KIck aSS!!

So, about two weeks ago, this young lady I've fallen head over heels for puts on this benefit show to help a friend of hers with some medical expenses. Wanting to help out (and, ok, maybe score some brownie points), I attend. There's a table full of raffle items and I buy a ticket for each one because that's the right thing to do, then a few extra tickets for certain specific items because I really want to win them. I believe the raffle gods looked down on me and took pity on my unenviable lot that night (less said the better... at least at this juncture.), as I ended up winning four of the raffle items, two I hadn't much coveted (a band t-shirt and a small painting) and two that I desired greatly... a $50 Cherry Bomb gift certificate and an old B.C. Rich Warlock bass.



Which brings me to the whole reason for this post. Today, I received shipment of the final necessary elements in making the bass an invincible 80s metal machine! "Antique" chrome skull volume knobs!



Now nonstop rocking is possible!!!

The latest installment in getting what you need in disguise:

There's this woman. Beautiful, talented, intelligent, empathetic, humble. I've been very interested for a little while, but we work together. That doesn't break the deal, but I haven't done enough theatre work to be jaded to the point of not believing the show is sacred, so I have proceeded with utmost caution... so much caution that I was sure that I'd screwed myself out of any chance with her. Then, in an evening and a day I went from boundless optimism to overwhelming suspicion that I'd fucked up yet another potential good thing.

So I woke with a heavy heart this morning.

I rose early to walk in a 5k benefiting suicide prevention, so I was most aware of the hole in my heart where King used to live on this earth. He's been in my thoughts more than usual this week. A younger brother dying in the novel I'm reading brought his memory to the fore. For the first time in my grief, it became important for me to know the specific details of the method of his death, which Eric provided. Saturday morning I talked with my mother about how her grief's hitting her these days. I miss him like hell every day.

On my way out of the hotel, I checked my email and found that the town in Guatemala where my friends and I worked this summer was devastated by mudslides. The hospital at which we did our construction work is partially submerged in mud and one of the villages next to it is gone. We are told that all of the kids in the special needs class with whom we worked are alive, but I have to believe that some of the others we met that week are not. Knowing that the poor people of these villages now have been further burdened broke my heart and I spent much of the walk crying for them.

...but

it was a beautiful walk and I made it with My Morning Jacket's sublime new album "Z" in my ears. I ended recommitted to my beliefs that in the middle of all our stumbles, fuck-ups and heartbreaks (not in spite of them), life is beautiful and this world is an awe-inspiring place. I am happy that in a half hour last night, I taught someone more than they'd learned in a year of piano lessons. I will have written some great songs before I leave this city for home and I will return to Guatemala again to help those in need. I will rock six days a week for the next month and be paid well. I am lucky.

the day that was

August 8, 2005 was my father's 62nd birthday. It was also (entirely coincidentally, I believe) the first anniversary of the day my brother King killed himself.

I spent most of the day with my family and surprisingly... happily, the vast majority of the day seemed like any other day. We even managed to acknowledge my dad's birthday a few times (First thing I heard in the morning was Mom asking him if he felt any older today. He answered, "I feel older every day." Knowing Dad's sense of humor was intact helped me start the day more optimistically than I might have thought I could.).

Worked out. Ate dinner with the family. Spent some time talking to King in the backyard (his ashes are in the base of a birdbath there). Ate sushi, drank a bottle of wine (I drank the bottle. They drank cocktails.) and had honest, fearless, revealing late-night conversations with dear friends who live two blocks away. Called my middle brother, Eric, on the walk back home and shared our love and fear and loss for an hour, more openly than ever.

I know:

My father's birthday will be reclaimed... maybe not soon, but someday.

I do not have adjectives to describe how much I miss King every day... but I am not, nor have I ever been, mad at him for his decision. Those who speak of the selfishness of suicide can not truly know the depression, frustration and sadness that bring one to the moment of that decision.

I regret regret regret, but not that I might have done something to change his mind. I regret that outside influences kept us from being as close as we longed to be in the last year of his life. I regret that the path he took to shed his depression took him from me.

I will never fully comprehend the bond that brothers who are close in age have. Although Eric and I have long been the "friendliest" pair in my family, I have always envied the primal, "thick as thieves" relationship he shared with King. After talking to Eric tonight, I have a new appreciation for the identity crisis into which he has been thrust.

