And now I can honestly say...
Category: Blogging

All my heroes are dead.

David Foster Wallace hung himself on the 12th of September.

He was 46 years old.

He was nuts. Always was. Or seemed to be, at least (I didn't know him, personally).

Nuts... in a good way, and unfortunately in a way I completely understand and probably am, myself.

What I prefer to think of as "aware."

Aware of his own feelings, and willing to feel them (very dangerous territory).

Aware of the state of things, without the rose-colored perspective (the defense mechanism most folks use).

Aware of the irony implicit in the "human condition," but standing in opposition to the intellectually cheap fallback position ironic juxtaposition conveniently provides a writer (the domain of the hack and coping mechanism of your typical EMO teenager).

He eschewed the safety net of doing "the irony thing," and tried to say something truly meaningful. Some of us appreciated it… some of us didn't.

Although I felt affinity for his writing, I am not suggesting we were probably very much alike… and I am certain my life will have a different outcome, because his path involved pursuing that which brought him closer to the edge.

I will not follow that path, mostly because I did not make writing my profession… but also because I have already been to the edge.

To paraphrase Carrie Fisher, I didn't choose to jump; I chose to send myself a postcard, instead. Nice place; wouldn't want to live there.

Sounds vainglorious and egotistical, but then I am talking about myself… and, to me, writing is easy and has the long-term effect of hardening internal perspectives, of killing off the ability to adapt and grow, because once something is committed to the page, it becomes real – and then, as the writer, you must walk the talk… or live the rest of your days as a hypocrite… which, for some (myself included), would be a fate much worse than mere death.

In DFW's case, I suppose, his path included facing up to and trying to live with what he must have considered, and maybe I consider, The Truth.

And I know from personal experience, The Truth cannot set most people free. What it can do, however, is ruin their ability to enjoy their lives.

He was an over-rated writer to a lot of his readers (myself included), but that doesn't mean he wasn't brilliant.

I believe a lot of people are brilliant… as many as are obviously below-average.

But then, that's just Stat 101, isn't it?

The difference is rarely congenital.

I think people are average or below-average because they choose to do the easy things… which are non-brilliant… or semi-brilliant (brilliance, combined with hypocrisy – or, more precisely, goal-oriented brilliance).

DFW chose to be brilliant without hypocrisy, and his choice killed him.

He hung himself the day "Infinite Jest" was published… it just took him 22 years to die.

If that makes any sense at all.

I wouldn't say getting there had anything to do with having, or not having, things to be thankful for, or feelings of gratitude, in general, for things and people and whatnot... but it was selfish, I guess... in the way suicides always seem to be to those of us left alive.

Whatever his reasons, other than being nuts, he was certainly on a dark path.

I think the dark path is just about despair, plain and simple… the feeling that this life does not fit… that it's not meant for you… that you're not meant for it… that you're just taking up space… that there is no larger point to any of this – which is a bland statement to type in a blogpost, but a strong emotional feeling that tends to stultify one's ability to appreciate the little things, the simple needs, and exaggerates the sense of suffering of everyone and everything around you.

And after that? The world is filled-up with bad news about bad people doing bad things.

And when you're like me, with the memory of an elephant and an almost vindictive sense that "justice must be done"… well… it gets a little edgy sometimes... and maybe that's what happened with him.

I think that's where the dark path starts.

It starts with a search for the good… and I don't necessarily mean, in others, although eventually that's the only place left to search.

It's really about the search for internal perfection… and that's the wrong word… it may be more like, approval (but that sounds too weak).

It's the search for a feeling that lives somewhere between the search for the good in oneself and the search for acceptance from others.

Too much of either and the alarms start going off… something can't be right here.

Not enough? Devastation.

The rest of the path, particularly the end?

Just selfishness, I guess.

Nothing is more selfish than that, if for no other reason than the fact that the person solves his or her temporary problem of perspective (and that's all it is, really) at the emotional expense of everyone around him or her.

This "hero" complex I have – and I know it for what it is and I've had it since I was old enough to think – is rooted in that search for the good and for acceptance… and the problem is, I need to find both without compromising what I believe is right.

It's a perspective that is intimidating to many in regular daily life, and maybe also an attractor (I can never tell, but it does seem to be one of life's odd paradoxes), and it's a perspective that can come across as just plain mean-and-ruthless to some… but if incompetence is a sin (to use a metaphor), then compromise is the devil, himself.

The end result, of course, is most people just call you an asshole. heh

I not only want to do good – I want to be good – and I want people to also believe I'm good… because what's worse than not being thought of as good, is the idea that I'm thought of as other-than good.

When people don't truly believe I'm good and trying to do good… when they lump me into their own hellishly cynical world of "I'm going to get mine while I can," and assume I'm no better than they are and therefore discount what I say because they believe I'm just like them and just trying to get over (even if they can't figure out where the personal advantage to myself comes into play, because none is apparent) – when that happens, as it continues to happen where I work (for example), the burden of that search for the good gets heavy.

Which tells me "ego" also has a lot do to with it.

I am not a moralizer. I don't care how people live. I don't care if people flake off from time to time at work, or in their lives, or even in mine.

I am not an extremist with regard to expectations for other people. I am only an extremist with regard to expectations for myself.

It's complicated… and I guess it means I don't have "simple" needs… although if you asked me what My Perfect Day would be like, it would include: a) a nice conversation over breakfast, b) a whole lot of nothing, and c) and a long walk with the dogs in the cool of the evening.

Death.

Seems like the last couple weeks have been all about death.

But life goes on.

11:48 PM - 19 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

Almost Home
Category: Blogging

A week ago today, LoriO and I set out for Pittsburg via Las Vegas en route to Greensburg.  I am now in Elko, NV.

I have had no cathartic event.

