Wow...Not Even On The Television News Yet

Seriously. Channel 31 is more concerned that it's fucking snowing.

I can completely understand how someone can feel such a way. I've made it known that the Colorado Department of Revenue and Qwest aren't two of my favorite things. The IRS only sort of gets me down. My biggest gripes are with the inherent inefficiency in bureaucracy. I got in a (verbal) fight with a sociology professor about that once. Fucker.

There's some creepy (to me) details in CNN's Story:

Texas plane crash pilot: 'I have just had enough

It's crappy to crash a plane into an occupied building, for sure. My band mates also mostly avoid political and religious talk, because it could potentially tear the band apart. We're there to make beautiful music together, not bitch about the man. If something's really bothering any of us, though, it's not unusual to vent a little to each other. Both of my bands are quite therapeutic that way. They're awesome for me.

Shit Like This Really Burns Me Up.

I probably shouldn't even care, right? Is it really a moron-o-rama over there? I seem to remember playing in that band for a couple of years (maybe a year and a half, I don't know...it meant a lot of hours, for sure). From here:

Low End Theory: Received word over the weekend of a couple of notable lineup changes for two very admirable Denver bands, and both involves the lower frequencies. The first shift concerns A Shoreline Dream, one of the first bands confirmed to perform at next year's South By Southwest Festival. Longtime bassist Enoc Torraca has left the band for personal reasons and has been replaced by Adam Edwards, a formerly of Flyaway Minion and Mouth of the Architect. Likewise, Overcasters have parted ways with their original four-stringer Ed Marshall, who also left the band for personal reasons. His spot is being filled by bassist Matt Regan, who most recently played with Joy Subtraction and previously played upright bass as a member of Matson Jones.

Monolith Festival organizers establish Kickstarter account for dontations - Denver Music - Backbeat Online

Monolith Festival organizers establish Kickstarter account for dontations - Denver Music - Backbeat Online

Getting a music editor over there who can spell at Westword would be a step in the right direction for that publication. Seriously.

I think that the BLC needs a Kickstarter account to finance our "Lincoln Continental Tour" that we've been fantasizing about for years. I should look into that--I think that it's like cyber-begging or something.

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Now playing: David Bowie & Lou Reed - White Light White Heat (London, July 8, 1972)

Most Music Is So Contrived-Feeling

This morning, I realized that while listening to some Boston. Maybe it's time for a fast, as far as music goes (easier said than done when I'm doing two busy bands). Maybe I should, just quit listening to so much of that damn jazz. I've been watching that Ken Burns documentary (I'm like 12 hours into it), and listening to a lot of KUVO (again) and I think it has gotten under my skin.

This one came on right after Boston, and really made me feel a little better, even if it's as contrived as the Boston song. The bass tone is great, and classic, and the second half has some cool layers:

Physical Therapy Is "Inferno-esque"

I was doing my walking sideways with a giant rubber band on my feet "exercise" (which I'm sure that she makes me do so she can film it and upload it onto the YouTube), and the chick says, "I should put on some music."

This is when I realized that things were about to get weird, again. I shrugged my shoulders--I was focusing on not watching my feet with the giant fluorescent green rubber band wrapped around them.

She proceeded to put Dave (fuckin') Matthews on. I realize that they're great musicians, but that music really sucks, as far as I'm concerned. Great musicians can make shitty music, for sure. I've known people that have done it. Just when I thought I was done listening to crummy music, the (fuckin') Eagles came on. I can't stand that stuff, seriously. It always came across to me as some weak sauce, whether it's "country" or "rock" or "country-rock". The Eagles suck. Clearly, I was in hell (or something close to it). The music selections only served to agitate me, which may have been her plan.

On my way home, with my aching lower body, I realized that it totally wasn't hell. She didn't play any Boston.

Ankle Update.

The swelling is still here. It's not going anywhere. I'm done with what the doctor can do for me,though. The terrible physical therapy continues. Now, I have to "work out" with giant rubber bands and ride a bicycle. The hardest part, though, is the "exercise" where I have to step onto a rubber ball with one foot, follow it with the second foot, and then step off the other side with the first foot followed by the second foot. I have to do this without looking at my feet, which is the real challenge--my screwed up, fluid-filled ears mean that I'm pretty wobbly all the time. A 100-pound physical therapist trying to catch me doesn't work so well--we found that out on Friday.

All of this crap actually makes everything hurt afterward for a couple of days. Since I have to go in twice a week, I'm not enjoying this persistent lower body ache.

An interesting development is that the chick says that I'm walking all wrong because of falling arches. I've known that was a problem since I was a kid. She said, "I've never seen anything quite like it." Indeed, it's pretty bad--I walk on the sides of my feet. This might be another reason that I'm so wobbly.

You've Got To Be Kidding Me.

Today, I went to my first physical therapy session for the ankle of doom. My therapist is a crazy redheaded gal named Abigail. Apparently, my falling arches are a major concern, as is this ankle swelling that won't go away. I laid on my stomach and she massaged my foot/ankle/calf to apparently help get some of the fluid moving around. I thought to myself, "This isn't so bad; I should get foot/ankle/calf massages more often." There wasn't a happy ending, however. It was a lot more pleasant than getting beat up by my osteopath.

Things got progressively weirder.

Next, She made me trace the letters of the alphabet with my foot. This was a difficult task, actually. This exercise is one that I get to do several times a day for the next month. While I was doing that, she looked around for her "marbles". They're actually those slightly squished ones that one uses for floral arrangements and stuff. She dumped a whole bunch out of the coffee mug onto the floor. Then, she made me attempt to pick them up with my toes and drop them into the mug. This exercise sucked. I cheated by using my other foot to cram them in between my toes. Apparently, 3 weeks of ankle brace wearing has limited my range of motion a lot. I should have taken a Percocet before the appointment.

Next, chick got totally sadistic. I laid on my back and she hooked up this electric "zapper' to my foot/ankle/calf. She put an ice pack on my ankle and turned on the jews. Holy shit, that was totally unpleasant. She explained how the control box worked, and left the room for a while (20 minutes). Eventually, I got used to the "electrocution" sensation, and turned up the intensity using the control box. Finally, after about 19 minutes, I decided to see how high this thing would go. When she walked in, I was just hitting my excruciating pain threshold. Hee hee--that was at 25.5 (don't know what the units of measurement are on that zapper box).

Finally she used some sort of special tape to make some designs on my foot/ankle/calf. Apparently they used this crap on some volleyball player at the Olympics. Not being the sporty type, I had no idea what she was talking about. I picked the pink color (black would've looked even stranger). It's weird-looking, but it's supposed to conduct away some of the swelling. I'll believe it when I see it.

Bored Out of My Mind

Today, I'm riding along with John to get him comfortable with the circa-1987 Eaton 8-speed. So far, it has been a grind-fest. Dude just needs to relax and practice a lot. I'm confident that he'll get it.

Hasta La Vista, Baby.

I got to be the terminator tonight. No more rastafarian for us. I feel sort of bad on one hand, but on the other, I feel okay with it. In this market, if you can't take your job seriously, we can find someone who does. The shit hitting the fan today means mas Manuel labor.

Mi Tobillo Es Malo.

I'm learning my Spanish body parts slowly, as I have issues with 'em. Today was the deaded follow-up visit for my "cankle". I didn't get the "funny" nurse today, instead I got the one with the Eeyore scrubs. Since the swelling is going down, we can now tell more or less WTF. When one does a clumsy maneuver like I did, there's apparently three ligaments that get screwed up (they hold one's foot onto one's leg), in order. I'm only having superpain from the first of the three.

The result?!? I get to continue doing the same shit I've been doing for three weeks. Dude renewed my "subscription" for the Percocet (again). He's hoping that I'll be better in a week. If I'm not, then I get to get more imaging done (whoot).

I'd Better Learn How To Play.

Seriously. This was recently released, and the samples are damn good. If one took the time to learn it, a real bass player would become completely optional (and someone else to pay). Take a look at the "Tutorial Video" if you want to see something really scary.

I recently learned how to do the dead notes on "Stealth" in a reliable manner. I was having problems with harmonics all over the place. I should've figured that out to bother Yessit about before he handed the reins over--I think that he mostly just played by accident half the time, though. I'm now playing a lot more notes on that song in particular.

