Matthew Desmond never dressed up, not even for a wedding, or a funeral. He detested suits of any kind: they were restrictive, stifling, claustrophobia-inducing, the corporate equivalent of a strait jacket. The tie was akin to a noose around the neck, so on those occasions when he was required to wear a tie Matthew kept the fit very loose.
He didn't even know how to tie one properly, so the end result was a lopsided knot that caused the sides of the length of his father's tie to kink uncontrollably. And yet, despite the irregular fit of the borrowed tie, despite the untailored sleeves and the wrinkled slacks, despite the mismatched jacket and the scuffed-up shoes, Matthew looked elegant.
As he sat in the waiting room of a prospective employer, Matthew couldn't wait for the interview to be over. The suit was itchy and ill-fitting, and he wanted to get home as quickly as possible so that he could change into his normal "uniform": ripped blue jeans, bruised leather jacket, dirty Doc marten boots, and a bootleg T-shirt he bought outside of a Fugazi concert years ago. This was the kind of attire that Matt (he hated to be called Matthew but tolerated it as much as he could) felt comfortable wearing, as if it were a natural extension of his own skin.
Regardless of his somewhat sophisticated appearance, Matt felt anything but elegant.
A woman peered her head through the waiting room door and looked over at Matt. He was the only one sitting in the room.
"Matthew Desmond?"
"Yes," he said nervously.
"Mr. Scott will see you now."
Matt rose from his seat and walked into the room, determined to show some confidence. He didn't know what kind of job he was applying for-- he only knew that it was in a warehouse. He figured it might require some heavy lifting and some hard hours, but at 19 Matt was healthy and hale, and he didn't care how difficult the job would be: he needed to have something to tell his father about by the end of the week or else it was going to get ugly.
Matt shook Mr. Scott's hand and sat down in his office. Mr. Scott was thin and tall, impeccably dressed in an Armani suit. His hair was neatly cropped and slicked back. He resembled the famous basketball coach Pat Riley, but without the telltale age lines or the intense grimace.
"Hello, Matthew. Do you prefer Matthew or Matt?" Mr. Scott spoke in a brogue that skirted between Irish and Scottish accents. Matt could never tell the difference between the two.
"I prefer Matt," he replied stoically.
"All right, Matty. You can call me Chas." Chas smiled, a ridiculously toothy grin formed from immaculate enamel. Too clean to be real, Matt thought. Maybe the accent's fake too...
"OK, Chas."
Chas Scott looked at Matt's resume. All it listed in the way of experience was Matt's scholastic path: private schools, advanced placement programs, special accelerated learning programs, very little in the vein of extracurricular activities or honors, and no post-high school accomplishments.
"Let me tell yeh wot wey do hear, Matty," Chas began, turning on the charm and gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. "XYZ Inc. specializes in deh wholesale warehouse game. Wey buy overstoke from other, moor established cumpanies, and wey hire independent cone-tractors to sell deh merchandise-- or, as wey refer to it, 'merch'-- at a coast that they decide apone. Their own-ly oh-bligation to XYZ is ta pey uss bach the wholesale coast of each item sald."
Matt was somewhat mesmerized by Chas' accent. He drifted off and stopped paying attention to his words-- the way they sounded was far more interesting than what Chas actually had to say.
"Thot means, yew are ya own boss, Matty! Isn't that grand?" Chas gave that winning smile again.
"Yeah, that's... awesome."
"Yew set yer ours, yew set yer pierce-onal goles... Oll wey care abat is gettin' money bach on our initial investment. Example: Wey give yeh a cah-mera that coasts us four and a quarter, yew sell it far five and oop... owt of thot five or whoteveh, wey tek the coast of $4.25, an' deh rest is yoze!"
"No kidding?"
"No kidding. No bullshitting. Thot's our motto here at XYZ!" Chas then pointed to a Xeroxed poster tacked to the wall. It was a red circle with a line through it, and in the middle behind the red line was a picture of a cartoon bull caught in the act of relieving itself.
Matt chuckled.
Chas suddenly became very serious, with minute undertones of that toothy smile creeping beneath. "Sew tell meh, Matty... Wot do yeh wont ta dew with yer loif? Wot interests a fine young man such as yerself?"
"Well," Matty said, matter-of-factly, "since we're not into bullshitting here... the bottom line is, my dad is getting pissed at me because I'm not going to school and I'm not working. He told me to find a job by the end of the week or I'm out on my ass. This is the first place that called me back for an interview. I've never sold a thing in my life, but I don't think it will be very hard. I'm good with words-- one day I'd like to be a writer. So I guess I could be a salesman. I'll do whatever you want, hard labor, sales, whatever. I need to make some cash, and this looks like as good a start as any, you know?"
The very definition of a shit-eating grin appeared on Chas' face as Matt finished his statement. "Matty, Matty, Matty!" Chas exclaimed, as if he'd found his soul mate or a kindred spirit sitting right before him. "I loik deh wey yeh think! There's no loying in yew, Matty..." Chas swung around in his big leather chair and pointed to another poster in his office.
This time, it was a poster of Al Pacino in the movie Scarface.
"Ever seen thot movie, Matty?" Chas pointed at the poster with pride.
"Are you kidding? I love that movie. I can quote every line."
Chas kept on smiling. "Sew can I. And there's thot line, when Sew-sah tells Tony Moan-tonnah thot he loiks him because there's no loying in him... Ya no it, roight?"
"Yeah, right before he hangs F. Murray Abraham from a helicopter!"
"Right-o!" Chas got up from his chair, dizzy from the vibe that he was getting from Matt. "Same with yew, Matty! No loying in yeh..."
Chas quieted down and approached Matt as if he were an old friend-- an arm around the shoulder, his voice dropping down a decibel or two.
"Ya no, paypull think yew have to be a gud loyer in order to sell. Note true, ma boy. Note true. A gud sellsman tails deh truth. No mottah wot he's selling or who hey's sellin' it tew, a gud sellsman oll-ways tails deh truth."
Matt didn't know how to respond to Chas, who seemed like he was a bit demented in his own right. But Matt knew what Chas wanted to hear. He put on his best Tony Montana impersonation.
"Like that line in Scarface... 'Ah always tell th' troof... even when I lie!'"
Chas exploded into laughter, the smile now taken to a dimension further than anyone could have ever expected from the human mouth.
Chas extended his hand to his newest hire. "Matty, Oy think yew'll work out jess fine here! Walcolm ta XYZ!"
Matt returned the vigorous handshake, all the while wondering what lay in store for him in the next few weeks.
*/*
Matt didn't have a car. His parents never bought him one, because they were too busy getting a divorce to settle upon a model. Not that Matt minded it-- not having a car allowed him to stave off things like responsibility for car payments. That meant that he never had to work a job to keep up with his friends. All of his buddies had cars, so he got rides when he needed them. And then, there was the craziness of the bus lines that ran through the San Fernando Valley: so many colorful characters on the bus. They all liked to single Matt out and talk his ear off. Something about Matt's face spoke to them, offered them a refuge from their respective inner storms... maybe it was youthful sincerity, or maybe it was a feature of his eyes that tipped off chronic talkers that they were in the presence of a world-class listener.
Matt was able to listen to anyone prattle on about anything at any given time. Because he aspired to write, he dedicated a lot of his time and focus on listening to what people were saying. But the downside was, he often spent a disproportionate amount of time listeing to the way they said it as opposed to what they were actually saying.
Of course, this never bothered the people on the bus, who didn't care if anyone really heard them. As long as they acted like they understood, that's all that mattered. And Matt Desmond was a master at acting as if he understood every word: he knew when to nod his head, when to register surprise, when to blink, when to do a double take, when to inteject with a "so then what happened" or a "you don't say" or any number of qualifiers that helped the story move along.
Matt heard the entire life story of a homeless man as they both rode the bus out to Northridge. The man moved to California from Florida with his wife and kids. The wife cheated on him and ran off with another man, taking the kids. This caused the homeless man to slide into an abyss of alcohol and drug abuse. He spent a lot of time on Skid Row but made enough off of panhandling to get by.
Of course, the homeless man never once asked Matt where he was going or what he was doing. And if he had stopped to ask him, Matt would've replied quite simply: "I'm going to meet the one I love."
The one he loved was Mary Jane Paris, his high school sweetheart. She was two grades below Matt, and therefore she still had two more years of high school to complete. Matt was absolutely smitten with her, and even after he graduated from high school their relationship continued. The way Matt figured it, he wasn't interested in going to college or traveling out of state, so it didn't make sense for the two of them to part ways.
Mary Jane, for her part, was just as crazy about Matt as he was for her, and she would stay up late on weeknights, waiting for him to walk up to her window and rap on the pane. Then, she would sneak out of her window for an hour and they would walk over to the steps of the elementary school across the street from her home and sit and talk and smoke cigarettes and make out for a while before she had to be back in her room.
Matt had called earlier in the evening and notified Mary Jane that he was going to be stopping by around midnight. Mary Jane waited patiently by her window until she heard the signature raps on the window glass.
As they walked to the steps of the school, Matt revealed the good news to Mary Jane.
"So, what's the special occasion? Why are you all dressed up in a suit?"