I have driven my father's ashes from Greensburg, PA to Akron, OH -- down to our childhood home in Jackson Twp and up to Detroit, MI to pick up my brother.

Together, we have driven across Michigan, Illinois and half of Iowa, spending that first night in Iowa City, then across the rest of Iowa and all of Nebraska, up to Cheyenne, WY (one of the prettiest cities I've seen), where we spent the second night, then up to Laramie (even prettier than Cheyenne), through some of the shit ugliest country (northern Wyoming) and some of the prettiest (Western Utah), down to Salt Lake and finally Elko.

I have driven every mile of the journey thus far, as was my preference. 

My brother, sister and I have reconnected after nearly 20 years of minimal contact, and in the first week of this trip (the visiting family portion), I have met and gotten to know my nieces and nephews, or at least some of them, to a degree, and this is all good.

I have driven past scenic vistas and almost artificially beautiful trout streams my dad always wanted me to fish with him -- but I always had something else going on and never made the time.  I deeply regret not making the time.

I drove on the Bonneville Salt Flats today, and we watched a few hilariously overpowered cars try for the speed record. 

My dad would have been tickled pink to be here with us.

He was, I know, in a way.  Maybe in more ways than I'll ever know.

But the thing is, I have had no cathartic event.

I miss him so much.  It hurts, and I have trouble maintaining composure at times.  It hurts so much; there is so much I wish I had said; I was not ready to let him go; it was too soon.

Our journey is almost at an end -- mine and his and my brother's -- and tomorrow I'll be back to my life in Sacramento.  And as tired as I am from the immersion with family, most of whom only knew me as a name and picture, and the almost desperate feeling of need to hold those I love close to me -- not to mention driving 12-15 hours a day for the past three days, with one more shorter day to come --I don't want the trip to end.

Nothing is resolved.  Nothing is understood.  Nothing doesn't hurt.

The surreal nature of this exprience, the changing scenery, the hours of monotony, the lack of responsibility for anything that comprised my "normal" daily life -- this unhappy journey -- has left me with no cathartic event, no resolution, no peace, and a restless feeling.

I am not healed... and I am not prepared to leave the relatively comfortable and buffered non-existence that is Life on the Road.

When I first heard my father may die, more than a year ago, before his surgery, I was afraid for the first time in my life.

I am now even more afraid.

I am now afraid I will never be happy again.

I am now afraid my friends will see the change in me and slowly begin to avoid me until, one-by-one, they move on to someone else.  Someone without grief; someone fun to be around.

I am afraid that, although all I ever wanted was to gain my father's approval, that the truth is I never achieved my goal... and now I never can.

I am afraid that my father died without a clear understanding of how much I loved him and needed and just plain wanted him in my life.

And it hurts so fucking much.

9:51 PM - 13 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

So, yeah... heartache...
Category: Blogging

4:20 PM - 27 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Updates
Category: Blogging

He wasn't our cat, he lives with the neighbor.  His name is "Turkey" and his tag says "Pimpin' ain't easy..."

He looks almost identical to the Smorges.

Almost.

Oh, and we got married today.

Party A and Party B were joined in blissful wedded matrimony at 8:38 on 08/08/08... we were shooting for 8:08, but it's like a government operation... so yeah... no.

2:02 PM - 51 Comments - 52 Kudos - Add Comment

Juggs LIVE! (and a minor retraction)
Category: Blogging

So, we finally got to hear our friends the Juggs play in their new configuration (well, new for us).  They opened for Agent Ribbons who opened for Kate Gaffney who opened for RMB.

In reverse order, RMB were typically stage-worthy... even though I cannot get used to a calypso sound on Helicopter, but that's just how I roll... and yeah, man... last names are a problem with me some times, too...

Kate has lost a lot of weight.  Too much maybe.  The girl can still sing and her songs are still sort of medium-boring at times, but her band has improved (in no small way as a direct result of acquiring the superb Steve Randall) and if she'd just eat something I'd feel better about her.

And now for the minor retraction... having finally caught Agent Ribbons live...

I still think they suck. 

I'm not entertained by the concept, I don't enjoy most of the songs, the record is practically unlistenable, and I continue to be disappointed by all the flummery this clique-sucking town makes over not much music -- and that's the way it has been for all 21 of the years I've been listening to music here... Agent Ribbons or no Agent Ribbons... but...

That chick with the ugly red Raggedy Ann doll hair?  She's a fucking rockstar.

No two ways about it.  That girl can sing.

Not only can she sing in a way that makes me long for the days when people could sing, but she's pretty good on stage and she can play two parts on that cheapass Dano and make both sound the way they should.

She should lose the fake drummer, who is more gimmick than musician... or get her some lessons or get a real drummer and the rest of a band, and get real with this shit.  She could probably take it to the next level (of financial gain, I mean).

She should do it now, while she's still fairly young because she's only going to have about a ten year window unless she's prepared to become an image chameleon... and the clock's ticking.

So, the Juggs... several things were evident: 1) the new members are nice additions and extend the sound where it needed to go, 2) they've improved a lot via the "rehearsal" method, which I hardily recommend for any band, 3) song choices are good but should stay focused on uptempo as opposed to ballad, and 4) stage performance has tighted up and does not appear chaotic, which is a good thing.

Had they not lost half the house mix and (probably) all the stage monitors, all the songs would have been uniformly audience-worthy -- but they did, so a couple were more "tribal" than "old timey," and those were the jug songs, so it was low tribal, at that.

No guitar, no fiddle... just jug, gutbucket, and vocals... and seriously?  Although I knew it was a technical malfunction, it didn't sound half-bad.

It's something you gals might want to explore. 

It was different, and once I got passed the cognitive dissonance caused by the initial technical observation ("their mix is fucked, they just lost guitar and fiddle, I think Darlene unjacked from her DI box")(that sort of thing), I was digging it...

