Would you like to spend Christmas Eve with Aunt Becky… or would you rather hang with this guy:
It is time once again to turn our thoughts to Christmas, more importantly, the fifth annual Blue Moon Christmas Pageant and Midnight Mass. As usual, this takes place on Christmas Eve and should be our biggest one yet. We had eighty people show up last year to ditch their families and wrap their lips around a pint or two.
Pictures from last year's festival can be found by clicking here
And here are a couple of YouTube clips from the 3rd annual show:
So what's a pageant without talent? Over the past four years, the pageant has involved puppets, tap dancers, DJ's, bands, and, as usual, the fiery sermons of Rev. Darnell Jenkins. Jesus and Satan have made appearances the past couple of years and probably will again this year. I'd like to make this the best Christmas pageant ever. We have booze so we're already halfway there.
However, we also need talent. Therefore, this is the official call for talent for the 5th Annual Blue Moon Christmas Pageant and Midnight Mass. If you have an act that you think is worthy of us unwrapping – and the more unique, the better -- by all means drop me a line, either here or on my personal page (which you can access here.) Or, if you're untalented, you could pass this along to a skilled friend. It's the least you could do, Skippy.
Acts do not necessarily have to be Christmas/holiday themed but of course those in step with the season will get priority.
Oh, man, this is gonna be embarrassing. I unearthed a ton of my old writing and I'm gonna be posting large, uncomfortable chunks of it – as well as some new stuff -- over on my personal myspace page, which you can access here. However, here's something from my high school diaries (stop laughing) about my first day of work at the Metrodome. The event: Van Halen's Monsters of Rock tour, featuring Metallica, Kingdom Come, and some other douches.
[NOTE: Writing is as it was, only annotated in brackets for clarification and to abuse the 16 year old Hemingway who wrote it all down.]
JULY 13TH, 1988
One of the greatest nights of my life.
After waiting an eternity for the bus, I get there. I met up with Mike, another guy from yesterday [orientation]. I shared a locker with him; I didn't bring a lock.
I waited half an hour to check in, and Jason [a supervisor], this other one, a huge guy, complimented me on my white socks. [White socks were not part of the uniform.]
I met my supervisor and thanked him for the lovely clip-on tie. He told me that I would today have good people watching and some harassment.
In other words, I guarded a stairway.
This stairway led to the backstage area. So, I was only to let in Sims [our security company], Asia [the bigger and badder security company that everybody told me was comprised of former and future felons], police, Volume Vendors [food], Pharm House [First Aid, I think], and people with passes. Oh, fun.
First, a guy came up to me. There was smoke all over his area. [The Metrodome was a non-smoking venue even back then, but for some reason, people were lighting up all sorts of things at a ten hour hair band festival. The nerve!] He wanted my name, employee number, and Sims number. He shelled out 500 bucks for tix. I gave him my name, but no more.
Next, a girl got a burn on the side of her head. I walked about 2 yards to the concession stand. They called first aid.
I saw two creepy people slip through the door. They came back out and said that they had been given non existent seats, then were switched, and some people already got those seats.
A few minutes later, an incredibly beautiful girl came up to me, asking how to get to the Twins' ticket office. "I believe it's that way," I said, pointing off down the hall.
I knew her ploy. She said that she thought it was up the steps, the steps behind me. "Oh, well, those steps don't even go up."
"Oh, okay," she said, and held her gaze on me for an awkward moment. "Bye," she said, very seductively I might add. [Yes, I did add it, you little fat bad-haircutted jackass from 20 years ago.]
I like my job, I thought.
A few minutes later, they transferred me to the elevator. I got a couple of wheelchairs to the downstairs area, and after while I got my break. I went into the arena. They were in between bands, Halen up next. I went back down to Mike.
"How's it going?" he asked.
"Lots of girls on the elevator, going backstage. Too bad you're not there, too."
"I'm engaged," he said.
My jaw dropped. "No shit?"
"Yeah. Going into the Marines, too." [Mike was about 19. Rail-thin, scruffy, and looked like the kind of guy who would marry young and join the Marines.]
"Damn! Ever see Full Metal Jacket?"
"Yeah," he said, and I went into D.I. Hartman's opening lines. [I'm sure it was a brilliant impression, full of the authority and nuance that only a 16-year old fat boy in a lousy red blazer and clip on tie could deliver.]
I went back onto the main floor. I walked around awhile, and after a long time, Sammy, Michael, Eddie, and Alex took stage. I took off then. I was late.
I [had] borrowed a flashlight on my way [you needed a flashlight if working inside the arena] and returned it. "Are you just getting back?" the girl asked.
"I think so," I said, and ran off.