"I got that job I was telling you about!"
"Really?"
"Really." Matt was smiling from ear to ear.
"That's so cool, Matt! Congratulations!" Mary Jane kissed him sweetly on the lips.
"Thanks!" Matt was beaming with pride.
"How's it feel?"
"Weird."
Mary Jane giggled. "Now you have responsibility!"
"Yes, I do."
"Still gettin' used to it?"
"Yeah, still getting used to it... You should see this guy, Chas. He's a real character. He talks with a Scottish accent. He's the funniest guy."
Matt re-enacted his interview with Chas Scott for Mary Jane's amusement. She laughed as he impersonated Chas' speech, his mannerisms, the way he quoted lines from Scarface...
"Sounds like fun. When do you start?"
"Tomorrow. I have to wear this suit every day. That's one down side, I suppose."
"Welcome to the real world, Matt."
"I'm not so sure I'm there yet," Matt replied, unsure of himself.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... it's not what I want to do with the rest of my life, obviously. But what if I get good at it and decide to stop pursuing my dreams? What if this becomes my job for the next thirty years?"
"If I know you, Matt, then you won't let this take you over. I think you'll be fine."
"I know... I just keep thinking of what you told me your dad said when I met him for the first time. Remember that?"
"How can I forget?"
For the record: Mary Jane Paris' father, after meeting Matthew Desmond for the first time, said to Mary Jane, "He's a good kid. He reminds me of me, before I received my first paycheck."
"No offense to your father, Janie, but I don't want him to be right."
"I understand, Matt. Really, I do. My father lost his enthusiasm a long time ago. He married young, he had me and my brother before he was 25 years old... He never had a chance to live it up."
"Same with my parents," Matt said. "MY mother was barely 20 when she had me, and I was the second oldest."
"WE don't have to repeat the mistakes of our parents, Matt. We can be whomever we want to be, if we're just careful."
Mary Jane kissed Matt and they embraced for a long time. They made out for a short while, and then Mary Jane had to get back inside her room.
"Good luck tomorrow," she whispered to Matt as he pushed her back inside her window.
"Thanks, sweetie," Matt said. She reached out through the window one last time to give him a peck on the cheek. Then, Matthew Desmond turned around and walked toward the bus stop. It was late, and the buses at this hour came sporadically, but he would be home within the hour and with just enough time to get some sleep before he started his first day at XYZ Inc.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Thursday, August 25, 2005
peace in the plaza
In the plaza where I work, Ben & Jerry's did a promotion. "Peace In The Plaza" or something like that. They gave away free ice cream bars and other goodies.
Employees of companies that are located in the plaza received complimentary "tickets" to procure a free ice cream bar. It was hot out today, so I took them up on their offer.
A man dressed like Austin Powers was accosting young girls in the line. A hippie girl handed me one of those "slap-on" wrist bracelets. I said "Right on." She looked at me, fully in character, and said, "Yes, brother-- right on."
I smirked.
The old Chinese lady next to me traded me her orange stress ball for my pink one. Then, right before we cashed in our ice cream tickets, we each received another gift: a multi-colored slinky.
Normally, this cheap exploitation of the Sixties would make me fume self-righteously. It would cause me to rail against phoniness and crass commercialism. Hell, the Jimi Hendrix impersonator with the Fender Strat was right-handed, for fuck's sake!
But...
It was about free ice cream. And peace. It was about peace.
In fact, the last gift I received was a rainbow-shaded peace symbol that can be worn around the neck.
A DJ spun hits from the Sixties, and they were NOT protest songs. It was stuff like "Sugar Sugar" by The Archies, or Fab Four-era Beatles tunes.
I guess I'm getting old, or happier, or a bit of both, because I let it all slide, ate my ice cream, and formed my fingers into a V.
PEACE... and have a nice weekend!
Employees of companies that are located in the plaza received complimentary "tickets" to procure a free ice cream bar. It was hot out today, so I took them up on their offer.
A man dressed like Austin Powers was accosting young girls in the line. A hippie girl handed me one of those "slap-on" wrist bracelets. I said "Right on." She looked at me, fully in character, and said, "Yes, brother-- right on."
I smirked.
The old Chinese lady next to me traded me her orange stress ball for my pink one. Then, right before we cashed in our ice cream tickets, we each received another gift: a multi-colored slinky.
Normally, this cheap exploitation of the Sixties would make me fume self-righteously. It would cause me to rail against phoniness and crass commercialism. Hell, the Jimi Hendrix impersonator with the Fender Strat was right-handed, for fuck's sake!
But...
It was about free ice cream. And peace. It was about peace.
In fact, the last gift I received was a rainbow-shaded peace symbol that can be worn around the neck.
A DJ spun hits from the Sixties, and they were NOT protest songs. It was stuff like "Sugar Sugar" by The Archies, or Fab Four-era Beatles tunes.
I guess I'm getting old, or happier, or a bit of both, because I let it all slide, ate my ice cream, and formed my fingers into a V.
PEACE... and have a nice weekend!
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
FUCK THE AMERICAN LEGION
Yes, I said it: FUCK the American Legion.
I say FUCK the American Legion because of this link, which connects to an article about how they have declared war on anti-war protestors.
Who the fuck do these assholes think they are, Brown Shirts? Talk about narcissists out of control-- if these dumbfucks really believed in freedom, why aren't they overseas fighting against the insurgents?
Oh, I know why-- because they're fucking COWARDS who prefer to beat up on pacifists in their own counry.
So one more time: FUCK THE AMERICAN LEGION.
I won't take it back until I hear a formal apology in the news.
This is going to piss off the Seattle anarchists, who are already on the fringe when it comes to their special brand of "protesting". I wouldn't be surprised if American Legion Halls start getting bombed... not that I advocate that. I can just see it coming is all.
When a group like the AL decides it's open season on protesters, it becomes obvious to me that they assume that all anti-war protesters are weak and docile. Not so. Some of them are mean hombres, brother.
Like the Minutemen on the U.S./Mexican border, the AL is comprised of a bunch of useless has-beens who have nothing better to do than try and even the score against people like Jane Fonda.
And of course, our President secretly endorses the AL's actions. What a scumbag.
Whatever terrorist actions befall this country in the next three years should be laid squarely on the shoulders of President George W. Nixon. I swear to you, if I ever get a chance to meet this man, I will spit in his face and take the jail time like a man.
This country is dogshit now. What a fucking tragedy.
And as for the AL: I dare you to try and make a move on anti-war protesters exercising their First Amendment rights to brand you and yours utter assholes. I Double Dog Dare you.
I say FUCK the American Legion because of this link, which connects to an article about how they have declared war on anti-war protestors.
Who the fuck do these assholes think they are, Brown Shirts? Talk about narcissists out of control-- if these dumbfucks really believed in freedom, why aren't they overseas fighting against the insurgents?
Oh, I know why-- because they're fucking COWARDS who prefer to beat up on pacifists in their own counry.
So one more time: FUCK THE AMERICAN LEGION.
I won't take it back until I hear a formal apology in the news.
This is going to piss off the Seattle anarchists, who are already on the fringe when it comes to their special brand of "protesting". I wouldn't be surprised if American Legion Halls start getting bombed... not that I advocate that. I can just see it coming is all.
When a group like the AL decides it's open season on protesters, it becomes obvious to me that they assume that all anti-war protesters are weak and docile. Not so. Some of them are mean hombres, brother.
Like the Minutemen on the U.S./Mexican border, the AL is comprised of a bunch of useless has-beens who have nothing better to do than try and even the score against people like Jane Fonda.
And of course, our President secretly endorses the AL's actions. What a scumbag.
Whatever terrorist actions befall this country in the next three years should be laid squarely on the shoulders of President George W. Nixon. I swear to you, if I ever get a chance to meet this man, I will spit in his face and take the jail time like a man.
This country is dogshit now. What a fucking tragedy.
And as for the AL: I dare you to try and make a move on anti-war protesters exercising their First Amendment rights to brand you and yours utter assholes. I Double Dog Dare you.
Monday, August 22, 2005
jerry & elaine (instant winners)
"It's exhausting being with you."
--Elaine Benes to Jerry Seinfeld, "The Red Dot", Seinfeld (Third Season)
I have come to realize, in the midst of my Seinfeld jones, that Eve and I have become Jerry & Elaine.
We dated a long time ago, it didn't work out, we went our separate ways, and now that we are both adults with our own separate lives... we're best friends.
And there's always that underlying tension...
*/*
I stumbled upon the Jerry & Elaine connection over breakfast on Sunday. Bro Man and I had just finished making avant-garde music a la Captain Beefheart and decided to grab a bite to eat at Andre's. I'd called Eve and asked her if she wanted to join us.
As we sat inside (an unusual arrangement for us, but all the tables outside were taken by one big hungry family) Bro Man and I talked about my Seinfeld obsession. Bro Man has always been a fan of the show, and he was gleefully volunteering Seinfeld-related trivia when Eve showed up and sat down next to us.
"Hey, you made it!"
"Yeah, I got your message..."
"We were just talking about Seinfeld."
"Oh, I can't watch that show," Eve said.
"You don't think it's funny?" Bro Man asked.
