2011
I should update my resume and reel, soon. I haven't had to present a resume for a job since I graduated college.
"It's know who you know. It's who knows you." It's true. Don't be a dick, and you'll land jobs.
In addition to my day job, short stint as Business Development Manager at Showreel in Hollywood, and Operator of this website, I should also include:
2006 - Present
Swindletone Recording Company
Music and Audio Engineering Services
Freelance Sound Engineer & Producer
2009 - Present
The Kettle Drivers
Guitar, Manager, Producer
December, 2010
Sound Design, Music Supervisor
Theophilus North
Estancia High School Drama Department
October - December 2010
Swindletone Promo
Producer, Sound Engineer
May 2011
The Kettle Drivers
What a Thrill LP/CD
Guitar, Producer, Writer
July 2011
Black Luck
Short Film. Director: Gary Jones
Sound Engineer, Sound Design, Score
July 2011
The Kettle Drivers
Hurley Recording Sessions
Guitar, Producer, Writer
August 2011 - Present
Operation Clean Slate
Grant Writer & Director of Fundraising
I could pad it a bit more with silly promo videos and podcasts, but only so much fits on one page. That's why the leave-behind and cover letter matters.
My favorite thing is FEAR of one's own resume. FEAR that it won't stick out above the rest. I use a sexy font and throw water marks on mine so they stick out. Shit, if you want a resume to stick out, forget selling yourself, coursework and work experience. It's YOUR resume. Put a picture of you in the margin that let's your possible employer know that you're ALL BUSINESS.
Have a photographer from your nearest community college take a picture of you in a suit leaning against a Bentley.
Make it count.
8 April 2011
Hiatus
After 3 years of podcasting we have taken an unplanned hiatus. The release of The Kettle Drivers' What a Thrill, a full-length, has taken all of our time away. We are focused on live shows, marketing, sales and distribution of the vinyl, CD and digital downloads of our latest work.
The show will return as soon as possible.
14 March 2011
You Can Recycle That
Not in a stern voice but in an encouraging one, I say, "You can recycle that."
More often, I say, to myself, "I can recycle that," as my eyebrows lift and I perk up.
It started a long time ago, when Laurie David spoke at Orange Coast College. I was 18 and such a sponge. Even before that, they had recycling drives and my elementary school would infect us with knowledge on how to save the earth.
Later, in life, GLOBAL WARMING was at the forefront of the political forecast. Laurie, an activist, author, former wife of my favorite writer, Larry David, and a trustee for the NRDC (google it) described climate change as "this generations' Vietnam."
My fellow classmates chuckled a bit. They couldn't wrap their heads around a styrofoam cup with the same adverse affects of agent orange.
Great band, by the way.
So, there I was in the middle of the Robert B. Moore Theater with Laurie David barking "SAVE THE EARTH" down my throat.
I took it to heart.
Before I left Orange coast college, I was assigned to a group project where I gave a presentation on action someone could take RIGHT NOW, TODAY, with positive environmental results.
Things like, plug in electronic items to a power strip that can be flipped off when electronics are not in use, thus saving electricity and money. CFL's, hyrbid-cars, and, mainly, awareness.
The president of the associated student body was in my class. She loved the speech and told me I would go far. I respect her, especially for nearing senior-citizenship, yet being elected to govern thousands of students one-third her age. What a trip.
From then on, I tried.
I bought a bike, mainly for exercise and trips to Angels Stadium via the Santa Ana River, but also in hopes of zipping around my town.
Never, did I recycle. Waste Management handled all of Costa Mesa's trash. The little magnet on my fridge said that they sorted and collected 70% of recyclables from my garbage.
Don't quote me on the number, but it was a comforting percentage.
What I'm trying to say is, it wasn't enough. I had to take it to another level.
Last year, I learned many tips from a documentary called No Impact Man. This guy, from a heavily populated metropolitan area (let's say, New York) lives one year without creating waste. He recycles, reuses, rides a bike, takes containers and bags everywhere he goes that includes farmer's markets and restaurants.
He pushes it further; stops eating out, makes his own soap, has the electricity cut off, stores perishables in an ice chest and, my personal favorite: COMPOSTS.
All with his wife and baby, in tow.
Radical experiment, bold statement, and immediate results. Just from changing his families diet to organic based, alone, his wife's borderline diabetic condition is reversed.
HIS WIFE'S BORDERLINE DIABETIC CONDITION IS REVERSED.