Also, the jug was either tuned to, or being played in, the wrong key.

Is a jug in a key?  Can you "tune" a jug?

I'm no jug player, so I'm not entirely sure how one attains different notes nor the range available -- but I do know what I hear. 

So yeah... work on getting the jug sound to where your mind's ear hears a bass line... dial in the jug notes... or go with some new "tribal hillbilly" thing where the jug is played just as a percussion instrument/drone, and not a bass, with vocals on top.

But I digress... overall, especially for a band that's been together for only 4 months, with no prior professional experience, they're entertaining. 

They're a bit on the gimmicky side, but not too much so it works, and they're not as chop-worthy as they need to be to headline a paying gig, jugfest or old timey concert, but they're definitely good enough to open a neo-americana bill anywhere in Sacramento and probably San Francisco, and way more entertaining than a lot of the mundane HLAM crap you can hear on any given night.

So yeah... good job, Juggs.

9:51 AM - 5 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Blog? What the fuck is that?
Category: Blogging

Oh this thing.  Yeah, I vaguely remember this.

This is where I type all manner of boringstupidshit and clever folks respond with smarty-pants comments.

Long time no blog...

I have, literally, had nothing to say.

Literally.

But I do have this one thing to say now:


MS. CRICKET LEE WILL BE IN SACRAMENTO ON THE 5th AND SHE'S SPENDING THE NIGHT WITH US.

If you are going to be in the camelia city starting around 8pm or so on the evening of the 5th, and are not partied out from the 4th, and would like to come over for a few (many) drinks, and to say hey to the girl before she heads down to LA to meet her fate in the Land of (mostly) Raging Douchewads, we would be ABSOLUTELY THRILLED to have you.

We'll be serving snacky snack foods, booze, and some assorted soft drinks and beers -- so eat something substantial before you get here if that's your thing, and bring beers, if that's your thing -- and if history is any judge, most of the fun will take place in the garage where all the smokers will stand around... smoking.

Please try to let us know (phone or MySpace) if you may show up.

Our house/yard is smaller than your bedroom, and since we're doing this with almost no planning and we probably won't even clean before anyone gets here, you should expect little more than a warm welcome and a cold beverage -- but who knows what happens after that.

And if you can't make it for whatever reason (particularly given the short notice), you won't hurt our feelings (much) -- and we'll have her all to ourselves, so neener neener neener...

4:24 AM - 11 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Smorges... more than six years gone, but finally home
Category: Blogging

Well, sort of.

Back in 1998, LoriO and I were minding our own business on a perfect weekend day...

Oh wait... backtrack... we have a Mystic Portal... a "pet door" to you people who don't understand the importance of same to a housebound pet.  We let our animals come and go, into the garage and backyard, as they please... and they repay us by not using our home as a toilet (most of the time).

It's really for the cats.  Cats prefer to use the world as their litterbox.  They do not enjoy the use of a litterbox and will, eventually, rebel against the practice.

So we let them shit outside -- it's the least we can do.

So, back to 1998... we're sitting in the kitchen and in walks a small tuxedo cat... not ours.  Just pops through the door and meows at LoriO to announce is arrival.

Seems we have a new member of the family.

The couple renting the house behind us are young 20's hippies... they don't take care of the yard, they fuck loudly on Sunday afternoons, and they have parties with loud music... like young 20's hippies are supposed to do.

They also adopted this cat (from the park across the street)(where we had the NYE party), and then did nothing to care for the little bastard.

We asked, and they said we could have him to keep... so we kept him.

He was awesome and loved Picabou.  The other cats, and Grets, didn't seem to mind.

This little fucker was like no cat I've known... and I'll try to find a pic and put up some time, but I don't have one digital right as I write this... but he had a habit of just running to where you were and plopping down next to you and that was his way. 

Rush, plop, hello, love me now.

We called him Georges, because that was his name.  We bought him a collar and a tag with his name and our phone number... and one day we got a call from a neighbor who said Georges was hanging from their tree.

We began calling him The Monkey Cat... and we had a new tag made with his name and our phone number and "the monkey cat" on said tag.

Georges lived with us for two years, and we would get calls from neighbors every now and then to let us know he was at their house... and sometimes he would come home smelling of perfume... he was a bit of a gadfly and pimp daddy... a man about town... his own guy.

The hippies eventually moved away... and the other neighbor behind us, embroiled in a very loud and obviously contentious divorce, came to rely on Georges for companionship -- and the guy said he was feeding him tuna fish -- and anybody who lives with a cat knows tuna fish changes their personality and makes them irritable -- and he became somewhat irritable.

And then I rescued and we adopted Shmackles... and the Smorge never had a kind word to say to this new gray-and-white furball from Hell.  He was home less and more irritable... and then, around a month later, he was gone.

The neighbors had also split up and split the scene.

We did the math and figured dude took Georges with him when he bailed, and since we never heard from another neighbor and never found a dead cat by the side of the road, we figured he had chosen to go with dude and that was that.

He was the fourth of five cats, so it's not like we didn't have enough cat in the house.  We had a critical motherfucking mass of cat, in my opinion.

So, we've had a picture of Georges on our end table in the living room ever since.  We loved him like the cool guy he was. 

Friday, two days ago, I had an all-day off-site meeting to facilitate for the purpose of collecting and validating requirements for a software project I'm working, and  as I'm rushing out the door at 8am, hoping to not be late for the start of my own meeting at 830, I open the front door and walking toward me on the porch is Smorges in all his black-and-white glory.

He hissed softly, which was something he did.  Not aggressive, just sort of like, "Yo."

I said, "Well, hello Smorgie," and at the sound of his name he replied with a soft meow.

I recognized that voice.

Our cat had returned after almost seven years.