"No, it's just that... it's painful to watch sometimes. The whole lying thing..."
"That's what makes it funny," I said.
Suddenly, I took a big step back from our table in my mind, and I realized something that could conceivably be the gist of an episode of Seinfeld.
"Hey guys," I said. "Do you realize that we could be stand-ins for the Seinfeld cast?"
Bro Man and Eve looked at me and smirked. This was the kind of stuff that I liked to come up with, and they then looked at each other and smirked some more.
"All we need is a Kramer. Maybe I should've called Down Low."
Bro Man suddenly figured out what I was implying. "Oh, so I'm George, huh?"
"Of course you are," I said. "I'm Jerry, Eve's Elaine, and you're George. You're the black George."
Eve giggled. Bro Man gave me a "yeah yeah yeah" kind of look but it didn't bother him to be compared to Mr. Costanza. After all, he loves the show and has watched it longer than I have.
But then I thought about Eve and I, and how the Jerry & Elaine thing really is quite an accurate description of our current relationship.
I ordered my usual breakfast order and made small talk with my friends.
*/*
Later on in the evening, after Bro Man went home, Eve came by and we watched TV, ordered pizza, and shot the shit about life in general.
As of late, she and I have been hanging out, spending down time with each other. She gets lonely, I get lonely, we cleave to each other's lonliness and we also keep our affection and passion at an arm's length, lest we give in to lust and find ourselves back in the same situation as in January of this year.
I always wondered why Jerry and Elaine could never make it work, and after watching the show regularly for the past few months, I see it is because they are both immature.
They have so much in common, and yet they cannot reconcile themselves to each other. Eve and I are the same way: we can make things work with other people for long periods of time, but we cannot merge together and work as a functioning couple for the life of us.
She was in a relationship with Dick for nine years, and it worked out because Dick never had any motivation or ideas of his own. He was content to take the backseat to Eve, and she was more than willing to run the show.
I, however, am fiercely independent, and sometimes I am scared when Eve feels the need to take the controls and call the shots. In turn, she sometimes feels like I don't take her seriously, that I see her as a piece of ass, or nothing but a pretty face.
While I have learned (over time) to defer to Eve in certain respects, I also find that it is almost necessary for me to be there, to take over for her in case she drops the ball. She used to resent this aspect of my personality, chalking it up to my need to always be right as opposed to my need to be helpful. Nowadays, she is more willing to let me call some shots, so long as I am not leading her down some insane path that only I can tolerate.
Last Friday we went out to see my old guitarist Mikey play at The Troubador. Mikey is now a singer, and his band is a cross between Oingo Boingo, System Of A Down, and Mr. Bungle. I asked Eve if she wanted to come with me, and she agreed.
We had a great time, watching the band, talking with Mikey's girlfriend afterwards as she informed us of her mission to save all the bunny rabbits in L.A. County. Eve liked the band so much she asked for a CD. She and I have never been out on the town like that, and it felt great.
Of course, feelings do rise to the fore, emotions of love and trust, of hurt and betrayal, and we have our petty jealousies and grievances. I think she tends to get overly embarrassed whenever I start talking in conversations because she thinks I am constantly joking; conversely, I sometimes feel like less of a man when she demands to pay for drinks and food.
We have our issues.
*/*
One thing that I've always loved about Eve: extraordinary things seem to happen when she and I are alone.
The following may not seem that extraordinary, but in the proper context it is definitely noteworthy:
The pizza guy came with an order for us, but he forgot to give us two sodas. He only gave us one, and we decided to split it.
Eve opened the cap on the 1-liter bottle and said, "Hey! We won a free liter of Coke!'
"Get out of here," I said. "Really?"
Eve showed me the cap. Indeed, we were instant winners.
"In all of my years of drinking sodas, I have NEVER won anything from the cap," I said. "Seriously-- this is the closest I've ever come to that."
"Same here," she said, excited by such a random event.
"Here, you keep it in your purse. You can redeem it at any retailer."
Eve read the label and figured out that the odds of winning are one in five.
She and I are always at odds with other people, and when we work as a team she and I can accomplish so much. And yet, our emotions make us complicated, our feelings for each other are confused and sincere and utterly tragic.
I recall once, long ago... she and I were out late-- I had snuck her out of her house on a school night. We walked the streets of Northridge near her house, and she flicked a finished cigarette butt into the air. It landed on the ground in a most unusual manner: vertically, as if placed on the uneven pavement of the road by human hands, standing up and pointing to the sky. It was not a shared hallucination or a flight of fancy-- this was real, and we were the only ones around to witness it.
I guess that's what love is and what it can be: a conspiracy of two, with only the other person's word to verify and back up any claims made.
*/*
I wonder what will become of us. Will she eventually meet a man (or a woman) who will satisfy her every need? Will I meet Ms. Right and settle down? And if we do, will she and I still be friends? Will the tension still be there?
Or, will we end up discovering that there is no one else out there who can reach either of us, and that we are better off with each other than apart?
I am reminded of an episode of Seinfeld that left me speechless. It's the one where Jerry's current girlfriend decides to make him mad, just to see him show an honest emotion. This leads to Jerry exploring his emotions and getting in touch with them. He has a conversation with Elaine and tells her everything he has ever felt about her. This jars her, and she takes some time to think it all over.
Then, George decides to reveal to Jerry everything inside of him. The intensity of George's revelations (which are never shown on screen) shock Jerry so much that he reverts back to his repressed, smug little self.
Elaine shows up near the end of the episode and says to Jerry, "Let's go for it. You were right, everything we ever wanted is right here in front of us. Why not?"
And, of course, Jerry callously shrugs it all off. Elaine is disappointed. Jerry goes back to the comfortable insularity of being Jerry Seinfeld.
My jaw was open when I saw that episode. I was horrified. It was so devastating and cruel. And yet, it was entirely realistic in its blackly humorous depiction of shallow people who choose to hide their feelings in order to protect themselves from rejection and failure. Jerry is painted as returning to a "normal" state of mind, but really-- he regressed and stepped backward instead of forward.
For that one moment, I hated Jerry Seinfeld. And then, I realized that I hate him because I can relate to him. I have done that, I have been in that situation, and there but for the grace of God go I.
I wonder if Eve and I will ever go through something like that again. Lord knows, we've already had our respective moments with each other. Both of us have rejected and been the rejecter. I think we are evenly matched, but maybe it's time for us to lay down our arms.
It's easier said than done. And until it gets done, I am content to watch DVDs with her while eating pizza, smoking cigarettes, and making conversation.
I mean, even if we can't bring ourselves to admit we care for each other, maybe we can make our moments together worthwhile anyway.
The odds are in our favor on that one...
--Elaine Benes to Jerry Seinfeld, "The Red Dot", Seinfeld (Third Season)
I have come to realize, in the midst of my Seinfeld jones, that Eve and I have become Jerry & Elaine.
We dated a long time ago, it didn't work out, we went our separate ways, and now that we are both adults with our own separate lives... we're best friends.
And there's always that underlying tension...
*/*
I stumbled upon the Jerry & Elaine connection over breakfast on Sunday. Bro Man and I had just finished making avant-garde music a la Captain Beefheart and decided to grab a bite to eat at Andre's. I'd called Eve and asked her if she wanted to join us.
As we sat inside (an unusual arrangement for us, but all the tables outside were taken by one big hungry family) Bro Man and I talked about my Seinfeld obsession. Bro Man has always been a fan of the show, and he was gleefully volunteering Seinfeld-related trivia when Eve showed up and sat down next to us.
"Hey, you made it!"
"Yeah, I got your message..."
"We were just talking about Seinfeld."
"Oh, I can't watch that show," Eve said.
"You don't think it's funny?" Bro Man asked.
"No, it's just that... it's painful to watch sometimes. The whole lying thing..."
"That's what makes it funny," I said.
Suddenly, I took a big step back from our table in my mind, and I realized something that could conceivably be the gist of an episode of Seinfeld.
"Hey guys," I said. "Do you realize that we could be stand-ins for the Seinfeld cast?"
Bro Man and Eve looked at me and smirked. This was the kind of stuff that I liked to come up with, and they then looked at each other and smirked some more.
"All we need is a Kramer. Maybe I should've called Down Low."
Bro Man suddenly figured out what I was implying. "Oh, so I'm George, huh?"
"Of course you are," I said. "I'm Jerry, Eve's Elaine, and you're George. You're the black George."
Eve giggled. Bro Man gave me a "yeah yeah yeah" kind of look but it didn't bother him to be compared to Mr. Costanza. After all, he loves the show and has watched it longer than I have.
But then I thought about Eve and I, and how the Jerry & Elaine thing really is quite an accurate description of our current relationship.
I ordered my usual breakfast order and made small talk with my friends.
*/*
Later on in the evening, after Bro Man went home, Eve came by and we watched TV, ordered pizza, and shot the shit about life in general.
As of late, she and I have been hanging out, spending down time with each other. She gets lonely, I get lonely, we cleave to each other's lonliness and we also keep our affection and passion at an arm's length, lest we give in to lust and find ourselves back in the same situation as in January of this year.