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Now playing: Do Make Say Think - All Of This Is True

Ankle Update.

I think that I'm witnessing a phenomenon here. The gruesome bruising seems to be migrating "up". My foot/ankle is no longer bruised, but my calf is completely technicolor. I hope that I'm not getting a thrombosis or something a la Ian Anderson.

Ouch.

I totally sprained my ankle during a not-so-graceful exit from the truck today. Luckily, the new guy, John rocks. It's not turning colors yet.

One of the guys went to the hospital with a fucking heart attack today. Makes me feel pretty silly about the ankle problem. Indeed, this is some hard work.

I have some good drugs, though. With some ice, elevation, and a cane to gimp around for a couple of days, I'll be cured soon.

The Internets Are Back.

Apparently, Qwest did "something" downtown, and knocked me off-line for the last week and a half. Luckily, zee telefono lets me somewhat keep up with email and stuff. I can finally do a "real" post here. My wrists have atrophied, though, and now typing hurts.

The big news is that the Film on the Rocks went fairly well. Personally, I'll take the monitors from the Gothic or the Ogden any day over what we endured on Wednesday. Those two were like listening to a CD. Hell, I'll take the Meadowlark "no PA reinforcement" over that crap. I couldn't hear much of anything except cymbals, and as a result, screwed one song up pretty good. I don't think that any of us were happy.

Hopefully, the resulting video and audio won't be too painful. Being live on channel two was nerve-wracking, but good exposure. If only we'd started the set with one of the "dirty" songs, right? It's pretty funny, though:

 

One of my major gripes is that I couldn't hear myself at all. Honestly, my rig is louder at practice. I was on "2", so that the monitors dude didn't get a hot signal. Every other DI-obsessed sound dude has plugged into the amp's DI, and not had a problem. This dude totally did, and the entire PA made an expensive sound. I turned down, and apparently, it sounded alright for the FOH, but it was almost inaudible on stage. I played too hard and thus, too sloppy to really feel great about the performance.

I'm looking into a decent passive DI box now. I should have gotten one years ago, but I never thought that I'd need one. The Ampeg preamp that I was running always did a nice job, and more recently, I was running the Mesas so hot that the only way to really capture that "amp on the verge of breaking" (number one broke down 3 times) sound was with a microphone.

So, I'm looking at DI boxes on the web this morning. The talkbass.com forum has more opinions than I'd like. It seems that the Radial JDI (which I've been happy to record with), the Countryman 85, and even the (gasp) Sansamp BDDI (I already have one of these and it's a little too icepick for me) seem to be well-liked. I'm really curious about the Whirlwind Director, but I can't seem to find much about it. If I really really was into sparing no expense, I'd opt for the Reddi Tube DI, but that's a little extravagant.

Shopping DI box specs is a lot like buying socks or underwear, I think.

La Hidráulica No Son Buenos

Especially when you have 'em backwards. You see, garbage truck hydraulics work just like garbage truck electrical stuff. You have a pressure line (power) and a return to the tank (ground). Valves typically have the pressure input marked.

Today, I fixed the 17-yard McNeilus box that has mystified el mecánico. As it turns out, there's an electric safety valve that requires 12 volts for any of the pressure lines to work. It also helps when the pressure is flowing the right direction, dude.

Once we made it work, the Manuel Labor started. There was the classic sledge hammer usage (Manuel and I taking turns with the big hammer while José shouts "¡Otro!"), because the damn caja has been sitting around rusting and otherwise filthy. José says, "It's the Mexican way."

Either there's a lot of air in the system (put on your surprised face), or the ejection cylinder is broken, because it doesn't quite do it right. I'll worry about that some other time.

The worst part about hydraulic work is that getting oily is unavoidable. That crap makes my skin itch and break out in a gnarly rash. No me gusta eso.

Summer Hair Cut.

I thought that I could make it to Memorial Day, but not so much. Sitting on top of that 200-degree Cummins all day just means lots of sweat and not able to think straight. Last year, I was driving the Peterbilt, and I could just leave the right side door open (it's set up for right-side driving, but I'm not so good at driving while standing up). My big International is like driving around a 50,000-pound oven, especially since the cab ventilation dampers have been rendered inoperable. The stop and go means that I can never get any air circulation. Add the physical work, and it just sucks.

Gatorade G2 is way less harsh on my guts than the old-school stuff--and, they have 'grape drink' flavor. Whoot.

There's supposed to be a cold front on Wednesday.

Cat Bite Fever.

The thing is, I haven't had a fever at all. The wound that has made me ill is a cat bite. It looks like a vampire got me:



Indeed it's totally infected and my lymph nodes are fucked on the right side of my body (I'm glad that I didn't let my previous doctor suck 'em out). Red, distended upper arm ain't a cool thing.

Apparently, she wasn't cool with her new diet. When I pushed her away and told her to go to hell, she snuggled up with me and then fuckin' bit me. Clearly, my feline companion required an attitude adjustment. Nitwit endured serious cat abuse. CALL PETA NOW. Essentially, she got picked up by the head during my "no biting" tirade. I did, however, slam her head into the bathroom door between five and ten times. She wasn't even making an attempt to get away...I'd slam her face-first into the door, and she'd sit there afterwards, waiting for me to do it again.

She's getting to be a mean old lady cat, for sure. I don't know why I should even care if she weighs forty pounds and has a heart attack.

She's been really sweet since the incident, and not as demanding. It seems that Nitwit is like your average girlfriend, and requires a regular beating to stay in line.

Suzuki Madness (feats of strength)

Today while backing in to a big pile of crap, I nudged one of the four jack stands that were supporting a gutted Suzuki Samurai (no engine, transmission, roof or wheels). Of course, the damn thing came down. Unfortunately, the boss was standing right there and was pissed. I said that we'll just pick it up and place it back on the stands.

Then, I picked it up and Manuel stuck the stands back under the frame. I really didn't think that I was going to be able to dead lift a Suzuki, but I totally did. Hilarious. I didn't even dislocate my wrists, but I think that I'm three inches shorter.

I'm truly astonished.

More Back Pain.

I think that I did a number to the back last night with the amp-moving as well as the tire fiasco. I got "stuck" doing my exercises today. I'm so ready for this to be over.

Water.

Bad ass. The water just got turned on. Now, I can cook and stuff.

How primitive is it to get excited when the running water is turned on?!?

Another Write-Up.

I really don't like that photo at all. That one that Claypool did at Cocaine Blues really is great, even if it probably won't publish well. Anyhow, here is the new write-up, in Syntax.

Alergias

The weather patterns for the last couple of days have me totally sneezy and not feeling peachy. The benedryl helps, but I don't like the feeling stoned bit (can't drive so good, apparently).

I don't like it. Hopefully, I'll be cool by the weekend.

You Can Drive The Big Rigs

Today was my first (semi) successful route with my grey goose. Last week, I lost an important 1/8" air line to the transmission--no shift, no brakes, no nothing.

It was like truck-driving school 101 - shifting today. As it turns out, the tranny has been switched, but the shift pattern decal illustrates the old transmission. It goes something like this:

Ever since I drove the beast from New (Fucking) Jersey--that was horrible--I thought that 4/8 was broken. A light bulb went on late last week, and I tried something different (and reved the hell out of the engine). Totally, dude...it goes like this:

Real subtle, huh? Shifts like a maniac now, though. I'm actually not that good at floating gears in the goose, but I'm improving quickly. My upshifts are solid, as long as I remember that confounded pattern. Downshifts aren't a smooth endeavor; I still have to double-clutch 'em most of the time. At least I don't have someone barking gears at me:



I got stuck 4 times today in Boulder. I quickly learned that the power divider lock is great if you only want to go in a straight line. Eight wheels pushing means the front end is so light that steering inputs have zero effect. It's kind of lame. The old guy ordered me two sets of the TRYGG (Norwegian) ice chains:


With two sets of singles, I'll have lots of flexibility to put 'em on the front (although the zigzags would be best), or on either rear axle.

A New Physician.

