Hello Cleveland!

What The Fuck Happened To My CD Collection?: First In A Series

2010-08-10T01:51:00.003-05:00

Somehow, like random socks in the laundry, my CD collection has dwindled to very little find-able gems from my past, through moves and giveaways and drunken self-vandalism.

(While I wish it did, this phenomenon doesn't explain or excuse why I bought and downloaded Soul Asylum's Hang Time despite there being No Fucking Way That CD Isn't Physically In This House. That's just fucking lazy.)

Anyway, the CD I miss tonight is Smithereens 11, by yeah, The Smithereens.

Judge me at your peril. And no matter what, there will be more where this came from.

Yours in Belinda Carlisle,
Tim

Andy Capp/Direct Capp: Jason Hurt's Twitter TNT

2010-07-14T09:59:00.004-05:00

From Jason Hurt’s Twitter Feed, July 14, 2010 (Offered as is, without commentary or spell check. If you think I’m putting the King’s English in the way of these moving parts, you’re insane.)

So I've been thinking a lot about AC/DC.
And I don't think they would be as sucessful today without Brian Johnson.
Now this isn't an arguement that Brian is superior to Bon Scott.
Of course Bon Scott wins.
The percentage of good to bad records proves this.
So Bon is 5 for 5 on international releases.
5 for six in Australia.
Where Bri is 3 for 10 worldwide.
So Bon wins on quality.
BUT....
I still don't think without Brian Johnson AC/DC would have a wing at Wal Mart.
First the easy part of the argument.
Without Bri, you don't get Back In Black.
Biggest rock record ever. Maybe the most rockin rock record ever.
It coulda be just as good under Bon.
It coulda been 10 times better.
But it wouldn't have been exactly Back In Black.
And I won't even entertain a "Bon Scott wrote Back in Black" arguement. Didn't happen. Fuck off.
And that's the big difference.
Bon looked like a rock and roll singer!
Dick press tight pants.
Costume-y, effeminate top.
Long hair.
Bon was kind of ugly but still a lot more pretty than you.
He wasn't exactly Robert Plant but he was in the same tree.
Bri on the other hand looks like fuckin Popeye!
He looks like Andy Capp!
He makes an effort to look like Andy Capp!
And he may be the only person in rock and roll that losing his hair was a great career move.
Have you seen footage of Bri with hair?
He prances around like Mick Jagger.
He looks like a fuckin idiot.
But as soon as he gets that hat he completely shanges his rock moves.
Which now doesn't contain a lot of movement.
Just a bunch of "I'll kick your ass" stances.
All this adds up to Brian Johnson looking like a guy who can fix your sink.
And that's important.
Bon Scott looked like a guy who would fuck your girlfreind while you're at work.
This is not uncommon among rock singers.
Brian Johnson looks like he would want to fuck your girl while you're at work.
But he can't because he's also at work.
And not in this false everyman sorta way bands like 3 Doors Down and Nickleback have.
Bri isn't tryin to be like everyone else.
Bri is tryin to be like Bon Scott.
And failing.
Because he's not as cool.
And kinda Fugly.
Which is why the average AC/DC fan totally relates!
They wanna fuck your girlfriend while you're at work but can't for the same reasons!
Fugly.
Not cool.
Also at work.
That AC/DC wing at Wal Mart was built on Brian Johnson's ugly mug.

No Posts In 3 Months? Really?

2009-01-22T23:47:00.003-06:00

Dialogue: mine, via MSPaint.

Forum/Impetus: The omnibrilliant yet humble R. Stevens of Dieselsweeties fame. And if you're not subscribed/blogrolled/otherwise addicted to that DieselSweeties rush, then I don't know that I can be your friend.

That's Right, I'm Writing About Tanya Tucker.

2008-10-06T01:43:00.011-05:00

I hadn't thought twice about Tanya Tucker since I was a child and she was the Leann Rimes of her day in the early 70's. Fast forward to 2008 and the ridiculous availability of just about any song more than two people ever heard, and I'm plunking down a dollar to download a Tanya Tucker song.

I remember being five or six and entranced by her Would You Lay With Me (In A Field of Stone); the vocal, the melody, the arrangement, even the lyrics that I really didn't understand at that point. But, time marches on and so did my musical tastes, and until Amazon.com uncovered a wild hair in my ass a few days ago, it had been easily 25 years since I'd heard the song.

And, holy shit, it's even more jaw-dropping nearly thirty-five years later.

The opening moments, just Tucker's voice and (what I think must be) a triangle (!), sound like she decided to beat the Afghan Whigs to their arrangement for covering it. And those lyrics (by David Allen Coe, if you can believe it) are just fucking deadly:

Would you lay with me in a field of stone?
If my needs were strong, would you lay with me?

Now that I've got some context, historical and otherwise, just the fact this song was released and became a country hit for a 15 year old girl in 1974 renews my faith in America (cue patriotic music), that we as a people can continue to make hits of songs like this despite the social conventions and barriers of the day.

Seriously, check this jam out, even if you can't imagine what it would've sounded like on the radio when you were six.

Steve Foley, R.I.P.

2008-08-28T01:45:00.002-05:00

Oh, man. My second thought, after Oh shit, that sucks. was Damn, he was 49?.

Overdosed on prescription drugs. Sad, sad, sad.

Man-Crush 2008

2008-08-09T16:27:00.003-05:00

Robert Downey, Jr., to Rolling Stone magazine:

I’m such a work in progress at the moment, it’s crazy, and life wants me on edge, I swear to you. But as long as I don’t forget the past, I’m cool. One must always be mindful, just like you might forget that old girlfriend who tried to slit your throat, but she’s really still hot. If you remember the stitches more than you remember the pussy, you’re going to be just fine.

Damn, I Forgot I Actually Have A Blog For This Shit

2008-07-27T01:14:00.003-05:00

Yet again, from a post on a message board, and not originally posted here:

Something Old: Failure's Magnified and Fantastic Planet. Most words fail me regarding the production on these two (FP in particular); every instrument, every note is in its place. You can choose to focus on any one element of a song, or let the wall of it collapse all around you.

Something New: Paul Westerberg's new offering 49:00 (available for 49 American pennies, the mechanics of which are discussed elsewhere on Whitechapel). It's not a polished or organized affair by any stretch, but it is entertaining and never dull. I especially love the layering and abrupt cuts. Sounds like your old FM radio antenna's going bad and you're ping-ponging between stations, especially when the Replacements-esque "covers medley" begins. Thanks, Paul.

Something Borrowed: Mark Lanegan's Here Comes That Weird Chill. Probably the best non-rock voice in rock. Saw him with his Gutter Twins side-project the night before Easter this year and he was goddamned riveting. I've seen him live a few times, but this was different. Still as a statue all night, but projected... life, I guess.

Something Blue: Superdrag- Wrong Vs. Right Doesn't Matter. It may not be 12-bar structured verses of American Southern drawl and "hellhounds on my trail" (though they are from Tennessee), but if you're spitting out "you're the bastard embalmed in disaster", I'm not going to dispute your blues.

So that's it, Whitechapel. I'm ready to walk down the aisle.

Wow, A Love Hangover Is Way Easier.

2008-06-13T12:56:00.003-05:00

I interrupt the (already-haphazardly) scheduled Tour Diary in progress to deliver the following:

My previous entry was the first thing I've written totally sober in at least six months, I'm guessing.

This includes blog entries, message board comments, my handwritten fiction writing notes, anything outside of Monday-Friday, 9 to 5 work product and the occasional daytime comment on Kissing Suzy Kolber or the like.

I don't know why I seemed to involve drinking in the writing process lately. I don't know why I'm posting this now. I really don't know if this post means I'm making a conscious effort to stop combining drinking and creating, or if I was ever making the former a kind of prerequisite for the latter.

I do know that the degree of difficulty in putting something out there was no greater sober than buzzed or addled. I do know that my anxiety after what I'd posted was just as monstrous yesterday as it was in any of the previous hungover days.

I do know that I've just written this because I had to get it out there, and didn't--couldn't wait until later tonight so I could crack open a Yeungling and a Red Bull and get started.

Hmmm. As I write this, I think I'm starting to see what those liquids were really doing...

I Wanna Be Abhorred: Tim On Tour, Part Five

2008-06-05T21:42:00.008-05:00

Day One Continued: The New World Brewery

After more than eight hours of driving, the last forty minutes spent circling the same half-mile stretch in Ybor City looking for the place we've all actually been to before, we finally arrive at rock show central, The New World Brewery. Zac got directions from Nessie leader Scott, so I do what rookie band-guy does: follow the frontman. (Though I actually printed Mapquest directions for the two clubs. I also own a TomTom but didn't bring it, which led to this from Zac the next day, AFTER AGAIN DRIVING AROUND BEHIND HIM LOST: "Hey man, why didn't you bring that TomTom?" Priceless.)

Apparently no harm done, as we're the only ones aggravated by our tardiness. We don't even need to unload our gear yet, as local legend Joe Popp (and his band The Hornrims) is setting up for his reunion show and playing first.

In fact, we are welcomed by our gracious hosts as the Nessie gents bring greetings. They are quite excited to see us (fellow bassist Joey refers to DFKF as Nessie's "brother band", and that's hard to dispute if you've heard them or us), and are pleasantly surprised that I made the trip and am actually playing with the band.

New World offers godhead pizza (which we've all been dreaming of since before we left), and an even greater beer selection (very potent brews in lovely bottles, a zillion drafts I've never heard of before... just stunning). Coincidentally, eating and drinking are all I can think of to combat my blossoming anxiety attack and to keep me occupied enough to not lock myself in the car until our show is cancelled. Between swallows, I try and mentally "play" the songs in my head; I really suck in my head. (By the way, seldom mentioned tourmate Shawn has made the trip from New Orleans with Zac just to record tonight's proceedings... I want to drink a gallon of beer right now just remembering that.)

In conversation with Jason as we unknowingly kept passing the bar, I brought up my nerves as we approached Zero Hour. He, apparently, has no idea how or why I could be uptight before the show, because he's never ever been nervous in this situation. And he's been playing in bands for probably 20 years. (Not helping, that one.) He manages to put me at ease a little, "Everything we do revolves around 4 notes: A, G, D, C. If you get stuck, just aim for one of those." Good and well-intentioned advice, but it was really sinking in that they've played these songs about 200 times more than I have. I had another beer and managed to at least remind myself that they accepted my offer to play not out of desperation, but because they felt I could pull it off.

The place is filling up (oh great, it's a pre-wedding party!) and Joe Popp and the Hornrims blow through their loose, playful set in what seems like record time. There's no real stage, just a flat wooden deck on top of the cobblestone brick patio for the bands, so audience contact is pretty easy and unpredictable. The same friendly lady who plopped down at our table earlier with her husband/boyfriend put on a nice little dance in and among the Hornrims as if at their direction. I began hoping she wouldn't pull a hamstring or tweak an ankle, so she could give an encore later and provide a little cover for whatever horrors I was about to unleash on poor Andrew, Jason and Zac.

A quick (thank god) mic and level check, and it's time to put up, then shut up. No setlist, which at first gave me bug-eyed pause, but probably the last thing I needed to be doing while playing song A was to be worrying about the changes in Song B. Hyperdrive first, just like practice. There's no way to confirm it because no video evidence exists, but I'm pretty sure that while playing the song fine, I looked like I'd just caught malaria. I began trying to approach the show like a job interview, make some eye contact and don't fidget but don't be stiff, either.

...audience contact is pretty easy and unpredictable... That part rears its head during the set after about the third song when I actually find myself in conversation with a new fan through the open doorway between our patio stage and the barroom proper. He likes the music, wants to know as much about us as I can tell him before it's time to, y'know, play, and points out that the vibrations from my (borrowed--thanks, Joey)bass head are making the can of beer atop it spin in a circle. I am now thoroughly loose and confident and not making any major mistakes.

Turns out, I was just saving up for the perfect occasion to shit in our collective cornflakes.

A pause in the action gives Jason a chance to introduce me and tell a much shorter and better version of How I Got to This Point. I didn't hear much of what he said, because I was too busy trying to hide behind Zac. He closes his monologue by introducing Turnin' Blue as the "trickiest song we have. Give him a hand and wish him luck." Which the folks do (and there's still an alarming number of them here), and away we go. I only flub a note or two, and continue to ride this wave of confidence. I guess the guys feel it too, prefacing Stuck it Out as "as good as we get. It's all downhill from here." The song actually starts with a staccato riff of F to A to G (see above). I preferred to show 'em how we do it up on Mars, firing off a nice G to B to A, and finding out for the first time that Zac actually does possess heat vision. He turns, glares, and quickly demonstrates the proper starting point. Grreeeeeeaat. The one song they want our best feet forward on, and I start it horribly. I recover reasonably well, and am not shaken too badly. If this is bad as it gets, then I'll surely be spoken well of later.

This wasn't as bad as it gets. See, we did a song called The 11th of Pants in practice. It uses what the kids call "Dropped-D" tuning, and requires the lowest string to be tuned to a non-standard D. I think I hear Jason tuning his E string and assume that Pants is coming (again, we have no setlist), and turn to get my bass up to speed. Turns out he was just fine tuning that E, and our planned Big Finish is actually on the agenda: original song Takin 'Er Easy will fade into a cover of the Stone Roses' I Wanna Be Adored, and the crowd will of course go apeshit and drown us in whiskey and foreplay for the rest of our visit. Only I'm not ready, frantically re-tuning and failing miserably. It just doesn't sound right for the entire goddamn song; it all sounds flat. I try and compensate by moving my positioning up one fret, but it's all tits-up by the time the song is over.

(Did I mention this was all being recorded?)

So, not the spectacle we'd planned when the first half of the big finish ends. Just me re-tuning awkwardly and Jason trying to make it funny and Zac trying not to roll his eyes so hard that they come loose and stifling a groan. On the bright side, with me fully in tune, we ace the cover and exit to wild applause. But I feel horrible at concentrating my screwups on the worst possible times. Not many things feel worse than the idea that you might have really let your friends down, but doing it after riding 8 hours to do it surely does.

I hit the bar like it's my last night on earth. But, I do get plenty of pats on the back, three "it wasn't bad" from Zac, Jason, and Andrew, and one "you guys were awesome" delivered to me personally (by who I suspect was a ladyfriend of Joey's and as such put up to it--there's that guy again, being terrific), and I'm a little surprised how easy I can let go of the small disasters.

The bad-ass soundman (whose name escapes me--is it Mark? Mike? Keith?) demands we go across the street to the liquor bar so he can buy us shots of Bulliet bourbon (incredible--I picked the wrong year to quit drinking brown liquor). Now I feel like I'm in a band, if only for the next 48 hours.

Cue up the afterglow.

I'm the Snowman, You're the Fred. Because I'm Driving, That's Why: Tim On Tour, Part Four

2008-06-05T00:07:00.007-05:00

I swear to God, Jason's iPod was made on the planet Oa. It seems to have a battery charge of at least 24 hours, and is shaped by his ridiculous willpower. I haven't winced one time at any song that thing's spit out, nor has Jason skipped anything abruptly (like I would've if my iPod was in use--I've got Nash Kato's solo record on there for chrissakes).

We're on the east side of Tallahassee, our Whataburger feasts resting on our lap. I stop being fussy with the placement of my food after realizing I would have absolutely no problem with that delicious white gravy spilling on any item in that box of greasy delights. Put it on my tombstone: that's good eatin'.

Next stop: Ocala, after a few back-n-forth phone calls to the other DFKF vehicles. It feels comforting in a Smokey & the Bandit way. Gas and lottery tickets (my secret vice for this weekend) from an Ocala belle long on updates regarding her personal life and a little short on the oral hygeine. Nice lady, who's putting her stimulus check and recent lottery windfall to good use. She's paying off the bills, and only allowed herself one splurge: Diane Lane's Untraceable "on the DVD". (Had she told me she bought it on VHS, I would've tried to talk her out from behind the counter to come with us and play bass.)

Swear to god, we did play two shows, and I have thoughts on them. Patience is a virtue.

Peeing Like An Astronaut: Tim On Tour, Part Three

2008-06-04T08:36:00.004-05:00

Thoughts from Day One (Friday): Pensacola to the New World Brewery (Tampa/Ybor City, FL)

From our last installment:

Because nothing better prepares you for a 500-mile drive than whiskey drinks and no sleep.

Actually, you know what would've prepared me better for Day One? Punching myself in the dick and eating a live rat.

I'm tired & just slightly hungover. None of the entourage (which I'm dubbing the Deadly Fists Of Kluster Fuck after the fact) have spoken to each other since last night (a.k.a. 3 hours ago), we haven't made one move in a logistically sound direction, and already I'm worn the hell out from being "on tour". It's about 7 in the morning. First stop: my job.