I always wondered why Jerry and Elaine could never make it work, and after watching the show regularly for the past few months, I see it is because they are both immature.
They have so much in common, and yet they cannot reconcile themselves to each other. Eve and I are the same way: we can make things work with other people for long periods of time, but we cannot merge together and work as a functioning couple for the life of us.
She was in a relationship with Dick for nine years, and it worked out because Dick never had any motivation or ideas of his own. He was content to take the backseat to Eve, and she was more than willing to run the show.
I, however, am fiercely independent, and sometimes I am scared when Eve feels the need to take the controls and call the shots. In turn, she sometimes feels like I don't take her seriously, that I see her as a piece of ass, or nothing but a pretty face.
While I have learned (over time) to defer to Eve in certain respects, I also find that it is almost necessary for me to be there, to take over for her in case she drops the ball. She used to resent this aspect of my personality, chalking it up to my need to always be right as opposed to my need to be helpful. Nowadays, she is more willing to let me call some shots, so long as I am not leading her down some insane path that only I can tolerate.
Last Friday we went out to see my old guitarist Mikey play at The Troubador. Mikey is now a singer, and his band is a cross between Oingo Boingo, System Of A Down, and Mr. Bungle. I asked Eve if she wanted to come with me, and she agreed.
We had a great time, watching the band, talking with Mikey's girlfriend afterwards as she informed us of her mission to save all the bunny rabbits in L.A. County. Eve liked the band so much she asked for a CD. She and I have never been out on the town like that, and it felt great.
Of course, feelings do rise to the fore, emotions of love and trust, of hurt and betrayal, and we have our petty jealousies and grievances. I think she tends to get overly embarrassed whenever I start talking in conversations because she thinks I am constantly joking; conversely, I sometimes feel like less of a man when she demands to pay for drinks and food.
We have our issues.
*/*
One thing that I've always loved about Eve: extraordinary things seem to happen when she and I are alone.
The following may not seem that extraordinary, but in the proper context it is definitely noteworthy:
The pizza guy came with an order for us, but he forgot to give us two sodas. He only gave us one, and we decided to split it.
Eve opened the cap on the 1-liter bottle and said, "Hey! We won a free liter of Coke!'
"Get out of here," I said. "Really?"
Eve showed me the cap. Indeed, we were instant winners.
"In all of my years of drinking sodas, I have NEVER won anything from the cap," I said. "Seriously-- this is the closest I've ever come to that."
"Same here," she said, excited by such a random event.
"Here, you keep it in your purse. You can redeem it at any retailer."
Eve read the label and figured out that the odds of winning are one in five.
She and I are always at odds with other people, and when we work as a team she and I can accomplish so much. And yet, our emotions make us complicated, our feelings for each other are confused and sincere and utterly tragic.
I recall once, long ago... she and I were out late-- I had snuck her out of her house on a school night. We walked the streets of Northridge near her house, and she flicked a finished cigarette butt into the air. It landed on the ground in a most unusual manner: vertically, as if placed on the uneven pavement of the road by human hands, standing up and pointing to the sky. It was not a shared hallucination or a flight of fancy-- this was real, and we were the only ones around to witness it.
I guess that's what love is and what it can be: a conspiracy of two, with only the other person's word to verify and back up any claims made.
*/*
I wonder what will become of us. Will she eventually meet a man (or a woman) who will satisfy her every need? Will I meet Ms. Right and settle down? And if we do, will she and I still be friends? Will the tension still be there?
Or, will we end up discovering that there is no one else out there who can reach either of us, and that we are better off with each other than apart?
I am reminded of an episode of Seinfeld that left me speechless. It's the one where Jerry's current girlfriend decides to make him mad, just to see him show an honest emotion. This leads to Jerry exploring his emotions and getting in touch with them. He has a conversation with Elaine and tells her everything he has ever felt about her. This jars her, and she takes some time to think it all over.
Then, George decides to reveal to Jerry everything inside of him. The intensity of George's revelations (which are never shown on screen) shock Jerry so much that he reverts back to his repressed, smug little self.
Elaine shows up near the end of the episode and says to Jerry, "Let's go for it. You were right, everything we ever wanted is right here in front of us. Why not?"
And, of course, Jerry callously shrugs it all off. Elaine is disappointed. Jerry goes back to the comfortable insularity of being Jerry Seinfeld.
My jaw was open when I saw that episode. I was horrified. It was so devastating and cruel. And yet, it was entirely realistic in its blackly humorous depiction of shallow people who choose to hide their feelings in order to protect themselves from rejection and failure. Jerry is painted as returning to a "normal" state of mind, but really-- he regressed and stepped backward instead of forward.
For that one moment, I hated Jerry Seinfeld. And then, I realized that I hate him because I can relate to him. I have done that, I have been in that situation, and there but for the grace of God go I.
I wonder if Eve and I will ever go through something like that again. Lord knows, we've already had our respective moments with each other. Both of us have rejected and been the rejecter. I think we are evenly matched, but maybe it's time for us to lay down our arms.
It's easier said than done. And until it gets done, I am content to watch DVDs with her while eating pizza, smoking cigarettes, and making conversation.
I mean, even if we can't bring ourselves to admit we care for each other, maybe we can make our moments together worthwhile anyway.
The odds are in our favor on that one...
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
shallow
I've been obsessed with Seinfeld ever since March.
A co-worker made a copy of some of the recent DVDs from the first season, and shortly after that TiVo was installed in my office, allowing me to catch up on the hit TV show in reruns on TBS.
I liked the show when it was on the air but I never got too into it. The shows were always funny but something about its tone caused me to shy away from being an avid viewer.
But in the wake of my recent epiphanies about narcissism, Seinfeld has proven to be highly entertaining and relevant.
First, there's Jerry Seinfeld himself: relentlessly snide, smug, hypercritical and neurotic. He is shallow and vain, amused by his own wit and bemused by the world around him. Jerry, as a comedian, gets points for self-deprecation, but it is a symptom of his insecurity and not done as a healthy ego check. He is solipsistic and petty, and yet he also comes off as relatively normal when compared to the likes of...
George Costanza, the narcissist's narcissist, a pure and complete example of the self-centered persona-projecting egotist. George goes into a rage if his sense of self is violated in any way; he takes insults personally and plots revenge for the pettiest of reasons; his only pursuit in life is to gratify his many selves.
Elaine Benes, Jerry's ex, is just as vain and shallow as Jerry, which is why they were involved in the first place... and it also explains why they are no longer a couple, being that they are so much alike. This met-my-match chemistry keeps their relationship tense, as if the two are locked in a draw and both are unwilling to lay down their arms.
Finally, there's Cosmo Kramer, who doesn't appear to be a grade-A narcissist like the other three, until a close examination of his motives is performed. Kramer's insensitivity and singlemindedly maniacal pursuits are the proof we need to confirm that he is merely a variation on the type of immature ego that drives his friends to act out their weird psychodramas as they do.
Watching Seinfeld in the wake of my recent narcissistic forays has helped me to see what my main problem is: I have too much ego attachment. I function best when I put my ego to the side. I am a better person for letting petty grievances pass, for ignoring the silly absurdities that cause people to snap into ego defense mode, as if their very honor depended on the outcome of some insignificant row.
I still possess a massive ego, but I've gotten better at detaching myself from it when I need to, and usually I need to detach myself from my ego quite often. Social situations, one-sided conversations, misunderstandings, online communication... I've improved my tactics and streamlined my philosophy so that I can minimize my outrage over any sort of affront to my sense of self.
These are narcissistic times, and this is a narcissistic city. I feel like I am now more comfortable with my shallow side. I used to abhor being seen as shallow until I realized that, in several key respects, I am shallow.
A deep person would not have let an online stalker derail his progress. No, a deep person would've recognized immediately what was going on, and would've made decisions according to what would eradicate the conflict as opposed to fueling it.
I'm a smart guy, but I'm not wise. Solipsists and narcissists are often extremely intelligent but lack any sense of wisdom, of having learned a lesson. Well, I feel like I've learned my lesson for sure. I have proof of it, but rather than exploit it for the sake of a blog entry, I will keep it to myself. Suffice it to say, life is strangely balanced, and my theory that my personal existence unfolds like a novel in progress has been proven to me once again by the cosmos.
I have Seinfeld to thank for helping me come to terms with my shallow side. One of the few episodes I saw during the original run was the infamous last episode. I think that episode changed my view of the show and has allowed me to embrace it in reruns.
Of course, diehard fans hated the last episode, which saw our four protagonists getting their comeuppance for their pathetic lives and the damage they've inflicted upon everyone within range. I loved it, absolutely loved it. And watching the reactions of fans as they railed against the final episode the next morning was very rewarding.
I think that, with me, it's all about building up my ego so that I can tear it down. I think I subconsciously get off on it. And when someone like my online stalker eggs me on, it's out of a love for the fenceplay that goes with certain conflicts that I consent to getting mixed up with such folk.
I am OK with tearing down my own ego, but I'm only OK with someone else tearing it down if it toes my personal party line. Usually, to reclaim my own sense of self, I resort to self-deprecation but (as with Seinfeld himself) it's only a defense mechanism to help repair the damaged image in the mind.