Since I really screwed up my back last week, I was supposed to go to a follow up visit with my 'regular doctor' this week. I explained to the urgent care doctor that I had issues with my doctor (totally a quack in my opinion; the incorrect diagnosis with my chode issues was a deal-breaker), and that I'd appreciate the name of a good 'new doctor'. She thought that a sports medicine/family practice doctor would best meet my needs (I'm so so athletic, as everyone knows; hee hee hee). I didn't want to, but I scheduled an appointment for today.

I didn't really want to go, but I'm still having some issues--all of this heavy lifting is for the birds. I'm almost good on Monday mornings--but I get to recover on the weekends.

I showed up, and there weren't droves of octogenarians (freaked me out). There weren't dumb ugly chicks at the desk--only nice twenty-somethings. Black Sabbath (WAR PIGS?!? I was blown away) was playing on the overhead PA speaker (loudly). The two young ladies were very nice. In fact, after completing my paperwork, I didn't even have horrible hypertension (180/110 last week; 140/80 this week). Then, I waited for a couple of minutes.

As it turns out, the doctor is a fairly young guy; only slightly older than me, if that. He checked out my back, and, as it turns out, it's actually my fat ass that's spasmodic, and that inflammation has pinched the nerves that innervate my legs. Sweet--that might explain the constant pain. Apparently, my pelvis is all screwed up, too--he didn't say that it was broken, but that it could have been (unbeknownst to me), because it's pretty damn crooked (some x-rays might elucidate, but I want to get all good on the cheap). He seems to think that I'm fixable, and I'm all for it, because this chronic pain is fucking up my mood, seriously (ask LRC, or my handful of friends--you have to experience chronic pain to understand it. I'm actually a lot more not nice and 'eat shit' when I'm focusing on my pain). Luckily, playing music seems to cure me (it just distracts me). Now that I'm relegated to a single band, I can't get my pain fix, and have to do up the 'scripts. Oh well, I'm off-topic....

Next, he started with the grappling. I was like, "Whoa, dude, you're getting all Hulk Hogan on my ass" (funniest thing I've written recently). It freaked me out, for real. I didn't know that I was in a wrestling ring (it looked like a cheesy doctor's office, complete with magazines featuring Randy Jackson). As it turns out, dude was inclined to get chiropractic training after he had a rather desperate injury--he was in pain and willing to let another man beat him up to cure him.

I don't think that I've ever heard such sounds from the bones. I require a girl to walk on my back. A naked, hot, Asian girl...

So, I now have a family practice/chiropractor as my PCP. I think that I'm 3" taller, too. That wrestling shit really made me feel a lot better. He doubled my prescription for Flexeril, too (whoop--I really just need to keep a supply on-hand).

As it turns out, I require a "butt massage", seriously. How funny is that?!? That'll be one of my pickup lines. I also require heavy muscle relaxants and too much (makes me sick) NSAIDs. I'm so not sold of them because they hurt my stomach. I want something that will interact with the Flexeril, so I won't even have to drink.

I love pills.

Q: How'd I Stumble Upon This?

A: Surfin' the forums, again.



Man, there's really some soul-less stuff out there.

This is much better (the carrot clarinet is only the start of the veggie nonsense to come):

A Winter Fucking Wonderland?

One cannot imagine how much I love my job on days like these. Chains tear up my hands, and the fuckeed clutch on the KW meant for a sketched out day. I told dude that I don't like being preached at, and he chilled on the 'jah' jazz. Actually, I like him, but that evangelical Rastafarian crap sucks. I actually used the phrase "get serious, dude," as well as "you've been brain-washed."

Still, it was a pretty sight, even if there's a cliff on the left side that was calling out my name.

Mighty.

Usually I really try to post my music stuff somewhere else. This evening is an exception, though. Tonight, Bad Luck City reinforced that we could mix it up as well as learn. We're working up songs for the record before we have to go into the studio. Only one of 'em is totally done. We play differently since the scoring incident. We got a good review here, though.

Kelly totally threw down with a violin march (or it became a march) that was fuckin' great. I was stoked that we re-worked one that wasn't that exciting live the two times that we've done it. The new version is going to be much better, even if we have to do up a keyboard part.

Actually, that's the real reason that this is a public deal. BLC is looking for a Rhodes piano or a vibraphone, preferably cheap. I think that a Rhodes will serve us best. Now that we have a two Hammonds; something percussive is required. Sure, the Kurzweil can do all of these sounds with ease, but it just seems cheesy to have a synth on our stage.

Certainly, we're going to require a bigger rehearsal space if we add more instruments.

I'm Terrible.

Tonight's goal was to pick up a pair of pants that will go with the Halloween costume. Alas, a sale was encountered, and I wound up buying yet another dark grey suit. Damn it, man! At least this one was reasonably priced (so I don't care if beer gets spilt on it---or the obligatory cigarette burns that my suits attract while chillin' on the patio with the band).

I got two awesome shirts and a tie, too.

Bad Luck City is a bad influence. I've gone from zero suits that fit to three. And a jacket that I need to lose weight to wear (just a little).

I seriously have a clothes buying problem when I perceive that the checking account has money in it.

Buy My Vote 2008

Watching these doofuses 'rescue' Wall Street has me totally beside myself. GW told me that everything was grooby a couple of weeks ago. Maybe the 'fundamentals' aren't flawed, but you fools aren't playing the fuckin' game right. It's like mumblety peg with a butter knife.

My prediction is hilarious inflation within months. Buy precious metals or petroleum (it's on sale).

Unfortunately, I'm so disgusted with the options, I've decided to sell my vote to the highest bidder. Email me if you're interested.

Work Whining.

Meanwhille, back at el rancho loco, Mahoney fired dude again on Monday. I'm not even making this up, friends. It's not that big of a deal since for the four weeks he "worked" for us, Mahoney gave him two weeks of "vacation."

Today, he got word from the insurance company that our felony conviction driver is uninsurable. Months ago, I told him, "Don't hire felons, because DOT doesn't let 'em drive trucks." My mother and Kip advised him similarly. I was told that I was "full of shit."

I could get really pissed, but I won't because it's fucking priceless to watch the old guy lose his mind--he doesn't have a good plan, and even called me four times during my afternoon cat nap.

Apparently, The Old Guy Was Kidding

And we're still at "full" strength at work. All I have to say is that working for Mahoney is a thrill a minute. Seriously, I need to do something else. This wishy washy shit (as well as the non-verbal communication) is getting really old.

One Of These People Doesn't Belong At The Show (not a music post, just whining)

Why? Dig this (or watch me rationalize my anti-social):

• I don't even dig the social bullshit that comes with live music. I love love live music, but I really don't want to deal with people. I'd rather listen to the soundboard recording at home, honestly. So, obviously, I totally had to get the fuck out of there. Too many people were vibin' me out completely.
  

• Steve's cousin made an appearance (need to get that checked out--now that Manuel isn't in jail and Kip's not on vacation, I ought to be able to do that). Shittin' blood just ain't cool, my dudes, especially when you're at the show.
  

• After all, it should've been Neil's show. Next time, I'll just say 'no thank you.' It would've been different if he'd asked me. I feel entirely dirty. It was one of those things that at the time seemed like a good idea. My friends encouraged me, and they're pretty convincing (and mean well, I'm sure).

• I totally fucked up, too. All the energy drinks and lime green wristbands in the world couldn't have stopped that. I just ain't Rocks Tar material, friends. I can't even play the instrument after 20 years. In fact, I ought to just quit.
  

• I'm fucking tired. Getting up and starting work before the sun comes up and then having to drive fast and run all day makes for complete exhaustion.

Tomorrow, though, it all starts again. I just wish that I could live up to the tattoo. I'm so fed up with this shit. Seriously.

Maximum R&B (epic narrative of my weekend)

Since Wednesday, it's been non-stop, my droogs. I'm fucking burnt out, seriously.

Wednesday was the OC photos. I'm not so into getting photographed, but Laurie seems to be pretty cool. I think that I screwed up my neck posing.

Thursday night was Bad Luck City's big bad tour to Fort Collins, where we played with Badman (who are awesome). The 'tape' of the show sounds amazing as far as the band goes. The vocals sounded shitty, though. I had fun.

Friday was a fucking painful day at work. I'm glad that I don't do that shit every day. It was a special occasion.

Friday night was the baddest show in town: Reverend Deadeye (who's learnt hisself some tricks on the road), The Omens, Badman (killer set), and us. The Larimer Lounge has two blown monitors at the moment: stage right and the drum monitor. Uncool.