I pat myself on the back for killing two birds with one stone and dropping my car at the Pep Boys across the street from my office, thus getting the oil changed while taking care of a little business and avoiding about six hundred phone calls later. I rescind my pat on the back when I remember I have to get my oil changed in the first place because we're taking not one, not two, but three different vehicles. None of which is a van or even a particularly large car. DFKF's old van has long since stopped its struggling, Jason's van has proven un-roadworthy for this kind of mileage, and Andy B's got some side-travel for down south. Renting a van or an SUV has now become an obscenely expensive non-option, with gas nearing four ridiculous dollars a gallon on top of the rental fees. Hence, three times the risk that things aren't gonna go as planned.

And with perfect timing, Pep Boys does exactly what I'd forgotten they would do: call me and tell me everything that's wrong with the car. Everything that's wrong with the car that they could uncover in the hour they've had it and from what they observed by pulling a plug from the bottom of the car and draining fluid from it.

Man, the drive belt on your alternator is cracked, you'll need to get that replaced, you need four new tires and struts immediately, and your fuel filter? Y'know that's nuclear powered, right? You won't get very far and that plutonium's gonna spark up and you'll blow up the entire city. We can get it all fixed up by 4 though, and it'll only be about $2,600.

Thank Christ, now I've got something to occupy my mind with for the entire weekend besides trying to remember Deadly Fists of Kung Fu's set. Kiss my ass Manny, Moe and Jack. Take my thirty dollars, give me my keys. I have rocking to do that will be delayed no further by your automotive extortion.

What could delay the rocking? A fucking moving downpour on our caravan for the loading of the equipment and the first half of our travel, that's what. Aaarrrgh. My spirits are only slightly bumped up when stopping at the Tom Thumb near drummer Andy B's place and stumbling upon the Trough of Half Price Snacks. I almost thought it a mirage, because no one in the store seemed too interested in it, the fools. Combos, Cheez-its in the "fiesta" configuration (nacho cheese flavored in a triangular shape!) and in their traditional box,Famous Amos cookies. All dirt cheap and made to be stuffed into my belly (and in Jason's as well, as he's my co-pilot for this leg). I pay about $3 and walk with a bag of junk that weighs as much as a good-sized frozen turkey.

The gear loaded without being soaked, we set off to the sunnier Tampa area. Due to the weather, we're actually going to be cutting it close (supposed to be there about 8:30 local time, plus they're an hour ahead of us), so Zac shoots a call to our friends in Nessie (more on them later)--everything's peachy. Wet, and slow, but peachy.

Jason and I stop at a Whataburger in Tallahassee to unload some urine and pick up lunch (moving lunch--we are indeed in a hurry). Jason hits the bathroom first while I order. When he returns, I head for the facilities. Immediately I realize that somehow the bathroom is located in outer space. I know this because it's pitch black and freezing. (Apparently, Jason didn't feel he needed to warn me that the lights were dead because all of their voltage was directed to running the A/C in the room.) I think about turning back, but once more, "gotta make time". So I fling the door open as far as possible, throwing hallway light into the room. I try and commit to memory as much of the room (and route to the urinal) as possible and manage to commence peeing before the door finally closes. Before I'm finished, I ask myself: How do you know you're even peeing in the urinal and not on the floor or your shoes? How do I get back to the door now? (My memory has failed me horribly. It won't be the first time today.)

That's way more than you needed to hear. Yet again, To Be Continued.

Tell Me The One About Practice Again: Tim on Tour, Part Two

2008-05-22T20:33:00.023-05:00

Day -1 (Thursday)

From Part One:
...the band's been working steadily for 5-6 years, has a decent catalog of polished originals...

Specifically, the Deadly Fists of Kung Fu have around 35 songs of various shapes, sizes and ages, only about 15 that exist on recordings of any kind, about 10 (or less) of which I have. So, my advance knowledge of more than 2/3 of DFKF's material is limited to having heard the songs live, anywhere between one and 100 times. And while I've played guitar for 25 years, I've only played live about 3 times (not sure I count the show where the singer quit the band onstage), with a band that as a rule, didn't practice. Also, have I mentioned I don't usually play bass?

Zac, Jason, and Andy B (the actual band) don't consider (or maybe refuse to consider) any of this as we open the lid on the One Rehearsal Before Tim Burns The Band To The Ground.

Unlike the greenhorn here, these other three guys know their business; practice runs like a Swiss watch, despite my unintentional attempts to rearrange some of the songs. We blaze through the planned dozen song set (several of the songs that I've got recordings of, thank God) twice, and I even impress by knowing the Special Secret Cover Tunes. We break camp, and I'm giggly that they haven't called the weekend's venues to beg off.

And now, we drink. Because nothing better prepares you for a 500-mile drive than whiskey drinks and no sleep.

Interesting diary entries from the actual touring starting tomorrow, I swear...

Weekend at Rock Band Fantasy Camp: Tim on Tour, Part One

2008-05-21T23:29:00.008-05:00

Day -4 (Monday)

Say you're in a band. Say the band's been working steadily for 5-6 years, has a decent catalog of polished originals, and has some paying gigs 500 miles away. Before you go, you double-check to make sure everybody took Friday, Saturday, and Sunday off for the traveling and the shows.

Oops. The bass player can't go. What do you do?

If you're the Deadly Fists of Kung Fu, who have some brains, you call... not me. You (wisely) call former band members first, then professional music-types who might be able to learn 10 of your songs in 2 days, and then... you still don't call me. No, next you bandy about the idea of moving your main guitarist to the bass spot and play your songs as a sparser three-piece, like Rush, or the Dixie Chicks. Beyond even that, you ponder canceling the shows. Again, these are the logical, appropriate options.

Day -3 (Tuesday)

What shouldn't be an option is reading a text message from a three-Yeungling and buffalo chicken bloated friend that says:

...if none of your bass player options work out, I'll do it.

And then replying, "Okay. We'll practice Thursday night, and leave Friday morning, for the show that night."

Oh, shit. Didn't expect that.

more to come...

The Best Birthday Ever

2008-04-11T00:01:00.005-05:00

Thanks to my crappy, overstuffed, slow-loading computer, I'm actually getting this in after my actual birthday has come and gone. Therefore, I am now invoking the sacred Birthday Rule (probably ratified by Ernest Hemingway or Edgar Allan Poe, or some similarly late-night hard drinking badass) which states that it's still your birthday so long as you're conscious from the start of The Day. So, until I sleep, perchance to dream or pass out or am beaten unconscious, it's still my mufuggin' birthday.

My beautiful, long suffering wife has left me to my own devices while she semi-chaperones a classmate's 21st birthday on this very evening, and I can't help but remember the best of all my 39 birthdays^[1]...

IN: BISHOP APARTMENT, April 10, 1994

TIM kisses SANDY goodbye as she leaves for work.

SANDY: I'm sorry I have to work today, being your birthday and all.

TIM: No big deal. I'm not a big birthday guy anyway, and you'll be home soon enough.

SCENE.

Flash forward about 3 hours. Tim has exhausted his video game options by now, taking the 1984 Auburn Tigers to the national title on Bill Walsh's College Football. Masturbatathon 1994 has been postponed indefinitely, due to Hot Ass Newlywed Sex.

TIM (to himself): Hmmm... told G I'd get his storage space in order one of these days, while he's out of town. Wife's at work, nothing better to do. Let's knock this out now, instead of taking time away from Married Time. I'm so smart. Good thing I don't care about celebrating my birthday.

SCENE.

Moving forward another 3 hours. Tim returns home, satisfied with his efforts today.

TIM: (surprised) Hey, honey, whatcha doing home?

SANDY: (steamed) WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!

TIM: Huh? I was just...

SANDY: I GOT OFF WORK EARLY FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY?! WHERE WERE YOU?!

TIM: Um... I thought...

SANDY: I TOOK OFF EARLY FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!

TIM: Well, I didn't know you could even do that, and I needed to finish up some stuff for G, and...

SANDY: OH MY GOD! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'D DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT ON YOUR OWN BIRTHDAY!!

TIM: (a little frightened, as if he'd stumbled onto a mob murder scene) Wait... it's MY birthday, right? I didn't know you'd be off and I was just going to...

SANDY: (as loud as Iggy Pop piped into a jet engine) YOU HAVE RUINED YOUR BIRTHDAY FOR ME! I HATE YOU!

SCENE.

And somehow, she stayed with me. And every year, I tell her she's the best present ever.

(I'm serious. I do. Wouldn't you?)

______________________________________________________________
[1]Maybe it's the liquor consumption, but I have no memory of the first 2 or 3 birthdays. You'll have to wait until my mom releases her memoirs to find out if those first two or three involved me pistol-whipping a cab driver or me doing 45 minutes of ribald standup comedy.

Thank You, Scott McCaughey

2008-04-06T13:38:00.002-05:00

The new R.E.M. rocks mightily, and I'm sure it's your doing.

If (whoever's reading this) needs more incentive to pick this up, iTunes has a cover of the Beat Happening's Redhead Walking available along with the regular album tracks.

Tattoo Huh?!

2008-01-20T00:57:00.000-06:00

Ironically, I'm gonna say the internet fucking sucks now ^[1]. As an opener to an entry on my fucking blog.

My estimation: four people read my blog, of which two will notice I've posted something new this year. And at least one of them (xoxoxo, my darling bride) won't bother to linky the link, so here's a summary: Tattoo You, in my estimation one of the very finest records ever produced by the Rolling Stones (and as such one of the finest records of all the early 80's)^[2] , was actually a glorified hodge-podge of outtakes. A compendium of what even a drug-addled Quintet of Dunces predisposed to optimism and delusions of grandeur considered a waste of time and record-label money.

And by the way Wikipedia, Santa Claus is really your parents.

My favorite band of all time, The Replacements, once released a collection of such throwaways, compiled over a similar length of time. My unwavering support of that band notwithstanding, you can slumber tonight (and tomorrow night, and the night after, etc...) knowing that you're not missing much by not ever hearing those 'Mats "gems".

And so, in terms of giving Mick-n-Keef the benefit of the doubt, I'm henceforth choosing to ignore the Wikipedia in this instance, and will only accept that Jagger's horribly discomfiting Dancing in the Streets duet with Bowie is the only unreleased Stones-related material from that time period.

____________________________________________________
[1] Until tomorrow, when I will no doubt kiss the internet's shiny html'd head because it revealed to me just how many recognized covers of "Across the Universe" exist in the world.

[2] Just behind Journey's Escape--hey, girls weren't accepting french kisses while "Little T&A" was playing. So you can suck it.

Homonym? Eunonym? Ho-ho-nym!

2008-01-05T03:14:00.000-06:00

Yeah, other than blindly surfing the Brilliant Tide of Holt, I got nothing.

Anything Worth Allen Doing, Is Worth Tim Blithely Ripping Off.

2008-01-03T01:08:00.001-06:00

Leave it to Allen Holt, the only man I know who needs a 32-hour day more than me, to lay a hammer not only to his own creative dam but to mine as well:

I’m kicking off a new "get my creativity flowin’" project for myself: The 3×5 Project. Why 3×5? Because the whole thing centers around three-inch-by-five-inch index cards.

Here’s the deal: Every day during 2008 (stop scoffing!), I plan to do something on a 3×5 unlined index card. That might be a drawing or cartoon, it might be a word I want to use more, it might be an inspirational quote or song lyric… but it will be something done by hand on one side of a 3×5 card.

I'm a day behind him (as usual), but I will be participating 365 days in a row, beginning with today's card. While this is in a likelihood the only one I'll actually post, maybe at the end of the run I'll publish all of them as a collage. The kind that will cause some sort of seizure in the very old and very young. The kind of piece that will be copied and placed in whatever permanent file the FBI's been filling since the day I quit kindergarten.

Sobering Up In Wal-Mart

2007-12-01T14:12:00.000-06:00

Yeah. I mean to, but probably won't explain later.

In the meantime, check this out.

I Never Played The Game

2007-11-23T22:02:00.001-06:00

That title's pretty wistful and melancholy, eh? Well, it's also not mine.

Last Saturday night, while (oddly) getting constant text-updates from my lovely wife regarding Texas Tech's upset of Oklahoma^[1], I had a profound moment of clarity regarding The Only Championship in Collegiate Sports Not Explicitly Determined on the Field of Play Yet Strangely The Most Profitable Intercollegiate Athletic Event Apart From March Madness. And after today's events, I feel compelled to commit my predictions to (virtual) print, because goddammit, it's all coming true and I want some credit.

Here's the players in your National Championship in Collegiate Sports Not Explicitly Determined on the Field of Play Yet Strangely The Most Profitable Intercollegiate Athletic Event Apart From March Madness...

West Virginia vs. Ohio State for the title of Computer-approved National Champion. There. I said it. And here's how it's going to happen, all predicted by me last Saturday:

Arkansas beats LSU (and seriously, didn't everyone see this coming? They've spent a month pulling games out of their asses. They could no longer walk or poop normally.).

Missouri beats Kansas. So at this point Sunday night, your new BCS poll has Missouri #1, West Virginia #2, Ohio State #3, and (maybe) Kansas at #4, with Hawaii (too little, too late, and oh yeah, too little), Virginia Tech, or LSU at #5.

Then, during conference championship game week, Oklahoma puts Missouri back where it belongs, while LSU rebounds and plants Georgia in the SEC title game.

EDIT: Yeah, I now know that Georgia can't play in the SEC championship game now. But they also won't have a chance at a third loss either. They could wind up higher in the BCS than either LSU or Tennessee. And I love that.

And there you have it. West Virginia and Ohio State for all the subjective marbles, each in the right place at the right time and each with one unatractive loss (WVU's early to a soon-overrated South Florida, and Ohio State's late to a then-underrated Illinois). I'm not saying I agree with those probable rankings (Kansas losing to a team ranked directly below them at a neutral site would eliminate them from consideration because they didn't even play for a conference title?), but that's the way it shakes out under a non-playoff system.

And incidentally, I love the way Division I football ends its season, even under the BCS' semi-addled determinations. Barber shops, sports bars, old man bars, internet message boards, stupid blogs... all are made better by the sweet sound of debate and the arguing isn't lessened at all by the new-style rankings. Let the 2 a.m. barfights commence!

Check in a month from now and note how full of shit I am. Or to note how you wished you'd bet money on the West Virginia Mountaineers ^[2] to win the National Championship in Collegiate Sports Not Explicitly Determined on the Field of Play Yet Strangely The Most Profitable Intercollegiate Athletic Event Apart From March Madness the day after Thanksgiving.

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[1]My lovely wife cares little about sports in general. She cares about me, however, and at least acknowledges my love of football in any form. Even so, why she thought I gave a shit about some nearly meaningless Big 12 clash escapes me. I blame/praise ESPN's announcers (whoever the hell they were) for making the outcome of that game more significant than man landing on the moon, or cloning a sheep, or Britney Spears being barred from driving with her children in the car.

[2]In the interest of full disclosure, I was born in West Virginia, and did indeed live there the first six months of my life. However, I've never been an avid supporter of WVU athletics (even when they opposed hated Notre Dame for the title back in '88); I've been more of a Marshall man.

Rambling Briefly...

2007-11-10T14:26:00.000-06:00

The weather's taking a turn for the cool this afternoon, after flirting with 80 degrees.

My iPod is demanding that I listen more closely to Freedy Johnston's This Perfect World, for the lyric "And these pills won't even let me cry."

I've now jogged it back to listen to that phrase about ten times. I don't know why.

That is all.

Warren Ellis' The 4 AM:3

2007-10-16T12:30:00.000-05:00

Way to go, Mr. Ellis. Not only do you write about a million pages a month, you also find time to decipher, collate, and distribute for free all the music thrown at you on a weekly basis. (He's up to podcast three now. Check it out, along with 1 & 2.)

I haven't found time to watch my DVR'd Burn Notice season finale yet, and I don't write a goddamn thing most weeks.

Hey! Ho! I'm Old!

2007-10-10T08:38:00.000-05:00

The 2 most-played songs on my iPod this week are by Bruce Springsteen.^*

Maybe it's a by-product of being in a cover band for the first time ever, but I'm realizing that the Boss might actually be a genius. All in spite of my sneering at the mention of his name for the last 20 years or so.

Go to iTunes or wherever you whippersnappers go to sample/buy/pirate music and grab "Radio Nowhere" and "Thunder Road". Tell me I'm wrongheaded in my recent conversion.

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*The third is Ryan Adams' "Halloweenhead" and the fourth is Stars of Track and Field's "Centuries", so suck it. I'm not ready for the home yet.

Warren Ellis Is Doing the Living For You.

2007-10-03T21:25:00.000-05:00

So thank him.

(I wish people would send me free music just because I asked.)