I think I'm making some progress. I'll never be a completely selfless person, but I also think there's hope for a scoundrel such as myself.
Wish me luck.
A co-worker made a copy of some of the recent DVDs from the first season, and shortly after that TiVo was installed in my office, allowing me to catch up on the hit TV show in reruns on TBS.
I liked the show when it was on the air but I never got too into it. The shows were always funny but something about its tone caused me to shy away from being an avid viewer.
But in the wake of my recent epiphanies about narcissism, Seinfeld has proven to be highly entertaining and relevant.
First, there's Jerry Seinfeld himself: relentlessly snide, smug, hypercritical and neurotic. He is shallow and vain, amused by his own wit and bemused by the world around him. Jerry, as a comedian, gets points for self-deprecation, but it is a symptom of his insecurity and not done as a healthy ego check. He is solipsistic and petty, and yet he also comes off as relatively normal when compared to the likes of...
George Costanza, the narcissist's narcissist, a pure and complete example of the self-centered persona-projecting egotist. George goes into a rage if his sense of self is violated in any way; he takes insults personally and plots revenge for the pettiest of reasons; his only pursuit in life is to gratify his many selves.
Elaine Benes, Jerry's ex, is just as vain and shallow as Jerry, which is why they were involved in the first place... and it also explains why they are no longer a couple, being that they are so much alike. This met-my-match chemistry keeps their relationship tense, as if the two are locked in a draw and both are unwilling to lay down their arms.
Finally, there's Cosmo Kramer, who doesn't appear to be a grade-A narcissist like the other three, until a close examination of his motives is performed. Kramer's insensitivity and singlemindedly maniacal pursuits are the proof we need to confirm that he is merely a variation on the type of immature ego that drives his friends to act out their weird psychodramas as they do.
Watching Seinfeld in the wake of my recent narcissistic forays has helped me to see what my main problem is: I have too much ego attachment. I function best when I put my ego to the side. I am a better person for letting petty grievances pass, for ignoring the silly absurdities that cause people to snap into ego defense mode, as if their very honor depended on the outcome of some insignificant row.
I still possess a massive ego, but I've gotten better at detaching myself from it when I need to, and usually I need to detach myself from my ego quite often. Social situations, one-sided conversations, misunderstandings, online communication... I've improved my tactics and streamlined my philosophy so that I can minimize my outrage over any sort of affront to my sense of self.
These are narcissistic times, and this is a narcissistic city. I feel like I am now more comfortable with my shallow side. I used to abhor being seen as shallow until I realized that, in several key respects, I am shallow.
A deep person would not have let an online stalker derail his progress. No, a deep person would've recognized immediately what was going on, and would've made decisions according to what would eradicate the conflict as opposed to fueling it.
I'm a smart guy, but I'm not wise. Solipsists and narcissists are often extremely intelligent but lack any sense of wisdom, of having learned a lesson. Well, I feel like I've learned my lesson for sure. I have proof of it, but rather than exploit it for the sake of a blog entry, I will keep it to myself. Suffice it to say, life is strangely balanced, and my theory that my personal existence unfolds like a novel in progress has been proven to me once again by the cosmos.
I have Seinfeld to thank for helping me come to terms with my shallow side. One of the few episodes I saw during the original run was the infamous last episode. I think that episode changed my view of the show and has allowed me to embrace it in reruns.
Of course, diehard fans hated the last episode, which saw our four protagonists getting their comeuppance for their pathetic lives and the damage they've inflicted upon everyone within range. I loved it, absolutely loved it. And watching the reactions of fans as they railed against the final episode the next morning was very rewarding.
I think that, with me, it's all about building up my ego so that I can tear it down. I think I subconsciously get off on it. And when someone like my online stalker eggs me on, it's out of a love for the fenceplay that goes with certain conflicts that I consent to getting mixed up with such folk.
I am OK with tearing down my own ego, but I'm only OK with someone else tearing it down if it toes my personal party line. Usually, to reclaim my own sense of self, I resort to self-deprecation but (as with Seinfeld himself) it's only a defense mechanism to help repair the damaged image in the mind.
I think I'm making some progress. I'll never be a completely selfless person, but I also think there's hope for a scoundrel such as myself.
Wish me luck.
Monday, August 15, 2005
absurdity revisited
A few weeks back I posted briefly about Thomas Pynchon and his love of the cowbell, tying it in with smaller issues (The recent SNL-Blue Oyster Cult sketch) and larger ones (switching identities in the Age of Narcissism).
I profess that I myself have always loved the cowbell. It's yet another trend that I started before it became popular, much like ripped jeans as a fashion statement or the stage posturing of Eddie Vedder. I'm always five years ahead of my time, but it took 13 years for the cool factor of the cowbell to come into its own.
Back in high school, I used to practially beg A-Dogg, the drummer in our band at the time, to go into long, drawn-out drum solos that culminated with one lone cowbell shot. It was hilarious to us.
But now, with people sporting T-shirts that say MORE COWBELL, it seems that the cowbell's time has come.
The only use of the cowbell that I disapprove of is by fans of the Sacramento Kings. I hate their team with a passion, and they use the cowbell to distract rival teams during basketball games.
Key to the overnight cowbell craze is Christopher Walken. A frequent SNL guest, he was hosting the show on that infamous eve when the Blue Oyster Cult sketch aired. His character's demand for "more cowbell" was comedic gold.
And now? He's running for President in 2008.
One online forum (World Net Daily, I believe) conducted a poll of who would vote for Christopher Walken. 46% said they would vote for him; 30% said they "gotta have more cowbell"...
Another site (whose link I can't remember) said that, if he is indeed serious, his slogan should be "America needs more cowbell"...
These are absurd times that we are living in, my friends. Truly 'pataphysical, completely absurd times...
I profess that I myself have always loved the cowbell. It's yet another trend that I started before it became popular, much like ripped jeans as a fashion statement or the stage posturing of Eddie Vedder. I'm always five years ahead of my time, but it took 13 years for the cool factor of the cowbell to come into its own.
Back in high school, I used to practially beg A-Dogg, the drummer in our band at the time, to go into long, drawn-out drum solos that culminated with one lone cowbell shot. It was hilarious to us.
But now, with people sporting T-shirts that say MORE COWBELL, it seems that the cowbell's time has come.
The only use of the cowbell that I disapprove of is by fans of the Sacramento Kings. I hate their team with a passion, and they use the cowbell to distract rival teams during basketball games.
Key to the overnight cowbell craze is Christopher Walken. A frequent SNL guest, he was hosting the show on that infamous eve when the Blue Oyster Cult sketch aired. His character's demand for "more cowbell" was comedic gold.
And now? He's running for President in 2008.
One online forum (World Net Daily, I believe) conducted a poll of who would vote for Christopher Walken. 46% said they would vote for him; 30% said they "gotta have more cowbell"...
Another site (whose link I can't remember) said that, if he is indeed serious, his slogan should be "America needs more cowbell"...
These are absurd times that we are living in, my friends. Truly 'pataphysical, completely absurd times...
Friday, August 12, 2005
hangover
The gig last night was a success.
I am very tired.
I've discovered that Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band is the crucial ink between the worlds of visual art and rock music.
I finished a painting and will start another one tomorrow.
My head hurts.
Have a nice weekend.
I am very tired.
I've discovered that Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band is the crucial ink between the worlds of visual art and rock music.
I finished a painting and will start another one tomorrow.
My head hurts.
Have a nice weekend.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
who says you can't fight back?
Cindy Sheehan, the woman who is protesting for the entire month of August outside of President George W. Nixon's Crawford Ranch... you are an American hero.
Give 'em hell, Cindy!
Give 'em hell, Cindy!
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
music to my ears
Finally, a personal post from me!
Not really too personal, not like past entries...
I was looking over some of the old ones yesterday, especially the ones around the holidays last year, and I was somewhat surprised at my candor, my willingness to let people into my world.
This post will be personal, but in an acceptable manner.
*/*
I ran into Evan, our drummer in the Holly Golightly Band, a few months ago. I was at a rehearsal for the now-defunct ICON when he showed up at the rehearsal space. He was there to practice with his new band, Ninefinger. I hung out for a song then went to look for the guys from ICON.
Ninefinger invited me to see their show at the Lava Lounge in Hollywood. I couldn't make it that night but I told them to keep me posted on future gigs. Well, they must've thought I meant it literally, because Evan called me a few days later and asked me to join the band.
The drummer that Evan was filling in for had left, so after the Lava Lounge gig was done the bass player (who was close friends with the drummer) vacated also. Evan brought me in and I got along well with Josh and Mike, the respective guitarist and singer of Ninefinger. We rehearsed and prepared for the show this coming Thursday.
Josh and Mike are big guys, roughly the same age as me, and have been playing as Ninefinger for about three years. Josh moved here from Rhode Island, Mike from Arizona, and they met around the time they both arrived. The music they make is unabashed grunge-era rock: Josh cites Nirvana as his biggest influence and favorite band of all time, "the reason why I started playing guitar in the first place", as he puts it. I'm not sure what Mike's influences are, but his voice has a tinge of Glenn Danzig chased with Scott Weiland from STP.