Saturday was picking up Mesa number two at the shop. Next, I killed some time with LRC (I wanted to buy her lunch but she had other plans). Then, it was off to the BLS band rehearsal. We're going to pull this shit off. Live music needs a little danger to be exciting to play (I think that Steve Harris said something like that once). I went home and got myself drunk (finally).

Sunday was agonizing over rehearsal tapes and then delivering 'em to BLS. Then I went to LRC's where French toast was waiting for me (with a couple pounds of bacon). Killer. We screwed around and went to the rock-stick-mega-haus because I needed another rack case for numero dos. We ate chinese food and watched Clue (I hadn't seen it through--just bits). I passed out and got a nice little nap before going to rehearsal again. We rocked.

I'm fucking tired.

Why Am I So Sweaty?!?

Seriously, man...I think that it's my nerves showing. I hate this shit--it's embarassing and a genetic issue. I need to stop trying to do everything that I can. Seriously...when November hits, I'm going to have to make some hard choices, I think. I wouldn't say that I'm unhappy, but actually over-extended, emotionally (numb, anymore), physically (this is a real nightmare), creatively (no alzheimers for the non-rapping JZ, but shit, I can't keep it up).

I'm on the hook until the Halloween, though. I'm going to have to say "no" to anything post-halloween to everyone, I think. I ought to just shoot myself and be done with it--the buckshot is loaded, but I can't let people down on my prior commitments.

I'm Not Spiderman

Today, the job required that I hang off the side of a garbage truck and use the big plasma cutter to fix some shit. Overhead plasma cutting is stupid. An unclean helmet lens is stupid. Greasy velcro shoes are stupid.

I seem to have injured my neck and back. I need some drugs, man.

Recording; Rehearsal; Soundtrack

It's a very busy (and thus, boozy) time for me.

This week we finally got in deep with the recordings. The bass rig makes the building make bad sounds, so live recording isn't really an option (again). I must've been much quiter for the RC record. Actually, I know that I was--the Ampeg setup just doesn't hit that hard. So, we're multi-tracking it out. It's a little bit of a drag for me, but I'm not discouraged at all. What we've tracked so far sounds awesome. E is fucking amazing (doing up drums with only a metronome). The guitars sound great, but we ran out of time to finesse the bass into the mix (we're super-close, though). I'm really really really superexcited about making this record.

Saturday was the initial rehearsal of the Sound Diapers (the SD). Actually, it went a lot better than I had anticipated. My somewhat improvised lines worked out just fine. I need to shake my fist at MH for making that one song difficult on the rhythm section (you cunt). It'll be good, and BLS is fucking stoked.

The BLC is writing really soundtrack-y stuff. We need to get both guitarists in a room to make 'em into songs. They're at their best when they can bounce ideas off each other--I'm only somewhat good at writing changes up. Still, we're going to go test Greg's studio for some of the soundtrack stuff.

And I have two (?!!?) looming projects on the horizon to think about. Seriously, I think that two bands is about right, although I'm stoked to play four nights a week. Maybe three bands? LRC hates this shit, though, because I never see her. I can't make any decision until I'm done with this SD deal.

Depressed.

I think that this deal has blossomed into a depression/anxiety sort of thing. That 12-gauge is looking appealing, again. The drive to practice from Lakewood made me want to seriously do myself in.

I'm feeling completely tapped-out (cashed) for the creativity. It's getting to be agonizing to come up with something new as far as bass goes. With two bands in hard core writing mode, it's getting a bit arduous for me. I discovered a new trick tonight, though, and instead of listening to one guitarist and crafting my line based on that, I listened to what the other guy was doing and did a counter-harmony on that. It changed the song a lot more than I intended, though. Changing the fundamental is almost too much power to wield for me.

This bummed me out a lot; I want to disappear. Dude is building a database of front range bands and shit, so I guess that it's an admirable task, but just about impossible to keep up to date.

Today, I loaded 10,000 pounds of pine needles and cactus into my truck with the help of a couple of 17-year-olds (they REALLY impressed me, actually). Airborne cactus spikey things are currently infesting my epidermis, and making me miserable.

Tomorrow is 14 tons of gravel to deliver and spread in Mahoney's driveway. That's a lot of fucking gravel, but with my new dump truck, it ought to be easy work. The temporary tag expires on the 26th, so I need to get all of my gravel hauling done ASAP. We're selling the dump body and replacing it with an awesome compactor as soon as we finish shortening the New Jersey monster truck.

Tomorrow is also getting together with the RC to work out the set list and shit. I'm glad that fuckin' Ronny is so enthusiastic about this deal. That makes me feel like I'm doing good. I'm all about high-exposure gigs, if it means a string deal (that's the reason that I said yes).

The bass amps and speakers are not pleasing me at the moment. I caught the SWR 1x15" on fire a couple of nights ago. I picked up an Eminence replacement that's rated 600 watts at 8 ohms--this might be usable (shit, Tommy Shannon uses 'em). Go Kentucky! It's a nice nice speaker, for sure. The Booger is STILL in the shop. Dude is busy, and faster than Stubby, but shit, I'm miserable without that amp. Equipment nightmares are the worst kind.

Mostly, I'm FUCKING TIRED. People want stuff, and I deliver, and I'm miserable. Soon it will be over.

Dreams--Nightmares and Napmares

I can't seem to shake this one. After I get over the horrible feeling that if I go to sleep, I will not wake up (I've been using melatonin, anti-histamines, and the booze to quell those anxieties). At some point, I do fall asleep, and that's when I encounter the 'fish-people.'

The 'fish-people' are atlantians (not from the ATL) or something (could be some H.P. Lovecraft crap) and are utterly horrifying. They have gills (which are only visible in certain light at bars) along their necks and, oddly, in their eyebrows. They are bald.

They are also trying to trick me.

Once they trick me, they will turn me into a giant cat. I'm still trying to understand the reason for that shit--I wake up every time that I'm close to discovering WTF.

It's like "Man From Atlantis" gone wrong, really. Goddamn being a TV junkie when I was little:

Insecto Loco; Weather; Photos; Super Huge; Goals and Shit

A fucking yellow jacket got up my pants' legs today. Stung me twice on the left leg, and, after I seizured him out of that leg, five times in my right kneecap. It's not as bad as it sounds, actually. I'm apparently not that allergic to the damn things. Manuel said "el insecto es loco," after I crushed its head and it was walking around in circles on the truck floor. He crushed it, and ended the ordeal. Three antihistamines were just the ticket, although I was very stoned at The Weather Center this evening.

It rained tonight! Awesome. Apparently, there was a tornado warning while we were writing another new one. Like we'd even be able to hear the air raid sirens, right?

Jason Claypool has his photos from the DPUMS up. He actually caught me at a good moment--this is as close to rock posing (funny link) as I think that I'll ever get. I was actually making faces at the camera, but timing is everthing in photography, right. I think that he did good.



During practice, I got one of those big bad important "this is urgent, call me back" voicemails. It sounded grave as shit, so I did on the way home. I'm pretty damn excited, but I'll wait to break the news to all but my closest friends. It's sort of one of those gigs that you can't say "no" to without kicking yourself afterwards. Andrew and I are stoked (he called me basically in the same surreal mood). The next couple of months are going to be rock central for yours truly, but this is what I've wanted to do since I was little.

Actually, when I was 11 or 12, I saw the late night television show bands and decided that I wanted to be a professional musician. I told my dad that, and he was actually excited for me. It's probably the only time that someone has encouraged me to follow dreams. I'm still not there, but well on my way to getting enough calls to stay busy--now, if only I could get paid sessions. I'm going to work my ass off to make this one gig completely perfect, though. It shouldn't be too difficult--seriously, I filled in for Ventura that one time with Ghost Buffalo, and those were giant shoes to fill (you know what they say about Phillipinos with big shoes--they have big feet).

Shit, I'm burnt out.

Hot Brown

No, not Tom Ventura's alter-ego:

Not the sandwich with the gross name (it sounds tasty if I could get my mind around that name; I'm certain that Mornay sauce is being withheld, like gravy, unbeknownst to me).