I am ever so grateful that my family and most of my close friends find no shame in telling each other, "I love you."

trapped in the closet

For a fascinating train-wreck of artistic failure, check out R. Kelly's five episode "urban opera" trapped in the closet. (can't manage to link straight to the video page, just click that link when the main page loads.)

It's spectacularly terrible by pretty much any measure. Awful story, some laugh-out-loud bad lyrics ("I flipped back the cover. Oh my god... a rubber!"), low rent special effects (they keep using the same two second shot of him driving in front of a greenscreen over and over again, poorly compositing different background shots in), combined with bad acting and illogical directing choices (why does he keep waving that gun around? ...and he must be the world's greatest lover if he manages to fuck his wife that good with his pants zipped up.)... where do you start?

Why, if he's going to attempt something as ambitious as an "urban opera" would he obviously spend so little time on the music? 20 minutes of two chords? It's not like the man doesn't know how to write a harmonically interesting song.

I'm tempted to ask why R. Kelly would feel the need to write an "urban opera" when he's already better than almost anyone in the game at writing a club banger, bump-and-grind slow jam or uplifting disney ballad, but honestly he probably would stand a better chance of writing a musically satisfying urban opera-ish piece of music than an opera composer would of producing a club hit. The real question is, why is it so bad?

I guess I can't blame him for not realizing that the story he wrote doesn't even come close to the low bar of O'Henry's gotcha style of irony (I hit every "cliffhanger" and ask "that's it?" and at the end wonder "she wanted him to sit down for that?"), but I truly can't understand why someone with the skills to write interesting music would attempt to hold my attention for 20 minutes by laying down a four minute, two-chord track and repeating it five times.

... all of which should not take away from the fact, once again, that the lyrics, acting and directing are bad beyond measure.

... and he's a pedophile with a scat fetish.

need to do a real update here sometime soon, but I thought it'd be funny to let the friends know that I managed ten days in Guatemala without diarrhea, then fell victim a half hour after we touched down in Louisville.

On a positive note, I think I got the ATL gig I went in for today.

today, I consider myself the luckiest man...

I'd smelled a faint electric burning scent in my control/computer room yesterday. I tried my best to locate the source, but had no luck. I tried turning off various devices in turn to see if the aroma might dissipate, but the scent persisted. This morning, it was even stronger. I tried checking in my computer, thinking the fan may have burned out... no dice... got on my hands and knees one last time to give my nose one more chance and tracked the smell to the general vicinity of my UPS, which didn't seem to be hot, then my hand grazed the power supply of a cd-r drive that I haven't used in four years (it hasn't worked in that long, but had remained plugged in... welcome to my life) and I became suspicious. I flipped it over and found my culprit:



plastic melting, probably a few hours away from burning down my house.

another bullet dodged.

some buildings touch the sky, some never reach twenty-five

god, I miss King.



a lot more a little later...

oh, no

found some old pics and I have a strange feeling I might cut my hair.

a chance to make it good somehow

Too many good days in a row? The "sugar crash" after two nights in the company of the beloved, too distant Liz? For whatever reason, I guess I was due a day where I spent a good portion of the afternoon in bed hating my life, believing in nothing more than the futility of my existence. Still, after a well-played and well-received gig starts stitching me back together, "Born to Run" and "Thunder Road" make me believe, with all my heart, in hope, redemption and a promised land.

happy birthday to we

from the evening's festivities…

open air turns two...

I might write something about this later, but for now I just want to put up the link so's mr. rizzo can find the article.

jerry! jerry! jerry!

Oh, no... well, the realplayer server is choking, but I'm getting a sweet, uninterrupted stream from windows media player (does that sound like a bathroom update?)... damn, I hate it when bill gates' evil products are the only option that works. Guess I'll check out a lil' springer while I get my gym gear on.

no foolin'

I guess it's a positive sign that my greatest disappointment/frustration yet today is that air america's streaming audio server is choking and I can't hear Jerry Springer's debut show. Oh, well... guess I get to the gym earlier.

god hates?

I've come to find that most of the people I know who I'd consider theologically misguided are generally good hearted and most honestly believe that their creed serves a loving, merciful god.