A supervisor was doing the lift [elevator – I wanted to be British so bad back then I spelled shit like 'flavour' and 'cheque'.] "Where the hell have you been?"
Half-truth time. "Traffic. Lots of it." I just had to see Halen. [My 15 minute break stretched to 45 minutes just so I could see the first 30 seconds of Van Hagar. And you think I have no life NOW?]
A bit later, I got a call to the backstage level. Nobody was there. 2 of the members of Dokken were walking down the ramp to the garage. I was impressed. [I was?] I saw two girls standing there… with Don Dokken! [OMG!] I went up and shook his hand. "Love the show," I said, even though I didn't see him.
"Thanks man," he said, and took off with the girls.
I really like my job, I thought.
I went back up, and three girls wanted to go back stage. I shoved them off at L1, the level before backstage. Two more came on awhile later, wanting to get backstage. I said that I could take them to L1. They looked like freshmen, as far as I could tell.
I took them down [heh] and they said "We wanted to go backstage."
"You have to have a pass," I said.
"We'll pay you," they said.
I took them down for free, telling them they'd have to talk to Asia. [Yep. Didn't have it then, still don't have it now. At least I'm consistent.]
A bit later, First Aid came on with a stretcher. One guy dropped two cigarettes, and he let me have them. I put them in my inner pocket. I had to take them [first aid] to L2 [the backstage level]. I did, and got a call to L1. Same girls. We rode back up. They said they got backstage, and some complication emerged. (They weren't actually backstage. I could tell.) 2 people with passes came on and the girls wanted them [the passes.] They didn't have enough of what they were offered. They begged and begged to no avail.
I went back to L2, wanting to catch a look at another rock star. They [the girls] emerged with me and ran off. I ran to catch them and the elevator doors began to close. I got the door, and went up, then back down. [Riveting writing there, little guy.] They got back on, and I said they could ride awhile, and we just might find somebody from a group.
We went back to L2 after awhile and it was barren. I remembered to flip the [elevator door] hold switch this time. A member of Kingdom Come [!!!] came up from the garage, and they nearly dropped dead. Damn, I wish I brought a pen. I wanted to get an autograph. [This from a guy who, according to the same diary, bought a fucking Foreigner power ballad single a few days previous.]
A member of Metallica [Lars, if I remember right] came cruising by on a golf cart. One guy was driving, he was hanging off the front edge. "Hey, man!" I yelled.
"Hey," he said back, and continued towards the garage.
These girls were just about having their periods. They were all hyper. The stretcher came along, and I boarded back on, they stayed behind. As the doors closed, the lead singer of Kingdom Come was walking by.
I went back down, and Jason and the others were talking to the guys [in Kingdom Come.] I shook their hands. This was all happening so fast. I had to go back up on Jason's orders, but came back. I talked to the lead singer about their Zepplin-esque sound. [Yes, I spelled Zeppelin wrong. I don't think I'd ever even heard Led Zep at this point in my life, but I was the proud owner of Robert Plant's Now & Zen cassette featuring the hit singles "Heaven Knows" and "Tall Cool One."]
"I always thought you sounded more like Geddy Lee, y' know, from Rush." [Wow, I really am consistent.]
Jason chased me back on [to the elevator] and two more girls wanted to come down. I left them there. A huge guy got on with a Dayton's [department store] shopping bag. "Where to?"
"Football press box," he said. "I'm gonna watch this sucker like it should be watched!"
"What's in the bag," I asked as we got underway.
He reached into the bag and gave me the biggest can of beer I've ever seen. "Here. Have it." [It was Sapporo. You know, like in those big shiny silver cans?]
"Thanks," I said.
"Japanese shit. One of those'll have you on your ass so fast!" He laughed. He said that his name was Pete.
Unfortunately, we hit the wrong floor, and he took it [the beer] back. [I remember not minding this moment of Indian giving because I didn't drink back then and would, in fact, enjoy my first beer some three weeks after I turned 21.]
I let him off at the right floor, and went to the backstage level to get a root beer. Hell, it was in a silver can, too. As soon as I got back on, a Sims [co-worker] Shaun (he rode down earlier) strolled up with a gorgeous girl wearing a microskirt and a tanktop that [barely] covered half her [upper] body.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," she said. I was compelled to put my arm around her. I did and she put hers around me. I moved mine down to around her waist. I tried to kiss her, but ended up with a mouthful of hair. [Wow, what an embarrassing memory. Not only are my moves on a drunken groupie lousy, but the odds of me writing for Penthouse remain quite low.]
Shawn put [his] arm around her shoulder. "I think she needs a hug," he said, and we squeezed her. [My first backstage action. Thanks, Michelob and blow.]