That's what August is like in Colorado. Twenty degrees cooler was welcome for today's drive about Boulder, but I've had about enough of this shit. I loaded 10,000 pounds today. The slight breeze was just enough to make the Styrofoam peanuts dance faster than I could shovel 'em up. At the landfill, it was indeed a dust o rama, again. I accidentally got some lime in my eyes from a construction/demolition load.

Fucking Tired.

I think that I did good tonight. People seemed to be into it, at least. I can't feel my right hand now, though. The new set up seemed to perform admirably, and that made me comfortable about 2/3 through the first set. The second set was easy easy, although I felt like I was on the wrong side of the stage. Next time, I'll move.

On the way home, I had visions of schemes to get more gain, although the LPB-1 does a decent job. I think that tomorrow's (today's) outing with be to pick up some new preamp tubes. I have no idea WTF is in there, or how old they are. A new set of JJs can't hurt.

Playing a loud rig like that presents different problems, such as fucking infinite sustain. Dampening is not one of my skills--I do it somewhat, but I'll have to re-train myself. I turned down two notches for the OC set. The BLC set was the same levels without the booster, or extreme EQ.

Tired.

I'm glad that I only have three days left until dude gets back from vacation. Seriously, who goes to Vermont to climb mountains when you live in Colorado??

Frustrateed, Really

The SNOCAP has some issues.

Apparently, we're selling some downloads (hilarious to me), but getting paid is another story. Apparently, they require a nine-digit routing number for the bank-account-direct-deposit jazz (at least we have a bank account, which is a great start). This is all cool, I suppose, but why is it that when I input our nine-digit routing number for the bank account, they claim that the account routing number must be nine digits?!? I'm too drunk to deal with this shit.

Additional, agonizing, help desk emails are required, I'm certain.

WATER OK!

Today, I got to drive the 1997 Peterbilt 320. I'm always the lucky one that gets to rock the convection oven on wheels during the summer. I need to get a thermometer for the inside of the cab. The dashboard and gauges actually get too hot to touch.

It's actually a pretty cool truck with some really wonky wiring--13 gauges tell me about just about everything (need an exhaust pyrometer, I suppose) most of the time. The warning alarm told me "WATER OK" and screamed at me intermittently all day long. I'm certain that the wire from the sending unit must be grounding out or something. I'll worry about that sometime when it's nice and cool.

I didn't do the right side driving today, although I did pull the right door off for ventilation. Adjusting the mirrors for the right side is a pain. It's really hard on my knees and hips to drive standing up, too. I suppose that I'm getting too old.

This dude doesn't have to pick up the cans--those giant carts are the most evil invention ever. Lucky bastard:



I think that I got some dehydration/heat exhaustion going on. Stalactites on my eyebrows, dry mouth, no sweating, dizziness, a horrible headache, and vomiting at the recycling plant all lead me to this conclusion.

This Is Going To Be Agonizing

Tonight had more boominess a la the weekend writing session. I actually turned down several notches, too. I hate that lately the orange one is sounding something like a TR808, with no changes. It's not like I didn't know that it wasn't sounding good. The strings are totally full of skin and sweat--this is indeed a case of the summertime blues, for which there ain't no cure (so I hear):



Either way, I need to change 'em out asap--BLC requires 'em to be slightly less bright than I like 'em.

Someone is going to make this really difficult, and I'm not going to name names. I almost wish that it was to be a piecemeal, soulless deal so that I didn't have to deal with "my guitar doesn't sound like I have several thousand dollars in pedals."

It's irritating at the moment, and I'm just venting. I think that I'll get a musicman pickup installed...hell, I'll just get a musicman so I get that awesomer modern sound. I suppose that I can turn down more so that there's nothing to whine about--that's a better solution. This isn't a bass-heavy band anyway. If I'm inaudible, I don't even care.

I Hate Everyone.

Or, almost everyone. I'm really pissed that dude is taking a vacation right when we're already short two drivers. The old man feels good about getting rent-a-drunks to drive our trucks. Then, he's mad when they wreck 'em. I protested the whole idea, and all that I could think, to myself, of course, was "put on your surprised face."

I've been too pissed off to eat for two days. I'm sure that has done nothing but help my cheerful charlie.

This is a really great track from I Am Singing To You From My Room. I don't remember it being quite as bombastic when the RC opened for 'em. Frightful, really. I don't recall a synth on stage, either. Maybe that's Christoph sodomizing the lap steel? The end is some pseudo-throat singing (amps beating against vocal cords). Awesome.

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Now playing: Michael Gira - All Souls' Rising (Live Fragment)

The Cocktail That Doesn't Work

And, I was totally not wanting to rock today, but I did make it to the writing session:

20 mg of that amazing cyclobenzaprine;
800 mg of the ibuprofen;
1160 mg of magnesium salicylate; and
440 mg of naproxen sodium

It did make me quite sleepy, however, my droogies, I still have the agonizing pain. I think that I require some opiates, friends. I swear that I'm not just thrill-seeking. I need to cool this crap out so that I can rest. I went to the booze barn this afternoon, just in case I will require alcohol therapy to pass out and get some sort of sub-standard sleep.

I hate this painful shit, really.
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Now playing: Led Zeppelin - Achilles Last Stand

My Aching Back

Holy smokes, dudes! I really screwed myself up by wearing All-Stars last night while stoned on the Aleve. I'm supposed to help move a hot tub before the rock today, but I'm not so sure about that. I'll see if I can create a cocktail to make it happen. There's some cyclobenzaprine around here somewhere...

This Rocks

Apparently, Yessit has the show at the Gothic covered. 6/6 marked one year since I began my homework for BLC. I'm still happy in the band, too.

A Weekend of Rock

Three sets for me this weekend!

I'm stoked about this myspace bulletin, which I think is some of my best writting ever:

Greetings friends and lovers,

Friday night, Bad Luck City plays The Gothic Theater in Englewood for our first show outside of Denver. It's almost like being on tour, or not. Put on your kabuki makeup, and come down early because we're opening this one.

Saturday night, we're pleased to be playing The Westword Music Showcase at 8 p.m. at Andrew's on Lincoln (not our drummer's house). Come down and enjoy a silver bullet with us and all of the other great acts.

Details are at Westword.com.

Love,
Bad Luck City

Tonight's practice with the OC felt really good, even though someone wants to change his rig (fucker). The OC is "runnin' strong," all NASCAR style, though. That band plays at 3:30 at Bar Standard on Saturday.

This Would Be Fun

From here. August is turning out to be quite busy. Anyway, I doubt that I'd be chosen--I sort of suck:

Rhys Chatham: A Crimson Grail, For 200 Electric Guitars (Outdoor Version)
Commissioned by Lincoln Center for Lincoln Center Out of Doors 2008 (World Premiere)

In 2005, the New York composer Rhys Chatham was commissioned by the city of Paris to write a piece of music. The result was A Crimson Grail, a work for 400 electric guitars, which premiered at the basilica of Sacré-Coeur for La Nuit Blanche, an all-night arts festival. For its first U.S. performance, the work has been extensively revised by the composer for an outdoor performance at Lincoln Center's Damrosch Park, to suit the dynamics of the park's outdoor acoustic. A Crimson Grail will call on the talents of 200 guitarists (including 16 electric bassists), who will be selected from an applicant pool drawing on the many talents of musicians in New York City and beyond.

Guitar strings generously provided by D’Addario

Requirements for performing in A Crimson Grail:

1. It is necessary to be a competent guitarist with at least a rudimentary comprehension of standard musical notation. A bit of basic music reading is involved to be able to perform. All musicians participating will be assigned to one of four sections, each of which will have their parts provided in simple written notation and textual instructions, and explained by section leaders.

2. You must be able to commit to attending all three rehearsals, and all 12 hours of rehearsal time. Rehearsals will be held at a Manhattan location to be announced later, tentatively scheduled for 6 to 10pm on each of the following days: Tuesday, August 12; Wednesday, August 13; and Thursday, August 14.

3. This may sound obvious, but you must be able to commit to attending a day-long rehearsal/sound check and the performance on Friday, August 15. The approximate performance time for A Crimson Grail is 8pm, on a multi-artist show that begins at 7pm. You and your equipment will need to be in place prior to the start of the concert. The performance is outdoors, with guitarists on the perimeter of Lincoln Center's Damrosch Park, West 62nd Street between Columbus and Amsterdam. A rain location will be planned.