Enjoy!

I've Now Lost My Train of Thought. Maybe Forever.

2007-09-30T14:30:00.000-05:00

I'm not gonna lie, this post began as a big fat tantrum. I won't bore with details, but I'm alone in my house until Tuesday, I've got no bender/gambling/hookers money, there's nothing good on TV and no one will answer my calls/texts/emails/IM's.

I was about to drop a "Fine, fuck all y'all" bomb, searched for an appropriate picture and found... this.

Um...

Put aside for a moment the idea of Dennis The Menace giving the finger to a referee or an athlete of some kind. (And I pray he's at some sporting event somewhere, or that this is some too-much-time-on-my-hands Photoshop job^[1]. Because if this his 1st Grade Play or something, I'm probably going to perform some sort of vasectomy on myself as soon as I'm done here.)

What's up with the Certified Muff Diver mudflap insignia on whatever jersey that is he's wearing?

Wait...

Wait...

Wait a little more...

Yeah, I want one. Surely this jersey wasn't just for kids, right?
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[1]And Steve Barron, I'm talking to you.

Coming Soon to An Uncrowded Bar Near You

2007-09-28T00:09:00.000-05:00

A cover band, true, but one that will never^[1] play Freebird. We will totally play The Ballad Of Curtis Loew, though.

Stay tuned. And watch for the inevitable MySpace debut.

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[1]Never as in, "Probably never. Any place that would book us doesn't have near enough money."

Here's To Getting Things DONE.

2007-09-09T03:53:00.000-05:00

Yeah.

Things are finished. Accomplishment. Endgame.

Pardon me while I sigh, fat and fulfilled.

Love me, love me, say that you love me.

2007-09-01T16:17:00.000-05:00

He Might Actually Have Written The Phone Book.

2007-08-19T23:17:00.000-05:00

So, being a comic nerd in general and huge Warren Ellis fan in the specific, I subscribe to Ellis' Bad Signal email list. The Bad Signal can be a few words or a paragraph or even a lengthy essay on Whatever's On His Mind Today. Here's an excerpt from a recent mailing:

bad signal
ME

I have an confession to make.

I have ordered a man-bag.

...

...I started
thinking about what else I really
need to carry... Bah. Man-bag.

...

Man-bag. God, I am so sad.

Like every other Signal I've received, I at least paid attention to the whole thing, probably nodded in silent approval, and was entertained for the short time it took to read it. I was still thinking about it later that day, and I finally thought, Why did I enjoy that?

Was it a witty turn of phrase? No, except for the word "man-bag".

Was it the subject matter itself? I can't think of a time I actively sought out a column about picking out a "man-bag", so that wasn't it either.

What makes this Signal work, what makes pretty much all of the Bad Signals work, is my impression that Ellis doesn't stop to worry about audience approval (like I would and like other budding writers would); he already knows for certain that we do approve. His dismissal of any alternative allows him to move ahead on his chosen topic and just write.

And we all just read.

Inspiring. Liberating, even.

If My Head Explodes, Do I Still Have To Go To Work Today?

2007-08-14T01:23:00.000-05:00

Weeks ago, during a "basking in the afterglow of being overserved but still making it home" moment, I went prowling around the PornoNet to find an image of Captain America playing a snare drum (not a Maker's Mark soaked fantasy either, I know one exists), only to find this...

^{Marvel Comics' Pizzazz Magazine, February 1978}

Recollecting the chain of events now, I'm still a little overwhelmed by this picture.

I've read about sixty billion comics ^[1].

If NASA had put as many hours in research as I did watching the first three Star Wars films, then we'd probably be refining oil on Mars by now and not blowing up a spacecraft every 20 years.

I vividly recall the slight trembling in my pre-teen babymaker-cannon upon noticing a Linda Ronstadt poster on my 20-something cousin's bedroom wall.

So... how on fucking EARTH did this particular magazine slip by me? I bought several issues of Pizzazz, because Marvel Architect Stan Lee was my master at this point--I still assumed he wrote every Marvel Comic, just under 12 pen names.

I'd be willing to get my ass sued off at this point. Which of my Photoshop-literate friends are willing to turn this masterpiece into a Fumble CD cover? (Here's the catch--you have to keep the "Scintillatin' Dr. J Poster Calendar" part.)

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[1]And I purchased about half that--if you're reading this, Dave Sincere or Random Seven-Eleven Manager... HA!

May Tommy Stinson Forgive Me...

2007-07-21T13:45:00.000-05:00

...I totally spaced during all my other 7/7/07 celebrations.

Happy 20th Birthday, Best Album of All Time.

Reunited, Does It Really Feel So Good?

2007-07-10T02:10:00.000-05:00

I (pretty much) skipped my 20-year high school reunion last weekend. I knew it wasn't going to be Grosse Pointe Blank (I sure didn't know anybody in my class with genius-level intellect, Clash t-shirts, and "a certain moral flexibility"), or even Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion. The people in whom the nostalgia gene is dominant are not my enemy by any stretch; I'm just not one of them. High school may have been the best years of their lives, or maybe their life has become so much like what they swore in high school it wouldn't be that they ran back to the old schoolyard in a reclamation effort, or it may have even been a goal to preserve themselves in a sealed package of some kind just to walk into that reunion like the years hadn't passed. Who knows? I only know that I wasn't interested in reliving Four Years That Changed Next To Nothing For Me.

I made the call not to go very much in advance, but that didn't stop me from over-thinking the decision in the 24 hours leading up to the event. My good friend Jeff phoned me earlier to let me know he was flying in for it, and wondered if I was going (in spite of the fact I'd told him explicitly a month ago that I wasn't going. I guess promises made in a TGIF don't count as much.). I repeated that I wasn't planning to, wished him a good time, and made plans to catch up during the weekend.

Then the stupid, tortuous over-thinking began.

Ridiculously elaborate scenarios began twirling through my brain, in areas intended for work-stuff:

What if people think I'm absent because I never liked any of them?

What if the word's going 'round that I'm so despondent about my station in life that I can't face anyone?

What if the word's going 'round that I'm such a cynical snob that I'm looking down on them in derision?

What if people think I'm (yikes!) dead? (This one didn't linger much--I was really counting on Jeff to clear that up if asked.)

Luckily, I was able to wrestle control of my brain long enough to get back to work and honor some other commitments during the weekend. Then Jeff called Saturday to ask for the last time if was going to the final event, dinner at Seville Quarter. And again I declined, but with an offer of compromise: I would show up at 9:00 (after the dinner), and mingle a little with whoever stuck around. Worked like a charm, I thought. My pre-game estimates on the dinner-attendees:

75% would leave right at 9:00, to relieve their $10/hour babysitter'

15% would leave right at 9:00, to get home before their teenager's doing it on the kitchen table;

And the remaining 10% would be evenly divided: 5% making one last attempt to hang with the old in-crowd and 5% pudgy ex-jocks doing Jagerbombs and discussing how "fucking awesome" Hinder is. (Jesus. I might actually be a cynical post-punk snob.)

It's a little ironic that I'd always viewed my high school years as totally, unfailingly ordinary, but now I was dreaming up a two-decades-on reunion full of subplots and intrigue. Why was I surprised when the event turned out to be as ordinary and unthreatening as high school was? Why was I surprised so many people hung around to close the bars down? After all, I'm married like most of my classmates, and I've got commitments to honor just like they do. I'm there, why shouldn't they be? And I didn't once get treated to an oral dissertation on Nickelback vs. Hinder.

By the end of the evening, I still felt good about my limited attendance. I saw everyone I had the slightest interest in seeing again (most of whom didn't recognize me at all), plus a couple of guys who were really happy to see me.

I can hardly wait five years for the chance to pretty much ignore my 25th.

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing: [Who the Hell is] Tim Pierce?

2007-05-17T08:42:00.000-05:00

I've been a student of the guitar for about 25 years now (a length of time which shocks me as I write it down), and a student of most forms of western music a little longer than that. While trying to pin down a moment or two that suckered me into being more of a participant (the former) and less of a spectator (the latter), I realized something about myself:

A great deal of the music that made me want to actually play an instrument was, well, shitty.

For every Van Halen's Mean Street, there was an Alan Parsons Project's Eye in the Sky, or that horrible Abracadabra. Even so, it's not that there weren't some phenomenal axemen in heavy Top-40 rotation from the late 70's to the early 90's; there just weren't a lot of songs hitting the radio (and the radio was pretty much music source #1 on a list that numbered, uh, one) that weren't flatlined and bloodless. And that's what this regular feature's about, that roughness not quite buffed out of the polished diamond. Those wolves in sheep's clothing.

Tim Pierce (though I didn't learn his name until years later) first appeared on my 13-year old guitar radar with some tasty but restrained guitar licks on I Get Excited, 80’s demigod Rick Springfield’s attempt to re-release his monster hit Jessie’s Girl with different lyrics.^[1] As Pierce's role grew to that of contributor/collaborator on subsequent albums, he began to sneak some edge back into material otherwise dulled in the technological "breakthroughs" of the day.

Despite its not-so-macho title, Springfield's 1983 release Living In Oz caught my novice ears in a big way. On the Top 10 first single "Affair of the Heart" some wince-inducing overproduction and overuse of electro-everything^[2] (keys, drums, vocals) can’t stop the Pierce Train: he bides his time by nicking the galloping main riff from "Barracuda" until he gets to let loose(at the 2:38 mark). He milks one tense, sustained note until a rippling trip up the fretboard (similar thematically to his later turn on Bon Jovi's "Runaway", and just as deceptively tricky). While Oz' title track didn’t age quite as badly as "Affair", its Flashdance-"Maniac" dynamic is still a little off-putting. The payoff here is Pierce’s more uninhibited digit-stretching beast of a solo (2:40). I think he knew this track wasn’t destined for radio.

Though Rick Springfield began an involuntary hibernation at the Dawn of Grunge, Pierce kept busy, if not selective, playing up a storm with noise-merchants like Celine Dion, Michael Damian and John Tesh. Form my part, I’ll downplay those indiscretions in favor of his stellar (and 180 degrees apart) turns on Bon Jovi’s debut single "Runaway" and Crowded House’s "Something So Strong". Bon Jovi's debut single boasts a succinct flurry that’s actually a fuck-ton harder to play than it sounds (And believe me, I tried. A lot.). His leslie-speaker drenched break on Crowded House's bland early alt-pop is a graceful “serve the song” effort, keeping you in the moment while singer Neil Finn’s building up some energy to belt out that chorus one last time. Measuring out equal parts flash and texture, sprucing up simple pop songs without overpowering them or taking them in directions pop songs shouldn’t go, that was Tim Pierce’s stamp on the 80’s.
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[1] Ironically, Pierce didn’t play the wicked solo on Springfield's masterpiece—the guy behind that is a Wolf for another day.

[2]This deficiency is typical of most songs you’ll see examined in this space.

Maybe Next Time YOU'LL Think Before He Cheats.

2007-05-15T13:51:00.000-05:00

The Academy of Country Music (not to be confused with the Country Music Association, Country Music Television, or the National Aeronautics and Space Association) will present their awards tonight (not to be confused with the Nobel Prize), live from Las Vegas.

My wife is all about the country music, specifically the brand being celebrated tonight.^[1] So, being a great husband with an impeccable sense of timing, I'm picking today as the day to ridicule my wife's preferred musical entertainment.

American Idol champ Carrie Underwood might leave the ceremony tonight with five statues (or plaques or medals or live badgers--how the hell would I know?), primarily for her huge hit "Before He Cheats". If you know me, or have read my posts here and elsewhere, that's your cue that I'm about to rip this song a new one. And you'll think to yourself, "but Tim, it's a country song about cheating, which you must know is one of the six acceptable topics in a country song^[2]. How can you find fault with "Before He Cheats"?" To you, hypothetical nay-sayer, I ask: "Have you actually listened to the song?"

The premise of "Cheats" is appealing enough: a bar-hopping, pool-playing, no-goodnik has two-timed our heroine, and now he's about to face the consequences. Fine. I'm on board so far. I'm no fan of cheaters, and I appreciate any cheatee that confronts theirs. Too bad the lyrics don't actually strive for anything resembling that kind of satisfaction. Basically, it just sounds like Carrie's following/stalking her boyfriend around, but rather than exposing the scoundrel to The Other Woman, she just stays outside and imagines who this floozy is and what her fella's doing with her inside^[3]. Oh, and this is after she vandalizes his "souped up 4-wheel drive" by keying it, carving her name into his leather seats, busting out both headlights and slashing the tires. Yep, that's what any Dixie Chick would've done.

But I guess I should tip my hat to the two authors of this disaster, Chris Tompkins and Josh Kear. They've managed to camouflage an ironclad alibi for snaky dudes everywhere as some kind of sympathetic ode to wronged girlfriends and wives everywhere. Imagine the scene outside Temptation Island when Dirty Bastard walks out to his truck with Gullible Floozy:

"Oh my god! What happened to your truck?! And who's Carrie?"

"My crazy ex-girlfriend. I can't believe she did all this instead of just talking to me face to face. I guess you can see why I'm going to break up with... I mean, why I broke up with her tonight, huh?"

"Wow, you must really be special if she's that nuts because she doesn't have you anymore. Let's just take my car back to my place. I'll screw her name right out of your head and then make you pancakes."

Aw, hell. I take it all back. "Before He Cheats" is genius!
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[1]Her idea of good country music: Toby Keith, Sugarland, Bon Jovi with the singer from Sugarland, Willie Nelson with Toby Keith, and various one-hit males. My idea of good country music: Not that, and Dwight Yoakam, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Waylon with Willie.

[2]Cheating, Drinking, Prison, Trains, Trucks, and Living in the Country. Feel free to submit your own. I'm not a card-carrying member of the Academy or the Association anyway.

[3]And what comes next totally derails all the momentum of the narrator's fantastic guess that "right now, he's probably dabbing on three dollars' worth of that bathroom Polo."

I Actually Have to Buy Records To Review: Kings of Leon - Because Of The Times

2007-05-04T00:22:00.000-05:00

I won't automatically praise an artist for trying something different. For me, change is something that has to be evaluated on a case by case basis, because bands will throw a monkeywrench out there for the wrong reasons some of the time, such as: "Hey, look at our shiny monkeywrench, different than any monkeywrench that's ever existed. And we didn't tell you it was coming until after we got 10-15 bucks from you." That said, I also won't automatically roll my eyes at a band who'll risk pissing off some longtime fans because they've got some evolution to express. Because Of The Times is such an expression, valid and proper. The more immediate, garaged raunchy-tonk of their past might never come this way again.

It'd be easy to attribute the Kings' growth and Times' heightened sense of atmosphere (specifically a cavernous sheen of reverb that permeates it) to the band's recent stint opening gigantic U2 shows, but if there's any of that influence, it's from the mid-80's model. The brilliant opening gambit, "Knocked Up", is predictable fare in title only; that trailer slang is only a cover for a seven minute-plus opus that melds a vintage Johnny Cash locomotive riff with some whistling guitar touches nicked from the Edge (circa "Bad") punctuated with bursts of power chord punch. The band's reach is impressive and admirable, kicking off their New Deal with this spooky and arresting epic moan.

They don't lay off challenging the listener, either. The demented, unsettling grunge redux "Charmer" (with singer Caleb Followill groaning, "She stole my karma, oh no. Sold it to the farmer, oh no." I didn't know whether to consider it Dr. Seuss silliness, or search out some mental help for the man.) is followed by the chugging, ready-for-Madison Square Garden dynamos "On Call" and "McFearless". Even a more relaxed middle section stands out for the breathing room that would've seemed out of place on their earlier work. And by the time the "classic" King of Leon sound resurfaces with closers "Camaro", "Arizona", and "My Third House", the perception of what the band's about and what it can do is colored by the 11 songs that precede it.

Overall, Times shows a band trying to build a different type of relationship with its audience. It's an interesting approach they use, too; an arena-rock sound that invites more fans to join the party, while at the same time putting a little distance between them and the larger crowds.

Five O' Diamonds: Favorite Album Openings

2007-04-15T20:48:00.000-05:00

Van Halen, Van Halen (1978)

The drone lifting the lid on "Runnin' With The Devil" was only the first clue that the days of plodding and ragged Led Zeppelin and amateurish Grand Funk Railroad were fading. "Still holds up today" doesn't do the first four tracks justice: "Devil", "Eruption", "You Really Got Me" (a cover, true, but it's right in line with the band's nailing shut the coffin of their symbolic older brothers' more earthbound stylings), and "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love" (supposedly Edward Van Halen's expression of disdain for nouveau two-chord punk) represent a Big Bang-level of influence for guitarists, lead singers, and songwriters. But just about anybody can be moved by Van Halen on some level, and that's why it's first here.