He was wearing a collar with a tag that listed a different name, and a phone number, and the phrase "pimpin ain't easy" from the song, "Down for Whatever" (I think it's called)... and I did not have time to catch him to write down the number, didn't have time to get cat hair on me, wasn't entirely sure he was who he was (only 99.9999% sure), and didn't want to lock him up for fear Rena (who wasn't around at the time he lived with us) may not understand.

And Shmacky, now a full grown shit-disturber in his own right, was approaching Georges at a low crawl.

Shit.

He wasn't at the house when I got home that evening.

Saturday was a day spent in the pleasant pastime of drinking beers, hanging out with a friend, playing a little guitar, singing a few songs... and that pretty much lasted until 3am.  I got home around 330. 

And in the street in front of the house is the Smorge.

A little fucking bad with the timing, you fuzzy motherfucker.  Fuck.

I'm trying to collect him as Rena and Pic begin sounding the alarm that, "Oh holy fucking shit!  Dog Alert!  Wake the fuck up, mom!  Dad's not home and there's someone fucking out there!" -- the memory of surgery, a week in the hospital, a Hawaiian vacation with a fucked-up hand, a year of living with a fucked-up hand, and suicide-inducing prescription drugs vivid in my mind -- all because I got bit by a cat -- so even though I was able to reach him and pick him up, when he started freaking out as I walked up my front steps, I let him go.

LoriO was awake as I walked in the door, and as she began interrogating me with regard to why I hadn't returned around midnight, as she expected, I said, "Smorgie is out front."

Up to now, I was the only one of us who had seen him and I have seen ghosts before, so even I wasn't sure he was our cat.

She came outside, in her bathrobe, and immediately recognized Georges for who he is, and when she called his name, he immediately walked toward her.

Georgie had loved her and Picabou above the rest of us, and clearly it was him.

But he was not ready to come in the house.

We both went to bed and he wasn't around this morning, but two near captures in two days? 

He'll be back. 

We cannot yet explain either his disappearance or reappearance, and won't be able to do so until we catch him and call the number on the tag... and if he has a good home, we're perfectly willing to let him decide where he wants to live -- he has always been his own man -- but we'd love to have him back in the clan.

I know these stories are the stuff of Fark.com legend, I just never thought I'd personally experience one.

Typical of how life seems to be for me (and for those who are infected by contact with my personal weirdness), a week that began with a punch in the face ended with the return of a long-lost loved one.

Maybe.

1:10 AM - 11 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Sometimes you just have to take a punch
Category: Blogging

So, it's 7:30pm and we're walking the Bean (the older dog, Picabou, gets a separate walk now).  We're heading up the levee at Rogue River Road and four muscled frat boy looking doods and their stick figure GF are making their way down the side of the levee.

Well, the GF and two of the guys are (one carrying a bin of empty booze bottles).

Two of the guys are on the levee, one pissing -- in broad daylight.

There are children in plain view... so he has the courtesy to turn toward the river, above the trail where people walk.

The two we passed are yelling at Pissing Guy, and as we pass I say, in a serious but not unfriendly voice, to the yeller, "Classy friends."

His reply is apologetic but the guy with him begins to verbally assault LoriO and I. 

You think you know how this ends, but you don't.

He wants to kick my pussy ass and charges toward the bank of the levee -- we're on top of it at this point and he's a good thirty yards away and 15 feet below me. 

Idiots and their "hey, let me attack a sober guy who may be Bruce Lee's trainer on higher ground" mentality never cease to amaze me... but I digress.

I bend at the knees and pick up two handfuls of gravel... and this causes Charging Guy to stop in his tracks, with the assistance of GF Guy (the non-pisser) who is now actively trying to get CG to move along. 

I immediately assess "no threat" and drop the gravel.

Apologetic Guy apologizes more and wants to explain their behavior, so I hop down the levee bank -- you have to kind of hop and skip down or you'll slide -- and CG resumes his charge, swinging and missing but tackling me, drunken wrestler take-down style, head at my waist.

I could have easily dislocated his cranium from his vertebrae with a swift knee-lift but I did not fight back -- you heard what I said -- I did not fight back.

I know he's stronger than me and better built, but I also know he can't fight. 

I do not fight back. 

I loudly-but-calmly tell LoriO to call 911, which she does.  I now have four guys on me, and I am on my back with CG trying to punch my exposed face. 

I was a little concerned at that moment, but again, he is a pussy.

CG tries his best but I am a better wrestler and I get around him -- after one of the other three guys punches me (I think) in the shoulder blade.  The other three guys realize CG is in dutch because I have him in a headlock, but I am still not fighting back.

I did not bite a hole in his cheek.  I could have, but I didn't.

They pull us apart, and SG tears my last remaining favorite t-shirt in the process.

Dick.

They then try to move toward their vehicle, talking shit and pushing me around as I follow. 

They were parked at the dead end of Rogue River, by the park.  They push and shove and yell shit all up in my grille, as if I would be intimidated by that, which I was not.

This frightens them.  I can smell their fear.

I get the license number and convey to LoriO who is on the phone with cops at this time, while CG, AG, and Pissing Guy all continue trying to intimidate me with their loud-mouthed fratboy bullshit.

I don't fight back, I have no combat marks on my hand, and they are now trying to figure out how to escape without getting a DUI which I am reminding them they will surely get since the cops are enroute, oh, and you don't have a front license plate, so that's a fix-it ticket, too... and I hope you're all of legal drinking age and don't have weed or a pipe on you.

Just before I got the license number they tried to make GF drive, but she almost wrecks into a parked car -- she is obviously drunked up, too... and she's pissed.

They decide to make their escape on foot, in flip-flops. 

I explain how it doesn't matter if they leave the scene because whomever owns the truck is caught because I have the license and won't forget it.  It is at this point that PG, whose actions started the whole thing, sucker punches me in the left cheek. 