HIS WIFE'S BORDERLINE DIABETIC CONDITION IS REVERSED.
HIS WIFE'S BORDERLINE DIABETIC CONDITION IS REVERSED.
HIS WIFE'S BORDERLINE DIABETIC CONDITION IS REVERSED.
HIS WIFE'S BORDERLINE DIABETIC CONDITION IS REVERSED.
My lifestyle was not enough. I had to move forward, but I was stuck in my bubble. I lived in my routine at my parents house.
When someone is stuck and thinks they can't move forward, guess what? Of course they can't. Give it time, and with the right recipe, success can happen.
I'm a modern day Tony fucking Robbins.
I moved out.
The first week of January, 2011, I started my new life at The House of Ezra. I live with two buddies - a drummer who plays on all of my records, Shane, and an outstanding citizen who I've known since high school, Andy Brown.
Three dudes, one bathroom, and a detached garage with a spare-room built-in.
The possibilities remain endless.
But how can one recycle, reduce and re-use in a consumer driven, buy this, fuck you, gas guzzle world?
Patience. Practice. Perseverance. Premeditation.
The four P's.
Cuz I'm a modern day Tony fucking Robbins.
The plans are drawn up. Schemes are built. Ideas start to boil.
It's time.
First step: recycle bins. One for each recyclable. Glass, aluminum cans, plastics, and paper.
Glass is easy. It's mostly beer, wine, and hard liquor. There is no CRV for anything but beer. Bring them all, including the strawberry jam jar, to the recycling center. We fill a trash can, are paid five bucks, and buy one item but our hearts are fulfilled.
It must be one item. Make it count. What was mine? Ask me in private.
Cans take a while because we smash them with the feet that god gave us then throw them in the bin. It fills slowly over months.
Plastic is similar but its a lot of bags and containers. There's no worth but don't throw that plastic in the garbage. If it ends up in a landfill, it won't break down. If it does, you won't be around to see it.
Paper.
HOLY SHIT, there is a lot of paper in this world.
Junk mail, phone books, junk mail, boxes, magazines, toilet paper, tissues, bills, DMV renewals, fliers - my god.
We have a container, but it's full. Most of our paper, paper that has no value, is collected and will later be recycled. It's the most daunting and challenging of all our materials.
We found one way to rid ourselves of paper in a fulfilling way.
My favorite impact-reduction solution.
COMPOSTING.
Andy Brown is quite the carpenter. Once, he had a beard and long hair. This was years ago. See what I'm getting at?
We talked about it for weeks.
"Man, we can compost this," he said, holding a banana peel.
"This too!" I exclaim with eggshells in my hand.
I check out a book from the library titled, Compost and read it. Well, most of it. I was also in the middle of the Lemmy biography.
Andy draws up plans for the composter. Four feet high, three feet square. We purchase our wood at Home Depot. During my sisters' 31st birthday party, he cuts, hammers and hinges our composter.
Beside our garage, in the backyard, we throw our scrap food.
Anything that once lived, can be composted. Watch your ratio. I use 3 to 1, green to brown.
Extra clippings from our lawn are great. I pick up leaves from the front and toss them in. Fruit is good but not meat. Keep your compost lean. No fat.
A benefit to compost? Nutrient rich results after two months that pair great with a garden. I plan to send it to my mom.
Also, forget waiting in line to use the restroom. Just piss in the compost pile.
No deuces, though.
I recycle and I compost. I've reached a new level in this Donkey Kong world.
Then, a barrel smashes me in the face.
An oil barrel.
Check out Collapse and Blind Spot or any of the documentaries or articles about vice grip that oil has on our way of life.
We started to feel the pinch in March, 2011.
On the radio, a report said that $4 was the tipping point for a lot of citizens. We flock to the bus and subway, if available, now that it costs over $65 to fill our tank.
Some say, "finally" while others think we'll slip back to the freeways and our individual pods.
Who knows.
It's tough to keep it up. Even recycling and compost game that I play shows signs of slippage.
Mainly, because no one cracks the whip if I throw some strawberries in the trash or an In-N-Out cup away.
That's why I've adopted the phrase, "You can recycle that," for both myself and others.
We have to keep moving forward or we'll slip back to the ever-consuming vicious cycle.
I push.
My bike, a Schwinn Varsity, was originally a ten-speed. Never, have I dated the serial number, but it's old and it's age shows in the chipped, green body. There's rust but I've cleaned most of it.