Replacements, Pleased To Meet Me (1987)
It almost didn't make the list, my favorite complete album ever. There's nearly too few outright classics between the "oh shit, did they get good in a hurry" opening ("I.O.U.", "Alex Chilton", and I Don't Know") and the transcendent "Can't Hardly Wait" which survived its later use as the title for a Jennifer Love Hewitt vehicle. Despite that small shortcoming, I keep returning to the immediacy of those first three songs, entranced by the combination of rough edges and sentiment, beginning with "I.O.U."s sentence of "ninety days in the electric chair", to the toll paid to travel on the same road as "Alex Chilton". Not letting up, they roll out the sneering and self-deprecating "I Don't Know" ("Are you making a fortune? (I don't know) Or don't you wanna tell?"). This CD reshuffled my musical deck, the one left behind by Van Halen.

Urge Overkill, Supersonic Storybook (1991)
That this CD made the cut is a testament to just how good the first four tracks are, because the rest of this half-classic drops off a cliff. The shambling, edge-of-dissembling grind of "The Kids Are Insane" gives way to the pulsing "Candidate" and the garage band rave-up "Blackie's Birthday" before unleashing the simmering masterpiece "Emmaline", a Hot Chocolate,^[1] cover. Nash Kato's cries to the titular woman at the end will freeze your blood.

Soul Asylum, Hang Time (1988)
I don't know if being from Minneapolis (like the Replacements and Husker Du) forced Soul Asylum to be a better band or not, but Hang Time certainly holds its own with any of the other local heavyweights from the era, and in some instances surpasses. Dave Pirner's lead and Dan Murphy's growling backing vocals from the first salvo "Down On Up To Me" seem to be fighting and hugging at the same time, and the snaky riffs of "Little Too Clean" set up the more amiable "Sometime To Return" and weathered, knowing "Cartoon". This is a gem, and a hallmark of true chemistry in song.

The Hold Steady, The Hold Steady Almost Killed Me (2004)
The only CD on my initial list that could overcome the disadvantage of its relative youth. It's also got the longest "opening"; the first six tracks on Almost Killed Me swirl around me like the best bar band on Earth, flies on the wall at a meeting that ends in Anonymous. Possibly the most concentrated mass of great lyrics in all of recorded music, including name-dropping two members of both The Band and Journey in "The Swish"^[2].

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[1] Yes, that Hot Chocolate, the ones who gave us "You Sexy Thing" and "Every 1's A Winner".
[2] Don't question it, just find it and listen, acknowledge the greatness and move on.

It Came From The Bottom of My CD's, Volume 1

2007-04-11T22:42:00.000-05:00

Surgery - Shimmer
Atlantic Records 1994

One of the worst selling titles in Atlantic Records history, the major label debut (and swan song[1]) from NYC's Surgery is a near-permanent reminder that sometimes, a thing of beauty must be lie undiscovered and dormant for God knows how long. (I guess if they could've gone with a name like "The Sean McDonnell Blues Explosion", they might've fulfilled their major-label promise)

Riffs that Queens of the Stone Age would trade their famous friends for, taut and unforgiving grooves that Rage Against the Machine all bought houses and Ferraris from (courtesy of RATM's first producer GGGarth), all provided without losing any of the scuzz from their days at stalwart paincore label Amphetamine Reptile.

The only good thing about selling just 499,900 CD's short of gold is that this shiny racket can be found online for about 50 cents.

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[1]Sadly, Surgery vocalist Sean McDonnell passed away early in 1995, from complications related to his asthma. Surgery probably would've broken up soon anyway, but I bet they'd be on the comeback trail by now.

And Coming Soon: Hot Topicland!

2007-04-10T22:12:00.000-05:00

I can't say which is more irrelevant at this point, Sister Hazel or the Hard Rock Cafe. According to this article, it looks like it's a tie.

My Dog Is A Born Entertainer. Or A Horribly Misdiagnosed Autistic.

2007-04-07T02:24:00.000-05:00

Our miniature pinscher Petey is the "middle child" in the house, sandwiched between two very cliquish chihuahuas. Since we brought Chihuahua #2 (Orlando Loco, who's a blog entry unto himself) into the house, Petey's already idiosyncratic behavior has added several nuttier layers.

The wife will pick him up and cradle him for some one-on-one attention. His response, delivered via canine body-language, is to compress himself into this misshapen black beanbag with ears. He looks like an obese bat.

But he saves the real eccentricity for when she places him gently back onto the floor. At this point, an outsider would probably think he's chasing his tail. But, given the fact that he has only a pinscher-y stub in that location, a stub that he's always had, what he's really doing is checking to see that his entire rear region is still there and intact.

Petey's next move is to scratch at the backdoor until you address his need to go outside and open that door. Only, he's got no interest in going outside to pee or whatever. Instead he will only cock his head, looking at you like you've loosened the top on the salt shaker of his universe. And then he waits until we're not looking and pees all over the front of our kitchen trash can.

My Life, Starring Someone Skinnier and Cooler.

2007-04-05T14:29:00.000-05:00

I won't bore you with much background: this was a survey the mighty Jason Hurt posted called the Soundtrack to Your Life, one of those "put your iPod/MP3 player on shuffle and write down what song plays for each section" of said soundtrack. His turned out pretty well, so I tried my hand at it.

Opening Credits:
Ok Go - Let it Rain (both the opening/closing credits sound like they were picked by an honest-to-god, focus-group worshipping movie producer. Peppy, though.)

Waking Up:
Catherine Wheel-Mad Dog (I can make this work--it slurs along much like I do from 7-10 am)

First Day At School:
Sonic Youth-Cinderella's Big Score (If I started school at age 30 maybe. And I went to Greyhound Elementary School. And the first bell rang at 10:30 at night.)

Falling In Love:
Solomon Grundy - Gone ("We will be together, we will be forever" all set to a Molly Ringwald/Pretty In Pink new wave beat. I'll totally take it.)

Fight Song:
Afghan Whigs - Crime Scene Pt. 1 (Stick it to my enemies, tonight.)

Breaking Up:
Eagles of Death Metal - I Want You So Hard (My friends broke us up, apparently)

Playing Cowboys & Indians in the Woods:
Lifter Puller - The Flex and the Buff Result (Fucking bizarre. We both ended up with songs about unsavory, big city grown-up stuff that comes directly before some real commandment-breaking. Mine is about a loan shark, and some threatened arson and murder. I guess "cowboys and indians" is just a big metaphor for drugs and murder these days. Fucking kids ruin everything.)

Prom:
Nash Kato - Octoroon (much like my prom, vaguely about Laetitia Casta and making little sense otherwise.)

Life:
Swearing at Motorists - Lost Your Wig (one scene too early)

Mental Breakdown:
Foo Fighters - Tired of You (Good title. Not much to do with my breakdown. I guess my soundtrack was just bummed out by Lost Your Wig.)

Driving:
Nels Cline Singers - Suspended Head (An instrumental. Dead on, in that it goes in a couple of different directions in just 4 minutes.)

Flashback:
Archers of Loaf-Ethel Merman (I'd like to think I turned out just like Ethel Merman, don't you?)

Getting Back Together:
The Hives - Knock Knock (Yee-ikes! I wonder if SHE knows we're back together.)

Wedding:
Mark Lanegan - Wish You Well (Sweet fucking christ. My filmed wedding contains a live-action Corpse Bride ripoff. Damn, I was hoping my movie'd be a little more original and not so cookie cutter.)

Birth of Child:
Patton Oswalt - 80's Metal (same comedy record as you. Guess what? Our kid's gay! Squibbidy Flabbidy Doo! Thank you, Night Ranger!)

Final Battle:
Mastodon - Seabeast (My final battle is apparently with Moby Dick. And it involves volume and grunting.)

Death Scene:
David Cross - Even Though I Am In The Closet, That Won't Prevent Me From Getting Cheap Laughs At The Expense of Homosexuals (This is turning out surprisingly accurate-I have always imagined I'd shuffle off the mortal coil during a David Cross show where he riffs on about something and titles it something completely different. Eerie.)

Funeral Song:
The Hold Steady-Citrus ("Hey whiskey, hey ginger, I come to you with rigid fingers" Take that, Moby Dick! This might actually be playing at my funeral, right after Brown Sugar and just before Rock For Light.)

End Credits:
Ted Leo - Since You Been Gone (I swear I'm not making this up. Some producer would go directly to this on purpose. The Kelly Clarkson original would've been pretty dope, too.)

Fountains of Why?

2007-04-04T22:04:00.000-05:00

I managed what the kids called a "record store" throughout the 90's. My CD buying habit was colossal, and my thirst for information just as extreme. When operating at peak efficiency, I was buying a ton of CD's every month and reading just about every magazine I could (this is before the internet phased out everything good). Allegedly, this was all a job-related pursuit, but I did get a warm charge from my command of such a knowledgebase.

But I left that job in May 1999. And by Halloween of that year, my knowledge of CD's, their release dates, or what was hip had withered. I could no sooner quote a month's worth of release dates than I could a chronological list of American Vice-Presidents.

So when I stumbled across the news that one of my favorite bands (Fountains of Wayne) was putting out a new album on that very day, I was happy but not surprised that I didn't know it was coming. I returned home a little excited, fired up the iTunes Store online, and went right to my planned purchase. I don't know what spurred me to give a listen to the samples of each song, but I'm sorta glad I did. I wound up not buying Traffic and Weather.

Again, I'm a huge FOW enthusiast--I own all their previous releases and even bought Robbie Fulks' brilliant Fountains of Wayne Hotline single (mostly because Fulks has the good sense to produce a faithful homage at the same time he's skewering the band's airtight pop construction). But for some reason those newly released samples, while unmistakably the same band that's thrilled me in the past, didn't give me a reason to make room in my brain and my hard drive and my iPod for the full length tunes. It's one thing to put out a nice slice of More of the Same, but this sounded like Fountains of Wayne had spent a couple of months working with that fictitous Hotline. It certainly wasn't emphasizing the "new" in "new release". My affection toward their music wouldn't grow or shrink from this new collection of songs.

Now I just feel odd about the whole experience. I was caught unaware that a band I love was putting out a new CD, and now I'm almost bummed out that it sounded so unimportant and unnecessary. I wonder how long I'm going to hold out before breaking down and getting it, if I ever do.

Yeah, But Good Luck Pulling For The Twins This Year.

2007-04-04T00:12:00.000-05:00

I don't get many chances to combine my love of sports with my love of music (particularly this genius band), so imagine how psyched I am to hear the Hold Steady performing Take Me Out To The Ballgame...

Maybe they can get Joe Mauer to return the favor with an acapella "Your Little Hoodrat Friend".

Guitar Hero II, Music Appreciation 0.

2007-04-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

This conversation could have actually happened, or could actually be happening, right now:

FADE IN.
Matthew Sweet's "Girlfriend" broadcasts through an iPod.

Dude I: I can play that.

Tim: You can? I didn't even know you played an instrument.

Dude I: Well, on Guitar Hero II. I can play it on the "Hard level.

That's like me saying, "I can throw a football seventy yards in the air. Well, on Madden 2007, I can."

What could have been a nice little gateway for the ADHD set to learn about some classic music, like Cheap Trick's Surrender, or Kiss' Strutter, or the above-mentioned Girlfriend, instead just becomes incidental background flotsam in a brightly colored typing contest.

You might think my venom is misplaced. You might think I'm covering some latent frustration at not being very skilled at the game. You'd be wrong.
After playing a round or two at a kid's birthday party (I'm skipping over the ridiculousness of a video game totally sucking the adults right out of the poor kid's celebration), I acquitted myself well enough. The players who were Really Into It, though... yeesh. In the Guitar Hero world, Dick Dale's Misirlou was just another big Donkey Kong to topple. Not only did they have no idea what they were listening to, their ignorance actually cemented my notion that knowing or appreciating the song actually hurts you in the game.

It's a game based on music for people who don't care about music, or don't even particularly like music.

Add this "marvel" to my list of Things I Wish Accidentally Gave People Syphilis.

Hide Your Daughters... In About 15 Years.

2007-03-30T13:42:00.000-05:00

During my wife's birthday party three Januarys ago, I decided to give my young nephew Cody one of my smaller guitars as an early 4th birthday present. (I will own the fact that the gift was fueled 95% by love and 5% by a little alcohol.)

I ask his mom and dad periodically if he's enjoying the instrument, and I'm told that he is. Apparently, my status as Most Exalted Uncle is secure, because his mom sent me the following update, via MySpace (where only good music lives):

Cody is working on his latest masterpiece.

Today after school he was teaching Hannah and Timo the chorus to his new song. It went a little something like this...

"I believe I can fly, I got shot by the FBI"

And he's already doing the work and paying his dues. This message came immediately after the first:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Tim City

Like it? I want to record it! I can have him on tour in about a year.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Fay
He would be in Heaven. He uses all of our blank video tapes to make movies of himself, and then watches them back and comments on his performance.

You find me another six-year old with a work ethic, a rad guitar and a subconscious Guided By Voices jones, and I'll give you money. Get on board now before you're made fun of for not knowing the name: Cody Lee Douglas.

Why Don't More Chicks Like 300?

2007-03-29T13:01:00.000-05:00

My capsule review of the 300 experience, given over the phone to my like-minded confidant Gus, began like this:

"Sandy hated it. All this fighting and no story, she says."

I won't bore you with the middle of the conversation that followed, and instead I'll just skip to the important part, our agreed-upon conclusion:

Sometimes, a movie with 300 oiled up dudes impaling several thousand other dudes with costumes and piercings is just that--a movie about impaling people. But, much like the mythos of children being the only ones who can see through the Devil's disguise, so too can ladies see beyond 300's flimsy metaphor: it's totally about butt-sex.

Only one female character of any consequence (and even she gets a little rough trade out of it). All the fussy little strategies to get guys in a vulnerable position. There's even an evil drag queen. Throw in a writer with a little misogyny pinned to his reputation, and you've got a recipe to Drive Straight Women To Watch Music And Lyrics Again.

I can't believe Frank Miller fooled us again, so soon after his unsavory (and still in progress) All-Star Batman and Robin, His Boy Lover... er, Boy Wonder.

Ten Pounds of Shit In A Five Pound Bag.

2007-02-26T10:02:00.000-06:00

That's what I look and feel like today. I accused my wife of poisoning me, then sticking a lit cigarette down my throat while I slept.

The iPod just popped out Here's to You by the Silos (who are coming to Pensacola, and probably won't play it). My iPod is trying to soothe me.

Where the hell have you been?

2007-02-12T22:00:00.000-06:00

So yeah, I haven't updated this spot (or really, many of the other blogs I contribute to) since before Halloween. It doesn't mean that nothing's been going on with me, and the world has certainly turned plenty since my last post:

Anna Nicole Smith follows her son in death. Someone please start searching Howard K. Stern's bookshelf for books on everything from Marilyn Monroe & JFK to Jim Jones and the Jonestown Massacre. Stern may want to keep that law degree handy, too. Added bonus: "I'm Anna's baby-daddy" has become MySpace for any penis over 30, I guess. I can't believe Maury Povich hasn't sold both his kidneys and one of Connie Chung's for the exclusive rights to the DNA tests on all the possible candidates.

Bizarre Love Triangle or Space Oddity, take your pick. Wow. I had a feeling NASA was a high-stress work environment, what with spending billions to go into outer space once every two years, so you can't fault at least one astronaut for going off their rocker, right? I imagine the meat in this DCT (Dude/Crazy/Tramp) sandwich is signing up for every flight off-world he can get in the next six months. He's ready to strap on a Buck Rogers jet-pack and hold his breath til he gets to the International Space Station.

It's not a stereotype if it's true. Once I got past the "what the fuck is Scarlett Johansson doing presenting the last Grammy?" stuff, I was able to give my undivided attention to her ridiculous, porn-star attempts to point out to the last two people on earth that she does indeed have breasts. She actually bent over to speak into a microphone which was clearly above her mouth. I did like Don Henley's answer when ol' Hooters asked him if he had any advice for her upcoming CD recording: "No." Assuming he could always be this succinct, why is Hotel California four days long?

Have I soured on the Dixie Chicks after their Grammy triumph? I wasn't a big fan of Natalie Maines' meandering acceptance speeches; I thought she was a little heavy on the nyah-nyah's and a little light on the appreciation. But then again, they did produce a solid CD (which I didn't do last year) and they did get death threats (which, again, I didn't). I'll stay on their side, if for no other reason than the other side of the argument is unreasoned at best and lunatic half-truth at worst.

I'm the devil. I love metal. Now that Prince has shown that he's got the Foo Fighters covered, Dave Grohl can leave his homo-sapien costume in storage and strut around as his true demonic self. Seriously, is there anyone you know who doesn't at least like Dave Grohl? I blame Satan.