Because they are not native Angelenos, they have an easygoing demeanor and only want to make music, possibly even get some exposure for it. They don't have egos, they don't have unstable living arrangements, and they are both motivated to get this show on the road.
Oh, and they rock, too. Josh's guitar work is strong without being flashy, and Mike is the kind of lead singer that most bands need: he's good-looking, charismatic, can sing in key, and (most importantly) he's shockingly humble and down-to-earth. He has nine fingers-- he lost his right index finger in a construction accident back in Scottsdale... hence, the name Ninefinger.
They were extremely grateful to Evan for filling in for their absent drummer, but even at the first practice I could see that Evan had not really changed much: he's a cool guy and fun to play with, but takes direction badly and brings his personal dramas into the rehearsals. He never contributes to the band financially, eternally claiming poverty-- yet he has enough money to go to the bars in Studio City every night.
It's a shame, really, because only five months ago I went over to Evan's to grab my DAT machine and noticed a 180 degree turn in his lifestyle. His apartment was clean and well-kept; his attitude was positive, his eyes gleaming... he had his new girlfriend move in with him, and she was laying her feminine touch on him. I was genuinely happy for the guy, and he seemed like he was ready to take life by the horns and do something with his time.
Then, when he asked me to join the band recently, I went over to his place to receive a copy of the songs I needed to learn. The girl was gone-- she'd moved out, and the place was once again a disaster area. He seemed less bouncy, maybe even a tad bitter, and he was extremely scatterbrained.
Oh no, I thought to myself. This isn't good...
*/*
So now Evan is back to his old habits. He isn't a drug abuser or a major alcoholic, but he definitely has a demon inside of him that needs to be exorcised. He is in his mid-thirties and also served in the military during the Kosovo conflict. His stories from his stint in that war are harrowing, as most war stories are, and I suspect that he bore witness to some terrible atrocities that imprinted themselves on his psyche quite firmly. I would go so far to speculate that any post-traumatic stress he is experiencing currently is having a profound effect on his drum playing.
Evan's biggest problem playing the drums is that he speeds up the tempo too much. To be fair, he keeps it steady enough, but he still gets complaints all the time. When we were playing with Holly, the guitarist in that band had it out with Evan on several occasions over his erratic timing. This is a very significant flaw in the minds of the people who are writing the songs we play, because Josh and Mike echo Holly's guitarist's concerns.
Personally, I'm just the bass player. It doesn't affect me. Yes, Evan does speed up, but I don't care. Then again, these aren't my compositions, so obviously it matters less to me than it does to everyone else. And I don't blame the others for expecting Evan to be steadier on the beat.
However, my theory is that something happened to him that scarred his psyche a bit, possibly during the war, that put his sense of timing off in a major way. He's a good drummer-- his fills are exquisite, he has a good sense of how to arrange parts, and he is enthusiastic. But coupled with the financial selfishness and his dissolute roller-coaster of a life, it only makes people like Josh and Mike look elsewhere.
And it doesn't help that he announced to us, last Thursday at rehearsal, that he might not be able to make the show that we're doing two days from today.
*/*
The same issue came up with the hair metal cover band that I am playing with-- the guitarist (who also happened to be the axe-slinger for the late ICON) doesn't have the time to dedicate to music anymore, especially with his weekend off-road racing and his desire to go back to school to learn a computer-related trade.
So Andy (the singer) and Joe (the drummer) let him have it. They really want this to get off the ground. Like Josh and Mike, they are transplants: they're both from New Jersey. Andy has a house in Santa Clarita where we can practice for free, and he only wants to make money playing covers. Not that it's his only goal, but he is hurting for cash, what with a family to feed and payments to make.
Joe is a family guy too, and they clearly love the '80's hair metal that has been on a revival as of late, what with tongue-in-cheek acts like Metal Skool making cash hand over fist. But what's endearing about playing with these guys is that it isn't ironic.
They really do love Dokken, Slaughter, Warrant, Motley Crue, Ratt, Poison, and any number of bands that ruled the airwaves in the late '80's, before grunge came around and devastated the pop cultural wasteland. I used to hate those bands when I was growing up, because I was supposed to hate them: being a half-breed Mexican/Asian kid from the San Fernando Valley meant aligning myself with hard rock, thrash metal, hardcore punk, and gangsta rap. Hair metal was The Enemy.
As I've grown older, I've come to drop my biases against popular music, especially since (now that I can play the bass with modest skill) those kinds of songs are fun to play... there's nothing simpler than a heavy metal bass line, unless it's Iron Maiden or some prog-rock influenced nu-metal group.
And that brings us to Mike, whom I will refer to as Mick so as to distinguish him from the millions of Mikes that I know. Mick is the guitarist Andy called to auditon for us last Sunday. He's pushing 40 but doesn't look a day over 30; he is tatted up and down on his arms, and sports a baldhead and a goatee-- a real goatee, not the Van Dyke cut that everyone calls a goatee nowadays... his facial hair growth is all chin, baby!
The motherfucker is sick when it comes to the git.
We bashed through "Mr. Brownstone" and "Rocket Queen" by G'N'R, we ran through "Living After Midnight" by Judas Priest, and we slammed "Man In The Box" by Alice In Chains down to the ground. Mick was on point, asking us in between songs if we knew this or that song. He played "Hot For Teacher" by Van Halen note for note, but Joe said to hold off on that one because he needed to practice Alex' infamous drum parts a little more.
I know what you're saying: "Those aren't hair metal songs..." And you're absolutely right.
Mick's got energy, enthusiasm, and a wicked style, and his leanings are darker, faster, harder. He played the riff for "Stop!" by Jane's Addiction, and brightened when I threw out the bass riff to "Three Days". He expressed his wish to one day start a Ramones cover band, which echoed my sentiments a year ago. He got down with some Sabbath-- "War Pigs" of course --and jammed with me when I casually slapped the intro bass part to the Chili Pepper's version of "Higher Ground".
I like the dude's style, and so did Joe. Andy dug him too, but I can see a little rough sailing up ahead, mostly because Mick isn't into the soft hair metal stuff that Andy wants to do. He'll play it, I'm sure, but it will have to be balanced with some good old-fashioned grimy-and-gritty rock and roll.
Still, what's a band without some turbulence? I feel bad that the guitarist who brought me into the band can no longer be in it, but this line-up looks like it will be both fun AND profitable.
*/*
A similar thing is happening with Evan. He brought me in, and now (in the wake of his announcing that he will be out of town on Thursday) the others want to get another drummer.
I went one further and suggested getting a fill-in for the show. I called up The Wolf, a mutual friend of mine and Down Low. The Wolf (or Wolfie, as he is known) plays drums, and he plays them hard. About a month ago, he asked me to play bass for a band he was jamming with, a band that wanted to cover The Stooges and The MC5 and New York Dolls. I sat in and had some fun.
Now I was calling Wolfie to return the favor. I didn't have to get very far in my pitch.
"Whatever it is, I'm down to do it."
"Nice. You think you can learn 9 songs by Thursday?"
"Maybe. Is it a paying gig?"
"Yes."
"Fuck, bring it on. Why can't your regular drummer make it?"
"He's claiming that his work wants him to go to Indiana and do a shoot. He works for a film production company. I suspect that he totally blanked on the dates and didn't realize that the gig night was going to conflict with his work, because he asked us to change the night of the gig. When Josh and Mike said they couldn't, he aid he might not be able to do the show at all."
"So what did you say?"
"I straight-up said that I was going to call a drummer to fill in. All of a sudden he starts saying he might be able to fly in the day of the show, but I'm not really comfortable with that. I'd rather you play with us than him at this point, even though he knows the songs better than you."
A little back story here...
You see, in the Holly band, we'd had these types of discussions before concerning Evan. Holly was persistent in the beginning and wanted Evan to play, despite my recommendation to have someone else play the drums. She pulled rank and said it was her band and that she was the boss, so I washed my hands of it.
Months later, after finding out what kind of person Evan was, she was asking me if I would be the one to fire Evan.
I laughed at her and said, "It's your band. You're the boss. You fire him."
She didn't, although she came close to doing it when I was able to bring Buddah, the drummer I'd originally wanted to use, to a rehearsal one day. However, Buddah couldn't make the show we wanted to use him for, so it never happened. We stuck with Evan, and Holly ended up regretting the day she brought him into the group.
After Evan's bombshell, I arranged to have The Wolf rehearse with us. Last night, we drove out to Pasadena to go over the set. Wolfie picked it up fairly fast, although one rehearsal might not be enough for him to be 100%. Josh and Mike really liked The Wolf's playing, though, and so now the dilemma we are faced with is as follows:
If The Wolf wants to be our drummer, then Josh will break it off with Evan. But, who will play on Thursday? If Evan makes it into town tomorrow, then Josh wants him to play with us, but that might insult The Wolf, who is assuming that he will be in on the show Thursday night.
If The Wolf plays with us, then Evan will feel slighted... not to mention that Wolfie is still learning the songs. He is a great drummer but he might not be up to snuff come Thursday evening.
It doesn't matter what happens after Thursday-- Mike is getting surgery on his nose to open up his septum and will be out for a month, so we won't be playing any shows. But it will give us time to get the songs tight, and it looks like Wolfie will be the man for the job. But it all depends on what happens in the next two days.