..but some people are scary, scary, scary.

leave a message and I'll call you back

So, what would you call that moment in a phone conversation when it's too close to saying goodbye to make someone wait for you to answer the call waiting but not close enough to wrap things up in time to catch the call before it hits voice mail?

crosstown traffic

ok... so, Bill's having a hard time figuring out how to reply to me over at the livejournal site, sooo... I guess it's easier to post anonymously over here, plus it seems a lil' more, well, adult, so I'll publish what I do over there in this space as well- minus the music and mood tags.

prog rockin'

Funny how, in general, "progressive rock" is, to me, nothing more than a soulless display of finely tuned instrumental technical proficiency that leaves me feeling nothing (and generally, only thinking, "gee those guys practiced a lot"), yet Roundabout or Karn Evil No. 9 come on the radio and I am all about it. Guess a few of 'em figured out the balancing act.

Still, I feel the genius of Van Halen was pairing an absolute freak, out-of-this world, revolutionary technical marvel of a guitar player (who never forgot the value of melody) with what was, in essence, ZZ Top's rhythm section.

...and I continue to be reminded of how much I underestimated David Lee Roth... in every way.

under... those rocks?

So the plan tuesday was that I would take my obligation-free day and use it to make progress toward finishing some recording that's been hanging over my head for, no shit, almost two years now (for the caribbean band with whom I play). My reward would be a visit to Cincinnati thursday (tonight/last night?) to visit a dear friend/sometimes girlfriend who's been terribly missed as of late. As of 8pm, I'd managed only to fill my life with enough meaningless distraction to keep my day recording-free. New plan. I'd take the energy that I pour into whatever neuroses that keep me inert- on the other side of the wall from a healthy, productive life actually spent doing the things I love- and devote it to alcoholism. Rather, or more specifically, I would cultivate an alcoholic life (Which, through some freak genetic accident, I've been spared the disposition) and use my neurotic energy managing said life, not distracting myself.

I put the mac in recording mode, grabbed a rocks glass and poured two fingers of bourbon. I had no ice: the first hint that my alcoholic skills were lacking. Got some ice cubes started (using hot water, of course to speed 'em along), and commenced with recording and bourbon neat. I eventually was able to add rocks, although my attempts at finding a buzz, much less taking my first steps toward my drunken life, were futile. I managed to get guitar tracks for two songs, along with a little editing in said songs' bass and percussion. Didn't manage to continue the habit (recording, not drinking) today, but I've come to find that one of my biggest impediments to starting a task is believing I'm capable of doing the job in the first place. Fingers crossed that I can get around to a lil' more work on the reggae while the memory of my capability (in music, not addiction) is still fresh.

I did allow myself the reward of visiting cinti. Although it's been a long time since I've felt lonely (any lack of companionship over the last month was more due to lack of energy than anything else), it's been a while since I've kissed anyone I've loved, and that likelihood was the real reward I'd allowed myself. If I'd been honest with myself, I'd have known better, and the slightly different beginning of my visit wouldn't have led to me spending too much of the night doing my second-best imitation of a bitch-ass emo high schooler. In any event, the memories that last are of the sheer joy of two clueless louisvillians' wild goose chase of a suitably decent vegetarian meal in downtown cinti.

Other details aside, 48 hours brought two more lessons in finding what I needed by looking for something else. Guess it's just important to keep looking.

oscar necrophilia

I just think it's a shame that Million Dollar Baby won all those Oscars just because Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman died. The vital Martin Scorcese has his one chance at recognition for his lean, independent, underdog film and gets shut out with the bereavement vote.

I also feel sorry for Leonardo DiCaprio. He finally makes a movie that's somewhat popular and has no chance to get up on stage and thank his stylist because the Academy are all In Living Color fans.

The worst thing is they didn't let Beyoncé sing two of the five nominated songs. I mean, couldn't they tell from the "é" at the end of her name that she'd have kicked that spanish song's ass? And who does Jay-Z have to put a hit on for her to play the Bach cello piece? Speaking of the "memorials" presentation, where was John Ritter? Does he have to die every year for us to remember him?

On the bright side, them girls love showin' off they boobies, eh?

the red, the orange

I wish I knew of some natural remedy that could kick a cold's ass like NyQuil/DayQuil. I can't fuck around and let a bunch of drainage mess up my voice if I hope to make a living. Plus, if you triple the recommended dosage, everyone's much prettier.