And that's just a taste of what's been going around while the Internets awaited my return. Where the hell have I been?

Watching my peeps the Deadly Fists of Kung Fu play to a crowd larger than the last 20 they'd played for.

Finally buying a goddamn iPod, and then realizing (to my horror) that I really enjoy having it. To the point where I almost treat it like a child. Oh, is your little battery running out? Oh, do you need more music? How about a nice video?

Watching my queen begin full-0n cosmetology school, and kicking ass.

Waiting for February 1oth, so I could wish Allen Holt a happy birthday. For those of you who don't know him, The Holt is a devoted and accomplished husband and father of two, who also happens to be the best writer I know personally. Check his shit out. (His wife's no slouch either.)

Hopefully, I'll be back soon, so I don't have to fill a post with such random crap in the weeks ahead.

That Sound You Hear Is Me Slapping My Forehead Repeatedly and With Increasing Force.

2006-10-30T17:09:00.000-06:00

From the mouth (and possibly the brain) of producer Linda Perry:
I think we made a beautiful, vibey, magical record," Perry says. "Courtney Love's name should be right next to Bob Dylan when they say 'best lyricist of all time.'

Courtney Love, I hold thee blameless. It sounds like you've cleaned up your act, and I admire you for it.

Linda Perry, on the other hand, sounds like she's smoking marijuana to help kick an LSD habit. She could use some tips on future outlandish statements and actions from the Cobain widow. And she might want to revisit her own lyrics sometime:

"Hey-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah. Hey yeah-yeah. I said, "hey." What's going on?"
-Four Non Blondes, What's Going On?

"Now and then, I get insecure from all the fame, I’m so ashamed."
-Christina Aguilera, Beautiful

"I'm coming up, so you better get this party started."
-Pink, Get This Party Started

Hmmm. I take it back. Perry'd obviously know good lyricists from bad. Sign me up for two copies of Love's CD when it hits the streets.

Brainless is Better (Sometimes)

2006-10-02T12:55:00.000-05:00

It was Sunday morning. I really needed to complete my promised NFL preview for sportsgeekz.com before the first games got underway. Obstacles arose between Thursday (my planned submission day) and Saturday night (my imaginary but firm deadline), sure, but nothing that really prevented me from spending 20 minutes and offering up something.

But, I didn't get it finished Saturday night. So, not wishing to disappoint my three readers (maybe two--I'm counting myself), I logged on Sunday morning and slogged through each point I wanted to touch on, formatted it a little, and hit "publish". Didn't organize it beyond the "as it came to me" structure, and didn't spell- (or fact-) check it. Away it went and away I went into my yardwork Sunday.

I felt good that it was done. I felt bad that I didn't do at least a quickie second or third draft. Then I re-read it this morning and decided that it's just fine; it might be in my Top Ten Proudest Writing Moments.

Sure, some of my stuff is far more clever, or poignant, or better put. Some of my posts have been more memorable to others or to me. No doubt, most of my other writings have been finished in my view and written to the best of my ability. But this one's special simply because I finished it when I didn't even feel like starting it. It's good to me because I didn't care if it was bad (or good) to someone else.

It's thoughtful because I didn't think about it too much. Have you ever seen a piece of writing that was obviously, greviously over-thought? Probably not often, because the over-thought rarely makes it to paper or a computer screen or a browser window.

I know most people would prefer quality over quantity, but sometimes quantity is the only way to get to the quality.

Will This Be All The Right Moves or Risky Business?

2006-08-29T10:14:00.000-05:00

Coming soon to a theater near you: Mission Impossible 4, only this time with Bronson Pinchot, Rebecca DeMornay, and Joe Pantoliano co-starring with Tom Cruise. Because as new Cruise-enabler Dan Snyder's shown time and time again, he not only prefers things as they were when he was growing up, but he'll pay to see them again.

And while I think this venture's actually a good one for Redskins owner Snyder (Cruise films still make money, despite his lunacy. Paramount just wasn't making enough money after paying Cruise his cut), I wonder what ideas he's been keeping in his deep pockets, right next to the checkbook...

From: "Daniel Snyder" the.danald@redksins.net
To: "Tom Cruise" praise.lron@cruise.net
RE: Quick thoughts on First & Goal Pictures

Hey Tom:

Couldn't sleep last night, what with my fantasy league team getting stomped 41-0 and all. ;) Had some thoughts I wanted to run by you.

1. I love this one. How about charging the film crews, from the director on down, $6 a day for watching the film being made? It'd be matinee prices, really, and based on my past experience charging admission to Redskins training camp, everybody's willing to pay. We could just deduct it from their last check or something. I'll have my "movie guy" check into whether this would count as box office.

2. I'd love to see a remake of All The Right Moves, only this time, call Craig T. Nelson's character "Coach Joe Gibbs" and tweak the story a little so it's more about the year the Redskins signed a guy named Danny Weurffel (who you'd be perfect for--he was just a bit taller than you) and he led them to a Super Bowl title.

3. Could give me Penelope Cruz' home number, or maybe just her e-mail address? I'd be interested in knowing how much it would cost to get her in a Redskins cheerleader outfit. For charity, of course.

4. This last one would really need to be kept just between you and me: I need to sign Tom Brady to my team, but I can't give him the signing bonus and salary he'd require without violating our league salary cap (I know, it's unfathomable that somebody can't make whatever someone else will pay. Don't get me started). Think we could make him the bad guy in Mission Impossible 4 or 5, and pay him $15-20 million? I think that would be a nice little incentive for him to come to D.C.

Sorry to bombard you with all of these. Take some time to think my ideas over and get back to me when you get a chance. Trading deadline is Week 6.

Gotta go make some money!

Best,
Dan

Tim Watches the News

2006-08-18T12:28:00.000-05:00

The Story:
An appeals judge ruled the President and the NSA's wiretapping sans warrants illegal.

My response:

Big deal.

The NSA and The W knew it was illegal the entire time. They didn't care then, and they don't care now. Truth be told, I don't care all that much. I do sympathize with anyone who didn't have anything to hide that may have been eavesdropped upon in this manner. However, unless a fed's wiretapping led directly to your wife finding out about your threesome-that-didn't-involve-her, or some other embarrassing pecadilloes, are you (and your all-important liberties) damaged, really?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you. "If the President is allowed to do this, then the next step is having GPS chips installed in babies born near the border, and then he'll start arresting people who write in blogs calling him "The W", and..." Spare me. If this ruling tells us anything, it's that people are keeping an eye out for just that kind of foolishness. Don't get involved with things that mess with other people's safety and rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of Rachel Bilson (uh, that last one's just me) and The Pres' disregard for the law won't really ruin your weekend.

The Story:

Some degenerate pedophile confesses to killing Jonbenet Ramsey 10 years ago.

My response:

This guy's out of his goddamned mind. And I'm impressed that the media has already focused their coverage in that direction. The case is 10 years old and I immediately had questions for him during that beyond-bizarre press conference. Unfortunately, I don't think he could hear me over the din:

Why now?

How do you accidentally kill a small child with a garotte? That's like saying, "she fell on a knife 14 times".

Where did you train for this mission? You must be a pretty agile and speedy pervert, what with breaking into the house, committing these horrible acts, and writing, revising, and rewriting a ransom note. All without waking anyone or leaving evidence that you'd gone through several rooms in a house you'd never been in before. Why then, with all that skill, didn't you leave behind pedophilia for a much easier career robbing museums and casinos like Danny Ocean?

It was Christmas--was Santa your accomplice? Now that's a lot more believable.

I Think Sorkin Rocks. Does This Mean I Think He's ON Rock? Then I'm Sorry. Or Am I?

2006-07-24T13:06:00.000-05:00

From CNN.com:

Aaron Sorkin, the acclaimed wordsmith behind "The West Wing" and the upcoming "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," was left wishing Friday he could reclaim one public remark.

"I do think television is a terribly influential part of this country and when things that are very mean-spirited and voyeuristic go on TV, I think it's bad crack in the schoolyard," Sorkin told a meeting of the Television Critics Association.

He paused briefly, then asked: "Why did I use that word?"

In 2001, Sorkin was arrested at a Southern California airport and charged with possession of cocaine, mushrooms and marijuana. He entered a drug treatment program after pleading guilty to a misdemeanor and two felony counts.

I'm sorry, are the members of the Television Critics Association actually all
schoolchildren? Or crack dealers? No? Then why'd Sorkin feel so bad at his choice of words? Because he made some mistakes, copped to them, and moved on, just like any number of plumbers, airline pilots, secretaries, CEO's, and (probably) a television critic or two?

Sorkin shouldn't have played the scene all sheepish (despite the inspired follow-up quotes from fellow NBC employees Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford that showed that the cast has his back). His point (actually a reiteration of a point one of his characters makes in the premiere episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip)was a valid one, and now it's obscured by the connection his druggy simile had with his personal life.

And that connection in and of itself is actually kinda nifty, if you think about it. Here's a writer of fictional characters who's applied a part of skillful fiction to his own non-fictional life: he's made a change. Few are the number of successful and enduring characters on TV, in movies, or in books that haven't made some change or at least have been given the opportunity. If Sorkin can imbue his latest cast of characters with the stuff of his changes, of his ability to own his past, then he'll have done another masterful job.

And we should let him try.

Fear The Moustache

2006-07-20T08:46:00.000-05:00

In a show of solidarity for my brothers in Deadly Fists of Kung Fu, on the road this week and recording in Athens, Georgia with David Barbe, I present my 10 day old mustache...

Wow. It looks even sexier on the internet.

Your Mom DID Say You'd Go Blind

2006-07-01T19:51:00.000-05:00

Eddie Griffin (the Minnesota Timberwolves' bench valet, not the semi-funny comedian) should've heeded mama's warning...

Effective multi-tasking? Emphasising the word effective, that's a skill I envy and admire. Totally futile attempts at multi-tasking? Comedy gold, my friends, comedy gold. If you're too lazy to click on the above link, here's the long and short of it: Griffin crashed his Escalade into a parked Suburban on the curb outside a retail establishment. Immediately prior to that (according to witness' recounting of what Griffin said), he was not only drinking, he was also watching porn on the in-dash DVD player and masturbating.

Laughter and schadenfreude aside, This incident troubles me for two reasons:

ONE: Had it occurred in the off-season, I might have been willing to cut "This Is My Solo Project" Griffin some slack. But I just found out it happened after a freaking game; This was an in-season whack job. How is it possible, given the network of NBA-ready babymamas and other places to put your double-double-a-night goo, that even a borderline Euroleague baller like Griffin couldn't find a girl to "take the wheel" while he actually kept both hands on the wheel and at least an eye on the road? (INTERJECTION: Speaking as someone who's been both a driver and a masturbator for, God, over 20 years? Griffin should have been able to keep at least one eye on the road; no matter the circumstances, I always know where my penis is, within an eighth-inch or so. He couldn't make an educated guess where and what to pull?)

TWO: In the age of perpetually scrolling ESPNNews, where we have conspiracy theories as lurid as "the reason Roger Clemens just now signed with the Astros is because he's secretly serving a 50-day steroid sentence", how did this brilliant event go under the pop-media radar? Was Jimmy Kimmel too busy analyzing how he mangaged to bag Sarah Silverman? Eddie Griffin gets an under-rug special, while gay-ass[**] Michael Strahan gets all of his laundry, clean, dirty, ALL of it aired? This kind of arbitrary scandal-squashing will make me doubt just how sincere someone like Mark Schlereth or Al Michaels is from now on.

_________________________________
(**) I have no doubt in my mind, Mr. Strahan, that your junk is for Ladies Only. Please don't: sue me, slap me, or send your buddy Tiki Barber and his brother Ronde to come to Pensacola and remove every single hot chick from the county.

11 Hours and Change Til Up, Up, and Away...

2006-06-27T11:07:00.000-05:00

Got tix to see Superman Returns for one of the first showings (15 minutes after the first), 10:15 tonight.

Now what?

What the holy living fuck am I gonna do to kill 11 hours? Work will help, but I'm beyond 7-year-old-on-Christmas-Eve already.

It's like Kate Beckinsale agreeing to a night of tantric sex... beginning in 11 hours.

This could possibly be my last post before I pass out and miss the whole thing.

__________________________________________

NOTE: Not that my earlier Built to Spill post wasn't genius, but it's The Day Superman Returns; I've got to have something Super today.

Heavy Music for The Non-Retarded

2006-06-27T02:17:00.000-05:00

On a suggestion from big fan (and pretty good judge of What I'd Like) Jason Hurt, I picked up the new Built to Spill, You In Reverse.

All I remembered about BTS was the Perfect From Now On CD and a blistering cover of Neil Young & Crazy Horse's Cortez the Killer on a live CD in the jukebox of Pensacola's late, lamented Room 1026. Hadn't thought much of them since. I may have some catching up to do.

All you Bud Light-addled, road ragin', unfortunately tattooed nu-metal fans out there haven't heard heavy 'til you've snuggled up to a track like Reverse's opener, Goin' Against Your Mind (check it out for free on BTS' MySpace page). 8 minutes long, and you don't hear Doug Martsch sing a note until the 2:05 mark. And he probably doesn't sing for more than a minute total. It's a wall of sound so much more dense than what Disturbed, Drowning Pool, Godsmack, or any of those other former-guitar-store-employees' bands could come up with.

Happy Birthday, Joss and Johannes!

2006-06-23T02:14:00.000-05:00

Today (Friday, June 23rd), we celebrate a couple of notable birthdays: first, we have Johannes Gutenberg, who developed the very first printing press (so he could print a Bible, probably an abridged one). He'd be 606 years old.

Currently making fine use of Gutenberg's device (well, the descendents of Gutenberg's device--otherwise we'd still be waiting for Astonishing X-Men #2 instead of #16) is another notable birthday boy, Joss Whedon. The creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Firefly is a relative spring chicken at 42.

Happy Birthday to both; Thanks for the press, Johannes, and thanks for doing something fancy with the printed word, Mr. Whedon. And Joss, when you're done blowing out yours, it'd be decent of you to help Old Gutenberg blow out the remaining 400 or so candles on his cake.

And in your honor, guys: I implore anyone reading this to:

1. Write something. Write something fun, with people interacting with other people. And with people talking to each other. And with vampires. Or with co-workers who live on a spaceship. Or with Kitty Pryde. Or all of the above. (Extra credit if it includes vampires spanking Johannes Gutenberg 606 times)

2. Print it. I know it's not the same thing (unless you're printing with handheld rubber stamps of individual letters), but Johannes won't care. He's as dead as the battery on the rusted-out '74 Vega on blocks around the corner from your house. The one missing all of it's mirrors, not the one with the Keep On Truckin' bumper sticker.

I'm not going to insist that you share your tributes with me (and the literally pairs of other people reading this shit), but you'll feel better than ever if you do.

It's A Better-Than-Usual Day to be The Man Of Steel

2006-06-17T21:25:00.000-05:00

Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane!

It's Superman... and he fucking rocks.

For the first time since I was five, a copy of Superman #277 in my hand, the Last Son of Krypton is the main character in a world of wonder, all shiny and happy-ended. With an almost certain blockbuster film on the horizon, DC Comics is placing one of the most enduring fictional characters of all time back where he belongs: as their top priority.

In the mid-80's, with "grim-and-gritty" tales like Frank Miller's Batman opus The Dark Knight Returns starting to gain a foothold in comics, the DC creators of the day felt there wasn't a very compelling story to be told featuring a near-invincible hero. No challenges, they said. How do you threaten a Superman at all if he can move whole planets out of their orbits and travel through time?

DC's solution (beginning with John Byrne's Man of Steel series) was to give Superman a big, fat "do-over". By portraying Supes as not nearly as strong, fast, or invulnerable as he'd previously been, by putting limits on what Superman was capable of, there were, the wisdom was, no limits to the stories you could tell. Unfortunately, Superman (and Clark Kent) seem to behave as if he remembered a time when he could do anything, just like the readers did. The Man of Tomorrow seemed like he was having a hard time dealing with the weight of Today. He spent more time reflecting and questioning himself than he did bending steel in his bare hands and leaping tall buildings in a single bound.

With a newly mopey and less fantastic Superman to work with, the readers yawned. And went away, to buy Batman and Punisher and X-Men. Or worse for DC, away from comics altogether.

The powers-that-be have come to their senses these days. Grab Superman and Action Comics for the current goings-on with the Man of Steel, and pick up Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely's All-Star Superman for a "stand-alone" tale that isn't tied to all the other titles in the DC Universe, and gives us a Superman limited only by Morrison's overpowering imagination. This Superman gets to arm-wrestle Samson and Atlas at the same time. And that's just two pages out of the 60 or so that have come out so far.