I always treated it like a single speed. I rarely used the gears. With plans to clean up it's appearance and lighten my load, I stripped one brake and looked into converting it to a single-speed.
After one shop quoted me $85 plus parts, I threw it in the back of my truck and cruised to a closer shop in hopes of a better deal.
$35 bucks later, the derailleur, some cables and a bit of chain were gone. A single-speed was ready to hit the road.
I bought a new jersey, a long sleeve, to keep me warm through this cold winter.
We don't run the heater in the house. I guess it's relative.
Rather than a silly jersey with a giant logo, I wanted one that said "FUCK OIL," to wear as I ride to work. They don't sell them. I would be a hypocrite considering that I haul equipment around for the gigs I play, monthly.
Here I am. I push forward even more than before, toward zero-impact. But it will never happen. Not while oil is aplenty. Even when it's scarce, we'll need it, use it, lust for it, kill for it.
I could give it all up. Find a piece of land, learn to grow food, struggle, yet know that my carbon footprint is less.
But I don't.
What if, in April, when one bandmate is in Australia and the other is busy with college, I get tired of the band, give up selling records, give up booking shows and give up my life to become a farmer?
They say, farmers are younger now; inspired by Michael Pollan and Laurie David.
What if my responsibility to our mother, Earth, weighs on me like the weight of ten thousand bags of organic cotton?
Then I move forward to a place where all of us are headed. If not soon, then someday. We might need to get back to basics.
Until then, I continue to piss on my pile after I pedal to and fro from the library.
21 December 2010
Lot's of rain. It won't be the last time but it's certainly been a long time since this much has poured on Socal. Alas, I will be on this earth for another 100 years - I can take a bit of rain.
Recently, I wrote about two women in my life who did more harm than good. One, a counselor who could have saved me from the torment of separation anxiety. The other, a deck hand or crew member of a boat who insisted that I wear a life vest if I were to step outside of the cabin of a boat, a boat that I was on an adventure on, with my dad.
Never, did I post these to the site. They seemed like a cry for help or pity party.
Then, I wrote about Alan, a man who courted my mom after my dad left. One night, he and my mom left me to conclude, year later, that adults make some of the worst decisions, yet they are labeled "adults" and still get away with it.
All of this means that I've had a productive year. I can look back at all of these ridiculous moments and laugh instead of with a clenched fist and jaw, as I grind my teeth to flat pieces of chalk.
Without further adieu: Let's wrap up 2010 and welcome 2011 with warmth and Jerimiah Weed Cherry Mash.
26 November 2010
The year winds down and its last stretch began as a year of tension came to a head and spewed all over Thanksgiving Dinner.
This morning, instead of driving the normal way home, I took the scenic route. I left at 7:15 am, blasted cold air from the heater for a few minutes, put my truck in drive and immediately flipped-a-bitch off the curb.
The iPod played Odyssey and Oracle, an album by The Zombies that I fell in love with long before I knew what love was.
Wrong turn after wrong turn kept me out of Santiago Canyon but still toward home. The Tustin Air Force base has some awesome hangars. I'd love to yell inside one and hear the walls yell back.
Odyssey ended with its hit single, "Time of the Season", a song that does not fit on the album, the reason I believe is why it's dead last.
Back at home, I fell asleep. After the last few weeks, it's nice to live in silence. It didn't last long. I woke up and ate some pumpkin pie then turned on the TV. Marathons run all Thanksgiving weekend with James Bond, The Twilight Zone, and ever episode of every home-makeover you can imagine.
My new, favorite, marathon was on today. TMC offered each Alfred Hitchcock and Grace Kelly movie. I watched Dial M for Murder and recorded To Catch a Thief.
Dial M only has two or three sets but each scene is long and extremely calculated. Listen closely and you can feel the tension mount and mount. Let it soak, marinate, then cook, slowly, and you'll have a meal fit for a king of a movie.
After the rollercoaster of emotion that Hitchcock weaved, it was time to listen to Tom Waits, Closing Time, and fold laundry.
Now I type as Golden Smog, an alt-rock supergroup, blasts through my speakers.
Perhaps there's more pie to eat.
7 November 2010 - 3:59pm
At work. Studio 770. It's the year 2010 which means I have been at work, on and off, here, for 5 years.
Fire years, what a surprise.
I look at the rack of CDs comprised of completed projects. These are recordings of sessions where I set up mics, tore down drum kits, moved guitars, placed rugs, flipped on lights and cameras, snapped photos, and pointed musicians, producers, and guests to the restroom.