4. Each guitarist must bring his or her own equipment for all rehearsals and performance. This must include: an electric guitar or bass of good quality that stays in tune; a good quality amp (having a power rating of not less than 50 watts); a guitar jack (20 foot minimum); a guitar strap; a digital guitar tuner; a guitar stand; and a string changer. At the composer's request, you will need to re-string your guitar, guitar strings provided by D'Addario (www.daddario.com). Please note the following restrictions: No acoustic guitars. No hollow body electrics. No vibrato or whammy bars.

5. Sorry, but no beginners. Professional and semi-professional musicians will be given preference over amateurs.

6. This is an all-volunteer event. Due to the size and scale of the event, there are no fees or expense reimbursements for participating guitarists. The experience of being part of a once-in-a-lifetime performance…priceless.

Deadline to Apply: All applications must be received electronically no later than June 15, 2008.
Notifications: All guitarists/bassists selected will be notified by July 15, 2008.

Feel The Groove...(infested)

Indeed, this wrist pain is keeping me awake. I'm contemplating bass lines on the new OC song. What I have is passable, but straight eighth notes are so damn uninspiring. I have a new rhythm for the bridge, if it feels right with the band. I hate changing my parts because I feel like E will think that I'm being flaky (I'm afraid of her, still). Usually, it's an evolution of what I've been feeling (the groove) and not articulating [too analytical (or too white) regarding these things].

Hospitality, Bitches

Tomorrow is my trip to the hospital in order to cure my malady (second time for this repair). I'm all nervous and shit. My mantra is all about feeling better after I go under the knife. No BLC practice on Saturday means I can actually do some recovering, although I'd rather play bass than chill out stoned on Oxycodone (hee hee) all weekend long.

Speaking of that, I feel like I'm playing really well presently. My BLC rig is sounding awesome and Ampeg-y. I am digging that 4x10" sound for that band (who'd have thunk). The orange one is sounding nice, too, wired parallel. Working out "The Distaff" last weekend was really a high point for me. Just hanging out with Dameon, Andrew and Kelly really can improve my attitude.

Agonizing through a very peculiar bridge tonight was equally satisfying. The tube meanie is requiring some dialing in, however. I'm either standing too close to the amp, or playing too loud. That B tonight was totally getting away from me. Maybe that's because it's all 60 cycle? That's my theory for the time being. I'll work it out. Might need to do some work to quell that feedback--maybe switch to heavy gauge strings (!?!), a higher-mass bridge, and a brass nut (mas mass). I need to replace zee hinkey nut since I've fucked it up with los cheapies de medium. After the next batch of shows, I'll take her into the shop.

The two bands are very different sounds, and I'm glad that I can get my electric grandmother off after getting my moody on. I cannot use a plectrum, though. Thus, I'm not going to pretend that I'm Peter Hook anytime soon. That was a funny moment.

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Now playing: New Order - Broken Promise

Too Hot...

It's like a fucking oven for some reason. I think that I'm going to douse myself in isopropyl and chill out naked on the porch. The neighbors love that shit.

That was a horrible movie that I was coerced into viewing....great interpretation of a song (right click; Save Link As...), though.

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Now playing: Juno Original Soundtrack - Sonic Youth - Superstar

Four Rainbows At Once!!!!

It was totally surreal. I had to be shifting and stuff, so I only got a picture of one:


Rainbows don't ever photograph well. The shadow of the mountain that I was on makes the whole photo look weird.

I am way exhausteed. Out.

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Now playing: Kc And The Sunshine Band - That's The Way

Maybe This Is What's Wrong With Me

I've been really down lately, outside of music, at least. That stuff is going quite well, but otherwise it seems that there's little to get really stokeed about. From here:

Feds: Teen use of pot can lead to dependency, mental illness

By JENNIFER C. KERR

WASHINGTON (AP) — Depression, teens and marijuana are a dangerous mix that can lead to dependency, mental illness or suicidal thoughts, according to a White House report being released Friday.

A teen who has been depressed at some point in the past year is more than twice as likely to have used marijuana as teens who have not reported being depressed — 25 percent compared with 12 percent, said the report by the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy.

"Marijuana is a more consequential substance of abuse than our culture has treated it in the last 20 years," said John Walters, director of the office. "This is not just youthful experimentation that they'll get over as we used to think in the past."

Smoking marijuana can lead to more serious problems, Walters said in an interview.

For example, using marijuana increases the risk of developing mental disorders by 40 percent, the report said. And teens who smoke pot at least once a month over a yearlong period are three times more likely to have suicidal thoughts than nonusers, it said.

The report also cited research that showed that teens who smoke marijuana when feeling depressed were more than twice as likely as their peers to abuse or become addicted to pot — 8 percent compared with 3 percent.

Experts who have worked with children say there's nothing harmless about marijuana.

"I've seen many, many kids' lives negatively impacted and taken off track because of marijuana," said Elizabeth Stanley-Salazar, director of adolescent services for Phoenix House treatment centers in California. "It's somewhat Russian roulette. There are so many factors, emotional, psychological, biological. You can't predict the experimentation and how it will impact a kid."

Bruce Mirken, communications director for the Marijuana Policy Project, an organization that advocates the decriminalization of marijuana, called the study "an absolutely dishonest report, deliberately confusing correlation with causation."

"This very week the British government's official scientific advisers on illegal drugs issued a report saying they are 'unconvinced that there is a causal relationship between the use of cannabis and any affective disorder,' such as depression, he said.

The drug control policy office analyzed about a dozen studies looking at marijuana use, including research by the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration.

Overall, marijuana use among teens has decreased 25 percent since 2001, down to about 2.3 million kids who used pot at least once a month, the drug control office said.

While the drop is encouraging, Walters appealed to parents to recognize signs of possible drug use and depression.

"It's not something you look the other way about when your teen starts appearing careless about their grooming, withdrawing from the family, losing interest in daily activities," Walters said. "Find out what's wrong."

Surprising To Me

The lineup for Felch-Fest 2008 surprised me, seriously. I shouldn't be surprised anymore. It's like I commented on a friend's blog recently:

Put on your surprised face, man. It's always the same.

99% of people are going to really disappoint, eventually.

The Annual Contest

LRC called me yesterday and asked me if I had seen this week's Westword. I had not. She spoke of the "contest" (not a masturbation contest). I had no idea WTF she was talking about. She asked if I wanted to hear the categories. Then it sank in...that contest.

For the record, it is my belief that music contests are silly (like those piano contests or violin contests, or The Westword Music Showcase), and stifle forward-thinking artists by giving accolades to the lowest common denominator. It's a popularity contest.

This follows from my marketing plan for bands:

Play out as much as possible, and tell people that they like it, and eventually, they will. Name recognition is the name of the game.

It seems that a lot of the nominated bands are following that plan. Neither of my current bands are, however. I'm sort of stunned that either of 'em made the cut. The OC has played two public shows--no one has really seen this band. The BLC likes to play out, but we'd rather write new material--I think that playing in the basement is probably more rewarding with that band.

After looking through the list, I see that I've played with three of the other acts (Red Cloud West, Ghost Buffalo, Joe Sampson), and I feel like a complete whore. It's a good feeling that I seem to surround myself with noteworthy bands, though.

My favorite part about the contest is commentary on the denber message board.

Earth Day

It ain't easy being green. The irony of 60 cubic yards of MSW from so-called "zero waste" businesses was almost more than I could bear today.

Out Of Tune Guitars

Suck. I hate that shit. Unacceptable, especially when you have slick locking trems. Fuckers:

For Linda Ruth...

or others that aren't so into the Poison video-o-rama....

My Brother, Dr. E-dogg, was totally into the Poison. Our father trasheed all of those records because of the 'sex on the beach' from the 'open up and say ahh' record. Anyhow....here's the shit from él señor de amor a la roca:

Actually...it's all about 'talk nerdy to me,' LINDA. Think that I require a lime-green B.C. Warlock, really:




Indeed, I require a Warlock (and lots of cocaine);...is that the RATT or Randall sound?!? Priceless '80s video (love the Newman-lookin' father):



Overcasters require more choreography; certainly for the videos. 'F'J.N. certainly has enough banjos to pull off nonsense such as this:



Classic...I require some crazy brunette groupie (I love 12-string anything):

The Road Warrior

It feels like it, anyway. I used to drive a lot more when I was consulting during the damn-fool water well project. 1,200-and-something miles in two days seems like a lot now.