I do not go down because I am motherfucking indestructable. 

My lip is bleeding from CG and now my cheek will swell, but so what?

Fuck you guys, you're all going to jail.

PG, now Suckerpunch Guy, dumps all the empties on the ground right there on the street, puts the bin in the truck, and they decide it's time to effect their escape on foot.

AG has since tried to become I Saved Your Life Please Let Us Go Guy, but realizes he's Fucked Guy because he's also Truck Owner Guy. 

He leaves via the levee, never to be seen again in this story -- although I bet he's being questioned by Sac Sheriffs as I write this because they searched and impounded his truck and have his ID, and I positively identified him as the guy who tried to get the others to not attack me, along with GF Guy (eventually)... but he doesn't know the cops aren't after him, they want CG and especially SG.

These two try to leave on feet, CG with his naked ass showing, on purpose, while he calls LoriO "ugly" and other names, and SG visibly worried that he's going to be sucking some inmate cock in his near future. 

GF and GF Guy are walking on the other side of the street, also trying to hoof it.  They're all walking.

I follow with Rena on leash.  LoriO's on the phone and I tell her to stay put.

Note to self: Next time, take the phone.

CG tries to intimidate me several times by stopping and pretending to charge, but all he does is make himself look more frightened, although he did get close enough to SMACK MY DOG IN THE FACE, at which point I got physical, knocking his arm away -- which I believed hurt more than he thought a shot from me would hurt -- and I think that action sprained (minor) my left thumb.

Rena is terrified.  She's a climber, not a fighter.

GF and GF Guy are talking mild shit trying to convince me to leave them alone, that I have no life, that I'm a dick, wasn't I ever young and didn't I ever piss in public?  Other than one brief comment about pissing in public, I ignore them completely. 

They seem to sense the nature, seriousness, and depth of their fuckage.

CG and SG begin to jog.  They were not in the correct leauge, man-wise, let alone physical conditioning-wise -- and were wearing inappropriate footgear -- and they couldn't shake shit out of a paper bag, let alone me.

I followed them for more than a mile, and they tried to aggress again several times, once when they thought they were hidden from sight (down by the Watt Ave pumping station)... and when I asked a passerby if he'd use his cell phone to let the cops know I was still in pursuit of the perps, but he declined to get involved, both CG and SG began yelling that I'm a pervert who has been harassing them all day.

They're 22 year old gym rats who could easily pound me into the ground if they knew what to do with themselves -- other than, which is to say, drink too much beer and watch porn pretending they're looking at pussy and not cock -- and I'm a 5'6" tall 165 pound old guy with an entirely reluctant dog. 

I win that attempt, by default.

They disappear around the corner by the apartments, threatening me to "turn this corner, motherfucker," which I do when I cover the 20 meter cushion I maintained the whole time -- and they aren't there when I turn the corner, but we have arrived at the apartment complex where they live.

Nice job guys.  Good strategy.

I search around a bit, while they try to crouch behind a pickup truck and as I'm asking passersby if they saw two well-fed caucasian frat boys who looked like they were running from the cops, and said it was no matter because my dog was "search and rescue" trained and hadn't lost the scent, they pop up like prairie dogs and run. 

SG jumps the fence and is back on the levee.

CG starts yelling profanities, pissing off a relatively large black guy who asks his wife to call the cops -- and you can tell CG's on a street he doesn't know and feels trapped like a rat -- and he is.

He starts yelling SG's name.

"Dan!  Come on man, I want to get the fuck out of here!"

"Martini!  Come on man, I'm tired of fucking around with this fucking pussy asshole!  Lets go home!"

Dan Martini, if that is his real name, has fled like the piece of shit suckerpunching turd he is -- abandoning his friend to the growing mob -- and he gets to live with that memory for the REST OF HIS LIFE.

I now have a crowd of neighbors, not in my neighborhood, who are irritated by this drunken fratboy's profanity and general bullshit. 

As CG does little more than stand in the road yelling profanities and his friend's name, they all get bored and begin to go about their ways -- and he tries to get close (probably to take a swing), but the large black guy is now crossing the street and says something to CG as he passes near him, which I cannot make out, but GC says nothing and has apparently, suddenly gone mute and runs away like Christopher Guest's evil character in "Princess Bride" when Inego Montoya says his famous line.

That was priceless... and as I was talking to the guy, and giving details, he had a look on his face that said, "White people are all crazy."  But he wished me luck and went back inside his house.

Rena is now backpeddling because she's a) tired of loud assholes yelling at and trying to hit her, and b) dad making her jog.

I cannot pursue further because she wants to go home and will slip her collar if I try to continue.

I turn and go back to the levee, ask a few people if they saw these two guys, explain what happened, and set out back to the park.

I stopped at our friend's, Dug and Luci, who live near where I turned around, to ask them to call LoriO, to let her know I was coming back, but they were not at home.  I then jogged home and that's when I heard the chopper overhead.

I signaled it and was met by a cruiser. 

When I returned to the park and told the whole story to some rather unhelpful and unmotivated -- so it seems -- cops who wanted to lecture me about "safety" (and they're probably right for most people or a dangerous situation, which I and this were not).

I had already been as assaulted and as battered as I was going to get.  These boys neither had weapons nor would have known what to do with them if they had them.  Other than a quickly swelling cheek and disappoinment that my dog was such a wimp?  I was pretty much OK.

I did not have to kill anyone.  I didn't hurt anyone.  I never fought back at all... other than when CG smacked my dog, and that was to avert injury to her.

They'll catch Truck Owner Guy, or already have... and will soon have all four in custody if he has even an ounce of common sense -- which is probably too much to impart upon him at this time -- because the cops only want the two who did the actual battery.