"It's the key by the door. There is one for the women's bathroom and one for the other."
"Thanks, mate."
Andy Suzuki's first CD is on the rack. I didn't work on this one but a later CD, yet to be completed, I think.
I tried to find Prime which I, also, did not work on but that he was kind enough to give me when he did a session, here, a few years ago. I got to know him over during the course of a few recordings and before he moved, with his wife, to Berlin.
What a concept: move to Berlin to pursue the arts. And what an artists. Prime is an awesome jazz record and an even greater concept. Suzuki combined his love of math and music into one record. The entire record is based on prime numbers with prime numbered intervals, measures, melodies, time, and everything. Listen to it.
Today, I will film auditions, classical auditions.
I dump old footage of Emily Simonian, a singer songwriter that my "boss" Shantih produces. I say "boss" because she is a good friend and colleague, but what she says, goes.
Talented, is Shantih. Super professional and a top notch audio engineer.
At the studio we have a 1930's Steinway piano and other gems. There is a 1966 Telecaster that was once powder blue. When Shantih received it as a gift, years ago, she felt the shade of blue was silly, so she shaved it off and refinished it. These days, the guitar would be worth thousands of dollars. It's less because of the alterations but still, she gets offers just to sell the neck.
I've played it. It feels great and is clean as a whistle, a whistle that you can chicken-pick on.
The last time I worked here it was after school. I must have skipped my Radio Station Operations or busted out early to come clean up mics and chords in the drum room. At the time, I worked and went to school. The result: twelve to fifteen hour days.
After the dump, I rewind the tape so I can start recording from the top.
Then I cruise the web, find a version of "Ave Maria" in G Major, print it out and hand it to the pianist and singer, who forgot their copies.
Now there is downtime. I flip through CD designs for Emily's upcoming record. Shantih suggests a new company to press CDs through. We both used Disk Faktory in the past but now, Capitol Records recommends a new one. Groove House looks like the manufacturer that I will use, for the new Kettle Drivers CD.
Time for lunch.
17 October 2010 - 10:31 pm
I took a break from watching Apocalypto, a movie that tells its narrative through face piercings and an abundance of visuals as opposed to dialogue, to drink some cranberry juice.
Lately, I have been more "in tune" with my body. As of today, its screaming, "You need to drink cranberry juice." For various reasons, I went to the store, bought pure cranberry juice, drove home in the rain, took a sip and jumped up and down with a tart-face. Real juice is a bit too real for me sometimes.
At the store, one of my worst fears came true.
Anxiety, the kind that is present but not crippling, creeps into my body in public places. Though very conscious about it, I know it stifles me in some ways. However, thanks to a Johnny Carson interview that I read in Rolling Stone magazine, I have realized that it will not stop me from pursuing my creative endeavors.
After I entered the market through the automatic, sliding doors, I turned left to grab a basket. I buy food for myself and therefore do not require a cart. Carts are for dysfunctional families and fatasses.
That's where it is supposed to hit me. But today it didn't.
I have an irrational fear that I will reach for a basket, they will stick together, and I will violently shake them until one breaks loose.
But what if one doesn't break loose? You shake and shimmy until baskets start to fall and clamor until someone yells at you so that you leave the store out of embarrassment. Run home, look in the mirror and you'll find me, Greg Johnson, staring back at you.
This is what I go through when I enter new stores; new environments; museums for the first time; H & M; Rite Aid drug stores that aren't by my house yet I need to pick up a prescription for a rash that I didn't intend on having until I was much older but got it anyway because I am irresponsible and rub my hand on brushed aluminum objects during sporting events; or anywhere that is outside of my comfort zone.
Never, does it stop me from living my life.
Since I am so alert of my ailments, be them of the mind or the body, I can successfully control them or heal myself and carry on with my business. Plus, no one knows that, on the inside, I am freaking the fuck out 99% of the day.
Johnny Carson and a comedian, who shall remain nameless, helped me out a lot. Not personally, but through listening and reading about them.
Apparently, Johnny was very awkward, socially, especially in his younger years, which was contrary to his career decision: entertainer. So there I was wondering why I freak out sometimes but have no problem standing in front of a crowd and blasting them with my guitar or speaking.