On Wednesday, I was sent to Scranton, Iowa, to have a body "partially mounted" (technical term) on the truck that I drove from California last year. As it turns out, "partially mounted" is the "Mexican Way," if you ask José, or the "Irish Way," if you ask Mahoney. My evaluation of the "chain it to the frame" method is "a half-assed way." Apparently, the truck-builders felt the same way, and I wasn't able to convince them into such nonsense.

The New-Way facility is totally awesome. I got a factory tour. There were no robots here, though (thank goodness...they'd have had their way with me). Scranton Manufacturing is a small company that has grown enough to compete with the big boys in refuse equipment (Heil, McNeilus, etc). They just got the contract to build 300 trucks for the Beijing Olympics.

They do indeed build some nice equipment. It's pretty, and reliable (trash man speaking here). They're nice guys, too.

I shot some photos of the yard (no top-secret factory photos here):

Lung Butter

That's what we called it in high school. All I know is that coughing it up means relief, especially if it's chunky and green. I'm sucking down the high-powered expectorants, and it still feels like I'm having major pulmonic issues.

Coughing...coughing...this doesn't help my sleeping or, my emotional state (people are out to get me, again).

Amazing.

Yeah, that's some really radical shit--it's a good thing that I'm not a parent. The worst part is those talkradio idiots this afternoon saying how inappropriate the haircut is. From the AP:

Ohio School Suspends Boy Over Mohawk

PARMA, Ohio (AP) — A kindergarten student with a freshly spiked Mohawk has been suspended from school. Michelle Barile, the mother of 6-year-old Bryan Ruda, said nothing in the Parma Community School handbook prohibits the haircut, characterized by closely shaved sides with a strip of prominent hair on top. The school said the hair was a distraction for other students.

"I understand they have a dress code. I understand he has a uniform. But this is total discrimination," she said. "They can't tell me how I can cut his hair."

An administrator at the suburban Cleveland charter school first warned Barile last fall that the haircut wasn't acceptable. The school later sent another warning to her reiterating the ban.

Mohawks violate the school's policy on being properly groomed, school Principal Linda Geyer said. Also, the school district's dress code allows school officials to forbid anything that interferes with the conduct of education.

Ruda's hair became a disruption last week when Ruda arrived freshly shorn, Geyer said. Administrators called Barile on Friday telling her to pick Ruda up from school.

"This was his third infraction," Geyer said Tuesday. "We felt that we were being extremely patient."

Rather than request a hearing to appeal the suspension, Barile said she'll enroll him at another school. Changing the hairstyle is not an option, she said.

"It's something that he really likes," Barile said. "When people hear Mohawk, they think it's long, it's spiked, it's crazy looking, and it's really not."

Clothes Shopping

Man, I hate shopping for clothes. This one reason that my closet looks like a super-hero's--limit the choices, and I can get ready in like thirty seconds.

I'm working on building up the wardrobe of decent clothes, though, mostly for the rockshows. I've allowed myself to get too big for any of my nice clothes. It would certainly be less expensive to just waste away to fit into the "skinny jeans," but I think that I'm pretty stable at the current weight.

This photo really makes me feel fat, though:



The show was pretty good, apparently. I need to do something more as far as my dieting goes. I so don't think that the stripes worked.

I'm dreading the shopping, really. In TX, I could just cruise down to the ropa usada, where you get to wade through waist-deep warehouses of clothes and pay a nickel a pound--I was describing this to LRC, and she had no concept of such a thing (a NYTimes article here). I got that cashmere overcoat there (for $.70), but I gave that to Matt Stemwedel (of Maraca 5-0 fame) back in the day. I wonder how he's doing often.

This record is really growing on me (it's only taken a year):
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Now playing: Grinderman - Electric Alice/Grinderman

I-25 Can Suck On My Balls

Seriously, man....

It was totally unplowed during last week's storm, and today I got to sit for four hours (until the cops started turning northbound around--very fun to drive on the wrong side). All because of a fucking giant sinkhole:



It was a severe charlie-foxtrot if I've ever seen one.

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Now playing: mogwai - my father my king

A Country Band?!? You're Fucking Kidding Me, Right?

Bad Luck City appears to be in the regular rotation down at 1190, which is pretty cool. Yesterday's DJ commented that Adelaide is a "monster record," and that it had "high production value." I'm pretty sure that means that it has high fiddle-dee (that's good since Kelly is in the band).

Today's DJ announced that we were a "country band, but they play some slow stuff, too," after playing The Girls of St. Magdalene’s Parish. I like to think that I know a thing about country music (and that stuff that Nashville mass markets isn't). Maybe I'm too close to hear the country, but I really don't. Andrew commented that he hoped that dude meant alt-country.

Alt-country (a horrible too-inclusive genre) is way closer to real country music than that Antares Auto Tune infested stuff. The subversive country (like Bloodshot Records) is more up my alley, and what I think of when I hear "alt-country." Like The Devil's Own, or something else with swagger.

I'm All About Solutions

That title is totally consultant-speak, isn't it? I can't help it--that's how I learnt to writ, really. It applies this time, I promise.

Further research on the food allergy front has commenced. As it turns out, my grandfather is allergic to tomatoes [good information, MOM (I could've used that information years ago), but giving 'em up is going to be fuckinghell since they're my favorite fruit]. I know that shellfish hurts me (two months in Louisiana will teach you). Two other possible culprits are dairy products and eggs.

Shellfish are easy easy to avoid since I reside within the (mighty) Colorado; those other three are in virtually everything, and so much more difficult to avoid. I'm trying my hardest to cure the skin and GI problems once and for all. This shit has been getting me down since I was 15 (excepting that test of the 'mint chocolate chip ice cream' diet--my skin and guts were totally groovy for the first time in years--I think that I'm okay with dairy prod).

The second solution was at Robb's Music today. I talked to Jeff at length about what I was trying to do--he was suggesting that I build something. That's certainly okay for someone who gets electronics (which I don't, really--easy DC and open and closed are just about it for me). I should've gotten his numero de telefono, but I was too freaked out. Meanwhile, I was still on a quest for a non-buffered output a/b box. Robb's does not stock such a device, according to the bald elf with a rasta hat that helped me out. Dude suggested a passive volume pedal with a tuner out jack:

"You're kidding me, right?"

"It's right here, man."

Amazing. I've been thinking about a volume pedal for quite some time now, and presently have an excuse to own one. This seems like it will solve the problem of "tuner tone suck."

I certainly will require a fucking pedal board. I have some shit for it, and I'll mix it up (thank you Matt Winkleman). I need a wicked fuzz pedal (probably two of 'em), now, and the options are limited. I already have the mighty compressor, a couple of flangers, and the DI--I recently heard some envelope filter nonsense that made me want one (probably a nice one or some other interesting filter device).
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Now playing: the body lovers - 2. 5-32

Minus 58 Degrees?!?

Are you fucking kidding me?!?

That's what our thermo-meter told us today in Blackhawk. Lame. Lame. Lame. It was actually only -12; we agreed that the flags standing out from their poles meant that I was experiencing at least twenty mph winds, even though I was hanging off of the back of a ten mph truck.

Groundwater sampling in Cheyenne was better than this.

It was cold enough that my nose froze as well as my eyes and lower jaw (real pain, friends). The lung pain was tolerable within my brown clothes.

The "high point" of the day was taking a leak--I think that I got some freezer burn. I require an expert to examine this. At least it ain't black and falling off, right? Volunteers?

Job satisfaction is at an all-time low, my friends

As if being a trashman with a degree wasn't bad enough, right? Saturday's hell on Magnolia Road was a talk-o-rama with los customers. At 1730, dude in shorts and furry boots (only in the Nederland, Colorado metro area) decided to pull me over and talk for fifteen minutes about his trash-volume.

Are you even kidding me?!?

I put on my greenest face and 'bated him about the recycled shit.

Are you even kidding me?!?

Dude sez that he's going to give Mahoney a call on Monday.