I related the beer tale, and he said, "Hell, I got some stuff. Here," he said, pointing to his coat. "Feel here." There was a bulge from the inside. No liquor, that's for sure. [I think it was a flask.]
I kept my arm around her until we reached her floor, then Shawn led her off.
I LOVE my job, I thought.
I hopped off the elevator at the top floor and an explosion went off that just about gave me a seizure. The show was over. I changed and signed out.
Mom and Dad picked me up. On the way out, we passed Van Halen's limo, the one they hopped into at the end of the show.
….And that's where it ends, no regard for story closure and other thematic shit I still don't do well. IN retrospect, I'm not sure why it was one of the greatest nights of my life. Maybe cause I met people I'd seen on TV and had my hand this close to a real live boob. Pretty sweet, eh?
You know Reverb, the Seattle Weekly's daily music blog? OK. Yesterday there was a posting by former Nirvana bass player Kris Novoselic. You can read it here, but the quick gist is it's a piece called "Mudhoney Defined Grunge" and contains a Novoselic-shot pixelvision clip of Mark Arm & Co. circa 1990. It's a walk down memory lane, understandable as Novoselic's post-Nirvana projects have been.... how do you say? Ah, yes. Ill received and generally milquetoast. And that's not even me saying it -- it's written in the utter silence of cash registers and soundscan charts everywhere after releases by Sweet 75, Eyes Adrift, and the toe-tapping goodness that was the No WTO Combo.
Well, you know me, I'm a sucker for leaving a commet whenever possible, so I post something along the lines of the following:
That's nice, Kris, but what have you done for us lately?
Did you see it? No? Well, that's because Reverb rejected my comment. They did the same thing while blowing Man Plus in a show preview and I skeptically commented about them ever showing up because they no-showed us here one night. (Yes, they're "Band A" in this classic blog entry.)
What gives? Sure, comment sections get annoying when that one I understand weeding out comments is necessary when it comes to posted personal information, random racial slurs, spambots, and continued repostings of Dan Savage's pre-war thinkpieces (as it happens all the time on the Stranger blogs), but only putting up approved comments is a joke. You may as well have the comments come from the editorial department. Besides, if you're gonna post one article a day, you might as well have somebody commenting on it. It livens up the room, you know?
Instead, the comments are filled with stuff like this:
well... being a videographer is a tough job, I think Chris was better at playing bass, I feel like being on a boat :)))) But well, this is a nice documentary, of course, putting in online is a nice idea.
I love Mudhoney. I actually owe you Nirvana guys. I'd never have checked out Mudhoney if I hadn't got into you. I actually really like Green River also. I saw Mudhoney live, for the don't-know-how-many-th time just a few weeks ago and they sound better than ever. Afterwards I drunkenly complimented Mr Arm on the softness of his band's t-shirts.... Also, seriously, what has Kris Novoselic done for us lately?
Anyhow, if we're gonna live in the past, here's my story:
On my first visit to Seattle in the summer of '96, I went to the Rebar to see Sweet 75. This was in the early, EARLY days of Pitchfork, where we thought there was an article in me going to Seattle. There wasn't, but I wrote it and it ran anyways. (Thankfully, it doesn't exist anymore.)
I figured I could talk to Kris Novoselic and maybe get a few words out of him and possibly a picture of him holding Ryan Schrieber's second cassette release Bitch-Free Television.(also, sadly, not existing anymore). He seemed nice at first, but refused to appear in a picture, repeatedly asking "How do I know that you're not affiliated with the KKK?"
"Uh... because I'm not," I said.
"Can I see your magazine?"
"Well, it's this website thing, actually."
"So how do I know you're not part of the KKK?"
Was it because I was wearing a suit at the time? I don't know. What I do know is he said he'd talk to me after the show. He didn't, of course, which was fine by me because... Jesus. That was terrible. Their lead singer is still alive. The universe is cruel indeed.
(NOTE: My next posting will take place in 2008, although I may not get around to it until 2015.)
You wanna have some fun? Next time you're at Trader Joe's and they ask how you're doing, say with a straight face: "My girlfriend just got an abortion."
It's fun to see the clerk's mind at work: Do I congratulate? Console? And why am I working at the worst grocery store on the planet?
In this case, the girl stammers out an "Oh... well... that's...."
"It's okay," I say. "I don't think it was mine. Can I get a paper bag, please?"
"You can have whatever you want," the girl says, and gets me out of her line as fast as possible.
Not as successful was my new line on another clerk the next day. "How am I? Not so good. I just found out my sister is marrying a Korean guy."
The clerk stops doing her job -- a miracle that she's even doing that, since most TJ checkers will simply talk, talk, and talk some more while occasionally scanning an item -- and says "What's wrong with that?"