Since I was 15, I have been playing in front of crowds. The largest being in Milwaukee at a punk festival. The room, with two stages, was the size of a gymnasium that could host a high school basketball game. Not a rural town like Smallville, but a medium to large gym like one here in Costa Mesa or Newport Beach.
The place was packed with punkers. At one point, during the last leg of our set that included a handful of covers, there were dudes dancing around, shaking their fists and singing along. Even though we were in front of hundreds of people, I was not nervous nor did I feel nervous before or after the show.
I do not fear the stage.
Consciousness of my body reminds me of that Who song where Daltry sings, "I'm in tune; right in tune and I'm gonna tune right in on you."
These days, I'm so in tune that I can keep on keepin' on thanks to home remedies like word processors, jump ropes, kettle bells, netflix, power chords, country licks, chicken pickin', tea tree soap and cranberry juice.
9 October 2010 - 3:16 pm
My Commencement Speech from the Cal State University Fullerton, Radio-TV-Film 2010 Ceremony
I was introduced by my primary screenwriting teacher, Jule Selbo. She's the best.
Note: When I stepped up to the podium, I jokingly said, "Coincidentally, the last time I was in front of a large group of people, I was also wearing a gown.
It fell flat with a few people, including my step-dad.
Below is what was written, revised, and rehearsed, with the assistance of Shelly Jenkins, a really great professor at CSUF, from early April to May 22, 2010.
30 September 2010 - 12:02
A few times, I listened to The Who, Live at Leeds, and would attempt to draw a picture. The sole constraint: that I could only draw while The Who played through my earbuds and into my skull. Once the record finished, so would my work.
It's tough to work on something and keep etching, carving, molding, until its perfect. Some things will always feel unfinished.
Perhaps this is how we should treat something like our bodies - as unfinished masterpieces constantly being shifted but never actually attaining place. Improving where needed, discarding when necessary, regenerating, rejuvenating, and reevaluating at all times in hopes of growth and progress.
I sketched a picture of a faceless man walking down a winding staircase into a foyer with a giant chandelier while listening to bonus tracks from Who's Next and titled it "Too Much of Anything." Why? Listen to how awesome the live warm-up shows on Who's Next and tell me you don't want to name a child after one of the songs. I do not plan to have children so I named a drawing instead.
It might be time to finish what I started, now matter how far along or far from perfect. Give myself a deadline and finish it. Further work could tamper or compromise with the quality.
One can only climb so high before you reach the top of the mountain and have to sled down on your climbing partners frozen body.
28 September 2010 - 10:52 am
Right about now, I'm thinking of a song lyric that I wrote. It's funny how lyrics change and stories change and memories change over the years. Sometimes it's almost as if I lived a past life even though I am here on the same planet, in the same body, with the same brain only its more developed and more mature, so they say.
I still feel like I am 12 years old.
"Day Old Coffee, Day Old Daydreams"
Never was there a title for it until today. It's the first line of the song and, normally, I don't like the first line of a song as the title. Maybe I'll change it. Maybe not.
The line spawned when I drank a cup of coffee out of a pot of, you guessed it, day old coffee that I warmed in the microwave. My coffee is never fancy. It's always black. Microwave black coffee tastes the same as fresh-brewed black coffee only you know it's microwaved so, all of the sudden, it tastes worse. It's horse shit. Drink it, wake the fuck up, and move on.
It took me a very short while to write the entire song. Maybe an hour. Then I stretched out the rewrite over a year. It's the standard breakup song. I tell it from first person point of view but, since I changed some details, it's not really my point of view.
The lyrics are as follows:
Day old coffee, day old dayreams
Two years passed before you said you missed me
and on my front porch you tried to kiss me
Two years of thinking two years began when
You laid beside me and felt my heartbeat with your hand
You couldn't understand
Why this time, I ain't sorry
This time, it's truly the end
A day can't pass unless you ask
You've been wondering if what we have could last
You miss holding my hand
Fresh forest pine will clear my mind
and late and night when I close my eyes
I'll never see you again
Because this time, I ain't sorry
This time, it's truly the end
Now, I'll admit they aren't the greatest lyrics but yours aren't great either, that is, if you even have any.
Real quick, if you don't make music, aren't a professional rock historian, music reviewer or have a shitload of records, DO NOT tell me how to make music. I accept criticism, when appropriate, but leave your ego at home. I have enough of my own to deal with.
So, some of those lyrics have changed. It wasn't a two year hiatus between breakup and the front porch. Truthfully, it was about four weeks. No one felt anyones heartbeats with their hands - not that night and not with this girl.