Fed Up

Seriously, folks, this clown at work is getting on my nerves. I will get even since he's fucked up my plans for not one, but two weeks now.

I'm so piss-eed that I can't see straight.

Adjectives That Irritate (this will make some people mad)

While I love some of the music writers in this town, I find some adjectives quite irritating when describing music of the OC.

Really, any press certainly is good press, on the internets or otherwise. Hopefully this post won't bite us in our asses. I was in a group that essentially had a press blackout because one of the members is a tremendous writer of music views in this town. It's cool if I get us blacklisted, right? More underground cred, dogg.

Anyhow, some words are drivin' me up the wall:

Supergroup:
This is totally a noun, even if it's a descriptive one (whoops).

Webster's New Millennium™ [or milloonium] Dictionary of English says that it's an extremely successful musical group, esp. one created from members of previously popular groups.

The band had a better, Wikipedia-based, definition at rehearsal tonight. We think that it's crappy to think that you only have one chance to be in one good band before you're relegated to being a member of a supergroup. Luckily, none of us has been signed to a major label, thus, we're safe in our own opinion.

Psychedelic:
The American Heritage Dictionary (my favorite) says this: Of, characterized by, or generating hallucinations, distortions of perception, altered states of awareness, and occasionally states resembling psychosis.

All I have to say is watch me play after sucking down a quarter ounce of mushrooms. This isn't a psychedelic band (or, any more than any other band--music is better on drugs).

I have a tape that I made of me playing circa 1991 in my apartment at 3 a.m. (my neighbors were of the 'no habla' variety, so I was safe) when I couldn't come down in time for work in four hours. That, friends, is the psychedelic bass playing.

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Now playing: Jay-Z - Big Pimpin'

Tits Versus Boobs

That's a classic article in The Bitch Rag, (that's a 'zine that should be online) for sure. I'm wishing that things were more simple in the DIY publishing world. While I heart the computers, I pine for the time when 'making flyers' meant getting out the scissors and a glue-stik...the glue-stik smell (peanuts)...getting sticky fingers...stealing copies from a church; cutting 'em up with scissors.Layouts are too easy now. One person can do the design and email it to another for production. Text message communication with your drummer. Progress is good, but sometimes I get all fuckin' nostalgic.
Wow. Things were way different back in the day.

Humor is paramount.
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Now playing: Tarmints - Her Mainliner

When It Rains, It Pours

I really wanted to use the Morton® Salt girl, but I stumbled across the gothchick(tm) version, and couldn't resist her spooky.

Everything is happening allatonce, again:

• Dameon called me regarding "gay worms," and a BLC practice tomorrow (the first one in ages).
  
• Andrew "fuckin'" Warner just called me to let me know that it wasn't going to happen (sigh);
• Tomorrow evening, the OC is finally rehearsing again (whoot).
• Alison is sick, and Aileen didn't want me there, anyway, so no time with her family (actually, I'm relieved). I shouldn't take an eight-year-old's whim so personally, but I am. Still, I gifted her a faerie music box that I purchased from a dwarf (that was hilarious);
• The Booger is finished at the ampshop. Dude said that I'd burnt some resistors (thus, some of those bad noises). Also, he fixed those cooked jacks (actually his words were 'the jacked 4-ohm jacks'). It's souped up now with an adjustable bias, and running an honest 225 watts, instead of a questionable 185 (excellent for coping with Terrible Tidwell's thunderous). He said that I might find that it's a little brighter now (eek! gasp!). Finding a tube amp tech who is also a bass player is a good thing (thank you, Martha), though--we had a good long talk about how the valves make all the difference for so-called 'multi-dimensional' bass (y'all know what I'm talkin' 'bout). Now I know two people that I can talk intelligently with about bass amplifiers' sonics. One dude scared me to death and changed my life. There are a couple of friends, though, that I listen to. I hope that the Booger isn't totally changed.
  
• Control is in Denver. I can't go tonight, but maybe Sunday (I really want to see it with my sweaty).
• B.A.S. is in the house, and he brought his cousin. I hate them.
• I owe people calls. I hate that.

I shouldn't whine so much; really, this isn't so bad.

Mo' Po' Writting Courtesy of The Denver Post

There are a lot of great music writers in this town, and it really pisses me off when clowns are writing for the major papers. The real music journalism is still underground, it seems. John Wenzel made two hideous mistakes in his Bela Karoli write up in the Denver Post; his editor should be drawn and quartered:

1. "Qbase" has been edited in the online version, but it's in print, friends, and irritated me beyond belief while reading the paper during my "breakfast." Steinberg's Cubase had no 'q' last time I checked.
   Just wait, I'll start spelling "bass guitar" as "base guitar". Obviously, that would have a completely different meaning, though. It should be the base guitar, though.
   


2. Alumnus, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, means "A male graduate or former student of a school, college, or university." I'm certain that Julie's husband doesn't appreciate her being outed in such a public forum.
   
   Don't use the latin if you're ignorant of gender, number, and case. Wenzel must've been too transfixed by her sapphire-colored eyes (can't say that I'd blame him if that is indeed their color) to look it up.
   

I like what this band is doing, and I wish that a competent writer would do a decent article on them. Anyhow, here is the article (the current version):

Can't pin label on Bela Karoli
By John Wenzel, The Denver Post
Article Last Updated: 10/04/2007 08:50:23 PM MDT

Julie Davis turns to catch the sun from the distant front windows of Sputnik, a bar in which she has deposited herself with Bela Karoli bandmates Carrie Beeder and Brigid McAuliffe, and her sapphire eyes glint in the light.

Like Bela Karoli's music, Davis' effortless grace and riveting personality insist on engagement and reward it instantly.

"This band is the only thing I've found so far that feels like it unifies my efforts and thoughts," said Davis, a former theater major and alumnus of the Yale Divinity School. "What I love about music is that you create the context."

Davis' Denver-based trio, formerly known as Bluebook and renamed after the Olympian gymnastics coach, gets fitted with all kinds of awkward tags - trip-hop, indie-folk, electro-acoustic - but the deceptively simple, intricately rendered songs stir up words like "haunted" and "gorgeous" more often than not.

(Photo courtesy of Brigid McAuliffe)

When the band releases its long-awaited first album, "Furnished Rooms," on Saturday at the Hi-Dive, it will prove both its versatility and inability to be labeled. Anyone who has experienced "Invertebrate" or "Carnage" live knows the sublime qualities of the band's melody-drenched compositions.

"I'm interested in that space between the earth and the heavens," Davis said, looking toward the latter.

Her band's singularity is impressive. Few Mile High City bands sport an upright bass, electronic percussion, two women singing, violin, cello and accordion. Davis' jazz-addled vocals seduce you into thinking the band has already spent years being famous and adored.

It helps that "Furnished Rooms," which features cover art from Davis' artist/furniture designer husband David Larabee, sounds like the work of an inspired, experienced band. Meticulously recorded by Randall Frazier (Helmet Room Recordings, Orbit Service), the record is a marvel of sequencing and production - to say nothing of the songs' quality - and already a contender for the best Colorado release of 2007.

"I started working with Randall about a year ago, right around the same time we all started playing together," Davis said, eyeing Beeder (who has played with Born in the Flood) and McAuliffe (formerly of Pee Pee). "That's probably why it took us so long, because we had to rework the songs."

For Davis, who had written many songs during long car rides and realized them with Cubase software in her bedroom, the studio was unfamiliar territory. The upright bass alone took five to six months to properly record, a challenge of microphone placement, tone and performance.

"It was hard to know what the sound was going to be since we had different members in the band at different times," Beeder said. "It took a while to even get the three of us to work well together. We're still figuring it out, really. Julie puts tons of work into her electronic backing tracks, and that's growing and changing too."

McAuliffe nodded and leaned into the red vinyl booth.

"Recording brought out the awkward situation of trying to figure out what we'd evolved into," she said. "Both the process of recording and hearing the songs made us ask a lot of questions."

The band, which has previously featured members of Born in the Flood, Porlolo and other Denver luminaries, eventually refined its sound to a crystalline, moonshine-strength spirit. Davis' poetic lyrics flow inextricably from the music, the interplay sounding organic because it is.

"I get that same strange transcendent feeling from playing at a place like the Hi-Dive that one would from religion," Davis said.