Superman and Action, co-written by All-World scripters Geoff Johns and Kurt Busiek, and illustrated by Pete Woods, show us a 21st Century Superman with a nod to the pre Man of Steel 20th. Ironically, they begin their bid (titled Up, Up, and Away, more on the coolness of that in a bit) to return Superman to his past greatness by upping the dramatic ante from his last revision[1]. (Johns and Busiek even take a tiny jab at the negative effects of the recent Superman malaise: In the opening pages of the first chapter to Up, Up, and Away, Jimmy Olsen bemoans that "no one even looks up in the sky anymore!")

With simplicity in both plot (Superman's back and better than ever!) and design (the chapters are subtitled after classic Superman phrases: Powers & Abilities, Speeding Bullet, Mild-Mannered Reporter) Johns, Busiek, and Woods give us the Superman that looks and acts like the greatest hero of them all without making wholesale changes to the work of the last 20 years. (Well, except to the stuff that made Clark Kent into Poor Li'l Superman.) The prose is succinct, and confident enough for the reader to leap full on into the fantastic. The pictures (which are the backbone of the medium) both augment the words and tell a story of their own: a 2-page spread early in the latest Superman (#653) gives the reader an incredible aerial view of Superman's sprawling Metropolis, set upon by the gigantic menace of Lex Luthor. All that stands between the villain and the destruction of a city is a little tiny speck of blue and red. And these days, that's all Metropolis needs.

Superman Returns. Hell, yeah.
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[1] I won't spoil the surprises. READ THE COMICS!

I'm SO Not the Man Of Steel. At Least That's What My Stomach's Telling Me.

2006-06-16T08:23:00.000-05:00

There was supposed to be an organized, well-crafted, and skillfully presented essay on the current awesomeness to be found in all things Superman.

My stomach, nay, my entire gastrointestinal system has argued against such pursuits.

But watch this space; my guts can keep me down for a night, but I am the master here, and I won't let a tummyache keep my cyber-pen at bay for 24 hours in a row.

Look! Up in the sky!

That's all for now.

When are MY Avengers Gonna Assemble?

2006-05-25T13:51:00.000-05:00

Two years ago, I never saw this post coming. Two years ago, I got the news that Brian Bendis, my favorite funnybook writer[1] was going to take over my all-time favorite funnybook, The Avengers. Mr. Bendis was going to bring his awe-inspiring (yet strangely welcoming) talkiness to spruce up Earth's Mightiest Heroes and make them, well, More Mightily Heroic. While the opening, 'out with the old' Disassembled arc polarized many in the fan community, I thought it was skillfully done and accomplished what he set out to do: he blew up just enough of the status quo (and the inertia of 500+ issues) to force the characters to do the same thing a different way. I was giddy with thoughts of My Favorite Book becoming the Comic World's Favorite Book.

And with his first arc on New Avengers, Bendis took full advantage of his now-cleaner slate to somehow inject Spider-Man and Wolverine (not to mention Luke Cage, Power Man) into the dynamic without seeming forced, through a plot packed full with intense phsyical action (not typically Bendisian) and meaningful personal interaction. For the first time in a long time, I couldn't wait 30 days until my next fix of this comic.

Fast forward to yesterday (?) and I'm now just going through the motions with my partner of 30-plus years. What in the name of Irving Forbush is going on? Where have the Avengers gone?

Bendis somehow found a way to lose all of his momentum, and I suspect this is partly due to what makes him such a smart, creative force in the business: his brain just won't stop working. He's so immersed himself in the characters and their world that he can't help but think of a different, arguably better story to tell than the one he's already gotten to the middle of. Two prime examples: elements of his Disassembled arc led directly to the proposal and creation of the House of M miniseries, which then caused him to delay and otherwise make changes in Avengers mid-stream; the book has suffered since. And when his work on Avengers led directly to a "re-think" on the direction of his Secret War miniseries, that book suffered too.[2]

This isn't to say that the title's no good; it's certainly better than most of the X-Men I've read lately, and favorably comparable to a lot of the capes books on the shelves. I love Bendis' dialogue and the team he's been, uh, assembling, and the situations he sets up are good. But somehow, these pluses just never combine to tell a compelling story.

For me, I need an arc or two to go down in Avengers history, all of Avengers history including this new phase, to ajudge a creator's run positively. (Like Bendis, I've been at this starry-eyed Avengers-fandom-thing since Nixon was President; I think I've earned a little snobbishness in this arena.) So far, while the very first arc of New Avengers was phenomenal, it left too many things dangling that have either been unresolved or resolved unsatisfyingly. He's taken great pains to establish and flesh out the whys and wherefores of Spider-Woman's backstory and dynamic with the team, but he's failed miserably at integrating the Ronin/Echo character (who appeared on covers dating back to issue #1 and didn't show up in an issue for the first whole year), and has struggled to decide how/when to use The Sentry (but at least he's tried to include him and expand on his membership since issue 1). That's tainting my opinion of the first arc now.

Earlier, I mentioned that I was going through the motions with something that's been an enjoyable part of my life for quite a while. I wonder if Bendis is now going through the same thing with New Avengers.
_________________________________________________________
[1] Bendis was certainly my favorite comic writer at the time--I'm leaning more towards Warren Ellis, Geoff Johns, Ed Brubaker, and Mark Millar as my faves these days, along with part-timer Joss Whedon)

[2]Though, to be fair, the glacierly pace of SW artist Gabrielle Del'Otto left plenty of time for Bendis to do his sixteenth version of the last half of the series.

I Thought He Liked The Scrunchy Face

2006-05-23T08:46:00.000-05:00

From Patton Oswalt's blog:

Stop writing in public. On a laptop. Anything you're writing in Starbucks? It's going to suck. The Daniel Powter song you're listening to is bleeding out of your earplugs, and I can't read my fucking comics. Go write like normal people -- alone, in a small dark room. With the door shut. Writing doesn't look cool the way it does in movies. Your lips move, your face scrunches up, and sometimes you zone out when you're writing one of those shitty, cliche passages that you can't ever avoid putting in your stuff. You know, something like, "...but he knows it's hopeless". Jesus, you should look at yourself when you write shit like that. I have. It's not pretty. That needs to happen behind a locked door, in the dark. Think of it this way. You're fucking a cheap whore. Don't do it in public. Thank you.

Which pretty much says it all about writing in public. Well, except for what I'm about to say...

I had an enlightening first night of Writing, Not Planning. I tested Oswalt's thesis, and damned if he isn't basically right. It's tough to write in public, especially in public where you know every single person in the room. While it wasn't blatantly obvious I was typing anything weightier than "What R U up 2?", it was evident that no one was going to give me any time at all to put down much more than that.

I'm not writing on the outside again. Not if I want to get anything done. It's not like I need an excuse to not write.

What R U up 2?

Plan 949 from Inner Space

2006-05-22T16:03:00.000-05:00

Planned to write this weekend--felt the ideas tapping at my cerebral cortex and just knew that the original comic series I'd been considering was gonna spill right out. I had time and I was fairly motivated. This was going to happen.

Finally sat down Sunday night, opened up my "notes" file and caught up with my past scribblings. Started typing, and what came out... was more planning. Nothing resembling a character in motion, only extra grams of character and some questions to be answered by the actual story. But no story was coming.

I realize today that the planning is what's been holding me back. I can't prepare the entire tale before I actually start to write it. This confidence-withering prep is like designing and building a jigsaw puzzle--I'm designing pieces that when assembled won't make a story, it'll only make a picture of a finished story.

So, if you're reading this and you're not me, feel free to periodically ask me how the story's coming along. I've been undervaluing shame as a motivator, and that's going to be corrected today.

No more planning. Planning never prevented a shitty piece, nor did it guarantee a great or even good one. So I'm putting that in the corner for awhile, and getting the bad words out of the way for the good ones.

Watch this space.

A Video Is Worth How Many Words?

2006-05-16T16:44:00.000-05:00

Looks like none, because this clip renders me speechless. Witness the Deadly Fists of Kung Fu's Shortpacked, as rendered by the obscenely talented Steve Barron:

Gas Up The Zamboni, Lucifer

2006-05-09T14:36:00.000-05:00

Tim has a myspace page.

Someone actually told me last week, "I can't believe you don't have a myspace page." As if something about me screams, "I don't like traditional human gatherings at all," or "I have a great need to show other people how much coolness I've listened to/watched/read/met".

Some things I've noticed in my first few active days:

Apparently, I don't have enough pictures of myself.

I'm actually feeling less comfortable and more insecure the further past 5 or 6 "friends" I go.

It's not a very user-friendly site. I guess it'll take a while to get used to its workings, but why?
[Here's an example: You can't carry on a conversation via the "comments" on someone's myspace page. You can respond to a comment they left on your page, but not on your page. So you're left with a comments section that's exactly one-half of some conversation. I don't think I'll be tossing around too many of those.]

People are not only extremely eager to ask people to be their "friend", but also just as eager to say "yes" to being someone else's.

We'll see how this works out. I've gotta go take about 24 pics of myself now.

6 Bands, Including A Solomon Grundy

2006-04-14T17:02:00.000-05:00

Deadly Fists of Kung Fu are rocking a benefit tomorrow night, for a girl named Teah (who I've never met) with some serious health troubles. Sounds like a good cause to me.

Trent Wants To Bore Me Like An Animal

2006-03-27T13:24:00.000-06:00

Saw Nine Inch Nails the other night here at the local hockey rink. Leading up to the show, I hadn't heard anything from the new CD, but I'm pretty sure I hadn't missed much epoch-defining growth.

Boy, was I... not in for a surprise at all.

As they blasted out head-bobbing-tantrum after head-bobbing-tantrum, I wondered what charm, if any, I'd ever seen in this "band". The fact that I didn't recognize the song they opened with (and still haven't gotten the urge to find out. Sorry.) just points up the fact that, more than most bands, every song sounds much the freaking same. Strangely enough, they certainly appeared animated, especially (whoever) the guitarist (was) who liked to knock things over and twirl his guitar around. It was just the music that was stiff and lifeless.

Some more quick observations about the show...

1. A super-buff Trent Reznor has apparently been working out since he was last on the road. (Visions of him working out to a DVD called Sweatin' to the Danzig need to be burned out of me quickly. Please help.)

2. Fog machines haven't been cool since Ronnie James Dio played the Civic Center. And I'm not sure they were cool then. Animated robot dragons that shot red lasers from their eyes, now those were cool.

3. Playing for 15 minutes behind a gauzy white curtain doubling as a movie screen doesn't break up a monontonous show, it adds an extra layer of yawning. Especially when the clips shown are as unsubtle as the crap the Nails were showing. Footage of some virus acting on a cell under a microscope, fading into shots of predator/prey animals in the jungle, into marching soldiers, blah, blah, blah, blech.

4. If I didn't pay to get into the show, do I still have the right to bitch about how crappy it was? I don't? Oh, well. Just forget I saw the show, then.

I already have.

This is why she doesn't take me to the movies.

2006-03-05T20:46:00.000-06:00

I was driving around with my wife this afternoon, to avoid any sort of household chores before she hunkered down to watch tonight's Academy Awards. I accidentally remarked that I didn't believe I'd seen any film nominated for any awards tonight (as it turns out, Batman Begins and Star Wars:Revenge of the Sith were indeed nominated). We discovered that the tiny 4-screen theater in Gulf Breeze (which now is the *only* place you can see a lot of the "artier" films) was showing Transamerica, which Sandy really wanted to see.

The fact that I enjoyed the movie tremendously is secondary to the unfortunate first reaction I had to what I was seeing onscreen. And I couldn't let it go; I had to whisper it to the wife, who was futilely attempting to merely enjoy the Oscar nominated performance:

"I can't believe that Hollywood's vision of a man desperately trying to become a woman is actually Kathy Griffin."

Duane Thomas on XL Island

2006-02-05T10:55:00.000-06:00

"If it's the ultimate, then why are they playing it again next year?"

--Duane Thomas, Cowboys RB, just before Super Bowl VI, 1972

That quote was offered up 34 years ago, by an infamously silent guy. Like Kevin Smith's Silent Bob, apparently Thomas was just saving his breath until he had something to say. And, like Silent Bob, the message was largely treated as fodder for guffawing journalists, not to be taken seriously. [Though honestly, I don't think Smith's/Bob's monologue explaining what Chasing Amy meant has aged as well as Thomas' unprovoked prophecy.]

But, as someone who's been watching Super Bowls since Dallas and Pittsburgh went at it in SB X thirty years ago, and critically observing the Big Day since probably the Pats vs. Pack game in '97, I can say that Thomas' rare comment totally (and unintentionally) nails it in 2006: The Super Bowl hasn't been about being the Ultimate Game in years and years.

Super Bowl Sunday is now a season's worth of reality show for people into "event television", stretched out over about 10 hours of TV time. The Playstation 2/NFL.com/Fantasy Football pigskinoscenti got their rocks off two weeks ago, as the game clocks were counting to 0:00 in Denver and Seattle. So, when someone tells you that what's going on this Sunday "isn't for the casual fan", they're right; Super Bowl Sunday's for the non-fan, and it seems to be presented by a bunch of non-fans, too.

What else explains the influx of aging Euro-rock in the American Spectacle? Why should these aging, nearly-irrelevant acts (with U2 treading on thin ice) get fistfuls of comp tickets into a game they could care less about? Because I'm now convinced most football fans out there could care less about going or really even about watching the game, that's why. Actual football fans, from the hardcore devotees to the novice observers who just like the uniforms or Tom Brady (or if you're my weird-ass wife, unemployed coach Steve Mariucci) are paying more attention to the commercials than the musical acts or the actual game action. (And I'm not saying that in the big picture, this is a bad thing. If the league and the TV networks had come up with the British Invades Halftime idea when the Dolphins were going undefeated in 1972, they probably could've gotten the Beatles back together for 10 minutes at least. Or at least gotten a much better incarnation of the Stones.)

Classic example of the Football Fan being stampeded by the Big Show of it all: Patriots/Panthers, two years ago: My wife and I decided to invite pretty much everybody over for a Super Bowl Party (or as we called it back in the Stone Age, when Steve Young was still playing, inviting people over to watch the game). I watched exactly zero plays in the game. From about the time the player intros were starting, my job title was Gregarious Host of the Party, and so consumed was I in completing my assignment that it was as if the Ultimate Game wasn't going on. And that's probably the way the NFL likes it; an entire nation of people with the game playing on their TV, whether they care about Duane Thomas' Ultimate Game being played or not, whether they care about Matt Hasslebeck or not.

Still don't believe me about the Rest of the World overwhelming the Super Bowl for the Sportsgeek? Go back and re-read this alleged "Super Bowl post". Re-read it and note the absence of anything close to an observation, a prediction, or even a careless whisper about the Steelers, the Seahawks, or whatever else may be going on in quarters one through four on Sunday.

Heh. Careless Whisper. Wham. Now that's some Old Country entertainment for halftime next year...

Can I Trade "Worst Days Of My Life" With That Guy?

2006-01-04T10:19:00.000-06:00

I was born in West Virginia. Never really lived there (the first six months of your life aren’t really living—they’re nearly 100% dependent on others to move you along), but I have tons of family that do. And yes, I’ve got family that work in coal mines, and I’ve had family die in coal mines and because of coal mines.

So, obviously, I feel a great deal of sympathy for the families and friends of those 12 miners that lost their lives in that mine explosion in West Virginia. I also share their rage at the numbskulls in charge of the Sago Mine, those imbeciles who leaked that crushing false hope, so excited that their corporate asses might actually be covered and eager to trumpet their one good deed, drowning out the cries of ‘unsafe workplace’.

Again, I haven’t lived in West Virginia enough speak to exactly how potent the fear of losing a loved one in a coal mine is. I’ve got to think it’s like living with a policeman or firefighter, or a soldier—you know there may be one day that your loved one doesn’t come home from work. You acknowledge it, you live with it, you brace yourself a little each day so that if something bad happens, you won’t just disintegrate from the news.

So what happens when your fear is realized? That, my friends, is the worst day of your life. What happens when your fear is realized, then you get whiplashed by a freaking miracle, and your fear is erased for another day (or a few hours in this case)? It’s still probably the worst day of your life, if only because it contained the worst minutes of your life, and isn’t totally erased by the good news. What happens when your fear is realized, then you’re whiplashed by a freaking miracle, and then you get everything taken away from you again times a thousand, and your time to grieve instead is taken up by rage? Well, apparently, then it just becomes the worst day in someone else’s life, in this case Ben Hatfield, chief executive officer of Sago Mine owner International Coal Group. He actually said, “Welcome to the worst day of my life.”

Please spare me, Impending Civil Lawsuit Defendant Hatfield. Any day that you get to keep living alongside your family and friends, any day that you don’t have the rug pulled out from under your whole universe not once but twice can’t possibly be the worst day of your life. In fact, I’d wager a day like that would be the best day of a lot of people’s lives in Tallmansville , West Virginia.

iPods: Bringing Back Your Post-adolescent Hipster, For Only 300 Bucks

2005-11-21T13:16:00.000-06:00

21st century technology is great, for the most part. It continues to compress even the most cumbersome objects into convenient, manageable pieces of flair, and the iPod is certainly the most obvious (and obnoxious) example. My thoughts on these devices (and keep in mind that this may just be bitter resentment that I still don’t have one):

In the quaint 90’s, you’d have to actually invite people over in order to impress them with your CD collection. It would require you to place the titles just so, to get the inevitable “Ween? Who’s that? Are they any good? I’ve never heard of them,” as you smile that practiced cat-bloated-with-canary smile. The Ween CD’s, of course, being placed in a prominent postion because those are some CD’s you own that you’ve actually listened to. The Bauhaus collection you amassed during your Best Friend’s Hot Goth Sister Phase is going to be scattered throughout the shelves, so as not to get any undue (and unanswerable) queries.

But these days you can FireWire all those arcane CD’s into your iPod, and go out into the world and play Dueling Apples with your cool new friends. It’s really just an extension of the Pokemon craze, except now artists like U2 have their own decks, and the cards cost 3 bills (or more). Even the units themselves open you up to condescension (you only got the 512 MB Shuffle?), to envy (you got a 30 Gig?), or even to cynical derision (you got a 30 Gig? You’ll never fill it up with anything good…); once you actually get to the real 12-sided dice rolling of comparing playlists, it’s really on. I swear, from my observations, iPod snooping has replaced some of the medicine cabinet peeking procedures necessary to evaluating a relationship’s potential. I’m waiting to see an article in Marie Claire or Maxim: What Your New Guy or Girl’s iPod Says About Them, or I Just Can’t Sleep With A Guy Who Has No Kelly Clarkson on His iPod.

It's even gotten so bad, that you can't even engage in the already-outmoded "burn a CD of a cool new band for a friend" anymore. Now, you have to make a CD-Rom of iTunes files or at least MP3's, so they can put it on their iPod first. Keep in mind, they still own a CD player in their car and in their home. Jesus!

And herein lies the downside to the instant-gratification, smaller/better packages for everything: we're now free to tote around shit we have no need (or no businesss) bringing out of the house. Now, thanks to the iPod and its brethren, we have Portable CD Collection Bravado, and E-Z Tote Snooty Critiques of Your Stuff.

Maybe I'll never see the above magazine article proposals in print, but maybe I will see IPod Usage Found to Cause Scorching Rashes in Males and Females.

"How Can You Let Her Take Such A Big Pay Cut?"

2005-10-15T22:49:00.000-05:00

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that question in the last 3 weeks, my wife wouldn't be taking much of a pay cut at all.

To bring everyone up to speed, here's the deal. My wife is leaving her cushy (if unrewarding and somewhat dead-ended) job, to pursue a career that is limited only by her ambition, creativity and capacity for hard work. And yeah, she's going to start at less than half of what she's currently pulling down. For the finer details, I'll point you to her blog.

As her final day at the old job (this past Friday, the 14th) approached, even my co-workers were asking me the above question, and it's bothered me every time. Bothered me not because the question hits close to home (which it doesn't), but because I never wasted too much time figuring out other people's attitudes about money. The question bothers me because to ask it means you don't really know me or my wife very well despite 4-5 years working together, and it means you don't understand our relationship, either. I don't let my wife do anything; we do things together, figuratively speaking. Decisions were made and discussions were had, the same as would happen when deciding on a restaurant or whether sex is on for tonight.

So Friday comes, and I show up at the wife's office to join in her Big Send-off. After all, this is also my last day to have regular contact with these people I've known for years. Are her (now former) co-workers gonna miss her? Absolutely. She definitely leaves an imprint wherever she works, and not just through her work ethic (which is spectacular) or her generally pleasant demeanor (which runs the gamut from funny to firecracker).

But, rather than focus on how sad they were that Sandy was exiting the job, they instead fell right in line with just about everyone else and turned their attention and queries to me.

How can you let her take such a big pay cut?

Let me be clear on this: We're both huge fans of money and the kind of ridiculous things you can buy with it. From Hello Kitty Laundry Baskets to buying 2 copies of the same comic book just because they had two different covers, we can blow through money with the best of 'em.

And really, neither one of us are so idealistic as to say things like "you should only do a job you love." But to be confused as to how I can blithely put my wife's happiness and personal growth and satisfaction ahead of Big Money is befuddling, to be honest. I can't recall any moments in my own work or school history that make me feel as content or as fufilled as watching the results of my wife's hard work pay off in what seems like minutes. The salary was the last question I had when she broached the subject of taking a job in her field of study (and I'm not even sure I actually asked it), after watching in awe as she willingly signed up for 14 hour shifts of Day Job/Night Class/Studying. After watching her get offered a job 8 weeks before she could even get professionally certified to do the job. I certainly don't see the catch in jumping into a career where the sky's the limit, even if the money's not great in the short term. Hell, if her enthusiastic work to this point is any indication, she might be my Sugar Mama a year from now.

How can you let her take such a big pay cut?

How could I not?

Holmes, Cruise to Star In Remake of Rosemary's Baby

2005-10-06T09:59:00.000-05:00

Just in time for Halloween, I saw Katie Holmes doing the first bit of press for the project, staying in character the whole time (unlike her work in Batman Begins), slipping only when referring to the father of the titular Baby as "Tom Cruise" and not Guy Woodhouse, the character's name in the film.

Waitaminnit, you mean she's actually carrying his child?! Hm. Honest mistake.

We have an actor whose middling talents are dwarfed by his immense ambition. We have Ms. Girl-next door, expecting a child of, shall we say, dubious conception (and by that I mean, "yeah right, Tom Cruise knocked her up"). For good measure, let's throw a big fat cult into the mix. You can see how I got confused.

All we need is for the late Ralph Bellamy to be photographed walking around with them, and I'll be convinced.

Who Could Possibly Have Time to Look Through Dozens of CD's?

2005-09-16T02:43:00.000-05:00

It's a new low. Or a new high in sheer laziness, depending on the half-full, half-empty status of your glass.

I've just downloaded an entire CD that I already own. I own it,and have for years, but I just can't muster the initiative to rummage through a shelf, a drawer and a box tonight.

Jesus, how lazy is that?!

The only consolation I can find is in the fact that this particular CD is one of, I don't know, The Three Best CD's Of All Time. So what little guilt or embarrassment I do feel is quickly rationalized by the strains of Soul Asylum's Hang Time.

There’s a ringing in my ears that’s heaven sent.
There’s a beast out on the ruins,
Some broken down lover’s lament.
It goes on and on but it won’t go away.

-Soul Asylum, Cartoon

Seething and Crying, But At Least I'm Safe & Dry

2005-09-03T02:27:00.000-05:00

So far this week, I've been literally unable to express myself when it comes to Hurricane Katrina and its unimaginably horrible aftermath. I can watch precious little of the near-constant reporting from what amounts to America's Third World--I just can't get my head around it, because the pictures and voices and statistics and pie charts and all of it aren't speaking to me in a way that helps me understand how Americans and the fruits of their labors have come to this end.

Tonight, I sat up late and watched hours of reports from Fox News, of all places. I sat and watched and listened to worldly, professional and sane reporters going flat fucking batshit at the sight of it. Men and women who have been there a day or two, and are already losing their grip on reality. Geraldo Riviera (who wasn't always known as a huckster with an underdeveloped sense of integrity) had been encamped with survivors at the Convention Center less than a day and by sundown was sobbing and pleading to the world to "let these people walk the hell out of here", to open the checkpoints up and let people get to the aid they've needed since Monday, August 29th and haven't gotten, no matter how many convoys they've seen rolling right above them.

It breaks my heart and boils my blood at the same time. After watching the coverage today along with the summaries of the days prior, I can't help but think that many in the governments of the US and Louisiana have shut their eyes and written off the remaining residents of New Orleans as lost causes. And why is that? Because they can't have witnesses to a bureaucracy's staggering failure? Because the President of the United States has nothing substantial to say on this catastrophe, other than belaboring the obvious and using the word recovery a million times (despite the fact that a cruise ship to Mars is closer to happening than New Orleans' recovery) and saying that we should all pray?

It's such a desperate, sickening mess that I'm nearly unfazed by the growing numbers of assaults, murders, rapes and other barbaric acts being reported. I shudder to type this, but I almost understand it (and the almost is huge) now; a human, surrounded by death and despair and misery, finding no relief from the wails of the dying and the smell of the already dead, is bound to feel dead as well. Numb to the pain that nobody's found a way to soothe right now, and deaf to the voice in your head that begs you not to be a savage.

I honestly don't see a solution coming from our leaders, those who were elected by the people to protect them from any threats to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Never thought I'd be agitated enough to rail against a President, or to vocally support one, but this relentless disaster has brought out the best of America in me and the worst of America in our President and those who help him. Wait'll the politically myopic people I work with see this.

I Already Took Out The Driveway. Who's Wants Some Now?!

2005-08-02T22:20:00.000-05:00

I very nearly broke my face right off Saturday night. I stepped out of a truck, and the next thing I knew, I came to in my bathroom, watching my blood mixed with water running into my shower drain. Crawled into bed, and later woke up taped and gauzed and reeking of peroxide and dried blood. There are pictures, but I'm not posting them here.

All I can think of to say about it tonight is that I'm damn lucky.

Lucky my boy Rommel was with me, to patch me up and sit until my wife came home from her (much less painful) Night Out With The Girls.

Lucky I slept through the night, without going to the ER for a safety check.

Lucky I didn't break anything (as far as I know; x-rays will be back Thursday), like my nose, my skull, or my teeth. Still don't know how I got by those injuries.

Lucky I didn't lose my left eye, still an awful bloody mess tonight.

Lucky I didn't at least get a concussion and have my brain sloshing against my forehead for a few days.

And most of all, lucky that I've got a truly selfless and doting wife, who bought me presents (like some boss Justice League Unlimited figures) and tended my wounds and never once complained or gave me shit about taking such a ridiculously bad spill in our own driveway.

Speaking of ridiculous, in all the chaos following my stuntman audition, we didn't realize what it was that caused the whole tumble in the first place. As we discovered the next morning (on the way to see Sandy's dad who just lost his leg in a tree-cutting accident--talk about making you feel better about your own injuries), the culprit was my copy of Runaways #6, which fell out of the truck just before I made an ill-fated leap to the driveway.

Runaways. Hilarious. About the only funny thing about this whole weekend of agony.
Oh, all right. I'll post a picture or two. Be warned: if you find banged-up, hungover klutzes to be gross, go no further. If you find banged-up, hungover klutzes to be hilarious (especially if they're not you), then by all means, proceed.

If Robert Atkins Were Alive, I'd Tell Him to Kiss My Bread Eatin' Ass.

2005-07-30T21:08:00.000-05:00

Hmm. The image of my ass getting the best of a balogna sandwich aside...

Walked into McDonald's this a.m. to pick up an egg-and-cheese biscuit and some hash browns for my beloved. Only egg and cheese, as she is a practicing vegetarian, and has been for years. The reaction to this order, just like the reaction to her lunchtime order of a Cheeseburger Happy Meal sans meat : stunned silence, followed by a shaky request for managerial assistance. The first three dozen times this happened, I blew it off, pretty much. After all, as long as I get milady's food to her the way she asked for it, everybody's happy.

But the experience of this morning, after several similar experiences in this and other restaurants, fast-food or sit-down (like TGIF or Bennigans or O'Charley's) or otherwise, was just the last straw for me. I'm getting this off my chest and my digestive tract: Fuck you Atkins diet. Fuck you with a breadstick straight from the pasta drenched Olive Garden.

The dietary needs of vegetarians like my wife? Sheer lunacy, if the quizzical mugs on waitstaffs everywhere are to be believed. How dare someone walk into Mickey D's without giving proper respect to dead animals and their tasty flesh? I'd have probably gotten more respect if I'd asked if they were still selling the McAsbestos Quarter Pounder. God knows any cashier or waiter in any franchise restaurant could give you a running count of the carbohydrates in your order at any given time, but express your adherence to, not a fad diet, but an actual lifestyle choice that's been around for freaking centuries*, and you get blank stares and judgmental exasperation from the person taking your order.

To be fair, I should mention that I'm a meat-lover, and that I have no problem with the Atkins diet or anyone on it. I myself lost a ton of weight on it, and I know it works (though I do have reservations about the long-term healthiness of it, bolstered by some people I know who've lost part or all of their gall bladder in part because of it.) I understand that a lot of people are on it and are reaping great benefit. What I don't understand and don't like is the relative immediacy with which the food biz has bent over to accomodate and pitch their outlets as "Atkins friendly".

______________________________________________________________________________
*Feel free to look this up and tell me vegetarianism has only been around since the roaring 20's. I really don't know.

Blog Meme: What Do I Miss From My Childhood?

2005-07-04T01:42:00.000-05:00

You mean besides the tiny penis?

I kid.

I kid because I'm pretty sure it's still tiny. [Insert rimshot.][Insert crickets.]

Seriously, though, it is nice (and long overdue) to get back to contributing to my own goddamned blog. Too much idle fun (try new Yuengling Light—yummy!) and too much creativity-sapping Paying Job, not to mention the general malaise that comes with physically carrying around too much weight on my compact frame, have conspired to hold my genius in check.

So, getting tagged by T-Licious with this meme is as good a jump-start as anything else out there, and I’m taking advantage with both hands at the keyboard.

Here's how this process was explained to my neophyte-ness:

Remove the blog at #1 from the following list and bump every one up one place; add your blog’s name in the #5 spot; link to each of the other blogs for the desired cross-pollination effect.

1. Blerg
2. Secrets & Lies
3. Do or Do Not
4. Rintrah Roars
5. Hello Cleveland

Next: select new friends to add to the pollen count. (Obviously no one is obligated to participate).

Gawd. I'm not even sure I know too many others with blogs of their own. My lovely and talented wife just started one, at my urging. After all, why waste her venting on me and me alone? It's only fair that everyone can get a taste. So at least she's tagged.

Now add your memories:

5 Things I Miss About Childhood:
And for a bit of perspective, I’m 36…

1. Having More Money Than My Parents Could Imagine
Otherwise known as "Imagining We Had More Money Than We Actually Had". Aside from the occasional “no, you can’t have a $40 pair of tennis shoes, you’re eight”, cash flow never hopped on my train of thought, and never had to give up something I wanted for something I needed. Didn’t know what a budget was until I was in high school, didn’t actually write one until I was in my twenties, and really never tried to follow one until I was 30 (and buying my first home).

2. The general spoiling and attention from my folks.
I’m not an only child, but I was/still am the baby in the House Of Bishop. At the time, I never thought I milked it enough, but as I near the probable mid-point of my life (and think real hard on it, like for this little bit), I realize I milked more than a dairy. Even when the pampering, coddling, and general fretfulness was going on, I think I was pretty aware how much of my parents’ time was spent doting on me and making sure I was on the right path. While their affection for me hasn't diminished over time, I sometimes wish, selfishly, that they could soothe even my grown-up fears and discomforts with a trip to an out-of-the-way spot to buy me something nifty.

3. Bike rides around the neighborhood and beyond.
This particular nostalgia flares up every time I see a news story about a child getting kidnapped or otherwise harmed while in their own yard or house or some other spot in close proximity to their parent(s). My God, I think to myself. When I was that age or younger, I routinely spent after-school times riding my bike with my posse or by myself far beyond the watchful eye of Mom and Dad, often until it was near dark outside. Not only did nothing ever happen to me or anyone else I knew, this kind of thing was totally normal and acceptable in terms of parent/child rules and regulations. I don’t have kids myself, but I’ve spent enough outings with my nieces and nephews where I routinely freak-out a little if any of them get out of my sight for more than 2 seconds. So, I guess what I miss isn’t the bike rides themselves, but the environment that allowed me (and my friends and family) to survive them intact and happy.

4. Summer vacations, kinda.
Heh. This is nearly the exact opposite of my boy Allen’s entry. I loved the last few days of school every year, and how long three months seemed back then. And the first days of the next school year, where you got to find out how much you’ve changed since last school year, a discovery disguised as noticing how much your classmates changed over the summer. Girls didn’t suddenly get pretty over a summer (well, before high school anyway), I actually broadened my interests to include brown-eyed girls in addition to Micronauts, Star Wars, and Avengers comics.

5. Records and record players.
Something about the two-sided format (which I suppose extends to cassettes, too) stuck with me and still does, even in the CD age. Even now, when I listen to CD’s, I try and listen through it at least once in the order it’s presented, trying to imagine where the end of “side one” and the beginning of “side two” would be. In this iPodded age, where music is becoming increasingly single-serve and cut-n-paste, the sublime pleasure in hearing a well-sequenced collection of tunes is rapidly becoming a thing of the past.

This was pretty fun. Thanks for the tag, Terry, and for making me feel Really Freaking Old.

Let's see what my younger bride has to say on the matter.

Tag!

It Doesn't Matter Who's Wrong Or Right, Just Beat It.

2005-06-13T16:28:00.000-05:00

(yelping like Michael Jackson)
Michael Jackson walks. Whew! Now we can all get back to our jobs and families, and back to the business of ignoring his horrible albums and bizarre behavior.

Please, someone, show this “man” the last reel of The Aviator, so he can see how a rich eccentric is supposed to behave. (If you haven’t seen the film, it’s about super-loaded nutjob Howard Hughes. He spends a lot of the last third of the film holed up in one room of his house, undisturbed, and most importantly, not disturbing anyone else.)

Kelly Clarkson, what are we to make of ye?

2005-06-04T16:42:00.000-05:00

Man, I should know it's utter crap. and I could snicker and guffaw and pick apart the actual words this young lady's singing, but goddamn it, I'd be hard pressed to imagine a better package than Ms. American Idol Mark I. That Mideast cuteness (and that's not Middle Earth Cuteness, you seventy-sided-dice-rolling motherfucker) combined with that husky, make-the-man-pay alto? Rrrroowwwrrr.

Seriously, though, if Mlle. Clarkson captivates me so at this early stage, imagine when she accrues the necessary gravitas to outvote her handlers and do an album full of balls-out rockers and confessional (self-written) numbers that would make Courtney Love pay to hang with her...

Getting my nose outta the book and back to the grindstone.

2005-06-02T15:24:00.000-05:00

Just some thoughts I had, summarizing my ongoing experience with the book Writing Fiction.
I don’t think it’s a textbook on writing fiction at all. It’s a guide on how to revise and improve the fiction you’re already writing, which is just fine by me. The bottom line is, if you’re spending 10-15 bucks for a book on the subject of writing fiction, you’re probably already doing it; it’s just not something you’d try out from boredom.

While the exercises in the book have their merits and utility (because I’ve yet to see a writer’s guide yet that didn’t stress the “writers become better writers through writing), I’m not sure I need to do them in order to become a better writer, the early assignment to create a regular writing schedule (and sticking to it) notwithstanding. That said, the concepts the assignments refer to are absolutely necessary, not to writing fiction, but writing good fiction, by demonstrating the principles to hold your output to. Take that piece you’ve tinkered with and read it with a critic’s eye, sharpened by this book (or just about any other like it). You’ll probably notice that the scene (or character, piece of dialogue, whatever) that bugged you for previously undetermined reasons now bugs you for very precise reasons, since now you have questions to submit it to. Questions about character motivation and its crucial relationship with moving through the plot. Is the main character behaving/speaking in a consistent manner? Voice, POV, pacing, all mostly inarguable standards to test your work with.

The book’s not going to give you ideas, nor is it going to present some magic formula for cranking out epic works that will make the gods (or even your grandma) weep with joy. What it will do is help you read that first draft (and second, and sixth, and so on) far more objectively, more like a total stranger would, and to ask the questions of your work before the real readers get a crack at it.

Gotham Writer's Workshop Exercises: It's On!

2005-05-30T16:22:00.000-05:00

Finally willing to post some actual writing that I've done, prompted by the Writing Fiction exercises...

Here's the assignment:

PAGE 30: Imagine the worst person you’ve ever met, or make one up. Then assign them a redeeming quality. Then write a passage with them in action.

Here's what I came up with, in terms of skeleton:
Self-centered bitchy snob: Ashley McCameron. Alcoholic, childless married for money fake-chested trophy wife. However, she has a soft spot for waitresses since she was one in the year or two before she met her 70 year-old husband.

And here's what I came up with. This was written May 23rd, 2005, from 11:00-11:45, with just a bit of (probably forbidden) tinkering--changed three or four words tops.

Ashley McCameron seethed. When she ordered a bottle of 1996 Dom Perignon for her table, she didn’t expect to be told that the St. Jacques Hotel supply of the champagne had dwindled, and that the last bottle of 1996 vintage was consumed earlier that week. However, it wasn’t her thwarted desire that had her ire up. What was raising the trophy wife’s blood pressure was the behavior of her lunch companion, fellow 2^nd Wife Clubber Nicole Meredith-Neal.

“What kind of retards are they staffing this place with anyway?” Nicole spat.

“Miss, we’d be happy to offer you some ‘92, on the house…” the nervous waitress attempted to reply.

“Hey, retard? I’m through dealing with you. Get your boss over here. Hell, get your boss’ boss over here, too. I don’t give two shits if they have to walk to France to get us the 1996 we want. God knows we’re paying enough of your salary, which is probably too high as it is,” Nicole interrupted, steadily increasing the volume to low roar.

At this point, Ashley felt as if she were having an out-of-clique experience, as if she was watching some strange Elitism Security Camera from the upper right corner of the restaurant. She gently touched Nicole’s left hand, as Nicole’s right was currently occupied with its index finger poking the air sternly, pantomiming a vicious thrust to the waitress’ solar plexus.

“Nicole, let’s just drop this and eat,” Ashley pleaded. Snapping back into character, partly in response to Nicole’s expression: Et tu, Ashley?, she continued, “there’s no need to let this little person’s on the job training spoil our “girl time”. So… Leigh, right? Why don’t you just bring us the ’96, and make sure the manager brings it over to us with a smile, ‘kay?” Ashley felt almost more fake than usual when she delivered the driest, least sincere closing of her English-speaking career: “Thanks.”

Although Nicole was unsuccessful at repressing what she saw as boundless insult on the part of the St. Jacques, Ashley managed one secret, apologetic gesture on poor Leigh’s behalf. When paying the check (always much easier to wrest from Nicole than it should be, Ashley thought), she tripled the cost of the meal in calculating Leigh’s tip. When Leigh retrieved the bill and viewed it, she cast a nervous glance to Ashley, who returned a stern visage that didn’t exactly frighten Leigh; it wasn’t meant to. The waitress delivered a perfunctory thank-you, and walked away, keeping Ashley’s secret vulnerability just that.

Ashley Dukowski, Howie's Hot Pants and Hot Sauce Oasis, class of 2001.

Pass the Hat For Poor Javon Walker

2005-05-20T14:28:00.000-05:00

Hot on the jock of Terrell Owens (and boy did that sound wrong), we see and hear Green Bay’s WR Javon Walker asking for a re-done deal, in light of his excellent 2004 season (be it breakthrough or highwater mark). Walker feels that he’s far outperformed the miniscule 500K a year he’ll get for the next two seasons, and suggests that he’s “one of the top five receivers in the league”. [Memo to Javon Walker: Inarguably, there are times to listen to your mother, like when she tells you to wear clean underwear or not to date Jennifer Lopez. This, however, is not one of those times. Top 5 in the league? You couldn’t beat out Anquan Boldin at Florida State, and he had one good knee for two legs.]

Holdouts, especially those by probable-flashes-in-the-pan like Walker, have always mystified me. I think agents are probably more than a little responsible for these little tantrums; they half-assed through your negotiation and didn’t tack on some seemingly harmless incentives for you to beef up your salary, so now they’re trying to get that 15% to amount to something by encouraging you to dishonor the contract they themselves told you was a good deal two years ago. When your own teammates are telling you to show up and play, rather than hurt the team concept with your selfishness, it’s time to quietly swallow your pride and give up, or at least tell the press you “don’t want to disrupt the flow by negotiating during the season”.

If you ask an absent player why he’s holding out, his answer will probably include some variation of the word leverage. Not that I think the player isn’t answering honestly, but again, that’s the agent with his hand up the player’s ass. In a signed-contract situation, leverage only exists when your holdout would almost certainly have real and undesirable consequences (see Emmitt Smith about 10 years ago, missing two Cowboys losses to start the season, then backing up the proverbial Brinks truck). If the Packers found the prospect of being without Javon Walker for an extended time (or his leaving as a free agent in two years) to be so horrible, the ink would already be dry on his Big New Contract.

Almost admirably, the Packers seem to be following the Eagles’ lead, reminding Walker of his contract, and not discouraging his teammates from expressing their opinions on the nearly destitute Javon Walker’s quest for enough money just to live. If I’m the GM in Green Bay, it goes down like this:

To: Javon Walker
Fr: Ted Thompson, General Manager, Green Bay Packers
Re: 2005-2006 season

This will be the only time the Packers will ask you to honor your contract. Should you fail to report in the next ten days, we will honor our end of the deal and pay you, but you will not be permitted to play in a game for the remainder of the contract, under any circumstances. At the completion of this existing contract, we will gladly discuss re-evaluation of your salary commensurate with your production; we will also be curious as to which NFL teams would offer a large contract to a player who either held out for two seasons, or didn’t play for two seasons. See you next week.

And that, my friend, is what real leverage looks like. How’s the taste?

I May Be 36, But I Don't Write A Day Over 50

2005-05-20T09:41:00.000-05:00

"So how's the writing/studying writing/writer's group thing going?"

Well...

I love computers. I'm grateful on a daily basis for what they can do, both on the job, and around the house.Organizing, massaging and beautifying otherwise boring data, storing 150 albums worth of pictures on a single CD, it’s all the good life wherever my laptop goes.

I love writing. I can express my self without stammering or repeating myself too much. I can present finished thoughts to another person without going too fast or too slow for them. It’s great being in charge of an opinion when cranking out an essay, or to be the creator (or destroyer) of an entire universe when working on fiction.

I love the Internet. Reference galore, freely given; that one person in a million who loves/hates [insert odd person/place/thing/activity] more than you; ideas both preposterous and devastatingly better than yours; e-mail and instant messaging. The list is long.

What do you know at this point? We have my appreciation of the modern computer as a tool, my preference to write as a creative outlet, and my familiarity with the potential of the Internet. So then why isn’t this page overflowing with words yet? Given the previous paragraphs, this blogging thing would seem to be made for me to work with. Well, for starters, it ain’t a page, at least not to my old-fashioned sensibilities. It’s not a page, it’s an image on a screen—a picture of a page, to my way of thinking, or more to the point, my way of working.

Maybe a rambling analogy will help explain: I enjoy Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, and a two-pack of those sugar missiles have gotten me through many a late night. At most all franchised bar/grill/lard-house restaurants, they offer fried cheese sticks, wheels, or wedges, and they’re always great to me (if not for me). On occasions when this grown-up needs a drink, Maker’s Mark bourbon is tasty to me. That said, if you delivered to my table a tall glass of bourbon with a snack cake and a fried cheese stick inserted in it, Bloody Mary style, I’d tell you to get it the hell away from me (as tempting as it might be to sample hooch-soaked fried cheese).

See? It’s possible to like several things with equal zeal, but also possible to disapprove of a combination of those same things.

What in the name of Chris Claremont is the point of all this wordy claptrap? Simple. I like to write, specifically using a pen and paper. Not sure why I prefer one method over another, even if the method I sniff at is more efficient, neater, faster, or whatever. Maybe it’s the delete key that gives me pause, with its carpet-bomb of editing. By keystroking an incorrect letter, phrase or grammatical construct, I can’t shake the feeling that I sometimes throw a baby or two out with the bathwater.

By scribbling on paper, I can scratch out and revise, use crude arrows to move whole paragraphs or to insert later and better ideas, all the while without losing all trace of the seeds of the work. It’s a hoot to see just how bad my first approach to a passage was, overcome but not erased by a second thought. It’s thrilling and rewarding to see a sentence fly from period to period without so much as an uncrossed t. Even cooler than that? When I see a bit of work that was crossed out, then rescued and restored because my first instinct turned out to be the best one.

Isn’t this a time-waster? Writing longhand, revising with a pen, not simply taking care of all of this electronically with the same result in half the time? Isn’t that what computers do for us? Maybe for you, Mr. Hypothetical Reader, but for me? Can’t see myself doing this any other way. Obviously, I recognize the need to involve my computer at some point, and I see the utility of the Web and this blog and all, but that’s just the presentation, not the process. For me, the quickest way to create something to present in the first place comes from the end of a pen. God knows I’m envious of anyone who can put their thoughts straight onto a screen, revising, reconceiving, critiquing as they go, but I doubt if that envy is powerful enough to change my methods.

Case-in-point: what you’ve just read (all 659 words) represents 45 minutes of ink-and-papyrus work, barely legible and certainly not approved by the Little, Brown handbook. Three-fourths of an hour of 70’s style brainstorming, followed by 20-30 minutes of 21st century typing and HTML-izing. I can hazard a guess that those 600-some odd words would have taken me 5 times that long to commit to solely through the use of Microsoft Word. And this piece would be imbued with the same emotional connection I have with my exterminator, or America’s Next Top Model.

So there. Finally, I’m working towards answering the question at the top. The writing/studying writing/writer’s group thing is going slowly, and the why is spelled out above. I didn’t say it wasn’t going well, just it was going slowly.

You’ll have to wait on a Big Finish… I’m still scrawling it on my TGIF receipt.

I'm Scheduling Art!

2005-05-06T19:10:00.000-05:00

As mentioned on my partner-in-pipe dream's blog (which is fantastically more well-written than mine), I'm reading (and working through) Writing Fiction: The Practical Guide From New York's Acclaimed Creative Writing School, by the faculty of the Gotham Writers' Workshop. Sprinkled throughout are nifty exercises, called "Your Turn". One of the first "assignments": create a schedule for writing over 7 days. At least an hour per session, at least 5 hours over seven days, working on the same fiction project. Simple! To make a schedule, that is; any monkey can write a schedule. Keeping a schedule, now that's a monkey of a different color (and a metaphor of a totally nonsensical variety--this book came in the nick of time).

Anyways, here's how it's going:

Day One: Wednesday, May 4th.
Scheduled to write from 8PM-9PM. I don't feel my most creative in the evening, thanks to outside forces like my paying gig as an accountant, but the schedule itself seems to be the assignment, not the creativity I can/can't display. So clock in at 8 I do, and I'm suddenly a writer. Not working on a story yet, only the pieces of the story: rough idea of plot, lists of characters I'll probably need. Running critiques, all there sharing space with my non-story.

This was a struggle, and I kept looking at the onscreen clock. But I did write for an hour. If I'd produced something readable, I'd post it. Maybe the world will see something this week.

Day Two: Thursday, May 4th.
Again, I've only got time to write in the evening, but this evening's a good one to get some free time, 'cause the wife's engrossed in Survivor, a show I think is the sign of the apocalypse just before 'rivers of blood'. So I can work undisturbed.

Get a ton more done--actually wrote the first paragraph. Hard to believe for a cynic like me, but it actually is getting easier, and this is just the second day. And no, you still can't see what I'm doing. It's not remotely anything resembling a coherent story.

The "Friday" update should be more exciting. It's Friday night and I can stay up late. Yippee. I'm trying to avoid the drinking and writing thing, though. I've come to understand after many embarrassing e-mails and bulletin board postings that while I have no trouble firing off 1,000 words while tipsy, I really should find a way to have trouble putting out. Because that stuff was by and large kee-rap.

Let's all wear turtlenecks and smoke pipes.

2005-05-05T18:48:00.000-05:00

There are a number of people in this world who think, based on wishing alone, that they could shoot a round of golf as well as Tiger Woods. There are probably a thousand times that many who believe that based on wishing alone, they could play golf professionally and make a living at it.

If for no other reason that there are a hundred times more types of paying gigs, there are probably a hundred times that many people who think they could make a living writing all day.

They’re all fools. If you found yourself muttering, “that’s me” while reading the above, you are quite obviously deluded and should probably down a fistful of psychotropics and go back to work at your law office, fast food joint, or college library.

I can say that, however jokingly you take it, because I’m one of those delusional Walter Mittys. Or at least I thought I was, until I actually thought about it while writing the 117 words that precede this sentence.

Key point of distinction: those people don’t want to be a pro golfer or paid author because they’d be fulfilled necessarily or because it’s something they’d love doing regardless of pay 24/7/365. They aspire to it because it beats the job they’ve got, and it’s made to look easy and rewarding by the most skilled folk that actually do those jobs for money.

So, I’d like to think I’ve got a leg up on those people, because I'm fairly certain I'll be writing (and enjoying having written) for its own sake for the rest of my natural life. And so are my colleagues, A.J., B., and T-Licious. Watch us as we actually form a writer's group.

Hello Cleveland!

2005-05-04T15:16:00.000-05:00

And away we go...