The most shocking part is where I confuse myself with the aggressor in the song. I was the one forced out of the relationship when I first wrote it. I got the short side of the stick.
There are too many songs about feeling sad, feeling lonely, being left behind, crying, inflicting pain on oneself via double-edged razor blade so that the cuts in your upper thigh are more gruesome because your fingers also receive some slicing. I have my fair share of them but decided that this would not be one of them.
So the story goes....
27 September 2010 - 9:01 am
My Commencement Speech from the Cal State University Fullerton, Radio-TV-Film 2010 Ceremony
I was introduced by my primary screenwriting teacher, Jule Selbo. She's the best.
Note: When I stepped up to the podium, I jokingly said, "Coincidentally, the last time I was in front of a large group of people, I was also wearing a gown.
It fell flat with a few people, including my step-dad.
Below is what was written, revised, and rehearsed, with the assistance of Shelly Jenkins, a really great professor at CSUF, from early April to May 22, 2010.
On Commencement
Nothing but the whole wide world to gain.
What an honor: to receive a degree from the California State University of Fullerton. This honor cannot be taken away, cannot be stripped, and cannot be disputed unlike the honor of competing against world class athletes. Some might say that it was an honor for Mike "The Jinx" Spinks to fight Mike Tyson. In 1988, Jinks was set to defend the heavyweight championship of the world against Tyson. But Tyson embarrassingly knocked Spinks down with a body-shot in the first round. When Spinks returned to his feet, Tyson's right hand connected with Spinks' chin resulting in a knockout and victory for Tyson. Spinks' only professional loss is to Tyson, a loss that preceded retirement. What an honor: to fight such a tremendous athlete like Mike Tyson - unless, of course, you're Mike Spinks.
As students, who struggled to achieve the honor bestowed upon us today, we have felt beat up like anyone who faced Tyson in his reign as champion. If you catch a right hook from Tyson your mouthpiece will fly out, your face will hit the canvas, you'll crawl to your knees, shove the mouthpiece halfway back in, use the ropes to aid the climb to your feet but you won't make it. The ref will stop the fight, cradle you in your arms like a child and declare you the loser. With this achievement we've at least made the standing eight-count and will continue to push forward and fight in the next rounds of our lives.
The honor of a degree cannot be taken away unlike honor in The Karate Kid II that was seized from Chozen when Daniel-san broke a bunch of ice with one swift karate-chop.
Not even Oprah achieved the honor we receive today back in 1975. She was one credit shy of completing her degree. She eventually finished her coursework but it took 13 years.
I talked to a friend about shining-up my resume. He said that in 2006, Time Magazine declared "YOU" the person of the year, an award nearly won by Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. He decided to add it to his resume. I told him I would add my 100% feedback score on eBay and how I've worn the same belt since high school to mine.
Upon review of my recently revised resume, I noticed that it changed from a base in 5 years of work at a public library and independent music projects to a base in my coursework and completion of my Bachelor's. The item that shines on, like a crazy diamond, on my resume, is my degree, an honor that cannot we taken away.
What now? What do I do with this degree? What do we do now that this phase of our lives is over? Well, don't do what Dustin Hoffman did in The Graduate - be seduced by Mrs. Robinson, throw on some shades, take her daughter to a sleazy club, race around in an Alfa Romero Spider all while listening to Simon and Garfunkel.
I won't listen to Simon and Garfunkel nor will I listen to White Snake as I peel out of the parking lot like I did when I graduated high school. Instead I'll listen to Jakob Dylan sing the phrase that cycled through my head during my last days at Cal State Fullerton, and what I opened my speech with: "Nothing but the whole wide world to gain, nothin'."
I won't listen to Simon and Garfunkel nor will I listen to White Snake as I peel out of the parking lot like I did when I graduated high school. Instead I'll listen to Jakob Dylan sing the phrase that cycled through my head during my last days at Cal State Fullerton, and what I opened my speech with: "Nothing but the whole wide world to gain, nothin'."
Congratulations Radio-TV-Film Graduating Class of 2010.
30 September 2010 - 12:02
A few times, I listened to The Who, Live at Leeds, and would attempt to draw a picture. The sole constraint: that I could only draw while The Who played through my earbuds and into my skull. Once the record finished, so would my work.
It's tough to work on something and keep etching, carving, molding, until its perfect. Some things will always feel unfinished.