I got tackled, scared the shit out of some dickhead bullies, shamed them by making them actually run away, never gave up the chase until they abandoned each other in a last-ditch desperate attempt to save their own skins (which all bullies and losers try in the end), and I took a hard shot to the cheek which I honestly wish I hadn't taken... but that's Bushido for you... sometimes you have to take a punch... and I say this with the realization that the bullies will probably never be directly punished (at least not much).

But I win... you know why?

Bottom-line:  Four hubristic fucktards and their dipshit GF will NEVER be back to my neighborhood park, will probably never try to pick a fight with someone they don't know in the hope it'll be "really scary" for the target, and who will probably not be friends for very much longer... and they get to live with the shame of their defeat at the hands of a much older and much smaller guy who was clearly outnumbered when they attacked him.

1:55 AM - 33 Comments - 31 Kudos - Add Comment

We will when you can
Category: Blogging

As anyone who knows LoriO and me knows: We're not what you might call "political" (and certainly not politically correct).

We eat meat.  We smoke on occassion (or have).  We drink spirits and wear clothing and own products imported from countries where the workers are probably paid less per year than most of us earn in a month -- even if our beer is domestic, our clothes are roughly 1/3 second-hand, and we don't really buy a lot of cheap, imported crap. 

We're what you might call "fiscally conservative and socially liberal."

A better way to put it is we're cheap and believe people should be left alone to do what they want so long as they're not hurting anyone else.

You'd have to ask LoriO for an analysis of her political beliefs, but speaking for myself, I have, in my lifetime, supported exactly three political ideas with consistency:  I'm Pro-Choice,  I won't shop at Wal-Mart, and I am appalled by the "marriage is between one man and one woman" thing... and the fact that anyone who isn't a monogamous heterosexual is not afforded the same legal rights as anyone who is (I couldn't give a fuck about "religious" marriage).

Don't get me wrong -- I have supported many causes, including the SPCA and Greenpeace, the ACLU and the EFF, the NRA and even the Boy Scouts of America (once upon a time, when they didn't hate fags) -- so in some fanatical asswipe's opinion, I'm probably a walking contradiction (or a "traitor")... but that's about the extent of my political involvement.

I'm too lazy to protest and too annoyed by most "cause oriented" people I've met to ever consider hanging out with them for long periods of time (say, for example, all day on a Saturday).

Not to make a big thing about it, but the recent court decision is one of the better pieces of social news we've heard in what feels like a very long time, so it's fair to say we stand in solidarity with our same-sex brothers and sisters who are now finally able to get married -- wait... that came out wrong.

We are NOT in favor of brothers and sisters getting married... same sex or otherwise... not even in West Virginia... so don't even go there.

Yeah... so... we've been kicking the idea of marriage around for a while now, and unless some unprecedented fucktard organizes a petulant response which is strong enough to grow legs and usurps the power of the judiciary -- and forces us all to have to go to the trouble of getting out the vote in defense of equality -- we're getting hitched on the day EVERYONE can get hitched.

I say again:  LoriO and I are getting married in a civil ceremony at the court house on June 16th.

And no, we're not having a party or anything because, well, we've lived together for ten years and that would be sort of goofy.

6:00 PM - 34 Comments - 36 Kudos - Add Comment

Into The Wild
Category: Blogging

This is the worst movie I have ever seen.

Stupid fake documentary-like movie (based on a true story), stupid subject (self-absorbed attention whore rich kid gets disenfranchised with society and dies of starvation in Alaska because he's an idiot), horrible dialog, some of the worst cinematography I've ever seen (including B movies), Eddie Vedder singing on the soundtrack.

Just fucking AWFUL.

Sean Penn is a douchebag -- this I already believe -- but the idea that this film was his best work and he's chairing the judges at Cannes?

Don't be surprised if there are some doozies coming out of there with the Palm d'Or.

Seriously shit movie.

Probably a great book, because the guy who wrote it has a fascination with self-absorbed egomaniacs and dumbfucks who get themselves killed... but do not even bother getting it off Netflix or whatever because it's a complete waste of time.

This movie is so bad it is actually making me a little angry -- angry enough to blog about how bad it is while we're sitting here watching it.

9:50 PM - 20 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

They ARE the fire
Category: Blogging

We caught the Tumbleweeds, RMB, and Inversions last night at Marilyn's.

I'm not sure I get Inversions yet, so I'm withholding commentary -- and that doesn't mean I don't like them... I'm just not sure I get it.

Richard's band was stellar, as usual... even a little more so.  There was an energy happening, and it wasn't merely Steve Wall shredding the roots country soul of the songs into alt-country rock -- greater than the sum of its parts -- which was lovely, as usual.

Tumbleweeds.

Check out Tumbleweeds.

Give them a chance.

They are not polished.  They are not overly rehearsed.  They are hilariously young.  They have good equipment.  They play interesting songs that are hippy jamband configurations at the core, but like Steve's addition to RMB, greater than the sum of their parts.

They look like hippies. 

They probably smell. 

I didn't test that assumption.

It was, by no measure, a "perfect" gig -- they even had operator error equipment problems during the show -- but they were charming, weird (because all the members of this Midtown Hipster v3.0 generation are, to me, weird), funny, and what I pay to go see and hear:  Fun.

I could detect not a trace of the ego, attitude or other pretentious bullshit that seems to define way too many new bands in this town... and although most musos I know like to pretend music is a non-competitive sport and everyone playing is equal -- I also know that's total bullshit -- and to put it in a real-world context: If given the choice to pay money to see Golden Cadillacs, for example, which is a band with a lot of potential, or Tumbleweeds?

Tumbleweeds win... and for no other reason than they're way more fun to watch and hear.

Tumbleweeds have a future in this town if they want one.