"I mean, come on," I say. "A Korean guy?"
She rings me up in silence after that.
(NOTE: My girlfriend did not get an abortion. Not that I know of, anyways.)
******
Bands! What's up with your myspace skills?
A little secret: Your top friends actually count. Some of you have the networking thing down and y'all count each other at the top, develop some camaraderie, and further your social network.
But Jesus, you know how many bands have top friends consisting of nothing but major label bands they never have or will meet? Fine, throw one influence in but save the rest for people you actually know.
Yes, people. Not like the band with a top 8, three of which were energy drinks.
This really happened.
*******
I guess it could be worse. At a show a few weeks ago, a band actually had a beach ball going around like this was Live Aid. Surprisingly, nothing got knocked over (that I knew of) but it reminded me of the second job I ever had, an usher at the HHH Metrodome in Minneapolis.
One day, I was one of the guys working in the lower level outfield general admission (from the left foul pole to that stupid baggie covering the football bleachers). Somebody gets a beach ball going in the section.
As the work rule goes, if you see a beach ball being batted around, confiscate it.
As MY rule goes, don't even bother. I can't tell you how many times I would be working, say, along the first baseline seats and see a hapless usher get caught up in a big game of keep away. It's you vs. a few thousand drunks and, if it's a slow game, you can bet the whole stadium is going to watch and laugh.
Since I'm the fat kid, I should also be able to be lazy and have no one question it. Look at Tubby not chasing the ball. But as the fat boy, I knew what it was like to lose keep away on a playground scale. This here before me, back here in 1989, is much, much worse.
But of course, the dickhead supervisor with a moustache tells me to get the ball, and soon enough it's keep away time. I'm up the steps, down the steps, jogging down rows of seats, being taunted by assholes loaded on (I kid you not) 3.2 beer. And sure enough, the Twins are either winning or losing big so I'm the fun of the 7th inning.
Eventually, the ball ends up in some empty seats. Two six year olds chase it down to launch it back into play. I, panting and sweaty, point and bellow with all of my authority "DON'T TOUCH THAT BALL!"
The kids are the only folks in the entire stadium scared of a minimum-wage earning fat boy in a lousy red blazer, and they actually scamper back to their seats, leaving me to grab the ball and take it away, which I do.
And then, the inevitable happens.
The sound starts in the outfield, but eventually consumes most of the stadium save for the outfield upper deck which was blind to the whole keep away. It's a low, but loud register of disgust.
Either that or I have now changed my name to BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I've had enough, so I ham it up. "Thank you!" I yell, thrusting my hands above my head. I've got the ball. It's my trophy. I think I pop it right there but I don't remember. I do wave and blow kisses, that much is sure. I mean, y'all see me do that all the time anyways, right?
I hate people.
************
That's it for now. If I don't see y'all here, we'll probably bump into each other at Sunday mass.
I haven't posted anything in awhile, and I don't expect that to change. But, since you're starving for love, drink my Kool-Aid and play all of these YouTube clips at once.
Why? Cause it's the final countdown to the final Hopscotch Boys show. You know those pictures of the weird beardy guy getting hit in the face with a beercan?
Yeah, those guys. There are YouTube clips of them, too, but you're better off coming down and seeing it live according to the Sound on the Sound gang, or so they say right here.
Thunderbird Motel, Quadrillion, and Thunder open. 9 PM sharp.
Wait, let's go back a bit. I wanna get this story right.
So last Friday, our bartender Mary (yes, the chick on our sign) and I were looking through the Seattle P-I when we came across a picture of a lovely woman. The occasion was a feature on this woman winning the P-I's poetry contest. So first let's get the picture out of the way:
See? Mary and I have taste. We went ahead and read the poem but I don't like any poetry and Mary… well, Mary still liked the picture, too. The poem is "Bloodspell" and the woman is Marie-Caroline Moir:
Now just ho there, splayed peacock, and spare the poor girl but a ruby from your pomegranate heart. She's far goner than long and nosing that notch in your seashell ear (the mere thought of it!) just sends her — wakes her daily with a tickle/thump before the shuffling on of sun, and the augur of hair patties from the mystic drain. Should you not want her, she may end up in rubber sandals and very loose pants, at some artists' commune stuffed up in the Ozarks. Making origami jockstraps and other gestures of homage.
That afternoon, a link to said work is up at The Stranger's Slog in a short piece by Charles "What The Fuck Am I Smoking Because My Writing Is Like Mind-Helium" Mudede. He prints the poem as well as what the contest judges had to say about it:
The poem demonstrates a wonderful mixture of sincerity and surprising humor, alloying its various tones and moods into something completely its own. The language leaps energetically from one verbal register to another (we go from the arcane and serious 'augur' to the gross and everyday 'hair patties,' from the antiquated greeting 'ho' to unmistakably contemporary language), and the imagery — pomegranate heart, hair patties, origami jockstrap — is as original as it is vivid.