Perhaps this is how we should treat something like our bodies - as unfinished masterpieces constantly being shifted but never actually attaining place. Improving where needed, discarding when necessary, regenerating, rejuvenating, and reevaluating at all times in hopes of growth and progress.
I sketched a picture of a faceless man walking down a winding staircase into a foyer with a giant chandelier while listening to bonus tracks from Who's Next and titled it "Too Much of Anything." Why? Listen to how awesome the live warm-up shows on Who's Next and tell me you don't want to name a child after one of the songs. I do not plan to have children so I named a drawing instead.
It might be time to finish what I started, now matter how far along or far from perfect. Give myself a deadline and finish it. Further work could tamper or compromise with the quality.
One can only climb so high before you reach the top of the mountain and have to sled down on your climbing partners frozen body.
28 September 2010 - 10:52 am
Right about now, I'm thinking of a song lyric that I wrote. It's funny how lyrics change and stories change and memories change over the years. Sometimes it's almost as if I lived a past life even though I am here on the same planet, in the same body, with the same brain only its more developed and more mature, so they say.
I still feel like I am 12 years old.
"Day Old Coffee, Day Old Daydreams"
Never was there a title for it until today. It's the first line of the song and, normally, I don't like the first line of a song as the title. Maybe I'll change it. Maybe not.
The line spawned when I drank a cup of coffee out of a pot of, you guessed it, day old coffee that I warmed in the microwave. My coffee is never fancy. It's always black. Microwave black coffee tastes the same as fresh-brewed black coffee only you know it's microwaved so, all of the sudden, it tastes worse. It's horse shit. Drink it, wake the fuck up, and move on.
It took me a very short while to write the entire song. Maybe an hour. Then I stretched out the rewrite over a year. It's the standard breakup song. I tell it from first person point of view but, since I changed some details, it's not really my point of view.
The lyrics are as follows:
Day old coffee, day old dayreams
Two years passed before you said you missed me
and on my front porch you tried to kiss me
Two years of thinking two years began when
You laid beside me and felt my heartbeat with your hand
You couldn't understand
Why this time, I ain't sorry
This time, it's truly the end
A day can't pass unless you ask
You've been wondering if what we have could last
You miss holding my hand
Fresh forest pine will clear my mind
and late and night when I close my eyes
I'll never see you again
Because this time, I ain't sorry
This time, it's truly the end
Now, I'll admit they aren't the greatest lyrics but yours aren't great either, that is, if you even have any.
Real quick, if you don't make music, aren't a professional rock historian, music reviewer or have a shitload of records, DO NOT tell me how to make music. I accept criticism, when appropriate, but leave your ego at home. I have enough of my own to deal with.
So, some of those lyrics have changed. It wasn't a two year hiatus between breakup and the front porch. Truthfully, it was about four weeks. No one felt anyones heartbeats with their hands - not that night and not with this girl.
The most shocking part is where I confuse myself with the aggressor in the song. I was the one forced out of the relationship when I first wrote it. I got the short side of the stick.
There are too many songs about feeling sad, feeling lonely, being left behind, crying, inflicting pain on oneself via double-edged razor blade so that the cuts in your upper thigh are more gruesome because your fingers also receive some slicing. I have my fair share of them but decided that this would not be one of them.
So the story goes....
27 September 2010 - 9:01 am
One year ago, if it were a Monday, I would wake up, shit, eat breakfast, play guitar, shower, and probably drive to Cal State Fullerton for a class or two.
If it were a Tuesday I would do the same thing only the classes would be different and I would, most likely, work a shift at the Library that night.
Days in the machine. Wake up, eat, drive, park, walk, eat, sit, walk, drive, eat, work, drive, sleep. At the time, I was writing a screenplay for class which occupied my mind during every minute of every day. Some people make shirts that encourage this lifestyle. "Write, eat, sleep, repeat." I don't give a fuck about giving a fuck about anything, especially writing. Yet here I am.
That surreal-martial arts-comedy is The Clinch and most people give me accolades when they read it. Everyone who reads it, that is. But everyone is busy reading their own creations or too busy on their own paths to have their own mess that they call brains be derailed by my outlandish screenplay.
It's finished, though. It's done. If you want to read it, you can. The praise for The Clinch that I received from my professor eventually landed me a gig during the graduation ceremony as the sole student speaker. I don't wear it on my sleeve, like all my accomplishments but I did it.
Now it's Monday, a year later and I have nothing to do.