10:38 AM - 11 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Just fucking hilarious, that’s all
Category: Blogging

For anyone who remembers Jon Robert Quinn, who also has a MySpace

I give you Joey Linello.

Fark.com has referred to him as Worst. Musician. Evar.

I know you'll think it's a joke, or a spoof... but it's not.

At least I hope it's not.

11:57 PM - 14 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

You think your work situation sucks?
Category: Blogging

Imagine being Jeff Probst, the guy who hosts that show, Survivor.

Sure, he's probably a millionaire and all... gets to travel the world torturing folks desperate for celebrity... probably has a super hot modelesque girlfriend... and will never want for anything, ever... but...

as shitty as your job (and probably your life) is, compared to his, you will never hear anybody where you work say about you, Yeah, he's OK... but he's no Ryan Seacrest.

7:39 PM - 17 Comments - 23 Kudos - Add Comment

5 Question Interview (from Erikatt)
Category: Blogging

1.  If you could have the choice to be ANYTHING or ANYONE in your "next life," who or what would you be and why?

If I had to start from the day I die, and move forward in time?  I’d not want a "next life."  If I was allowed to pick an insertion point in time, and move forward from there, with the knowledge and wisdom I’ve gained during this life?  I’d probably go back to my birth from this life and take a "do over."

Reason being:  My life has been mostly enjoyable, I love my family, I love my friends, I wouldn’t want to not know any of them and would love to have a chance to relive my life with them all -- but I’d like to correct a couple mistakes I made along the way, I’d like to help a few folks miss a few rough patches they should have missed, and there are a few things I wish I hadn’t done or said, as well as a few I wish I had... and more than one missed opportunity.


2. What is your favorite past time?

I enjoy a few things to the exclusion of most others:  Reading, spewing stupid nonsense on the internets (which is a series of tubes filled with boring people like me spewing stupid nonsense), Cats games, playing some kind of "music" on some kind of instrument, gardening, and absolutely nothing... but my favorite is walking the dogs with LoriO.


3. If you had the means (money, power etc.) how would you change our country for the better?

I want to say I would use my money and power to somehow completely change the way our political system works... to make it a truly representative democracy and to protect the rights of the individual to do what s/he wants with, to, in, on, or around  his or her own body and property... but that would probably take all my money and power and the bastards would still try to overturn Roe v. Wade.

I would like to try to eliminate the vast morass of stupidity that seems to be sucking our country into the black hole of totalitarianism, and I would do this by eliminating any pretense at religious instruction from public schools -- and I’d make sure happy horsecrap like "intelligent design" gets relegated to the dustbin of history which will also soon contain "global warming" and hopefully, eventually, "holocaust denial" -- and I’d eliminate the bullshit bureaucratic waste that prevents the delivery of money to the teachers who deserve it, I would make those teachers effective and aggressively weed out the shitbirds, and I would empower them to do their jobs without parental interference or fear of litigation (so long as they weren’t, you know, fucking the students), and I’d fund programs designed to treat kids like thinking beings -- to teach them to live life without a plastic helmet on their heads and without crying for momma (and later, a lawyer) every time someone gives them a dirty look -- but parents are more stupid and afraid and therefore religious than they’ve ever been, and litigation is the dry rot of personal responsibility.


4. Who was your biggest influence to make you want to play music?

My mom’s great aunt taught me to play a couple tunes on the uke when I was 9 or 10, and that was pretty much all it took... but, truth be told, I tend to lose interest in things if nobody else ever wants to do them with me, because I mostly need the interaction to make it interesting... therefore, the people with whom I have become friends in Sacramento, starting when I moved here in 1995 and continuing to the present day, are the biggest collective influence, from Crazy Richard’s Music Night amateurs and aficionados singing and drinking and playing at the Edge to Vinnie’s Roguestock professional heathens entertaining me all day for free and within walking distance of my house -- and, literally, everyone in this town who plays music and lets me play along.

So, it’s not a "was," it’s an "is," and it’s not one person, it’s all of them.

But if I had to pick the single most influential minstrel and important musical force I know (more accurately, "have met") in the Valley?

I’d have to say Keith Carey.


5. Describe a "Day in the Life" of Sean and LoriO.

I’m sorry, what did you say?  I dozed off while envisioning a "day in the life" of Sean and LoriO...

We get up early.  I take a shower while she feeds the dogs and makes coffee.  I leave as she is about to get in the shower.  I work, she works.  I get home and water the garden.  She gets home and we walk the dogs.  She feeds the dogs.  I do nothing relevant.  She usually cooks.  We usually eat.  We surf the idiot boxes (TV, PC) and talk, and I harass the dogs by kissing on them every couple of minutes.  She usually drinks a glass of Chardonnay.  She falls asleep on the couch and I either sit on the other couch or on the floor, and she eventually goes to bed.  I stay up until the demon leaves and then I try to sneak in a few hours before he comes back and wakes me up.  Rinse.  Repeat.


Now if you’d like to play along, please follow these instructions:
1. Leave me a comment saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by e-mailing you five questions.  I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog (so you have to have a blog) with a post containing your answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

11:44 PM - 13 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

The Bathtub Gins -- Live
Category: Blogging

So, last night was Second Saturday, and LoriO and I had a couple places to go with a late start -- one was Kiny's show at Theater Studio (across from Fox & Goose), and if you haven't seen her pictures, you really should.

Ran into Matt and Casey there (in case you don't already know, which you probably do, she was a model for the shoot), but we couldn't stay and Matt had to go dig himself out of his own grave, metaphorically-speaking (and that's actually a very deep "contextual pun" because Kiny's shoot was in a graveyard).

Sorry...

Anyway, we then headed over to Old Soul to hear Richard March's band play. Although we hadn't heard them in a while, they sounded great as usual but we couldn't stay because it was TOO FUCKING HOT in the damn bakery.