Below that, Mudede renders his judgement:
"The above reasons for admiring the poem are as bad as the poem itself."
Now then:
I like to comment on Slog stories, so I chime in on the forum. I am comment number four after missives such as "Zzzzzz. And you posted this why?" and "Ugh...my pomegranate heart aches upon reading this, my body twitches in aversion, and my eyes wish to bleed..." Here's my take:
"Poetry sucks but the writer is awfully cute."
Then I post a link to the P-I story, which has the above picture.
About six seconds after posting my comment, I forget about it like so much message board tripe. The news buffet keeps moving and the story horizons out well before the weekend is over.
Or maybe not. Someone named Caroline has some issues with my posting. I get this e-mail on Tuesday:
Funny how you posted Elizabeth Bishop, whom very few current, well-liked poets give two shits about.
Have a great time cracking on other's work... I'm SURE your creativity is just absolutely mind-blowing.
Who the hell is Elizabeth Bishop? Wait, another e-mail timestamped four minutes later:
Forgive me. I am a reactionary. You didn't post Elizabeth Bishop. You said I was cute. You're right about that. But poetry does not suck. My poetry does not suck. The Stranger shits on anything that moves. THAT is what sucks. Let's just wait until they want to interview me when my book comes out, and all they get in response is an donkey turd wrapped in a dishtowel and tied to a brick that sails through Mudede's window and lands on his flaccid, contemptuous lap.
Oh, boy, seriously? Sigh. Here's my reply:
This just in: somebody doesn't like poetry. Welcome to America. Good luck on the book -- the best revenge is living well.
JJ
I meant it, too. Hey, if you can turn around and prove everyone wrong, that's the best answer to any criticism anyone could ever level at you. And that's the end of that chapter (ties scarf around neck.)
Oh, wait, I'm sorry. It's not. I get a lengthy reponse. I craft a reply around it – here they both are:
This somebody feels ethically compelled as an artist to call out persons who feel that it is A-OK to say that 'poetry sucks' or is 'bad' without any sort of substantiation and in a public forum to boot. I don't think one need be a learned scholar in the topic of criticism at hand in order for one's opinion to be valid, but if one's gonna publish sweeping judgments such as those above, one should at least explain why.
That's the beauty of the public forum. You're welcome to share your opinion. That's what makes it a public forum. While you didn't ask to be a subject of conversation, you should know that being in the paper is going to invite criticism, both pro and con.
You can't tell someone what is funny, sexy, or satisfying, nor should you be offended when someone doesn't elaborate. I don't like poetry. Some people don't like onions. We all have our tastes.
In this matter, I find Muede at fault, as he misuses his journalistic authority and comprises it with his laziness (he didn't even bother to use the proper line breaks in the poem, which in my world, is a pretty big deal).
Mudede is an idiot. I think he's high most of the time.
As for you, I just thought your comment was rather dumbass, and if you're going to provide a link to your myspace page, expect to yield the returns of your writing.
That's why I post under my real name with contact info, unlike most people on public forums. I have no problem with being criticized. If you google me, you'll see that lots of people have negative opinions of me and things I've written. Big deal. They're just other people's opinions. They like me, they don't like me, I still keep writing. It's the American way.
JJ
Another reason I use my real name and contact info: what good is a brand if you don't promote it? That wouldn't be very Matt Brown of me. But now it's just inviting a headache because she's not the only one who has a problem with my criticism of her work.
Enter… the boyfriend.
Hey, turns out I've met the guy because he's played here before. Big hand please for Micah from Shim! His e-mail is timestamped 3am Tuesday morning:
regarding my girlfriend:
"Poetry sucks, but the writer is awfully cute."
are you a critic or a shit slinger?
micah
Oh, boy. Seriously? Boyfriend to the rescue? Fine, a quick response:
A critic. I've been doing that for years (Pitchfork, The Rocket, etc.) What's with the thin skin? I said she was cute and it's not like it's your lousy poetry.
JJ
Meanwhile, Caroline's not done yapping over the eight-word post I put on the Slog about fifty years ago:
Well, in that case, I should wish you luck with your pandering. Although I would suggest if someone were compelled to write, that they write something worthwhile and substantial. I guess that's what distinguishes an artist from the rest--an artist's subject can stand alone, while the critic or minor opiner exists off the artistic community's leavings.
Over n' out.
I don't wanna respond, but I'm the get-the-last-word-in type so…
Whatever gets you through the night.
JJ
And I'm done. But there are two more e-mails from Ms. Moir awaiting my perusal this P.M. This tasteful little number was sent at 12:01:
You're an even bigger tool than I thought.
Enjoy yourself, and fuck off.
…and this daybrightener arrives 20 minutes later:
P. S. Since we're in the business of offering opinions, your band really, really sucks. Real shame you guys are breaking up. Real shame.
You know, they always say poets use such big words, but it's nice to know that some make their art more accessible.
And hey, look, the boyfriend back and there's gonna be trouble….:
[RE: his original inquiry "are you a critic or a shitslinger?"]
it was a rhetorical question.
How passive-aggressive. Asking if I'm a critic or a shitslinger then saying it was a rhetorical question is a cheap way of calling me a shit-slinger without actually doing so. Sending angry e-mails to people who don't like your girlfriend's poetry isn't very rock and roll in the first place, so why don't you just tell me how you really feel.
i have no problems with people hating the shit out of carolines poem. my skin is not thin. opinions are fuckin great things. i have no problems with you thinking my girlfriend is cute. i know she's cute, you know she's cute... no prob bob.
You're a poet and you don't even know it!
i have no problem with you thinking her poem is "lousy. " although, your opinion of "lousy" is only an opinion and not a criticism. a criticism would explain why it is lousy, which, i wish you had done, and, is also why, in this case, you are not a critic.
You've been going on for over two paragraphs about how you have no problem with me. That's wordy for a grudgeless man.
Also, I am a critic. For instance: "that poem sucks. " That's criticism. It may not be complete, it may not be thorough, and it may not even be all that eloquent, but it's a critical judgement.
the beef is with mudede and the way in which this whole thing was presented to a forum. fuckin childish. i would have no problems with him tearing the shit out of carolines poem, but he took the cowardly back door and lacked any critique at all, probably cause he had no idea what to say.
Just curious... have you contacted every single commenter with this beef of yours? Or only me>because I'm one of two or three folks who comment at Slog with my real name and contact info? I stand by my original opinion.
I agree with you that Mudede is a terrible writer, but if he's going to open up a public forum on your girlfriends work, she should expect public criticism. Is she that frail you need to come swooping into my inbox and do a lousy job of trying to insult me?
"The above reasons for admiring the poem are as bad as the poem itself. " this, to me, is shit slinging. there is no criticism here. this is just an opinion.
Then take it up with him. I didn't write it. I hope he's getting these painful e-mails from you and your girlfriend as well. Why should I have all the fun?
i think that i misunderstood your initial posting. you were saying that you hate poetry in general? or just that you hate carolines poem?
I don't like poetry. Poetry is like homeless people -- for every one hundred begging for change, only one is really homeless. For every one hundred poets, only one is doing anything worthwhile. I didn't see anything worthwhile in your girlfriend's poetry, but I'll stand by the cute assessment, as will Mary (our bartender) which is why I pointed that out in the first place. I understand the pain of dating an attractive woman and can understand why you wouldn't want anyone to point that out.
in my opinion, criticism is being able to explain faults and mistakes.
In your opinion. In the real world, you don't have to.
for instance: you and i would not critique painting or ballet... we might have ample opinions, but we would not be able to critique these mediums because we lack the palate or understanding of what makes these things good and bad, and or, right and wrong.
No. Anyone can criticize anything artistic. Ballet, for instance, bores the shit out of me. Therefore, I don't like ballet. I may not know the history or its famous dancers, but I know what I like and I know what I don't like.
we will, on the other hand critique the shit out of music, which i know you do, and i appreciate!
It's nice to be appreciated.
alright alright alright. hope alls well at the moon. hope i didn't come off too brash, just wishin this city would be a little less like mudede and the strangers shit slingin habits.
Start with yourself. Hitting my inbox with passive-aggressive insults because I didn't like your girlfriend's poetry... and over what? I mean, for Christ's sake, it's a message board. Nobody's really reading it anyways. Plus, if I have no idea what I'm talking about, then surely my opinion won't stick. You're giving it waaaaaay more credibility by taking it so seriously. Google my name, see what people have said about me, and you'll feel a lot better. Trust me.
JJ
But not you guys. No Googling. Keep my image pure.
OK, comment away. I'm so numb from doing this I forgot what my original point was, but I'm sure some of y'all have stuff to say.
PS – Oh yeah, as Caroline mentioned, my band that sucks (The Hopscotch Boys) is breaking up and playing their final show on June 7th here at the Blue Moon with Thunderbird Motel, Quadrillion, and Thunder. It'll be more fun than the auger of hair patties from the mystic drain.
Good God. He responded. Or it was ghostwritten by whoever does the Weekly’s Ask An Uptight Seattleite. I can’t tell. It goes like this:
Hi Jason,
I appreciate your response, and basically respect where you are coming from.
Man, it sounds like you are doing a great job of doing something I sure wouldn’t want to do. I admire your connection to the youg music community, and your dedication, and the results. The math: 3 bands/night x 3 nites a week x 50 weeks/year= 450 bands per year. Uhhh, that’s a lot of organizing. It’s great for the Moon, and the music community, and the individuals in these bands who want to play in there as much as I do. Cool.
But all over town, in lots of places, it is similarly 3 bands a night, for free, too. I don’t personally care for the trend, and I happened to mention it. You didn’t force it on the city, I don’t suppose, so please don’t take it personally if I mention my distaste for it, or for setting up for a one-hour performance and sharing equal billing with two other bands on one stage in one night. Etc. Supply and demand runs amok, I think. And who cares what I think, anyway, right?
Hey, Bro, I’ll pit my Hank Williams over your Brand X young individual, and he’ll hold his place in history against your guy just fine, I think.
Plus, it’s not about Hank against your boy, or Young Local Bands Vs. Geezer String Bands, or Jason vs. XXXX, either. Maybe it’s just about sharing.
You want me to stand in line behind a hundred polite headbanger bands per week, after waiting twenty years to get a band in there. I thought it might be something like that. Again. No, it is not a problem entirely caused by yourself, because I remember five others who for various reasons didn’t help me get in there, But I sure wish you had been more accomadating than they were, and I had several totally polite and respectful "request" converations with you, plus compliance with your e-mail and myspace link requirements, before this little dust-up. Perhaps graciousness will come to you later in life.
Anyway, thanks for doing the great job for others. I’m sorry if I caused you any offense. And yes, I lacked charm in my approach in the end, because I thought you were workin’ it. I kinda don’t want to kiss the ass of the Blue Moon live music co-ordinator at this point. It’s not personal, just history.
So have a laugh with me. This is what it’s like for me: this is the fourth somewhat kind reply I have tried to send you. Can’t get the address right. Makes me frustrated. This time, the "reply" button. Good luck. But you are certainly right when you say the computer related connections aren’t gonna do me any long-term harm.
Is a key to the executive washroom something I should have been striving for all along? If so, I hope it’s not too late to start. But since men have just pee’d in the woods for all history, I’m thinking I might be okay with my present lack of concern on the subject... How about you?
Take care, XXXX
Wow. I mean, I don’t even know where to begin with this one ("Perhaps graciousness will come to you later in life" being my favorite line, by the way) so my response is short and sweet:
Jason, this is XXXXXX. Two Blue Moon long-term patrons are involved in this project, the other person being XXXXXX. And I have entertained informally in there for twenty years, and strted [sic] the open mic in ’91. We would like to request to play for a weekend evening, not just being one of three faceless, unannounced bands whipping through there in one night, okay?
Thanks
To which I say:
The bands are not faceless and unannounced. They promote their shows and I list every performing band on our web page. Why would you ask for a show while insulting what I do?
JJ
And I get a long screed that must be dealt with. Paragraph by paragraph. Here goes:
Jason. Yes, I am struggling with some "attitude" here. It’s about the communication with the Blue Moon’s live music co-ordinator. General and specific stuff, actually.
Oh, boy. Here we go.
Jason, am I the only person who has mentioned this communication difficulty to you? For twenty years, I’ve tried to play there. For more than 15 years before you had this position (you took over from Larry Adams, didn’t you?) There were others before him going back to Jack. You weren’t around back then.
So maybe the problem isn’t me?
Jason, what is so "19th century" about cd’s? Or a conversation, or a handshake? And what gives you the idea that only e-mails are viable communication? I mean, your whole "E-mail me" mantra is posted as funny, so why can’t you take a joke, or laugh about it? You wanted a one-finger action on your part, and I finally got it to you. Now you question why I question what is questionable.
Demo CD’s pile up and make a huge dent in one’s garbage can. I thought a Dead fan could appreciate saving resources and eliminating waste. Conversation and handshakes? I’ve taken many a chance on those. They almost always turned out bad. Anyone can say "Hey, I have a band." A webpage gives a more three dimensional look into how serious (or not) the musicians really are. Online presence offers affordability for the band and immediacy for the fan. These are not bad things.
Look, the vocal word, U. S. Mail, eye contact, phone calls: all are communication viable in any century. You require a particular form of communication: e-mail, only e-mail. It’s quaint, myopic, and selective, and rather impolite--obviously. Why do you wonder that others wonder? Yeah, I’m scratching my head about it. I think it is amusing, in the circumstances, after making it an inflexible requirement, that you are touchy about it, as well. You post a funny profile on the Blue Moon website, and I’m marvelling at the position you have taken in doing this job. Pardon the laughter, but you asked for it, didn’t you?
As a matter of fact, yes, that’s how I got the job. I said I wanted to book bands at the Blue Moon. Four years later we’re doing better than ever with the live music.
You wanted a myspace recording, Jason, and you got it. I went through your hoop. You have not been exactly gracious is considering a long-term patron’s requests to play the club. And nothing has changed, even after I got the link you required. Interesting.
If it hadn’t been for the crack about the "faceless, unannounced bands" that you say I normally shovel onto our stage, it would be a different matter. That’s incredibly pompous and also shows that you haven’t been paying attention. Right now, our front windows are filled with fliers advertising the bands playing over the next few weeks. You can barely see outside. The shows are listed not only on our webpage, but in the Stranger, the Weekly, the Times, the P-I, and KEXP usually mentions them on air during the concert calendar rundown. How "unannounced" is that? It’s also a contemptuous attitude to hold towards the generation of groups playing here now, many of whom are working very hard at furthering their audience as well as bringing a healthy amount of business into the bar on the weekends. I don’t like every single band who plays here (true), but I’m not player hating. (For a definition of player hating, see urbandictionary.com.)
You want to be treated respectfully, I take it. Are you treating others respectfully in the course of doing this task? Myspace skills for a person of my generation? They aren’t easy to come by: your attitude is prejudicial. Did it ever occur to you that excellent musicians are discriminated against by your limited approach?
No. I have musicians your age who realize the power of web presence. Maybe it’s the attitude of "don’t hate the player, hate the game" (did you go to urbandictionary.com yet?) but they take the time to reach out to the bookers and not do anything that could be considered rude like, you know, implying that the handling of these matters is not up to snuff. Three bands a night gives everyone variety and it usually gives us more patrons than if one band plays – especially if it’s one band who feels like they’re entitled to a weekend show. I’d like to see you apply for a job with the same attitude: "Hey, I want a job, and I wanna take on the job of three of the lousy employees you normally hire." You’ll be using the executive washroom around the time peace comes to the middle east.
The topic is good music here, but you have made access to a music stage about computer skills, that’s all. It’s been a bummer, so I mention it. If you don’t care for the observation, look to what is behind it. Lighten up; you are in a "people position" which is supposed to be service-oriented, but I don’t think you would enjoy dealing with the attitude you project. In particular, I notice that you are dealing with me the same way after you got the all-important myspace link as you did when you required the link and I didn’t have it. It was a lot of effort, and seems to make no difference.
I’m not starving for bands right now. On average I deal with close to a hundred e-mails a week and am currently finishing booking July. Now, sure, these particular artists may be faceless and unannounced, but by God, I’ve had underage punk bands approach me more courteously. You lack of tact is appalling.
I don’t remember these many band guys who whip thru there a dozen players a night and you never see them again; in that sense, they might be considered "faceless". People know my face in there, I’m a long-term patron. There is a difference, isn’t there?
Yeah. Most of the bands who ask for shows here don’t criticize what I do. They also don’t gripe about having to send an e-mail because it’s the way things are going now. The music scene is very Darwinian. Hey, eventually I’m gonna be theoretical worm food too (if I’m not already—there’s at least one 22 year old out there licking his chops hoping I drop the dinner plate.) Also, while there are many older bands who still have good draws, younger bands usually have fans with a greater amount of disposable income.
I hope this helps you to understand, "... what a long, strange trip it’s been".
Okay, look, this is where I really have to break it down for you: When it comes to the music scene, this bar is not about the Grateful Dead anymore. Yes, we have our history (meaning: in the past) and on the occasional night we let the freak flag fly, but it ain’t the backbone of the Blue Moon circa 2008. Even though it wasn’t my cup of tea, the Dead played a part in many of the lives of the faceless and – lest I forget – unannounced who play here regularly. But give me The Moondoggies over Robert Hunter any day. Who needs Janis Joplin (dead, by the way) when you have Dita Vox (very much alive)? And what of the even more off the radar, underground goodness of oddballs and rockers like A Gun That Shoots Knives, Kled, The Daguerreotypes, Indecisive Rhythm, The Resets, Bad Love Sessions, The Hopscotch Boys (can’t forget those broken up fuckers) Thunderbird Motel… I could go on. Really, I could, but I have a job to do.
Talk with you soon. Now reach deep down into your generous heart: can you give me a play date? And I am interested in your comments. You can E-mail me.
Ha. I get your joke at the end. Seriously, I’m not interested.