I dig Evan as a human being, but I fear a repeat of some of the drama that made the Holly Golightly band such a bad trip. Wolfie digs the band and wants to play, but I fear that he will feel put off if we have him practice but not perform with us at the show.
It's up in the air, really.
Ah, music-- so simple, so uncomplicated...
*/*
So that's been what's going on with me lately. No romance, no intrigue, nothing on par with my past exaggerations and anecdotes. Just plowing through the day, running through the motions, with my focus fixed upon the road ahead of me at all times.
I mean, there ARE things happening, but on subliminal levels, intangible tiers of wonder that I am only halfway aware of, smoky wisps of energy emanating from everyone around me...
And yet, it's music to my ears.
Not really too personal, not like past entries...
I was looking over some of the old ones yesterday, especially the ones around the holidays last year, and I was somewhat surprised at my candor, my willingness to let people into my world.
This post will be personal, but in an acceptable manner.
*/*
I ran into Evan, our drummer in the Holly Golightly Band, a few months ago. I was at a rehearsal for the now-defunct ICON when he showed up at the rehearsal space. He was there to practice with his new band, Ninefinger. I hung out for a song then went to look for the guys from ICON.
Ninefinger invited me to see their show at the Lava Lounge in Hollywood. I couldn't make it that night but I told them to keep me posted on future gigs. Well, they must've thought I meant it literally, because Evan called me a few days later and asked me to join the band.
The drummer that Evan was filling in for had left, so after the Lava Lounge gig was done the bass player (who was close friends with the drummer) vacated also. Evan brought me in and I got along well with Josh and Mike, the respective guitarist and singer of Ninefinger. We rehearsed and prepared for the show this coming Thursday.
Josh and Mike are big guys, roughly the same age as me, and have been playing as Ninefinger for about three years. Josh moved here from Rhode Island, Mike from Arizona, and they met around the time they both arrived. The music they make is unabashed grunge-era rock: Josh cites Nirvana as his biggest influence and favorite band of all time, "the reason why I started playing guitar in the first place", as he puts it. I'm not sure what Mike's influences are, but his voice has a tinge of Glenn Danzig chased with Scott Weiland from STP.
Because they are not native Angelenos, they have an easygoing demeanor and only want to make music, possibly even get some exposure for it. They don't have egos, they don't have unstable living arrangements, and they are both motivated to get this show on the road.
Oh, and they rock, too. Josh's guitar work is strong without being flashy, and Mike is the kind of lead singer that most bands need: he's good-looking, charismatic, can sing in key, and (most importantly) he's shockingly humble and down-to-earth. He has nine fingers-- he lost his right index finger in a construction accident back in Scottsdale... hence, the name Ninefinger.
They were extremely grateful to Evan for filling in for their absent drummer, but even at the first practice I could see that Evan had not really changed much: he's a cool guy and fun to play with, but takes direction badly and brings his personal dramas into the rehearsals. He never contributes to the band financially, eternally claiming poverty-- yet he has enough money to go to the bars in Studio City every night.
It's a shame, really, because only five months ago I went over to Evan's to grab my DAT machine and noticed a 180 degree turn in his lifestyle. His apartment was clean and well-kept; his attitude was positive, his eyes gleaming... he had his new girlfriend move in with him, and she was laying her feminine touch on him. I was genuinely happy for the guy, and he seemed like he was ready to take life by the horns and do something with his time.
Then, when he asked me to join the band recently, I went over to his place to receive a copy of the songs I needed to learn. The girl was gone-- she'd moved out, and the place was once again a disaster area. He seemed less bouncy, maybe even a tad bitter, and he was extremely scatterbrained.
Oh no, I thought to myself. This isn't good...
*/*
So now Evan is back to his old habits. He isn't a drug abuser or a major alcoholic, but he definitely has a demon inside of him that needs to be exorcised. He is in his mid-thirties and also served in the military during the Kosovo conflict. His stories from his stint in that war are harrowing, as most war stories are, and I suspect that he bore witness to some terrible atrocities that imprinted themselves on his psyche quite firmly. I would go so far to speculate that any post-traumatic stress he is experiencing currently is having a profound effect on his drum playing.
Evan's biggest problem playing the drums is that he speeds up the tempo too much. To be fair, he keeps it steady enough, but he still gets complaints all the time. When we were playing with Holly, the guitarist in that band had it out with Evan on several occasions over his erratic timing. This is a very significant flaw in the minds of the people who are writing the songs we play, because Josh and Mike echo Holly's guitarist's concerns.
Personally, I'm just the bass player. It doesn't affect me. Yes, Evan does speed up, but I don't care. Then again, these aren't my compositions, so obviously it matters less to me than it does to everyone else. And I don't blame the others for expecting Evan to be steadier on the beat.
However, my theory is that something happened to him that scarred his psyche a bit, possibly during the war, that put his sense of timing off in a major way. He's a good drummer-- his fills are exquisite, he has a good sense of how to arrange parts, and he is enthusiastic. But coupled with the financial selfishness and his dissolute roller-coaster of a life, it only makes people like Josh and Mike look elsewhere.
And it doesn't help that he announced to us, last Thursday at rehearsal, that he might not be able to make the show that we're doing two days from today.
*/*
The same issue came up with the hair metal cover band that I am playing with-- the guitarist (who also happened to be the axe-slinger for the late ICON) doesn't have the time to dedicate to music anymore, especially with his weekend off-road racing and his desire to go back to school to learn a computer-related trade.
So Andy (the singer) and Joe (the drummer) let him have it. They really want this to get off the ground. Like Josh and Mike, they are transplants: they're both from New Jersey. Andy has a house in Santa Clarita where we can practice for free, and he only wants to make money playing covers. Not that it's his only goal, but he is hurting for cash, what with a family to feed and payments to make.
Joe is a family guy too, and they clearly love the '80's hair metal that has been on a revival as of late, what with tongue-in-cheek acts like Metal Skool making cash hand over fist. But what's endearing about playing with these guys is that it isn't ironic.
They really do love Dokken, Slaughter, Warrant, Motley Crue, Ratt, Poison, and any number of bands that ruled the airwaves in the late '80's, before grunge came around and devastated the pop cultural wasteland. I used to hate those bands when I was growing up, because I was supposed to hate them: being a half-breed Mexican/Asian kid from the San Fernando Valley meant aligning myself with hard rock, thrash metal, hardcore punk, and gangsta rap. Hair metal was The Enemy.
As I've grown older, I've come to drop my biases against popular music, especially since (now that I can play the bass with modest skill) those kinds of songs are fun to play... there's nothing simpler than a heavy metal bass line, unless it's Iron Maiden or some prog-rock influenced nu-metal group.
And that brings us to Mike, whom I will refer to as Mick so as to distinguish him from the millions of Mikes that I know. Mick is the guitarist Andy called to auditon for us last Sunday. He's pushing 40 but doesn't look a day over 30; he is tatted up and down on his arms, and sports a baldhead and a goatee-- a real goatee, not the Van Dyke cut that everyone calls a goatee nowadays... his facial hair growth is all chin, baby!
The motherfucker is sick when it comes to the git.
We bashed through "Mr. Brownstone" and "Rocket Queen" by G'N'R, we ran through "Living After Midnight" by Judas Priest, and we slammed "Man In The Box" by Alice In Chains down to the ground. Mick was on point, asking us in between songs if we knew this or that song. He played "Hot For Teacher" by Van Halen note for note, but Joe said to hold off on that one because he needed to practice Alex' infamous drum parts a little more.
I know what you're saying: "Those aren't hair metal songs..." And you're absolutely right.
Mick's got energy, enthusiasm, and a wicked style, and his leanings are darker, faster, harder. He played the riff for "Stop!" by Jane's Addiction, and brightened when I threw out the bass riff to "Three Days". He expressed his wish to one day start a Ramones cover band, which echoed my sentiments a year ago. He got down with some Sabbath-- "War Pigs" of course --and jammed with me when I casually slapped the intro bass part to the Chili Pepper's version of "Higher Ground".
I like the dude's style, and so did Joe. Andy dug him too, but I can see a little rough sailing up ahead, mostly because Mick isn't into the soft hair metal stuff that Andy wants to do. He'll play it, I'm sure, but it will have to be balanced with some good old-fashioned grimy-and-gritty rock and roll.
Still, what's a band without some turbulence? I feel bad that the guitarist who brought me into the band can no longer be in it, but this line-up looks like it will be both fun AND profitable.
*/*
A similar thing is happening with Evan. He brought me in, and now (in the wake of his announcing that he will be out of town on Thursday) the others want to get another drummer.
I went one further and suggested getting a fill-in for the show. I called up The Wolf, a mutual friend of mine and Down Low. The Wolf (or Wolfie, as he is known) plays drums, and he plays them hard. About a month ago, he asked me to play bass for a band he was jamming with, a band that wanted to cover The Stooges and The MC5 and New York Dolls. I sat in and had some fun.
Now I was calling Wolfie to return the favor. I didn't have to get very far in my pitch.
"Whatever it is, I'm down to do it."
"Nice. You think you can learn 9 songs by Thursday?"
"Maybe. Is it a paying gig?"
"Yes."
"Fuck, bring it on. Why can't your regular drummer make it?"
"He's claiming that his work wants him to go to Indiana and do a shoot. He works for a film production company. I suspect that he totally blanked on the dates and didn't realize that the gig night was going to conflict with his work, because he asked us to change the night of the gig. When Josh and Mike said they couldn't, he aid he might not be able to do the show at all."
"So what did you say?"
"I straight-up said that I was going to call a drummer to fill in. All of a sudden he starts saying he might be able to fly in the day of the show, but I'm not really comfortable with that. I'd rather you play with us than him at this point, even though he knows the songs better than you."
A little back story here...
You see, in the Holly band, we'd had these types of discussions before concerning Evan. Holly was persistent in the beginning and wanted Evan to play, despite my recommendation to have someone else play the drums. She pulled rank and said it was her band and that she was the boss, so I washed my hands of it.
Months later, after finding out what kind of person Evan was, she was asking me if I would be the one to fire Evan.
I laughed at her and said, "It's your band. You're the boss. You fire him."
She didn't, although she came close to doing it when I was able to bring Buddah, the drummer I'd originally wanted to use, to a rehearsal one day. However, Buddah couldn't make the show we wanted to use him for, so it never happened. We stuck with Evan, and Holly ended up regretting the day she brought him into the group.
After Evan's bombshell, I arranged to have The Wolf rehearse with us. Last night, we drove out to Pasadena to go over the set. Wolfie picked it up fairly fast, although one rehearsal might not be enough for him to be 100%. Josh and Mike really liked The Wolf's playing, though, and so now the dilemma we are faced with is as follows:
If The Wolf wants to be our drummer, then Josh will break it off with Evan. But, who will play on Thursday? If Evan makes it into town tomorrow, then Josh wants him to play with us, but that might insult The Wolf, who is assuming that he will be in on the show Thursday night.
If The Wolf plays with us, then Evan will feel slighted... not to mention that Wolfie is still learning the songs. He is a great drummer but he might not be up to snuff come Thursday evening.
It doesn't matter what happens after Thursday-- Mike is getting surgery on his nose to open up his septum and will be out for a month, so we won't be playing any shows. But it will give us time to get the songs tight, and it looks like Wolfie will be the man for the job. But it all depends on what happens in the next two days.
I dig Evan as a human being, but I fear a repeat of some of the drama that made the Holly Golightly band such a bad trip. Wolfie digs the band and wants to play, but I fear that he will feel put off if we have him practice but not perform with us at the show.
It's up in the air, really.
Ah, music-- so simple, so uncomplicated...
*/*
So that's been what's going on with me lately. No romance, no intrigue, nothing on par with my past exaggerations and anecdotes. Just plowing through the day, running through the motions, with my focus fixed upon the road ahead of me at all times.
I mean, there ARE things happening, but on subliminal levels, intangible tiers of wonder that I am only halfway aware of, smoky wisps of energy emanating from everyone around me...
And yet, it's music to my ears.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
no fair
the heartbreak in the air that I spoke of recently is starting to dissipate and crumble into imperceptible dust motes, relating to nothing and swirling aimlessly in summer dusk sunset...
I weep not for the sad maidens with their heads encased in baskets, for they do not lack the ability to lift their arms and remove the wicker masks... they adore being blind, they look forward to the inconsolable night...
deflecting vibrations from every which way, I can see the straight path, the unevenly paved road, the primrose arc winding slow and leisurely, unfurling beneath my feet...
I am seen as shallow by those who are afraid to dip their toes into the river stream of eternity, for fear that they will emerge transformed and unable to reverse the ether flow of entropy, time passing and carrying us away like survivors of a shipwreck wading in tiny life rafts during a storm, these people are not inclined to let their hearts run so deep...
Spectacular and surreptitious these evenings seem, gleaming in the pearl of black atmospheric sky with glistening surfaces, and on the street monastries appear from nowhere, their mirrored windows giving off no glare, my mind crying out in protest, screaming "No fair!"
But it is fair. It's fairer than I care to admit.
I possess plans and agendas, goals and motivations, colored with crimson blood and stranded blue, ribbons unwrapped and rivers untapped for their electricity, waves of sound massaging me from the shoulders down...
(have a nice weekend)
I weep not for the sad maidens with their heads encased in baskets, for they do not lack the ability to lift their arms and remove the wicker masks... they adore being blind, they look forward to the inconsolable night...
deflecting vibrations from every which way, I can see the straight path, the unevenly paved road, the primrose arc winding slow and leisurely, unfurling beneath my feet...
I am seen as shallow by those who are afraid to dip their toes into the river stream of eternity, for fear that they will emerge transformed and unable to reverse the ether flow of entropy, time passing and carrying us away like survivors of a shipwreck wading in tiny life rafts during a storm, these people are not inclined to let their hearts run so deep...
Spectacular and surreptitious these evenings seem, gleaming in the pearl of black atmospheric sky with glistening surfaces, and on the street monastries appear from nowhere, their mirrored windows giving off no glare, my mind crying out in protest, screaming "No fair!"
But it is fair. It's fairer than I care to admit.
I possess plans and agendas, goals and motivations, colored with crimson blood and stranded blue, ribbons unwrapped and rivers untapped for their electricity, waves of sound massaging me from the shoulders down...
(have a nice weekend)
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
the day the laughter stopped
This can't be...
I don't watch a lot of TV. The Simpsons is the only constant... that, and Chappelle's Show.
Well, now it's just The Simpsons: read this link and see what has me more than a little depressed.
Chappelle's Show was, by far, the funniest (and most 'pataphysical) thing on TV since In Living Color... and now...
PLEASE say this is all a hoax! PLEASE!
What about the third season? The sketches were already filmed! Can't they show them, at least?
Oh well... to quote Dave himself:
"Konichiwa, bitches!"
I don't watch a lot of TV. The Simpsons is the only constant... that, and Chappelle's Show.
Well, now it's just The Simpsons: read this link and see what has me more than a little depressed.
Chappelle's Show was, by far, the funniest (and most 'pataphysical) thing on TV since In Living Color... and now...
PLEASE say this is all a hoax! PLEASE!
What about the third season? The sketches were already filmed! Can't they show them, at least?
Oh well... to quote Dave himself:
"Konichiwa, bitches!"
Monday, August 01, 2005
it's only a blog
There was a time, not long ago, when it seemed like I belonged to some little online community, made up of links to other blogs. I communicated with these people daily. It was fun.
It's not like that anymore. I changed templates and fonts a few times, even changed the URL in the wake of the stalker; most of the members of this unofficial blog community have stopped blogging altogether, while some tired of my comapny, and yet others remain unexplained in their absence; even I have cut down considerably on blogging, and not just in terms of quantity but quality-- nothing intimate is being said here nowadays.
Then again, it's only a blog.
But I miss Sahalie and Fishfry and Snake Oils and Blousy Drake and Blue 59 and Violet Butcher...
Some blogs keeps on going. Clay and Zen and Invisible Shoebox and Occult Investigator and Glutter and Grass Under Bare Feet and Ayelet still post sporadically, but not as often as before.
I've made new friends, such as Butterscotch. She reminds me of those days, the spirit of this imaginary online community that existed in my head.
But I wonder why I am reflecting fondly upon it now, when it's only been a few years since I started blogging in the first place. Not only that, but I made deliberate decisions to not get mired in a rut, which is why I changed templates and URLs and went out of my way to alienate fellow bloggers...
I just tried to get personal again, to write the way I used to write in this blog back in the day, but I deleted it all. I always suspect that I jinx myself by writing about things that are going on in my life, and ever since I started keeping my life private, things have been going in my favor.
So I can't jinx it. I just can't.
It's okay, it's only a blog-- there'll be more further down the line. You can count on it.
It's not like that anymore. I changed templates and fonts a few times, even changed the URL in the wake of the stalker; most of the members of this unofficial blog community have stopped blogging altogether, while some tired of my comapny, and yet others remain unexplained in their absence; even I have cut down considerably on blogging, and not just in terms of quantity but quality-- nothing intimate is being said here nowadays.
Then again, it's only a blog.
But I miss Sahalie and Fishfry and Snake Oils and Blousy Drake and Blue 59 and Violet Butcher...
Some blogs keeps on going. Clay and Zen and Invisible Shoebox and Occult Investigator and Glutter and Grass Under Bare Feet and Ayelet still post sporadically, but not as often as before.
I've made new friends, such as Butterscotch. She reminds me of those days, the spirit of this imaginary online community that existed in my head.
But I wonder why I am reflecting fondly upon it now, when it's only been a few years since I started blogging in the first place. Not only that, but I made deliberate decisions to not get mired in a rut, which is why I changed templates and URLs and went out of my way to alienate fellow bloggers...
I just tried to get personal again, to write the way I used to write in this blog back in the day, but I deleted it all. I always suspect that I jinx myself by writing about things that are going on in my life, and ever since I started keeping my life private, things have been going in my favor.
So I can't jinx it. I just can't.
It's okay, it's only a blog-- there'll be more further down the line. You can count on it.
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