Old Soul people, seriously, open up a few motherfucking vents already. And SERVE BEER!

Well, at least we got to talk to Katie for a bit.

On the way to Old Soul, I heard a familiar voice echoing off the buildings... and it occurred to me where we were... so we made our way over to Barber's... and lo-and-behold, the Bathtub Gins in all their... uh... glory(?)... were playing.

Interesting.

I had to hear this with a little more proximity.

I like the idea of playing in an old garage like Barber's -- always did, especially after hearing the Lovedogs play there, and when the Gins were a newly formed thing (before they had delusions of bandhood), Barber's was a "venue" both Callahan and Kostakis mentioned a lot (in terms of playing free gigs there).

Callahan is friends with Blanchard, who works at Barber's... and anyone who knows anything about Mike knows he is an engine behind the local music scene.

Another contextual pun... sorry...

I agree it is a pretty cool-looking place, but I've never been highly motivated by how "cool" something appears -- which, I believe, is a hallmark of the non-poseur.

Non-poseurs don't give a fuck how cool something seems... they are motivated by the depth and quality of the entire experience. Cool wears thin when the other characteristics that indicate "quality" are absent.

That being said, Barber's looks cool but it has wild acoustics, and if you're not a truly excellent band (and by excellent I mean "tight")(and by tight I mean "dead-on tempo with perfect pitch control") then you really had ought not play there, as the Gins demonstrated.

Blanchard's singing sounded pretty good -- it usually does in my opinion, and that's the voice I heard echoing down the buildings when we were at Old Soul -- and I have to say, I liked the sound of the electric piano on the Lowell George song, Willin', if not the specific playing of it, although it wasn't too bad.

Thus endeth the complimentary portion of this review.

The rest of what we heard was, basically, unlistenable earcrap.

Callahan's guitar, which I could barely hear, sounded thin and his vocal on Willin; (the only song I heard him sing) seemed like a joke... or a parody of a singer trying to be serious with a vocal -- much worse than when he tried to sing it when I was playing with him and Kostakis -- and almost as if he's maybe afraid to try to sing it straight because his singing isn't what I'd call "strong" or "good-sounding."

Better to pretend you're just goofing around... don't give anyone a chance to say you suck... because you're just goofing around... right?

Speaking of not good-sounding... first time I'd seen Kostakis since he disrespected me, and well... I couldn't hear his mandolin at all the few times he appeared to be pretending to play -- and the aforementioned piano part I liked on Willin'?

That used to be Jeff's mandolin "lead" on that song. I guess he'd rather hold it than play it.

Jeff sang only one song we heard, which was Robbie Robertson's, Evangeline -- a delicate and mournful waltz that tells the sad tale of a woman driven mad by the untimely death of her lover, and her subsequent ghostly visitation of the riverbank upon which they used to waltz.

If your preferred rendition of this gentle and haunting tune includes an aging hipster with a white pompadour haircut shouting out two flat notes, in approximation of the vocal melody, while holding a mandolin he isn't playing, with a loose band bouncing around him as if a mournful waltz is supposed to include "antics" approximating the motion of a carousel ride or the characters in a Whack-a-Mole game, with dissonant harmonies and "Animal" from "The Muppet Show" on drums? -- then, by golly, you should have been there.

Also, just curious... but it's been months, almost a year, and the guy now has two mandolins -- how come he hasn't learned to play one of them and sing AT THE SAME TIME? Can anyone shed light on this phenomenon?

I mean, I know I suck, but at least I can sing and play at the same time.

I guess I was raised to believe this is one of those "fundamental skills" a guy must have in order to play music and sing -- the ability to, you know, play music and sing... but I digress...

The bass player, whom I did not recognize, was the kind of player I'd refer to as "a fool on stage." Not a bad muso that I could hear, although a bit rough on the tempo and not what I'd call "tight" (but there could be a lot of reasons for that, mostly the drummer).

Definitely not the kind of bass player who can help you, as an aging hipster wannabe, get laid -- which was, after all, the whole point behind starting the Bathtub Gins (original name "Get Jeffy Laid").

Never saw the keyboard player; only heard him on that one song. Good tone, acceptable playing. No other comment.

The drummer?

WORST. DRUMMER. EVER.

If there was only one member of the band I could have chosen to stand up and shoot after the performance -- if that were still legal here in this country as it is in Eastern European nations where the music still soars -- the shot guy would have been the drummer.

A hack drummer but I'm sure he's a really great guy.

I cannot imagine trying to play with him -- and not because I'm not a muso, either -- rather, because he was little more than an irregularly synchopated noise machine, as far as I could tell.

The only thing worse than Callahan's and Kostakis's vocals, and the dearth of vocal harmony despite the preponderance of attempt, was the drumming.

Seriously. Go without a fucking drummer. Beg some other drummer to play and suck his balls until he agrees. Buy a monkey and give it some cymbals.

Whatever the fuck you must do to get a different drummer?

Do it.

It'll be worth it.



In conclusion -- I know the easiest thing for a shallow person to do would be to accuse me of something like "sour grapes" -- but that would merely demonstrate the aforementioned lack of depth.

I have no personal vendettas and only care to comment on the actual musical performance... and the Gins are just awful, musically and otherwise, and that's the plain truth.

There appears to have been no improvement during the previous couple of months (and maybe they never rehearse, I honestly don't know), the stage antics were annoying and bufoonish and sort of out of the "acceptable" range for guys that old and unpretty --  if what you're going for is "hip" or "cool" or "funny" or "entertaining" -- and when combined with bad parody of folksinging to cover for lack of ability to sing folk music?

The overwhelming impression was, in my opinion, of six aging attention whores making a mockery of the music I love.

11:20 AM - 19 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment